#you know what I think it was Star Wars. I think this is one of the things that happened with The Last Jedi which everyone fucking hated

[geminiwritten]

the plan ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: the squad are all pretty sure that bob has a thing for you, but you're not convinced, so you hatch a plan to tease him within an inch of his life until he snaps

notes: i fear i may never again experience as much joy as i did while writing this... guys, it was so much fun! i know it's long, but it's full of tension and pining and heat, please give it a read! i actually love this so much, and i hope you do too, so please let me know what you think!!! i literally fell in love with bob while writing this, the lewis pullman spiral is spiralling

warnings: swearing, big dick energy, movie references (the princess bride, the ugly truth, star wars), bob's big dick, tension, lots of horniness (18+ ONLY MDNI), italics, huge dick energy, jealousy, bob is secretly cut, emotional warfare but it's fun, and did i mention bob's massive dick? (let me know if i missed anything)

word count: 21143

your callsign is sunny

It wasn’t long after the uranium mission that Dagger Squad was asked to stay on North Island and train as an elite, mission-focused unit under Maverick’s command. Not that anyone had to be asked—most of the squad was more than happy to be reassigned and stick together. 

Once everything was finalised and the official special operations squadron was born, the first thing most of you did was move out of the barracks. You needed more space—both physically, and from each other—and, frankly, something that didn’t reek of stale socks and floor polish. 

You and Natasha thought you’d hit the jackpot when you found a two-bedroom apartment right by the beach, with a spacious open-plan living area and not one, but two balconies. It was perfect. You could hardly believe it. Full of natural light, and just far enough from the boys you already spent too much time with—training, flying, doing push-ups every time someone pissed off Maverick. 

It was meant to be. 

Until the apartment across the hall went up for lease. 

And that’s how you failed to escape the boys entirely. Reuben and Mickey spotted the sign while helping you move in, and before you knew it, they were neighbours—closer than ever and almost impossible to get off your couch. 

A knock at the door draws your attention from the TV, and Natasha pauses mid-step on her way from the kitchen—bowl of popcorn in hand. 

“Ten bucks says it’s Fanboy,” she says, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

You know that Mickey is stuck on overtime tonight—punishment from Maverick for mouthing off during a fly drill this morning. Natasha, however, hadn’t been in the air with you and clearly wasn’t listening on comms. 

Your eyes flick to the door and back to her. “Deal.” 

She drops the bowl on the coffee table and doubles back, swinging the door open. 

“Ugh,” she sighs. “It’s you.” 

Reuben blinks, his smile faltering as his brow creases. “Nice to see you too, Phoenix.” 

She heads back to the couch, Reuben trailing behind. 

“Why’d you knock?” she asks. “It’s always open.” 

“Wasn’t the other day.” 

You sit up straighter, rolling your eyes. “That’s because it was two a.m. and I was home alone—sleeping.” 

Natasha drops onto the couch, a little closer to you than before to make room for Reuben. “Do we seriously not have boundaries anymore?” she asks him. “What could you possibly need at two in the morning?” 

He plucks the popcorn bowl off the table and settles it in his lap. “Fanboy really wanted to watch The Princess Bride, but Netflix logged us out and we couldn’t remember the password.” 

You lean across Natasha for a handful of popcorn. “Then get your own Netflix account, you fucking freeloaders.” 

Reuben gives you a wounded look. “Okay, rude.” 

You roll your eyes again and flop back against the couch, shoving a handful of popcorn into your mouth. 

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” he asks, peering at you from Natasha’s other side. 

Natasha snorts but keeps her eyes on the TV. 

“Nothing,” you mutter. “My panties are perfectly untwisted.” 

Reuben chuckles and shifts his gaze to the screen. “Then maybe someone should twist them up—get some of that tension out.” 

You flip him off without even glancing his way, your scowl still locked on the TV. He just laughs again, and Natasha shoots you a sidelong, knowing smirk. 

Twenty minutes later—and after Reuben has all but annihilated the popcorn—the front door swings open and Mickey breezes in, making a beeline for the fridge. 

“Have you guys eaten?” he calls out. “Because I’m starving. I skipped lunch and Mav still kept me back.” He grabs a beer and spins to face the living room. “Isn’t that, like, illegal? Something about duty of care? I’m about to pass out, and it wasn’t even my fault I got held back. Hangman was the one mouthing off—I just told him where to stick it. But no, now Mav’s all professional, like he’s a real CO with a stick up his ass. Honestly? I liked him better before.” 

He yanks open a drawer, fishes out the bottle opener, and cracks the beer. “Anyway,” he says, glancing up at the three of you, “pizza?” 

A long beat of silence stretches through the apartment as you all stare at him. 

“Jesus Christ, Mick,” Reuben mutters. “Take a fucking breath.” 

Mickey just shrugs, heading into the living room. “What?” 

He drops onto the floor—figuring the couch is already squishy enough—and sets his beer on the coffee table before reaching for the remote. 

“No one’s watching this, right?” he asks—not that it matters. 

He doesn’t wait for a response—just clicks a few buttons and starts scrolling through Netflix. Frustration simmers under your skin, because yes, you were watching that, but you bite your tongue. You know you’re in a bad mood, and it’s not worth taking it out on your friends. No matter how irritating they can be. 

He finally lands on The Princess Bride and makes a satisfied little hum as he hits play. Then he tosses the remote back onto the table, picks up his beer, and leans back against the couch—his elbow jabbing your knee in the process. Your glass, balanced loosely on your leg, sloshes and spills cold liquid onto your lap. 

“Whoops,” Mickey says, glancing back at you. “My bad.” 

“Uh oh,” Natasha mutters, scooting slightly away from you. 

“Seriously, Mickey?” you snap, eyes narrowing. “Could you not act like a clumsy lapdog for five fucking seconds?” 

His eyes go wide at your tone. 

“How the hell did you even get into the navy?” you bite, rising from the couch. “You’ve got the spatial awareness of a drunk oaf and the grace of a newborn deer on ice.” 

You storm into the kitchen, slam your half-empty glass on the counter, and tear off a wad of paper towels. 

“Very descriptive insults,” Reuben mutters. 

Natasha lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, that’s how you know she’s in a mood.” 

“Why?” Mickey asks, cautiously glancing toward you. 

You shoot him a glare over the kitchen island, dabbing paper towel at the top of your thigh. 

“Bob didn’t talk to her today,” Natasha says. “Like, at all.” 

“Ohhh,” Reuben and Mickey sigh in unison, the sound laced with realisation. 

You toss the damp towel into the sink before turning toward the fridge and yanking it open, bottles rattling. 

“To be fair,” Reuben offers, “you two were on different drills today. He probably just didn’t get the chance.” 

You whirl around, beer in hand, glare sharp. “He asked Phoenix if she wanted to go for a run tomorrow morning—while I was standing right there.” 

You shut the fridge with more force than necessary, then yank open the cutlery drawer and grab the bottle opener. 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey adds. “He asked me too. Wants to do the Coronado Island Loop.” 

You pop the cap off your beer and let it clatter to the floor. “Great. That’s great. Thanks, Mick. Love knowing I was the only one not invited.” 

Natasha sighs, her eyes following you as you trudge back toward the lounge. “I told you—he probably just didn’t think you were interested. When have you ever wanted to go running?” 

Reuben nods. “Yeah, you hate when Mav makes us run laps. You’re always the first to complain.” 

You flop down into your spot and take a long pull from your beer, eyes on the screen. “Yeah, well,” you mutter, “he could’ve asked.” 

“You could’ve spoken up,” Natasha points out. 

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and invite myself to something I deliberately wasn’t invited to? No thanks.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Bob wouldn’t leave you out on purpose. He’s too nice.” 

“Exactly,” Reuben says. “It’s Bob. He probably just got awkward about it.” 

You scowl and gesture to Natasha. “He asked Phoenix.” 

“Yeah, but that’s Phoenix,” Mickey says. “They’re crammed together in the cockpit almost all day, every day. She doesn’t make him nervous.” 

You scoff and sink further into the couch. “I do not make him nervous.” 

Natasha sighs again. “Yes. You do. I’ve told you before.” 

“And I don’t believe you,” you say, despite the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “You’re always saying Bob has a thing for me, but I don’t see it. Wouldn’t he actually talk to me if he liked me?” 

“It’s Bob,” Reuben repeats. “He’s not like the rest of us.” 

“Exactly,” Natasha says. “He’s polite and respectful. Way better than the rest.” 

Mickey turns from the TV, shooting her a wounded look. “Ouch.” 

Reuben shrugs. “She’s right. That’s why we can’t tease him about it. We can’t even ask him if he likes you—though we’re pretty sure.” 

You roll your eyes. “How can you be sure when he’s never admitted it?” 

“Oh, it’s so obvious,” Mickey says with a giggle. “He gets all googly-eyed whenever you’re around.” 

You shoot him a sceptical look, brows furrowed. “I don’t see it.” 

“Well, of course he’s not going to let you catch him staring,” Reuben says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s a gentleman.” 

“Yeah, and he’s not stupid,” Natasha adds. 

“But whenever you’re not paying attention,” Mickey continues, “his eyes are glued to you, like a magnet.” 

You roll your eyes, determined to seem unconvinced, even though you can feel the warmth rising in your cheeks. 

“Oh, and every time you’re brought up in conversation,” Reuben says, “he’s locked in.” 

“Unless we’re talking about you and another guy,” Natasha adds with a knowing look “Then he gets all huffy and weird.” 

You snort a laugh before taking another sip of your beer. 

“Why don’t you just ask him out?” Mickey suggests. “Put us all out of our misery. Bob will stop being so awkward, and you’ll stop being so—” He stops when you shoot him a glare. 

“So what, Mick?” 

He turns his gaze back to the TV, muttering, “Moody.” 

You scoff. “Yeah, okay. So, I’m just supposed to believe you guys when I haven’t actually seen any of these so-called signs myself?” 

Reuben and Mickey nod, but Natasha just watches. 

“I’m not doing that,” you say flatly. “I’m not asking him out just to be humiliated.” 

The conversation dies as you turn your attention back to the movie, taking another generous sip of beer. Mickey pulls out his phone to order pizza, and Reuben heads to the fridge for another round of beers. 

You keep your eyes locked on the TV, even though you’re barely watching. Instead, your mind is replaying the day, wondering if you missed the part where it was ‘so obvious’ that Bob has a crush on you. 

It’s hard not to agree with Reuben when he says, ‘It’s Bob,’ because it just is. He’s nice, considerate, raised to respect women and the navy. He’s the perfect officer and the perfect gentleman, and that’s half the reason you’re so damn attracted to him. A gorgeous guy with manners and respect to spare? Yes, please. 

But, God, sometimes you wish he was just a little more basic. A little more in touch with his primal side, instead of always using the higher-functioning part of his brain that most guys don’t even know exists. You’ve never even heard Bob say a woman is attractive, let alone spew some of the caveman shit that comes out of Jake’s mouth. 

And yeah, sure, you could ask him out. He might even say yes, just to be polite. But you don’t want to put that kind of pressure on him or the squad. Him dating you out of pity would be worse than flat-out rejection. 

An hour later, full of pizza and halfway through your fourth beer, you’re curled up with your head on Natasha's shoulder while The Ugly Truth plays on the TV—Mickey’s latest pick. 

“Man, what’s with you and romantic comedies?” Reuben asks, nose wrinkling as he watches Katherine Heigl flail on-screen. 

Mickey shrugs. “Don’t judge. Maybe I’m feeling a little lonely lately.” 

“Aww, Mick,” you coo, voice dripping mock-sympathy. “Better get used to it. You’re going to be alone forever.” 

His head snaps toward you, a scowl forming. “Okay, Miss-I-Refuse-To-Ask-Out-A-Guy-Who’s-Clearly-Into-Me-Because-I’m-Terrified-of-Rejection.” 

A smirk tugs at your mouth. “That was way too long to sting.” 

“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re mean when you’re not getting laid.” 

“Hey!” you gasp. “How do you know I’m not?” 

There’s a beat—a static moment where you realise you’ve just fucked up—before they all burst out laughing. And even you can’t help joining in, despite the embarrassed flush crawling across your chest. 

Then suddenly, Natasha jerks upright, knocking your head off her shoulder. Her laughter halts as she stares wide-eyed at the screen, lips parted in a gasp. “Holy shit. I have an idea.” 

“An idea?” Reuben echoes, brows lifting. 

“Yes!” She turns to you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I know how we’re going to get Bob to admit it.” 

Mickey swivels on the floor to face her. “Admit what?” 

Reuben rolls his eyes. “That he likes Sunny. Duh.” 

“Oh.” Mickey glances your way, then back at Natasha. “How?” 

“He’s only human, right?” she says, and both boys nod. “It’s obvious he likes her—he’s just too damn respectful. He probably thinks she’s out of her league. Or he’s worried about dating someone in the squad. But deep down? He’s still a guy. He has the same thoughts, the same... tendencies. He’s just better at hiding them.” 

Mickey snorts. “Oh yeah. If the way he looks at Sunny in a bikini is anything to go by, he’s definitely got those thoughts.” 

You shoot him a glare. “Don’t be gross.” 

“No, he’s right,” Natasha says quickly. “I hate it, but he’s right. Every time we’re at the beach and you’re half-naked, he looks like he’s barely holding it together.” 

You try to keep your face neutral, but your heart is thudding too fast against your ribs. 

“Wait,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “I think you’re onto something. Like when she squeezes into the booth at the bar and hovers over his lap for a second—he looks like he’s about to combust.” 

“Exactly!” Natasha exclaims. “That’s it. That’s what we need to do—we need to make him snap.” 

You narrow your eyes, ignoring the spark of adrenaline beginning to curl in your gut. “Okay... but how?” 

Natasha turns toward you, her eyes wide and full of focus. The same look she wears just before take-off. “You need to... tease him. Really make him suffer.” 

Mickey’s grin turns wicked. “Oh, this could work.” 

Your brow lifts. “Tease him how?” 

“Tempt him,” Reuben says, matching Mickey’s grin. “Push every button. Get close. Make him want you so badly he can’t hide it anymore.” 

You snort. “So, seduce him?” 

“Worse,” Natasha says. “You’re going to give this man the worst case of blue balls in naval history.” 

Both Mickey and Reuben flinch. 

“He’s going to end up in the hospital with a permanent boner,” Natasha adds, mischief blazing in her eyes. “Crying. On. His. Knees.” 

“Bob’s a good man,” Reuben says solemnly. “He’s respectful. Polite. Sensible. And we’re gonna have to break him.” 

“We?” you repeat, pulse racing. 

“Exactly,” Natasha nods. “If this were any other guy, you could get it done in a day. But Bob? Bob’s built different. If we want to unleash his inner caveman? It’s going to take a team.” 

Your stomach flips, anticipation stirring beneath your skin. 

“It won’t be easy,” Mickey says, his smirk returning. “But it will be fun.” 

“Sunny,” Reuben says, locking eyes with you. “Are you in or are you out?” 

That spark of adrenaline snaps through you like a live wire. 

You nod. “Okay. I’m in.” 

- 

The plan is simple. Straightforward. One objective. Everyone's clear on it. It’s been mapped out and set into motion—now all you have to do is play your part. Which is probably why your heart is hammering against your sternum like a damn war drum. 

“I don’t know, Nat,” you mutter as the two of you walk across the crunchy morning grass. “This feels wrong.” 

“What does?” she asks. “The thong or the plan?” 

You roll your eyes. “Both.” 

“Well, suck it up. There’s no backing down now.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath. Then you release it and reel yourself in. She’s right. You can’t be a chicken forever—and it’s not like you’re doing anything overtly humiliating. Besides, you’ve got a team at your back, and they’re not going to let you crash and burn. 

Last night, Natasha had texted Bob to let him know she was inviting you on the morning run. He’d replied with a simple thumbs up—something you found a little rude, but the boys insisted he only sends that when he doesn’t know what else to say. Which, apparently, is a good sign. 

This morning, you’d dug deep into your underwear drawer for a lacy black thong you bought a few years ago—back when you were more optimistic about your sex life. You pulled it on, despite the discomfort, and borrowed a pair of light blue workout tights from Natasha. Yep, that’s a black thong under pale blue, skin-tight leggings. 

“Without being creepy,” Mickey says from a few paces behind, “the plan is looking really good from back here.” 

You shoot him a scowl over your shoulder as Reuben smacks his arm, even though he’s wearing the same mischievous grin. 

The four of you wait at a picnic table in the park where you’d agreed to meet, and it doesn’t take long before you spot Bob walking across the grass—dark grey sweats and an oversized U.S. Navy hoodie, his hands tucked firmly into the front pocket. Quite possibly the most innocent, basic outfit he could’ve worn—a ridiculous contrast to yours—and yet you still find yourself thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts. 

About what’s under those sweats. About how good they’d look on your bedroom floor. 

Even the soft smile on his lips as he approaches makes you want to scream. How is one man such pure, soft boyfriend material... yet still manages to awaken your most primal instincts? It doesn’t make any sense. 

“Hey,” he says, eyes skimming over each of you before settling on Natasha. “We ready?” 

Natasha nods, and the five of you start walking off the grass toward the footpath before breaking into a jog. She and Bob take the lead while you hang back, with Reuben and Mickey flanking you like a private escort. Exactly as planned. You might be trying to fluster Bob, but you don’t need half of Coronado getting a look at your underwear—hence the two-man protection detail. 

Two kilometres later, you all stop for a quick stretch. Bob wanders off toward a water fountain, and you seize the opportunity to move up beside Natasha, placing yourself at the front of the group. Again—exactly according to plan. 

When Bob returns and joins in on Reuben and Mickey’s conversation, you and Natasha shuffle a little closer. She props one foot up on the bench, leaning into the stretch as she gives a subtle nod—the signal to begin. 

You let out a shaky breath, then slip on your best cool-and-confident facade. 

“I’m never doing this again,” you say to Nat—loud enough for the boys to hear. 

“I’m just gonna get a quick drink,” Reuben announces, conveniently cutting off their conversation. Right on cue. 

Mickey busies himself with stretching, leaving Bob to ‘accidentally’ overhear what comes next. 

“What?” Natasha asks. “Running? I told you you’d hate it.” 

“No,” you reply, pretending to lower your voice—even though you don’t. “Wearing a fucking thong.” 

She snorts, the laugh surprisingly genuine. Either she’s a fantastic actress, or she’s thoroughly enjoying herself. 

“Why are you wearing a thong?” 

You roll your eyes, falling deeper into the role. “Because I forgot to do my laundry and it was all I had left.” 

She snickers. “Well, have fun on the next eight kilometres.” 

“Oh yeah,” you sigh, “can’t wait.” 

You glance casually over your shoulder—and bingo. Bob’s face is bright red. His lips are slightly parted. And he’s blatantly staring at your ass like it’s the final clue to finding the national treasure—and Nicholas Cage is depending on him. 

Beside him, Mickey looks like he’s about to lose it. 

“Ready to keep going?” Reuben asks, walking back up—perfect timing. 

Everyone nods, and Bob clears his throat, licking his lips quickly. “Yep. Let’s go.” 

You and Natasha take off first, keeping yourselves in the lead. 

Every few minutes, you glance back—and without fail, Bob is staring. Each time, it sends your heart skittering, your cheeks heating, and your thoughts wandering into very unholy territory. 

Maybe your friends have been right all along. Maybe he does like you. Maybe this will actually work. 

By the seventh kilometre—with only three more to go—Bob looks like he’s hanging by a thread. He ditched his hoodie about two k’s ago, tying it around his waist. His hair his clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his glasses are fogging up slightly near the bridge of his nose. 

You glance over your shoulder and give him a small smile. His lips pop open and he immediately averts his eyes, focusing instead on the pavement beneath his feet. You turn back, grinning to yourself, and that’s when he picks up his pace and jogs past both you and Natasha. 

Natasha nearly bursts out laughing, but she smacks a hand to her face, pretending to wipe the sweat from her upper lip. She shoots you a sideways look and a smirk—and the two of you push forward to flank Bob, jogging on either side of him. 

“Hey,” Natasha says, more than a little breathless. “You trying to make this a competition?” 

Bob shakes his head, eyes locked on the path ahead. “Nope. Just staying focused.” 

“What’s so distracting back there?” she asks, fighting a smirk. 

“Is Fanboy being a pest?” you add, giving yourself a layer of plausible deniability—just in case he starts to suspect anything. 

Bob’s gaze flicks to you, then drops briefly to your chest before snapping forward again. “Yeah,” he says, voice uneven. “He’s breathing like Darth Vader.” 

“Hey!” Mickey calls from behind. “I’m not deaf!” 

The five of you share a short, breathless laugh before settling into a comfortable silence. You’re thoroughly exhausted now and decide to give Bob a break for the last few kilometres—merciful, maybe, but also strategic. 

Soon enough, the group slows to a walk as the café marking the end of your run comes into view. 

“Thank God,” Mickey gasps. “I’m starving.” 

“You’re always hungry,” you mutter, shooting him a flat look. 

The café is busier than expected, and you’re about to start crafting a subtle excuse to avoid going in when Reuben steps up behind you and unzips his jacket. 

“Cover your ass up, Sunny,” he says, smirking. “For fuck’s sake.” 

You try—and fail—to suppress your grin as he hands you the jacket. You roll your eyes and tie it around your waist, grateful for the cover. 

Once you’re feeling a little more decent, the group heads inside to order breakfast and find a table out back on the patio. The food and coffee arrive quickly, and soon everyone is digging in, quiet with post-run hunger. Though judging by how often Bob’s eyes keep darting toward you, his appetite might not be entirely food-related. 

“So,” Mickey says through a mouthful of bacon, “are we finishing the Star Wars marathon this weekend, or what?” 

Bob perks up instantly, eyes going bright, the usual stormy blue softening into something more sky-coloured. “Yes. Tomorrow night?” 

Reuben frowns. “But that’s Sunday.” 

“Mav gave us Monday off,” Natasha chimes in. “Weekend rotation, remember?” 

“Oh, right.” Reuben nods. “Yeah, I’m in.” 

“How many are left?” Natasha asks. 

“Six,” Mickey replies. “Not including spin-offs.” 

“We’re not getting through six in one night,” you point out. “We’ll be lucky to finish the prequels.” 

“Unless…” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief as they flick between everyone at the table, “we had a sleepover.” 

You snort into your coffee before taking a sip, expecting someone—probably Natasha or Reuben—to shut the idea down. But instead, their faces light up with the same devious smirk that Mickey is wearing. 

“We could,” Natasha says casually. “I think it’d be fun.” 

Bob blinks at her. “You do?” 

She nods. “Yeah. Why not? We could play some drinking games and not worry about getting home.” 

“Drinking games!” Reuben echoes with excitement. “You’re a genius, Phoenix.” 

With the way their eyes keep bouncing between you and Bob, it’s clear now: they’re scheming again. Plotting the next phase of Operation Bob's Blue Balls—and your pulse is already quickening with anticipation. 

“We could do it at my place,” Bob offers, earnest as ever. “I’ve got a spare room. Plenty of space.” 

Reuben grins. “What a great idea, Bob.” 

Bob glances around at his grinning friends, the smile on his face tinged with uncertainty. He has no clue what he’s just agreed to. 

- 

“Did you pack sexy PJs?” Natasha asks, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel. 

You roll your eyes. “I don’t own any sexy PJs.” 

She shoots you a sly smirk before her gaze flicks back to the road, her silence thick with something unspoken—as if she already has a plan to remedy your lack of Victoria’s Secret-worthy sleepwear. 

Bob’s apartment isn’t far from yours. In fact, none of you live all that far from each other, but tonight, the distance doesn’t seem to matter. No—the real reason for tonight’s sleepover is something far more sinister. 

You know you’re the last to arrive, not just from the cars parked along the street, but from the group chat where Mickey has been demanding you hurry up so he can order dinner. Your heart beats in your throat as you ride the elevator up, and the ding when it reaches Bob’s level startles you more than it should. 

Natasha’s smirk stays plastered on her face until she knocks on the door, and the second it swings open, with Bob standing there, she’s all business. 

“Hey,” she says casually, walking past him like she’s been here a thousand times. 

A stab of jealousy twists in your stomach—completely unwarranted but sharp nonetheless. Has Natasha been here a lot? 

“Hi,” you mutter, offering Bob a small smile as you follow Nat inside. 

There’s a chorus of hellos from the squad scattered around the living room. Bradley lounges across the two-seater couch furthest from the door, and Mickey is sprawled in a bean bag beside him, grinning like a kid in a candy store. Jake and Javy are tangled together on one end of the three-seater couch, probably having just finished fighting over the remote. And then there’s Reuben, sitting in the middle, with Natasha plopping down beside him. 

“Guess I’ll take the floor,” you mutter, dropping your bag beside the pile of everyone else’s stuff. 

“That’s alright,” Jake says with his usual cocky grin, “You can sit on Bobby’s lap for a bit of comfort.” 

Heat floods your cheeks, but you refuse to let him see the effect of his words. Instead, you roll your eyes and flip him off, then plop down onto the makeshift nest of cushions and blankets on the floor. 

Bob reappears from the kitchen with another round of beers, while Mickey takes orders for dinner. Then Bob settles down beside you, his arm brushing yours just enough to send a sparks crackling across your skin. A moment later, Jake hits play on The Phantom Menace, and the room settles into a comfortable, albeit charged, quiet. 

It doesn’t take long before Jake groans that he’s bored, and Reuben’s eyes immediately flick toward Natasha—like they’d both seen this coming from a mile away. 

“We could play a game,” Mickey offers, all too innocently. 

“Yes,” Jake grins, already invested. “Let’s play a game.” 

“What game?” Javy asks. 

Reuben opens his mouth, but Jake beats him to it. “Truth or Dare, obviously.” 

Natasha snorts and slaps a hand over her mouth, but not before you catch it. That was exactly what Reuben had been about to suggest—and Jake is walking right into whatever scheme they’ve cooked up. 

“How old are you?” Bradley asks Jake, brows furrowing. 

“Not as old as you, Grandpa,” Jake fires back. “But you could at least pretend to enjoy fun.” 

Bradley rolls his eyes but shrugs. “Fine.” 

Everyone else falls in line, shifting around until you’ve all formed a lopsided circle on the floor, your back half-angled toward the movie. Jake claps his hands together like the ringmaster of a circus—which might not be far off from what this night is about to become. 

“Alright. If you’re a chicken and won’t answer the truth or do the dare, you drink. Simple. I’ll go first.” He zeroes in on Bob—poor, unsuspecting Bob, who clearly just wanted to enjoy some Star Wars in peace. “Bob. Truth or Dare?” 

“Truth,” Bob says, almost too quickly. 

Jake leans forward with a shit-eating grin. “Who would you rather go on a date with—Phoenix or Sunny?” 

You choke on nothing, smothering the sound behind your hand and pretending it’s just a casual cough. 

Heat blooms across Bob’s cheeks and starts creeping up to the tips of his ears. He glances your way—just for a beat—then over at Natasha, and your stomach knots. Is he seriously having to think about this? Have your friends been totally misreading Bob this whole time? 

Then, after a moment of hesitation, Bob simply lifts his beer and takes a long sip. 

Jake groans. “Ugh, lame.” 

“Don’t worry, Bob,” Javy says with a laugh. “That was a trap. There was no right answer.” 

Bob chuckles—a low, rough sound right next to you that sends goosebumps up your arms. “I know,” he says, voice deceptively casual. Then he shifts his gaze toward Mickey. “Fanboy. Truth or Dare?” 

Mickey’s face lights up. “Dare.” 

Bob smiles—and for the first time tonight, it’s almost a smirk. There’s something sharp beneath the usual softness, and it makes your stomach flip. 

“Text the last person you hooked up with ‘thinking about you’—no context. And you can't reply until tomorrow.” 

Mickey’s grin drops. “What the fuck, man?” 

Bob just shrugs, raising his beer like it’s a toast. “You picked dare.” Then he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a generous swig. 

And holy shit—you might actually combust from the sight alone. Bob being just a little cocky. Bob utterly destroying Mickey with zero remorse. You know there’s a darker edge beneath that quiet, boy-next-door act. You know he’s got a mean streak. And God, you want to find it. Pull it out of him and ask—beg—for him to do things you can’t even say out loud. 

The group erupts into cackles as Mickey reluctantly pulls out his phone, Reuben peering over his shoulder to make sure he follows through. 

“There,” Mickey mutters, tossing the phone face-down on the floor. “You better watch your back.” 

But Bob doesn’t flinch. He just sits there, calm and collected, with that damn smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

When you finally tear your gaze away from him, you find Mickey’s eyes locked on you—an evil grin stretched across his face. “Sunny,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “Truth or Dare?” 

You steel your nerves, unsure of what’s coming but already sensing the trap. “Dare,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. 

Mickey’s grin widens, tipping his head forward like some sinister villain—and you just walked straight into his web. “Google a dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey... and whisper it slowly in Bob’s ear.” 

Jake snorts, his face twisted with amusement, and the rest of the group follows—dissolving into fits of laughter. All but Bob, who’s already choking on his beer, turning an even deeper shade of red before you’ve even touched your phone. 

You blink, eyes going wide. “Are you serious?” 

“Oh, I’m very serious,” Mickey replies, practically vibrating with excitement. “And no laughing. You have to sell it.” 

You lock eyes with Mickey, your death-glare sharp as your hands shake slightly while you pick up your phone. Then, you reluctantly tap the search bar and type in ‘dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey.’ Before you realize what’s happening, Natasha leans over your shoulder. 

“Ooh,” she giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one.” 

You glance up at Bob, your expression a mix of apology and warning. He looks much less confident than before, his lips parted, cheeks flushed, blue eyes wide behind his glasses. His throat bobs as he swallows, and a small part of you—one that feels dangerous—stirs with excitement. 

The room falls into eerie silence, and you realize that Jake has paused the movie. All eyes are on you as you shuffle closer to Bob, getting onto your knees beside him. You plant one hand on his thigh to steady yourself, and you feel the muscles in his leg twitch at your touch. 

His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid. 

You lean in close, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear as you murmur, “I want your hands on me. Your mouth. I want to feel you everywhere until I forget my own name.” 

A beat of silence stretches, and then Bob exhales sharply, his hand tightening around his beer bottle as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth. 

“Jesus Christ,” Jake mutters under his breath. 

“Holy shit,” Reuben says, breaking into laughter. 

Mickey is howling, pounding his fist against the beanbag. “Worth it! So worth it!” 

You slowly pull back, biting back a grin as you settle back into your spot like nothing happened. Bob, however, is still stuck in the mental tailspin you just launched him into, blinking hard and adjusting his glasses like he needs a whole system reset. 

You meet his eyes, and for the briefest second, you see it—buried beneath the shock and heat—that glint of hunger. 

God help you, you're not making it out of tonight alive. 

The game moves on, but you can’t quiet your mind. You’re stuck on the way Bob’s thigh had felt beneath your palm, the way the muscles shifted under your touch. You can’t stop replaying the brush of your lips near his ear, the hitch in his breath, or the way he’d smelled—clean, warm, intoxicating. You don’t just want to fuck this man—you want to ruin him. You want him panting and wrecked, bruised and breathless, oversensitive and spent. There are things you want to ask of him that would guarantee you a one-way ticket to hell. But if he said yes—if he gave you those things—it’d be worth it. 

You’ve never wanted a man the way you want him, and it’s starting to feel like a genuine threat to your well-being. 

“Bob,” Natasha says, her voice snapping you back to reality, “Truth or Dare?” 

You’re not sure how many turns you’ve missed, but Bradley and Reuben seem to have swapped shirts, and there’s a bottle of tequila on the table that definitely wasn’t there earlier. 

“Dare,” Bob replies, seemingly recovered from your whispered indecency. 

Natasha grins. “I dare you to pick someone in this room to do a body shot off of—excluding me.” 

Your heart stutters at the last part. Did she say that because she thought he’d pick her? Would he have? Out of comfort, knowing it wouldn’t mean anything—or for some other reason? 

You shake the thought off quickly and join the group’s laughter, mentally scolding yourself for the jealous spiral. 

“Seriously, Phoenix?” Bob sighs, his brows knit. 

She just shrugs, laughing. “You picked dare.” 

He tips his head back and groans, giving you a perfect view of the long line of his throat, the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. 

“Come on, man,” Jake chuckles, “There’s only one clear choice.” 

Your cheeks flush as Jake nods toward you, green eyes sparkling like he’s the one about to do the dare. 

“As if you’re not going to pick Sunny,” Javy adds, watching as Bob’s eyes slowly scan the room. 

Then his gaze lands on you—soft, but laced with something heavier. Something simmering. 

He licks his lips, and you can’t stop yourself from imagining them on your skin. Imagining his tongue dragging over your body, slow and deliberate. The salt from your collarbone, your abdomen… or maybe lower—right above the waistband of your pants. Would he use the glass? Or would he press his mouth to your stomach, lips sealing around your navel, tongue lapping up the tequila while you tremble beneath him? 

Then the lime—between your lips, waiting for him. His mouth brushing yours as he leans in, breath mingling, tasting more than just the fruit. You imagine the sharp burst of citrus, the tease of contact, tequila heat still slick on his tongue. He’d bite down, lips grazing yours, and it would wreck you more than any kiss ever could. 

“Hangman,” Bob says suddenly, his gaze locked on the man across the circle—who now looks a lot less smug and a lot more stunned. 

Jake’s brows shoot up. “Me?” 

The room erupts into laughter. Bradley throws his head back, already fumbling for his phone to record whatever chaos is about to unfold. Mickey nearly falls over, gripping the bean bag for dear life, and Javy is doubled over, laughing so hard he can’t catch a breath. 

“Why would you do this to me?” Jake gasps, eyes wide. 

“You said there was only one clear option,” Bob replies evenly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I agree.” 

“You bitch,” Jake mutters. 

“Oh, this is so much better than what I thought was going to happen,” Natasha says. “Shirt off, Bagman. Let’s go.” 

“This could be considered assault,” Jake mutters as he sits forward on the couch. 

“Then press charges,” Bradley says, half-choking on a laugh. “But let him finish first.” 

Natasha bolts to the kitchen for lime and salt, and the rest of the group scrambles to clear space on the lounge like they’re prepping for surgery. Jake peels off his shirt with the theatrics of a martyr, glaring at each of his cackling friends. 

Bob, meanwhile, looks cool as ever—far more composed than Jake. And maybe that’s the point. Picking you would’ve set the room on fire. Picking someone else would’ve gotten laughs. But picking Hangman? That’s just cruel and perfect—and from the slow curl of a smirk on Bob’s lips, he knows it. 

“Let’s go, Seresin,” Natasha says, reappearing with lime in one hand, salt in the other. 

Jake lies back with exaggerated misery, like a man about to be sacrificed at the altar. “I swear to God, Floyd, if you do anything weird with your mouth-” 

“I won’t,” Bob says, calm and unbothered. “Unless you want me to.” 

Your stomach somersaults. He didn’t even look at you—but somehow, it still feels like the line was meant for you. Like he knows exactly what he does to you, without even trying. 

Bob Floyd is fucking smooth when he wants to be. 

The room falls eerily quiet as Bob kneels beside the couch, one hand braced on the cushion beneath Jake’s body, the other holding the tequila bottle. He looks serene—like he’s preparing for a sacred ritual rather than licking salt off another man’s chest. 

“This is happening,” Mickey whispers, wide-eyed. “This is actually happening.” 

“Focus, Bob,” Natasha says solemnly, holding the shot glass as he pours the tequila. “We believe in you.” 

Bob sets the bottle down and leans toward Jake slowly, both hands now braced on the couch as he lowers his head to the other man’s chest. The room is absolutely silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the charged hush of everyone holding their breath. 

Jake stares straight up, completely stiff. “Don’t look at me while you do it.” 

“I’m not,” Bob says, deadpan. 

He dips his head and licks the salt clean off Jake’s skin. Jake jerks like he’s been hit with a defibrillator. 

“Oh my God,” Javy whispers, clutching his chest. “This is the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.” 

Natasha hands Bob the shot, and he tosses it back like he’s sampling a fine whiskey. Then he turns to the lime Natasha has jammed between Jake’s clenched teeth. 

“Don’t you dare,” Jake warns. 

“I’m just following instructions,” Bob replies calmly, and leans in. 

There’s a ridiculous half-second where it looks like they’re about to kiss—and everyone knows it. You bite your fist to keep from bursting out laughing… or something else entirely. Because Bob? Cool as ice. Smooth as ever. He doesn’t even flinch as his mouth brushes Jake’s, teeth clamping down on the lime and tugging it free. 

Jake makes a choked sound halfway between outrage and existential crisis. 

Then the room explodes. 

Bradley nearly falls off the lounge, still recording, laughter shaking his whole body. Natasha collapses into Javy’s lap, practically wheezing. Mickey is making noises like he’s being exorcised, and you’re on the brink of tears, shoulders shaking with laughter as Bob calmly returns to his seat, lime in hand, mouth twisted slightly at the tartness. 

Jake bolts upright, wiping his mouth. “I need therapy.” 

Bob frowns. “You needed therapy before that.” 

“Yeah,” Jake spits, yanking his shirt back on. “Well, now I need more.” 

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt it before—and you definitely don’t plan on voicing it—but right now, you are incredibly fucking jealous of Jake Seresin. 

It takes a while, but eventually the group settles down and the game fizzles out—mostly thanks to Jake’s relentless sulking. Not long after, Mickey gets a notification that the food is nearly delivered, and everyone jumps into action to clear the table and grab what’s needed for dinner. 

Less than ten minutes later, you’re all crowded around the coffee table, shovelling Chinese food into your mouths and stealing bites off each other’s plates. Jake’s sour mood has mostly vanished, and everyone is focused on the final battle of the movie playing out on-screen. 

By the time the credits start rolling, most of the food is gone. You and Natasha start carting plates, bowls, and empty containers into the kitchen while the guys finish polishing off their meals, scraping the last of the food off their plates and into their mouths.  

“Did I mention I brought dessert?” Reuben pipes up, eyeing you as you stack a few plates in one hand. 

You raise a brow. “Are you about to make a gross joke?” 

“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “You know Barb, down the hall?” 

“Neighbour Barb with the yappy chihuahua?” 

He nods. “Yeah. She bakes, like… the most amazing stuff.” 

You narrow your eyes, plates now balanced in both hands. “Do I even want to know how you know this?” 

Mickey answers for him, talking around a mouthful of Mongolian beef. “Because we’re nice to our neighbours.” 

You give him a disgusted look before turning back to Reuben. “Okay. Get to the point.” 

He grins, a smug twist playing at the corner of his mouth. “She made a huge batch of cream pies—I mean, puffs. So she brought some over, and I brought them here. They’re to die for.” 

Your eyes widen almost imperceptibly—but Reuben catches it, and you can see the spark of amusement flash across his face. 

“Have you ever had a cream pie, Sunny?” Mickey asks, beaming up at you with sauce smeared on his face. 

Jake and Javy snort, and behind you—you swear you hear Bob snicker. 

“Yes, Mick,” you bite out. “I’ve had a cream puff.” 

You turn sharply back toward the kitchen, but not before catching the small smirk on Bob’s lips, his cheeks pink as he spoons another mouthful of kung pao chicken into his mouth. 

“That’s not what I asked!” Mickey calls after you, giggling like a grade-schooler. 

You roll your eyes and drop the plates by the sink, where Natasha and Bradley are already washing up. 

“Lookin’ a little red there, Floyd,” Reuben teases, his voice carrying from the living room to the kitchen. 

It’s the chicken,” Bob replies quickly—but there’s something in his voice that makes a stupid, lovesick grin spread across your face. 

Once everything is washed up and everyone has returned to the living room, Jake hits play on the next film. You’re back on the floor, this time with your back pressed to the couch beneath Natasha, who’s curled up with her legs tucked beneath her, leaving you space to lean. Bob is further away now, sprawled on his back across a fluffy blanket, a cluster of pillows beneath his head, hands folded neatly over his stomach. 

You try to keep your eyes on the screen—it really shouldn’t be that hard with both Hayden Christensen and Ewan McGregor to enjoy—but your gaze keeps drifting to Bob. He looks so content, so cute, his lips tipped into a soft half-smile and his blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses. There’s something about him that turns your brain to absolute mush, and you still can’t figure out what. 

Maybe it’s the dichotomy of him. How sweet and quiet he is—some might even say shy, but you know better. He’s just overwhelmingly nice, with a pretty face to match. And yet, you have to remind yourself that this man is in the navy. He’s not spineless—in fact, he’s the total opposite. He’s sharp and quick-witted, strong both mentally and physically. There’s not a single thing about him that’s weak, yet he lets people assume otherwise. 

Maybe it’s confidence. The kind that doesn’t need to be loud. He doesn’t care what people think or say. Not that he isn’t awkward sometimes—he definitely can be—but that’s more about being introverted. He doesn’t need to show off or run his mouth like Jake. He doesn’t need to fly like an idiot to prove himself. He’s just Bob. He knows who he is, and he’s not apologetic about it. 

What is it they call that? 

Oh yeah… big dick energy. 

Your eyes drift down his torso, lingering briefly on his hands—the way his long fingers are laced together—before continuing down to the waistband of his dark blue joggers. There’s a bulge in his lap. A notable one. And a slight outline continuing down the left leg of his pants… 

Wait. That’s like… kind of huge. 

A hard nudge to your shoulder startles you, and you whip around to see Natasha staring at you. Her eyes are wide, her lips pulled into a smirk—half disbelieving, half smug. 

Stop staring, she mouths. 

You press your lips together to hold back a laugh, a little giddy from your fourth—or maybe fifth—beer. Your face feels warm, and you know if you keep looking at Nat, you’ll start laughing, so you quickly turn back to the movie. 

“Okay,” Mickey pipes up, scrambling out of the beanbag and to his feet, “who wants cream puffs?” 

“Only if you serve them warm and full,” Jake shoots back. 

The room erupts—half groans, half childish laughter. Mickey just snorts and disappears into the kitchen, Reuben trailing behind him. A few minutes later, they return, each holding a heaping plate stacked with warm, golden cream puffs. 

“Fair warning,” Reuben says, setting one down on the table, “these things are insane. Like... dangerously good.” 

You grab one without hesitation—soft, golden, still warm to the touch. It’s dusted in powdered sugar and practically bursting with cream. You bite into it and—holy hell—the taste explodes in your mouth. Sweet. Rich. Ridiculously creamy. You moan without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Oh, wow,” you say around a mouthful. “That’s... actually insane.” 

The group hums and laughs in agreement, but you barely notice. You take another bite—bigger this time—and it squishes a little too easily in your hand. Cream oozes out the side, trailing down your chin and, with an audible plop, lands squarely between your breasts. 

“Oh, shit,” you mutter, trying to swipe the cream away—but all you manage to do is smear it further. 

There’s a beat of silence, and even the movie playing in the background seems to go quiet. 

“Jesus Christ,” Reuben says, somewhere between impressed and scandalised. “You sure you don’t need a minute alone with that thing?” 

Laughter rumbles around you, and only when you look up do you realise how provocative that just was—the heat in your cheeks deepening. But then your eyes catch on Bob. 

He’s not laughing. He’s not even blinking. 

The lazy smile he wore earlier? Gone. He’s sitting upright now, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. His gaze is locked on you like he forgot what movie is playing, what day it is—hell, maybe even his own name. 

“Floyd?” Mickey nudges his leg with a foot. “You good?” 

Bob jolts slightly, as if waking from a trance. He coughs, shifts, and yanks the blanket from the floor to cover his lap—too quickly to be casual. 

“They, uh...” he clears his throat, voice rough. “They look really good.” 

Your stomach swoops as he leans forward, still holding the blanket tight in place, and reaches for a cream puff from the plate right in front of you—still avoiding your eyes entirely. 

Natasha leans in from behind, her voice low. “You are killing him.” 

You press your lips together to hide your grin, eyes flicking back to Bob—who’s now doing everything in his power not to look in your direction. 

The cream puffs disappear in what has to be a record amount of time. You’re pretty sure you watched Javy inhale at least four, and there was an unnecessarily loud argument between Mickey and Bradley over the last one, which ended in a begrudging decision to split it. 

The rest of the movie plays out without incident, and afterward, everyone decides to change into their PJs for the final film of the night. You’re honestly surprised everyone has made it to movie number three, but you’re not complaining. 

The boys start rummaging through their bags, swapping out jeans for boxers or stretchy pajama pants while Natasha grabs her bag and disappears into the bathroom. You keep your eyes glued to your phone screen to avoid catching a glimpse of something you definitely don’t want to see—because these boys? They have no shame. 

“You can change in my room if you want,” Bob offers. 

You glance up, making sure to keep your eyes fixed on him, because just a little to the left is where Jake is still mid-change. 

“Yeah?” 

Bob nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he gestures down the short hallway past the kitchen. “It’s the door just after the bathroom.” 

“Thanks,” you mutter, pushing to your feet and grabbing your bag as you slip past the others—now teasing Mickey about his choice of boxers. 

The door is open just a crack, and your heart thuds a little harder than it should as you ease it the rest of the way. The smell hits first—clean and warm, with a twist of vanilla that makes you want to wrap yourself in it and never leave. 

You flick on the light and shut the door behind you, dropping your bag to the floor. You know you should just get changed, but… you can’t help it. You’ve only been to Bob’s apartment a couple times before—once to help him move in (because of course the whole squad helped), and once with Natasha to pick him up before a night out. But never in here. Never in his room. 

It’s almost unusually tidy, but that’s navy life for you. His bed is made neatly, topped with a soft baby blue duvet, coordinated beige and cream pillows, and a throw blanket folded at the foot. It’s a little faded and looks handmade, like something passed down through generations. 

On one side of the room, a bookshelf houses a quiet little collection of well-loved paperbacks, a few aviation manuals, and a line of model planes—some pristine and precise, others clearly glued together by a much younger version of him. A framed photo of a beaming, pint-sized Bob in oversized glasses sits on the dresser, nestled between a small baseball trophy and a display of navy challenge coins. 

A pair of worn sneakers sits neatly by the door, and his uniform jacket hangs off the closet handle, the door slightly ajar. The name tag catches just enough light to pull your eyes toward it. Everything about the room feels like him—modest, thoughtful, quietly proud. It’s the kind of unintentional intimacy that makes you feel like you’ve slipped behind the curtain and gotten a glimpse of the real Bob. 

And somehow… that makes your chest ache. It’s just a room. But it feels so much like him—like you could curl up in here with him for hours, doing nothing but talking and dreaming. Getting lost in each other. Letting the rest of the world wait. And then, later, getting tangled together. Soft kisses, whispered pleas, gentle moans—slow and unhurried, learning one another’s bodies until you know each other better than you know yourselves. 

You shake your head hard and take a breath. You’ve already been in here too long. Pull it together. 

You crouch beside your bag and pull out your pajamas—soft lounge shorts and a matching long-sleeved shirt. It’s nothing special, but a step up from your usual: an old, food-stained navy tee and nothing but underwear. 

You change quickly and shove your clothes into your bag before leaving the room. The lounge room has quieted down, everyone now back in their seats—except for Mickey and Bob, who are in the kitchen grabbing another round of drinks. 

Jake hits play as soon as they return, and everyone settles in again. There’s less chatter now, probably because of how late it’s gotten. Bradley is almost definitely asleep, eyes half-shut on the two-seater, while Mickey is having the time of his life seeing how many of Bradley’s fingers he can get stuck in the top of his beer bottle. 

Natasha is curled up behind you, her head resting on Reuben’s shoulder, and his blinks are getting longer and slower by the second. Jake is surprisingly alert and invested in the film, but Javy looks like his head might lull back at any moment. And Bob—Bob is still wide awake, his eyes sparkling with interest as he watches the screen. 

Halfway through the film, Mickey pushes to his feet and offers another round of drinks, prompting a few sleepy murmurs of ‘yes’ from the others. 

“I’ll help,” you offer, stretching as you rise from the floor and follow him into the kitchen. 

You open the fridge and start pulling out beers while Mickey pops the tops off. But when you close the fridge and turn back around, you spot Reuben—now suddenly very awake—watching Mickey with intent. He’s wearing that little smirk that always means trouble, clearly trying to telepathically communicate something to his WSO. 

Your brow furrows as you glance between them, trying to decode the silent exchange. Mickey looks equally confused for a second... but then realisation dawns and a wicked grin curls onto his face. 

He turns to you and mutters, “Sorry about this.” But he doesn’t sound even remotely apologetic. 

Your frown deepens. “What are you-” 

But you don’t get to finish the question before he starts shaking the beer bottle in his hand. 

“Mick—!” you cry, just as he pops the top off and sprays you with beer. 

You shriek, throwing your hands in front of your face like that’ll somehow stop the onslaught. But it doesn’t. You’re soaked. 

“What the hell, Fanboy?” Reuben calls from the living room, as if this wasn’t entirely his doing. 

“Mickey!” you shout, dropping your arms and glaring at him. 

“Whoops,” he says with a grin. “My bad.” 

Natasha snorts and smacks a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It’s not funny.” 

“Wow, Fanboy,” Jake pipes up, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “Is that the first time you’ve made a girl wet?” 

Mickey glares—or tries to. He’s way too pleased with himself for it to land properly. 

“Hey, Floyd,” Reuben calls, “you got any spare clothes for Sunny?” 

Bob is already looking at you, lips parted and cheeks flushed. He swallows hard before turning to Reuben and nodding. “Yeah, of course.” Then he stands, eyes flicking back to you. “Do you want to shower?” 

Mickey gasps, scandalised. “Robert Floyd, are you propositioning her?” 

Bob’s blush deepens, colouring his neck and the tips of his ears, but he doesn’t look particularly ashamed. He looks… flushed. Hot. Close to unravelling. His glare cuts back to Mickey, sharper than usual, a little too dark to be playful. And then his gaze shifts back to you—specifically, your chest. 

You follow his line of sight and immediately wrap an arm around yourself. Your nipples are pebbled beneath your shirt, the damp fabric clinging in all the worst ways. Or the best—if you ask Bob Floyd. 

“Yes,” you say tightly. “A shower would be good.” 

The room dissolves into quiet laughter as you follow Bob down the hall. He slips into his room for a moment, then returns with a folded towel and some clothes stacked neatly on top. 

“Here,” he says, offering them to you. “Take as long as you want. You can use whatever’s in there. Not that there’s much.” 

He dips his head—blush still firmly in place—and heads back to the living room. 

You stare after him for a second, dumbfounded. He got embarrassed about his lack of shower products? That’s what embarrassed him? Not the full-body, post-beer-shower eye-fucking he just gave you? 

You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling hard. You’re buzzing. Overstimulated. Untouched and on fire. You feel like you’re being edged and then abandoned, left to squirm. You’re so sensitive it hurts. Bob is teasing you just as much as you’re teasing him—those glances, the heat behind his eyes, the way his mouth hangs open like he wants to say something but never does. 

You might’ve thought you were playing a game, but Bob Floyd is about to kill you without even realising it. 

You strip quickly, trying not to dwell on the fact that you’re naked in Bob’s apartment. You keep the water on the cooler side—a half-hearted attempt to wash away the heat still simmering under your skin. But it doesn’t help. You shower fast and step out even faster, wrapping yourself in the towel Bob gave you. It’s fluffy, soft, and smells just like him—which makes that spot deep behind your hipbones ache. 

You dry off in record time, then turn to the small pile of clothes on the vanity—Bob’s clothes. Your hands tremble slightly as you lift the satin boxers, dark blue with little white stars, and slide them up your legs. Then the shirt: a worn white tee with a faded Star Wars logo across the chest. 

His scent wraps around you the second you slide it over your head—oversized and impossibly soft against your warm skin. You try not to focus on the rasp of cotton against your nipples. God, if he ever actually touches you, you might just combust. 

You take a deep breath, trying to calm the fire burning low in your belly, then scoop up your beer-soaked clothes and open the bathroom door—steam spilling into the hallway as you step out. 

"Finally," Mickey says, popping up in front of you like he’s been waiting, holding out a plastic bag. 

You blink. “What?” 

“For your clothes,” he says simply. 

“Oh.” You take it and shove the damp material inside. 

His gaze dips—just for a beat—before sliding back up. Then he grins, gives you a cheeky wink, and turns back toward the lounge room. You follow, every eye lifting to you the second you reappear. Warmth floods your cheeks. You’re in Bob’s clothes. Bob's boxers. Bob's shirt. 

“Can we play the movie now?” Jake whines, oblivious to the tension humming through the room. “It was just getting good.” 

You nod, unable to speak, your gaze already locked with Bob’s. 

His eyes rake down your body, slow and deliberate. He takes in the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the hang of his shirt against your chest. His gaze catches there, as if he can see straight through the fabric, then continues its journey down to the hem. The shorts are barely visible beneath the shirt, and judging by the heat in his eyes, he might be wondering why you're wearing pants at all. 

You shift under the weight of his stare, hyper-aware of every inch of fabric against your skin—of how suddenly hot the room feels. Jake presses play, but no one is watching the screen. Every pair of eyes bounces between you and Bob, waiting—expecting—something to happen. 

Bob looks wrecked. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white, jaw tight. Like he has to physically hold himself back. 

Natasha clears her throat, startling you more than it should. You tear your gaze away and flash her a sheepish smile before finally forcing yourself to move, padding back to your spot on the floor. 

Even then, you can feel Bob’s eyes tracking every step. 

The rest of the movie plays out in near silence, broken only by the soft snoring that eventually starts up from Bradley and Javy. It takes a while for you to settle, but you finally curl up on the floor with a pillow hugged to your chest, watching Anakin fall apart on-screen and become Darth Vader. 

Jake is the only one still fully invested in the film. Even Bob seems distracted now, his eyes flicking toward you more often than the TV. He shifts in place, uncomfortable, dragging the blanket higher across his lap and holding it like a lifeline. You try not to smirk. 

You think you know what might be going on under there… but you’re not about to assume. It couldn't possibly be just because you’re wearing his clothes. 

…Right? 

Eventually, the credits start rolling and everyone begins to stir. 

“Where am I sleeping?” Mickey asks, already eyeing Bob like he’s got plans. 

Bob shrugs. “Wherever. There’s the couches and a couple beds in the spare room, but someone’ll have to sleep with me.” 

“I think Rooster’s good here,” Jake says, glancing at the man awkwardly passed out on the two-seater couch. “I’ll take this one.” 

“I’ll sleep with you, Bobby,” Javy says through a yawn, stretching so wide his joints pop. 

“Damn it,” Mickey mutters as he walks past, bumping your shoulder with his. “Missed opportunity.” 

You roll your eyes but can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. You know damn well you wouldn’t get any sleep next to Bob—not when he smells like that, looks like that, and keeps looking at you the way he does. So it’s probably for the best, but still, the thought lingers. 

Everyone takes turns brushing their teeth and shuffling off to bed. You end up in the fold-out bed with Natasha in the spare room, while Reuben and Mickey claim the air mattress on the floor. Apparently, there’s no escaping these boys—not even for one night. 

Mumbled goodnights fade into rustling fabric and shifting limbs, then finally, silence. 

Too much silence. 

You lie on your back, eyes on the ceiling, thoughts screaming through your head like they’re in a race. You should be tired—your body aches—but your brain refuses to shut up. You toss the blanket off, overheated, but even with the cooler air, your skin feels flushed. You roll to your side, careful not to jostle Natasha on the creaky mattress, but nothing helps. 

You glance down at the boys, both snoring with their mouths open, and finally sigh. Swinging your legs off the bed, you wriggle out of Bob’s shorts, thinking maybe it’ll help. You don’t usually sleep in pants anyway. 

It doesn’t. 

Ten minutes later, you quietly slip off the bed and tiptoe toward the door, easing it open with practiced care to avoid the squeaky hinges. Then you turn down the hallway, barefoot and warm-skinned, and pad into the kitchen. 

The hem of Bob’s shirt brushes against your bare thighs, stoking the fire already simmering between them as you stop in front of the fridge and pull the door open. A cool flood of light spills across the kitchen tiles. You grab a bottle of water and twist off the cap, stepping back and tipping it to your lips. But the cold rush does nothing to cool the heat thrumming beneath your skin. 

“You always walk around other people’s places half naked?” 

You choke, almost spilling water down your chin as you turn toward the voice—that low, raspy sound that makes your skin prickle and your spine snap straight. 

Bob stands at the edge of the kitchen, leaning casually against the far counter—but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he holds himself. In the dim glow of the fridge light, he looks almost ethereal. His eyes are sharp, lit with something that borders on pain—hunger, maybe, or full-blown starvation—and his arms are crossed over his bare chest. 

Yeah. Bob Floyd is shirtless. 

You register a flicker of jealousy for Javy—the man who gets to sleep next to this—but you don’t let yourself linger on it. Not when Bob is standing right there in nothing but a pair of loose boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide the impressive shape beneath. 

You don’t know if it’s because he’s a little turned on or just blessed, but damn. 

“You okay?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a real question—because he already knows the answer. 

No. No, you’re not. 

You clear your throat, dragging your eyes back up to his. “Yeah, I—uh-” 

Your words falter when his gaze drops to your legs. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to memorise every inch. His eyes drag slowly up your bare thighs, pausing at the hem of his shirt before gliding over your waist and stopping at your chest, where your nipples are clearly outlined beneath the thin cotton. 

The heat of his stare burns hotter than any touch. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice quiet, like he’s just making conversation. Like he has no idea what he’s doing to you. 

He pushes off the counter and walks straight toward you—slow, but sure. He stops right in front of the fridge, close enough that if you moved even a breath closer, you’d feel your nipples graze his skin. 

You take a step back—barely. Just enough to let him slip past you. 

He nods slightly—a silent thanks—and ducks into the fridge for his own water. When he shuts the door, the kitchen is plunged into darkness, save for dim moonlight filtering in from the far windows—but you can still see him. His outline, the dips and curves of his lean torso, the tilt of his head as he tips the bottle back and drinks. 

You watch his throat move with every swallow, your lips parting slightly, craving his skin on your tongue. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just stand there, watching. 

When he finishes, he turns to the sink and drops the empty bottle in before bracing both hands against the bench. His chin dips toward his chest, and you see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he exhales—hard. 

Before you can stop yourself, your feet carry you forward until you’re beside him, your bare arm brushing against his. You place your own bottle in the sink, then turn toward him and lean your hip against the counter. 

“Bob,” you whisper. 

Every sound in the apartment feels louder now—the faint snores, the creak of the floorboards, your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears. 

He looks at you, only turning his head, not his body. “Don’t—” he says softly. “Don’t say my name like that.” 

You frown, sliding your hand over his. His grip tightens on the bench like he’s anchoring himself. 

“Like what?” you ask softly. 

“Like you want me,” he murmurs. His voice is thick—rough around the edges like it’s been scraped raw. Like he's holding something back with every laboured breath. 

You press closer, your chest against his arm. The contact is electric. Your skin separated only by a whisper of cotton—his cotton. 

“Bob,” you breathe, a little desperate now. 

He exhales sharply and drops his gaze to the sink again, like something there might help him. “This isn’t…” His jaw flexes. “We can’t do this.” 

“Do what?” you ask, playing innocent, even as your fingers trail lightly up his arm. 

You can feel your chest rising and falling faster than it should, your breasts pressing against his arm like some wanton, starry-eyed girl. But you can’t bring yourself to step away. Every inch of you is on fire, every nerve ending singed and tingling. You want him to turn around and take you—bend you over the counter and make you scream his name. Who gives a fuck who’s listening... or watching. You just want Bob. You want him to know how much you want him, how deeply you need him. How desperate he makes you without even trying. 

“Do you have any idea,” he whispers, finally turning to face you fully, “what you do to me?” 

You feel it—hard and thick—pressing against your lower belly. There’s no mistaking it now. 

“Bob…” Your voice is a sigh, wrecked and begging. 

He catches your wrist, his grip firm, nearly bruising. His eyes are wild as they search your face—from your eyes to your lips, down to your chest, and back again—like he’s torn between reason and ruin. 

You hold still. Waiting. Daring. Wanting him to snap. 

But then... he’s gone—his warmth, his scent, the burning look in his eyes. All of it, gone in a breath. 

“Goodnight,” he mutters, so low you barely hear it before the soft click of his bedroom door… and then the snap of the lock. 

You’re left standing there, chest heaving, skin burning. Your eyes sting with unshed tears, and your mind is a mess. What the fuck just happened? Your panties are damp, and your chest aches like you've been torn in two. You want to cry, but you also want to break down his door. How dare he build you up like that? Look at you like that, talk to you like that—and then just walk away. 

It takes several minutes before you can move, your legs shaky, your mind racing. You stumble back to the spare room, collapse into bed, and stare at the ceiling, flat on your back—Bob’s shirt clinging to your skin. 

You don’t sleep. Not at all. 

- 

“He what?” Natasha’s eyes go impossibly wide. “And then he just—he left?” 

You nod slowly, keeping your eyes fixed on your lunch. The mess hall is loud enough to muffle your conversation—one you should’ve had yesterday but couldn’t summon the strength for. So here you are, in the middle of the hall, with the boys a couple tables over, surrounded by lieutenants you don’t know—blissfully unaware of your current crisis. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, stabbing at another piece of pasta you don’t plan to eat. 

You haven’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours—not since the run-in with Bob. Everything feels bland now, drained of colour and taste, too dull to bother with. Anything that isn’t Bob just feels lacking, and you're starting to worry that one moment—one heated, breathless moment—has completely ruined you. 

“That’s insane,” Natasha mutters. “That’s so... not Bob. How could he be so—I don’t know... rude? I just—I have no words.” 

You shrug one shoulder. “It wasn’t rude. He just seemed... confused, I guess. And I don’t blame him. If I’m not what he wants, then-” 

“Stop right there,” Mickey interrupts, sliding into the chair beside you. 

Reuben drops into the seat next to Natasha, eyeing your tray of food. 

“Sorry,” he says, reaching across the table to steal your apple. “We couldn’t get away any faster.” 

You glance past Mickey, down the row of tables, and catch Bob’s eyes on you—just for a second—before he quickly looks away. Bradley, Jake, and Javy are still deep in conversation with the other guys, oblivious. Bob seems to be the only one noticing Reuben and Mickey’s absence. 

“Start again,” Mickey says. “From the beginning. We knew something happened.” 

Natasha snorts around a mouthful of pasta, and you sigh, knowing there’s no point arguing. They’d get it out of you one way or another. 

Twenty minutes later, when you finally finish recapping the story for the second time, Natasha taps her watch and nods toward the exit. “We better get back before Mav, or he’ll keep us late tonight.” 

Mickey’s brows are nearly touching as he processes everything you’ve said. “What does he mean, ‘you can’t do this’? He clearly wanted to—so why didn’t he?” 

You pick up your tray and follow Natasha toward the return station. “Your guess is as good as mine.” 

“I mean,” Reuben says, brows furrowed, “you said he was... at attention, right?” 

You blow a half-hearted laugh through your nose. “Yeah.” 

“So he definitely wanted to,” he says as the four of you exit the mess hall. “I just can’t think of why he wouldn’t go for it.” 

“I think it’s because you’re in the same squad,” Natasha offers. “He’s probably worried it’ll get weird—or worse, if it doesn’t work out.” 

You roll your eyes as you cross the hot concrete, heading back to the hangar. “But we’re both adults. Why can’t he just sack up and fuck me, and we’ll worry about the consequences later?” 

Your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you don’t miss the odd looks a few passing officers send your way. 

Reuben chuckles. “Maybe you should just say that to him.” 

“No,” Natasha says, turning toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ve got a better idea. Call it Plan B or whatever, but now... we’re bringing out the big guns.” 

“So Sunny pressing her tits against him wasn’t the big guns?” Mickey quips with a grin. 

You smack him lightly across the chest before looking back to Natasha. “I doubt anything will work at this point, but... I’m curious. What’s the idea?” 

“How’s your gag reflex?” she asks, tilting her head thoughtfully. 

You rear back, eyebrows raised—and both Reuben and Mickey choke on laughter. 

Natasha sighs, rolling her eyes. “Not like that. I mean you’re going to need a strong stomach and a Juilliard degree to pull this off.” 

You frown, slowing just slightly as the hangar looms into view. “Okay...” 

She straightens up and faces forward, a proud smirk tugging at her mouth and her chin tilted high. “We’re going to make Bob jealous.” 

- 

Out of Mickey and Reuben, you all collectively decided that Reuben was the more convincing option. Not that you don’t think Mickey’s gorgeous—you do, and so does he—but his acting skills are questionable at best. You at least have a little more faith in Reuben’s ability to fake flirt without making it weird. 

The plan is simple. Convince Bob that he’s lost his shot—or that he’s just about to. Make it clear you’re happy to move on. If he wants you... well, now he’s going to have to fight for it. Because tempting him wasn’t enough—apparently—you need to dig deeper. Tap into something primal and pull it to the surface. Exploit what lingers under the skin of every man: jealousy and competition. 

You’re going to make this a game he can’t afford to lose. 

“You ready for Phase Two?” Natasha asks as you cross the base, the sun still barely above the horizon. 

You take a deep breath of fresh morning air. “Let’s do it.” 

She and Mickey take off ahead of you and Reuben to arrive in the training room first. It’s a known fact that Bob is always ridiculously early—so you know he’ll already be there. You hang back with Reuben, rehashing the plan and trying to get used to flirting with him without cracking up. 

At exactly ten past six, Natasha texts you to give the green light—no doubt having casually pointed out to Bob that you’re not with her, which you always are. 

“What if he doesn’t care?” you ask Reuben softly as you climb the stairs. 

He rolls his eyes like you’ve said something utterly insane. “He’ll care, trust me. He might be Bob, but he’s still a guy. And he’s obviously down bad for you—just needs a little push.” 

You snort. “Little?” 

Reuben chuckles. “Okay, more than a little. It’s Bob.” 

You laugh too, quietly, and then steel yourself as you reach the door—slipping on your game face. You glance at Reuben, catching the smirk tugging at his mouth. 

Then you both nod. It’s show time. 

“So, you’re saying eye contact makes it better?” he asks as you step through the door, voice pitched perfectly. 

You nod, casual but with a hint of something else. “Yep. A thousand times better. And bonus points if you know where to put your hands.” 

He raises a brow, lips twitching. “Where do I put my hands?” 

You giggle, soft and flirty, pausing a few steps into the room. “How about I show you later?” 

His grin breaks loose. “Promise?” 

“Promise.” 

You head toward the rows of seats, sliding into your usual behind Natasha—not missing the way Bob’s gaze locks onto you like he’s been caught mid-thought. His head swivels as Reuben sits beside you instead of next to Mickey. 

“See,” Reuben says, leaning in a little, “all these years I thought speed was the key. But you’re saying it’s finesse?” 

“Oh, definitely finesse,” you say, holding his eyes. “Go too hard and too fast, and it’s just... messy. Sloppy. Unimpressive.” 

Reuben licks his lips, his eyes flicking sideways to Bob—just for a second. “So, you’re offering me private lessons?” 

You lower your voice slightly, knowing it’s still perfectly audible to the rest of the room. “Depends. Can you follow instruction without getting too flustered?” 

Reuben’s grin sharpens. “I don’t fluster, sweetheart. I excel under pressure.” 

You pause, your pulse a little too quick—partly from Bob’s stare, which he’s not even trying to hide now, and partly from the fact that yeah, it’s been a while. And if this whole plan does blow up in your face... well, Reuben doesn’t seem like the worst option for a little stress relief. 

You fight down a laugh at the idea and finally drag your gaze toward the front of the room. Bob—just one row ahead—snaps his eyes forward like he’s been caught eavesdropping, but the bright red of his cheeks, the tight set of his shoulders, and the way his jaw flexes say it all. He’s tense. He’s listening. And he’s absolutely not okay. 

A moment later, Maverick strolls in, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare brewing right beneath his nose. 

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. Each evening, you regroup with your friends to scheme and strategize, brainstorming new antics to pull off the next day. Nothing over-the-top—just enough to catch Bob’s eye. 

On Wednesday, you get Reuben to help you into your flight suit. You both time it perfectly: he exits the locker room just ahead of Bob, and you appear a second later, flashing a flirty grin before asking sweetly for his help. You giggle and call him a sweetheart while Bob nearly trips over his own feet, glancing back with a clenched jaw and a look that could burn a hole through steel. 

Thursday morning, Reuben brings you a coffee—exactly how you like it—straight to the briefing room. You proclaim, not so quietly, that he’s giving total boyfriend material before he drops into the seat beside you and you both giggle over a (completely fabricated) inside joke. 

That afternoon, during a short break between drills and the next briefing, he offers you a bite of his protein bar. You take it right from his hand, licking your lips and throwing him an innocent little wink before sauntering off like it’s nothing. 

By Friday, Natasha warns you that the others are starting to notice. But you’re in too deep to pull back now—not when Bob looks like he’s about to unravel. He’s been tighter than ever, watching you like a hawk, eyes dark and stormy instead of their usual calm denim blue. You’re close. So close. And honestly? You’re kind of having a little too much fun. 

That afternoon, during post-flight checks, Reuben sidles up behind you under the guise of pointing out something ‘mechanical’ on your jet. You’re not actually doing anything with it, but that doesn’t stop him from standing unnecessarily close, guiding your hand with his as he gestures toward something supposedly critical. The two of you are seconds from cracking up, but Bob doesn’t know that. Bob, from all the way across the hangar, looks frozen—eyes locked, breath held, jaw tight—as Reuben presses flush against your back. 

Natasha really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as she is, but honestly? She can’t help it. It’s too damn entertaining. 

“Hey,” she says, nodding at Bob as she approaches. “You good?” 

He blinks, then turns his sharp gaze on her, jaw tight. “Yeah.” 

She snorts. “That was very convincing.” 

He rolls his eyes and turns robotically back to the maintenance logs he’d been filling out. 

Natasha glances at the paperwork, noting the hard press of his pen and the uneven ticks and crosses—some scribbled over multiple times—down the checkbox column. 

“Wow,” she mutters, raising a brow. “You sure you earned your pen licence? Or should you still be on pencils?” 

Bob’s blue eyes flick up, darker than usual beneath his furrowed brow. “Ha. Ha.” 

“Okay,” she says, biting back the laugh rising in her throat. “So, bad day?” 

“Bad week,” Bob grumbles. 

Natasha nods slowly. “Well, hey, why don’t we fix that by hitting up The Hard Deck tonight?” 

He snaps the logbook shut and tucks the pen into his pocket. “Pass.” 

“Oh, come on,” she sighs. “It might make you feel better.” 

His eyes flick toward you again, watching as you and Reuben dissolve into giggles beside your jet. 

“I doubt it.” 

“Sunny’ll be there,” Natasha says, her voice light and teasing. 

Bob doesn’t respond. Just keeps packing up his things—every motion a little too sharp, a little too fast. 

Natasha exhales. “Come on, dude. Just come for one drink—it doesn’t have to be beer. Blow off some steam. If you hate it, you can bail early. But it won’t be the same without you.” 

He takes a breath and closes his eyes for a beat before letting it out slow. “Fine. One drink.” 

Natasha grins, her eyes sparkling even in the dimming light of the hangar. “Perfect.” 

Later that night, Natasha drives the four of you—Reuben and Mickey included—to the bar. Everyone else agreed to meet there, and she insisted on driving so you could have a few drinks. Not just to loosen up for another round of torturing poor Bob, but to actually let loose a little. She can tell this whole thing is winding you up, and she figures a few beers and a night with friends might help ease the tension—and the guilt—and maybe even the gnawing fear that this whole plan could blow up in your face. 

“Nat, are you sure this dress isn’t too short?” you ask, holding the hem down against the curve of your ass as you follow her toward the main entry door. “I haven’t worn it in years.” 

“There’s no such thing as too short,” Mickey says, deadpan. 

You roll your eyes and step inside, into the warm glow of golden lighting and the low hum of half-drunk conversation. You let go of your dress now that there’s no breeze threatening to lift it, and try to relax, even with the strange sensation of bare legs in public. You’re used to flight suits, not feeling this on display. 

“Ready to put on your best performance yet?” Reuben murmurs, slinging an arm over your shoulder. 

You take a deep breath, feeling it rattle faintly in your chest. “Let’s do this thing.” 

Natasha shoots you a wink over her shoulder, already striding confidently across the bar, her gaze locked on the usual booth where the rest of your friends are waiting. 

There’s a chorus of greetings as the four of you approach, and you all grin and wave, waiting as Bradley, Jake, Javy, and Bob shuffle around to make room. Natasha pointedly takes the spot beside Bob, with Mickey sliding in next to her. You claim the seat beside Jake—which puts Reuben on your other side. Just as planned. 

It’s a little squishy, but after so many nights like this, none of you really notice. Except Bob. He’s noticed tonight. His eyes are locked on the way your side is pressed to Reuben’s, his arm is slung casually over the back of the booth, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder. 

“He looks like he wants to kill me,” Reuben whispers in your ear, low enough that you can barely hear him over the chatter of the bar. “Pretend I said something funny. Laugh like you’ve got a secret.” 

You blink slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, and let out a soft giggle as you lean toward him just a little. 

“You’re a pretty good actress,” he mutters before pulling back slightly. 

You glance up at him through your lashes, feeling more at ease with the close proximity after the past week. Then you straighten your spine and lean in, your lips grazing his jaw as you whisper in his ear. 

“You’re annoying.” 

He chuckles quietly, though you know he really wants to snort and smack you on the shoulder. You’re both enjoying this just a little too much, getting a kick out of your undercover roles. 

When you turn back to the rest of the group, Natasha is very deliberately not looking at you—and you know it’s because she’ll laugh if she does. Mickey, on the other hand, is watching with wide eyes, as is Javy. Jake and Bradley are still arguing about something on your other side, and Bob… Bob still looks like he’s ready to commit first-degree murder. 

“Drink?” Reuben asks after a beat, his smile smooth. 

You nod. “Absolutely. I’ll help you.” 

You both stand and offer a round to the rest of the table, most of whom accept—which makes it less suspicious that you’re going together. At the bar, you make sure to stand just a little closer than necessary as he orders a round of the usual from Penny. 

“Are you sure we’re not pushing it?” you ask, your voice laced with quiet worry. 

Reuben shakes his head. “Nah, not yet.” 

You frown. “Yet?” 

“He’ll snap one way or another,” he says, leaning casually against the bar. “He’ll either lose it and blow up over something totally unrelated—and that’s when we’ll know we’ve gone too far. Or he’ll wake the fuck up and fight for what he wants.” 

You open your mouth to voice another concern, but Penny is already sliding the tray of drinks across the bar. Reuben thanks her with an easy smile as you grab the two beers that didn’t fit, flashing her your own grateful grin before following him back to the table. 

When you set the beers down, you feel the neckline of your dress slip just a little lower. Your eyes flick up to see if anyone’s noticed—and of course… Bob. His gaze is dark and locked on your chest, clearly able to see right down your dress. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even try to look away. He just stares. 

But then he blinks and glances aside, not flustered or ashamed—just determined not to meet your eyes. 

You straighten up and clear your throat. “I’m just going to duck to the bathroom.” 

Then you turn and begin weaving your way through the bar, desperate for a moment to yourself—even though you haven’t been here that long—and to check that you don’t look completely ridiculous in the dress Natasha convinced you to wear. 

You take your time in the stall, then rinse your hands under the cool water for a little longer than necessary. When you glance at your reflection in the full-length mirror, you’re surprised—and a little impressed. Because damn… you do look good. Maybe this dress deserves to see the light of day more often. And if Bob’s stare is anything to go by, it’s definitely not a bad idea. 

You take a deep breath before pushing open the bathroom door, ready to continue your little charade—but you barely make it a few steps before someone blocks your path. You blink and stumble, stopping short before you run right into him. 

You sigh when you realise who it is, that cocky smirk etched across his face. “What do you want, Hangman?” 

“I want to know what’s going on.” 

Your pulse spikes, but you do your best to keep your expression calm. “What do you mean?” 

“Between you and Payback,” he says, narrowing his green eyes. “Because I know that’s not real.” 

Your breath catches—too quickly—giving you away as your gaze flicks to the side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

He rolls his eyes and leans in slightly, keeping the conversation low and private in the hum of the bar. “Don’t try to gaslight me, Sunny. I’m not an idiot. I know Phoenix is in on it—because of course she is—and Fanboy too, judging by the way he giggles every time you and Payback so much as look at each other.” He quirks a brow, daring you to challenge him. “The only reason Coyote hasn’t said anything is because he’s too polite, and Rooster hasn’t noticed because he’s too wrapped up in his own shit.” 

You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, matching his bravado. “You missed one.” 

He frowns. “What?” 

“You listed all the members of the squad… except one.” 

“Right,” he chuckles dryly. “Bob. That’s the funny thing, because ever since we got to this island, you’ve been starry-eyed over Floyd, and he’s either too clueless to notice or too stupid to ask you out.” He pauses, letting it sink in, then leans just a bit closer. “Which is exactly why I’m not buying whatever you and Payback have been trying to sell this past week.” 

You stare at each other for a beat, both stubborn and scowling, waiting for the other to fold first. 

Then you sigh. “Okay, fine. But you have to swear yourself to secrecy.” 

His smirk stretches into a full grin. “I knew it.” 

“Swear it.” 

“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up a hand. “I swear. I won’t even tell Coyote, and my pillow won’t hear a thing about it.” 

You nod. “Good. Now come over and pretend to pick a song so this doesn’t look suspicious.” 

You grab his wrist and tug him toward the jukebox, leaning over it and pretending to scroll through options while you give him a quick summary of Operation Bob’s Blue Balls—leaving out a few of the more... intimate details. 

“So there,” you finish. “It’s underhanded and immature, but that’s what’s going on.” 

His expression barely shifts the entire time, just the usual entertained glint in his eye and that ever-present smirk. 

“Underhanded and immature?” he says. “I’m surprised I wasn’t in on this sooner.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“I want in.” 

You blink, brow furrowed. “What?” 

“I want to help,” he says, plainly. 

You narrow your eyes, sceptical. “Why?” 

He sighs and braces one hand on the jukebox, leaning in like he’s about to reveal some classified information. “Believe it or not, I’m not the worst guy in the world. I have a few ideas, and I think you two would be cute together.” He pauses, then adds in a quieter voice, “Besides, I’ve been going through a bit of a dry spell, and I figure helping other people get laid might buy me some good karma.” 

You snort softly as he pulls back, his cheeks faintly pink. 

“Alright,” you say. “You can help. But nothing obvious and nothing stupid. The last thing I need is Bob figuring this out and hating me for it.” 

He rolls his eyes, that signature smirk firmly back in place. “Bob could never hate you. But I’ll be subtle.” 

“Good.” You glance past his shoulder toward the booth across the bar. “We better get back before they get suspicious.” 

“Wait,” he stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “One more question.” 

You raise your brows, prompting him to go on. 

“When you fantasise about Bob, is he the top or the bottom? Because I just think you should manage your expectations—ow!” 

He winces, rubbing the spot on his chest where you smacked him, watching you with a wounded look as you shove past with an exasperated sigh. 

Great. Now Hangman is involved... 

You spend the rest of the night practically glued to Reuben’s side, as planned. But now you’re a little on edge. You keep half an ear tuned to Jake’s voice, waiting to see when he might strike—and what he might say when he does. You trust him not to blow the whole thing, but you’re more than a little nervous about what his version of ‘helping’ might actually look like. 

“Another drink?” Reuben asks, just as you finish the last of your third beer. 

You nod, a bit too eagerly. “Yes, please. Maybe something stronger this time.” 

He chuckles and slides out of the booth, offering his hand. You take it, letting him guide you up toward the bar. You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you barely register the feel of his hand slipping from yours and settling at the small of your back, his thumb rubbing slow, comforting circles there. 

But Bob notices. 

And Jake notices Bob noticing—taking special joy in the way Bob’s hand tightens around his bottle of Coke, knuckles going white. 

Jake clears his throat and casts a glance toward the bar, leaning forward slightly. “They’re cute, don’t you think?” 

There’s a beat of silence as Bob swallows—hard—and Natasha just blinks, clearly trying to catch up. Then the lightbulb goes off, and a wicked grin stretches across her lips. 

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes following Jake’s. “I think they’d make a good couple.” 

Bob snorts. Actually snorts. But he keeps his gaze fixed on the label he’s been picking at on his bottle. 

Natasha arches a brow. “Something funny?” 

Bob shakes his head. “No.” 

“Really?” Jake presses, grinning. “Could’ve sworn you just laughed, Floyd.” 

“It wasn’t a laugh,” Bob mutters. “More of a… breath.” 

“Oh, a breath,” Natasha echoes, clearly amused. “Because it sounded suspiciously like judgment.” 

“Or jealousy,” Jake adds, leaning back with a smug grin. 

Bob’s gaze flicks to the bar—and to you—then just as quickly snaps away. “I don’t care who she dates.” 

Natasha hums, fighting a smirk as she lifts her beer to her lips, “Didn’t say you did.” 

Shortly after you and Reuben return to the table, giggling like idiots, Bob leaves. He mutters something about not feeling well and ducks out before even saying a proper goodbye. Part of you feels wrecked with guilt—but another part… is quietly hopeful. Because Bob isn’t like this. He’s good at regulating his emotions, even better at staying calm under pressure—he’s a fighter pilot, for God’s sake. But this? This is different. He’s never stormed out on the brink of losing control. Sure, he can get a little frustrated sometimes, maybe throw a snarky comment—usually at Jake when he pushes too far—but that’s as far as it goes. 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s starting to unravel… 

You spend most of the next day on the couch with the aircon blasting, while Natasha works through some paperwork at the kitchen table. It’s too hot to go outside, and you’re too distracted to do anything that requires even an ounce of brainpower. So instead, you let your mind rot with cartoons, obsessively checking your phone for signs of life in the group chat. 

“I can’t believe Hangman is in on this now,” Natasha mutters, not even glancing up from her papers. 

You sigh and roll from your side onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe he hasn’t cracked yet. If the roles were reversed, I’d be like a feral cat in heat by now.” 

She snorts and lifts her head, flashing you an amused smirk. “You were already like a feral cat in heat for that man. Hence this whole situation.” 

You laugh softly. “Yeah, not wrong.” 

Your head drops to the side as you half-watch the TV screen, until the apartment door swings open with a dramatic gust of air. 

“I hate to say it,” Mickey says as he breezes in, eyes wide, “but the man is a genius.” 

Reuben follows close behind, and then Jake—grinning like he just solved world peace. 

“Oh, God,” Natasha mutters. “They’re multiplying.” 

“I don’t know why you didn’t come to me sooner,” Jake says, strolling toward the couch. “I’m the king of seduction.” 

You sit up, curling into the corner to make room for Reuben and Jake as Mickey heads straight for the fridge. 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at him. 

“Just wait until you hear the plan,” Reuben says, practically buzzing. “It’s perfect.” 

Intrigued now, Natasha gathers her papers into one neat pile and joins you on the lounge. “Alright, Bagman. Let’s hear it.” 

Jake’s eyes sparkle with mischief as he settles in beside Reuben. “Tomorrow, we’re going to the beach.” 

“You’re already way off,” you cut in. “Bob won’t agree to hang out again. Not after last night.” 

Natasha nods. “She’s right. He needs to cool off before we wind him up again.” 

“Absolutely not,” Jake snaps, brow furrowed. “You need to strike while the iron’s hot. You need to push his fucking limits.” 

Mickey appears from the kitchen, a bag of pretzels already open in his hand. 

Natasha frowns. “Okay, but how? He won’t agree to go if he thinks Sunny and Payback will be there.” 

Jake grins. “Which is exactly why he’s going to think they won’t be there.” 

“You want us to lie?” you ask. 

He gives you a flat look. “After all this emotional warfare, now you’re drawing the line at lying?” 

You shrink back slightly. “I guess not.” 

“Exactly.” He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. “So—I’ll pitch the idea in the group chat. Sunny, you reply immediately that you’re busy—before Bob gets a chance to decline. Then Payback says something vague, like he might come or might not. That way, it looks like low numbers. And if Bob says no, the rest of us can guilt-trip him into coming. Which he will, as long as he thinks you’re not going to be there.” 

Natasha tilts her head. “So... she will be there though?” 

“Yes,” Jake says. “Just not right away. Give him time to relax, have some fun. We’ll play games—I’ll rile everyone up and get that competitive energy going.” 

Everyone nods along, faces weirdly serious, like this is some highly classified mission briefing. 

“Then, you two show up together,” Jake continues, gesturing to you and Reuben. “It’ll throw Bob off, but we won’t give him a chance to leave. We’ll keep the games going. Something with contact. You need to get right up in his space. Go all in. Because then... you’re going to knock him off his feet.” 

“Literally,” Mickey mumbles, chewing a mouthful of pretzels. 

You frown. “What?” 

“Bump into him,” Jake says. “Literally knock him over. Skin-to-skin contact. I’ve seen the way he looks at you in a swimsuit—it’s borderline pornographic. Touching him? It’ll fry what’s left of his self-control. And then, when there’s a moment—just a second where you could apologise for being too competitive or whatever... you’re going to say something that makes him snap.” 

You lean in, heart pounding now. “What am I going to say?” 

- 

The sun is high and brutal in the sky, and you’re already sweating—even though you’re still sitting in Reuben’s car with the aircon blasting. 

“Do you really think this is going to work?” you ask, nervously bouncing your knee. 

Reuben snorts. “If it doesn’t, the man isn’t human.” 

“I feel bad,” you mutter, eyes scanning the stretch of gold sand through the windshield. 

“You won’t feel bad when you finally see what’s in his pants,” Reuben says, barely paying attention as he scrolls through his phone. 

Your eyes go wide and your head whips toward him. “So it is huge? I wasn’t just imagining that?” 

He chuckles and looks up. “Oh yeah, he’s big. Like... big big. I remember the first time in the locker room—no one’s trying to look, obviously, that’s just not the vibe—but... damn. We couldn’t not look. Then everyone lost it. I think Hangman nearly cried.” 

You press your lips together, trying to hold back a grin, but it’s no use—your cheeks are on fire, and your whole face feels like it's bright red. 

“Damn,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the front as your heart slams against your ribs. 

Reuben laughs again, then cuts the engine, killing the aircon. “Alright. Pull yourself together. It’s go time.” 

You climb out of the car and immediately wince at the lick of heat curling across your skin. It’s blistering—almost hostile—but at least you’re at the beach. Worst-case scenario? You’ll drown yourself in the ocean. Just walk into the surf and keep going. No one would blame you. 

“Relax,” Reuben says, sliding a hand into yours like this is nothing. “This is going to work. Hangman might be insane, but I’m pretty sure it’s because he’s an evil genius.” 

You roll your eyes, exhale hard, then square your shoulders and lift your chin. 

You let Reuben lead you onto the sand, legs already working overtime to stay steady in the heat-softened grains. You can hear the chaos before you see it. Shouts and thuds echo over the sand as your friends tumble and crash around in a messy game of what looks like overgrown keepy-uppies. 

“No hands!” Javy yells, just as Mickey swats the ball to avoid a direct hit to the face. 

“Damn it, Fanboy!” Jake shouts. “You’re giving away points.” 

Mickey drops his hands to his knees, panting. “Can we play literally any other game? I hate this.” 

“You only hate it ‘cause you suck at it,” Natasha says, catching the ball like it’s second nature and bringing the game to a halt. 

You swear you can see Mickey roll his eyes from here. You and Reuben are still on approach, trudging through the soft sand, unnoticed—so far. 

“What about football?” Jake offers, tossing the round ball aside and already pulling a proper football from their pile of gear. “Dog-fight football?” 

“Three versus three?” Javy asks, sceptical. 

“What about four v. four?” Reuben calls, hand cupped to amplify his voice. 

Everyone turns, and there’s a beat of stillness as they clock you. Then Natasha flashes a wide grin beneath her sunglasses, and Jake’s face lights up like a very satisfied evil villain—his plan falling perfectly into place. 

“Well, if it ain’t Sunny and Payback!” he calls, spinning the football lazily in one hand. “You two done playing your own games already?” 

You ignore the jab and focus on not rolling your ankle in the damn sand. At the pile of bags, you stop to drop your stuff and hesitate at the button of your shorts. 

Jake’s eyes are practically gleaming. “How about a swim to cool off first?” 

Reuben strips his shirt with a single tug. “You read my mind, Seresin.” 

The guys—already in their swim trunks—bolt for the water, crashing into the surf in a chaotic stampede. Natasha peels off her shirt and shorts, shoots you a wink, and strolls in after them like she owns the ocean. 

Reuben doesn’t say anything before he leaves you, but he gives a barely-there nod—directed past your shoulder. 

You don’t need to turn around to know who it’s aimed at. 

Bob’s still standing where he was when the game fizzled out, statuesque. His hair is tousled and his lips parted just enough to make your stomach flip. You’re at least ten feet away, but you can see the rise and fall of his chest—too fast, too hard. But he’s not out of breath. He’s not flustered. 

He’s furious. 

And those blue eyes? Laser-locked on you. His entire focus narrowed like a sniper sight. Not a blink. Not a breath wasted on anyone but you. 

You swallow and force your body into motion, unbuttoning your shorts and shimmying out of them before pulling your loose shirt over your head. You drop your clothes on Natasha’s pile and turn toward the water, steady on the lumpy sand. 

And then you hit the firm part—wet, packed, perfect footing—and you dig in. Hips swaying, deliberate and lethal. 

You don’t need to look back. You can feel the heat of his stare on every inch of exposed skin. It’s scorching. Possessive. Almost punishing. Like if he could touch you right now, he’d brand you. 

Hangman might be a genius after all. 

You hit the water with a sigh, not even hesitating before diving beneath a wave before it can knock you off your feet. It’s the perfect temperature—delicious against your too-hot skin. 

You dive under the next wave, cool saltwater rushing over your body, and come up laughing as you slick your hair back. Natasha is standing beside you, arms outstretched as the water laps at her waist, her eyes fixed on the shore. 

You wade closer, smirking. “Did you see his face?” you ask breathlessly, heart still pounding from the walk down the beach—or maybe from the way Bob had looked at you like he was plotting your murder. “I thought he was going to spontaneously combust.” 

She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring past you. 

You frown as her jaw goes slack and her brows creep up, sunglasses slipping down her nose as she stares at something on the shore—expression caught somewhere between shock and awe. 

You freeze. “What?” 

She still doesn’t speak—just tips her chin the slightest bit, silently gesturing toward whatever has her stunned. 

You twist around. 

And promptly forget how to breathe. 

Bob Floyd is pulling his shirt over his head. 

Bob Floyd, the man who never takes his shirt off. The man who wears it in the ocean and somehow isn’t bothered by the soaking wet material clinging to his body like a second skin. 

And holy shit. 

It’s glorious. 

Sure, you’ve seen him shirtless before. Once. That night. But that was in the dark—his body tense, your mind scrambled, neither of you thinking clearly enough to appreciate what was right in front of you. 

But in the light of day? 

Alabaster skin. Broad shoulders. Deep-cut abs like he walked straight off the set of a Marvel movie. Lean muscle rippling across his chest and arms in a way that feels criminal on someone so quiet and careful. Droplets of sweat cling to his torso like even the heat doesn’t want to let him go. 

The sudden silence behind you confirms it—everyone else is staring too. 

You blink, dumbfounded, mouth dry. “That’s illegal.” 

Natasha huffs out a laugh like she’s short-circuiting. “I mean, I knew he was strong but—wow.” 

You swallow. Hard. “I think I’m going to pass out.” 

Your eyes follow him as he drops his shirt and turns toward the water, cutting through the waves like they’re nothing. He doesn’t glance at any of you. Just keeps his gaze locked on the horizon, jaw set tight, his body moving with single-minded purpose. 

Before you can say something—or even blink—a surge of water smacks you in the face. 

But it’s not a wave. 

You cough and splutter, wiping the salt from your eyes and checking to make sure your sunglasses are still intact. When your vision clears, Jake is standing right in front of you. 

“Wipe the drool off your chin,” he says, deadpan. “You’re supposed to be teasing him.” 

You narrow your eyes, resisting the urge to shove him aside and keep watching Bob. “How did all of you know how cut that man is and not tell me?” 

Jake blinks, thrown for a beat, then grins like the devil. “Wait—you’re mad because we didn’t tell you how ripped Bob is?” 

You nod, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Correct.” 

He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Well if that’s got you steamed, you’re gonna be beside yourself when you find out he’s got a massive-” 

“I know,” you cut in smoothly, a wicked smirk curling at your lips. “Payback told me.” 

Jake gapes at you, brows knitting—but before he can get another word out, you shove his shoulder and send him sprawling into the water. 

When he resurfaces, sputtering and grinning, he points at you like a man on a mission—then lunges. 

You squeal, laughing as he barrels toward you, sending up waves in every direction. The two of you splash around like kids, Jake playing it up—grabbing you, poking at your sides, both of you pretending to wrestle. All for show. Because you both know Bob is watching. 

Eventually, the others join in, playful chaos erupting around you. And before long, you’re panting and breathless, dragging yourself back to shore, your cheeks and chest aching from laughter. 

Everyone settles for a few minutes, drinking from their water bottles and trying to knock water from their ears. But then Jake stands up, football in hand and a wicked smirk on his lips, ready to commence Operation Bob’s Blue Balls – Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer. 

“All right, I’ll pick teams,” he announces. 

Normally, this would cause an uproar. But since most of you are in on the plan, everyone just nods in agreement. 

“Phoenix, Payback, Bob,” he says. “You’re with me. The rest of you are on Rooster’s team.” 

You narrow your eyes and cock your hip—it would seem strange if you didn’t challenge Jake just a little. “Why are you two always team captains?” 

He winks. “Because we’re the best.” 

You roll your eyes and turn away, joining the huddle with your teammates as Bradley and Javy argue over what your game plan should be. 

After a few minutes of strategizing, the game kicks off. You’ve never loved dog-fight football—not like some of the others—mostly because it can get a little rough. But today… it’s more than just a game. It’s a full-blown performance. 

You hang back for a bit, letting Jake and Bradley rile each other up and fire up their teams. Bob is still shirtless, which is a tactical advantage he isn’t even aware of—because every time he has the ball, every time he runs or blocks or is just generally in your line of sight, your knees wobble. 

You’ve nearly forgotten what you’re supposed to be doing when Reuben jumps in front of you and snags the ball before you can—thrown by a very disappointed-looking Javy. 

“Getting tired, Sunny?” Reuben teases, his grin smug. “I’m just getting started.” 

Right. The plan. Flirting. Banter. Teasing Bob. 

You step closer, slowing the game down a touch as you stretch onto your toes and drop your voice—but not too low. “Tired? Please. I’m still waiting for you to make me sweat.” 

There’s a beat where you worry Reuben might break, might laugh—high on adrenaline and endorphins. 

But then Jake hollers, “Cut it out, you two! Save the dirty talk for the bedroom!” 

And the game is back on. 

The sun beats down mercilessly, making every flexed muscle shine, every drop of sweat slide in slow, glistening trails. The sand is hot beneath your feet, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building as you and Reuben turn the game into one of Bob’s personal nightmares. 

You dart to the left, brushing past Reuben with a smug grin, your fingertips dragging across his chest like you’re checking his heart rate. 

“C’mon, hotshot,” you tease. “You could try a little harder.” 

He laughs—low and amused—but gives chase, throwing a hand around your waist as you pivot. It’s all too easy to make it look a little too intimate, a little too tight. He lifts you off the ground to ‘block’ your goal and your head falls back in a laugh that’s just shy of indecent. 

And Bob sees everything. 

You feel it—his stare like hot coals dragged across your skin. When you glance up between plays, he’s standing at the edge of the group, jaw tight, shoulders tense, hands flexing like they’re ready to throw a punch. His eyes follow your every move like he’s marking a target, and if looks could kill, Reuben would already be six feet under. 

You catch a toss, and Reuben crashes into you to intercept, spinning you both until you fall together into the sand. You land side by side, giggling like idiots—some might even say lovesick idiots. 

He pushes up first and grins down at you, tipping his head suggestively. “Need a hand?” 

“Oh, I don’t mind being on my back,” you say sweetly, just loud enough for everyone to hear. 

You take Reuben’s hand and let him haul you off the ground, pulling you into his body just a little more than necessary. 

“Damn, Sunny,” Jake calls from the other side of the makeshift field. “Takin’ a few hits today. Hope it doesn’t affect your game.” 

You scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically as you dust sand off your body like everyone else paid to watch. “You know I like it rough, Hangman.” 

There’s a chorus of oohs and a whistle from Mickey, laughter rippling through the group. 

Except Bob, of course. He’s suddenly very interested in the sand, eyes locked on the ground—even though his rigid posture is telling you everything you need to know. 

The game revs up again, and after a few scuffles, you snag the ball off a fumbled toss and break into a sprint, cutting across the sand with laser focus. Reuben’s behind you, winded, and the others are tangled up with the second ball—leaving only one person standing in your way. 

Bob. 

“Stop her!” Jake shouts, too far behind to intercept. 

Bob plants his feet like he’s ready to block—muscles tensing, arms coiled. It’s almost enough to distract you. But you’re feeling competitive. A little reckless. And you’re seconds from a goal. 

He hesitates when your eyes lock, just long enough for your wicked grin to register as you blow past him and skid to a halt—well over the line. 

Your team erupts into cheers behind you, and you throw your hands up, chest heaving as you catch your breath. When you turn back around, he’s still watching you—eyes wide. 

You flash him a slow smile as you walk past, brushing close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin. 

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” you murmur. “I’ll go easy on you next time.” 

After a breather and a drink of water, everyone lines up for another play. Jake and Bradley drop the footballs into the sand, crouched and ready. Jake turns his head your way and gives you a subtle nod. 

This is it. 

Your heart thunders behind your ribs as you sprint and block and laugh along with the others. The competition hasn’t cooled—everyone is still hungry. Even Bob has snapped into focus, finally playing like it matters instead of just standing there watching. 

And for a moment, it is just fun. No schemes, no strategy. Just friends, shouting and stumbling and laughing too hard to score. 

But then the ball is in your hands again—and it’s time. 

Bob is on defence—Jake made sure of that. You just have to get past him again. Or at least… make it look like you’re trying. 

You tear forward. Jake is already behind you, Natasha lunges and misses by a breath, and Reuben very dramatically wipes out in the sand. 

It’s just Bob now. 

He sets his stance, head tipped down in focus. He’s going to stop you this time. Poor thing. He has no idea that’s exactly the plan. 

You charge, feet kicking up sand, heart in your throat. His eyes widen just a second before you collide—your body slamming into his with just enough force to topple you both. 

The ball flies from your hand as you hit the sand hard, clutching at whatever you can—his shoulders, his arms, solid and warm beneath your grip. You spit sand from your mouth and sit up fast—only to freeze, breath caught in your throat. 

You’re straddling him. Hips locked against his. Chest heaving. His hands on your waist. 

You don’t move. 

You’re both panting. The air between you buzzes like static, and everywhere your skin touches his feels sunburnt and alive. His blue eyes are locked on yours—wild and stunned. Bright enough to drown in. 

Your chest rises and falls with ragged breath, but you stay put. 

“Does this count?” you ask, voice low and rough with adrenaline. 

His lips are parted, soft and pink, breath coming in short bursts. His curls are wild, tangled with sand, and his glasses—crooked from the fall—are still somehow on. He looks wrecked. Shattered. Like you’ve stolen every coherent thought out of his head. His gaze flickers—searching your face, desperate not to meet your eyes. 

You lean in just a little. 

“If anyone else looked at me like that, I’d probably kiss them,” you murmur, squeezing your thighs around his waist. Then you bring your mouth dangerously close to his ear. “But we can’t do that... right?” 

His breath catches—and his eyes finally snap to yours. 

They’re wide and stormy now, brows drawn tight. He doesn’t breathe. He just looks. His mouth parts a little further, and you can see it all happening behind his eyes—every thought, every realisation. 

Everything falls into place—the flirting, the giggling, the deliberate touches, the stolen glances. All of it. You’ve been baiting him. This whole time. 

Before you can say anything else—before you can blink or breathe— 

He snaps. 

He flips you, smooth and fast, moving your body like you weigh nothing. Suddenly, you’re on your back, pressed into the sand, and he’s the one on top—straddling you, his weight holding you down. 

And the look in his eyes could burn the sky. 

He leans in, gaze sweeping over your face—your lips, your eyes, the pulse at your throat. He watches it thrum, just for a second. 

You’re frozen beneath him. Every nerve on fire. Every inch of your body sparking. Your lungs are screaming for air, but you don’t know how to breathe. You can’t think. You can barely feel anything except him. 

His breath ghosts your lips as he whispers, “Oh, you’re in trouble now.” 

And then he kisses you. 

Hard. 

It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s months of tension and stolen glances and aching want—every second of restraint finally unravelling in a dizzy, reckless crash. His mouth claims yours like he’s starving, like he’s waited too long and can’t wait another second. 

His chest presses into yours, slick with sweat and dusted with sand, and you arch into it with a gasp. He groans against your mouth, a low, broken sound that feels like fire in your veins. You can feel every inch of him—solid and hot and so hard against your hip, unmistakable and unignorable. 

You shift beneath him, dragging your leg up around his waist, just enough to tease. His breath hitches, and then he’s kissing you deeper, hungrier, like the noise you just pulled from him unspooled something he can’t reel back in. 

You claw at his back—muscles tense and trembling under your fingers—trying to pull him closer when there’s no space left between you. The kiss turns feverish, tongues sliding, lips parting in desperate sync. You’re panting into each other’s mouths, completely lost. 

There’s sand in your hair, in your mouth, sticking to your sweat-slick skin, but none of it matters. All that matters is the way he moves against you, the way he feels—like every bit of control he’d been clinging to has shattered. 

When he finally tears his mouth from yours, he doesn’t go far. His forehead drops to yours, both of you gasping. He’s pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, lips swollen, pupils blown. 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked, “you’re gonna kill me.” 

And the way he says it—like a confession, like a prayer—makes you want to do it all over again. 

“YES!" Mickey shouts, loud enough for all of North Island to hear. 

Your friends erupt into cheers and screams, laughter lacing their gleeful proclamations as they jump and dance just a few feet away. 

“Well, fuck me,” Jake drawls. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

You both slowly—reluctantly—turn your heads toward the noise. 

“I can’t believe it worked,” Reuben mutters, grinning wide, eyes sparkling. “Phase Three actually worked.” 

You’re still pinned beneath Bob as they all close in, every face lit up with smug satisfaction. 

“You named it?” Bob asks, closing his eyes as his cheeks somehow grow even hotter. 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey says, beaming with pride. “Operation Bob’s Blue Balls. Phase One was the run and the sleepover. Phase Two, Reuben. And this—” he gestures wildly at the two of you tangled in the sand, “this is Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.” 

Bob makes a noise. Somewhere between a strangled groan and a whispered prayer for death. 

“You planned this?” he rasps, forehead dropping against yours again like he might just burrow into the sand and disappear. 

Reuben shrugs, all innocence. “Worked like a charm.” 

“Honestly,” Natasha adds, “we were starting to think you’d never get there. So… you’re welcome.” 

You bury your face in Bob’s shoulder, mortified. He’s burning up beneath your hands—still—and breathing like he just ran a mile with you on his back. 

Jake snickers. “Glad we could help you two get laid.” 

“We haven’t—!” Bob blurts, redder than a stop sign. 

You slap a hand over his mouth, grinning wickedly now despite the embarrassment. “Yet.” 

There’s a beat—a millisecond of silence—before they all burst out laughing again. 

Mickey curls over, clutching his stomach. Reuben walks away, cackling with his head tipped back. Natasha mutters, “Jesus Christ,” but she’s definitely smirking, and Jake claps his hands once as he says, “God bless the U.S. Navy.” 

Bob drops his face into the crook of your neck and groans again, muffled, “I hate all of you.” 

“Even me?” you ask, voice soft and teasing. 

He lifts his head, chuckling softly. “No. But for all that? You’re definitely still in trouble.” 

You lick your lips. “There’s no place I’d rather be.” 

He sighs like you’re actively trying to kill him, then sits up and pushes to his feet—only to glance down at the massive bulge in his shorts, which looks borderline painful. 

“Shit.” 

You scramble up after him, stepping in close and pressing your body to his, barely able to contain your giggles as you shield him from the rest of the beach. 

“Need a minute?” you tease, laughter lacing every word. 

His eyes flash—dark, hungry. “You and I are gonna need more than a minute to deal with this.” 

Heat floods your face and pools between your legs, thick and insistent. 

“But,” he says, glancing toward the water, “I’m just gonna go for a quick swim.” 

You nod, eyes wide and dreamy, watching him from beneath your lashes like an absolute idiot in love. 

And he looks at you like you hung the sun. Like you’re everything. It’s enough to make your heart stutter and your pulse race. He has no business being this beautiful—this sinful—a perfect contradiction of sweetness and respect, with just enough hunger in him, just enough darkness, that you know you’ll be walking funny tomorrow. 

And probably for the next few weeks while you learn how to handle his massive dick. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, a shy smile curling his lips. “You’re making it worse.” 

Your jaw drops. “It gets bigger?” 

He laughs, then leans in to press a kiss to your open mouth—chaste, but lingering. Like it physically pains him to pull away. But he does. And when he flashes you that boyish smile—equal parts sexy and shy—it knocks the breath out of you. 

Then he turns and jogs toward the water. 

It takes you more than a minute to remember how to move—how to function—but eventually, you manage to drag yourself back to the others, who are still laughing and chatting like the beach hasn’t just tilted sideways. 

Natasha passes you your water bottle. “What’s Bob doing?” 

You glance over your shoulder, catching sight of him ducking under a wave. A smile tugs at your lips. 

“Cooling off.” 

END.

[rogue-rook]

I love you jyn erso I love you lyra back from the dead I love you rings of kafrene I love you congratulations you are being rescued please do not resist I love you holy city of jedha I love you lies deceptions I love you bodhi rook cargo pilot local boy I love you trust goes both ways I love you k2so I love you rebellions are built on hope I love you the strongest stars have hearts of kyber I love you I'm beginning to think the force and I have different priorities I love you there is more than one sort of prison captain I sense you carry yours wherever you go I love you saw gerrera I love you I could make it right if I was brave enough I love you galen erso I love you save the rebellion save the dream I love you eadu I love you jyn erso I love you I’ve been in this fight since I was six years old I love you be careful not to choke on your aspirations I love you what chance do we have? the question is what choice? I love you the time to fight is now I love you they were never gonna believe you but I do I believe you I love you we’ve all done terrible things on behalf of the rebellion I love you I couldn’t face myself if I gave up now none of us could I love you jyn I’ll be there for you cassian said I had to I love you not used to people sticking around when things go bad I love you welcome home I love you may the force be with us I love you rogue? rogue one I love you I would trust her with my life I love you scarif I love you saw gerrera used to say one fighter with a sharp stick and nothing left to lose can take the day I love you we'll take the next chance and the next and on and on until we win or the chances are spent I love you make ten men feel like a hundred I love you baze malbus I love you good luck little sister I love you light it up I love you I need to speak to admiral raddus he's returned to his ship he's going to fight I love you we have been redirected to scarif I love you stardust I love you I know because it's me I love you climb climb I love you I love you orson krennic I love you chirrut imwe I love you the force is with me and I am one with the force I love you this is for you galen I love you hammerhead corvette maneuver I love you I'm jyn erso daughter of galen and lyra you’ve lost I love you do you think anybody's listening? I do someone's out there I love you elevator eye contact I love you you may fire when ready I love you your father would have been proud of you jyn I love you cassian andor I love you jyn erso & hope suite I love you rogue one: a star wars story

[theoutcastrogue]

That would be a brilliant trajectory for Cassian's arc, and would make for a great story. But another terrible trajectory has been hinted, and it's not about luck running out, it's about mystical bullshit (he's Special! he has a Purpose! the Force sensed it!) and ugh, not again chosen ones with preordained destinies, please.

Rogue One was an okay film as a prequel (not worth it as a standalone, but of course that's not what it was for), and the really good part of it was the ending, and what made the ending really good was the dramatic irony: we, the audience, know very well the results of the protagonists' actions. They save the galaxy, or at least allow for the galaxy to be saved. But they do NOT know. They go to their deaths without having the slightest idea if the plan they gave their lives for will work out in the end, or if their sacrifice was for nothing. They literally transmit the schematics without knowing for sure if someone's out there, and spend their last moments looking at the sky and hoping.

And that's the point. We never know. We can and indeed should try to predict possible outcomes as best we can, and adjust actions accordingly, but many things are beyond our sight, and most things are beyond our control, and the future is unwritten. So we do what we can, and hope.

If the schematics had been intercepted (entirely plausible because there was a whole-ass space battle out there, it was bad), it would have been for nothing, from a practical standpoint. But that wouldn't make it wrong: ZERO shit gets done if we expect guarantees before doing anything, and presentism is a terrible way to measure the worth of past actions. So all the drama and moral weight (or heroism, if you insist) of Cassian's actions in Rogue One lies in the uncertainty. In not knowing for sure if this is the right path or what will come of it, and doing it anyway, to the bitter end. A Cassian who believes that this will magically work, or this is what he was "meant" to do all along, is a very different and much less interesting character, and his story has a lot less to tell us about our own and decidedly Force-less world.

Andor has been really good so far, orders of magnitude better than Rogue One, or any Star Wars film for that matter. (I have minor issues with the writers' ignorance or perhaps indifference re: urban warfare and such, but eh.). Cassian is a realistic and compelling rebel, with all the ups and downs, rights and wrongs, truths and lies, passions and doubts this should entail. And I think it would be a terrible letdown if they switch the gist of the character from "real everyday person, trying his best, and surviving all this time thanks to his comrades, his own grit, and sheer dumb luck" to "Special person mystically endowed by the universe with an important Purpose, and once said Purpose is fulfilled (in Rogue One) he will be allowed and indeed predestined to bravely die".

I sincerely hope that's not what they're doing. I hope the scene with the healer is just an awkward attempt to include the Force in the narrative, and won't become a whole THING, and will absolutely not affect Cassian's choices in the future. Because that will not only cheapen Andor, it will also ruin Cassian's role in Rogue One.

cassian "the only special thing about me is luck, and i've overplayed my hand already" andor getting out of every impossible situation he's ever been in and finally running out of luck on scarif. i need a minute.

[feelfreetopleasemexo]

Star-whores (Bakugoxreader - he asks her to dress up for him.)

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️🧡🧡🧡〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

If there’s one undeniable truth about Katsuki Bakugo, it’s that he’s beyond dominant. In every aspect of his life, he is the leader and always has been, ever since childhood. If he wanted something, he got it, if he was challenged he would win, no matter the cost he would come out on top.

After classes, your usual routine would be to both hang out in either kirishima or Kaminaris room, all fuck about playing games, teasing each other or eating food, then when the night grew darker, shuffling back to either yours or his bed. But tonight? Tonight he wanted to go straight to your room.

“Cm,ere. I wanna try something.” As soon as you walked through the dorms front doors, he grabbed your wrist and dragged you to your room. Kicking the door nearly off its hinges, you started to feel the nervousness grow in your stomach. Was this the night he was going to ask for something particularly dangerous in the bedroom? Some deeply disturbing sexual fantasy he’d dreamt about, and had now suddenly mustered up the courage to ask for it? You gulped as he sat on your bed and patted his thighs for you to take your usual seat.

As you approached him, you sat down nervously and wrapped your arms around his neck, hiding your face instantly in the nook of his neck. He traced circles on your back under your shirt, and as his rough, burnt fingers slide slightly lower around your hips you bucked back and push his hands off.

“What’s got you all nervous? Dont you wanna fuck around like usual?” His voice sharp, to the point, but with softness laced delicately underneath.

“What did you….yano, wanna try then?” You tried to sound your usual cocky self, but no matter how hard you tried, he always saw straight through you. He pulled your head back into his neck and squeezed his arm around you in a tender yet possessive cuddle.

“Im not going to set you on fire.” He smirked, smelling the fact you used the new shampoo he insisted you buy last week, and cuddled you slightly tighter. You let out a small giggle, impressed he could tell you were worried bout a fantasy, but still slightly concerned it jumped straight to being set alight.

“Look, it’s in my bag, wait here.” He threw you playfully over his shoulder letting you bramble into your squishmellow army that protected your bed. As he walked back towards you, you could see he was holding a large bag behind his back. He quickly threw it at you and turned around, letting you open it without being watched. You pulled out a bra that was a weird brownygreen that looked like it had a golden vine clawing up it, and then a dark red cloth thing that was attached to a golden thong. Puzzled, you then pulled out golden thick cuffs that looked like they were from medieval times… peaking at you from the corner of his eye, his laugh started to growl lowly from his lips. As you looked up at him holding the strange pieces in your hands, your confusion made his laugh bellow from his throat, almost making him cry actual tears.

“You don’t know what it’s from do you?” He snickered, trying to contain himself.

“Um….i dont even what it is, let alone what it’s….from?”

“Bring her to me.” He quotes in a very strange, gargled voice. Your confusion only worsens as his smirk grows wilder. You whisper ‘what the fuck’ under your breath.

“Just put it on. You’ll see. Princess.” With that he winks, clicks his tongue then turns back around.

You try your best to put the strange things on, eventually realising it’s meant to be some kind of sexy underwear set, maybe? As you think you’ve finished, you suddenly click once the shackles are on.

“It’s fucking Star Wars isn’t it….” His laugh made him throw his head back as he asks if you’re ready yet, desperately trying not to swing his head back already. “Eeeer, I think so?”

He spins around slowly and as he sees you stood there in the Princess Leia slave outfit, his jaw immediately drops. He’s usually such a charismatic, cool, laid back guy when it comes to seeing you dressed up, but right now? His inner nerd was freaking the fuck out. He almost immediately rushed and tackled you to the bed. The force of his kiss almost suffocating you, his hands wildly reaching over your body, nearly ripping the fabric off of you already. As he caressed you, you could feel his cock already rock hard pressing into your pelvis, with such a force that you were almost adamant he was going to break through his school trousers. Suddenly he flips you over, hands on your hips, rocking you back and forth as he digs his nails into your sides. This passion, this aggression, it usually didn’t peak until he was actually inside of you, so it shocked you slightly as he began to leave bites marks all over your neck and chest.

Suddenly, a large knock at your door interrupted his moans.

“Fuck off extra. We’re busy.” He said, your flesh still between his teeth. As he was saying this, the door flung open and kirishima and kaminari fell into your room. They both stood there stunned at the sight of princess leia straddling Bakugo. You shot up, turned around and screamed at them to leave, trying your best to cover your tits from leaking out of the weird bra thing. Bakugo just swung his hands behind his head, proudly showing off to his two best friends that his girlfriend indeed agreed to wear the outfit. They both tried to cover their eyes and scramble out of your room, bumping into each other, the wall them your door, behind Kaminari poked his head around the door again and gawked at you. You threw a plushie at his head as he then slammed the door shut. Bakugo could not contain his pride, smiling up at you like he was the king of the world, as he flexed his biceps under his head.

“They both owe me a tenner now.” He smirked, seemingly so proud that not only did you agree to wear it, but he had undeniable, concrete proof that you did so. You smashed his chest with your fist in embarrassment, but before it connected he grabbed your wrist and tightly squeezed it, making you let out a small yelp.

“Now now, that’s not what slaves do. And if they did….” He flings you around so you’re under him again, growling an inch away from your throat. “They’d get punished.”

[zrvllya]

𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐙𝐎𝐍𝐄

pairing - remus lupin x fem! reader

heart — "it should have been us. everything about today—the flowers, the music, the vows—it's what i promised you."

warnings - alcohol abuse, angst, past relationship, unresolved issues, lycantrophy references, war themes, sexual references, emotional infidelity, toxic communication

word count - 10,000+

──────────

"and i know—because i’ve lived without it—that what you two have is the closest thing to magic that exists. i know what it’s like to lose something like this. so hold onto it. please.“

the words hang in the air like abandoned ghosts, cold and unwelcome against your skin. remus stands at the microphone, amber eyes glazed with something that exists in the shadowy space between rage and despair. his fingers curl around the stand as though it's the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

"when james told me he was in love with lily in our second year, i laughed at him. i told him he was mad." his voice cracks slightly, the sound of something fragile splintering. "but standing here today, watching the way he looks at her... i know he wasn't mad. he was just ahead of the rest of us in understanding what matters."

he isn't looking at james or lily. he's looking at you. straight through you, actually, like you're made of glass and he can see all the broken pieces scattered on the other side. every jagged edge, every shard that still bears his name.

"love isn't always easy. sometimes it's messy and painful and it asks more of us than we think we can give." his knuckles are white against the microphone stand, bones pressing against skin. "but when it's real—when it's the kind of love these two share—it's worth fighting for. it's worth protecting. worth sacrificing for."

you wish you could look away. you wish your eyes weren't locked on his, that your heart wasn't beating so loudly you're certain the entire room can hear its desperate rhythm. the champagne in your glass has gone warm, bubbles long dead. marlene leans over, whispering something about how drunk remus is, but you can't respond. you're too busy drowning in amber eyes that used to look at you like you hung the stars.

"james and lily never gave up on each other. through everything—every obstacle, every doubt, every dark day—they chose each other. over and over again." his voice breaks completely now. "some of us weren't so brave."

his gaze intensifies, boring into you across the sea of white linen and floral arrangements. "some of us let fear win. some of us convinced ourselves that walking away was the only answer, when really, it was just the easiest one. some of us still wake up reaching for someone who isn't there."

you feel the blood drain from your face, leaving you light-headed. around you, guests shift uncomfortably in their seats, the weight of words clearly not meant for the bride and groom settling over the reception like an uninvited shadow.

sirius is suddenly beside him, hand on his shoulder. a gentle reminder that this speech is supposed to be about the newlyweds, not the wreckage of what you and remus once were. remus blinks, seeming to remember where he is, though his eyes never leave yours.

"to james and lily potter," he says finally, raising a glass that's significantly emptier than it was when he started speaking. "may your love be as eternal as it is true. may you never take the easy way out when things get difficult. may you remember that some scars are worth earning."

the room erupts in polite, if somewhat strained, applause. you clap mechanically, your palms barely touching. remus stumbles off the small stage, and sirius guides him back to their table. he's saying something in remus's ear, something that makes remus shake his head vigorously, a flash of anger crossing his features.

"you okay?" mary asks, nudging you gently.

"fine," you lie. "just tired. it's been a long day."

"bullshit," marlene whispers from your other side. "he might as well have used your name. everyone with ears knows who he was talking about."

you take a long sip of champagne instead of responding. it tastes like nothing against your numb tongue.

the reception continues around you—a blur of white tulle and fairy lights and the kind of happiness that feels like a knife when you're so empty. the ballroom of the potter estate has been transformed into something out of a dream—enchanted flowers bloom and close in time with the music, releasing soft bursts of golden light. ivy climbs the walls, occasionally reshaping itself into the initials "j & l." tiny fireflies drift through the air, blinking in patterns that match the rhythm of whatever song is playing.

it's exactly like what remus described to you that night in seventh year, down to the last detail. so exactly that you wonder if james had somehow overheard, or if remus had shared the vision with his friend after... after you left.

"dance with me," marlene says, already pulling you up from your chair. "sitting here staring at him like you're plotting his murder isn't going to help."

"i'm not staring." another lie.

the dance floor is crowded, bodies moving in time to a song you can't concentrate on hearing. marlene spins you, laughs at something you don't register. over her shoulder, you see remus watching. he lifts his glass in a mock toast when your eyes meet, a bitter smile playing on lips you once knew better than your own.

you turn away, but it's too late. the memory crashes into you like a wave, pulling you under.

"i'm going to marry you one day." his words are hot against your neck, sending shivers down your spine despite the warmth of his body pressed against yours.

"is that a promise, lupin?" you whisper, fingers tracing the scars on his back, memorizing each ridge and valley as if you might be tested on them later.

"it's more than that." he shifts, looking down at you. the moonlight filtering through the dormitory window turns his eyes to liquid gold. "it's a certainty."

your heart stutters. "tell me about it."

he smiles, that soft, secret smile that only you get to see. "it'll be in spring. outside. under a canopy of flowers that change colors with the music. colors that follow the notes, blooming and fading with each chord."

"sounds expensive."

"worth every galleon." his fingers tangle in your hair. "sirius will be my best man, of course. and he'll make some horribly inappropriate speech that makes my mother faint and your father threaten to hex him."

you laugh softly, pressing your lips to his collarbone. "and after?"

"after, we'll dance until our feet hurt. and then we'll apparate somewhere no one can find us for at least a week. maybe that little cottage in cornwall we saw in the prophet."

"only a week?"

"the first of many." his voice grows serious. "i'll love you forever, you know. even when we're old and i'm even more scarred and you're—"

"still putting up with your dramatic declarations?" you tease, but your voice catches. the air between you feels heavy with promise.

"even then." he kisses you, soft and slow, like he's trying to press the words into your skin so they'll stay there forever. "especially then."

"you alright?" marlene asks, pulling you back to the present. "you look like you've seen a ghost."

"just need some air," you manage, already making your way off the dance floor.

the reception hall is stifling suddenly. too many bodies, too many memories, too many echoes of promises that died before they could be kept. you slip out onto the balcony, grateful for the bite of cold air against your flushed skin.

"hiding?"

you turn to find lily standing in the doorway, radiant in white. her dress is simple, elegant—layers of silk and chiffon that seem to float around her like she's walking on clouds. her red hair is pinned up with tiny pearl flowers, a few strategic strands left loose to frame her face.

"just needed a moment," you say. "congratulations, by the way. everything is beautiful. you're beautiful."

"thank you." she steps closer, the train of her dress whispering against the stone floor. "though i'm starting to think inviting both of you was a mistake."

you don't pretend not to understand. "i'm fine, lily. really."

"and remus?" she raises an eyebrow. "he's on his way to being completely plastered. sirius is trying to get some coffee into him, but..." she trails off.

"that's not my problem anymore." the words sound hollow even to your own ears.

lily's expression softens. "maybe not. but you're still watching him like it is. and he's still looking at you like you're the moon he can't stop orbiting."

before you can respond, james appears, wrapping an arm around his bride's waist. "there you are. sirius is about to start the games, and i need someone sober to make sure he doesn't set anything on fire. again."

lily laughs, leaning into him. "duty calls. coming, love?"

you nod, following them back inside. the air feels heavier now, charged with something you can't name but recognize all too well.

the games are as ridiculous as expected. sirius has conjured a series of magical challenges for the newlyweds—everything from finishing each other's sentences while under a partial silencing charm to a modified version of pin the tail on the hippogriff that has james blindfolded and trying to find lily in a crowd of guests all wearing veils.

you laugh at the appropriate moments, clap when everyone else does. but your attention keeps drifting, like a compass that only points in one direction.

remus is slouched at his table, tie loose around his neck, top buttons of his shirt undone. his eyes are half-closed, but you can tell he's not actually tired. he's withdrawing, pulling into himself the way he always did when things got too loud, too bright, too much. peter is saying something to him, but he doesn't seem to be listening. there's a fresh drink in front of him, amber liquid catching the light like tiny fires.

"next up," sirius announces, his voice magically amplified, "we have the newlywed game! let's see how well these lovebirds really know each other."

he conjures two high-backed chairs, facing away from each other. lily and james take their seats, both laughing.

"first question," sirius begins, a mischievous glint in his eye. "who said 'i love you' first?"

james and lily both immediately raise placards with "james" written on them. the crowd cheers.

"point for the happy couple! next question: where was your first proper date?"

they both hold up cards reading "three broomsticks," though lily has added "it was supposed to be madam puddifoot's but james got us banned for life."

laughter ripples through the crowd. james turns in his chair to wink at lily, who blows him a kiss.

"what's the most annoying habit your partner has?" sirius continues.

james writes "leaves wet towels on the floor" while lily's card reads "collects quidditch figurines and talks to them when he thinks i'm not around."

more laughter, more teasing. you force a smile, but your eyes drift back to remus. he's watching now too, a strange expression on his face—something between longing and regret, as if he's seeing a future that once belonged to him.

"if your partner could change one thing about you, what would it be?" sirius asks.

lily hesitates, then writes "my stubbornness." james, without pausing, writes "nothing. she's perfect."

a collective "aww" runs through the crowd. lily turns, her expression softening as she looks at her husband.

"i wouldn't change a thing either," she says, loud enough for everyone to hear.

james reaches for her hand across the space between them, and the simple gesture—fingers intertwining, thumbs brushing over knuckles—contains such easy intimacy that it makes your chest ache with something that feels dangerously close to envy.

remus stands abruptly, nearly knocking over his drink. he steadies it with reflexes that seem too quick for someone so intoxicated, then weaves his way through the tables toward the exit. no one but you seems to notice his departure.

the music changes, slowing to something sweet and melancholy. james leads lily to the center of the floor for their first dance as husband and wife. they move together like they were made for it, like two parts of the same spell. james whispers something that makes lily throw her head back in laughter, her eyes shining with the kind of love poets spend lifetimes trying to capture in words.

the enchanted canopy above them shifts with the music—soft blues melting into purples, then pinks, then golds. exactly like remus described that night. exactly what should have been yours.

you finish your champagne in one swallow, needing something to burn away the lump forming in your throat.

across the room, remus watches them with an expression so raw it makes your chest ache. he catches your eye again, and this time, he doesn't look away. his gaze holds yours across the sea of guests, across the years between you, across all the words neither of you ever said when it mattered.

you're the first to break it, turning to mary and asking about her job at the ministry, anything to keep from drowning in those amber eyes that still know too much about you.

"...and then the whole department had to work overtime because someone accidentally released a batch of enchanted rubber ducks that kept multiplying every time they quacked," mary is saying, but you've only caught the last half of her story.

"sounds chaotic," you manage, taking another sip of champagne you don't remember getting.

the dance floor fills as other couples join james and lily. sirius leads mcgonagall in an elaborate waltz that has her fighting to maintain her stern expression. peter awkwardly sways with a cousin of lily's who looks like she'd rather be anywhere else. dorcas and marlene move together so naturally it makes you wonder if there's something more than friendship between them.

"may i have this dance?"

you turn to find frank longbottom extending his hand. alice, his new wife of just three months, is busy chatting with lily's mother by the dessert table.

"of course," you say, grateful for the distraction.

frank is a comfortable dancer—not too close, not too distant. he makes easy small talk about their new house, about alice's promotion at the ministry, about the unusually warm weather. normal things. safe things. things that don't carry the weight of three years of silence.

"how are you holding up?" he asks suddenly, voice lowered.

you blink in surprise. "what do you mean?"

frank's expression is kind. "we all saw the speech," he says gently. "and the way you both keep looking at each other when you think no one's watching."

heat rises to your cheeks. "is it that obvious?"

"only to those of us who were there for the original show." he smiles, but it's sympathetic rather than teasing. "i remember seventh year. you two were..."

"everything," you finish for him, the word barely audible over the music.

he nods. "exactly."

the song ends, and frank squeezes your hand before returning to alice. you stand alone on the dance floor for a moment, suddenly unsure where to go. your table feels too exposed, the bar too close to where remus was last sitting.

before you can decide, the music shifts again—to a song that makes your heart stop.

it's the song that was playing the first time remus kissed you. some old muggle tune that sirius had been obsessed with that summer before seventh year. you'd been dancing together in james's parents' living room, everyone else already gone to bed. remus had pulled you close, his hands trembling slightly, and whispered "i can't pretend anymore" before his lips found yours.

your eyes immediately search the room, finding sirius at the band's table. he meets your gaze, and the apologetic shrug tells you everything—he requested it for remus. a peace offering. or maybe a final push.

and remus—remus is staring right at you from the entrance to the ballroom, devastation written across his features. he drains his glass in one long swallow, then pushes away from the doorframe, heading for the exit.

before you can think better of it, you follow.

you find him in the corridor, leaning against the wall, head tilted back, eyes closed. he looks exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with the late hour.

"running away?" you ask, the words sharper than you intended.

his eyes snap open. "look who's talking."

the barb lands exactly where he aimed it, and you flinch slightly. "that's not fair."

"isn't it?" he pushes off the wall, swaying slightly. "running away is what we do best, isn't it? you run, i chase. i run, you chase. we're so good at it by now."

"i didn't come out here to fight with you."

he laughs, a hollow sound that bounces off the stone walls. "why did you come out here, then? to make sure i wasn't making another scene? ruining lily and james's perfect day with my pathetic pining?"

"is that what you think you're doing? pining?"

"what would you call it?" he steps closer, and you can smell the firewhiskey on his breath, mingling with that familiar scent of parchment and cedar and something uniquely him that still haunts your dreams. "watching the only person i've ever loved across a crowded room, remembering everything we had, everything we lost—"

"don't," you whisper, the word barely audible.

"don't what? tell the truth? isn't that what you always wanted from me?" his voice is bitter, almost mocking. "the whole truth, even when it hurts?"

"not like this." you take a step back. "not when you're drunk and angry and—"

"and what? heartbroken?" he laughs again. "i've been heartbroken for three years, love. this is just a particularly bad night in a long series of bad nights."

you want to walk away. you should walk away. but your feet are rooted to the spot, your heart hammering against your ribs like it's trying to break free, to cross the space between you.

"it should have been us," he says suddenly, voice dropping to nearly a whisper. "everything about today—the flowers, the music, the vows—it's what i promised you. and watching them..." he swallows hard. "watching them get everything we should have had..."

"you had your chance to talk about all this," you say finally, your voice unnaturally steady. "you had months of chances."

"and you had yours to stay." his eyes hold yours, unflinching despite the alcohol. "but here we are."

"yes, here we are. at james and lily's wedding. which you're ruining, by the way."

he flinches like you've slapped him. "that's not—"

"it is. and you know it." your voice rises slightly. "you're ruining their wedding day because it's not us up there, remus. because you can't stand to watch them have what we lost."

"and you can?" he challenges, stepping closer again. "you've been wearing that fake smile all night, like you're fine, like seeing all this doesn't kill you as much as it kills me. at least i'm honest about my misery."

"honest?" you laugh incredulously. "when have you ever been honest? you spent months pushing me away, telling me you were fine when you weren't, insisting nothing was wrong when everything was falling apart."

"i was trying to protect you!" his voice echoes down the empty corridor. "i was twenty years old and turning into a monster every month, and i was terrified of what that meant for us!"

"i never asked to be protected." your voice cracks. "i asked to be included. to be trusted. to be treated like a partner, not a child you had to shelter from the big bad world."

he runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it makes your chest ache. "i know. i know that now."

"well, it's too late." the words taste like ash in your mouth.

"is it?" he asks quietly. "is it really too late for us?"

you swallow hard. "what do you want from me, remus?"

"i want..." he starts, then stops, seeming to gather his thoughts. "i want one dance. just one. in that room, under those flowers that should have been ours."

the request is so unexpected it leaves you speechless.

"at least let us attend one wedding together," he says, a sad smile playing at his lips, "if it can't be ours."

your throat tightens. "that's not fair."

"nothing about us has ever been fair." he holds out his hand. "one dance. and then i'll leave you alone forever, if that's what you want."

you should say no. you know you should walk away, go back to the reception, find mary or marlene and pretend this conversation never happened. but there's something in his eyes—a vulnerability that the alcohol has exposed—that makes you reach for his hand.

"one dance," you agree. "and then we're done."

his fingers close around yours, warm and familiar. "lead the way."

you walk back to the ballroom in silence, your hand still in his. at the entrance, you hesitate. the music has changed again, something slow and sweet. couples sway together, lost in their own worlds.

"if i ask you something," remus says suddenly, "will you answer honestly?"

you look up at him. "depends on the question."

"do you ever think about it? what would have happened if we hadn't fallen apart?"

your heart pounds against your ribs. "all the time," you admit, the words escaping before you can stop them.

he looks down at you, eyes wide with surprise. "really?"

"every day," you say softly. "every time i see something that reminds me of you. every time i hear someone laugh the way you do. every time it rains."

he swallows hard. "me too."

you step into the ballroom, pulling him with you. the dance floor is crowded enough that no one notices as you find a space near the edge. remus's hand settles on your waist, hesitant, like he's afraid you might shatter under his touch.

you place your hand on his shoulder, remembering how it used to fit there perfectly. his other hand still holds yours, and you try not to think about how right it feels. how the calluses on his palm match up with the ones on your fingers, like pieces of a puzzle.

"thank you," he says quietly as you begin to move to the music. "for this."

you nod, not trusting yourself to speak. his body is warm against yours, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. you try to keep some distance between you, but the crowded floor pushes you closer together until you can feel his heartbeat against your own.

"i'm sorry," he says after a moment. "for the speech. for tonight. for everything."

you look up at him, finding his gaze already on you. "are you really? or are you just saying that because you're drunk and nostalgic?"

"i'm saying it because it's true." his thumb traces circles on your waist, probably unconsciously. "i've been sorry since the day you walked out. i just didn't know how to tell you."

"you could have tried words," you say, but there's no bite to it. "or, i don't know, showing up at my door."

"i did," he admits. "three times. i stood outside your flat for hours, trying to find the courage to knock. the first time, it was raining so hard i was soaked through. the second time, it was your birthday. the third..." he trails off.

"the third?" you prompt.

"the third was the day frank and alice got married. i saw the invitation on your table through the window. realized you'd be there, that i'd see you for the first time in nearly two years. i panicked and left."

you remember that day—how you'd felt eyes on you during the ceremony, how you'd kept turning to look behind you, finding nothing but shadows.

"we're a mess, aren't we?" you say softly.

he laughs, a genuine sound that vibrates through his chest into yours. "the biggest."

the music shifts again, but neither of you stop dancing. your hand has somehow moved from his shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers brushing against the soft hair there. his arm has tightened around your waist, pulling you closer until there's barely any space between you.

"what happened to us?" you ask, the question that's haunted you for three years finally finding voice.

remus sighs, his breath warm against your temple. "fear. pride. stubbornness. take your pick."

"all of the above," you murmur.

"i was so afraid of hurting you," he says quietly. "not just physically, but... i was getting worse. the transformations were getting harder. i was coming back with new scars every month, scars i couldn't hide. i was in pain all the time, and i was taking it out on you."

"you were pushing me away."

"i thought it would be easier if you were the one to leave. if i made you hate me enough to walk away on your own."

you pull back slightly to look at him. "i never hated you. not even when i wanted to."

something flickers in his eyes—hope, maybe, or regret. "and now?"

before you can answer, there's a commotion near the head table. james is standing on a chair, lily beside him, glasses raised. "if i could have everyone's attention for a moment!"

the music fades, conversations quieting. you and remus turn toward the voice, but neither of you step away from the other.

"my wife and i," james begins, grinning at the word 'wife,' "want to thank you all for being here today. for supporting us, for loving us, for putting up with us—especially those of you who had to endure my six-year campaign to win lily's heart."

laughter ripples through the crowd.

"but we also want to take a moment to acknowledge something else." james's expression grows serious. "we're living in dark times. there's no point pretending otherwise. every day brings news of another disappearance, another attack, another loss."

the mood in the room shifts, grows heavier.

"which is why days like today are so important," lily continues. "days when we remember that love is still possible. that joy is still possible. that even in the darkest times, we can find light in each other."

murmurs of agreement flow through the crowd. remus's arm tightens around your waist, a reflexive gesture you're not sure he's even aware of.

"so," james raises his glass higher, "we want to propose a toast. not just to us, but to all of you. to the love that brings us together. to the friendships that sustain us. to the family we choose."

"to love in dark times," lily adds, her glass joining his.

the room echoes with the toast, glasses raised, voices joining together. you look up at remus, finding his eyes already on you, swimming with emotion.

"to love in dark times," he whispers, just for you.

something shifts between you, a trembling possibility taking shape. remus's gaze drops to your lips, a question in his eyes. for a breathless moment, you think he might kiss you, right here in front of everyone.

but then sirius is there, clapping remus on the shoulder. "there you are, moony! been looking all over. mcgonagall wants a dance with the best man."

remus startles, turning to his friend. "minerva wants to dance with me?"

"well, she asked for 'the sober one,' which rules out padfoot here," james says, appearing beside sirius. "but since you're the only best man we've got..."

you step back, the moment broken. remus looks at you, an apology in his eyes, but you shake your head. "go. fulfill your best man duties."

he hesitates. "this conversation isn't over."

"isn't it?" you ask softly.

before he can answer, james is pulling him away, toward where mcgonagall stands waiting, a rare smile on her face. you watch them go, feeling strangely hollow.

marlene appears at your side, a fresh glass of champagne in her hand. "was that what it looked like?"

you take the glass, grateful for something to do with your hands. "depends on what you think it looked like."

"like you and lupin were about three seconds away from giving everyone at this wedding something to really gossip about," she says, eyebrows raised.

you sip your champagne. "we were just dancing."

"uh-huh." she looks unconvinced. "and i'm just minerva's star pupil. seriously, are you okay? you've been avoiding him all night, and then suddenly you're slow dancing with him looking like... that."

"like what?"

"like he's air and you've been drowning," she says simply.

you don't have an answer for that.

across the room, remus is dancing with mcgonagall, his movements more graceful than they should be for someone who's had as much to drink as he has. he's smiling at something she's saying, but his eyes keep finding you over her shoulder.

"he still loves you," marlene says, following your gaze. "anyone with eyes can see it."

"it's not that simple."

"isn't it?" she shrugs. "love rarely is. doesn't mean it's not worth figuring out."

the song ends, and mcgonagall says something to remus that makes him laugh. he bows slightly, pressing a kiss to her hand, and she actually blushes.

"think about it," marlene says, squeezing your arm before disappearing back into the crowd.

you finish your champagne, set the empty glass on a passing tray, and make your way to the balcony again. the night air is cool against your flushed skin, the stars bright overhead. you lean against the railing, trying to sort through the tangle of emotions in your chest.

the door opens behind you, and you don't need to turn to know who it is. you'd know his footsteps anywhere, even after all this time.

"found you," remus says softly, coming to stand beside you.

"wasn't hiding," you reply.

"weren't you?" he leans against the railing, careful to keep some space between you. "you've been avoiding me all night."

"can you blame me? after that speech?"

he winces. "that was... poorly handled on my part."

you laugh despite yourself. "you think?"

"in my defense, i've been drinking since breakfast." he runs a hand through his hair. "dutch courage, sirius called it."

"dutch courage for what? publicly humiliating us both?"

"for talking to you," he says simply. "for telling you the truth. for finally saying what i should have said three years ago."

you turn to look at him. "and what's that?"

he meets your gaze, steady despite the alcohol. "that i love you. that i never stopped loving you. that letting you walk away was the biggest mistake of my life."

the words hang between you, heavy with all the things unsaid for too long.

"you're drunk," you say finally.

"yes," he agrees. "but that doesn't make it any less true."

"what do you want from me, remus?" you ask again, suddenly tired. "an absolution? forgiveness? or do you just want to reopen old wounds because you're feeling nostalgic at a wedding?"

"i want a second chance," he says quietly. "i want to try again, to do better this time. i want to be brave enough to let you in, to stop pushing you away when things get hard."

you shake your head. "we can't just pick up where we left off. too much has happened. too much time has passed."

"i'm not asking to pick up where we left off. i'm asking to start somewhere new. somewhere better."

you look away, back at the stars. "i don't know if i can trust you again."

"i know." he moves closer, his arm brushing against yours. "i know i hurt you. i know i broke promises. but i also know that there hasn't been a single day in the last three years when i haven't thought about you, missed you, regretted everything that happened between us."

the sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. "remus—"

"come back to the party with me," he interrupts. "just for a little while. dance with me again. let me buy you a drink. let me prove to you that i've changed, that i'm not the same scared boy who let you go."

you hesitate. "i don't think that's a good idea."

"probably not," he admits. "but when have we ever done the smart thing when it comes to each other?"

you can't help but smile at that. "fair point."

he holds out his hand, a tentative gesture. "at least let us attend one wedding together, if it can't be ours," he says softly. "let me have this one night with you before we go back to pretending we're strangers."

the words hit you like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs. "that's not fair."

"i know," he says, hand still extended. "but i'm asking anyway."

you look at his hand, then up at his face. there's something in his eyes—a vulnerability, a hope, a fear—that breaks through the last of your defenses. you place your hand in his, feeling the familiar calluses, the warmth that's always been so at odds with his condition.

"one night," you say. "no promises beyond that."

his fingers close around yours, gentle but firm. "no promises," he agrees. "just tonight."

you let him lead you back inside, to where the party is still in full swing. the band is playing something fast now, and the dance floor is packed with people laughing, spinning, living in the moment.

remus pauses at the edge of the crowd, looking down at you. "still want to dance?"

you shake your head. "maybe later. i think i need that drink first."

he nods, keeping hold of your hand as he guides you through the crowd to the bar. "what'll it be?"

"something strong," you say. "strong enough to make me stop overthinking this."

he smiles, a flash of the old remus, the one who used to know exactly what you needed before you did. "two firewhiskeys," he tells the bartender. "neat."

when the drinks arrive, he hands one to you, his fingers brushing against yours in a way that seems deliberate. "to tonight," he says, raising his glass. "and whatever comes after."

you clink your glass against his, the sound sharp and clear in the moment of hesitation between songs. the whiskey burns your throat, liquid courage spreading warmth through your chest.

"so," you say, setting your glass down. "where do we go from here?"

remus takes a long sip of his own drink, amber liquid matching his eyes. "honestly? i have no idea. i didn't think i'd get this far."

a laugh escapes you, small but genuine. "always the planner, lupin."

"planning hasn't exactly worked out well for us, has it?" he leans against the bar, eyes never leaving your face. "maybe we should try improvising for once."

there's a new quality to his voice—something reckless, something dangerous—that sends a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the whiskey. his gaze drops briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes.

"dangerous territory," you murmur.

"since when have we been afraid of danger?" his voice drops lower. "we were gryffindors, after all."

"some kinds of bravery are easier than others." you finish your drink in one swallow. "physical danger was never what scared us."

the music changes again, slowing to something soft and melancholy that makes your chest ache with recognition. it's another song from that summer, the one that played the night before everything fell apart.

remus hears it too; you can tell by the way his body tenses, the way his knuckles whiten around his glass. "sirius is really pushing his luck tonight," he mutters.

"at least it's not—"

but you don't finish the sentence because the current song fades out and the opening notes of the song—your song—start playing. the one that was playing during your first kiss, the one remus used to hum against your skin on lazy sunday mornings, the one you haven't been able to listen to since everything ended.

remus's eyes widen, then narrow as he scans the room, finding sirius by the band stand. "i'm going to kill him."

sirius spots you both, raises his glass in a toast, and winks dramatically. subtlety never was his strong suit.

"dance with me," remus says suddenly, setting down his glass. "again. properly this time."

you hesitate. "i don't think—"

"don't think," he interrupts, taking your hand. "feel. just for this song. just for tonight."

before you can protest, he's guiding you to the dance floor, finding a spot near the edge, partially hidden by a column draped in enchanted ivy. his hand settles on your waist, more confidently this time, pulling you closer than before. your arms go around his neck almost automatically, muscle memory from hundreds of dances before.

"we shouldn't be doing this," you whisper, even as you let him pull you closer.

"probably not," he agrees, his breath warm against your ear. "but it seems like we're doing it anyway."

you fall into the familiar rhythm, bodies remembering what minds have tried to forget. his hand splays across your lower back, warm and solid, guiding you with the gentle confidence that always surprised people who only knew shy, bookish remus lupin. but you know this version of him—the one who leads without hesitation, the one whose quiet exterior hides something wild and sure.

"i've missed this," he murmurs, so softly you almost don't hear it over the music. "missed you."

you don't reply, but you rest your head against his shoulder, allowing yourself this one moment of weakness. he smells the same—cedar and parchment and something uniquely him that you've never been able to find anywhere else, not for lack of trying.

the song continues, lyrics wrapping around you both like a familiar blanket, words about first love and lasting memories and the kind of connection that never really fades, even when you want it to.

"do you remember?" remus asks quietly. "the first time we danced to this?"

"sirius's birthday," you answer without thinking. "the bonfire at the potter's. you'd had too much firewhiskey and kept stepping on my toes."

he laughs softly. "and you didn't care. you just kept dancing with me anyway."

"i would have danced with you all night, broken toes and all." the admission slips out before you can stop it.

his arms tighten around you almost imperceptibly. "i know."

a memory surfaces—remus pulling you away from the bonfire, leading you down to the small pond at the edge of the potter property. dancing with you under the stars, no music except what was in your heads, his hands trembling slightly when they cupped your face. the taste of firewhiskey and chocolate on his lips when he finally, finally kissed you.

"we were so young," you murmur.

"we're still young," he reminds you. "only twenty-three. ancient by wizarding standards, i know, but..."

you smile despite yourself. "speak for yourself, old man."

he chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. "fair enough. these gray hairs do add a few years."

"i like them," you say without thinking. "they make you look distinguished."

his steps falter for just a moment before he recovers. "distinguished? is that what we're calling it now?"

"better than 'prematurely aged by lycanthropy,'" you reply, the old joke slipping out automatically.

his laugh is startled but genuine. "always direct, aren't you?"

"you used to appreciate that about me."

"i still do," he says, suddenly serious. "it's one of the thousand things i've missed about you."

the song is nearing its end, the familiar bridge building toward the final chorus. you should pull away. you know you should put distance between your bodies, between your hearts. but instead, you find yourself holding tighter, memorizing the feel of him for the lonely nights ahead.

"remember what you said to me?" remus asks softly. "that night by the pond?"

you swallow hard. "which part?"

"you said, 'i don't care what happens tomorrow or next week or next year. i just want tonight with you, under these stars.' you said, 'sometimes a moment is enough to last forever.'"

the words, your words, spoken in his voice, hit you like a bludger to the chest. "i remember."

"was it? enough?" his voice is barely audible, even with his lips so close to your ear. "did it last?"

you pull back slightly to look at him, finding his eyes dark with emotion. "remus..."

the song ends, the final notes hanging in the air between you like a question. in the moment of silence before the next song begins, remus leans down, his forehead resting against yours. "just tonight," he whispers. "one more memory to last forever. and then i'll let you go, if that's what you want."

your breath catches. this close, you can see the flecks of gold in his amber eyes, the tiny scar that cuts through his left eyebrow, the shadow of stubble on his jaw. details you've tried so hard to forget, suddenly in perfect, painful focus.

someone bumps into you from behind, breaking the moment. you step back, suddenly aware of where you are, of the crowd around you. the band has started another song, something faster, louder.

"i need some air," you say, already turning away.

remus catches your hand. "i'll come with you."

"remus—"

"please," he says, and there's something in his voice—a vulnerability, a need—that you can't refuse.

you nod once, and he keeps hold of your hand as you weave through the crowd toward the balcony doors. the night air is even cooler now, raising goosebumps on your bare arms. without a word, remus shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. it's warm from his body, and that familiar scent envelops you.

"thank you," you murmur.

he nods, keeping a careful distance between you now. "old habits."

you pull the jacket tighter around yourself, trying not to think about how right it feels. "very gallant."

"nothing gallant about it," he says, leaning against the railing. "entirely selfish, actually. you were always unbearably beautiful in my clothes."

heat rises to your cheeks. "remus..."

"sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "tonight only, remember? no reason to hold back anymore."

there's a new quality to his voice—a recklessness, an abandon—that you've rarely heard from him. it reminds you of the nights after full moons sometimes, when the relief of surviving another transformation would make him bold, uninhibited.

"how much have you had to drink?" you ask.

he laughs. "enough to be honest, not enough to lie."

"that's dangerously close to a riddle, lupin."

"you always did like solving me." his smile is soft, tinged with melancholy. "figuring out all my secrets, all my scars."

you look away, out at the garden below. fairy lights float among the rose bushes, twinkling like earthbound stars. "not all of them, apparently."

the words hang between you, heavy with implication. remus sighs, running a hand through his hair. "that's fair."

silence stretches between you, not entirely uncomfortable. inside, the party continues—laughter and music spilling out into the night, reminders of the celebration you're both hiding from.

"can i ask you something?" remus says finally. "something i've wondered for three years?"

you don't look at him. "you can ask. i might not answer."

"why didn't you fight for us?" his voice is soft, devoid of accusation. "when i was pushing you away, when i was being an idiot—why did you let me succeed?"

the question catches you off guard. you've spent three years wondering the same thing about him, never considering that he might be asking it about you.

"i thought you wanted me to go," you say finally. "i thought... i thought you'd stopped loving me."

remus makes a sound like you've physically wounded him. "merlin, is that what you believed? that i stopped loving you?"

you turn to him now. "what was i supposed to think? you were distant for months. you wouldn't let me in—literally, physically wouldn't let me into your flat after transformations. you stopped telling me what you were thinking, what you were feeling. and then, that last fight..."

the memory of it still burns, even after all this time. remus, pale and exhausted after a particularly brutal moon, shouting that he couldn't do this anymore, that it wasn't fair to you, that you deserved better than 'half a man.' you, screaming back that you weren't a child, that you could make your own decisions about what you deserved. the terrible, ringing silence after he said, 'then maybe you should start making better ones.'

"i was trying to set you free," remus says quietly. "the war was getting worse. my transformations were getting worse. i was terrified of what would happen to you if—when—i didn't come back one day."

"so you decided for both of us that it was better to end things?" anger flares, old but still potent. "you didn't even give me a choice."

"i know." he looks down at his hands. "i thought i was protecting you."

"i never asked to be protected." your voice cracks. "i asked to be loved. to be trusted. to be treated like an equal."

"i did love you," he says, looking up. "merlin, i loved you so much it terrified me. and that's not an excuse, i know. just a fact."

you shake your head. "love shouldn't be terrifying."

"shouldn't it?" he takes a step closer. "the best kinds are, i think. the ones that matter, anyway. the ones that change you forever."

your heart hammers against your ribs. "remus, don't—"

"i still love you," he says simply. "i never stopped. not for a single day, not for a single hour. even when i thought i was doing the right thing by letting you go."

the words hang in the air between you, too large, too heavy to ignore. part of you wants to run, to escape back into the safety of denial and distance. but another part—the part that still wakes up reaching for him in the darkness—holds you there, frozen in this moment of terrible possibility.

"say something," he whispers. "anything. tell me you hate me, tell me to go to hell, just... don't shut me out."

"i don't hate you," you say finally. "i've tried. merlin knows i've tried. it would be so much easier if i could."

hope flickers across his face. "then what do you feel?"

you laugh, a brittle sound. "everything. nothing. i don't know anymore." you wrap his jacket tighter around yourself. "i spent so long trying not to feel anything at all when it comes to you."

he nods, understanding in his eyes. "i know the feeling."

a burst of laughter from inside draws your attention. through the glass doors, you can see sirius dancing with marlene now, both of them laughing as he attempts to dip her. james and lily are still on the dance floor, lost in each other, the rest of the room fading away around them.

"they look happy," remus says, following your gaze. "like nothing else exists."

"that's how we used to look," you say softly.

"i remember." he moves to stand beside you, close but not touching. "sometimes i think sirius has photos of us from back then just to torture me. he'll pull them out when he's particularly annoyed with me. 'remember when you weren't a miserable git?' he'll say."

you smile despite yourself. "sounds like sirius."

"he misses you too, you know." remus glances at you. "they all do. you didn't just lose me when you walked away."

the words sting because they're true. after the breakup, you'd pulled away from the entire group, unable to bear the reminders, the shared history, the inevitable awkwardness of trying to remain friends with remus's friends. it had been easier to make a clean break, to start fresh.

"i know," you say. "i miss them too."

silence falls between you again, more comfortable this time. in the garden below, a couple walks hand in hand among the rose bushes, stealing a moment of privacy.

"do you ever wonder," remus begins, then stops, seeming to reconsider.

"what?"

he sighs. "do you ever wonder what would have happened if we'd met at a different time? if there was no war, no... condition. just us, meeting at a bookshop or a café somewhere, two normal people."

you consider the question. "sometimes. but then, would we even be us without all those things? they're part of what shaped us, what brought us together."

"that's very philosophical of you," he says with a small smile.

"i've had a lot of time to think." you turn to look at him directly. "three years, in fact."

his smile fades. "i am sorry, you know. for how i handled everything. for the things i said that last night."

"i know." you reach out, almost unconsciously, and straighten his bowtie, which has come slightly undone. "i said things i regret too."

his breath catches at your touch. "we were always good at hurting each other when we were hurting ourselves."

"quite the pair," you agree, letting your hand drop.

he catches it before it can fall back to your side, his fingers warm around yours. "we were good at other things too," he says quietly. "better things."

your pulse jumps. "remus..."

"i know, i know." he doesn't let go of your hand. "tonight only. no expectations."

the door to the balcony opens, and peter steps out, clearly looking for someone. he spots you both, his eyes widening slightly at your joined hands. "oh! there you are, moony. sirius sent me to find you. they're about to do the farewell thing. sparklers and all that."

remus nods. "we'll be right there, wormtail. thanks."

peter hesitates, looking between you uncertainly. "right. good. er, good to see you," he adds, addressing you with an awkward smile before disappearing back inside.

"farewell thing?" you ask.

"james and lily are leaving soon," remus explains. "sirius has arranged some elaborate send-off with enchanted sparklers. probably best if we're all there to make sure nothing catches fire."

you laugh softly. "some things never change."

"no," he agrees, looking at you intently. "some things don't."

inside, sirius is calling for everyone to gather, his voice magically amplified. "ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards, it's almost time to bid farewell to the happy couple!"

remus still hasn't let go of your hand. "shall we?"

you hesitate, then nod. "lead the way."

the guests have formed a pathway from the dance floor to the main doors, creating a corridor for james and lily to walk through. sirius is distributing what look like tiny golden wands—the enchanted sparklers, presumably.

"here," remus says, handing you one after someone passes them to him. "they're charmed to create specific shapes when lit. lilies and snitches, naturally."

you take the sparkler, fingers brushing against his. "naturally."

you find yourselves near the end of the pathway, close to the doors. remus stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch. the contact is small but charged with everything unsaid between you.

"almost time," sirius announces, taking his place at the head of the line. "on my signal, everyone light your sparklers with your wands and hold them high!"

james and lily appear, having changed out of their wedding clothes into elegant traveling robes. lily's hair is loose now, falling in waves around her shoulders. james has his arm around her waist, holding her close against his side.

"ready?" sirius calls. "three, two, one... lumos!"

everyone touches their wands to their sparklers, which burst into brilliant golden light. tiny lilies and snitches made of sparks dance above the crowd, casting a warm glow over everything. the effect is beautiful, magical in every sense of the word.

james and lily begin their walk, smiling and thanking people as they pass. lily is crying a little, happy tears that make her green eyes shine even brighter in the golden light.

beside you, remus shifts closer, his arm pressing against yours. "beautiful, isn't it?" he murmurs.

"it is," you agree, watching as lily hugs mary, as james clasps frank's hand.

they're getting closer now, making their way down the line. lily spots you and breaks away from james momentarily, pulling you into a tight hug. "i'm so glad you came," she whispers in your ear. "and whatever's happening with you two," she adds, glancing at remus, "i'm glad about that too."

before you can respond, she's moving on, embracing remus while james hugs you, lifting you slightly off your feet in his enthusiasm.

"take care of yourself," james says as he sets you down. "and maybe don't be such a stranger, yeah? lily misses you."

"i miss her too," you admit. "i miss all of you."

james grins. "then do something about it." he claps remus on the shoulder, says something you can't hear, and then rejoins his wife, continuing their progress toward the door.

as they reach the end of the pathway, passing under an arch of particularly bright sparklers, sirius calls out, "to mr. and mrs. potter!"

the crowd echoes the toast, glasses raised, sparklers held high. james and lily turn at the doorway, waving one last time before disappearing into the night.

the sparklers begin to fade, their magic exhausted. around you, guests start to disperse, some heading for the floo network, others making their way back to the bar for one last drink.

remus hasn't moved from your side. "they look happy," he says, watching the door where james and lily vanished.

"they are happy," you reply. "they deserve to be."

"so do you," he says quietly. "be happy, i mean."

you look up at him, finding his eyes already on you. "so do you, remus."

something shifts in his expression, a softening, a yielding. "walk with me?"

you should say no. you should thank him for the dances, for the conversation, and walk away while you still can. but instead, you hear yourself say, "okay."

he leads you away from the dispersing crowd, through a side door that opens onto a small garden path. the night is cool but not cold, stars bright overhead. neither of you speak as you walk, following the winding path deeper into the garden, away from the noise and light of the reception.

you come to a small stone bench beside a reflecting pool. the surface of the water is perfectly still, mirroring the sky above. remus gestures for you to sit, and you do, leaving space for him beside you.

"i used to come here sometimes," he says, settling next to you. "when we'd stay with the potters during summers. when things got too loud inside, or when the moon was close and i needed... space."

"it's peaceful," you say, looking at the stars reflected in the water. "i can see why."

silence falls between you, comfortable in a way that surprises you. after a moment, remus speaks again, his voice soft. "lily asked me something the other day. about regrets."

you turn to look at him. "what did you tell her?"

"the truth." he meets your gaze. "that i regret a lot of things, but loving you isn't one of them. that if i could go back and do it all again, i wouldn't change falling in love with you. just how i handled everything after."

your breath catches. "remus—"

"i know," he interrupts gently. "tonight only. i'm not asking for anything. i just... needed you to know that. before we go back to our separate lives."

you look down at your hands, twisting in your lap. "what if..."

"what if what?" he prompts when you don't continue.

you take a deep breath. "what if i don't want to go back to separate lives?"

the words hang in the air between you, impossible to take back. remus goes very still beside you, like he's afraid any movement might shatter the moment.

"what are you saying?" he asks finally, voice barely above a whisper.

"i don't know," you admit. "i just know that seeing you tonight, talking to you... it's made me realize that walking away from you was the hardest thing i've ever done. and staying away hasn't gotten any easier, not even after three years."

he reaches for your hand, hesitant, giving you every opportunity to pull away. when you don't, his fingers interlace with yours, warm and steady. "what does that mean for us?"

"i don't know that either," you say honestly. "i'm not saying we can just pick up where we left off. too much has happened, we've both changed too much."

"but?" he says, hearing the unspoken word.

"but maybe... maybe we could try something new. start over, somehow." you look up at him. "if you want to."

the hope in his eyes is almost painful to see. "if i want to," he repeats, disbelieving. "merlin, do you even need to ask?"

you smile, small but genuine. "i think i do. after everything... i need to hear you say it."

he shifts on the bench, turning to face you fully. "i want to," he says, his voice steady despite the emotion swimming in his eyes. "i want another chance with you. i want to do better this time, to be braver, to be worthy of you."

"you were always worthy," you say softly. "that was never the problem."

"what was the problem, then?"

you consider the question. "fear. pride. war. bad timing. take your pick."

he nods. "all of the above."

"all fixable things," you say, surprising yourself with the certainty in your voice.

"are they?" he asks, equally surprised.

"maybe not the war," you admit. "but the rest... if we're both willing to try."

remus lifts your joined hands, presses a kiss to your knuckles. the gesture is so familiar, so achingly tender, that it steals your breath. "i'm willing to try anything," he says against your skin. "everything."

you reach up with your free hand, trace the line of that small scar through his eyebrow. "slowly," you caution. "one step at a time."

"as slow as you need," he agrees. "we have time."

do you, though? with the war getting worse every day, with friends disappearing, with the dark mark appearing over more homes—time feels like the one thing none of you can count on.

as if reading your thoughts, remus says, "i know what you're thinking. that we might not have time, that tomorrow isn't guaranteed. and you're right. but that's exactly why we should try. because if not now, when?"

the logic is sound, the sentiment achingly true. and looking at him now, in the starlight, you find yourself unable to remember any of the reasons you convinced yourself staying away was the right choice.

"i'm still afraid," you admit. "of getting hurt again. of hurting you."

"i know." he leans forward, rests his forehead against yours. "i'm terrified. but i'm more afraid of never knowing what could have been if we'd been brave enough to try again."

you close your eyes, breathing him in. "one step at a time," you repeat.

"what's the first step?" he asks, so close now that you can feel his breath against your lips.

"this," you whisper, and close the distance between you.

the kiss is soft, tentative, a question rather than a declaration. remus's hand comes up to cup your cheek, gentle as though you might break or vanish under his touch. your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding him close, anchoring yourself to this moment that feels both completely new and achingly familiar.

when you part, he keeps his eyes closed for a moment longer, as if memorizing the feeling. when he opens them, there's a clarity there that wasn't present before, the haze of alcohol replaced by something steadier, more certain.

"that," he says softly, "was a very good first step."

you laugh, the sound surprisingly light. "i thought so too."

[somnolenthour]

𝕶𝖎𝖘𝖘𝖊𝖉 𝖇𝖞 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖚𝖓

￫ ᴘᴀɪʀ: ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴏᴄ (ʟᴏʀᴇᴛᴛᴀ ᴍᴏꜱꜱ)

￫ ᴡᴄ: 1.1ᴋ

￫ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ: 🔞 ɴᴏɴᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ꜱᴇx ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇ, ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍᴡᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ, ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛᴄʜᴄʀᴀꜰᴛ

￫ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜱᴍɪʟᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴅ, ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴡɪᴛɴᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ɪʟʟɴᴇꜱꜱ

Measuring the unending crawl of time always seemed so useless when he had no clear end in sight. He had stopped counting the days, faces blurred and warped as memories came to pass. Now, all he was left with was sunrise and sunset.

When he first came to America, it seemed like nights were so dim and devoid of life. The people would trickle into the empty streets with this dragging lethargy that not even injured animals could encapsulate. Workers who sifted out with darkness as a veil, coming home and going to work. Others used such a veil to shield themselves as they indulged in their whims much like he had. After the war, it was as if this world had sprang to life overnight with new ideas, inventions, people. The money was good and the people ached to spend every last time on hedonistic desires, the fleeting flame of mortality shining as brightly as the lights that lined the streets. Folk of all creeds set their base prejudices aside to enjoy the bustling nightlife of Louisiana. Remmick only planned on passing by, knowing places like this were perfect spots to feed. 

He paused, seeing the veil above him in the stars. It wasn’t pierced but open, allowing only a small peer. It wasn’t his people, as much as he wanted it to be. The past and future met at the forefront of a woman barely waking from her dreams, the veil fading away as she shook the exhaustion from her bones. Her eyes had met the moon, her clothing lacking the luxury of the others; Overalls, a simple linen shirt cuffed at the elbows, her hair braided up and protected by a dusty blue bandana. But he focused more on her skin, her doe-like eyes were framed in honey in the afterglow of sunset and the kisses it left behind formed freckles that covered her body. Remmick breathed a half-chuckle, a crooked smile playing at his lips as he zeroed in on the mysterious woman. 

Tunnel vision almost made him enter the hotel she entered. The thought of catching her alone, the overwhelming desire  to keep her to himself. Stopping at the entrance of the establishment that welcomed him with the promise of women dolled up and beckoning him to come with a heavy heart and open wallet. He needed a plan so he could have her, whoever she was. The vampire decided not to  drink from her yet, he wanted to join the melody of her life. Every beat of her heart he could hum as he waited out the sun, her dreams would be his stage to state his case. The universe had clearly set her before him for a purpose he already understood and he didn’t argue not once with the pull her presence had.  So now he had to plan it out since going in without thinking was fucking dumb and his millenia of dogshit ideas without the proper line of thinking has almost killed him more than he wanted to admittedly count.

“Sweetheart,” He turned to one of the ladies on his way out. “I gotta few friends who just might like this place. What’s its name?” He gave an awkward smile, a bit of a laugh in a short breath to nail home that he was just the average joe probably getting off work and needing to get his rocks off to some pretty girls with a few dollars burning a hole in his pocket. A woman with vibrant purple eyeshadow and a plain dress that was cut almost too short to even be appeasing rolled her eyes as she blinked but covered it with a cheeky smile. 

“The Prince’s jewels hotel,” She put a cigarette to her lips and puffed it in hopes that was the last question he was going to ask her. He just nodded his head and said his thank you.

Remmick found himself  in her dreams, a glamor he had to drain two men for so he could observe her in the shadows of her mind. She stood in the water in only a slip, the sun shining down on both of them, and he fought the urge to just close his eyes and feel it. It was only the memory of its warmth, nothing more. The woman stared directly at him, the breeze rolling in. “I think you’re lost, sir.” Her voice was soft but creaky, like she had been crying. Remmick looked around and realized she wasn’t talking to anybody else and that his glamor wasn’t worth shit if there was another spell at work. He strutted out from the vegetation and into the water. A whiff of almonds and raisins caught his nose in a passing wind, and he raised a brow. 

“Expectin’ somebody else then?” His cocky grin quickly dropped when he heard his mother tongue instead of the stolen accent he used to blend in. 

The woman blinked, staring at him for a beat before cupping his cheek. He could feel his heart beating again, and he gasped, the world vivid now with colors and sensations that only come back to him in the memories he stole. He could hear both of their breathing, bodies inching closer, emotions running high and low. It was something he couldn’t quite comprehend, and he was sure this woman placed before him couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it either. She finally spoke again when his arms slipped around her waist, not wanting this end. “I wanted to see..”

”See what?” He hated that he had to blink. He laughed to himself more for security than humor. 

“My other half.” The woman placed her hand on his chest, feeling the uneven thump in its cage. Eyelids lowered in thought. He still had a soul to connect to another. At least the implications of that were clear enough. He didn’t move. Just let her observe him like there was something missing. “But you’re-“

He cut her off with a kiss.

And another…

Another…

They found themselves back on shore, bodies bare, tangled.

Together..

Together…

Remmick’s eyes snapped open, useless lungs gasping for breath that no longer aided him. He could still feel the way her body slotted against his, her voice was music to his ears, her touch was healing.  The undead man groaned  as his body twitched to life in the wardrobe he shoddily shoved himself into. The sun below the horizon finally meant he could act out on the first part of his plan.

Aloysius Prince was sharp dressed and no nonsense, but it was clear he picked favorites. Mariette was his first turn, needing her to strut her pretty ass into Aloysuis’s office like she had always done every Monday night after him and his buddies left the smoking room. He didn’t need much puppeteering for her to bat her eyes and smile just right. A kiss there, a whisper there. The blonde disappeared behind closed doors, and Remmick put a toothpick between his teeth with a grin. 

It was all coming together.

[eyrieofsynapses]

All that! For what it's worth, here's my two cents: it also depends on what part of Star Wars you're talking about. The main movies can have a very different feel and end goal in comparison to the spinoff TV shows (and Rogue One, which deals with some significantly heavier war themes). Even the prequels, originals, and sequels are tonally diverse. (The originals are commonly regarded as the best. Also, they're technically the fourth through sixth films, but start with them anyway. If you're going to watch any of the films, make it those.)

The shows vary. Some are more light-hearted than others, and they're directed at different audiences. They cover different topics (Clone Wars is war-focused and talks about political corruption, The Mandalorian is a space western, Rebels is grassroots rebellion against fascist tyranny, etc.). The 3D-animated Clone Wars is not the same as The Mandalorian, for example. I haven't been keeping up with the latest shows (Ahsoka and Andor and the recent spinoffs/extensions of Clone Wars), but I've heard that Andor is great and does some solid intellectual/political work.

It can be a big thing to get into if you want, but in my experience it's not too closely woven. The live-action films don't require any knowledge of the TV shows. You could easily watch the original movies and nothing else. While the TV shows make references to each other, most of them can be watched as standalones. You can decide what you want to watch and forgo everything else.

I know fuck all about Doctor Who and Dune, and I'm not experienced with most of Star Trek, but I'm close to finishing TOS and it struck me as harder sci-fi with a significantly greater focus on societal critique. Star Wars is solidly space opera. Thematically (I think that's the right term?) it's fantasy, just with the appearance and packaging of sci-fi. Imo you can't make an apples-to-apples comparison between Star Trek and Star Wars, because they're basically different genres.

TL;DR, it depends on what you want out of it. If you just want the pop culture references, the original trilogy covers the overwhelming majority of that. If you want a bigger universe to explore, it does fulfill that reasonably well. Vibe-wise, it is usually primarily fantasy themed in a sci-fi setting. So. Make of that what you will?

Should I watch Star wars? It feels like a whole big thing to get into.. Like I love star trek and doctor who and silly things like that but star wars feels like preaching for lack of a better word, same reason why I can't get into dune- based on what I've learnt about the two franchises through osmosis from Tumblr

Star Wars is neither as intellectual or as political as Star Trek, nor as convoluted and complex as Dune. It is Quasi-Buddhist Space Wizards versus Space Nazis. This is not a condemnation. Not everything needs to be everything. They’re brilliantly executed even from just a design perspective and the depth of character and world building was miles ahead of others of its genre at original time of release. And frankly even if they were shit I’d recommend a watch for the incredible practical effects alone

(Downside of watching Star Wars: you would no longer be able to enjoy the reactions of people as they find out you’ve never seen Star Wars.)

[bower-quinn]

Where you are is home

Steve x Reader - Fluff, friends to lovers, modern!au Steve is your best friend, but what if... purely hypothetically... you feel more?

The sun over Hawkins hadn’t set yet, but golden light was already creeping through the leaves of the old trees behind the trailer park. You were sitting on the hood of Steve’s BMW – the one he somehow still drove, even though you regularly laughed about how it was basically a moving joke by now.

“Do you think your car will die on its own someday, or do I have to take care of that?” “Disrespectful,” Steve said, chewing on a straw and giving you a mock-offended glare. “This is a classic.” “Classically rusty.” He gave you a playful punch on the arm, and you let out an exaggerated sound, just to grin right after. “You’re such a baby,” he mumbled, leaning back against the windshield and closing his eyes. The wind blew a strand of hair into his face, but he didn’t move it.

That was the thing about the two of you: you didn’t have to say anything. You could be outside somewhere, between trees and chirping crickets, and just… be. You’d been best friends for two years – ever since you’d slipped him chips under the bench during a boring school play. He hadn’t really left your side since. The rumors that you were his latest fling had faded quickly. Like a boring song no one hums anymore. Over time, your friendship had only grown deeper.

He’d taken you on late-night drives, helped you forget your idiot ex (“I almost punched him.” “Come on, Steve, you would've broken your hand!” “But with dignity!”), and you’d helped him write his college applications (“I’m not a college guy.” “You’re just lazy!” “Exactly my point!”) And every time the world felt like too much, one of you was always there. Always.

“Remember when you fell asleep in the kitchen ‘cause you tried to make spaghetti at 3am?” “That was a tactical power nap,” Steve mumbled. “I was waiting for the water to boil.” You laughed – rough and honest. Steve looked at you briefly – just for a moment – but something in his eyes lingered.

“What would I be without you,” he murmured. You felt a lump in your throat. “Probably dead. Or still a terrible cook. A terrible cook with awful taste in music.” “I have fantastic taste in music.” “Steve, your playlist is just Foreigner. Nothing else.” “Romantically speaking, that’s a stroke of genius.” “Romantically speaking, it sucks.”

More laughter. More closeness. And when his head leaned on your shoulder, there was no thunderclap. No explosion. Just a warm, quiet feeling: You loved him. Like a best friend. But also… more.

A few days later, you were sitting with Steve on the roof of his garage. An old wooden ladder, a picnic blanket, two cans of Coke, and a rusty Bluetooth speaker. Your little, crooked paradise.

“Is it sad that this is the highlight of my weekend?” he asked. “No,” you said. “I’m here too.” He grinned – that half-serious grin that hurt if you looked at it too long. “You know you’re irreplaceable, right?” “Obviously,” you replied. “Were you about to confess your undying love?” “God forbid.” A pillow hit your arm. “Robin would’ve declared her eternal love by now. She’s more romantic. And smarter!” “Hey! I successfully built an IKEA cabinet today.” “Steve… I was there. You put the same screw in the wrong place. Twice. Twice, Steve.” “Artistic interpretation!”

Laughter. Deep breaths. Silence.

“You know…,” he suddenly began, “sometimes I feel like I’m missing something. I haven’t dated anyone in over a year. I just want to hang out with you.” You looked at him. “Would you rather go back to dating Cynthia?” “The one who called Chewbacca ‘the roaring bear’? I don’t think so.” You laughed loudly – one of your favorite memories. You’d never forget Steve’s face.

“You need a girlfriend who knows the difference between Star Trek and Star Wars.” “Yeah,” he said softly, leaning closer. “I think I like this. With you. You get me. You know me.” You placed your hand on his. Nothing big. Just… exactly right. His eyes wandered to your face and stayed there.

“You’ve got something,” he whispered, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “Eyelash. Make a wish,” he murmured. “I did.” “What was it?” “If I tell you, it won’t come true.” His gaze flickered. “What if I wished for the same thing?”

There it was. A moment. One second. Two. Three. And it passed. Neither of you made the first move. But still, something had changed. The spark that had only lived inside you was suddenly outside, too. Every touch felt like lightning, and you could see it in his eyes – he felt it too.

Those big puppy eyes. So open. So honest. So vulnerable. And still, weeks passed. Weeks full of longing.

One night at his place. The world outside was quiet, but something inside both of you was boiling – something that had stayed silent too long. Steve looked at you – and in his eyes were the words he couldn’t hold in much longer. He’d never been good at hiding anything.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said. “What do you mean?” “This... almost. This constant almost. Almost kissing. Almost saying how much I want you.” He stepped closer. “I can’t sleep. I only think about you.”

Your heart was racing. “I think about you too,” you whispered.

Then he pulled you into him – not gently. Not carefully. But like someone who’s been in love forever. His mouth found yours, hot and urgent, his hands on your back, under your shirt, pulling, searching – like he had to make sure you were real.

“I want you,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Not just now. Every day.” Your fingers ran down his chest, your breath hot on his neck. His grip tightened. He looked at you, half speechless, half overwhelmed.

“You’re everything I want.” When his lips met yours again, there was no more doubt. Only desire – built up over weeks. Months of glances that had never dared to speak. Now, they were screaming. In every touch. Every move. Every trace of skin on skin.

You didn’t fall on each other. You fell into something that had always been there – and finally had the space to catch fire.

[cloverstellar]

the hate on bix becoming a mother is so strange. saying its “diminishing to her character” and a “recycled trope on women” for STAR WARS of all media is? Strange? Like.. what trope are you talking about. being so for real, this was never a trope in Star Wars. Motherly characters had interesting stories, and had DEPTH, and that’s one of the reasons I love it so much- Star Wars gave its parental characters actual, legitimate stories and personalities. You’re more likely to be a struggling rebel with kids rather than simply be reduced to a motherly figure in Star Wars look at how my girl Padme turned out dawg 😭

Also, all of you saying it shoved her into a stereotype are clearly missing the big picture (aside from you blatantly hating on mothers)- That baby is the sunrise cassian will never get to see. He doesn’t know about that baby. He’s going to die on Yavin, and he’ll never know he was a father, and the clear message that paints is right in front of you: that baby is proof that fighting for freedom is ALWAYS worth it. It is always worth it, even if you don’t get to see it yourself. You are working so the next generation can see the light you fought so hard for.

it was worth it for Bix.

That baby symbolizes the entire rebellion being built on hope, on rebirth, on the new. If you’re ignoring that in favor of saying it “watered down bix’s character” when, quite frankly I think it fit her wonderfully well, you all can shut up, because if a woman becoming a mother after killing her abuser and getting to live a GOOD life that she fought so hard for in the rebellion as a mechanic and on missions for luthen upset you that badly, you might need to look inward a bit.

[nicolejones412]

Out of Sync Part 2

Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Summary: You've found yourself with the 107th fighting Hydra, where you meet a handsome Sergeant. But something just isn't right.

A/N: It honestly feels so good to be back, and actually feel confident enough in being back that I can set up a bit of mystery for you...

Read Part 1 here.

FIC:

"So, what's your name?"

"My name?" You turned your drink in your hands.

"Well I'm assuming Grace is your last name and now that we're on first name basis-"

"Buchannan is your middle name."

"Touche buuuut it is what I go by, so my point still stands."

"It's Charlotte."

"Charlotte Grace?"

"Yeah I know, two first names."

"No, no I like it. Sounds like a movie star's name."

You chuckled. "It does not."

"It does, and you got the looks for it too. I mean it. You could on the silver screen."

You shook your head and took a sip of your drink.

"So, at risk of derailing this whole thing, I ask my first question again. What's a beautiful woman like you doing out here?"

You thought for a moment. You'd been asked that a lot of times, but never so sincerely. For the first time you felt the urge to give an honest answer.

"I don't know. I...I just wanted to make a difference. I impressed Dr. Erskine enough to get a seat at the table, so the SSR felt like the best option I had."

"Erskine...the guy who made the...the..."

"The serum?"

"Yeah the serum that made Steve...." He motioned with is hands as he looked over at the captain.

"A specimen?"

"Yeah a - wait." He turned back to you, and you almost spit out your drink at the look on his face. He shook his head.

"I mean am I wrong?"

"No, no you're not. It's just-" He shook his head.

"I still look for Steve. Like how he always was. It'll definitely take some getting used to that's for sure."

You nodded. "That only makes sense. Change can be...scary. Off-putting."

"He is still Steve though, that's for sure."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, only Steve Rogers would be stupid enough to run into that Hydra base alone without a true exit strategy."

"And he said you were taking all the stupid with you."

Bucky laughed. "I know right! Did he tell you that story?"

You laughed along, thinking. When had you heard that story? "He must have, I guess. The past few months have been a blur."

"Ain't that the truth."

You both paused for a moment, simultaneously reflecting on the past and thinking about the future.

"So, Charlie..."

"Charlie?"

"Charlotte is a bit of a mouthful alright?"

"It's the same number of syllables."

"Still, Charlie." He looked at you pointedly to see if you would object. You just rolled your eyes and tried to hide your smile as you took a drink.

"How about we make a habit of this?"

"Of what?" Your heart pounded in your chest. You couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to happen. Maybe something bad.

Or maybe something good.

He shrugged. "Of spending time together? As friends-colleagues, of course."

"Oh yes we wouldn't want to get that confused."

"Yeah, no need for anything complicated, just, I don't know I've had a great time tonight and you would've been just sitting at your desk being boring if I hadn't-hey!" He half-heartedly protested as you shoved him.

"Alright then, Bucky. Let's be friends."

What could possibly go wrong?

-

You fell into a comfortable routine. With the SSR sticking with Captain America's Howling Commandos, you saw each other more days than not. You and Steve became good friends as well.

You were still at war though, and every time they went on a mission, you worried. You tried to tell yourself it was normal, but you knew it wasn't.

But you never felt relief when they inevitably rolled back into camp. Almost like, as much as you worried, you knew they would be back. Like it had been foolish to worry.

Weeks turned to months, until one day as they left the worry was greater than normal. You just couldn't shake that something was wrong, so you poured over every briefing and map you could get your hands on. It clicked not even 3 hours after they'd left.

"It's a trap."

"Pardon?" Peggy looked up, yawning.

You looked up at her, and before you knew what you were doing, your feet carried you to your tent to gear up before finding a vehicle.

"Charlotte! What is going on?" Peggy asked as she followed you into your shared tent.

"I have to warn them. It's a trap."

"Slow down." You weren't even looking at her, just packing everything like it was muscle memory.

"How do you know it's a trap? And why does it have to be you?"

"I don't have time to explain, and...I don't know. I can move quicker and quieter on my own and hopefully catch up to them."

When she didn't reply, you finally looked up at her. She had a knowing look on her face.

"You can't stop me."

"Oh I know. And I'll try to cover for you as best as I can. Just...don't die, alright?"

You began tucking your hair up into a tight braided bun. "You're really not gonna try to talk me out of this insane plan?"

"It would be a waste of breath. Just know I expect an invitation to the wedding."

You quickly turned back to her. "Wedding? What do you-?"

"Listen I won't argue this plan with you but don't argue the clear facts with me. I see how you look at him."

The fact that you didn't even have to question who she was talking told both of you all you needed to know.

You finished getting dressed and packing before hugging Peggy.

"Stay safe," she urged.

"I'll do my best."

-

Ok, maybe safe wasn't the right word.

You tore through the woods, not able to waste any time. You knew the exact route they were supposed to be taking, and frankly it would take a miracle for you to catch up in time, but you had to try.

You were beating yourself up the whole way. You'd known something was wrong, but they all assured you this should be a simple grab and go to catch a couple Hydra scientists.

It was too good to be true.

You found their vehicle exactly where it should be, without any of them in it.

You jumped off your bike. You knew the basic plan from here, and you just hoped they hadn't had to change it much.

You took off running for where you knew Bucky was supposed to be, trying to balance speed and stealth.

You silently thanked whoever was listening that it didn't look like the trap had been sprung yet as you arrived at the site.

Before you reached anyone else, you ran into Falsworth.

"What are you doing here?" he whispered.

"It's a trap. The scientists aren't even here. We've got to get out of here."

Thankfully, he didn't argue much. He pointed you in the direction Bucky had gone.

You crept up to Bucky's position, finally seeing the back of his head.

Just in time to watch a bullet go through it.

And as shouting and explosions rang out, your heart was pounding.

I was too late.

Too late.

You felt a tug in your chest as you shook your head and closed your eyes, and suddenly the chaos stopped. You opened your eyes.

You were standing ten feet back from where you had been, and you could see Bucky where he'd been sitting before, you watched his head move.

You froze, before looking around you wildly for the gunman.

Your eyes found him as he raised his weapon, trained on Bucky.

Too bad for him you were quicker.

This shot was much quieter than the enemy's would have been. A suppressor does tend to help with that. But Bucky knew that sound, as well as the sound of a body hitting the ground.

He shot up, turning both his eyes and weapon to you.

"Charlie?" he whispered as his eyes widened.

"It's a trap," you blurted out, face white as a sheet. "He was going to shoot you as the signal to spring it. We don't have much time."

"How did you-?"

"No time for questions. Need to signal them and find an escape route. Now."

Bucky nodded before turning back to look through his sites. You pulled out a pair of binoculars.

Your eyes found Steve.

Get out. Get out. It's a trap. Retreat.

Steve looked around like he'd heard something, then his eyes landed on something.

That's it. Come on, it's time to go.

He shook his head, then made eye contact with someone and made a signal with his hands.

"Steve must agree with you." You turned to him.

"He just signaled a retreat."

-

A/N: Why is your name Charlotte? Is it Charlotte? Are you lying? If your name is actually Charlotte pretend I wrote Sharon and he calls you Sherry ok I don't know what else to tell you.

[zombocomme]

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

PAPA/ministry firearms HC incomming!!!

Nihil-

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

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

Seestorr!!!:

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

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

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

*MORE under the cut :3*

Primo

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

Secondo:

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

And his home smoked elk sausage is BANGER!

Terzo:

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

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

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

Copia

Cardinal to Papa Copia: ministry standard issue Ghlock.

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

But as

FRATER,

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

PERPETUA

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

JIM DEFROQUE

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

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

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

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

[skyguytoast]

hi there!

I LOVE your Anakin and Hayden works, they're so well written and I just get lost in this universe you pull me into ���🏻🥰

I was wondering if you had the time if you'd be able to make headcanons for a Hayden Christensen x kinda chubby younger girlfriend reader?

Thanks! Xoxo

HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN X CHUBBY!READER HEADCANONS

WARNING: none, just cuteness A/N: hiiii my loves, how are you doing?? So, when I got this request, it really made me stop and think at first, I was like “wait, is there even a difference between dating someone who's thin or chubby?” cuz in my head love is love 💕BUT then I realized that assuming everything’s the same can actually be a bit careless 🥲 so I took a step back and reflected with lots of love and care. Anywayyyy I hope you like it and please keep sending requests because I get so excited every time!! I love love love hearing from you all!! also didn't know if you want smut or no

Hayden fell for you long before you realized it. The first thing that caught him wasn’t your body, it was your laugh, your warmth, the way your cheeks lifted when you smiled. You were sunshine to him, warm and lovely.

His jaw always dropped when you wore those curve-hugging dresses you were unsure about. When you nervously mentioned the way your belly folded or how it clung “too much,” he just looked at you with that quiet intensity and said, “That’s my favorite part.”

When Hayden returned to training for Vader, he loved how strong it made him feel when he could pick you up effortlessly. He adored the way you’d squeal and laugh when he lifted you during a TikTok challenge you dragged him into (even though he had no idea what half of them meant).

That day you tried on one of his sweatshirts expecting it to be oversized, only for it to feel snug, broke your heart a little. But Hayden noticed the way your smile dimmed. That night, he sat beside you, handed you a softer, roomier hoodie from a Star Wars event in Tokyo, kissed your forehead, and told you, “It’s not about what fits you. It’s about what makes you feel safe.”

Hayden leaves love notes in your snack drawers. You’ll go for a cookie and find “Your thighs are art, don't argue” written on a sticky note in his handwriting. He knows how tempting it is to try those crazy diets that society seems to push on you, and he doesn't want you to fall into a black hole of insecurities and compromise your health.

Hayden always takes the pictures you feel cute in — no “suck it in,” no weird angles. And when you ask, “Do I look okay in this?” He simply says, “You always look beautiful, baby.” His lock screen is a picture of you in a tight white dress that hugs all the right places, highlighting your cute cleavage and the little folds of your tummy.

Hayden gently nudges you away from negative self-talk. When you get caught in a spiral, he doesn’t dismiss you, he listens, holds your hand, and says, “I know the world tries to make you feel like you’re ‘too much.’ But you’re everything to me.”

You once caught him reading body positive essays and plus-size fashion blogs. When you asked why, he shrugged and said, “If I want to love you well, I need to understand." Because Hayden knows how easy it is to fall into those toxic positivity conversations, reinforcing stereotypes and prejudices instead of validating your beauty.

He always encourages you to eat what you want when you go out, especially when you hesitate. “Life’s short,” he whispers with a smirk. “And that cheesecake’s flirting with us.” Hayden cares about your food, knowing that making food the villain will only bring guilt, give space to eating disorders and reinforce the idea that food is the villain.

Whenever someone online makes an ignorant comment, you never have to see it, because Hayden’s already blocked, reported, and moved on. “You don’t owe the internet your pain,” he says. He doesn't have social media, but he knows how tough the internet is, and he does everything he can to make sure you don't have to deal with insults and stupid comments.

______________________________________________________________

TAGLIST: @ihearthayden @anakinstwinklebunny @sometimescharlolette @awhhayden @dessxoxsworld @throughparisallthroughrome @freudsweetlamb

______________________________________________________________

[rexxdjarin]

I uh…actually think people being overtly critical of bix’s ending are incredibly annoying. spoilers below:

after all she’s been through, all the trauma and everything she did alongside Cassian….she chose this as her ending. she wanted peace.

in this instance, we actually see a female character who has experienced true horror, get a peaceful happy ending. that’s not something we often see in Star Wars.

we so often get a female warrior, a fighter, someone who has seen trauma and survived it. but honestly? so many of them go on to face even more trauma. Leia, Ahsoka etc. least of all Padmé, who fucking died!!

we don’t get peaceful resolutions for so, so many female characters in this universe. for once we should be happy we actually got one. especially one that was of her own choosing.

it’s important we remember how survival and moving past the worst traumas of your life can very much be their own kind of rebellion.

this is what bix chose. and she gave up her relationship with Cassian for the greater good, knowing she could still have her own happiness raising their son in peace, even without him beside her.

she killed her torturer. she hammered an attempted rapist to death. she fucking survived. that alone is its own win to her.

treating her as if because she became a mom and chose to have a future of peace instead of fighting that should be seen as some weak choice….I really think you’ve lost the plot.

remember even if you don’t want kids personally, the story isn’t about you or how you feel about that. in this case, Bix and her son are a symbol for the peace and the future that the rebellion fought for and what Cassian died to bring the galaxy.

if you can’t see that, then you are the issue here.

[vanderdyks]

So here's my thing

I think Andor is practically perfect. I think it is one of the best things on television and it NEEDED to be told. People needed this side of star wars. However... Im struggling with the very fact that K2SO was barely in it.

Listen... I love this droid. And I dont think storytelling should necessary be sacrificed just so I can have more of him. HOWEVER, I was PROMISED him back in 2019. I was promised the K2 and Cassian story. We all waited SO PATIENTLY for his return. Especially after learning right before season 1 came out that we wouldn't have him until season 2.

I was expecting bonding. I wanted to see the moment this droid went from something cassian was wary about to someone he trusted with his life. I wanted to see him be K2's biggest defender. I mean K2 LIVES WITH HIM. And we know that didn't just start the moment K2 got reprogrammed... I wanted to see this droid become his best friend. I yearned so badly for all of that, expected all of that. And I didn't get any of it. And it hurts to know that twenty four episodes exist but K2 only takes up space in about a total of two of them.

I loved episode ten. And Kleya has become one of my new favorite star wars characters because of it. But at the same time, when tony gilroy said when they bring in k2, then he's THERE for the rest of the time, I didn't expect an entire episode without him (or cassian for that matter). Again, I LOVE the episode. But it's the way I was really excited (and had to comfort myself) with the idea that at least I was getting three whole episodes of K2. After learning his solo story was cut. It was only going to be three eps, BUT AT LEAST it was three... it was going to be like another film with him. Only it wasn't. We didn't even get three.

I wanted stories of K2 infiltrating an imperial base and reporting back to cassian. I wanted a story where he saves Cassians life. I wanted the rebellion to be wary of K2 still as Cassian rejected any change to K2 programming/refused to let them power him down or restrict K2 in anyway.

And we didn't get that. Even the episodes he was in, there were long gaps where he wasnt. And you felt that absence. And we can argue the linguistics of storytelling with K2 all day long but the truth is there are WAYS to get around that that STILL include him.

I'm just extremely frustrated. Because on one hand, I love Andor and wouldn't change a single thing about it and on the other... I would have done anything to see that story told. To see their friendship evolved. And maybe it's just me. And I know there's no easy answer to this, I'm not expecting one. But the idea that this is what I have of my favorite droid ever and this is probably ALL ill get after waiting SO LONG for his return... i dont know, it just hurts.

[pokemonblack3white3]

Question for the bad end au:

Do any of the Evil teams get into conflicts with one another?

Like Plasma attacking Rocket for Pokemon smuggling or Macro cosmos fighting against the Aether foundation to see which eldritch horrors is more eldritchy?

OHHH OK THIS WAS A SUPER FUN ASK TY. I think generally the teams are able to keep to their own on accounts of all being completely seperated. BUT. Yes there are still some conflicts, but also alliances between teams!

Team Galactic and Volo, being in another dimension, is completely isolated from the outside world. Team Star certainly does not like any of the evil teams, especially Macro Cosmos, but they're a gaggle of teenagers. None of them even know Team Star exists.

Team plasma tries to keep a good working relationship with all the other evil teams, but when he's alive Giovanni and Ghetsis are constantly looking for ways to sabotage each other. Ghetsis throws a party when Giovanni is assassinated, and immediatly tries to get involved in the Team Rocket power struggle that follows.

I'm a bit torn between Team Aqua and Magma still being enemies without Rayquaza acting as a divorce counselor but it may also be interesting for them to have come together and merged as a survival necessity? Anyways Hoenn has more or less been left for dead so they only ever interact with each other regardless.

Turo does not fuck with any of the evil teams they will be staying OUT of his sci-fi utopia thank you very much. His biggest issues come from Lusamine who wants a slice of that paradox pokemon pie. He adores Team Star, though. Yeah his son's friends! And what a smart girl that Penny is do you want me to arrange a play date for you.

Marco Cosmos was very much doing dealings with Team Rocket and Plasma or at least parties associated with them as a "necessary evil" for business. They just stopped caring about hiding it as much after Rose snagged Eternatus.

Team Skull and the Aether Foundation have an incredible blood feud. Whenever their grunts see each other it is on fucking sight. Guzma isn't getting tricked by this woman again.

I'm not too sure about Team Flare? I believe Rose and Lysandre get along in Masters get along in Masters so I could see Rose helping him rebuild Kalos but besides that Lysandre is very selective with who Team Flare associates with. He might be cool with Lusamine as well. They both appreciate the finer things in life. Catch Lysandre in that stupid machine he wore during his final battle, Nihilego fusion Lusamine, and just regular Chairmna Rose having tea complaining about poor people.

I think generally Ghetsis and Rose are the ones who really have their finger on the pulse and are actively making dealings with other evil teams. Giovanni likes how he benefits from his alliances with the two but is fine with just Kanto and Johto and doesn't care for fucking around with gods. Maxie and Archie are trapped between a war between gods. Cyrus and Volo are in another dimension. Lysandre is too snobby and egotistical to associate with dirty peasants and common criminals. Lusamine doesn't really care about anything but her zoo. Penny, Turo, and Kieran aren't evil. The Loyal Three and Pecharunt just want to fuck around and find out.

[jyndor]

I don't think anyone is saying Cassian should ONLY dutifully follow orders to a T and never think for himself. Even the extended materials for Rogue One say that Draven trusted Cassian to do some independent thinking on the fly - but that is because Draven trusted that Cassian was committed to the cause and also that he would GET the work done even if the way he went about it was different than what HE imagined (cough).

This is the titular character of a prequel to the story where Cassian is clearly, obviously so beaten down and burnt out because of a longtime commitment to building a revolution during a cold war period, a commitment that has pushed him to kill at least one ally but surely more than that. I don't need Cassian to never question his leaders. He would - that is normal and understandable.

But to ONLY see Cassian going rogue after getting a late start to becoming a rebel spy is a real flaw. Because sorry Cassian IS burnt out in Rogue One, and Jyn and the others help renew his revolutionary optimism. And this is so powerful and such a fundamental part of revolutionary organizing, for your comrades to help pick your spirits up when you are beaten down by being right but wayyy too early.

On Eadu, Cassian disobeys DIRECT orders. He doesn't just think for himself and get to the orders in a roundabout way. He chooses not to assassinate Galen Erso because he knows that not only is it morally fucked lol (and that is even arguable but whatever) but also it is strategically dogshit to kill the guy who knows exactly where the flaw in the Death Star COULD be before the rebels have a chance to even see if he is credible or if it's a ratfuck.

Yes, I love the part in the novel where Cassian looks at Galen Erso and sees Jyn in his eyes but lbr there are several cool and valuable interpretations of why Cassian puts his rifle down (like anything else). But there's also like Motifs In Visual Media 101 where rain in particular is indicative of renewal, transformation, rebirth and change - and CLEARLY Cassian is experiencing a moment of radical transformation into someone who actually WILL disobey a direct order in that scene.

Well, that doesn't work as a transformative moment if a week ago he's yapping off to Draven and getting confined to quarters for GOING ROGUE LOL

This is why I have said that in order to make Andor!Cassian's story work best, the show probably should have aged him DOWN instead of up. Start Kassa at 6 (Kerri even younger obviously), have the teen!Kassa actor (I'm sorry I'm blanking on his name) to play Ferrix!Cassian in S1 and then do most of S2 as him at like 19 or 20. And frankly cut the most of the first arc, most of the second, have Cassian witness the Ghorman genocide and tie it in to his own experiences AS a genocide survivor, give us Kay and Cassian earlier, even if the budget requires less Kay still give us a bit of his presence earlier, etc. And then do the lead up to Rogue One PROPERLY - and as much as I love Kleya and Luthen, it isn't their show. It isn't. Kleya's backstory is very similar to what Cassian's could have been - and should have been - and they could have EASILY done something along those lines with Kassa in order to show his commitment to the cause EARLY.

This doesn't mean he can't bitch and moan about the bad shit, or disagree with his orders, or be a shithead teen dirtbag, etc. Who doesn't start off as an anarchist on their road to a more pragmatic and realistic framework for revolutionary politics?

(lmfao omg im sorry anarchists not yall catching strays my bad. you guys do great work.)

But... also that is supposed to be a big point of contention for Jyn and Cassian - leftist infighting simulator from the start lmfao.

Anyway I just wanted to correct some of the framing of the critique of Cassian's revolutionary arc. Because no just because people are critiquing the show does not mean we don't get the point Tony Gilroy is going for. It just means we disagree with the premise.