justreadingthings

[justreadingthings]

Holy fucking fuck. My blood is syrup now because of this, and I can’t even scientifically explain why.

Damn it, I love when Bob-

Fantasy

Pairing: College AU! Frat Boy!Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader!

Summary: It’s the morning after your unexpected night with Bob and you’re facing the aftermath of everything, including the awkward walk of shame through the frat house. (This is a continuation of ‘Glide’)

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, A little tiny light dusting of angst, Mentions of Drug Use (the good old devils lettuce), Swearing, Does Bob get teased by someone? Yes. Do they make reference to the fact he’s inexperienced and make a mean comment? Also yes. Bob is such a damn softie in this.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (y’all wrap it up please), Shower Fun, Is Bob Becoming a Sex Maniac? Yeah, pretty much lol, Fingering, Oral Sex (female receiving), Handjob, A little bit of hair pulling, Face Grinding (briefly), Dirty Talk, Bob’s got a bit of confidence in this.

Author’s Note: Fun fun stuff for this sequel! Loved where I was able to take this and it was so fun to write! Hope y’all enjoy, next week I will be taking a break from Bob Floyd probably to make a Bucky upload (getting back to my roots lol), but I don’t know for certain yet! Anyways! Enjoy!

Word Count: 7,849

You woke to voices. Muffled, overlapping, half-laughing, half-shouting–like a sitcom with the volume turned low. It was the kind of familiar sound that could only come from a group of sleep-deprived college guys that were rehashing the chaos of the night before. The floor beneath you seemed to pulse faintly with every thump of footsteps, every bark of laughter, every clang of something metal being dropped–probably pans–and little quips being thrown around. You breathed in deeply, smelling cedar and burnt toast, as you slowly opened your eyes.

The room was dim, the soft gray light of a rainy morning filtering through the blinds. It casted soft shadows across Bob’s bookshelf, catching the gold edge of a NASA poster and the corner of his messy desk that still had his mass of study notes spread across it. The window rattled slightly with the wind, and beyond it, you could hear the steady, rhythmic percussion of raindrops tapping against the glass. The humidity from outside was slipping through the little cracks in the pane, causing the room to be a little warmer, coinciding with the heat beneath the comforter you were beneath.

You could feel a beating heart pressed to the back of your’s, slowly realizing that Bob’s body was molded to you like he was made to fit in that space. His skin was warm and a little clammy, the way bodies got after long hours of being tangled together under thick covers, skin against skin with no intention of separating. His chest rose and fell behind you, each breath moving you slightly with it–as if your bodies had become one mechanism overnight, syncing into something quiet and breathing and still.

His arm was heavy over your waist, his large calloused hand splayed across the dip of your stomach, fingers flexing every now and then with some dream clinging to his nerves. The pads of his fingertips brushed against your skin in slow, absent strokes, barely there, but gentle, like he was touching you in sleep the way he had touched you awake the night before. His chin was tucked into the hollow where your shoulder met your neck, his slight stubble whispering against your skin. Every few seconds, he let out a faint snore–more a sigh than a sound–his breath warm and damp where it clung to the side of your throat and cheek, making you squirm just a little as it tickled you, though you didn’t pull away. You didn’t want to, you just wanted to savour it–every humid breath, every sleepy twitch of his muscles, every inch of heat that rolled off him and engulfed you.

Your skin shifted against the cotton sheets as you stirred slightly, his boxer shorts slipping down your hips, cinched just enough by the elastic to keep from falling completely off. He had helped you into them after he had helped you clean off, insisting that it would be a bit more comfortable than wearing nothing at all. You had agreed after noticing the little embroidered emblem of ‘B.F’ on the waistband, finding it to be endearing in a way that he would let you borrow something that seemed so personal to him. It was the only thing you ended up wearing to sleep.

You shifted against him, and the movement was just enough to stir something in Bob–his breath caught and then exhaled in a long, sleepy sigh that rolled warmly across your bare shoulder. His hand moved along your stomach, fingers curling and spreading again in that same slow, absentminded affection, like he was already craving more of you.

Then he stretched–his body unfolding behind you with languid grace, pressing you closer as his legs slid against yours and tangled them more firmly. His nose nudged into the crook of your neck, and he let out a soft sound, something between a hum and a murmur, before he kissed your shoulder, lips soft, plump and wet.

“You awake?” He whispered, his voice low and rough from sleep, like honey and gravel pouring onto your skin. A smirk curved across your lips, because you could hear the grin in his tone.

“Yes I am,” You replied, teasingly light. He chuckled–just a low, muffled vibration in his chest that resonated through your spine. The sound made your stomach slip in the softest, most instinctive way.

”How’re you feeling?” He asked, his hand moving gently in small circles over your stomach again. You hummed, finally glancing back at him over your shoulder. His light brown hair was an absolute mess, sticking up in odd directions from where your fingers had buried themselves and pulled last night. His eyes were still heavy-lidded with sleep, his lashes casting soft shadows onto the gentle pink flush of his cheeks, but it was evident that he looked absolutely wrecked still.

“A little tired and sore,” You said with a slow smile, “But very satisfied.” You added. That earned another quiet laugh, and he leaned in to press another kiss to your shoulder, this one lingering just a bit longer than the last one, leaving a distinct wet mark in the sharpe of his lips on your skin.

”Oh yeah?” He pressed with mock curiosity, “Where are you sore?” You felt his hand shift lower this time, trailing just under your navel. His fingertips brushing the waistband of the boxers, teasing just beneath it with a featherlight pressure. A spark lighting beneath your skin.

”Couldn't be…Here, could it?” He murmured, not even pretending to hide the smile in his voice now. You exhaled softly and arched your back, pressing into him like a reflex.

”It very well could be,” You said, tone slow and sultry, “But I wouldn’t admit it to you if it was Casanova.” He let out a breath–more like a huffed laugh–and began kissing a path along your back, the trail of his lips warm and wet as they meandered lower. Your skin tingled with each press, and the hush of his mouth against your spine made you shiver in the most delicious way.

“I’m going to make you some breakfast…” He whispered between kisses, his tongue poking out to lick your skin, to taste the saltiness of your sweat that had plagued the valley there the night before, then he followed it with a long damp kiss, deliberate and unhurried, “Eventually.” He added. You giggled at the comment, your laugh catching on a breath, light and silvery, curling in the space between you like steam off morning coffee. Bob smiled into your skin, and you felt his arm snake beneath your pillow, tugging you gently as if coaxing you to turn towards him.

You let out a small sigh, letting the sheets drag across your bare chest as you rolled around to face him. The comforter slipped down just enough to expose the swell of your breasts to the rainy grey light flickering through the blinds–soft and diffused, like it was meant only to illuminate you for his eyes.

Bob’s face was still sleep hazed, but the moment his eyes landed on you fully, something behind them sharpened–like the fog of tiredness cleared all at once. His mouth parted slightly, lips plush and pink and still kiss-bitten from the night before, as his gaze traced over the curve of your collarbone to the way the blanket barely clung to you. He didn’t hide the way he stared–not just with lust behind his shimmering blue eyes, but with gentleness and admiration. Like he was surprised that you were in his bed, in his boxers, and wrapped up with him still.

He looked ruined and divine all at once, his jaw was dusted in stubble that caught the light, and now that you were able to get a good look of his messy hair it was evident you really did a number on him. His cheeks were still tinted with the faint heat of last night’s effort, and his blue eyes–crystalline and wide despite the shadows beneath them–flicked up to meet yours with something tender and wrecked simmering in them.

You reached out instinctively and rested your hand on his chest. His heart was thudding beneath your palm–quick, erratic, like your touch had jump started something primal in him.

”What’re we going to do between now and eventually, since you sound like you have a plan?” You teased, voice syrupy as you let your thumb brush a lazy circle across the smooth skin along his pec. His eye flicked to your lips, then lower, and you watched his faint pink tongue dart out–slow and subconsciously–as he licked along his bottom lip. The motion alone made your stomach twist.

“I have a lot of ideas…” He murmured, voice trailing off like it was being pulled from the back of his throat by heat alone. Your brows lifted, your lips curling up into a smile.

”Care to share?” Bob shook his head slowly, smirking as he leaned in closer.

”I’m more of a hands-on presenter.” Before you could get a word in, his mouth was on yours. The kiss hit you like heat rising from a simmering pot–hungry and wet, but still tender, still laced with that sleepy slowness that made everything feel more intimate. His lips moved against yours like he already knew the rhythm, like his body remembered it even before he’d fully woken. It was messy in the best way–breath tangled with breath, your mouths parting over and over like you couldn’t get enough, like each kiss bled into the next.

His knee nudged forward between your thighs, and without thinking, you opened for him, letting his thigh settle there, warm and solid. The weight of it pressed into your core and you instinctively rolled your hips forward into him, chasing the friction with a soft gasp. He groaned into your mouth, the sound low and deep, and you felt his hand settle on your waist, fingers flexing as he dragged you just slightly closer.

You reached up and cupped his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth as you hummed against his lips, pulling back just enough to breathe. Your forehead rested against his for a beat–your breaths hot and uneven between you.

Then his lips were on your jaw, open and slow, kissing a line down to your neck. Each press of his mouth burned, his breath fanning across your damp skin, making you feel dizzy with how much you wanted–how much he wanted.

“I must’ve woken up your sex drive,” You whispered, breath shaking, as your fingers slid into the damp strands of hair at the nape of his neck. He hummed against your throat, dragging his teeth along your pulse point, before licking the thumping spot.

“With how perfect you were last night…Yeah…You definitely did. I’m under your spell.” You let out a small gasp as he brought his tongue down to your collarbone, his lips following with an open-mouthed kiss that lasted too long to be innocent. His hand slid up the side of your waist now, fingers tracing the curve of your ribs until his palm cupped the underside of your breast.

He kissed across your chest like he was starved for it, like your body was the only thing he needed to survive the day. His mouth was warm and wet, kissing the top swell, then lower, before he paused and looked up at you–blue eyes glassy with want.

“Did I mention how amazing you look this morning?” You tugged gently at the curls at the nape of his neck, just enough to make him lift his head off your a little more. His lips were swollen and shiny, face flushed, he looked like something holy and ruined–your favorite kind of contradiction.

“No,” You murmured, a breath of a laugh escaping you, “But thanks for lying.” Bob blinked at you like you’d just spoken in tongues. Then, with a faint scoff, he shook his head and dipped down again to kiss the same breast he’d been worshipping seconds before, his mouth slow and warm and defiant.

“I’m not lying,” He replied, his voice vibrating into your skin, “You really do look amazing.” You rolled your eyes and laughed softly, your breath catching a little when his teeth grazed your skin.

“Sure…” He hummed, trailing his mouth across the valley of your chest, his hand skimming up your side, palm broad and warm against your ribs.

“Guess I’ll just have to prove it to you, then.” He whispered, leaning in to wrap his lips around your nipple, his tongue flicking across the sensitive peak. Your back arched almost instantly, a breathy groan slipping from your throat as you buried your fingers deeper into his hair. You could feel the heat of his mouth, the way he moaned quietly like he was the one being touched, like your body in his mouth was enough to drive him wild.

He pulled off with a quiet pop, dragging his mouth to the other breast, giving it equal devotion. He licked, then sucked again, slower this time, savoring. You let your eyes flutter closed for a second, overwhelmed by how soft and filthy he was all at once.

”Maybe we should shower before you go down on me again,” You breathed, the words tumbling out as your hand threaded into his hair again, though you didn’t sound very committed to the idea. Bob lifted his mouth from your chest, lips wet and parted, and looked up at you through the curtain of his lashes.

“Why?” He asked, cocking his head just slightly, voice low and teasing. “You think I’m not gonna like the taste because I came inside you?” Your brows shot up. The statement was so blunt, so casual, it caught you off guard in the best way.

“Most guys typically don’t,” You replied. Bob let out a soft, incredulous laugh, one that made your stomach tighten, and flutter.

”I don’t really care,” He said simply, dragging his hand along your side, his thumb brushing over your wet, peaked nipple, “It came from me, for Christ’s sake. There’s no harm in it…And it’s kinda hot, honestly.” His voice was warm and steady, and his eyes never left yours. There was no shame in his gaze. No hesitation. Just honest desire, unwavering and adoring.

“But,” He continued, fingertips gliding along your ribcage in a slow stroke meant to test your reaction, “If you really don’t want me to…” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your sternum. “We can take that shower together.” Another kiss, lower now, dangerously close to the waistband of his boxers hanging low on your hips. “And I can do it there.” You bit your bottom lip, hand resting against his flushed cheek.

”Only if you want to…” Bob didn’t hesitate. His lips curled faintly, a boyish cocky smile appearing on his mouth. Then–without breaking eye contact–he leaned in and gave your stomach a slow, deliberate lick, dragging his tongue just above your navel.

“I do.”

The breath fled your lungs in a stuttering sigh, and your hand slid into his hair as if by instinct.

“Okay…” You whispered, barely audible.

Bob pressed a kiss just above the waistband of your boxers before his fingers slid beneath the elastic, knuckles grazing your hips. He shimmied them down slowly, and you lifted your hips to help, watching as he peeled them past your thighs and down your legs, pushing them off to the side of the mattress.

He settled between your legs, spreading them gently, kissing the inside of your knee, your thigh, then again higher–closer, messier. His hands grasped your hips firmly like he needed to anchor himself, mouth dragging upward until the heat of his breath ghosted over your bare core.

His voice rasped as he looked up at you through heavy lashes, lips shiny from the trail he left on your skin

“Can’t believe I get to taste you again.”

Then his tongue was on you.

He started slow–broad strokes, flat and wet, working from the base of your folds up to your clit with aching patience, remembering what he had done to you the night before. You gasped, back arching instinctively, one hand gripping the sheets, the other sinking into his messy hair.

He groaned against you, like he’d just taken a bite of something divine.

“So sweet,” He muttered, voice muffled as he licked again, faster now, messier. His mouth was hot and slick and eager–tongue lapping in rhythmic strokes, pushing and curling at your entrance, before dragging up to circle your clit with maddening precision.

“Still sore?” He asked, pausing to kiss your inner thigh before diving back in, voice teasing and dark. “You feel so tight…I can’t get over how good you feel, even on my tongue.”

“Mmh–Bob,” You whimpered, rolling your hips up against his mouth, instinct taking over, “Please…Don’t stop.” He groaned again, grabbing your thighs tighter and pulling you closer, burying himself between your legs like he wanted to live there. His nose brushed your clit with every motion of his tongue, the sloppiness of it all making it hotter. His spit and your arousal were smeared everywhere–down your thighs, across his chin, into the sheets.

“Want you to ride my face a little…” He mumbled, voice thick and ruined, “Please…Grind down on me. Use me…I want you to take everything from me.” You moaned, hips bucking as you obeyed, gasping as you rolled against his mouth, your thighs trembling. His tongue flicked fast and firm now, in perfect rhythm, and when he slid two fingers inside you–curling them just right–you broke.

Your orgasm surged over you hard, sudden, and hot. You cried out, clenching around his fingers, your thighs pressing around his head as your body arched off the mattress.

He moaned through it, tongue still moving, easing you through every wave.

When you finally slumped back, dazed and still twitching, he slowed his motions–one last kiss to your swollen clit before he slid his fingers free with a filthy sound.

You watched, breathless and wide-eyed, as he licked them clean–slow and shameless, making eye contact the whole time. Then he crawled back up your body and kissed you.

It was hungry and messy and warm. You could taste yourself on his tongue, but also him–his breath, his sweat, the rumble of his satisfaction humming through his chest. When he finally pulled back, he was grinning–flushed and cocky and wrecked in the best way.

”God, that was fantastic,” He whispered, brushing your hair back from your face, “I’ll take you up on that shower though…” His lips ghosted your cheek.

”We can get all washed off and…” A pause, then a wicked grin appeared on his lips, “…Finish up there. Easy cleanup.” You laughed, half-delirious, heart still galloping as you dragged him into another heated kiss, carding your hands through his short strands of hair. You pulled back from the kiss with a soft, dazed breath, your lips still tingling, the taste of him and you mingling on your tongue. But the moment was threatening to spiral again, and you could feel yourself getting lost in it–his body pressed to yours, his hands still wandering, the cocky glint in his eye paired with the heat of his skin.

“Let’s get up before we’re stuck in this bed for the rest of the day,” You murmured, breathless but smiling, trying not to get swept back under by the weight of his body against yours. Bob groaned, letting his forehead drop briefly to your shoulder before he kissed it, warm and reluctant.

“I really wouldn’t mind that…” He mumbled, voice low and drowsy and filthy again. Then, with a final sigh, he pulled back and added, “But you’re right.” He shifted slowly, slipping out from under the covers, his skin bare and flushed, his movements slow like every part of him was still humming from you. As he sat up on the edge of the bed, he adjusted himself inside his boxers, clearly already hard again, even as he reached for the towels hanging off the back of his desk chair. He grabbed two–one dark grey, one soft blue–and tossed the lighter one toward you.

“I don’t think anyone’s up here,” he said, tone low but cautious. “But we’ll rush to the bathroom anyway.” You laughed softly and sat up, taking the towel from where it landed on the bed. Your legs wobbled beneath you as you stood, and you immediately grabbed the bedpost for support, laughing breathlessly.

“Jesus,” You muttered, wrapping the towel around yourself. “I feel like a newborn giraffe.” Bob turned, already halfway to the door, and burst out laughing, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You look like one too. All wobbly and cute.”

“Don’t make me smack you with this towel, I’m really good at snapping it perfectly, you’ll be left with marks,” You warned playfully, pointing it at him as you tightened it around your body. He just grinned and reached his hand out.

“C’mon, baby giraffe. Before someone sees the state of us.”

You placed your hand in his, warm and firm, and the two of you tiptoed out of his room, breath caught in your throats, muffled laughter barely held back as you rushed down the hallway. You passed a poster half-ripped from the wall and the unmistakable stench of stale beer, but somehow managed to avoid being spotted as you slipped into the shared bathroom.

Once inside, Bob turned on the light, blinking against the fluorescent brightness, then quietly closed the door behind him and flipped the lock.

“I know I was in here last night…But I’m still surprised it’s weirdly clean here. I was expecting a crime scene.” Bob laughed as he took your towel out of your hands and hung it beside his, going towards the shower to turn it on.

”That’s because people probably peed on the lawn to be honest. Usually it’s absolutely destroyed here.” You grimaced and let out a laugh, wrinkling your nose.

”Bad for the grass.” You commented, and he smirked.

”We have a sprinkler system so…It prevents the lawn from yellowing.” He explained.

“No wonder the grass always looks healthy.” The both of you laughed, as steam started to rise from the shower head, the water hissing in the background of your mundane conversation. The mirror above the sink was already fogging at the corners when Bob nodded toward the shower.

“Go on in first,” He said, voice dipping low again. “I’ll be right behind you.” His eyes didn’t shy away from glancing down at your body, like seeing you under this light was a different experience than seeing you in his bed. You gave him a small pat on his hip, before stepping into the steam-filled shower, the hot water kissing your skin, immediately contrasting the chill you were beginning to feel on the tiled floor. You let out a soft sigh, tilting your head back beneath the stream, the warmth rushing over your face, your chest, your thighs.

The moment Bob stepped into the shower, steam swirled around him like it belonged there–curling up his flushed chest, catching on the tips of his messy hair, dancing down his thighs. His boxers were gone, his skin pink and kissed by cool air and anticipation, and his eyes immediately locked on yours through the soft fog. There was a flicker of something boyish in his expression when he saw you standing under the water, hair wet, skin glowing in the dim light, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

You turned toward him slowly, letting the water roll down your shoulders and between your breasts, and gave him a small, intimate smile–the kind that said I missed you, even though you hadn’t been apart for more than a few seconds.

Bob closed the space between you in a few quiet steps and leaned in, cupping your face gently before kissing you. It was soft–slower than the ones before. Less frantic. Like he needed this one to mean something. His lips were warm and pliant, parting just enough to let your breath mingle with his, and his hands settled on your hips like he wanted to memorize how you felt in this moment.

The water ran over both of you in steady sheets, and you tilted your face into the kiss, your hands drifting down his chest–slick and steady–until they met between your bodies.

Without breaking the kiss, you wrapped your fingers around him, your hand warm and slow as you began to stroke him. His cock twitched in your palm, already heavy and hard, the skin silky beneath your fingers. Bob’s breath hitched against your mouth, a soft, broken moan slipping out as his other hand came up to cradle your cheek.

You started slow, dragging your fist from base to tip with deliberate precision, twisting slightly at the top just to hear him gasp.

”Oh fuck,” He breathed, voice low and wrecked. You smiled into the kiss, your grip tightening slightly as you began to build a rhythm, and Bob’s hips jerked forward ever so slightly, like he was chasing your touch. The sound of water hitting tile only made everything feel filthier, more intimate. His mouth fell open against yours, and he whimpered into the space between your lips–breathy, desperate.

You pressed a finger to his mouth, shushing him gently with a teasing smile.

“Gotta stay quiet,” You whispered. “It’s echoey in here.” Bob’s head tilted back, mouth still parted, steam curling up his jawline. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, his hands now gripping your waist like he was trying to ground himself.

“Y/N…” He moaned, voice cracking with need. “I want to be inside you so fucking bad… You’re gonna make me cum like this if you don’t stop.”

You sighed softly, a breath of indulgent defeat, and nodded. “Okay…” You began to turn around, ready to brace yourself against the tile, the logical, easy position in a slippery shower–safe, secure. But before you could fully spin, Bob caught your arm.

“Woah, woah…What’re you doing?”

You blinked, confused. “We’re having shower sex…This is literally the easiest and safest position.” Bob’s eyes met yours, and they were so open, so earnest–shimmering with warmth even through the haze of lust.

“But I want to look you in the eyes…So…Come back.” His voice was so soft it barely reached over the pang of water against the porcelain shower. Your brow arched slightly, surprised by the sudden tenderness in his tone.

”This isn’t porn, Bob. You’re gonna end up hurting yourself.” Bob let out a low laugh, the sound rasping up from his throat.

“Let me prove to you that I won’t.”

You squinted at him, skeptical. “Bob, if you drop me, we’re gonna end up in the ER.” He sighed, but there was a flicker of defiance in his grin.

“Y/N…Trust me. I’m strong. I may not be built like an Adonis…” He stepped closer, arms slipping around your waist, “…But I can certainly hold you up for a few minutes.” You hummed, biting your lip as he suddenly lifted you–strong arms sliding under your thighs as he pressed you back against the tiled wall. The tile was cool against your spine, a shocking contrast to the heat of his skin and the humid air that clung to every inch of your bodies. You gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist as instinct took over, clinging to him as he adjusted his grip. Bob kissed your cheek first, then your jaw, his voice a whisper as his lips brushed against you.

“Keep your legs wrapped around me for a second?” You nodded, breath quickening as he shifted one arm, balancing you with practiced care, and reached between your bodies with the other. You felt the tip of him brush against your entrance–already ready from the past ministrations–and you gasped again as he guided himself forward and slowly pushed into you. Your face dropped against his shoulder, your gasp muffled by the damp curve of his skin as he filled you–inch by aching inch, deep and slow and perfect. His breath faltered, a guttural groan rumbling from his chest as he sank in fully, his forehead pressing to your temple.

“Jesus Christ…” He whispered, voice strangled with how tightly your body welcomed him. “You feel…Incredible.” You could only whimper in reply, your legs tightening around his waist, your arms slung over his shoulders for leverage. Bob brought his hand back to your thigh, using the grip to roll his hips into you with a slow, controlled rhythm. His body pressed yours deeper into the wall with each thrust, water pouring over both of you in steaming rivulets, making your skin slick and warm and trembling.

“Could get lost in you forever.” He panted against your ear. You turned your face, catching his lips in a kiss–sloppy, desperate–your moans spilling into his mouth. His hips snapped forward harder, deeper, the sound of your bodies meeting echoing faintly off the shower walls, as his grip faltered just for a split second before tightening again.

“Don’t let me go,” You whispered breathlessly. Bob kissed your cheek again, the corner of your eye, your temple.

“Never…I’ve got you…” His thrusts quickened, and the way he looked at you–like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth–made everything spiral even faster. The heat, the weight of him, the way your bodies clung to one another like they’d always known how. You knew the high was coming again, coiling low in your belly like fire licking at your spine.

And Bob… Bob held you tighter.

“Wanna feel you fall apart around me just like last night. Want to feel you squeeze me till I can’t hold back anymore. Keep me under that spell of yours.” Your fingers threaded into his hair, sliding over his scalp until your palm flattened at the back of his head. You gripped hard–not rough enough to hurt, but firm enough to make him moan into your skin. Your other hand clutched at his shoulder, nails biting in for something to hold as he drove into you, deeper, harder, with the kind of desperate control that made your vision blur. The tile was cool against your spine, slick now, water cascading over the two of you in a fogged-up cocoon of steam and heat and muffled breath.

Bob’s rhythm didn’t falter–his hips continued to roll forward with relentless precision, pressing you into the wall like he was trying to leave a mark on your soul. Your breath came in stuttered bursts, every exhale breaking on a moan, every inhale shaky and full of him.

“Fuck Bob…You’re so deep–“ You gasped, your words nearly drowned by the rush of water and the wet slap of skin against skin. Your body was shuddering, tightening around him with every stroke, that unbearable coil twisting inside you, drawing tighter and tighter, the pressure mounting to an almost unbearable edge.

He was murmuring now–low, half-coherent praises against your ear as his teeth grazed the shell of it.

“That’s it, Y/N, god you feel so good, you’re gonna make me finish just like this.” Your thighs clenched tighter around his hips, and you gave his hair another tug, your mouth falling open as your climax slammed into you like a freight train. It ripped through your spine, white-hot and shattering, your body convulsing in his arms. Your eyes fluttered shut as you cried out, legs trembling around him, breath catching in your throat in a soundless moan.

Tears welled in your eyes–not from pain, not from anything bad–but from the sheer overwhelming sensation of it. Of him. Of the way he held you through it like he was afraid you’d disappear. The way he slowed for a second just to feel you clench around him, whimpering your name like it was sacred.

Bob groaned–long and low–and then he was burying his face in your neck, his rhythm faltering as he thrust once, twice more, and spilled inside you with a choked sound. His body trembled against yours, muscles quaking beneath your touch, and his arms locked around you tighter than ever as he pressed you to the wall, holding on like it was the only way to stay grounded.

You both stayed there for a long moment, tangled and breathless and shaking under the hot stream of the shower. The water couldn’t wash away the high you were both riding, or the way your heart raced like it was trying to chase his.

Bob kissed your cheek again, softer now, reverent. You could feel him still inside you, the occasional twitch of him as your body slowly unclenched around him. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke, lips brushing your temple.

”I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get enough of you.” He whispered. You ran your fingers through his hair, gently this time, calming both of you as the water cascaded down your backs. You rested your forehead against his and replied.

”Me neither.” He smiled–boyish, ruined, completely undone–and leaned in for a kiss. It was slow, and warm, and tasted like rainwater and breathlessness and promises neither of you had spoken yet. His hands cupped your thighs, keeping you steady, even as he slowly pulled out of you with a wince and a soft grunt. You whimpered at the loss, your hips twitching slightly, still over stimulated and pulsing.

Bob leaned in, his breath still rough against your temple, and whispered, “You okay?”

You nodded, chest still rising in shallow waves, your hands resting lightly against his shoulders. “Never felt better.” A quiet laugh passed between you, both of you too blissed out to do anything but smile and breathe in each other’s air. The water continued to cascade around you, soft and rhythmic, like it was trying to lull you back into that warm, quiet pocket of time where nothing existed but him.

“You okay if I put you down?” He asked gently, pressing another kiss to your cheek.

“Yeah…” You gave a teasing grin, voice a little breathless. “You’ve done enough lifting for the day.”

Bob let out a low, sleepy chuckle, clearly pleased with himself, and kissed you again–softer this time. “Did I impress you?”

”Definitely.” That word alone made his whole face soften, his chest puffing slightly, not out of arrogance, but pride. He smiled at you, then leaned in and kissed you all over–your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, your jaw, anywhere his lips could reach, they were there. You laughed, squirming just a little as he dotted your skin with affection.

”I’m glad,” He murmured, “Now, let’s get washed up before the hot water runs out.” You nodded, and Bob finally, slowly, let go of your thighs. He kept his hands on your hips as he lowered you with great care, like he was handling something fragile. Your feet touched the warm porcelain again, slick beneath your toes, and you stumbled just slightly–your knees still wobbly, your body humming from everything he’d just done to you. He caught you instantly, steadying you with both hands, fingers warm and sure against your sides.

”Still a bit wobbly, huh?” He teased, grinning down at you.

”I told you. Newborn giraffe.” You deadpanned, earning another laugh from him, this one soft and sweet and chest-deep. Bob reached for his shampoo on the little ledge, surprisingly it wasn’t a generic four in one like most guys used–it was expensive, you could tell from the bottle. He uncapped it and squirted a little into his palm, releasing the faint citrusy smell of it–lemon, lime, and cedar.

”Turn around?” You raised an eyebrow at him.

”You wanna wash my hair?” He gave a sheepish shrug, cheeks tinged pink beneath the stream.

“I’m still trying to make a good first impression…And I want to show how much I want to take care of you.” Your heart twisted, caught off guard by how tender he was, and you sighed, giving in to his request, turning your back to him.

And then–his fingers were in your hair, working the shampoo into your scalp with slow, careful strokes. His touch was gentle, but firm enough to make your eyes flutter closed. You could feel his chest brushing your back occasionally, his breath fanning over the back of your neck every time he leaned in closer. He scratched lightly at your scalp in just the right way, and a hum slipped from your throat before you could stop it.

”Feels good?” He asked, voice smug but still gentle.

”Mmm…Of course.” He chuckled and leaned in, pressing a kiss to your damp shoulder.

“Good…I like hearing that.” Bob’s fingers continued their steady rhythm, massaging the shampoo into your scalp with slow, patient care, nails grazing just enough to make your knees weak again. The water streamed down your back in warm sheets, steam rising around the two of you like a veil.

“Hey,” You murmured after a few quiet moments, voice soft and lazy from the bliss of his touch, “Are we still on for dinner tonight?” He paused, his fingers halting in your hair for just a beat too long before resuming again–slower now.

“Of course we are,” He replied, like it wasn’t even a question, “Why?” You shrugged, tilting your head into his hands a bit more.

”Just wanted to confirm.” Bob leaned in and kissed your shoulder again, lips warm and damp against your skin.

He lingered there for a second before murmuring, “I wouldn’t cancel, if that’s what you think…This’ll be my first actual date in a while, and–well, this one I’m actually looking forward to.” He kissed your shoulder again, a little firmer this time, “Cause it’s with a pretty awesome girl.” A laugh slipped from your lips–soft and breathy, surprised and a little giddy.

“Oh yeah?” You teased, “Do I know her?” Bob hummed, his fingers gently slipping off your scalp.

”I think so.” You bit your bottom lip, smiling into the mist.

”She hot?”

”The hottest,” He said without hesitation, “Smart too. Like, intimidatingly smart, she’s a chem major. And funny, and really, really good at towel snapping, apparently.” You laughed again, as he urged you under the stream of water to rinse out the mass of suds he had created.

”She sounds like an absolute catch.” You commented, tilting your head back to let the water rinse through the shampoo.

“She is,” He agreed, wrapping his arms around your waist, joining you beneath the stream, pressing his nose into the curve of your neck, “And she’s kind of already wrecking me a little bit.”

————————

Thirty minutes later, you stood near Bob’s desk, the soft rain still pattering against the window, wrapping his scent around the room like a blanket. You were drying your hair with the towel he’d handed you, wearing one of his oversized crewnecks–navy blue with the faded emblem of the frat house in the corner of it. It swallowed your frame, warm and worn and soft against your freshly scrubbed skin. His boxer shorts sat low on your hips, the waistband rolled once, and you could feel the lingering ache in your thighs as you moved.

Bob was already dressed–grey t-shirt clinging to his damp chest, the neckline slightly stretched, a pair of dark sweatpants slung low on his hips. His silver framed glasses were perched on his nose now, making him look devastatingly smart and devastatingly soft all at once. His hair was still a little messy from the shower, damp strands curling slightly at the ends, and he looked like every girl’s half-formed daydream come to life.

Without a word, he crossed the room and handed you a pair of his navy sweatpants–slightly faded, drawstring frayed at the ends, but clean and warm from where he’d just tugged them off a stack in his drawer.

“You can give them back to me tonight,” He said, a faint grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. You raised an eyebrow and smirked.

“Already planning on me sleeping over…Oh Bob,” You teased, drawing out his name like a line of silk.

He let out a breathy laugh, cheeks pinking slightly as he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek. “Or maybe I’ll pick them up,” He murmured. “No expectations or anything.” Your heart stuttered a little at the sweetness of it, and you leaned up, brushing your lips against his. A quick kiss–gentle, sure–before you stepped back and pulled the sweatpants up your legs, tying the waistband tightly.

You sighed softly, adjusting the waistband, “I’m going to give you a slight warning…If we see Jake, we’re probably going to get ripped into.” Bob raised his brows, reaching for his keys from the desk.

”You two don’t get along?” You shook your head.

”We’ve got some beef.” He made a quiet sound in the back of his throat, kissing his teeth like he was offended on your behalf.

“Well,” He started, slinging a hoodie over his shoulder, “We have even more in common now. I don’t have beef with him, but he definitely judges me.” You stepped closer, reaching up to brush a few strands of his light brown hair off his forehead.

“Perfect, that gives me permission to get into a bit of a verbal scuffle.” Bob chuckled, the sound warm and low in his chest as he slung the hoodie over his shoulder and adjusted his glasses.

“I’m looking forward to it,” He said, a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. You smirked and bent to slip on your shoes, the floorboards creaking faintly beneath your feet. The ache between your thighs flared just slightly as you stood back up, and you shot Bob a look that clearly said it was your fault. He just held his hands up in mock innocence and gave you a wink.

The two of you left the room together, Bob locking the door behind him. The hallway was quiet at first–muffled voices leaking from a room down the hall, the occasional thud of footsteps or laughter echoing off the old walls. The deeper you got into the house, the more the haze hit you: thick and earthy, laced with the unmistakable sharpness of weed.

You descended the stairs slowly, your hand brushing the railing, Bob close behind you. The moment you turned the corner and stepped into view of the living room, the air changed.

The room was a half-lit haze of smoke and low music–some lo-fi beat that was probably playing off a speaker perched precariously on the arm of the couch. Three guys lounged across the cushions, passing a blunt between them, while a fourth fiddled with a vape near the kitchen. The noise dipped the second they saw you. Like someone had hit mute on the house.

“Well well well,” Jake drawled, eyes scanning you from head to toe, then flicking to Bob beside you with exaggerated surprise, “Y/N? An overnight with a boy? What will the other nuns say when you return to the convent?” You didn’t even blink. Jake took a slow drag from his vape and exhaled, the smoke curling upward into the air.

“Oh wait…” He added, voice thick with smugness, “You probably still have your virginity, especially if you’re doing it with one pump chump Floyd over here.” He jerked his chin towards Bob with a smirk. You could tell he thought he’d scored some kind of point, like his jab had landed with weight. But instead of shrinking, you tilted your head and gave him a slow, syrupy smile–the kind that never meant anything good for the person on the receiving end.

“Oh, Jake,” You started, tone thick with faux pity, “At least Bob wasn’t resorting to his hand last night.” The other fraternity brothers coughed a bit, sharing glances, as Jake’s brows twitched, his face staying stoic, “Heard Jess abandoned ship around midnight. Something about how your ‘stroke game’ had all the rhythm of a dying Roomba?” You definitely embellished on that, but you had to start hitting low blows. Jake narrowed his eyes and leaned back, his jaw clenching slightly.

“Oh yeah?” He fired back, “You looked like you were barely walking down the stairs. Someone is clearly overex–“

”Do you always talk this much shit when you’re jealous?” Jake opened his mouth, but you pressed on, not giving him the air.

”It’s okay, really. Not everyone’s built for it.” Jake rolled his eyes.

”Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart.”

“Oh, I sleep just fine,” You stepped closer, letting your grin curl into something razor–edged, “Especially when I’m getting thoroughly wrecked by a guy who actually knows what he’s doing.” Jake blinked, and for a split second, you saw it–the hit landed. Solid and clean. Before you could continue your little spat, Bob finally spoke.

”Alright, zipper tongue,” He started, grabbing onto your hand, “Let’s get your clothes from the dryer so I can walk you back to your dorm. You’ll need a nap to recover from all that sleep you missed out on last night.” He smirked, leaning in to murmur the last part just for you, “And so you’re ready for our date tonight.” You nudged him gently with your elbow, unable to fight the laugh that rose in your throat. The smug warmth of your win hadn’t even begun to cool as you followed him toward the laundry room, your bare feet padding softly on the hardwood floor.

Just before the hallway turned and the room faded from view, you glanced back over your shoulder at Jake.

“See you tonight, Jake,” You called, voice honey-sweet. “I’ll be sure to collect some pamphlets for the seminary. I’m sure they’ll take in a non-virgin, the priesthood is a very forgiving pathway.”

[justreadingthings]

This is far too fucking good! I feel like a peasant kneeling before royalty with nothing to offer other than gleeful giggling and a keyboard smash…

Anyways, I would read this a hundred times, and I may do just that! Thank you for sharing this, your majesty 👑🩵

Glide

Pairing: College AU! Frat Boy!Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader!

Summary: When your friends drag you to a frat house party during spring break you weren’t expecting much, but when you go to seek out a moment of silence and end up accidentally stepping into someone’s room, you end up forming an odd connection with one of the fraternity members. (Sequel is ‘Fantasy’)

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Some Angst, Mentions of Alcohol and Drug Use, Reader gets a little anxious in the crowd and mentions agoraphobia, Swearing, Reader has beef with one of the fraternity members, Reader is a Chemistry Major, Bobs in Aerospace Engineering

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (Female and Male Receiving), Handjob, Bob is Inexperienced (but he’s enthusiastic to try everything), Bob talks a lot during sexual acts, Dirty Talk, Praise/Worship Kink, Breast Play, Making Out and Dry Humping, Bob is super sensitive.

Author’s Note: Frat Boy Bob y’all. This was technically a request, but I dashed away with it and truly came to enjoy this so so much. Also just as a side note lol, Frats aren’t really a huge thing where I am, they’re so subdued it’s not even funny, though if you go to party schools you’re definitely going to get an experience and a half (I did not go to a party school so I’m going off of my friends experiences at this point 😂)

Word Count: 17,352

”Tell me again why the hell we’re going to this party?” Your voice cut through the late evening air, low and flat, edged with irritation as you pulled your windbreaker tighter across your chest. The nylon rasped beneath your fingers, a poor excuse for protection against the sharp spring breeze. The smell of your dorm clung to it–laundry detergent, stale coffee, and whatever perfume your roommate had sprayed on in the vicinity of it.

The sidewalk beneath your sneakers was still damp from a passing rain shower. Faint streaks of moisture glimmered on the concerte, catching the fractured yellow light from the street lamps above. You stepped around a crushed beer can and kept your head down, following the clacking of heels and bare legs that were moving a few paces ahead of you.

Jess, Monica, and Sue, your friends by proximity. You had met them during welcome week and never managed to shake them–even though you didn’t really want to. They existed in a different orbit entirely, but they took you in with open arms and tried to crack the shell that you had built around yourself. They were the people that convinced you that college didn’t have to be all about studying and going to class and that it could also be fun too, despite the hefty tuition bill.

The girls had built a three person wall along the sidewalk, pushing against each other as they chatted and laughed about something you hadn’t heard, keeping balance on their heels, skipping cracks in the pavement. They were dressed like the party was going to be a runway show instead of an absolute chaotic mess. Jess wore a short leather skirt and a cropped corset top under a trench coat she wasn’t planning to keep on. Her hair was up, slick and sharp, gold hoops brushing her jaw. Monica had on a silver halter top that sparkled under every porch light you passed, paired with high-waisted jeans and glossy lipstick that matched the cherry polish on her nails. Sue, as always, looked like she’d stepped out of an editorial spread–draped in a backless silk dress and strappy heels that should’ve been impractical, but somehow weren’t.

You, on the other hand, were the outlier–and it was obvious.

Black low-rise jeans hugged your hips, the waistband dipping just enough to expose a sliver of your stomach where your t-shirt stopped. The top was fitted and a plain navy blue, not short enough to be bold, and not long enough to be considered modest–though it was enough to remind you of the cold every time the wind shifted. Your black sneakers were scuffed at the toes, laces uneven, but they were practical for the walk home.

Technically, you were dressed for the weather, but standing next to your friends made you feel underdressed in a different way. Not because you didn’t look good, but because you just didn’t meet the same standard they had set for the group.

Your question had interrupted whatever conversation they were tangled in. Jess glanced over her shoulder first, her earrings catching the light at the turn.

”Well, Jake personally invited us,” She explained, like that was a valid reason, “And you’ve been holed up in your room almost all of spring break studying. You needed to get out. Breathe some fresh air, get social contact apart from us…Maybe drink something that hits a little better than three iced coffees a day.” You groaned immediately at the name Jake, ignoring the rest of the comments she had made about what you had been doing during the break.

”Not that meathead…If I knew that moron invited you guys, I would’ve locked my door and turned off my phone.” Monica sighed.

”C’mon, Y/N, he’s not that bad.” You let out a short laugh–dry and humorless.

”He’s a douchebag. And he thinks I’m a cockblock because I don’t let him get handsy with you guys when you’re half a drink in. I think he’s exactly that bad.” Jess gave a low laugh.

”He’s just a flirt.” You hummed.

”Right, and I’m just a buzzkill.” You muttered. Sue looked over at you now.

”We appreciate the defense. Really. But tonight…We’ve got a bit of a bet going.” You raised an eyebrow.

“What, like who’s gonna bed him first?” There was a pause, and the silence was telling. It caused you to stop walking.

”Oh god.” You rubbed your fingers into the corners of your eyes like you could physically wipe the idea out of your brain. Monica didn’t even flinch.

”He’s hot! How can you not be curious?! I’ve heard a lot of good things…” You dropped your head, staring at her.

”You better make that guy bathe in hand sanitizer before he touches you. God only knows where he’s been.” That got a laugh–sharp, unapologetic. Jess bit back a grin. Sue let out a quiet, breathy chuckle behind her hand, and even Monica smiled.

They didn’t deny it. They didn’t defend him, either.

The four of you continued to walk, your pace catching up to them so you could get involved in their conversation a little more, as your ears caught a hint of bass echoing through the streets.

Campus was surprisingly crowded for a week that should’ve been quiet. Most students hadn’t gone home–not for lack of desire, but practicality. A three-day visit to your hometown wasn’t worth the bus ticket, the packing, and the return. The majority of people who didn’t travel long distances had quietly agreed to stay put, which caused a social pressure cooker of chaos. Parties bled from one house to the next, yards were flooded with empty kegs and pool floats, and of course people were out till all hours of the night taking in the extracurriculars.

You were one of the people who chose to stay, but it was for different reasons.

You had a chemistry midterm that was going to hit you on the Monday right after break, and you needed peace and quiet to get the thirty five page study guide your professor had emailed. You had been hunched over your laptop, dragging a pen across every other line and downing iced coffee like it counted as fuel. Your residence hall had been silent–peaceful in the way only empty buildings could be. No thumping floors. No bathroom chatter. Just the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional door shutting down the hall.

And honestly, you liked it that way.

Which was why walking up this street, with the scent of cheap body spray and beer already creeping into the air, made your skin itch.

Jess, Monica, and Sue weren’t wrong–you had wasted half your break studying. But a frat party was a far cry from the kind of break you would’ve chosen. You would’ve taken a quiet bookstore, a blackout curtained room, maybe a hot bath. Instead, you were heading straight into the epicenter of campus chaos.

The house came into view like a rising tide–inevitable and loud.

Theta Rho Alpha Sigma Heta.

TRASH, for short.

It was a reputation as much as a name. It was burned into every party story, every Camus warning, and every early morning regret that started with “so we went to TRASH last night.” Ten fraternity brothers lived inside, and every square foot off the place bore evidence of that fact. It was a massive, century-old house–once regal, now abused. Three floors, five bedrooms, two makeshift attic spaces, a finished basement that doubled as a moldy second living room. The paint on the siding had faded into a blotchy, sun-peeled gray, warped by years of weather and neglect. The porch sagged under the weight of too many bodies. One of the support beams had been duct-taped after someone fell through it last fall.

The front steps were uneven, patched with mismatched bricks and sagging plywood. Two of the railing posts were zip-tied together in a last-ditch effort to pass housing inspection. The fraternity’s letters were bolted crookedly above the door, one hanging loose on a single screw. Half-lit from a porch light that flickered like a dying candle.

Light poured from every window–yellow, blown out, too warm. It cast strange shadows across the lawn, catching in the curls of smoke that drifted from blunts and vapes and burning firewood in the backyard pit. The music pulsed through the siding—more vibration than melody. Heavy bass that flattened everything it touched, beating into your chest like an arrhythmic second heartbeat.

The lawn was packed–shoulder to shoulder, people overflowing onto the sidewalk, the flowerbeds, the hood of someone’s car parked at a bad angle. Plastic cups were everywhere, crushed or half-full or abandoned in the grass. The scent of spilled beer hung in the air, warm and sharp, mixing with sweat, weed, fast food, gasoline from a knocked-over jerry can, and the stale breath of a thousand unwashed Red Solo cups.

Someone was blasting a megaphone from the porch steps–a guy in a backwards cap, red-faced and laughing, trying to shout over the music. You caught pieces of it: something about jello shots, something about the beer pong table being “winner stays,” and something that sounded suspiciously like “naked mile.”

Two guys were wrestling in the grass by the mailbox, one of them missing a shirt, the other holding a can of whipped cream like a weapon. A girl stumbled past them in glitter boots and a bikini top, waving a phone and yelling at someone you couldn’t see. Another was throwing up behind a bush while her friend held her hair and nodded along to the music like it was a shared ritual.

From the second-floor balcony, a makeshift banner drooped crookedly on a frayed bedsheet:

TRASH FEST 2NITE - NO RULES. NO EXCUSES. NO SLEEP.

“Jesus,” Jess muttered under her breath, pausing at the edge of the lawn. “It’s already booming and it’s not even 9:30. We are so late.”

You followed a few paces behind her, stepping carefully around a puddle of cheap beer that had soaked into the grass. “Didn’t know we could be late for a frat party,” You mumbled, eyeing the porch like it might collapse under the weight of the crowd.

But the girls were already in motion, rushing toward the chaos like it was gravity pulling them in. You hung back just slightly, weaving your way around the worst of the lawn–dodging a guy hurling glow sticks into the crowd and stepping over a discarded takeout container that looked like it hadn’t survived the walk from the sidewalk. Your shoes slipped slightly on the wet grass as you moved toward the porch steps, where cigarette butts and crushed cups had collected like driftwood on the edge of a rising tide.

You stepped up, sneakers hitting the warped planets, hand grazing the rickety railing as the music began to rattle your teeth at full force. The door was open, the entryway wide and glowing with overexposed yellow light. You could smell it all before you even crossed the threshold–booze, sweat, pot, deodorant masking body odor, and something burnt that might’ve been food or someone’s hair.

The second your foot crossed the threshold, it hit you all at once–the heat, the crowd, the crush of music and smoke and too many bodies packed into too little space. The entryway smelled like spilled tequila and cheap cologne. Someone’s hoodie brushed your shoulder, sticky with sweat, and you recoiled instinctively, scanning for your friends. Jess’s trench coat disappeared into the living room. Monica’s glitter top flashed once, then vanished into the blur. Sue was already at the bar cart in the corner, snagging plastic cups.

You were still deciding whether to follow–or leave–when he stepped in front of you.

Jake Seresin.

Leaning casually against the wall near the stairs, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

He looked the same as always–clean cut and cocky, like a walking recruitment poster that never had to try too hard. His hair was neatly styled, strawberry blonde in colour, and slightly dampened from either sweat or a shower. You didn’t know and quite frankly you didn’t care.

He wore a snug black t-shirt that clung to the curve of his biceps, jeans slung low on his hips, worn-in boots planted like he owned the floorboards. A silver chain peeked from under his collar, catching the glow from the overhead bulb. The smirk on his face arrived before he spoke.

“Y/N…I see you’ve decided to come out of your cave.” Jake’s voice cut through the heat and noise like he owned the damn place–which, unfortunately, he sort of did, especially because he was the head of the house. His smirk was smug enough to slap off his face, and the way he looked at you–lazy, head tilted just slightly–made your blood itch.

“Didn’t realize you were doing doorman duty tonight. What’s the matter–couldn’t con a freshman into kissing your boots on the way in?”

Jake laughed, low and amused. He shifted his weight, arms crossing, biceps flexing like it was involuntary. “Cute. But if you really wanted to see me, you could’ve just said so. No need to pretend you’re here for the punch.”

“If I wanted to see you, I’d schedule a lobotomy first,” You said, eyes scanning past him to where the party stretched out like a sweaty nightmare, “You’re like athlete’s foot. Persistent. Itchy. Impossible to get rid of.”

That earned you a flash of teeth, the smirk sharpening. “Damn. Must’ve missed that sparkling charm of yours. Thought maybe you’d chilled out since fall semester.”

“Nah,” You replied, smiling without warmth, “You don’t know me well enough to assume something like that.” He hummed.

”You always this feisty, or do you just save it all for me?”

“I save it for pests,” You shot back, “Like you.” And with that, you pushed past him–your shoulder clipping his lightly–just enough to make it clear you were done. You didn’t wait for a comeback. You didn’t care what his smug ass had to said next. The music hit harder in the next room, and the humidity had already begun to creep under your clothes like steam.

Sue caught up to you almost instantly, already grinning like she’d watched the whole exchange from the sidelines.

“Thanks for buttering him up,” she said, patting your arm. Her tone was teasing, but not mocking. “I’m going in for the first interaction of the night.”

You raised your cup-less hand and gave her a small salute.

“Good luck,” You shouted back over the bass, smirking. She gave you a wink before disappearing into the crowd, swaying through the bodies with ease. You peeled off toward the kitchen, dodging a couple making out near the coat rack and stepping over a few abandoned beer cans. The kitchen was a warzone of overturned shot glasses, and a group of architecture students stacking some of the spare red solo cups in a tower. To your left, a half-empty bowl of lime wedges was slowly withering beside an array of crumpled napkins, and then your eyes found the coolers.

There were three of them, stacked neatly along the wall beneath the fogged kitchen window–white Igloo coolers with duct-tape labels stuck to their lids like someone had planned this out. You paused for a second, brow lifting slightly. It was the first thing you’d seen in this entire house that resembled forethought.

POP / ENERGY / SPORTS DRINKS

It was handwritten in black Sharpie, a little smudged from condensation, but legible. Organized.

You flipped the lid, expecting warm cans swimming in brown ice water and maybe the scent of something that had once been fruit punch. Instead, it was ice cold. There were cans lined up in half-hearted rows–soda, sports drinks, a few scattered energy drinks, and even a rogue seltzer tucked in the corner.

You spotted the ginger ale immediately and grabbed it, the can blessedly cold against your hand. You popped the tab with a low crack, the fizz whispering up as you turned around and leaned back against the counter. The metal felt cool through your jeans, a shock of comfort against your overheated skin.

You brought the can to your lips and took a sip–dry, sweet, clean. The carbonation hit your throat gently, but the cold grounded you.

The nausea that had been curling in your gut since you stepped into the house–maybe even since you left the dorm–began to quiet under the fizzy bite. Not completely. But enough.

Your eyes scanned the room as you sipped. People buzzed in and out like bees. Music bled through the drywall. There were beer pong shouts from the living room, someone screaming off-key to a pop remix from the basement, and a girl in the corner of the kitchen trying to convince her friend that no, taking another shot wouldn’t fix the situation.

You took another sip of your ginger ale, but this time it caught in your throat.

You coughed into your arm, quietly at first—then once more, harder, sharp enough to make your eyes water. The fizz didn’t settle your stomach like before. It turned sour, bubbling too fast. Heat rose under your skin, too much of it. The air felt wrong—like it wasn’t going in properly, like the room had subtly tilted without warning and your lungs were working against it.

Maybe it was the noise. The press of people. The humidity clinging to every surface like a second skin. Or maybe it was you.

You blinked slowly, dragging in another breath through your nose, but it didn’t go deep enough. Your chest tightened instead. Like a pressure band had cinched beneath your ribs, subtle at first, then steady, then sharp.

Shit.

You glanced around again, searching for something—a signal, maybe. A reason to leave. A place to bolt to. But everything looked the same: sticky floors, laughing strangers, red cups tipping on every flat surface. Too much noise. Too much movement. You couldn’t catch your footing in it. Couldn’t ground yourself.

You didn’t know if you were going to throw up or have a panic attack, and honestly, it didn’t matter—because either way, you needed out.

You pushed off the counter. The cold had left your jeans, and your hand trembled slightly as you set your can down, half-full and already forgotten. The kitchen was a blur behind you, the music thudding harder now, bass lines vibrating in your teeth.

You moved fast, weaving through the main floor with quick, shallow breaths. Eyes down. Shoulders tight. The living room passed in a smear of sweat and cheap cologne, someone’s laughter bouncing too loud off the crown molding. You didn’t stop to said anything. Didn’t look for your friends. You didn’t want to worry them–not yet. Not until you figured out what the hell was happening.

Going outside wasn’t an option. Not with the yard full of people. If one of your friends saw you slipping out, they’d follow. Or worse–they’d worry. You didn’t want that either.

So you made for the stairs.

The banister was sticky and warm under your palm as you took the steps two at a time. Your breath hitched halfway up, chest clenching like your ribs were welded shut. You swallowed hard and forced yourself to keep going.

The second floor was marginally quieter, but the walls were still too thin. Bass leaked through every inch. Laughter echoed from behind doors, and the smell of weed hung low like a fog.

You moved fast–hand grazing doorknobs, cracking one open only to find two people already tangled on a futon, backlit by LED strips. You didn’t pause. You just kept going.

Next room: a circle of guys smoking out of a gravity bong made from an Arizona bottle. One lifted his hand in greeting, eyes bloodshot and lazy. You shut the door.

Another: a girl crying on the floor while two of her friends huddled around her with shot glasses. You closed that one a little more gently.

The hallway seemed endless. Your chest was still too tight. Like there wasn’t enough air on this floor either.

Then finally the last door on the left creaked open to a well lit, completely empty room. You stepped in, fast, and shoved it shut behind you, the slam loud in the sudden quiet. Your back hit the wood, hard enough to jolt your spine, and you didn’t care. The silence was immediate, muffled and warm and blessedly still.

Your eyes adjusted to the sight in front of you and almost immediately you were absorbing all the details.

The room was bright in contrast to the rest of the house–lit by a desk lamp angled toward a bulletin board cluttered with index cards and printouts. The overhead light was on too, not dim or tinted like the others downstairs, but clean and soft and yellow, illuminating the space in a way that made everything feel more grounded. Less warped. Less unreal.

Your eyes scanned the details, cataloguing without meaning to.

A twin XL bed sat tucked in the corner, sharply made with a green-and-navy plaid duvet pulled taut at every corner. The sheet edges were squared, the pillows firm and aligned. Not a wrinkle in sight. There was a subtle indent on the right side of the mattress—someone had been sitting there recently. Maybe even within the hour. But whoever it was, they weren’t here now.

You stared at the bed like it might steady you. Like if you focused hard enough, the room would stop spinning entirely.

Beside the bed, a heavy oak bookcase ran nearly the full height of the wall. It was packed with titles, every shelf brimming. Not decorative either–thoroughly read. Dog-eared paperbacks leaned into thick hardcover editions, grouped not by color or aesthetic, but by subject. Biographies. Math. Novels. Non-Fiction. Chemistry and Science. A few textbooks on differential equations, stacked beside a worn copy of Dune and a boxed set of The Lord of the Rings. Your fingers twitched, instinctively wanting to trace the spines.

You blinked slowly. Breathed in through your nose. The room smelled faintly like pine and laundry detergent–clean and muted. No sweat, no beer, no weed. Just detergent, and the faint dry scent of paperback pages.

A corkboard hung above the desk, pinned with exam timetables, lab schedules, a few biology notes, and what looked like a printed-out list of citations in 12-point Times New Roman. The chair tucked neatly beneath was ergonomic, not cheap. Beside it sat a large, dented water bottle and a stack of neatly bound notebooks.

Posters lined the wall–nerdy ones. Retro Star Wars prints. A 2001: A Space Odyssey poster framed in black. There was a NASA diagram of the solar system pinned above the desk, annotated in ballpoint pen like whoever lived here used it to actually study, not just decorate.

You took a step forward, the floor creaking under your weight.

“…Geeky,” You muttered to yourself, voice hoarse, quiet. The sound came out more like a breath than a statement. Your knees nearly gave out when you reached the side of the bed. You sat down slowly, hands braced on the plaid comforter, fingers splayed across the dense fabric.

It gave a little under your palms. Still faintly warm.

You let out another breath–long, uneven, but better than before.

Your heart was still pounding, but it was loosening its grip. Slowly. The walls weren’t closing in anymore. Your lungs weren’t seizing.

You tapped your fingers against the mattress and started listing what you could see.

“Desk lamp. Physics textbooks. Star Wars poster. Clean sheets. Plaid pattern.”

Another breath.

“Water bottle. Books on aerospace…Math. Scent’s clean. No body spray. No beer.”

Another breath.

It wasn’t magic. But it helped. saiding it all aloud gave your mind something to anchor to.

You swallowed, eyes fixed on the corner of the room. “Big bookshelf. Index cards on the corkboard. Neatly folded blanket on the chair.” You paused, blinking. “Shit,” you whispered softly, dragging your hand down your face.

It wasn’t that you were weak. You knew what this was. You’d never been diagnosed, but the signs were hard to ignore. The panic. The way crowds made your body feel like it was misfiring from the inside out. How your throat closed up in packed rooms. How every party ended with your head spinning and your jaw locked in quiet dread.

Agoraphobia. You’d read about it. Dismissed it. Then quietly reconsidered it. And then dismissed it again.

But tonight? Tonight your body had decided to remind you it was real.

You leaned forward, elbows to knees, head in your hands. Not crying. Just breathing. For a long moment, you stayed like that–drinking in the quiet, letting the static in your limbs slowly begin to fade.

The sound of the door handle turning ripped through the quiet like a thunderclap.

You jolted upright–spine snapping straight, fingers braced against the mattress, breath catching mid-inhale.

The door creaked open slowly, a rectangle of warm hallway light spilling across the floor, cutting a golden line through the carpet and up your jeans. And then he stepped inside.

You blinked hard.

He froze halfway through the threshold. One foot in, one out, like he hadn’t meant to walk in on anyone–and certainly hadn’t expected to find a stranger perched on his bed.

He looked about your age, maybe slightly older. Tall but not imposing, lean in the kind of way that came from long hours of running or lifting–not bulking. His face was unmistakable even in the soft light: gentle features, tousled light brown hair that curled slightly at the ends from where it had dried naturally, no product. A strong jaw softened by the faintest dusting of stubble. He had a pair of glasses perched on his nose–simple, silver rimmed, they looked similar to aviator glasses, just a little more rounded off in the lenses. They were crooked but he didn’t reach up to fix them.

And those eyes…Wide, bright, and startlingly blue.

Like the ocean under a cold sky. The colour made your stomach turn, and the way they reflected in the light made your head spin.

He wore a navy crew neck sweater with the university crest stitched over the chest, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, revealing ink stains and a faint red pressure mark on his wrist where a watch probably used to be. Grey sweatpants hung low on his hips, worn at the knees, soft enough that they must’ve been his go-to. A can of sprite was in his hand, dripping from the ice that had melted over it.

“Oh. Oh god–I’m sorry.” The words rushed out of your mouth quickly, breathless, “I didn’t mean to–I wasn’t…” His brows lifted slightly, but there was no alarm on his face. Just surprise. His voice was low, quiet, and careful.

“It’s okay…I–uh–it’s alright.” He hesitated, eyes flicking across the room, landing briefly on your curled posture, your flushed face, the slight tremble in your hand as you pushed back from the bed. “Are you…Okay?” You blinked. Your heart was still hammering. Not from fear anymore–but embarrassment. Humiliation. He didn’t look like he thought you were stealing. He didn’t even glance toward the desk or the bookshelf. He was looking at you. Really looking. Reading the panic that hadn’t quite drained from your body yet.

You felt your shoulders curl in instinctively, defensive. But there was no judgment in his expression–just a quiet, earnest concern that felt way too soft for someone who’d just found a stranger in his room.

“I–” You swallowed, hand hovering mid-air like you weren’t sure whether to stand or bolt. “I didn’t know anyone was here. I just–I needed out. I was–I had to get out of the kitchen.” He nodded once, like he understood completely. He stepped the rest of the way into the room and closed the door behind him–not all the way, but enough to soften the noise from the hallway. It was strange how quickly the room felt like a bubble again. A barrier. A pause from everything that came before it.

“I figured…” He said quietly, “The parties here get pretty loud and overcrowded, so I don’t blame you for wanting to get some peace for a minute.” You swallowed thickly, your throat still tight with leftover nerves, and exhaled through your nose.

“Yeah,” you murmured, voice quieter now, “I can’t imagine living here, to be honest.” He smiled—not cocky like Jake, not smug or practiced. Just a small, self-deprecating curl of his lips, as if he agreed with you more than he was willing to admit.

“Noise-cancelling headphones really come in handy.” That earned a low breath of amusement from you.

“I guess you’re right with that one…”

He took a sip of his Sprite, the faint crackle of carbonation filling the small silence that followed. It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly–just heavy with all the things neither of you were sure how to said yet. He stayed near the door, not wanting to hover or crowd you in any way. You watched him for a second, and then another, noting the way his shoulders shifted under the weight of the conversation–or maybe just the attention.

Then, softly, like he was testing the waters:

“I’ve seen you around before…In the science building. You’re in Chem 241, right?”

Your brows lifted slightly, caught between surprise and guarded curiosity. “Yeah… it’s my major.” You tilted your head. “How do you know what class I’m in?” He gave a sheepish, quiet laugh, the kind that curled at the corners of his mouth without ever really reaching full confidence. He ran a hand through his hair, the motion making it stick up slightly in the front.

“You’re in the class before mine. You’ve got kind of a familiar face.”

You paused, eyes still on him, your heart starting to settle into something else–less fight-or-flight, more puzzled curiosity. He didn’t look embarrassed exactly, but there was a warmth in his cheeks now, visible even in the soft lighting. A flicker of nervous energy vibrated at the tips of his fingers as he shifted his Sprite to the other hand.

Then, like the thought had only just occurred to him:

“Oh–Jesus, sorry. I’m Bob, by the way. Bob Floyd.” He grimaced slightly at the awkwardness of it, wiping his damp palm against the thigh of his sweatpants before offering it out to you, fingers curled slightly.

You hesitated for only half a second before reaching out and slipping your hand into his. His palm was warm, slightly chilled from the condensation of the can but dry now. The grip was gentle, just enough to be firm without overcompensating.

“Y/N,” You said quietly. Your name sounded softer in this room than it had downstairs-like the sound itself respected the quiet.

He smiled again. “Y/N,” He repeated, a little slower this time, like he was filing it away in some meticulous corner of his brain. “Nice name,” Bob said, quiet and genuine. The words weren’t perfunctory–they landed with a softness that didn’t feel like filler. More like a real compliment, shaped by how he said it. You blinked once, caught off guard by how sincere it sounded.

Before either of you could speak again, a sudden crash reverberated through the floorboards beneath you–so loud and forceful that your feet actually lifted a half inch from the mattress. Something heavy had toppled on the first floor. Maybe furniture. Maybe a person. Followed by a cascade of laughter that barely muffled the groaning bass still pounding through the walls.

You flinched, eyes widening, then looked toward Bob with a raised brow.

“What’s a guy like you doing in a frat house, by the way?” You asked, your voice dry but curious, brushing your palms down the front of your jeans. “You seem too…Sane.” Bob took another slow sip of his Sprite, his glasses catching the overhead light as he tilted his head slightly.

“It’s pretty good to have on a résumé,” He said mildly. “Minus the parties, of course.”

You hummed, the sound low in your throat as your eyes flicked toward the ceiling like you were scanning for divine confirmation. “Yeah…I think if any future employer found out the type of parties TRASH throws, I’m pretty sure you’d be hired immediately. Just for surviving them.” That earned an actual laugh from him–low and warm, the kind that started in his chest and curled up into his mouth like it surprised even him. It settled something inside you. Not the panic entirely, but the vulnerability that had followed it. His laugh made the room feel a little more human. Less clinical. More like a moment you weren’t intruding on, but sharing.

“I don’t participate in them, evidently,” He claimed, gesturing lightly toward his desk. “So I’d be lying.”

You followed the motion with your eyes–the papers, the water bottle, a perfectly aligned mechanical pencil, and what looked like a cracked-open packet filled with printed slides and diagrams.

“Evidently,” you echoed softly, tilting your head a little as you looked around again. “What were you doing?” Bob exhaled–half sigh, half breath of frustration–and stepped toward the desk. He reached for the study packet, flipping the top corner up between his fingers to show you the first page. It was already heavily marked–some in black pen, some in red. Diagrams had been annotated, circled, dissected line by line. Across the top margin, written in neat, even letters, was the course title: Space Systems Design – Midterm Review Packet.

“Studying,” He said. “I have the test on Monday, and I’m nowhere near done with this thing.” His tone was tired but not bitter, just resigned in the way that only students deeply familiar with academic despair could be.

You gave a quiet, knowing laugh–one that felt more like release than amusement. “Of course. I guess every professor gets off on torturing science and engineering students,” You muttered, stretching your arms briefly. “Because I’ve got a very similar packet sitting on my desk right now for my Chem Midterm.” He placed the packet back on the desk with a soft tap.

”Misery loves company, I guess.” He offered.

“More like intellectual suffering,” You replied dryly, crossing one ankle over the other where you sat at the edge of his bed. There was a beat of silence, the kind that settled into the warmth between two people who hadn’t yet decided if they were strangers or acquaintances.

Bob leaned slightly against his desk, fingers still resting on the edge of the study packet. He tilted his head just enough for his glasses to slip down his nose for a moment, then asked softly, “So…Who dragged you out of your studying and brought you here?”

You huffed out a breath, half a laugh. “My friends got personally invited by your frat brother Jake,” you said, tone flat and unamused. “I’m assuming you know him well.”

That pulled a low, genuine laugh from Bob–his shoulders lifted slightly, the sound soft and disbelieving. “Well… I guess he’s trying to expand his roster again.”

You smirked, leaning back just a little on your palms. “Guess one of my friends is getting lucky tonight then, if he’s looking to score.”

Bob let out a hum, lips twitching toward a grin. “As long as they have a pulse, they’re fair game.”

You groaned. “Figured that…”

Another crash exploded beneath your feet–some combination of broken glass and furniture legs giving out–followed by a howling cheer from the crowd downstairs. You both winced slightly, shoulders tensing at the same time.

Bob exhaled a sharp breath, then straightened. He looked at you carefully–not with pity, but consideration–and then asked, quiet and steady:

“You wanna maybe…Get out of here?”

You blinked.

He shrugged one shoulder, casual but sincere. “Denny’s is 24 hours. We could sit there for a bit, get something to eat. And I’m sure if we stay long enough, the party’ll start to die down. Then you can get your friends when they’re all done here…” It was such a simple offer. No pressure. No weird edge. Just a safe, open hand held out toward the exit sign.

And god, it was tempting.

“Yeah…” you said almost immediately, your fingers already moving to unlock your phone. “Yeah, that sounds great, actually. I’ll just text them and let them know I’m going.”

Bob smiled–wide this time, soft and relieved. “Great.”

You glanced back up at him, still a little breathless from the past hour, still not sure if this was all a fever dream or the best part of your spring break. But you smiled back.

And maybe, just maybe, your night was finally starting to turn around.

———————————

The walk to Denny’s wasn’t long, but it was everything you needed.

The fresh air hit your lungs like a blessing–not sharp, not cold, just crisp enough to wash the smoke and sweat from your senses. Each breath cleared your head a little more. The bass from TRASH still thudded faintly in the distance, but the further you got from the house, the more it faded into the background noise of a quiet college town on a restless spring break night.

The streets were mostly empty, save for the occasional burst of laughter echoing down from a distant porch or a cluster of bikes propped against a lamppost. The rain from earlier had left the sidewalks glistening, catching the glow from streetlights and shop signs like scattered glass. Bob walked beside you, not too close, not too far–just an easy, steady presence. Every now and then, his shoulder would sway slightly toward yours, like gravity had its own opinion on the distance.

Denny’s sat at the edge of campus like a low-lit promise. The sign flickered faintly overhead, buzzing with the tired hum of fluorescent tubes, casting a pale glow on the nearly empty parking lot. It was a local staple–open all night, slightly grimy, and universally understood to be the unofficial overflow space for students who couldn’t sleep, didn’t want to go home, or just needed somewhere to exist without judgment. You’d studied here before. So had everyone. It smelled like syrup and fry oil and burnt coffee, and for some reason, it always felt safe.

Inside, the place was quieter than usual. A couple of booths were filled–one with a pair of students whispering over open textbooks, another with two guys splitting a plate of mozzarella sticks and arguing over a March Madness bracket. But the energy was muted. Dimmed. Like the whole place had taken a collective breath and decided to chill.

You and Bob slid into a booth by the window, vinyl seats squeaking under your weight. The table was slightly sticky with syrup residue–standard–but the lighting overhead was warm and soft. You could actually hear yourselves talk. You could actually think.

The waitress–a woman with tired eyes and a pen stuck behind her ear–dropped off two mugs and a full pot of coffee without asking. She must’ve pegged you both as regulars, or at least as students. Bob gave her a soft “thank you,” and you echoed it before she disappeared behind the counter.

Bob poured the coffee first, filling your mug before his. The gesture was small, automatic, but it made you pause for just a second.

“I think breakfast is one of the only meals I actually enjoy at any time of day,” he said as he handed you the sugar packet holder.

You hummed softly, stirring a little cream into your cup. “Pancakes, waffles, French toast–all sweet things,” You replied, voice a little lighter now, “But I do agree…Breakfast foods are definitely better than most.”

Bob nodded, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he reached for a menu. “Haven’t eaten much today, so I’m probably going to order a lot,” He said, deadpan but with a flicker of a smile. “Just warning you now.”

You laughed, slouching into your seat as you wrapped your hands around the warmth of the mug. “I won’t judge. As long as you don’t judge me for ordering an extra order of bacon. And possibly ham…And maybe another round of home fries.”

He looked up at that, a glint in his eyes beneath the lens glare. “Definitely won’t.”

Then, leaning forward just a little, voice conspiratorial and soft, he added, “But I will probably steal some of those home fries though, so…By all means, order away.”

You grinned, lifting your coffee to your lips. “Fair trade.”

And just like that, the tension that had wrapped itself around your ribs for hours began to unravel–for real this time.

It took a few minutes for both of you to confirm your orders–too many good, greasy options, too little brainpower left to commit. You squinted at the menu through the soft overhead glow, half your focus still caught in the feeling of warm coffee and the unexpected calm of the moment. Bob, meanwhile, flipped his menu once, then again, lips twitching like every option looked equally dangerous.

The waitress returned, pad in hand, looking only marginally more awake than when you walked in.

“I’ll have the fruit-topped pancakes,” You said, “With a side of bacon, ham…And an extra order of home fries…For the table of course…” You offered a small smile, like you were trying to excuse your own hunger, but she didn’t blink.

Bob, on the other hand, cleared his throat like he was preparing to read an oath. “Ultimate omelette, please. A side of pancakes, just the normal ones…And…A side of French toast, with bacon.”

She paused. Just slightly.

Her gaze slid over him like she was doing mental math on how someone built like a straight-laced study boy could possibly demolish what would equate to three breakfasts at once. Her brow lifted–just for a second–but she didn’t say anything. Just jotted it all down with a faint scribble of pen on paper, nodded, and disappeared with both menus in hand.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Bob let out a short, quiet laugh, leaning back in his seat. “I think I freaked her out a bit with all the food.”

You stifled your own laugh behind the rim of your mug. “Yeah, maybe a little. She’s probably wondering how you’re going to eat all of it.”

He shrugged, lifting his coffee. “We’ve got a bit of time. I think I can manage.”

That earned a proper laugh from you, low and genuine. You settled back against the booth as the hum of Denny’s buzzed softly in the background—silverware clinking, someone flipping a page from the next table over, a soft beep from the kitchen.

Bob took another sip of his coffee and set the mug down, fingers tracing the rim absently. “So…” He began, voice still gentle, “what’re you doing on campus during spring break?”

You exhaled slowly, watching the light catch the small glint of moisture still clinging to the window beside you. “My parents’ house is… A little chaotic,” You admitted. “And I really wouldn’t be able to study if I went back. So I just figured I’d stay in my dorm. Easier to focus. Cheaper, too.”

Bob nodded, listening like he really meant to. “Do you work?”

You reached up to scratch the back of your neck, sheepish. “Yeah. I work at Beans To You. Part-time barista. It gives me some extra spending money–enough to keep me caffeinated through exam season, anyway.”

That pulled another smile from him. “Do you like it?”

You lifted your hand and made a so-so motion in the air. “It’s fine. Tips are decent. My manager’s a nightmare, but I like the regulars.”

He nodded like he got it, then said, “I don’t really work…Not officially, anyway. Sometimes I write essays for a few of the frat guys and they pay me.” He gave a small shrug. “So I don’t know if you’d count that as a job or just…An Academic crime.”

You gasped dramatically, placing a hand over your chest like you’d just been personally betrayed. “You? Violating academic integrity? I’m shocked.”

Bob laughed, tipping his head down in mock shame. “Yeah, well…I can’t really keep a normal job while studying. Too much going on up here.” He tapped the side of his temple with a finger. “But I commend you for being able to juggle it.” You can feel your face heat up slightly.

“Thanks…” The silence between you and Bob stretches for a few seconds–comfortable, not strained. Outside the Denny’s window, a streetlight flickers, casting faint gold shadows across the table. The warmth of your coffee mug seeps into your palms, grounding you even as your thoughts turn over the night like a loose coin.

You glance over at him, chin tilted slightly, voice soft. “So why are you still on campus during spring break? Since you asked me…”

Bob’s hand curls around the coffee pot again. The ceramic glugs quietly as he refills his mug, steam rising faintly into the warm air between you. He doesn’t speak right away–just watches the dark liquid settle.

“Same as you, pretty much,” He replied after a beat, setting the pot back down. “But… I also don’t have a lock on my door, and the guys go into my room pretty often to steal things, so…” He shrugs one shoulder, faintly sheepish. “I figured it was better to be there. Y’know–stand guard.”

You smirk and lean forward slightly, grabbing a little plastic creamer cup from the holder and rolling it between your fingers. It clicks softly as it spins. “Interesting that you have a bunch of thieves in your presence.”

That earns a laugh from him–low and rough with amusement. “Well… they’ll always give the stuff back, of course. But only if I remind them.” He lifts his mug, lips quirking slightly as he takes a sip.

You hum, raising a brow. “Still sounds like thievery to me.”

His cheeks tint pink as he glances down into his cup, swirling it once before replying under his breath, “Touché I guess…” The silence slips in again—brief, like a shared breath—and you let your gaze settle on his hands for a moment. They’re long-fingered, a little ink-stained around the knuckles. Gentle, despite the size. His nails are clean but bitten at the edges. Tired hands. Capable ones.

Your voice cuts through the quiet again, this time softer, almost curious: “Your girlfriend must not like the guys coming in and out of your room, though.”

Bob pauses mid-sip. His lips part like he’s going to reply quickly, then he stops. A flicker of surprise crosses his face. He sets the mug down gently.

“No girlfriend,” He confirmed finally. His voice is steady, but there’s a faint guardedness behind it. “Kinda stopped trying with the whole dating thing. It was a bit… much.”

You blink at that. “Too much of a line-up?”

That draws a real laugh from him–quiet, exasperated, a hand lifting to rub at the back of his neck. His glasses slide slightly down his nose again.

“Oh, please…” He chuckles. “No. No line-up for me. I mean—look at me.”

You do, pointedly. “I am.”

He goes redder. You smirk.

“It’s just…” He exhales, shoulders relaxing as his fingers stir the coffee absentmindedly. “It’s complicated, y’know? I’m not very good at the whole–putting yourself out there thing. And I think people expect something when you show up to a date all prepared and polished. It gets weird. You have this whole pressure to perform. To be ‘on.’”

You tilt your head slightly. “Well, you seem to be outgoing. You’re doing pretty good with this conversation. I don’t know how it could be complicated.”

Bob stirs the sugar in his mug, the spoon clinking gently. He looks down at it, not quite meeting your eyes, but not avoiding them either.

“Maybe it’s because you’re pretty easy to talk to,” He explained. “It’s different when there’s no pressure. No expectations. You didn’t show up tonight wanting something from me. We just…Met. You don’t have a picture in your head of who I’m supposed to be.”

That strikes something in you–a truth you hadn’t quite realized was sitting at the edge of your own thoughts. You nod slowly, leaning a little further into the table.

“That makes sense,” You said softly. Your hand brushes the edge of the sugar packet holder again, fingertips tapping faintly. “I also think you walking in on me having a bit of an anxiety attack probably helped. With you staying calm, I mean.”

Bob’s head lifts slightly. His blue eyes catch yours again–bright, steady, warm. “That too,” he said, with a small smile. “It kind of cut through the usual noise. I knew what it was the second I saw you.”

You raise a brow gently. “Do you have experience with that kind of thing?”

He nods once. “I’ve had my moments. I’m…Pretty familiar with what it looks like. What it feels like.”

You feel your chest loosen–just slightly. There’s something in the quiet way he said it that wraps around you like a thread. Honest. Matter-of-fact. Not dramatic. Just shared.

You sip your coffee again, letting the silence settle in a way that feels companionable now, like you’ve both earned it.

Then Bob lifts his head a little more, his glasses catching the light as he looks at you across the table. His voice is lower now. “You’re okay now though, right?” You could feel your heart catch–not in that suffocating, chaotic way from earlier, but in a softer, almost stunned kind of ache. Because here he was: Bob, a stranger only hours ago, asking with quiet sincerity if you were okay. Not out of obligation. Not to get something from you. Just… because he cared. And somehow, that mattered more than you were prepared to admit.

“Yeah,” You replied, your voice light, but genuine. “I’m definitely feeling much better. I think it was just…How cramped the house was, to be honest.” You gave a soft, sheepish smile, pushing your hair behind your ear. “Wasn’t really a fan, I guess.”

Bob nodded, the corners of his mouth curling faintly. “That makes sense,” He murmured. “I think TRASH is like… the physical embodiment of a migraine.”

You snorted, and it broke the last of the lingering tension between you.

Before either of you could respond, the clatter of ceramic and the faint shuffle of sneakers announced the return of your waitress. She placed your food down with the weary grace of someone who’d balanced plates through hundreds of midnight shifts.

“Alright,” She said, eyeing the table, “Round one.”

She set down your fruit-topped pancakes–stacked high, glistening with syrup and dotted with blueberries and strawberries. The bacon was curled and crispy, the ham thick-cut and slightly charred at the edges. A steaming mountain of home fries followed, golden and peppered with bits of caramelized onion.

Bob’s first plate came next: a monstrous omelette, folded tight and stuffed with peppers, ham, cheese, and something else that looked like it might have once been alive and screaming. French toast followed, dusted with powdered sugar and still steaming, then the final plate of classic pancakes–plain, but perfectly browned and stacked like they belonged in a diner commercial.

“Damn,” You muttered as she walked away to grab another pot of coffee. “You weren’t kidding.”

Bob gave a faux-serious nod. “I take breakfast very seriously.”

Conversation flowed easily now, spilling over between bites and swipes of syrup, the low hum of the diner cocooning you in soft sounds: the hiss of the kitchen, the occasional ding of a timer, and the quiet scrape of forks over ceramic.

You talked about everything and nothing. Favorite professors. Weirdest drink orders you’d ever made at work. Other times, he said things you hadn’t expected: like how he wanted to work in aerospace design someday, or how he didn’t sleep well unless there was white noise playing somewhere nearby.

Somewhere between your second helping of home fries and Bob’s last piece of French toast, your phone buzzed. You picked it up mid-chew and glanced at the screen.

Jess: we’re heading back. dorms are too far but jake’s breath is worse. I’m tapping out.

Monica: don’t wait up <3

Sue: text when you’re home safe pls 🫶

You thumbed a quick reply, a warm smile tugging at your lips.

You: i’ll be good. i’ll text when i get back to the residence so you know i got home safe <3

When you set the phone down again, Bob was watching you–not in a weird way, just casually, curiously, like he could tell something in your expression had shifted.

“Friends bailing on you?” He asked, reaching for the last bite of his pancakes.

You nodded. “Yeah. Party must’ve worn them out.”

“Probably for the best,” He started, “It starts getting rowdy at around this time.” You snorted.

”What’s new? It’s like y’all don’t sleep, I’ve heard enough stories that it literally feels like when I don’t go to one of your parties I still attended.”

Bob laughed so hard he almost choked on his coffee.

By the time your plates were mostly empty and the coffee pot had been drained down to lukewarm remnants, you realized just how late it had gotten. The booths had began to thin out even more–there was just one table of students left, dozing over half-finished pancake stacks. The quiet was deeper now, but not uncomfortable.

The waitress returned to your table just as you were lifting your mug for one final sip, now half-cold and slightly bitter. Her pen was already poised, her notepad loose in one hand, her face unreadable behind the faint sheen of a night shift glaze.

“It’ll be one bill,” Bob said before she could even ask, his voice smooth but casual.

Your head jerked slightly in surprise, a protest already rising in your throat. “Wait, no–Bob, come on, you don’t have to–”

He shook his head gently, cutting you off with nothing more than a glance and a small smile. “It’s all good,” He murmured, already pulling out his wallet. “You got me out of the house for the first time this week. I owe you.” Your cheeks warmed, a slow bloom of heat rising into your ears. You blinked down at your mug, then back at him, and that’s when the sky opened.

A sudden roar of rain crashed against the diner’s roof, pounding like a thousand thrown pebbles. The windows misted almost instantly, a sheet of water streaming down the glass and distorting the world outside into a watercolor blur.

Bob flinched slightly, twisting in his seat to look outside. His shoulders hunched on instinct, and a low, resigned sound escaped from his throat. “Well…” he said, squinting past the droplets, “That doesn’t look good.”

You turned your gaze to the window and let out a dry laugh, exhaling softly as you looked down at the windbreaker you had draped over your lap. The nylon was thin and practically useless, more aesthetic than functional, and the idea of stepping into a monsoon in it was laughable at best.

“Guess I’m gonna be taking a second shower tonight,” you muttered.

Bob laughed—a soft, tired huff that carried the warmth of shared annoyance. He reached for the debit machine the waitress had just placed down, brows furrowing slightly at the glowing screen.

“I mean…” he began, eyes still on the numbers as he typed in a 20% tip with practiced ease, “TRASH is closer than your residence, I’m assuming…”

You stilled, your fingers lightly tapping the rim of your coffee cup. You raised an eyebrow and tilted your head toward him, a smirk flickering at the corner of your mouth. “Are you asking me to stay over at the frat house for the night?”

The question hung in the air, playful but open-ended, wrapped in something more vulnerable beneath the teasing. Bob’s fingers hesitated only a second on the keypad. Then he cleared his throat, his jaw flexing faintly as he focused a little too intently on the screen.

A tinge of pink crept into his cheeks, barely visible in the soft overhead glow, “Well,” He started, still looking at the machine, ““I don’t think it’ll be as chaotic as it was when we first left. It’s…”

He pulled his phone out of his hoodie pocket, thumb swiping the screen quickly before glancing at the time. His voice was slightly rough when he spoke again. “1:58…So most of the party crowd’s probably passed out or Ubered home.” You let the moment linger, your gaze resting on him as you traced the edge of your mug with your fingertip. The rain was still coming down hard, a near-constant shushing against the glass. You could feel the chill creeping in from the windowpane behind you, but your fingers were warm.

Your tongue flicked out to dampen your upper lip–an unconscious movement. “Okay,” you said quietly, meeting his eyes as he finally looked up. “You’re right.”

Something flickered behind his glasses–relief, maybe. Or hope.

“So…” He asked, voice gentler now, “Is that a yes?”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it for dramatic effect. Then you nodded, slow and sure, your smile small but certain. “Definitely.”

———————————

By the time you reached the frat house again, your windbreaker had clung to your frame like a second skin–useless, soaked through, plastered to your arms and back. Bob hadn’t fared much better; his sweatshirt was darkened with rain, sweatpants sticking to his legs, curls dripping water down the sides of his face. You both half-jogged the final stretch of the walk, laughing breathlessly as puddles splashed beneath your sneakers, your jeans growing heavier with every step.

The porch light still flickered above the sagging steps of TRASH, casting its usual jaundiced glow across the warped wood and the crowd that lingered despite the downpour. The music inside had dulled to a murmur now–more background hum than bassline. A few people still lounged on the porch and by the windows, some wrapped in borrowed blankets or wearing half-soaked hoodies, clearly unwilling to brave the rain to get home.

You and Bob didn’t say anything as you stepped back inside. You didn’t need to.

The shift in temperature was immediate. Warmth hit you like a wall–sticky and musty from the remains of the party, but comforting after the rain. Your wet clothes clung to your skin, and you blinked against the fog that immediately fogged up Bob’s glasses.

He muttered something under his breath and took them off, reaching blindly for the nearest surface. A tissue box sat crookedly on the edge of a table cluttered with empty bottles and a half-eaten slice of pizza. He snagged one with a quiet “thanks,” as if the house had done him a favor, and carefully wiped the raindrops from the lenses.

You stood beside him, dripping gently onto the floorboards, ignoring the damp squish of your socks in your shoes.

“This is your fault,” You murmured dryly, nudging him with your elbow, pointing down at your shoes.

Bob smiled behind the tissue, his glasses still in hand. “Can’t control the way I splashed the puddles, it’s not my fault.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth of the exchange settled between you like steam, softening the cold still clinging to your back.

The climb to the second floor was quieter than before–no bodies spilling down the stairs, no screams from behind doors. The hallway was dim, lit only by the faint blue glow of a nightlight near the bathroom and the soft hum of a TV still playing somewhere behind a closed door. You padded side by side, shoes squelching softly, until you reached the door at the very end.

Bob stopped and looked down at the wet prints you’d both left on the wood floor. “Wait,” He said, hooking a finger into the heel of his sneaker. “Let’s not trash the room on the way in.”

You mimicked him without question, tugging your own shoes off and stepping gingerly onto the dry patch of carpet just outside his door. Your barefeet were cold against the wood, but you followed his lead as he opened the door and ushered you inside.

The warmth of the room embraced you immediately–soft light still glowing from the desk lamp, books undisturbed, bed still neatly made. It looked exactly as you’d left it, like the universe had paused while you were gone. A pocket of calm in the storm.

Bob shut the door behind you with a quiet click, and you both stood there for a second, wet and shivering, taking in the familiar scent of detergent and paper and pine.

You turned to him, wringing out the bottom hem of your shirt slightly. “So…What’s the protocol here?” You asked, gesturing vaguely to your soaked clothes. Bob cleared his throat, the sound soft but a little strained as he shifted in place. His hair was damp and sticking to his forehead from the humidity of the rain and the faint warmth of the room.

“Um… I have some spare clothes you can wear,” He said, gesturing vaguely toward the small closet on the far side of the room. “They might be a little big, but…”

You shook your head immediately, brushing a few wet strands of hair back from your face as water dripped quietly from your sleeves. “I don’t mind,” You murmured. “Not really trying to impress anyone.”

That earned the faintest smirk from him, quick and crooked–just a twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. He turned away and opened his closet, the wooden door creaking faintly on old hinges. Inside, everything was neatly stacked or hung: flannel shirts, hoodies, folded sweats, a few plastic hangers twisting slightly from where they’d been jostled. It wasn’t much, but it was organized–just like the rest of him.

After a second of deliberation, Bob pulled out a pair of flannel pajama bottoms–soft-looking, forest green and navy plaid–and a white t-shirt with faded navy lettering stretched across the front.

You tilted your head, brows lifting slightly. “‘The All-State Mathletes’?”

He sighed. “Yeah…It was a math team I was on in my first year. Don’t ask.”

You grinned and took the bundle from his hands, brushing your thumb across the worn fabric of the shirt. “I’ll take anything at this point.”

“I figured,” He muttered with a low huff of a laugh. Then, with a tilt of his head, “Bathroom’s two doors down. Towels are in the top drawer if you need one.”

“Got it.” You nodded, stepping back into the hallway barefoot, flannel bundle tucked under your arm and your wet clothes slapping faintly against your side with every step.

The bathroom was empty–thank god–and you wasted no time peeling off your drenched clothes. The fabric clung stubbornly, cold and limp against your skin, your jeans making that awful suction sound as you dragged them down your legs. The windbreaker hit the floor with a wet slap, your socks not far behind.

The dry fabric of the borrowed clothes was a godsend.

The pajama pants were big, predictably, and you had to roll the waistband twice just to get them to sit above your hips. The t-shirt hung past your thighs, thin and worn soft with age, the letters cracked and faded from a thousand washes. You caught your reflection in the mirror briefly as you towel-dried your hair–still damp–but a little steadier now.

You bundled your soaked clothes into a loose pile in your arms and padded back down the hall, feet cool against the hardwood. The party had dulled into something sleepy and distant. A door creaked open somewhere behind you, but you ignored it, your focus set entirely on the quiet golden glow spilling from the crack beneath Bob’s door.

When you opened it, your hand halfway full of damp denim, you froze in the doorway.

Bob was halfway through pulling on a clean shirt, the fabric bunched in his hands as it hovered just below his collarbone. His back was to you, bare and still slightly damp, pale under the soft overhead light. And god–he was lean, sure, but he was defined. His shoulders tapered into the strong slope of his spine, the muscles along his back pulling tight with every breath as he raised his arms. His skin was smooth, but the planes of him were lined with quiet strength–faint dips and ridges casting gentle shadows across his shoulder blades and the curve of his waist. You hadn’t expected him to be built like that.

Your throat went dry.

You coughed–a soft, involuntary sound that slipped from your chest before you could stop it.

Bob startled slightly and turned, shirt still bunched in his hands. His glasses were back on, fogged faintly from the warmth of the room. His cheeks went pink almost instantly, like the realization had only just hit him. “Oh Jesus,” he muttered, yanking the shirt over his head in a single, awkward movement. “I didn’t know you’d be back already.”

You took a cautious step in, one hand tightening around the bundle of wet clothes clutched to your chest. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to just walk in–didn’t really expect you to be…Changing.”

Bob shook his head as he adjusted the hem of the shirt, tugging it into place at his hips, smoothing it over the faint damp patches on his new pair of navy sweatpants. “No–it’s fine. Really. Uh…Let me get you a towel for your pillow…And I can throw your clothes in the dryer so they’ll be good by morning.” He moved quickly, brushing past you with careful steps, warm air trailing in his wake. You caught the scent of him as he passed–faint detergent, piney body wash, something subtle and clean that clung to the soft cotton of his shirt.

He opened a small drawer near the dresser, pulling out a thick grey towel and handing it to you without making eye contact. Then he glanced down at the soaked bundle in your arms and gently reached for it.

“I’ll toss these downstairs now,” He offered. “Give me five minutes and they’ll be spinning.”

You nodded, lips parting slightly. “Thanks. Really.”

Bob’s expression softened as he looked up at you–his blue eyes still wide behind the lenses, but a little calmer now. “Do you want a drink or anything?” He asked as he backed toward the door. “I’m probably gonna grab some water before…Sleep.”

You hesitated, then gave a small, grateful smile. “Yeah. Water is fine…Thank you.”

He nodded once and slipped out the door, leaving you alone again in the soft glow of his bedroom. The sound of his footsteps faded down the stairs, and you sat slowly at the edge of the bed again, towel draped across your shoulders, the smell of his room slowly working its way deeper into your skin.

You thumbed open your group chat as you sat at the edge of Bob’s bed, the thick towel still draped over your shoulders like a shield. Your wet clothes were gone–already clunking softly in the dryer downstairs–and the cold had mostly left your skin, replaced by the slow radiating warmth of his room.

The group chat lit up under your fingers:

You: made it back to the frat house safe. staying here tonight—will explain tmrw. love you guys. <3

A second later, Sue reacted with a heart. Jess sent a gif of someone raising an eyebrow dramatically, and Monica just wrote: “knew it 😉”

You rolled your eyes and let out a soft breath of amusement, then set the phone down on Bob’s desk, the screen glowing faintly for another second before fading to black. You turned back toward the bed and let yourself sink into the mattress, exhaling slowly as your shoulders dropped. The towel slipped from your frame, and you folded it carefully, placing it over the pillow before lying back, arms stretched loosely at your sides.

The room hummed around you. Softly. Comfortably. A distant thump of music still pulsed from the floors below–muted now, a sleepy echo of chaos already starting to dissolve into morning fog. Somewhere, a door clicked shut. Pipes murmured in the walls. And the desk lamp bathed the room in a low, golden glow, casting soft shadows against the bookshelves and the edge of the closet.

Then, the door opened again.

Bob entered quietly, closing it behind him with the same practiced care he’d used all night. His hair was slightly less damp, the ends curling gently around his ears. A bottle of water was tucked in each hand, condensation trailing slow rivulets down his fingers.

“Here,” He said, holding one out to you.

You sat up slightly, taking the bottle with a soft “Thanks,” and cracking it open. The cap clicked beneath your fingers, the cool water a sharp contrast against your warm skin. Bob twisted the top off his own and took a quick sip, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. Then he lowered it and glanced toward the bookshelf with an unreadable expression.

“I’m just going to grab a blanket,” he said casually, “and take the spare room.”

You paused mid-sip, brows lifting. “What?” you said, letting the cap snap gently back in place. “You don’t want to share a bed?”

Bob’s eyes darted to yours, surprised. His lips parted faintly. “You…want to share a bed?”

You shrugged, voice light but steady. “Well…yeah. I don’t really mind. There’s enough room, isn’t there?”

His gaze flicked to the mattress like it needed to be double-checked. “Yeah, there is,” He admitted, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Just thought you wouldn’t want to be sleeping in a bed with a stranger.”

You tilted your head, the edge of a smirk tugging at your lips. “Hey now,” You teased softly, “Come on. We aren’t strangers.”

Bob huffed out a breath–a laugh, almost. “We met less than twelve hours ago and we’re already sleeping in the same bed. Seems fast.”

You stood slowly, the blanket falling back in soft folds behind your legs. “I’m fine with fast if you are,” you said, tone flirtier than before, the words curling at the edge like steam rising from pavement.

Bob looked at you for a long moment. His eyes flicked down your frame briefly–respectfully–but you caught it. Just the faintest breath of a glance at the oversized shirt, the rolled waistband of his pajama pants on your hips. Then he swallowed, the movement subtle but visible.

You climbed under the covers, placing your towel-topped pillow against the headboard and leaning back into it. The sheets were soft–cotton, a little warm from the dryer, carrying the faint scent of his detergent. Your body sank into the mattress like it remembered the panic you’d felt hours ago and wanted to nestle into something still, something safe.

You patted the empty space beside you, eyebrows raised in invitation. “Well?”

Bob didn’t answer right away. He just smiled–shy and a little stunned–and shuffled toward the bed like he didn’t quite believe this was real. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight as he climbed in beside you, his long legs folding under the blanket, which he pulled up to his shoulders like muscle memory.

His shoulder brushed yours–barely–but the heat of it lingered.

You reached across your chest and handed him your water bottle without a word. He blinked once, took it with a murmur of thanks, and leaned over to place it gently on the nightstand beside his own. The lamp clicked off a second later, plunging the room into darkness, save for the faint sliver of moonlight that slipped through the small window of his room. A silver-blue sheen spread softly across the edge of the comforter.

The quiet pressed in, not heavy or stifling, but thick with awareness.

Your bodies didn’t touch, but the heat between them curled like smoke.

You could hear the shift of the covers when Bob adjusted his legs, the soft whisper of fabric against skin as he rolled slightly toward you on instinct–then seemed to catch himself and settle again on his back. The bed creaked faintly beneath the motion, and then stillness returned.

The air smelled like clean cotton, pine body wash, the faintest trace of rainwater clinging to the ends of your hair. You turned your head on the pillow slightly, voice just above a whisper.

“Still awake?”

“…Yeah,” He said quietly. “You?”

You nodded in the dark. “Mm-hm.”

The quiet stillness wrapped around you like a weighted blanket, warm but buzzing with something new. It had shifted—gently, imperceptibly—but it was there now. Not the panic. Not the awkwardness. Something softer. Something waiting.

You turned over slowly, your arm sliding across the blanket as you rolled onto your side, the mattress giving slightly under your weight. The movement made a faint rustle, just enough for him to hear.

Bob shifted too.

His silhouette turned toward you, quiet and careful, until you could make out the soft rise of his chest beneath the covers, the faint slope of his shoulder, and the curve of his jaw in the pale wash of moonlight. His glasses were gone, probably folded on the nightstand with your water bottles, but even in the dim light you could see the glassy reflection of his eyes.

Blue. Gentle. Wide. Fixed on yours.

“Do you maybe want to maybe…Do something?” You asked, voice soft, watching as he swallowed hard.

”…What…What do you have in mind?” You didn’t answer right away. Just let the silence stretch between you like silk. Then your gaze dipped, slow and deliberate, to the shape of his mouth.

Soft, parted slightly. Waiting.

His breath caught–just the faintest hitch–and you saw his eyes flick down to your lips, mirroring you. Like instinct. Like gravity.

You leaned in.

It was tentative at first–your chest barely grazing his, your hand resting lightly on the edge of the pillow as you crossed the final few inches. Bob didn’t move, but his breath deepened, a quiet exhale drifting over your cheek as your nose brushed his. Then you closed the distance.

Your lips met his, soft and feather-light.

He froze for half a second, as if stunned–but then he kissed you back. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, but so gentle it almost made your ribs ache. He moved like he was afraid to shatter you, like this moment was too fragile to claim outright.

His hand came up slowly–hesitant at first, then steady. His palm cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing the curve of your cheekbone. The contact lit a slow-burning warmth across your skin. He let out a breath–long and unsteady against your lips, like the kind you exhale when you’ve been holding it too long.

He pulled back just a little, the tip of his nose brushing yours as he hovered, eyes open now, close enough that you could feel the faint tremble of his breath. You opened your eyes too.

And then you leaned forward again.

This time it wasn’t tentative. Still soft, still slow–but heavier now. More certain. You kissed him with your full mouth, with the weight of everything the night had built. Your lips parted slightly and so did his. The kiss deepened, quiet but lingering, the kind of kiss that said I see you. I feel this too.

Bob responded with a quiet sound in the back of his throat, like the breath had been pulled from him again. His hand shifted from your cheek to the base of your skull, fingers slipping into your damp hair, holding you with a gentleness that made your stomach flutter.

Your other hand found his forearm beneath the blanket, the heat of his skin a slow thrum against your fingertips. He tilted his head slightly to meet your mouth more fully, deepening the kiss just enough that you felt your body lean in instinctively. His lips moved against yours with the kind of reverence that made your breath catch–slow, aching, as if he didn’t want to stop.

When he finally pulled back, it was only by an inch. Just enough for air. Just enough to look at you.

The moonlight caught in his lashes, his irises shining like sea glass. His lips were redder now, parted slightly, the corner of his mouth trembling faintly from restraint or disbelief. His thumb brushed along your jaw as he studied you, breath still coming a little faster than before.

“Is this okay?” He whispered.

Your heart twisted at the softness in his voice. You nodded–barely a motion–but it was enough.

“Yeah,” You whispered back. “It’s perfect.” Bob stared at you for a breath longer, like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like this whole thing might vanish if he blinked too fast.

Then he leaned in again.

The kiss that followed was deeper–hungrier. Less tentative. His hand was still cradling the side of your face, thumb brushing under your eye, but there was a new weight behind the way he kissed you now. A heat that curled up from the pit of your stomach, spreading like honey beneath your skin. His lips parted a little faster, like he was giving in to something he’d been holding back.

You pressed in with him, lips slotting together again and again, and then you moved–your body shifting under the blanket as you brought one leg over his hip, slowly, testing.

Bob froze for half a second–just long enough for you to hesitate–but then his hand moved. The one on your cheek slid down, dragging lightly along your jaw, your neck, the curve of your shoulder, until it found your thigh. His fingers curled around the back of it, firm and warm, and pulled you gently closer.

You moved instinctively, hips settling into the cradle of his body, your leg draped loosely over his, pressing in. The blanket bunched around your waists, forgotten. The worn cotton of his borrowed flannel pants brushed against your skin as you rocked forward, just enough to feel the heat between your bodies catch.

His breath hitched.

The kiss deepened again, your lips parting just slightly, just enough to taste his breath. And then you felt it–his tongue, tentative but sure, slipping past your lips to meet yours. It wasn’t sloppy or rushed. It was slow and searching, like he wanted to memorize the shape of your mouth from the inside out. You responded in kind, your fingers curling lightly into his shirt, gripping the soft cotton as you rolled your hips again–just once.

Bob gasped against your lips.

It wasn’t loud, but it was raw–half breath, half sound, the air from his lungs catching in his throat. You felt the heat of him through the fabric, the slow, aching tension building there. His fingers dug into your thigh just slightly, not enough to hurt–just enough to pull.

You did it again. Slower this time. Your hips moved in a slow, steady circle, the friction sweet and hot even through the layers of borrowed clothes. Bob broke the kiss suddenly, his lips parting with a soft huff of air as his head tilted back against the pillow.

“Fuck–” He breathed, almost inaudible, as though it had been dragged from him by accident.

You pulled back slightly, brushing your nose along his cheek before pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Get on top?” he asked, voice rough, uncertain but yearning.

You nodded, lips still brushing his.

He shifted beneath you, back arching slightly as he rolled onto his back, adjusting the blanket so it slipped lower across his hips. You followed the motion, moving carefully, straddling him with slow, deliberate movements. The oversized shirt you wore fell forward slightly, hanging off your shoulders as you adjusted your weight over him.

His hands settled instinctively on your thighs, fingertips flexing gently as you leaned down to kiss him again–this time firmer, more desperate. It was less polished now, more honest. You kissed like people who hadn’t had something like this in a long time. Like this was a secret you weren’t supposed to be sharing but needed anyway.

You began to move again, hips rocking gently against him in a slow rhythm that made his jaw slacken beneath your mouth.

Bob groaned–quiet, tight–and his hands moved to your waist, holding you just a little more firmly now. His breath was hot against your mouth as he kissed you harder, sloppier now, letting go of some invisible restraint. Your thighs squeezed around his hips, the pressure sending heat curling down your spine. You could feel how hard he was through his sweatpants now, the heat of him pressed up between your legs with every slow drag of your hips.

His moan broke the rhythm.

Soft and helpless. It slipped into your mouth like a secret.

You pulled back, barely, kissing the line of his jaw and the soft, exposed skin of his neck. He tilted his head just enough to give you more space. His throat flexed when you kissed him there–gently, again and again–before murmuring softly:

“Are you okay?”

His fingers tightened just slightly where they rested on your hips. His breath came a little faster now, chest rising against yours in shallow waves. And then, softly, almost embarrassed:

“I…I’m a bit sensitive…”

You paused, still straddling him, your hand smoothing lightly over his chest. The thump of his heart was rapid beneath your palm.

You looked down at him, eyes searching in the dark. “Are you…A virgin?”

He shook his head quickly, cheeks flushed red even in the faint light.

“No…No, not a virgin. But it’s…It’s kind of been a while. And I haven’t… I haven’t had sex with many people.”

Your heart softened at the honesty. The way he said it, not ashamed–just cautious. Like he wanted you to know what you were working with. What you were holding in your hands.

You leaned down, brushing your lips gently against his jaw.

“We can stop if you want,” You murmured. “I don’t mind just doing this. You don’t have to prove anything.”

Bob shook his head immediately, voice quiet but steady. “No…No, we can keep going. I want to. I really want to.”

You smiled, slow and reassuring. A gentle hand slid down to his chest again, your thumb brushing the fabric of his shirt as you spoke.

“If you want to stop, just tell me, okay?”

He nodded, eyes wide and warm. “Okay.” You leaned down again, your lips brushing the corner of his jaw, then trailing lower, slow and coaxing. Bob tilted his head back, just enough to expose his throat to you, and you took the invitation without hesitation–pressing soft, lingering kisses to the curve of his neck, the warm hollow beneath his jaw. You let your tongue flick out lightly, tasting the salt of his skin, the faint tang of piney body wash and rainwater still clinging to him.

His breath hitched again when your lips ghosted over the edge of his collarbone.

You kept moving downward, slow and deliberate, your hips still rocking gently against his as your kisses followed the slope of his body. The heat between your legs pulsed against the firmness beneath his sweatpants with each subtle shift, each teasing grind of pressure. You could feel him trembling slightly under you–barely noticeable, but there.

Then, without a word, he shifted.

He leaned up just enough to grab the hem of his shirt and peel it over his head in one fluid, unhurried motion. His hair stuck up in damp little curls as he tossed the shirt aside, chest rising and falling more quickly now, bare and flushed under the faint light.

You paused.

Your gaze swept over him–up close now. Every inch of him laid out before you. His chest was broad, lined with soft muscle, not overworked but strong. The subtle lines of his ribs shifted with each breath. A faint trail of hair disappeared beneath the waistband of his sweats, and your mouth went dry again.

“Jesus,” You murmured, almost to yourself, your fingers ghosting over his sternum. He shivered under your touch. Your hands traced down slowly–past his chest, over his stomach, feeling the flutter of his abs tensing beneath your palm. You kissed each inch as you moved, warm and open-mouthed, pushing the comforter lower as you went.

He was breathing harder now, lips parted, one hand fisting the sheets beside him as he fought to stay still.

When you reached the waistband of his sweatpants, you looked up.

“Can I take these off?” You asked softly, fingers already hooked into the fabric.

Bob looked down at you, eyes glassy with heat, and nodded. “Yes… Please.”

You pulled them down slowly, dragging them past his hips, down his thighs, then off entirely. Your breath caught as he was finally exposed to you–fully, completely. He was big. Thick and flushed and already twitching under your stare, the head glossy with arousal, a vein pulsing visibly along the underside.

Your eyes widened just a little.

He saw it.

His face went red immediately, arms twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to cover himself or not. “Is…Everything okay?”

You nodded quickly–so quickly it made your hair shift. “Yes. Oh my god…Yes.” You reached up, wrapping your hand around him carefully. His whole body reacted–his hips stuttered and his eyes fluttered shut, a choked gasp leaving his lips. His thighs tensed beneath your knees.

“Still okay?” You asked gently, your hand already stroking him in slow, reverent pulls.

He opened his eyes, dazed and breathless, and nodded. “Yeah. Fuck–yeah.”

You leaned forward then, dragging your mouth along the sensitive skin of his lower abdomen, kissing just above the base of him. His hips jerked slightly under you. And then you took him into your mouth.

The reaction was immediate.

Bob let out a sound–high and broken, something between a moan and a whimper–and his hand flew up, grabbing at the pillow behind his head like he needed something to hold on to. You started slow, letting your lips stretch around him, your tongue tracing every inch you could reach, eyes flicking up to watch the way he unraveled.

It was messy. Your lips were already slick, your breath hot against him as you took him in deeper, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t manage. You let spit slide down your chin, let your tongue swirl at the sensitive underside of the head, and when you pulled back just enough to suck softly–he whimpered again.

“Fuck–Fuck, you’re–” He didn’t finish.

His chest was heaving now, one hand clenching the sheets, the other twitching at his side like he wanted to touch you but didn’t dare. You glanced up again, your eyes meeting his as you took him back into your mouth, deeper this time. His head fell back.

He tried to warn you. “I–I’m gonna–shit–”

You didn’t stop.

You kept going, messy and steady, humming softly around him. That was what pushed him over.

He came hard.

It hit like a jolt–his thighs tensed, a full-body tremble ran through him, and his hips jerked once, deep and involuntary. You swallowed everything, kept your mouth on him, letting him ride everything out with soft, wet pulls until he was gasping, his voice broken and breathless.

“Holy shit…” He whispered, “Holy shit.” You pulled off slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, then kissed the inside of his thigh gently. He twitched under the touch, already so sensitive.

You looked up at him.

His hair was wild against the pillow. His chest was still rising and falling fast. He looked wrecked–in the best way. Flushed and dazed and entirely undone.

“…You okay?” You asked softly, your voice a little hoarse. He nods. His chest rose and fell in shallow waves, a light sheen of sweat just beginning to bead at his collarbones. His voice was rough when he finally spoke.

“You’re…” He swallowed, almost like he didn’t believe it himself. “You’re so good at that.”

You smiled–lazy, warm, lips still glistening from where you’d had him in your mouth. “Glad I didn’t disappoint.”

Then you began kissing your way back up, slow and teasing, your mouth trailing over his thigh, the curve of his hip, the faint dip of his navel. His body tensed in small waves under you, his hands twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to grab you or ground himself.

By the time you reached his chest again, your lips hovered above his, your palms pressed flat against his ribcage as you straddled him once more. The moment your mouths met again–softer now, slower–he kissed you like he could still taste himself on your tongue. Like he didn’t care. Like it made him hungrier.

Then, without a word, he shifted beneath you.

His core tightened–subtle but strong–and his hands slid firmly up your sides. And in one smooth, steady motion, he turned you both. Rolled you right onto your back, his body pressing down over yours, careful but deliberate. The mattress dipped beneath the change in weight, the blanket twisting around your waists as he settled on top of you.

You gasped, then laughed, the sound half-breathless. “Oh, okay,” You whispered, grinning up at him in the moonlight. “You’ve got muscles after all.”

Bob smirked–still shy, still pink in the cheeks, but he liked that reaction. You could tell.

His hands skimmed up beneath the oversized shirt, fingers warm and reverent as they rested just below your ribs. His thumbs rubbed slow, uncertain circles into your skin.

“Is this okay?” He murmured, already breathless again, eyes locked on yours like he’d stop the world if you flinched.

You nodded slowly, voice quiet but steady. “Yeah. Let me take it off for you.”

Bob leaned back just enough to let you sit up, his hands sliding down to brace your waist. You grabbed the hem of the shirt and peeled it up and over your head in one swift motion, the cotton catching briefly at your wrists before falling in a heap beside the bed.

The second you were bare to him, Bob’s eyes darkened. Not with anything aggressive–just wonder. Awe.

Then his mouth was on you immediately.

He leaned down, lips brushing the curve of your breast, then the center of it, then closing over your nipple with a gentleness that made your breath stutter. His mouth was hot–wet and reverent–and when he sucked, slow and careful, your back arched instinctively off the bed.

You heard him moan against you.

It was low and quiet, but you felt the vibration hum through your skin, straight down your spine. One of his hands came up to cup the other breast, thumb flicking across the nipple, just barely grazing it–testing your reaction. You gasped, thighs shifting beneath him, and his fingers twitched in response.

He liked that. He really liked that.

Bob switched sides without warning–his lips moving from one breast to the other, leaving a trail of kisses behind. He sucked more firmly this time, tongue circling your nipple before pulling it into the warmth of his mouth. You couldn’t help it–you let out a soft, broken moan, your fingers threading into his hair.

You tugged. Not hard, but enough.

His breath hitched again, and he groaned into your skin.

The sounds he was making were softer than you’d expected–gentle and desperate all at once. As if pleasuring you was more overwhelming than being pleasured himself. He took his time with your chest, letting each kiss linger, letting each flick of his tongue draw another gasp from you. He alternated pressure, learning what made your back arch, what made you squirm, what made your thighs tremble against his hips.

You tightened your fingers in his curls and whispered, “Bob…Fuck.”

He pulled back, lips red and wet, his breath warm against your breast. His eyes flicked up to yours.

“Can I go down on you?”

The question hit low in your stomach–immediate, electric.

Your lips parted before you even thought. “Yes…” A breath. “Yes, please.”

His smile broke through slow and stunned, like it had just dawned on him that he’d get to do this–that this was real. He kissed your sternum once, then lower, reverent as he worked his way down your body. His hands slid beneath the waistband of your pajama pants, fingers brushing your hips gently.

You lifted your hips in silent offering.

The flannel was untied with fumbling fingers–more eager than graceful–and he tugged it down with care, eyes glued to your body like he couldn’t believe how lucky he was. You helped him, pushing the fabric past your thighs, letting it fall in a heap somewhere at the end of the bed.

Bob shifted between your legs, hands bracing your thighs as he kissed the inside of one, then the other. His short strands of hair brushed your skin, his breath hot and unsteady against the most sensitive part of you, and when he glanced up–eyes wide, lips parted–you thought you might actually combust.

He settled lower. Breathed deep. And then tasted you.

The sound he made was immediate—a choked, guttural moan that vibrated through your entire pelvis.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice wrecked already. “You taste so good…”

Then his mouth was back on you.

Hot, open, eager.

He didn’t know what he was doing at first—at least not perfectly—but he learned fast. Every whimper, every shift of your hips, every breathless moan was something he studied. His tongue flicked, then flattened. Lapped broad and slow, then circled tight and precise, adjusting to your reactions like he was memorizing you.

The warmth of his mouth was overwhelming. It was everywhere. Wet and insistent and so good.

Your back arched and your hips rolled forward on instinct, chasing the pressure, and he groaned into you again—into you—like the weight of your pleasure was his. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, spreading you open for him, holding you steady like he needed to stay here, buried here, like he couldn’t risk missing anything.

“Bob–oh my god–”

You felt him moan at the sound of his name, his tongue dragging slow and deep, lips sucking just enough to make your breath catch and stutter. It was dirty and worshipful all at once. Sloppy and reverent. It had you squirming against his mouth, your legs trembling on either side of his shoulders.

Then he paused.

Pulled back just barely–just enough to catch his breath and speak. His voice was thick and panting, his lips shiny, chin wet.

“I’m gonna…” He swallowed. “Add fingers.”

You let out a breathy, desperate moan, hips twitching up toward him involuntarily.

“Fuck, Bob…Please.”

He dipped his head again, kissing your clit once–soft and wet–before trailing lower with his tongue as his hand slid between your thighs. You felt the first press of his fingertips at your entrance–tentative, reverent–and then one slipped inside, slow and gentle, curling just enough to make you cry out.

“God,” He breathed, kissing your thigh as he moved. “You’re so wet…”

He added the second without warning–easing it in slowly, stretching you around his knuckles, and you swore the breath left your body in a rush. His fingers filled you, thick and warm and so good, and he started moving them–slow and firm, curling upward just right, just right–and then his mouth was back.

This time, he devoured you.

Messy, hungry, moaning against your clit as his fingers worked inside you, finding a rhythm that had your entire body going taut. You were writhing now–hips lifting, thighs clenching, voice catching in your throat as you tried to stay grounded, stay still, but he was relentless. Determined.

Like he’d waited years to do this and he was making up for lost time.

You felt it building–hot and sharp and inevitable–and your hands found his hair, pulling tight, holding on for dear life as your body surged forward.

“I–I’m gonna–fuck, Bob, don’t stop–”

And he didn’t. He just moaned into you, tongue flicking faster, fingers pumping deeper, curling as he groaned in response to your tightening around him.

You shattered.

Your thighs clamped around his head, heels digging into the mattress, your hips twitching against his face as you came with a full-body spasm, mouth open in a silent cry. You heard yourself babble his name, hips bucking helplessly as the orgasm tore through you, hard and fast and blinding.

Bob kept going. Gentle but steady. Lapping you through it, moaning into you like your pleasure was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

You finally collapsed back into the sheets, breathing ragged, hair clinging to your forehead. You laughed–soft and winded–still twitching every time he brushed too close.

He lifted his head slowly, face flushed, lips slick, chin glistening in the low light. His pupils were blown, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon.

“You okay?” He asked, voice hoarse.

You blinked up at him, dazed and completely blissed out.

“You’ve been blessed…” You dragged in a breath. “With such raw talent.”

Bob blinked–then laughed. Hard. Giddy. His smile broke wide across his face, messy and flushed and so proud. “Yeah?”

You nodded, still catching your breath. “Definitely. You were so good… So, so good.”

His cheeks turned red. “Like, uh… Good enough for a second round?” He teased, voice low. Your smile widened, slow and a little wicked, still flushed and catching your breath. “I think…” You murmured, voice soft but laced with heat, “I want to feel you. Actually.”

Bob’s breath caught. His eyebrows rose just slightly, like the words had short-circuited his brain. “Yeah?” he asked, half-disbelieving.

You nodded, lifting your hand to trace a lazy finger along the line of his jaw. “If you want to, of course.”

His eyes softened instantly. “I want to.” His voice was rough again, thick with desire, but gentled by the way he looked at you. With care. With hunger. With awe.

He crawled slowly up your body, his hands braced beside your ribs, his chest brushing softly against yours. His lips found your collarbone first–featherlight and reverent. Then your neck, where he pressed an open-mouthed kiss just below your ear, tongue flicking briefly against your skin.

You could feel him, hard and hot, dragging against your inner thigh as he moved. It made your hips roll on instinct.

“Going down on you really got me going…” He breathed into your skin, voice low and desperate, hips twitching slightly. His body was shaking with restraint.

You giggled–a breathy, warm sound that made him smile as you turned your face toward him. Your mouths met again, lips pressing together, and you tasted yourself on him–your own slickness still clinging faintly to his lips, his tongue. You kissed him deeper, your hand sliding along his spine.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. “You really want to?”

You nodded, brushing your nose against his. “Do I need a condom?”

You watched his pupils dilate at the question, a harsh breath catching in his throat. “I’m on the pill, and I haven’t had sex in a bit but my recent STD test was clean.” You added, voice even softer now.

“Fuck…” He breathed, voice cracking a little. “Okay.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time–urgent but not rushed. Like he needed to feel you everywhere before he could push in. One of his hands slid down between your bodies, finding the heat between your thighs with instinctive precision. He nudged the tip of himself against your folds, dragging it up and down–slick and hot–through your wetness.

You both groaned.

Your hands gripped his arms, fingers curling into his skin as he slowly began to push in. His body trembled above you, the pace careful but steady, like he wanted to feel every second of it. The stretch burned in the best way–deep, hot, slow.

“Jesus Christ,” Bob whispered, his voice completely wrecked. “You feel so good… You’re so fucking warm…”

You gasped when he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, every inch of him buried deep inside. The fullness made your toes curl, your whole body responding with an involuntary tremble.

He didn’t move right away. Just hovered above you, his breath ragged, his eyes searching your face. He kissed you–softly–his mouth trembling slightly as he whispered:

“You’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.”

You moaned at that, your thighs tightening around his waist, your hands sliding up his back and digging in just enough to make him gasp. His hips drew back and rolled forward again–deep, grinding, slow. Each thrust pressed his pubic bone against your clit, and the sensation made your breath stutter.

“Oh–fuck–“ You gasped, your voice catching.

Bob stilled immediately, looking down at you through glassy, blown eyes. “You okay?”

You nodded frantically, hand gripping his bicep. “Yeah. Do it again.”

He did.

Again. And again. A slow, sensual grind that hit exactly right every time. Your hips began to twitch under him, your breath breaking in little gasps as you chased the rhythm with your body.

He moaned into your mouth as he kissed you–lips sloppy now, too lost in the moment to care. Every sound he made was raw: gasps, whimpers, soft broken curses whispered against your lips and skin.

“Fuck… You feel so good, so good around me, sweetheart,” He rasped. “You’re squeezing me—God, you’re… You’re perfect…”

The praise was relentless. You could barely breathe from how hot it made you.

You tightened around him, fluttering involuntarily with every thrust. You were close again–dangerously close–and the next roll of his hips sent a bolt of heat straight through you.

Your orgasm hit with a choked moan, your nails digging into his back, your body clenching tight around him as your hips bucked helplessly. Bob groaned as your walls squeezed him, loud and unfiltered.

“Fuck–I’m gonna–” He gasped, hips stuttering.

Then he buried himself deep, letting out a ragged, whimpering moan as he came inside you, face pressed into your neck. You felt his teeth graze your skin, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

For a moment, you both just lay there–panting, gasping, covered in sweat and warmth and each other.

Then he slowly lifted his head, eyes dazed but bright, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bruised.

“…Do you,” He began, breathless, “Do you want to go out to dinner with me tomorrow?”

You blinked, and then started laughing–a soft, disbelieving, breathless laugh.

“That would be really great,” You murmured, your voice thick with affection.

Bob grinned, wide and flushed, before collapsing gently beside you on the mattress. Your legs tangled. Your breath slowed. The room hummed in the quiet aftermath, soft and safe and one with the both of you.

[justreadingthings]

I do not have the words to explain how much I’m loving this!!! Bob really is so perfect and I’d personally love a knight in shining glasses. That you for sharing this for free! 🫶

Knight in Shining Glasses : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader

Summary: All you wanted to do was enjoy your first night in San Diego at the bar recommended to you by your father, but a hot-shot new to the Top Gun program was intent on bringing you home with him, or at least couldn't take a hint. Lucky for you, there's a knight in shining glasses ready to save you.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY (I am not responsible for the media you choose to consume), fluff, language, kind of a pushy douchebag guy is in this, female reader, language, probably incorrect descriptions of the Navy (my dad was a Marine, I'm doing my best lol but I did do a ton of research so hopefully it's accurate-ish), suggestive and steamy but no smut (but boy did we get real close), like a TINY maybe hint of angst for 0.2 seconds

Word Count: 11,044 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

“Another beer?”

You nodded your head at the gorgeous woman behind the bar, who was already sliding a beer your way before you’d even answered, as if she could read your mind. You gave her a smile in thanks, sighing the second your hand touched the cool glass of the bottle.

San Diego was hot, too hot for your liking. Every piece of fabric on your body felt as if it was clinging to your body right now in a way that had you begging the world just to make it legal to walk around naked. You much preferred the weather back in New England, on the complete opposite side of the country, but you had promised to come to town for a bit. It had been years since you’d seen your father, not since his promotion and subsequent move to San Diego, your conflicting work schedules making it impossible to make the cross-country trip, even if you missed him.

You were here now, though, seated in the bar that had come highly recommended to you straight from him: The Hard Deck, located right on Coronado Beach, just minutes from the Naval Air Station of North Island.

“Local beer?” you questioned the woman as yet another group of rowdy, young Naval aviators came bursting through the doors of the bar, disturbing some of the other guests in the packed bar. The woman, whose nametag you could now see said Penny, just laughed at the antics of her new guests before nodding at you.

“Yeah, local company. They’re pretty popular around here, so I always have to keep them in stock,” you hummed, taking another sip of the drink in your hands. Rich in flavor, maybe with a hint of sweetness that complemented the bitterness it left behind. You could see why it was popular around here. Penny wiped the bar directly in front of you, flashing you a smile. “Now, I know most of my regulars here, and you certainly aren’t one. Where’d you blow into town from?”

“Watertown, New York,” you told her as another group of Naval aviators passed by you in their service khakis, older than the group that had just come in. Your eyes followed them for just a moment, lingering as they moved to the back of the room to the pool tables as if they were there every night, before looking back at Penny. “My father is in the Navy, stationed here in San Diego. Thought it was finally time I visited him.”

“Good, means you know how to deal with the rowdy bunch I have here,” you both laughed as she gestured toward the group of young pilots that had just come through. Someone called to her from further down the bar, and she paid you one final smile. “Holler if you need anything, or if anyone’s giving you trouble.”

“Will do,”

With the jukebox playing off in the corner, Summer of ‘69 by Bryan Adams filling the air, it gave you a chance to really take in the atmosphere. Given the proximity to the Naval Air Station, you weren’t surprised by the amount of Navy paraphernalia that decorated the entire bar. Mugs hung from the ceiling with F18s on them, plenty of pictures of those monster jets hung up around the tables as well. And with the clientele that Penny seemed to attract here, judging by the number of young pilots scattered around, you weren’t surprised that this seemed to have turned into a place many in the Navy flocked to after a long day on base.

The young group of aviators, who seemed to have met up with another group of friends, were loud and rambunctious over by the dart board as they took bets on who could make a bullseye first. You rolled your eyes at their antics with a slight smile, reminded of the stories your father had told of his days, and looked over your shoulder toward that older group by the pool tables.

Easily your age, or at least older and more experienced than the group by the dart board. There was one woman among the groups of men with darker hair, already kicking their asses at the pool game they were playing. That alone quirked your lips up just slightly as you watched Penny deliver a tray of drinks to the group that seemed very personally friendly with her. Ah, so they must be stationed here at North Island and be regulars of the Hard Deck.

They were quite the bunch, from what you observed from the bartop. There was the young man playing alongside the woman, and what seemed like his best friend pestering him after another missed shot. There was a taller, tan blonde who you could tell from here exuded confidence in an over-the-top way, and a friend beside him who also seemed to have that arrogant confidence about him. The man taking the tray from Penny and passing out the drinks had that same confidence and charm, but it almost seemed to roll off of him naturally as if he wasn’t even trying to charm those around him.

It was the one sitting off to the side, silently observing his friends, that caught your eye.

He didn’t exude confidence in the same way that his friends did. He wasn’t walking sex on legs like many would think the tall, overconfident friends of his were…but he was to you. Quiet, simply observing his friends with a tiny smile that stirred something in your chest. One hand holding onto the neck of his beer bottle, the same one you were drinking, and the other casually snacking on a cup of peanuts. You tried, and failed, to keep your eyes from lingering on those long, slender fingers of his, or the fact that, even from here, you could tell his hands were large in a delicious way that had your mind imagining what they’d feel like settled on your bare-

Okay, yeah, maybe it was time to say ‘fuck it’ to your no hook-up rule and get laid on this vacation. You couldn’t be thinking like this over a man you’d been looking at for less than a minute, didn’t even know his name, or had yet to make eye contact with.

But then, when your eyes finally left those slender hands, you were making eye contact with him.

There was an adorable flush crawling across his cheeks, and god were you a sucker for a cute man in some glasses. His lips quirked up in a shy smile as he met your gaze, giving you a tiny nod. A similar flush crept up your neck at being caught staring, giving him a small wink before turning back around to not seem like a creep watching him.

With Penny off taking orders as the bar only seemed to get busier by the minute, and no one around you seemed like good options for a conversation, you found yourself spun around to lean against the bar and observe the room. No time like a crowded bar to people watch.

With a few work emails checked to ensure you weren’t missing anything pressing on your vacation, and a text sent to your father to thank him for the bar recommendation, you found your eyes drifting back to that same Naval aviator once more.

The woman had dragged him from his seat, his beer and peanuts left behind as a pool cue was shoved into his hands as his friends cheered, bringing a grin to your face. Your eyes tracked him as he bent over the table to line up his shot, his friends engrossed in a conversation together, but then his eyes flicked up and met yours again. Your eyebrow shot up as you raised a beer to him, a simultaneous encouragement for him to sink his shot and also a challenge to see if he could. His lips quirked up at that as, without even glancing down to his cue, he took his shot: directly in the pocket without interference. His friends clapped for him, patting him on the back, but his eyes stayed on you. Even with another flush crawling up his neck and nerves practically stitched into his smile, he shot you a wink this time, and you couldn’t stop the giddy grin on your lips.

“Well, never seen girl as pretty you before,”

You didn’t want to stop looking at that gorgeous man in glasses across the bar, but you were intrigued to know who was speaking to you.

He wasn’t the worst-looking man, he was attractive. Dark hair that matched the mustache and the beard that was growing in, which was definitely against grooming standards for the Navy. Pretty brown eyes…but he wasn’t your shy, glasses-sporting boy across the room. Plus, you recognized him from that rowdy bunch of pilots that had walked in beforehand. The smile you’d given the man across the bar dropped into the smallest, friendliest one you could muster as you looked at the name on his badge: Jackson.

“Well, that’s definitely a way to open up a conversation,” you shot back. The man only laughed, leaning against the bar next to you with a charming, over-confident grin on his lips.

“Warrant Officer Daniel Jackson,” he held out his hand to shake yours, and you reluctantly gave it to him. You regretted it the moment he brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, and you quickly took your hand back and slyly wiped it along the side of your jeans. “Friends call me Caveman.”

“Interesting callsign,” you shot back with a fake laugh, tilting your head. “You get that from the unkempt beard that’s clearly not within grooming protocols?

He laughed again, but it did nothing to lift your smile from where it was frozen to be polite. He took a swig from his own beer that he’d brought over with him before leaning closer.

“Funny, and you know the Navy,” you laughed uncomfortably again, taking a subconscious scoot backward on your chair to get away from him. “Brand new to Top Gun, friends and I got in earlier. About to become the best of the best…”

He continued talking, droning on and on about Top Gun and the ‘prestige’ that came with being one of the best of the best (if he could actually get through the vigorous training). In the interest of being polite and not pissing off a man your first night in town, you laughed politely when appropriate and pretended to be listening.

When your eyes glanced back at that man in the glasses, though, he was already looking at you. Back to standing near the seat he’d occupied before, peanuts in his hands and the pool game abandoned as he seemed to be watching you. You gave him a dramatic roll of your eyes, pitching your head toward the pilot still talking your ear off as if to say ‘get a load of this guy,’ and you could see him laugh from across the bar. That simple action sent a flutter through your chest, and god, what you wouldn’t give to actually hear that laugh.

“...I could show you base sometime,” your attention was, sadly, brought back to Caveman beside you, who was still smiling at you as if you were a prize he’d won and wanted to flaunt around the entire bar to each and every patron. “Could sponsor ya for the day, give ya a private tour.”

“That’s sweet, but I’m sure if I wanted to visit the base, my father would happily sponsor me,” you shot back, trying to turn him down as politely as you possibly could. Your comment only seemed to brighten his mood even more.

“Navy dad, you say?” he’d leaned in closer once more, and you were running out of room on the little stool to lean away from him. “Guess that means you know a lot. Dad have rules about…dating pilots?”

Yeah, no, now you were uncomfortable. There was no being polite now, he’d made his intentions clear and could clearly not read your body language. Your body instantly tensed as your eyes avoided his, still trying to keep the most polite smile you could on your lips. Penny was nowhere in sight to help, so your eyes immediately found your pilot across the room.

He was already watching you, it seemed, but when you locked eyes again, he stood up a little straighter, the smile he had on his face dropping slightly. It was as if he could see the way your demeanor had suddenly changed, and god, you hoped he could see it.

“I’m flattered, but I’m not looking for anything like that,” you’d awkwardly laughed out as you looked back at him finally. “I’m just here on vacation.”

That was when his hand settled on top of your knee, and your heart leapt into your throat. The heat of his hand felt like it was burning a hole in your jeans as he squeezed just so.

“Don’t got to be anything serious, I’m down for some fun,”

That polite smile was gone off your face in an instant as you tried to yank your leg from him, but he squeezed it just slightly tighter.

“Okay, Caveman, sounds like you must’ve got your nickname from how you treat women,” that snide comment seemed to drop his confident demeanor immediately. “I’ve turned you down, I’ve made it clear I’m not interested. So I suggest you let me go.”

“Come on, I think you just need to-”

“I’m pretty sure she said let her go, Caveman,”

There was an edge to the voice that cut in, but not one that made you feel on edge yourself. A hand clamped down on your shoulder from behind, firm but not uncomfortable in the way that the hand on your knee was. Grounding, and when it squeezed your shoulder just slightly, it felt comforting. Protective, in a way. And when you finally turned your head and noticed those familiar glasses you’d been staring at all night, and those gorgeous blue eyes hiding behind them, you immediately relaxed into his touch.

Caveman’s hand immediately left your knee as he seemed to sit up a little straighter, putting his hands up in surrender as he looked at the man standing at your side now.

“Lieutenant Floyd-”

“Things are looking tense over here!” those two pilots you’d observed earlier, the ones who exuded confidence in your eyes, suddenly appeared behind Caveman. The taller blonde placed his hand down on his shoulder just as Lieutenant Floyd’s was on yours, and you glanced at their tags: Lt. Seresin and Lt. Bradshaw. The blonde pointed to Caveman, raising an eyebrow at the man at your side. “Baby-on-board, is this man causing trouble?”

Your shoulder was squeezed once more as you turned back to look at the man at your side, feeling another flutter in your chest as you got a good look at those sky blue eyes up close, which made him even more attractive in your eyes. He gave you a small smile, tilting his head toward your ‘friend’ just like you had earlier on.

“Is he bothering you?”

You’d glanced back at Caveman, who seemed semi-scared shitless around these guys, and a smirk curled up on your lips.

“Yes, yes he is,”

“Disrespecting a lady?” it was Penny’s voice now as she reappeared behind the bar, her glare set on that poor pilot that everyone was ganging up on. She ‘tsked’ in his direction, before stepping back to point to a sign hanging just behind her. “It’s your first night here, you should probably check the rules before you get comfortable.”

Disrespect a lady, the Navy, or put your cellphone on my bar…you buy a round.

Alright, Penny might be your new favorite person, besides the hot ass pilot in glasses still comfortably resting his hand on your shoulder as the scene played out before you all.

Caveman never even got a chance to defend himself, as Penny had stepped up to the bell hanging from the ceiling beside the sign, the ring of it echoing throughout the bar. Within seconds, there were chants of ‘OVERBOARD!’ heard throughout the room before Lt. Seresin and Lt. Bradshaw had the man hooked under their arms, dragging him out to the parking lot as his friends quickly followed behind.

“A-Are you okay?”

Your eyes found your pilot’s brilliant blue ones again, this time in front of you as he chose to now occupy the seat Caveman was sitting in just moments prior. You simply stared at him for a moment, still trying to process the entire interaction, before a smile stretched wide across your face.

“You know, I thought the Knight in all the fairytales was wearing shining armor?” you posed it like a question, a teasing tone present in your words as you took a quick swig of your beer, eyes never leaving his, and your smile turning into a slight smirk. “Didn’t know mine was going to come bearing shining glasses, instead.”

He’d laughed, that laugh just minutes ago you would’ve burned this bar down to hear, and my god, did you adore it. You adored it more than you should, given that you still didn’t know this mystery man’s name.

“No woman deserves to be treated like that, ma’am,” he tried to dismiss you, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as your eyes trailed over those hands once again, now that they were so close. You could see the redness in his cheeks from this close now, too. “T-The way he was acting, my mom would’ve torn me a new one if I didn’t step in.”

“And is that the only reason?” you quipped back immediately, placing your beer down on the counter just so you could really look at him, study him. “That you stepped in?”

You could see the way he hesitated for a moment, but not as if he didn’t want to answer you. No, you could see that flush deepening in his skin: you were flirting with him, and he knew it, he just didn’t know how to handle it.

“N-No, no, that’s not the only reason,” there was a shy smile on his face as he huffed out a sheepish laugh, looking down at his lap for a moment, before looking back to you. “I should actually thank him, his incompetence gave me the balls to come over here and talk to you.”

He’d made you laugh, a boisterous one that caught the attention of a few lingering around the area of the bartop you were sat at, and you knew already that you were screwed when it came to this man. You’d offered your name immediately after that, a hand out to shake, and he took it in his own as he gave his name: Bob Floyd.

You tried desperately not to think about the way his hand had felt against yours, or the way it had absolutely engulfed your hand due to its sheer size alone. You forced your gaze to the badges that adorned the left side of his khaki uniform, glancing back up at him with a grin as you pulled your hand away.

“So, a Lieutenant?” you commented, gesturing toward the two silver bars on the collar of his uniform, before pointing with your beer bottle to the golden wings centered above his heart. “Flight officer badge. You’re a Weapons Systems Officer?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he gave you another kind grin as Penny swung by quickly, shooting a wink in both of your directions as you slid you both another beer each, muttering something about it being on the house. Bob took his with a sheepish smile, thanking Penny quietly before his attention refocused on you. “Top Gun graduate.”

“Ah, that and the rank explain why Caveman was so scared shitless to see you and your friends,” he’d laughed again at that comment as you finished off the last of your beer, a sly smirk appearing as it was hard to miss the way that Bob’s eyes flickered down to your neck as you tilted you head back to finish off the bottle. “Typically, you’re only recalled here for special detachments and sent home to your squadrons, unless you’re here to train newbies like our friend in the sand outside.”

“We were brought in for a mission months ago,” Bob’s attention was turned away as Lt. Seresin and Lt. Bradshaw reentered the bar. They both gave you polite waves that you happily returned for what they’d done for you, before making the most obvious of kissy faces toward Bob that had him shaking his head in embarrassment. You tried to hold in your laughter for his own sake. “They thought we had good team dynamics, so they formed a special squadron to keep us in town for a while. VFA-73 Dagger Squad, at your service.”

“Well, cheers to you all and a sincere thanks for your service,” he happily clinked the top of his bottle against your own. “Must be one special group to get a new squadron formed, no less made up of the best of the best.”

“Oh, they’re special, alright,”

You’d quickly come to learn in the next few minutes that Bob Floyd might’ve been the quieter one of his friends, but he was just as charming as the rest seemed to be. Honestly, you weren’t sure he understood just how charming he really was. He’d pointed across the bar toward his friends, naming off their names and the callsigns that you were sure to remember more easily. With each name, he seemed to easily have a story or a quick-witted quip about each one (including the embarrassing story of his Bob ended up his callsign and how Hangman had turned it into baby-on-board) that had you progressively laughing harder, leaning further toward him. You were seated facing one another, bodies angled directly at the other, and his knee was just barely brushing up against yours now with each laugh shared.

“Hangman seems like a piece of work, but I bet he’s got a soft side buried somewhere down in there,” you’d shot back, turning Bob’s attention back to you as you leaned closer to him with a grin, launching into a story that Bob seemed gripped to, an easy smile on his own face. “My dad’s the same way, took my Uncle Solomon–not my real Uncle, but kind of chosen Uncle–to break him down a little bit, get him to loosen up more.”

“So, your father was in the Navy?”

“Still is, reason that I’m in town right now,” 

With Bob this close, you were losing focus fast. The way he hung onto every word that you said, seemed to genuinely care about what you had to say, had a flutter flying through your chest that you hadn’t felt since your first boyfriend back in high school. Sure, you’d had your fair share of relationships in adulthood, but nothing that clicked, no one that made your heart soar or made you want to ‘pop your foot’ as Princess Mia always said in your favorite childhood movie. You were starting to understand her logic, though, because every second around this charming knight in shining glasses had you ready to throw caution to the wind.

So, with a little boost of confidence fueled by the third beer in your hand and the adorable sight of a blush on the Naval aviator’s face, you moved even closer. Your leg slotted itself between his, pressed between his thighs as your foot rested against the bottom rungs of his chair. You could see him freeze for just a second as his eyes followed you, not apprehensive, but just unsure, like he’d never been here before. With your beer pushed off to the side, not seeing a need for any more liquid courage, your elbow came to rest on the bartop and your head on top of your hand, allowing you to look up at the handsome man before you and watch as he visibly swallowed the lump in his throat.

God, that really had no right to be as hot as it was.

“S-So, he’s stationed here on North Island?”

“Maybe,” you shot back with a smirk, one that brought an easy smile back to his lips as he could surely hear the teasing tone laced through your words as you kept your answer vague. “I���d prefer not to talk about my dad, though, when I could be hearing more about the incredibly handsome WSO who saved this poor damsel in distress.”

Another easy laugh was shared between you both before the floodgates seemed to open up.

Bob had no issue telling you all about his childhood. He’d grown up in Montana, on a ranch somewhere on the outskirts of Bozeman, which prompted a lengthy debate on whether or not he qualified as a cowboy or not (you thought he did, and when he confessed to owning a few cowboy hats, you declared yourself the winner of the debate). His mother and father, Bonnie and Owen Floyd, had three daughters before finally having Bob, their youngest: Laura, and the twins Sophia and Sierra. He’d recounted a story from back in high school when they’d taken a trip to Yellowstone National Park for Bob’s birthday, at his request, where his oldest sister had gotten yelled at by a park ranger for stepping way too close to one of the hot springs.

“That’s, like, impossible to do!” you’d almost shouted through the bar incredulously as Bob laughed at your reaction. “All you have to do is stay on the guided paths, right?”

“That’s what I said!” Bob managed to explain through his own laughter. “Laura swore she saw a bald eagle and was just trying to get a closer look. She then, unbelievably, yelled back at the ranger about how one day she was going to be a conservationist and work there.”

“In the nicest way…she sounds like a piece of work sometimes,”

“No offense taken, the whole family agrees. I like to say she took all the extrovertedness in the family so that there was none left for me,”

Your lips quirked into another bright smile at that, tone slightly teasing once more, but in a soft way.

“I don’t know, you don’t seem so introverted around me,”

Bob paused at that, that adorable blush still ever present in his skin, as his lips quirked up just slightly higher than they were before.

“Yeah, yeah, I don’t,” he’d shyly managed to say, eyes never straying from yours. “You make it easy.”

With more shared laughter, two hearts fluttering just from conversation alone, Bob even told you the story of how he’d decided to join the Navy. He’d been with his father one day, the family truck getting worked on at the local shop, and his dad had slid him some money to grab them both some snacks from the pharmacy a few doors down. Bob had only been around 10 at the time. In between those two buildings, though, had been a Navy recruitment center where he’d overheard the conversation inside with some high school students, and the rest was history. He suddenly had every book known to man about the Navy, was watching every movie that even mentioned the Navy in passing, and had sheepishly admitted to even starting a collection of model planes he’d built, dreaming one day of flying them.

God, if that wasn’t somehow the cutest story in the world, but also the hottest moment of vulnerability you’d seen from a man your age in years, you were practically ready to swoon and drop to the floor right there in the middle of the bar. You had a feeling that Penny wouldn’t take kindly to that, even if she seemed to like you and Bob’s friend group.

In turn, you’d told Bob everything about yourself, too. Growing up in a town in New York that felt more like it was part of Canada than New York, given your proximity to the border. You were an only child, your father (who had you skirting around any details that Bob asked about him) was too focused on his career to think about having another kid. But he always swore that you were enough for him. His workaholic nature and deep love for the Navy and moving up the ranks strained the relationship he had with your mother until they divorced. How you never got to see him often, but he always managed to call at least once a week to talk to his ‘perfect girl.’

With the depressing comparison of your childhoods and family dynamics, you’d told him the happy stories and memories, too. Ones that you didn’t normally divulge to a man you had just met. You’d been on a softball team all through high school with your best friends, won multiple championships, and even gotten a scholarship to Boston University because of it. There were multiple stories about how your parents always bribed you with Cold Stone Creamery, and how it was still your favorite ice cream place today. That time your friends had gotten caught sneaking alcohol into the punch bowls at prom (that story had Bob laughing, as he recounted a similar one that Hangman had told them from his high school days). And, of course, the thrilling stories of your very mundane marketing job back in your hometown, the one you never managed to escape.

“You at least like your job, though, right?” Bob had asked, and with the way you were now sitting together, it would probably be more comfortable and practical to just climb into his lap and use him as a chair. Legs still wound around one another, both leaning against the bar with beers long forgotten, faces entirely too close together as you sat in your own bubble together. The sun had long since gone down, as it had still been in the beginning stages of setting when you’d first entered the bar. 

One hour, two? You had no clue how long you’d been talking to Bob Floyd, but every part of you wanted to talk to him for the rest of the night and beyond. It was easy, it was comfortable, and you felt more respected in the entirety of this conversation than you did on any Tinder date you’d been on in years. Safe. That’s what you felt. You felt safe around Bob Floyd, a feeling that was a hot commodity in today's dating climate.

“I do. I went to school for it, so I hope I like it,” your eyes drifted to the bartop, finger absentmindedly tracing the water ring left around your discarded beer bottle. “Pays well, very well. Just want to do it…somewhere other than my hometown, is all. Love the company I work for, just want a change. If an opportunity presented itself, I’d leave Watertown immediately.”

“And besides your mom, you wouldn’t uh…you wouldn’t be leaving anyone behind, would you? No like a, uh, a boyfriend…or anything?”

You’d glanced back up at him now, at the way he bit into his bottom lip with both nerves and hope shining in his eyes as he waited with baited breath for your answer. And in turn, you smiled, leaning just the slightest bit closer to him with amusement laced in your words.

“Lieutenant Floyd, if you haven’t noticed, I’ve been flirting with you all night. I wouldn’t do that if there was someone waiting for me,”

He laughed then, and you could almost physically see the tension and nerves leave his body.

“Good, because uh, I-I don’t either. Have anyone, I mean,” your head tilted as Bob groaned slightly, running a hand down his face and adjusting his glasses with a deep chuckle. “I’m sorry, I’m really not good at this.”

“At flirting?”

“I never really get the chance to, no one ever really notices me,” he’d shrugged it off like it was nothing, but you’d felt a small pang in your chest at that comment. “Jake, Bradley, Javy…it’s always them, and it doesn’t normally bother me. But I…I saw you earlier, and you looked at me like you saw me. Like you really saw me. You never looked at them, you kept looking at me. And…I’ve never been the one looked at like that, not when I’m with them. I’m not the one noticed.”

You shuffled, sitting up slightly now so that you weren’t leaning against the bar, as you placed your hand on top of his, where it lay in his lap. Bob simply watched you, a tiny smile never leaving his face, as you reciprocated the look and gave his hand a squeeze.

“I’m not one to flirt with a random guy at a bar, or sit and divulge details of my life story to him for hours on end. Which means you, Bob Floyd, are special. And honestly? I’m glad the other ladies don’t notice you, because I sure did. And that just leaves more for me.”

There was silence for a beat before his hand under your own moved back just slightly, his fingers now splayed out over your own, wrapping around them slightly with a tiny squeeze. And somewhere in that small movement, in the looks exchanged in the never-ending eye contact you seemed to hold with one another, something changed. Those heated looks from earlier held a new weight with the words spoken out loud, the tension on the rope connecting the two of you tighter than it had been from the moment you’d first saw Bob Floyd from across the bar, and it felt like all it was going to take to snap that tension was to lean in-

“Baby-on-board! You done hogging your girl over there so we can meet her?”

And…moment ruined. Bob immediately shut his eyes, groaning with a mumble under his breath about how he was ‘going to kill Hangman’ while his friends all laughed from across the bar. You’d simply laughed, leaning your head down until your forehead rested against Bob’s shoulder, his breath and words ghosting over the side of your face as he finally spoke.

“Sorry about them. The one time I have a girl interested in me, they decide to be pricks about it,”

“Maybe they’re just trying to summon you back over, I have held you hostage long enough,” you commented when you finally lifted your head, glancing down at the watch on his arm to see that you had, in fact, held this man hostage at the bar for almost two hours, even though it had felt like minutes.

“Trust me, this was no hostage situation. I’d rather be over here with you,” Bob was quick to interject, his smile seeming to stretch wider as you were sure he could see the flush crawling up your own neck. Untangling your legs, Bob rose to his feet beside the chair as a pang of disappointment hit you square in the chest. That was, until he held his hand out to you with a sheepish grin. “Care to join me?”

You were pretty sure you would’ve followed Bob Floyd anywhere at this point. Was it insane to like a guy this much after barely knowing him for a night? Probably, but you didn’t feel like you’d just met him. No, Bob Floyd felt like meeting an old friend again, and god did you love the feeling. That’s why you didn’t hesitate to put your hand in his.

“Lead the way, Lieutenant,”

There was another round of cheers the second you and Bob were finally in their vicinity, another comment from Hangman about ‘Bobby finally bagging a woman’ that ended with a harsh shoulder slap from Phoenix. You’d only laughed as Bob shook his head at their antics and gratefully accepted the barstool he’d held out for you. Your eyes watched him, like they had been the entire night, as he turned down the invitation to the pool game at hand, taking a seat on the stool directly next to you.

What he probably hadn’t expected was for your foot to hook around the leg of his stool, dragging it directly to your side until every part of you that could be pressed up against the handsome WSO was. When he saw the easy smile on your face and the tiny wink you gave him, you could see any last bit of tension leave his body as he easily leaned into you as well.

They’d all quickly introduced themselves, though Bob had already given you the rundown before. You greeted them politely with a smile, finally giving them your own name so Bradley didn’t have to call you ‘mystery bar girl’ anymore.

“Well, well, well baby-on-board,” it was Hangman once again, shaking his head as he took a shot on one of his last solids left in play, sinking it easily. “Looks like you snagged a confident one. Too bad, bet I could’ve swept her off her feet if given the chance.”

Flirty. Bob certainly didn’t exaggerate just how flirtatious Jake Seresin seemed to be, not that you were interested at all in any comments from him. The comments didn’t catch you off guard, but Bob’s actions did.

His hand was immediately on your thigh, closer down toward your knee, but resting there nonetheless. Just the slightest bit of pressure, enough to feel as if it had been meant in a comforting gesture, but it inherently held something a little more to it. Not quite possessiveness, but something akin to staking a claim, to say you were with him and him only. While Caveman’s hand on any part of you had you wanting to run for the hills, Bob’s firm grip had you leaning into his side more, chasing after the warmth and security he provided. It still sent a flash of heat through every inch of your body, especially when you glanced down to see just how big his hand was when it was resting on such a small part of you. You wished you’d opted for the jean shorts you had picked out earlier now just to feel his hand engulf your bare skin instead.

“Knock it off, Bagman. Clearly, she’s more interested in the quiet types,” the wink Natasha sent your way made you laugh, a similar chuckle coming from Bob at his front-seater’s comments, as she whacked Hangman over the shoulder. While lining up to take her own shot in the game, you saw her catch the way Bob’s hand rested on your leg, and a flash of surprise followed by pride seemed to cross her features. “So, never seen you around before. What brings you to Fightertown?”

“Visiting my dad for a few weeks, he’s stationed here on North Island. But…I’m also here for work,” you could see Bob’s head turn to look at you curiously from the corner of your eye, but you kept your gaze on Natasha. “The marketing firm I work for has a branch out here in San Diego, over in Chula Vista. They know I’ve been looking to move, so they thought I should come check out their set-up out here to see if I liked it enough to take their offer.”

There was a squeeze to your thigh as you turned your attention back to Bob, who was looking at you quizically.

“You didn’t mention that before,”

“Wasn’t sure I was going to take their offer earlier,” you shrugged innocently. “San Diego is hot, I’m not built for this weather.”

“But you…think you might take it now?”

You bit into your bottom lip, leaning just a fraction closer to Bob as you tried to hold back your grin as you replied.

“Well…maybe I found another enticing reason to hang around San Diego for a while,”

There was a low murmur of laughter throughout the group at your words, that gorgeous redness settling back into Bob’s cheeks, and you could hear Fanboy mumble out just loud enough a ‘damn, she’s good at this’ comment.

The group asked their questions, and you answered happily. Where you were from, what all your job entailed, even the stupid little questions like who your celebrity crush was or if you ever thought about joining the Navy like your father.

All the while, Bob never strayed from your side. His thumb had been rubbing little circles into your jeans, just firm enough to feel it on your skin each time the digit moved back and forth, and god, you were really cursing yourself for not wearing those shorts right now. At some point, during a pool rematch between Rooster and Coyote, your head had found it’s way to rest against Bob’s shoulder, and after a brief moment there was the unmistakeable feel of lips pressed to the crown of your head that had a shiver running down your spine and another flash of heat rushing through you, this time heading all south.

Charming, sexy in a quiet way that made him seem so non-threatening, and an absolutely sweetheart and a gentleman…it hadn’t even been a day, but you knew Bob Floyd had already ruined your standards for men. He was the standard.

“Sorry, my favorite fighter pilots,” the attention of everyone crowded by the pool tables turned to Penny, hand on her hip, but an easy smile on her face as she glanced around, eyes lingering on you and the WSO who were still wrapped around one another. “Last call time, going to have to kick you all out now.”

Last call? With a quick glance around the bar, you noticed that there was, in fact, barely any patrons still around. The ones still left behind were already moving toward the door. And with a glance down at Bob’s watch, the time was confirmed: 2 a.m.

“Damn, we almost never stay here until last call,” Rooster laughed, packing up everything on the pool table so that Penny didn’t have to deal with it, Fanboy and Paybackl disappearing after offering to help Penny clean up bottles still littered around the bar.

“Time does fly when you’re having fun,” Natasha commented, bumping shoulders with him before she set her sights on you. “What about you, our honorary Dagger? Need a ride back to wherever you’re staying?”

“Nah, I’m staying at Hotel del Coronado right down the beach. Perks of the job. I just walked along the beach to get here earlier,” your gaze then flickered over to Bob, his thumb still rubbing circles into your leg where he’d never let go throughout the night. “Though it’s pretty late, I’d love if there was some knight in shining glasses still hanging around that wouldn’t mind walking me back.”

There wasn’t a second of hesitation from Bob before he was on his feet, the heat of his hand on your leg disappearing, and then reappearing moments later when his hand wrapped around your own, fingers sliding into place between yours.

“I’ve got tomorrow off, I’ll see you guys on base Sunday,” Bob nodded toward his friends, tugging you even closer to his side. “Tell Penny I’ll come grab my truck later.”

“More like in the morning,” Hangman commented, trying to conceal it surrounded by fake coughs. The group had laughed, the comment spurring another bloom of red across Bob’s cheeks and your own, before he’d tugged you out the back door of the Hard Deck and into the sand.

The beach in these early hours of the morning was quiet, beautiful in a way that only these lonely hours of the night could make it. No distant sound of traffic, no families or rowdy groups of teenagers running up and down the sand, just the sand, the waves, and the moon. It cast streaks of light over the water, its reflection rippling in the waves as they crashed to shore, setting the scene of a picturesque night along the stretch of sand that lasts miles.

Bob had held you up as you removed your sandals, carrying them in one hand in order to appreciate the cool sand beneath your feet. Your other hand still stayed wrapped up in Bob’s, the warmth of his skin a delicious contrast to the cool breeze that came with the cool nighttime California air. Conversation hadn’t stopped, not once, since you’d both started talking earlier on in the night, but this time it was Bob pointing up at the sky as you lazily moved down the beach at the slowest pace you could, naming constellations visible.

“That one right over there,” you followed his gaze as he pointed just slightly West in the sky. “That one is Hercules.”

“Ah, absolutely. I can totally see it,” you nodded your head repeatedly, and it was clear that Bob was already starting to laugh at your response. “The square those stars form, and the little stick arms and legs, definitely gives off a mythological Greek hero to me.”

“Well, actually,” Bob managed to speak through his laughter. “It’s named for his Roman counterpart. Heracles was his Greek counterpart, so they’re essentially the same thing.”

After a moment, you dropped Bob’s hand, turning and angling your body so that you were facing him head-on, walking backward in the sand. Even in the dark of the night, you could tell there was a tiny blush creeping along his cheeks as you tilted your head toward him.

“Bob Floyd, don’t tell me you’re also a secret space nerd!”

His laugh echoed down the beach as he hung his head for a moment, adjusting his glasses when he finally looked back up to you with a grin.

“Guilty, hard not to be with the kind of night skies I grew up seeing in Montana. I-I haven’t…completely ruined my chances now that I’ve nerded out…have I?”

“On the contrary. I have a thing for smart men,” with another wink, you’d spun on your heel in the sand, continuing your walk toward the hotel. “Especially this smart, handsome WSO named Bob Floyd that I met tonight.”

You’d barely gotten a few steps away before there was a sudden tug on your hand, your body spinning back around in the sand until your chest was pressed directly to Bob’s. And before you could utter a single word, his lips were, finally, on yours.

Without a second of hesitation, you fell into him, swept away by the way his fingers traced the line of your jaw, sliding their way to the back of your neck as he held you in place against him. His lips moved against your own with a sense of gentleness that disappeared once it was clear you were reciprocating with vigor, his mouth swallowing yours with the hunger of a starved man.

Almost involuntarily, a delicious little sound you swore you’d never made before tumbled from your lips, swallowed whole by the soft, firm moves of Bob’s lips against your own. A spark grew in the pit of your stomach the second the hand on your waist gripped you just the slightest bit tighter, a spark that was soon a raging inferno that you had no thoughts about taming. 

It takes no effort to give in to Bob Floyd, not when he holds you like this. Not when he’s kissing you on a moonlit beach as if you’d personally hung the moon in the sky just for him.

There is no question in this kiss, no lingering doubts about whatever had sparked between you both since the moment you’d made eye contact hours ago. When your hands find their way to the nape of his neck, fingers sliding through and tugging lightly on the sandy blonde hair you couldn’t even see in the dark, and he elicits a groan that has your knees threatening to give out in the sand, there’s no question: there’s a claim. If his hand on your thigh was the precursor, the writing of a contract to claim you as his in a way you didn’t even realize you already were, this kiss was the signature. Signed and dated, written in stone. You weren’t sure there was another man in the world who could kiss you the way Bob Floyd was kissing you, who could ignite a fire that bright in the depths of your soul.

With reluctance, as if it takes the gods themselves to pull either of you away, you part for the simple need to breathe. And, god, does Bob Floyd look wrecked. Panting, lips red and swollen, the skin of his neck and cheeks flushed red, and an unmistakable bit of fog to his glasses. You laughed then, breathy from your own lack of oxygen, reaching up with the sleeve of your shirt to wipe at the fog, knowing that, given how you felt right now, you surely didn’t look any better than he did.

“Well…hi,” you managed to huff out, chest still struggling to get air back into your lungs.

“Hi,” his voice came out almost like a whisper at first, full of wonder, his hand still cradling your head. His thumb was, once again, drawing little circles into the skin right around your ear, his smile wider than you’d seen all night. “I…I’m sorry-”

“Do not apologize for that,” you’d interjected immediately as Bob huffed out a laugh. “Please, never apologize for that.”

“Good, because I was lying. I-I’m really not sorry,” the hand against your cheek left you, taking its warmth with it, before both of Bob’s hands settled on your waist. You tightened your arms around his shoulders in response, sandals having been long discarded in the sand somewhere amid the kiss. “I’ve wanted to do that for hours. I…I like you. Like, a lot. More than I think I should for the few short hours I’ve known you.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we’re on the same page. I don’t divulge my entire life story to just any Naval aviator in a bar,” another breathy laugh fell from Bob’s lips as you leaned forward, the tip of your nose brushing against his. “No, I only tell all those stories to this one guy that I happen to really like. Like, a lot.”

And when Bob Floyd kissed you again, it was blissful. Gentler, still passionate, so full of an emotion that you wouldn’t ever dare to call love, not this soon. It was more like affection, adoration, a warmth that had you melting into his arms without a care in the world. You’d do anything, as long as it meant you got to keep kissing this man.

Maybe Princess Mia had been onto something with that ‘foot pop’ of a kiss idea, because this sure felt like that moment.

“God, you’re going to be the death of me,” Bob groaned out against your lips, hands squeezing at your hips again as you laughed, playfully leaning back to swat at his chest as he smiled down at you, illuminated by the moonlight. 

“Hey, you’re the one who keeps kissing me. I think any court of law would find you at fault for that. Also,” you quickly gestured around at your surroundings with a tilt of your head. “Hell of a setting for a first kiss. A moonlit beach in the dead of night, did you walk straight out of a rom-com, Bob Floyd?”

“In all honesty, I was going to wait until I got you back to your hotel room to kiss you and hopefully get your number,” he stated matter-of-factly. “But then I looked at you and…and you were just too beautiful not to. And I was going to kick myself in a few hours if I didn’t kiss you.”

If you were ever asked to pinpoint something you adored about Bob Floyd, his ability to make you laugh with the simplest of things would probably be your favorite. He barely even had to try, and he had you laughing like a little schoolgirl.

The entire walk back to the hotel down the beach felt like a dream sequence, like something straight out of a movie that you never believed actually happened to people in real life. Bob’s hand never strayed from yours, swinging between you both as you kicked at the sand. Every few steps, he’d push you away from him slightly, just to be able to pull you back into his side and make you laugh again.

And somehow, in the midst of the walk, you’d ended up engaged in the most spontaneous round of ‘Never Have I Ever’ questions you’d ever been part of. You and Bob had both been caught speeding during college, but Bob had managed to awkwardly sweet-talk his way out of a ticket with the female officer. You’d been skinny dipping twice before, both on bachelorette trips for two of your college friends, and you didn’t miss the way Bob had to swallow the lump in his throat at that confession (no doubt imagining it). He, in turn, had ended up having to confess the embarrassing story that was him having a crush on his high school English teacher.

“I’m sorry, I’m just trying to wrap my head around that,” you’d managed to say through your laughter that you couldn’t contain as you both approached the main doors of the hotel building. “She was at least young, right?”

“Yes, she was in her thirties,” Bob shook his head, obviously amused by how hilarious you found the story. Like the gentleman he was, he’d opened the door for you, a hand resting on the small of your back as he led you into the building. “Girls didn’t look at me in high school, okay. She always offered that I could eat lunch with her since she had a free period, and the entire school had agreed that she was objectively pretty. You can’t blame me!”

“Okay, fine, but you do have to admit it’s a little funny,” you’d offhandedly waved to the concierge, the same one who had checked you in that morning, now working the graveyard shift, before leading Bob over to the elevators. You rested against the wall, awaiting your ride to arrive, while Bob stood just barely a foot in front of you. “As for the girls: their loss. If I’d have gone to high school with you, trust me, I would’ve looked at you.”

The doors for the elevator slid open with a ‘ding’ as you quickly moved inside, back turned to Bob.

“And trust me, if I’d have known you back then, we’d be married by now,”

The second the elevator doors shut, you paused, finger hovering over the button for your floor. Turning on your heel back to Bob, head cocked to the side in amusement, you could see the realization flicker over his face as it dawned on him what exactly he’d just said.

“Oh, would we now? You saying we’d be high school sweethearts?” Bob sheepishly laughed, fixing his glasses as he looked anywhere but you. “That kind of sounded like a line straight out of Hangman’s playbook, and I barely know the guy.”

“Yeah…y-yeah, it really did, didn’t it? Might have to blame the alcohol, I-I don’t typically drink much on our nights out,”

You hummed, taking a step toward him with a growing smile as his stuttering came back for just a second, something you realized only ever made an appearance when he was nervous. His eyes were locked on you as you leaned up, nose bumping his.

“Don’t worry, I found it cute coming from you,” you leaned back to hit the button for the third floor, and the second you did, Bob’s hand was settled on your hip, pulling you back to him. Teeth gnawing into your bottom lip, you contemplated the words floating around your head for a moment, afraid that whatever was happening here was fragile and your words could break it. “When we get up there…do you want to come in?”

You had read it before, about the way a man’s eyes darkened with ‘lust’ or in moments such as this, but you’d never witnessed it. Not until now, and once again, Bob Floyd had you weak in the knees.

“I’d love to,”

“Good,” you nodded. “Just know…I don’t do hook-ups. I don’t do flings.”

“Good,” he responded with his own nod. “Because neither do I.”

“Good,”

The door of your hotel room had barely been closed before Bob was on you.

His hands on your hips guided you, pressing you up against the closed bathroom door just to the right of the room’s main door, and his lips descended upon yours as if he were attacking his target. Vigorous, relentless, he kissed you in a way you’d never been kissed before, not even like he did on the beach, and you knew you didn’t stand a chance. A wanton moan slipped out of you, parting your lips just enough for Bob’s tongue to sneak through, to savor the taste of you. You savored the taste of him, too: the lingering taste of the beer he’d been sipping all night, and the remnants of your own vanilla chapstick still smeared across his lips.

You moved in tandem, like your bodies were one with each other. It didn’t take long before your shirt was off, his lips hot, slicked with spit, dragging themselves over every inch of skin he could get his lips on. Every drag of his lips, every press of a kiss against your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts had your mind going blank, your fingers desperately fumbling with the buttons of his khaki uniform to no avail.

If you just asked, you’d let him have anything he wanted in this moment. You’d let him take you against this door, the wall next to it, the floor, the bed, hell, you’d let him lean you over the balcony railing where anyone might be able to see you both. Nothing else mattered besides Bob Floyd, as long as he continued to touch you, adore you, worship you the way he was.

In the moments it took Bob to maneuver you from the wall to the bed, you’d finally come back to yourself, able to delicately unbutton his uniform and not ruin it, before tugging it from its place tucked into his pants and tossing it across the room. The white shirt he had on beneath it was gone in seconds, too, and god, you wanted to admire him like a painting on the walls of a museum, like he was the Mona Lisa himself.

Like they say, it’s always the quiet ones. You shouldn’t have been surprised; he was in the Navy, after all. But you couldn’t deny the heat that pooled between your thighs from just a single look.

With a tiny yelp from your lips, your back hit the bed, and Bob was on top of you in seconds, drawing yet another moan from your lips. At this rate, there’d surely be a noise complaint in minutes. His leg wedged itself between your thighs, delivering just enough friction to have you squirming, while his lips locked back into your neck. From your jawline, all the way to your collarbone, Bob nipped at every inch of skin he could, blowing a short puff of air across over tender spot before leaving a searing kiss to it that felt like you were being branded. All the while, your hands roamed up and down every expanse of skin you could touch, His forearms to his biceps and every vein that ran along them, popping out from under his skin. The lean body that hovered over you now, nails ghosting along the lines across his stomach toward his chest that had a low grumble emitting from him. And in a moment of boldness, invigorated by the tension that had snapped between you both, your hand traveled lower, just barely grazing over the outline straining against his khaki pants, finally feeling for yourself just how big he truly was. And the groan that left him that time, wrecked and on the verge of falling apart, had a whole new flood of heat rushing through you.

In a show of his strength, Bob rolled you both again with just one arm. Suddenly, there you sat, straddling him as he lay below you, half naked, eyes blown wide behind those glasses, looking absolutely desecrated beneath you. The only sound that flickered through the room was the heavy pants from each of you, once again catching your breath and calming the firestorm of emotions in you both.

“So,” Bob had breathed out once he’d finally caught enough of his breath. “Y-You’re totally taking that transfer to San Diego, right?”

You’d let out a breathy laugh, swiping your hand down your face as you sent him a small smirk.

“In all honesty…I already accepted it. That was half the reason for this trip: to see my new office and meet my new coworkers. Meeting you, though…well, that’s just like the cherry on top,”

His grin was infectious, but your mind was elsewhere in the moment as you took your chance, simply grinding yourself down on the man below you with a smirk of amusement still on your lips. His smile was gone instantly, lips straining to hold in a moan as his hands gripped your hips tightly, forcing you to freeze in place so you couldn’t make that same move again.

“I-If you do that again, I’m not going to be able to stop myself,”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Yes, because I want to do this properly. I want to do this in order,” he huffed out a laugh. “Tomorrow, my day off. 7 p.m. I’ll pick you up. Il Fornaio, an Italian restaurant just on the other side of the island, right on the beach, with beautiful views of the water. We’ll eat, we’ll drink, and for dessert…a Cold Stone Creamery, barely a minute away. And if I can muster up the confidence to do it, I’ll make you mine before you’ve even taken a single scoop of your ice cream, because I don’t need a second date to know I want this. And then I’ll bring you back here, and then I’ll fuck you the way you deserve to be fucked, to be worshiped. God…I already don’t think there’s a single thing I wouldn’t do if you just asked me to.”

If you opened a dictionary, Bob Floyd would be painted under the word ‘perfection,’ and there was no doubt in your mind about it. Hell, he’d remembered the stupid story about your favorite ice cream shop you’d told him hours ago. You were about ready to ravish him on the spot.

“Sounds like you’ve had this planned out for hours now,” your voice had dropped into a whisper, laced with just pure awe for the man below you.

“Since the moment we first locked eyes across the bar. Had to add the ice cream bit in, later,”

And you’d laughed, something you had done all night with him. For a moment, you paused, smile stretching nervously, as something you’d been meaning to say all night, but had been stuck in your throat, was itching to finally be said. It terrified you, but you had to say it. Bob Floyd was an angel; he deserved to know what he was getting into.

“Well, that’s a yes to dinner, and everything that comes after. I’ll just have to make sure to tell my father I can’t have dinner with him after I visit the base tomorrow afternoon. I hope he doesn’t get too upset, you know how the, uh…how the Vice Admiral can be,”

It was like you’d just dropped a bomb, and you could see the aftermath in Bob’s eyes. The way he tilted his head from beneath you, before realization seemed to crawl into every feature of his face.

“The…the Vice Admiral. As in…Vice Admiral Beau Simpson, Cyclone…” it wasn’t a question, it was a statement, and all you could do was nervously nod your head as Bob let out yet another breathy laugh. “Your Uncle Solomon…Rear Admiral Solomon Bates, Warlock. Wow, how did I not figure that out?”

“Because I was really careful not to give it away,” you’d tried to laugh, nerves only calmed slightly by the little circles that Bob’s fingers were drawing into the skin of your waist where his hands still lay. “I’m sorry, I should’ve said something earlier. But you were so sweet, and not to mention attractive, and it was so easy to like you…I was scared if you knew, you wouldn’t think it was worth it.”

Bob’s eyebrows furrowed as he shifted, sitting up on the hotel room bed now with you still positioned in his lap. One arm fully locked around your waist, the other taking your chin between his fingers to keep your eyes locked on him as he spoke.

“Why would I think that?”

“I dated a Navy man in college; he was a few years older than I was. He was excited for his reassignment; he was going to be training under my dad. But then, I told him that it was my dad, and he freaked. Thought he’d be treated unfairly if his superior knew he was dating his daughter. I just…I just didn’t want you to think I wasn’t worth the hassle. I know how my dad can be.”

Bob stared at you for just a moment before he pulled you into another kiss. Softer than any previous kiss the entire night, but firm, as if he was trying to drill something into you. Whatever it was, it was working, as your chest fluttered and your hands wound their way back into his hair. And barely a beat later, he’d pulled back, forehead pressed to yours, hand on your chin, cupping your jawline to hold you there with him.

“If in the end, I get you…anything is worth the hassle,”

[justreadingthings]

Ahhh I love this! 💚

at first sight ; jake 'hangman' seresin

fandom: top gun

pairing: jake x reader

summary: the squad challenge hangman to charm any girl in the bar, and phoenix chooses you, but you end up making more of an impression on him than he's is expecting

notes: i asked for some inspo and i got some! i hope this is okay, i wrote it in a day and just had a bit of fun, so let me know what you think! (i also got another request for jake, and honestly if he's who y'all want, i'm so here for it)

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, text screenshots, and it's a little horny but otherwise fine (let me know if i've missed anything!)

word count: 3304

“Any girl in the bar?” Reuben echoes Jake’s words, disbelief saturating his tone.

Jake nods. “Any available girl in this bar.”

Bradley chuckles into the mouth of his beer bottle as he tips it to his lips while Mickey and Bob crane their necks to survey the busy bar.

“What about that one?” Mickey nods toward a high table where a woman is sitting by herself.

Jake rolls his eyes. “I said available. She’s clearly got a date and he’s just gone to get a drink. Do you see the keys on the table?”

As if on cue, a tall man with thick brows and a very square jaw places two drinks on the table before sitting across from the woman.

Javy chuckles as he subtly points toward the main door where two women have just entered the bar. “What about one of those two, Hangman?”

Jake’s green eyes dart toward the door before returning to his friend and narrowing. “Be kind, Coyote. I would prefer under the age of sixty-five.”

Natasha’s brows shoot up. “Prefer, but you’d be open to-”

“No.” Jake scowls across the table at her.

The group share a laugh before they all return to scouring the bar for an acceptable target. Jake Seresin makes big claims about his ability with ‘the ladies’ but the dagger squad are yet to witness such skill in action.

“Her.” Natasha says, brown eyes focused on someone at the bar.

Every single one of them turn to follow her gaze, and Jake’s mouth twists up into that signature smirk.

-

You sigh and slide your phone out of your back pocket, opening the text chain that made you leave the restaurant you’d been waiting at and order an Uber to the nearest bar. Another message pops up as you stare at the screen, asking where you are and if you got a table yet. You roll your eyes and take a screenshot before going to your text thread with your best friend and sending it to her.

You slide your phone back into your pocket just as the bartender places the beer you ordered in front of you. You glance up with a small smile and open your wallet to find your credit card, but someone beside you is quicker to hand the man some cash.

“It’s on me,” the stranger says, wearing an irritatingly gorgeous grin.

Your eyes narrow as you assess the man beside you. He’s wearing a well-fitting pair of jeans and a dark green button-up shirt, untucked. He’s effortlessly handsome, with sparkling green eyes and light brown hair that is perfectly combed into place. It’s almost as if someone cast a spell on a Ken doll to bring him to life. But you can tell by the way this man is grinning at you that he is much more devious than a newly animated children’s toy.

You pick up your drink and turn to face him, silently asking him to explain himself.

“Hangman.” He winks.

You frown. “I prefer Pictionary.”

His pretty smirk falters for a second before he fully processes what you said, and then he chuckles. “No, it’s my callsign. I’m a naval aviator.”

You’d figured as much – duh, you live on North Island – but you’re not in the mood for this guy’s bullshit right now. “That must be so fun for you.” You push off the barstool with your drink in hand. “Thanks for the beer.”

“Wait a minute.” He doesn’t block your path, but his words are enough to stop you out of sheer habit. “I didn’t catch your name.”

You give him a tight smile. “That’s because I didn’t throw it.”

Despite the dim, yellow lighting inside the bar, his eyes still sparkle like freshly tumbled jades. He doesn’t look as smarmy as he had a few moments ago, he looks more intrigued than cocky now. His smile isn’t quite as smirky, and his gaze is less predatory, but his eyes are still raking up and down your body. On any other day, you’d be willing to give this charming man a run for his money. You’d drag him into a booth and see if he could keep up with your verbal warfare before deciding whether or not you wanted to take him home. But not tonight.

“I’d be willing to earn your name if you give me a chance.”

You look down at your beer and sigh quietly before glancing back up at him. “Look, Hangman, I don’t doubt this routine – this charm – works on most girls, but you have really picked the wrong one tonight.”

He raises one challenging brow. “You look like the right one to me.”

“The right one for what?” You cock your hip and hold it with your free hand. “A good one-night stand or something real? Because you don’t strike me as a guy who’s looking for something real, and I’ve just about had it with one-night stands.”

His mouth pops open, but no words come out.

“And while I don’t doubt that it would be a really good one-night stand, because- well, I’m not blind, I’ve just had a really crappy day and would like to drink my beer in peace while I craft a careful and incredibly scathing text to the asshole who put me in this mood.”

You pause, waiting for him to respond or tell you that you’re crazy, but he doesn’t. He just looks at you with that same curious stare, like you’re a fascinating piece of art in a gallery.

“So, thank you for the drink, but could you please let me have my pity-party alone? You can go tell your friends you got my number, and we can just pretend that I reacted to this whole situation like any other normal person would have.”

His brows pinch as you offer him another tight smile before turning and walking toward a spare table. Once you settle in one of the chairs – your back to the room –, you have to resist the urge to turn around, because a tiny part of you wishes that you could have humoured him. He was hot, there’s no denying that, but he also seemed like an actual gentleman – an experienced gentleman, but one, nonetheless. Which is something that your life is sorely lacking.

You pull your phone out again and open up your text conversation with Declan – the guy you thought you’d been dating for the past three months.

You were supposed to have met for dinner at 7PM, and you'd been waiting at the restaurant since 6:45PM because you were so excited for your date. But after those texts, you threw your napkin on the table and walked right out the door. You hailed a cab and told the driver to take you to The Hard Deck, a bar you’ve only heard of from your friend. The same friend who you’d sent the screenshots of your conversation with Declan.

You shake your head and decide to compose a ‘get fucked’ message to Declan later. You're tired and a little upset, so you tip your beer to your lips and scull the rest of it, plonking the glass down harder than necessary as you stand up.

You call an Uber to take you home and when you slide into the back seat, you feel utterly drained and more than a little guilty about blowing off that gorgeous guy. You open your phone and tap on your text messages, pulling up your conversation with your best friend and typing out a few new messages.

Natasha’s ambiguity would usually make you nauseous with curiosity, but after the day you’ve just had, you can’t find the energy to be anxious about whatever it is she wants to talk about. You send her an affirmative text, accepting the boozy brunch, before tucking your phone away and staring out the car window for the rest of the drive home.

-

Jake has been lying awake for over an hour by the time his alarm goes off. It’s Saturday, which means he doesn’t have to be at the base, but he still likes to start his weekends early with a good workout. Normally, he’d jump out of bed at the sound of his alarm and slip straight into his gym gear, but not today. He’s barely slept, and he feels like his consciousness is on a completely different plane of existence.

He can’t stop thinking about you.

You’d caught him completely off-guard last night. When Natasha had pointed you out, he could clearly see that you were gorgeous, which is why he was more than happy to accept the challenge of ‘charming’ you. Then you had the audacity to be witty, and Jake Seresin is nothing if not a sucker for a woman with a sharp tongue. You didn’t fall for his smirk or his cheesy lines, but you weren’t rude about it either. You’d clearly had a bad day, and he felt bad for borderline harassing you, but now he feels even worse for not at least getting your name.

Jake has never believed in love at first sight, but last night is starting to prove him otherwise.

His workout today is half-assed, and he knows it, but he doesn’t bother pushing himself any further by the time his hour in the gym is up. Usually, he wouldn’t leave until his whole body was slick with sweat, but not today. Every time he closes his eyes, he can see your face, and then he doesn’t want to open them again. He’s worried that the details will start to fade, and he never wants to forget the face of the woman who has so thoroughly rocked his foundations. So that’s why when he gets home, he lays on the couch and closes his eyes, trying to burn your image into the back of his eyelids.

A couple of hours and a lot of unsuccessful internet sleuthing later, his phone rings, the screen lighting up with Natasha’s caller ID photo.

“Hello?”

“Bagman, you sound tired.”

“I’m busy. What's up?”

“Well, now you sound depressed.” He can hear the amusement in her voice. “Are you still bummed about striking out last night?”

He doesn’t care about striking out, he cares about the fact that he’s now seemingly obsessed with a mystery girl he might never see again.

“I’m not in the mood, Phoenix.”

“Alright, alright. I just wanted to see if you were coming to the beach barbecue tonight.” He can hear another muffled voice in the background, but he can’t discern who it is. “It was Payback’s idea, and everyone else is in, but you didn’t reply to the group chat. So?”

There’s a beat of silence. Jake is usually always down to hang out with his friends, but he has half a mind to spend his night scouring every bar and restaurant in town to see if he can run into you again.

“Come on, Seresin,” she presses. “One of my friends is coming too, and I really think you’ll like her.”

At that, Jake’s curiosity piques. Natasha has never offered to set him up with any of her friends before. In fact, she has distinctly threatened him should he ever try to go near any of them.

“You want to set me up with your friend?”

She scoffs. “Well, no, but- Look, you’ll understand if you come. Am I counting you in?”

He lets out a long breath as he falls back against the couch cushions. “Yeah, sure.”

- Three Hours Earlier -

You stare at your best friend in disbelief. You’ve barely taken a sip of your first mimosa, and she’s already telling you that not only was she at that bar last night, but she was the one who told the gorgeous man to approach you.

“Are you mad?” she asks, holding her champagne flute in front of her face as if it could protect her.

You take a deep breath before blowing it out through your nose. “Well, no, but I’m kind of hurt that you saw me walk into the bar and didn’t come say hi.”

She rolls her eyes playfully. “That would have ruined all the fun.”

You raise your brows. “The fun of sending one of your friends into a losing battle?”

Her smile is sheepish. “Look, if you knew Hangman like I do, you’d completely understand. And when I saw you sit at the bar, of course I wanted to come and give you a hug, but then I had this beautiful opportunity presented to me. You got to take out a little bit of frustration on the male species, and Hangman got a nice big bruise on his ego. It was a win-win.”

You take a generous sip of your mimosa and point a finger at her. “Win.”

She gives you a wink before taking a big gulp of her own drink. You spend the rest of the morning talking about Declan and crafting a simple but nasty message to send him before you block his number. After three mimosas and a shared croissant, you’re starting to feel a little boozy.

“Okay, I think we should stop.”

She nods. “Probably. I still need to go shopping for tonight. You’re coming, right?”

You roll your lips and avert your eyes, instead deciding to stare at the crumbs on the plate between the two of you.

“Come on, please.” She leans forward, doing her best puppy-dog eyes. “I know you don’t know my navy friends, but you’re never going to if you keep avoiding meeting them. Plus, Hangman should be there.”

Your heart begins to thump heavily against your sternum, which is ridiculous because you barely know the guy.

“I guess I should probably apologise to him.”

She scoffs. “You don’t need to apologise. I was kind of hoping that maybe you’d reject him again.”

You roll your eyes. “Nat, come on. I was rude to the guy, and he was perfectly-”

“Wait.” Her eyes go wide. “You actually think he’s cute, don’t you? Like, not in a flippant ‘that guy is hot’ kind of way, but in the way where you can’t stop thinking about him.”

Your pulse thrums even faster. “Pfft, no.”

“Oh, my God.” She holds a hand up to her lips to stifle her laughter. “You don’t want to apologise to him, you want to fu-”

“Nat!” you exclaim. “We are in public.”

She can’t stop giggling, her brown eyes like saucers above the hand covering her mouth, and it only takes a few more seconds before you dissolve into laughter too. You’ve definitely had enough mimosas for the morning.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually you compose yourselves enough to pay and exit the cafe. Neither of you had driven this morning, thankfully, so you decide to Uber to the nearest grocery store to get supplies for tonight’s beach barbecue.

You’re turning into the cold aisle where all the meat is cut and packaged when Natasha pulls out her phone and calls Hangman. It’s stupid the way your heart races when you hear his muffled voice, but you can’t help it. You’ve been thinking about this man nonstop for the past fourteen hours and now you’re going to see him tonight. You’ve never really believed in love at first sight, but the memory of those sparkling green eyes is starting to convince you otherwise.

Hours later and after trying on every bathing suit you own, you find yourself walking toward the gazebo on the beach where Nat’s location on your phone is pinging. There’s a fold out table with a portable barbecue on it and half a dozen beach chairs scattered across the sand. There’s also a volleyball net set up, where two very fit men are batting a white ball back and forth.

You’re starting to think that maybe you were doing yourself a disservice by not meeting Nat’s navy friends sooner.

“Hey!” Nat exclaims, yanking two beers out of the ice tub before jogging toward you. “I’m very impressed that you didn’t bail.”

You roll your eyes and try to be discreet about surveying the group for a face you’ll recognise. “Of course I didn’t bail.”

“Come meet everyone.” She links her arm with yours and leans in to whisper in your ear. “Hangman isn’t here yet.”

She points at the two men playing volleyball and tells you that they are Rooster and Payback. Then she pulls you into the gazebo’s shade and introduces you to Coyote, who is manning the barbecue, and Fanboy, who is second in charge. Harvard, Fritz, and Halo are occupying a few of the beach chairs, and apparently there are two more naval aviators on their way. One of which you’ve already met.

Everyone is super nice and incredibly fucking fit. It doesn’t take long for you to relax and enjoy the conversation with Fanboy while Nat argues with Coyote about what ‘medium rare’ looks like.

“Oh, and here’s another one,” Fanboy says, glancing over your shoulder with a grin. “This is Hangman.”

Your heart almost leaps out of your chest when you turn around and come face to face with those gorgeous green eyes.

He smiles, and it’s hot enough to melt your bikini bottoms. “Pictionary, right?”

You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. “Yeah, that’s right. Nat tells me you’re actually Bagman?”

He rolls his eyes and turns to your best friend, who is grinning like a maniac. “Jake Seresin, this is my best friend. Have you two met?”

Jake.

He says something to Natasha along the lines of calling her evil, but you’re not listening anymore. You’re too busy drinking him in, and oh my, is that a big drink.

He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of khaki shorts, and his taut tan skin is making your mouth water. He has to have been sculpted by the gods, that is the only explanation for this man. Your eyes rake across his broad chest, the smattering of hair at his sternum, and down his defined abdominals. You can imagine licking every line, tasting every inch of his skin and following that V with your tongue below the waistband of his shorts.

Natasha nudges your ribs as she walks past, and you only just catch her wink before you look up and find Jake’s eyes on you. He’s smirking, and this time, it’s working. “Phoenix said you wanted to tell me something.”

Oh yeah, he definitely knows you were just checking him out.

You clear your throat. “I- um, I wanted to apologise for being rude last night. I’d had a bad day, but you honestly didn’t do anything wrong. Any other day I’d probably have jumped right into bed with you.”

Your eyes widen and you smack a hand over your mouth, heat crawling into your cheeks as you realise what thoughts you just let slip through your lips. Jake laughs, his smirk morphing into a genuine and breathtaking grin.

“I’m so sorry,” you say quickly. “I have no filter sometimes.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He licks his lips and looks you up and down, like a predator sizing up its prey. “You don’t have anything to apologise for, but considering this is any other day, why don’t you start by telling me your name? Then we can see about jumping into bed.”

You can feel yourself melting faster than a popsicle in the sun. It’s not that you want to be immediately smitten by this ridiculously gorgeous and charming man, but you can’t help it. Ever since last night, you’ve had a weird feeling about him. A feeling that makes you think he’s important to your story, one way or another.

All you can do now is hope that it’s in a good way.

END.

[justreadingthings]

Oh you absolute genius and legend! I’m not sure if I’ve read a best friends to lovers fic where they get engaged at the end (probably, I just have a shitty memory) but this just makes so much sense! They already know everything about each other and have been in love since the beginning, now they can spend the rest of their lives together, learning anything and everything that they can about each other. I’m loving this 🥰

picture you ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: you met bob back at the academy and fell for him fast—but you never dared risk the friendship... now you're both stationed at north island and for once the timing might be right, until you overhear him say some things that cut deep and make you question everything you thought you knew

notes: okay i'm a little nervous about this one, like i hope it's good??? i hope you like it! the start is a little slow, i struggled there, but it picks up! i promise! again, i had no self-control with the word count, and as always, please let me know what you think!!!

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, bit of angst, miscommunication (kinda), italics, bob makes a joke about a stutter, some cheesy moments, reader wears a skimpy dress (but detail is vague and there is no detail about body-type), angry bob, dancing with a guy that isn't bob, very horny, a bit of boob commentary, and SMUT (male masturbation, semi-public sex, unprotected p in v, and a lil titty worship bob floyd) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 21530

your callsign is lucky

You’ve known Bob Floyd since your second day at the academy. 

You were running late to a classroom session on naval aviation history when you ran into him—tall, sweet, with dark blue eyes and the prettiest smile you’d ever seen. As it turned out, you were both late for the same class, and got chewed out in front of twenty or so of your brand-new flight school classmates. At the time, it was mortifying, but now it’s one of your favourite stories—because that was the moment that bonded you for life. 

You’ve been in love with Bob Floyd ever since he drunkenly told you at flight school graduation—the boy’s a serious lightweight—that you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. 

Well, okay. Maybe you were already halfway there, but that was the moment that really sealed the deal. He was so flushed and pretty, stumbling over his words, looking at you like you were the sole reason for his existence on planet Earth. How could you not fall in love with that? 

But he was really drunk, and he didn’t remember a thing the next morning. So you decided not to bring it up. After all, you would soon be deployed to opposite sides of the world. It never would’ve worked. 

Still, over the years and across continents, you managed to stay close. Through separate assignments, long stretches of radio silence, and deployments that kept you off-grid, you never lost touch. You saw each other when you could—once or twice a year, if you were lucky—and every time, it felt like no time had passed at all. 

You tried dating—at least as much as anyone in the Navy can—but no one ever stuck. Not the way Bob Floyd did. 

Then, as fate would have it, Bob got tapped for a special detachment on North Island—your base. And suddenly, years of loving him from afar turned into months of loving him from a now suffocatingly close distance. Because after that detachment, Bob’s new squad—the Dagger Squad—was commissioned as a full-time elite unit under Maverick’s command. 

So here he is, on North Island. And here you are too. Practically living in each other’s pockets, even if you’re not flying on the same team. So what could possibly be stopping you from telling him how you feel? 

Oh, right. Just the tiny, humiliating fact that you’re still way too chickenshit to risk the friendship for something more. 

“Lieutenant,” Maverick says, stepping up beside you and catching you off guard. 

You blink, dragging your eyes away from the squad—his squad—training just outside the hangar up ahead. 

“Captain,” you reply, nodding. 

He smirks. “Thinking of trading in those shiny fifth-gens for something with a little more grit? Or are you just here to watch Hondo torture my pilots?” 

You huff a laugh, adjusting the helmet tucked under your arm. “The Super Hornet’s got plenty of grit, but let’s be honest—she’s no Lightning.” 

Maverick chuckles, nodding slowly. 

“Actually, I was looking for you,” you say. “Cyclone wants me to offer a brief training program on the F-35’s latest software package—maybe even get your team some sim time.” 

His eyebrows lift. “A training program from the Navy’s golden test pilot? Let me guess—does Simpson know how chummy you are with my squad, or was this more of a personal initiative?” 

“It might be a little personal,” you say with s sheepish grin. “But I’ve seen the way you look at my jet. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t kill for a flight.” 

“A joyride?” he asks. “I thought you said simulator time.” 

“For them, yeah.” You nod toward the squad. “But if a decorated captain, such as yourself, wanted to take her for a spin... well, who am I to stand in the way?” 

He laughs again, looking past you at the aircraft you’d just landed. 

“She quick?” he asks. 

“Today? About six hundred knots. But that was a low-level test profile.” You pause, eyes glinting. “Push her right, she’ll break Mach 1 easy. Mach 2 if you’re feeling brave. And willing to eat the paperwork.” 

“Tempting,” he says with a sigh. “But I think I’ve racked up enough disciplinary notes for one career.” 

You smile. “Then fly her like a gentleman.” 

Maverick’s gaze flicks back to the squad as Hondo shouts for twenty more burpees. Then he narrows his eyes at you. “Who put you up to this?” 

You blink. “Sorry?” 

“Phoenix asked me just last week if they’d ever fly anything other than Hornets. Yesterday, Hangman starts asking about Lockheed sim protocols. And now you show up, conveniently volunteering?” 

You press your lips together, wondering how long you might be able to stall—but really, what’s the point? It’s Maverick. He’ll figure it out sooner or later. 

“Okay, fine,” you admit. “They’ve been on my ass about it for weeks. I knew I could get Cyclone on board—and yeah, they said the only way you’d bite was if I offered you stick time.” You smile, just a little. “But to be fair, the F-35’s part of the Navy inventory now. Could be relevant training. And... I wouldn’t mind a few weeks of hanging out with my friends at work. Or their legendary captain, for that matter.” 

Maverick exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “It’s like raising teenagers.” 

“So,” you say, lifting a brow, “that’s a yes?” 

He rolls his eyes, but there’s still a playful spark behind them. “Yeah, fine.” 

You grin. “Excellent. We’ll start Monday. Can’t wait to teach alongside you, Captain.” 

“Don’t make me regret this,” he mutters. 

“Oh, please,” you say. “I know you’re at least a little excited about flying my jet.” 

His gaze flicks back to the F-35 on the flight line, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I better go break the news to the squad.” 

You laugh. “Good luck with that. Fanboy said he’d kiss you if you said yes.” 

Maverick pauses, grimacing. “Fantastic.” 

Then he flashes you that signature smirk, gives a quick nod, and walks off across the tarmac. You watch for a few minutes as he approaches his squad, stepping up beside Hondo first and—quietly—telling the CWO what he just agreed to. Hondo nods before calling the squad in with a bark, and you stay put, watching with amusement as Maverick delivers the news. 

The reaction is immediate—grins, high-fives, celebratory shouting. You see Natasha step forward to ask a question, and when Maverick gestures in your direction, Mickey turns and yells, “I fucking love you, Lucky!” 

You laugh softly, giving them a lazy salute before turning toward your own building. You’re looking forward to it too—not just the flying, or the teaching, or the excuse to hang out with your friends. But the chance to spend a few weeks working a little closer to Bob. 

And maybe—just maybe—you can figure out what the hell you’re going to do about him. 

- 

“I still can’t believe you got Cyclone and Mav to sign off on the training,” Reuben says, shaking his head despite the smile tugging at his lips. 

You lift your beer, shrugging as you sip. “They don’t call me Lucky for nothing.” 

Mickey squints, tilting his head. “Wait, do you have a history of charming your superiors?” 

Natasha snorts into her drink. “No. That’s not how she got her callsign.” 

Your eyes snap to her, brows raised. “Wait—Bob told you?” 

She presses her lips together, rocking her head side to side. “Not exactly. I saw your contact name in his phone and kind of... figured it out.” 

Your cheeks flush instantly. “Oh my God.” 

“Hold on,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “Bob gave you your callsign?” 

You nod. “Yeah. And I gave him his.” 

That’s all it takes for the three of them to dissolve into laughter. 

“Oh, so you’re the creative genius behind Bob,” Mickey teases, leaning back. “Do tell. How long did that brainstorming session take?” 

You roll your eyes and jab an elbow into his ribs. “You’re such an ass.” 

“No, but seriously,” Reuben says, still grinning. “Why is it just... Bob?” 

You shrug, rolling your beer bottle between your palms. “Because he didn’t like any of the others. There were a bunch of nicknames being thrown around—some dumb, some mean. He told me one day he wished people would just call him Bob. So I made sure they did.” 

“Oh,” Mickey mutters. “That’s kind of boring.” 

Natasha shoots him a look across the table. “I think it’s sweet.” 

Reuben gestures toward you. “Okay, fine. Then how’d he come up with Lucky?” 

You hesitate, trying not to squirm under the weight of their attention. “Because I’m his lucky charm.” 

Reuben blinks. “Seriously? It’s that personal?” 

You nod. “Yeah. Back at the FRS, every time we were paired up—sims, training hops, even written exams—he’d ace it. Said he never did that well without me.” You shrug a little, smiling. “Eventually he started joking that I was his lucky charm. Then it got shortened to Lucky, and everyone assumed it was about good fortune or gambling or whatever. But it was always just… him.” 

Natasha huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s fucking adorable.” 

Mickey leans forward, brows drawing together. “Wait… have you guys ever—” 

“Evening, misfits,” Jake drawls, cutting in with impeccable timing. “Lucky, did I hear you landed yourself a job bossing us around?” 

Bradley, Javy, and Bob fall in behind him, all wearing the same mildly pained expression—no doubt from enduring a ten-minute car ride with Weekend Jake. That’s what the squad have started—affectionately—calling him when he’s at his worst, all smug smiles, cocky one-liners, and shameless flirting. Which, of course, tends to happen every weekend. 

“Just part-time,” you say, matching his smirk. “Try to contain your excitement.” 

Jake’s gaze drops, then climbs back up—slow and deliberate. “Oh, I’m containin’ a lot right now. But you in a flight suit, telling me what to do? That might push me over the edge.” 

Mickey and Reuben chuckle while Natasha groans. 

“I need a drink,” Bradley mutters, turning toward the bar. 

You shake your head, trying not to laugh. “Keep talking, Seresin, and I’ll have you running laps around the tarmac.” 

Jake slides into the booth across from you, still grinning. “And I bet you’d love the view.” 

You roll your eyes and glance at Bob, still standing beside Javy. His eyes are locked on Jake—not quite angry, but definitely not amused. 

“Hey, Floyd,” you say, “wanna sit?” 

Bob’s lips twitch as he slides into the booth beside you, dark blue eyes catching yours. “Think you’re ready to be an instructor?” 

“Oh yeah,” you say, ignoring the flutter in your chest as his thigh brushes yours. “I was born for this.” 

He chuckles under his breath. “Born bossy, maybe.” 

“Hey,” you say, bumping your shoulder against his. “Don't be rude.” 

He turns to face you—really looking at you—and for a moment, the noise of the bar fades just a little. 

“You already telling me what to do?” he asks, voice low, playful. 

You narrow your eyes. “What if I am, Lieutenant? You going to listen?” 

Something flickers at the corner of his mouth—teasing, but quiet. “If I don’t?” 

“Jesus Christ, you two,” Jake cuts in, loud and obnoxious. “Save it for the bedroom.” 

Bob startles slightly, the colour in his cheeks deepening as he tears his eyes away from yours. 

“Fuck off, Seresin,” you mutter, shooting him a glare. “You’re just jealous.” 

Jake leans back, smug. “Jealous of what, sweetheart?” 

“That I don’t flirt with you the way I flirt with—” You stop short, the rest of the sentence stuck in your throat, but it doesn’t matter—the implication is obvious enough. 

Jake’s eyes sparkle like he’s just won the goddamn lottery, and everyone else around the table fights to contain their laughter. 

“Go on,” Jake says, far too pleased with himself. “What were you saying?” 

You shoot him a deadly look. “Fuck you is what I was saying.” 

He tips his head back and chuckles, hand over his chest, and that’s all it takes for the rest of the squad to join in. All but Bob, who’s now focused on picking at the corner of a cardboard coaster, cheeks pink and lips curved into the softest smile. 

It isn’t long before Bradley returns with two beers in one hand and a beer and a coke in the other. He sets the drinks down—coke for Bob—and nods at you to scoot over. You shuffle further into the booth, closer to Mickey, and Bob does the same—closer to you. His arm slides closer, brushing yours, and his knee presses deliberately into your leg, inch by inch stealing your space. The scent of him—sharp, familiar, intoxicating—floods your senses, and your pulse spikes before you can stop it. 

God. You think you’d be used to it after all these years. 

“So,” Bradley says, leaning forward, oblivious to the earlier conversation, “we start Monday?” 

You nod. “Yep. Think you’ll be able to handle a big boy jet?” 

Bradley scoffs. “Please. I’m one of the best pilots in the world.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“God, I can’t wait,” Mickey says from your other side. 

“Why are you excited?” Natasha asks, brow furrowed. “There’s no backseat in the F-35, and you’re definitely not flying it.” 

“Well, not the actual jet, but I still get sim time,” Mickey says, turning his big brown eyes on you. “Right?” 

You shrug. “That’s up to Mav.” 

He groans, dropping his head on the table with a thunk. “Being a WSO sucks.” 

“Your career choice, dude,” Reuben chuckles. 

You spend the next hour or so talking about work—because it’s hard not to when you all work together—but eventually Javy wanders off to chat with a woman who hit on him at the bar, and Natasha challenges Bradley to pool. Jake jumps up too, announcing that he’ll play the winner, leaving you and Bob behind with Mickey and Reuben, who are deep in an argument about whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher this morning. 

You turn to Bob, brows raised. “Think I’m going to need another drink.” 

He nods, laughing softly as he slides out of the booth. You follow and start heading toward the bar, glancing over your shoulder only when he mumbles something about going to the bathroom. You just nod, then turn back and step up to the bar, flashing Penny a wide grin. 

“The usual?” she asks. 

You nod. “I’ll get a round for the whole squad.” 

She nods once and moves to grab the drinks while you fish in your back pocket for the cash you shoved there before leaving your apartment. You’re just about to drop it on the bar when someone slides up beside you and slaps down a credit card instead. 

“It’s on me,” the man says, his smile too confident to be genuine, “if you’ll tell me your name.” 

You blink, brow furrowing as you wonder where the hell men like this get their audacity. 

“And if I don’t?” you ask, sliding his card back toward him. “You still covering eight drinks?” 

His eyes widen just slightly, his fingers hovering over the card. “Eight? Damn. You must be thirsty.” 

You think about saying something snarky, or telling him simply to piss off—but you don’t. You bite your tongue, turning back to Penny with a quiet thanks as she sets the drinks on a tray and you hand her the cash. 

“You Navy?” the guy asks, undeterred. 

“Does it matter?” 

He shrugs. “Just lets me know what I’m in for.” 

You take a deep breath, choosing not to respond as you reach for the tray of drinks. 

“I got it,” Bob says, appearing beside you, his hands brushing yours as he takes the tray from the bar. 

You turn to him with a cheesy grin—not hard to fake when you’re looking at someone like Bob. “Thanks, babe.” 

He pauses, eyes flicking between you and the stranger. 

“I was starting to worry,” you say, sliding an arm around his waist. “You were gone so long.” 

Thankfully, Bob’s not an idiot—and this isn’t your first time pulling this move. 

“Sorry,” he says, falling into it with ease. “There was a line.” He glances at the guy. “Hey, I’m—uh—her boyfriend. Bob.” His cheeks flush lightly. “And you are?” 

The guy hesitates, his eyes darting between the two of you. Then he steps back. “Got it. No worries. Have a good night.” 

As soon as he’s gone, you drop your arm and step away, breath catching—not from the strange guy, but from the heat still lingering between you and Bob. The weight of his body beside yours. The feel of your fingers pressed into his waist. The clean scent of him, warm skin and sharp cologne. It’s dizzying. And familiar. And still somehow too much. 

“Thanks,” you murmur as you fall into step beside him, following him toward the others crowded around the pool table. 

“No worries,” he mutters, eyes focused on the drinks. 

Once you reach the group, everyone takes their drinks and gets back to their conversations—which mostly consists of trash-talking between Bradley and Jake. You and Bob find two stools nearby to occupy while watching the game play out. 

“Why do you do that?” he asks suddenly, turning to you with a slight frown. 

You glance at him. “Do what?” 

“Shut guys down all the time,” he says. “Tell them I’m your boyfriend.” 

“Oh.” You lean back a little, trying—and failing—to read his expression. “I guess I’m just not interested. And it’s easier to say I’ve got a boyfriend than deal with rejecting them outright. Safer, too. You never know what someone might say or do if they feel slighted. Especially after a few drinks. So... I use you. Does it bother you?” 

He shakes his head. “No. Just curious.” 

You nod, then glance back toward the pool table. “Okay.” 

There’s a short pause before he adds, “But why don’t you give any of them a shot?” 

You frown. “What, like... why don’t I date?” 

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I know you’ve dated before, but I don’t think I’ve seen you go on a single date since I got to North Island.” 

Wow. Shocking insight. Maybe he’s not as observant as you thought. 

You snort softly. “Are you saying I should date more?” 

“I don’t see why not,” he says, eyes dropping to the floor. “You get hit on all the time.” 

You roll your eyes. “I do not get hit on all the—” 

“Yes,” he cuts in, meeting your gaze again. “You do. All the time. You should hear what half these idiots say about you when you’re not around.” 

A smirk tugs at your lips. “All flattering, I hope?” 

He groans and rubs the bridge of his nose, right where his glasses sit. “You really don’t want to know.” 

You laugh into your drink, taking a long swig before glancing over at him. “Alright, Floyd. Since you’re so concerned—who should I date, then?” 

You know he won’t say it. But you want him to. You want him to say me. Right here in the middle of The Hard Deck, with Natasha eavesdropping and Mickey still ranting about how his flight suit is too tight around the biceps. It wouldn’t be romantic, or particularly special—but you don’t care. You’ve waited long enough. You just want to hear him say he’s tired of guys hitting on you. Tired of Jake’s locker room bullshit. That he wants you to date him. That he wants you. 

“I don’t know,” he mutters, cheeks flushing as he looks back toward the pool table. “Rooster, maybe. He seems like your type.” 

Your heart drops, frustration crawling up under your skin. “My type?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “Tall, pretty, a little cocky.” 

You narrow your eyes, watching the side of his face. “You think I go for cocky?” 

He doesn’t answer—just shrugs, eyes locked on the game. 

“You’ve known me this long, and that’s what you think?” 

He cuts you a sidelong glance, brows raised just slightly. “You dated a bunch of assholes at the FRS.” 

You stare at him. “A bunch? What, like... two?” 

He shrugs, eyes flicking to yours. “Maybe it just felt like more. Every second day someone was asking me for your number.” 

You scoff. “Yeah, right.” 

“No, really,” he says, deadpan. “It was ridiculous.” 

You narrow your eyes, fighting a smile. “I don’t believe you, but whatever.” 

Your gaze drifts back to the pool game, watching as Jake leans in for a shot, easily sinking two balls and earning a hard eye-roll from Bradley. 

“Anyway,” you say, glancing back at Bob. “I haven’t exactly seen you dating since you got here.” 

Not that you really want to see him dating. Not unless it’s you. 

He shrugs again. “Wasn’t talking about me. Was talking about you.” 

You roll your eyes. “Okay, fine. You want me to date? I’ll find someone to date.” 

Then you tip back your beer, draining the rest of it in two burning gulps. Bob blinks, the colour in his cheeks deepening as you smack the empty bottle down on a nearby table. You give him a tight smile before turning toward the pool table, stepping up beside Jake and curling your hand around his bicep. 

“Mind if I play next?” 

Jake’s green eyes sparkle as he looks down at you, his gaze devouring every inch of your face now so close to his. 

“Keep touchin’ me like that, darlin’, and I’ll say yes to anything.” 

The rest of the weekend passes in typical fashion. You spend half of it cleaning your apartment and stocking up on groceries for the week, and the other half watching movies with Bob and Natasha. 

Bob doesn’t bring up the whole dating thing again—you’re starting to think he never wanted to bring it up in the first place—and he definitely doesn’t mention how you flirted with Jake for most of Friday night. He does, however, roll his eyes when you laugh at something dumb Jake sends to the group chat. 

By Monday morning, you’re more than ready—and honestly, kind of excited—to start training the squad on F-35s. You even get up extra early, take a little more time with your hair, and spritz on a few extra sprays of perfume. Not for anyone in particular. Definitely not for Bob. 

You’re the first to arrive in the briefing room—of course you are, you’re nearly an hour early—so you start setting up, keeping your hands busy in an attempt to burn off nervous energy. 

Eventually, Maverick and Hondo stroll in, both looking smug with obnoxiously oversized travel mugs full of coffee. 

“Mornin’, Lucky,” Hondo says, dropping into a seat in the front row. 

“Hondo,” you say with a smile. “Mav.” 

“Ready to wrangle a room full of overconfident aviators?” Maverick asks, settling into the chair beside him. 

You take a deep breath and face the room, hands on your hips. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Got any tips?” 

He grins. “Try not to sweat—they can smell fear. Don’t be afraid to pull rank, either. You are technically their superior—Lieutenant Commander.” He pauses, waiting for your reluctant nod, because you do tend to forget that you outrank them. “And don’t look Floyd in the eye, or you’ll get flustered.” 

Your mouth drops open. 

Hondo chuckles. “And that’s not a general rule. That one’s just for you.” 

Your eyes flick to him, heat creeping into your cheeks. 

Maverick laughs. “Uh oh. Maybe we shouldn’t have flustered her right before the children arrive.” 

“Who are you calling children?” Bradley asks, stepping through the doorway with a suspicious frown. 

Maverick and Hondo giggle like schoolkids, clearly thrilled to spend the next few weeks not running the show. 

“Why’s Lucky all red?” Mickey asks, trailing in behind Bradley. 

Reuben’s next, followed by Javy and Jake a few seconds later. 

You shake your head and clear your throat, pretending to shuffle through papers like it’ll somehow erase the mortification of Captain Pete fucking Mitchell knowing about your very inconvenient crush on one of his lieutenants. 

It isn’t long before Natasha and Bob walk through the door, sliding into two front-row seats and making your heartrate ratchet up. But it’s fine. It’s cool. You can easily look past the front row. Just focus on Jake’s stupidly smug face in the second. 

“Alright,” you say as the digital display flickers to life, revealing a clean model of the F-35. “Welcome to your crash course in fifth-gens.” 

Mickey whoops quietly while the others grin and settle in with wide, eager eyes. 

“The F-35s are in the Navy’s rotation now,” you say, gesturing to the display. “And as an elite unit, you never know when you’ll be called to fly one.” You tap your tablet, watching the display zoom into a detailed cockpit layout. “One seat, all teeth, glass cockpit, full stealth. No one’s holding your hand up here—not even your WSO.” 

“Good,” Reuben grins. “Mine’s bossy.” 

Mickey gasps, spinning toward him in mock betrayal. 

“Yours is unemployed,” you reply, laughing under your breath. “These are single-seat jets.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, pouting like a three-year-old who just got told no. 

Your eyes flick instinctively to Bob—to the other WSO in the room who might have cause to be annoyed—but he’s not. He looks... entranced. Calm and focused. Brows pinched slightly, lips parted, eyes locked. Like he’s hanging on your every word. 

You clear your throat and turn back to the screen. “You already know how to fly. I’m just here to make sure you don’t fly this like you fly your Rhinos. The rules are different. The feel is different. And the margin for error is a hell of a lot thinner.” 

You swipe on your tablet and the diagram shifts to a wireframe helmet interface. 

“Helmet display system, full 360º situational awareness. You don’t need to flip switches anymore—you think, and it’s there. Feels like a video game... until it doesn’t. You screw up in here, and the jet doesn’t just let you know—it makes sure you remember.” 

You glance up—and have to fight the smile rising at how focused they all are. Every one of them watching you like you’re briefing them for an op. 

“We’ll run through some ground school and system orientation,” you say, “then you’ll hit the sim. I’ll be in the control room, and Mav will be breathing down my neck.” 

Maverick chuckles. “Only if you mess up.” 

“So I’ll be fine,” you reply smoothly, not even sparing him a glance. 

Laughter bubbles from the squad—oohs and chuckles layered over each other. But it’s Bob’s expression that makes your breath hitch. Wide-eyed. Pink-cheeked. Watching you like he’s trying to commit every second—every last detail—to memory. 

You blink, heat flaring in your neck, and glance toward the back of the room. “Questions? Comments? Unsolicited opinions?” 

“Yeah,” Jake pipes up. “You free after this?” 

Hondo snorts. “Sure. Right after she drops her standards by about ten thousand feet.” 

The room breaks into laughter as Jake rolls his eyes and flips Hondo the bird, sinking back in his seat. 

“Alright,” you say, laughter still lacing your voice as you reset the display. “Let’s start with a systems brief.” 

The squad moves in a slow wave, rising from their seats and shoulder-bumping their way to the tablets at the front of the room. But Bob hesitates, his gaze lingering on you a beat too long—warm, steady, and unblinking. It settles on your skin like a gentle pressure, like a whispered touch. You feel your cheeks flush and the hairs on the back of your neck rise. 

All from a look. 

God. Maybe you should listen to Maverick’s advice a little better. 

By the end of the day, your voice is hoarse and your cheeks are aching from smiling so hard. You shouldn’t be surprised, but they were easier to teach than you expected. Of course they were—they’re not idiots. They’re highly trained, elite naval aviators. And just because they’re your friends doesn’t mean they’d dare give you a hard time. At least, not in front of their CO. 

After Maverick asks a few questions—mostly about your training plan—he claps you on the back and dismisses the room. The squad filters out, calling their thanks as they go and muttering to each other about everything you just showed them. 

Bob stays behind, still planted in his seat, brows furrowed as he scrolls through something on his phone. It’s not unusual—he used to wait for you after class almost every day at the academy and during the FRS—but still, your heart kicks up just a little. 

“How’d I do?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder as you collect your papers. 

He looks up, a soft smile on his lips. “Amazing, actually.” 

You turn toward him, tilting your head. “You sound surprised.” 

“I am,” he admits. “You made all that tech-speak sound so... easy. No one would ever guess you used to stutter on t’s and p’s giving presentations back at the academy.” 

Your cheeks flush, eyes going wide as you let out a soft gasp—half scandalised, half amused. “Robert Floyd. How dare you bring that up.” 

He chuckles quietly, ducking his head. “Sorry. It was too easy.” Then he glances up again, dark blue eyes wide and sincere. “But really, you did great. I’m really p-p-proud of you.” 

“Dude!” you exclaim, staring at him in disbelief as he laughs a little harder. 

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face—especially not with the way Bob is laughing, shoulders curled, cheeks pink, and his smile lighting up his whole face with something stupidly charming. 

“I can’t believe you,” you say, hugging your notebook to your chest. “You’re going to blow my cover as a super cool, incredibly sexy fighter pilot.” 

He shrugs. “You can still be super cool and incredibly sexy with a stutter.” 

Your cheeks burn even hotter, and you quickly turn back to the desk looking for an excuse not to look at him—picking up a pen you’re pretty sure isn't yours. 

“Want to grab dinner?” he asks. 

When you turn back around, he’s standing—tall and adorable in the most infuriatingly delicious way. The kind of way that shouldn’t make your chest ache and your thighs clench... and yet, here you are. 

“Sounds good,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. “What’re you thinking?” 

“Pizza?” 

You nod and move toward the door, stepping into the corridor ahead of him and starting down the hall. A brief stretch of quiet follows, broken only by the soft clunk of your boots against the vinyl floor—not awkward, just a little... tense. Or maybe that’s just you. Because for some reason, Bob smells especially good today. He looks especially good too—hair slightly tousled, cheeks pink, and brows drawn as he clearly gets caught up in whatever’s on his mind. 

Then he glances at you. “The other night—Friday night—at the bar...” 

You raise an eyebrow. “What about it?” 

“Did—” He pauses, breath hitching as he looks away. “Did you go home with him?” 

You stop walking. “With who?” 

He hesitates, stopping one step ahead before turning back to face you. “Hangman.” 

Your eyes go wide. “What the fuck? No.” 

“Oh,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “It’s just... Phoenix said—” 

“Phoenix is messing with you,” you cut in, brow furrowed. “Why the hell would I go home with Hangman?” 

He shrugs. “You two looked pretty friendly. I thought maybe—” 

“Okay, give me some credit,” you say flatly. “I do still value my dignity. And for the record—cocky isn’t really my type.” 

He glances at you, eyes curious beneath a gentle frown. “Then... what is your type?” 

You open your mouth, but hesitate. You know what you want to say—that it’s him. It’s always been him. But you can’t. Because you’re too damn chickenshit, even after all these years. Even with him looking at you like that.  

“I—I don’t know,” you mutter, starting to walk again. “But whatever it is, it isn’t Hangman.” 

There’s a short pause—only brief—before he mumbles, “Okay... good.” 

Good? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? 

The word bounces around in your head all evening. When you’re not talking to Bob about pizza toppings, tomorrow’s lesson plan, or whatever bizarre National Geographic doc he’s just watched, you’re thinking about that damn word. 

Good. 

It’s so maddeningly vague it practically echoes off your apartment walls the second you slam the door shut behind you. 

Good? 

Who does he think he is, trying to validate your taste in men? You don’t need his opinion. You don’t need his approval. You don’t need Bob Floyd acting like he gets a say in who you do or don’t go home with. 

Good. 

Seriously? The fucking audacity. Every time you think maybe—just maybe—Bob isn’t like other men, he says something infuriating like that. 

“Ugh,” you groan, throwing yourself face-first onto your bed. “Fucking good.” 

A minute later, your phone pings. You grope blindly across the duvet until your fingers close around it, then roll your head to the side, squinting at two notifications from Bob. 

BOB FLOYD 

📎 [Image attachment] 

‘Look what I found at the bottom of my drawer… those ridiculous Canada moose boxers.’ 

And there he fucking is. 

Standing in front of his bedroom mirror. Shirtless. Hair still damp from the shower. Wearing nothing but a sweet smile and those goddamn novelty boxers you bought him as a joke two Christmases ago—bright red, with tiny maple leaves and cartoon moose that say eh? across the waistband. 

Holy fuck. 

Your mouth goes dry. Your brain short-circuits. You can’t do anything but stare. Not even breathe. 

His body is glorious—which is something you’ve known, but never been intimate with. And holy shit, if you’re not about to get intimate with this fucking photo. 

He looks like some Greek god carved from alabaster. All smooth muscle and obvious strength, like he moonlights as a Michelangelo sculpture. 

It’s obscene. This photo is ridiculous. He has to know what he’s doing. Surely he’s not that naïve. 

And what the fuck are you supposed to reply with? 

You scramble upright, breathing hard, holding your phone so close to your face the screen fogs up and— 

Oh my God. You’ve got your fucking read receipts on. 

You need to do something. Say something—anything—before he realises what a complete creep you’re being just sitting here, staring at this photo. 

With trembling hands, you type the first thing that comes to mind: ‘Aw! Cute!’ 

“…Cute?” you repeat out loud, staring at your phone. 

A little notification pops up beneath your message. 

Read. Immediately. 

“Cute?!” you say again, more outraged now. “What’s fucking cute about that, you idiot?” 

You scroll up and tap the photo again—the one that is anything but cute. 

Your face is burning. Your brain is mush. You need help. Professional help. 

But first… 

You need an hour alone with your vibrator, eyes squeezed shut, and that image burned into the backs of your eyelids. 

- 

Bob doesn’t send you another photo of his moose boxers. 

The next morning, he just texts to ask if you want him to pick you up a coffee on his way into work—and you say yes. You don’t talk about the photo. Or the boxers. At all. 

But you can’t stop thinking about it. 

You can’t even look at him without picturing those ridiculous boxers and that even more ridiculous bulge—which only gets more obvious the more times you go back to check the photo. You’re honestly thinking about just saving it to your camera roll. Because what if you accidentally double-tap and react to it? You should’ve just done that at the start—but no. No, you said ‘Aw! Cute!’ like some proud mother seeing her son in his soccer jersey for the first time. 

And of course, you and Bob talk every day, so the thread just keeps moving on—but you’re not. You have to scroll all the way back up every time. Then he sends something else and it jumps to the bottom, which means you have to start all over again. 

Honestly, it’s getting a bit ridiculous. You were staring at it the other day in the middle of the goddamn mess hall, like some depraved freak. 

Or maybe you’re just deprived. Maybe you just need to get laid so you can stop ogling your best friend like he’s the finest cut of perfectly cooked steak and you haven’t eaten in a week. 

“Lucky?” Hondo says, interrupting your spiralling thoughts with a quirked brow. “You good?” 

You shake your head, blinking until the data feeds in front of you snap back into focus. 

“Shit, sorry,” you mutter, clearing your throat. 

You hit a few buttons and flip the comms switch. 

“Rooster,” you say, eyes on the external visuals of Bradley’s current sim mission. “Radar contacts at three and seven o’clock. Engage with BVR missiles on my mark. Weapons hot?” 

“Weapons hot, Lucky,” he responds. “AIM-120 locked on three o’clock target.” 

Your gaze flicks to the instrument panel and HUD feed—seeing what he’s seeing. 

“And try not to light up the whole sky this time,” Mav cuts in dryly—his professionalism fading as the day drags on. “Last sim, you nearly cooked Hondo’s coffee with that missile launch.” 

Hondo chuckles. “That was a precision strike. Coffee was inferior.” 

“Copy that, Mav,” Rooster replies, grin audible. “Engaging now. Fox-three.” 

Your eyes bounce between the radar, sensor data, and pilot input feedback, tracking his procedure. Then the simulated missile launch sound fills your headset. 

“Target’s going down,” you say. “Good shot, Rooster. Keep it tight—bandits are manoeuvring fast. Radar lock at five o’clock. High-G turn recommended.” 

“Got it. Pulling seven Gs. Lining up for a guns pass.” 

“Hope you’re smoother than your last attempt,” Mav says. “Remember, trigger discipline.” 

Bradley chuckles. “Roger that. I’m a professional… mostly.” 

Maverick laughs too, lounging back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying not being the one in charge. You roll your eyes and refocus on the data feeds, watching as Bradley successfully finishes the sim. 

“All targets neutralised. Nice run, Rooster.” 

“What was my time?” he asks eagerly. 

“You’ll find out in Monday’s debrief,” you reply. 

“Did I beat Hangman?” 

You roll your eyes. “Sim complete. Control out.” 

You cut the comms and turn to Maverick. “Want to call it a day?” 

He sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It is Friday. We could give them a choice.” 

You arch a brow, silently asking him to elaborate. 

“Go home or let the back-seaters have a go in the hot seat.” 

Your lips curl into a smirk. “Oh, I think I know what the answer is going to be.” 

Ten minutes later, after Hondo retrieves the rest of the squad from the debrief room, Mickey is seated in the pilot’s seat and the others are crammed into the control booth behind you. The excitement is palpable—everyone watching the data feeds with a mix of curiosity and anticipation. 

“Alright, Fanboy,” you say through the control mic, flipping a few switches on your console. “You’re up.” 

“What’s the scenario?” he asks, adjusting the straps like they might protect him from what’s coming. 

“Nothing fancy,” you reply. “Just a soft sim. Basic intercept, two bogeys, no weapons fire. You’re just flying the pattern.” 

“So… a baby sim?” 

“Basically. You’ll be fine.” 

There’s a beat of silence. 

“Which one is go?” he asks, pointing vaguely at the throttle quadrant. 

You slap your forehead. “You’re joking, right?” 

“I’m not a pilot,” he says, almost offended. “My job is to press the red button and whisper sweet nothings to the radar.” 

“That explains so much,” you sigh, rolling your eyes. “It’s the throttle. Left side. The big one.” 

“Oh. Sure. Of course. Totally knew that.” 

He moves it gingerly, like it might explode—and the sim lurches forward, making him let out a sound that’s way too close to a yelp. 

From behind you, Reuben cackles. “Dude’s gonna crash before he clears the runway.” 

“Shut up!” Fanboy shouts from inside the cockpit. “I am a majestic flying machine.” 

You snort. “You are a danger to national security.” 

“Luckyyy,” he whines, tipping his head back against the seat. “Help me. I’m in a metal coffin and I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

You sigh—loudly—and get up, grabbing your headset as you move out of the control booth. 

“I’m coming in,” you mutter. 

You swing the cockpit open and climb inside like you’ve done a thousand times before, stepping up beside him. 

“Okay,” you say, leaning forward. “Feet off the pedals. Hands off everything. Just look at what I’m doing.” 

“Yes, sir,” he says with a little salute. “Watching and learning.” 

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “You’re lucky I like you.” 

“I know,” he says, grinning now. 

You flip the right switches, get him levelled, and the sim steadies out. 

He exhales. “Okay. Okay. I’m flying. Right?” 

“You’re flying,” you say. “Barely. But still.” 

He glances up at you. “Am I your worst student ever?” 

“Top three,” you say sweetly. “But I have faith. Now throttle up. We’ve got some baby bogeys to chase.” 

Mickey grips the controls for dear life, knuckles turning white. The sim jerks forward awkwardly as he pushes the throttle, and you can practically hear the panic rising in his voice. “Uh… okay. I think I’m moving? Maybe?” 

You step closer, trying not to crack a smile. “Just keep it steady. You’re flying a jet, not trying to take off in a rocket.” 

He leans forward, squinting at the instruments. “Which one’s the afterburner? The big red button?” 

“Don’t touch the big red button,” you snap, slapping his hand away. “Just keep the nose up. Remember your basic turns—left, right, not a nosedive.” 

The sim bucks suddenly. 

“Oh no! No, no, no!” he exclaims, eyes wide and face pale. 

You bite back a grin, keeping your voice steady. “Relax. You’re doing fine. Just… don’t crash.” 

But it’s too late. 

The simulated alarms start blaring and the screen flashes red: Warning! Critical altitude! 

“Fuck! Uh, do I pull up? Or…” 

“You eject,” you say dryly. 

“Eject?!” Mickey’s voice cracks as he looks frantically across the controls. “How do I do that?” 

You point at the eject handle. “That thing right there. Pull it now before you break the simulator.” 

With a loud mechanical whoosh, the sim jolts violently as Mickey’s ‘ejection’ sequence initiates. 

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Well, that was impressive. The quickest crash I’ve ever seen. But hey—points for dramatic exit.” 

Mickey groans, covering his face with his hands. “Can we try again? But with less dying?” 

You pat his shoulder. “Maybe next week. I think you need a little more ground school.” 

He sighs and stands up, hanging his head as he exits the cockpit. You can only imagine the scene waiting for him in the control booth, a small part of you actually feeling a little sorry for him. Because if these pilots are anything, it’s cocky—and the last thing they need is someone, especially a squadmate, proving that what they do is kind of legendary. 

“Alright, Floyd,” you say into your headset, feeling heat curl behind your ribs. “You’re up.” 

A few minutes later, Bob climbs into the cockpit, adjusting his headset as he awkwardly manoeuvres into the pilot’s seat.  

“Do you want me in or out?” you ask, trying not to sound like you want to stay in the cramped space with him. 

His eyes are wide as they scan the control panel. “Uh, in. Please. If that’s okay.” 

You nod, biting your bottom lip to hide a stupid grin. “Of course.” 

He settles in, straps up, and lets his hands hover hesitantly over the controls. 

“Mav,” you say, “is the sim reset?” 

“Confirming sim reset. You’re good to go,” he replies. 

“Okay, Bobby.” You lean in beside him, ignoring how his warmth wraps around you—his scent filling your nose and making your head spin. “You ready?” 

He nods, jaw tight, eyes locked on the instruments in front of him. 

“Alright, relax. You’ve got this,” you mutter, shifting just a little bit closer. “Feet on the pedals. Throttle up slowly.” 

He moves cautiously, brows drawn, and the sim lurches forward—but not violently—before steadying under his grip. 

“See,” you say with a soft smile. “Already doing better than Fanboy.” 

He chuckles quietly, almost breathless. 

“Now keep her steady.” 

“Trying,” he mutters, eyes flicking between the HUD and display screens like he’s done this a hundred times—except for the white-knuckled grip giving him away. “This is a lot harder in practice.” 

You laugh softly. “This is the fun part.” 

He exhales hard through his nose, adjusting his grip. “Are they supposed to be this sensitive?” 

“They’re not sensitive. You’re just heavy-handed,” you say, nudging his wrist lightly. “Small movements. Gentle.” 

He hums like he’s not sure he believes you, but follows the instruction anyway. 

You lean a little closer, pointing to a flashing radar contact. “You’ve got one on your left—easy turn, then line up a missile lock.” 

Bob squints at the data, then at you. “Define easy.” 

“You know, not what Fanboy did.” 

He huffs another quiet laugh, fingers moving more confidently now as he banks slightly left and steadies his line. 

“There we go,” you say. “See? Not so bad.” 

His eyes flick toward you, only for a second. “Only ‘cause you’re here.” 

You glance at him—but his focus is already back on the screens, tongue caught between his lips in concentration. Your heart thuds a little harder, breath catching as the cockpit suddenly feels a whole lot smaller. 

You’re crouched beside him—arm pressed against his, knee nudging his thigh—and all you can think about is that goddamn image of him in those stupid little boxers and everything it did to your insides. 

If it weren’t for the cameras, live feeds, and multi-million-dollar equipment in here, you might be seriously considering jumping his bones right now. 

“Uh, Lucky,” Bob says, clearing his throat. “Noise.” 

You shake your head, refocusing. “Alright, you’ve got tone. Fire.” 

“Fox three,” he says, flicking the switch—and the target explodes a beat later. 

You grin. “Nice shot.” 

He looks over at you again, eyes wide and shining, cheeks pink, and chest rising a little too quickly. “What’s next?” 

“Bring her around. Evasive manoeuvre. You’ve got a bogey on your six.” 

He shifts quickly, throttle pulling back. 

“Flaps down. Come into a right bank,” you instruct, watching him move a little smoother this time. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says under his breath, completely focused. 

It shouldn’t make your pulse spike. Or have you shifting your weight, pressing your thighs together, suddenly too aware of your own skin. It shouldn’t mean a damn thing. 

Yet those few words, coming out of his mouth, tighten that knot behind your hipbones until it aches. 

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter. 

“What?” he snaps, panic lacing his tone. 

“No—Nothing. Just pull up five degrees, you’re drifting.” 

He does so without hesitation. 

Your eyes flick across the data feeds, checking everything like it’s second nature—because for you, it is. It’s as easy as breathing. 

“I’m impressed, Floyd,” you say, offering a small smile. “With a little more practice, you could probably swap seats with Phoenix.” 

Natasha’s voice crackles in your headset a second later: “No way he’d be flying this well without his lucky charm. So unless you’re planning to ride on his lap, I think I’ll stay on the stick.” 

Bob’s eyes go wide, and the sim shudders as he struggles to maintain control. An alarm blares, but you’re already moving, one hand wrapping around his to keep the sim steady—and avoid another Mickey-style disaster. 

“You told them?” he asks, not angry—just flustered. 

You glance sideways at him, still holding steady, a sheepish smile pulling at your lips. “Phoenix saw my name in your phone. She guessed.” 

He shuts his eyes with a sigh, cheeks flushing. 

“Hey!” you nudge him with your knee. “Pilots don’t get to fly with their eyes closed. Focus.” 

He huffs a breath, straightening in his seat, brow furrowed again. “Right. Sorry. I got it.” 

“You sure?” 

He nods, firm, and you slowly let go, easing back into position beside him. 

The sim levels out, alarms silenced, radar clear—and Bob exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time. 

“Okay,” you say. “Let’s bring her in. Easy descent. Keep your nose up just a touch—perfect. Throttle back.” 

He moves with steady hands now, more confident than when he started, guiding the simulated jet toward the landing zone with practiced care. The wheels touch down on virtual tarmac, and the whole simulator gives a soft jolt before going still. 

The screen flashes: MISSION COMPLETE. 

You blink, a little stunned. “Holy shit.” 

Bob whips off the headset, hair mussed, cheeks flushed. “Did I actually—?” 

“That was amazing,” you say, grinning at him. “You nailed that.” 

He scrambles out of the seat, turning toward you, half-tripping over a strap—and— 

He falls forward. 

You try to dodge, but it’s no use. He crashes down on top of you, sending you flat onto your back on the simulator floor, your head knocking against something on the way down. 

“I—sorry—oh, God—” he stammers, eyes wide. 

He braces a hand on either side of your head, face hovering just inches above yours. 

“Are you okay? Your head—” 

Your giggles cut him off, laughter spilling out as you lay beneath him, one hand rubbing your head and the other caught somewhere on his waist. 

“I—I’m okay,” you manage, breathless and blushing, if slightly concussed. “Guess I’m a good luck charm and a crash mat.” 

He lets out a quiet, unsteady laugh, chest pressed flush to yours, breath ghosting over your cheek. 

“Phoenix is right, you know?” he says, voice soft. “I couldn’t have done it without you here.” 

Your laughter fades, breath catching. 

There’s a beat—just one long, tight heartbeat where he leans in, eyes darting between yours and your lips like he might actually do it. Like he’s about to close that distance. 

And then— 

The sim door yanks open with a loud clang. 

“BOBBY!” Mickey exclaims, his grin upside down from where you’re lying. “Oh, shit, are you two making out?” 

Bob scrambles to his feet, very awkwardly given the severe lack of space. “No! I wasn’t—I didn’t—” 

“Technically, he tackled me,” you say, sitting up and holding out a hand for Bob to help you. 

Once you’re both upright, you climb out of the sim and into the chaos of the squad, all cheering and clapping like he just landed an actual carrier op. 

“Hell yeah, Floyd!” Javy says, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. 

Reuben chuckles. “I thought you were gonna puke, but that was clean as hell!” 

Natasha smirks, arms folded as she steps up. “Guess that lucky charm really works.” 

You roll your eyes, trying to play it cool—but your skin is still humming, your heart still racing. And Bob? 

Bob won’t stop glancing your way. Because the mission might be over, but whatever just happened between you two is still very much mid-flight. 

After everything calms down, Maverick congratulates Bob on not crashing—giving Mickey a very pointed look—and dismisses the squad. They gather their things from the briefing room and file out slowly, leaving you to finish filing the post-sim report. 

“We’ll meet you outside?” Natasha asks, hesitating at the door. 

You nod. “Yep. Won’t be long.” 

“Good. We’re going to the bar to celebrate Bob’s success and Mickey’s disaster.” 

You snort softly, eyes dropping back to the tablet in your hand. “Sounds good.” 

Her footsteps fade down the hall, and you type through the report with quick, practiced fingers. 

Your heart still feels like it’s in your throat, beating too fast and too hard. Your cheeks are hot, your lungs are tight, and you swear you can still feel every inch of where Bob’s body had been pressed against yours. And God—it was a lot. 

If you’re honest, you don’t really want to go to the bar. Not just because you’re there too often already—but because you’d rather go home and get off to that stupid picture of Bob in his moose boxers while thinking about his body on top of yours. 

You shake your head, exhale hard, and tap ‘submit’ on the report. Then you tuck the tablet into your bag, throw it over your shoulder, and flick the lights off on your way out. 

The corridor is dim, lit only by the glow of late-evening sun spilling through the high windows, washing the vinyl floor in hazy orange. You can hear chatter up ahead—probably the squad, waiting—and you pick up your pace. 

But then you hear your name. Not your callsign—your name. 

“As in Lucky?” a voice says, incredulous. “She flies F-35s now?” 

“Yeah,” Bob replies, his voice unmistakable. “She’s really good. A great teacher, too. She—” 

“She’s fucking hot,” the other guy interrupts. 

You frown, slowing your steps as you edge closer to the wall. The voice is familiar—but you just can’t place it. 

“I was always jealous of you, man,” the guy says. “Back in flight school you and her were close. And at the FRS. Don’t tell me nothing ever happened.” 

“No,” Bob says quickly. “We’re just friends.” 

“Shame. Still hot though, right?” 

“Um... I guess.” Bob’s voice tightens—strained and uncomfortable. 

“C’mon, man, relax. She’s a smoke show.” 

There’s a brief pause. Then Bob clears his throat. 

“I don’t really like talking about people that way. Especially not her.” 

“What, you’re not into her?” 

“She’s my friend,” Bob says, like that answers everything. 

“Not what I asked,” the guy chuckles. “You into her or not? Because I’m not stepping on your toes, but if she’s fair game—” 

Your heart thuds, heavy and fast, caught high in your throat. 

“No,” Bob says. “I’m not into her. She’s a friend. I wouldn’t go there.” 

That stings—but what comes next carves the breath right out of your lungs. 

“She’s too intense,” he says, a sharp edge to his voice. “She’s reckless, and she can be selfish. She—She's not worth the trouble. There’s too much baggage.” 

Your stomach drops. Hard. 

Each word hits you square in the chest, knocking you breathless. Your head swims. Your vision blurs—not just from tears, but from that unmoored, disoriented rush that hits when the floor drops out from under you. 

“Who cares about baggage?” the guy asks with a low laugh. “As long as she’s not selfish in bed—” 

You turn fast, bracing a hand against the wall to steady yourself. You can’t listen anymore. 

Tears fall freely now, and you don’t even care. You walk—back the other way, toward the far door, away from the voices. Away from him. You’ll take the long way around base if you have to. It doesn’t matter. You just need to get home. 

Your ears ring. Your skin prickles. The sting in your eyes sharpens into something meaner, hotter—like your tears are trying to scald their way out. 

His voice replays in your head, cold and clinical, like you’re a job hazard or some inconvenient mess he has to manage. Not worth the trouble? Too intense? Baggage? 

Fuck. That. 

Your hands are fists before you even realise it, nails biting your palms, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. He doesn’t get to talk about you like that. Not after everything. Not like you’re just some reckless, selfish… thing. 

Not when he knows you. Not when he was just hovering over you, whispering soft words, looking at you like maybe you meant something. 

The heat builds behind your ribs, under your skin, in the back of your throat. You want to yell. To throw something. To go back and make him say it to your face. But you don’t. 

You wipe your cheeks with the heel of your hand, set your shoulders, and walk faster—like you’re chasing down a storm, or maybe just trying to outrun it. 

- 

That night, your phone doesn’t stop. Messages pour in from the squad—asking where you are, if you’re okay, when you’re coming to the bar. Bob even calls. Four times. But you don’t answer. Instead, you send a single text to the group chat saying you felt sick and had to go home. Technically, not a lie. 

You barely sleep. You toss and turn for hours, drafting messages you’ll never send and crying into your pillow until you’re too exhausted to cry anymore. By four a.m., you give up. You pull on your gym clothes, lace up your sneakers, and run to the beach like you’re trying to outrun years of friendship. 

You spend the whole weekend in self-imposed exile, licking your wounds like a cornered animal. No music. No TV. No calls. You just want to sit in it—the heartbreak, the fury, the raw, awful ache of it all—because for once, you don’t want to get over it. 

Because it was Bob. 

Bob Floyd, who’s been sweet and steady and quietly wonderful since the day you first met him—always looking at you like you’re the only thing that really matters. He knows you, sometimes even better than you know yourself. 

Or at least, you thought he did. And maybe that’s what hurts the most. 

Because you’ve loved him, in one way or another, for a long time. And now he’s the one who broke your heart. 

Sweet, considerate, doe-eyed Bob Floyd. 

Fuck that guy. 

By Monday morning, you’re feeling a lot less dramatic and a lot more focused on work. You just want to get this little program done, get the squad up to date with fifth-gens, and then you can go about avoiding Bob Floyd until one of you inevitably gets restationed. But until then, you have to at least be civil. You don’t have a choice. 

The squad is already half-settled when you walk into the briefing room, just a couple of minutes late—intentionally. If you arrived any earlier, someone might’ve tried to talk to you. Joke around. Ask where you’ve been. And you’re not really in the mood for chit-chat. 

So you walk in with a neutral expression, eyes trained forward, coffee in one hand and tablet in the other. 

From the corner of your eye, you can see Bob sitting in his usual spot at the front, hands folded tight in his lap. He glances up the second the door opens—and breathes. It’s so visible it’s almost a shudder, like he’s been holding it in all weekend. 

“Oh, she’s alive,” Jake says, elbowing Javy beside him. 

You don’t answer. You just keep walking until you reach the desk, setting your coffee down before turning to face the room. 

“Let’s talk about Friday,” you say, tapping your tablet to wake it up. “Three out of five of you got tagged within the first five minutes of simulated contact. That’s a problem.” 

There’s a long beat of silence. A few glances are exchanged, but no one calls attention to the fact that you’re clearly skipping over the usual ‘good morning’ or any of the soft lead-ins you normally give. No one dares. 

Bob’s eyes stay locked on you, his brow drawn in quiet worry. He doesn’t look away all morning. Not once. 

And you don’t look at him at all. 

After going through BVR refresh and radar discipline, you give Maverick a nod and he calls lunch. You keep your head down, eyes on your tablet, fussing with it as the soft shuffle of feet out the door fills the room. 

Maverick walks up to you, says something about a meeting he’s being forced to attend this afternoon, and you give him a nod. Then he walks out and the room goes quiet. Until— 

“Hey,” Bob mutters, still sitting in his seat. 

You turn your back on him, placing your tablet on the desk and picking up your phone. “Hi.” 

“That thing work?” he asks. 

“What thing?” 

“Your phone.” 

“Oh,” you say flatly. “Funny.” 

Silence stretches between you—thick and heavy—full of words left unsaid, and a few that never should’ve been heard. 

“So,” he finally says, pushing to stand, “you feeling okay?” 

“Yeah,” you mutter, opening your email like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. “Just an upset stomach. I’m fine now.” 

“Really?” he presses, stepping closer. 

You sigh heavily and look up—not at him, just at the back of the room. “Really, Bob. I’m fine. Sorry I didn’t answer your calls, I felt like shit. Just wanted to sleep and watch movies.” 

“What’d you watch?” 

“Back to the Future,” you say—too quickly, without thinking. 

And shit. Why would you admit to spending the whole weekend watching one of his favourite movies? 

“Without me?” he asks, full of mock-offense. 

Your lips twitch, and you hate that they do. So you take a deep, steadying breath and turn to face him—eyes locking with his, your expression dangerously neutral. 

“Do you need something?” 

He frowns. “What do you—” 

“Like do you have a question about what we just debriefed or...?” 

“Oh.” He blinks. “Um, no.” 

You nod. “Okay, good. Then you should go to lunch.” 

He stares at you for a moment, eyes darting across your face, trying to decode what you’re very carefully hiding. But he can’t, because you’ve been perfecting this cool, practiced nonchalance for the past forty-eight hours and you know you have it down pat. 

“Okay,” he mutters. “Lunch. Are—Are you coming too?” 

You shake your head and turn back to the desk. “No, sorry. I’m going to be selfish and spend my break reviewing the sim footage I didn’t get to over the weekend.” 

“That’s not—” he hesitates, clearly confused. “That’s not selfish.” 

You whip back around, brows raised. “Isn’t it?” 

There’s another beat—just a brief pause where he looks at you like you’re suddenly some complete stranger. 

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice soft. 

You nod once. “Yep.” 

Then you turn around, step behind the desk, and drop into the chair, opening your tablet. He stands there for a moment longer, watching you with a furrowed brow, eyes narrowed. But you don’t look at him. You just start pulling up the footage and flipping open your notebook. 

Eventually, he leaves, but not without casting one last glance over his shoulder—looking like a damn kicked puppy. 

You sit in the briefing room trying to focus on sim footage until ten minutes before the end of lunch. Then you sigh, stretch out your limbs, and start packing up your things for the afternoon’s training. You’re halfway to the sim building when your phone buzzes with a text from Maverick: 

‘Hondo got pulled into this meeting. Use the WSOs in the booth.’ 

Great. More time with Bob. And this time, the room’s even smaller. 

With another heavy sigh, you continue making your way toward the building—dragging your feet through hallways and up the stairs until you reach the tech staff for the usual system readiness checks. Once everything’s good to go, you sign on as controller and head into the prep room where the squad is waiting. 

“No time to waste,” you say, skipping any kind of greeting. “Hangman, you’re up first. Bob, Fanboy—you’re in the booth with me. Let’s move. 

Then you turn and walk out, the only sign they’re following you the quiet shuffle of boots behind you. 

You get Jake set up in the sim, then slip into the control booth, taking the farthest seat and pulling your headset on without a word. Mickey settles hesitantly beside you, and Bob takes the last seat—now one person too far away to read whatever expression is on your face. 

“I’ll handle comms,” you say without looking up. “Monitor the readouts, call out any anomalies. Stay focused, watch what I do, and you can run one of the later sessions.” 

“Copy,” Mickey replies. 

“Copy,” Bob mutters. 

You can feel his eyes on you, boring into the side of your face. He’s leaning forward—very unsubtly—watching you with a creased brow as Mickey pretends not to notice the suffocating tension in the booth. 

“Hangman, you ready?” 

“When you are, boss.” 

You tap the screen, starting the sequence. “Simulation beginning. Weapons hot in thirty seconds.” 

Your eyes stay locked on the data feeds, one hand adjusting the sim’s tracking overlay, the other scribbling notes into your tablet. Everything is running clean—Jake’s flying sharp, you’re locked in, and for a moment, it almost feels easy. Peaceful. 

But still, you feel Bob’s gaze. Heavy. Relentless. You don’t look at him, but you know he’s watching—trying to read between your words, between your silences, between the way you didn’t so much as glance in his direction when you walked in. 

“Hangman, confirm radar lock,” you say, fingers flying over the controls with practiced ease. 

“Confirmed. Two-band lock at forty-five miles. Tracking steady.” 

“Maintain altitude for another thirty seconds, then begin a slow descent to angels eighteen. Push to intercept on bandit two.” 

“Copy that. Repositioning.” 

A beat later, Mickey pipes up, “Hey, I’m seeing a drift on the right bank—check pitch trim, two percent off.” 

“Good catch,” you say, glancing at the readout to confirm. “Hangman, adjust pitch trim two percent to port. You’re drifting wide.” 

“On it. Thanks, Fanboy.” 

You glance over at Mickey, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Nice eyes.” 

He throws you a cheeky wink before turning back to the screen. You try not to look at Bob—but you can’t help it. His cheeks are redder now, his eyes wider, and he looks… indignant. 

After Jake, Javy jumps in the sim, then Bradley, then Reuben—and for him, you have Mickey run the comms. They work well together, and you only have to jump in once or twice to adjust an instruction. 

Then finally, it’s Natasha’s turn. 

“Bob, comms are yours,” you say. “Mickey, stay on readouts.” 

Bob hesitates just a fraction too long before replying, “Copy.” 

Once Natasha is strapped in and the system’s reloaded, you settle back in your chair beside Mickey. Bob shifts awkwardly two seats down, headset on, posture a little too tight to be comfortable. 

“Pilot ready?” you ask. 

He glances at his monitor. “Ready.” 

You nod. “Run it.” 

The sim lights up again, and Natasha’s voice crackles through the speakers—calm and clipped as she begins her sequence. 

You fold your arms across your chest, eyes on the screen—eyes on Bob. He’s steady at first, brow furrowed in concentration, tongue caught between his lips as he tries to remember the training. But you can feel it—the edge in him. Every call he makes lands a half-second late. Every glance your way lingers too long. 

He’s nervous. And you almost feel bad. Almost. 

But then those words ring through your head—and if he’s going to call you intense like it’s a bad thing, then fine. You’ll stare at him—intensely—until he either screws up or helps Natasha fly this sim clean. 

Your gaze flicks to a warning light, brow furrowing as you sit up straighter. 

“She’s pulling too hard,” Bob says. “She should dump speed before—” 

“That’s not going to cut it in the F-35,” you cut in. “You’ve got to lead the roll differently. Weight’s distributed rearward—she floats differently.” Then you glance at him, eyes narrowed. “You know… all that baggage.” 

There’s a beat of silence. Bob shifts. His eyes flick between you and the screen, nerves creeping higher. 

“We’ll adjust the parameters,” you say, turning back to the screen. 

Your hands move across the controls as you focus on Natasha, reassuring her that she’s flying fine. Bob tries to refocus too—to keep his eyes on the feed and talk her through the next manoeuvre. 

But he can’t. His gaze keeps drifting—toward you, confusion drawn tight across his brow. 

You can see the frustration rising. He doesn’t get it. 

But he knows something’s wrong. 

- Bob - 

After Natasha’s successful sim, you give the squad a quick debrief before mumbling something about catching Maverick before he heads home. Bob wants to stop you—to say something, anything, just to get you to talk to him—but you don’t give him the chance. You slip out while he’s stuck in conversation with Reuben and Mickey, too polite to cut them off. 

Eventually, everyone leaves the debrief room and starts walking across base—to their cars, the barracks, or in Javy’s case, the pharmacy, because he’s now convinced he got mono from the girl he hooked up with over the weekend. 

“Coyote, if you go to medical one more time this month, they’re going to assign you your own parking spot,” Natasha says, watching him split away from the group. 

“My lymph nodes are, like, throbbing, dude,” Javy replies. “It’s definitely mono.” 

Jake snorts. “Or maybe it’s rabies and you’re on the countdown clock. We’ve got—what—forty-eight hours till you start foaming at the mouth?” 

“My bet’s on mono,” Reuben says. “That girl was way too hot to have rabies.” 

“Exactly!” Javy calls, now walking backwards. “And I’m exhausted. It’s definitely mono.” 

“You’re always exhausted,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes. 

“That’s ‘cause his standards are low and his stamina’s even lower,” Natasha mutters with a smirk. 

“What was that, Phoenix?” Javy asks, already halfway down the path. 

“Nothing!” she calls back. “Good luck! Maybe you’ll finally get that cute receptionist’s number!” 

The group laughs, because everyone knows Javy has been trying—and failing—for months to get her number. 

“Doubt it,” Jake says, veering off toward the parking lot. “Dude’s got no game.” 

One by one, they all drop off—until it’s just Bob and Natasha. The two of them walk in silence for a few minutes. An easy, companionable kind of quiet while Bob loses himself in his own gnawing thoughts. 

“Okay,” Natasha says, stopping suddenly. “What’s wrong? You look like someone just cancelled Christmas.” 

Bob glances up. “Hm?” 

“Don’t hm me,” she says, propping a hand on her hip. “You’ve been weird all day. What’s going on?” 

“I don’t know, I just—” 

“Is this about Lucky?” 

His stomach drops, nausea creeping up his throat until he’s pretty sure he can taste what he ate for lunch. He hesitates, meeting Natasha’s stare—keen eyes narrowed, brows raised. She’s not letting up anytime soon, so he might as well spill. 

He sighs. “Yeah. Don’t you think she’s acting… off?” 

Nat shrugs. “Maybe. A little. But everyone’s allowed to have a bad day. What makes you think it’s personal?” 

“She ignored me all weekend, and she hasn’t smiled at me once today.” 

Natasha rolls her eyes. “So? She doesn’t owe you a smile every day, Floyd. And she said she was sick. Maybe something happened that you don’t know about.” 

“But she tells me everything,” he mutters. 

“Oh my God,” Natasha groans. “You sound so entitled right now. Just because you’ve been friends forever doesn’t mean she owes you constant access. If she’s having a hard time, maybe stop thinking about yourself and just give her some space.” 

Bob knows she’s right—at least partly. But he also knows you, and whatever this is, it isn’t just a bad day. 

“Fine,” he mumbles. “Space. Got it.” 

“Good.” She nods. “And then when things go back to normal, you two can go back to pretending you’re not stupidly in love with each other.” 

Bob’s breath hitches. His heart kicks in his chest, stuttering into an uneven rhythm as he looks at her, eyes wide. 

She meets his gaze, unflinching—smug and all too knowing. 

“Please,” she says with a laugh. “It’s so obvious. Don’t even try to deny it.” 

He doesn’t. He can’t. His thoughts are spiralling too fast to land anywhere solid. 

He’s not stupid—he knows he’s in love with you. But the idea of you being in love with him? That feels impossible. 

You’re so passionate, so driven—maybe a little intense, but that’s what makes people follow you. It’s why he trusts you with his life. And, sure, you’re reckless sometimes, but never thoughtless. You lead with your whole heart, and Bob wouldn’t be who he is today without you. 

He knows you—your stories, your scars. He’s kept your secrets, walked with you through fire. Everything you carry—all the history, the experience, the baggage—you’ve never carried it alone. 

He’s been carrying it too. Willingly. 

Because you’ve always been the brightest thing in his life. And that’s exactly why he can’t imagine a world where someone like you could ever love someone like him. 

“Have you stopped breathing?” Natasha asks, brows drawn. 

Bob clears his throat, blinking until his vision refocuses. “Yeah—um, no. I’m okay.” 

She narrows her eyes. “You sure? You look pale.” 

“I am pale,” he says dryly, eyes dropping to his boots. 

She snorts softly as they keep walking, heading in the general direction of the base’s front offices. 

“You coming this weekend?” she asks after a beat. 

Bob frowns. “Where?” 

“Hangman’s birthday.” 

Right. Jake’s birthday party. At a club. Not exactly Bob’s scene. 

“I don’t know, it—” 

“You can’t bail just because you hate clubbing,” she cuts in. “It’s not just another weekend—it’s his birthday. You don’t have to drink, just show up for a couple hours.” 

Bob sighs, still watching his boots move with each step. He knows he’s going. He hates it, but he’ll go. He’s too polite, too well-raised—and Jake is his friend. 

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll come for a bit.” 

“Great,” Nat grins. “Then at least I’ll have you, if Lucky’s still in her mood.” She pauses, tipping her head thoughtfully. “That’s if she even comes.” 

After swinging by base office to pick up the squad mail—since Maverick was too busy today—Natasha drives Bob home. The car ride is quieter than usual, and Nat knows Bob is still trapped in his own head, but she doesn’t press. 

Once home, Bob goes through the usual motions. He strips off his uniform, showers, changes into sweats, and starts making himself dinner. The only step missing is the one where he usually gets off with your name on his lips. 

God, he knows it’s depraved, but he can’t help it. Especially now that you’re stationed on the same damn base. 

Well, except today. Today he can help it, because the guilt weighs heavier than usual. He knows something’s wrong—and he has a sinking feeling it’s something he did. He just can’t figure out what. 

His first thought was that stupid photo he sent—the one with him in moose boxers. He wishes he could say he had no clue what he was thinking, but God, he did. He was thinking that maybe you wouldn’t realise he was sending a damn thirst trap if it carried some other meaning. Some nostalgic, almost innocent meaning. Maybe you’d see it as a joke but still catch the way he was tensing—so fucking hard—in the mirror. Maybe there’d be a moment where he wasn’t just your best friend, but someone you could want for something more. 

“Fuck,” Bob mutters, pressing his forehead against the cold fridge door. “What is wrong with me?” 

Embarrassed doesn’t even begin to cover it. That photo was a lapse in judgment—a desperate Hangman move to get you to look at him differently. And God, did it backfire. 

Cute? You called him cute. 

He shakes his head. Sure, the boxers weren’t exactly sexy, but cute?! 

He wishes he could rewind and stop himself before he became that much of an idiot. But that’s just what you do to him. You make him stupid. That’s been the story since the day he first met you. 

Back at the academy, he was smitten—instantly, though shy at first, a little guarded. Until you wore him down. It didn’t take long before he was snorting at your stupid jokes, grinning like an idiot every time you caught his eye, and spending countless nights in the study hall with you and your secret snacks, sharing headphones. 

Then came flight school. Different tracks—him training as an NFO, you training to be a pilot—meant less time together. But still, you stayed close. You found ways to sneak off, to steal moments, naïvely planning futures that felt just within reach. 

Almost everyone assumed you were a thing, but whenever Bob corrected them, it turned into a whole different game. 

He got so sick of being asked for your number that he started making up ridiculous excuses. 

‘Sorry, she doesn’t have a phone.’ 

‘I would, but it’s encrypted.’ 

‘She only uses Morse code.’ 

‘Do you have any carrier pigeons?’ 

When you both deployed after the FRS, he felt almost relieved. Almost. Until he realised that with him halfway across the world, there was nothing but the relentless demands of military life standing between you and finding a boyfriend—or worse, a husband. 

But as fate would have it—or perhaps dumb luck—you both ended up stationed on North Island together. Single. Very single, as you’d told Jake before shutting him down completely. 

And God, Bob wants nothing more than to make you very un-single, very fucking attached to him. But he just can’t find the guts to do it—not when it might blow up in his face and ruin years of friendship, a bond so precious he’d do anything to protect it. 

If there’s even a bond left to protect. Because right now, Bob Floyd is pretty damn sure you hate him. For something he can’t even remember doing. 

The chime of the oven timer startles him out of his thoughts. He spins around, turns off the heat, grabs a dish towel, and carefully pulls the tray of lasagna out. He lets it cool while cueing up the next Nat Geo doc he’s been wanting to watch, making a little nest of pillows on the couch before settling in with the lasagna in his lap. 

He eats quickly, eyes flicking between the screen, his dinner, and his phone buzzing incessantly on the coffee table. He can tell it’s the group chat, but the messages are popping up too fast to follow. From what he can gather, you���re all talking about Jake’s birthday party. 

When he’s finished eating, he takes his plate to the kitchen, rinses it half-heartedly, and returns to the lounge. He grabs his phone off the table and flops forward onto the cushions, sprawled across the couch, propped up on his elbows as he scrolls through the chat. 

It’s mostly Jake and Javy arguing about their big birthday plans, broken up by Mickey and Reuben’s commentary, Natasha’s sharp little quips, and Bradley just reacting to every second message like he’s not even reading. 

And then... there’s you. 

It started when Nat made some snarky remark about Jake wearing a sparkly suit so no one forgets it’s his birthday. You replied with an innocent comment about not knowing what to wear, and Natasha—naturally—told you to send options. 

So you did. 

The first photo is a mirror selfie in a deep red satin slip dress that barely hits mid-thigh. The fabric clings to your hips and gapes at the chest—like it was designed to slip off a shoulder. One hand holds your phone, the other casually throwing up a peace sign, as if you’re not standing there wrapped in something that could pass for a napkin. 

Bob’s mouth goes dry. His eyes go wide. And he stares for just a little too long. 

The second photo isn’t a selfie—it’s been taken by someone else. Probably on the night you last wore the glittery silver dress. The flash is on and the image is a little blurry, catching you from behind, turning with a smile thrown over your shoulder. There’s a glimpse of thigh, the bare slope of your back, and a glint in your eye that knocks the air out of him. 

He exhales so hard it turns into a groan. With a slight wince, he shifts and adjusts his sweatpants, already regretting every choice that’s led him to this moment. 

The next one is back in the mirror. You’re leaning against your dresser—just out of frame, but Bob knows exactly what your room looks like. The dress is little, black, and absolutely criminal. It fits like sin and leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. 

If Bob were standing, he’d need to sit down. But he’s already on the couch, lying down with his now painfully hard dick pressed into the cushions. How the hell do you do this to him with just a few photos? 

The last one is a close-up selfie in your bathroom mirror. The flash is on and you’re standing close, angling the camera low to catch the way the fabric dips between your breasts and hugs your waist like a secret. There’s hardly any of your face in frame—just the hint of a smirk. 

“God,” Bob growls, dropping his head—and his phone—as his hips begin to grind into the cushions. 

This is insane. You are dangerous. Surely you know what you’re doing. You can’t be that naïve. 

He almost hates that the whole squad is watching too—seeing you like this, picturing you in the ways Bob has been picturing you for years. 

With another low groan, he shifts onto his back and stares at the ceiling. After a moment, he shuts his eyes—and instead of pushing them away, he lets every perverted thought he’s ever had of you wash over him. 

Your body draped in that silky red dress. Your lips curled into that sinful little smirk. Your legs, on full display in those ridiculously short skirts. 

He pictures you as he slips his hand beneath his sweats, fingers wrapping around his painfully hard, leaking length—stroking once, then twice. His breath stutters. His free hand grips the cushion beside him, trying to ground himself as his hips lift ever so slightly, chasing more friction. 

He imagines you climbing into his lap, all warm skin and wicked intent, whispering some teasing little comment that sends blood rushing so hard through his body he thinks he might actually lose it. 

His cheeks burn and his heart races, desire and need building in his chest until it’s almost too hard to breathe. 

His breath catches when he pictures you arching into him—skin slick with sweat, hands tangled in his hair, whispering his name like a prayer. 

He ruts up into his hand again, faster this time, lips parted and eyes still shut tight. 

His movements grow faster. Rougher. Desperate. 

God, he knows he shouldn’t—he knows even now—but he can’t stop. 

He pictures your body beneath his—soft gasps filling the air, lips parted, eyes fluttering closed. His hands on your tits, your hips, your ass—anywhere he can reach. Everywhere. Branding you like you’re his to keep. And— 

His body seizes, muscles going tight as pleasure crashes over him in hot, dizzying waves. He spills into his sweats, hips still moving, rutting up and down, chasing the fading heat until all that’s left is a breathless ache. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, collapsing onto the cushions, skin flushed, heart hammering. 

He lies there for a few minutes—sticky and spent—as guilt creeps in... but so does a sharp, undeniable hunger for more. 

Eventually, the insistent buzzing of his phone cuts through the post-orgasm haze, and he reaches for it with his free hand, grabbing it from where it fell beside him on the couch. 

The group chat is still alive with a flood of inappropriate comments and ridiculous emojis from Mickey—all thanks to your photos. Everyone’s got an opinion on which dress you should wear, most leaning toward the last one with the low neckline. 

Then, at the bottom of the thread, Natasha’s name pops up again: ‘Bob, your opinion?’ 

Bob huffs a small, humourless laugh. 

Yeah. His opinion is painted on the inside of his fucking sweatpants. 

- You - 

You only agreed to go to Jake’s birthday because you were pretty sure Bob wouldn’t. 

Okay, that’s not the only reason—Jake’s your friend, and you’re not about to bail on his birthday just because you’re emotionally fragile. But knowing Bob probably wouldn’t show? Yeah, that made it a lot easier to say yes. 

Bob’s never enjoyed clubbing—not that you can blame him—but on top of that, it’s been a weird week. You’ve softened a little, but not much. You stopped shooting him scathing looks or cutting him off mid-sentence, but you’ve still been avoiding him 

You remembered how to laugh with the others—how to joke around—because the squad didn’t do anything wrong. They didn’t deserve to suffer just because Bob said the wrong thing and you’re too hurt to deal with it. 

But Bob? You refuse to be left alone with him. You don’t speak to him unless you absolutely have to. You don’t ask him questions. You don’t meet his gaze—no matter how many times he tries to catch yours. 

Not that he’s trying all that hard anymore. If anything, he seems… quiet. Sad. Distant in a way that twists something sharp in your chest. Like he’s pulling back. Giving you space. Like he’s trying not to upset you. 

And maybe that should make you feel better. Or worse. You’re not sure. 

Either way, you know it’s childish. The guilt’s been gnawing at you all week. But every time you start to feel too bad, you remember what he said. How he really sees you. The way he talked about you like you were a problem. Like you were too much. And then the guilt dies out. 

Because why should you feel bad when he’s the one who decided you were too intense? Too reckless? Just… baggage? 

He doesn’t care about you—not the way you care about him. He doesn’t even like you. Not really. 

You’re not even sure why he’s sulking so much. If he never really liked you, why does it matter? 

“Holy shit, Lucky,” Jake drawls the second you step out of the cab. “All this for me?” 

The dress you settled on isn’t tight, but it moves like liquid when you walk—clinging here, skimming there, draping in all the right places. It’s black, sleek, and cut low at the front, dipping between your breasts just enough to make anyone looking forget what they were saying. 

The fabric is soft and slinky, catching the light in subtle waves as it shifts around your body. The hem flirts with the tops of your thighs—high enough to turn heads, low enough to play innocent if you really wanted to. There’s a slit up one side, just enough to show off a teasing flash of leg when you walk—or more, if you’re not careful. Paired with your favourite boots and a gold choker around your neck, the whole look whispers danger and dares someone to ask what you’re doing later. 

“Not just for you, Seresin,” you smirk. “But since it’s your birthday, I’ll let you look all you want.” 

You step up and give him a hug, mumbling ‘Happy Birthday’ against his chest as his hand drops just a little lower than it should. 

“You look fucking hot,” Nat says when you turn to her. 

“All for you, baby.” 

She grins. “I knew you’d be mine tonight. Wanna get out of here?” 

“Show me the way.” 

You both start giggling, linking hands as you make your way down the little footpath toward the club’s front entrance. 

“Wait, nobody move,” Mickey calls from behind. “If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.” 

There’s a soft thump, followed by a little whine—probably Reuben or Bradley smacking him over the head. 

“We couldn’t all fit in the cab,” Nat says. “So Bob’s picking up Coyote. Might be a little late, though.” 

Your heart stutters. “Bob—Bob’s coming?” 

She nods, brow furrowing. “Of course. It’s Hangman's birthday.” 

“Oh.” You swallow hard, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of skin—which is a lot—on display. “Cool. Cool. That’s cool.” 

“Is it?” she asks, laughter creeping into her voice. 

You give her a tight smile and nod a little too quickly—not at all panicked. 

“Oh, boy,” she sighs, slowing to a stop in front of the club doors. “This is going to be a fun night.” 

The club is busy, but not overcrowded. There are two bars and two dancefloors, one on either side of an open-roof courtyard scattered with tall bar tables and several large booths along the back wall. Out here, the music isn’t too loud—which must be the point. 

Javy has managed to reserve one of the booths for the squad, while the rest of Jake’s friends—who make up most of the bar crowd—hover around the high tables, some already drifting onto the dancefloors. It’s not early, but it’s not quite late either. The DJs—one for each floor—haven’t started dropping bangers yet, but from the vibe so far, it’s clear this place gets wild. 

“My first birthday request,” Jake says as you all settle into the booth, “is a round of shots. No pussies.” 

There’s a round of laughter, a groan from Natasha, and a cheer from Mickey. You, meanwhile, are more than happy to get some liquid courage into your system as soon as possible. Ideally, you’ll be halfway to shit-faced by the time Bob shows up—just enough to shut your goddamn nerves up. 

A few minutes later, Jake returns with a tray of tiny glasses, each filled with that golden liquid you know is going to burn. Jake Seresin and his fucking Fireball. 

“To Bagman,” Natasha says, raising her shot. 

Everyone follows. “To Bagman!” 

You wince as the cinnamon heat scorches down your throat, hitting your empty stomach like a lick of flame. Jake slams his glass down with a grin, Mickey gags, Reuben grimaces, and Bradley and Natasha sink their liquor with concerningly straight faces. 

Bradley disappears then to get the first round of proper drinks while Jake launches into a story about his wild thirtieth—offering more detail than anyone asked for, and definitely more than anyone needed. 

You laugh along with the others, chiming in here and there, but your eyes keep drifting to the door. Every time it swings open, your heart gives a stupid little jolt—only to sink again when it’s not him. 

You try not to let it show. Try stay present, sipping your drink and throwing in the occasional sarcastic comment, but your thoughts keep circling. 

Is he still coming? Did he change his mind because of you? What’s he going to think of this ridiculous little dress? 

You shake off the spiralling questions, turning your attention back to the table just as Mickey launches into a story about his own latest birthday—which involved more tequila, less pants, and at least one stolen golf cart. 

After finishing your first drink, you excuse yourself to the bathroom—partly because you sculled a litre of water before coming, and partly because you want to check yourself before Bob arrives. It’s dumb, but you don’t care. You might be mad at him, but you still want to make his jaw drop. 

And if this dress does anything right, it’s making jaws hit the floor. 

You walk down the short hall, passing one of the dancefloors. There are two large doors marked as accessible toilets, then the men’s, and finally the women’s. You slip inside, duck into a stall, pee quickly, and wash your hands. 

The mirrors in the women’s room, though, are annoyingly small and set far too high. You can barely see below your collarbones—even when you jump, which is definitely not recommended in this dress. With a frustrated huff, you step back out and slip into one of the accessible toilets—surely that’ll have a mirror a little lower? 

The accessible bathroom is spacious and way nicer than the regular stalls. There’s a black marble vanity bathed in soft, glowing light, plenty of grab rails lining the walls, and—best of all—a full-length mirror stretching from floor to ceiling, perfect for a proper once-over. 

You check your dress, adjusting how it sits on your shoulders and hips, then give a little twirl. You push your boobs up just a touch, swipe beneath your eye for any smudged mascara, and slip back out into the club. 

You weave your way through the crowd, the bass humming beneath your feet. There are more people now—hovering near the bars, drifting between dancefloors. You try to ignore the looks you’re getting, but a little shiver still rattles down your spine. You feel seen. Too seen. 

Maybe this dress wasn’t the best idea. 

You step into the courtyard and glance up, spotting the booth where your friends are and— 

Bob. 

He’s standing just in front of it, half-turned away, arms folded as he talks to someone inside the booth. And thank God for the distraction, because holy shit—you can’t stop staring. 

He looks... different. You’ve seen him in civilian clothes plenty of times before, but tonight? Tonight, those dark blue jeans cling just right to his long legs and criminally good ass. And that black long-sleeve button-up—jet black, just like your dress—looks like it’s seconds from bursting at the seams across his shoulders and arms. It’s sharp, clean, and a devastating contrast to the flight suit you’re so used to seeing him in. 

And then there are those dorky cowboy boots. Always the boots. Somehow they just make it worse. Make him more him. And that makes your thighs clench. 

Then, slowly, he turns. It’s casual at first… until he sees you. 

His jaw drops. Literally. His eyes go wide. 

He looks like a deer in headlights. No—worse. He looks like someone just hit him in the chest with a defibrillator. You’re not even sure he’s breathing. 

It takes everything in you to keep your pace steady, your expression neutral—to walk across the courtyard like your knees aren’t about to give out. 

Not that he’s looking at your face. Not until you’re standing right in front of him. 

“Bob,” you say, voice tight, before turning sharply toward Javy. “Coyote!” 

Javy’s eyes go wide as he takes you in—then flick toward poor, frozen, shell-shocked Bob—before his mouth splits into a hesitant grin. 

“Lucky,” he says, wrapping an arm around you. “You look—I mean, that dress—” 

“Save it, big fella,” you laugh. “I’m sure Hangman will make up for it with a dozen inappropriate comments once he’s had a few more drinks.” 

Javy chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m sure he will.” 

You slip into the booth and settle beside Natasha, taking a sip from the straw of the drink she slides your way. 

Bob is still standing there. He hasn’t said a word. You’re still not sure he’s breathing. He’s just staring—eyes wide, dark, and so full of something you can practically feel them dragging over your skin. 

Okay—maybe this dress was a good idea. 

After another round of drinks—and another of shots—everyone’s feeling a lot looser. Except Bob. 

He’s nursing his coke with a tight jaw, his eyes flicking between you and whoever’s currently taking their turn staring at your boobs. It’s usually Jake. 

And as much as you’d love to enjoy making him suffer, you’re not entirely sure what’s going on with him. You can’t tell if he’s pissed that you’ve been cold all week or feeling—undeservingly—protective because you’re wearing more birthday suit than dress. Either way, the way he’s looking at you is… unnerving. Almost feral. 

His attention makes your skin prickle, your pulse jump. Because behind his eyes is something dark. Something dangerous. Something you’re not used to seeing in Bob. 

So, like any emotionally well-adjusted person, you do the obvious thing and suggest another round of shots. 

You’ve just swallowed your third nip of Fireball when you hear a frighteningly familiar voice rise over the thrum of music. 

“Hangman!” he exclaims. “Happy birthday, bro!” 

Your stomach drops. It’s him. The guy Bob was talking to that night. 

Your eyes snap up, wide, landing on a familiar face you’ve known since flight school. 

Bob’s eyes are wide too—but not with surprise. No, his are flat, dark, brimming with something else entirely. Something heavy. Tense. Possessive. 

Something that doesn’t look like Bob at all. 

“Harvard!” Jake grins, standing and leaning across the table to shake the guy’s hand. 

They greet each other with loud enthusiasm before Brigham turns to the rest of the group—saying hello, smiling, working his way around. 

He saves you for last. And you’re not nearly naïve enough to pretend you don’t know why. 

“Lucky,” he says, drawing out the last syllable as his gaze drops straight to your chest. “Lookin’ good, darlin’.” 

“Thanks,” you reply, plastering on your sweetest smile. “Wanna sit?” 

Brigham has the choice of sitting beside either you or Bob, and with the way Bob’s trying to telepathically murder him—and the way your tits are sitting—it’s no surprise he chooses you. 

“You know,” he says as he settles in, “I was just talking to Bobby about you the other day.” 

Your heart lurches, but you keep your expression steady. 

“Really?” you ask, voice thick with faux shock. “Bobby didn’t tell me that.” 

Brigham chuckles. “Yeah, I bet. I think Bob’s been tryin’ to keep you all to himself.” 

Bob’s scowl falters, a flicker of something—maybe worry—flashing across his face. Your heart stutters again. But then those words echo in your head, and with a sly smile, you shift a little closer to Brigham. 

Okay, sure, you’re not attracted to the man—like, at all. In fact, you’re not attracted to anyone whose name doesn’t start with Robert, end in Floyd, and come with a pair of wide, dark blue eyes in the middle. But if it’s going to get under Bob’s skin? A little flirting can’t hurt. 

After all, he’s the one who called you reckless. 

“Well, Harvard,” you say, leaning in. “Fortunately for you, I don’t belong to anyone. And if you’re feelin’ lucky… maybe later I’ll let you feel real lucky.” 

Javy, sitting across from you, chokes on his drink—coughing and spluttering into his hand as everyone turns toward him with confused eyes. 

Except Bob. Bob’s stare doesn’t move from where your hand rests on Brigham’s arm. 

You spend the next hour pressed against Brigham, nodding along as he talks about his latest deployment. Apparently, he’s just returned to North Island. After the special detachment—the one with the Dagger Squad—he was sent back to his original squadron, then reassigned here and there before finally landing back in San Diego. 

You couldn’t repeat a single detail if your life depended on it. Because all you’ve been able to focus on is Bob. 

The way he keeps glancing over, the way his posture shifts every time Brigham leans closer, the sharp tick in his jaw. His knuckles are white around a lukewarm bottle of coke, and he hasn’t said more than a few words since Brigham sat down. 

The more you drink, the bolder you feel. You start meeting Bob’s gaze when you catch it—at least, when it’s not locked on Brigham—and every time you do, your pulse jumps. And with each slow, alcohol-fuelled beat, the urge to confront him grows. To finally ask what the hell he meant that night. To find out if your friendship actually means anything to him—if it ever meant anything at all. 

But just as you part your lips to speak, Jake jumps up and declares it’s time to hit the dancefloor. 

You cling to that interruption like a lifeline. 

Because as you slide out of the booth and watch Bob disappear into the crowd—heading toward the bathrooms, not the dancefloor—you realise confronting him now, like this, is only going to end badly. 

The music shifts as you step onto the dancefloor—heavier bass, deeper tempo, something slow enough to roll your hips to and fast enough to forget why you’re here. Lights flicker overhead, casting streaks of colour as you melt into the crowd. Brigham finds you in the haze, hands landing low on your hips like it’s second nature, and you don’t bother correcting him. Even if it feels… wrong. 

You sway with the rhythm, arms draped loosely around his shoulders, fingertips grazing the hair at his nape. You laugh at something he says—not that you heard it—but the sound slips easily enough from your lips. 

For a moment, it’s easy to pretend—until you see him. 

Bob. 

He’s leaning against the far wall just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, half-turned toward Bradley like he’s part of the conversation—but he’s not. His posture’s easy, arms folded, one boot crossed over the other. But even from across the room, he doesn’t quite fit. 

Sweet, awkward Bob. All long limbs and stormy eyes in a neon-drenched club that makes no sense around him. His body’s turned toward his friend, but his eyes? 

They’re on you. Locked. Unmoving. 

There’s something electric in his stare. Not soft, not sweet—hungry. It holds you there, stills your breath, makes the air around you feel thicker. He’s not blinking. He’s not smiling. He’s just watching, like you’re the only thing in the room. 

And you feel it. 

The heat rising up your neck. The low, tight pull in your belly. That wild, reckless urge that’s been coiled in your chest since he walked in. 

So you play it up. You let your head tip back, let your body roll with the bass, just a little slower, a little deeper. You lean closer to Brigham, letting your fingers trail down the front of his chest like you’re having fun—like you’re not thinking about Bob at all. 

But you can still feel that stare. Like it’s touching you. Burning through you. 

When your eyes find his again, he still hasn’t moved. 

The beat throbs under your heels. Brigham’s hands stay loose on your hips. The lights flash, the alcohol hums in your blood—but none of it matters. One song blends into the next. Bob never looks away. 

You try not to keep looking. But you do. Because the longer you stay on that dancefloor with a man you don’t care about, the longer Bob stares. 

Still against the wall. Still pretending to talk. Still watching you. 

So—after three boring songs—you smile, tilt your head, and let your hand trail down Brigham’s chest again, moving slower, closer. 

You catch a flicker of movement in your periphery. And when you glance over again, Bob is gone. Your heart skips, but before you can even fully turn, fingers wrap around your wrist—warm, firm, unrelenting. 

Then he’s there. Beside you. 

He moves quickly, taking you with him as he strides across the dancefloor with dark eyes and a clenched jaw, weaving through the crowd like it isn’t there. He looks out of place—so out of place—but he doesn’t care. Not now. Not with purpose in every step and his hand on you like he’s never letting go. 

He doesn’t say a word. Just pulls. 

Past dancing strangers, through the heavy heat of the club, and into the dim hallway outside the bathrooms—where the music dulls just enough, the air shifts, and suddenly there’s only the two of you. 

He lets go of your wrist like it burns him. “What the hell are you doing?” 

You blink. “Excuse me?” 

Bob’s chest rises and falls, his eyes wild. “What—What are you doing?” 

“What’s your problem?” you bite back. 

“My—? My problem?!” His voice pitches up as he drags a hand through his hair. He laughs once—dry and disbelieving. “I—I don’t know. I wish I knew. But you’ve iced me out all week, and now you’re doing this?” 

“Doing what?” you demand. 

“This! This isn’t you! This is—it’s—I don’t know, it’s—” 

“Reckless?” you cut in. “Intense? Oh—sorry. Is my baggage showing?” 

He flinches. You see it—clear as day. Like the words punched him in the gut. 

You’ve never seen Bob like this—so worked up, so flustered, like he’s been holding something back for too long and it’s finally starting to slip. His jaw is tight, his cheeks are flushed, and there’s a fire in his eyes that doesn’t quite fit the Bob you know. 

He looks tense. Frustrated. On edge. Not at all like someone who doesn’t care. 

And that’s the most confusing part.  

“Why would you say that?” he asks, voice dropping, shoulders sagging. 

“I didn’t,” you reply. “You did. Last week.” 

He takes a deep breath and tips his head back, realisation settling heavy and hard. “God. Lucky,” he sighs. “I didn’t—” 

“Save it, Floyd,” you cut in, voice rising over the music. “I don’t want excuses. Or lies. If that’s how you really felt about me, you should have just said so. I wouldn’t have burdened you with my friendship all these years.” 

He shakes his head. ��No. That’s not how I really feel. I—I didn’t mean those things, I just—” 

“Then why would you say it?” 

He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Why didn’t you tell me you overheard?” 

You huff, disbelieving, throwing your hands up. “Seriously? What would you have done if you heard me talking shit about you?” 

“I—” His breath catches, his eyes dropping to your chest, just for a second, before snapping back to your face. “I don’t know. But you should have said something. God. Lucky, you don’t understand.” 

You fold your arms—very aware of what that does to your breasts. “Understand what?” 

“That I’m in love with you,” he blurts out, each word sharp and undeniable. “I’ve been in love with you for years. Since the first day I met you. And I said those things because—because that’s what I do. I keep you to myself. I tell guys you don’t have a phone. Or that you’re gay. Or—or that you only communicate with fucking carrier pigeons.” 

Your breath catches sharp in your throat. Emotion rises in your chest, wild and fierce. The world feels unsteady, like you’re caught in a dream—sounds blur, lights twist and shimmer at the edges of your vision—and Bob fucking Floyd just told you he loves you.  

“I’m sorry I said those things,” he says, stepping forward, voice lower now. “But I’m also sorry I’ve lied to you for years. Because I love you more than you know. And—and I’ve cockblocked you more times than you know too.” 

His lips twitch into a nervous, watery smile—half proud, half terrified. His eyes are still wide, still a little dark, but now so full of hesitation it makes your heart ache. 

He’s never told you because he doesn’t think you love him back. Even now, he’s bracing for the blow. Waiting for the laugh, or the ‘let’s just be friends’ speech. 

God. He looks so sweet. So nervous. So heartbreakingly Bob Floyd—even in the middle of this stupid club with its stupid lights and its stupid music. 

Without a word, you grab his wrist and shove open the door to one of the accessible bathrooms. You step inside, drag him in after you, and let the door fall shut—sliding the lock into place with a sharp click that echoes like a gunshot. 

“What are you doing?” Bob asks, voice low, unsteady. 

He’s backed up near the vanity, caught in the soft overhead light. It sharpens the lines of his jaw, glints off his glasses, and makes his eyes look lighter—more exposed. He looks completely out of place here. Nervous. Overwhelmed. Already unravelling. 

“Making sure you can hear me,” you say, your voice softer now as you take a slow step forward. 

The room doesn’t feel nearly as spacious as it did earlier. The air is thick—charged and humming with everything unspoken, everything the two of you have been holding in. 

Bob nods. Barely. His hands twitch at his sides, his eyes glued to the floor—like he’s bracing for impact, waiting for the moment you let him down gently, tell him he’s just your friend and nothing more. 

You close the distance, lift a hand to his jaw, and tilt his face up—until he has no choice but to look at you. 

“I want you to hear me when I tell you that I’m in love with you too, Bob Floyd.” 

His eyes go wide. A breath escapes him in a soft, stunned gasp, his cheeks flushing even deeper. “You what?” 

“I love you,” you say, steadier now, lips curving into a soft, slow smile. “I always have. I don’t know how we both got so stupid, but God… I was wrecked when I heard you say those things. I love you so much I was ready to ask for reassignment just to get away. I love you so much I haven’t even thought about loving anyone else since the day I met you.” 

He blinks hard. His chest rises and falls like he’s forgotten how to breathe. 

“You love me?” 

“Yes, you idiot,” you say, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. “Now fucking kiss me.” 

You pull him down—and he doesn’t hesitate. 

One hand grabs your waist, the other tangles in your hair as he crashes into you, mouth on yours like he’s been holding back for years. It’s not gentle. Not careful. It’s messy and breathless and full of all the things he never said. His lips are hot, desperate, a little clumsy at first—but God, he learns fast. 

You gasp against him, and he takes it like a reward, deepening the kiss as he walks you backward until your tailbone bumps the edge of the vanity. Then he’s lifting you—strong hands beneath your thighs, gripping like he’s afraid you’ll vanish—until you’re perched on the counter, legs parting to pull him in. 

The marble is cold beneath your bare skin, but his body is warm between your thighs. 

He kisses like he means it. Like he’s starved. Like he’s been on fire from the moment he saw you in that dress and now he’s finally letting himself burn. His hands are everywhere—your hips, your waist, your jaw. His mouth barely leaves yours, just enough to breathe before he’s right there again, hungrier this time. 

You twist your fingers in his hair and pull, and he groans—deep and low, like the sound was dragged straight from his chest. His glasses slip crookedly down his nose, but he doesn’t bother fixing them. You catch the way his eyes darken even further behind the askew lenses, wild and hungry. 

“This stupid dress,” he breathes against your lips, voice thick with want. 

His hands roam possessively beneath the fabric, fingers digging into your waist as he grinds his cock against you with a needy roll of his hips. You feel the thick, hard press of him right where you need it, and the heat between you sharpens—filthy, hungry, and impossible to ignore. 

“God, Lucky...” he rasps, voice rough as gravel, lips nipping at your neck. 

Your fingers find the collar of his shirt, fumbling with the buttons as his wet mouth trails along your collarbone. When he finally looks up, his glasses catch the light—glinting at a wild, crooked angle. 

“You look ridiculous,” you tease with a smirk. 

He flushes, just the slightest hint of insecurity flickering through his fierce gaze. 

“Ridiculously fucking sexy,” you whisper, leaning in, lips brushing his jaw. 

His hands explore with increasing urgency, and you arch into him, breathless and burning. 

“Lucky...” he growls, voice low and ragged. “I need you.” 

You pull him closer, heart pounding. “Then take me.” 

That’s all it takes. His hands are moving instantly, pushing your dress down over your shoulders in one fluid motion. Your bra follows—tugged down and discarded with zero ceremony—because he’s not wasting a second. 

Then he’s on you. Everywhere. 

His mouth is hot and open against your skin, dragging across your chest in feverish, reverent kisses. He palms your breasts like he’s dreamt about this—like he’s memorised them in his sleep—and he’s not shy about it either. His thumbs roll over your nipples, teasing until they’re tight and aching, and when you gasp, he hums like he’s pleased with himself. 

He nips your collarbone, teeth just shy of cruel, then licks away the sting as he trails lower—lips, tongue, breath—until he closes his mouth over your left nipple. 

Your hips jerk. You don’t mean to, but you can’t help it. Desperation coils hot and deep in your core, tightening with every flick of his tongue. 

His hand finds your other breast again, rougher now, pinching lightly at your nipple as he sucks, and you can feel his smirk even as his mouth stays latched to your skin 

“Bob—fuck,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut. “Your mouth—” 

He pulls back just enough to blow cool air over your wet nipple, and your back arches, involuntary, like he’s got a string tied to your spine. 

“What was that?” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “You wanna fuck my mouth?” 

You groan again—louder, needier—as he shifts to your right breast and sucks hard, deep, slow, like he’s trying to ruin you one perfect kiss at a time. Your thighs clamp tight around his hips, grounding yourself against the pressure of his body, the friction of his jeans against your bare legs, the delicious hardness pressing between them. 

He moans into your skin, and the sound vibrates straight through you. 

“Bob—” you gasp, voice thin, shaky. “N-Need you. Now.” 

He finishes with a soft bite to your nipple that makes you jolt, then drags his mouth back up to yours—kissing you hard, deep, claiming. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, rougher than you mean to. He groans again, like he likes the sting. 

Then he grinds against you. 

His hips roll forward, dragging the full, thick length of him right against your soaked core, and you gasp into his mouth. There’s too much friction, too much heat, not nearly enough relief. Your thighs twitch around him, clenching on instinct. 

“Bob,” you say again—this time low, warning, wrecked. 

“‘S okay,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “I got you.” 

His hands slide down your body, slow and possessive, until they find your hips. He squeezes, hard—fingers digging in like he’s trying to anchor himself—and then pushes your dress up, bunching the soft fabric around your waist. And now there’s almost nothing between you. 

His breath catches. He pulls back just enough to look—and groans, deep and guttural. 

“You’re perfect,” he says, reverent and hungry all at once. Then his mouth is back on yours, more desperate this time, like he’s seconds from losing control. 

Your hands fumble at his shirt, yanking buttons through holes until you reach his belt. Your fingers work quickly, sliding the leather free, popping the button, lowering the zip. His hips buck forward when your hand brushes against him, thick and hot beneath his boxers. 

“Are you sure?” he rasps, voice barely holding together. 

You nod, breathless. “I’m sure.” 

His lips crash back to yours, and then his hands leave you for just a second—long enough to shove his jeans and briefs down past his hips—before they’re back, gripping your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the vanity. 

His thumbs dig into your skin, like he needs to feel you everywhere. And God, the bruises are going to kill you tomorrow—but you want every single one. 

You reach between your bodies, sliding your hand into the space between his low-slung jeans and your bare thighs. He jerks at the first touch—his breath catching, hips stuttering forward. 

“Fuck,” he chokes, voice ragged. His forehead drops to yours, like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. 

You wrap your fingers around him—hard, hot, thick—and stroke once, slow and firm. 

He groans, deep and broken. “Jesus, Lucky—don’t… don’t tease.” 

You bite back a grin, stroking again just to feel him twitch in your hand. “Then hurry up and fuck me.” 

That shatters whatever was left of his restraint. His hand finds the thin scrap of fabric between your legs and pushes it aside, fingers grazing through the wetness there. His breath hitches again. 

“You’re already—” He swallows hard. “God, you’re so wet.” 

He grips your hip, braces his other hand behind you on the counter, and meets your eyes—searching, asking—before he thrusts forward. 

Slow at first. Deliberate. Like he wants to feel every second of you stretching around him. 

You gasp, spine arching, mouth falling open. He’s thick, the stretch almost too much, but your body gives way like it’s been waiting for this. For him. 

“Holy shit,” he groans, jaw slack as he sinks into you. “You feel—fuck. So good. So good.” 

You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in, and he starts to move—deep, rolling thrusts that drag moans from your throat before you can stop them. His glasses are still askew, fogging with heat, and you’re obsessed with how he looks like this—wrecked, gorgeous, utterly undone. 

His hands find your waist again, yanking you flush as he grinds into you with a frantic, desperate rhythm that makes your knees tremble. One hand drags up your side, fingertips blazing a slow path over your ribs before curling over the swell of your breast. 

He palms it—rough, reverent—thumb circling your nipple, making your back arch and pulling a gasp from your throat that turns into a whimper. 

“I love you,” he growls, voice low and wrecked, like the words are being dragged out of him. “So fucking much.” 

Your chest clenches, aching with it, echoing the coil twisting tighter and tighter low in your belly. 

“I love you,” you breathe, broken and shaky. 

He groans deep in his chest and starts moving faster, hips snapping into yours with relentless force. Each thrust drags a ragged moan from your lips, each one pulling you closer to the edge. The air is thick with sweat and sex and everything you’ve both kept buried for years. 

His glasses slip lower down his nose, his hair damp with sweat, his face flushed and wild—completely wrecked. He looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Like he’s never going to let you go. 

You tilt your head back and moan—loud, shameless—the sound echoing through the bathroom with the obscene slap of skin on skin. Then your eyes lock again, and it’s too much—too hot, too filthy, too intimate. You're cock-drunk and completely gone for him, mouth parted, breath hitching as you fall apart in real time. 

He crashes his mouth to yours again, slower now—deeper—like he wants to kiss you into the fucking walls. One hand still works your breast, kneading, tugging, pinching, while the other dips low, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, messy circles that have you shuddering. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, choking on the word. “Bob—I’m gonna—” 

“Yeah?” he pants, voice ragged. “You—you gonna cum? I’ve got you.” 

His thrusts grow harder, deeper, rougher—like he’s pounding the words into you, like he wants you to feel them everywhere. You’re soaked and stretched and it’s so good you almost sob. 

The noises are filthy—wet and desperate, breathless moans and frantic grunts—and neither of you care. Not here. Not now. Not when this is everything you’ve both been craving for years. 

“Oh God,” he groans, breath hot against your throat. “You feel so fucking good. You’re gonna ruin me.” 

You’re both panting, chasing the edge, clinging to each other like you’ll fall apart without it. He pulls back just enough to see your face, and that look—wrecked, awe-struck, completely fucking gone—undoes you. 

Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through your spine, your vision going white, your legs locking around him as your whole body shakes. 

Bob’s right behind you—one, two more thrusts—and then he’s groaning low, spilling inside you as he buries his face in your neck, thrusting through it, riding the high with you. You're both shaking, bodies slick, hearts pounding, still grinding, still desperate, still needing to be closer. 

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You just breathe—ragged, uneven, hot against each other’s skin. 

His arms are locked around you, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go. You’re wrapped around him just as tight, hands curled into the back of his shirt, legs still trembling around his waist. The air is thick with sweat and heat and the fading pulse of music beyond the walls. 

He lifts his head just enough to press his forehead to yours, his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed. You brush damp hair from his face and lean in to kiss him—slow this time, warm and open and sweet. He kisses you back like it’s all he’s ever known. 

“I love you,” you whisper again, holding him like you mean it. Because you do. God, you do. 

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw. Slower now. Softer. Like he’s memorising you. 

Eventually, you both start to move—reluctantly, lazily—helping each other straighten up, clean up. His hands are gentle as he eases your dress back down over your hips, as he finds your bra and helps you put it back on. You button his shirt for him, laughing quietly at the wrinkled fabric and the way his belt is still half-undone. 

It’s domestic. Intimate. Something about it makes your chest ache. 

You smooth your palms over his chest. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. And even though you’re dressed again, neither of you can stop touching—little brushes, lingering hands, kisses that start slow and deepen fast. 

You’re trying to leave when his back hits the bathroom door with a soft thud, and you lean into him, mouth pressed to his. It’s messy again—smiling, hungry, all teeth and tongue and breathless sounds you wouldn’t dare make for anyone else. 

He laughs into your mouth. “If we don’t leave now,” he murmurs, “we’re never leaving.” 

You kiss the corner of his smile. “Fine by me.” 

But then—he stills. Just slightly. And he looks at you like he’s falling all over again. 

His chest rises against yours, breathless still, and then— 

“Marry me,” he says. Low. Unfiltered. Like he couldn’t hold it in if he tried. 

Your heart stumbles. Your breath catches. 

You pull back just far enough to look at him—really look at him. He doesn’t look nervous this time. Just… open. Sure. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to ask. 

“Bob…” 

“I’m serious,” he says, cupping your jaw. “Marry me.” 

You blink, the world slowly tilting off-axis. 

“I want you—no, fuck that,” he leans closer, voice rough with feeling, “I need you. Forever. And if we can’t have forever, then just give me this lifetime. I want to marry you. I want everyone to know that you’re mine, and I’m yours.” 

He’s so honest, so sure, that for a second you forget how to breathe. You’ve never felt this much love in your life. You didn’t even know this much love existed. And the craziest part is... it doesn’t even feel that crazy. You’ve known Bob for so long that the only missing piece of the puzzle was this. Now you’re whole. You’re perfect—together. It's always been Bob, and it always will be. 

So what’s the point in waiting? What’s the point in dragging it out? You already know him. You need him. You… want to marry him too. 

You step in closer, holding his face between your hands. “I am yours, Bob Floyd. In this lifetime and every lifetime.” 

He swallows, hard. “Is—is that—?” 

“That’s a yes,” you say, grinning, before pushing up onto your toes and crashing your mouth against his. 

He kisses you back with wild, joyful fervour, his arms locking around your waist as he lifts you clean off the ground, making you yelp into his mouth. If this is a dream, you don’t want to wake up. Not ever. Because in this moment, you have everything—everything—you’ve ever wanted. Everything you’ll ever need. 

When he finally sets you down, you pull back just enough to catch your breath—both of you panting, grinning like idiots, completely wrecked and radiant. 

“Can’t believe you just proposed to me in a club bathroom,” you say, smirking. 

Bob rolls his eyes, bashful smile tugging at his lips. “Can’t believe you just said yes.” 

You’re just about to kiss him again when— 

Bang, bang, bang. 

“Bob!” Jake’s voice cuts through the door. “Lucky! Are you two in there?” 

Bob freezes. His smile drops. His cheeks flush a deep, immediate red. “Oh no.” 

“We heard… noises,” Javy adds, barely holding back a laugh. “Are you okay?” 

Your eyes go wide, mortified and gleeful all at once, your hand already moving to the lock. 

“What are you doing?” Bob hisses, catching your wrist. 

You glance at him, lips twitching. “What are we supposed to do? Live in here now?” 

“Yes?” he says, eyes wide. “Or wait at least twenty more minutes?” 

You snort, then gently pry his hand from yours and lace your fingers through his. “Relax, Bob,” you murmur. “At least now they’ll know what a woman sounds like when she’s getting properly fucked.” 

Bob makes a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a gasp, his face flushing bright crimson. And with that, you unlock the door and swing it open to reveal the entire squad loitering just outside, trying very badly to look casual and not like they’ve been eavesdropping at all. 

Jake’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes sparkling. “Well, damn. Guess that answers that.” 

Bradley whistles low, laughter threading through it. Phoenix raises a single eyebrow. Javy coughs awkwardly into his hand. Mickey and Reuben just stare, jaws practically on the floor. 

Bob inches behind you, as if hiding could protect him from the coming torrent of teasing. 

You just smile sweetly and squeeze his fingers. “Hey, pervs. Get a good show?” 

Jake chuckles. “Only caught the second act, unfortunately. But damn, Bobby, didn’t know you had it in you to make a woman moan like that.” 

Bob closes his eyes, breathing deep as his free hand squeezes your waist. 

“What was all that murmuring before you opened the door?” Javy asks, brow furrowed. “We couldn’t make it out.” 

You lift a brow. “Oh, you didn’t have a cup pressed to the door?” 

Mickey chuckles sheepishly, holding up an empty glass. 

“God,” you gasp, laughing softly. “Do any of you know the meaning of boundaries?” 

“Lucky, you just fucked Floyd in a club bathroom,” Reuben says, smirking. “And you’re going to lecture us about boundaries?” 

Your cheeks flush, heart pounding hard against your throat. “Actually, I just got engaged to Floyd in a club bathroom. And it was very romantic. Including the sex. So, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to go home and let this man properly ruin me until I can’t remember how to fly a goddamn jet.” 

You hear Bob choke behind you—on nothing but air—and you don’t even have to look to know his whole face is flaming red. 

But it works. The squad goes quiet, all of them staring—wide-eyed, slack-jawed, somewhere between stunned and delighted. 

You give them one last cheeky grin before pulling Bob away. 

“But it’s my birthday!” Jake calls after you, smirk audible in his voice. “I was supposed to get fucked in the bathroom!” 

[justreadingthings]

Girl I’m gonna need a cool shower and a hot pilot after this because DAMN. That tension and build-up are both my personal hell and my saving grace. Torres with that confidence and openness, letting Echo know that he does want her and he’s not ashamed to admit it. It’s melting me down to my core and this volcano can’t hold in its emotions any longer lol. Now circling back around to that hot pilot-

safehouse ; joaquín torres

fandom: marvel

pairing: joaquín x reader

summary: you're an ex-assassin trained by hawkeye and black widow, and your old friend sam needs your help on a mission alongside his new protege... but things don't go exactly to plan and you end up indefinitely stuck in a safehouse with joaquín

notes: danny ramirez has me in such a chokehold, he made me write smut!!! kind of... upon reread, i feel like this might flop? and i'm a little extra nervous about it because it's my second first attempt at smut, so i hope it doesn't suck! please, please, please let me know what you think! i need feedback! and also, sorry if it's shitty, i'm so out of practice with marvel, i'm just feral for this man...

warnings: swearing, sexual tension (lots), mention of guns / weapons, very minor descriptions of violence, italics, mention of a toxic ex and toxic behaviour, very out of date marvel knowledge, super horny, and SMUT-ish? (masturbation, dirty talk, thigh riding) so 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 15295

“I’m going to do a quick sweep,” Joaquín says. “Make sure we weren’t followed.” 

You nod once, doing your best to flash the hottest man you’ve ever seen a cool, easy smile. 

“Copy,” Sam says as he walks further into the house. “Echo, you’re with me. Let’s clear this place.” 

You roll your eyes and follow Sam deeper into the safehouse, forcing yourself not to glance back as Joaquín slips out the front door. 

“That’s not my name anymore,” you mutter, sheathing a dagger in your thigh holster. “And would you slow down?” 

Just an hour ago, you were waiting at a secret meet-up spot for Sam to fill you in on this special mission he needed your expertise for. You weren’t keen on coming out of retirement, but he’d practically begged you over the phone—and you had no excuse good enough to say no. 

So there you were, waiting, when all hell broke loose. You don’t know who they were, but they came at you hard and fast, raining hellfire just as Sam—and his stupidly gorgeous protege—showed up. You fought your way out and found refuge in this safehouse. Now all you need to do is make sure you’re actually safe before figuring out what the fuck just happened. 

“All clear,” you tell Sam as you return to the landing just inside the front door of the old townhouse. 

He nods. “Looks like we’re good.” 

You tuck your gun away and start fiddling with a strap on the sleeve of your jacket, keeping your gaze locked on Sam beneath a furrowed brow. You’ve always been particularly good at death stares, and if Sam was a lesser man, he’d probably keel over by now. 

But instead, he grins. “What’s that look for?” 

“You know damn well what this look is for,” you mutter. 

He raises his brows, waiting for you to snap. 

It doesn’t take long. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” you hiss, just in case Joaquín is within earshot. “Two weeks ago you just happen to be in town, we catch up for a drink, and I drunkenly confess that I think your little protege is hot. Then all of a sudden, there’s a mysterious mission that requires both of us?” 

He chuckles quietly, eyes sparkling with amusement. “I’d call that a coincidence,” he says. “Oh, and I think your exact words were a walking wet dream with a stupidly perfect smile.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Whatever you’re playing at, stop it. I’m here now, so I’m going to help us get out of this mess—but that’s it.” 

“Would you calm down?” he sighs, leaning back against the wall—awkwardly, thanks to the shield on his back. “The kid has a thing for you too, so I just thought—” 

“What?” 

He rolls his eyes. “He’s like... obsessed with you. As soon as he found out I was catching up with you the other week, he wouldn’t shut up about it. Kept saying how he used to track your missions when you were working off-book with Hawkeye and Widow.” 

You raise your brows, crossing your arms. “Oh, cool. So he’s a stalker obsessed with a version of me from years ago? When I was training every day and hadn’t just been dragged out of retirement.” 

Sam gives you a flat look. “Would you stop calling it retirement? It was an elective hiatus—at most—and you’re still in your physical prime.” 

“Yeah,” you scoff. “Tell that to my knees.” 

Sam smirks. “I’m sure Joaquín won’t mind if you can’t get on your knees. Laying down would be just as—” 

You cross the room in one step and punch him in the shoulder. “Dude! Seriously?” 

He chuckles. “Okay, look, I wasn’t lying about the mission. I really do need your help on this. And so what if maybe you find a little love along the way? You’re both into each other and I know you both very well. You’d be great together. Plus, you’re both equally irritating, so really, this is an entirely selfless act. Why would I want to double your annoyingness?” 

You sigh and lean back, propping one arm on the post at the end of the stair banister. “It just doesn’t work like that, Sam. Not for people like us. We don’t date—it’s not realistic.” 

He rolls his eyes again and pushes off the wall. “Whatever you say, Echo. But I can see the way you’re looking at him. So if you want me out of the house, just say so. I’ll go for a walk or something.” 

Then he winks and turns into the small living room, making the cheap furniture look ridiculously tiny compared to his broad, geared-up physique. 

After a hot minute of seriously considering whether or not you could get away with ditching this mission entirely, you sigh and follow Sam—stripping off your gear as you go. 

You unzip your jacket and shrug it off, tossing it over the back of the couch as you pass through the living room. There’s a narrow archway leading into the kitchen, where Sam is already cracking open the fridge like he owns the place. You stop at the island counter and reach up to slide your weapons harness off your shoulders. It drops into your hands with a familiar weight before you set it on the bench. 

Next, you unclip your belt and bend down to unfasten the straps of your thigh holsters, tugging them free one at a time. You reach lower, dragging a short dagger from your boot and adding it to the pile. Then your gloves—peeled off and tossed carelessly onto the heap of weapons—before grabbing the hem of your long-sleeved tactical shirt and yanking it over your head. 

You’re down to your compression shirt—tight, unforgiving, and clinging to your body like a second skin—as you lean one hip against the counter and finally let out a breath. 

“Damn,” a voice says behind you—Joaquín. 

He’s standing just shy of the archway, making it look comically small with the bulk of his gear. His cheeks are flushed, dark curls damp with sweat, and his lips curved into a soft, crooked smirk. 

You want to say something snarky—ask if he sees something he likes, maybe point out a non-existent drop of drool on his chin. But you can’t. Because you’re giving him the exact same look—all heat, all want, no shame. 

Joaquín isn’t just gorgeous, he’s fucking badass too. You nearly lost your cool when he wrapped you in his arms during the earlier ambush, just before rocketing into the sky. You weren’t scared—just absurdly, wildly horny for the hot guy with mechanical wings flying you to safety. 

“Alright, you two,” Sam says, dropping a half-empty bottle of orange juice on the counter. “Save the saucy looks for later. First, we need to get in touch with the Secretary of Defence—see if we can start an investigation into whoever attacked us. Then we’ll figure out how long we’re stuck here.” 

Joaquín eyes the juice suspiciously. “How do you know that’s not expired?” 

Sam lifts it up. “Oh, it’s very expired.” Then takes a swig anyway, grimacing as he swallows. 

“Gross,” you mutter, turning toward the sink. 

You twist on the tap and squirt a half-crusted blob of soap from the sad little pump bottle on the windowsill, scrubbing the dirt and dried blood—thankfully not yours—off your hands. 

“Alright,” Joaquín says, “how do we contact the Secretary?” 

- 

Two weeks. It’s been two whole weeks of living in this godforsaken townhouse in bum-fuck suburbia, with barely any information on the assholes who forced you into hiding. 

All you do know is that they were after you. 

Yep. Someone’s been holding a serious grudge, just waiting for you to crawl out of retirement to make a move. So Sam made the call—told you to lay low at the safehouse, use an alias in case any nosy neighbours came sniffing around, and to simply wait while he tries to dig up more information on whoever sent the thugs. 

And the worst part? He assigned Joaquín as your full-time protection detail. 

Which means not only are you stuck in this crusty old house, but you’re stuck with one very attractive, very tempting man who apparently has no idea just how goddamn gorgeous he is. 

“You finished with this?” Joaquín asks, brows raised as he slowly reaches for the plate in front of you. 

You’re standing at the kitchen island, bent forward with your elbows on the bench and your chin resting in your palms. Across from you, Joaquín is washing dishes. Shirtless. Wearing nothing but a loose pair of grey sweats, skin still damp from the shower, curls sticking to his forehead, and looking like every fantasy you’ve ever had come to life. 

“Hello?” he says, waving a soapy hand in front of your face. “Anyone home?” 

You blink and force your eyes away from the absurd perfection of his body, dragging them up to his equally unfair face. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, cheeks warming. “Yeah, I’m done.” 

He flashes that boyish grin, picks up the plate, and turns back to the sink—letting you go right back to ogling him in peace. 

Your eyes drift over the muscles in his back, watching them roll and flex as he scrubs. You’re nearly tempted to dirty another dish just to keep the view going. Because this? This right here—domestic Joaquín, shirtless and glistening—is enough to keep your imagination busy for a very long time. 

Not that you’ve had much opportunity to indulge those fantasies, because Joaquín is here all the damn time. He only leaves when Sam calls him out—usually for groceries, clean clothes, or a quick intel drop. 

You’re almost never in the house alone. 

Which means your fantasies have been... limited. Mostly to rushed moments in the shower or late at night, when you’re pretty sure—hoping—that he’s asleep. 

“You know,” he says, breaking you out of your dazed—and admittedly filthy—thoughts, “if someone told me a few weeks ago that I’d be stuck in a safehouse with the Red Echo, I probably would’ve fainted.” 

You frown curiously, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Really?” 

He nods. “Really.” 

When he turns around, your breath catches. Yeah, okay, you saw his abs like five minutes ago, but that doesn’t make them any less ridiculously sexy. 

“Why’s that?” you ask, determined not to let him fluster you any more than he already has. 

His cheeks flush, eyes dropping to the dish towel he’s drying his hands with. “I was, like... obsessed with you. I’m sure Sam mentioned it. Used to track your missions with agents Barton and Romanoff. Thought you were the coolest assassin ever.” 

You let out a soft laugh, straightening up and leaning a hip against the counter. “Do I live up to the legend, then?” 

His eyes widen as he nods. “Oh, yeah. You’re badass.” 

You feel your cheeks heat even more, quickly dropping your gaze to hide the stupid smile trying to sneak its way onto your face—just because he called you badass. 

Despite living together for two weeks, you’ve mostly avoided getting too personal. Most of your time has been spent in companionable silence, watching TV or reading. When Sam’s over, you all talk and joke, but when you’re alone, you let the tension do the talking. Exchanging nothing more than heated glances and softly spoken words. 

You’re not entirely sure why you’ve kept your distance—maybe because you know this is temporary, and you don’t want to get too attached. But it’s getting harder by the day. Joaquín is charming. And so painfully attractive that playing it cool is starting to feel impossible. 

“It wasn’t that badass,” you say, folding your arms. “Working with Clint and Nat, I mean.” 

He frowns, unconvinced. “I find that hard to believe.” 

“No, really,” you insist. “It was brutal, mostly. I got beaten up, like, a lot. I wasn’t raised an assassin like they were—I had to learn. So if I wasn’t getting my ass handed to me in combat, it was one of them kicking my butt during training.” 

He chuckles. “Really? Who was worse?” 

You bite your lip to keep from smiling—his grin is stupidly infectious—and tilt your head in thought. 

“Hm,” you hum. “I know I should say Nat, but... it was probably Clint.” 

Joaquín raises a brow. “How?” 

“Oh, he was like a drill sergeant. Had me learning everything, all at once. My hands were bleeding from archery, my limbs were bruised from hand-to-hand, and my head was always throbbing from getting slammed into mats. And he didn’t let up. Told me the enemy wouldn’t, so why should he— unless I was genuinely wrecked. Nat was a little more forgiving. I think her childhood made her more empathetic when it came to training. She didn’t want to push me too far. Clint, though? He needed me to be tough. It was a good dynamic—very good cop, bad cop.” 

“Wow,” Joaquín murmurs, eyes a little dazed as he just stares at you. 

You pause, brow furrowing. “What?” 

He shrugs, tearing his gaze away as he turns to hang the dish towel over the oven handle. 

“Nothing, just...” He looks up at you again, all warm eyes and stupidly perfect cheekbones—like he doesn’t realise how dangerous he is. “You’re really cool.” 

“You’re pretty cool too, Falcon,” you say, letting a small smirk curl your lips. “With or without the wings—I know you’re a badass too.” 

He meets your stare with dark eyes full of challenge. “I am pretty badass. Could probably give you a run for your money.” 

The mood shifts, the light teasing between you pulled tighter—tension creeping in, hot and deliberate. 

You arch a brow. “You think?” 

He nods, arms crossing over his bare chest in a way that makes your thighs clench. “I do.” 

“Bold, Torres,” you murmur, narrowing your eyes. “Care to prove it?” 

He steps around the kitchen island—two strides and he’s in your space. “Name a time and place, cariño.” 

“Right now,” you say, holding his heated stare. “Backyard.” 

That panty-melting smile flashes across his face as he leans in. “You’re on.” Then his voice drops—lower, rougher, almost lethal. “Be lying if I said I haven’t been dying to get my hands on you.” 

Your heart lurches, then takes off, sending a hot rush of blood straight to your head. 

“Professionally, of course,” he adds quickly, and you might’ve believed the cool confidence if it weren’t for the blush creeping up to the tips of his ears. 

“Of course,” you echo, your voice soft—breathless. 

The air between you thickens, crackling with heat as your eyes lock—tension simmering, slow and dangerous. 

Then his phone chimes, and you both flinch. 

He moves to check it while you step back, letting out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. 

“Just Sam checking in,” he mutters, glancing up. “Should I tell him I’m about to kick your ass, or...?” 

You roll your eyes. “Try it first. Before claiming victory.” 

Then you turn and head into the small living room, taking a right at the front landing and making your way down the hall toward the back door. 

The backyard isn’t much—patchy grass, some cracked pavers, and a chain-link fence that barely shields you from nosy neighbours. But right now, with Joaquín standing across from you, shirtless and barefoot in the glow of the setting sun, it might as well be an arena. 

“You sure you’re ready for this?” he asks, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, all cocky grin and coiled muscle. 

You roll your neck and stretch out your arms. “Oh, I’m ready.” 

He waits a beat before making the first move—a quick step in, testing you with a light jab. You dodge easily, grabbing his wrist and twisting, using his momentum to spin him around. He grunts, surprised, but recovers fast, sweeping a leg toward yours. 

You jump, laughing as you land and press your body into his from behind, locking an arm around his throat in a loose hold. “That all you got, Torres?” 

He chuckles, low and warm. “Just getting started.” 

He bucks back hard, breaking your hold, and in the scuffle, you both stumble—him catching your waist, you grabbing his shoulder—and suddenly, you're tangled, chest to chest, breathing hard. 

“Careful,” he murmurs, his breath hot on your skin, “you might enjoy this a little too much.” 

“Speak for yourself,” you shoot back, but your voice is ragged, traitorous. 

He smirks and tries to pin you, but you twist at the last second, hooking your leg around his and taking him down—landing right on top of him. 

Straddling him. 

You both freeze. 

Your thighs press against his hips, your palms on his bare chest, heat sparking where your skin meets. His hands hover near your waist, not quite touching, but God, you can feel the tension in his fingers, the flex of restraint. 

“Not bad,” he says, voice low and uneven. 

You smirk, grinding your hips just slightly—for dominance, of course. “Say it.” 

He looks up at you like he’s starving. “You’re dangerous.” 

“And?” 

His hands finally settle on your hips. Firm. Possessive. 

“And you’re really, really hot when you’re trying to beat the shit out of me.” 

Your next breath shudders out of you. 

And then the back door creaks open. 

“Am I interrupting something?” Sam asks, arms crossed as he stands on the porch. 

You jump off Joaquín like you’ve been burned, nervously brushing non-existent dust from your knees. 

“Nope,” you say, way too fast. “Just sparring.” 

Sam raises a brow. “Sure. Sparring. What’s that move called? Cowgirl?” 

Joaquín, still on his back in the grass, just grins up at you. “Maybe we could try reverse later.” 

You narrow your eyes, pursing your lips to keep from grinning. “Without an audience, preferably.” 

“Promise?” he asks, his gaze shameless. 

You can’t stop the quiet laugh that slips out as you shake your head, leaning forward to offer him a hand. Joaquín takes it, and you help him off the ground before turning back to Sam. 

“So, Cap,” you say. “What’s up?” 

“Just checking in,” he replies, eyes flicking suspiciously between the two of you. “I texted Joaquín to let him know I was dropping by.” 

Joaquín scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah... not gonna lie, I didn’t fully read the text.” 

Sam raises his brows. “Distracted?” 

His tone is playful, but you catch the underlying suggestion—it’s a test. Joaquín is still on duty. He’s your protection detail, and he’s supposed to be focused. 

“It was my fault,” you jump in. “I bet him he couldn’t take me in hand-to-hand.” 

Sam snorts. “Please. All you’d have to do is flash him a smile and he’d be on his knees.” 

Joaquín’s jaw drops, his cheeks going a deep, furious red. 

You turn to him, grinning. “Is that true?” 

He stares at you with wide brown eyes. “I—I mean, well—no, but—” 

“Save it, man,” Sam laughs. “You’re just digging yourself deeper.” 

Despite the nerves fluttering in your chest, you keep your cool. You pat Joaquín’s bare chest—your palm lingering just long enough to feel the heat of his skin—before turning back to Sam and walking toward the porch. 

It takes Joaquín a full minute to remember how to move, but eventually he follows. You all make your way inside and settle into the cramped little living space, listening closely as Sam delivers a brief—and rather disappointing—update. 

They still don’t know much about who ordered the hit on you, but they’re not giving up. New leads might turn up in New York, and they’re even considering reaching out to the Winter Soldier and his new team. 

“So what does that mean for us?” you ask, gesturing vaguely between you and Joaquín. “We’re surviving just fine, but I’d really like to get back to my life. And I’m sure Joaquín would—” 

“Actually,” Joaquín cuts in, flashing that crooked grin that threatens to short-circuit your brain, “I think I’m having more fun here.” 

He even throws in a wink for good measure. 

You feel your cheeks warm, but Sam keeps talking, mercifully ignoring the exchange. 

“I know it’s not ideal,” he says, “but it’s the safest place for you right now. And I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you. I was the one who dragged you back to work, so I’m going to be the one to find these guys and stop them.” 

You take a deep breath and let it out slowly, sinking back into the couch. “Alright, fine. But if we’re stuck here indefinitely, I’ve got a list of demands.” 

Sam nods. “Anything. Just say the word.” 

The next afternoon, Sam returns with everything you asked for. He brings a large duffel packed with the exact clothes you requested, a trunk full of groceries—including all the pantry staples that the house has been lacking—and the box from under your bed containing... personal items. 

“I had a Secret Service agent swing by your apartment,” Sam says, setting the box on the coffee table. “No one opened it, but something definitely started... buzzing on the way over.” 

Your eyes go wide as you snatch the box off the table. “What the fuck, Sam?” 

He chuckles. “Hey, you’re the one who needed it.” 

“Yes,” you snap, cheeks burning. “Because it’s got personal shit like tampons and pads—which I’m going to need if we’re stuck here for another two weeks.” 

Joaquín’s laugh carries from the kitchen, where he’s putting away the groceries. “What else is in the box?” 

You shoot him a look over your shoulder, eyes narrowed and lips twitching. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” 

“Cool it, you two,” Sam says. “You might be stuck with each other for a while. Don’t make it weird.” 

- 

The next week is nothing if not weird. And tense. And so full of heat and frustration, you’re surprised the walls haven’t caught fire. 

Because after that little spar in the backyard, something shifted—snapped, like a rubber band pulled too tight. Now, you and Joaquín just can’t seem to stay out of each other’s way, no matter how hard you try. 

He’s everywhere. In the kitchen when you’re trying to make coffee—shirtless and smug, all lean muscle and unintentional teasing. He’s always leaning in too close, brushing your waist with his fingertips, pressing his body against yours to reach for something he absolutely does not need that badly. 

And the couch. That small fucking couch that leaves no real space between the two of you. His leg against yours. His arm slung casually behind your shoulders. The whole tiny room suddenly suffocating with his heat, his scent, the sheer proximity of him turning your brain to static. 

Then there’s the time you turned the corner just as he was grabbing his towel out of the dryer—both of you freezing as you came face to face with damp skin, low-slung fabric, and absolutely zero shame in his smirk. 

In that moment, you decided—two could play at this game. 

So, you stopped wearing pants. Not all the time—just before bed. Sometimes it’s little booty shorts, or cute boyleg underwear. But mostly, it’s just an oversized tee and nothing else. 

And the way his eyes track your bare legs like he’s a man starved? Yeah. You’ve noticed. 

But then there was the morning you’d opted for a bath instead of a shower—to deal with the ever-building frustration twisting low in your belly. You were already settled in the steaming tub, surrounded by bubbles, one of your favourite toys waiting on the vanity… when he fucking walked in. 

You both froze. Eyes wide. Lips parted. His gaze drifted to the magenta-pink silicone on the counter. And then he grinned—slow, wicked, and impossible to look away from—before dragging his eyes back to yours. 

You shouted at him to get the hell out. Which he did. Eventually. Without even pretending not to sneak one last glance at the toy. 

That was the final straw. 

You need boundaries. Rules. Anything to help you survive this unbearable, unrelenting tension crackling between you. Before one of you snaps and professionalism goes flying out the window. 

“I think we need to set some ground rules,” you say, planting both hands on the kitchen island. 

Joaquín turns away from whatever he’s stirring on the stove, brow raised and an amused smirk tugging at his lips. “Rules?” 

You nod. “Yes. Boundaries. Something—anything—if we’re going to survive this.” 

He chuckles under his breath. “Alright. What kind of boundaries?” 

“First,” you say, narrowing your eyes at his bare chest, “you need to start wearing shirts.” 

His brows lift, brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “Really?” 

You nod again, firm. 

“Okay,” he says, “then you have to wear pants.” 

“Fine,” you mutter. 

“Fine,” he echoes, turning back to the pot on the stove. 

“And you need to knock,” you add. “I don’t care what room it is, or if you just saw me walk away. Knock.” 

He laughs, shoulders shaking as he stirs. “Noted. Must knock.” 

“Good.” 

You hesitate, debating how to phrase the next rule without admitting just how badly you want it. 

“And no—” you clear your throat, “no touching.” 

That gets his attention. He turns back around, smirk softer now, more curious than cocky. “No touching?” 

“Exactly. If you need to get past me, just say ‘excuse me.’ And we can get Sam to bring over a bean bag or something. That couch is way too fucking small.” 

He watches you closely, tongue dragging slowly across his bottom lip before he catches it between his teeth. The sight alone steals your breath—but then he moves. He steps away from the stove and toward you, all heat and intention, bringing with him that warm cinnamon scent that scrambles your thoughts and short-circuits every nerve ending in your body. 

“You really don’t want me to touch you?” he asks, voice low. 

“There’s…” you swallow, “there’s no need for you to touch me, so…” 

He tilts his head. “Nothing you need that might require a little contact?” 

You freeze, like your brain just blue-screened—unsure whether to slap him, kiss him, or straight-up combust. 

“No,” you manage, though your voice is breathy. Traitorous. 

“Okay,” he says easily. “I won’t touch you.” Then he leans in, voice low and smooth. “Not until you’re begging me to.” 

Your breath hitches, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?” 

He straightens, grin cocky. “You heard me.” 

“You think I’m going to be begging you to touch me?” 

He nods once. “Oh, yeah.” 

You scoff. “No chance, Torres. If anything, you’re the one who’s going to crack first.” 

“That so?” he says, arching a brow. “Sounds like a challenge.” 

You take a step back, crossing your arms. “You’re on.” 

His gaze tracks your face like he’s memorising it, heat pulsing between you. One wrong move and this whole damn place could go up in flames. 

“Any other rules?” he asks. 

“Not yet,” you reply, letting your eyes drop to his chest. “Now put on a shirt.” 

He arches a brow, gaze dropping as he steps back just enough to get a better look. “Then you better put on some pants.” 

“Fine,” you huff, turning on your heel and storming out of the kitchen. 

Behind you, he lets out a low whistle, voice pitched just loud enough for you to hear. “You are fine.” 

And the worst part? It still makes you blush. That smug little comment sparks something inside of you, heat curling low in your belly—warm, aching, and impossible to ignore. 

You’re pretty sure you’ve just made the dumbest bet of your life. 

After pulling on a pair of sweats and giving yourself a whispered—but stern—pep talk in the bathroom mirror, you head back downstairs. Joaquín’s got a shirt on now and is ladling something hot and delicious-smelling into a bowl. 

“Smells good,” you say, stopping on the other side of the island counter. 

He wipes the edge of the bowl with a dish towel before sliding it toward you. “It is good.” 

Then he hands you a spoon before fixing his own bowl and standing across from you at the bench, just as you’re gently blowing on your first spoonful. 

“Sopa de fideo,” he says. “Mexican noodle soup.” 

You take a cautious taste—and nearly moan, just barely stopping the sound from crawling up your throat. But Joaquín isn’t stupid, he sees the way your eyes glaze over and your shoulders ease in quiet bliss. 

“Told you it was good,” he says, wearing that infuriatingly smug look. 

Your cheeks warm under his gaze—those big brown eyes locked on you as he lifts his spoon to his mouth. It shouldn’t be erotic. And yet, the way his lips close around the spoon before dragging it out again sends heat straight between your legs. 

You swallow hard and prepare your next spoonful, letting it cool while praying he can’t read you as easily as you suspect he can. 

“So, you cook and you fight. What’s your angle?” 

He cocks an eyebrow as he swallows. “My angle?” 

“You’re almost too good to be true,” you say, fighting the urge to melt at that stupidly gorgeous smirk. “So why are you single?” 

He shrugs, casual as anything. “Just waiting for the right girl.” 

Your brows lift. “Oh, really?” 

He nods and takes another spoonful like it’s no big deal. 

“What’s she like, then?” you ask, trying to match his calm confidence. 

He grins—mischievous and warm, with a spark behind his eyes that makes your chest tighten. 

“Oh, she’s awesome,” he says. “Total badass. Ex-assassin. Worked with the Avengers. Can definitely kick my ass—it’s super hot.” 

You roll your eyes and shovel more noodles into your mouth before your smile gets out of hand. 

“She’s stupid pretty too,” he adds. “But obviously doesn’t know it.” 

Your face heats to an impossible degree, and you drop your gaze to your bowl, pretending to study the swirling noodles. 

“And she’s smart,” he goes on, completely unperturbed. “Witty as hell. The verbal warfare? Honestly, it’s better than foreplay.” 

You almost choke, barely managing to swallow without incident. When you look up, he’s just standing there, all cheeky and red-faced like he didn’t just soak your underwear with three lines of dialogue. 

“Wow,” you mutter. “She sounds pretty great. Sure you’re up for the challenge, though?” 

“Oh, I’m sure,” he says, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on the counter. “I know her weakness.” 

You lean forward too, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Kryptonite?” 

He shakes his head slowly, eyes darkening. “Me.” 

It’s just one word, but it slides in sharp and smooth—curling under your skin and lighting you up from the inside. 

You want to reply—say something snarky, or at least tell him he’s full of shit—but you can’t. Your voice is stuck somewhere in your chest, tangled up with the fire burning hot and bright for the man grinning at you. And goddamn, he might just be right. 

You finish your dinner in mostly comfortable silence, too flustered to manage much more than the occasional hum of agreement while Joaquín talks. His smile never fades, and that infuriating sparkle doesn’t leave his eye—not for a second. He knows he’s got you breathless, rattled, right where he wants you. And if you’ve got any hope of winning this bet, you’re going to need to flip the script. 

“I’ll wash up,” you say, already rounding the island toward the sink. 

He steps aside, placing his empty bowl into your outstretched hand with a note of hesitation. 

“You sure?” 

“You cooked,” you say with a nod. “I’ll clean.” 

He moves a few more steps around the bench, trading places with where you’d eaten your dinner. 

You turn to the sink and start the tap, sliding the plug into place before adding a generous squirt of dish soap to the growing pool of hot water. Then you move to the stove, wiping it down with a sudsy cloth and scrubbing at a few stubborn spots where the sauce had dried. 

Once the sink is full, you plunge your hands into the bubbly water and start with the cutlery. You keep your head down and your eyes on the task, refusing to give in to the weight of Joaquín’s stare burning into your back. 

“So,” he says after a beat, voice laced with something devious, “you clean and you fight. Why are you single?” 

You roll your eyes, grateful he can’t see the stupid smile tugging at your lips. 

“That’s kind of a long story,” you reply. 

He chuckles. “Baby, we’re stuck here indefinitely. No story could be that long.” 

Your heart stutters at the pet name. It’s tossed out casually, with no serious intent—but it still leaves you feeling way too warm. 

“I guess not,” you say with a breathy laugh. “I’m single because I choose to be—after a series of poor decisions. And I became single after my last boyfriend because... well, apparently my taste in men needs work.” 

“How bad are we talking?” he asks. 

You shift a handful of soapy cutlery into the empty side of the sink and rinse them under the cold tap. 

“Short version? He was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent turned HYDRA,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “The long version involves a lot of weird behaviour, some questionable kinks, too many fights to count, and probably one of the most violent breakups in history.” 

Joaquín raises his brows. “You kicked his ass, right?” 

“Oh, yeah,” you reply, turning back to the sink. 

“Good,” he says simply. 

You reach back into the water, feeling around for any remaining cutlery when— 

“Fuck,” you hiss, yanking your hand out of the sink. 

Blood smears across your knuckles and trickles down your wrist in a messy streak of crimson and bubbles. 

“What happened?” Joaquín is beside you in an instant, his eyes wide, hands hovering like he wants to help but isn’t sure where to start. 

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “I’m fine. It’s not that deep—it just looks worse with the water—” 

“Pause the bet,” he says firmly, cutting you off as he steps in and gently wraps his hand around your wrist. 

“Joaquín,” you sigh, “I’m okay. I’ve had worse.” 

He doesn’t look up. His eyes stay fixed on your hand, brow furrowed. “I don’t care. I’m helping you.” 

He leaves your side for only a second to grab the first aid kit from the cupboard above the stove. Then, without a word, he takes your uninjured hand and leads you to the lounge. 

“Sit,” he says, voice low. 

You do as you're told, sinking into the cushions as your heart thunders in your chest. He sits beside you—close. Too close. His thigh presses against yours, his warmth wrapping around you like a blanket. And his scent—ugh—like fresh-cut cedar and rain-damp leaves. But there’s heat beneath it, too. Something rougher. Like sweat, smoke, and the kind of trouble that finds you even when you hide. 

“You alright?” he asks, opening the kit on the coffee table. 

You straighten, quickly realising that you'd been slowly leaning into him. 

“Yeah,” you mutter. “I’m good. Sorry.” 

He chuckles softly, then takes your injured hand again—holding it in his lap like it’s the most important thing in the world. He works quietly, carefully, seemingly unaware of the tension crackling between you as his fingers graze yours with the utmost care. 

It’s almost hypnotic, the way he moves—cleaning the blood, dabbing antiseptic, wrapping your knuckles with gauze. But even when he’s finished, he doesn’t pull away. His touch lingers, his thumb stroking softly over the delicate bone in your wrist. 

His eyes flick to yours, then drop to your mouth—lingering there as he leans in. 

“You know,” he murmurs, “if it weren’t for this bet…” 

His hot breath brushes your lips, and your heart starts to beat so hard you wonder if you’ll survive it. 

"You’d what?" you ask, trying to sound steady—but your voice betrays you. 

“I’d kiss you,” he whispers. 

Your breath catches. Your chest aches. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears—so loud you can’t hear a single thought. 

You want to let him. You want to close the space between you and let him do every wicked thing he’s thinking. But you can’t. You won’t. You need to win. 

Instead, you smile—slow and dangerous. 

“Bet’s back on, Torres,” you say, standing as you slide your hand from his. 

You head back to the kitchen, steady and deliberate, refusing to let him see just how much he’s gotten to you. 

Behind you, he exhales a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters. 

You don’t look back, but your grin is smug—and you just know his is cocky. He’s loving the chase just as much as you’re loving the game. 

Back at the sink, you crouch down to rummage through the cupboard for the pair of rubber gloves you know you saw earlier. Once you find them, you slide them on with a snap and return to washing up, ignoring Joaquín’s protests. 

Eventually, he gives up with a dramatic sigh and grabs a dish towel, falling into step beside you to dry and put things away. The air between you simmers with silence—thick and heavy, like steam clinging to your skin. You exchange the occasional quiet ‘excuse me’, the barest brush of hands, and a few glances that linger a second too long. But mostly, it’s just tension. Hot and unbearable. 

The kitchen is too small. The space between counters is too narrow. And Joaquín is far too fucking attractive to focus on anything else. That soft smile. Those gentle, dark eyes. The sharp cut of his jaw, dusted with just a hint of stubble. And his curls—God, those curls. They make your fingers twitch with the urge to sink in and pull. 

As soon as you finish wiping down the sink and peeling off your gloves, you open your mouth to say you’re heading to bed—but Joaquín beats you to it. 

“I think I’m gonna call it a night,” he says, already edging out of the kitchen. “I know it’s early, but I’m... spent.” 

You nod, heartbeat still a little too fast. “Yeah. Me too.” 

“I’ll be quick in the bathroom,” he adds, flashing a soft smile. “Good night.” 

“Night, Torres.” 

And then he’s gone. 

You wait a few minutes before following, keeping yourself busy by wiping down the benches—again—and tidying the lounge room. Once you hear the soft click of his bedroom door shutting, you quietly pad upstairs and slip into the bathroom. 

You’ve each got a drawer in the vanity now, and you’ve promised not to look in the other’s... though the curiosity is killing you. Not that you really care about toothbrushes and dental picks—because of course he uses them. Have you seen those teeth? No, what you’re more interested in is whether there are any... toys. Or condoms. 

Because really, why would he need condoms at a safehouse? 

To fuck you, maybe? 

God, you hope so. 

Barely clinging to your restraint, you brush your teeth, wash your face, and tiptoe into your room. 

The house is almost too quiet tonight. And oppressively warm. You’re not sure if it’s the creeping summer heat—or just the tension between you and Joaquín—but either way, you need to let off some steam. 

There’s only one thin wall between your room and his, which isn’t ideal for what you’re about to do—but you’re pretty sure you’ll go insane if you don’t. So you suck in a deep breath and quietly slide the box from under your bed, picking out your quietest—you hope—vibrator before climbing up onto the mattress. 

Every shift of the sheets and every sharp inhale feels too loud in the dark room. You try to stay still, to keep calm, but your body won’t listen. It’s too wound up. Too eager. 

You shimmy out of your underwear and toss them toward the foot of the bed, letting your knees fall open as you move the toy to the apex of your thighs. You’re just about to press the little button when— 

A groan. 

Soft. Clipped short. But it definitely happened. 

“Holy shit,” you whisper, scrambling onto your knees. 

You know Joaquín’s room mirrors yours—bedhead pressed against the same wall—so you inch up and press your ear to it, holding your breath. Listening. 

There’s the quiet rustle of sheets. Barely audible. The faint whisper of wind—your window, probably. And then—a sigh. Soft and breathy. 

Your eyes widen as you lean impossibly close. 

Another groan—louder this time. Not stifled. 

Oh, God. Is this real? 

Then you hear it. The quiet slap of skin on skin. A steady rhythm, fast and getting faster. 

Holy fucking shit. 

You drop back onto the mattress, toy still in hand, and resume your position. You suck in a breath as you press the cool silicone to your core, hissing it out through your teeth at the contact. 

Then—a hitched breath. Sheets shifting. Silence. 

Oh. He heard you. 

Fighting a wicked grin, you press the button and the toy hums to life in your hand—a soft whimper escaping your lips as you melt into the pillows. 

Through the wall, you hear a strangled, “Fuck.” 

Your heart leaps—racing now, pounding against your ribs. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and picture him. Sprawled on the bed. Eyes dark and dazed. Boxers shoved halfway down his thighs. Hand wrapped tightly around his cock. 

It makes your thighs quiver. 

Another groan rumbles through the wall, and you arch into the toy, pretending it’s him instead—his hand, his mouth, his breath hot on your skin. 

“Oh,” you sigh, all hesitation gone. “Joaquín.” His name slips from your lips like a prayer. Barely audible—but you know he hears it. 

Because his rhythm falters—then quickens. His breath is shallow and sharp now, rough and uneven. 

Normally, you’d take your time—drag it out until the ache is unbearable. But not tonight. You can’t stop. You won’t. Not with the image of him burning in your mind—eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed, lips pink and parted as he pants. 

You’re already close. So close. 

And by the sound of his soft whimpers—threaded with your name—he is too. 

You bite your lip to hold in a moan, desperate to hear his sounds over your own, but it escapes anyway—soft and broken. 

Then you hear him. A low groan. Raw and wrecked. 

You writhe against the sheets, your hand shaking as it clutches the toy. Whispers. Sighs. Soft moans—some his, some yours. At this point, you can’t even tell. All of it winds tight behind your hipbones, pressure threatening to burst. 

Then his breath hitches. Stutters. Breaks. And your name—your name—leaves his mouth in a low, guttural groan. 

It isn’t quiet. 

It isn’t hesitant. 

It’s loud. And it’s enough. 

You break. 

His name tumbles from your lips, over and over, a reverent chant as you fall over the edge—boneless, breathless, and blushing. 

- 

You wake too hot and far too exposed, sunlight spilling through the blinds you forgot to close. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, your thoughts still slow and hazy— 

Then you bolt upright, the memory of last night burning fresh in your mind. 

Fuck. 

The sound of the bathroom door closing—right across the hall—makes you jump. Your head snaps toward your own door, left ajar in your rush to get to bed. God, that was stupid. 

After a solid ten minutes of berating yourself for acting like a cat in heat, you finally drag yourself out of bed and pull out some clothes. You wait until you hear Joaquín leave the bathroom before darting across the hall and practically slamming the door behind you. 

You spend longer than usual in the shower, one eye on the door through the fogged glass. You’re not sure what you’re hoping for—maybe that he’ll walk in by accident again. Or on purpose. Maybe join you. Show you exactly what he’d been doing to himself last night. 

The thought alone makes you ache, your thighs pressing together instinctively. 

You shut off the water, dry off, get dressed, and brace yourself to face the man who starred in every hot dream you had last night. 

Maybe you need a new house rule: no mutual masturbation through the wall. 

“Morning,” Joaquín says the second you step into the kitchen. 

He’s leaning against the counter beside the coffee machine, one hand cradling a mug and the other braced casually behind him. His eyes are dark and wicked, glinting with something that makes your heart stutter. 

“Morning,” you mutter, keeping your gaze low as you head for the fridge. 

“Sleep well?” he asks. 

You swallow hard, willing your cheeks not to flush. The asshole knows exactly what he’s doing. 

“Yeah,” you say lightly. “Great sleep. You?” 

“Best I’ve had since getting here.” 

You nod, lips pursed as you pretend to study the fridge’s pitiful contents. “That’s good.” 

A beat of silence follows—thick and humming with everything you’re both refusing to say. 

Then he breaks it with a simple, “Coffee?” 

Your stomach growls in response, and when you glance over your shoulder, it feels like all the air has been knocked out of you by just how downright delicious he looks. He’s in a muscle tee, arms bare and still gleaming from the shower, curls damp and falling over his forehead. His smile is devastating—lazy and knowing—and has no business affecting the parts of your body that it is. 

You snap your eyes to the machine instead, clearing your throat. “Yes, please.” 

He nods, sets down his mug, and reaches into the cupboard for a clean one. You stay planted on your side of the kitchen island, knowing damn well that you might not make it out of this room with your dignity intact if you get any closer to him. 

It doesn’t take long before he sets the steaming mug of fresh coffee on the bench in front of you. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, wrapping your hands around it. 

He nods, watching as you blow gently across the surface of the liquid. 

When you glance up, he raises his brows—a silent question. 

“It’s hot,” you say simply. 

He chuckles, low and warm. “Like last night.” 

Your eyes go wide, and you nearly drop the mug. 

“The temperature,” he amends quickly. “Just couldn’t cool down. Summer is definitely on its way.” 

You narrow your eyes, carefully setting the mug back on the counter as you drag your tongue along your top teeth. He just stands there—smug and unrelenting. 

“What happened to boundaries?” you ask, arching a brow. 

He laughs again, and the sound is somehow hotter than the coffee. “What do you mean? A wall is a boundary, isn’t it?” 

Then he turns, drops his mug in the sink, and flashes you one last, infuriating wink before strolling out of the kitchen—like he didn’t just fry every nerve ending in your body. 

You spend the rest of the day avoiding him. 

You can’t so much as be in the same room without seeing mental images of him sprawled naked on his bed, getting himself off to the thought of you. 

And God, doesn’t he know it. 

The smug smile on his lips hasn’t faltered in hours. Every time you pass him—every time you glance at his stupidly handsome face—there it is. Those pretty pink lips, curled into the most delicious, insufferable smirk you’ve ever seen. 

If Sam doesn’t find whoever’s trying to kill you soon, you might just die stuck in this safehouse with Joaquín. 

Then it hits you. 

You’re out on the back porch, a book in your lap, pretending to read when the idea flashes through your mind like a lightbulb flicking on. Your eyes go wide and you shoot up from the old porch swing, your book dropping to the ground as you sprint into the house. 

“Joaquín!” you call. “Joaquín, I think I know who it is!” 

You turn into the lounge room—empty. 

Then duck into the kitchen—also empty. 

When you spin around to double back and check the other side of the house, you run right into him. Chest-first. Firm, warm… and damp. 

You glance up. “What the fuck?” 

He’s in gym clothes, sweat trailing from his cheekbone to his jaw, curls sticking adorably to his glistening skin. He must’ve been working out. Where? You have no idea. But whatever he was doing was clearly working his body, and it’s probably a good thing you hadn’t witnessed it. You might’ve dropped dead on the spot. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, slightly breathless, a hint of panic in his tone. 

You step back quickly, dragging your eyes up to his face—away from the tight gym clothes that are making your mouth water. 

“I—I think I know who it could be,” you say. 

He frowns. “Who?” 

“Whoever’s after me.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. Remember last night, I told you about my ex?” 

He nods. 

“Well… when we broke up, it was messy. He tried to get me to join HYDRA. Told me he loved me and couldn’t live without me. Said I didn’t know the whole story, but once I did, I’d want to join them.” You hesitate. “I told him to eat a bag of dicks. Then it got physical. We fought. He almost had me—but I got lucky. I couldn’t kill him, though. So I let him go.” 

You feel almost stupid admitting it, but Joaquín doesn’t look even remotely judgmental. 

“The last thing he said to me,” you continue, “was that he’d never give up. That he’d find a way to get me back or—” 

“Or what?” Joaquín prompts. 

“Or he’d kill me.” 

His brows shoot up. “Oh. Okay. Yeah, that’s probably something you should’ve told Sam earlier.” 

You shrug, sheepish. “I kind of forgot. I didn’t take it seriously. He always said stupid, dramatic stuff like that.” 

Joaquín blinks hard, like he’s physically stopping himself from rolling his eyes. “You really need better taste in men.” 

You glance up at him through your lashes, dragging your bottom lip between your teeth. “I’ve got much better taste now.” 

He inhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut like you’re dangling a drug in front of a recovering addict. 

“You’re going to kill me,” he mutters, stepping back. “We need to call Sam.” 

You nod, eyes shamelessly glued to his ass as he turns away. “Yeah. Call Sam.” 

A few hours later, under the cover of darkness, Sam arrives, and you all gather around the small kitchen island to discuss the possibility that your ex is behind the attack. 

It all seems to add up, and Sam quickly calls the contact in the Secretary’s office who’s helping him. He explains the situation, gives your ex’s name, and starts organising a team to locate and apprehend him. 

You want to ask if you can come along—this is your mess, after all—but you know he won’t say yes. And a small part of you wants to stay here, in the house with Joaquín, because suddenly this little townhouse feels a lot less godforsaken than it did before. And you don’t really want to leave… 

“Alright,” Sam says, sliding his phone into his pocket. “They’re looking for him now. They’ll let me know as soon as they have any leads, and then we’re going in. He’s been mostly MIA for the past few years, but when he’s popped up, it’s been suspicious.” 

You nod. “So, he’s still HYDRA?” 

Sam shrugs. “I’m not even sure HYDRA is still operating. But whatever he’s up to, it’s definitely nothing good.” 

“Why?” Joaquín asks, his eyes locked on you, a playful smirk trying to appear but looking a little forced. “Thinking about getting back together?” 

You narrow your eyes, lips pulling into a soft, amused smile. “Torres, are you irrationally jealous of my ex?” 

He scoffs. “No. Absolutely not. Just—” 

“Oh, man,” Sam sighs, shaking his head. “What the hell have I done leaving you two alone for this long?” 

You roll your eyes. “Shut up, Sam.” 

Joaquín chuckles. 

Sam’s eyes narrow at you, amusement written all over his face. “Did I hit a nerve?” 

You ignore him and turn to leave the kitchen. 

“You know,” he calls after you, “you have my blessing. If you two want to fuck, I don’t—” 

“I’m going to shower now,” you cut in, shooting a lethal glare over your shoulder before disappearing around the corner. 

You hear them both giggling as you ascend the stairs, rolling your eyes again when you reach your room. You grab some clean clothes and carry them into the bathroom—only to realize your towel is still in the dryer. You start the shower, letting it heat up, then duck out and begin heading downstairs to get to the laundry. 

But then you hear your name and freeze mid-step, leaning over the banister to listen closer. 

“So,” Sam says, “you two haven’t… you know?” 

“No,” Joaquín replies. “We haven’t slept together.” 

Sam chuckles. “You sure? Because you can practically taste the sexual tension in here.” 

There’s a brief pause, then a heavy breath—Joaquín’s, you assume. 

“Something… kind of happened last night.” 

Your eyes go wide. No way he’s about to tell Sam— 

“We could hear each other,” he says, “through the wall.” 

Another pause. 

“Doing what?” Sam asks slowly, as if unsure he really wants the answer. 

“You know,” Joaquín says. “Getting off.” 

“Oh, my God!” Sam exclaims. 

You drop your head into your hands, cheeks burning against your palms. 

“Shut up, dude!” Joaquín hisses. “I doubt she’d want me to tell you that.” 

“Then why did you?” 

“You basically asked!” 

Sam scoffs. “I asked if you’d slept together. Not if you’d jerked off on opposite sides of the wall. Jesus Christ, how old are you? Eighteen?” 

“Shut up,” Joaquín mutters, his voice muffled like he’s covering his face. 

You start quietly continuing down the stairs, deciding you’ve eavesdropped enough. Until— 

“Okay,” Sam says, “so if you’re into each other, why haven’t you slept together?” 

“I don’t know, really,” Joaquín replies. “She’s cautious, I think. And I don’t want to pressure her. But God, it’s so fucking hard.” 

Sam chuckles. “I bet it is.” 

“Dude,” Joaquín says, deadpan. 

“What?” 

Joaquín sighs, exasperated. “Look, I really like her. She’s so much cooler than I ever imagined. I don’t want to blow it by—” 

“Blowing it?” Sam cuts in. 

“How old are you?” Joaquín fires back, and you can almost picture him narrowing his eyes at his mentor. 

“Sorry,” Sam mutters, though he’s still laughing softly. “I’ll stop.” 

“Good,” Joaquín says, taking a deep breath. “I’m going to ask her out properly once all this shit is over. I want to try actually dating her. Like, romantic-styles.” 

Your heart thuds harder in your chest, your pulse pounding in your throat. 

“Romantic-styles?” Sam repeats. 

“Yeah. Like flowers and dates, stolen kisses, late-night talks, anniversaries, handmade cards—” 

“Making love under the moonlight?” Sam interjects, voice dramatically wistful. 

“Yes,” Joaquín says firmly. “I want to make love to her under the moonlight, goddammit. I want all the dumb, romantic, cheesy shit you see in movies. Because I like her. A lot.” 

Sam whistles under his breath. “Damn, son. I think you’re whipped.” 

“Shut up,” Joaquín mutters. 

You’re frozen halfway down the hall toward the laundry. Your cheeks are burning, your heart is racing, and you can’t remember how to breathe. Everything Joaquín said is possibly the lamest thing you’ve ever heard—in real life—but somehow, it’s making your head spin and your chest ache. 

Then you hear footsteps. 

Startled, you hurry down the hall, silently thanking your years of training for lightning-fast reflexes. You duck into the laundry, grab your towel from the dryer, check the hall is clear, and bolt back upstairs. 

Then you lock yourself in the bathroom. Panting like you’ve just run a marathon and blushing like a fool in love. 

After an intentionally cold shower, you throw on a pair of sweats and an oversized tee before making your way back downstairs. The house smells like roasted garlic with a hint of herbs—rosemary and thyme, you think—and the closer you get to the kitchen, the richer and more mouthwatering it becomes. 

By the time you step into the kitchen, you’re practically drooling. And not just because of the drop-dead gorgeous man at the stove, cooking like it’s his own personal brand of foreplay. 

“Damn,” you sigh. “That smells incredible.” 

Joaquín grins over his shoulder, flipping something in the pan without even looking. “Garlic and herb roasted chicken, with caramelised onion and sweet potatoes.” 

You lean forward and rest your elbows on the kitchen island, propping your chin in your hands. “It’s like you walked straight out of some lonely housewife’s favourite sexual fantasy.” 

Sam chuckles from across the room, one shoulder braced against the wall. “You sure it’s not your fantasy?” 

You roll your eyes. “Why are you even still here? Shouldn’t you be out looking for my asshole ex?” 

“I’m off the clock until we’ve got a confirmed location,” he says with a smug grin. “And Joaquín invited me to stay for dinner.” 

You stand upright, crossing your arms and scowling at him. “This is a safehouse, Sam. We’re supposed to be undercover, not hosting dinner parties.” 

He raises a brow. “If you want to talk about the stuff you’re not supposed to be doing in this house, we can—” 

“Okay!” Joaquín cuts in, just a little too loudly. “Dinner’s ready. Let’s plate up.” 

You and Sam both glance at him with narrowed, knowing eyes. His cheeks are pink, brows lifted, and his mouth is pressed into a tight smile. 

With a sigh, you decide to let it go and start laying out plates and cutlery while Joaquín serves. Each of you gets a full plate of the mouthwatering dinner he’s somehow whipped up, despite constantly complaining about the grocery situation Sam leaves him with. Then you all move into the dining room on the opposite side of the entrance hall from the lounge. You’ve barely used it since hiding out here. It’s small, just like the rest of the house, and wouldn’t comfortably seat more than four people around the circular table. 

It’s quiet at first—the only sound the soft scrape of cutlery on plates as you all dig into what is, frankly, an obnoxiously delicious meal. You can feel Sam’s eyes flicking between you and Joaquín, that annoying little half-smirk tugging at his lips. 

You can also feel the heat of Joaquín’s thigh brushing close to yours—because for some stupid reason, you decided to sit next to him instead of Sam. 

“She’s all tough now,” Sam says, leaning toward Joaquín and eyeing you as you sip your wine, “but just wait until she’s had two more glasses.” 

You set your glass down with a little more force than necessary. “I will bury you in the backyard, Wilson.” 

Joaquín chuckles, eyes still on you even as he mutters to Sam, “Pretty sure that’s the fourth time today she’s threatened someone with murder.” 

Sam raises his brows, that smirk deepening. “And you still want to date her?” 

Joaquín grins—all cocky charm and perfect teeth. “Are you kidding? That’s half the appeal.” 

Your wide eyes snap to his, heat rising from your chest right up to the tips of your ears. 

“What?” he says with a casual shrug. “It’s true.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut and pinch the bridge of your nose, silently begging the floor to swallow you whole—just to escape his stupidly perfect face… and Sam’s insufferably smug one. 

After a beat of silence—far too brief for your liking—Sam starts up again, eyes locked on you and sparkling with mischief. 

“So, what happens if it is this ex-boyfriend of yours?” he asks. 

You raise a brow, swallowing your mouthful of food before replying, “Isn’t that your job, Captain America? Last I checked, lowly civilians like me don’t get to decide the fate of the bad guys.” 

“But if you could,” he presses, propping one elbow on the table, “what would you decide?” 

You bite your lip, gaze drifting to a blank spot on the wall behind him as you consider it. 

“I’d probably kill him,” you say simply. “Or send him to the Raft.” 

Sam’s brows lift. “Really? That harsh?” 

You nod, stabbing a piece of potato like it insulted your bloodline. “He’s an asshole. And obviously a dangerous one. So if it’s between my life and his? I pick mine.” 

“Wow,” Sam mutters, glancing down at his plate. 

You frown. “Why is that surprising? He’s a dirtbag.” 

“I mean, now he is,” Sam says with a shrug, his eyes sliding—none too subtly—toward Joaquín, “but from what I heard, the two of you were pretty serious. Like, real serious.” 

“From what you heard?” you echo, incredulous. 

“Yeah. Barton and Romanoff used to mention it. Apparently, you were talking marriage. Settling down. Getting out of the game.” 

You drop your knife and fork like they’ve scalded you, lips parting in disbelief at the sheer nerve of the man across from you. 

Joaquín shifts beside you, visibly tense. His jaw works as he stares down at his plate, knuckles white around his cutlery. 

“Seriously, Sam?” you ask, leaning forward. “You’re asking me if I’m still in love with the man we think just put a hit out on me?” 

Sam just nods and pops another bite of chicken into his mouth, utterly unfazed. 

There’s a beat of silence. 

Then— 

“Are you?” Joaquín asks. 

Your eyes snap to him, brow furrowed. “No, you idiot. I’m not.” 

Then you turn back to Sam, who’s clearly seconds away from laughing. “And you—what the hell was that? Just because I once considered marrying someone I was in a committed relationship with doesn’t mean I’m still hung up on him. In fact, if he wasn’t actively trying to kill me, I wouldn’t even be thinking about him right now. Because you know what? The only goddamn thing on my mind lately is this—” you shoot a pointed look at Joaquín, heat blooming in your chest— “this unholy combination of soft curls and filthy intentions—which, by the way, you are one hundred percent aware of.” 

Sam makes a choking noise, but you don’t stop. 

“So don’t play dumb. Or coy. Or whatever little psychological warfare tactic you think you’re running to stir shit up. We don’t need your help turning up the tension in this house.” You stand abruptly, flustered and flushed. “It is already stifling in here. And I swear to God, I am this close to snapping.” 

Then you pick up your plate, turn on your heel, and storm back through the house toward the kitchen—heart pounding in your ears, and face so hot you’re amazed you haven’t already burst into flames. 

“What did she just call me?” you hear Joaquín ask. 

Sam chuckles. “I believe it was an unholy combination of soft curls and filthy intentions.” 

Joaquín laughs quietly, and you hate the way the sound alone makes you smile. 

“Damn,” he mutters. 

“She likes you, Falcon,” Sam teases. “The big bad assassin lady likes you.” 

You roll your eyes and drop your plate on the kitchen island, deciding to finish the annoyingly delicious dinner before cleaning up. 

Fifteen minutes later, once you’ve decided you’ve regained enough dignity to face them again, you move your empty plate to the sink and head back to the dining room. Without saying a word, you stack their plates in one hand and grab your wine glass with the other, downing the rest of it in two bitter gulps. 

Then you return to the kitchen to start washing up, half-listening as their conversation drifts from the dining room to the lounge. 

Once everything is clean, you refill everyone’s wine glasses and join them in the lounge room, dragging a chair in from the dining room since there’s no space left on the tiny couch. 

Thankfully, the conversation doesn’t stray far from work. Joaquín asks Sam about the plan once they manage to locate your ex, and Sam reassures him that they—whoever he’s working with—have it covered. You can tell from Joaquín’s steady stream of questions that he’s worried. And it’s not just the standard concern for civilian safety. He’s worried about you. 

And damn if that doesn’t make your heart ache a little. 

Eventually, Sam flicks on the TV and picks a movie. You can tell he’s had enough of Joaquín’s interrogation, so you play along and pretend to be invested in whatever crappy comedy he’s chosen. 

On your way to refill everyone’s glasses, you grab a spare blanket and lay it out on the lounge room floor. Then you steal two cushions off the couch and settle down on the blanket, wine in hand, pretending to watch the screen while trying very hard to ignore the weight of Joaquín’s gaze. 

An hour and almost two bottles of wine later, the movie ends, the screen bathing the dark room in soft white light as the credits roll. 

“Alright,” Sam sighs, tipping the last of his wine into his mouth. “No way I’m getting home now. I’ll crash on the couch.” 

You and Joaquín snap toward him in unison—eyes wide, lips tight. 

“What?” he deadpans. “I’ve had too many drinks and I don’t feel like catching a cab. You two can keep it in your pants for one more night.” 

Joaquín takes a long breath through his nose, his jaw flexing with tension. You’re not sure what shifted in the last couple of hours—maybe Sam’s meddling worked—but the tension in the room is unbearable. Your heart won’t slow down, your skin feels too hot, and honestly, if you don’t feel Joaquín’s hands on you soon, you might actually go feral. Claws out, back arched, hissing kind of feral. 

“Alright,” Joaquín mutters through clenched teeth. “Take the couch.” 

You collect the empty glasses and take them to the kitchen while Joaquín grabs the blanket from the floor and drapes it over Sam, who’s settling into the world’s smallest couch like he owns the place. Then you move quietly back through the lounge room and meet Joaquín at the bottom of the stairs. The air between you is practically humming—so thick with tension one spark might blow the whole house sky-high. 

“G’night,” Sam mumbles, entirely too smug. 

“Night,” Joaquín replies, clipped. 

“Night,” you echo, with a glare over your shoulder. “Hope your back hurts in the morning.” 

Sam chuckles behind you, completely unbothered by the two of you stomping up the stairs like thunder. 

You head straight for the bathroom, flicking on the too-bright light before stopping in front of the vanity and grabbing your toothbrush from the cup beside the sink. 

Your reflection is a perfect mirror of how you're feeling—which is absolutely and completely wrecked. Your hair’s a mess, your lips wine-stained, your cheeks flushed, and your eyes wide and dark with an unrecognisable kind of hunger. 

It’s almost laughable, the way your reflection exposes just how utterly undone you are by the man standing beside you. 

Joaquín grabs his toothbrush and silently takes the tube of toothpaste from your outstretched hand. Then you both take turns wetting your brushes before wordlessly starting to brush your teeth. 

You glance at him in the mirror, shamelessly studying the pretty features of his perfect face—soft curls, straight nose, sharp jaw, and those same wide, hungry eyes staring intently at his own reflection. 

His elbow brushes yours, but he doesn’t seem to notice—not in the same way you do, at least. A sharp jolt of electricity shoots up your arm and through your shoulder, making you shiver. 

He catches your eye in the mirror and pauses, quirking a brow—just the tiniest, stupidest smirk. But it still sends your heart vaulting into your throat. 

The heat in your cheeks intensifies as you duck your head and focus on rinsing. The water is cold as you splash it over your mouth, but it does nothing to cool the fire simmering beneath your skin. 

“This is torture,” he mutters. 

You dry your mouth on a towel before straightening, frowning at him in the mirror. “What?” 

He gives you a flat look. “This. You. Me. Captain fucking America sleeping on the couch.” 

Your breath stutters, and you have to grip the counter to steady yourself. “It’s one night. We can do one more night.” 

Joaquín blinks, then turns toward you—actually looking at you, not your reflection. “One more night,” he says quietly. “Then what?” 

Your eyes drop to his lips, lingering there as his tongue flicks between them. “You know what.” 

“Say it,” he mutters, stepping closer. 

Your breath hitches, still locked on his mouth. 

“One more night,” he repeats slowly. “Then… what?” 

You let out a shaky breath and take a reluctant step back. “Then…” You swallow, lifting your gaze to meet his. “Then you fuck me so hard I forget why we waited this long.” 

He stops breathing. 

His eyes go wide—impossibly dark. His whole body goes still. 

Your stomach flips. Your knees wobble. But somehow you keep moving, brushing past him and walking straight into your room. 

You feel the heat of his gaze on your back. The phantom drag of his fingers down your spine—even though he hasn’t touched you. Not properly. Not since you made up that stupid, wildly ineffective rule. 

You shut the door without looking back, not trusting yourself to survive what you’d see—him, still standing there. Mouth open, eyes black, foamy toothbrush dangling stupidly from his lips. 

God, even dental hygiene is sexy when he does it. 

You fall face-first onto the bed, groaning into the sheets. 

It’s going to be a long fucking night. 

You spend an hour trying to fall asleep. Tossing, turning, blankets on, blankets off. One pillow, two pillows, fluffed pillow, no pillow. Nothing helps. 

Sleep evades you. 

You’re too hot. Too wound up. The wine and the tension are thrumming through your veins like electricity. Your pulse won’t slow. Your breath won’t settle. All you can think about is Joaquín—his stupid smile, his eyes, his lips, his hands. The way all of it would feel against your burning skin. The way he’d unravel the knot sitting low and tight behind your hipbones, slow and deliberate and maddening. 

It’s too much. You can barely breathe. 

You need to do something. 

After what feels like an eternity, you throw the blankets off and lean over the side of the bed, reaching underneath until your fingers find the box. You slide it out and fumble through its contents for your little bullet vibrator. It’s not the quietest, but it’s efficient—and at this point, you don’t care what Joaquín hears. You just need release. 

You use your phone’s flashlight illuminate the box, but after a few seconds of empty searching, you remember… it’s in the bathroom drawer. 

Of course it is. 

With a quiet sigh, you swing your legs off the bed and pad softly to the door, careful not to let the squeaky hinges whine too loudly. You don’t bother with the lights as you tiptoe into the bathroom, stepping up to the vanity and slowly sliding open the top drawer—your drawer. 

You quickly find the small vibrator and wrap your fingers around it before gently shutting the drawer. Then you turn and tiptoe out of the bathroom, your bedroom door in sight when— 

Joaquín steps into your path. Shirtless. Curls a mess. Nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants slung dangerously low on his hips. 

You duck your head and try—feebly—to sidestep him, but he moves with you, crowding into your space until your spine meets the bathroom doorframe. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low and rough. 

He steps in closer, slow and deliberate, and the hallway suddenly feels too small. Too warm. His face is cast in soft shadow, but you can still see every perfect line—sharp cheekbones, full lips, that frustratingly elegant nose. The kind of face sculptors dream of and sinners pray to. 

But it’s his eyes that undo you. 

Dark. Wild. Burning with something untamed. Hunger, yes—but barely restrained. Like he’s holding himself back with a single fraying thread, one you’re both terrified and desperate to snap. 

You manage the smallest nod. 

He edges even closer, his bare chest now just a breath from your peaked nipples beneath your thin cotton shirt. 

“You’re not wearing a shirt,” you murmur, voice embarrassingly breathless. 

His jaw ticks as he looks at you—like he’s trying not to do something reckless. Then his tongue slides slowly across his bottom lip. “You’re not wearing pants.” 

“Guess we’re both breaking rules,” you whisper. 

He lifts a hand to your face, knuckles grazing from your cheekbone down to your jaw. “What’s one more, then?” 

Your breath hitches, heart pounding in your throat. “Which one?” 

He hums softly, his eyes trained on his fingers as they ghost along your jaw and down the column of your throat. 

“Guess,” he says quietly. 

Then he grips your chin. Hard. Fingers digging into your jaw, forcing your mouth open. 

“You have no fucking idea how hard it’s been not to touch you,” he growls. 

Then he surges forward and crushes his mouth to yours, all heat and hunger and pent-up fucking agony. It’s not soft. Not sweet. It’s a collision—teeth and tongue and a groan so guttural it vibrates against your lips. You gasp into him and he swallows it whole, devouring you like he’s starving. 

Your head hits the doorframe with a soft thud, but you don’t care. You’re too far gone. His hands find your hips, rough and possessive, gripping you like he wants his fingerprints embedded in your bones. 

You whimper—and that’s all the encouragement he needs. 

He shoves a knee between your legs, pressing his thigh up against your core. The pressure punches the air from your lungs—hot and perfectly placed—and your hips grind down on him before you can stop yourself. 

He groans into your mouth, deep and wrecked, and then his teeth catch your bottom lip in a sharp, punishing bite. Not enough to break skin, but enough to make you gasp. 

“Shh,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Gotta keep it down, baby. We’ve got guests.” 

Then he kisses you again. Harder. Desperate and possessive. Like he’s trying to brand you with his mouth alone. 

You try to lift your hands—to touch him, to feel—but he’s faster. He catches your wrists and slams them above your head, pinning them with one hand as the other slides down and cups your breast, rough and reverent all at once. 

You gasp against his mouth, a shocked, breathless sound that he swallows greedily. 

Then he stills. 

His eyes drag up to where your hands are trapped. To the shape pressed between your fingers—small, hard, and anything but innocent. 

He pulls back just enough to uncurl your grip, slow and deliberate. You try to pull away, but he’s stronger—too strong—and within seconds, he’s holding the little vibrator up between two fingers. Right in front of your face. 

“This what you came out here for?” he asks, voice ragged, low, thick with disbelief and something darker. 

You can’t answer. You’re too stunned. Your breath is coming in shallow gasps, your chest rising and falling like you’ve been sprinting. 

He drops his gaze to your lips, then back to your eyes. And smirks. 

“Nah,” he murmurs, voice like smoke. “You don’t need that.” 

The vibrator drops from his hand, hitting the floor with a soft, humiliating thunk. 

For a moment, neither of you move. 

Then he’s on you again. 

His mouth crashes into yours—devouring, claiming—like he needs you more than air. Like kissing you is the only thing keeping him alive. 

You moan into him, fingers twitching with the need to touch, to claw. He releases your wrists and you drop them instantly to his shoulders, then into his curls, grabbing hard enough to make him groan. 

His hands find your hips again, rough and greedy, dragging you closer until his thigh slots back between your legs. The pressure is maddening. Perfect. You grind down with a gasp, hips rolling instinctively against the solid muscle. 

He pulls back just enough to smirk against your mouth, that dark, cocky glint flashing in his eyes. “Yeah,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Just like that.” 

His fingers tighten on your hips, guiding you into another slow, filthy grind. The drag of fabric against your clit electric. You whimper and drop your forehead to his, your breaths mingling in the heat between you. 

Every rock of your hips sends sparks shooting up your spine, the ache between your legs growing unbearable. His thigh flexes beneath you—deliberate, teasing—and you feel his breathing start to match your own, ragged and fast. 

“Gonna cum on my thigh, baby?” he asks, breathless but teasing. 

You can’t form words. You just whine—a needy, broken sound that ghosts past your lips and makes him chuckle, low and dangerous. 

“That’s it,” he mutters, guiding you a little higher on his thigh. “That’s my girl.” 

You grind harder, chasing the friction, the pressure, the devastating edge that’s so close it hurts. His hands are locked on your hips, dragging you over him like he wants to leave bruises behind. 

“You feel that?” he rasps, mouth brushing your jaw as he speaks. “How fucking wet you are for me?” 

You nod—frantic, breathless—but it’s not enough. He growls low in his throat and suddenly pulls you down harder, his thigh flexing beneath you. You bite down on a cry, head tipping back against the doorframe as your body trembles. 

“You’re so fucking hot like this,” he breathes, watching your face like it’s the most obscene thing he’s ever seen. “Soak my leg, baby—come on.” 

One hand slips up your shirt, calloused fingers grazing the bare skin of your belly before cupping your breast—no bra, just heat and softness and a tight nipple begging for attention. He rolls it between his fingers, rough and greedy, and your hips jerk in response. 

“Jesus, you’re so fucking responsive,” he mutters, leaning in to bite down on the soft skin beneath your jaw. 

You gasp, nails digging into his scalp, dragging him closer. 

“Please,” you whisper, not even sure what you’re begging for—release, more, everything. 

He lifts his head, eyes dark and glittering with wicked intent. “You wanna cum for me, baby?” he asks, voice thick and taunting. “Wanna make a mess all over my thigh like a needy little slut?” 

You whimper—pathetic and wrecked—and he smirks. “Then take it. Rub that desperate little pussy on me like you mean it.” 

He moves his thigh up harder, fingers biting into your hips as he guides you, using your body like it’s his to play with. And it is. 

You’re grinding shamelessly now, panting into his mouth, broken noises falling from your lips as the heat builds. You’re close—so fucking close. Muscles tightening, vision going spotty— 

“Cum for me,” he growls. “Right fucking now.” 

And you do. 

With a strangled whimper, you break—hips jerking, thighs quaking, mouth falling open in a silent scream as pleasure tears through you like a live wire. You bury your face in his neck, biting down on a gasp, desperate to stay quiet. 

A muffled moan slips out anyway, ragged and breathy against his skin. He groans, low and wrecked, one hand fisting in your hair as your body trembles against his. 

“Shh,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, even as his thigh flexes beneath you to draw out every last wave. “You’ve gotta be quiet, baby. Sam’s just downstairs.” 

But you can’t stop shaking—your orgasm crashing over you in hot, relentless pulses—your nails clawing at his back, your teeth sinking into his neck to stifle another sound. 

He holds you through it, breath thick and uneven, a dark smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he feels you unravel. 

“So fucking good for me,” he whispers. “So sweet when you try to behave.” 

He kisses you again—slow, filthy, coaxing you through the aftershocks with soft praise and a hot tongue. His lips drag along yours like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to taste every noise you made. 

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathes, eyes half-lidded and burning. “So fucking sexy.” 

Then, without warning, he lifts you—strong arms locking under your thighs, making you gasp as your legs wrap instinctively around his waist. You cling to him, giggling breathlessly against his shoulder as he starts walking down the hall. 

His mouth finds your throat again, biting softly as he mutters, “You know I’m not stopping ‘til you’re ruined for anyone else, right?” 

You let out a wrecked little laugh, and he grins—dark and dangerous. 

“Gonna fuck you so good, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, voice wrecked and wicked. “Gonna make that pretty little mouth scream my name ‘til it’s the only word you know.” 

You shudder—helpless, breathless—and he chuckles low in his chest, kissing the hinge of your jaw as he kicks open his bedroom door. 

- 

The door clicks softly shut behind you as you both step out into the hall, but neither of you move. 

Joaquín’s back hits it a second later, pulling you with him—your chest flush to his, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a moan. 

“Joaquín,” you sigh, warning in your voice but no real conviction behind it. 

“Mmh?” He leans in, mouth already dragging along the curve of your jaw, his hands low on your hips. “Just one more.” 

You bite back a grin, threading your fingers through his messy curls as his lips brush yours—soft, slow, intoxicating. His tongue teases your bottom lip, coaxing it open, and before you can stop yourself, you’re kissing him again. 

Deeper this time. Greedy. Sweet. A little wrecked. 

His hands wander. Squeezing. Grabbing. Remembering every filthy, delicious way they unravelled you last night. 

He trails kisses along your jaw, down the column of your throat, sucking a bruise into the dip of your collarbone as he lowers himself slowly. 

Dropping to his knees. 

You tip your head back, lips parted and panting softly. 

“We—We have to go downstairs,” you murmur, though you don’t try to move. 

“I am downstairs,” he mumbles, lifting the hem of his shirt to kiss your stomach. 

You let out a shaky little laugh, your breath hitching as his tongue slides over your hipbone. 

His hands slip up beneath the shirt, fingertips dancing over your hot skin like he’s thinking about dragging you back to bed. Again. 

You’ve been trying to get downstairs for over an hour now. This is the furthest you’ve gotten. 

“You’re not helping,” you hiss, voice catching as his knuckles graze the underside of your breast. 

“I’m not trying to.” 

You thread your fingers through his curls and tug, reluctantly pulling his mouth away from you. He looks up at you through thick lashes, eyes dark and hungry, grinning like a man thoroughly satisfied with his own choices. 

“Come on,” you sigh softly, wanting nothing more than to have his head between your legs again like it was twenty minutes ago. 

He rises to his full height with a playful eyeroll, slipping one hand into yours and lacing your fingers. Then he uses his free hand to cup your head and pull you toward him, pressing a tender kiss to your temple before turning down the hall. 

“Let’s get this over with,” he says with a soft chuckle. 

You giggle quietly, biting your lip to stop yourself from begging him back to bed. 

Halfway down the stairs, he leans in, lips brushing your ear. “You realise I’m gonna spend all day thinking about what you sound like when you cum.” 

You nearly trip, but he catches you easily—smug and warm behind you, his laughter a hot puff of air against your neck. 

You elbow him, but you’re smiling, flushed and glowing and absolutely ruined. 

You let him lead you into the kitchen, fingers still laced together, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. You try not to look like someone who’s just had every bone in her body melted and rearranged—but the limp in your step and the heat in your cheeks aren’t exactly subtle. 

Sam’s already there, leaning casually against the counter beside the coffee machine, mug in hand. His eyes sparkle with that familiar, knowing mischief the moment you enter. 

“Well, well, look who finally decided to join the land of the living.” 

You pause at the edge of the kitchen, but Joaquín doesn’t. 

“Morning,” he says easily, strolling over to the coffee machine like he hadn’t just threatened to make you scream his name five minutes ago. “Coffee?” 

Sam takes a long, deliberate sip from his mug. “It’s probably cold by now. Didn’t think you two were ever coming down.” 

You press your lips together, fighting back the embarrassed smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Joaquín just shrugs. 

“We got distracted,” he says, opening a cupboard and pulling out a mug. “Important business.” 

Sam snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, I heard. Whole neighbourhood did.” 

You choke on your breath. “Oh my god.” 

Joaquín turns to you, mug in hand, a smirk spreading across his face—smug and utterly unrepentant. “She’s loud when she’s happy.” 

Your eyes go wide, and you’re surprised you don’t implode on the spot. 

Sam groans, setting his mug down with a thud. “Jesus Christ. I take it back. You’re officially banned from happiness.” 

Joaquín just grins wider. “Too late.” 

You drop your face into your hands with a soft groan. 

“At least one of you has the decency to blush,” Sam mutters as he walks past you. 

You drag your hands down your face and shuffle further into the kitchen, stopping at the island across from where Joaquín is pouring two cups of coffee. 

He nudges the mugs toward you, but neither of you makes a move to grab one. Instead, he steps around the island, slips his arms around your waist, and pulls you in—pressing you flush against him as he buries his face in the curve of your neck, breathing you in like he’s trying to memorise every trace of you. 

All of it completely shameless, even with Sam just a few feet away on the lounge, sipping his coffee and looking vaguely traumatised. 

Honestly, though? You can’t bring yourself to care either. 

Your hands drift up Joaquín’s arms to link behind his neck. 

“You hungry?” you ask. 

His head snaps up, eyes dark with immediate interest. “Yes.” 

You roll your eyes, thighs clenching despite yourself. “Not like that. I meant actual food. You know—sustenance.” 

“The other thing is sustenance,” he mutters, mouth finding your neck again. 

“I’m still here,” Sam calls. “And you’re still not quiet. Do either of you know how to whisper?” 

Joaquín lifts his head and glances toward the lounge. “We didn’t invite you to stay. Feel free to leave anytime.” 

Sam shakes his head, laughing in disbelief. “You two should be thanking me.” 

You frown. “For what?” 

“Introducing you,” he says, pausing like he expects applause. Then he sighs and adds, “And tracking down your shady ex.” 

That gets your attention. Both you and Joaquín straighten, turning toward him. 

“You have a location?” you ask. 

Sam nods. “We’re organising a strike team. Intel says he’s been renting this place under an alias. Plan is to hit him when he’s not expecting it.” 

“Tonight?” 

“Tonight,” he confirms, pushing off the lounge. “Which means I’ve got a team to prep.” 

He moves into the kitchen, drops his empty mug in the sink, and glances back at you. 

“If your hunch is right and he’s behind everything… you’ll be able to go home soon.” 

You nod, trying to ignore the tight knot forming in your stomach. “Great.” 

Joaquín slowly releases your waist and lifts his coffee, taking a sip to hide what you know is a frown. 

You wait for Sam to gather his things and bid you both goodbye, stepping out the front door with a knowing smirk and muttering something about ‘getting the house fumigated’ after you two finally move out. 

When the door clicks shut behind him, you turn to Joaquín, who’s settled on the tiny lounge, elbows resting on his knees and fingers steepled beneath his chin.  

“Hey,” you say softly, stepping in front of him. 

His hands immediately find your hips, like that’s where they’re meant to be. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, tugging you onto his lap. 

You straddle his thighs, hands pressed to his chest. “You know,” you say, resting your forehead against his, “if you wanted to stay here a while longer… I wouldn’t be opposed.” 

He huffs out a soft laugh, breath ghosting over your lips. “Yeah? You want to stay in this tiny house with paper-thin walls?” 

“I’d stay anywhere with you,” you whisper, so quiet it barely registers—as if saying it aloud makes whatever this is feel real. Too real. 

His breath stutters. His fingers tighten at your waist. 

“Really?” 

You nod. “Yeah.” 

“What about my apartment in D.C.?” he asks, leaning back to study your face with wide, hopeful eyes. “It’s not much bigger than this, but—” 

“Okay,” you interrupt, pressing your lips together to keep from grinning like an idiot. 

His eyes go even wider. “Really?” 

You nod again, giggling. “Let’s call it an indefinite sleepover. Just in case you get sick of me and want to send me back to my own place.” 

He laughs too, the sound rumbling deep in his chest beneath your palms. “I’m never gonna get sick of you.” 

“You sure about that?” you tease, shifting your hips to grind down against him. 

His breath catches, lips parting in a soft sigh. 

“Baby,” he whispers, “we’re just getting started.” 

Then, before you can blink, he lifts you, flipping you onto your back and pressing you into the couch cushions. He hovers over you, lips finding yours like they belong there—sliding against yours and stoking that slow-burning flame deep in your belly. The same flame he lit the first day you met. The flame that now blazes so bright, your whole body glows—burning beneath his touch. 

He pauses, forehead resting against yours, breath warm and uneven. 

“You know,” he murmurs, voice thick with promise, “I plan on making you forget your own name by the end of today.” 

You grin, tugging him down for one last kiss—soft, slow, but packed with everything you feel. 

“Good,” you whisper against his lips, “because I don’t want to remember anyone else’s.” 

END.

[justreadingthings]

I would like one of 👇 this please!

An Attentive Man (Bob Floyd x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: After four innocent months of dating Bob Floyd, there’s one mystery you still haven’t cracked—why he always pulls away just before things heat up. So you slip into a little black dress and decide it’s time to test his restraint… and finally break it. WORD COUNT: 3.6k WARNINGS: Smut (First time writing), Slight plot, Praise, He talks ya through it. P in V. Oral (F! Receiving) NOTES: This is my first time writing smut. AND I'M SCARED. I'M SO SCARED- (I won't be writing too many of these but if the mood strikes...) MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3!

She needed to break him. Four months of dating and nothing more than a few makeout sessions on the couch had Y/n going a little crazy. Every time Bob left a movie night at 1 AM in his pickup, she’d watch his truck go down the street, then immediately go into her bedroom to take care of herself. 

Little things were starting to get her riled up much more easily, too. When he’d brush his thumb back and forth on her thigh as he drove. When he’d call her sweetheart in his raspy morning voice on the weekends he could sleep over. Or when he’d unbutton his khaki uniform top to just wear the white T-shirt underneath.

She knew it was bad when she found herself staring at his hands as they played Pac-Man on his Atari. His large, calloused hands dwarfed the controller and joystick. Her breath caught, and she suddenly found herself dead on the screen.

Something needed to happen, or she was gonna go insane. It’s not that Bob was completely against the idea, but every time they’d almost get closer to going that extra mile, something happened. Either his phone would go off, or he’d realize the time, or he’d remember that he had an early shift. She tried to talk to him about it. She didn’t wanna push his boundaries. But Bob always just reassured her that it wasn’t that he didn’t want to do it, but that whatever emergency was happening needed to be taken care of.

That’s why she was bringing out the big guns. She took out the little black dress from her closet. It was completely sheer with a thin tan fabric underneath, giving the illusion of it being see-through. The straps and outline of the dress were a velvet material, and it made patterns of flowers down it. It only stopped slightly above her mid-thigh. It was perfect. It was so much while also perfect to be worn at home after a text to Bob saying they were having a romantic night in. 

He’d be assuming she’d be in one of her summer sundresses or even just a skirt and a nice top. They’d have dinner and watch a movie, and he’d innocently stay the night. 

But this dress was the nuclear option.

Preparing for the night was like preparing for war. She sprayed her hair with hairspray to make sure it stayed voluminous. Shaving every inch of her body left her needing a breather from the scalding shower. Before rubbing lotions and potions all over herself and spraying the orange perfume that drives Bob crazy. Her makeup was to perfection.

She didn’t bother making dinner, but she did DoorDash some Italian and placed it on the dining table. The lights throughout the common area were turned off and instead replaced by the warm lights of the various lamps around. Plus, the candles she lit to make sure the place didn’t smell damp. Lastly, she made sure that the perfect playlist was playing on her phone connected to the speaker. It couldn’t be too loud or that’d be essentially screaming at him what she wanted. But some low-volume classics?

The doorbell rang, and her heart leaped in her chest. She quickly jogged over to it and took a deep breath. Jesus Christ, she was about to open the door looking like this. She shook it off and opened the door with a smile. 

“Hey!” She said excitedly

And she was met with Bob’s eyes widening as he stood there. A bouquet of lilies in his hand. He blinked in surprise, and his face turned bright red. 

“Hi, sweetheart-” He spoke like he had just gotten the wind knocked out of him, “What’s all this about? I thought we were staying in?” He asked.

He was dressed up too, but not in an extravagant way. He was wearing a white T-shirt tucked into some nice pants. Not his usual work uniform that she had grown accustomed to. 

She blushed and looked down. “Can’t a girl just look nice?” She asked nervously.

He quickly shook his shock off and walked forward, putting his hands on her shoulders.

“Of course. You look… You look absolutely gorgeous. I can barely speak.” He chuckled, kissing her temple, and he moved his hand with the bouquet from her shoulder to in front of her. “I got you these. The ones in your kitchen were dying too fast.” That made her feel ten times better. A smile lit her face, and she walked in holding the lilies. 

“I love them. Thank you, baby.” She walked over to the kitchen, and he followed her. Even though she wasn’t looking at him, she could feel his gaze drifting over her body. She smirked to herself with an idea. “I think I have another vase somewhere.”

She opened one of the lower cabinets, and instead of squatting down to look, she bent over, making sure he had a great view of how her dress hiked up the back of her thighs, revealing just the slightest amount of cheek. 

“Oh you- you don’t-” Bob stammered, not even sure what he was trying to say.

She finally found the plastic vase she was looking for and stood up straight, ignoring his stammering. She filled the vase with water and put the flowers in it. 

She turned to find Bob leaning back against the dining table, his hands gripping the edge. He looked her up and down, and she smirked, walking up to him.

“What?” She asked innocently, looking up at him as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Can’t a guy just admire his girl?” He asked, teasingly repeating what she had said earlier. 

She tilted her head, “Hmmm… Maybe. I’ll let it slide.” She leaned in and slowly brought her lips to his. Just at that, she let out a relieved exhale. It was the start of what she had been preparing for all day. His arms wrapped around her waist, and she relaxed in his hold.

He pulled away, his doe eyes looked up at her naively. “Do you wanna eat dinner?” He asked cluelessly, breaking all possible tension.

She had to close her eyes and take a deep breath to prevent herself from shaking the poor man and screaming at him what she really wanted. She shook her head. “Baby…” She started nervously, tracing her fingers up and down the curves of his shoulders. “How come we… Why haven’t…” God, her face was all red and flustered now. This felt mortifying to be asking him for this. She turned away, embarrassed.

He tilted his head with furrowed brows before gently putting his hand to her cheek and turning her to face him.

“Hey… what’s up? Talk to me.” He said so genuinely.

He was so sweet. Come on, Y/n. Buck up. 

“How come we haven’t had sex?” She blurted out, and when she saw Bob’s wide-eyed expression, she wanted to take it back. He stood lost for words, so she stepped back. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked. This is so-”

“Wait, wait, wait-” Bob quickly reached for her hand. “It’s okay.” 

She looked at him, then back down at the ground nervously. Now, standing in the dress felt much more vulnerable than she would’ve liked. 

“We don’t have to…” She said softly, and that made Bob laugh a little as he pulled her in again, kissing her palm. 

“I’d love nothing more.” He said, wrapping his arms around her waist again, leaning back on the table. 

Her brows naturally furrowed in confusion. “But every time we try, you leave.”

Bob swallowed, and he took a deep, shaky breath himself. He reached and scratched the back of his neck nervously before returning to her waist.

“Yeah, well… I think it’s safe to say I’m a little nervous.” He admitted, “Truth be told, I don’t… I don’t have much experience. And to have such a bombshell like you?” He looked at her with loving eyes. “I don’t want to disappoint.”

Her heart swelled at that. He had just wanted to be good for her, and she smiled at that. “You could never.” “Oh, I definitely could.” He joked, shaking his head nervously. 

She leaned in and kissed him deeply before moving and planting a kiss under his ear that made him shiver. 

“We could find out.” 

He let out a little groan in his exhale, and his arms tightened around her. He nodded. “Please.” 

They kissed again, and he stood up straight now, not leaning on the table anymore. He towered over her and leaned down to kiss her a little harder. Luckily, she was wearing her heels. It wasn’t intentional, but they ended up backing her into the side of the fridge. 

She closed her eyes as he moved from her lips to her cheek to her neck. His arms were exploring more of her waist and bunching up the soft fabric in his hands. He sucked against the crook of her neck and she gasped pulling him in closer. That was definitely leaving a hickey, but she didn’t care. It all didn’t matter when this was FINALLY happening. 

“You smell so good.” He whispered before kissing the same tender spot again and moving down to the middle of her neck towards her breasts. “You did all this for me?” He asked softly.

She nodded, “Uh-huh.” She was breathing so heavily, but she managed to move her hand from his face to the back of his hair to pull his face up to look at her. “Bedroom.” It wasn’t an ask. It was a demand.

“Bedroom.” He repeated before smashing his lips against hers again.

The travel to the bedroom was a bit rocky as they didn’t seem to want to pry themselves off each other. Constant kisses and sliding against the walls of the hallway. It took longer than it would’ve if they had just stopped. But there was no stopping now.

They kept kissing each other as they made it in, and Bob shut the door behind him. He pulled away, panting hard to look at her. He took in her red, blushing face and her kiss swollen lips. Her hair was already a little more wild.

“What?” She asked breathlessly.

He shook his head and used one hand to cradle her face. 

“You’re beautiful.” He said softly with a nervous chuckle. “That dress, my god. I almost don’t wanna take it off.” 

She smirked, “You don’t have to.” 

He sucked in a breath and leaned in to kiss her a little more gently this time. They both moved toward the bed, and he ended up sitting her down on the edge of the mattress. She furrowed her brows mid-kiss, a little confused. He was leaning down so far now. 

But then he said.

“Lay back.” 

And it all made sense. Her breathing quickened, and she slowly lay back, watching Bob get on his knees. Oh, Jesus Christ. She felt him hook his arms around her thighs and pull her forward, closer to him. She gasped. Even though she had expected sex… she wasn’t expecting this at all. He was so much more sure in his actions than she expected him to be.

She propped herself up on her elbows and looked down to see him looking up at her with a dazed expression. He gently took her nude heels off her and kissed the sides of her ankles. Then moved up to her calves. 

Her breathing got heavier the closer and closer up he got. She quickly bunched up her dress so she could see him better. When he pressed a kiss to the back of her knee, her breath hitched, and it continued to hold as he moved up to her inner thighs. She could feel a smirk against her skin.

“Breathe.” He reminded, chuckling against her thigh, and she exhaled. The vibrations of his chuckle and the exhale through his nose sent shivers down her spine.

He traveled up finally to where she needed him most and felt him place a kiss right in the middle of her. She let out a groan and threw her head back. It was so much but not enough.

He brought his hands up so he could hold her thighs and trace his fingers up and down them. “My pretty girl. How lucky did I get?” He said before placing another kiss, now above the line of her black lace, before hooking his fingers under the band and pulling them down. 

The cool air hit her, and she let out a little whine until he pressed another kiss to her thigh. Suddenly, she felt his thumb travel up her slick and she gasped- her back arching off the bed. 

“I should’ve taken care of my girl a long time ago, huh?” He said sucking her wetness off his thumb. He looked up at her and saw her heavy breathing and panting. He tapped her leg to get her attention. “You tell me to stop if you want to, okay? No questions asked.” 

“God damn it, Bob, please!” She threw her head back and he laughed, kissing her knee.

He obliged and put his mouth to her, and her eyes rolled to the back of her head. A few testing licks in, he suddenly started to suck- making a loud moan leave her body. He hummed in satisfaction at that reaction, and the vibrations made her grip his hair. 

Moving up, he once again brought his arms under her thighs and pulled her closer, practically holding her against him. He kept doing that, listening to the rise and fall of her breathing and reactions to figure out how fast and how hard to do it. 

She was in heaven. She must’ve died in some freak accident, because how was Bob so good at this? It made sense- he was an attentive man. He had to be to do his job so well, but she didn’t think those skills transferred here. 

But he was proving her very wrong. After a little while, she felt a finger of his prod at her and enter, and she let out another loud moan. Thank god, she lived in a house and not an apartment. Though she was sure the neighbors could still hear… Fuck em. 

“More- please- baby please-” She whined.

She didn’t need to ask him twice. He entered another finger, and the sloppy sounds of it all were already hurtling her towards the edge. But as he kept curling his fingers and sucking her at the same rhythm, she was gone for. 

She couldn’t even tell him, but she didn’t need to. Her thighs squeezing the hell out of his head did that for her. He kept it up, letting her ride it out until her legs were twitching in overstimulation and she had to pry his face away. He looked up at her and wiped his mouth. 

“You okay, baby?” He asked almost worried.

With a stunned nod, “Inexperienced my fucking ass. Get over here.” She said 

Bob chuckled and crawled onto the bed, taking his shirt off. She made quick work of her dress, and when they started kissing again, she made sure to shift until her body was on top of his. He smiled excitedly, looking up at her as she straddled him completely naked. 

“Am I still dreaming?” He asked breathlessly.

She shook her head and leaned down to kiss him. It felt incredible to finally run her hands all over his body. She had seen him with his shirt off at the beach before, but this was different. Now she had complete freedom to run her hands up and down his abs and squeeze his broad shoulders. 

As she deepened the kiss, she reached down between them and started unbuttoning his pants. He quickly helped her take them off and throw them across the room haphazardly. 

She saw the strain against his boxer briefs, and her eyes widened a little. 

“What?” He asked, seeing the look on her face.

“Bob, baby, I don’t know if I’ve had that big-” She admitted, making him choke in surprise. The comment seemed to make his briefs even tighter around him. She kissed him, “But god, let me try.” She said, pulling back to look at him with puppy dog eyes.

He cupped her face with his shy smile. He was blushing so hard and sweating slightly now. “We’ll go slow, okay? As slow as you want. And again, if you wanna stop…” He reassured.

She nodded and pulled him out of his boxers, and he groaned as it hit against his stomach, leaving a trail of pre-cum. The sound and sight of him like that left her swallowing, trying not to drool. She kissed him again as he pulled his bottoms off completely. 

After a moment, she cupped his face as she felt him line himself up with her. She kept her focus on his baby blue eyes as she lowered herself and felt him enter. He was thick, and she stopped a few inches in after a small whimper. The stretch was… a bit brutal.

“Hey hey hey,” Bob said, kissing her collarbone, “Take your time.”

She nodded and brought his head up to kiss him. After a few moments, she slid down more with little sounds escaping her. Bob’s grip on her waist tightened, and he threw his head back with a loud groan. She wasn’t even all the way down yet.

“God, you feel good.” He groaned, his voice raspy. 

She lowered again and sighed in relief as she bottomed out. Pressing her forehead to his, they were each panting hard. A dazed smile grew on his lips, and she let out a giggle, relaxing as they remained connected while she adjusted. 

Finally, she started to move her hips, and the pain subsided into pleasure as more of her slick gathered and created an ease of friction. She moved up and down, and Bob’s grip on her hips would probably leave bruises. 

“That’s it.” Bob mewled, “So-so good- fuck-”

It surprised her how talkative Bob had been throughout it all. He wasn’t exactly the most talkative out of his friends. But she also knew he was sarcastic and couldn’t help himself from a quip… Clearly, he couldn’t help himself here either. And Y/n was doing far from complaining about it. Every time he spoke in that low, gravely tone, praising her, she’d let out a little sound in response. Sometimes she’d nod. But it was like she couldn’t get herself to actually speak English.

“You like when I talk to you?” Bob asked, and her pace moved slightly faster as she nodded in the crook of his neck. “Yeah, I can feel how tight you get when I do. You’re doing so good.” He praised.

She felt like she was supposed to be praising him. He was the more inexperienced one here, yet he had turned her into mush. Little whines came out of her as her hips started to ache. She was getting tired and her rhythm wasn’t as consistent- making her sigh frustrated. His hand came around and kneaded her ass a little. 

“I got you.” He sensed and bucked his hips up into her, making her cry out. “That okay?” He asked

She nodded fervently and kissed him again as he started bucking up into her. He grabbed her ass and moved her up and down his length, hitting that spot just right. 

“Just like that.” She finally spoke, “Please- please just like that.”

He nodded, moaning at the sound of her broken voice. “I’ll do it just like that. Won’t change a thing, sweetheart.” He said, doing as he promised. 

She got louder and louder and now she was more or less just laying on top of him as he fucked up into her. She gripped the sheets beneath them and buried her face in the crook of his neck. Every so often, he’d turn his face to plant a kiss on her cheek.

The sounds of the room were pornographic. With a mix of moans and groans, wetness, and skin slapping. It was enough to make the devil blush. 

After he kept hitting that perfect spot, she felt that feeling in her stomach build and build. “Oh- oh- I’m- I’m gonna- Can I?” She whimpered.

He smiled at the sight of her breaking apart. “You’re asking for permission?” 

She nodded in his neck, not able to hold it together for much longer.

“Please do. Please finish on me, sweetheart.” He whispered, and she did.

She cried out as white hot bliss shot through her and exploded behind her eyes. Bob didn’t stop, chasing his own high, and it only just exacerbated her own climax and sensitivity. But he didn’t last long after her, finishing while murmuring almost unintelligible praises and lying back completely sweaty.

Their heavy breaths matched up, and she leaned her weight forward to lie on him. They stayed connected, not wanting to separate, and she wrapped her arms around him. He gently moved his hands up and traced up and down her spine. He started drawing little shapes and stars as he came down. 

She was shaking slightly, needing a little longer to come back, and he gently hummed and planted a kiss on her cheek. He reached down and pulled out, which made her breath hitch and hold onto him closer. 

“Mmm… You’re sensitive.” Bob observed, gently moving her off of him and grabbing the blanket to wrap over her.

She nodded, “Bob… How on earth are you inexperienced?” She finally said, “That-that was not-” He shrugged, coming up to hold her to him. “Does that mean I didn’t disappoint?” He asked, looking down.

She looked up at him with half lidded eyes that said ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ He laughed and kissed her forehead as she wrapped her arms around him. 

[justreadingthings]

Damn, dirty dreams really do come true! This is so sweet and steamy and perfect 💙

Bob Floyd X Reader: Drunk words, sober truths.

Summary: After one too many drinks, you drunkenly confess your feelings to Bob. The next morning smut ensues. That it guys, thats the plot.

Warnings: Porn with some plot, Smut, explicit sexual content, kissing, physical intimacy, alcohol consumption, drunkenness, dirty thoughts, consensual sexual activity, drunken confessions, no use of y/n, penetration (p in v), Bob being adorable.

Word count: 3.7K

You weren’t drunk.

Okay, maybe a little bit.

Maybe one glass too many. But hey, that’s okay, because your brain still seemed to be functioning just fine. Unfortunately, the only thought currently echoing inside your head was: dick, dick, dick.

So yeah. Maybe one too many.

In your defense, Bob looked really fucking good tonight. The fucking jeans were teasing you, messing with your brain and begging you to let the crush you’d been harboring for the man for ages slip from your not-so-sober lips.

It hadn’t yet. But the night was still quite young. And you were feeling very comfortable in your skin.

You sat on a stool, sipping on the fifth… wait, no, sixth. Was it the sixth? Whatever. You sipped a beer, watching the crew play pool. You were normally very good, but you were sitting this game out. You weren’t sure you’d be able to keep your balance well enough to score a shot. And you weren’t the type that played not to win.

Your eyes slipped from the pool table to a far more interesting sight.

Bob Floyd’s ass.

It wasn’t your fault that he’d literally placed himself in your line of sight. You barely had to move your head. His ass was just on display for you. You knew it wasn’t intentional—of course you knew that. He was lining up a shot that just happened to be right in front of you.

But you weren’t one to waste the universe’s gifts.

So you let your eyes latch onto Bob Floyd’s perfectly round ass. It was probably obvious to anyone who looked at you that you were staring. Luckily, no one was paying attention to you at the moment.

Well, almost no one.

You heard a soft snicker beside you, head turning slightly toward the sound. Phoenix watched you, a small smirk on her face. She knew all about your major crush on Bob. She had the unfortunate role of being the friend who had to listen as you gushed over the pilot every chance you got. But Phoenix was a good friend, and she knew to stay out of other people’s business.

That did not mean she wouldn’t tease you when the opportunity presented itself.

“You alright there?”

The rest of the crew’s heads turned toward you. Everyone’s gaze had shifted—including Bob’s.

You felt the blush that suddenly coated your cheeks. You could feel Bob’s eyes on you, but yours stayed glued to Phoenix. She just gave you a sly smile, knowing damn well what she’d just done. You were going to make her pay for that one day.

“I’m fine.”

It came out a bit slurred. A bit too high-pitched.

Someone laughed.

You didn’t pay them any mind, gaze still glued to Phoenix as you gave her a small grimace of a look.

And then you felt something warm on your shoulder.

Your head turned to look at what it was. Your eyes trailed up the hand currently resting on your shoulder, searching for its owner.

Your breath nearly gave out when you were greeted by the sight of Bob. His face was full of barely restrained concern, glasses slightly slipping off his nose as he stared at you with kind eyes.

“Hey.”

The word slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

Bob gave you a soft smile, the hand that wasn’t holding onto you moving to push his glasses up. It was such a simple act, but it still made your heart flutter.

“Hi.”

Time seemed to slow down. The sound of his voice was like velvet. You wanted to be buried inside it.

Wanted him to be buried inside you.

Whoa. Okay. Drunk thought.

But a very persistent one. Even in your sober moments.

Luckily, you still had enough control over your brain to not let the thought slip out of your mouth. You just stared at Bob for a moment. Someone had said something, but you weren’t listening. You only noticed because Bob’s head had snapped toward the speaker.

You had a perfect view of his side profile. A glorious sight of his perfect nose.

What would it be like to sit on it?

God, you really needed to get some water in your body. The thoughts were becoming more and more unfiltered with every second. Soon, you’d let something slip. And then you’d die of embarrassment.

You bit your lip, forcing your mouth to stay shut.

“What do you think?”

Bob was talking to you again. You stared at him, confused. What did you think of what?

“Don’t think she was listening, Bob.”

That came from Hangman. Your eyes flitted over to him, catching on the teasing smile he wore. You had the urge to flip him off, but you stayed still.

“Hey.”

Your eyes moved back to Bob’s face as he gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Do you want me to take you home?”

Maybe that would be best. You were clearly hanging on by a thread. And maybe if you did slip—which you were pretty sure would happen eventually—you’d at least be alone.

Alone with Bob.

You practically shivered at the thought.

Because you couldn’t trust your mouth to open and say anything other than ‘I love you’ , you opted to nod your head.

Bob smiled at you.

“Okay then. Here, hold onto me.”

“Not that drunk.”

But you still held onto him. Because he’d offered. And because it meant he would be closer to you. Bob had said goodbye to everyone. You’d followed with a drunken wave.

And then the two of you were off.

The whole drive home, you stared out the window. If you looked at Bob, you’d start thinking dirty things. And that would make you want to do said dirty things.

But you didn’t want to scare Bob.

So you kept your eyes on the road.

You struggled to get your shoes off at the door. And Bob, being the gentle soul that he was, sank down to his knees to help you out.

You shook your head, trying to keep the dirty thoughts at bay.

It seemed to work pretty well.

Until it didn’t.

Bob had waited outside the bathroom as you changed. When you’d slipped back into the room, dressed in an oversized shirt, Bob came to help you to bed.

He handed you a pill and a glass of water. You took it without question. If you were lucky, you wouldn’t have a hangover tomorrow. But the odds were definitely not in your favor.

You chugged the water down before handing Bob the empty glass. He placed it on the nightstand before moving to tug the sheets over your body.

“Sleep tight.”

Bob moved to leave the room, but you grabbed his hand before he could take even a step away from the bed.

“You okay?”

His face was full of concern. You smiled up at him.

“You’re really sweet, Bob.”

“It’s not a big deal… really.”

You let out a soft hum, not letting go of his hand.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Bob smiled at the question.

“Sure.”

You gestured for him to come closer. He did as you asked, leaning down so your lips were right at his ear. He could feel your breath on his cheek.

“I think you’re really handsome.”

Bob's heart skipped a beat at the confession.

And then you kept going—

“I think about riding you all the time.”

Bob nearly had a heart attack.

You let go of his hand, settling into the sheets and closing your eyes.

Bob leaned back into an upright position, still staring at you with wide eyes.

But you were already fast asleep.

The sun slipped into the room through the curtains. You opened your eyes with a soft groan. Your eyes took a while to adjust to where you were. You rubbed at them, trying to ignore the soft pounding in your head.

Hangover.

Fantastic.

Honestly, it could have been worse. You were sure the headache would leave after some coffee. So you peeled yourself off the bed, feet padding against the floor as you made your way to the kitchen.

Small flashes of last night moved through your brain as you waited for the coffee to brew.

You bit your nails, trying to remember.

You remembered the bar. The drinks. Phoenix’s smug smile. Bob’s hand on your shoulder. His voice. That’s when a hazy memory flickered behind your eyes. A whisper. Something you said.

Something about Bob.

God, had you said something? You weren’t totally sure—but there was that gnawing, sinking feeling in your gut. 

You were startled by a knock on the door. Instinctively, you glanced at the clock. 10 o’clock. Not bad, considering how late you’d gotten in last night. 

But who would be at your door at such a time on a Sunday? You moved to grab your phone to check for messages. And that’s when it hit you.

Your phone.

You’d forgotten it at the bar.

You opened the door, and there he was. Bob Floyd, looking far too good for someone this early in the morning. He had your phone in one hand and a paper bag in the other.

“Hey,” he said, a little cautiously. “You, uh… forgot this.”

You reached for the phone, your fingers brushing his just slightly. He didn’t pull away. Neither did you.

“Thanks. I—yeah. Sorry.” You gave a sheepish smile. “Honestly, I didn’t even realize.”

Bob nodded once, then hesitated.

The kind of hesitation that meant he was thinking about something. The small feeling of dread crept back. Okay, so you’d definitely said something. Because sure, Bob was a shy guy, but this wasn’t his usual shyness. This was something else.

There was tension.

Even if you didn’t remember exactly what you’d said, Bob clearly did. Before you could think too much about it, you moved to the side of the door, allowing Bob to see into your house.

“You want coffee?” you asked. “I just made a pot. And you look like someone who’s already been up too long.”

Bob hesitated for a moment, fingers clenching and unclenching. Your heart raced. What the fuck had you said? But then he looked at you and gave you a soft smile.

“Sure. Yeah. Coffee sounds good.”

You let out a soft breath as he walked into the room.

Your hands shook slightly as you closed the door. Bob Floyd was inside your house. Bob Floyd knew something you couldn’t remember. You weren’t sure if you wanted to find out or not.

Bob settled at the kitchen table as you grabbed two mugs and filled them with coffee. His eyes flicked toward you every so often, like he wanted to say something. You pretended not to notice, but your heart raced as you handed him his mug.

“One cream, two sugars.”

Bob’s eyes lit up slightly at your words. You’d remembered how he liked his coffee. He had only told you once, and you still remembered. It made something warm flicker in his chest.

“Thank you.”

You gave him a small smile. “Yeah, well… thanks for, you know, coming back with my phone.”

He nodded, fingers curling around the warm cup.

“Yeah. Figured you’d want it back sooner rather than later.”

You laughed softly, the sound a little too breathy.

“Yeah, definitely.”

There was a pause.

Bob cleared his throat. “About last night…”

Your heart skipped, but you didn’t look up. “Yeah?”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “I mean, you said some things.”

Your cheeks heated. “Did I?”

“Yeah. But it’s okay. I’m not mad or anything.”

You glanced at him, meeting his gaze for a brief second. “Honestly, I don’t even remember most of it.”

“Me neither,” he said with a small smile.

It was a complete lie, of course. He remembered your exact words. He remembered how you smelled, how warm your breath had been on his neck. He remembered going home and, much to his shame, lying in bed and taking care of his little problem while your voice echoed in his head.

“But I figured, if you’re sober now, maybe we could talk about it?”

You swallowed hard. “I’d like that.”

His smile grew warmer. “Good. Because I don’t want things to be weird between us.”

“No, me neither.”

The tension wasn’t gone, but it had dulled a bit. You were sure you’d be embarrassed by whatever had slipped through your lips. But you also knew Bob wouldn’t hold it against you.

You were adults. You could act like it.

You were not, however, prepared for what Bob was about to tell you. He had struggled for a moment, trying to be as gentle as possible. It was clear from his face that he was flustered. As soon as he told you what you’d said, you were sure you’d just died. Or at least you wished you were dead, because you could not handle this conversation. You were not adult enough for this.

You placed your mug on the table with more force than necessary, hands moving to cover your face as you whispered “fuck” repeatedly.

Bob felt bad. He had expected it to be weird—awkward, maybe. But he hadn’t expected you to almost start sobbing into your hands. He could tell you were having a hard time breathing, so before he could think better of it, he got up. He placed his hands on your shoulders.

“Hey. Look at me.”

You shook your head emphatically, hands still hiding you from his warm gaze. You’d have to quit. That was the only solution. You could not handle looking at Bob every day knowing you’d told him one of your dirtiest thoughts in a drunken daze.

Bob’s hands moved to grab yours. You tried to keep them where they were, but Bob was stronger than you. He pried your hands away from your face, holding your wrists gently together. You bowed your head, staring at the floor.

“Can you please look at me?”

Fuck him. Fuck him and his soft hands and velvet voice.

You lifted your head slowly, expecting to be met with pity or disgust, but that’s not what you found. When you finally looked at Bob’s face, he looked just as out of breath as you felt. He was so close that your noses were practically touching. And his eyes—his big, beautiful eyes—were almost black with desire.

You nearly choked on your own spit.

“Did you mean it?” he asked.

You breathed heavily, trying to think of what to say.

“Well, you know the phrase… drunk words, sober thoughts,” you said with a slightly pathetic laugh.

And then Bob’s hands shifted. He let go of your wrists, cupping your face with a speed that made your heart stutter. You barely managed to gasp out his name before his lips were on yours.

The kiss was all-consuming.

Bob’s body moved against yours as he deepened it, his mouth warm and sure. You groaned as your back hit the kitchen counter. Bob tried to pull back to apologize, but you didn’t let him. You tugged his head back to yours, tongue sliding over his lips. He opened his mouth to you, letting you explore. His hands moved to rest on your hips, his body pressing you firmly against the counter.

His grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging into the soft fabric of your sleep shirt like he was trying to ground himself. You could feel the tension in his arms, the restraint in the way he kissed you—like he wasn’t sure how far you wanted to go. Like he was holding back.

“Bob,” you breathed against his lips, your voice rough, “don’t hold back.”

That was all it took.

He groaned, deep and low in his chest, before lifting you effortlessly onto the counter. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, pulling him flush against you. You could feel him—hard and heavy through his jeans—and the contact made you whimper.

“You have no idea,” he muttered against your jaw, lips trailing down the side of your neck, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

“Then show me,” you whispered, fingers already tugging at the hem of his shirt. “Please.”

Bob didn’t need to be asked twice. He tugged the shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere behind him, and leaned back in to kiss you again—deeper this time, hungrier. His hands roamed, slipping under your shirt and dragging up slowly until your chest was bare to him.

“Fuck,” he whispered, reverent and breathless as he took you in. 

He bent down, mouthing at the swell of your breast, tongue flicking over your nipple. You gasped, arching into him, needing more. You clawed your shirt completely off, whining as Bob continued to suck your breast. Your shirt fell somewhere near his but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was Bob. 

Bob and his perfect fucking mouth. 

Your hands fumbled with his belt, desperate to get him out of his jeans. “Bob, I need—”

“I know,” he said, voice wrecked as he reached down to help you. “God, I know.”

You finally got his belt undone, yanking at his jeans until he helped you shove them down just enough to free him. Your eyes dipped down, and your breath caught. God, of course he was big. And thick. And flushed an angry shade of red, already leaking from the tip.

Bob groaned as your hand wrapped around him. It was the prettiest sound you’d ever heard. You just smiled and leaned forward to press your mouth to his neck, dragging your tongue over the pulse there. But then his hands were on your thighs, thumbs dragging over your waistband, eyes dark with heat. 

“Wait,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “Let me taste you first.”

The way he said it—like it was a need, not a want—almost made you give in.

Almost.

Your fingers curled into his hair as you looked him dead in the eyes. 

“Next time,” you whispered. “I need you inside me right now.”

Bob groaned, like the words physically hurt him, but he nodded. 

“Okay. Yeah. Just—fuck, come here.”

He should probably have taken your underwear off entirely. But you were both so impatient and the little bit of fabric wouldn’t affect his skills. So he tugged your underwear to the side with one hand and guided himself to your entrance with the other. 

You were more than ready for him, slick and warm and aching. And when he finally pushed in—slowly, carefully—you both let out a sound that could only be described as relief.

“Holy shit,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.

“You feel—fuck—” Bob gritted out, forehead pressed to yours. “So good. You feel so fucking good.”

He gave you a second to adjust, but you were already rolling your hips, desperate for more. That’s all he needed. He set a rhythm, hard and deep, his hands gripping your hips like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting you go.

Every thrust sent you back into the counter with a delicious thud. Your legs locked around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. His name fell from your lips again and again, each time more breathless than the last.

“Hey,” he panted, causing you to look up at him, brows slightly furrowed with pleasure.

“Yeah?”

“Can I tell you a secret?” he rasped, one hand sliding up your back to cradle your head.

He hit your G-spot, making you moan his name before nodding. Bob leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.

“I touched myself to the thought of you last night. Couldn’t stop thinking about you on top of me.”

“Oh, fuck—Bob!”

It was so odd how sweet you found his confession. The entire thing was said in such a dirty manner, made even nastier by the sound of his dick spearing into you with every thrust. But you understood why he’d said it. It was his way of telling you he wanted you too.

Your eyes glossed over, head tilting back as you moaned. Bob latched onto your neck, sucking hickeys into the skin. He shifted his hips slightly, allowing him to hit a deeper angle—and you were fucking gone.

You came. Right there on the kitchen counter, gasping his name, clutching him like a lifeline as the orgasm ripped through you. Bob followed moments later, burying himself deep with a low, drawn-out groan.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just heavy breaths and the rapid beat of two hearts trying to slow down. Bob’s fingers traced lazy circles along your back, grounding you both in the afterglow. He leaned down, lips brushing softly against your temple. 

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, voice husky with emotion and something deeper—admiration, maybe even awe.

You smiled weakly, breath still shaky. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

His hand slipped from your back to cup your cheek, thumb tracing over your flushed skin. “I want to take my time with you. Not just tonight.”

You met his gaze, heart pounding all over again. “Me too.”

Slowly, carefully, he helped you off the counter and into his arms, like you were the most precious thing in the world. You let him wind his arms around you, your bodies pressed in a tender hug. The sun shone brightly outside, but you paid no attention to it. You nestled into Bob's body, hearing his heart slow down as you two enjoyed each other's embrace.

“I’m never drinking again.”

Bob chuckled at your words, the vibration rippling through your body.

“I’m glad you did.”

You lifted your head off his chest, gazing into his eyes.

“Glad I got shitfaced and told you I thought about fucking you?”

Bob smiled again, his hand moving to push some hair off your face.

“I’m glad you feel the same way I do about you.”

It was your turn to smile now. You placed a soft kiss on his lips.

“Of course I do, Bob. You’re easy to fall for.”

“And to ride, apparently.”

You gave him a soft slap, but you couldn’t help but smile.

“I don’t know. I never got actual experience. I just fantasize about it,” you teased.

“You wanna find out?”

You gave him your cheekiest smile.

“You bet I do.”

His hands found your waist again, pulling you close as a slow, knowing smile played across his lips. The promise in his eyes was impossible to miss, and you matched it with one of your own, full of mischief and anticipation. 

The kitchen, the morning light, even the lingering scent of coffee—all faded away, leaving only the delicious tension between you two, teasing and ready to explode. Whatever came next, it was clear neither of you planned on letting this be the last time.

[justreadingthings]

This is so FRICKIN adorable!!!

The Perfect Pink | Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: While bartending for Rolling Acres Retirement's Valentine's Party, you encounter a pink-cheeked man and his cherry-loving cousins.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: all fluff with alcohol mentions

A Note From Mo: Here is my Pink Lady fic for @thedroneranger's Pick Your Poison event to go with this gorg moodboard! As a part-time mixologist and full-time Bob Floyd lover, this was such a fun concept to play around with and has inspired me to come up with more pink drinks. I've never been a Valentine's girly, but I fully believe this pink-cheeked WSO could convince me otherwise. To everyone who reads this, I love you bunches and bunches, all 365 days in the year!

It’s so pink. Horrendously. Abysmally. Pepto-bismally. PINK.

When you agreed to tend the bar in a pinch, a few bundles of carnations and candy pink paper hearts were your guess for the evening’s decorations. But when you showed up to Rolling Acres Retirement's Valentine’s Party holding a crate of soda water and a handful of shakers, your senses flatlined with the amount of pink covering every surface.

Petal pink tablecloths straightened over round tables; a small bouquet of magenta carnations attached to each folding chair and incensing the recreation hall of the retirement home. Heart-covered paper plates and folded napkins set up at each place setting, glittering confetti sprinkled around the tableware. The ceiling isn’t even a reprieve, a rainbow of fuchsia and rose and flamingo and blush balloons filling up every available inch of space.

Suzette on the front desk had complimented your dusky pink sweater - an appropriate choice for the holiday - but set against this backdrop you feel like another decoration. An oversized bauble that also makes cocktails and pours cheap wine.

And now, standing behind this makeshift card-table-turned-bar covered in bubblegum crepe paper, your brain might explode in a cloud of hot pink smoke. Counting out pours and trying not to slice yourself making garnishes is a struggle keeping up with all these orders. While the average age of the party goer may be eighty, they drink more than the 21st birthday bash you bartended last weekend. You’ve been here all of an hour and Mrs. Moscovitz has already downed three fuschia cosmopolitans.

While disappointed you don’t have more romantic Valentine’s Day plans - though, when have you ever had a date on this too pink day? - it’s fun to see who’s turned up to celebrate. White-haired couples are swaying on the makeshift dance floor, every shade of pink and red in their attire. Bridge groups and knitting circles are excitedly chatting at their respective tables, gossiping over who is in attendance and with whom. Even the staff have wide grins splitting their faces, enjoying the festivities that break up the bleak winter. It’s the least you can do to spend the holiday providing beverages for this crowd.

The best part is the families. While romantic love is thick in the air, so is platonic love. Family members of all ages have come out to spend the holiday with the residents. Mr. Gordon’s daughter and her family have driven hours to catch up over pot roast and sparkling cider while his grandson plays trucks over a pile of chocolates he snuck from Suzette.

Orders have slowed down and your eyes keep glancing over to Ms. Floyd’s table. The entire clan has showed up for dinner, dancing, and to take home a batch of her homemade snickerdoodles. Multiple relatives are taking up two entire heart-sprinkled tables. Your focus is mainly on the second table for too far from you, where the grandkids have been relegated to play cards and swap candy hearts to pass the time.

“Why don’t you go ask the pink lady for more cherries.” God, he’s cute. The only guy in this place near your age and his attention is stolen by a pair of toddler girls obsessed with the cherries in their Shirley temples. 

You divert your eyes quickly when you realize he’s talking about you and your pink sweater. The girls giggle shyly, the high pitched squeals of glee as they convince him to go up instead. Fiddling with shakers, wiping down the counter, you try to stay busy as you physically feel him approach the converted bar and your trembling hands.

“Hi!” His smile is thin and nervous and his cheeks are pink, blushing from his little cousins and their antics. Also because you’re much prettier up close and he’s wearing a shirt he’d never normally be caught in if his grandma hadn’t picked it out. 

He’s much cuter at this distance as well. Sandy hair combed neatly, one small strand slipping out behind his ear. Friendly cerulean eyes framed by golden wire spectacles, similar to the ones several of the ex-military men at Rolling Acres are sporting. His thin lips falter slightly as he takes in how well the pink of your sweater compliments your skin. God, he wishes he wasn’t wearing this shirt.

You spring into service mode and grab a fresh cocktail shaker. “What can I do you for?”

“I’m technically up here for some cherries.” You dutifully nod, hoping to hide the fact you’ve been watching him converse with the toddler girls in their matching baby pink dresses most of the night. You make a small dish of cherries up and push it toward him, shaking your head when he attempts to pay. “The thirty-eight cents of cherries is a small expense for a night those two will talk about for weeks. They’re on the house.”

He grabs the dish with a smile, but realizes he now has no excuse to stay by the bar. And while he loves his cousins, he’s on leave for a few more weeks and you’re really pretty. A few extra minutes wouldn’t hurt. He extends his hand with a timid smile. “I’m Bob.”

You reach out and shake his hand back as you introduce yourself, hoping the condensation coating your fingers isn’t too noticeable. He immediately commits your name to memory, happy to replace “The Pink Lady” with a name as fitting to you as yours.

He moves out of the way as a woman in a magenta scarf orders a round for her bingo group. Bob watches as you whir into action, pouring liquors and counting off ounces. The delicate way you garnish each drink so the owner feels special. Your gracious smile when a tip is stuffed into the heart-shaped velvet box provided to you for tips.

When the line at the bar dies down, he sidles back up to your makeshift station. Bob notices the way you eye the decorations warily, still adjusting to the deafening pink of it all. He drums lightly on the blushing pink tablecloth, catching your wide-eyed attention. “Everything all right?”

“Uh, this place is too…pink?” you laugh, gesturing to the overabundance of rosy hues surrounding you. For possibly the first time all night, Bob realizes that while you were the only pink thing that had his attention, it is suffocating in the recreation hall. 

“Yes, yes it is,” he chuckles right back, eyes soaking in the offending decorations. There’s a comfortable air between the two of you, and he decides to push his luck for more time with The Pink Lady.

Bob clears his throat, pulse thrumming through his body. Tonight is his one and only chance to land a date with the pretty bartender.

“So, to go with the theme, what is the pinkest drink you can make me?” He wiggles his eyebrows, his best attempt at flirting. A hint of a giggle escapes as you purse your lips, contemplating his challenge. 

“I can make you a pink lady.” 

He narrows his eyes. “Is that a real drink, or have you named it after yourself?”

“It’s real, I promise.” You’re all smiles at his attention as you combine the gin, applejack, and grenadine with a splash of lemon juice. He really could watch you work for hours.

As you reach for the last ingredient, his eyes bug out. “Is that an egg?” He’s a Navy man, his normal bar only has cocktails with two ingredients. Since when did eggs go in cocktails?

“When you dry shake an egg white it creates this nice foam, adds to the drink.” While he wants to come across as open-minded and cultured, he’s hesitant. “If you don’t like it, I’ll make you something else.”

He’s bewitched as you pour the perfectly pink drink into a plastic coup, the creamy white foam rising to top it off. A cherry balances the rim, one that won’t be stolen by his mischievous cousins. As he looks between the freshly poured drink and you, he swears your cheeks are the same happy pink.

You push the drink toward him, excited to share something new with a customer. Always a gamble as a bartender, but worth it when you expand someone’s palate. He gives you a tentative smile, unsure if he’s going to like it, but he really wants to impress you. In return, you give him an encouraging nod, completely unsure of how this will go. He takes a sip, the frothy mixture coating his tongue.

As far as he’s concerned, the drink is named after you. Not too sweet, not too tart, a divinely balanced combination of flavors in a perfect pink concoction. Bob is convinced you would taste just as good, especially with a cherry. The thought makes his brain blank.

“Do you like it?” Your hopeful eyes are endearing. He wants to brush the strand of hair from your cheek and assure you that he likes it, that he’d like anything you made him because you made it. But you’re practically strangers so he stumbles over his words as he promises it’s delicious. 

The bowl of cherries for his cousins still in his hand, Bob stands to the side of the bar and sips his tartly sweet drink, casually keeping up conversation with you as you serve other patrons. You’re glad for the company, enjoying the way he asks about your technique and mutters out the few things he knows about wine from conversations with his aunt. Despite the fact you’re working, it’s the best Valentine’s Day you’ve had in years with this bespectacled man watching you tend bar.

He’s just so cute, blushing his own special pink hue when your eyes connect while you shake up a few martinis.

“Uncle Bob!” There is no mistaking who is calling him over. Two identical heads pouting as they motion him over. His time with you is up. He gives you a sweet smile, trying to memorize every inch of your face, before motioning his hand filled with cherries in their direction. You bittersweetly grin right back, smile lingering as you start on Mr. Nickerson’s two merlots as you watch his broad shoulders walk away.

Oh, how you wish he would come back.

Because it’s a retirement home and not a frat house, by ten the party is wrapping up. You’ve exchanged shy glances with Bob a handful of times, but his family has taken up most of his attention with Navy questions and inquiring when he’s going to visit next. He barely registers the event is over before he’s rummaging through his mom’s handbag with his last attempt at salvaging the night.

You’re cleaning up your supplies when the Floyd clan walks past, all waving good night to you and the staff, thanking you all for a great Valentine’s night. The girls thank you for their cherries, a stem hanging from one’s lip. 

Staggering at the end of the crowd is Bob, his cheeks flushed and palms tingling. He stands in front of your table, rocking on his heels, working up his courage. You give him a warm smile, thanking him for his company, and he completely melts. As he holds up his occupied hand, he hopes this works.

“Forgot to slip this in earlier.” His smile is tense as he jams a few dollars through the absurdly small hole in your improvised tip box. You thank him before both blurting out awkward goodbyes. As he catches up with his family, a pang rings through your chest. Disappointed he’s gone, never to be seen again. 

Bob Floyd, a Valentine’s mirage you will remember fondly.

Once all your things are packed, you square things up with Suzette with your pay for the event and a promise to stop by to visit the residents later in the month. You schlep everything to the car, a mixture of emotions painting your face in the rearview mirror as you make your way back home. The weight of defeat keeping you from bringing anything inside except for that damn tip box you’re hoping will cover groceries for the week.

You pry open the velvet lid and are met with the best surprise.

There, at the bottom of your substitute tip jar, underneath all the singles the elderly stiffed you with, was a scrap of cheap rosy pink napkin. You unfurl it to see neat chicken scratch handwriting, the pen poking through the fabric in spots as he worked to write out his message with a phone number beneath.

I’m here until the 27th. Drinks on me? - Bob

Now that you think about it, maybe you do like pink.

taglist: @berryvanille @bobgasm @bradshawsbaby @cosmoeticss @creatchie8 @drxgxnslxyer @hangmanapologist @hiireadstuff @jessicab1991 @just-in-case-iloveyou @kmc1989 @maryelizabeth13 @petersunderoos96 @rhettsluvr @roosterforme @seitmai @sweetwhispersofchaos @topherwrites @xoxabs88xox @yuckosworld

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[justreadingthings]

good lord

bucky walking in on you touching yourself

eyes shut tight, back arched above the pillow top mattress, mouth gaped open as you release a moan that echos through your empty apartment.

music plays from your phone that sits on your bedside table and the low buzz of your vibrator lulls your brain into elevated bliss. a playlist that you randomly picked on spotify called “smut metal (baby making metal-core)” proved to be the right choice as you near your orgasm that you’d been working towards for the last half hour.

work had been hell. your stress level has surpassed the roof and for fucks sake, you just need to cum. one good orgasm and you’d get the relief you crave. it’s like the snickers slogan, “you’re not you when you’re hungry”. you’re not you when you’re sex deprived.

but the sex gods and deities were simply not blessing you with a quick solo session. no, they were making you work for it.

cruel.

you were lost in a world of your own creation. lost to the world as you tried to relax enough to succumb to the pornographic scene you were painting to get you close—you were so damn close. until…

“doll? you here?” the light shining from the kitchen floods into your bedroom when bucky opens the door. “holy shit,” he stands in the threshold, unmoving despite his brain desperately screaming at him to flee. but he can’t even look away from where you lay, only a sheer top sheet covering your lower half. “fucking hell.”

you groan in frustration and turn off the device in your hand. “goddamn you, barnes.” you whine, letting your back fall back to the cushion and pulling the sheet over your chest with a loaded sigh.

“i—um, d-do you—“

“unless you’re about to ask if i need a hand, kindly fuck off. so that i can continue fucking myself off.” you hold yourself up with your arm and hold the cover loosely to your chest.

“do you?” he asks softly, his own voice betraying him.

your brows raise your brows and look him up and down. you can only make out his silhouette. his features are hidden by the shadows of your darkened room.

you clear your throat and lick over your slightly chapped lips. “i’m not exactly in a position to turn you away. i’ve been at this for—nearly forty-five minutes to no avail.” you admit, looking at the time on your phone.

that seems to be all the confirmation he needs to feel comfortable and confident enough to fully enter the room. the door closes just enough for a sliver of light to shine through the crack. his eyes adjust to the darkness as he pads over to your bed, discarding his shirt and dropping it to the floor alone the way. gently, he tugs at the bedsheet, silently asking permission to uncover your body.

you release the hold you have on the fabric, allowing him to move it aside. the next second, he’s on his stomach, wrapping his arms around your thighs and pulling you to his warm, awaiting mouth.

“you sure don’t waste any time, do you?” you chuckle breathlessly, propping yourself up on your elbows to watch him work.

he hums, and you can’t stop the flood or arousal that is a product of the ravenous sound he emits as he pushes his face against your mound, skillfully using his tongue to make you writhe. he smiles against your heat when you gasp at the feeling of him sucking on your clit. he’s been rock hard since the moment he saw you splayed out, desperate for gratification. but the whines and moans that escape your mouth sends the blood straight down between his legs.

“you’re feasting like a man starved,” you watch him through lidded eyes, taking your bottom lip between your teeth.

bucky pushes your legs wider apart, easing two vibranium fingers into you with ease in the absence of his mouth. “i’ve wanted to taste you for a long time.” he kisses and nips along the flesh of your inner thigh. “forgive me if i can’t get enough.”

“under one condition.” your retort makes him look up at you as he continues to brush his fingertips along your sweet spot. “fuck me.” you you tug on his arm, signaling that you want him on top of you. “please, buck. i wanna cum so bad. i need it. please.” you beg, rolling your hips against his is desperation.

he allows his forehead to rest against hours for a brief moment as he ruts his clothed cock over your bare pussy. “on your stomach.” he growls.

you obey his command as he discards his sweatpants. he takes the pillow you’d been laying on and tosses it to the floor like the object offends him. “arms above your head.” your brain doesn’t even process his instructions, but your body inherently submits to him. you would swear this isn’t this first time you’ve been intimate with each other from the way he seems to know exactly what you need.

his warmth engulfs you as he straddles you. fingers intertwining together as he leans down to press kisses along the back of your neck. you shudder, mewling as you press your ass into his pelvis, urging him inside of you.

he doesn’t make you wait. he gives you what you want and nearly loses his composure once he’s completely immersed. his teeth dig into your shoulder and you cry out, clenching around him and making him see stars as he keeps his thrusts slow and steady.

bucky kneels behind you and raises your hips up enough to snake his hand around your waist and between your legs to play with your clit.

now its you who sees sparkling constellations before your eyes as you reach your orgasm at long last.

bucky comes undone only seconds after, unable to hold off any longer when you feel that damn good contracting around him.

a large, warm hand slides up the side of your body as tender kisses are peppered over the bruise darkening the skin of your shoulder. bucky adjusts you so that you’re laying on your side, grabbing the spare pillow and putting it under your head. he doesn’t remove himself from you. instead he pulls you to his chest and says, “go to sleep, pretty girl. you need to rest for what i have planned for you in the morning.”

[justreadingthings]

Wait STOP I’ve been wanting to buy new glasses (cheap, of course, online) and this definitely isn’t helping my wallet! But for real, I love this so fucking much. It’s so sweet and funny, and now I just can’t stop smiling ☺️

Heart Glasses ~ Robert "Bob" Floyd

synopsis: You meet your husband's new squadron one by one, all without them knowing who you truly were

tw: fem!reader, reader wears glasses, reader's mom's maiden name is Hearts, Bob's from Montana, suggestive, barely edited.

fic, ficlet, drabble, request

This was purely because I've been getting more strangers complimenting my heart shaped glasses

➽──────────────❥

Robert Floyd was a private person, everyone who meets him can attest to it. But, the one thing he could never keep quiet about, was his wife. The very same wife who the Dagger Squad had never met and had never seen a photo of.

"Are we even sure baby on board even has a wife?" Jake, stupidly, asked. The others ignored him, Bob wasn't one to lie and they've all seen the ring and heard the one sided phone calls.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

It was Natasha that met you first, you were in the same store as her and she had spotted your glasses from farther away.

"Hi, I just wanted to tell you that I love your glasses," Natasha said as she walked up, you smiled over at her.

"Oh, thank you! My husband got them for me because my mom's maiden name is Hearts," you told her. You noticed her uniform before speaking next, "Are you Navy?"

"I am," she told you, then recited her callsign. You smiled at her, told her that was a cooler call sign, and then you two said your goodbyes before leaving. As you walked away, you realized that had to be the Phoenix your husband was back seating for.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You met Bradley next, your dad was also an enjoyer of Hawaiian shirts and his birthday was coming up. You saw a man walking around the same store you were in holding the perfect one for your father.

"Hi, I'm sorry to bother you, but where did you find that shirt?" You questioned the taller stranger.

"Oh, back there," Bradley pointed behind him snd your eyes caught sight of the shirt.

"Thank you!" You told him, racing off with a muted goodbye.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Bradley and Natasha figured out their stranger interactions had been the same person at the Hard Deck a few days later.

"I ran into the woman who asked where I found this shirt at the mall the other day," Bradley told the group. "She had these heart glasses and it was like her whole face lit up when I told her," Bradley said, he was lamenting the fact that he never asked if she was single.

"Wait," Natasha cut in. "Did she have a black purse with a butterfly attachment and y/h/c hair?" Natasha questioned. y/h/c = your hair color

"Yeah, how did you know?" Bradley questioned, his face scrunched in confusion.

"That's the woman I complimented on her glasses! She's married, her husband got her glasses for her," Natasha told Bradley, her face twisting into disgust at his earlier words of wanting to take her out.

"Damn, that's one lucky man then," Bradley mused, everyone missing the small grin growing on Bob's face. He had figured you were the one they were talking about.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Mickey was the next to meet you, he had recognized your description from the others and wanted to double check you were you. You were just walking to your car from work.

"Hi, this may sound weird but did you ask a taller man with a mustache about a Hawaiian shirt and get complimented on your glasses by a woman whose call sign is Phoenix?" Mickey rushed out before you could run away from the odd question.

"Oh, yeah, why?" You had subtly taken a step back from him.

"I'm in their squadron! They will never believe that I met you," Mickey pumped his fist in the air and you relaxed.

"Oh, well, hello," you laughed gently, your smile easy. "What do they call you?"

"Fanboy, but my name's Mickey, ma'am," he offered his hand and you shook it.

"Nice to meet you Mickey," you offered your name before walking away, you got in the car and let yourself laugh even harder. These were definitely the people from your husband's squadron.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Jake was next, he hit on you before you even looked at him.

"What's a darling lady like you doing alone?" Jake slid into your space, you were grocery shopping for breakfast while Bob slept in a bit.

"Mu husband's asleep," you told him, turning to face him.

"Wait, no way, you're the infamous y/n?" He perked up and you realized what was happening.

"Are you another from the group of people from the same squadron that I keep running into?" You questioned, a humorous smile growing on your face.

"I am, the name's Hangman," he offered his hand and you shook it.

"Well, I have no idea how many more of you there are," you lied. "But tell the others I'm excited to run into them as well," you bit him farewell while leaving, missing Jake pulling his phone out to text the Dagger Squad group.

Bagman: You'll never guess who I ran into Phoenix: Heart glasses y/n? Bagman: At the grocery store Rooster: You hit on her, didn't you? Fanboy: He most definitely did Phoenix: Did she bring up her husband? Bagman: She did Payback: I was supposed to meet her next! Coyote: I call next time

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You met Ruben next, much to Javy's dismay. You were at the gym and Ruben couldn't find his earbud case.

"Hi, sorry," Ruben automatically apologized when you slightly jumped. "I didn't mean to scare you, it's just that I was using this machine earlier and I can't find my earbud case. Have you seen one around here by chance?"

"Oh, is it blue?" You questioned, your glasses slowly falling down your face. It brought them to Ruben's attention and you saw him get excited.

"Yeah, it is, you wouldn't happen to be y/n, would you?"

"I am, are you apart of that Navy squadron?" You grabbed the blue earbud case you had seen under the machine earlier and handed it to him.

"That I am," he affirmed and you gave him a small smile. "Thanks for this," he lifted the case up just enough for you to see it.

"You're welcome,' you paused, waiting for his name.

"Payback or Ruben, ma'am," he told you and you nodded once. You two went your separate ways and as you left for the locker room, you texted your husband.

My Girl ❤️: I ran into another one of your friends My Cowboy 🤠 ❤️: Who was it? My Girl ❤️: Payback, he was nice. Called me ma'am and only approached me because he lost his earbud case My Cowboy 🤠 ❤️: You've got one left to meet My Girl ❤️: I know, they act like they're all meeting me. I'm meeting them My Girl ❤️: Also I'm very sweaty and it will be your problem when I get home. I'm going to be all over you My Cowboy 🤠 ❤️: I can't wait

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

The last to meet you was Javy, he saw you as you walked into the hangar. You were there to pick up Bob since you had to borrow his truck while your car was in the shop, and Javy recognized your description right away.

"Holy shit, you're y/n! I'm Coyote or Javy!" He practically shouted, causing many to look over at you. You were suddenly surrounded by the entire squadron, questions flying at you faster than you could process.

Your savior came in the form of your husband, as always. His hand wrapped around your wrist and gently pulled you to him, his hand slipping right to it's home on your waist. "Are you ok?" Bob lowly asked in your ear, you nodded with a bright smile on your face.

"Wait," Jake called out but his shock made him pause. "Your husband's baby on board?"

"Yeah, my husband's Bob," you told him, your eyes sharpening at the name Jake called him.

"How long have you known who we were?" Natasha asked.

"Since you, well, I didn't know who Bradley was until Bobby came home and told me. I'm sorry for never asking your name to properly thank you," you apologized to the man but he waved you off.

"I think that's ok, I did accidentally tell your husband how I was upset at myself for never asking you out," Bradley told you and you laughed at the feeling of Bob tightening his hold on you.

"He told me about that, while I appreciate two of you thinking I'm attractive, I am very happy in my marriage," you told them, it was enough to snap Jake out of his shock.

"How the hell did Bob bag you?" Jake exclaimed and you looked over at him again.

"He's got a huge," Bob cut you off with a tug away from the others.

"Ok, that's enough," your husband told you with ear tipped ears. You gave him a sweet smile as you heard the laughter from his squad. Bob led you away from them and out of the building and to the car. "You're going to pay for that," Bob told you as he started his truck, his hand landing on your thigh.

"I can't wait," you told him, your smile widening just a little bit more.

➽──────────────❥

Masterlist | Requests If you want to be added to the tag list, follow the directions on my masterlist

[justreadingthings]

This is possibly the best and worst thing all rolled into one. The best because it’s so hot, so well written, and it’s practically perfect. The downside is that I don’t have a Rhett Abbott to tease until he’s whining and begging to cum. *sigh* that’s what I’ll keep coming back to this for, then…

Side note: I know that we all know that the cherry stem hypothesis doesn’t actually hold weight, but it is unbearably sexy to make him tie one in a knot before letting him find release. Oh my fuck, that killed me.

Whiskey Sour | Rhett Abbott X Reader

Word Count: 5,600 Cross Posted Here on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, , hand jobs, oral, unprotected sex, edging, begging, afab!reader. ya'll asked, and you shall receive :)

It really shouldn't bother you that Maria is back in town.

It really shouldn't bother you that she's decided to add herself to your little group, innocently settled between you and Rhett as she chatters away about high school events that you weren't here for. You're sure her friends didn't intentionally join just to push you all the way out of the little circle that's formed at the bar. Perry's receiving much of the same treatment, pushed away by a giggling flock of ladies that have taken a new liking to Rhett.

No, it shouldn't bother you.

"Is it just me," Perry says to you, although he makes no effort to lower his voice, "or did we just get kicked out of our own conversation?"

You've been so distracted by keeping the girls out from under your skin that you didn't notice Perry order two double shots from the bartender. But now, he's handing you a small glass, and you're clinking them together in a celebratory, 'fuck this.'

Whatever it is in this glass, tequila, you think, it burns its way down your dry throat like an inferno; not your favorite, but it gets the job done. Anything to avoid facing the intrusive thoughts ebbing at your psyche.

"Pretty sure we did," hailing down the bartender; it's your turn to pick a drink, and you're gonna need something that'll last longer than a shot.

As your bartender whisks off to craft your choice of beverages, the music blaring on the radio comes to an end. For a brief moment, the bar becomes quieter; it's now that you hear what Maria's friend is saying.

"Not to be rude, but Rhett's sex life must be boring as hell now," the blonde giggles, Molly, you think her name is. Her friends just laugh right along with her; you pretend you don't see the wayward glances and hands shielding their lipstick smiles.

So it seems we're being catty tonight.

"Whiskey Sours?" Perry's deep voice is a welcomed change compared to the shrillness on your left. "Haven't had one of these since I first got with Rebecca."

He's quick to pluck the cherry from his drink, gently placing it alongside the one floating in your own glass. Not a fan of cherries, it seems; to each their own.

"Need something that'll distract me for longer than a minute," sipping your drink; there's more lemon than there should be, but you'll take it.

Even the bite of the whiskey cannot tear your thoughts off that comment. You know very well that it's just petty trash talk to hype up their friend, but it's lit a match in the back of your mind. Boring, as in not having a new partner every week, or boring, as in bad sex?

Surely by now, you've got a leg up on the pretty pillow princesses and buckle bunnies that seem to follow Rhett like a bunch of cats in heat. But can you jump up on a ledge that they could never dream of reaching?

Hm.

The gaggle of goslings starts to fuss, and you don't need to tilt your head to know why.

"Hey, darlin'," Rhett's pressing a less into the side of your head, cold nose bumping against you and making you squirm, "what's my baby drinkin' now?"

You hate him for making your heart flutter like that; you really do.

"Whiskey Sour," you say, lifting your glass for him to take; if there's anything you know about Rhett Abbott, it's that he loves trying new drinks, but he's too shy to order anything that doesn't scream "manliest man to ever man."

Maria's saying something, you can hear her voice behind you, but you can't focus on anything but the little grin that etches its way onto Rhett's face when the drink hits his tongue.

"Don't suppose you want the cherry Perry forfeited too?" As if to emphasize your statement, you pick it up, twirling the stem between two fingers.Quiet, Rhett reaches out for it, brows furrowing as he pops it in his mouth.

Just then, Perry's phone lights up with a ding. In the second that it's on, you see that it's Rebecca who's texted him, and whatever the message contains must be quite something because Perry's face changes the second he sees it.

"I—uh, Rhett, do you want mine?" He fumbles to shove it in his pocket, already halfway out of his seat. "I need to...Rebecca needs me home."

...ah.

Rhett doesn't seem to have the same epiphany you've just had, but he's more than content to take Perry's seat and finish off his glass. Perry practically flies out of the bar; you suppose Rebecca must have just sent him a photo of her in the new lingerie set she just got.

Up until now, you'd forgotten about the ruby red lingerie you'd chosen to put on for tonight. At the time, you hadn't expected Rhett to have one of those rides that warrant a few rounds at the bar—you'd really just expected to watch him ride and then surprise him once he'd got back in the truck. It's a cute lace set, but now that you've remembered you're wearing it, you're acutely aware of how uncomfortable it can be.

"Can you watch my drink for me?" You ask him, and you don't need to provide anything else; he's already reaching out for it, covering the top with a protective palm.

"It's safe with me, doll," he sticks his tongue out, proudly revealing a knotted cherry stem. God, he's cute. It almost makes you feel bad for what you're about to do to him.

Almost.

The bathroom is just a single room; you're not sure why a bar this size chose to have it set up like this, but it only plays into your hand. Their poor design choice allows you a little more privacy in front of this mirror.

Hooking your thumb under your shirt and pulling it up, up, up until—alright yeah, maybe you should tilt your hips to the left. Hell, now it's not looking as good in the camera as it does in the reflection.

You almost regret this idea, but as you finally find the right angle to snap your picture, the results are worth all the awkward twisting and turning you've just done. Whoever said taking photos like these is easy was a straight-up liar.

It takes just as long to readjust your clothing, straightening your shirt, and fiddling with the itchy lace that just doesn't want to let you forget that it's there again. The photo should take a while to send; Wabang signal has never been great, to begin with; you probably still have time to finish your drink and get out before Rhett sees it.

Opening the door, you're instantaneously met with the mouth-watering sight of a slack-jawed cowboy walking down the hallway, your whiskey sour still held in his hand.

"Baby doll," haven't heard that nickname in a while, "when did—did you just take that?"

And yet, Rhett doesn't let you answer; as soon as he's close enough, he's crowding you backward, free hand on your hip as he pushes you right back into the bathroom. He's kissing you before your back has even hit the wall, and it's the messiest thing you've ever found yourself wrapped up in.

You don't want to melt into it, but you do. Your mouth opens to his, and you can taste the lingering whiskey and lemon on his tongue as it intertwines with yours.

You're not sure what it is, but something possesses you to reach for his hand, guiding it up under your shirt. You know he's found the answer to his question when he makes a noise against your lips, fingers curling around the lace adorning your chest. Your hips bump together; God, he's already hard.

"You've been wearing this the whole time?" Incredulous, his fingers crawl up under the lace, his thumb swiping over a sensitive nipple.

"Had plans," you offer, gasping against his lips, "your fans forced me to remake them."

Rhett frowns, and based on the way he draws back so suddenly, you know he must be feeling guilty. Your glass settles on the counter with a soft noise, and he's gripping your hips with both hands now, mouth finding its way to the skin under your ear.

"'m sorry, doll," voice gravely as he works his way down your neck, biting lightly at your collarbone. Calloused thumbs hook into the waistband of both your shorts and your underwear.

Oh.

Ever so slowly, he sinks to his knees before you, pulling your garments down in tandem. Good lord isn't that a sight to behold. Rhett Abbott, blinking up at you with those pretty blue eyes as his hand hitches under your left knee, pushing it up until he can hook it over his shoulder. He peppers the inside of your thigh with soft, fleeting kisses, each one closer and closer to the wetness between your legs.

There is no hesitation in giving you what you want, all you have time for is one shaky breath, and he's dragging his tongue between your folds, licking broad, flat stripes into your aching cunt.

"Rhett," you whine, tangling your fingers into his messy hair, still damp from his shower, "fuck."

He moans into you, twirling his tongue along your clit in messy figure eights. You've only told him how to do it once in the past, but fuck, he hasn't forgotten, it seems. He's got you tangled up in an iron grip, keeping your thigh securely over his shoulder while the other hand keeps your hips steady. Absolutely refuses to let you squirm away from his burning hot tongue as it licks rapidly at the little bud he's caught between his lips.

"That feel good?" He asks, voice rumbling into your sensitive cunt, "hm?" And you don't know who's more worked up, you or him.

Your hips twitch at his words, and he moans quietly, some soft little noise that barely reaches your ears. Fuck, you want to hear him make that noise again.

That's a thought you'll have to store for later because right now, there's a coil burning to life in your lower belly, twisting and tightening with every thick, wet stroke of his pink tongue. There's nothing you can do to slow your breathing; stop the way you've started panting into the open air.

You're already close, and you find yourself reaching for the cherry still floating in the remains of your drink, popping it into your mouth in an effort to keep yourself at bay.

"Come on, darlin'," picking up his pace, "cum on my tongue."

The coil snaps, and with a soft whine, your body tenses, cumming on his tongue as it continues to work you. He chuckles into you, lightly licking you through your high until you're squirming away from him.

By the time you catch your breath, he's already risen to his feet, tongue back in your mouth as he kisses you rather roughly. You can taste yourself on him.

"Go pay off your tab," you murmur against his lips, "if you're good, maybe I'll give you what you want when we get home."

The ghost of a pout lingers on his lips as your hand lands on his chest, pushing him back until he can no longer reach your lips. When you pull your shorts back up and don't budge on your decision, he reaches into his pocket, handing over his truck keys, "I'll be there in a minute."

You can't help but notice the severe lack of a cherry stem in your mouth as he disappears back inside. Based on your fleeting scan of the ground below your feet, it hasn't fallen either.

You're almost surprised to find that there isn't a line formed outside the bathroom, surely someone would have come knocking by now, but there isn't a soul in the corridor as the two of you slip out the door. Rhett's walking rather briskly, can't quite meet your eye as you split into separate directions.

Stepping outside brings you a welcome breath of fresh Wyoming air. Crisp with all things autumn and the lightest hint of lingering cigarette smoke, it's heaven, compared to the stuffiness of the bar, overcome with cheap perfume and the sharp bite of booze.

As nice as it is outside, it feels so much nicer once you've climbed into his passenger seat. You decide to be nice and take the liberty of starting the old truck up, turning on the heat. Long gone are the days when you could comfortably sit in here with the windows down. Now, your nose is red from the cold, cheeks threatening to become chapped if you stay out any longer than you have to.

Rhett's better at hiding his desperation than his brother, but there's a lingering agency in his step as he approaches the truck, adjusting himself in his jeans.

"Someone's bothered," you chime the moment he's opened the door.

"Yeah," damn near shuts his foot in the door with his urgency to get going, "that's the fault of the pretty little thing in my passenger seat."

That goddamn cherry stem is in his mouth.

He keeps it there, too. Rolls it back and forth between his teeth as he drives, flips it back and forth with his tongue at the red light. Toying with the prize, he'd so smoothly stolen right from under your tongue. Part of you wonders if he's intentionally showing it off, curling his tongue more than necessary just to remind you of what his mouth can do to you.

Maybe he stole it from you on accident, just like maybe you chose the middle seat by accident, and your hand just so happens to accidentally land on his inner thigh.

"Baby," he warns, but there's no venom to it.

Rhett only ever drives with his left hand on the steering wheel; he could very well reach down and stop your fingers from drawing circles into the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, but he doesn't.

He squirms, kicks his hips lower in the seat in a feeble attempt to get your hand over his cock; you'll just let that slip your psyche, fingers remaining fixated on his thigh instead.

Soon enough, he's turning into your street, albeit a bit faster than he probably should. The movement jostles you into him, your hand unintentionally pressing against the hardness between his legs, and the noise that slips out of his mouth is the unholiest thing you've ever heard.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" He huffs, and the turn he takes into the driveway is sharp; you're prepared this time, and your hand doesn't repeat the same mistake.

"My hand can take a pretty good guess," it's when the truck comes to a stop that your hand slides up, fingers gently tracing around the bulge in his jeans.

Just from your touch alone, his eyelids shudder, fighting to stay open. Using the palpable outline as a guide, your wandering fingertips are able to find the head of his cock, applying just a bit of pressure as your thumb fiddles with it. Back and forth, you roll him between your index and thumb.

"God, fuck," his forehead hits the steering wheel with a soft thump, "baby, I hope you're not just toying with me."

"Only if you figure out the magic word," taunting in your best sing-song voice, and in one smooth motion, you're sliding across the seat and hopping out of the truck.

Rhett is much slower to get out; you've already walked through the front door by the time you hear his boots hit the ground. Poor guy, you'd almost feel guilty if a cocktail of spite and curiosity weren't coursing through your veins right now.

Your clothes are discarded as soon as you step into the bedroom; you'd make him work to get them off if you weren't so damn tired of this lace itching your skin.

You feel Rhett before you see him, hot breath fanning out against the back of your neck as he looms behind you. The drag of his rough fingers against your sides is delicious, leaving goose bumps in their leisurely wake.

Not desperate enough.

However, as the scruff of that five o'clock shadow brushes against your cheek, thin lips pressing a kiss there, you can feel your willpower fold in half. God, why are you doing this again?

"So pretty," words crooned sweetly into your ear, teeth nipping at your lobe, "this all for me, darlin'?"

Your resolve weakens with each word; he's almost got you in the palm of his hand when the memories of the bar come flooding back. The comments, the giggling, the irritation that coursed through your veins when they'd hijacked your own conversation; like a phoenix, your intentions bubble back to the surface.

Turning, you come to face him, fingertips making quick work of his flannel as you meet his lips. He grunts, and you can practically feel the way his eyebrows raise with his surprise, but he's more than eager to reciprocate the gesture.

You've barely tugged his shirt off when finally, finally, that lace slips from your chest, lands on top of the shirt you've just made quick work of.

"On the bed," carefully disguising your orders with a sweet tone; if he catches on to what you're doing before you've got him at your mercy, he'll turn this into a battle over who can be more dominant, and he's got quite the winning streak.

It seems you've avoided setting off any warning bells because he sits on the bed without a complaint, is so, so pliant when you push him onto his back. Muscles flex under pale skin as he squirms until he's in the center of the bed, reaches out for you when you come up to straddle his hips.

"So pretty," you observe aloud, running your fingers through his hair; his cheeks flush pink, shy eyes averting your gaze.

The alcohol must be working its way into his system pretty well right now because he doesn't fuss like he usually does when you call him pretty. Still just as shy as he always is when you catch him off-guard, but less fussy.

He's so distracted that he doesn't realize you're leaning down to kiss his neck until your lips are on him. "Oh," he gasps, tilting his head to give you better access.

The possessive side of you wants to leave a mark right here, high up on his neck for everyone to see, telling everyone just who he belongs to, but you can still remember how awkward it had been the last time you gave him one.

Hickeys are all fun and games until momma asks where they came from.

So you forfeit his neck in exchange for kissing down his chest. Sucking soft marks into his skin that will disappear come morning, stopping midway to roll your tongue over a pink nipple.

Rhett jolts under you, his nipples have always been particularly sensitive, more so when he's tired, and there's alcohol buzzing through his bloodstream. Selfishly, you repeat the action, rolling the rapidly hardening bud between your lips.

"'t's not—" squirming below you, "you're not supposed to—"

"—not what, Rhett?" Playing innocent as you switch to pay attention to the other one, "hm?"

His argument dies in his throat the moment your teeth pull at his nipple, just enough to illicit a reaction, not enough to hurt, in the exact same fashion he's done to you oh so many times. Soothing your tongue over it, you replace your tongue with your fingertips, opting to roll it back and forth as you return to your original ventures.

He's properly squirming now, hips unable to keep still as your wet tongue trails down the defining line of his abdomen. There's something mesmerizing about it; if you'd known winding him up would get this out of him, you reckon you would have done it sooner.

Finally, you make it down to the waistband of his jeans, and you're already working on getting that bullhide belt off of him. It's tricky enough to work around that oversized buckle, but as soon as you've got it unhitched, it's smooth sailing from there. In a similar manner to what he'd done to you just an hour ago, you hook your fingers under his waistband and pull.

With his legs free of his jeans, It's only appropriate that you pay attention to those plush, milky white thighs of his. They tremble under your wandering fingers; always have been quite sensitive to your touches.

"Ah," whining quietly as your lips find the perfect spot to leave their first mark.

Rhett's thighs bruise quite easily; you already know the soft red mark you've sucked into his skin will blossom into a deep purple come sunrise. You wonder just how long he'll let you keep this up.

"So pretty," whispering praises into his thigh in between marks. You're almost eye level with his cock; hard against his belly. Experimental, you run a palm up the underside of it, and you find yourself mesmerized by how his hips raise with it, chasing your fleeting touch.

"Baby," he warns, but again, there's no bite to it, and he does nothing to stop you from switching to his neglected thigh.

Again, your palm meanders its way up the underside of his cock, swiping your thumb over his leaking slit, "poor baby," you coo, taking your hand off him once more, "is this all for me?"

Rhett refuses to speak, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth in an effort to remain silent. What he doesn't say with his mouth, he says with his body instead. If only he knew you could tell exactly what he was holding back verbally, just by the way his hips writhe against the mattress, legs trying their damndest to lock you in.

You take him into your hand, giving him one firm pump; he must think that's the end of your teasing because when you retract your hand once more, he whines high in his throat. 

"What the fuck," he breathes, and when he reaches down to do it himself, you bat his hands away, "why...?"

Someone must not have been paying attention in the truck. 

Nipping at a fresh new bruise you've taken the honor of adding to his rapidly building collection, you repeat your earlier statement, "figure out the magic word."

"'m not fuckin' beggin' for it," bullheaded as always; fortunately, there's a spot at the meet of his thigh that doesn't have a mark on it yet. You offer him no warning, simply leaning in to wet the area with your tongue. 

Rhett swears under his breath, little profanities that get quieter with your movements, tapering off into audible puffs of breath. You're almost amazed to see that cherry stem lingering in his mouth, poking out from between two canines. 

Switching to the other thigh yields better results, especially when you take the liberty of running your thumb along the underside of the head of his cock, tracing back and forth as slowly as you can manage. Friction, touch, but not quite there. 

Not quite what he's craving so badly.

Leaning back, you're finally able to fully take in and admire your handiwork; soft thighs, once completely unmarked now mottled with red splotches, some of which are already darkening. Rhett raises his knee, and you don't need to glance up to know that he's looking too. 

You stroke him once more, and his head falls back onto the pillow. Pause, count to thirty in your head, then repeat. 

"I—" eyebrows furrowing; you stroke him again, flicking your wrist as you do so. 

As convinced as you were that it would crack him, it seems it wasn't enough because he stays quiet. Fine, you'll let him go and recalculate—

"Please."

It's so quiet, so barely there, that you're almost convinced you may be hearing things, but then, "please, I don't—I..." 

On its own, your hand returns to him; using his precum as lubrication, you stroke him properly. The reaction you receive is instant, jaw falling slack, eyelashes fluttering like leaves in the autumn wind. The Rhett you usually receive in bed is quiet, nothing but deep grunts and breathy gasps, but the one in front of you is on the verge of whiny. Soft, barely there noises working their way out of his throat, so close to a proper sound. 

 Abruptly, you tighten your grip, and it's a motion that's always drawn a reaction from him, but you don't expect him to moan so loud. Just as quickly as you'd surprised him, he bites into the side of his palm, muffling the noises that follow. 

"Aw, don't cover your mouth," you're settling back between his legs as you speak, "I like hearing you."

Something about your words causes his cheeks to turn cherry red, and yet, he pries his hand back out of his mouth. There's that cherry stem again.

Your tongue meets the sensitive base of his cock, laving at where it meets his balls until it's so wet that it shines in the dim light. He looks like he's about to start fussing again just as you trace your tongue up a vein, following it until you can swirl around his sensitive head. 

"Fuck," he gasps, fisting the sheets, "p-please, darlin'."

And how can you wait any longer when he asks you so nicely?

Taking a deep breath in, you sink down on him, hollowing your cheeks as you work him into your mouth. Thick fingers take hold of the side of your head, gripping tight but not enough to hurt. You're only about halfway down when his hips twitch, and the head of his cock bumps into the back of your throat. You don't mean to gag around him, but the fluttering of your throat only serves to make him louder for you. 

"God, shit—" Rhett swears, and it's so loud compared to his former murmurings, "baby."

Breathing through your nose, you gather your composure, pushing yourself further down until he's properly working into your throat. It's not a motion you can maintain for more than a few seconds at a time, but lord, does it work wonders on your cowboy. 

Keening high in his throat, Rhett squirms against the sheets; you can't tell if he's trying to wriggle free or get more. The fat head of his cock eases into your throat with every motion, jaw already aching with the effort.

“Feels good,” he babbles, “fuck, that feels so good.”

With every motion, your throat grows more and more numb from the abuse it's receiving; as much as you know it's going to ache in a little bit, you take him even further until the tip of your nose just barely brushes against his belly. 

"'M already close," the words are just barely out of his mouth when you reel back, letting your mouth off him with a soft pop, and he whimpers. 

He's already about to fuss again when you wrap a hand around him, stroking once, twice, and then stopping firm at his base. What words were about to spill off his tongue instead ripples out as an outright sob, echoing throughout the bedroom. It sends heat flushing between your legs; you want to hear that again.

Rhett's hips attempt to draw back and rise into your hand, but you've got a firm grip that doesn't falter. "Please," like a mantra, over and over, “please, darlin', please let me cum.”

It's not your intention to make him cum yet, but your hand strokes up his cock anyway, painfully slow. "Are you gonna be a good boy for me?" Your voice is gravely, so different from how it was just a few minutes ago, "hm?"

At first, all he does is nod his agreement, but then your hand stops, "y-yes."

"Yes, what?"

He gulps, adam's apple bobbing with it, "I want—" his own voice is cut short by a sudden, shaky breath as your hand works him again, "I wanna be your good boy."

Letting go of him for the umpteenth time, you reach down to tug your lace panties off; even so, with your intentions so clear, Rhett starts to fidget. 

"Hold on, hold on," you can't help but giggle at the sight; he's reaching for you, eager fingers wiggling in an attempt to beckon you back to him faster. They settle onto your waist as soon as you're within reaching distance, holding on as you settle into his lap and take him into your hand once more.

You only have it in you to slide him between your folds once, and then you're letting him catch on your entrance. Despite him having laid you down and fucked you on the kitchen counter this morning, you can still feel the delicious stretch of his fat head as it eases into your cunt. 

As soon as your hips come flush together, you waste no time in placing your hands on his chest and drawing yourself back up. His head drags against the soft, spongey spot inside of you, and just the sensation alone is enough to have your entrance fluttering around him. 

"Baby, baby, baby," Rhett babbles, squeezing your hips in his hands, "just like that."

The pace you set is intense, almost brutal as your hips rise and fall on him; it feels like he's forcing the breath out of your lungs with every downward motion. Long gone is Rhett's ability to stay quiet, keening with every move you make, eyes rolling into the back of his head when you clamp down around him.

"I'm gonna cum," he blurts, "baby—ah! I'm gonna cum."

You stop, and he loses it.

"Fuck!" He cries, loud and desperate, "fuck, why-why won't you let me cum?"

Feigning obliviousness, you lean down until your noses are touching, "tie that cherry stem into a knot," those pretty blue eyes widen, "and maybe I'll let you cum."

You grant him just a few more seconds to recompose himself, and then your hips are working again, thighs lifting and dropping at the same pace as before. Your change in angle has rewarded you with the dizzying pleasure of his cock driving directly into that soft spot, a slick noise bouncing off the walls as your cunt takes him.

Rhett's eyebrows are furrowing with his effort to tie that damn cherry stem, but you foil his work by tightening yourself around him, "god, fuck, baby." 

His voice alone sends a wildfire raging in your lower belly, and with one hand, you reach between your bodies, fingertips finding your swollen clit. You're still so, so sensitive from your first orgasm, and all it takes is the fleeting memory of Rhett on his knees and few, well-placed spirals before you're freezing up on top of him. You cum with a soft cry, thighs clamping down on his hips as your body spasms. 

You don't quite remember closing your eyes, you don't think they've been closed for that long, but when they flutter open, you find quite the sight before you. 

"Darlin', please," his voice is weak as he squirms below you. His eyes water with unshed tears, threatening to bubble over with every blink, and he's trembling. "Darlin' darlin' I—"

His jaw shakes as his mouth closes, tongue working, again and again, to tie that damned cherry stem into a knot. 

Just as you pull off of him, his mouth opens, revealing a loosely tied stem. 

"Such a good boy for me," you praise, and your intentions are to lower yourself and suck him off, but he won't let you go. He's babbling something intelligible, pushed so, so far that he can't form his words properly. "Rhett?" 

He keens high in his throat, tries to repeat himself, but you still don't understand, and he still won't let you free of his iron grip.

"Okay, okay," scooting up the bed, you settle next to him, and he's so, so eager to hold you closer. 

Planting your hand on his back, you draw him in until his head is resting on your chest; with your free hand, you reach down and wrap your fingers around his cock. He jumps at your touch, squirming into it as he continues to babble something you can't make out, but it doesn't sound at all close to your safeword, so you keep stroking him. 

You squeeze him a little tighter, wrist flicking towards the end of each and every stroke, and you can feel him panting into your chest.

"I-I'm," it's the first thing you can understand, stutter punctuated by his hips weakly twitching into your palm. 

"Go ahead," murmuring into his messy hair, "cum for me, Rhett."

His breath hitches, and with a weakened whimper, he cums just as you'd asked, painting your hand and tummy with burning hot semen. You pump him through it until he's relaxing back into you, panting for his breath again.

Wet tears land on your chest, "fuck."

"Rhett?" You're worried—did you push him too far? Was he misremembering his safeword? 

But then he's tilting his head up you, smiling weakly but so, so genuinely up at you, "'m alright," he hiccups, voice rougher than you've ever heard it, "don't think I've ever been so desperate to cum in my life." He laughs at his own words, even more so when you join him. 

The both of you are an absolute wreck, sticky with a gross mixture of sweat, spit, and cum, but you can't bring yourself to move. You're not sure if Rhett will let go of you even if the house were to come burning down. 

"If I buy you another whiskey sour the next time we go to the bar," he says, kissing your skin as he shyly blinks up at you, "can we do that again?"

You think you just might melt. 

"Baby," leaning down to kiss him on the lips, "all you need to do is ask."

The next time you're at the bar, Rhett's so focused on ordering a very specific drink and high tailing it out of there that he doesn't even realize Maria and her friends are standing right next to him.

[justreadingthings]

Honestly I cannot get enough of this! My face is warm and my heart is full of flutters because this is so good. Thank you for this ✨🩵

The Wingman | Bob Floyd x Reader

Summary: Bob never did this sort of thing. Talking to girls and flirting and romance. It's not that he didn't want to, he just didn't really know how. But you were different in all the right ways, and you made him feel confident enough to try.

Warnings: Fluff, smut, angst

Length: 5200 words

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Female Reader

Check my masterlist for more!

"I need your help," Jake said, forcefully removing the cup of peanuts from Bob's hand. "Right now. Come on."

"With what?" Bob asked quietly as Jake hauled him to his feet and started pushing him away from the pool table and toward the bar. Bob wiped peanut shells from his uniform as he went, perplexed about what was going on.

"See those two girls?" Jake asked, pointing to the end of the bar. "Kinda cute, right?"

Bob's jaw dropped open. Kinda cute didn't quite cover it. Gorgeous was more like it. He swallowed the last peanut he was chewing on and murmured, "Yeah. Very cute."

"Great. The one on the right has a perfect looking rack, and she seems kind of mean. She's for me. You can have the one on the left. She's sweet. Not my type," Jake said as they drew closer.

Bob was practically stumbling along now. "But why do you need me?"

"You're going to be my wingman."

"But.... we aren't flying?" Bob asked, so perplexed.

Jake sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Focus, Floyd. It means you can hang out with the friend for a bit so I can get laid. Do you understand?"

"Yeah," Bob muttered, and then he was being thrust up right next to where you were standing. He had to catch the wall so he didn't slam into you, and then you looked up at him slowly as you released your straw from your lips and smiled.

"Hi." Your voice was breathy and soft, the perfect juxtaposition to the noisy bar. And you looked even more beautiful up close, something Bob would have thought impossible. "Are you Jake's friend?"

"Uh, yeah," he replied, swallowing hard as your bright smile took his breath away. "I'm Bob," he managed to say without sounding like a complete idiot.

And then you gave him your name, and something told him he was going to remember it for the rest of his life. "It's nice to meet you, Bobby."

He nodded, heart thudding. "Nice to meet you, too." 

You called him Bobby, and he liked the way it sounded on your lips. But nothing compared to what you said next. 

"I noticed you before," you said, looking down at your drink, suddenly shy. "Last weekend when we were here. And the weekend before that. I can't believe you're talking to me."

You had noticed him before? Bob couldn't formulate real words. You were surprised he was talking to you? But you were so far out of his league, it was ridiculous! He just watched your straw brushing against your lips as your gaze slowly moved up his chest and neck until your eyes met his again. You were just so pretty.

You cleared your throat and pressed your lips together. "Of course, if you don't feel like talking to me, you don't have to." And you quickly turned to face the bar, taking a few steps away from him. That's when Bob realized he'd been staring at you instead of talking to you at all. 

"No, no, I do want to talk to you," he said, wondering if it was okay to touch you and decided to go for it as he reached out to let his fingers brush your arm. He said your name and you turned to look at him again, but you didn't come any closer. "Sorry, I-I just got distracted by how pretty you are."

You laughed, and that smile was back now. "You know, that usually sounds like a line when a guy says it, but for some reason I believe you, Bobby. I even told my friend Alli that you looked handsome and sweet at the same time." You gestured toward your friend who had her lips glued to Jake's, but Bob barely glanced in their direction.

"Nobody really calls me Bobby, but I like it when you do."

When you closed the distance between your bodies and ran your fingers along his collection of insignia pins, Bob let his left hand rest lightly on your waist, and you didn't stop him. He couldn't believe you were letting him touch you. 

"What do you do in the navy?" you asked, meeting his eyes before examining his pins a little closer. 

"I'm an aviator," he replied. 

"You fly a jet?" you asked, eyes wide now. And this was what Bob hated more than anything; having to explain to someone that he was just a backseater. 

"No, I'm a weapons systems officer, actually."

"Oh! So you're in charge of a pilot! Do you fly with Jake?"

Bob smiled at your simple and yet surprisingly accurate description of what a WSO did. "No, I fly with her," he replied, pointing across the bar where Phoenix was gaping at him with a pool cue in her hand. 

You turned to look before turning back to him and saying, "That's so fascinating, Bobby."

"What do you do?" he asked, wrapping his hand a little further around your back and nearly gasping as he felt the swell of your butt. He let go of you like he'd been burned, but you reached for his hand and placed it right where it had been. 

"I'm a kindergarten teacher."

Bob's mouth went dry. Phoenix told him all the time that he was destined to marry a sweet, pretty kindergarten teacher and have six kids and a golden retriever. 

"Do you like kids, Bobby?" you asked, your fingers back on his pins. 

"Yeah... six of them," he murmured. 

"Hmm?"

"Oh. Nothing," he told you. "Yes, I like kids. Sometimes I volunteer to read at the library when they need military personnel for story time. Hey, how do you feel about golden retrievers?

"Your lips parted slightly as you looked at him, and Bob could feel his cheeks flushing with color as you leaned up. The way your eyes fluttered closed should have been enough warning for him, but nobody had ever done this to him before in the middle of the Hard Deck. In fact, he could count on one hand the number of girls he had ever kissed at all, anywhere.

But the soft touch of your lips to his was enough to have his right hand wrapping around you as well. And then everything felt perfect as he touched you while you kissed him. 

The kiss didn't last long, but you kept your body pressed right up to his while you assured him that golden retrievers were your very favorite type of dog. Then you told Bob about your classroom and your school and the kids in your class. You told him how much you liked when they played movies in the park by your apartment. You told him that you always went with some of your friends to the food truck festivals. And you told him how much you liked his glasses. 

"You really like them?" Nobody liked his glasses. Women frequently asked him if he ever wore contacts. He supposed that would make him a bit better looking, but he hated poking at his eyes when he needed to use them for work.

"Like is an understatement," you assured him with a smile. "You're so cute. Can I kiss you again?"

Bob nodded helplessly, already kind of pathetically in need of your attention. This kiss was a little more forceful, and Bob could feel your tongue touching his.

And then Alli threw her drink on Jake, and you gasped, backing out of Bob's arms. "Maybe I should go check on her," you said as your friend stormed toward the exit. But you didn't move. 

"Well, Bob, your wingman duty is no longer needed," Jake drawled, wiping what appeared to be rum and coke from his face before he wandered away.

You groaned and tipped your head back before you met Bob's eyes. "Jake made you come over and talk to me, didn't he?"

You looked completely distraught, and Bob thought he might die if you left right now. He didn't even have your number, and he hadn't asked you out on a date yet. "Don't go," he begged, reaching for you as you set your empty glass on the bar. "Please. It took literally no persuading on Jake's part to get me to come over here. And you're so pretty, I would have been too scared to ever come over on my own."

You looked at him for a beat. "You seem sincere. Are you being sincere?"

"Of course," he swore, panicking inside. "I don't want you to leave. I'm hoping you'll give me your number and let me take you out tomorrow."

To Bob's relief, you pulled him over to the one empty bar stool and pushed him down to sit. Then you were on his lap, perched on his thigh, and he was handing you his phone. You saved your name and phone number and texted yourself so you could have his number too. "Where are you taking me tomorrow, Bobby?" you asked him.

"Anywhere you want," he promised. And you ran your fingers through his hair, teasing them along the back of his neck as you kissed him again. He wrapped his hand around your waist and pulled you a little closer. Then he felt you reach for his other hand, guiding it to your bare knees where his fingers skimmed the hem of your dress. 

You were good at this. You knew what you were doing. But Bob wasn't good at romance, and he didn't have a lot of experience. But he knew he was already addicted to your kisses. And he should have understood what you meant as soon as you said it, but he really didn't.

"You could take me out for breakfast," you whispered as you kissed your way along his jaw and tasted his neck.

"Okay," he muttered. "I'd love to pick you up tomorrow morning. For breakfast."

He was just thankful you didn't laugh at him when you pulled back. Instead you were biting your lip and toying with his pins again as you said, "Or you could stay over. And then you wouldn't have to come pick me up. Because you'd already be there."

Bob knew he was hard in his khaki uniform pants, and the way your thigh was nudging him wasn't helping him process the fact that you just invited him to spend the night with you. He didn't know if he could do this. He'd never done this sort of thing before. 

You were looking at him expectantly and a little apprehensively. He kissed you softly. "I don't usually go home with girls from the bar. I actually don't even usually talk to girls when I'm here. Or...anywhere, really." His face was flushed, collar too tight. He was uncomfortable now as you appraised him with your wide eyes.

"How is that possible? You're so smooth." Now Bob was the one with big eyes as you added, "I've never taken a guy home from the bar before, but you make me feel comfortable. And I think you're sweet. And I'm pretty sure we're going to date."

Bob nodded, so sure of it. "Yeah, we're going to date. And get a golden retriever." 

Your smile right before you kissed the tip of his nose made him squeeze you tighter. "Then let's go," you whispered, wiggling out of his arms to stand up. Bob had to try to discreetly adjust himself as you dug into your purse, but he managed to get his wallet out in time to pay for your drink before you could. "Thanks, Bobby," you muttered, taking his hand in yours. 

Bob watched the identical looks of shock on Jake's and Nat's faces as you looked up at him and lured him toward the door. He was going back to your place. He was going to take you out for breakfast. He was so excited. And so nervous.

As he helped you climb in his pick-up truck, you leaned down and kissed him softly, and he just knew you would never make fun of him for anything. Bob closed the door and walked around the truck, checking his phone which had been vibrating nonstop.

Hangman: I told you she was sweet.

Nat Trace: OMG BOB, have a great night! Text me tomorrow! 

He climbed into the truck only to find that you had buckled yourself into the center of the bench seat right next to him. "Hi," you said with a laugh, and then you let your palm come to rest on his thigh as he pulled out of the parking lot. 

"Where do you live?" he asked softly, and you gave him directions while you touched him so gently that Bob felt some of his nervousness receding. He parked in front of your building, and you led him inside. 

The elevator ride was filled with sweet kisses as you draped your arms around his neck. Either you could tell that he was out of his element and were being extra nice about it, or this was how you always liked to do things. Either way, he really, really liked it. Even the swipe of your tongue across his bottom lip as the elevator arrived at your floor wasn't too much for him now. When he nibbled gently on your lip, you moaned softly, and he pushed you back against the wall. 

"Let's go," you panted, pulling him toward your door. Bob kissed the side of your neck as you fiddled with your key, but once you had him inside, things started going a little too fast for him. 

You closed and locked the door, and then your fingers were on the zipper of his uniform pants, and your tongue was in his mouth. Bob let you slip your hand inside the waistband of his underwear, and then your hand was stroking him, and he was seeing stars behind his eyelids. It felt so good. He'd been touched like this before, but it had been months, and it had been with someone he was dating. 

He liked you a lot, and he didn't want you to stop. But suddenly, when your hand stroked back up his already throbbing cock, he pulled away from your kisses. "Can we go a little slower?" he asked between raspy breaths. 

You nodded with uncertainty at him and gently slid your hand out of his underwear. "I'm sorry," you whispered. "Guys usually like that."

"I do!" he insisted. "It's....just...maybe we can kiss more first?"

"Okay," you agreed. "How about on the couch?"

"Sure," Bob whispered. You pulled him further into your living room, fingers linked with his. When he settled back onto the sofa, you sat on his thigh, just like you had done on the barstool. 

"Is this better?" you asked, your lips brushing against his while you ran your fingers through his hair. Your cheek was nudging his glasses, and honestly, he was just as aroused as he had been when your hand was stroking him. 

"Yeah," he managed, and your mouth and his met in the best kisses he had ever felt. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but eventually you were straddling his hips, and his hands were wrapped around the backs of your bare thighs.

"That feels good, Bobby," you whined as he stroked his thumbs along your perfect, soft skin. Your lips found his neck, sucking and licking him, and he had to work hard to fight the urge to buck up against you. He could feel you occasionally rub yourself against the open zipper of his pants, and each time he was afraid he was going to finish before anything really began. 

He didn't know what to do now. Was he supposed to ask you if you wanted to move to your bed? Was he supposed to tell you it was okay to touch him anywhere? Was he allowed to touch you anywhere?

When he eased his hands up along your butt only to determine that you weren't wearing any underwear at all, you kissed him hard. And then you slid from his lap so that you were kneeling on the floor between his spread thighs, and Bob watched you lick your lips. You reached for his pants and underwear and guided them down his legs while you smiled softly at him. When his hard cock was just inches from your lips, he got nervous again. But then your mouth was on him, and he had never in his whole life felt anything this amazing. 

You kissed his tip before parting your lips and sliding your mouth around him. He grunted, hands fisted on his knees, veins bulging in his arms. You moaned softly as you wrapped one sure hand around the base of him, and he throbbed with need for you. 

"You're really big," you whispered, pausing to kiss along his length, nudging him with your nose. He tipped his head back against the couch, praying that he wasn't going to embarrass himself after ten more seconds in your hand. When he felt your tongue lick his entire length from his balls back up to the tip, he snapped his head back to attention to watch you take the bead of his precum onto your tongue. 

And then you smiled again as he gaped at you. "If you don't like it this way, that's okay. You can tell me what you like best," you whispered before turning your head slightly to kiss his left fist where it was balled up and shaking on his knee. "And you can touch me if you want to."

Bob swallowed hard and then immediately blurted out, "I've never had a blowjob before."

You stared up at him, brow creased in confusion, pretty lips pursed. He could feel his face flushing, he was probably bright red. You were still stroking your thumb along his penis as you cocked your head to one side. 

"What do you mean? Never?" you asked softly. 

He shook his head back and forth in short, jerky motions, and he was so embarrassed. He thought maybe he should just leave. He shouldn't have even come home with you. "Never."

Then your face relaxed a bit, and you kissed his tip one more time before climbing back onto his lap. Bob relaxed his fists and wrapped his arms around your waist as you sat with his hard cock at attention between the two of you. But you didn't look bothered by anything now as you asked, "How old are you, Bobby?"

He swallowed hard and met your eyes, "I'm almost thirty."

You nodded and kissed his nose. "Have you had sex before?" you asked softly, pressing your lips to his cheek. 

"Yes," he replied, melting into the feel of your fingers and lips on him. "I've had two girlfriends."

"Okay," you told him, smiling before you kissed him. "So here's the deal, Bobby. I really like you. And I'd really like to give you a blowjob. If you want me to. And then I'd really like to take you to my bedroom, and I don't care if we just cuddle and talk, but I want you to stay with me all night. And then we can go out for breakfast. And then we can go out again after that if you think you like me as much as I like you."

This time Bob leaned forward to kiss you. "I'm nervous that I'm going to embarrass myself."

You laughed softly. "How do you think you're going to embarrass yourself?"

He let his gaze wander all over your face before he looked down at the couch cushion next to his thigh. "You know... I'm not going to last more than a minute."

Your soft sigh as you ran your fingers along his penis had his gaze snapping back to yours. "Oh, Bobby. I don't care about that." Then you bit your lip for a beat before you added, "It's kind of flattering, getting to do this for you. If you want me to. And if you cum really fast...well, we can try it again later. But that would be flattering, too."

He nodded his head, and you leaned in to kiss his cheek as he said, "Okay."

And then you were kneeling between his legs again, and he ran his fingers along your cheek while you stroked him with your hand a few times. "Ready?"

Your mouth was warm and wet, and Bob was treated to the feel of your tongue swirling along his length. It was the best thing he'd ever felt. Until you sucked on him. "Oh my god," he gasped, watching your pretty eyes as you looked at him. When you started to move your mouth up and down his cock, he laughed softly. "You're amazing."

You moaned while he was deep in your mouth, touching your throat, and he could feel his entire body start to tighten up. He wanted to panic, but then you bobbed along slowly, and he could only feel pleasure as he wrapped his fingers around the back of your head. And with one more swipe of your tongue, he was ejaculating right into your mouth. 

He couldn't formulate words as he grunted and watched you suck on him and swallow his cum. When he touched your throat as you swallowed him down, he groaned softly. 

"Was that okay?" you asked before licking up a little more cum that dripped out like it was a treat for you. Your hand was still wrapped around him, and you were treating him like a lollipop now, and he already wanted you to give him another blowjob. 

"Yes," he managed to say, feeling quite boneless on your couch as you giggled. 

"I liked it, too," you assured him. "Let's go to my bedroom." You pulled him to his feet, and somehow his brain recovered the knowledge of the mechanics of how to walk. He pulled his underwear and pants up as you led him along. He barely had a chance to look around your room before your hands were gently undoing his shirt buttons. And then you undressed him down to his white briefs, running your warm hands along his biceps and shoulders with a look of awe on your face.

Bob wouldn't say he was self conscious exactly; his body was strong, and it did everything he needed it to, because he took care of himself. But he wasn't as handsome as Hangman and Coyote, and he wasn't as muscular as Payback and Rooster. But you didn't seem to have an issue with anything you saw as you folded up his uniform and then pressed a kiss to the center of his chest. 

When he reached for your dress, you bit your lip and immediately said, "My body isn't perfect like yours."

"Perfect?" he mumbled. You thought he looked perfect? That was impossible. You were so close to perfection, he still couldn't believe you'd even talked to him at the Hard Deck in the first place. And with each additional time he looked at your face, he was certain you just got prettier.

"Yeah," you told him as you ran your fingers down his flat abs and then along the waistband of his underwear. "Perfect."

But you looked up at him and reached for the hem of your dress before you pulled it up your body and over your head, dropping it on top of his uniform and kind of shrugging. You were completely naked now, and Bob hadn't been prepared. At all. He started stuttering at the same time his cock started getting hard again.

"I th-think... wow." He took a deep breath and started over again. "You're the prettiest girl I've ever seen."

"So smooth," you whispered. And then Bobby was in your bed as you reassured him that it was okay to just snuggle with you under the warm blanket. So he pulled you against the front of his body, and he was the big spoon as you kissed his hand.

He was sure you must have been able to feel the press of his erection against your back, but you didn't say anything about it. Instead you asked him all about himself, and you told him stories, too. And after a while, Bob's hands grew a little bolder, drifting over the soft skin of your belly and hips until it sounded like you were begging for him. Soft little moans filled the space while you whispered his name. He wasn't sure what to do next, but you rolled over to face him and started to kiss him. 

Yeah, this was really good. He liked this immensely. He liked the way your hands on his bare skin made him feel safe and grounded. He liked how you were going slowly again, because when you finally reached down toward his cock, he was ready for it. 

"Wait," he whispered, pushing you gently onto your back. "May I do to you what you did to me earlier?"

"Yes," you whispered, slowly spreading your thighs apart as Bob nodded. He'd done this a few times before. He'd liked it in the past. But when he put his lips on your slick slit, he moaned in pleasure which made you moan as well. He liked the way you tasted and smelled, and when he licked your opening, you were already gathering the sheets in your fists. 

That seemed like a good sign, so he just kept going. At each encouraging sound or gasped word from you, he went harder and faster. Soon you were loud. Like very loud. You were propped up on one elbow watching him. And you had one leg draped over his shoulder, heel digging into his back as you whined, "Bobby! You've done this before!" You were rolling your hips up against his face, nudging his glasses. 

When he slowed his movements to reach up and removed them, you gasped. "Don't you dare! You leave your glasses on!" Your eyes were flashing with need, and Bob did exactly as he was told. 

"Yes, ma'am," he whispered with a smile as he returned his mouth to your pussy. He licked and sucked until you were yanking on his hair and riding his face, and then you came with your back arched, whining his name so loudly, he thought your neighbors could probably hear. 

"Bobby!" you gasped before collapsing back on your pillow. And just when he thought things couldn't possibly get any better, you took his hands in yours and ran them along your breasts. "Kiss me," you demanded, and so he did. You licked his lips clean while he squeezed your breasts, and soon he was tasting you there as well. 

You were alternating between pulling him up to kiss your lips and pushing him down to kiss your breasts, and really there was no bad option for Bob. He could probably do this all night if that's what you wanted. But you seemed to want more, because you rolled him onto his back and pulled his underwear off in one swift motion.

"I'm going to go ahead and guess that you don't have any condoms with you?" you asked softly, kissing his bent knee. 

He shook his head, but at least he was pretty sure he wasn't blushing any longer. "No. Sorry."

"I have some," you reassured him. "But... I don't know if they're big enough." You scooted off of the bed and walked out of the room, and Bob got a little apprehensive. He didn't know his size could potentially be an issue? He didn't even know he would be considered big. 

But when you walked in a minute later, tearing open a small box with a smile on your face, he felt better. Bob tried to roll on a condom, but it broke immediately. "It's okay," you said with a laugh, trying a second one which also broke. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered with a laugh. But you managed to get the third one on him successfully.

"I'm on the pill anyway," you told him. "You know, in case this one breaks, too."

"Alright," he whispered against your lips as you straddled him and guided your pussy down around him, inch by inch. You kissed his lips and cheeks and neck, running your fingers through his hair as you set a slow, steady pace.

But Bob was almost immediately stammering and blushing. "It feels too good," he told you, but you silenced him with your kisses and went a little harder. You felt so tight, so perfect, and you were letting him touch you everywhere. Your breasts were soft, and you were arching your back, pressing yourself into his hands. 

"You feel good too, Bobby," you promised him, grunting softly as you rode him. He let his hands slide slowly down your sides until they were on your hips, and that was a mistake. Because he could feel the motion of your body taking his. He could feel the roll of your hips against his palms.

"It's too good," he groaned, and then he was coming inside you. "Sorry," he whispered, panting against your shoulder as his pleasure washed over him. 

"Don't apologize for anything," you told him, riding him with slower movements until he was breathing like normal. 

"I just want to be better for you," he promised, and when you adjusted his glasses for him, he smiled. 

"We have all night."

Bob frowned at you. "Can we have longer than that?"

You looked down at him with parted lips. "If you still want to?"

"I thought we agreed we were going to date," he said. "Breakfast is one thing, but I thought we could do all kinds of stuff together. Hang out and maybe I could be your boyfriend after a week or two."

Without another word, you kissed him. And you didn't stop kissing him. And late night turned into early morning, and there were a few more experiments with the condoms. And a few without. 

And instead of ever making it to breakfast, Bob ended up treating you to lunch instead. He wore his wrinkled, day old uniform that you insisted looked adorable on him while he sat with his arm around you. And then he took you to see his place, which consisted of lots of snuggling and another blowjob. 

"My friends are asking if I'm going to the bar again tonight," he told you, running his fingers along your arm as you rested your head on his shoulder. 

"Do you want to go?" you asked, pressing your lips to his neck.

"Only if you come with me."

And when Bob strolled into the Hard Deck again on Saturday night with your arms wrapped around his waist and your voice in his ear, he just smiled at the looks he was getting. It didn't matter if he thought he was as handsome as Hangman or as strong as Payback, because you kept assuring him that you thought he was. 

You spent another evening touching and kissing him, perched on his leg and laughing. And he made plans with you for the following day and the following weekend and the one after that. He wouldn't be surprised if he was making plans with you every day for the rest of his life. And he would let you name the golden retriever. 

----------------

I wonder what the dog's name will be. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls and @mak-32

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[justreadingthings]

My love, this is a chef’s kiss! 👩‍🍳🤌😘

bob’s shirt

pairing: Bob Floyd x reader

warnings: none

summary: When you wear Bob’s shirt to The Hard Deck, your secret relationship is found out. Reader’s callsign is Fox.

You and Bob had been secretly dating for four months. You weren’t sure why it was still a secret and neither was Bob, but neither of you was willing to admit to the other that you wanted to tell people. Phoenix knew, because she was tenacious in her interrogations.

“Why are you in such a good mood today?” Phoenix asked.

“I’m normally in a good mood,” Bob said.

“Yeah, but not this good. You keep smiling at nothing.” Bob glanced over at you across the lecture hall. Phoenix followed his eyeline. “Oh my god,” she gasped.

“What?” Bob muttered, his eyes still on you.

“You and Fox finally hooked up, didn’t you?” Phoenix whispered. Bob’s neck snapped to look over at her in shock.

“What? No!” He exclaimed in a whisper. “I mean we have but—we aren’t—Fox and I—” He stuttered. Phoenix let a grin spread across her face.

“It wasn’t just a hookup, was it?” She asked. Bob blushed. He looked at you and then back at Phoenix.

“We’ve been dating for three months. It’s our anniversary,” he admitted. Phoenix smiled at Bob. She had never seen him look so happy. “Don’t tell anyone, please.”

“Secret’s safe with me, Bob,” she assured him.

That’s how you ended up taking two cars to The Hard Deck even though the both of you had left from Bob’s place and intended to return there when the night was done. When you arrived Bob was quick to order your drinks while you went to sit with the others.

“Is that Bob’s shirt, Fox?” Hangman asked with a grin as you sat down at the table nearest the piano. You looked down and realized you were in Bob’s University of Montana shirt. Your cheeks burned with embarrassment as you struggled to think of a response. Rooster and Fanboy had caught wind of the conversation and were now looking in your direction.

“No,” you lied.

“Really? Didn’t you go to school in California?” Fanboy asked, smirking as he lifted his beer to his lips.

“I don’t know where it’s from,” you said, trying to shut down the conversation.

“I swear I’ve seen Bob in a shirt like that before,” Rooster piped in.

“Maybe he has one like it,” you said. Bob walked up to sit beside you, handing you your drink.

“Bob! Don’t you have a shirt like the one Fox is wearing?” Hangman smirked as he pointed to your shirt. Bob’s eyes met yours and he saw the embarrassment painting your face. The two of you had clearly been found out.

“Erm…I don’t think so,” he said, a blush rising across his cheeks.

“You went to the University of Montana, though, didn’t you?” Rooster pushed.

“Ye—yeah,” Bob stuttered.

“Do you know anyone else who went to the University of Montana, Fox?” Hangman questioned.

“I don’t know. I think I got this at a thrift store,” you lied.

“Why would you pick that out?” Fanboy teased you.

“It was probably cheap,” you tried.

“Everything at thrift stores is cheap,” Hangman pointed out. You were totally flustered and unsure what to say.

“I don’t—It was—I think—”

“We’ve been dating for four months,” Bob interrupted. It was very out of character for him to be so bold, but he had been having trouble watching your nerves build while you were talking to Hangman. Your head snapped to look at him, surprised by his confession.

“Four months?” Coyote asked in shock.

“I told you,” Phoenix said snappily. “You owe me ten bucks.”

“You said you wouldn’t tell anyone!” Bob exclaimed.

“It doesn’t matter, Bob. We could all tell,” Fanboy said.

“How?” You asked.

“You hold hands every time you leave base,” Payback said.

“Yeah, but not till we get to the parking lot,” Bob countered.

“Yeah, cause we can’t see in the parking lot,” Fanboy teased.

“I told you that we shouldn’t,” you chided Bob. He shrugged.

“Couldn’t wait any longer,” he said.

“For a stealth pilot, you’re pretty bad at being undercover,” Hangman joked. Bob just smiled. The conversation moved away from you and Bob and everyone was animatedly discussing the base’s latest arrival of students. Bob scooted his chair closer to yours and wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his body and kissing your forehead. You smiled and leaned into him. It was nice to feel like the two of you could really be together in front of everyone.

You left The Hard Deck hand in hand. Bob walked you to your car. He stopped you as you arrived at your door.

“Are you mad at me?”

“Mad at you? Why would I be mad at you?” You asked.

“I told everyone about us,” Bob said.

“It was pretty clear that they already knew,” you replied.

“That’s not the same as telling them though,” Bob said. You smiled softly at his thoughtfulness.

“I’m glad they know, Bobby,” you assured him. “We can be together everywhere now.” Bob smiled softly. There was a small pause. You could tell by looking at Bob that something was wrong and you were about to ask him when he blurted out:

“I love you.” The look on Bob’s face when he told you was one of pure admiration. He hadn’t been planning on telling you he loved you, but it had become impossible for him to hold it in any longer.

“I love you too, Robby,” you said with a smile.

“Really?” He asked in disbelief. You chuckled.

“Really. It’s hard not to fall in love with a sweet mid-western boy who kisses you like you’re gonna die,” you said. Bob laughed.

“If you weren’t so pretty, I wouldn’t have to kiss you so much,” he teased.

“Guess it’s a good thing I’m pretty then,” you said. Bob smiled. He grabbed your waist and pulled you in for a sweet kiss, his lips warm against yours. You leaned forward to give him one last peck when you pulled apart.

“Go get in your car. I’ll meet you at home,” you said.

“Home?” Bob asked with a smile. You blushed as you realized your mistake, but you decided not to retreat.

“Yeah. Home.”

[justreadingthings]

I’m floored.

Read this, you won’t regret it.

He Didn’t Have to Be

Summary: You’re afraid Bob is going to run the other way when your daughter accidentally calls him dad.

Pairing: Bob Floyd x Single Mom!Reader

Warnings: Allusions to smut, swearing?, Bob being adorable as always.

A/N: Thank you to @therebeccaw for being my beta and to @writercole for the title idea! I was in my Bob feels, so here’s just a small fic of fluff for you guys.

Your back was pressed into the armrest of the couch as Bob hovered over you, his lips moving fervently with yours. His knees rested between your legs as your fingers ran through his golden brown locks. Moments like this made you feel like a teenager again, tummy fluttering with butterflies you hadn’t felt in a long time. After your last boyfriend, you didn't think you’d ever find love again, so finding Bob was like finding water in a barren desert. He was a breath of fresh air.

Quiet moments like this were rare in your relationship, so you always made sure to take advantage of them. Hands wandering over each other’s bodies in worship, admiring one another as you reached new heights in pleasure that no one had brought you to before. This was one of those rare moments to capitalize on, and not a moment was wasted. Bob reached down to slip his hand underneath your skirt, his fingers tracing the inside of your thighs.

“God, I need you darlin’.” He muttered against your lips, before moving to place soft kisses along your jaw.

Out of instinct, your head tilted as you bit down on your lip. Your mind was becoming hazy with lust, focused on one thing and one thing only. He nipped at the base of your neck lightly, eliciting a moan from your lips.

“Daddy?” A soft voice croaked from the hallway causing both of you to freeze. Bob pulled away and looked at you with wide eyes. You were as equally surprised as you both shot up. Panic started coursing through you as you pushed him away from you. Bob fell back onto the couch as you sprang to your feet, rushing over to your four-year-old daughter.

“Evelyn, what are you doing out of bed? It’s way past your bedtime,” you tried to soothe her as you wiped away the large tears rolling down her tiny cheeks.

“I had a bad dream. I wanted daddy to come read me a bedtime story and check for monsters.” Your daughter peered around you to look at Bob. Again the panic inside of you bubbled up, not allowing yourself to look at him. Sure you had been dating for nearly eight months and things were getting serious, but the topic of what he was to Evelyn had yet to come up. He was always super sweet with her, thinking of her when he brought you gifts or planning dates that he could take both of you on, but asking him to be her father figure was huge. This was entirely new to you, as you hadn’t properly dated anyone since her father left you both.

“Sweetheart, remember what I told you? Bob isn’t your dad,” you softly reminded her, smoothing down her hair. Her bottom lip quivered and you were at a loss for what you could say. It broke your heart anytime she asked about her father, not sure how to explain why a lot of the other kids had two parents and she only had one.

“It’s okay.” Bob placed his hand on your shoulder, before swooping down to pick up Evelyn. “If she wants daddy to read her a bedtime story and check for monsters in her closet, I will.”

Your brows shot up in surprise at his words. Bob placed a quick kiss on your hairline and made his way down the dark hallway with your daughter. Your heart was racing as you sat back down on the couch, taking in what happened. Surely he was just being nice and didn’t want to make a scene in front of Evelyn.

There was a sting in your lower lip as you bit down on it in an anxious attempt to distract yourself. About twenty minutes had passed and Bob still hadn’t returned from tucking her in. Weighed down with worry, you pushed off the couch and made your way down the hall to Evelyn’s room. The door was cracked open enough to see that Bob was sitting on the edge of the bed, your daughter’s head slowly drooping as she fought to keep her eyes open. He reached down and kissed the top of her head as she finally fell asleep.

Bob quietly slipped out of the bed and tiptoed out of the room, smiling at you as he closed the door. “Took her a minute, but she’s asleep.”

You tried to smile, feeling grateful that he had taken the time to care for her, despite everything. His brows furrowed as he glanced down at you. “Are you okay darling? You look nervous.”

Grabbing his hand, you led him to your bedroom to talk. You paced back and forth, as Bob sat at the edge of the bed looking at you curiously.

“How are you not nervous?” You looked at him incredulously.

Bob’s confusion seemed to deepen. “Is this about Evelyn calling me daddy? If that makes you uncomfortable I sincerely apologize. I don’t ever want to overstep-”

“Overstep?” You stopped pacing, crossing your arms over your chest. “That’s far from what I’m worried about…Yo-You don’t mind that she called you that?”

He quickly shook his head, sliding off the bed to stand in front of you. His hands cupped your cheeks, thumbs gently caressing your skin. “Darling, as much as I care about you, I also care about Evelyn as if she were my own. Both of you are the light of my life and I can’t picture living without either of you. And if you’re okay with it and she wants to call me dad, I’d like that a lot.”

Your heart swelled as tears pooled in the brim of your eyes. “Of course I’d be okay with that, but do you really mean it? Most guys run when they hear I have a child, but you didn’t and I guess I’ve just been waiting for the other shoe to drop this whole time.”

He chuckled and leaned down to place a soft and brief kiss on your lips. “I love you and Evelyn more than anything. I don’t plan on going anywhere unless you tell me to.”

You melted into his touch, your eyelids fluttering closed as you let out a content sigh. You weren’t sure how you got so lucky to find a man like him, but you certainly weren’t going to let him go. “And I don’t plan on ever telling you to leave.”

Bob smiled and rested his forehead against your own, backing you towards the bed. “Good. Now that we’ve cleared that up, shall we pick up where we left off before we were interrupted?”

“Yes, please.”

@fangirl-316 @miles-rooster @glowingtree @someone-pls-kill-me @milesrooster @callsign-milano @struggling-with-nsfw @luckyladycreator2 @shanimallina87 @midget713 @anthonyedwinstark @urtheoneiwant @dempy @shadeds-library @wildbornsiren @marchingicenotes7 @littlebadariell @solinarimoon @callsign-phoenix @marvelandotherfandomimagines @callsign-blue @ellevandeberg @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @kajjaka @blue-aconite @callsignaries @brb-counting-stars @rachelccollier @cevans98 @marvelmenappreciation @andreaaamustdie @khaylin27 @mandylove1000 @smoothdogsgirl @sebby-staan @footprintsinthesxnd @xoxabs88xox

[justreadingthings]

Why have I done this to myself? Honestly, why?! Because I’m possibly the wettest I’ve ever been, and now I have to - what - just get on with the rest of my day? Fucking impossible task ahead of me. 100 percent worth it though. My god, I’m gonna be stuck in this fictional place for a long fucking time.

Thank you for sharing this wealth with us peasants- you are a gentlethem and a scholar. 🥰

three tender lovers.

robert ‘bob’ floyd x reader x jake ‘hangman’ seresin.

￫ description: bob proposes a solution to jake’s remarks to the marks on bob’s back. all three of you find resolution and something else. love.

￫ word count: 6.7K.

￫ c/w: threesome, sex, blowjobs, squirting, kissing, double creampie, nipple pinching, biting, scratching, praise, minor degradation, overstimulation, hints of mean dom bob and dom jake, use of the nickname “bunny”, crying kink if you squint, sub-space, aftercare, beginnings of a poly!relationship and our boys kissin’.

￫ a/n: this is for @sushiwriterhere threesomeissance 2023 writing event! thank you so much for tagging me my love, this was so much fun to write! <3 make sure you check out the other incredible pieces! <3 my main masterlist can be found here! 💌

Bob up-stretched his arms and shed his undershirt from his flight suit. It practically stuck to his skin with sweat and grime from a day of flying too close to the sun. He was about to hit the showers quickly in enough time to make it back home to you.

He was never one to hang about after training. The quicker he could get in and out, the quicker he could get home to his wife. That was before he heard a loud clang of a locker from behind him, followed by a whistle.

“Damn, Baby. You’ve been in a fight with a bear or somethin’?”

Jake’s voice from behind Bob caused his eye to twitch. He turned around to face the blonde pilot with an unphased expression on his face. Jake on the other hand was wearing his million-dollar, cock sure smile. He leaned against his locker with nothing on. All he was holding was his towel, bunched up in his hand and just about covering his cock.

Bob hated how overly confident Jake could be in the showers. He also hated how he found himself always trying to get a glance.

Jake had opted to now call Bob, Baby. It all stemmed from his years-old joke of what B.O.B. stood for. Baby on Board was too long for Jake, so he was just Baby.

“How’d you get those war marks on your back, Baby?” Jake jabbed again, licking at his bottom lip.

Bob’s eyes narrowed inwards towards Jake before cooling off. He chewed at the inside of his cheek as he remembered last night with you. He wanted to tell Jake to fuck off and that his sex with you is private, and he’d never utter a word to anyone about your shared, deepest darkest fantasies.

But then he remembered your shared discussion of bringing someone else in and how you both settled on Jake as a possible option. It was only talk, but at this point, Bob bit the hand that fed him.

“I don’t know,” He shrugged. “Why don’t y’ ask my wife?”

A chorus of hollers and cheers from the other pilots in the locker room could be heard and Jake bit back a laugh.

“As if, Baby. I don’t believe you fuck that good.”

“Y’ know, Bagman, if y’ want to see, how about you fuck my wife yourself?” He slammed his locker door and stared down at Jake.

Bob couldn’t help it, he really couldn’t. It had been playful, teasing jabs at one another for years and as it went on, they became far more flirtatious on both party's accounts. The locker room went into another uproar at Bob’s quick tongue and mouthful back at the cocky pilot, but he was still holding his intense gaze.

Jake’s smile had faltered an inch, only his eyes zoned in on Bob’s. He let his tongue run alongside his cheek and puffed out his chest. He wanted Bob to call bluff so badly, to call off whatever this was, to prove Jake wrong that he hadn’t been flirting with him all these years, but Bob didn’t move an inch. Not until he flung his towel over his shoulder and headed for the showers.

He briefly heard the laughter and other remarks from the pilots before the commotion died down. As he turned on the shower, the sound of water filtering through and splashing on the tiles drowned out the rest. That was until he heard the footsteps inch closer towards him.

Out of Bob’s peripheral vision, broad shoulders and sandy blonde hair came too. He continued to pay no mind to him and let the sound of the water continue to fill the room. It ran over the thick and heavy tension that was settling in the air. Neither of them spoke a word as they lathered themselves up with soap and let the duds fall to the tiles and down the drain. Unknown to either of them, they would occasionally steal glances at the other when getting the soap out of their eyes.

Bob would watch how the droplets of water dribbled down Jake’s toned torso and caught on the soft hairs of his pubic bone.

Jake would follow the trail of veins poking through Bob’s forearms and up his biceps, watching how they flexed in time with him washing the shampoo out of his hair.

Bob reached to the small shelf holding the soap to lather himself one last time. His fingers outstretched and met another set of hands reaching for the same. They met Jake’s and through the soaking water, he felt a jolt meet his fingertips and run through his veins. He was surprised at how soft they felt, yet he knew they could control a whole aircraft. It made a shiver start in his neck and run down his spine. The warm water did nothing to hide the goosebumps that were left in its wake.

Jake looked up and caught Bob’s eyes for the first time during the shower. He swallowed thickly before croaking out, “Baby, what I said back there, I didn’t mean—”

“This Saturday. I know you’re free. Come round to ours at seven.”

Before Jake could respond to Bob’s bold response, he slammed his water off, grabbed his towel and was out of the shower.

Jake was left with his lips parted in a breathless and wordless daze. His hand was still wrapped around the soap and squeezing so tight, he didn’t realize he had destroyed the bar completely.

He couldn’t believe he was here. He’d been round to Bob’s only once before and that was only to drop some paperwork off. He hadn’t even been in his hallway, let alone his bedroom, with his wife.

Everything had been agreed upon prior. Jake came round at seven on the Saturday as agreed and you answered the door with a warm and welcoming smile.

He could never deny that Bob’s wife was beautiful. You were radiant. He offered in return a kiss to your cheek and let his large hand fall to the small of your back, bringing you in. His hand was warm and firm. You felt your heart pound a little faster through your rib cage at his touch, letting your mind wonder what his hand would feel like against your bare skin.

Jake let himself inhale your perfume that rested under your jaw and the sweet smell of shampoo in your hair. It was intoxicating to him. You were beaming at him as you greeted him politely, took his jacket and hung it up on the coat hooks in the hallway.

It was such a simple gesture, but with the combined smell of something delicious cooking through the kitchen, Jake felt safe. He had entered a warm and loving home, and it settled his nerves to whatever was about to be offered.

You ate (with Jake complimenting Bob’s cooking more times than he could count), exchanged more polite conversation and then agreed on what was to happen. You slinked up to your bedroom to shed your sundress into something else before calling your husband and his co-worker upstairs. Bob took the lead up the stairs with Jake following behind.

As he came into your bedroom and saw the sight of you, a deep rumble of appreciation left Bob’s chest with a smirk resting on his lips. “My beautiful, beautiful, wife. You look gorgeous, darlin’.”

“Thank you.” You shyly replied, feeling the heat creep up your cheeks as Jake came through the doorway and his eyes fell on you.

It was the first time he had seen you like this. So exposed, so vulnerable. You were wearing a simple oversized white shirt, one that Bob would wear with his Navy whites. It was far too torn and tattered for him to wear anymore, but it became a piece of clothing Bob would become ravenous over, especially if you weren’t wearing anything underneath.

The open shirt lay over your stiff nipples but didn’t hide the swell of your breasts. With your legs crossed as you sat on the edge of your bed, you could just about catch the soft mound of your pubic bone, but your thighs were exposed. The drape of the shirt barely covered them.

Jake swallowed thickly again and his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, feeling his mouth dry up ever more. He let his heavy gaze run up and over your body and your cheeks only turned a rosier shade of pink, flushed hot. His cock twitched in his pants and it prompted him, after not saying anything for what seemed like an eternity.

“You… You look, gorgeous. Bob’s a lucky husband.” Jake half-heartedly laughed.

He was nervous.

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin was nervous.

Bob had a natural-born instinct for reading people and he could tell in an instant what Jake was doing.

Truth be told, Jake had already had a couple of threesomes in his lifetime, but it had never been this intimate. It had never been with a co-worker's wife, never with someone who he had come to like, never in a safe and loving environment.

Bob let his hand fall to Jake’s back and gently ran his thumb in circles to soothe the nerves of the pilot. He smoothed his hand down his back further and gently linked his fingers with his to coax him closer to you and your bed.

Jake now stood in front of you with Bob to the side and his hand gently resting in your hair. You stayed sat and gazed up at the tall blonde with a look of lust clouding your eyes.

“Jake?” You called out his name sweetly. It was barely above a whisper but his ears turned hot at hearing you say his name so sweetly. “Can I touch you?”

Your question and now the clear sight of your breasts caused Jake’s cock to twitch again, and he breathed out a desperate, “Yes.”

You tentatively reached your hands out and let your fingers graze over his shirt, feeling the ripple of muscles underneath him. You moved over his large forearms and further up his biceps. As your hands rose higher, you eventually stood up from the bed, Bob’s hand never leaving your frame and now resting on the small of your back. It was a familiar touch that still grounded you to him, despite the situation.

Your hands ran around his shoulders and behind his neck. “You can touch me, Jake.” You quietly prompted him, now standing to his height. His hands reached out and fell to your hips. He squeezed you gently through the crisp fabric of the shirt and you let out a gasp. “Remember, you say the word and we stop this.”

He nodded, but Bob pressed his finger to Jake’s chin to turn him. “Words, baby.”

Baby.

Baby.

Bob Floyd was calling Jake, baby and it ignited something so deep within him he could feel a flame lick at his stomach.

“Yes. We say the words and we stop this.” Jake corrected himself and you smiled at him with an electrified smile. He had tasted love and it tasted sweet. The flame that was licking in his stomach was burning bright and deep, and it encouraged him greatly. He felt a newfound swell of confidence burn over him and he hooked his finger under your chin and brought your lips to his.

His kiss was soft at first, letting his lips become accustomed to yours before you let out a needful whine and tugged at the soft blonde hairs at the base of his neck. You pulled him closer and he reciprocated with a harsher squeeze of your hips. They were flush against his crotch and you could feel his ever-growing bulge rub against you. The grind from you caused him to groan into the kiss and let his tongue dip between your lips and run alongside.

Both your cheeks were flush with a warm glow and Bob could feel the heat radiating off you both, as you continued to press yourself against Jake growing hotter with desire. You parted from his lips with a gasp, unable to hold back your ever-growing smile.

“Jake, Bobby,” You turned to your husband whose eyes were heavy and his pupils completely dilated black. “I need you both.”

“Of course,” Bob purred and slid his hand from your back to the base of your neck, pulling you to be millimetres from his lips. “Will you be a good girl and show our guest what your pretty little mouth can do?”

You quietly moaned and nodded, letting Bob pull at your neck and press his lips to yours in a searing kiss. Jake let out a curse of your name at seeing you bend to his touch. He was beginning to get a taste of just how dominant Bob could be and it intrigued him even further.

“Off for me and on your knees,” Bob instructed you again with a flick of his finger under your shirt. You willingly shed your shirt and let it fall to the bed. Now completely naked to Jake, he let out a wanton groan. You sank to your knees and gazed longingly upwards at the two pilots, their cocks both straining hard against their trousers and appearing prominently.

The sight was nothing like Jake had ever seen before. Your nipples were stiff and you sat obediently with your hands in your lap, awaiting your husband's next instruction. But it never came. Jake’s shoulders had rolled backwards and he was relaxed. He was adhering to the agreement that you were to do as they say. He let his fingers cradle your jaw and gently slipped his thumb between your lips. You took it into your mouth eagerly and sucked on it. The feeling of your tongue swirling around his thumb had him longing to know what it felt like on his hard cock.

“Jesus, such a sweet thing, Bobby. So good, so obedient.” Jake purred and Bob chuckled.

“There’s the Jake I had imagined in the bedroom,” Bob said lowly with a smirk.

Jake couldn’t hold back the heat that rose to his cheeks as he thought of Bob imagining him in the bedroom, but he was brought back to the present by the needy moan of you below them.

Bob shushed you gently and reassured you. “I’m sorry, darlin’. We’ve been deprivin’ you, haven’t we?” You nodded again and this time, they both let out a low chuckle.

They made quick work of unbuckling their belts and pushing the waistband of their boxers down to let their aching cocks slap against their torsos. You had always thought Bob was big, but Jake was no different. Your mouth began to salivate and you moved towards Bob, but his hand was in your hair and pulling you back with a click from his tongue.

“Nu-uh, darlin’. Guests first.”

You swallowed and looked back at Jake who was gazing down at you with his pupils blown wide with desire. He gripped the base of his cock and let his tip move past your lips tentatively. The soft feeling of your mouth wrapping just around his tip had Jake groaning. You moved your mouth further down his shaft, with Bob’s hand not letting go of your hair to steady you, but it couldn’t stop you. You wanted to feel Jake rest heavily on your tongue completely. You felt his tip nudge at your throat and a gag rumbled through your throat. Jake stumbled and his hips stuttered forward.

“Shit. Oh God, sweets. So needy for me already, hm?”

You whined around him and it vibrated off his shaft, earning another deep groan from Jake. Your eyes flicked to the side and you caught a glimpse of Bob fisting his cock heavy in his hand, his jaw set solid and his eyes trained heavily on you both, watching how your mouth took every inch of him. You wanted to put on a show for your dear and loving husband. You wanted to show him you craved this just as badly as him.

You worked your mouth up and over Jake’s thick shaft with precise strokes. Every time his swollen tip hit the back of your throat he let out another rumbled groan, earning smaller groans from Bob. Your tongue was laying flat underneath his base and it allowed Bob to gently start rocking your head for himself, letting Jake fuck your throat, his hips rocking into you.

Another handful of movements from Bob came before he was getting antsy. “C’ere, sweetheart.” He purred and moved your head off Jake to place your swollen lips around his shaft. You sunk easily, knowing every inch and vein like the back of your hand. Your nose brushed against Bob’s brown curls at his base as he rocked into your mouth. You gazed up at your husband with tears starting to prick the corners of your eyes from your throat being fucked so consistently. Bob’s jaw was still set firm as he revelled in the familiar feeling of his wife’s mouth, letting out deep moans and hissing when his tip hit the back of your throat repeatedly.

But Jake was beginning to get cocky.

“I thought we were doing this so I could fuck your wife stupid. Earn those bear marks of yours.” Jake drawled out with a smug tone before reaching for your hair and pulling you off Bob, leaving him snarling from the loss of contact so suddenly. A pitiful whine left your lips with a string of saliva still connecting to your husband's tip. As you swallowed back around Jake’s cock you began to bounce gently on your knees, your bare cunt trying to find friction from the air as desperation began to make you clench around nothing.

Bob let out a chuckle as he saw you hump the air pathetically. “I don’t think y’ need to wait much longer.” He pulled you off Jake once more and cradled your jaw to let you gaze upwards. “Do y’ want to be fucked now, Bunny? You’ve been so good for me and your guests.”

“Please, please, please. I’ve been so good.” You pouted slightly, your eyes pleading desperately with your husband. He hummed in pleasant agreement and reached down to pick you up gently, laying you on the bed as if you were fragile porcelain.

By this time Jake was already stripping himself off his clothes and Bob followed in tandem. Although your mouth was just full of heavy saliva, your throat dried up and your breathing quickened as you caught sight of the two naked pilots. Bob’s beauty was always intoxicating and dizzying to you and you found Jake giving you the same effect.

You counted your lucky stars of your current situation and your husband found himself doing the same. He had seen Jake naked too many times for him to count, but this was different. His eyes were heavy with desire, and his cheeks and chest were flushed with the most beautiful rosy pink. He had never noticed how blonde the soft curls were on his pubic bone, as his cock was pressed against his tone torso, although he’d caught sight of them constantly in the showers. They replicated how his hair was dusty and sun-kissed blonde, already becoming ruffled from Jake running his hand through his hair.

Bob thought he’d never looked so handsome.

“Jake?”

“Baby?”

The name made Bob shiver and his stomach crashed like thunderous waves against stone rocks.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Please, Baby.” Jake gasped before wrapping his hand around the back of Bob’s head, his fingers tugging gently on his hair as he pressed his lips against his. They both let out a deep moan in unison. Years of tension and yearning rolled off their shoulders and bubbled up their throats as they tasted each other for the first time.

You watched keenly from the bed. It both made your heart bloom with a thousand flowers that your husband found solace within Jake and caused your abdomen to feel as though a thousand butterflies were coursing through you. Your thighs pressed and rubbed together to alleviate some of the growing arousal. You let out a whimper and they broke from the kiss to look at you, both with a lopsided smile on their faces.

As you pulled your thighs apart and felt the cool air run over your twitching cunt, Bob cooed. “Bunny, we’re so sorry. We’re comin’.”

Jake could feel his mouth salivate at the sight of Bob’s wife’s thighs spread apart and their pussy glistening with arousal, practically throbbing. “Look at that pretty pussy, sweets. Your thighs are slick already.” He groaned, kneeling between your thighs.

Bob took place up by your head, letting his hand soothe through your hair and his other holding the base of his cock, giving himself lazy, slow strokes.

Your hands came under your thighs to hold yourself open for him, squirming your hips closer to his cock as Jake took it in his hand and slapped it on your aching clit. It jolted sparks of pleasure through your abdomen at its first contact and you let out a loud whine. Your hips involuntarily bucked upwards to chase the feeling and Jake relished in the neediness of your touch. His free hand came to grip your hip as he ran his tip through your folds and collected your arousal, smearing it over your clit. It earned louder moans from yourself and more desperate bucking. He was smirking down at you with his signature cock sure smile.

“I want to remember the moment I slip my cock inside Bob’s wife’s tight pussy.”

He hissed as he slowly slid inside you and felt your slick walls take him, clenching tightly. He was thicker than Bob and you squirmed your hips, moaning as you adjusted to his size. He cursed to himself and threw his head back when your hips met his.

“Jesus, takin’ me so pretty, sweetheart. That’s it… Good fuckin’ girl.” He purred down to you as he momentarily slid out before feeling his tip run back over your sweet spot nestled deep inside you. At each slow and teasing stroke, you clenched tighter around him. You finally felt so full and you didn’t want the feeling to be taken away. You were desperately chasing it.

As he set a pace you glanced up at Bob with a couple of stray tears now leaving the corners of your eyes. “B—Bobby,” You whined. “He feels s’ g—good. It feels so good, fuck!”

Bob’s thumb gently wiped your tears away and smoothed over your hot cheeks, gently reassuring you. “Such a good girl for me. My pretty little wife looking s’ fuckin’ pretty takin’ another pilot's cock.”

As his thumb came down to his lips, you took it into your mouth to soothe yourself, but Bob removed it quickly. “No, no. C’ere,” He gripped the mid-length of his cock and let his tip fall between your parted lips. You eagerly sucked as much of his length as you could from this angle. “Good, Bunny.” He praised you.

You let your eyes flutter shut as the beginnings of complete pleasure roll over your body in waves. Over and over, you felt the powerful thrust of Jake’s hips with Bob rocking and resting heavily on your tongue. Two pairs of hands were gripping onto your flesh or soothing over your goosebumps, occasionally tugging on your stiff nipples to elicit louder, yet muffled, moans. You were stuffed full and you felt whole.

Jake’s thrusts picked up their pace and he was pistoning with such pressure you could feel the familiar warmth in your stomach grow. As his pubic bone met yours it grazed over your clit. It was small and frictionless contact, but the teasing alone had you nearly coming undone.

“They’re squeezin’ me so tight.” Jake gritted between his teeth, still cursing your name so pretty.

The corners of Bob’s lips quirked upwards and his eyes zoned in your expression. Your jaw was slack and although still stuffed full, you were drooling around his length with your eyes all but rolling back into your skull. He knew you were close.

“You want to earn those bear marks now?” Bob quipped. He grunted and nodded feverishly at him. Bob slipped from your mouth with drool still connecting to his tip. You mewled as he left you, but he was quick to reassure you he would be right here as he slid his hands into your hair.

With silent encouragement from Bob, Jake doubled down over your body and his large frame covered you whole. Your hands fell to his shoulders and gripped them tightly. One of his broad forearms rested by you to hold himself up enough that he could snake his hand between your slick sweaty bodies and find your aching clit. The soft pads of his fingers connected to you and you cried out his name loudly, finally feeling a firm pressure. He drew lazy circles around you with his thrusts now seemingly impossibly closer to you.

“Please, please, please… oh God!” Incoherent babbling left you as hot tears continued to streak down your cheeks. You never thought your husband’s, co-workers cock, could ever feel so fucking good.

“Bobby, Bobby!” You screamed instinctively. “Can I come?”

You heard him bark out a laugh behind you.

“Don’t ask me. It’s not my cock makin’ you cry, Bunny.”

Your brain was clouded with what felt like cotton and you scrambled to find the words quickly as your orgasm was building at a frighteningly quick pace.

“Jake! Can I come? Oh God, please can I come?” You babbled. Through his laboured breathing, you felt his warm breath tickle against your ear as he chuckled.

“Never gon’ want any other cock, sweets. I’ve ruined you for your husband, haven’t I?” Condensation was laced thick in his tone and it made you squeeze your eyes tightly shut, holding on so tight to stave off your orgasm.

“Look at me, sweetheart.” He barked out the order and your eyes peeled open with the most pleading expression you could muster, as he continued to rock deeply into you. Your nails by now were forming crescent shapes on his tanned skin. The beginnings of the bear marks. “Tell me, fuckin’ tell me and you can come.”

Everyone who was currently in the bedroom that was dowsed in the scent of sweat and sex, knew that this was not true. You would always love Bob and you would always want his cock. It was certainly still the most mouth-watering and appealing thing to you. You found yourself dreaming of having them both ruin you, forever.

But at this moment, Jake’s lusting and filthy words were clouding your senses and making Bob’s cock twitch heavy in his hand. For he too was incredibly aroused by Jake’s words and the sight below him.

“Y—you’ve, r—ruined me, Jake.” Your bottom lip began to tremble. “Please!” You begged with a hoarse cry. His fingertips pressed down firmer with precise motions and the last thing you saw before you snapped, was him grinning down at you like the Devil.

“Come for me, sweets.”

With a couple more swipes of his fingers over your abused clit, combined with the punishing pleasure from his thick cock, you were seeing stars. A white-hot feeling flooded from your abdomen outwards across your body. Your toes curled and you wailed. The crashing sensation of your orgasm wracked your body whole, cursing his name, Bob’s name.

You felt Bob’s hands soothe through your hair and you could faintly hear his sweet praise over Jake’s loud groans.

Jake didn’t let up with his thrusts. He pressed his sweaty frame closer to yours and snaked his hand away from your twitching clit. His face pressed into the crook of your neck and your nails raked over his back as he fucked you through your orgasm. With how close you were held against him, there was still enough friction rubbing mercilessly over your clit. His voice was hot in your ear and you heard him.

“Feel s’ fuckin’ good for me, I’m so lucky. You’re both so perfect, shit.” At his final curse, he groaned deep into your sweat-covered neck and you felt his teeth graze over your tender flesh and suck harshly. He was hissing and grunting with his thrusts becoming sloppier, but you could feel himself leak into you.

Everything was so deadly intoxicating. You never wanted to leave this room. You wanted to stay with them both forever.

His thrusts eventually slowed completely and he pulled off your burning frame. His own body was completely flushed pink with his sandy blonde hair mused and some strands of his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. As his softening cock pulled out of you and you felt his spend trickle down your puffy lips, you let out a pitiful whine, suddenly feeling so empty.

He wore a satisfied grin as he gazed over the pretty sight of your pussy and then back up at Bob. You felt Bob’s large hands trail over your shoulders and squeeze against your breasts. You craned your neck to look at him with your eyelashes fluttering and a cock drunk smile plastered over your lips. Your body trembled with anticipation, knowing you still had Bob, and your clit was still aching for just one more.

A chorus of praises and strings of kisses to your warm flesh, left the two pilots' lips as they gently moved your trembling frame. Jake sat against the headboard with your back pressed against his chest. A pillow was slid under your hips to elevate them higher to allow Bob to make your eyes water from pleasure with the angle. Your hands were holding onto Jake’s forearms as you looked your husband in the eye, kneeling in front of you with a grin.

He held the base of his cock firmly and let his tip run through your folds and catch Jake’s spend mixing with your leaking arousal. He pushed it against your swollen clit and you let out a breathy moan, your eyes already faltering shut. Behind you, Jake watched the scene unfold with hooded eyes and soft groans. Bob teased you for a moment longer before easily bottoming out inside of you with a hiss and a groan.

“S’ warm for me, Bunny. Taken Jake’s cock and you’re still so tight for me, aren’t you?”

You mewled and dug your nails in tighter to Jake’s forearm, earning more scratches on his skin. Bob had patiently sat by and watched his friend fuck his wife. He was wasting no time and set a cruel pace instantly. The sudden feeling of feeling so full with his familiar size had you moaning and squirming your hips already, but he kept his hands firmly on your thighs to hold you open and take what he gave you. His swollen tip was rubbing mercilessly at your spongy sweet spot and the angle was enhancing your pleasure to a feeling so sweet, that you felt as though you could burst. One of Jake’s large hands snaked upwards to pinch and tweeze your nipples, heightening your sensitivity. You heard his groans low and hot in your ear as you responded with desperate whines.

Pleasure was licking at the flame in your abdomen, but with your heightened sensitivity it was producing something else. Something more.

“Oh, Bobby!” You practically wailed. He felt the way you clenched tightly around him and how your walls pushed down. He knew your body like the back of his hand.

He groaned at the tightening sensation and gave a final piercing thrust before pulling his cock out entirely. You pushed down and gasped out a breathy moan as you felt your arousal squirt out of you.

“That’s it, good girl, good fuckin’ girl.” Bob groaned again with a knowing and smug smile pulling at the corners of his lips. He moved his fingers through your wetness and watched it splatter over your thighs.

“Jesus, Baby. Makin’ them feel so good.” Jake groaned louder from behind you, before directing his words back to you. “I’d love to see you squirt on my cock next.”

You could hear the cocky pilot's grin from behind you as he let his lips run over the shell of your ear and nibble gently.

There was a deadly concoction mixing in your abdomen as Bob bottomed out inside of you again and you took in Jake’s words. The notion of another night like this had your head spinning. Their sinful words and fiery touch on your skin had you feeling hot and dizzy. The pleasure was seeping through every vein of your body with every jolt caused by Bob’s cock pushing deep inside of you. You were gasping and moaning incoherently, only able to feel this ecstasy-inducing feeling. If it wasn’t for their grip on your body, you would’ve gone completely limp.

Suddenly you could feel Bob’s soft thumb on your now throbbing clit, rubbing precise circles. There was nothing lazy about Bob Floyd when he fucked.

Hot tears began to fall from the corners of your eyes and streak down your cheeks. You were babbling nonsense by now and you felt your impending orgasm grow closer with each swipe of his thumb. Your jaw was going slack and as you panted hungrily, tiny droplets of drool were pooling in the corners of your mouth.

“Are you gonna come again?” You whimpered his name in response and Bob snickered. “You are, aren’t you? So desperate for cock. It’s pathetic to watch. My sweet little Bunny practically drools as they take another man’s cock.”

Your stomach swirled at his words, in time with the swirl of his thumb. “Bobby!” It was a shriek of a plea, like nothing Jake had ever heard before. “Please can I come? Please, please, please…”

As you begged harder, your tears began to fall harder. Bob watched your body lovingly, with heavy hooded eyes. He saw every twitch, every shiver, every squirm, and he knew when your body couldn’t take anymore. He was still merciless with his strokes and thumb, but as you locked your pleading and tearing eyes with him once more, his firm set expression softened and his voice was coaxing you.

“Come. Come for me my baby Bunny.”

Your jaw went slack and a silent scream tore from your throat as you let the bubbling sensation of your orgasm burst through your abdomen, feeling the tendrils of pleasure wash over your body in crashing waves. Your hands shot up to wrap around the back of Jake’s head and pull tightly on the smaller hairs at the base of his neck. Your body withered and your chest was heaving, panting furiously as the sensation rolled over your body repeatedly. You faintly heard a string of praise from them both, Jake’s low voice still hot in your ear. Bob’s praise turned to grunts and with two more forceful thrusts, you could feel him leak his spend inside of you.

His ministrations slowed and as your head lolled to the side of Jake’s shoulder, you still let out a quiet and needy whine again, feeling so empty and feeling the now double mix of cum leaking from your abused cunt.

Your head felt full of cotton. You reached out with shaky hands to your lover. “Bobby…” You breathed out, barely above a whisper. He leaned down and took your shaking frame from Jake’s slick chest. He pressed you close to his own and with Jake’s help, he moved you to lay limp against him with his broad arms encasing you tightly. Jake stayed next to you both and let his fingers trail tenderly over your damp back.

All three of your chests were steadying out with calculated breaths, as you all came down from your highs. Tender and loving kisses were placed on your skin from them both, and more hushed words of love and praise were whispered close to your ears.

When your energy eventually came back, Bob cleaned you up gently with Jake’s help. The remainder of the leftovers from your prior dinner were fed to you and you gulped down more glasses of water than you could count. The duvet cover was changed and with your head still feeling full of soft cotton, and your body swimming with the afterglow, your two pilots lay down to sleep with you.

Before the peaceful waves of sleep pulled you under, you remember watching how lovingly Jake cradled Bob’s jaw and placed a kiss on his lips. The next thing you felt was his tender fingers bringing your jaw up to place his lips on yours. Your cheek then felt another pair of lips and you turned your face to find Bobby’s.

You kissed them both a handful more times. Each time your heart pounded a little faster and you felt the thousand butterflies flutter through your stomach.

Maybe this could work.

Maybe, this could be a forever thing.

Jake stayed on Sunday till around three in the afternoon. You all woke up late and lazily gathered yourselves to share a warm, yet deeply refreshing, shower.

You spent the rest of your time in the kitchen, just talking and eating. You spoke about everything and anything. You talked about the prior night, you talked about aircraft manoeuvres that had gone wrong, and you asked Jake about his home and where he grew up. Occasionally you found yourself pressed into Jake’s side with one of his broad arms incasing you close to his chest, as you both watched Bob cook up the food. Jake insisted that he would make you both a homemade recipe his Ma taught him some time.

All three of you exchanged fluttering touches and loving kisses with each other, and Jake found something blooming deep within his chest. He felt safe within this peaceful and domesticated home. He didn’t want to leave.

Come the evening on the Sunday, you were curled in between Bob’s thighs as you both read in peaceful silence.

“I really like him, you know.”

You spoke out into the silence. There was a beat before you felt Bob’s chest take a deep breath and then exhale. You glanced up at him and he wore a soft smile as he placed a tender kiss on your forehead.

“Yeah. Me too, Bunny. Me too.”

A chorus of loud cheers and hollers broke out and echoed across the locker room on Monday. Javy slapped Jake on his bare back, making note of the marks scratched down his flesh.

“Jake! Now who’s been fighting with a bear?”

Bob continued to look forward at his locker as he gathered up the remainder of his belongings, paying no note to the commotion he heard behind him.

Jake huffed out a laugh and flashed his signature smile to Javy, acting as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

“Yeah, something like that.”

Bob smiled to himself at hearing Jake’s words. The images of Saturday evening and his wife scratching their nails down his back were flashing evidently behind his eyes. Once he heard the others trail off to the showers, he turned around to face him. It was only them left in the locker room and he leaned back against his locker, watching Jake pull his jacket on and reach for his bag.

“We’re really lookin’ forward to having you round for dinner tomorrow night.”

Jake’s head perked up at Bob’s words, his signature smile still etched over his face.

“Yeah, me too, Floyd.”

Jake placed his hand on Bob’s shoulder to move past him and leave the locker room, but before he took another step further, he lingered for a moment longer. Jake’s lips brushed up against the shell of Bob’s ear and in a low and flirtatious drawl, he whispered, “Bye, Baby.”

And he left.

Jake didn’t look back and see how Bob was biting down frightfully hard on his bottom lip to hold back the beaming and lovesick smile he was currently adorning. He didn’t see how Bob’s cheeks flushed a rosy pink colour in seconds. All he saw ahead of him was a future of tender love with you and Bob.

taglist: @beachbabey @tallrock35 @luckyladycreator2 @unmistakablyunknown @wkndwlff @flames-thebitch @birdy-bat-writes @thedroneranger @randomfandomgirl96 @kmc1989

tagging those who may be interested: @laracrofted @sunblchdfly @sugarcoated-lame @castiel-barnes @lewmagoo @peachystenbrough @becks-things @bradshawsbitch @rhettabbotts @hangmanapologist @whatislovevavy @withahappyrefrain @sandbarbirdie

[justreadingthings]

So I’m gonna be real for a second. Sometimes when I’m writing replies I only slightly hyperbolize my reactions, but I’m 100% honest when I say that reading this fic gave me actual butterflies up in my chest. I love that new relationship anticipation and the fluttering of heartbeats cause they smiled at you. This transported me into that feeling, and I’m obsessed with it. Thank you for sharing this, lovely!

i’d like to request 🌽bob floyd - kissing as a dare (first kiss list) please!! thank youu

i like the lips you kiss with | bob floyd

❝ let's go to a place where we can forget we haven't let the room yet ❞

🍓 part of my summer picnic event 🍓

bob hated truth or dare. always had, ever since he got stuck playing it as a teenager, peer pressured into participating in "seven minutes in heaven" with a girl he had a crush on. the two hadn't done anything, they'd merely stood awkwardly in a closet together, waiting for their seven minutes to be up, as bob shyly apologized.

now, fifteen years later, he found himself seated in a circle on natasha's floor, playing the same game, and feeling like he was a teenager all over again. the game had been suggested by jake, of course. he liked playing party games, and he liked making his friends squirm even more. there was nothing malicious behind his intentions. only good-natured teasing. but bob didn't like it. not one bit.

to make matters worse, he was seated directly next to you. almost as if the group had done it that way on purpose, so he'd have no choice but to sit by you. it wasn't that bob didn't like you. in fact, it was quite the opposite. the problem was, he liked you a lot. he would even go as far as to say he loved you.

but you were his dearest friend. he couldn't risk losing you by admitting his feelings. he'd rather have you in his life and keep his feelings a secret than lose you forever by admitting them. so he said nothing, and merely cherished your steady, comforting friendship.

now you sat shoulder to shoulder, and there was an odd look in jake's eyes, and bob's heart was pounding, because it was becoming increasingly clear that this was indeed a setup. and if bob noticed, he wondered if you noticed. however, if you did, you didn't say anything. you seemed to be having fun. there was no tenseness in your muscles. no strained smiles. you were totally at ease, talking and laughing, shoulder brushing against bob's.

when jake spoke your name from across the circle, eyes narrowed, smirk playing at his lips, you gave him your full attention, returning his snark. "yes, hangman?" you answered, in a 'get on with it' sort of tone.

"truth or dare?"

not one to back down from a challenge, and certainly not when it came from jake, you replied. "dare."

the blonde's smirk melted into a grin. "i dare you to kiss baby on board. on the mouth."

the circle went silent, save for mickey's low whistle as his eyes shifted to his friend, wondering how bob would react. you remained still, gaze still locked on jake, before you finally turned toward bob. his eyes were wide behind his glasses. a blush had begun to creep up his neck. "you can say no," you assured him, realizing that he might not want to be in this situation.

but something snapped in him. it wasn't overt. it wasn't dramatic. but it was there, in the narrowing of his eyes and the slackening of his jaw. jake thought bob was too timid. thought he had no idea how to handle a woman. well, that was simply not true, and bob would prove that. so, without giving himself a moment to overthink it, he leaned in, large hand curling against the back of your neck, pulling you close.

for a split second, you looked into his eyes, and you saw everything. the intensity took your breath away, but you weren't afforded a moment to process it, because he leaned in, and his mouth connected with yours, while the whole team let out cheers and whistles around you.

it wasn't a shy, uncertain kiss, like you'd expected. it was deep. meaningful. it stole the breath from your lungs, and sent your heart pounding against your chest. there was so much underlying tension in that kiss, and when you felt the brush of bob's tongue against your bottom lip, you seemed to remember where you were, and you pulled back as if you'd been burned.

for a beat, you stared at one another, breathless, dazed. you were hit with everything at once. months of yearning. pushing your feelings down. telling yourself you weren't falling for him. that he was merely your best friend, and nothing more. but now, after having the oxygen kissed out of you, you were suddenly forced to face it all. and it was too much. the eyes of your friends upon you. bob's face, melting into concern, wondering if he'd gone too far.

so you bolted. "i-i'm sorry," you whispered, before you rose to your feet, rushing out of the living room and down the hall, leaving your friends in stunned silence behind you. though you felt bad for the theatrics, you simply needed a moment to process what had happened. damn you and your need to take any challenge jake threw your way.

meanwhile, everyone else remained in the living room, shocked. bob looked as if he had just kicked someone's puppy, and he was red as a tomato. he hated that his body's natural response to awkward situations was to blush crimson. and it certainly didn't help matters when jake said, "damn, bob. what'd you do to her?"

natasha was the one to put an end to it. "you're an asshole, hangman," she snapped, as she rose to her feet.

jake threw his hands up. "what did i do?!"

"you knew exactly what you were doing!" she insisted, already heading down the hall to find you.

"i was just trying to get these two to admit that they're head over heels for each other, that's all!" he called after her.

it was bob's turn to stand up, his gaze sharp behind his glasses as he glared at jake. "you did a real bang up job, hangman," he muttered sarcastically. he didn't stick around to hear the other man's reply. instead, he followed after natasha, his socked feet padding lightly against the hardwood.

he found her hovering outside the bathroom door, knuckles rapping lightly against it as she softly called your name. "are you okay?"

on the other side of the door, you were hunched over the sink, trying to pull yourself together. "i-i'm fine."

"you don't sound fine," nat countered. you couldn't see her face, but you could picture her raising an eyebrow.

"let me," bob whispered, deciding he needed to be the one to talk to you. his front seater looked at him for a moment, before she finally nodded, smiling softly.

as she passed, she squeezed his shoulder, but said nothing else, opting to let him do it on his own. once she was gone, he stepped toward the door, knocking gently. "it's me," he informed you.

at the sound of his voice, your eyes drifted shut, and you took a deep breath, preparing yourself to face him. then, with trembling hands, you unlocked the bathroom door, opening it wide enough for him to step inside. tentatively, he did, not wanting to cross any boundaries. his face was gentle and sincere, and his movements were careful.

"hey," he said, voice wavering slightly. "i'm sorry. i took that kiss too far, and i shouldn't have. i didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

but you were already shaking your head. "no. i'm the one that should be apologizing. i accepted jake's dare, and i didn't have to. but...you didn't make me uncomfortable, i promise." the close space of natasha's bathroom felt very intimate. you were exposed to him, broken wide open.

"i didn't?" he asked, uncertain.

"no. the truth is, it made me realize some things i've been in denial about for a while now. such as the way i feel about you." the air seemed to have left the room. the space grew smaller as he stepped closer. not cornering you, but engulfing you in his comforting presence.

he swallowed, throat bobbing. "and how do you feel about me?" he asked. he was so close you could feel his warmth.

your throat went dry, but you forced yourself to reply. "like i'm in love with you, and have been for a long time." and there it was. out in the open. there was no taking it back now.

something in bob's face changed. his expression softened, and his eyes grew glassy with emotion. "oh, honey," he whispered. "i'm in love with you too."

you weren't sure who moved first, but before you realized what was happening, you were in his arms, body pressed to his as he kissed you again. this time, you melted into it, welcoming every sensation. when his tongue swiped against your bottom lip, you granted him full access, allowing him to taste you, consume you. your heart soared in your chest, warmth washing over you from head to toe.

you were soon forced to part, so you could both catch your breath. but you remained close, your hands resting on his chest, his settled on your hips. there was no uncomfortable tension. only relief that you had finally acted on the feelings you had denied for so long.

"i-i'm sorry i didn't say anything sooner. i just didn't want to ruin our friendship. you mean too much to me to lose," bob admitted, earnestly.

you leaned in, nuzzling your nose against his. "you could never lose me," you assured him. "no more hiding our feelings. from now on, we tell each other how we feel."

his mouth curved into a genuine smile, the apples of his cheeks rounding. "i agree."

you leaned in to kiss him again before you continued. "guess we have to show our faces to the others now, huh?"

"i guess so." he squeezed your hand, and together, you left the bathroom, heading back down the hall to meet your friends, who were all concernedly discussing what had happened.

upon hearing the two of you enter, everyone looked up. you shared a knowing glance with bob before he took you in his arms, dipping you low in front of the entire squad, before he kissed you deeply. they all erupted into delighted cheers, and as bob brought you upright, the two of you turned to face them all again.

"i guess hangman's attempt at being a matchmaker actually worked," mickey marveled.

"i hate to admit it," you agreed, "but i guess it did."

"we're all just glad you two finally admitted your feelings for each other! now we don't have to watch you secretly yearn for each other twenty-four seven," jake spoke up.

"no, now it's worse," javy jokingly chimed in, "now we've gotta watch them stare lovingly into each other's eyes twenty-four seven."

snickers rippled through the group, but you and bob took it all in stride, as you leaned against him, his arm around your waist. "didn't realize we were that obvious," you murmured to him, smile playing at your lips.

"guess we were obvious to everyone but each other," he replied with a shake of his head.

"i, for one, am happy for you guys," natasha spoke up, raising her cup toward you. "you two are perfect for each other."

"i hope you at least invite us to the wedding," bradley interjected with a good-natured smile.

"gettin' the cart a little before the horse there, aren't we bradshaw?" jake teased.

but one year later, the entire squad would find themselves at your wedding, where you and bob would finally say your vows to one another. all thanks to a silly game of truth or dare.

perhaps bob didn't hate the game so much after all.