#X top reader

[sleep-0-deprived]

What would it be like if nerdy reader liked erotic books and liked to replicate scenes with yandere Bully?

Yandere bully x nerdy male reader reading erotic books~ ૮꒰ ྀི >⸝⸝⸝< ྀི꒱ა

Just imagining your sitting on a chair in the empty school library reading your books during study hall with your face indulged into the book occasionally peeking back over your shoulders making sure no one is behind you when you’re reading, “what’cha readin?” The voice makes your back go all stiff turning around and lo and behold your favorite obsessed bully right behind you with his grin obviously knowing what you were reading.

Just imagining you getting pulled out of the library dropping whatever piece of erotica was in your hands while he whispers something like “if ya don’t want me to tell the school what you like to read then you’ll suck me off just like that girl was doin in that pervy little book of yours?” He’d mumble pushing you on your knees making you suck at his cock through the fabric of his jeans just watching you all hard on the bathroom floor rutting your bulge into his shoes.

Just imagining you working up the courage after school to beg the Yandere to let you fuck him, you keep blurtin out how you’d “make him feel good” basically pouting like a puppy when the two of you are alone until he just gives a nod not thinking you’d fuck him any good, this man laying getting his back blown out was such a humbling experience to have such a nerdy guy on top of him holding his legs to his chest while you ramble on bout “gonna stuff you up s’much”

Just imagining you reading your erotic book getting in the middle of a smut scene sitting in his bedroom all hard practically jumping his pillows squirming when you read the book, until he walks back in that is “damn, didn’t know you were such a slut…” he’d lean against the doorframe mocking you until it happens, him ending up on top of you with you bent over in his bed while he makes you read page after page of smut, if you stop reading he stops thrusting leaving you on edge with a gruelingly slow pace.

Just imagining you laying on your back in a janitors closet after school hours while he eats your ass out messily drooling sucking on your s/c bud gripping the gloves of your asscheeks occasionally muttering out, “was that how they did it in your slutty little books” while his tongue delved deeper and deeper into your hole licking at your inner walls until they puff up with sensitivity just making you bite your bottom lip to keep quiet not wanting to be caught.

Just imagining you making it to a part of your book learning about a new act during sex, and ofcourse who’s better to try it on than your obsessed/very degrading man. You get a “huh??” Face out of him when you ask about fucking the gap between his muscular thighs but you don’t get denied?….here you were behind him groaning and heaving with your cock leaking precum all down his thighs, one hand on his hip the other on his cock while you lay your chin on the back of his shoulder “just a little longer please~” you’d beg him trying to cum while he just degrades the hell out of you not admitting his enjoyment.

[2kiran]

MDNI 18+ | TOP!READER | VAPING

He catches you leaning against the wall—one of your arms pressed against your chest while the other holds up your vape. He sees the way you inhale, your lips briefly wrapped around the mouth piece before you let go, exhaling a thick mist.

Fuck, if that doesn’t immediately turn him on.

He corners you afterwards, his hands shoving at your shoulders to force you into sitting down on the edge of the bed. You hear him muttering a low “I’m sorry” as he straddles your thighs, his trembling fingers unbuckling your belt and pulling your zipper down.

By then, you don’t remember how it happens, but he lowers himself to let his clenching hole slowly yet deliberately swallow the girth of your cock. You smile faintly in response to the heat clinging around you, the expression crooked, but it has him biting back a whimper.

Once he’s settled, you lazily take a drag from your e-cigarette and puff it into the space between the two of you. The cloud curls against his face, and it’s intoxicating—the scent is too sweet and too intense, and it makes him firmly roll his hips against yours in approval.

[narcissistshandler]

what about a rin itoshi fic with a werewolf reader? overstimulation, a breeding kink, rut and knotting or wtv, that sort of stuff?

𝗜𝗡 𝗦𝗛𝗘𝗘𝗣'𝗦 𝗖𝗟𝗢𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚

pairing. rin itoshi x male reader

warnings. werewolf!reader, top!amab!reader, human!rin, rut, anal sex, breeding kink, knotting

You were on top of him as soon as he walked through the door. A growl caught in your throat, cornering him like prey, ready to pounce before you recognized his scent, nose buried in his neck as soon as you did. The movements filled with feral intelligence made his hair stand on end in caution.

You wouldn't hurt him in your normal state, Rin knew. But you weren't in your normal state. It was the beginning of your rut and maybe he should have stayed away like you told him to, it wouldn't be Rin though if he listened.

You continued to smell him, sniffing his skin, deeply inhaling his scent that slowly mixed with yours. Your burning weight crushed him, his knees on the floor, his clothes torn by your eagerness and hunger to reach bare skin.

"Wait, wait, big bad wolf- hey, watch out for those claws-" Rin's reprimands are ignored as he asks you to slow down. But he couldn't blame you, you seemed far from any rationality, slamming against his ass like an animal, dripping all over him, whimpering when the friction wasn't what you was looking for.

Rin's stomach twisted, in a good way. You were so pathetic that you made him clench around nothing.

Amused, Rin reaches behind him to take your member in his hand and guide you correctly to his previously prepared hole — not that he would admit that he had fingered himself while imagining you on top of him, with no control over your instincts other than to fuck and breed.

"There we go, good boy, just like that- oh." The air rushes from his lungs as the fat head of your cock presses against him.

Sharp canines bite into his shoulder and your hips jerk forward as they meet the heat, sinking inside in one thrust. There is no foreplay, there is none of the usual care and affection that Rin secretly enjoyed. It's just your cock stretching him beyond the limit and without warning. Burning all the way inside.

He screams and falls forward with the force of your movement. Your cock felt even bigger than usual, pushing so much inside him, filling him so much that Rin was waiting for the pain after the heat, because there was no way you weren't ripping him in half right now. But the pain never comes. Discomfort, yes. He feels it in his stomach, in his lungs, but there is no pain.

"Fuuuck," Rin gasps, hands falling limply to his sides, trying to hold on for dear life as you without a break begin to pound into him. Rin wants to ask you to slow down, to give him a few seconds to catch his breath, but he only finds himself able to whimper pathetically, hips shaking with how overwhelmed he feels.

Not that you seemed able to control your impulses now. Hands gripping his hips, nails grown into claws digging into his skin to make him bleed, creating space for yourself inside him, heavy balls slapping against his ass with each thrust — it felt so full, Rin couldn't help but wonder how much you were holding in, how full you would make him. His mind whirls with thought.

You bite any patch of skin you can find, drooling over it, muttering in a mindless frenzy, "mine, mine, mine," and "I'll fill you with my seed- give you my pups, ahhh you'll be so- beautiful- full- p-pregnant..."

Rationally, Rin knew there was no way he could get pregnant, but the dirty talk still got him hot. Something in his mind was telling him that maybe if you tried really hard, it could be possible.

Rin can only stay there as he allows himself to be used, being pulled back into each of your thrusts as if he weighed nothing, cock hanging between his legs and dripping onto the floor. Rin's spine tenses as you slam into him again and again, rolling your hips, whimpering pathetically, trying to... drive your knot into him.

Oh.

Fuck.

His hole tightens, tensing and making it harder for your try to knot him. You never did it before, always afraid of hurting him, but now you insistently pushed against him, growling, groaning, sounding so close to howling as you tried to go deeper, to be closer, as if there was any deeper to go. To knot him, to breed him so full until he could think of nothing else but your massive cock splitting him in half.

Rin tries to prepare himself, his body unconsciously fighting the invasion, and nothing in the world can prepare him for the flash in his vision as his rim is forced to relax and your knot slams into it, snapping into place inside him.

His eyes roll back in his head and his cock throbs between his thighs, seeming to cum over and over again.

You're talking over Rin, stuttering about how he's yours, how his hole is yours and how you're going to keep him in your knot forever. Rin shouldn't want this so much, but he does, badly. He wants you to impregnate him, fill him with your pups and never let him go, so you can mold his hole with your huge cock and mark him as yours.

If he could force his brain to cooperate then he would say that.

He's fucked stupid in your knot pushing against his insides, forcing him to accept. Getting harder to breathe by the minute, spine curved to keep his ass in the air to be used as your personal fleshlight even as his sensitive hole protests.

His sensitive nipples scrape against the cold floor and his thighs tremble, barely able to hold his position as he feels his insides flood with heat, your seed filling his stomach. It's so much that it leaks, running down his thighs. Your scent is finally marked on him. You growl contentedly as you breed him.

Rin feels himself disassociating from his body before your balls even empty.

Until the end of your rut you're going to break him, make him nothing but your cum dump, making sure to leave him full and pregnant. He hopes so.

[wheretearswander]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ≡ : 𐔌 gojo satoru × top!male!reader . . . 𓆩𖥔𓆪

╭ 경고 : : 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ╮ . . . 「 18+ 」 . ⓘ music for a certain feeling . lengthy exposition . more monologue than actual smut. sex . p in v . hustler!gojo . boypussy!gojo . prostitution . safe sex . marathon sex . squirting . service top!reader . cunnilingus . aftercare . pillowtalk . ooc!gojo . feminisation . overstimulation . possible angst . ending open to your interpretation / imagination . . . 3.3k words

「 ��� 」 . 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 the clock strikes twelve, everyone's masks come off.

Most would already be slumbering upon their soft mattresses, or lying down on measly sunken ones, and perhaps even just stained, flimsy cardboard. But ultimately, it's the time where you can truly relinquish yourself to your deepest, truest self.

And best of all? No witnesses.

At least . . . no one of significance.

Neon signs softly fading in and out, worn out over time & effort; buildings barely standing on their last two legs, broken down by carlessness and shame. But nothing compares to the weary souls who litter the pavement in nothing but the thinnest of fabrics and the thickest of maquillage — all of them fighting for survival in the inky black of night, with nothing but a fleeting hope and a definite uncertainty that they could ever go back to a structure whose state they could call home.

But how would that be possible when you work on the streets for a living?

On the rare occasion that entry into a house, an apartment or some other complex is on the itinerary — spontaneous or not — it still isn't home.

And it never will be.

Night after night, client after client, climax after climax, the sky no longer distinguishes itself from the bright blue sky of the dawn from the star-spotted darkness that is nighttime. Rather it presents itself a murky shade of grey.

Some days, a little blue comes through — and only then could GOJO SATORU tell what time of day it might have been.

That is, if his head wasn't buried in the mattress of his temporary residence where he would wait out the day until his so-called shift starts by the hope of slumber; in the heat of a rocking car forced around by fervid friction.

Or now.

"Harder!" Satoru cried out, his fingers digging into the comforter of his current client with his eyes rolled threateningly to the back of his skull, only his sclera obvious, complimented dauntingly with the red of his optics' arteries.

His plump, rosy lips blown out with ragged strings of moans that he himself could not begin to comprehend within his state of bliss.

"God- yes, princess." you moaned out, quickening your pace, making sure to hit that spot that makes him see stars with every thrust.

Even while slobbering into the thick duvet; his tongue lolling out of his swollen, kiss-bitten lips — he still had a job to do: please the customer, get fucked & get paid.

His rates were simple: ¥750* for oral, ¥1000* for half-and-half, anal costs extra.

He was by no means a professional, but just like many in this profession, he was desperate.

Though his skill being put into question always had the answer come easy:

"Fuck-," you came into the condom, the rubber slightly sliding off your base to make space for the copious amount of release your system had to emit from the sheer excitement.

Gojo's pussy is top. of the. line.

In ragged breaths, you slowly pulled out of his entrance — ignoring the whine the white-haired man exhaled — and dragged the offending piece of latex off, resulting in a light shiver & a shaky exhale.

While satoru tried to gather his breath, you tied the condom off & threw it toward the direction of the rubbish bin where multiple condoms laid in a similar state: tied-off & filled.

When you turned your attention back to the fucked-out Satoru, your shaft only continued to harden. Even with the multiple orgasms, you had yet to truly experience relief and to Satoru, this was as bad as it was good.

Pros? He could charge more & continue to experience the mind-numbing ecstasy that has come to define his existence.

Cons? He didn't know how much more he could take.

His thighs quiver as they try to hold his trembling self up. His face buried into the sheets. Sheets stained with several bodily fluids, all of which only spurred you on even more.

Every little whimper of his told a myriad of stories in the same breath:

I want more.

I can't take anymore.

It feels so good it hurts . . .

I'm so tired . . .

I NEED more.

And you could pick up on the thoughts — or rather, the need — behind those hazed eyes; once a vibrant sky blue dulled by life, fatigue, and burdened, but now clouded over with a raging storm of lust, need, desperation, tinged with torment and gleaming with fervour.

There was no question that you were the best client he had the pleasure of servicing in all his years on the street. You were chivalrous, gentle, giving, and attentive. Every little need catered to, sexual or not. Everytime he'd shiver just a little too much, you'd stop and check on him, holding him tight.

But the best part was just one thing: a safeword.

Prior to the hookup, you'd asked him for one. A simple question & to most it wouldn't matter.

But with all the years of his working, surviving; a piece of his humanity slowly chipped off, bit by bit. Even if he willingly came into this twisted game, it was not by the heart's desire. It was from the lack of choice. And it is common knowledge that such things are loveless; no intimacy, no care, just one night of raucous & reckless passion followed by a life of shame.

Just like many, he felt worthless. Undeserving. No longer human. He was simply there.

Yet as soon as you asked him for said safeword, a flicker of hope twinkled in his eyes, the dull blue brightening just a moment to their original hue.

But.

Sex work is sex work.

You are neither the first nor the last he would ever have. And that was fact. This was likely a one-off, and the chances of it ever happening again are subzero.

Your gentle disposition allowed him to feel. To enjoy. He cursed himself in his mind, attempting to ground him back to the harsh reality that came with his line of work.

10 times out of 10 his clients would care only about their own pleasure. Rightfully so. He was getting paid for this. But it didn't lessen the numbness. He'd always look away from his customers, lifelessly looking at the ceiling or some other place, as long as it wasn't the person's face.

Every lewd act he'd do out of duty, not care.

Exaggerated moans, fake compliments, complete untruths: the porno package. It was all a sham. Just a well-rehearse programme done over & refined by experience and time.

He felt nothing.

So your tender allure got him perhaps a little too open and a little too trusting. Especially since all that kindness was a complete one-eighty to your sudden intrustion back into him.

Satoru lurched forward, gripping the sheets tighter, a harsh scream ripping out of his sore throat, rising in pitch with every buck of your hips slapping against his rotund backside.

He could feel that you had put yet another rubber on your shaft, the material rubbing against his swollen, gummy walls.

Nonetheless, even with the trying presence of said prophylactic*, it did not diminish the euphoria you allowed him to experience; with how well you stretched his worn pussy out, digging into all the right spots, making him mold himself around your girth.

And even despite the roughness, he had yet to utter the safeword. Just the thought of it comforted him that he simply ignored the pain that came from the overwhelming pleasure, choosing to drown further into the passion; the intimacy he's long craved from all the nights he had to endure just to see the next day.

The dichotomy further warped his mind. He enjoyed your initial benignity but this rough side of you broke him. He couldn't tell whether you were truly a good person or a wolf in sheep's clothing. But either way, he liked it.

And that thought caused him to climax to both your surprises, gushing out like a waterfall so violently that his body pushed your cock out & further soaked your sheets.

He gasped, closing his thighs & his hips bucked as if they had a mind of their own, his walls fluttering & squeezing around nothing. Each clench sent a fresh wave of pleasure running down his spine & additionally fuzzing his already fucked-out mind. He couldn't come down from this high.

"Hey, hey," you shushed him sweetly. "It's okay, princess, you're okay," you held him from behind, littering kisses on the back of his neck.

None of which aided his overhelmed state but the sincerity behind your actions calmed his mind a tad bit, so slowly but surely, his breathing stabilised, the shaking reducing significantly.

"What was that?" he gasped out, fingers clenching & unclenching the sheets.

"What do you mean, princess?" you asked in a hushed tone to avoid alarming him, massaging his hips to further soothe him from his frenzied state.

"That," he shivered.

You trailed your gaze down to the sizeable stain under him then back into his eyes, "Have you never done that before?"

He shook his head.

You slowly pushed his hips to fully lie on the bed & rolled him onto his back then caressed his cheek, "Did you like it?"

With a slight fluster, he nodded, pursing his lips.

A chuckle left your lips, a sweet smile stretching on your lips, "That's good," you pecked his forehead. "That's what matters."

His heart skipped a bear or two, his eyes widening ever so slightly.

Every time he tried to put his guard back up, you somehow make them crumble back down on their own. And everytime you somehow manage to do it successfully and effortlessly.

"Why don't we stop here for now, hm?" you pecked his lips. "I think you've had enough excitement for today."

After that, you laid down on your side, pulling him into you, allowing him respite & safety in your arms.

This cuddling position made him feel even more vulnerable, but part of him needed it. And you knew for certain he did.

"So how much did all that amount to?"

"¥900* . . ." he managed to breathe out, the haze still fogging his mind.

"Any additional charges for aftercare?" you chuckled, massaging the red of his body: his derriere, the back of his thighs & the deep handprints on his hips.

He whimpered at the feeling, relaxing deeper into your hold. "Mm, no. If anything I should be paying you for it." he attempted to joke even in his incapacitated state, and you found humour in both his efforts and in his serene acceptance of being in your arms.

"Maybe I should," you turn his face to you & kiss him. "How much do you think I should charge?"

He pulled away from the kiss and gazed into your eyes, tracing each fine detail carefully.

"¥4000 minimum." he stated, earnest with every syllable. "Just for a kiss."

"That seems steep, princess. Especially for a kiss." you continued to litter his face with kisses, paying special attention to his plump, pink lips. "You're greatly overestimating me."

He only snuggled deeper into you, "You'd be worth every yen . . ." he mumbled breathily, sinking deeper into the intimacy of the moment.

You stroked his hair, inclined to comfort him. "Quite the compliment, darling." The statement rolled off your tongue with ease, "you are too." You kissed him again, letting him lead the kiss as he'd like it.

"Do you want to take a shower maybe? I wouldn't mind." Satoru perked up at this, confused by such a generous offer. He'd have jumped at the opportunity had his legs not felt like jello. So instead, he shook his head & sighed, "I'm good."

You nodded. But as you started to pull away, he clung onto you tighter and whispered, "Don't go . . ."

There was only one goal in your mind: to clean the man up. Your intentions were to locate a rag then come back to wash him down; but his need for comfort pulled you back into his arms, holding him tighter in return.

"Okay, princess."

He nodded into your chest.

"But mind if I do something?"

He looked up at you, curious, but not wanting to exert any more effort, so he settled for nodding & lightly loosening his hold on you.

"Thank you, sweetheart," you pecked his forehead and continued to leave kisses down his face, further down to his soft neck, down his supple chest, more kisses tracing the lines of his musculature on his torso.

As you went lower, his once calm state started to subside, reverting back to his needy headspace that was all sorts good as it is bad. Nevertheless, his body was well worn out; so he could not react as much as before.

And as soon as you licked a broad stripe up his folds, he shivered against his will, his hand instincitvely coming down to hold your hair.

"I thought you said-," he let out a shaky exhale, his folds quivering against your lips.

"I know, princess, I know." you placed a gentle peck on his throbbing clit. "But we still need to clean you up regardless." you then places his legs over your shoulder. "Is that alright?"

The white-haired man couldn't bring himself to look into your eyes, but still he nodded, tangling his fingers in your hair.

And so you continued your actions, being sure to remain gentle & avoid spurring him further, leaving little kitten licks on his clit; kissing the bud instead of the usual sucking; not pushing your tongue fully into him, only scooping out the remaining essence that had yet to pour out of him.

"You always taste this good, doll?" you spoke into his cunt, the vibrations engorging his clit even more, and you can feel it throb against your nose.

His fingers reflexively tightened on your hair and he let out a shaky whimper, "M-mhm . . ."

"You eat healthy, huh?" taking your time, your tongue tracing circles onto his clit before sucking on it, feeling his essence drool out of him and onto your chin.

"I tr-try- ah~!"

"What do you mean, princess?" your lips consumed his quivering golds with a certain fervour that one would consider borderline inhumane with how focused you seemed to be on bringing him to cloud nine.

"I try to . . ." he sighed out. "if I can afford it . . ."

"That right?" He nodded, clenching around your tongue in an attempt to prevent his juices from continuously leaking out — but to no avail as the action only made him more aware of your presence, the expertise of your lips, the heaviness of your tongue, the way the muscle glid so seamlessly within his pulsing walls & hit every good spot his pussy had.

You nodded in return. "Well, you still taste amazing." Your licks sped up & deepened as you felt his hips starting to grind onto your face. "The perfect amount of sweet & salty." you deliberately pressed your tongue deeply onto him, dragging it up slowly but surely, ending with a flick of his clit with the tip of your tongue.

His back arched off the bed, a loud moan resonating within your room, a light stream spurting out of him & directly onto your mouth which you swallowed in an instant without stopping your infuriatingly arousing ministrations onto his pulsating cunt; all pink, puffed-up, and pouring.

"Gonna cum?" you teased his clit, flitting the tip of your tongue side-to-side rapidly then latching back on to suck & nibble on it, allowing you to feel each pulsation, his essence coating your chin in a thick layer of arousal.

"Mhm . . . yes- mmh~ yes~!"

"Go ahead, princess. You deserve it," your thumb pressed onto his clit, his hips bucking involuntarily. "You've been such a good girl." You dive back into his glistening folds, eating him out with such vigour he swore the heavens fell from above & fell right onto him, his world blurring into a mere vision of what he'd assume were stars.

"Fuck!" he screamed, squirting another vicious jetstream of clear liquid, spraying onto your face and darkening the previous stain on the bed that had started to dry up, now even darker shade that the first.

Yet you swallowed it all with ease & a particular gentleness that kept him gushing onto your tongue. Even if it did weaken at times, he'd spurt bit by bit, lasting for far longer than good for either of you.

To him, it felt like forever. His thighs shaking around your head, his breaths mixing with moans & whispers as if his body couldn't choose how to process the situation.

To you, it felt too short. You wanted more, needed, even. But you knew he couldn't take anymore or else he'd be left to drag himself off your bed to the streets, and even then you doubted his arms could carry his weight.

So with that you pulled away from his addictive entrance, a line of drool connecting his shame and your soaked lips, panting lightly & licking your lips clean. Then you hovered over him & kissed him softly to coax the poor man out of the headspace he did not realise he was in.

At first, he was unresponsive, likely still lost in the sensations. But after a while, you felt him respond. That made you exhale against his lips in relief, still kissing him until you were sure that he was fully present & back grounded in reality.

The whole of his squirting orgasm had lasted minutes, which explained his loss of thought & awareness — other than the already present overstimulation before it.

"You're going to have to stay the night, princess." You kissed his forehead, caressing his cheek. "Do you have any appointments tomorrow?"

He could only gather tidbits of your words, but still, he shook his head & weakly pulled you down to lay over him, desperate for contact & comfort — which you reciprocated eagrely, aiding him in his riding out of his high.

Just like earlier, you massaged his hips, hoping to sate his remaining desires; kissing his lips to keep him from floating back to seventh heaven and remaining there.

You rolled beside him, which he quickly latched onto you, unwilling to part from the only thing that gave him a sense of comfort.

You smiled & stroked his hair, kissing the top of his head.

"Goodnight, princess," you left a lingering kiss onto his forehead. And though neither of you were clean, clothed, or warm, the enjoyment & satisfaction allowed you to sleep within each other's embrace, ignoring the cold prickling at your skins due to the lack of proper coverage and from the stain still present on your sheets.

Perhaps the world was unfair. Cruel even.

Souls venture into the darkness for many reasons; secret to everyone, known only to some — other than themselves.

This world is full of temptation, demons, the worst of the worst.

Perhaps this was hell.

But Satoru failed to care.

Not when he felt like nothing could touch him while he was in your arms.

Still, this would have to end at some point. Probably before you woke up, but definitely the next day.

He didn't do love. He couldn't. What person would love someone as defiled & worthless as he?

So, soon enough, he'd return back to the streets; back to flagging down customers, back to the usual regime of detached, uncaring sex where he'd get fucked then paid, hoping to not get a black eye or some other ailment from the clients' carelessness.

Soon enough his humanity would fully deplete, leaving him a soulless & mindless husk, a toy, an object for pleasure.

Nothing more.

And soon enough, you'd fade away from his mind.

ⓘ NOTES . . .

¥ : yen ( japanese currency )

¥750 : in place of $5 ( American ) : ¥726.13, appox. $5.16

¥1000 : in place of $8 ( American ) : ¥1165.72, approx. $6.89

¥900 : $6.18 ( American )

prophylactic : a condom

⸝⸝ . ⊂ COCYTUS ⊃

© ── 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 . any use: reposting, stealing, plagiarising, copying, etc. is STRICTLY PROHIBITED. translations and reposts must be given my explicit permission.

[vampdes]

DES says. . . love sampo the slut. sampo, sampo, sampo. househusband sampo, stripper sampo, free use sampo, sugar baby sampo. sampo my beloved. sampo, sampo, sampo. + for @vampfav .

SUM. — sugar baby sampo knows what he needs to do to get a brand new car from his daddy! and if you, his daddy, wants to breed him full of kids to get it, who’s he to say no? he loves your cock sssoooo much!

CON. warning — sugar baby / sugar daddy relationship, sir kink + daddy kink, bareback, ftm sampo (no bottom surgery), cock-drunk + cum-drunk sampo, lingerie / panty tearing, mentions of having kids, p-i-v , blatant feminization.

NOTE. — sampo calls reader: sir & daddy. reader calls sampo: daddy’s girl, naughty girl, pretty girl, my girl, pretty wife, princess, good girl. sampo is a slut. reader is a rich guy w a huge dick. emotional sex. NOT PROOFREAD.

sampo sat down on his knees in front of the couch, snug in between your legs, with his head rubbing your thick thigh and his hands clasped together in his lap.

“i’m sorry your day was bad, sir. .” he mumbled, a frown on his face at you paying more attention to the files you had from work that him, before his slender hands started to move up from your leather oxford shoes, up for ankle, and settling on a bit above your knees, looking at you for permission before he began to move even farther until he finally stopped at the crotch of your pants. “i’m sure i can make it better, can’t i? daddy’s girl always knows the best ways to please you. .” sampo trailed off, not finishing his sentence as he begun to kiss your pants-and-boxers covered dick, making his glossy pink lipgloss leave sticky, glittery marks on the bulge of your pants before he began to unzip your zipper with his teeth, teasingly slow before he decided to quicken his pace and press soft, feathering kisses against your boxers.

sampo looked up at you, almost unbothered and nonchalant by his actions, pouting as he kissed your covered, growing cock, “am i not being good enough for you? i’ll do better, i promise, sir.” sampo then pulled down the hem of your boxers, letting your thick, monsterous cock out for a breath of fresh air, and started to stroke it with his, in comparison, small hands against your cock. sampo rubbed from the base of your cock and up to your head, giving it kitten-licks whilst covering it with his sticky kisses.

that’s when you gave him the attention he so desperately craved.

you put a thumb on his lower lip, which sampo immediately parted his mouth and stuck his tongue out, and used your other hand to pull his mouth closer to the head of your dick before positioning it past his pretty, pink, plump lips and slowly grabbing his hair tighter in order to pull him down and deeper on your cock. sampo didn’t attempt to pull away, ever so happy that his daddy wants to be pleased by his girl’s wet, inviting mouth. his throat, ever so hateful and restricting, didn’t welcome it when your cockhead pushed past his uvula and entered the warm, sticky entrance of his throat and pushed past the threshold. his flesh constricted around your growing, deepening length that delved deeper into his restricting throat—sampo tried his best not to pull away the longer that your cock rested inside of his throat, and almost preened in glorious praise when the pad of your right hand’s thumb swiped away the tears that slipped from his eyes and rode down his lips.

“such a pretty girl, aren’t you?” you huffed, looking down at him with your lips splitting into a lustful smirk and your eyes full with something kin to the primal instinct of animalistic heat fueled into your body, before pulling him off of your now glistening, wet, spit-covered dick. credits to sampo who now was inhaling buckets of oxygen with tears covering his face, driving down to cover his neck, and his lipgloss now smudged on your dick and spread across its length. “c’mere, pretty girl,” you mumbled, holding a hand towards him, which was soon filled with his gorgeous navy blue hair, and guiding him back towards your dick’s tip, “be good for daddy, won’t you?” he nodded, always wanting to be good for his master and ready to please you even if his throat attempted to reject your thick, girthy cock that belonged in the deepest depths of him. “that’s right,” you groaned, a dimpled smile on your face, “thaat’s my girl.”

in a matter of minutes, after your cock had been throughly sucked and his throat had been painted with a mural of your sperm aligning it, your work, that you definitely needed and deserved a break from, was entirely forgotten. thanks to your pretty, adorable boy always ready to tend to your whims and wants. after adorning your favorite set of lingerie—a lacey, creamy-white bra and panty set with embroidered stocks covering his god-like legs and mid-thigh—and posed himself like a playboy bunny model, his legs spread and tits pretty, inviting and welcoming your dick to be stuffed within his already prepped, glistening, sticky pussy. his liquids soaked through and completely drenched the part of his panties that covered his lower half to which he moved the wet folds in order to expose his intermost intimate to you: his daddy.

“don’t wear a condom, daddy,” sampo moaned once you were successfully mounted on top of him, his hands slinking upwards from your abs and towards your shoulders in order to wrap around your neck, and his panty-covered pussy pushed up against your erect cock. “wanna. .” his voice went soft like silk and sweet like honey the longer your eyes stayed interwoven with each other and your body leaned down in order for your lips to meet in a sweet, sentimental kiss, “wanna feel you. . here,” he used his free hand to grab yours and press it against the waistband of his panties, slowly moving it upwards until he pressed you down on where he believed was on top of his uterus. “and wanna feel our babies growing in here.” sampo’s emerald eyes never lost yours.

you’re his painter, and he’s your muse—even if the paint is your cum and his pussy is the canvas.

“daddy! daddy, daddy, daddy, hnnnggh–daddy!” sampo called out, his face stuffed deep into pillow that carried wet droplets of tears and blotches of saliva that left his mouth whenever you had entered him fully. your trimmed pubic hair was soaked with his liquids when his pussy kissed the base of your dick and dropped slick onto your balls. he’s fucking wet and nasty and dirty and you, his dear daddy, can’t help but raise your hand a land a slap on his plump ass cheek, leaving a red handprint in your wake.

“you’re a nasty girl–mmph, aren’t you, baby?” you asked, grunts and groans leaving you the longer you pounded into him. your hand, full of his panties that hung onto his waist for dear fucking life, let loose of his panties in order to land another rough slap against his already burning ass cheek in order to wake him up from his cock-drunk daze and answer your question.

“ye—nngh, yes! yesyesyes,” sampo moaned out, saliva dripping down his chin and his hands having fistfulls of the sheet beneath him, nodding rapidly in confirmation of your words. “i–ah! i’m a naughty girl, daddy, your naughty girl! ah, ffuck! daddy’s naughty girl, can’t get enough of daddy’s—oooh god!” sampo cut himself off from confessing that he can’t get enough of your raw, barbaric dick pistoning in and out of his pussy, the sounds of primal, animalistic sex and your fluids mixing with his filled his ears and fuck—he knows he’s daddy’s dirty, naughty, sinful girl. you let out a huff of amusement, that transforming into pure lust when you ripped his panties in half and tossed them aside. they were getting in the way, for fucks sake! you couldn’t get deep enough in his pussy with those fucking things in the way. you pulled him closer by the grip your had on his waist, your dick burying deeper than ever inside him, making sampo one-hundred-and-twenty-two percent sure you’re pressing past his uterus. and, by god, it felt good.

“daddy’s—mmm, baby, fuck, daddy’s gonna by you new ones, yeah? gonna get my baby pretty again. .” you moaned into his ear, your lips kissing the shell and your breath infiltrating it in a way that made his pussy quiver around your length. your chest now pressed against his back, your hips thrusting inside of him to chase the orgasm that’ll be sure to get him pregnant, and your hands intertwined for that hint of kindness to cover all the animal instincts rushing inside of you. sampo, his mind blank and pussy spasming around your thick dick that’s sure to leave him gaping and walking on shaky legs for days, nodded, your words becoming mush in his brain, and responding with a muffled ‘thank you, daddy’ with a sobbing moan to follow. a gasp, sharp and shocked and loud, chased with tears and a full-shiver left sampo’s mouth before he bit into the pillow. muffled moans followed. that’s how you know you delivered, because he came on your bare, raw dick. you came soon after due to the overwhelming warmth coating your dick in a sticky, gooey liquid that forces your cum to coat his insides and breed your pretty, messy, dirty girl.

you stay inside him for a little longer, chasing after your breath with the sweat sticking the two of you together, and sampo let our quiet, aching moans when you slowly slipped out of him. the sight of him ticky and wet and your cum intertwining with each other’s made your dick twitch and let out a few more ropes of cum that covered his back. the two of you, through slow, sweet kissed and fond, sentimental touches, somehow got into the shower, where sampo gave you leg-shaking blowjob and you, in return, fingered him until he let out two more orgasms just from your fingers. after changing the sheets, getting dressed, and sampo pressing soft kisses on your chest, collarbone, and lips, it was finally time for sleep. work can wait, tomorrow can wait, because you and your pretty wife are together after a night of passionate, intense sex and—

“daddy. . i want a new car.”

oh god. then again, who are you to deny the mother of your children?

“of course, princess,” you said, tucking away his bangs and pressing a kiss to his forehead, “of course.”

© vampdes . do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

[marksbear2]

Homelander getting pregnant by male reader?

HOMELANDER X TOP MALE READER

⚠️Warnings- Slutty Homelander, breeding kink, slut shaming, degrading, dirty talk, rough play, homelander is wearing his hero costume, and etc ⚠���

Everything felt so wrong to Homelander. His thoughts were clouded but still thinking about his own image and pride.

He swears that he’ll never do this again, he swore that he would never ever even do something like this again. That was what he told himself last time, then the time after that.

Though hate filled his mind, moans and sharp gasps were leaving his lips.

Homelander’s arms was held behind his back as well as his cape getting tugged from behind as well. Homelander could feel your cock going deeper and deeper inside him with ease.

The supe lost track of time, his mind dazed from getting fucked for hours. Cum dripping down from Homelander’s cock, into the already mess he made in between his legs, the free space between his red boots his own made lied.

Homelander tried to speak out pleas to stop and begging to do anything but this but you didn’t listen.

The blond’s mouth hung open panting and gasping with the occasionally groan when your cock hits a certain spot. Some of the cum spilling out of his overfilling hole creating a even more mess in between his legs.

He could feel his hole getting even more and more full, he already had the cum still inside him from the previous rounds, but you showed no sign at stopping anytime soon.

You held Homelander by his wrist keeping his hands together and at his back. You pushed him forward and back fucking him onto your cock. Homelander’s eyes would flare red with his laser each time your cock abuses the very sensitive prostate.

Homelander felt pathetic, powerless, and angry since he couldn’t do anything but just to moan and take your cock like a little slut. Homelander could hear your deep breathing from behind him and it honestly just made his back arch from lust and neediness.

As your hand slapped his ass leaving a red print, he moans even more as he gasped his body jerking toward away from you. You only let out a mocking laugh as you tugged his cape so his body goes back down on your cock.

Which each thrust Homelander’s hole leaked out the cum.

“St—stop!~ Mphnm!~” Homelander moaned out with a gasp, he truly couldn’t take it anyone. Homelander let out a sensitive moan since you began to thrust more harshly.

“Such a good slut for me. Right such a good slut.” You taunted, dropping the hold of his cape before reaching out to him grabbing his jaw forcing his head towards him. John was forced to look at you, his eyes were shaking with pleasure. You moved your hand to his mouth forcing it open, so you can hear his noises even more.

“I’m so c-close alright? And you better take it, take every damn drop.” You whispered into his ear. Homelander let out an noise in defiance.

Homelander thrashed around struggling in your hold, but you kept thrusting holding his head in place.

“Isn’t this what you always wanted? I’m going to breed you with my kids. Huh you hear me?”

“You’re gonna be all full with my kids, John.” You whispering pressing your mouth to his ear.

Homelander only lets out a moan in return. He wanted to fight and scream at you, but he couldn’t deny the pleasure he was feeling. You were pushing him to his limit.

Homelander notices how your thrust are getting stronger and more sloppy are you chased your orgasm.

Then he felt it.

Homelander eyes turned to his laser red eyes as he felt you release even more of your seed into him.

Homelander’s hands twitched in your hold as his knees buckled inwards, as even more cum spills out of his hole. Homelander couldn't even notice the smirk you had on your face.

“Such a good supe, you’re the greatest hero in the world. The greatest supe at taking a fucking dick in your ass. And you love it.” You degrade whispering into his ear.

“I’m going to empty my damn balls inside of you, you damn slut. Your gonna be filled with cum to the point it’s the only thing you think about.”

“Hear me, John?”

“Your gonna be my little cum slut forever.”

THE END

[theseventhdimension]

Tugging on Your Patience

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Top! Gn! Reader

Word Count: 2.8k+

DNI: Minors (-18)

Author's Note: Oh my stars I think this is the longest fic I've ever written?? What can I say, I get carried away just thinking about him 😼 Ugh this is so sexy, I might just have to go back and reread (Reid, hah.) some of my own works..

Hope you Enjoy! :))

If you asked Spencer why he grew his hair long, he couldn’t answer you. Not really. He’d fidget, offer up some excuse about avoiding barber shops or how it saves time in the mornings. Maybe even try to spin it into something intellectual — evolutionary biology, facial framing, historical figures with long hair.

But none of that’s true.

The real reason? It’s you. It’s the memory of your fingers fisting in his hair, dragging his head back with just enough force to make his breath hitch, spine arch, knees buckle. It’s the pain that bloomed at the base of his scalp, sharp and hot, overridden only by the absolute authority in your voice when you leaned in close and said, “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

He dreams about it. Not just at night — during briefings, on the plane, when he’s alone in the file room pretending to reorganize. His mind goes hazy at the mere thought of it: the way your grip made everything else go quiet, the way his mouth stayed open but nothing came out, because all his words had been yanked out of him with that single, commanding pull.

He lets his curls grow longer now, unruly and soft, a silent invitation. Daring you to take what’s already yours. He never says it out loud — not even to himself — but every time he catches your gaze lingering, he wonders if you’re thinking about it too. Wondering if you remember how pliant he went under your hand. How he didn't even want to fight it.

God, he wants it again.

Wants to feel your breath against his ear as you remind him who he belongs to. Wants to feel powerless beneath the weight of your gaze, your grip, your voice — low and cruel in the way he secretly adores. Wants to fall apart from nothing but the pressure of your fingers tugging hard, harder, dragging his attention back to you when it dares to stray.

You don’t need cuffs. You never did. Not when you can unravel him with nothing but your hand in his hair and a quiet, razor-sharp “Focus.”

And so he keeps it long. Keeps waiting. Because one day, he knows, you'll get tired of pretending. And when you do, he’ll drop to his knees for you without needing to be told.

You noticed, of course. How could you not?

The way Spencer’s hair has been getting longer, wilder, almost defiant in the way it brushes the collar of his shirt. At first, you figured it was just laziness — too many cases, not enough time. But it kept growing. Past his ears. Curling into his eyes. Falling in soft waves that beg to be grabbed, yanked, twisted.

It’s not laziness. It’s bait. And he’s been dangling it in front of you like a dare.

You’ve caught him watching you. Not in that wide-eyed, doe-like wonder he used to wear when he thought you’d never notice. No — now it’s darker. Intentioned. Testing. Every time he tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, he glances up from beneath his lashes, just to see if you’re looking. Every time he sighs and it flutters into his face, he waits. Waits to see if you’ll snap.

He wants you to snap.

And you’ve been good — patient. Cruel, even, in the way you let him stew in it. But tonight, he’s pushing.

He’s late. Purposefully so. Slow, dramatic steps into your apartment like he wants to be scolded. His hair’s damp from the rain, curls sticking to his forehead. His tie is half undone, shirt sleeves rolled up, lips already parted like he’s expecting to be told to shut them.

“Sorry,” he says, too casual. “Got caught up.”

You don’t say anything. You just lean back in the chair, watching. He’s already fidgeting.

The silence stretches.

He shifts his weight, mouth twitching like he wants to fill it. Instead, he steps closer, slow, deliberate. Testing again.

“You’re staring,” he says.

You hum. Still no words.

He swallows. His hands twitch at his sides.

And then, soft — almost innocent — “You don’t like my hair?”

There it is.

You lift your eyes to his and tilt your head. “You think I haven’t noticed what you’ve been doing?”

A flicker of something hot flashes across his face. Satisfaction. Shame. Lust. All tangled together.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Lie. Bold, reckless. You see the way his pulse jumps in his throat, the way he shivers under your voice. The air between you sizzles with anticipation.

You rise, slow enough that he freezes. And when you reach out — fingers threading through his rain-damp curls — you feel the sharp gasp he tries to swallow down.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you murmur, tugging just enough for his breath to stutter. “I think you know exactly what you’ve been doing.”

He lets out a choked sound, knees threatening to buckle. His pupils blow wide.

“I grew it for you,” he admits, voice trembling. “I wanted— I needed—”

You yank harder. His mouth drops open in a silent moan. “Fuck—”

“I know what you wanted,” you growl into his ear. “You’ve been practically begging for it.”

He’s shaking now, and it’s beautiful — how easy he crumbles. How quickly he melts into obedience the second you take control. But not fully. Not yet.

Because then — the little brat — he smirks. Smirks.

“Maybe you should’ve done something about it sooner.”

..Oh?

Oh. He wants to suffer tonight.

Your grip tightens. You twist your fist in his curls and wrench his head back until he gasps, mouth parted, neck exposed, every breath frantic.

“You think being a smartass is going to get you what you want?”

“No,” he whispers, the smirk on his face unwavering. “But disobedience usually gets your attention.”

Your laugh is low, dangerous. You lean in until your lips just graze his ear. “Oh, Spencer. You want punishment that badly?”

He whimpers. Actually whimpers.

“Then kneel.” He drops so fast it’s pathetic. Like he was waiting —aching— for the command.

And when you release your grip, he stares up at you, hair wild, lips parted, chest heaving. Desperate. Beautiful.

Yours. He kneels like he was made for it.

Hands behind his back, thighs shaking just enough to betray how hard he’s trying to behave. Eyes blown wide with need. Mouth open, waiting. Wanting. Worshipping.

And you just stand there. Watching him.

He shifts under your gaze, the silence wrapping tight around his ribs. You can see him fighting not to speak. Not to beg. But his restraint is already unraveling.

You step closer. Let your fingers trail under his chin, tipping his head up. His breath hitches — caught halfway between anticipation and panic.

You lean in, close enough that your breath ghosts across his lips, but you don’t kiss him. No. That would be a reward. And he hasn't earned it yet.

"You know," you murmur, voice low and dangerous, “I could ruin you.”

His eyes flutter shut for a second, the words hitting him like a physical blow. But you’re not done — not even close.

“I could make you sob just by tugging your hair and whispering all the filthy things I want to do to you. I could keep you on your knees for hours, hands tied, mouth stuffed, tears running down that pretty face.”

He lets out a shaky breath, his back arching ever so slightly.

“I could have you begging,” you purr, bending until your mouth is at his ear. “Begging for release, begging for mercy — and I’d give you neither.”

You feel the shiver ripple through him, the way his thighs press tighter together, trying to ease the ache. But you’re cruel tonight. Merciful only in restraint.

“But I won’t,” you whisper, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Because I like you just like this. Flushed. Shaking. Desperate.”

You smile when he whimpers. It’s a pretty sound.

“You think I don’t see it? How hard you try to provoke me? Acting out like a brat because you want to be punished?”

He nods frantically. “Yes—yes, I—”

“Ah, ah.” You grip his jaw, firm but not painful, forcing his mouth shut. “Don’t speak unless I ask.”

His pupils dilate, chest heaving. He nods again, smaller this time, obedient. Good.

You crouch slowly, lowering yourself to his level. He watches you like you’re divine — untouchable. You can feel the tension radiating off him, like a coiled spring just waiting to be snapped.

“You don’t get what you want just because you’re beautiful,” you murmur, brushing a knuckle down his cheek. “But lucky for you…”

You lean in, mouth barely grazing his jaw as you whisper—

“I’m feeling generous.”

He exhales a soft, broken moan, and it makes you grin — wicked and slow.

Because he still doesn’t know what kind of mercy you’re willing to give.

And you plan to show him. Inch by inch.

You rise to your feet slowly, letting the weight of your gaze drag over every trembling inch of him. Spencer’s still on his knees, chest heaving like he’s run miles, though you haven’t even touched him properly.

You like that. You like knowing he’s undone by nothing but your voice and the promise of your hands.

“You want to cum?” you ask casually, circling him like a predator.

He nods, frantic. “Yes—please, I—”

You stop behind him. “Did I say you could speak?”

He chokes on the breath he tries to form into words, head bowing. “No. No, you didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Mmh,” you hum thoughtfully, letting your fingers drift into his hair. You grip it at the roots, tight, and yank his head back until his neck is exposed, mouth parted, eyes fluttering.

“You’re always sorry,” you murmur against the soft skin behind his ear. “But you never learn.”

He shudders violently, moaning through clenched teeth as you tug again — hard enough to hurt. You hold him there, suspended in that delicious edge between agony and ecstasy.

“You think if you push me hard enough, I’ll break and give you what you want.” Your tone sharpens, dangerous. “You think if you pout and whine and act out, I’ll lose control and just fuck you senseless.”

He whimpers — and you feel his spine twitch. He’s close. Closer than he deserves to be.

“But here’s the thing, Spencer,” you whisper, biting at his earlobe before you release his hair and step back. He sways without your touch, completely unmoored. “You don’t get to have control over me.”

His hands twitch like he wants to grab you, but he doesn’t. He knows better.

You walk in front of him again, crouching low, forcing him to look you in the eyes. He’s glassy and flushed, pupils eclipsing every trace of honey brown. You press your fingers to his jaw.

“If you want release,” you murmur, “you ask. Properly.”

His lip trembles. “Please…” he breathes. “Please, I need it—need you. I’ll be good, I swear, just… please let me cum.”

You tilt your head. “Hmm. That sounded like begging.”

“It is,” he gasps. “I’m begging you. I can’t—I’ll do anything, just please.”

You consider him for a moment longer, watching him fall apart from the inside out.

You lift your boot.

And press.

Right into the soft heat of his pelvis. Lightly at first, just enough to make him gasp.

“Go on, then,” you murmur, grinding the ball of your foot in slow, deliberate circles. “You wanted to be used so badly. Let’s see how pathetic you can be for me.”

His moan is ragged, nearly torn from his throat. You watch the flush crawl down his chest as he ruts forward against your boot like an animal starved. So desperate. So willing. His hips jerk forward with every breath, chasing the friction, his eyes locked on yours like he’s terrified you’ll pull away.

But you don’t.

You lean in.

“You know I could make you do this all night,” you whisper, the edge of a sneer curling at your lips. “Could keep you on the floor, humping my shoe like a needy little bitch while I sit back and watch. Would you like that, Spencer?”

“Yes,” he gasps. “God, yes—anything.”

You apply a little more pressure, enough to make his voice crack.

“Oh, I know you would,” you coo, dragging your foot just a fraction lower, enough to make him tremble. “You’d thank me for it, too. Wouldn’t you?”

“I—thank you,” he breathes, panting through gritted teeth, “thank you, thank you—”

You laugh, slow and cruel and fond all at once.

“God, look at you,” you murmur. “What a mess.”

He whines at that — broken, needy — grinding harder against your foot now, sweat sticking his hair to his face, lashes wet with the threat of tears.

But still, you don’t let him cum. Not yet. Not until he learns how to suffer for it properly.

You watch him grind against your boot with single-minded desperation, every inch of him trembling, taut with need. He’s soaked with sweat, flushed to the tips of his ears, panting like he’s just run miles — but he hasn’t moved more than a few inches, just rutting in helpless, pitiful thrusts against the smooth leather of your shoe.

You tilt your head and click your tongue. “That’s it? All that genius and this is the best you can do? Grinding like a virgin on prom night?”

He lets out a whimper, humiliation blooming hot across his face. But he doesn’t stop. Can’t.

You lean closer, voice low, warm, dripping with venomous affection. “I could let you cum like this,” you breathe, your fingers ghosting under his chin, tilting his flushed face up to meet your gaze. “Could let you ruin yourself all over my boot like the needy little thing you are.”

Spencer's lips part, a moan hitching in his throat.

“But I won’t,” you continue, sweet and sharp, dragging your thumb over his cheekbone. “Because I like watching you suffer.”

Your foot pulls back just as he bucks again — and he chokes on the denial, collapsing forward with a strangled cry, forehead hitting your thigh as he gasps through it. Desperate. Shaking. Almost sobbing.

“Oh, Spence,” you sigh, carding your fingers through his damp hair with false sympathy. “Were you close? That’s such a shame.”

He nods against you, his voice broken. “P-please—please, I was—please, I’ll do anything—”

You grip his curls and yank his head back, just hard enough to draw a hiss from his lips. His eyes go wide, lips swollen, breathing ragged.

“Anything, huh?” You smirk, eyes dark. “You’ll beg, you’ll cry, you’ll grind yourself raw and still thank me for the privilege.”

“Yes,” he whispers, wrecked. “Yes, please, I’ll—I need it, I need you, please I'll do anything, you can fuck me I promise, please just—”

“You don’t need to cum,” you snap, low and cruel and loving it. “You need to learn. And you don't need tell me you'll let me fuck you, I was already planning on it.”

And with that, you press your foot back to him. Not enough friction. Not enough to get him there.

Just enough to torment.

He gasps, whines, sobs. And still, he moves.

You watch, calm and content, as Spencer Reid fucks himself on your boot like the desperate little thing he is, crying from the overstimulation, from the aching tension in his gut, from how badly he wants it.

And how perfectly you won’t give it to him. Not yet. Not until he’s completely broken.

[fortheb0ys]

PHILLIP GRAVES × TOP MALE READER

I want to spend the rest of my life fucking and sucking Graves😫👍Not proofread and kinda sucks cause I wrote this sleepy. FEM & MINORS DNI!!

Graves was your little bitch. He knew it. You knew it.

His men probably now know it by the way he was moaning like a whore grinding against both your clothed cocks together.

"Come on, Y/N. L-let me take it."

"You sure there? Looks like you could cum right here."

"I w-want it inside." Graves whimpers, feeling himself come undone.

"What's the magic word, sir?" You grab his hip, making him stop his movements. Graves tries to wriggle to try and get some friction but your grip was too strong.

"P-please, Y/N. I want you to cum in my ass." Graves felt his cheeks reddening, embarrassed at the sound of his own voice.

Your baby amused you. He was the captain of your team and but it seems like he would be the one calling you 'sir'.

"Well, since you asked nicely, I guess I'll give you what you." You say while patting Graves' hip to signal him to left his weight off for a moment while you take off both yours and his pants and underwear.

Graves moans as his erect cock touches the cold air.

You fall back onto Graves' desk chair, making him settle into your lap. You begin searching his bottom drawer for your secret lube but Graves' hand grabs your wrist tightly, stopping you.

"I'm ready. P-promise."

"Sir, we gotta prep you. I didn't wanna hurt you, sweetheart."

"No, really. I'm ready."

Graves reaches behind himself to pull out a dark green buttplug that was hidden between his perfect ass.

"Oh, you weren't lying. And staying on brand I see." You say as a large smile adorned your face.

"Yup. I played with myself this morning and was hoping we'd get a little fun time." Graves matches you smile, happy he'd finally get his ass stuffed with your cock and not just a plug.

"My smart commander is always prepared, isn't he?"

"Yep-yep. Y/N's smart boy."

You pull out the plug. Graves let's out a moan. He tightens to feel the drag of the toy against his walls.

At this point Graves was shaking like a leaf. Overwhelmed and coming undone. Only you, his precious little soldier could make him like that.

"Hurry, Y/N! That's an order." Graves commands as you position the tip of your cock at his entrance

"Sir, yes, sir." And without any further wait you slam into Graves, your balls touching his ass. A loud gasp is knocked exit his mouth and his eyes begin to tear up.

You didn't give him any time to adjust before you began thrusting in and out. With each motion, Graves moans turned into whimpers. The sheets began to run wet with sweat.

Graves is deep in pleasure, some much so he can't keep his eyes open. Tears were clouding his vision. Squeezing them tight as he focuses on you deep inside him.

"No, keep them open. I wanna see those baby blues."

Your thumb push to open his eyelids. Even more tears spill out. You smirk as his eyes roll back. God was he breathtaking. Eyes too clear for a man like him.

"Look at you, sir. You're so pretty around my cock."

At your words, Graves let a moans. He was always a slut for praise. He was so used to giving it but receiving it was a treat. So it was no surprise to you when you first found out it was his kink. He wanted to close his eyes again but wanted to be a good boy.

"Yep-yep. 'M pretty boy." Graves choked out. He felt completely drunk without even taking alcohol. Everything phased out of his mind but you.

No war. No pain.

Just you and him.

Your thrust were never consistent. Just sloppy and fast. Graves tight heat was always enough to throw off your rythm. Your inconsistencies added to the pleasure as Graves was never sure when you'd thrust so he didn't know when to expect it.

The sound of your balls hitting Graves' ass and both his and yours moans filled his office.

"God, sir. You're so fucking loud. But you don't care do you. You'd love for them to fuck you too, right?"

Your thrust become relentless, feeling that you were close to coming undone. By the way Graves was having a hard time forming words it seems him was too.

" 'M not sure if t-they'll take me seriously if they do."

"Nah, they would. Hell, they'll go the extra mile on missions in hopes you'd let them fuck this tight ass and gag you with their cocks."

"Oh my f-fucking God. P-please."

"Would you like that, sir? Your beloved men lining up to fuck you like a slut. You'd take them so well. Such a good reward for following your orders without question."

"Y-yes, please yes."

With that fantasy ingrained in his mind, Graves was so close to cumming. His walls tighten around you telling you so. Getting the message you grab his dick and start jacking him off, trying but failing to match with your trusts.

"S-so full."

"Now just think we can get someone to fuck you. Think about how even more filled you'd be. Can you take more than one cock, sir?"

"F-fuck yeah. God, it'd feel so good."

Graves places his hand on his belly, the imprint of your cock prominent. He loved the fullness you gave him and just another cock would give him such a pleasurable pain. He squeezes suddenly and sends a shock down your spine.

"Y/N, 'm close." Graves whimpers.

"Same. Let go for me, sir."

With that Graves paints his chest and your fist white with you cumming as well. The two of you lay there panting, trying to collect yourselves. You rest your forehead against Graves whispering that he's done well. He closes his eyes as gave him kisses between your words.

"God, that was good." He finally says, his voice hoarse.

"You're always good." You bring your hand and lick up Graves' cum, tasting his delicious mess.

"You serious about what you said? That'd they still respect me?"

"Hell yeah." You assure him again with a confident smile.

"Call them up." Graves smirks just thinking of the fun that awaits them.

[casinocarpediem]

• 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐀𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐥 •

~~~

𝐓𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐣𝐞𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐚𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲

~~~

• ── ⋆⋅♤♡♧◇⋅⋆ ── •

~ cis! Bottom! Cecil Dennis x Gender Neutral! Top! Reader (there's not enough content of my sweetheart so I'm taking it as my responsibility)

~ Cecil is a little drunk but not too drunk, he can still definitely consent at this state but he's just a little loopy (whether he has alcohol in his system or not he's always loopy anyways lmao)

~ kissing, humping, cock slapping, rubbing, some beer, jacking off, Cecil is a noisy boy, exhibitionism, semi public sex

~ drabble (short-ish)

• ── ⋆⋅♤♡♧◇⋅⋆ ── •

You're at a party with some friends. Some friends you barely even knew. Only popping in because of the alcohol here, and some house exploration. Its a good excuse to roam around places where you definitely shouldn't be going.

And then you meet Cecil. Sitting their on the couch, was he sleeping? Maybe he wa–... nevermind. He's definitely awake. Bottle brought to his mouth and all. You can't help but wander at his stupid outfit. That green old denim jacket and the same old grey sando that would show off his tits to the world. Like it didn't matter to Cecil. Oh, but it definitely mattered to you.

Walking up to him, you can't help but sweet talk him out. Convince him to follow you cause you know a place with more beer. (Technically, you weren't lying. The not so hidden storage room provided a lot of cheap booze and other snacks.)

Of course he says yes, with some small reluctance of not wanting to get off his comfy spot at the couch. He follows you. And you get there and pop a few beers while talking about life and catching up on things.

Eventually. You kiss him, which wasn't the first time anyways so Cecil wasn't as shocked. And it had turned into something a little more desperate. Like humping against each other, tongues sliding against each other so warm while you grope his tits and he squeezes your rear with the same excitement.

Eventually you get his pants off. Stroking his cock through his boxers while he leans his head back against the shelf. Not bothering to quiet down his noises despite the very threat that anybody could catch them. The music was louder anyways. Hand on his crotch, lightly stroking his dick while torturously thumbing the tip of his dick with the edge of your nail and he sobs softly. Leaning his head against your hair, because your face was busy burying itself in his neck. Biting the skin.

You hit him there, not too rough not too soft. Cecil's always been a good boy anyways, and he could take whatever you gave him. So he very pleasantly gasps, his hands squeezing your arm while he whines afterwards. Even the shock surprising him. Until it turns into sobs mixed with soft moaning when you hit him there again and again. Against his balls and his shaft.

That was enough teasing anyways, so you remove his hand and he fucking whimpers. Mourning for the loss of contact. But he quickly stops once you free his cock against the slight cold air of the storage room, shivers against the chill and starts moaning again when you strong his cock. So sensitive and so pink at the tip, basically just inviting you to come unravel him. Maybe in a while again, until the both of you two are in the mood and you'll bring him to a little motel and make him cum until he goes blind.

The mere thought has you squeezing his cock, he swears again. Panting like he's ran a marathon. Looking at you with the softest puppy eyes, it makes you pity him.

So you go a little faster, making sure to softly squeeze and rub his tip with your fingers and palm for even more sensation and to also spread his precum so that moving up and down became easier and easier.

He swears again. This time in a more whiney voice. Degrade him. Call him a bitch for it even, emphasizing on the idea that anybody could stop and walk in and see himself in such a depraved state.

He'll moan louder this time, legs squeezed together slightly as he cums. You jerk him off faster, completely milking him until theres nothing left to offer, covering the concrete floor with his kids.

What does this do? It leaves you with a very sleepy Cecil. So you kiss him on the forehead and he kisses you back and offer him a drive home back to his lovely girlfriend who offers you some chocolate cake for bringing him back home safe in one piece.

𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬.

[j4rhead]

can i request rubbing kaeyas cock thru his underwear and not directly tocuhing him? making him cum in his boxers with only small touches and make out🤭

the following work contains: nsfw, gn reader, dom reader, very small bit about alcohol and drinking (in true kaeya fashion)

i got sorta carried away and wrote a lot cause i love kaeya, i hope to have characterized him correctly. please don't mind typos, I've proofread this but there might be some i didn't catch.

the cavalry captain is surely... something. he's polite, pleasant to have a conversation with, playful and teasing with an occasional flirt here and there—nothing that makes you uncomfortable, of course.

it's easy to see that it's nothing but a very carefully crafted mask. the man reveals almost nothing about himself save for the fact that he occasionally enjoyes a drink in the angel's share, and some weird story about his grandfather being a hardcore pirate (you don't believe a word of it).

you're burning with curiosity to know more, maybe catch him off guard, see how his mask breaks into pieces and what he's like without it, so that's how you find yourself heading for the angel's share that evening to have another chat with kaeya.

you end up having a few drinks with him, a few bits of conversation and the usual flirt. you can tell he's careful about how much he drinks in front of another person. he's not drunk yet and neither are you, but you feel the urge to do something bold like sliding your hand on top of his, so you do exactly that.

you catch the way his eyes widen slightly before he corrects his expression to a smirk and a playful quip that you don't catch because you're too busy staring intensely at his face, and you suddenly realize that he would look good wearing a broken, flushed expression, maybe even squirming underneath you.

you can't tell if that's the alcohol catching up to you or not and you frankly do not care.

never been one to beat around the bush, you inch your face closer to his and look into his eyes—you want to see if he would still have the mind to put on a facade when you start with him. he looks at you like he's analyzing your intentions, looks away for a brief second, then leans in with a teasing smile.

you two make out for what must've been minutes before you part, both flushed and panting slightly and you can see that he's somewhat aroused if his tight horseriding pants are showing you correctly, so you wordlessly signal with your head and smirk, and he replies with his signature wink (which isn't really a wink... because of the eyepatch).

rest of the motions go in a blur. next thing you know, you're pressing him against a door to some mondstadt hotel's room—of course he would be too cautious to bring me home, you think to yourself— and you're kissing him senseless.

you can tell he wants to take control of the kiss, but you bite his bottom lip and you force him back into your rhythm. your hand finds its way inside the chest window of his annoyingly complicated attire and with the briefest touch of your fingers against his skin, he gasps into your mouth.

touch starved and sensitive all over, it seems. your other hand drops to his waist and ghosts along his hips, noting how he shivers slightly at the touch as you push a knee between his legs and lick at his lips. he lets out a noise at the touches, his mouth forms a half-smirk before he opens it for you to deepen the kiss, which only makes you want to break him even more.

he hasn't exactly given in to you, rather it seems like he's enjoying this way too much to try and reverse the positions, so you take advantage of that and push your knee a bit higher against his clothed arousal. he tries to muffle his moan into your kiss so you pull back, looking at his flushed expression and feeling the way he practically heats up under your touch. he looks back at you in a daring way as if he's trying to challenge you, try and see what you can do, that's the wordless message written on his expression.

you smirk at him with confidence, dragging your hand from his hip to the very obvious tent in his pants and when you grab him through the fabric he jerks a bit from the grip before arching his back a bit into your touch and letting out a breathy moan, hands coming up to your neck and pulling you back inside for another deep kiss. this time he manages to take control of the kiss before taking revenge for your previous bite with one of his own and you think to yourself, challenge accepted.

if he wants to tease, then you'll do it to him tenfold. you tease him with feather touches on his dick then switching to rougher pulls, and you can tell he's getting more riled up and desperate by the second with the way he shuts his visible eye tightly and his breathing becomes more rapid and irregular, moans increasing in volume no matter how hard he tries to muffle them, and when you kiss the sharp edge of his jawline he squirms under your touch with a shaky gasp.

his hands slide down to grip the back of your clothes tightly while he tries to push you closer to him if that's even possible, flushed all over and cursing and a mantra of "more, fuck, pleasepleaseplease-" falling from his lips as his voice breaks slightly, somewhat deepened with pleasure and arousal, and you kiss his lips rougher than any kiss you two shared the whole night.

in a matter of seconds he arches his back and lets out a loud pretty sound against your lips and his whole body tenses like a spring, his hands gripping the back of your clothes so tightly that you fear they would rip, and his knees threaten to give out with the force of his orgasm. his expression is everything you could have asked for—flushed and lost in utter bliss as his eye looks at you in a glassy daze.

you can't help but smirk at the wet patch forming in front of his pants. who knew the famous captain kaeya, ever the mystery, would break so easily under a few touches? you have half a mind to tease him about it or maybe even shame him, see what clever witty thing he'll come up to reply with, and then finally getting rid of his very annoyingly complicated attire. after all, you've got him to yourself for a whole night, haven't you?

[sleep-0-deprived]

can i ask for the yan!roommate's reaction to the reader finding the camera in the bathroom and purposefully jacking off in front of it?

just found out about this blog and i am already hyped we need more subby yans in the world

Yandere roommate imagines (sub Yandere oc) ~!

A/N so the Yandere is just a random Oc you can imagine it as whoever I just needed a name for the fic! And you’re totally right there aren’t nearly enough sub Yandere as I’d like <33

Imagine you just got home from the gyms and all you wanna do is get into your shower you don’t have many other thoughts in your brain, you would have used the shower at the game but you have a “problem”~ between your legs and you knew you had to get home.

Imagine, you’re stripping your clothes cutting the hot water on as the mirror begins to fog up, your cock pressing to your stomach with precum oozing from the slit as you step in the shower running your fingers through your hair letting out a quiet grunt. You notice something from the corner of your eye when you’re looking up at the shower head, confused you reach for it picking it up you realize it’s a camera.

Imagine you already know who put the camera there I mean how could you not? There was only one man you knew creepy enough to wanna watch you shower and that was you’re roommate, and you know you felt a little generous you thought since you were already hard why not give him a show.

Imagine you sit the camera on a bath shelf and start speaking “I know you’re watching me Lucas” you grin as you bend down a little making sure your face was in full view as you use one hand to run down giving your pec a firm squeeze before gripping at your shaft giving one long stroke. On the other end of the camera Lucas sat in his room in the shared apartment nearly going feral when he sees your hand on your cock.

Imagine his face all red laying originally across his bed he soon gets up hurriedly trapping his laptop making sure the door was locked as he shakily grips the device for dear life feeling himself already aroused by the sight of you touching yourself, wanting nothing more than for your cock to be stuffed inside him as he rubs himself up against his matress letting out a few whines of desperation.

Imagine your hand holding your cock pointed straight at the camera giving him the perfect shot of your veins pulsing beneath your fingers while you bite at your bottom lip “didn’t know u had a total creep of a roommate, Lucas?~” you coo hazily standing in the shower the water running down your body down past your thighs with a few heaves meanwhile Lucas on the other hand wasn’t nearly as calm.

Imagine his hands fumbling with his zipper sitting the laptop on his bed as he pulls his boxers down placing the laptop on his pillows in front of his face as he drools, two fingers shoved between his lips with him laying on his stomach removing his fingers with them all coated in spit as he presses them to his rim pressing one finger in moving it in sync with your hand imagining it was your cock inside him as adrenaline fills his head making his body numb to the pleasure only becoming more infatuated with you each second as he murmurs out “y-es~” over and over.

Imagine when you cum you make sure your cock head is pointed directly at the camera lens, wanting him to see your red, angry looking tip when you climax. Your body tensing up intentionally not letting him see the face you make when you orgasm, only attempting to further tease your roommate with what he can’t seem to fully grasp hold of, which is you. “Hope you enjoyed my little show Lucas”

Imagine when Lucas sees that he’s in a whole other world of need, if he was feral before it was like he was a rabbit in the middle of heat because he pulled his hands away from himself with a little gasp while getting up not even bothering to turn his computer off, pouncing on you as soon as you make it to your bedroom with his brain all fuzzy and fast from your menacing taunts pulling your towel off.

Imagine your night ending with your roommate on top of you his thighs straddling you with his hands gripping your shoulders tightly mewling his lips all parted wide and his eyes half lidded and rolled back glossed over while he erratically lifts himself over and over again riding you harshly even when he feels like his rim is on fire from being stretched so long, you give his ass cheek a slap punching the ref handprint grumbling in his ear “this was what you wanted right?” As you hold his hip tightly grounding yourself deeper inside him pressing to his prostate roughly “then take it Lucas”

[2kiran]

“FEEL YOU”

pairing jaime lannister x reader genre smut reader is a male. top!reader x bottom!jaime cw drinking beforehand, reader has a big dick, first-time anal, mention of jaime being a whore (1), spit as lube, abrupt ending

Jaime Lannister despised you.

You were a new addition to the Kingsguard by the recommendation of a seasoned commander, and yes, you’re exceptionally skilled and determined and like no other man.

But you’re crude with a young ego festering like a deathly disease Westeros hasn’t come to discover yet.

You challenge Jaime—no, worse than that. You mock him, and you do it frustratingly well.

And Jaime hates all of it.

He hates you; your handsome grin that vanishes too quickly to be completely seen, your familiar frown that haunts his mind late at night, your stupid strength that immobilizes just about anyone, and your equally stupid, large cock.

One thing about Jaime was that he wasn’t a crippling alcoholic, gods no, but he drank and you drank and now he’s bent over a table in a dirty storage room.

The upper half of his armor and smallclothes remained worn, but his pants were loosely bunched around his ankles. You, on the other hand, were the exact definition of a nightmare. Your own pants were undone, and they were hanging around your thighs, but not enough to feel bare.

Then there was your hard cock. Your hand wrapped around the base, guiding the head of it to rub against Jaime’s clothed hole. He can feel how wet you’ve become, the slickness of your pre-cum dampening the soft material of his smallclothes.

It was disgusting. You were disgusting.

But that didn’t stop him from angling his hips backwards to press against you, as if he was wordlessly coaxing you to come fuck him like he was some easily disposable brothel whore. A status that he will never achieve, but he felt like he has. You were shamelessly rutting against him like an animal; your cock sliding right in between his lower cheeks but never entering him.

Gods, it was maddening. He can feel the weight of your cock, the mere thickness of it rubbing over his ass—and for once, he allowed himself to want another like this. Allowed himself to want a man, above all.

But you just had to tease him.

“Come on...” Jaime muttered through clenched teeth, not realizing that he did utter the words aloud until you respond with a low hum.

“Hm?”

“Fuck me,” he growled, a tinge of heat flushing his face. “That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

You breathe out a short laugh, “Not yet. Just let me feel you.”

He was going to have your head on a spike after this.

Though, the mere notion didn’t last long enough to take complete root into his head when you hook your thumb beneath the waistband of his smallclothes and tug them down, making Jaime let out an embarrassing gasp. He was dry, and his inexperience in receiving cock was nothing but guaranteed.

That won’t stop either of you, not when Jaime himself was eager.

Jaime instinctively arched his back as he folded one of his arms in front of him to act as a shield for his face while the other, the one with his only flesh hand, braced the edge of the furniture. He didn’t look your way, not yet at least, but he sensed you leaning down and that’s when he felt it.

Drool—slick and yours. It dripped over his untouched hole, and you spat directly against it once more in a way that had Jaime lightly biting down on the skin of his inner arm to suppress the pathetic whimper that wanted to escape him.

You gently pressed the pad of your finger against him, feeling up the intense coil of muscles attempting to resist the pleasure you were about to bring. “Stay still,” you whispered low, before slowly sinking your digit into his heat.

“I am—fuck,” his voice broke into a rough groan, his walls automatically clamping down around you. Both his mind and body uncertain if they want to push you out or keep you right where you belonged.

You gladly make the decision for him, and you carefully ease your finger in down to the last knuckle. The stretch itself was supposedly mild, but Jaime’s thighs shook with the solidified effort of keeping himself where he was. His brows drew together in a line, his muscles growing taut, but just for you, he tried to focus on breathing through his nose to have you know that he can take more.

It was a matter of reckless pride on his part, but there was no reason for applause.

...Perhaps there was, if only it was for the way Jaime’s hole swallowed your cock like a true king born to sit on the Iron Throne.

You were barely halfway inside, and the Golden Lion in front of you mentally concluded that it was more than enough. He whimpered—the small noise bitten-off and no less whiny, and stubbornly, it was decently masked with a sharp exhale. Your cock was so fucking thick and, even worse (or better), throbbing inside of him. Like you found pleasure in nowhere else besides torturing him.

“Wait,” Jaime barked, the command useless in his breathless tone.

“Is it too much, Kingslayer?” You teased, kindly brushing the palm of your hand over the small of his back to ease the tiniest of tremors currently ruling his skin. Though, your use of his supposed title that’s known for its derogatory nature was anything but.

You did not judge him for putting an end to the Mad King.

And that made Jaime unexpectedly clench down around you.

“Shut up—!” Jaime snapped, his chest heaving as he bucked backwards against you. Only to gasp when he realized too late that it caused you to sink further into him, “Ah! Haah, fuck—ah—don’t m-move until I tell you to.”

You huff, mildly exasperated, but you obey anyway.

Your actions were contrasting with his usual viewpoint of you—a man too cruel and too unloving to fuck someone else so considerately in spite of the agonizing words you speak. It made Jaime want to cry, both from how you were splitting him inside out and from how you were being somewhat kind towards him.

He felt an unreasonable gush of greed.

You didn’t belong to him, and he didn’t belong to you, but he sensed no inkling of an opposing front left if it came down to that.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

“Move. Now.”

There’s no way around other than to feel your cock sliding out of him inch by inch until only the head was being clung onto by his wet, stretched rim. Jaime panted, a bit irritated now, as he tilted his lower half to further accommodate and unmistakably please you.

“Tell me,” you whisper, leaning over his back, “How many men have fucked you like this?”

Slowly, you roll your hips, making him full once more.

“Mmh... n-none. ‘S just you—!” Jaime gasped, his words honest, the pressure sending a shudder across the length of his spine. “Just—hmmn—you!”

And you’ll make sure it stays that way.

[narcissistshandler]

we need more kaiser x mreader! can i have reader eating kaiser's sloppy pussy like a feast? i love your writing take care!!

　⸸ .ᐟ SWEET NECTAR

「 content. 」 hungry m!reader eating out afab!michael kaiser (blue lock) until his jaw hurts. 「 tɑgs 」 top!reader, bottom!kaiser, pussy/cunt/clit and others used to reference kaiser's sex, amab!reader, vaginal penetration, multiple orgasms, squirting, overstimulation, established relationship, fingering, no condom, slight pillow princess!kaiser, filthy and sloppy sex

a/n thanks anon! (this is not edited yet), hope you enjoy!

HIS blue eyes roll back in his head as he feels the orgasm shoot through him like an arrow, pussy contracting against your hot mouth, stomach hot and churning. Sensitivity scratches his skin like a knife.

"S-so good," you panted against him, all your murmur lost between his folds where your mouth buried itself. "You taste so good, Micha. I love it—love you—love eating you, coul'die between you' legs."

Shutting up would probably kill you.

Kaiser was so wet from the long minutes you spent eating him out that moisture coated his thighs; a filthy mix of sweat, slick, and saliva glistening on the insides of them. The bed below him was no better and the sheet stuck to his back. Kaiser wanted more than anything to take a second shower and clean himself up, but any rational thought slipped away when your tongue slid home ── into him again, with the same hunger as when you first opened his legs and buried yourself between them earlier.

Sex after he had done his whole nighttime ritual (as you called it) and gotten ready for bed: body warm from the shower, legs moisturized and boxers clean on his hips, was a definite no. You knew that. But you took advantage of his tiredness and irritation; you snuggled between his legs to lie on his stomach while he rewatched the match from hours ago. Kaiser gave you a suspicious look behind the lenses of his glasses, but allowed you to get close.

He knew it was a bad decision as soon as you started mumbling, always so obviously uninterested in football that Kaiser had no idea how he still tolerated you. You turned your head then, buried your nose in his thigh and breathed in deeply. Inhaling his scent.

Kaiser ignored you and kept his attention on the television, another bad choice that he only realized when he felt your teeth sink into his skin, his sex pulsing in response under the hot weight of your body.

"[name]," he warned you then, grabbing your hair without any attempt to feign care, trying to move your mouth away.

You grumbled like a small child and Kaiser, trying not to find another reason to stress, left you. When your fingers went to the elastic of his underwear then, Kaiser looked at you disinterestedly, without a move to help you. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Helping you relax?"

"You're asking me?" Kaiser scoffed. "I don't see how eating me out is going to do anything for my stress."

"Well, it certainly helps with my stress," was your response.

What damn futile reason would you have in your little life to be stressed? You did nothing! On the television, the narrator shouts, announcing the goal. The opposing team's goal against Bastard Munchen. From the footage he could almost see his own face in the distance, contorted in irritation. Kaiser's temple throbs and fuck, he lifts his hips, allowing you to undress him.

Now, you moaned against him, sounding so damn pleased with the taste of him that even as a stab of pain jolted his hips from the pressure of your tongue swirling around his clit, Kaiser doesn't try to stop you and just surrenders to your whims.

He is hyperaware of not being able to shut up. Maybe it's the accumulated tension, the days he spent away from home, never lowering to the desire to touch himself, the game they won, but by very little. Maybe because of one or all of the above, but Kaiser is talking, loudly, grunting, moaning, comfortable and shivering against his mound of soft pillows.

Everything in him was burning and throbbing and wet. You were a sloppy eater, on purpose, Kaiser accused. His muscular thighs squeeze your head, sure to suffocate you against his pussy even as the sensations distort, sensitive and almost numb at the same time. Unsure whether he wanted more of this pleasure or not.

"Hng, fuck, fuck- oh- ooh!" Your lips close around his swollen, hypersensitive clit, sucking. Kaiser's hips lift off the bed, meeting your mouth, unable to stop the tremors as yet another orgasm washed over him, taking his breath with it.

He thinks he might have passed out for a few seconds, because when he comes back to, your mouth is against his, kissing him, even though Kaiser can barely kiss you back. His tongue feels loose inside his mouth. There's a lot of saliva accumulated and running down his chin. Gross. But it doesn't seem to bother you.

The game replay is over. A new program is running behind your back. You're reaching between your bodies, fingers sliding between Kaiser's puffy pussy lips, spreading the wetness even further, he's not sure, dizzy and-

Your cock presses against him, the tip wide and hot, and then sinks into him with ease. Kaiser's pussy is so relaxed and sloppy that it can barely squeeze around the intrusion, so sensitive, so sensitive, but you fuck him anyway. Your hips slam against his fast, hard, in and out, in and out. As if he were a whore or something even lower.

"Micha," you're singing like a praise, kissing every bit of skin you can reach. "You feel so good- you're so wet for me. Fuck. I won't last. I can't- Micha, Micha, Micha."

Kaiser gives up trying to kiss you and moves his mouth away, he doesn't care now about the pathetic expression he must be making right now: tears rolling down his cheeks, glasses already lost, drooling.

Kaiser knows you won't last, so soon you'll cum, finish making his insides a mess with your seed. It hurts, it throbs, his cunt gets even wetter, squirting or cumming (maybe both) around your cock as he screams. He can't take it anymore, he can't take it anymore...

Now the bed was definitely a lost cause. Kaiser had to learn to be stricter with you. But those were worries for later.

[vampdes]

Please, I'm begging you do more Homelander x top male reader. I loved your other fic with him. Maybe reader is a supe who's stronger than Homelander and left. Homelander was sent to kill reader due to reader having information but instead gets fucked. Thank you and have a nice day.

DES says . . . im not doing anything right now, so why not? hope you enjoy xx (even though this is very late).

SUM. — homelander is sick, erratic, manic. why? he has his fame, his money, his powers – what more could he need? an antidote, obviously, what else?

CON. warning — smoking weed / rolling a blunt (once), dry humping, dry orgasm, overstim, mentions of: growling, passing out (figuratively), meeting heaven (figuratively), & yan-like actions. p in a. bareback. begging. impregnation (breeding ?) kink. collar & leash. subby (leaning on), needy, & whiny homelander.

NOTES. — very rushed. semi-detailed smut. not a very good ending.

you flipped through the televison’s provided channels with an unlit blunt protruding from your lips, itching to light it in order to feel the undeniable zest and haze it always seemed to provide you with. the calming and doughy-like sensation melted your brain, it allowed you to escape from the realization that you were indeed wanted by national police and superheros (all at the same time, mind you) just because you even dared to speak of retiring. therefore, you came up with an idea: just escape! to hawaii or somewhere — you landed in Australia, though, so hawaii was entirely off course but aye, you were gone and free and almost high.

what’s not to love?

you finally found a reliable sitcom that’d allow you to not think too hard or pay attention too much. so you sat back and slouched, drowned into the comfiness of the couch’s plush cushions, and lit your blunt. the wafting smoking engulfed itself deep within your lungs and etched itself into the cushions of your couch. before you could even care about your couch’s wellbeing or could even take a second exhilarating blow, the smell of metal being burnt and resulting smoke that wafted from under your penthouse door to your living made your eye brows furrow together with confusion. before continuing your trail on being high, you dipped the blunt into an ashtray and pushed it into the table, and sat up, watching the door with a sense that something was array in the air.

“fix me, oh fuck — y’gotta, fuck, fuck, fuck—,” john’s words fell into loud, squeaky squabbles into the silk sheets of your bed. his large frame sat atop of your hips, straddling you whilst he made a steady pace of teasing his concealed cock with the friction your ruffled jeans provided him with. you wanted to calm him down, tell him it’s okay, baby, you know i’ll fix you, but he chose that ignorant and arrogant company or what the two of you could have had. and that’s something you’ll never forget, but damn, why pass up on fucking the most famous hero in the world because he’s begging to have you? nobody in their right mind would, that’s for sure.

“you gonna let me treat you right?” you asked, gripping on his hips with words that haven’t been spoken before but explained and demonstrated through the many encounters that occurred in the empty janitor closets in the hallways of his company. and john. . he can’t help but grind himself a little harder and nod just a little faster. he wants you in ways he could never explain. he needs you with the biblical and primal history behind it. he begs to serve you as though he’s nothing but a measly worshipper and you’re a god within the highest of heavens. and you allow him to do so.

“please.” john responds, and you know he means it.

before long, he has a pastel-pink color around his neck with the leash wrapped around your balled fist, feeling like a submissive fucking bitch under your control, and damn, he feels good. his hands are tied behind his back with his nails clawing at the air between you and him in order to feel the pleasure that courses through every atom in his very being. for the first time in a long time, john allows himself to be willingly and properly used by someone he adores.

when you mention the fact that you’ve run out of the very last condom, he says: “get me pregnant.” and good lord above, you can’t help but comply with his demands. he felt fucking heavenly too, he felt so, so fucking good, and the noises that were coming from him? good fucking god, you’d capture those noises in a jar and listen to them every night before you sleep if you could.

in between the lingering touches and chaste kisses and animalistic thrusts and moans and being treated like a fucking free-use prostitute, the tears that streamed down his eyes and the whines that came from him and the need eminiting from him to have the immediate skin-to-skin contact with you even though you were literally shoving your cum into the deepest part of his guts is what captivated you entirely. the way he honestly showed his greed proudly with it circling around town and right back to you made your heart swell. fuck, this was sick (sick enough to make you force yet another cry out his hoarse throat).

“oh fuck, fuck, fuck — gotta make you mine, gotta get pregnant and make sure you stay with me, oh fuck, gotta – gonna cum, fuck, gonnafuckin’cum–,” the process that coincided with long strings of his cum colliding with his pretty pink breasts made the loudest, girliest, guttural squeal mixed with a whine mixed with the neediest moan escape from his throat with him crying out your name. your sylabells. and for fucks sake, he knew exactly how to get you started again to buck your cum-covered tip into his abused prostate once more.

when he cried out your name like you were the Archangel himself, you knew that today would turn into tonight which would turn into yet another post-sex morning with a bitchy, clingy, neck-biting john that always needed a piece of you with him or he swore he might (would and undeniably will) go crazy. and to be honest, if you just savor this maniac for just a little bit longer, maybe the earth would look a bit more brighter to you. maybe the air would be clearer, the sun would shine harder, the birds would harmonize better — the morning is the best time of your day.

[geminiwritten]

the plan ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

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

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

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

word count: 21143

your callsign is sunny

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

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

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

It was meant to be. 

Until the apartment across the hall went up for lease. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ugh,” she sighs. “It’s you.” 

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

She heads back to the couch, Reuben trailing behind. 

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

“Wasn’t the other day.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha snorts but keeps her eyes on the TV. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes go wide at your tone. 

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

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

“Very descriptive insults,” Reuben mutters. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what, Mick?” 

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

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

Reuben and Mickey nod, but Natasha just watches. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“An idea?” Reuben echoes, brows lifting. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your brow lifts. “Tease him how?” 

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

You snort. “So, seduce him?” 

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

Both Mickey and Reuben flinch. 

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

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

“We?” you repeat, pulse racing. 

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

Your stomach flips, anticipation stirring beneath your skin. 

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

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

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

You nod. “Okay. I’m in.” 

- 

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

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

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

You roll your eyes. “Both.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why are you wearing a thong?” 

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

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

“Oh yeah,” you sigh, “can’t wait.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reuben frowns. “But that’s Sunday.” 

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

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

“How many are left?” Natasha asks. 

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

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

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

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

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

Bob blinks at her. “You do?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What game?” Javy asks. 

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

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

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

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

Bradley rolls his eyes but shrugs. “Fine.” 

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

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

“Truth,” Bob says, almost too quickly. 

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

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

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

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

Jake groans. “Ugh, lame.” 

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

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

Mickey’s face lights up. “Dare.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid. 

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

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

“Jesus Christ,” Jake mutters under his breath. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake’s brows shoot up. “Me?” 

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

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

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

“You bitch,” Jake mutters. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob Floyd is fucking smooth when he wants to be. 

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not,” Bob says, deadpan. 

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

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

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

“Don’t you dare,” Jake warns. 

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

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

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

Then the room explodes. 

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

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

Bob frowns. “You needed therapy before that.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Neighbour Barb with the yappy chihuahua?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is it they call that? 

Oh yeah… big dick energy. 

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

Wait. That’s like… kind of huge. 

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

Stop staring, she mouths. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your frown deepens. “What are you-” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “What?” 

“For your clothes,” he says simply. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…Right? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too much silence. 

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

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

It doesn’t. 

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. Bob Floyd is shirtless. 

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

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

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

No. No, you’re not. 

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

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

The heat of his stare burns hotter than any touch. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bob,” you whisper. 

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

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

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

“Like what?” you ask softly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t sleep. Not at all. 

- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort. “Little?” 

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

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

Then you both nod. It’s show time. 

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

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

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

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

His grin breaks loose. “Promise?” 

“Promise.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She snorts. “That was very convincing.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Bad week,” Bob grumbles. 

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

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

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

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

“I doubt it.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re annoying.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You frown. “Yet?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want to know what’s going on.” 

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

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

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

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

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

He frowns. “What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Swear it.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes. 

“I want in.” 

You blink, brow furrowed. “What?” 

“I want to help,” he says, plainly. 

You narrow your eyes, sceptical. “Why?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raise your brows, prompting him to go on. 

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

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

Great. Now Hangman is involved... 

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

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

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

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

But Bob notices. 

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha arches a brow. “Something funny?” 

Bob shakes his head. “No.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh softly. “Yeah, not wrong.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want us to lie?” you ask. 

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

You shrink back slightly. “I guess not.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You frown. “What?” 

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

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

- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Three versus three?” Javy asks, sceptical. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s furious. 

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

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

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

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

Hangman might be a genius after all. 

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze. “What?” 

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

You twist around. 

And promptly forget how to breathe. 

Bob Floyd is pulling his shirt over his head. 

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

And holy shit. 

It’s glorious. 

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

But in the light of day? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s not a wave. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He winks. “Because we’re the best.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the game is back on. 

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

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

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

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

And Bob sees everything. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is it. 

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

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

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

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

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

It’s just Bob now. 

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

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

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

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

You don’t move. 

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

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

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

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

You lean in just a little. 

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

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

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

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

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

He snaps. 

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

And the look in his eyes could burn the sky. 

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

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

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

And then he kisses you. 

Hard. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your jaw drops. “It gets bigger?” 

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

Then he turns and jogs toward the water. 

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

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

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

“Cooling off.” 

END.

[spidey-webz]

he’s so boyfriend coded