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lemoniceteee · 4 hours ago

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Beneath the Bones of the Land (2)

Pairing: Vampire!Bucky x Reader (Farmer Au)

Series Summary: Inheriting the old farmhouse of your grandmother, you move to a town that watches you from the fields and makes the pines lean too close, and it isn’t long before you begin to fear you’ll lose your mind the way she did.

Word Count: 12.7k

Warnings: depictions of grief and trauma; implied generational abuse of power; town lore; mentions of blood; implied and referenced death (family murder); feelings of isolation, depression, grief; stalking; vampirism; supernatural horror elements; emotional manipulation under supernatural influence

Author’s Note: Welcome to part two of Beneath the Bones of the Land!! This chapter will likely be the longest in the miniseries, so consider that a little heads-up. I’ll admit I’m still a bit nervous to share it, but the kind and encouraging comments I received after publishing the masterlist truly had me feeling all warm inside. And now I can’t wait to continue the journey with you all. Thank you so much to everyone who’s been looking forward to more. I hope you enjoy how the story goes on ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

The walk to Gallow Fen’s grocery store meanders down a cracked and perspectively dirty road. It is flanked by gnarled oaks that lean forward to have a better look at you.

You clutch your tote bag. Fingers clench around the frayed canvas straps, the fabric digging crescents into your palms. Your footsteps make sounds - normal sounds, familiar sounds - but here they echo too sharply, too cleanly, like the world’s been emptied of everything that might dull them.

Even the crows seem to notice. The street is empty except for them. They sit like sentries on the telephone wires, black-eyed and too still, watching. Their wings twitch like nerves in a corpse, a little too late to mean anything but trouble.

The wind blows in from the east, soft and wet and smelling faintly of rusted pennies and mint rot. It tastes like rain but never quite gives you the satisfaction of falling. Not unless it’s Sunday.

And it’s not Sunday.

It's Tuesday, maybe. Or Thursday. The days blur here.

You tell yourself you need eggs, flour, nails for the porch, a new lamp wick. That you need a reason to leave the farmhouse. To leave the porch with the peeling paint and the flower pots full of dead things and the exposure of wallpapers with unfamiliar sigils. You need to feel your body moving through space, to pretend you’re tethered to this world by more than blood and memory and obligation. You need to believe that you're still capable of wanting. That you're not some ghost wearing skin, drifting from room to room, haunted by someone you don’t talk about and someone you’ll never forget.

But the town doesn’t feel like a place for the living.

Because the further you get into town, the more you start to see. In the corners of your vision. In the places where the light bends a little too strangely. Shadows that linger longer than they should. Smiles that split too wide. A dog with too many teeth and a leash that leads to no one.

You pass the post office, the cracked windows covered in thick curtains. The edges are frosted with old dust and something darker, like soot. You see the old woman behind the glass, her eyes pale, cloudy with cataracts or curses or both, following you as you pass. Her mouth moves behind the glass, saying things you’ll never hear and don’t want to. Words shaped like warnings. Words meant to reach you whether you listen or not.

You don’t look back.

The uneven pavement beneath your feet is heaving in places as though the earth can’t find rest, as though it might wake up screaming.

But you walk on.

At the general store, the door moans when you push it open, hinges wheezing like lungs filled with water. A tiny bell above your head jingles with a weak, pathetic sound, like a throat cleared before dying. The air inside smells of dust and desiccated breath and old leather-bound ledgers, of dried flowers and candle smoke and something faintly metallic beneath it all, like blood that never got the chance to dry.

Mr. Grisham is there, behind the counter, still as the grave. His spine is too straight, his hands folded atop the register as though he might be praying, or waiting. His eyes, the color of stale coffee left too long on a burner, track you as you move through the shop. His skin seems thin, wrapped tight over the ridges of his bones and whatever else has lived inside him for too long. He smiles, but it’s the kind of smile you’d expect from something that might bite if you got too close.

“Morning,” you offer, even though it’s barely morning, even though you’re not sure you want to speak to him.

He doesn’t return it. Just tilts his head to one side, birdlike, dissecting.

As you place eggs and bread into your basket, you feel his gaze pressing into your back like cold fingers. The shelves around you are overstuffed, leaning in as though trying to touch you. The aisles are thin, claustrophobic, and everything feels too quiet. You can hear the soft ticking of a clock you can't see. You can hear the wood settle. You can hear your breath.

“You’re settling in well,” Mr. Grisham says, voice as smooth as it is empty. His eyes flicker past you. Past your shoulder. Into corners you haven’t checked yet.

You nod, trying to sound casual, but your throat feels dry. “Yeah. Well. It’s- quiet here.”

The smile on his face falters, becomes jagged, lopsided, shifting into something wrong. It makes you shiver. His head stays tilted. It doesn’t look natural. “Quiet’s how it’s supposed to be. Too much noise scares the soil.”

The words land too hard, morbid and uncanny, and you’re not sure if you heard him right. You blink, startled by the oddness. But before your lips can shape another question, the bell above the door doesn’t ring - and someone is behind you.

You didn’t hear her enter.

Subtly, you turn. She is silver-haired, silver-skinned, silver-boned, like she’s been made of moonlight and sorrow. But she’s not old. Not in the way people age. Her beauty feels ageless. Weaponized. Her eyes slide right past you as if you’re nothing but fog. As if she already knows everything there is to know about you - and none of it matters. But she keeps the gaze of the shopkeeper longer than is comfortable. And when you turn back around, his eerie smile is gone.

Swallowing, you turn back to the shelves, grabbing a few more items. Your hands move on instinct - a tin of salt, a coil of rope, a worn candle that smells faintly of rosemary and something earthy, something green and old and wet. Like moss. Like graves. Like secrets left to rot under floorboards.

The woman’s gaze ignites heat at the back of your neck. You don’t look, but you know.

She is watching you.

“The earth is generous this year,” she states, voice almost a melody, music with broken teeth, silky but threaded with something dark.

You turn, meet her gaze, force a smile, try to keep your voice steady when your heartbeat is not. “I just want to be ready. For anything.”

The woman tilts her head slightly, studying you with eyes that gleam like wet stones. Her mouth curves into something delicate. Knowing. Sinister.

“Readiness is a kind of respect,” she says, as if you’ve passed a test you didn’t know you were taking. “The land notices those who honor it.”

There’s something reverent in the way she says land as if it can hear every word spoken about it.

You nod, but your skin prickles beneath your clothes. You feel like the ground is aware of you now. Like it’s memorizing your weight, your steps. The cadence of your voice. The shape of your fear.

And as she turns and glides down another aisle - silent, so silent in fact, you don’t even know if she is touching the ground - you realize she never brushed over a single thing, but the candle in your hand feels warmer than it did before.

You hurry to finish your purchase, muttering something close to gratitude, something close to farewell, but the words taste like sawdust in your mouth. Mr. Grisham’s smile doesn’t follow you, and the silver-haired woman is nowhere to be seen. It’s like she was never there.

Outside, the air hits you like a sigh that’s given up halfway. The sky overhead looks bleached, starved of color, as if someone wrung it out and left it to dry. The clouds hang limp and skeletal, stretched too thin over a sky that feels too close. You swear you can see its bones.

Everything is duller than it was an hour ago. Than it was yesterday. As though the world is slipping a few shades each day, graying itself toward nothing. The trees seem less green. The houses lean harder. The wind doesn’t rustle - it rasps.

And the longer you stay here, the wronger everything feels.

You try not to notice, but it’s hard not to.

Windows you remember open now remain shuttered as though they’re afraid of something slipping in, or out.

The children who once played in the streets now sit still on their porches, limbs too quiet, eyes too wide. They don’t smile. They don’t speak. They watch you with a hunger they don’t yet seem to understand, heads tilting in perfect synchrony as you pass, like sunflowers tracking a dying sun.

It feels like they’re counting your heartbeats. It feels like they already know when it’ll stop.

No dogs bark here.

No cats wind between your legs.

No birds cry from the trees.

The only sound is your own breath, too loud in your ears.

You walk the familiar path home, each footstep weighed down by eyes you can’t see but feel. You pass a trio of women sitting like statues on the steps of their houses, knitting without looking down, their needles clicking in the quiet. Their eyes lock on you. They do not blink. They do not stop knitting. They do not smile. You get the sense they’re not making scarves. Or sweaters. Or anything warm.

A man nearby paints his fence, his brush mid-stroke when you walk by. He stops, frozen, paint dripping in slow fat drops onto the thirsty dust. His eyes are the same as the others - too still, too wide, too knowing.

You keep walking, faster now, but the eyes don’t stop following you. You can feel them peeling back layers, slipping under your skin like smoke or rot. The houses creak as you pass, wood groaning softly like something dreaming behind the walls. Shutters twitch. Doors sag. The whole street is slouching toward you like a mouth slowly opening.

The air tastes like dust. And beneath the dust is something sharper. Something acrid, like the edge of a blade or the breath of something buried deep and dreaming.

And it gets stronger every day.

You don't know what you're walking toward.

But you're starting to think the land does.

And you feel it again.

That thing.

That ache behind your ribs that isn’t pain exactly, but pressure. Presence. The cold-fingered certainty that you're not alone. That a certain someone is watching, just beyond the reach of your sight.

In the window of the dress shop - its mannequins dressed in yellowed lace, their eyes missing, their hands poised like they’re ready to pray or strike - you catch a shape in the glass. A smear of darkness, tall and broad, slipping between shadows as if he is one himself. You turn, breath catching - no one.

The street is empty.

But your reflection is different. Your reflection looks watched.

Even at your farmhouse, your reflection feels watched all the time. In the mirror above your sink, you think you see blue eyes in the dark corners, just for a second before you blink and they are gone.

You tell yourself you imagined it.

You’ve told yourself that a lot lately.

But every corner you turn in this town - he’s there. A figure leaning against a fence, hands in the pockets of a long black coat. The same coat. The same dark hair. The same stillness, like the kind of stillness that comes before a storm or a scream. Always just far enough that you can't call out. Close enough that you feel the air bend toward him.

Bucky.

Your neighbor, though neighbor feels too casual for what he is. The mysterious man whose silhouette is always framed by moonlight outside your window when you catch a glimpse of him. You never see him leave. You never hear him come.

Right now, you see him outside the diner, not going in, just watching, eyes following you.

You don’t truly let yourself look at him, but you feel the pull of him, like a string tied around your ribs, tugging you wherever he goes.

The townspeople feel the thickness of his presence too. They glance at him and look away quickly, jaws tightening, some crossing the street to avoid him, muttering words you can’t catch. They stiffen when he is near, glance at him with something like resentment, as though they know him and wish they didn’t, as though he is a sin they thought they'd already buried.

You see two men at the side of the road, in a narrow alley, watching you, whispering, and Bucky steps between you and them, his shoulders tense, head turning sharply to glare at them with a look that is colder than fury. They avert their eyes as though they’ve seen it before - whatever it is that lives behind his.

You pass the old church, its windows boarded with wood warped from rain and years. The bell tower stands broken against the sky. Nothing rings here anymore. And you feel him staring so intensely.

So sharp it could carve. So steady it makes your heart stumble.

Your pace quickens, feet finding rhythm even as your breath catches. The pull of him grows stronger the further you try to get from it, as though running only tightens the string between you.

He watches you like he’s trying to memorize something that won’t last.

Like he’s counting the beats of your heart.

Like he knows how many you have left.

He swallows, as though something inside of him is telling him to step closer.

And when you finally let your gaze sweep across the street, just for a moment, he is gone

No footsteps. No shadow. Just gone.

You tell yourself it’s a relief. You almost believe it.

The path home feels longer today, the pines being curious onlookers, their needles clicking in the wind, a dry, whispered applause that follows your steps. The sky still is the color of wet paper, the sun bleeding weakly through, leaving the world washed and pale.

Your thumb traces the rough handle of your bag until it leaves a pink mark you can’t rub away.

You reach the edge of town, walking past fences that tilt, past fields of grass that have forgotten how to grow. The wind picks up, cursed and untamed, and you step through the front gate of your grandmother’s farmhouse.

And then there is a breath. Warm and sudden against the back of your neck. Close. Too close. So real you spin around, heart knocking hard against your ribs.

Nothing. No one. Just the trees, the wind, the silence stretching its arms around you.

Picking up your pace again, you see him once more. At the edge of the woods behind the farmhouse. Still. So still he might be a tree himself.

Until he is gone again, and you wonder if maybe you’ve been staring at a tree all along.

When you reach the porch, you notice the rocking chair moving, just a little, as if it had been in use moments before you arrived. A languid arc of motion that stutters to stillness as if embarrassed to have been caught in the act. You pause. Frown. But the wind is cold on your neck, so you hurry inside.

The farmhouse is still and watching, wood creaking where nobody is walking, the air cool. You set the bag down on the counter, the eggs rattling gently, and begin to unpack your purchases.

The bread, soft and too white.

The eggs, speckled, cold as the stones of a river.

A small jar of honey, so dark it almost looks black.

A bundle of herbs you don’t remember picking up, tied with twine, smelling of green and sharpness, of something you’ve never smelled before.

You pause, bringing it to your nose, inhaling.

It smells like crushed grass, bitter and angry, a wildness that scratches your throat.

You frown, placing it aside, telling yourself it is something Mr. Grisham must have tucked in, another gift from the oddness of the town.

You put the bread away first. You tear open the plastic with your thumb, pressing it down into the breadbox, the stale air inside breathing out against your face like a sigh you don’t want to claim.

The eggs go into the fridge next, each one cold and sweating under your fingers, smooth as porcelain dolls’ heads. You place them gently in the door, careful not to drop them, careful not to let them crack open on the old linoleum.

The honey jar goes into the cupboard above the sink. It looks too heavy for its size.

And then your hand closes around the bundle of herbs.

The smell is so pungent, like the forest floor, like crushed stems and something faintly metallic underneath it all. With a wrinkled nose, you place them in a jar near the window where the light is thin and tired, telling yourself you will figure out what they are later.

Your hands are cold as you put the last of the things away, your reflection in the kitchen window catching your eye, looking pale and smaller than you remember being.

You open the windows but the air tastes like mothballs, sweet in a sickly, cloying way - and the sky is too heavy to let the breeze in.

You go upstairs to the attic because you can’t stand the walls around you stirring, its timbers groaning as though turning in sleep.

You climb the attic stairs with a lantern in your hand, because the bulbs up here hum and flicker and sometimes shatter for no reason at all. The banister is worn smooth.

The attic door stands slightly ajar. You don’t remember leaving it that way.

You pause with your hand on the doorknob. The house has gone quiet again - but not empty. Not still.

You push the door open completely, and the smell hits you first. Long-dead things that have never been alive - a dry, papery rot that pricks uncomfortably into your lungs. There is the brittle sweetness of desiccated rose crushed beneath iron bedframes, and the faint, stomach-turning tang of mouse droppings baked into the floorboards by seasons of silence.

Something wet and woolen lingers too - like coats that had once been worn through grief and hung back up, still carrying the cold of the cemetery.

You swallow, slow.

Pressing your lips together, you step inside. You have to duck beneath low beams that are thick with dust and spider nests. There is dried lavender tied in bunches overhead, hanging like shriveled sentinels to watch you pass.

You cross the room carefully, your footfalls muffled by a scattering of blankets, boxes, and half-forgotten things. Dresses sag across a busted mannequin like wilted ghosts, pale and yellowed, their lace collars crumbling to sugar under your breath. Books line the walls in crooked towers, their spines cracked, their pages peeling like bark. The floor moans.

Somewhere near the rafters, the scent is a strange cocktail of old wax, dried rose petals, something faintly medicinal. And underneath it all, something more intimate. A coppery reek, something that’s not blood or rust, but something almost familiar. Skin. Not living skin, not the warm kind. No, this is the ghost of skin, the memory of touch - like old dolls left too long in the sun, like breath pressed into linen and sealed away. It rises from under the floorboards, or perhaps from inside the walls, like the breath of the house itself.

You can’t help but wonder what had been stored here, what had been kept here, and what had never left.

Light knifes through the attic’s lone window, weak but trying, revealing a slow drift of dust - a thousand motes hanging motionless, not drifting, not falling, just hanging, like the husk of tiny insects embalmed in air.

You move toward a box tucked beneath an old steamer trunk, its lid bowed, its corners frayed soft. You don’t know why you choose that one. Maybe because it’s close. Maybe because it’s waiting. You drag it forward with both hands, the cardboard collapsing slightly under your grip.

You sit. The floor is gritty beneath you, dust etching cold lines into the skin of your thighs. You set the box in your lap and lift the lid. The air that escapes smells of age and ink and the subtle musk of things that used to be important.

Photographs. A whole bunch of them, all haphazardly stored.

You take a few in your hands and peel them apart carefully, one by one, ink-smudged faces looking back at you with glassy, dead-eyed patience of the past. The paper is soft as cloth where it is worn thin.

You blink down at them and hold the first photograph to the light.

And your heart falters.

It’s your grandmother.

You’ve never seen her like this - not in motion, not young, not laughing. Not alive in this way, wild and unbothered, joy spilling out of her like water from an overfilled glass. Her hair is curled and pinned just so, her dress cinched at the waist, her eyes lit with something more than light. Her teeth are white. She seems so genuine, it squeezes something in your chest.

The other side of the picture captures another girl. Equally beautiful, equally young, equally happy, dark brown curls tumbling past her shoulders, eyes alight, lips parted in a laugh that seems to echo, somehow, in the bones of the house around you.

And in between them, holding your grandmother‘s hand on one side and the other girl’s on the other, there is a little boy.

Your eyes are drawn to him. He’s younger than the girls. Much younger. Seven, maybe eight. He’s got the same nose as the other girl, the same bright eyes.

His hair is slicked back poorly, a small cowlick refusing the gesture. He is wearing short trousers in the black-and-white, and a too-big shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dirt on his knees.

He’s laughing, but not for the camera. Laughing like someone has just whispered something funny in his ear.

And behind them, there’s the barn.

Bucky’s barn.

Even then, it leaned slightly to the left, one shutter hanging crooked like a lazy eyelid. But in the photo, it’s different somehow. Brighter. New. The shadows haven’t crept beneath its eaves yet. The dark that settled over the city hasn’t touched it. It looks more in color in a black-and-white picture than it does in real life.

A chilling shiver runs along your spine.

You turn the photograph over.

Your fingers leave a print on the back, smudging the delicate script scrawled there in ink faded to rust.

1924. End of Summer.

Your stomach twists.

There’s something about the year that feels louder than it should. Too far, and yet too close. You stare at the picture again.

The boy’s eyes seem darker now.

You look at the next photograph.

Your grandmother again - but something has changed.

She’s older now. Somewhere in her thirties. Her hair is pinned so tight it drags the corners of her face upward, stretching her skin into something unnatural, something taut. And she’s wearing a scarf - a deep, wine-dark red wrapped high around her neck, tied in a careful knot beneath her chin.

A neatness that feels like hiding.

Her mouth is curved. A smile, but only just.

Not a real one. Not the laugh you saw before. This one is stitched shut like a wound. A line sewn to keep something from spilling.

And there - next to her, with a hand on her shoulder - is Mr. Grisham.

You know him immediately. And it makes your stomach go cold. It makes your hands still.

You know him not because of his expression - though it's the same, that unreadable tilt of his lips, that oily kindness pooling in the corners of his eyes. Not because of the shape of his hand, long and pale, his nails clean and too smooth.

You know him because he hasn’t aged a day.

The same soft, slumped shoulders. The same papery skin. The same drooping eyelids. A face that belongs in grayscale. A face that does not move through time like everyone else’s.

Your thumb catches on the edge of the photo. You flip it over.

Harvest Moon, 1940

Your grandmother’s handwriting, looped and careful. A woman who always dotted her i’s with a perfect curl. You used to watch her write letters she never sent, pages and pages she’d burn in the fireplace after dark.

The air in the attic seems to thicken around you. You glance back at the photograph.

That scarf around her neck. Too tight. Too red.

Your stomach turns.

The lantern to your side gives a tremulous flicker, as though the light within it tries to flee the glass prison.

And then the next photo.

It’s blurry. A little distorted, like whoever took it had been shaking, or watching something else. The light is strange - gray, like dawn, or maybe dusk. You can’t tell.

But the graves are clear.

Three of them.

Their stones lean inward as though they’ve been trying to reach each other and it’s been taking them years.

The one on the left is cracked clean through, a lightning bolt of age down the middle. The name is worn almost to nothing, but you squint, lean in, trace it with your eyes.

Rebecca Barnes, beloved daughter and sister.

The next stone is chipped, the name still clear beneath a smear of lichen.

George Barnes, beloved husband and father.

And then-

Winifred Barnes, beloved wife and mother.

A family buried together. The earth holding them tight. The grass overgrown, curling around the markers like it wants them back, like it’s not done feeding.

You stare at the names. Then at the dates. They all died on the same day.

1939

You don’t know why it feels like a warning.

You realize you have been holding your breath, the dense air burning in your lungs, your fingers trembling where they hold the pictures.

And then you notice the background again.

The barn.

Always the barn.

But from a new angle now. From the back. The roof leans deeper on this side, and the boards gape a little wider. The door is open just a crack.

But it doesn’t look abandoned.

It looks alert. As though it still manages to look into the camera.

You feel your heartbeat slow. Each thud a knell. Each pause between like a footstep deeper into the crypt of understanding. Realization.

Your blood stills in your veins.

For a moment, the lantern’s flame beside you pales, the shadows swelling bold - as if even the dark has leaned closer to listen.

Barnes.

The name echoes inside your skull like a knock on a closed door.

The graves. Rebecca. George. Winifred. All Barnes.

You blink, and suddenly the attic feels colder. The shadows longer. The silence tighter.

James Barnes. That’s what he told you is his name.

Your stomach churns, beginning deep in your abdomen - a folding, a crumpling, like a hand of shadow twisting you from within.

You feel a bead of sweat slide down your back, caught under your shirt.

And then something slips from the stack.

A photograph falls to the floor.

You snatch it up.

A man in uniform stares back at you.

The image is clean, clearer than the others. He’s young, in his twenties. Handsome. That old-fashioned kind of handsome. Cap tilted over his brow, mouth pulled into a small, proud smile. Sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve.

A pressure builds behind your eyes. Though it is not a simple thought but a funeral bell tolling from within - as though something buried had at last remembered its name.

It’s him. James Barnes. Bucky. Your neighbor.

You stare at the photograph. You can’t stop.

That mouth. That same mouth. Only here, it’s softer. Sweet.

Not like how he looked the last time. That look had fangs.

You trace your thumb along the curve of his jaw, the faint shadow of a dimple at the corner of his smile. And just for a second, you catch your own reflection in the glossy surface of the photo - your eyes wide, your mouth parted. You don’t recognize yourself.

You flip the picture over.

Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes, 1943

Your lantern shudders in its glow - not from wind, but from some unseen presence exhaling just beneath its light.

Your blood stills in your veins.

This is James Barnes. The very same man you had seen watching you today, this very same day, and yet you are seeing him in a photograph dated over half a century ago.

And he doesn’t seem to have aged more than a few years.

The pit of your stomach caves, folding in like a trapdoor to something cold, something waiting beneath.

The girl with the bright eyes, the girl holding the little boy’s hand - who as you realize with a startling gasp, must be Bucky as well - the girl who’s sitting next to your grandmother on the porch steps of now your farmhouse in the next photograph you find, early twenties, the lines of youth hardening into adulthood - that girl must be Rebecca Barnes. From the grave. Bucky Barnes' sister.

That is the last photograph of them together. Rebecca and your grandmother. Heads gently leaned against each other, smiling into the camera, open and warm and happy.

You search for more, frantic now, but there’s only a few more blurred pictures of Rebecca, Bucky, and your grandmother. They both simply stopped existing, while your grandmother kept aging, year after year, until she was the mad and strange brittle woman who spoke to the walls and whispered about monsters in the fields.

You realize that the last photo of your grandmother alive is in front of this house, another red scarf around her throat she never wore in any of the pictures with Rebecca Barnes. And in the background, far at the edge of the frame, is a figure standing near the barn, half-hidden by the shadows. A tall man, dark hair, posture rigid.

You bring the photograph closer, and hold up the sergeant portrait of Bucky, eyes tracing the shape of his jaw, the glint in his eyes that looks like winter sun on glass.

Your mind refuses it, then admits it, then breaks open beneath it.

It’s him again. The weird neighbor you always glimpse but never truly see. The man in the dark that day outside the cabin. The one who does not look a day older than he did in 1945.

Something seems to start growing thorns inside your chest, as though the truth has taken root in your flesh.

Something is terribly wrong here, something is wrong with the way the barn creaks, the way the corn moves toward your windows at night, the way you feel watched even when the house is locked.

There are so many more photographs, scattered, unlabeled, the same people appearing over and over again.

Your grandmother, always with a scarf around her neck, since pictures dated with 1945 until the last of them.

Mr. Grisham, always unchanged, always possessively at your grandmother’s side.

It makes something start boiling inside you.

The townspeople appear all over the pictures, faces you recognize now, but they never seem to age, their clothes changing, their hair styles shifting, but the eyes always the same, the smiles too wide or too thin, never quite right. Always a little askew.

In one blurred photo, the townspeople stand in a circle in the middle of town square, hands clasped, heads bowed.

At the center, the place where now nobody walks through, is a dark stain on the ground, something you know what it is but don’t let your mind speak out.

You put the photos back in the box, pressing them down with unsteady fingers as if to bury them.

You understand now, trembling in this attic that smells of mold and lost years, that your grandmother’s stories were not the ramblings of a madwoman. You wonder if madness would be mercy, if it would be easier to dissolve into the corners of your mind than to carry this knowing in your chest.

That this town is wrong. That these people are wrong. That the earth under your feet is wrong. That a whole family died for the only son to go to war. That your grandmother aged while the others did not. And she stayed here, and she watched them, and she was alone.

That you are alone now.

You look around the attic, the old trunks, the quilts, the dresses hanging from nails in the beams, swaying gently as if nudged by a breeze you cannot feel. The shadows in the corners feel deeper now, shifting when you are not looking, stretching long fingers toward you.

You reach again for the box, your fingers pale and shaking, unsure why you’re still searching. Unsure what it is you're trying to find.

But you are.

Because something in you is greedy for truth now, even if it leaves something bitter on your tongue and your own name scraped raw against a locked door.

You dig past the images already seen, already held, already stitched into the hollows behind your eyes. You dig past decades that do not line up, past smiles that do not match eyes, past people who do not die the way people should.

And then you find it.

A photo curled at the corners, edges scorched as if the frame once knew fire but survived it. Barely. A photograph you’ve never seen before but which punches all the air out of your lungs in a single, graceless exhale.

You’re in it.

Your hand stills, lungs splintering, vision folding in and narrowing down.

You’re in it.

You’re small. No older than seven. Hair braided in the way your grandmother used to do, just to have something to do with her hands.

She’s beside you. Your grandmother.

A silhouette in high contrast. That same face you’ve tried to forget in sleep. The sharp cheekbones, the mouth that never smiled with her eyes.

And she looks wrong in a way that splits you down the spine. Not sick. Not sad. Just gone.

Her body is there. But her eyes are not. Her shoulders are rigid, like she’s been made of too much glass and regret, like she’s balancing something sharp and heavy inside her that she’s never dared put down. One hand rests on your shoulder as though she doesn’t know what to do with it.

She is looking at the camera. But her face says help me.

And you are smiling.

Not like now. Not like the hollow, hesitant curl you force when people look too close. No, this is a real child’s smile. Full-faced and bright. You look happy, you think - until you really look.

Until you look closer.

Because something is off. The lines are too hard, the light too strange. You’re standing on the porch of the farmhouse, knees dirt-dusted, dress wrinkled. But behind you - behind the wood slats and peeling paint and your grandmother’s clenched jaw - is something.

A shape.

A smudge of wrongness in the far corner of the photograph. Not fully visible. Not quite formed. But - there. You have to tilt the photo just slightly to catch it.

And when you do you freeze.

It is a shape bent in on itself like its bones don't know how to be human anymore. Limbs just a little too long. Head just a little too low. Its face - does it have a face? - is smeared and contorted like a reflection on the surface of a black lake, like it was caught halfway through becoming.

Its outline ripples. Stretches. It seems to bleed into the shadows behind the porch swing, a darkness that forgets how to be background.

Its head is tilted.

Its eyes seem to be gleaming.

And it is looking at you.

Not at your grandmother. Not at the camera. Not past it.

You.

It sees you.

You jerk so hard the photo almost flies from your hands. Your breath punches out in a sob, small and animal, and the edges of the photograph cut into your palm. You drop it - just barely catch it against your thigh - and for a moment you don’t move.

Can’t.

Because you’re still staring.

Still staring at the thing in the photo.

And maybe - maybe if you blink, maybe if you close your eyes and open them again, it will disappear. But you know better. You know it won’t.

Because this thing - this shadow, this echo, this thing shaped like a curse whispered into soil - isn’t gone.

It never was.

It has always been here. Behind your house.

Beneath your feet. Behind you.

Your grandmother knew.

The glow of the lantern beside you sputters and bends, goes out, and for a moment, you see nothing but your own reflection in the attic window, your face pale, your breath shaking against the glass, your eyes wide as the darkness engulfs you to listen close to your fear.

You feel the house settle, deep and slow, as if it’s exhaling a disappointed breath.

You cannot tell if you are cold or if something has reached into your spine to hold you still.

Outside, the barn door creaks softly.

****

The tea starts tasting wrong.

It begins slow, so slightly you almost blame your tongue. A faint bitterness on the underside of chamomile, a sharp, ghostly citrus taste, like something preserved in decay.

Honey cannot drown it.

Sugar cannot soften it.

It is a kind of taste you could almost forgive, if you weren’t already suspicious of everything around here - of the light curving in the corners, of your own shadow not matching your shape.

A flavor that wasn’t invited, but made itself at home. Lemon, maybe. But not really. Lemon’s long-dead twin - pale and dried and buried in a drawer with the old spoons and the wedding rings that no one wears anymore.

You try honey again.

Then more.

Then moremoremore - until the mug is thick with it, golden syrup dragging like tired blood through clouded water. You stir until your wrist aches and the spoon ticks against ceramic as though it’s counting down to some invisible ending, and still, still, still, the taste remains. A taste that presses against your molars, stubborn.

Sugar next. Crystal, white, sharp-edged.

Two spoonfuls. Then three. Then four.

You think, maybe, if you sweeten the world enough, it’ll stop trying to rot.

But then you taste it again and it is still there, that green-rot bite, that metal taste, like you’ve bitten your tongue but there’s no blood, only the taste of it.

You dump the rest of the honey in, and it still doesn’t help.

You wonder if the water is wrong, if the pipes are rusting, if the air of this town is enough to poison the leaves before you can steep them. You wonder if your grandmother’s jars of herbs are old, if her hands have touched them last, if she had whispered her stories into the dried petals before sealing them away.

But still, you keep drinking, because the warmth is better than the bones of cold that walk inside your skin now, even if it leaves a bitter taste on your tongue. The warmth is not comfort, but it’s company.

Everything about this town is bitter, after all.

The days have been growing off around the edges, the world warping, preparing, colors draining further, sounds too loud in the wrong moments, too quiet when you strain to hear them.

The wind is always blowing here, without moving anything. It slithers around the eaves of the house and under the door, hums in the chimney and hisses at your toes, like it’s tasting you. Like it wants in.

You keep seeing people at the edge of your vision, figures standing too still near the fence line, shapes in the field that vanish when you blink. You wake up in the middle of the night with the feeling of breath on your neck, of someone standing at the foot of your bed, but there is nothing there except the cold, the silence, the dark throbbing around you like a hungry heat.

The lights flicker more often now, and sometimes when you walk through the hallway, they sputter out altogether, leaving you blinking in a darkness that feels thick as wool, enclosing around you, breathing with you.

You tried to leave once.

Packed your bag. Stood at the door, shoes on, jacket in your arms, hand on the knob.

But the house moved behind you. A soft whimper in the wood grain. The wind clicking at the windows like a knuckle against glass.

And you stood there for too long.

Long enough for your spine to turn to stone, for your feet to forget the shape of movement.

Long enough for day to unstitch itself behind your eyelids.

Long enough to forget why you ever thought you could outrun it. That shadow at your back.

You blinked.

And it was night again.

Bag unpacked.

Shoes by the stairs, wet with something that wasn’t water.

Jacket hanging on the hook as though it never left. As though you never left.

You don’t remember doing it.

You don’t remember not doing it.

You tried to call someone, but the line didn’t work like it used to. It crackled and stumbled, and when you spoke your name into the mouthpiece, it came back wrong.

Your own voice.

Echoing. Off-kilter.

As though it’d been chewing on something sharp.

And when the screen blinked out, you saw your reflection. It blinked first. Eyes wide and wet as though it knew something you didn’t.

Still don’t.

You find yourself craving something here, something monumental, something that hurts just enough to remind you you are alive. It feels as though it turns you insane.

There is a call in this place.

It sprawls.

It yearns.

It howls.

It grasps.

And you want to know what it is.

You want to know what it wants.

You want to know why your grandmother came here, why she never ran. Even when her letters turned into whirlpools. Even when her words spiraled into nonsense. You read those letters in the bottomless hours, your fingers tracing over the ink like you could untangle it, un-curse it, understand. Find sense in those scribbled lines.

You want to know why she wore scarves even in summer, why her laugh started sounding like a lie, why her eyes went glassy like they were watching something else.

You want to know what happened to her. And why no one will say it out loud.

You want to know why the townspeople watch you the way they do, why they smile at you like wolves at a window, why their eyes flick sideways when they say her name, as though it’s dangerous to look too long at anything that’s still bleeding.

You try to find answers in the farmhouse. Try to piece it together. You open drawers, gather your grandmother’s journals and loose papers, flip through pages that smell of candle soot, sick with age, and old tears.

But every answer is another question, every page another puzzle, another piece that doesn’t fit.

Skipping through her diaries, you try to make sense of her entries, but you only blink at the pages overwhelmed.

It is madness singing in a mother tongue.

blood and earth

it’s always blood, it’s always earth

I hear them at night

I see them I see them I see them

he said he would protect me but he lied he lied he lied

he is like them he is one of them but but but

I love him anyway

You find names.

Too many.

Some you recognize. Some that feel like they’re chewing through the inside of your brain.

You find dates that mean nothing. Symbols you don’t understand that look like they were drawn with a shaking hand. Or with eyes closed.

There’s another photograph tucked deep in one of the journals, a still-frame of forgetting.

Your grandmother. Her eyes look past the camera, and she looks sanded down, her smile taut, her scarf wound high, high, high, on her neck like a noose made polite.

And beside her-

Mr. Grisham.

Again.

Always.

His smile is not a smile. It’s a warning wearing skin.

There’s something about his face - something in the cynical shape of his mouth, the slant of his eyes - that feels wrong in a way you can’t explain. Too clear. Too detailed.

His eyes are too still.

His face is too focused, as though the world around him was blurred just to keep him in sharp relief.

You put the photo back.

But it doesn’t let go.

It is stuck behind your eyes, watches you from the dark corners of the room.

You feel it when you blink.

When you breathe.

When the lights flicker.

You close the journal.

But the words keep whispering in your ears.

And the house is listening.

You find her cross necklace in the kitchen drawer, tucked beneath more yellowing pages and a broken lighter that never sparks anymore. It glints once, sharp and small like it remembers being worn. You pick it up as if it might burn you.

You find her handwriting in strange places now. Notebooks curled at the corners. Recipes rewritten in reverse. Scrawled between ingredients like binding, salt, blood.

You whisper them aloud once, just to hear how they sound in your mouth.

They do not taste like flour and cinnamon.

They taste like old nails and iron rain.

You find a bible with pressed flowers inside, the petals fossilized black, leaving stains like fingerprints on the thin pages.

You don’t open it for too long.

It watches you back.

You find a child’s drawing beneath a loose floorboard. Three stick-figures stand beside a barn with a broken spine, a jagged sun in the corner spitting rays.

In the field beside them, there is a shape. A dark shape.

Too tall.

Too long.

No face.

Your name is on the back, spelled in your grandmother’s grief-cursive, each letter curled like it hurt her to write it.

You stare.

You do not remember drawing this.

But the paper smells like your childhood.

And with a chilling shiver that crosses your neck and wanders down your back, you tuck the paper back into its place, because you do remember that shape in the blackness of the shadows.

The more you uncover, the less you know.

The less you know, the more your stomach knots like it's trying to hide something inside itself.

Your mind runs in circles chasing the ends of threads that were never meant to meet, and you feel like your mind is trying to fight the same madness she had to.

Her stories used to spook you as a child. As an adult too if you’re being honest.

But now you would give anything to have them back as stories, nothing more.

Now you would sew them into a blanket if it meant you could go back.

Now you wonder if she was the last one who saw it all clearly.

The last one who stood against the dark with a single lantern and didn’t blink.

The last to name the thing in the field and live.

You should try to leave again, you tell yourself. You look in the mirror and tell yourself you should go because the mornings are cold now, even when the calendar screams summer. Your breath fogs the windows.

You should leave, when the mail never comes on time. You should leave when the roads out of town are so empty you think you might be the last living thing left here. You should leave because you think the road doesn’t even lead anywhere anymore.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

You tell yourself it’s hope.

You want to believe the answers are still here, buried somewhere in the slant of this farmhouse, in the lull of the wind through the corn, in the precise tilt of the neighbor’s half-smile.

Maybe there’s a reason she stayed.

Maybe there’s a reason the town won’t let you go.

Maybe this is not a haunting.

Maybe it’s a becoming.

Maybe this place is trying to tell you who you are.

Maybe, deep inside the dark and unspoken part of your chest you keep sealed, you want to know even if the knowing breaks you.

So today you decide to fix something. To place your hands on something real and splintered and press it back into shape, just to remind yourself you can.

The porch needs mending. To be real, everything about this godsforsaken place needs mending, but you’ll start with the porch.

The house laughs somewhere deep in its bones.

You tell yourself you will fix the loose boards before you twist your ankle on them, before the wood snaps beneath you and you fall into an even darker space.

You need to do something with your hands, something that will quiet your mind before it splits open from the questions, before the shadows in the corners lurch closer.

So you wait until your tea is cold in your hands, and bitter on your tongue, and you grab the nails you bought yesterday, the box suddenly heavier in your hands than they were before.

You step onto the porch, the boards creaking, the sky dull with clouds like dirty cotton, low enough to press on your shoulders.

You leave your cup on the railing, and you test the groaning wood underneath, deciding which to pull up, which to force back down.

Some are just tired.

Some are waiting.

You set the nails down in a small pile that sounds louder than it should. You fetch the hammer, your hands a little shaky as you grip the handle. It scrapes at your palm. Not sharp. Just enough to remind you what skin is for.

You kneel. The wood groans.

And you begin. Carefully.

Strike.

The hammering sound cracks across the field like a bone breaking in slow motion, a heartbeat you can control. Each strike sends vibrations up your arms, into your shoulders, reminding you that you are still here, still breathing, still clear in the head, still able to hold a nail and force it into place.

The air smells of something decomposing. Something ominous. Something organic. Something crawling upward.

You pause after a while, resting the hammer on your thigh, breathing hard, sweat sticking hair to your forehead despite the cold. The wind picks up, whistling through the broken slats of the porch railing, tugging at your hair, and for a moment, you think you hear a voice in it.

A low voice, warm and broken, calling your name from somewhere across the field.

You swallow, blinking back the sting in your eyes, refusing to turn and look. You press your palm to the porch rail, rough bark biting into your skin, and it brings you back to yourself, telling you that you are not your grandmother yet, whispering to the wind.

Not yet.

But the house has ears.

And the wind knows your name.

And the dark has started counting your footsteps.

Still, you pick up the hammer.

You keep working.

Because you are not ready to leave.

Because there is something in this town that wants you to stay, and for reasons you cannot admit, you want to stay too.

Even if the tea tastes like poison now.

Even if the house sings lullabies in your sleep.

Even if the darkness outside feels closer every time you close your eyes.

And you wonder, if that’s what kept your grandmother here too.

If this place asked her the same question it’s asking you now.

“Need help with that?”

You jolt.

The words crash against your spine like a slammed door. You flinch, heels skidding, the hammer slipping from your hand-

A clatter, a gasp, and then a hand.

A large one. Too quick. Too exact. Catching the hammer before it hits the ground, the movement clean, impossibly smooth, as if the world paused just to let him do it.

Your breath locks in your chest like something held at knifepoint.

Your head snaps up.

And there he is.

James Barnes.

Leaning against the porch railing like he grew there. As though he’s always been part of the house. The last light folds around him and it darkens his eyes. His sleeves are rolled up over forearms that look too sculpted, too much like a statue that chose to move.

“Easy,” he says. Voice gravel-slick, low and unhurried, like it doesn’t care who hears it. A rasp walks the edge of his syllables, sandpaper-soft. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You swallow. The taste of your tea is still in your mouth - bitter, broken, burned. Frantic wings are beating against the bone-cage of your ribs, desperate for sky.

“It’s okay,” you utter, voice brittle as a teacup edge.

You try to smile. You don’t know if you succeed.

Something shifts in his mouth. Almost a smile, almost not. More like a shadow of one, crossing his face and fading away even as it begins.

His eyes are strange. There is a light that doesn’t match the hour. A brightness that glimmers from inside, as though he swallowed a match and never blew it out.

He is watching you in a way that makes you feel he is counting your breaths.

Then he turns the hammer in his hand, studying it as though it’s alive, as though it might tell him something about you if he listens hard enough.

“Need help?”

Again.

Softer this time.

He tilts his head toward the wounded boards at your feet.

You shake your head. Flick the dirt from your palms, wipe them against your jeans, but your hands are shaking and now your knees are too and you don’t know what to do with your eyes.

“I can manage.”

“I can see that,” he drawls, and his voice purrs under the porch light.

His eyes drop to your hands. Then rise.

Hold.

Linger.

Something clicks behind them. As though he’s tallying something. As though he’s counting how close you are to snapping.

“But I’d hate to see you hurt yourself,” he murmurs, and there’s something wrong with the words. Not the sound, but the shape they make in the air. As though there is a threat underlining his tone.

You don’t know what to do with that. Your ears ring. A sharpness. A sound just behind sound.

The world hiccups - a blink too long, a breath too short.

His gaze pins you open. It’s not cruel. But it’s so focused, and it is too much.

He continues to study you with a gaze that is a little too intense for you to hold.

“Step aside, sweetheart,” he insists, and this time it even seems to be tender. “Let me take care of it.”

There is something weird about his tone, something that makes you question what kind of freak he is.

It feels as though something slams against your mind but shatters before it can settle anywhere. Something trying to pull. Something trying to tug. With wet hands and slippery fingers. But ending up with nothing.

Something sings in your bloodstream, something that shrieks at the silence he tries to plant in your mind. It rakes through the fog he builds, ignites your spine with a thousand tiny flames, and howls behind your eyes.

You blink, your brows furrowing, and you step forward, taking the hammer from his hand. Your fingers brush his - coldcoldcold, even in the summer dusk. Like snow under skin. Like a coin pressed to a corpse’s palm.

“It’s okay,” you say, your voice rough, dragging timidly across your tongue. “I can do it.”

For a moment nothing moves. Time stops breathing.

He stands there and watches you. So closely. So intently. He sees something.

Something glints in his eyes, a kind of certain confirmation that ignites and snaps into what might resemble satisfaction, maybe even relief.

His shoulders loosen, as if some invisible weight has dropped from them. As if you were the answer to a question he might have had.

The corners of his mouth soften, and he lets out a breath.

“Alright. Good,” he exhales, releasing something. “That’s good.”

But he still steps closer. Quiet. The porch doesn’t creak for him.

You track the movement with wary eyes, and you notice the way he glances at your teacup on the porch railing, the way his eyes twinkle at it before shifting back to your face.

And then he looks at you.

You don’t ask what he’s thinking.

You don’t ask how he got here without a sound, or why the shadows deform strangely behind him, or why the silence curdles when he speaks. Foreboding.

You don’t ask, because you are afraid of the answers.

And because some part of you, the part that is changing, the part that is waking, might already know.

You drop to your knees again.

And there is the groan of the woods beneath you.

You try to focus. You really, really do.

But he’s still there, his presence enclosing around you like the dark. A cold shadow draped in skin.

You raise the hammer. Miss the angle. Drive the nail in crooked. Your hands are clammy, trembling, whispering secrets to the handle as though it might understand. You can’t even breathe right.

“Here.”

A word.

A dead calm.

A force in the air.

You turn and he’s suddenly right beside you, kneeling, too close, too much.

You smell the cold on him, the press of earth after rain, the static-electric prickle of something sharp and old and not entirely human.

Before you can stop him, before you even remember how to speak, he reaches for the board you’ve been trying to fix.

His hand spans the width of it like it’s nothing. As though he’s done this before. On this porch. With these boards. With these nails. With these hands.

He presses it down with one palm and slams the nail in with the heel of the other. No sound but the snap of splinters. The clean sinking of metal into marrow. The board settles with a satisfied sound.

Perfect.

Stillness blooms.

Your body forgets how to move. Your mouth dries. Your heart reels, staggers. Wavers.

You blink at his hand, still resting on the nailed board, fingers dusted with sawdust, bloodless. Unbothered.

“Didn’t that hurt?” you whisper, the words simply escaping out of shock.

His eyes meet yours. And for a moment, he doesn’t look human at all. For a moment, he is not a man.

He is a relic. A revenant.

The light doesn’t quite know what to do with his face. Jaw sharp as cliff edges. Cheeks hollowed by time. Eyes holding galaxies too tightly wound.

He shrugs, a small, careful gesture. But precise.

“Not really,” he plainly states, but it sounds like he’s tasting the words, testing them, deciding if they are enough. As though he’s borrowed them from someone else. As though he’s trying them on for size.

You clear your throat. A sound too big in your mouth. Too loud in the moment.

You bend again, reaching for the next board, trying to remember who you were before he sat beside you. Trying not to tremble under his gaze.

Bucky watches you, head tilted, shadows painting his jaw into something eerie, his eyes unreadable in the blue dusk. There is a softness to the way he looks at you, but also something odd, something you don’t know how to deal with.

And then he is reaching past you again. Steadying the wood with one hand. His other hand brushes yours.

Cold.

Cold like stone cellars.

Cold like breath in a crypt.

Cold like the stains on your mind.

You try not to let your breath hitch and clamp your fingers tighter around the hammer. It’s warm now. Warm from your hand, slick with sweat you hope he can’t see.

“I’ve got it,” you tell him, firmer this time. But his closeness does something to you, and you’re not sure if he hears it in your tone.

He doesn’t move.

“Never said you didn’t,” he retorts easily, and there’s no fight in the words. He says it as though he’s always been here. As though you’re the one who just arrived.

You blink, about to snap, about to argue, about to run away, but then he gives you a look.

A look. That one look. One brow raised. That almost-smirk, something like a dare, something like amusement - tugging just enough at the corner of his mouth to knock your argument loose.

It dies in your throat. Your breath sags. Your spine surrenders.

The porch smells like sap and wood and something older. That metal-bitter taste again, rising in your mouth that seems to stay with you these days.

You sigh. Quiet. Ashamed of it. You let your hand fall.

He huffs. Soft. Almost fond.

He lines the next nail.

And you watch him. You watch him. The way his hair curls damp at the nape of his neck. The way the veins rise and fall under his skin like old roads. The way the house inhales with him, seems to speak to him, as though it remembers him better than you do.

You stare and you see it. You see it. You can confirm it. The photograph upstairs. Black-and-white, blurred with time. Him in uniform. Younger. Not different. Not older. Exactly the same. He hasn’t aged.

Your skin ripples like a pond struck by stone. Something shifts behind your ribs. A puzzle piece floats up and knocks against your brain, hard.

“You really don’t have to do that,” you say, the words tumbling out in a nervous hush. Your voice feels wrong. Too soft. Too late. But grateful nevertheless.

Bucky’s eyes lift to yours, and that ghost smile still holds his lips in place. It makes your ribs feel too small for your lungs.

There’s a flash of teeth, something wild glinting behind them, and your heart seems to rearrange itself in your chest.

“Yeah, sure,” he replies, reaching for the next loose board as though he’s done this a thousand times on a thousand porches, maybe on this one before you were even born if his pictures from the 40s were anything to go by. “Looked like you were real close to nailing it.”

You freeze. Then blink. Then Stare. Then blink again. For a second too long.

The smallest laugh escapes - startled, stupid. It trips out of your mouth and flutters into the blue-dark air like a moth drawn to a dying light.

“What that supposed to be a joke?” you ask, eyes narrowing, trying to hide your smile behind a frown that isn’t convincing anyone.

Who would have thought this guy has humor.

His grin widens, sharp teeth catching the light like glass left too long in the sun. And this time, it’s real. Unburdened. Too young for a man who shouldn’t be young anymore. Younger than his bones should allow, as though time has spilled backward. He looks like he’s shed centuries in a single breath.

“Maybe,” he says. A word unwrapped slowly. A word left unguarded.

And you think maybe you’re not the only haunted thing here.

You watch as he positions the board, fingers holding it, his movements so casual you almost forget about the act of strength he just showed you.

His hand stretches toward the hammer this time, but you draw it backward without thinking, holding it closer to your chest, taking in a breath.

A pause.

“I know you can,” he eases gently, eyes snapping to yours with a gentleness that catches you off guard. “But let me help.”

You hesitate, breath misting between you. But after another inhale that lives too long in your ribs, you extend your hand, surrendering the hammer - still warm, still yours - your fingers brushing his.

And you feel the spark like a jolt searing through your veins.

Bucky runs, drives the nail into the board with a single, clean strike, the sound only ringing in the air for half a second. You blink, the echo of it shivering in your bones.

Your heart flutters stupidly.

“Show-off,” you mutter, too soft to matter.

But he hears you.

His eyes flash to yours, mouth curving, amused, a low chuckle escaping before he can catch it. It scrapes out rough and warm and quick, like the first time in years someone’s coaxed something alive out of him.

It startles something awake in you. A shy little bloom, heart peeking out from behind its curtain of ribs, and knocking itself silly.

You don’t stop him this time.

You just sit there and watch, watch the way he moves with purpose, watch the way he reads the wood as though he knows it personally. The house seems to sigh around him, as though it remembers what his touch feels like.

He presses down lightly with his palm as though feeling for a pulse, and the old wood groans. “This house is old,” he acknowledges, and there is a wrinkle in his voice. Something deep. Something buried. He looks over at you from under his lashes, eyes moon-bright in the dusk. “You need help with anything else around here?”

With a swallow, you glance back at the house, its bony grin, the shape of it leaning into the coming night, the shutters lopsided.

“No,” you say, too quickly, shaking your head, breath tripping. “I’m fine.”

He stands slow, like stone choosing to move. Dusts off his palms on his jeans, boards groaning under his weight this time as though it’s their decision when to make a sound and when not.

He stays there. Watching you. A crease between his brows like a bookmark he’s left in your story. His jaw shifts, and he takes a look at your front door, before meeting your eyes again.

“You sure?” he asks again, his gaze then falling to your hands - your raw knuckles, bruised palms, the tremble in your shoulders. “Nothing needs fixing?”

You hesitate, your thumb rubbing against the edge of your nail, a nervous habit you’ve picked up since moving here, since everything started tasting wrong, since the shadows started shifting when you weren’t looking.

You look at him the way you did yesterday in the attic, your mind running through the photographs, the questions, the stories your grandmother told you before her mind unraveled and scattered to the wind.

There is a deepening in the line between his brows now, a crease of something you should not make sense of for your own sanity, but it undoes you a little. It shouldn’t belong to a stranger.

Your voice comes out softer than you meant, shakier, paper-thin.

“I’m sure,” you insist, wrapping your arms around yourself. “But, thank you.”

He nods, once, slow, but his eyes don’t let go of you and you see the way he scans your face, then down your body. His eyes assess you as though you’re a page with too many crossed-out lines.

And you can feel it - feel how he’s filing this moment away, how he’s marking it.

“Alright,” he says, but his voice is a promise, as though he is saying he’ll be back, as though he is saying he’ll keep watching, just in case.

He steps closer, the porch silent again, the scent of him catching on the breeze, something like pine bark and rain, and something older, like the cold earth before snow. It makes you inhale deeply without much effort.

He offers you his hand.

You hesitate. But you take it.

You shouldn’t. You should not. But your fingers slide into his as if they remember him. Slowly. Because it’s easier than not. Because refusing him would be refusing something you don’t want to let go of. It is as if there’s something older than choice pulling them forward.

His hand is rough. But strong. Defined. And he pulls you to your feet as though you are made of paper and breath.

And for one suspended heartbeat, you are too close. Too close to breathe, too close to lie, too close to keep pretending you don’t feel something twisting beneath your skin.

The world tilts - softly, dangerously. The porch spins with ghosts. The house hums with old names. And there’s that tea again, still bitter on your tongue.

He hands you the hammer, knuckles brushing yours, his eyes lingering for a second too long.

Then he steps back. The distance cradles itself carefully between you. And still, you’re not sure which part of you wants him gone - and which part is already begging him to stay.

He nods softly before turning away.

But you can’t let him go. Not yet. Not when the silence he leaves behind sounds too loud, too hollow, too much like goodbye.

Not when your voice gets there first - blurting past your teeth before your brain can hold the leash.

“James?”

The name tastes old in your mouth, like spores and candlewax long gone hard, like something borrowed from a dream. You say it carefully, timidly, the syllables soft and raw in the open air. It flutters out and hangs there - awkward, uncertain, a moth with wet wings.

He stops.

The moment freezes around the shape of your breath. The trees go still. Your heartbeat tries to measure the silence.

He turns, slow and quiet, and looks at you as though you’re something breakable. His jaw softens - just for a second. A blink of warmth before the shutters slam down again.

“Bucky,” he says with a slight rasp.

You blink at him confused. The word hangs between you, strange and not.

He clears his throat, glances sideways. “Call me Bucky,” he clarifies, and his jaw rocks.

You nod weakly, unsure if you’ve offended him or stepped into something deeper than names.

“Uhm. Okay, Bucky…” you begin again, the words sticking, bones catching in your throat. You lick your lips, tasting salt and old fear. You’re not able to meet the intensity of his gaze. “You knew my grandmother, didn’t you?”

It’s a small question. But it makes a big sound when it lands.

And something changes. Not his face entirely. But his stillness. The way his eyes settle on you. The way he looks at you like the tide looks at the moon - pulled, unwilling, aching.

“I did,” he says. Flat. Quiet. But full. A sound dragged from some sullen and oppressive part of him.

You wait. And wait. But he gives you nothing else. No story. No smile. No memory. Just silence, as if it’s all he has left of her.

You study the lines on his face subtly, the shadows under his eyes that don’t seem right on a man who has seen only the years he looks. The fine print of grief etched into his features. The wariness in his shoulders.

He looks so much like that photograph, that proud soldier, the little boy holding your grandmother’s hand in one of his own and his sisters in the other, time thrown around in his orbit. But he lost something he wore in both pictures. That happy spark. That smile. A laugh you could hear even through the back-and-white. The pride of a soldier protecting his country. The innocence in the delighted grin of a child. But the boy in the picture is gone, and whatever he lost, he buried it deep.

You clutch the hammer tighter, feeling the shiver in your palm. Something breaks loose in your throat, quiet and sharp. Your eyes drop.

“She was a good woman,” he goes on with a low voice after a few heartbeats, worn soft, gaze solely focused on your face. As though he noticed your dejection. As though it is plain on your face and he doesn’t like it there.

You look up, watching the wind tug at his hair, the dim light shifting as clouds pass, faster than you are used to. It changes the color of his eyes ever so slightly, making them look sorrowful and knowing. You see how young he looks, how old he feels, how the air around him seems to ripple with heat.

The wind flicks through your hair as well and you see how he watches it catch the strands and lift them, like fingers grazing your cheek.

“That’s not what people here say,” you whisper quietly.

His gaze sharpens. Something slashes through his expression. It’s quick. Heart-wrung and afflicted and rancorous. The light dulls behind him, gray clouds pulling across the sun like a sheet.

“People here say a lot of things.” There is a dark note in his tone.

The wind picks up, rustling the trees, sending a shiver down your skin.

You look at him and feel the questions clamoring up your ribs, almost throwing themselves out of your mouth, but your tongue holds them in.

Why is he here. Why is he watching you so closely. Why does he know the house better than you. Why does he smell like earth and winter and blood and time. Why does he feel like the only real thing in a town that seems to be rotting around you.

You feel like you’re standing on the edge of something, barefoot on the blade of it.

And he’s looking at you as though he’s been waiting for this moment longer than you’ve been alive.

His hands slide into his pockets. His head tilts. And just for a second, you think he’s going to tell you something. Something you’ll never be able to unknow. It’s in his gaze, a burden, a search. As though he is trying to read your thoughts. Trying to figure something out.

“Don’t stay out here too late. It’s getting cold,” is the only thing he gives you.

A disappointment blooms behind your ribs. You don’t know if he can see it. You nod, the motion automatic.

“And you’ll let me know if you need anything,” he adds. Not a question. Not a command. Just something hanging there.

You nod again. Mute. You can’t seem to find your voice. It’s caught in your chest, wrapped in all the words you haven’t asked.

“Good.” He glances once more at your door, then to the cup of tea on the porch rail, then back at you, something unspoken passing between you like a shiver of wind. “I’ll see you around, doll.”

And then he is gone, stepping down the porch without a sound. He moves so silently, the world hardly notices him leaving, the air closing behind him. As though even gravity has learned how to let him pass unnoticed.

You stare after him, the wind pulling at your sleeves. The silence rushes in behind him like tidewater.

And you don’t know what it is that keeps your feet rooted.

The fear, maybe. Or the ache. Or the sense that he just took something with him when he left.

You are not even sure if you are afraid of him - or of the way you feel when he looks at you, as if he is waiting for you to remember something you have never known.

He disappears into the dusk, into the darkness of a town that is slowly forgetting how to breathe.

And you are left standing with the tea going cold in your veins, the hammer still in your hand, your heart knocking its fists against your ribs, screaming.

With the knowledge that nothing here is what it seems.

But also that you are not leaving, no matter how much you tell yourself that you should.

Because something here has its hooks in you now.

Because something in this haunted place is waking up.

And so are you.

“I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.”

- Sylvia Plath

Part Three

Taglist: @lovinqbella @its-in-the-woods

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lemoniceteee · 4 hours ago

Note

I had a request !

so new congressman bucky barnes needs an assistant and he hates interviewing people so he procrastinates everything until he asks sam to recommend someone.

the reader being that someone is Sam's good friend and someone who has been catering and managing for the avengers and she is damn good.

so looking at her insane qualifications, bucky immediately hires her. however what he doesn't know is that reader is the epitome of an angel and sunshine. she is too kind, too polite and too good to be true so after some time bucky realizes maybe she isn't cut out for the cutthroat nature of politics. reader hears him talk about this to sam over call or smth and is kind of hurt that he thinks she is incompetent (misinterpretation).

she kind of grows distant and starts looking for other jobs since she thinks that bucky is going to fire her. one day, he falls sick like bed ridden sick and can't come to work and reader realizes that after she comes to his house to drop some files and shit.

reader spends the whole day taking care of him while doing her work (total badass)—He sees her being a boss bitch and putting every one on line and getting shit done WHILE being an angel and being gentle and taking care of him. and he realizes she's perfect—not only as his assistant

Hiiii, babe, okay so I hope I got everything like you asked. (I added a little bit more at the end 💞, hope you enjoy it

Sweet On The Job

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lemoniceteee · 4 hours ago

Note

soft praise smut with Bob would hit so hard he needs love

notes: I always get a little awkward when it comes to smut but I tried my best !! thank you for the request <3 Also I started writing this after meeting the Pope and that sums up who I am as a person

tags: sex *gif of elmo on fire* - established relationship - [kinda]dom!reader

It slipped out.

Not that you hadn't used pet names with Bob before, but you'd never called him a good boy. You didn't think much of it: uttered in between moans as he was eating you out, you barely took any notice of what you were saying. But Bob did. Oh, if he did.

"Right there, oh, yes, right there." You were mumbling, as he enthusiastically nodded between your legs. You pulled on his hair lightly as he accomplished your request, swiftly moving his tongue with such skill it felt like he was born to do it.

"Hmm, good boy." You had praised him, and that's when you heard it. Or rather, felt it. A low groan, straight to your core. You also noticed how his movements seemed to be more eager now, his hands squeezing your thighs harder as if he was holding onto them for life.

"You like that? Being called good boy?" You asked, breathless, lifting your head from the pillow to watch Bob's reaction. He suddenly interrupted his actions, much to your dismay, to look at you. He was blushing, his lips almost glistening with your wetness.

"K-kinda. Probably. Yes." He admitted looking down, as if the confession brought shame on him.

You moved your hand to caress his cheek. He leaned in the touch, looking up at you with wide eyes. "Nothing to be embarassed about. I called you that because you were being very good to me Bob, it's only nice to know it makes you more eager to please me." You reassured him, winking at him.

Bob licked his lips and looked down, softly caressing your upper thigh and sending shivers all along your back. "I should probably keep going then..." He said it with innocence in his voice, but you didn't miss his grin as he positioned himself between your legs once more, crossing your thighs around his neck as if locking himself down there.

"You taste so good..." He mumbled, vigorously reprising his actions as you gripped on the bed sheets, soft moans leaving your throat as he squeezed your thighs.

"Doing so well for me Bob, God, don't stop-" An empty request, begging for something you knew he was going to accomplish either way. Your words were interrupted by a whine coming from Bob, his hips not so subtly rutting against the bed probably to try and get some friction himself.

You smirked at his reaction, throwing your head back on the pillow as you pulled on his hair. You let out a loud groan when his tongue finally found your clit, "that spot right there," you murmured, barely able to speak up, "keep doing that, just like that, so fucking good." You were pretty sure you were mumbling nonsense by then, but Bob still seemed to enjoy your praises nonetheless.

His left hand left your thigh to give attention to his still clothed cock, palming himself through his pants. The lack of touch on your leg made you quietly whimper in disappointment, even with his tongue still between your folds. Raising your head you saw the mark he had accidentally left on your thigh, the shape of his hand currently looking like a piece of art in your eyes.

Before you could say anything he hit your clit again, making you moan and roll your eyes back. "H-hand." You muttered. Bob once again abruptly interrupted his movements to look at you.

"Uh?"

"Y-your hand. Back on my leg. Please."

Bob frowned for a second and then immediately started blushing, his eyes widening as he realized what you were talking about. He nodded quickly and immediately moved his hand back on you, squeezing your leg. "Sorry."

You couldn't help but smile at him, shaking your head. "You did nothing wrong baby. But can you keep going now please?" You asked him, unable to hide with your tone the desperation you were feeling from your neglected core.

Bob only blushed more, "Yes, yes. Sorry." And then he disappeared between your legs again, immediately going for your clit and making sure to grip tight on your thighs.

"Good boy, doing everything I ask you for." You praised him, biting down your lip. "No one ever touched me like this, I swear." You parted your lips and arched your back as your words only stimulated him to speed up his actions. His hips' quick movements against the bed seemed to go along with his tongue, as if eating you out was bringing him more pleasure than it was to you.

"Bob, I'm close," you warned him, "you too, baby?" You asked, noticing how his thrust against the bed had started to become more frantic. Bob nodded, his fingers tightening around your legs.

It didn't take much for Bob to cum after that, his moans hitting straight at your core as it sent you over the edge, finally reaching your orgasm as well.

Before lifting his head Bob made sure he had licked you clean of all of your juices - something which he always did, and never failed to bring a smile on your face - and only when you hummed in satisfaction and lightly tugged on his hair to get his attention did he finally stood up to move and lay down next to you.

"My good boy." You teased him, earning an embarrassed laugh out of him. He kissed your shoulder and hid his face in the crook of your neck.

"You're never going to stop teasing me about that, are you?"

You chuckled. "Why? It was sweet!" Bob hummed and kissed your neck, moving up to your cheek and finally your lips.

"You're always so good to me. I love you." You mumbled as he kissed you. Bob sighed and leaned his forehead against yours.

"Keep going like this and we might go for round two." He muttered low. You tutted, giving him a peck.

"Hm, I love it when you threaten me with a good time, Reynolds."

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lemoniceteee · 4 hours ago

Text

Spiral Cities

Pairing: The Sentry/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: Sentry wants to show you how special you are after you admit an insecurity to him.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angst (reader is self-conscious about their body, there are mentions of stretch marks but there’s nothing specifically described in relation to the readers body apart from that)

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up friends), Mirror Sex, Sentry is a little feral in this y’all he really loves his partner and definitely has no trouble showing it in a variety of ways lol, Face Sitting/Oral Sex (fem receiving), *AHEM* “Riding Sentry into the sky”lol, Praise Kink, Breast/Nipple Play, Overstimulation.

Author’s Note: Oop oh boy, I dropped another Sentry smut fic because there are so many requests just for Sentry smut with no actual request lol so I’m making these ones off the top of my head y’all I’m trying my very best to make things unique to each one-shot lol, trying to please everyone here. I was a little drowsy on allergy medication when writing this so if it seems incoherent…Now you know why lol, Hope y’all enjoy <3

Word Count: 6,436

It started slow, just like everything that involved Sentry did. Soft and unhurried, like the rest of the world could wait, and often…It did.

Time never moved quite the same around him, not when he was present, and not when he wanted you.

He had been stuck in a debrief for hours–and unfortunately it wasn’t the type he liked. It was the kind of debrief that drained him in ways no battlefield ever could. Not because they were tense, but because they were infinitely dull. Diluted language, endless strategic euphemisms, self-important suits hedging every sentence with words like perhaps and potentially, as if the outcomes of reality were mere suggestions and not the direct result of his actions.

He had saved lives today. Contained something that shouldn’t have been out in the first place, prevented mass casualties, and held everything together with the tips of his fingers basically with the force of his will, and yet they wanted to talk about restraint protocols. About the exact number of inches he had hovered above the evacuation perimeter. About how much force he had used to knock a cosmic entity through six layers of reinforced shielding. It was always him being too much, or too fast, and it was a constant criticism of his help.

He didn’t lose his temper though, he rarely did nowadays, he learned how to control himself, how to calm himself down when his adrenaline spiked and how to mute his thoughts when they started turning dark, when they started blaming him and taking the criticisms to heart. Now he just clenched his jaw until it ached. Or he thought about how his skin itched with the residue of all that energy he had burned off, and the remaining energy that was begging to be held, to be burned off, to be grounded–in touch, in breath, and in the soft curve of someone’s shoulder,your shoulder specifically, beneath his mouth…

That was what he needed. The burn of connection. The steadying warmth of your body against his. Not out of lust–though that was always there, thick and humming under his skin like lava–but out of need. Primal, grounding need. You were the only thing in the world that made him feel real after missions like this. The only thing that reminded him he existed beyond his power and that he did everything he possibly could and that he did amazing.

Typically, you would've been there with him. Sitting to his left, arms crossed, boots planted wide, eyes narrowed in that said ‘please get to the point’, as you mentally filtered all the bureaucratic white nose before beaming your interpretation into him like a helpful little translation device because he would be digging around in your mind trying to find entertainment in something other than the criticisms.

But you hadn’t been on this mission and protocol barred non-deployed team members from attending the review, even if you were part of the post-op intelligence team. Even if you were the only person who could talk him down without a damn sedative.

By the time he left the debrief, every molecule of him wanted to be held, touched, felt, and seen. So he went to your room.

——————

You were stretched out across your bed when he got there, legs tangled loosely in your grey fleece blanket, the glow of your tablet casting soft light across your features as you absentmindedly scrolled through shaky camera footage of him cutting across the clouds. It was recent–maybe from a few hours ago–captured by some trembling civilian hand from the top of a rooftop parking garage. The frame shook every time the sonic boom hit, but even through the pixelation, he looked golden. Blinding. Like a streak of lightning with a heartbeat. You watched it on loop. Not out of worry. Not even fascination. But the way people might watch someone they love on stage–knowing how much it cost to shine that brightly, even if no one else did. You could see it in his posture. The clenched fists. The micro-stutters in his flight path. The way he moved just a little too fast–like he was coming down from something bigger than adrenaline.

You paused the video just as he disappeared into the clouds, and the door clicked open. You looked up immediately, seeing him in the doorway. His shoulders were taught beneath the cling of his long-sleeve training top, and his eyes were glowing a honeysuckle gold, like he was powering down from the events you had just been watching on the screen of your tablet moments ago. He shut the door with a nudge of his boot and peeled the shirt off in one slow motion, fabric clinging to the static across his skin. It made a quiet crackle as he threw it to the side, and your eyes dipped–automatically–trailing down the plane of his chest, the stretch of muscle across his stomach, and the heat still radiating from his skin. He looked flawless as usual, making his way towards you with all the intentions of a man starved.

He climbed onto the bed slowly, his weight sinking into the mattress immediately, his thick thighs spreading as he crawled up you, eyes fixated on your body. You sat up just enough to make room, but it didn’t matter–he was already settling over you, caging you in with one knee between your thighs and an arm braced beside your head.

Without a word, his hand slipped between yours and the tablet, plucking it from your grip, locking it with a firm flick of his thumb before letting it float lazily across the room–gliding it like a feather until it landed on your desk. And then he collapsed into you with a long sigh.

You could feel the air knock out of your lungs as his full weight sank onto you, his skin boiling hot against your, while he took in a deep breath. He buried his face into the crook of your neck with a low, rumbling hum–like the sound a storm might make before it breaks, a distant thunder rolling just beneath his ribs. You felt it more than you heard it, vibrating into your chest as his arms locked around you.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the hollow of your throat, lips lingering for a moment so he could breathe you in. The soft mint from your body wash, the warmth of your skin, everything came crawling into his senses and invaded him quickly as he pulled back and continued to give these small wet kisses along your neck.

”Bad day?” You asked, your voice a gentle murmur. He nodded, the faint stubble on his jaw grazing against your skin.

”Is it that obvious?” He murmured, the words vibrating against your neck. You giggled gently and leaned your head back just enough to meet his gaze, your fingers trailing lightly along the nape of his neck.

“Your face gives a lot away…I hope you didn’t look like that during your debrief.” That earned a breathy laugh from him, barely more than a puff of air against your cheek. He tilted his head, nosing gently along the line of your jaw before peppering small kisses up to the corner of your mouth.

“I definitely did. Since you weren’t there to distract me.” You hummed quietly, a wordless sound that vibrated softly into his lips–just as he kissed you. It was slow at first, but there was tension in it. A controlled hunger, like he had been thinking about this moment for hours–tasting it in his memory, craving it in silence. His lips parted yours with gentle insistence, and the kiss deepened as he tilted his head and cupped your face, his thumb brushing beneath your cheekbone. He kissed like a man trying to melt into you. Tongue gliding against yours with heat, breath hitching slightly each time you made a soft noise in the back of your throat. He tasted like mint and adrenaline, like the kind of man who carried entire cities on his shoulders and still wanted nothing more than to rest his weight on you.

Then he pulled back just enough to murmur, “Come here,” before his hand slid down your body–warm, wide palm dragging over your hip and under your thigh. With a twist of his core and a slow, fluid shift of weight, he rolled the both of you over until you were on top of him, straddling his waist, your legs splayed over his hips.

His hands immediately found the back of your thighs, squeezing them, grounding himself in your softness.

But you stiffened.

Your breath hitched, and your palms flattened against his chest–not to push him away, but not to pull him closer either. Your body went still above him, like a pause in a melody, the silence suddenly thick between you.

“Sentry…No.” You shook your head gently, your voice quiet but firm. There was no anger in it. No blame. Just a small, aching boundary traced in the sand between breaths. His golden eyes flicked up to yours immediately, still glowing faintly in the low light, soft concern knitting his brows together. He didn’t move beneath you, didn’t press or prod–just laid there beneath your body, warm and waiting.

A heavy silence hung between you before he spoke again, voice gentle.

“…Why don’t you ever want to be on top?” He asked, not accusing. Not annoyed. Just…Curious. Maybe even hurt, but hiding it behind his reverent restraint. “I loved seeing you up there. When you did it that one time–fuck, you looked beautiful. You felt incredible.” You inhaled sharply, and your hands slid up to brace on his chest, fingers curling just slightly against his skin–his warmth, his strength. You couldn’t meet his eyes.

“I just…” Your throat tightened. “It feels like I’m on full display. Like I can’t hide the things I don’t want you seeing.” Sentry blinked slowly, then sat up, his palms rising to cradle your face in both hands. His thumbs traced the corners of your mouth, the apples of your cheeks, like he was afraid you might vanish if he didn’t hold you steady in his gaze.

“What don’t you want me to see?” He asked gently, voice barely more than a breath.

You hesitated, something raw shifting behind your eyes. The words were quiet. “The stretch marks. The way everything moves when I’m up there. How I can’t breathe sometimes ‘cause I’m overthinking how I look, and I know it shouldn’t matter, but it does. Especially when you look like you.” He stilled. Not in judgment. Not in disbelief. But in heartbreak.

Because you had never sounded so small.

Sentry sighed, and let his hands slide down to rest just above your hips, his thumbs drawing slow, grounding circles into the fabric of your shorts. His voice was low when it came.

”Y/N…I wish you could see what I see when I look at you…” He leaned up slightly and placed a kiss against your clothed chest, right where your heart was beating, “You think I’m the one who looks like a god…But you’re divine. You’re the only thing in this world I look at and feel safe. And it’s not because of what you hide. It’s because of what you are…” You tried to look away again, but he caught your chin gently between his fingers and tilted your face back toward his. There was no demand in his touch, only awe..

”I don’t care how ‘everything moves’ when you’re up there…I want to kiss every inch of your body. I want to worship it…And your stretch marks? They’re stardust…Lightning scars. Signs you’ve changed and grown and lived. If anything, I should get on my knees and thank every line for existing, because they’re yours and they’re a part of you.” You gulped hard.

His words sat heavy and glowing in the space between you, like they’d dropped molten into your chest and made it impossible to speak. No one had ever said something like that to you–not with that kind of raw, aching conviction. Not without it sounding like they were trying to convince themselves, too. But Sentry wasn’t trying to convince anyone, he was just stating facts, a worshipful truth.

You opened your mouth to say something–anything–but nothing came out. Just a faint, trembling breath. You could feel it hitch in your lungs as your fingers trembled slightly against his chest.

Sentry exhaled softly and slid his hands down to your thighs again–broad and warm–pulling you closer, until your body was practically glued to his. Your chest pressed against his bare skin, your heartbeats syncing like twin pulses caught in the same golden current. His arms locked around you protectively as he held you there, one hand splaying across the small of your back, the other sliding up to cradle the back of your head.

His voice, when he spoke next, was warm and low, like lightning pressed into velvet.

“I love every part of you,” He murmured, “And I want you to love every part of yourself too.” You let out a slow, shaky exhale. Your cheek rested against the curve of his shoulder, skin to skin, heart to heart. His chest rose and fell between you, warm and strong, and the scent of him–ozone, mint, and the faint burn of atmospheric heat–wrapped around you like gravity.

You let your body melt into his just a little more, your lips ghosted over the slope of his shoulder, letting it linger there for just a moment longer than necessary, before whispering, “Okay…I’ll be on top.”

Sentry stilled.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you. His expression flickered from awe to absolute tenderness, like he was going to pass out now that you actually wanted to do this again.

“I want us to be in front of the mirror,” He said gently, nodding toward the standing mirror angled near the bedside. “So you can see yourself.”

Your brows lifted. Not in doubt, but in quiet, vulnerable surprise. “Yeah?”

He nodded again, his hand rising to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking lightly beneath your eye. “It’ll show you what I see…”

There was something in his voice that melted you. No teasing. No performance. Just truth, low and warm and aching with how much he adored you. You bit your bottom lip, heart skittering in your chest like a moth in a jar. And then you gave a small nod.

“…Okay.”

With a fluid, weightless ease that only he could manage, Sentry shifted the both of you down the bed. He moved you like something precious, something meant to be carried. He turned and laid flat against the mattress, golden eyes flicking toward the mirror. You were straddling his hips now, fully in his lap, and the reflection hit you all at once.

There you were.

You were kissed by the lamplight. The gentle curve of your waist could be seen slightly from your shirt riding up with your thighs splayed open over his hips, and his large hands rested just below your ass like he couldn’t help but touch you–ground himself in the weight of you.

You looked at yourself.

And then you looked at him.

He was already watching you through the reflection, his expression molten, lit with a hunger so thick it curled around your spine like smoke. His lips parted slightly, breathing shallow.

“Take your top and shorts off,” He murmured, voice rough and low, like thunder rolling behind silk.

Your fingers trembled slightly, but you didn’t hesitate.

You peeled the shirt off first, the cotton sliding over your skin and dropping to the floor beside the bed. Your breasts were bared to the open air, nipples tightening under the weight of his gaze. You leaned back and slowly slid your fingers beneath the waistband of your sleepshorts, dragging them down your hips, and shifting them down your knees before shimmying them completely off you, before returning to your previous position.

You hovered over him again, your core brushing faintly against the bulge in his sweatpants, heat pulsing between your thighs. His eyes dropped low and he bit his lip hard, chest rising and falling like he was trying to keep himself from exploding.

One of his hands came up slowly, deliberately, and cupped your breast. Large, warm, steady. His thumb rolled your nipple in a slow, practiced motion, just enough to make it tighten under his touch, to draw a soft little gasp from your lips. You arched your back into his hand, then you brought your own up to his wrist, holding it there gently, feeling your breath hitch again–this time from the burn that pulsed deep in your belly. The tenderness of his grip, the worship in his gaze, the way his golden eyes flicked between your reflection and your face–it all tangled inside your chest.

“Look at yourself,” He whispered.

Your eyes flicked to the mirror.

And oh–there it was.

His hand engulfing your breast like it was something holy, your nipple pinched perfectly between his fingers. The way your mouth had parted at the sensation, how your breath caught and chest trembled. You watched it all–watched yourself respond to his worship like you were meant to be adored. And for the first time, maybe…You didn’t wince.

You were gorgeous.

“See?” He murmured. “You’re fucking breathtaking.” He gave your breast another gentle squeeze, then released it, only to bring his other hand to your waist. His palm slid over the curve of your hip, grounding you in place.

“I want you to sit on my face,” He said, low and rough now, his restraint fraying with every heartbeat. “I want to drown in you while you watch yourself…”

Your breath hitched.

He licked his lips, his gaze molten.

“Will you do that for me, sweetheart?”

There wasn’t a hint of ego in his voice. Just aching devotion. Like this wasn’t just desire–it was need. Worship. The kind that left gods on their knees.

You nodded, your voice a whisper. “Yes…” He grinned–slow and bright, a little breathless already from the weight of anticipation–like he couldn’t believe his luck, like you’d just handed him the sun wrapped in silk.

“Well come on up here then…” He instructed, burning gold. You swallowed and slowly began to shift up his body, bracing yourself on the mattress as you crawled forward. Each movement was careful, deliberate, thighs trembling slightly. And his eyes never left you. Not once. Not even to blink. Like he might miss something if he did. He watched every shift of your hips, every stretch of your legs as they slowly bracketed his head. And when your knees planted firm on either side of his jaw and your core hovered just above his mouth, you felt the air shift.

Sentry looked completely undone beneath you.

Golden eyes glazed, lips parted, arms sprawled out like he was about to be blessed.

You hovered just out of reach, breath shallow, your thighs trembling from effort and nerves. He brought his hands to your hips, strong and steady, thumbs brushing soothing circles into your skin, and then he began to guide you lower.

“Sentry…” You whispered, hesitating, your voice barely a breath. “I don’t want to crush your face.” His laugh was low and guttural, and he shook his head with a grin so wide it made your chest ache.

“You won’t crush my face,” He replied gently, “Trust me, I want you to. Please. Sit. Down.” You let out a shaky breath and looked at yourself in the mirror. At the way you hovered, naked and vulnerable but wanted. How his hands looked like they were sculpted just to hold you. How his mouth opened beneath you, lips glistening with need, and his chest heaved like he was about to die of thirst.

Your breath quivered as you began to lower yourself down, still watching your reflection in the mirror–the way your thighs framed his face, the way his glowing eyes tracked every inch of you like you were descending from heaven itself.

The moment your core brushed his lips, he growled.

His hands flew to your hips–not rough, but firm–holding you steady, anchoring you in place like you were something that might fly away if he didn’t hold tight. One hand slid to the small of your back to keep you from tipping backward, the other spread wide across your thigh, grounding. And then…He devoured you.

There was no hesitation or easing in.

His mouth latched onto your core like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

You gasped–a soft, breathy sound that left you the moment his tongue parted your folds, licking up the wetness that had already begun to slick your thighs. His tongue worked in deep, hungry strokes, curling and flicking and dragging against your heat with such precision, you immediately buckled forward and braced yourself on his forearms. Your hands gripped tight to the solid muscle of him–his arms flexing beneath your touch as he groaned and pulled you harder onto his mouth.

“Fuck–Sentry–”

Your voice cracked into a breathless moan as his tongue rolled over your clit, slow at first, then faster, teasing it with short, practiced flicks that had your hips grinding into his mouth instinctively.

And still–he didn’t stop.

You looked at yourself in the mirror–and the sight nearly undid you.

Your thighs were spread wide over his face, your body trembling with every breath, your hips moving in slow, desperate circles as you rode his mouth like you were meant to. His light brown hair fanned beneath you, his jaw flexing with every lick, every groan that vibrated directly into your core.

Your mouth had fallen open, eyes wide, chest sheened with sweat, breasts rising and falling with every sharp breath. You looked ruined, but you couldn’t look away.

He buried his face deeper, tongue slipping inside you, licking into you like he was starving for your taste–like your pussy was the holiest thing he’d ever known and he wanted to drown in it. His nose brushed your clit as he moaned again, and your thighs shook, your nails digging into his forearms hard enough to leave marks.

And God–he loved it.

He sucked your clit into his mouth, slow and wet, then swirled his tongue around it like he wanted to worship it. Your breath hitched, hips stuttering, and he grunted when you ground yourself harder against his mouth.

“Oh my god–” You gasped, voice trembling, wrecked. “Fuck, please don’t stop–”

His only answer was another deep, feral groan–vibrating through your clit like lightning.

You could feel how wet you were. Hear the obscene, slick sounds of his mouth as he ate you with single-minded obsession. Your arousal was dripping down his chin, painting his cheeks, and still he kept going–licking, sucking, moaning into you like your body was a commandment.

You rolled your hips harder, chasing every delicious flick of his tongue, and he let you–let you take what you needed–his hands still holding you steady, flexing against your thighs as you moved above him.

“Look at yourself,” He rasped suddenly, voice muffled against your core, but low and sharp and devastating.

You did.

And you gasped.

Your own reflection met you, flushed and wild, hair sticking to your damp temples, thighs trembling around his head, mouth slack and open as you moved with reckless, breathless rhythm–grinding down onto his tongue while he held you in place and worshipped.

You looked like a woman unraveling–gorgeous and completely undone.

His tongue flicked your clit again, then sucked it deep between his lips, his moan loud and broken–and you screamed his name.

The orgasm hit you so fast, so hard, it stole your breath. Your hips locked and bucked, your body tightening above him as your thighs clamped around his head and your voice fractured into a string of desperate, feral moans. And still–he didn’t let go.

His tongue slowed as your orgasm ebbed, but he didn’t stop–not until the last tremor ran through your thighs and your fingers unclenched from his arms. You were twitching still, little aftershocks jerking through your muscles as your hips tried to pull back on their own. But he held you just a moment longer, mouthing at your slick folds, as though kissing a wound he didn’t want to let close.

Then, finally, when you whimpered and tried to squirm off his face, he gave your hips a gentle squeeze.

“I’ve got you,” He murmured against your skin, the words vibrating soft and wet against your inner thigh. Carefully, he helped you rise from his mouth. His hands never left your skin as he eased you down his body, guiding you gently back to where you started–straddling his hips, your thighs once again bracketing his waist. Only now, everything was different. Your body was still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm, your skin damped with sweat and slick, with every nerve ending glowing with tension.

Sentry on the other hand looked like he was about to break. His chest was heaving, glowing eyes locked onto your face as you settled directly over the thick bulge in his sweatpants. You could feel him twitching beneath you–hot, hard, throbbing so you rolled your hips forward slowly, dragging the soaked heat of your core against the fabric, and he let out a strangled noise that sounded like it had been ripped from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Fuck–” He hissed through gritted teeth, his fingers gripping your hips tighter. “Sweetheart–” You leaned down and kissed him before he could finish, swallowing the rest of his groan with your mouth. Your lips were slow, but your body was already shifting against his, hips grinding in a gentle, deliberate rhythm that smeared your slick across the length of him. He moaned into your mouth, lips parting beneath yours, and you tasted yourself on his tongue–tangy and hot, a reminder of how thoroughly he’d worshipped you moments ago.

And still–it wasn’t enough.

Not for him. Not for you.

You pulled back just enough to pant against his lips, your breath mingling with his, and his eyes fluttered open, molten with desperation.

“I want you to ride me now,” He whispered, voice rough with need.

You nodded, your voice hoarse but sure. “Okay.”

That single word made him shiver beneath you. His hands slid down to the waistband of his sweatpants and boxer-briefs, and together–quick, frantic–you pushed them down just enough to free him.

And fuck—he was hard.

So hard it almost hurt to look at. His cock sprang free, red and flushed at the tip, already leaking precum. Thick and veined and glistening with precum. You stared for a beat, then slowly reached down and wrapped your hand around the base of him. He twitched violently in your grasp, the head already slick as you smeared his arousal down the shaft with a slow pump.

“Jesus Christ–” He gasped, bucking into your hand, “You’re gonna kill me–”

You smirked, then lifted your hips and dragged the head of him through your folds, coating him with your wetness, watching as his head tilted back against the mattress, and a long, low moan tore from his throat. Your hand trembled as you lined him up with your entrance–his cock hot and heavy in your grip, glistening with your slick. He looked devastating beneath you, golden eyes locked to your face with a desperation that you had never seen on him before. You hovered for a breathless moment, your thighs shaking, the head of him teasing at your entrance. Your walls fluttered in anticipation, already aching to be filled, already soaking him, ready for more.

And then–you sank down.

Agonizingly slow.

Both of you gasped.

The stretch was obscene, burning and perfect. He was thick and you felt every ridge, every pulsing inch as your body opened around him. His cock dragged against your inner walls, and the sensation made your vision blur for a moment.

“F-Fuck,” you whimpered, your fingers digging into his chest for balance, your nails leaving faint crescents in his skin. “You’re so deep…Oh my god–”

Sentry’s eyes closed as a moan tore from his throat like it had been locked behind his ribs for hours. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you steady, but he didn’t force you–he just gripped you like he needed you there to survive.

”My god…You’re so tight…Always feel like heaven to me.” He whispered. You dropped another inch, and he cried out again, hips jerking up slightly before he caught himself.

“Sweetheart..,Please take it all…Want to feel all of you, I need it–”

Your knees trembled as you sank fully down, seating yourself to the hilt, his cock stretching you open so deep it punched the air from your lungs. Your walls throbbed around him, pulsing as it fluttered from the intensity of being filled so completely.

And he could feel all of it.

His hands splayed across your waist, his thumbs brushing the slope of your stomach like he was trying to memorize the curve of you around him. His chest heaved, a fine sheen of sweat blooming along his collarbones. His golden eyes fluttered shut for a moment, jaw tight with restraint.

“I’m gonna lose my fucking mind,” He whispered. “You’re perfect. You were made to ride me…Fuck, look at yourself, baby.”

You turned your head to the mirror–and gasped.

The sight was dizzying.

You, perched on top of him, sunk down to the base, your thighs spread wide around his hips. Your body trembling with the afterglow of your first orgasm and the new lust that burned within you. Your breasts heaved with every breath, nipples stiff from the air and the heat of his gaze. And your expression–fuck, your expression. Mouth parted in a gasp, eyes half-lidded with pleasure, hips already beginning to grind forward.

You looked ruined.

You looked divine.

And you were only just beginning.

You braced your hands on his chest and rolled your hips once–slow and deep. His cock dragged against your walls, and your whole body shivered.

He moaned.

A raw, broken sound.

“Just like that,” He whimpered, “Ride me, baby. Ride me like I’m yours.”

And you did.

You lifted your hips slowly, feeling every inch of him slip from your soaking core until only the head remained inside–and then you dropped again, taking him all the way in with a slick, wet sound that had you both gasping.

You did it again.

And again.

Your rhythm picked up, your hips rising and falling with a desperate grind that had your clit brushing his pelvis with every thrust. Your mouth fell open, and soft, breathless moans poured from your lips as you fucked yourself on him, as you used him, as you gave yourself over to it completely.

The mirror only made it worse.

Worse and better.

You couldn’t stop looking.

You watched the way your body moved–how your tits bounced with every slam of your hips, how your stomach rolled, soft and lovely, how your thighs shook. You watched the way your mouth opened, the way your brows pulled tight, the way you gasped when he hit that perfect spot inside you again and again.

And Sentry was fucking watching it too.

He stared at the mirror, jaw clenched, his eyes glowing bright gold like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing–what he was feeling.

“You’re…Fuck, baby, you’re so beautiful…Watching you like this, it’s too much, I could die like this,” He panted. “You’re taking me so fucking well…” You let out a strangled moan, grinding your hips harder.

You could feel him everywhere.

Your thighs trembled, slick and glistening in the lamplight, as you bounced on his cock with building desperation–every drag and drop punching breathless moans from your chest. He felt too good. Too thick, too deep, too much. Each time you sank down onto him, it was like being split open and filled at once, your body giving way for his with a needy, perfect stretch that left you shaking.

Your skin was flushed, shining with sweat, your hair wild and sticking to your temple. And in the mirror, you looked like a dream–your body riding him, open and raw and radiant, flushed with ecstasy. Your breasts bounced in rhythm with your thrusts, your belly rolled slightly with each grind forward, your thighs flexed around his waist as you moved in time with your own mounting pleasure. There was no hiding. There was only you, him, and the way you came apart in his lap–beautiful and real and fucking divine.

Sentry was losing his mind beneath you.

Golden eyes burning, mouth slack, sweat beading at his hairline. His hands gripped your hips like lifelines, fingers flexing and spreading, dragging you down to meet every upward thrust. You were both panting now, the slap of your skin and the wet sound of your soaked core riding his cock filling the air between your breathless moans.

“Feel so good…” He moaned, his hips bucking up into you now, meeting your grind with his own rhythm, “Take me so well…I can’t hold back.”

“I don’t want you to,” You gasped, slamming down harder, your voice breaking on a moan as he bottomed out again, the pressure of him grinding right into your sweet spot. “I want to feel everything. All of it…Don’t stop…Please.”

He let out a strangled, broken sound–half moan, half growl–as his hands slid down to the curve of your ass, grabbing you firmly and guiding your rhythm with desperate precision. You met him thrust for thrust, your hips rolling down to meet every upward snap of his, and the angle was just right now–his cock brushing that aching, fluttering spot deep inside you that had your whole body shivering.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he gasped, head thrown back against the pillow, his chest heaving. “You’re gonna make me cum just watching you, fuck…Look at you, sweetheart, look at what you’re doing to me–”

You did.

Your gaze flicked back to the mirror–and the sight nearly undid you.

Your body was bouncing in his lap, each grind forward rippling through your hips and thighs. His cock was buried inside you, his hands greedy on your skin, and you looked like sin and salvation all at once–eyes half-lidded, mouth parted, riding him like you were born to do it. It was overwhelming, like watching a fantasy you never knew you had–only now you were living it, feeling it, trembling on the edge of something volcanic.

“I’m gonna…Fuck…I’m close–” you moaned, nails digging into his chest, your rhythm picking up with frantic need. “I’m so close, Sentry, please don’t stop—”

“Never,” He panted, fucking up into you hard now, his cock slamming into you with wet, messy precision. “Cum for me, sweetheart. Let me feel it. I wanna feel you fall apart on my cock.”

You cried out, loud and broken, hips slamming down faster now, clit dragging against his pelvis with every thrust. The heat was blinding–your orgasm barreling toward you like a golden wave, your whole body tense and twitching with the effort of holding it back.

He saw it–felt it–and slowed you down, just barely.

“Breathe, baby,” He whispered, guiding your hips in slower, deeper rolls. “Let me feel all of it. Let me feel you cum slow…Wanna feel your pussy milk me, nice and tight…”

That did it.

Your body seized, every muscle tightening as your climax tore through you like wildfire. You let out a scream of his name, hips jerking wildly as your core clenched around him in fluttering, wet pulses. You were shaking, gasping, sobbing his name as he kept fucking up into you–deep, slow, deliberate thrusts that kept your orgasm stretching on, spiraling through you like a current.

And then–with one last desperate grind forward–you pushed down as he thrust up.

“F-Fuck…” He gasped, his entire body going rigid beneath you. “I’m gonna cum–”

You collapsed forward, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, pressing your chest to his as you whispered, “Do it…Please…Cum inside me…I want to feel you.”

His moan shattered in your ear, low and primal, as he came.

Hot, thick ropes of cum flooded your core, spilling deep inside you as his cock twitched and pulsed, his hips jerking helplessly beneath you. He buried his face in your neck, groaning into your skin as he held you tight, his hands trembling on your waist.

You both stayed like that–trembling, breathless, wrapped in each other as the aftershocks passed.

The air was thick with sweat, love, and the scent of sex.

Eventually, he pulled back just enough to press a kiss to your cheek, then your nose, then your lips. His hand cradled the back of your head, thumb stroking your jaw as his voice–low and wrecked–rumbled against your mouth.

“I told you,” He whispered, voice still trembling, “I told you that you looked amazing up there.”

You let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh, your body still twitching around him as you nuzzled your nose against his. “You’re always right.”

He smiled–bright, lazy, golden–and pulled you tighter into his chest, holding you flush against him, cock still buried inside you, your bodies slick and glowing with afterglow.

“Never doubt me again,” He murmured with a playful little growl.

You both laughed–soft and breathless–your foreheads pressed together as the mirror reflected your bodies still tangled in each other, golden and flushed and whole.

202 notes · View notes

lemoniceteee · 4 hours ago

Text

Powdered Sugar

Pairing: childhood best friend fuckboy!Bucky x hopeless romantic!Reader

Summary: Your friend group is having a night out at the local carnival. Bucky is his charming self and you are tired of pretending it doesn’t affect you.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: friends to something-maybe-more tension; unrequited love (the perceived kind); heartbreak; unspoken feelings; light angst; emotional withdrawal; miscommunication; mentions of Bucky being a fuckboy and flirting with other girls

Author’s Note: I know this turned out to be a little longer than planned for these drabbles and I did want to end it at around 1.6k words but I felt like the conversation just needed a little more. Anyway, this is based on this request from my sweet, sweet mutual!!

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

Everywhere around you are colors. Blinking, buzzing, glowing colors. Neon reds and golden yellows. Cotton candy blues shaping the darkening sky.

The air is dense with the smell of sugar and smoke, a little burnt, a little sweet - like fireworks melting.

A thousand voices are stitched into the dark. Booths are being crowded, laughter rings out from all around you. Something about it feels like nostalgia wrapped in noise. Summer hanging off your skin.

You walk through it all in a slow dream.

Sam is saying something funny. Steve is losing his mind over who won the water gun race with Natasha. Wanda is laughing so hard she snorts.

You are smiling, but not all the way. Only with your mouth. Your head is somewhere else. Somewhere maybe not here at all.

Wanda’s arm is looped through yours, her voice warm in your ear, but you’re not hearing a word.

Because you’re in your head again.

And in your head, there’s a boy.

There’s always a boy.

He’s got a crooked grin and impossible eyes. Hands made for trouble. And a voice that is meant to live in your name.

He’s in your head because he can’t be anywhere outside of it.

It’s safer for you if he stays in here - because when you let yourself drift, you can imagine what it would be like if things were just a little different. If he was just a little different. If he looked at you the way you look at him when he’s not paying attention. If he loved you back.

You imagine him holding your hand under the glow of cotton candy lights.

You imagine his voice soft only for you.

You imagine his heart not borrowed.

He’s been your best friend since sandbox days and scraped knees. Since secrets shared under blankets and hiding from thunder in the dark. And somewhere along the way he became the sun and you became the shadow. Orbiting. Always too close to stay safe. Always too far to be seen.

And lately, you’ve been pulling back.

Not because you want to, but because you have to. Because watching him flirt with every pretty girl who captures his attention is like slowly bleeding out from the inside. And maybe that’s dramatic. Maybe you’re just being the hopeless romantic again, building castles in clouds and crying when the rain comes.

But god, you wish you didn’t feel so much.

“Hey, where’s Barnes?” Sam asks casually, looking around.

You do too. Because you just can’t help yourself. But you shouldn’t have.

And your fantasies shatter for the thousandth time.

He’s across the way, at a booth that smells like vanilla and sugar and heartbreak. He’s leaning against the counter. Smiling that easy smile. The one he gives to girls he’ll forget tomorrow. The one he doesn’t give to you.

The girl behind the counter is giggling.

Of course, she is.

She’s pretty and pink-cheeked with her long hair fastened at the back of her head, possibly with a hair clip you can’t see. Because she’s not turning around. Not turning away from Bucky.

Bucky is saying something. It’s probably something charming, something easy. And your stomach drops as if you just stepped off the edge of the Ferris wheel.

You blink too long. Swallow too hard.

Something sharp blooms in your ribs, something that nowadays never fully heals. A bruise where no one can see it.

The group keeps chatting around you but you can’t hear them anymore. The noise of the carnival dulls. It all dulls. The lights, the heat, the movement - all of it fades to background static as you stare and think, of course.

Of course, he couldn’t even make it one night.

This was supposed to be for all of you. This was supposed to be just your night as a group - no distractions, no other girls, no stupid charm shows. Just friends, food, maybe a ride or two, laughing till your face hurt.

But Bucky Barnes cannot help himself as it looks like.

And you should have known better by now.

You look away just as he gestures for more powdered sugar - a generous heap of it on top of the funnel cake. Just the way you like it. But you don’t see that part. You don’t see anything but the girl smiling at him like she’d give him her whole world for free.

“You okay?”

It’s Wanda’s voice in your ear. It sounds knowing. And you hate it. Because she knows you are not okay. Knows you haven’t been for a while. And she knows why. Because other than Bucky, everyone can see your heartbreak so plainly.

“Yeah,” you lie tersely because what are you supposed to tell her when she already knows the answer is no?

Bucky comes walking back to your group a minute later holding the funnel cake carefully in both hands. He is grinning, all proud of himself, eyes scanning the group until they land on you.

He makes a beeline for you.

The group keeps moving.

Wanda, to give you some space perhaps, walks ahead, laughing as she tugs Sam toward the spinning teacups as though they’re not entirely designed for kids under ten. Steve is shaking his head, pretending he’s not going to join in, but you all know he will. Natasha is throwing you a subtle, knowing glance before smirking at Steve.

You don’t get far.

“Here,” Bucky says, holding the funnel cake out to you, falling in step.

But you are drifting.

Your body is here, feet touching ground, but you feel like you’re moving through molasses. Everything slow. Heavy. Your heart sticky with regret or embarrassment or whatever that fucking pain is.

You glance down at his offering. The powdered sugar is already melting into the ridges. A soft, sweet mess. It smells like childhood. Like summer. Like him, as weird as it feels.

You swallow. “I’m good.”

You feel the warmth of him. That stupid comforting heat that’s always just there. Like a fire you want to lean into but know better than to trust.

“You didn’t eat all day.”

His voice beside you comes like a tug at your sleeve.

He keeps pace beside you, his stride easy like it always is but you acknowledge that there is a difference in the way he holds himself. Less swagger. Less play. He’s not performing. Not posturing.

You glance sideways. The funnel cake is still sitting in his hands.

Still warm. Still untouched.

“I’m not hungry, Buck. You can have it.” You don’t really look at him.

He doesn’t answer for a few steps, just walks with you, his eyes on you, the crowd fading behind.

The gravel crunches beneath your shoes. A moth flutters through a streetlight above. The world keeps moving, but it feels like something in your chest doesn’t.

He holds the plate out again. Firmer.

“You always eat this first,” he says, and there is something like a forced charm in his voice. Great. He doesn’t even seem to try with you. “Every year.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t take it. You keep your eyes ahead. You don’t respond.

So he steps in front of you, blocking the path, just slightly. As if trying not to be obvious about it but it still is.

It makes you halt.

“Take it, doll,” he insists. Quiet. Not demanding. Rather pleading.

Slowly, you blink up at him. His eyes are darker in the carnival lights. Blue, but tired. There’s something behind them. Something like a question. Like he’s reaching out with more than his hands and hoping you’ll meet him halfway.

Sighing, you take it, your fingers brushing his. You pretend not to feel it. He pretends not to hold on for a second longer than needed.

Picking at the corner, you tear off a soft edge. You bring it to your mouth and chew slowly. It doesn’t taste as good as it is supposed to.

It’s too sweet. Or not sweet enough. You don’t know.

You nod, just a little. “Thanks.”

Bucky doesn’t smile. Not like usual. His face is silence and shadows. There is something unreadable there.

He starts walking again after simply staring at you for a while.

You follow.

For a few minutes, you’re just walking. Side by side. Like you always have. Like nothing’s changed. You don’t even bother looking where the others are going.

You hear him bite the inside of his cheek. You know that sound. He’s deep in his thoughts. He does that when he’s trying not to say something too fast.

“Something’s up with you lately. You’ve been actin’ a little different,” he then starts after some more thoughtful moments, voice careful, deep and raspy. “And I don’t know what’s going on, but-” he sighs deeply. “I miss you, doll. Feels like you’ve been pulling back.”

You swallow another bite of funnel cake as if it’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever eaten. It sits wrong in your gut. Makes it turn. Makes it hate you. Makes you hate it.

You glance over to your best friend. His hands are in his pockets now. Shoulders tense. He’s not looking at you. But you can see the edge of something vulnerable in the line of his jaw.

“I don’t know,” you get out somehow. “I guess I just needed space.”

He nods. Slow. As if he understands. But you don’t think he does.

“If something’s going on, you can-” His tone is softened, but his voice is scratchy. Almost gravel. “You can talk to me, doll. You know that, right?”

You let the silence stretch.

You watch it reach between you and settle in your bones.

You think about all the words you could say and how none of them are enough.

You think about how much it hurts to want someone who never asked to be wanted.

You think about powdered sugar.

“It’s nothing.”

You watch a paper napkin flutter across the pavement. Someone laughs nearby, giddy and golden and loud. Somewhere, the Ferris wheel creaks.

You walk a little further. Past the game booths. Past the families and kids and the couple kissing against the light-up sign that says Tunnel of love. You pretend not to see it.

He watches you. Carefully. Trying to read a page you’ve scribbled over.

Bucky bumps his shoulder gently into yours, letting out a breath.

“I’m not good at this,” he mutters, voice rough.

“At what?”

He shrugs, looks at the sky, then back to you. “Knowing when I’ve screwed up. With you.”

Your throat closes around nothing. You don’t want it to. But it does.

“You didn’t screw up,” you reply weakly.

“Then what did I do?”

And there is that question you can’t answer without giving yourself away.

“It’s not that simple, Buck,” is all you give him.

“It doesn’t have to be simple, doll,” Bucky presses, a little more desperately. It seems like this has been gnawing at him. “But you’re clearly keepin’ something. And I've got the feeling it’s got something to do with me.”

Your heart thuds. The lump in your throat is unendurable now.

“You’ve been weird,” he goes on, staring right at you. “For weeks. We’re makin’ plans, you cancel. I’m callin’ you, you don’t pick up. Don’t even call me back anymore. And you won’t tell me anything.” His jaw flexes. “Something’s not right. I’m even kinda surprised you joined us here.”

He looks at your profile as if ready to catch the truth as it falls out of you.

You slow down. He does too.

“Just tell me if I did something,” he begs. “If I crossed a line. If I hurt you.”

The carnival is alive around you, loud and bright and unaware. But this moment feels still.

“You didn’t, okay?” you declare. “Not really.”

“But kind of?” he asks, eyebrows pulling in.

You shake your head with a vehement sigh. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it,” he utters with that stubborn and desperate edge. The part of him that refuses to let go. That never has.

“I’m not mad at you.“ Your voice is getting slighter higher. “I’m just-”

He is watching you so openly and you hate that you can’t lie to him properly.

“I’m not keeping score, okay?” you say suddenly. The words come out too fast. Too bitter. “I don’t sit around counting who you talk to or who you smile at or who you fucking flirt with.”

You clamp your mouth shut.

Too much. Too much too fast.

A hand stuffs funnel cake in to keep you from saying more. Your jaw works like it’s a distraction as if sugar and dough can silence what your heart just screamed.

But Bucky already stopped walking.

You take two steps before you realize. Turn.

He’s standing there in the half-light, shadows soft under his cheekbones, carnival glow flickering behind him like bad TV static.

He’s looking at you as though you just dropped a grenade at his feet.

Terrific.

He exhales carefully. Stares at you. Quiet. Maybe a little sad. Maybe a little something else.

But you cannot stop now.

“It’s just- it’s always like this,” you continue. “Every time. We make plans as a group, we do stuff, and then you see someone pretty and you’re just gone. Like the rest of us don’t matter.”

He looks stunned. He looks everything.

There’s a long stretch of silence.

“I wasn’t- I wasn’t trying to ditch you, sweetheart,” he says almost under his breath. “I went to get you some-”

“Doesn’t matter,” you cut in. “Because you always end up talking to someone else. You always find some new girl to flirt with, even when it’s supposed to be just us.”

You tear off another bite and don’t eat it.

“I didn’t flirt with her,” he says, after a beat. His voice is low. Testing. “I swear to you, I wasn’t. I just wanted to get the cake right.” A hand drags through his hair. His voice turns even softer. Dejected in a way. “You looked- I don’t know. You just didn’t look okay. Hoped it might cheer you up.”

You don’t look at him.

Because you’d crumble if you did.

You lick sugar off your lip, suddenly furious with how gentle he’s being. How cautious. As if you are something he doesn’t know how to hold anymore.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asks, same voice. “If something I was doing was bothering you - why didn’t you say something?”

“Because it wasn’t your fault,” you answer, and now your voice is breaking. “It’s mine. It’s-” You stop again. Take a breath that tastes like carnival smoke and sweetness and everything you wish you could forget. “I know who you are, Bucky. Okay? I’ve always known. You don’t owe me anything.”

He frowns. But somehow he still looks soft while doing it. “What the hell does that mean?”

You breathe in. Your fingers twitch. You stare at the funnel cake and wish it were enough to quiet the thunder in your chest.

“It means I’m not stupid,” you basically whisper. “I know you. I know who you are with people. I know what your smile does and how easy it is for you to make someone feel like they matter, even if it’s just for five minutes. And it’s fine. It’s fine, okay? I just need to stop watching it happen.”

You feel the moment your words sink into him. You can’t take them back into your mouth and swallow them down. Can’t clean them up or smooth them over.

His eyes are like the sky just before a storm.

“Is that what you think I do?” he asks incredulously. His voice isn’t accusing. Isn’t angry. But it’s pained. Tired. As if he’s been trying to piece something together for weeks and it’s only now starting to form into shape.

His voice is quiet but not soft. Not now. It’s too filled with something else that is vulnerable and profound.

“You think I go around giving pieces of myself away like candy?”

Powdered sugar sticks to your throat.

You open your mouth. Close it again. Because yeah. Maybe you do.

He runs a hand over his jaw. Still not angry. Just hurt. Disappointed. Sad. And trying not to be.

You pick at the corner of the plate.

“That’s not who I am with you,” he states. And there is something different in his voice. Something wobbly. “That’s never been who I am with you.”

Your heart stops. Just a little.

He looks at you. So deeply. As though you’re not just some girl in a crowd. As though you’re not a thing he’ll forget after five minutes. As though he’s trying to memorize the way you exist in this moment - all messy silence and half-held tears.

He steps closer.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he continues after a little pause. “But doll, please don’t stand here and tell me I make people feel like they matter for five minutes. Not when I’ve been showing up for you every damn day since we were kids. Not when I’ve been-”

He stops. Swallows the rest.

Your hands are shaking. The funnel cake is barely still a thing anymore, just warm sugar on torn paper, and you think you’re falling apart.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, barely breathing. “I just- I didn’t know how else to say it without saying too much.”

His eyes soften.

He steps in closer. Looks down at you. His hand brushes your forearm, making your fingers stop fidgeting with the paper plate.

“You can say too much around me, doll,” he insists. Soft again. Certain. “You always could.”

The lights glitter in your peripheral. The night is filled with other people’s joy, but yours feels more important.

You don’t bother to think about where your friends are.

He leans down, noses almost touching. His eyebrow twitches. His throat bobs.

“Just so you know,” he murmurs, almost like he’s not sure he should say it but knowing that if he does, he won’t regret it. “You’ve never been five minutes. Not even close.”

You blink fast. Look away. The ache in your chest shifts. It’s not gone but somehow it turns gentler.

You don’t say anything. Can’t.

But you think he hears it anyway.

The hope.

Your heart.

The maybe.

And then he walks beside you again. Like he always has. Like he always will. Even when you’re a little cracked, a little afraid. Even when you’re not saying everything.

But sometimes, just saying enough is already everything.

2K notes · View notes

lemoniceteee · 4 hours ago

Text

PERILOUS SKIES

Bob Floyd X Fem!Seresin!reader || WC: 6.9K

SUMMARY: Dating Bob Floyd had been nothing short of perfect. The sweet, ever-attentive WSO felt like he’d walked straight out of a rom-com. That’s why, when your scheduled date night arrives and he doesn’t show, your mind immediately begins to spiral. It’s so unlike him, so out of character, that you can’t stop replaying every possible reason in your head. As the hours stretch on, worry takes hold, deep down, you can feel something’s wrong.

WARNINGS: Established relationship, cursing, talks of minor injuries, minor talks of violence, overall fluff, steamy kiss, slight angst, typical Hangman behavior, incorrect military details (sorry)!

A/N: Ugh! I need a man like Bob! 😫 I have been sucked back into my 2022 Top Gun era and Lewis Pullman has me in such a chokehold which is why this was written. Hope y’all enjoy! Divider by @thecutestgrotto <3

➩ main masterlist

➩ bob floyd masterlist

Never in your wildest dreams did you think you’d fall for a military man. Not because you didn’t respect them, you did. You’d seen what that kind of life demanded: the discipline, the bravery, the sacrifices. But you'd also seen the ego, the recklessness, and the emotional walls that seemed to come with the uniform. You knew their type, inside and out. Especially because you were raised right alongside one.

Jake “Hangman” Seresin wasn’t just your older brother. He was a force of nature, sharp smile, sharper jawline, and enough swagger to make heads turn before he even stepped foot in a room. He’d always been that way. The golden boy. The daredevil. The protector. And as his little sister, you were someone he guarded with his life. Especially, when it came to men.

Every birthday party, every school dance, every casual dinner date you attempted growing up had been intercepted by Jake. Sometimes he scared them off with a pointed glare. Sometimes it was a not-so-subtle, “I’m watching you.” And sometimes it was just his mere presence, standing a little too close, arms crossed over his chest like he was waiting for an excuse to break someone’s nose.

At first, it had almost been sweet, he was simply looking out for you. But as the years passed, it became suffocating. You weren’t fragile. You didn’t need saving. And yet, he treated you like some porcelain doll that might crack if someone so much as looked at you the wrong way. God forbid it was someone in the Navy. It was safe to say that you had grown so tired of flight suits.

That’s why you built a life as far away from that world as you could. Your work meant everything to you. You were a licensed therapist, specializing in trauma and stress-related disorders, an emotionally demanding job, but one that gave you purpose. You spent your days helping others unpack the things they carried, offering a safe space for people to speak their truth, even when it broke your heart.

You had your own small private practice just off base, tucked into a converted bungalow with soft lighting and calming artwork on the walls. It smelled faintly of lavender and worn paperbacks, and your bookshelf overflowed with psychology texts, handwritten notes, and dog-eared poetry collections. Your life was rooted in listening. In feeling. In forming connections.

And if, some nights, the weight of everyone else’s pain lingered in your chest, well, you’d made peace with that. You had your quiet apartment, your plants, your routines. You knew how to breathe through the noise. You were proud of what you’d built. Which made what happened next was all the more unexpected. You weren’t planning to go out that night.

It had been a long, exhausting week, three new clients, a crisis session, and a war veteran who hadn’t said a single word until your fifth session together. You were mentally and physically drained, emotionally raw. You had planned to stay in, maybe order Thai food and watch something mindless just to silence your thoughts. But your phone lit up with a message from Penny.

Swing by the Hard Deck tonight. First drink’s on me! 🍹

You almost said no.

But, surprisingly, something pushed you to say yes. So without thinking too much, you slipped into an orange sundress, threw on your favorite sandals, and drove the familiar road to the beach. As always, the Hard Deck buzzed with music, laughter, and the sound of boots hitting the wooden floors. The scent of sea salt and beer filled the air, and the jukebox was already playing something classic, probably something from Maverick’s rotation.

You knew half the faces there. A few pilots you’d grown up around. Some you had met through Jake. Speaking of Jake, of course he was already there, was holding court by the pool table, cue stick in hand, that ever-confident grin on his face. Same old scene. Same old bar. Penny spotted your first, waving you over as she started making your go-to drink. You smiled, walking over and giving her a hug behind the bar.

“Here, looks like you need it.” You smiled, accepting the fruity cocktail from her hands. As she attended to the other bar patrons, you sat in a nearby stool, fully intending to linger just long enough to be polite before heading back out so that you could crawl into bed by 10PM. Only, the universe seemed to have different plans, because that's when you saw him. He was tucked away in the corner of the bar, half-shadowed by the low glow of the neon beer signs above.

He sat with a bottle of beer in hand, long fingers loosely curled around the neck of it, his posture slightly hunched like he was doing his best not to take up too much space. His glasses were a little fogged from the humidity, slipping just slightly down the bridge of his nose. He reached up now and then to adjust them, eyes flicking around the bar like he was trying to blend into the furniture.

Not hiding, exactly, just keeping to himself. He wasn’t laughing with the others, wasn’t showing off at the dartboard, and he definitely wasn’t trying to flirt with anyone. In a room full of men with too much confidence and not enough subtlety, he was different. You couldn’t look away. There was something almost disarming about how awkward he looked. Like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands or where to rest his gaze.

But even in all that quiet discomfort, there was something gentle about him. You were too far in your head when he looked up, and caught you staring. Your breath hitched, just slightly. But instead of looking away like most people would, he offered a sheepish, crooked smile. And you smiled back, because how could you not? He dropped his gaze immediately, taking a sip of his beer like maybe he was embarrassed by the brief moment of eye contact.

It only made him even more endearing.

You turned back toward Penny behind the bar, trying to play it cool, but your voice betrayed your interest. “Hey Penny, who’s the guy in the corner?” Penny followed your gaze, then gave you a knowing little smile. “That’s Bob.” You hummed, faking interest, taking a sip of your drink. “Lieutenant Robert Floyd. WSO. Flies backseat for Phoenix.” She added casually, wiping down a glass. “One of the good ones. Real quiet, but sweet as hell. Kind of Jake’s opposite.”

That earned a short laugh out of you. “So, he's not a pilot?” You smiled behind the rim of your glass. “He is, technically. But he’s the kind that listens more than he talks.” Penny raised an eyebrow. “Why? Are you interested?” Instead of responding, you glance over your shoulder again. Bob was staring down at the condensation on his bottle, idly tracing circles with his fingertip like he’d rather be anywhere else, and yet, somehow, he didn’t look miserable.

Just… out of place.

“Maybe.” You murmured, trying to sound nonchalant, but the truth betrayed you in the form of heat creeping up the back of your neck. You lifted your drink to cover the slight twitch of a smile you couldn’t suppress. Penny leaned in with a smirk, wiping down the bar like she wasn’t studying your every move. “Then don’t wait too long,” She coaxed under her breath, voice teasing. “Use that Seresin charm. Guys like that don’t usually make the first move.”

You glanced back at him. He was still in the corner, tracing the rim of his bottle with his thumb, eyes low, posture slightly slouched like he was trying to shrink himself into the background. But something about him, it tugged at you. Maybe it was the way his eyes had flicked toward you moments ago, a little wide, like he couldn’t believe someone like you had noticed him. Like he wasn’t used to being seen.

Or maybe, just maybe, you were tired of playing it safe. Tired of living under your brother’s ever-watchful gaze. Tired of waiting for permission you never needed in the first place. Your fingers tightened around the glass as you made your decision. You slid off your stool, smoothing down your dress like it could steady your nerves, and crossed the bar, each step quickening your heartbeat. “Mind if I sit?” You asked, voice smooth, chin tilted ever so slightly in confidence, fake or not.

He looked up at you, caught off guard. His expression flickered,first surprise, then something gentler. He cleared his throat, straightening a little. “Uh—yeah. I mean, no. I don’t mind.” You smiled and took the seat beside him, the wood cool against your skin as you eased into it. “Thanks, I’m Y/N.” You extended your hand across the small gap between you. The contact was instant, his larger palm warm, slightly rough from flight gloves, his grip unsure but respectful nonetheless.

“B-Bob,” He mumbled out. “Well, Robert. But, um… everyone calls me Bob.” You smiled, loving how blush dusted his cheeks. “Nice to meet you, Bob,” You let his name linger, giving it weight as your gaze swept over his face, softer up close, his features earnest and boyish beneath his glasses which hid his captivating cerulean blue eyes. “So… you always hang out in dark corners, or is tonight a special occasion?” The edges of his mouth twitched with a quiet, amused smile.

“Just trying to stay out of the way.” You raised a brow, slightly leaning into him so your shoulders were touching. “Of who?” You teased, head tilting. “The loud ones? Or the terrifying older brothers?” That made his eyes widen slightly behind his lenses, and you didn’t miss the way he stiffened, the realization hitting like a gust of wind. He blinked once. Then again. “Y-You’re… Hangman’s sister?” You sipped your drink, nodding slowly. “Guilty as charged, Lieutenant.” You winked as Bob stared for a moment.

You could practically see the gears turning behind his eyes, fast, nervous, cautious. “You gonna run, Bob?” You asked, eyebrow lifting, lips curved just enough to keep it playful. You wouldn’t have blamed him. You were used to that look. You’d seen it before on a dozen other faces. Guys who decided no girl was worth catching hell from Jake Seresin. But Bob surprised you. He didn’t bolt. Didn’t stammer out a goodbye or glance over his shoulder like he was looking for an exit.

Instead, he just smiled, really smiled, and for the first time, something inside you fluttered. His whole face shifted when he did, gentle and sincere, like the smile had been waiting for the right moment to be let out. His shoulders dropped, and the tension in his spine eased as his nerves melted into quiet warmth. The corners of his eyes crinkled behind his glasses, and the golden bar light caught the faint dimple in his cheek, softening his whole demeanor.

Something about it, about him, felt honest. “Not unless you tell me to.” His voice was low, laced with a touch of humor, but no hint of fear whatsoever. And that was it. And you knew then… you were in trouble. Of course, right on cue, nothing good in your life ever slipped past Jake unnoticed. And the moment your brother spotted you talking to someone, especially someone in uniform, he made a beeline across the bar like a guided missile.

“Seriously?” He muttered under his breath, then louder. “She’s off-limits.” He slung an arm around your shoulder, the heavy weight of it both familiar and infuriating, while his eyes narrowed at Bob like he’d caught him trying to hack into the Pentagon. His voice was low and sharp. “I mean it, Floyd.” To Bob’s credit, he didn’t bristle or shrink away. He didn’t puff his chest or try to argue. He just gave a small, respectful nod, calm, measured. “Understood.” You expected him to walk away after that.

Hell, Jake even expected him to.

That was usually the part where most men retreated, tail between their legs, deciding no woman was worth facing down a protective older brother with a reputation like Hangman’s. But Bob surprised you. Later that night, long after the initial rush of aviators had moved on to games of pool and darts, and Jake had wandered off to trash-talk some poor soul at the dartboard, you found yourself by the jukebox, flipping through the cracked plastic covers of old CDs. Then, a quiet voice spoke up from behind you.

“I know your brother’s... protective,” Protective was one way to put it, you thought to yourself. You glanced up from flipping through the CD’s as Bob shifted his weight from one foot to another, hands in the pockets of his khakis, standing just far enough away to give you space, but close enough that you could feel the sincerity in his tone. “But I’d still like to buy you a drink and maybe talk some more. I-If that’s alright with you of course.” You looked up, surprised and maybe a little impressed.

It was more than alright.

You gave him a nod, and the two of you sat at the end of the bar, away from prying eyes and Jake’s over-the-top dramatics. Conversation flowed easier than you expected. Bob wasn’t flashy or performative, he was thoughtful. Funny in a dry, unexpected way. A little awkward, but charmingly so. That night turned into another. Then a real date. Then two. Then weeks of texts that made you smile at your phone like a teenager. Things didn’t move fast, they didn’t need to. With Bob, it was steady.

He remembered your favorite drink after the first time you ordered it. He walked you to your car every time, even if it meant doubling back on his own route. He asked about your day and actually listened, not just to respond, but to understand. He never interrupted. Never made you feel small. He laughed at your jokes, even the bad ones. He offered his hoodie on breezy beach nights without saying a word. And even had this quiet habit of checking on you.

Whether it was a text at the exact right time. A glance across a room that grounded you. And maybe most surprising of all, he made you feel safe. It didn’t matter that he flew backseat for one of the Navy’s best pilots. That he was part of a squad who took down a nearly impossible mission. That half the base jokingly called him “baby-on- board.” None of that defined him.

What mattered was that when you were with him, for the first time in years, you didn’t feel like someone’s little sister. You didn’t feel like someone to be guarded or shielded or spoken for. You just felt seen. Of course, that didn’t mean you were ready to throw it in Jake’s face. For a while, you and Bob kept things quiet. It wasn’t that you were ashamed, far from it. But you both agreed: Jake didn’t need to know just yet. You liked the way things were. Soft. Sacred. Yours.

Besides, the moment your brother found out you were seeing someone, especially someone on his squadron, he’d lose his mind. So you kept your dates discreet. Stolen kisses in parked cars. Quick coffee dates before his briefings. Whispered conversations during beach bonfires where no one was paying attention. And on one particularly slow afternoon, he stopped by your office. Your practice had just closed for the day. The soft hum of the white noise machine still filled the room, and the late sun poured through the windows.

Bob was leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, pretending to read the spines of your books, psychology texts, self-help, a few novels tucked in like secrets. “I still can’t believe you keep a weighted blanket in your office.” He teased lightly, eyes glued to your legs as you reached for your laptop. “Trauma work, remember? Nervous systems love pressure. Plus, it’s cozy.” Bob stepped closer, a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. “You’re cozy.” You mirrored his smile, letting out a lovesick giggle before you could stop it.

“Are you trying to flirt with me using therapeutic language?” His blue eyes twinkled with mischief stepping closer. “Is it working?” You laughed, and before you could answer, his lips were on yours. It was supposed to be just one kiss. A quick goodbye before he headed back to base, enough to hold you off until you could get your hands on him later that night. But then your back hit the wall, and his hands cupped your jaw like he was memorizing every curve of your face.

You instinctively melted into him, fingers curling into his fitted white t-shirt that had no business making his biceps look that good. His lips pressed to yours, slow at first, soft and searching, but it deepened quickly. His hands found your waist, sliding over the thin fabric of your blouse, fingers splaying wide as if to anchor himself in the feel of you. Bob groaned quietly into your mouth, the sound low, needy, almost reverent. His tongue slipped past your parted lips, tentative but eager, and you welcomed him in with a soft, breathy moan.

Your hands fumbled for his collar, pulling him closer, grounding yourself in the way he tasted. One of his hands slid up your side, fingers brushing under the hem of your shirt, calloused fingertips grazing the bare skin of your ribs. You shivered at the contact, arching into him instinctively. His other hand cupped the back of your neck, thumb stroking just below your ear as his mouth moved with yours, deeper, hungrier.

Your nails scraped lightly through his hair, mussing it from its neat comb, and that earned you another quiet groan that vibrated against your lips. The air between you felt heavy, time blurred. Nothing existed beyond the feel of his body against yours, the way he kissed you like he was starved for it, like he’d been holding back for weeks. Maybe he had. Your hips shifted, a little too eager, and you felt the subtle hitch of his breath as his hand gripped tighter at your waist, holding you there.

Which is how you didn’t hear the office door creak open until: “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” You both froze. Your lips were still tangled. Bob’s hand was still under your shirt. And Jake Seresin was standing in the doorway of your office, expression stuck somewhere between outrage and horror. You sprang apart, your heartbeat plummeted. And Bob, poor Bob, froze in place like someone had pulled the eject handle. Jake stood in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw clenched, face unreadable.

A vein twitched in his temple. “Jake—” You started, breathless, smoothing down your blouse. “It’s not, well, it is what it looks like, but—" Busted. “Of all the people,” Jake let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh, dragging a hand down his face, then pinching the bridge of his nose like it physically pained him to witness what was happening. “Baby-on-board? Seriously, Y/N?!”

You instinctively stepped in front of Bob, shielding him with your body like your brother might actually tackle him through your office window. “Jake. Don’t.” Bob, didn’t move. His back was straight, blue eyes wide behind fogged-up glasses, lips parted as if mid-apology. His cheeks were flushed, his t-shirt slightly wrinkled from where your hands had just been. “I, uh… hi, Hangman." He offered awkwardly, pushing his glasses up with a shaky hand.

Jake stared at him, hard. Like he was cycling through a mental list of disciplinary actions and weighing the pros and cons of each one. “I told you once,” He growled slowly, voice like ice cracking. “My little sister is off-limits.” You stepped in again, squaring your shoulders, chin lifting. “And I told you I’m not twelve.” There was a beat of silence. Then Jake turned to you, jaw tight, mouth slightly open like he wanted to argue, but the fire behind his eyes dimmed.

You saw it, the shift. That split-second of hesitation. The realization. You weren’t his kid sister anymore, sneaking candy into movie theaters or crying over scraped knees. You weren’t some fragile thing he had to wrap in bubble wrap and keep hidden from the world. You were a grown woman. And you’d made your choice. “I’m your big brother,” He muttered voice quieter now, rough around the edges. “I’m supposed to look out for you.”

Your expression softened, shoulders dropping. “You always have. Better than anyone, but you don’t have to protect me from Bob. He'd never hurt me.” You glanced over your shoulder, eyes meeting Bob’s. Jake exhaled sharply through his nose and looked between the two of you. At Bob, still standing there like a soldier awaiting his court-martial. And at you, arms folded, gaze unwavering. After a pregnant pause, a long, reluctant sigh left his chest. “Are you really into him?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I am.” Jake stared at him for another long second, then finally, finally, cracked the smallest smirk. “Jesus Christ. If this is happening, I don’t want to hear about it and I definitely don’t want to see it.” He turned toward the door, muttering under his breath. “Shit, I need bleach for my poor eyes.” Then, he paused and glanced back “If you break her heart, Floyd, I don’t care how good of a WSO you are, I will make you wish you had ejected mid-flight.” Bob swallowed visibly and nodded.

“Understood.” You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth lifted. It wasn’t exactly a blessing. But from Jake Seresin? It sure as hell was close enough. You smiled at the memory, lips curling as your thoughts drifted back. Since then, Jake had slowly eased up, still overbearing at times, but less of an asshole, finally starting to accept the reality that you and Bob were together. It wasn’t instant, but it was progress.

Maybe it was the way Bob never rose to Jake’s bait, or maybe it was how he treated you, with a kind of quiet reverence that left little room for protest. Because Bob was nothing but attentive. The kind of man who remembered how you took your coffee, who sent midday check-in texts just to ask how your sessions had gone, who looked at you like you were his entire goddamn universe. He made you feel like the only girl in the world, seen, cherished.

Which is why, when your usual Thursday night rolled around, the one night you always carved out for each other, and Bob didn’t show… something inside you spiraled. You’d cleaned the apartment, lit one of your favorite candles, even queued up Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith knowing it was one of his favorites. His favorite hoodie was draped over the back of the couch, the one he always “forgot” to take home because he liked the way it smelled after you wore it.

The popcorn was in the bowl. The wine was chilling in the fridge. Take-out menus were on the coffee table. Everything was ready. Except him. You glanced at the clock. Once. Then again. Then again, your eyes flicking to the screen, then to the door, like maybe he’d appear if you wished hard enough. Each time, you brushed it off with a quiet, He’s probably still at the hangar. You knew the drill. Sometimes they got grounded late, schedules shifted.

But the minutes stretched into an hour. Then two. Still no text. No call. Just eerie silence. And Bob? When it came to date night, Bob was never late. When your phone finally rang, the shrill tone sliced through the stillness, making you jump. You scrambled for it, heartbeat thudding against your ribs as your thumb slid to answer without even checking the caller ID on the screen. “Hey, handsome,” You breathed out. “Are you on your way home yet?” Only, it wasn’t Bob’s voice that answered.

“Aww, Y/N,” Came the familiar, cocky drawl you had grown familiar with. “I knew you were lying to me all those times you called me ugly.” Your jaw clenched. Your eyes rolled before your brain could catch up. “Jake,” You snapped, already pacing. “What the hell, where’s Bob? Why are you calling me?” Your brother’s voice cut through the line, irritatingly casual. “Sorry for the late notice, but your beau isn’t making it to date night.” The floor practically dropped out from under you.

“What?! Why? Jake, what happened?” You barely heard yourself over the rush in your ears. Your pulse kicked up, adrenaline beginning to surge. He ignored the edge in your voice, brushing off your panic like it was nothing more than static. “Just come to base. I’ll be waiting at the gate to escort you inside.” Then the line went dead. You stared at your phone for a second, willing it to light up again, to clarify, to make sense. It didn’t.

Just the reflection of your stunned face in the dark screen. “God, I hate when he does that.” You muttered, voice low and sharp as you shoved the phone into your back pocket. Without wasting another breath, you yanked Bob’s hoodie over your head, feet shoving into the nearest pair of sneakers, fingers scrambling for your keys. Your heart thudded in your throat as you raced down the stairs, and out the door.

The base wasn’t far, thankfully. About a twenty-minute drive. You didn’t floor it, but your foot stayed heavy on the gas, knuckles white around the steering wheel. Your thoughts circled and twisted with every mile: Was he hurt? Why didn’t Bob call you himself? Was Jake just being dramatic, or worse, trying to protect you from something serious? By the time you reached the gate, your nerves were all over the place.

True to his word, Jake was waiting just past the security checkpoint, casual as ever, like this was a run-of-the-mill errand. You flashed your ID to the guard, who barely glanced at it before waving you through. You didn’t even bother straightening the car when you parked. The engine had barely cut before you threw the door open and leapt out. “Jake,” You barked, striding toward him with a glare. “You have one minute to explain yourself before I kick the shit out of you. Where’s Bob?”

Your brother slung an arm around your shoulder like this was all completely normal. The audacity of it made your teeth grit. “Relax, baby-on-board is fine.” He muttered, steering you forward. “Don’t call him that. How many times do I have to tell you before it sticks?” You snapped, elbowing him lightly. Jake lifted both hands in mock surrender, grinning like this was all part of a joke only he found funny. “Alright, alright fine. Just… follow me.” And without another word, he led you deeper into the base.

Your steps faltered, just slightly, as dread started to pool low in your stomach. Because something wasn’t right. You could feel it. Your suspicions were confirmed the moment Jake led you down the familiar corridor toward the medical bay. The sterile scent of antiseptic and the soft hum of fluorescent lights filled the air, too clean, way too quiet. Your heart pounded harder with every step. Then you saw them, Maverick and Bradley, standing a few feet away near the nurses’ station, mid-conversation.

Or they had been. The second their eyes landed on you and Jake, their voices cut off like a switch had been flipped. “Mav,” You rasped, your voice laced with urgency as your eyes locked on his. They both turned fully now, posture straightening. Bradley offered a tense smile as he stepped forward to greet you, arms opening automatically. You didn’t hesitate, letting yourself fall into the hug, if only for the brief comfort of familiar arms and the steady heartbeat beneath his civilian clothes.

“Where’s Bob?” You asked again, for what felt like the hundredth time. The question burned now, raw and desperate, clawing up your throat. Maverick moved closer, his expression calm but lined with concern. “He’s alright,” He began, voice steady, measured, but the silence that followed said otherwise. The look, the flicker of shared worry between him, Bradley, and Jake did nothing to settle the growing storm in your chest. You could feel it building, pressure against your ribs.

Maverick exhaled slowly, like he didn’t want to alarm you but knew sugarcoating it wouldn’t help.“During today’s training, Phoenix and Bob suffered a bird strike. The impact triggered an engine fire, which spread fast and caused a total systems failure, both engines, and hydraulic controls.” Your breath hitched. “They had no choice but to eject,” He added, quieter now. “The medics brought them in immediately. They’re stable, conscious, and mostly okay. The doctors are keeping them overnight for observation.”

The words tumbled in slowly, too slow to process all at once. Bird strike. Engine fire. Ejection. The air felt thinner. The hallway longer. Your mouth moved before your brain could catch up. “C-Can I see him?” You asked, your voice barely more than a whisper. Maverick nodded, but you were already moving. Your sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as you bolted down the hallway, weaving past a nurse and ignoring the muted “Miss, wait—” that came from someone behind the desk.

When you spotted the door at the end of the corridor with Seresin scrawled hastily on the visitor clipboard and Floyd, R./Trace, N. listed beneath it, your chest constricted. You pushed the door open. You spotted Natasha first. She was reclined in the hospital cot closest to the door, propped up slightly by a pair of thin, starch-white pillows. Her skin looked pale under the sterile fluorescent lights, a stark contrast to the deep purpling bruise blooming along her cheekbone.

A butterfly bandage held a small cut together above her eyebrow, and her arm, though not in a cast, was wrapped in gauze from wrist to elbow. Still, she was awake. Alert. Breathing. “Nat,” You exhaled, already moving toward her. Her head turned at the sound of your voice. The split-second surprise in her expression melted into something warmer, despite the lingering pain behind her eyes. She pushed herself up with a small wince, the thin hospital blanket slipping off her shoulders.

“Y/N, hey,” She murmured, voice raspy but steady. Your arms were already wrapping around her before you could stop yourself. Your movements slowed as soon as you felt her body tense slightly, stiff from the impact, from the adrenaline still likely fading. She let out a breathy laugh against your shoulder, one arm curling weakly around you. “I’m glad you're here.” She murmured, voice muffled against your sweatshirt. You leaned back slightly to look at her, brushing a stray curl from her forehead, careful not to graze the fresh scrape on her temple.

It was safe to say that ever since you and Bob had started dating, you and Natasha had become inseparable. It started with casual conversations at the Hard Deck that turned into late-night wine nights, venting sessions, and a friendship built on fierce loyalty and shared eye-rolls at the men in your lives. Part of it, no doubt, came from the fact that she and Bob were more than just teammates, they were a crew. They trusted each other with their lives, and somewhere along the way, that trust naturally extended to you.

“I’m just glad you’re both okay.” You whispered. Natasha gave you a faint, lopsided smile, tired but genuine. “Yeah, well, Bob took the worst of it. I was lucky.” Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t even seen him yet. The cot next to hers was shielded slightly by a privacy curtain pulled partway across, and suddenly, you couldn’t breathe fast enough. Your eyes darted toward the edge of the curtain. “He’s awake. A little banged up. But, he’s been asking for you since we were brought in here.”

That was all it took. You gave her hand a gentle squeeze and whispered. “I’ll be right back.” Then, without hesitation, you stepped around the curtain, ready to face whatever was waiting on the other side. As soon as you rounded the curtain, your eyes found him. Bob was sitting upright, well, trying to. He winced slightly bracing himself on one elbow as he straightened in the cot, ignoring the tight pull of gauze around his ribs and the IV in his arm. Sensing the presence of someone in the room, he stopped fidgeting, blue eyes meeting yours.

You moved without thinking. The world blurred as you rushed across the room, the cool floor beneath your sneakers giving way to the warmth of his outstretched arms. He barely had time to brace himself before you collided with him, sinking into his chest, arms wrapping around his torso with desperate urgency. He winced, but his hands immediately came up, one cradling the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair, the other wrapping tightly around your waist.

His grip was firm, steady, anchored, as if the contact itself might undo the fear that had rooted in both of you. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin beneath the sterile tang of antiseptic. His heart was pounding hard beneath your cheek, fast and erratic, matching your own. “Shit, Bobby,” You whispered, voice trembling. “I thought—” You couldn’t even finish the sentence. “I know,” He murmured into your hair, his voice cracking with emotion.

“I’m sorry I scared you, sweetheart.” Then, more softly, almost sheepishly, he mumbled into your shoulder. “I’m also sorry I missed date night.” You nearly scoffed, half a laugh, half a sob, as you pulled back just enough to look at him, your fingers still tangled in the collar of his shirt. “Date night? Bob, I could care less about date night right now. I’m just glad you’re alive.” Bob’s selflessness never ceased to amaze you, how even through the haze of pain and adrenaline, his first thought had been about you, about letting you down.

As if your heart hadn’t broken in half the moment you realized he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. You clung to him tighter, your arms curling around his back, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his t-shirt like letting go wasn’t an option. Bodies wound tightly around one another, like you were trying to climb inside his chest and stay there. Like the only way to be sure he was real was to feel every inch of him pressed to you. He exhaled shakily, lips brushing your temple.

“All I kept thinking was that I had to get back to you.”That made your throat tighten even more. Your hand moved instinctively to his face, cupping his cheek, thumb grazing over a scratch along his jawline. His glasses were still slightly askew, and he hadn’t even bothered to fix them, too focused on you. “I’m right here,” He reassured, almost as if sensing your inner turmoil. “I’m okay. We’re okay.” In that moment, he held tightly in his arms, everything faded away.

There was only the thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm and the soft warmth of his breath against your skin. You didn’t want to pull away, but when you finally did, it was only to take in his face. You brushed a thumb gently beneath his eye, tracing the faint bruise that had bloomed along his cheekbone. He looked a little beat up, but to you? He was perfect. Alive. And most importantly, breathing. His eyes met yours, impossibly blue beneath the smudged lenses of his crooked glasses.

They searched your face like he couldn’t quite believe you were here either. Like he was afraid if he blinked, you’d vanish. You leaned in again, this time slower, gentler, your hand cradling the side of his face. His breath caught just before your lips met, as if even now he was asking for permission without words. The kiss that followed was soft. No heat. No urgency. Just a lingering press of your mouths. You could feel the tremble in his shoulders as his hand slid up to the back of your neck, holding you there like he needed it as much as you did.

His lips parted slightly against yours, letting out the faintest sigh, and you melted into it, into him, feeling the world finally slow down. When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his. “I love you.” You whispered, the words weightless, certain. He smiled, eyes closed, breath warm against your cheek. “I love you more.” Just as you were about to lean in for another kiss, the door creaked open behind you. “Fucks sake, not this again.” Came the dry, unmistakable voice of your older brother.

You groaned softly, forehead dropping to Bob’s shoulder as he stifled a wince and a laugh at the same time. You were so close to murdering Jake and becoming an only child. “Do you have some kind of built-in radar for whenever we kiss?” You muttered into Bob’s shirt as his hand rubbed comforting circles on your back. “Apparently,” Jake scoffed, stepping fully into the room, arms crossed, brow raised in brotherly disapproval.

“I give it ten seconds and you look like you’re ready to climb the guy like a tree.” Bob straightened awkwardly, almost like a cadet caught doing something wildly against protocol. His cheeks flushed deep red, climbing all the way to the tips of his ears, and his hands instinctively loosened their hold on you. Before he could scoot even an inch away, your fingers curled gently but firmly around his bicep, grounding him right where he was as you shot Jake a glare. “What do you want now?”

Jake gestured vaguely at the two of you. “Don’t mind me. I’m just checking in on the critically injured WSO who, last I heard, had survived an emergency ejection, a bird strike, and now looks like he’s about two seconds away from a very different kind of cardiac episode, caused, I assume, by my little sister sticking her tongue down his throat.” Bob gave a tiny, nervous cough, his gaze flicking toward the heart monitor as if it might start blaring just to spite him. He wisely chose not to answer.

You smirked, leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss to Bob’s temple, just to be petty. You felt the way his breath hitched beneath you, the way his fingers curled gently at your waist despite himself. Jake rolled his eyes so hard you were genuinely concerned they might get stuck that way. “I figured you’d be staying the night, so, I’ll leave you lovebirds to it. But don’t get any ideas. I’ll be back tomorrow, bright and early, and I better not walk in on a repeat performance, especially not with Phoenix two feet away.”

From the other side of the curtain, Natasha’s dry voice floated through like a dagger dipped in disinterest: “Fuck off.” You bit your lip to stifle the laugh that almost broke through. “There’s the door, Bagman.” You shot back, raising your middle finger without even looking at him. With one last grumble and an eye roll that nearly cracked his skull, Jake pulled back the curtain dramatically and disappeared down the hall, muttering something about needing a drink.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Bob let out a soft breath, his entire body seeming to relax now that Jake had exited the room. He didn’t even need to ask. With a quiet grunt, he shifted on the narrow hospital cot, careful but determined, wincing slightly as he adjusted his IV line and tugged back the scratchy blanket with his good hand. It wasn’t much, but he made space for you like it was second nature, like your place had always been beside him, no matter the circumstances.

Without a word, you discarded your shoes and climbed in next to him, moving slowly, mindful of the bruises you couldn’t see and the ones you knew would surface by morning. The cot creaked under the added weight, but neither of you cared. Your head nestled into the curve of his shoulder, your hand drifting under the soft fabric of his t-shirt, fingers resting on the soft skin of his abdomen, like you just needed to feel he was real.

His arm slid around your waist, drawing you in with a familiarity that made your heart flutter. The other hand found its way into your hair, combing through the strands slowly, rhythmically, like he was soothing both of you at once. His thumb brushed absently along your spine in lazy arcs, and he let out a content when your legs tangled with his beneath the thin blanket.

The room had gone quiet, the soft beeping of monitors fading into the background like a lullaby. Wrapped in his arms, you tilted your head just enough to meet his eyes. “Still worth it?” You whispered, the question edged with lingering fear. Bob didn’t miss a beat. His smile was the same one he’d worn eight months ago, the first time he saw you across the bar. He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“Every single second.”

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lemoniceteee · 4 hours ago

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Post Mission Cuddles - Robert Reynolds X Fem!Reader

Pairing: Robert Reynolds X Fem!Reader

Category: Fluff. Hurt/Comfort.

Summary: After an absolutely brutal mission you want nothing more to just curl up in bed and go to sleep. Luckily Bob's right there waiting for you with open arms, a first aid kit, and cuddles that could cure any sore muscle.

Masterlist

Warnings: Reader is injured and has scrapes on their knees, arms, and a gash on their temple. Mentions of violence and reader being an assassin. Reader is alluded to being shorter than Bob. Reader wears Bob's hoodie. Mention of reader having a hard time letting others help her. No description of reader. No use of Y/N.

It’d had been an agonizingly long day by the time you had gotten back to the tower. Your shoulders were slumped as your boots thudded heavily against the tower floors, your body just defeated from the mission.

The mission itself had gone mostly fine, but you weren’t some majorly superpowered-being like the others. You weren’t a super soldier that could take a billion hits and be fine, and you weren’t some equivalent of a god either. You were a talented assassin and knew how to get jobs done when they needed to be, but you still got hurt, and when you did? It absolutely ached, and hurt like no other.

You knew from the moment you got on the plane to come back that you’d be feeling this mission for the next few days, and you knew the ache when you woke up tomorrow was going to be excoriating.

Each step you took through the now mostly quiet tower felt like your bones were being melted in molten lava as the ache spread due to the adrenaline wearing off. The large blisters on your feet rubbed against the tight leather of your boots and socks causing you to wince with each step you took. While there was a gash on your forehead from where you’d been hit with the back of a gun, and while the bleeding had stopped, the blood was now crusted along your temple line making you irritated as you knew that would sting to clean and be a pain to clean out of your hair.

You wanted exactly two things as you made the short walk to your room, your boyfriend, and some extra strength Advils. You finally reached your door and opened it with a groan, as your shoulder was killing you and even the motion of lifting it to open the knob was excruciating at the moment. But the sight you saw on your bed when the door opened made it entirely worth it.

Bob was laying on your bed in a pair of sweats and a hoodie, one you’d probably ask to steal later. He was laying against the headboard, his legs crossed as he read a book. And god if the sight of your boyfriend looking so cuddly on your bed didn’t make you just want to dive into bed and say fuck it to cleaning your wounds. But you knew the moment Bob spotted you, that plan wouldn’t be an option.

Bob’s head snapped towards you the moment you fully stepped into the room, his eyes immediately widening in concern at the sight of you. Bob instantly put his book down, not even bothering to mark the page and got off the bed, quickly closing the space between you two as he raced over to you.

He reached out and gently placed his hands on your shoulders, his eyes quickly studying over your aching and bruised body. He didn’t ask if you were okay, he didn’t start lecturing you about being safer on your missions, instead he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you gently into his chest, wrapping you up in the hug you so desperately needed.

You slumped into him letting your body deflate into his and letting him hold you up. It felt like your entire body could finally exhale and breathe for the first time since you left.

Bob felt the way your body leaned into his, and gently kissed the top of your head before whispering. “You’re safe, you’re home, you're okay, baby. We’re gonna get you cleaned up.”

You just nodded, your face pressed into his chest and your hands gripping the back of his shirt like he was your lifeline.

You could feel him checking over your body, his hands gently sliding down your arms and back, trying to see where the worst injuries were, gently pressing down when he found a bad spot, trying to make sure that your injuries weren’t worse than you may be playing them off to be.

He pulled back just enough to look at your face, his hands gently reaching up to cup your jaw, leaning in to give you a gentle kiss before quietly muttering “c'mere baby, let me fix you up.”

You let him help you change out of your suit and into some sleep shorts and a tanktop, and then let him guide you to sit on the edge of your bed. He wandered into your bathroom and came back with the first aid kit that the two of you kept under there for moments like this. He quickly knelt in front of you as he gently opened the swabs and started disinfecting the cuts along your legs.

You winced at him cleaning one of the worse cuts on your knee, and he paused immediately, looking up at you with a concerned gaze as his other hand reached to your wrist and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Am i being too rough, darling?” You shook your slightly drooping head no, your hoarse voice muttering out a barely audible “no, just stung a bit. M’just tired.”

He kissed your knuckles softly before starting to clean them up too. “I know, m’sorry baby. I'll try to be quick and we can get you into bed.”

He continued cleaning you up, making sure to be as gentle as he possibly could with you, stopping if you even let out the faintest wince to make sure you were alright.

He was finally almost done and was finishing up on your temple. He reached up to tilt your chin, his thumb tracing lightly along your cheek. “Thank you for letting me take care of you baby. I know it’s not easy for you to let others help, but m’grateful you let me take care of you, even if it’s hard.”

Your eyes welled up a bit, you were exhausted, your body ached, and your boyfriend was the most amazing person alive who has walked with you throughout countless missions where you once would’ve been too stubborn for him to even come near you. But now? Now you know you’re safer in his care than anywhere else.

“I love you.” you whispered back, reaching down to squeeze his hand. He just smiled and pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, before finishing cleaning up the small gash on your temple. He quickly finished, and unwrapped a yellow smiley face bandaid, something that made your lips quirk up at the sides.

Bob saw your slight smile and gently chuckled as he said, “We ran out of the plain ones, so smiley faces is what you’re getting, baby.” You shook your head before letting a shaky laugh for the first time that night. “smiley is good with me.”

Once he placed the bandaid, he gave one last kiss to your forehead before taking off his hoodie and gently placing it on you instead, letting you curl into the feeling of it. He pulled down the comforter on the bed, and gently motioned for you to lay down.

You crawled into the warm bed and let out a huge sigh as Bob gently covered you up, before climbing into the bed next to you and pulling you into his arms, being as gentle as he could and minding the bruises littering your sides. You curled against him immediately, tucking your head just below his jaw and tangling your legs with his. The ache in your body, while still present, began to slowly fade at just the feeling of being in his arms.

Bob looked down at you, and ran his hand slowly up and down your spine, quietly whispering to you “I love you baby. Thank you for letting me help you. I know it’s not always easy.”

Your voice was quiet, but assured as you curled deeper into Bob’s hold “I always wanted your help, I just didn’t think I deserved it and didn’t wan’to be a burden to you.”

Bob just hugged you a bit tighter, his hands never stopping the gentle rubbing against your spine causing you to melt into him. “You’ll never be a burden to me. You’ve seen me at my worst and you didn’t run, so i’m not going to run at yours either baby. I’ll always be here to clean you up, even if it takes a lifetime to convince you of it.”

You didn’t respond, but the way your body sagged into his told Bob all he needed to know. You knew you didn’t have to be strong all the time now, and you knew he’d always be the one there to clean you up when you needed it.

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lemoniceteee · 7 hours ago

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Im so glad we all collectively agree that Bob Floyd’s dick is huge

#lewis pullman #bob floyd #robert bob floyd #robert bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x reader #top gun #top gun x reader #top gun maverick

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lemoniceteee · 18 hours ago

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Im such a sucker for Bob and his massive cock

the plan ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

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

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

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

word count: 21143

your callsign is sunny

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

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

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

It was meant to be.

Until the apartment across the hall went up for lease.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ugh,” she sighs. “It’s you.”

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

She heads back to the couch, Reuben trailing behind.

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

“Wasn’t the other day.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha snorts but keeps her eyes on the TV.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes go wide at your tone.

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

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

“Very descriptive insults,” Reuben mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what, Mick?”

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

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

Reuben and Mickey nod, but Natasha just watches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“An idea?” Reuben echoes, brows lifting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your brow lifts. “Tease him how?”

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

You snort. “So, seduce him?”

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

Both Mickey and Reuben flinch.

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

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

“We?” you repeat, pulse racing.

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

Your stomach flips, anticipation stirring beneath your skin.

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

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

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

You nod. “Okay. I’m in.”

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

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

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

You roll your eyes. “Both.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why are you wearing a thong?”

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

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

“Oh yeah,” you sigh, “can’t wait.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reuben frowns. “But that’s Sunday.”

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

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

“How many are left?” Natasha asks.

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

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

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

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

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

Bob blinks at her. “You do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What game?” Javy asks.

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

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

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

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

Bradley rolls his eyes but shrugs. “Fine.”

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

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

“Truth,” Bob says, almost too quickly.

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

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

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

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

Jake groans. “Ugh, lame.”

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

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

Mickey’s face lights up. “Dare.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid.

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

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

“Jesus Christ,” Jake mutters under his breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake’s brows shoot up. “Me?”

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

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

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

“You bitch,” Jake mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob Floyd is fucking smooth when he wants to be.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not,” Bob says, deadpan.

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

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

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

“Don’t you dare,” Jake warns.

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

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

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

Then the room explodes.

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

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

Bob frowns. “You needed therapy before that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Neighbour Barb with the yappy chihuahua?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is it they call that?

Oh yeah… big dick energy.

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

Wait. That’s like… kind of huge.

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

Stop staring, she mouths.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your frown deepens. “What are you-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “What?”

“For your clothes,” he says simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…Right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too much silence.

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

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

It doesn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. Bob Floyd is shirtless.

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

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

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

No. No, you’re not.

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

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

The heat of his stare burns hotter than any touch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bob,” you whisper.

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

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

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

“Like what?” you ask softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t sleep. Not at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort. “Little?”

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

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

Then you both nod. It’s show time.

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

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

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

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

His grin breaks loose. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She snorts. “That was very convincing.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Bad week,” Bob grumbles.

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

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

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

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

“I doubt it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re annoying.”

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

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

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

You nod. “Absolutely. I’ll help you.”

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

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

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

You frown. “Yet?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want to know what’s going on.”

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

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

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

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

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

He frowns. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Swear it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes.

“I want in.”

You blink, brow furrowed. “What?”

“I want to help,” he says, plainly.

You narrow your eyes, sceptical. “Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raise your brows, prompting him to go on.

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

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

Great. Now Hangman is involved...

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

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

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

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

But Bob notices.

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha arches a brow. “Something funny?”

Bob shakes his head. “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh softly. “Yeah, not wrong.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want us to lie?” you ask.

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

You shrink back slightly. “I guess not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You frown. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Three versus three?” Javy asks, sceptical.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s furious.

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

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

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

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

Hangman might be a genius after all.

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze. “What?”

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

You twist around.

And promptly forget how to breathe.

Bob Floyd is pulling his shirt over his head.

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

And holy shit.

It’s glorious.

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

But in the light of day?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s not a wave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He winks. “Because we’re the best.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the game is back on.

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

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

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

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

And Bob sees everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is it.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s just Bob now.

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

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

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

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

You don’t move.

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

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

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

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

You lean in just a little.

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

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

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

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

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

He snaps.

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

And the look in his eyes could burn the sky.

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

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

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

And then he kisses you.

Hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your jaw drops. “It gets bigger?”

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

Then he turns and jogs toward the water.

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

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

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

“Cooling off.”

© 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.

#lemon’s favs ๑ #bob floyd #robert bob floyd #top gun maverick #top gun #lewis pullman #bob x reader #bob floyd x reader #robert floyd #top gun x reader

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lemoniceteee · 21 hours ago

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bucky barnes with a happy trail. reblog if you agree

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lemoniceteee · 21 hours ago

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can't stop thinking about clark realizing you're pregnant before you even had a clue..... (1.8k words)

It's damn near midnight. You'd spent most of the day in bed, barely able to keep anything down. Maybe the flu can still be going around...in March? That's what you told yourself anyway. You'd promised Clark you'd go to the doctor in the morning if you weren't feeling any better.

The day had been uneventful. Your time was spent by nursing cups of broth and watching reruns of your favorite show - it was all you had the energy for yet you were still exhausted by the time Clark came home from work. He had tried to make you eat real food, but even the smell of butter burning slightly in the pan made your stomach flip and allowed the sickness to take over.

Clark had helped you into the bath after and opted to sit on the cold bathroom tile next to you. He missed you dearly, but more than anything wanted to make sure you were okay. He told you what you missed at work today. "Whole lotta nothin," he quipped, his hands moved to push the hair out of your eyes. He told you about the new article he'd gotten approved to write, that he saved a cat from a tree on the way home, that he saw a photo on Jimmy's phone that he really wished he hadn't. Clark sensed that his rambling soothed you, the energy surrounding you turned mellow and your heart rate slowed as he gently massaged your scalp with his fingers. You really were worn down, he thought. He wished more than anything that he knew how to make you feel better, but this would have to do.

That led you to now. In bed, on your side, eyelids growing heavy with one arm and leg draped over Clark's toned chest and legs. He was bare, save for a pair of tight fitting boxers. Any other day, you'd be all over him; begging for him to be all over you until you're a pile of mush in the sheets. But not tonight. Tonight, you just wanted him to hold you. Clark is a good boy, so he was doing just that with his large hand splayed across your back. His fingers occasionally running up and down your spine almost sank you into blissful sleep. That is, until...

Clark stiffened beneath you. It's like his entire body turned to concrete while his eyes darted from one corner of the room to the other. He heard something.

"What is it?" You ask, exhaustion and a hint of annoyance laced in your voice.

"Hear someone," Clark murmured.

He slid out from under you with ease and pulled some sweatpants over his legs. The spot he just left was still warm, but his absence made the bed suddently feel cold and sterile.

"You sure it wasn't just a bird, baby? They've been crashing into the windows like crazy for weeks now."

You're slightly perturbed, but you try not to be. He is Superman after all. His job is to keep the city safe, so you can't blame him for being attuned to hearing anything and everything that could possibly pose a threat. Plus, you knew he cared about your well being more than anything else in this world, so you chose not to push it any further.

Clark doesn't say anything else, only turning back to you with a finger over his lips, asking for silence as he investigates. He glides through the room tactfully and undetected, as if he were a lion hunting its prey. You watch as he pads down the hallway from your shared bedroom and disappears into the darkness that is the rest of your apartment.

He's gone for only a minute or two. When he comes back, you notice his hair is a bit windswept. He must have checked the outside of the building. You can't even imagine if someone had saw him. A half naked man with rock hard abs seemingly levitating outside the 17th floor of a Metropolis apartment building in the middle of the night. Although, it probably wouldn't have been the weirdest thing anyone has ever seen.

"Sorry," he apologizes, "Guess it was nothing."

Clark quickly discarded his sweats back onto the floor and nestled back into bed next to you, resuming the same position you were both in just minutes before. He runs his veiny hand over his face and rubs his eyes, an adorable yawn escaping his lips. Clark was tired too.

"It was probably just something happening on the street. They're still doing night construction across the street," you thought aloud.

"No, honey," he was quick to interject with a click of tongue, "It wasn't something; it was someone. I heard their..."

Clark froze again, ears perking up as he turned to fully face you. He suddenly felt hot and cold at the same time. He looked like he wasn't breathing.

You were growing concerned with his sudden skittishness. "Everything oka-?"

"Heartbeat," he finally mustered up the strength to say out loud.

You're not making sense of what is unfolding in front of you. Clark is staring at you; his eyes felt like they were burning a hole into your soul. His gaze drifts about your body, as if he were checking you for injuries or trying to see if anything was different about you. You notice his eyes are lingering at your lower half, where your arm laid haphazardly across your stomach as you rested on your side. Your engagment ring glimmered in the low light of the lamp in the corner of the room, but that's not what Clark was really staring at.

"So, it was a person or no? I'm lost, bubby," you stated, begging him to make sense of this.

"I only heard the heartbeat when we were in bed earlier. 'S not outside or in any other part of the house. I think...." Clark's voice is shaky now. "I think you're pregnant?" It came out as more of a question than a statement.

It was your turn to be speechless. Your eyebrows furled as you sat up straight. Either Clark was losing his mind or this was some kind of joke.

"Clark, what in the hell are you talking about?"

He's quiet again, only this time he shimmies down the plush mattress until his head is hovering right above your belly and facing away from you. It felt like the whole world stopped in that moment. What if it was true? Is this why you've felt so sick over the last few days? Gears are turning in your head trying to solve this puzzle. When Clark turns his head back towards you, the final piece locks into place.

"I hear it. It's quiet, but it's there. A heartbeat." Clark was smiling.

You reach a hand out to hold the side of his face that isn't pressed against your stomach. You don't know whether to cry, celebrate, or puke for the seventh time today. You run your thumb anxiously along his jawline.

"Holy shit," is all you can muster. "Is that even possible?" You really didn't know. Neither of you did. Sure, you've both pondered (and loved) the idea of mini Clarks and mini yous running around the farm in Kansas one day. However, you had never seriously considered whether or not a human could give birth to a half-Kryptonian.

"Guess so," Clark replies. "We can make some calls in the morning and try to find out."

He's moved back to the top of the bed now and his arms are enveloping you in an all-consuming embrace. His chin is tucked into your collarbone, his breath tickling your neck just slightly with each exhale.

"Are you happy?" He asks, begs, quietly. Your lack of enthusiasm has him growing weary.

You pull back to look at him fully. The dark, curly hair on top of his head, the prickly stubble on his cheeks that appears after a long day, the warmth radiating off his perfect body. You melt under his touch, along with any doubts you had in your mind. In front of you is a man who would literally go to the ends of the Earth (and beyond) to protect you. A man that lends a hand to anybody and anything that could possibly need his help. A man that loves you so deeply that he would know how to find you in any universe or lifetime.

"I think," tears prick at your eyes, "That I'm a little scared. And a little shocked."

Clark nods his head, listening. His jaw twitches slightly.

"That's okay," he tries to reassure you.

"I know." You swallowed hard. The tears were coming now. "But also still a little happy."

It's like a switch flipped, the two of you begin chuckling contagiously in disbelief. Clark thumbed the tears away from your cheeks and you kissed him deeply. He was warm and his tongue was soft, slipping through your mouth and running along your bottom lip.

"I love you so much," Clark says as he pulls back. There isn't a doubt in your mind of how much he means it.

"I love you too, Clark," you beamed, "But I can't believe you thought our baby was an alien intruder that came here to destroy humanity at midnight on a random Tuesday." A fake pout adorned your features.

Clark playfully flicked at your nose, unable to fight the laugh in his belly. "I thought you were sick?" He jested, "Now you have time to crack jokes?"

"Heyyy!" you protested, "Be nice to me. You have to now."

"'M always nice to you," Clark snided, feigning offense and planting a forgiving kiss to the top of your nose.

Neither of you remember when you both fell asleep. You talked until the sun almost began to rise. About what color hair you thought they'd have, what theme the nursery would be, what color their eyes would be. You wanted them to have Clark's, and of course, Clark wanted them to have your eyes. Agree to disagree Clark proclaimed, though he'd be happy even if the baby's eyes were purple. The baby, your baby, was a piece of the two of you and the love you shared so deeply with one another. And that was all that mattered to him.

You woke up turned away from Clark, morning light quickly taking over the bedroom. Your body was engulfed by his broad shoulders as he spooned you. His arm, as strong as it may be, was draped oh so carefully across your abdomen. Clark was already protecting the little one growing inside of you. And he always would.

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lemoniceteee · 21 hours ago

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ೃ࿔:･ trying to give clark a hickey

you shift closer in the dim glow of the lamp, your lips grazing the edge of his jaw, then lower in that slow and teasing way. you let your tongue drag across his skin until you find the spot just under his collarbone. the one you know would make anyone else melt. you kiss it. suck, just a little. just enough. then, you smooth over the spot with your tongue once again.

and…nothing. you pull back, squinting. with the tilt of your head, you try again—harder this time. you’re focused like a girl with a mission. clark watches, amusement dancing around his eyes. but still, no mark and no color. not even the faintest blush blooming under the skin. it’s like trying to bruise marble. you sit back, scratching your head and blinking at him. “okay. weird question.”

clark, propped up on one elbow, looks up at you with that soft, dopey smile like he’s already charmed and doesn’t know what for. “yeah?”

“do you…not bruise?”

he winces, sheepish. “oh. right. yeah, that’s—that’s a thing.”

you just stare at him. “you let me go at you like a vampire and didn’t think to mention that first?”

he shrugs, cheeks a little pink. “i didn’t wanna ruin your moment. you looked really focused.”

you groan and flop forward, burying your face in his chest. “clark.”

“in my defense,” he says, trying not to laugh, “this is the first time anyone’s been disappointed that they can’t injure me.” you hit him in the ribs—it does nothing. he peeks down at you. your brows are furrowed, lips pursed forward in pure thought. suddenly, your bare feet are padding on the wooden floors. you make a sharp turn into the bathroom and shuffle through your makeup bag. finally, you pull out the shiny tube.

he hears the click of the cap before he sees you again. you’re strutting back, hips swaying and smirking. your lips are twisted in triumph, the lipstick already slick across your mouth. clark’s still propped up against the pillows, watching you with that boyish, utterly doomed look on his face. “uh oh.”

you crawl onto the bed with the kind of slow, lethal grace that should be illegal. “stay still, superman.”

his eyes dart down to your mouth, then back up. “should i be scared?”

“yes,” you say sweetly, straddling his hips. he’s warm under you and still shirtless, still glowing faintly like he swallowed the sun. you grab his chin with two fingers, tilting his face, and then press your mouth to his neck. firmly, purposefully, slowly. you pull back to admire your work. a perfect crimson kiss blooms right beneath his jawline. “there,” you declare, victorious. “perfect.”

clark touches it, awestruck. “you vandalized me.”

you grin. “i claimed you.”

he sits up a little straighter, brows high. “this is your version of a kryptonian bonding ritual?”

“pretty much. and don’t wipe it off.”

“never.” he promises, all starry-eyes and solemn.

the next morning, he stumbles into the bathroom half-asleep, hair a riot of soft curls, rubbing at his eyes. he flicks on the light—bright, unforgiving—and freezes. his reflection blinks back at him, bleary and shirtless. his neck, his collarbone, and the swell of his shoulder are completely covered. your lipstick blooms across his skin. your smudged kisses in scarlet and rose, one dusted over his clavicle, another tucked just beneath his ear like a secret.

he exhales a laugh. quiet and disbelieving. his fingers skim over one of the stains, careful not to smudge it further. “yeah,” he murmurs to the empty room, lips twitching. “definitely claimed.”

taglist ~ @leynetto @illumoria @witchofswans @mauvesmax @kisses4rafey @jimmys-tiara @blushhbambi @sunnliqht @bugisastranger @whyistheskypink @soul-of-daises @take-it-on-the-run @hi346736 @iamthepawn @athenaluvsu @makiplan @replaythatrayrae @maralovescassianandmark @namgification @xsimbaaa @erisemptyskull @bangtanevermore @sugarplum444161 @ursogorgeous13

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lemoniceteee · 21 hours ago

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Beneath the Bones of the Land - Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire!Bucky x Reader (Farmer Au)

Word Count: 6.4k (more to come)

Warnings: Slow-burn; blood drinking and blood loss (graphic descriptions); violence (graphic, physical harm, mentions of family murder, killings); gentle possessiveness; hurt/comfort; redemption themes; death of minor characters; supernatural horror elements (vampires, blood rituals); town lore; non-consensual mind influence/compulsion; descriptions of grief and past trauma (reader and Bucky); mentions of manipulation and implied non-consensual blood rituals; implied and referenced death; feelings of isolation, depression; stalking; vampirism; emotional manipulation under supernatural influence; gore; blood and injury descriptions; imprisonment and restraint; mentions of war; implied generational abuse of power; psychological horror, dread, fear, and body horror elements; mildly suggestive intimacy in blood-sharing context

Author’s Note: Here we are, people!! I was honestly so nervous to post this first part because this whole thing is unlike anything I’ve written before. I’ve been wanting to try a new direction, a new texture of storytelling, something a little darker, a little stranger, a little unhinged. This piece is still inspired by the prompts vampire and farmer au I received from @artficlly during her lovely spin the trope event so I just wanted to send out some much needed love to her, because I regained some of my energy while writing and this truly would not exist otherwise!! Honestly, there is so much of my other work that has received more attention, and I definitely should be working on other things right now, but this idea simply would not let me go. I just needed to give it a longer span. And a few of you left me such sweet, encouraging comments that truly mean the world, so thank you, you made me brave enough to lean in and share this as dramatic as it sounds lmao. Also, I have never had this many warnings on a fic before, so that should say something. Please read them properly before diving in. And if something here might trigger you, please proceed with caution. You come first, always!! Enough with my rambles now, hope you enjoy!! ♡

Masterlist

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖘

♱ Chapter one

♱ Chapter two (coming on 21.07)

♱ Chapter three

♱ Chapter four

“It is a fearful thing to love what death can touch.”

- Yehuda HaLevi

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lemoniceteee · 21 hours ago

Text

Wildflower

Chapter 11: All I Wanted Was You

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Pairing: Single dad!Farmer!Bucky Barnes x Florist!reader

Mentions: 18+, enemies to lovers, slow burn, sexual tension, angst and hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, sex, f!reader, small town, mutual pining, daddy kink

Word Count: 5.0k

gif by jesicajones || dividers by strangergraphics-archive

Jamie: Hey, Mom. Can you send me a list of colleges for me to look at over there?

Mom: Ok. I’ll send them to you in an email.

Mom: I’m glad you’re finally realizing that you don’t belong in that farm. You’re going to enjoy your new life here, Jamie.

Jamie: Have you talked to dad at all?

Mom: No.

Bucky was outside in the afternoon sun, splitting firewood alone. Inside, Jamie stood at the front window, frowning as he pulled the curtain aside to watch.

Ever since their conversation, it’s like Bucky flipped a mental switch, changing everything about how he acted around Jamie. The way he spoke, the way he moved—it was like he was tiptoeing through every moment, careful not to upset him again.

Jamie could see right through it. He noticed the way his dad forced a smile and softened his voice like Jamie might break if he didn’t. And his dad never spoke like that to him. But when Bucky thinks Jamie isn’t looking, he also notices the devastated look in his father’s eyes that’s filled with longing.

Longing for someone.

Longing for you.

Bucky never said outright that things were over with you, but deep down, Jamie had a feeling. He saw the texts you sent him days ago, sweet, worried messages he hasn’t been able to answer right away because he’d been drowning in his own guilt. He wanted to say sorry, to fix what he broke between you and his dad… but he didn’t know how. And when he finally sent a weak “thanks for checking in” text, you never answered.

Jamie let out a shaky breath and pushed open the front door, stepping out towards his father.

“Hey, Dad. Need a hand?” he asked, his voice hesitant. Because usually, Bucky didn’t ask for help—he always expected it.

Bucky brought the axe down with a hard swing, splitting another log clean in two. He grabbed the rag from around his neck and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He gave Jamie a quick and forced smile.

“Nah, it’s alright,” Bucky said, waving him off despite the growing pile of uncut logs behind him. “Go hang out with your friends, play your games, maybe go see Camila? That’s what you should be doing.”

His voice was overly bright and enthusiastic—so unlike him—before he swung the axe down again.

Jamie stuffed his hands in his pockets, scuffing his hightops against the dirt. “Camila asked to hang out, but I figured I’d stay and help around,” he said quietly. “You look like you could use it.”

“That’s alright, son.” Bucky huffed out a laugh that didn’t have an ounce of humor in it and wiped another bead of sweat from his neck. “Go do your teenage boy stuff. I’ll manage on my own.”

Jamie frowns. “Dad—”

“Jamie, I’m fine,” Bucky cut him off, lying straight through gritted teeth.

Jamie lingered there, staring at the ground before glancing up. “Have you… have you talked to her?” he asked carefully.

Bucky froze mid-swing. His shoulders tensed, then he brought the axe down, splitting the log before answering. “No,” he said after a moment, his tone low, short and curt. “I haven’t.”

“You two didn’t break up because of me… did you?”

Bucky stopped completely. He turned to Jamie and gave him his full attention, eyes wide with surprise. “I don’t want you to worry about that stuff, Jamie—”

“But you loved her, didn’t you?” Jamie asked softly.

Bucky’s jaw clenched as he looked away, down at the scattered pieces of wood. “It doesn’t matter now,” he muttered, voice strained. “Don’t worry about that. It’s just me and you now. That’s how it should be.”

Jamie’s frown deepens. “Dad, I’m so sorry.”

“Hey,” Bucky set the axe aside and stepped closer, giving Jamie a rough, reassuring clap on the back. “No more sorrys, alright? This is better—just me and you, kid. That’s all we need, right?”

He forced a grin that Jamie could see right through. And although Bucky was trying to reassure Jamie, his question sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than anything. Jamie could see the pained look in his eyes, his spark completely gone and his bottom lip trembling just slightly.

Jamie’s once strong and capable dad was trying his best to hold everything together.

Jamie dropped his gaze to the dirt and grass, guilt gnawing at his insides. “I’ll just… hang out with Peter and the other guys, I guess.”

He hated seeing his dad trying so hard to act like this was what he wanted, like pushing you out had made anything better. If his dad was already acting like this, he could only imagine how you were handling it. With a small defeated sigh, he turned and wandered back towards the house—leaving Bucky to his lonely pile of firewood.

With one last glance over his shoulder, he watched as his dad wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. And he’s not sure if he was wiping off his sweat or his tears.

Jamie: Mom, I have a question.

Mom: Lots of questions. Not a lot of a time.

Jamie: You wouldn’t actually interfere with the farm if I don’t go to college over there, will you?

Mom: Why are you asking me this?

Jamie: I’m still on the fence. I don’t want to leave dad behind.

Mom: Your dad will be fine. He has that florist woman to keep him busy, doesn’t he?

You haven’t spoken to Bucky or Jamie for days. It was just as they said—you didn’t belong, so you’ve distanced yourself completely. But keeping your distance didn’t make the pain any easier to bear.

“Jamie, can you hand me a rose?” you called out instinctively, knuckles deep into a vase you were already arranging. No response. Only the sounds of his playlist blasting through the speakers to fill the empty shop.

With a heavy sigh, you tread towards the rose bucket yourself, plucking one out. It was small, ordinary moments like this that made you realize how… lonely you’ve been feeling.

You’ve grown so used to Jamie being here during the day, his eyes rolling when you asked him to help, the bleeps and bloops or whatever those sounds were that came out of his Gameboy, the way he’d sing along to the songs blasting through the shop.

And then there was Bucky.

You’ve gotten used to waking up to him already at your house, already busy with renovations, sweat on his neck and teasing words ready on his lips just to make you smile. You missed the way he’d held you, kissed you, looked at you like you as if you truly belonged, like you were meant to be in his life.

You missed them, both of them. The simple yet chaotic moments when the three of you felt like a little family.

You knew you could turn to your friends—Nat, Wanda, Vision, Sam, Steve… but it wasn’t the same as sharing the warmth with someone you loved romantically, and Jamie…

Jamie felt like a son to you.

An infuriating, stubborn, sharp-tongued teenage son, but you wouldn’t trade him for the world—even if you couldn’t be in his, and even if his words hurt you.

You stood in the middle of the shop, rose in hand, staring blankly at the half-finished arrangement in front of you with a heavy heart. The petals blurred as the tears started welling up, but you sniffed hard and forced yourself to take in a deep breath.

As much as you wanted to, you hadn’t let yourself cry since you and Bucky parted ways. As much as it hurt, you knew tears wouldn’t fix anything. You had a shop to run on your own and a house that still needed finishing touches. There was no time to break down over a problem that, in the end, wasn’t yours to fix.

You set the rose down gently and wiped your eyes with the back of your wrist, tilting your head up to blink the tears away.

“It’s fine,” you whispered to the empty shop, your voice trembling as you tried to convince yourself. “You’re fine. You’ll be fine.”

You wanted to be angry—angry at Bucky, at Jamie, at Talia for stirring this all up. But all you felt was that missing ache in your heart of where they used to be. All you could think was I miss them.

I love them.

You forced yourself to straighten up, swiping at your wet cheeks. You wouldn’t let this break you. You wouldn’t let their absence tear down what you’ve built for yourself—even if Bucky technically rebuilt your house, but still.

You sucked in a deep breath and as you were about to pick the rose back up, the front door bells chimed.

“Welcome in—”

You lifted your head up and froze when you saw Jamie standing there. He looked so small under his baseball cap and sunglasses, his shoulders hunched, his hands buried deep in his pockets as he shifted on his feet warily.

Your first instinct was to run to him and wrap him up in a hug, but instead you forced yourself to look back down at the vase, slipping the rose into place.

“What are you doing here, Jamie?” you asked, forcing yourself to sound indifferent. “You’re not on the schedule. So unless you’re here to buy something, you should leave.”

Jamie slowly pulled off his cap and sunglasses, still keeping his head down. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

You sighed, keeping your focus on the vase. “There’s nothing to apologize for, Jamie. You should go back to your dad—” you lift your head to look back at him, and your heart sinks.

Your eyes went wide, your hands frozen by the vase, and your breath caught in your throat. Jamie was standing there with a dark bruise under his eye, his shoulders tense, brows furrowed in pain.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice quiet and broken. “I… I didn’t know where else to go.”

You dropped everything in an instant, not even caring that the vase you were working on wobbled behind you. You rushed to him, cupping his face in your hands as you began brushing gently over the bruised skin with your thumb.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, voice shaking with worry. “Who the hell did this to you, Jamie? I swear, I’m going to fucking kill them—”

Jamie flinched a little under your touch, but he didn’t pull away. His eyes were glossy as he avoided your gaze, looking down at his shoes despite you trying to hold his face up to meet your eyes.

He swallowed hard, hesitating before speaking. “It’s nothing. It was just a stupid fight.”

You frowned, your hands still on his cheeks. “With who? Your dad—”

“No!” Jamie cut you off quickly, shaking his head. “Not my dad. I swear.”

You let out a sigh of relief. Of course. Bucky wouldn’t do that. “Then who?”

His shoulders slumped. He looked so tired, defeated, and utterly crushed. You hated this look on him, and you were planning on killing anyone who did this to him.

“After Dad and I talked, I went to hang out with some of my friends. I thought it’d help, you know? We were hanging out at their house and I was venting to them about… everything. And then…”

He pauses for a moment, clenching his jaw as he looks away again.

“And then what, baby?” you pressed on softly, caressing his swollen cheek.

That’s when Jamie’s eyes start to well up. “One of them… thought it’d help if he… talked shit about you. He said some messed up stuff, laughing like it’d make me feel better, thinking it’d make me easier to hate you.”

He sucked in a breath, his voice getting shakier and weaker. “He… called you a slut, saying you were just using my dad, that you didn’t care about me,” Jamie’s hands curled into a fist as he tried to go on, his voice starting to tremble with anger.

“I lost it. I fucking lost it. I told him to shut up but he just wouldn’t stop. So I punched him in the face, and then he hit me back,” he gestured helplessly to the bruise on his face. “We were going at it until Peter and the others had to pull us apart.”

You exhaled shakily, pushing his messy hair back gently. “Jamie…”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, a tear finally slipping down his cheek. “I know I said you didn’t belong, and I thought I hated you too, but I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it. I was just angry and stupid.”

“Oh, Jamie,” you cooed, pulling him into your arms as he broke down against your shoulder. You held him close while he sobbed, your hand moving gently up and down his back to soothe him as his cries shook his whole body.

The strong and capable teenage boy you once knew looked so small and broken in your arms. It killed you.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked between sobs. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it, I swear. I’m sorry for breaking you guys up. I’m so sorry—”

“I know,” you whispered into his hair, pressing a soft kiss to his temple as you held him tighter. “I know, Jamie. It’s okay. I know.”

His arms came up, clinging to you like you were truly the only person he had left. You felt his tears soak your shoulder as he kept mumbling broken apologies, his voice raw and shaky. You just rocked him gently as you two stood in the middle of the shop, murmuring a steady comforting, “Shh, it’s okay. Everything will be okay, honey.”

Eventually, his sobs calmed to shaky breaths and soft hiccups. He pulled back a little so you could finally see his face, and you caught another tear with your thumb, brushing it away gently.

“Jamie… why did you come here?” you asked softly, your hands never leaving his cheeks. “Why not go to your dad?”

He takes in a deep breath, then another.

“My dad hasn’t been the same since you… since you two…,” he trails off, his frown deepening with guilt. “He’s trying so hard to be this ‘good’ dad. But it’s like he’s pretending to be someone else entirely. He’s like, walking on eggshells all the time. When he thinks I’m not looking, he just looks… empty and sad. It kills me because I know it’s because he misses you.”

You wiped another tear as it fell, your heart breaking for him, for Bucky, and for you, too.

“If I went to him like this, he’d lose it. He would see my eye and blame himself, thinking he failed as a father—but he didn’t! He’s not a bad dad at all. He’s… the only real parent I have,” Jamie’s voice cracked, his eyes searching yours desperately. “And you… you’re the only other person I have… and I ruined everything. I pushed you away. I messed it all up. I’m so sorry.”

Your breath hitches in your throat, and before you could even realize it, the hot wet tears begin dripping down your cheek. Standing here, with a vulnerable Jamie in front of you, pouring his heart out on his sleeves and begging for your forgiveness made your heart hurt in a way you’ve never felt before.

Hearing him admit that you were the only other person he had, besides his dad, tangled you in a mess of emotions.

Part of you felt grateful you could be that person for him, but another part of you burned with anger towards the mother who should have been here instead of you, who should have been loving him the way he deserves to be loved.

If you ever saw her again, you would give her another piece of your mind for making your boy feel like this.

“Oh, Jamie,” you whispered, brushing a tear from your cheek as you cupped his face again. “You didn’t ruin everything. We’ll figure this out, okay? You’re not alone. I’m always here for you, baby boy. We’ll figure it out together.”

You gently guided him over to the old chair he always claimed. It was his usual spot in the shop, half-listening to you while he played his GameBoy whenever business was slow. You gave him a waterbottle, watching as he took small sips to help catch his breath.

The whole time, you stayed by his side. You stood beside him, your hands rubbing comforting circles over his shoulders and down his back while he leaned his head against your hip, sniffling and wiping at his nose every few seconds.

When he finally calmed down, he asked quietly.

“What do you think I should do?”

You raise your brows in surprise. “You’re asking me what you should do?”

Jamie gives a small, helpless shrug, his eyes fixed on the floor. “I mean… you read my mom’s letter, right? My dad’s the one who usually tells me what to do, but lately, he’s been trying so hard to let me figure things out on my own,” he says with a tired sigh.

“I know I always tell him to get off my ass, but right now… I kinda need him on it. I need someone to tell me what to do.”

Gently, you lower yourself to your knees, settling so you’re eye-to-eye with him. “You want my advice?” you ask, brushing the hair away from his forehead.

He nods quietly and sniffles.

“You need to talk to your dad,” you say firmly but gently. “Tell him how you feel, what you need from him. He loves you more than anything, Jamie, but he can’t read your mind. If you’re scared or hurting, you have to let him see that.”

Jamie starts picking at the threads of his jeans. “I don’t even know where to begin,” he mumbles.

You shake your head and cup his cheek in your palm.

“I bet your dad doesn’t know either. Both of you are trying so hard to protect each other that you’re hurting yourselves instead. If you can’t find the words now, just say the first thing that comes to mind and everything will come together,” you give him a reassuring smile. “Just let him listen. Let him be there for you, and let him know that you’re there for him, too.”

Jamie lifts his head and looks at you hopefully. “Will you come with me?”

You pause, hesitating before sucking in a breath.

“I… I can’t, sweetheart,” you force a small smile for him, though it barely reaches your eyes. “Your dad made it clear that I don’t belong.”

“That’s not true!” Jamie sits up straight, taken aback as he looks at you with wide-eyes. “You should’ve seen him these past few days. He’s a complete mess without you. He misses you so much.”

You let out a soft sigh, dropping your gaze to your feet to keep him from seeing the tears welling up. “Jamie, I would do anything for you, but seeing your dad again after everything he said…” you trail off, swallowing the lump in your throat.

There’s so much more you wish you could tell him. You want to tell him how Bucky’s words cut you deep, how hard and lonely it's been without them, how shitty it feels to be unwanted. But as you see how fragile Jamie is in front of you, you can’t just put your weight on his shoulders too.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper instead as you reach for his hand. “I just… I need a little more time, okay?”

Jamie looks at you and presses his lips together in a tight line, giving you a firm nod. You could tell there was so much more he wanted to say too, but no words came out.

“I understand,” he says quietly as he squeezes your hand back.

It’s the same feeling all over again. That same helpless feeling of watching something break right in front of you—just like with his parents. But this time, it’s with you. And for Jamie, somehow, that hurts even more.

Jamie stayed in your shop for a bit longer in the comfort of your presence. And when he finally calmed down enough to leave, there was a new unspoken resolve in his eyes.

He couldn’t let things stay broken like this. He still had a chance to make it right, even if he was the reason it all fell apart in the first place.

Mom: I’ve sent you an email with a list of colleges to look at. Have you looked at any of them yet?

Mom: Jamie?

Bucky was preparing dinner for the night. He didn’t know if Jamie would be home by the time he finished, but he still fixed him a plate anyway. He sat alone at the small round dining table, staring at the empty spots across from him. Just a few days ago, you’d all been here together, laughing and teasing each other over burgers. Just a few days ago, Bucky had you in his arms, playing around like lovesick teenagers by the kitchen sink.

God, he missed you more than he could stand.

With a heavy sigh, he picked up his fork, only to pause when the front door creaked open. Jamie stepped inside, pulling off his baseball cap and sunglasses and tossing them on the side table.

Bucky’s eyes went wide the moment he saw the bruise around Jamie’s eye. The chair scraped harshly against the wooden floor as he stood to his feet.

“Jamie!” he barked, making long quick strides to meet his son in the living room. “What the hell happened? Who the fuck did this to you!”

“Dad, calm down—”

“Calm down?” Bucky scoffed. “How the hell am I supposed to calm down when my kid is standing here with a fucking bruised eye?”

Jamie wrapped a gentle hand around Bucky’s wrist, trying to ease his panic. “Relax, okay? It was stupid. One of the guys said something about… about her. I lost it and we fought, that’s it.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. “You got into a fight? Over her?” his voice dropped. “What the hell did that punk say?”

Jamie looked away, his thumb brushing under his bruised eye. He couldn’t bring himself to tell his dad exactly what his so-called friend had said, because he knew Bucky would show up at that kid’s house and knock his teeth in.

“He just said something stupid,” Jamie muttered, keeping it vague.

Bucky ran a hand over his face, exhaling through his nose. “Christ, Jamie…” he tried to steady his voice. “Why didn’t you come home first? Where were you?”

Jamie shifted on his feet, avoiding his dad’s eyes. “I went to see her.”

Bucky froze, his eyes going wide. His hand dropped from his face. “You… you went to her?” his voice cracked a little at the end.

Jamie nodded, looking up and hesitating to meet his dad’s eyes. “Yeah, I needed to. I needed to tell her that I was sorry. She let me in the flower shop and took care of me. I told her everything.”

Bucky’s shoulder slumped, the guilt eating at his chest. Even after everything, after the things he said to you, you still took care of his boy.

He felt like he might collapse right here in the living room.

“And?” he asked, his voice almost hopeful. “Did she… did she say anything about me?”

“She misses you,” Jamie said quietly. “She didn’t say it like that, but I know she does. She’s really hurt, Dad… but she’s trying so hard to keep it together all on her own.” He frowns, his bottom lip trembling. “And I know you’re hurting too.”

“Son, I told you not to worry about us—”

“I can’t!” Jamie snapped in frustration. “How can I not worry about you two when you guys are the only parents I have? I hate seeing you try to act like a totally different person, thinking everything will be okay in the end when it’s clearly not!”

Bucky stood there, stunned with wide eyes and lips parted in shock. “Parents?”

If you can’t find the words now, just say the first thing that comes to mind and everything will come together.

Jamie pressed on, voice cracking as the words flew out of his mouth.

“Mom’s been texting me but I haven’t answered. She sent me a list of colleges, but I haven’t looked at a single one. I don’t want to leave, Dad. I love my life here. I love working at the flower shop, I love my friends, I love this farm…” he bit his lip, looking down before forcing himself to meet his dad’s eyes again.

“And I love you, Dad. I love chopping wood in this unbearable heat with you. I love when it’s just us eating junk food at the table. I love driving that beat-up truck even though it’s about to fall apart any day now.”

Jamie’s breath hitched as his eyes started twinkling with tears. “And I love what you and she had. I love seeing you happy. I loved it when it was all three of us together. And I’m so sorry I ruined that. I’m so sorry I messed it all up.”

Bucky’s throat tightened so painfully it almost choked his next breath. He took a step forward, then another, until he was right in front of Jamie—his boy, his baby, standing there so raw and broken.

He lifted his hand, gently cupping the side of Jamie’s cheek. “Hey,” Bucky rasped. “You didn’t ruin anything, Jamie. You didn’t ruin a damn thing.”

“B-but… I—”

“No,” Bucky cut him off. “This was on me. I’m your father, and I should’ve handled it better. I should’ve protected you and her. That’s not on you, son. It could never be on you.”

He let out a shaky breath, his thumb brushing over Jamie’s cheek the same way he used to when he was little. “You didn’t ask for any of this. You’ve been through enough already, and you fought for her. You fought for us, even when I didn’t. I’m so proud of you for that, Jamie. I’m so damn proud of you.”

Jamie’s lip trembled as tears slipped down his bruised face.

Bucky gave him a small and reassuring smile. “I love you, kid. I love you so much. Come here,” and before Jamie could react, Bucky pulled him in, wrapping his strong arms around his shoulders and holding him tight.

Jamie was taken aback, gasping softly at the unfamiliar softness, but it didn’t take him long to melt into his father’s touch, burying his face into his shoulders and crying into him for the first time in his life.

“I just want you to be happy again, Dad. I want her back. I want us back.”

“I want that too, kid. More than anything,” Bucky murmured into his hair, his hands rubbing his back soothingly. “I miss her so much it makes me sick. And I miss us too.”

He pulled back slightly, looking at his son’s eyes. “Well fix this, okay? I promise you, Jamie. I’ll fix this. I don’t know how, but I’m gonna try.”

Jamie nodded, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Bucky repeated softly, squeezing Jamie’s shoulder. “Now come on. Let’s eat before dinner gets cold. You need food in you, tough guy.”

Jamie let out a weak laugh as Bucky wrapped an arm around Jamie’s shoulder, guiding him to the dinner table.

“That’s a nasty bruise,” Bucky pointed out lightly. “How’d the other guy turn out?”

Jamie shrugged. “Much worse than me. I think I saw a tooth fly out.”

Bucky let out a small laugh, pride and affection etched in the lines of his tired face. “That’s my boy.”

The sun had already long set by the time you finally locked up the floral shop for the night. Your feet ached, and your hands still carried the strong scent of flowers. The drive back home felt longer than it should’ve been. Today was an emotional rollercoaster—business was busy, Jamie’s visit, and the memories of Bucky were still engraved in your mind.

It was all weighing too heavy on your chest.

By the time you pulled up to your house, the porch light flickered on like it always did when you got close. But something was different tonight.

You slowed your steps, eyes narrowing as you took in the sight of your front yard. The old picket fence had been freshly repainted, the cracks that were leftover on the walls were smooth and bright white. The overgrown grass and bushes were carefully trimmed and neat.

Sitting at the edge of your porch was an unfamiliar flower arrangement. It wasn’t the kind you would make or sell at the shop. This one felt deeply personal and… a little clumsy.

Your brows furrowed in confusion. Had someone sent you this as a gift? Was it one of the girls? But they never did that before, so why now?

You stepped closer, pausing when you reached the porch.

Carefully, you knelt down and took a closer look. Inside the vase were flowers you recognized. Most of these were blooms you remembered placing weeks ago for an arrangement requested by a certain customer.

Now, they were dried and brittle around the edges, mixed with green foliage filling in spaces that you would’ve filled yourself if you were in charge of this arrangement.

But what really caught your eye was the mix of different kinds of wildflowers, the colors bright and vibrant—a complete contrast to the rest of the dried out stems.

You slowly lifted the bouquet up, and tucked against the side of the vase was a single folded piece of paper. It wasn’t a printed card that floral shops such as yours usually do when they do deliveries—this was handwritten, and under the porch light you could even see sweaty finger marks smudged on the paper.

Your breath caught in your throat when you saw the initials signed at the front fold.

D.B.

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