#there are steps before that. right. and you know a lot of us are actual activists

[whisperedmeg]

THE LAW OF TRULY LARGE NUMBERS ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x analyst!reader

summary: the law of truly large numbers says coincidences are inevitable. but somehow, running into spencer reid never stops feeling like fate.

genre: fluff! | w/c: 3.4k

tags/warnings: none really. reader has some self-image issues and insecurities related to a sucky ex but nothing too crazy. glasses!reid, reader works for the fbi but not the bau, written with fem!reader in mind but could pass for gn!reader too if you ignore one use of the world “girl,” story takes place over the course of a few weeks but I wasn’t wildly specific about it

a/n: based on this request from @oh-yourloveis-sunlight! this ended up getting longer than I intended originally but oh well, I was having way too much fun coming up with ideas for how they’d run into each other next lol. hope you enjoy, tysm for requesting! ❣️

You first meet Spencer Reid at 8:21am on a Tuesday morning.

You’re holding a paper bag of still-warm pastries because your unit chief is on a “morale boost” kick this week and nothing says team bonding like volunteering to bring in baked goods. You’re thinking about the long day ahead and how stale the break room coffee is going to be and not watching where you’re going when the elevator doors open and—

You almost walk straight into him.

He’s tall. Tall-tall. And thin in a slightly unwell academic way, tousled brown hair parted on the side, honey brown eyes wide and blinking at you through browline glasses.

“Sorry,” you both say at once. You take a step back. So does he. Then he does that thing people do where he gestures for you to go ahead, and you hesitate before stepping forward at the same time as him, and now you’re doing an awkward, uncoordinated dance in front of a steel box.

Eventually, you both make it in.

You press the button for floor 5. He presses 6. Someone else gets in and hits the button for 4.

You stand silently. He glances at you. Then down at the floor. Then at your badge, clipped to the waistband of your dress pants. Then at the bag of pastries.

“The cinnamon ones are the best. If those are from Van’s, I mean,” he says tentatively.

You blink. “They are, actually.”

He nods. “They use Saigon cinnamon. It’s from Vietnam. It’s stronger, a little spicier than regular cinnamon. I—sorry, I’ve, uh, read a lot about spices recently.”

You don’t have time to answer before the doors open and he’s stepping out into the hallway, manila file folder tucked under his arm.

It takes you a second to realize he got off on the fourth floor with the other passenger by mistake. You catch him making an embarrassed, awkward turn back toward the elevators once he’s halfway down the hall before the metal doors slide shut.

You think about Saigon cinnamon and those glasses for the rest of the day.

—

Friday morning, 9:12am. You’re running horribly late.

You’ve got a USB stick in your hand and a mission in your head — get it encrypted, get it cleaned up, get it into the system by 10am. You’re halfway through the lobby when someone says your name.

You freeze. Turn. He’s already waving.

It takes you a second to place him without the glasses.

He’s wearing contacts today. His hair’s a little neater. Another soft sweater — burgundy this time — and a leather messenger bag slung across his chest like he just walked out of a grad seminar.

“Hey,” he says, catching up with you near the badge check. “Van’s cinnamon pastries, right?”

You smile despite yourself. “You’re still thinking about those?”

“Hard not to,” he says with a chuckle. “I’m Spencer,” he adds, like you don’t already know that from his badge, same way you assume he knew your name.

You both hesitate. You’re painfully aware of the USB drive in your hand and the growing line of people waiting for the elevators and the clock ticking steadily toward 10am. Your eyes dart to the stairs — they seem to be the fastest option.

He shifts his weight, pushes his hair back behind one ear.

“Can I walk you up?”

You blink. “What?”

“To wherever you’re going. I’m headed to the sixth floor, but I’m not in a rush. We’re between cases right now.”

You laugh. “You really don’t have to do that.”

“Too late,” he says, and he falls into step beside you.

—

It’s raining when you see him again.

Not dramatic rain, just a halfhearted Virginia drizzle that dampens your sleeves while you fumble with your umbrella and mutter curses under your breath. You duck into the small coffee shop across from the office — the one with the black bistro tables and an overfilled bulletin board — and shake the water from your coat as you slide into line.

You don’t see him at first. You’re too busy debating between hot chocolate and your usual latte.

But then someone behind you says your name.

You turn, and there he is.

Spencer.

Hair damp and curling slightly at the edges. Glasses fogged. Sweater vest layered under a coat too thin for this kind of weather. He smiles at you — tentative, like he’s not sure if you’ll smile back.

“Hi,” you say, a little breathless. “You following me?”

He blushes. “No, I’m—I mean, we both work across the street, so it’s not, um, statistically improbable we’d run into each other here.”

“I’ll chalk it up to fate.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and steps up beside you.

“Can I guess your order?” he asks.

You arch a brow. “You’re going to profile my coffee?”

He shrugs. “I can try.”

“Be my guest.”

He tilts his head. “You work long hours. You probably don’t get enough sleep. You must drink something with espresso in it, but not just that — it has to be dressed up enough to feel like a treat. Maybe a seasonal flavor.”

Your jaw drops a little. “Okay, that’s… freakishly accurate.”

“Caramel latte?” he guesses.

“Close. Pumpkin,” you admit. “But that was impressive.”

He shrugs again, cheeks a little pink. “Lots of practice.”

A few minutes later, you’re both perched at one of the tiny round tables by the fogged-up window, drinks in hand, steam curling up between you. You’re technically on your break. So is he. Neither of you seems eager to get back.

You ask what he’s working on. He tells you about his last case, a triple homicide in Texas. Then he asks about your job, and you explain — badly — what exactly a tech analyst does for a department that isn’t the BAU. You’re pretty sure you’re boring him to death, but he’s watching you like you’ve just quoted Wordsworth.

“You talk with your hands a lot,” he says, after a pause.

You blink. “What?”

“When you’re excited,” he adds, quickly. “Not all the time. Just when you’re explaining something that matters to you. You kind of —” he makes a vague fluttering motion with his fingers, “— move them like you’re sculpting the air or something.”

Your face burns. You wrap your hands around your coffee cup.

“Oh. Yeah. That,” you murmur. “My ex used to say it was distracting.”

Spencer’s expression shifts. It’s subtle, but you see it — a flicker of something protective in his eyes.

“I don’t think it’s distracting,” he says. “I think it’s cute.”

You freeze.

He freezes.

The moment folds in on itself. His face goes pink again, and he ducks his head as he mutters something about meaning it in a completely observational way, not, you know—

You interrupt before he can spiral further. “Spencer.”

He looks up.

You smile. “It’s okay.”

There’s a beat of silence between you. Rain patters softly against the glass. In your chest, something flutters.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just a friendly coffee. A weird coincidence of schedules and elevators and cinnamon pastries. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything at all.

But when he offers to walk you back — and when you say yes — your heart betrays you a little.

—

The FBI library isn’t exactly cozy. It smells like aging carpet and copier toner, but there’s still something about it that you’ve always found comforting. Especially on days like today, when your code has glitched five separate times and someone on your team said “let’s pivot” like that actually means anything and you just need a break away from a screen.

You’re curled up at one of the long wooden tables near the back with a spiral notebook, a pencil, and a pile of casefiles your unit chief asked you to cross-reference to give you an excuse to work on something that didn’t involve a keyboard. It’s not thrilling, but it’s quiet. Which counts for something.

You don’t notice Spencer at first.

He’s sitting at a smaller table a few feet from yours when you glance up — half-hidden behind a teetering stack of psychology journals, long fingers curled around a fountain pen, hair falling into his face.

He looks up a second after you do.

“You again,” he says softly, like it’s a private joke.

You arch an eyebrow. “Starting to think you’re stalking me.”

“You’re the one in my library,” he says, mock offended.

“Your library?”

He nods. “I basically live here.”

You glance at the empty paper cup beside him, the five or six books spread out across the table, the absurdly detailed notes he’s scrawling in messy handwriting.

“Yeah, I can see that. You’ve really made yourself at home.”

Silently, he gathers his belongings and moves to take the empty seat across from you at your table.

You go back to your work. So does he.

But every few minutes, you catch yourself glancing up.

Not on purpose, not exactly. It’s just… he’s got this way of reading like he’s somewhere else entirely. Lips moving a little. Eyes flicking fast across pages. You wonder if he knows how intense he looks when he’s thinking. How pretty his hands are when they move — when he writes, when he fidgets with his pen, when he adjusts his glasses like he’s trying to hide behind them.

You wonder what it would feel like if he looked at you the way he looks at those pages or if he touched you with those hands.

He wouldn’t, of course.

You’ve long accepted that you’re not the kind of girl guys like that go for — not crisp and stylish, not someone who walks into a room and makes the temperature change. You’ve never quite known how to wear your hair right, or what to do with your hands, or how to stop fixating on the way your nose looks in photos. You haven’t even dated since the last guy — the one who told you that you were being “a little much” anytime you got excited about something.

You shake your head. Focus.

You’re halfway through reviewing the next file when you realize Spencer’s watching you.

“Sorry,” he says, when you meet his eyes. “I was just—I was going to ask if that’s a 0.7mm Pentel mechanical pencil.”

You blink. Look down. “Uh… yeah?”

“I thought so,” he says. “You write really small. And neat.”

You stare at him, then down at your paper, then back up.

“Are you profiling my handwriting now?”

He shrugs, looking sheepish. “Only a little.”

You smile despite yourself.

After a pause, he adds, “I like it — your handwriting. It’s meticulous.”

You laugh. “I’ve never heard that word used as a compliment before.”

“Well, I mean it as one.”

There’s something in his voice — not flirtatious, exactly, but sincere. Earnest. He doesn’t even realize it’s making your heart hiccup a little.

You don’t talk much more after that, but when you both stand up at the same time twenty minutes later and realize you’re heading out in the same direction, you fall easily into step beside him.

And this time, you both walk a little slower.

—

It’s just after 1 p.m. when you walk into the Quantico cafeteria.

The lunch rush is tapering off — fewer suits in line, more empty trays abandoned on beige tables. You slide your badge into your pocket and step toward the soup station, only half paying attention. You haven’t eaten much today, and your stomach’s been in knots ever since Spencer spotted you in the stairwell earlier and asked what time you were heading to lunch.

You try to act casual when you spot him.

He’s at a table near the window, brown paper bag open in front of him and a spiral notebook beside it. He’s writing something down, but he looks up the moment you approach as if he’d been eagerly waiting.

“Hey,” he says, and the smile he gives you is small and a little shy. “I was hoping you’d come.”

You sit across from him, tray in hand. “Yeah, well, you did say in the library last week that the soup selection is better on Thursdays.”

His eyes widen slightly. “You remembered that?”

You nod, breaking off a piece of bread. “You said it’s the only day they serve lentil soup, which also happens to be the only soup they make that you claim is any good.”

“I stand by that.”

You laugh, and the warmth of it catches you off guard. It’s easy with him. You like the way he doesn’t fill silences just to fill them and how he listens like every word you say is a thread he wants to follow all the way to its center.

You talk for a while. About work, a little. About books and poetry and music. About your mutual disbelief that anyone could function on decaf. He doesn’t flirt, not exactly, but he compliments you — in that slightly awkward, matter-of-fact, Spencer Reid way that’s somehow more disarming than a rehearsed line.

You’re telling him about your failed attempt to install a new monitor alone while you had a broken arm last year when he goes still for a moment, causing you to trail off into silence. He clears his throat.

“Would you maybe want to, uh, go out with me sometime?”

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

“What?”

He fidgets. Pushes his glasses up. “I mean, like, to a real lunch or coffee or something. Not in the office. I just—I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you, and I was thinking, if you wanted, we could—”

You shake your head.

It’s not harsh. You don’t mean it to be. It’s just… instinct.

He stops talking. His face falters. “Oh,” he says softly. “Okay. Yeah. No worries.”

You rush to explain. “It’s not you. Really—I mean, I just… don’t get it. Why would you want to go out with me?”

Spencer blinks.

You look down at your tray. “You’re a genius,” you murmur, voice low. “You’ve probably read more books this week alone than I have in the last two years. You talk like a textbook and still somehow make everything sound incredibly poetic. And you—God, you’re so—”

Cute. Attractive. Hot. That’s what you want to say, but you stop yourself before you can finish the statement. You swallow hard.

“And I’m… not,” you finish quietly.

It’s not that you don’t want to say yes. God, you do. But there’s a familiar ache in your chest, a voice you haven’t shaken, the echo of someone who once made you feel like being too much meant you’d also always be not enough.

Across from you, Spencer is silent. For a second, you wonder if he’s angry. Or worse, embarrassed.

But when you finally look up, he’s just watching you — gently, curiously, like he’s figuring something out.

He opens his mouth. Then closes it again. His brow furrows slightly.

You stand. The words come out too quickly: “I should get back to my office. I’ve got a code freeze coming up and I told my boss I’d review the rollout plan before—yeah.”

He nods. “Right. Of course. I’ll, uh, see you around.”

You hate the way his voice sounds now — too polite. Too guarded.

You force a smile as you gather your tray. “Thanks again for the soup rec.”

You make it out of the cafeteria before the lump in your throat rises.

You tell yourself it was the right call. It’s better this way. You’re not built for someone like him. You’d only mess it up.

But when you glance back, just once, through the glass of the cafeteria doors, Spencer’s still sitting there, scribbling in his notebook like maybe if he writes enough, he can make sense of whatever just happened.

You don’t know it yet, but he’s writing a list.

—

It’s raining again the next afternoon.

Not much — just a misty drizzle that turns the parking lot into a soft gray blur. You’re already halfway to your car when you hear footsteps behind you. Then a voice, calling your name.

“Wait—wait, just—can you stop for a second?”

You turn.

Spencer is jogging toward you, messenger bag bouncing against his hip, one hand holding a flimsy-looking umbrella, the other gripping something — a piece of paper, maybe. His coat is half-buttoned. His glasses are a little fogged.

He’s completely out of breath by the time he reaches you.

“Hi,” he pants. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to chase you down, I just—I tried to find you on your floor, and they said you left early, and I—”

You blink. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he says quickly. “No. I mean—I’ve been thinking. Since yesterday.”

You look away. “Spencer, we don’t have to talk about—”

“I made a list,” he blurts out.

You freeze. “What?”

He thrusts it at you — a folded piece of notebook paper, lined, slightly smudged. You unfold it slowly, holding it under the umbrella he’s angled over you, and he watches you like he’s just handed over something radioactive.

It reads:

Reasons I like you and want to go out with you: A non-exhaustive list by Dr. Spencer Reid

you talk with your hands

you remember weird things I say about soup

you were nice to me in the elevator even though I rambled about cinnamon

you snort when you laugh (you try to hide it but I’ve heard it twice)

you don’t pretend to know things you don’t, and you always ask good questions

you hum under your breath when you’re concentrating

you don’t hold my technophobe tendencies against me even though your job is literally all tech all the time

your whole face lights up when you’re excited about something

we have the same taste in pastries and poetry and classical music

you talk about the people you care about with more kindness and affection than I thought possible

your nose scrunches a little when you’re confused and I think it’s adorable

speaking of which, I think everything about you is adorable. “beautiful” would be a more apt word to use, actually

you said us meeting in the coffee shop that one day was “fate” and I haven’t stopped thinking about it (or believing in it) since

You stare at the list for a long moment. Then you press your lips together, eyes stinging.

“It’s not exhaustive,” Spencer says quietly. “And it’s in no particular order. I wrote it fast. I could probably think of twenty more things. I… I like lists.”

Your fingers tremble slightly on the page.

“I don’t understand,” you murmur. “You’re… you. And I’m…” You trail off.

He tilts his head, studying you. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

You look away.

He steps forward, voice softer now.

“I don’t like you despite who you are — I like you because of it. Because you say what you mean, and you get excited about the little things, and you care more than most people do, and you never look at me like I’m too nerdy or too awkward or too much.”

Your chest tightens.

“I thought I messed everything up yesterday,” you say, barely above a whisper.

“No,” he says. “You were just scared. I get that.”

“I’m still scared,” you admit.

“That’s okay,” he says, and there’s a faint smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Me too. We can be scared together.”

You smile and fold the list carefully like it’s something delicate.

And before you can overthink it, before the doubt creeps in again, you lean forward to press a kiss to his cheek.

But in the same moment, he coincidentally turns his head just slightly. Just enough that your lips land on his mouth instead.

It’s only for a second. A little awkward. Completely accidental, but also completely real.

He blinks. You blink.

You start to pull away.

But then he wraps his free arm around you and kisses you again, on purpose this time, the umbrella overhead shielding you both from the rain. It doesn’t last too long, but it’s soft and smiley and achingly wonderful.

When you break apart, you’re still in disbelief that it even happened at all. You look up at him, studying him, searching his face for signs of regret. You can’t find any.

“I keep thinking about all the times we ran into each other,” you say softly. “So many coincidences, it almost feels improbable.”

He smiles again, brighter this time. “There’s a theory called the law of truly large numbers,” he says. “It basically says that with a large enough sample size, coincidences are inevitable.”

You tilt your head with a quiet chuckle. “So this was all just math, basically? That’s kind of depressing.”

“Or,” he says, stepping closer, “it means the universe just kept trying. Over and over, until it got it right. Like fate.”

You smile fondly and kiss him again before he can say anything else.

Not just a coincidence. Not anymore.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

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[harrywavycurly]

Worth The Fight: Not Going Anywhere

Masterlist: Here

CW: Minor language, smut, baby stuff, one moment of slight panic (Harry is always panicked about something isn’t he?) and a lot of fluff!

*smut happens in the first section if you don’t wanna read it you’ll know when it starts and then you can skip to the next bit and won’t miss anything*

A/N: Here it is, the last update for this series and lord have mercy what a ride it has been! Thank y’all for letting me take you on this journey with these two it has been an emotional rollercoaster but look how far they’ve come! I hope y’all enjoy and don’t worry this isn’t the last you’ll see of this little gang🥹✨

Word Count: 8K

Tag List: @kookjipao @msolbesg @lomlolivia @namoreno @outofthisworl-d @mema10 @watarmelon212 @natykn @sassamanda77 @st-ev-ie @ghayda0 @hannah9921 @indierockgirrl @chaoticthoughts2022 @lizsogolden @gmikaelson @styleswithaseaview @sofaritsalrightt @babegoals @fangirl509east @one-sweet-gubler @stylesftcher @umadirectioner @last-saturday-night @montgomery-929496 @laughterismytherapy @hisparentsgallerryy @jerseygirlinca @behindmygreyeyes @mads3502 @tpwkdpr @unfuckwitablenarry @itscoucouharry @latedirectionerera @ell0ra-br3kk3r @cumuluscranium @donutsandpalmtrees @silastylesswift @prettygurl-2009 @blueleonor @daphnesutton @angeldavis777 @harryssunflower17 @blckburd @tinawritesstuff @inlikea-coolway @mothersversiononly

Summary: Harry is sure Paris doesn’t think he’s a good dad, you two take the twins out for a walk and Niall and Ethan stop by for a visit✨

Harry can feel eyes on him the moment he steps into the nursery, but luckily he doesn’t need to panic because he knows exactly who it is that’s staring him down as he walks over to Nora’s crib to make sure she’s still asleep. He hears the faint thump of four paws hitting the carpet followed by a very distinct jingle of the bell on his collar and he knows he has only a few seconds before an orange ball of fur with ridiculously big green eyes is pawing at his ankle, his silent warning to back away before he is forced to use more aggressive tactics such as biting. Harry doesn’t know when Paris named himself the twins guardian but he takes his job extremely seriously especially while they are asleep, he stays perched on the rocking chair in the corner of their nursery and at every noise and weird sound they make he does a lap around their crib and if he thinks the situation calls for it he will rush off to whatever room you’re in and meow until you get the hint and follow him.

Normally Harry doesn’t mind, he actually likes knowing Paris is in there with the twins who have managed to flip his entire world upside down in the short three months since they were born. He knows Paris is a gentle soul but appreciates that he is willing to get violent if the moment calls for it and often times the moment only seems to call for it whenever Harry is involved. His ankles have gotten more bites over the last three months than they ever did when he was just simply trying to win you over and it has him convinced Paris doesn’t think he’s fit to be a dad and sometimes it bugs him to the extent he whines about it to you during your few hours of alone time at night before one of the twins wakes up for something.

“Relax mate m’just checking on things then I’ll be out of your hair.” Harry whispers to the orange cat who is right under his feet as he moves to take a quick look into Edward’s crib.

“Paris honey let daddy have a minute okay?” Your voice coming from the doorway makes Harry jump a bit causing you to place a hand over your mouth to stifle your laugh. “Come on,” Harry looks down at Paris who looks over at you with a tilted head. “Let’s go snuggle for a bit how’s that sound?” The orange cat quickly walks over to the door and rubs his head against your ankles making you smile as you bend down and pick him up.

“Thank you love.” Harry says with a smile as he watches the two of you head towards the bedroom, he already begins to prepare himself for having to fight the orange cat off of you so he can get some cuddles in himself but that’s a struggle for future Harry because right now he just wants to soak in this moment of peaceful bliss in the room with his two little bundles of pure joy and happiness as they drift deeper into dreamland.

“Sweet dreams Edward.” He whispers as he leans over and places a featherlight light kiss to the top of his head. “Daddy loves you.” He mumbles as he stands up, a little grin works its way across Harry’s face as he watches his son move the slightest bit while letting out a soft little whimper. After a few moments of staring at the little boy who is all comfy and warm in his Pooh Bear pajamas he moves over to Nora’s crib.

“I love you.” He says softly as he reaches over and runs a hand over her tummy, knowing better than to lean in and get too close because unlike her brother who can sleep through anything, Nora can always sense when one of her parents are near and will wake up with a sad little cry just to get someone to pick her up and usually it’s Harry because he can’t stand hearing her sound so upset. “Sweet dreams.” He whispers before turning and heading for the door, making sure the monitor is on and the sound machine is set to start in a few minutes and will hopefully help the two of them stay asleep.

“And our paper houses reach the stars…” Harry pauses in the doorway of the bedroom as the very familiar sound of Niall’s voice softly filters through the small speaker of your phone. He stands there and leans against the doorframe as he watches you fold the twin’s laundry while Paris is curled up near Harry’s pillow at the top of the bed, still shocked at how many outfits his two little humans go through in a single day. As you sway to the music he can’t help but smile as his eyes roam over your frame, you look so soft in your t shirt and sleep shorts he really can’t be bothered to keep his hands off you any longer.

“Paris look away I’m about to kiss on your mom.” You let out a chuckle as Harry’s arms snake around your middle from behind, pulling your back flush against his chest while he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. The sudden noise makes Paris look up and upon seeing Harry in the bedroom he is quick to leap from the bed and make his way out of the room. “He’s gonna go check on them isn’t he? I know he just thinks I’m the worst dad on the planet and-”

“Harry he doesn’t think you’re a bad dad he is just protective that’s all. How are they?” You ask cutting off his rant as you finish folding one of Nora’s onesies, tossing it into the hamper with the other folded clothes that you’ll put away later.

“Sound asleep. Nora didn’t even move when I told her goodnight.” He tells you after placing a soft kiss to the side of your neck and resting his chin on top of your shoulder.

“And how much did that hurt your feelings? I know you secretly love it when she cries for you.” Your tone is only partially teasing and Harry doesn’t need to be looking at your face to know you’re smiling, he can hear it in your voice.

“I’ll recover but it was a bit devastating I mean even Ed let out one of those sigh coo things he does but Nora? It was like I wasn’t even there and that’s just-odd.” He explains as you turn around in his hold, his mouth turns downward into a small little pout as you reach up and cup his face with your hands.

“Poor daddy.” You tease as you get on your tiptoes and place a quick kiss to his lips.

“Poor daddy indeed.” He mumbles as you pull away making you roll your eyes as his hands grab onto your hips.

“I’ll let you get her when she wakes up in a few hours how about that? You can get all the Nora and daddy time you want.”

“Oh and let you and Ed gossip about me? I think not.”

“We don’t gossip about you we just discuss the events of the day that’s all.”

“And these events always have to do with me and how I’m dressed or how many bottles I’ve dropped.”

“I mean-four in one day is a bit extreme and you used to be worried I was the clumsy one.” He rolls his eyes as he leans down and places a kiss to your forehead.

“You may not be the clumsy one but I still worry about you even when you’re just down the hall.” He admits making you fight the urge to smile as his lips place a soft kiss to the tip of your nose while your arms wrap around his neck. “We have what? At least an hour until one of them wakes up?” He mumbles between kisses down your jaw making you let out a giggle.

“Something like that yeah.” You answer as one of Harry’s hands moves to the back of your neck so he can gently lay you down on the bed, you let out a soft laugh as he hovers over you.

“Hi Cranky.” He says with a grin as he stares into your eyes, you can’t help but smile back at him as you run a hand through his hair.

“Hi Mr. Popular.” Harry lets out a breathy laugh as he leans in and presses his lips against yours for a kiss that’s full of nothing but love. Your mouth move against his slowly as his tongue teasingly swipes across your bottom lip before it slips past your parted lips. Your hands move to slide under the soft material of his shirt, roaming over the muscles of his back and gliding over his sides so you can feel the hard lines and dips of his toned stomach.

“Baby,” you pause your movements as Harry reluctantly pulls his mouth away from yours and looks down at you with lust filled eyes. “Can we please change the music?” You bite your bottom lip to hold back a laugh as Harry turns his head and moves to grab your phone that’s still playing Niall’s Flicker album on shuffle.

“You don’t find his voice sexy?” You ignore the glare Harry sends you as he turns the music off before tossing the phone over to his side of the bed.

“I do but I’d really prefer to just hear yours right now-saying my name.” And before you can respond with a snippy remark Harry’s lips are on your neck nipping at the spot below your ear earning him a soft moan as his hand grabs at the soft flesh of your thigh so he can gently bend your leg at the knee placing your foot flat against the soft comforter you have on the bed. “Tell me if it’s too much okay?” You just give him a nod when he pulls back just enough so he can get a good look at your face.

“You have to actually do something before I can tell you if it’s too-” yours words get stuck in your throat as Harry rolls his hips letting you get a feeling of just how hard he is under his shorts.

“Always so impatient.” He teases as his hand finds the waistband of your shorts but before he can slip his hand underneath the soft material you give his shoulders a soft push. “You want on top?”

“Yes it’s better that way or-you can be behind me-oh or we can be on our sides? What do you want?” Harry lets out a soft chuckle as he stares down at you with a silly looking grin on his face.

“Baby I just want you.” He answers before leaning down to place a kiss to your lips. “In whatever way is most comfortable for you.” He explains as his hand rests on the waistband of your shorts, his thumb rubbing circles on your soft skin of your hip.

“God you would say something like that right now-all sweet and nice.”

“Sorry want me to dirty it up a bit? Tell you I want you bent over and ass up?”

“You’re so annoying.” Harry doesn’t miss the smile that teases the corners of your mouth as your hands run up and down his arms.

“Just tell me what you want.” You rub your lips together and Harry can tell your thinking about what would be best and he finds himself leaning down to place a kiss to your cheek, not wanting you to get too lost in your thoughts. “I just want you to be comfortable.” He tells you before placing a kiss to your other cheek.

“Let’s-let’s try it this way and if it’s too much I’ll get on top.” You tell him as your hands slide down his back, dipping under his shorts making him let out a groan as his head ducks down to the crook of your neck as he helps you shimmy his shorts down.

“Gotta help me get these off love.” He mumbles against the sensitive skin of your neck as he tugs at your shorts, you lift your hips and move your leg so you can quickly slide your shorts down your legs until you can kick them off to the floor. “You swear you’ll tell me if it’s-oh fuck.” Your hand wrapping around Harry’s hard shaft has him letting out a choked moan, you give him a few slow strokes as you hitch one of your legs over Harry’s hip pulling him closer.

“You know I love you but please stop talking and fuck me already.” Your words have Harry letting out a small groan as you give him a few more strokes with your hand.

“Love it when you’re bossy.” His voice is deep and filled with need as you let out a gasp when you feel him tease your entrance with the tip of his cock before slowly pushing himself in. “I love you too by the way.” You let out a muffled laugh as his mouth finds yours, kissing you with an intense hunger as he continues to slowly push his thick shaft inside your wetness.

Your hands tangle into his hair as he licks into your mouth, his tongue sliding over yours as you move your lips against his. His grip on your hip tightens as you give his hair a gentle tug as you feel the familiar ache that comes before the soothing pleasure of Harry being fully tucked up inside you, the overwhelming sense of fullness that only he can give you. His lips travel down your jaw as he gives you a gentle thrust of his hips making a moan falls from your lips.

“That’s-yeah that’s good-really good.” Harry smiles against your jaw as his hips find a deliciously steady pace that has your hands griping his shoulders, it’s not nearly as rough and hard as he knows you want because even though you’re about twelve weeks out form delivering the twins you still get some soreness and discomfort if he goes too hard.

“Fuck baby m’not gonna last if you-you keep clenching me like that.” He groans as your walls clench around his length as your nails dig into the top of his shoulders while your hips rise to meet his thrusts.

“Feels so good.” Your voice is strained as you close your eyes and Harry knows you’re close already so he lets his hand slip between your two bodies until his thumb is pressing against your clit making your hips jerk. “Oh god.” Your deep moan has Harry closing his eyes and trying to compose himself so he doesn’t burst inside you right then and there, not that you’d mind because you like knowing you make I’m lose control when normally he doesn’t even think about his own release until you’ve made a mess all over him at least once.

“Shit shit-oh fuck m’gonna come-fuck baby you feel so good.” His words are rushed and muffled against the warm skin of your neck as his thrusts get sloppy and then you feel it, the warmth of his release spilling into you. With a deep moan his thumbs adds a little more pressure to your clit as he rubs tight circles to it and that’s what sends you toppling over the edge into your own pool of bliss.

“Oh fuck-I missed feeling you wrapped around me like this-shit baby you’re so tight feels so good.” He grunts as he pulls out and with a single thrust of his hips pushes all the way back in letting the tip of his cock hit the spot that has you crying out in pleasure nearly making him have to place a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound so it doesn’t wake up your sleeping babies in the next room.

“Oh yes just like that- oh Harry-Harry oh god.” His name falling from your lips has him groaning as he slowly moves his hips and works you through your release, your walls pulsing and clenching around his shaft as he coats your warm walls with his load.

“God you’re amazing-fucking love you so much.” He pants as he moves his thumb from your clit so he can grab your hip as he pulls his head back so he can look down at your flushed face, his hips going still so the two of you can catch your breath for a moment.

“I love you too.” You say breathlessly making him grin as your hands cup his face. “I’d say that was our best time yet? Only took what? Twenty minutes?” Harry playfully rolls his eyes as you pull him down for a quick kiss.

“Would’ve last longer if someone wasn’t so eager.” He teases after pulling away, you just shrug as he rolls over so he’s laying on his back next to you. “Practically had me in a vice grip the moment I slipped in so you’re actually lucky I lasted as long as I did because-”

“God you really are such a narcissist-telling me how lucky I am that you lasted as long as you did.” Harry lets out a huff as you swat his chest with the back of your hand before moving to sit up. “I think our bodies are just used to working under time constraints so we just get to the good bits quicker.” You explain making him laugh as he tucks his arms under his head while you move so you’re straddling his thighs.

“Is that so?” He asks with a quirked brow as your hands rest on his lower stomach, your thumbs running over the ink on his hips poking out under the hem of his t shirt. “Did my little librarian read that somewhere?”

“No but you want to know what I did read somewhere?”

“What?”

“That whoever finishes first is supposed to put the laundry away.” Harry can’t even get a word out before you lean down and place a kiss to his lips. “So I’ll just go take a shower while you do that.” You add as you pull away and move off of him, his hands instinctively reach out for you as a pout forms on his face.

“Oh now you’re just being mean.” You give him a shrug as you bend down to grab your shorts off the floor on your way to the bathroom. “We can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve finished first so I don’t-”

“Harry just put the laundry away and join me in the shower okay?” His eyes go wide as you look at him over your shoulder, a smirk on your lips and when you shoot him a playful wink he all but falls off the bed trying to stand up and quickly grab the twin’s clothes to begin putting them away.

“Don’t hog all the hot water.”

“Then don’t take too long.”

“Be done before you know it.”

“Oh-trust me I know how quickly you work.” That has Harry sending you a glare that makes you laugh as you turn around from where you were standing in the doorway of the bathroom, you hear him mumble something about you being mean but you ignore it and go start getting the shower ready.

You quirk a brow as you watch Harry adjust one of the straps on the infant carrier he has attached to his chest, not really sure if you fully trust the device to hold your little girl who is also currently watching her dad struggle to secure the contraption with wide eyes and drool dribbling down her chin from her spot in her bouncer. Harry lets out a satisfied huff as he places his hands on his hips before turning to face you and the baby at your feet with a proud grin on his face as if he just discovered the meaning of life, but in reality he just managed to successfully get an infant carrier on without asking for your help. You glance down at Nora who is watching her daddy with amusement written all over her little face as he makes a silly face at her but before he can reach down and grab her out of her bouncer you hold a hand up.

“We should test it with something first before we just put her in it.” Harry pauses at your words, looking up at you from where he’s crouched down in front of the happy baby.

“Test it? With what?” He questions as he stands up with a furrowed brow. You look around the living room for anything that could even remotely pass as the same size or weight as Nora or Edward but then Harry is rushing into the kitchen and before you can even ask what he’s doing he is back with a watermelon in his hands.

“This isn’t dirty dancing Harry I don’t need you to carry a watermelon.” You tease making Harry just let out a chuckle as he carefully places the melon into the carrier where one of the twins will eventually go.

“Feels pretty secure.” He informs you as he walks around with the melon strapped to his chest. You step towards him and reach out to feel how tight the restraints are, Harry smiles when you give it a small nod of approval.

“Okay now the tough question,” you take a step backwards and look down at Nora and then over at Edward who is asleep in his bouncer next to his sister. “Ed or Nora Bear?” Harry rubs his lips together as he looks between the two babies while unclipping the melon from his chest.

“Uh well Ed is asleep so I say he goes in the stroller and Nora Bear can come with me for a bit and then when she falls asleep we can switch?”

“A man with a plan.” You say with a smile as you walk over to him. “I like it.” Harry laughs as he leans down and places a kiss to your lips before rushing off to put the melon back in the kitchen while you grab the stroller from the front entryway.

A few minutes, a minor hiccup while putting Nora in the infant carrier that was due to her grabbing hold of Harry’s chain that has his cross pendant on it and one masterfully coordinated transfer of a sleeping Edward from the bouncer to the infant carrier that is clipped onto the stroller later and the four of you are down the hallway standing in front of the elevator. You smile at Nora who is happily strapped to Harry’s chest and lightly babbling to herself as you adjust the hat on his head while waiting for the elevator all while Edward is peacefully sleeping.

“Love the hat Harry it’s very-honest.” He gives you a look that lets you know he has no clue what his hat says, having just grabbed one off the coat rack by the front door.

“Honest? Oh god what’s it say?” He asks only slightly worried as the soft ding of the elevator announces its arrival before the doors slide open.

“It says unemployed and beautiful.” You answer as you push the stroller into the small space while Harry lets out an annoyed groan while shaking his head as he steps inside.

“Of course that’s what it says-naturally I pick the silliest hat you have in your collection to wear on our first little family stroll through the neighborhood.” You reach over and give his back a soothing rub as he lets out a sarcastic sounding chuckle after pressing the button for the lobby.

“Oh trust me there’s sillier ones you could’ve picked but this one is at least letting everyone know where you’re at job wise and obviously we all know how pretty you are.” You reassure him with a lightly teasing tone making him shoot you a playful glare before turning his attention to Nora who is sucking on her hand.

“Your mommy is just so funny isn’t she? Always having a laugh at daddy’s expense.”

“Can’t help it-it’s just so easy.” You tell him with a casual shrug as you look down at Edward who is still asleep. A few moments later the doors open up and Harry lets you out first, following close behind you with a hand on your lower back.

“Now remember the rules?” He asks you as the two of you stand in front of the doors that lead out into the sidewalk in front of the apartment complex. You just nod and slide your sunglasses on, he does the same before looking over at you as if he’s waiting on a verbal conformation.

“Don’t talk to strangers and always stay close.” You answer with a smile but Harry lets out a sigh as he turns so he’s fully facing you, Nora securely strapped to his chest and everything.

“Baby I’m being serious we haven’t-this is our first time out with them like this so I just want to be safe.” You can hear the hint of panic in his voice so you reach over and place a hand on his cheek.

“It’s going to be fine.” He leans into your touch letting the warmth of your hand calm his nerves down a bit before he turns his head and places a kiss to your palm. “Now let’s get this show on the road-momma needs some coffee.” And with that Harry is letting out a laugh as he reaches to open the door and hold it open for you to push the stroller through officially starting the first ‘Styles family walk’.

You let out a sigh of content as you place your iced coffee in the cup holder of the stroller, having walked to the cafe down the street that Harry once ventured to on his own during the early months of your pregnancy to get you a peace offering in the form of a donut. Naturally they recognized him, his short sleeved shirt letting his most noticeable tattoos be on display but to his surprise they didn’t say anything minus the polite hello and a sweet compliment about how adorable the twins are after taking his order. You could feel his anxiety spike when he noticed their wide eyes but when they just handed him his drinks with nothing more than a smile he let out the smallest sigh of relief.

“How’s she doing? Getting sleepy?” You ask Harry as he takes his usual place at your side with one hand loosely placed on the top of your shoulder while his other one holds his green juice that he knows you’re probably going to end up drinking the majority of.

“She’s about two big yawns away from passing out.” He informs you with a smile as he looks down at Nora who trying to nuzzle her face into the plush side of the carrier.

“Should we switch before she falls asleep then?” You question as your eyes glance down at Edward who has only been awake for a few minutes thanks to the bell on the door of the cafe, his eyes wide and looking around at the little black and white music note toys hanging from his carrier.

“That’s a good idea.” You smile at your little boy as Harry places his green juice in the cup holder opposite of yours as the two of you roll to a stop near a bench on the sidewalk. “Hello my love did you have fun walking with daddy? Gonna take a little nap now with mommy while I let brother have a turn? Yeah? Sound good?” You feel your heart turn to mush as Harry uses his softest voice while talking to Nora as he begins to unclip her from his chest. You clap your hands before opening your arms up to take her from him making her kick and let out a small excited noise causing you to grin as Harry hands her to you.

“Hi my little Nora Bear. Ready for a little nap?” Harry smiles as you bounce her a bit while he reaches into the stroller for Edward. “Oh my goodness who is that? Is that brother? What’s he doing hmm?” You hold Nora so she can see Edward who lets out a small excited noise once he sees his sister and hears your voice making Harry laugh.

“Gotta be still for a moment son or it’s gonna be all wonky and-”

“Harry.” Your voice has him instantly freezing, holding Edward close to his chest while you stand there with a half asleep Nora in your arms. “I think-I think someone is behind us.” Your voice is low but holds a seriousness that has Harry on edge because while you’re used to being photographed when out and about with Harry this is the first time it’s happened since the twins have been born seeing as this is your first time taking them out in public that’s not just a quick trip over to Anne’s or Harry’s house that usually is just them being seen getting in and out of the car in their carriers with their faces never visible.

“I’ll handle it.” You just nod and go back to placing Nora in the stroller, pulling the visor down a bit more to help block her face from the sun and any prying eyes that might want to take a chance at snapping her photo. “Hold him for a moment please sweetheart.” You don’t hesitate to grab Edward from Harry’s arms, smiling down at the little boy who is just happy to be out of the stroller and looking around.

“Hi sweet boy did you have a nice nap?” You ask as you lean down and rub your nose against him making a small little squeal leave his body as he tries to grab onto your face when you pull away. Harry turns and takes a few steps so he is blocking the view of your back from the two men that are very obviously trying to get a few photos of the four of you, and Harry understands this is their job he isn’t mad at them, annoyed yes but not mad. He really just wants to establish some boundaries before the small group of two becomes a gathering of five or six and things get a bit more hectic and possibly dangerous.

“Do you mind not getting too close? Twins have a bit of stranger danger.” He asks politely and the two men just nod and smile as they take a few steps backward. “Thanks I appreciate it.”

“Congratulations Harry.”

“Beautiful family you’ve got.”

“Thank you-thanks a lot.” You hold back a little chuckle as he awkwardly rubs his lips together and gives the two men a small nod before turning around.

“Did you hear that Eds? Your daddy has a beautiful family.” Harry rolls his eyes under his sunglasses as he holds his arms out so you can help him strap the baby into the carrier.

“It’s true though.” He says with a smile as he adjusts the straps a bit after getting Edward situated. “I do have a beautiful family.” He adds as he leans over and places a kiss to your temple, you smile as you hear the sound of camera clicks going off behind you. “I love you cranky.” You let out a little giggle at your nickname as Harry reaches over for his green juice.

“I love you too Harry.” He doesn’t even blink or make a face as you take the cup from his hands before he can even bring it up to his lips. He just watches you in amusement as you take a sip and make a face that has your nose scrunching up a bit. “You asked for carrots in your juice on purpose.” You accuse him as you hand him his cup, Harry just lets out a scoff but the corners of his mouth twitch the smallest bit letting you know he is hiding a smirk.

“Now baby why would I do that? I know how you feel about carrots in your juice.”

“You’re so annoying.” He just laughs as the two of you begin walking again, his free hand rubbing your lower back while you push the stroller that now holds a sleeping Nora.

“You’re full of shit he doesn’t look anything like you.” You rub your lips together to hide your amused grin as you watch Harry send Niall who is currently holding Edward on the couch, a glare from his spot on the loveseat.

“You having a laugh mate? He has blue eyes and-”

“Most babies are born with blue eyes you twat.”

“He has brown hair and blue eyes Harry he’s practically my twin.”

“You have lost your fucking mind if you think my son is your twin.” You let out a chuckle as you look down at Nora who is looking right at you with drool dribbling down her chin as she smiles at the sound of her daddy’s voice.

“Harry m’gonna have to ask you to watch your language in front of my little one he doesn’t need-”

“That’s it.” You let Nora grab onto your finger as you watch Harry shoot up from his seat and reach his arms across the coffee table. “Give me my son.” He snaps making Niall let out a full on belly laugh that causes Edward to make a noise of delight at the chaos going on around him.

“M’not giving him to you Harry it’s my day for cuddles you prick.” Niall argues as he looks away from Harry and down to Edward who is looking at him with his big blue eyes.

“Baby tell Niall he can’t call Edward his son anymore.” You just roll your eyes as Harry turns his head to look at you over his shoulder, as you take a seat on the edge of the armrest of the loveseat he was sitting in just a few moments ago.

“As I’ve said before-I’m not getting in the middle of this.” You tell him with a laugh as you adjust Nora in your arms, he gives you a pleading look when you finally glance up to meet his stare.

“Hello peasants I have come to see my babies.” Your eyes look away from Harry and over to your entryway as Ethan walks through the front door with a bright grin on his face as he slides his shoes off.

“I would like both of you to understand something.” Harry says with a glare aimed at Ethan as he walks past the couch and into the kitchen so he can wash his hands. “These babies aren’t yours.” He states with his hands on his hips once he realizes Niall really isn’t going to hand Edward over to him.

“Someone has their Gucci in a twist.” Ethan mumbles with a roll of his eyes as he walks into the living room with his hands out ready to take Nora from you. “What’s the old man’s deal Nora Bear?” He asks her as he carefully scoops her from you after placing a quick kiss to your cheek.

“Old man?”

“Good lord Harry yer in a mood and honestly we don’t need this kinda energy right now.” Harry’s eyes go wide as he watches Niall stand up and tuck Edward close to his chest. “Come on Ethan let’s take our babies to the nursery for some peace and quiet.” You cover your mouth with your hand as Niall heads down the hall to the nursery with Ethan in tow.

“I see where Paris gets his attitude from.” Ethan whispers to Nora making Niall laugh as the two of them walk into the twin’s nursery.

“I-I can’t believe we are friends with them.” Harry says with a huff as he slowly plops back down into the loveseat.

“They just love their babies that’s all.”

“They aren’t their babies.”

“I mean maybe they aren’t their fathers but they are a big part of their lives so in a sense yes Harry-our kids are their kids.” Harry lets out a sigh as you slide down the armrest so you’re sitting in his lap with your legs laying over the armrest on the other side of the loveseat, his arms wrap around your middle as you place a hand on his cheek.

“What do you mean maybe they aren’t the father? I know for a fact you’ve never been with Niall but-”

“Harry.” Your tone has him snapping his mouth shut and his cheeks turning pink as he realizes just how silly he sounds. “You’re the only baby daddy I have and the only one I plan on ever having.”

“But more babies though right? And also can you just call me your boyfriend? I don’t like-”

“I will call you whatever you want if it makes you stop being so whiney.”

“Okay how does husband sound? That work for you?” Harry feels your body stiffen as you stare at him with a confused look on your face. “I’m not proposing-at least not right now I do plan on-”

“You-you really want to marry me?” Your voice is low and full of surprise as your hand falls from Harry’s cheek down to the side of his neck. The smile he gives you has your heart feeling as if it’s melting as his hold around your middle tightens.

“Oh cranky you really don’t get it do you?” You just continue to stare at him making him let out a little chuckle. “I want to do everything with you-the family vacations and the silly little photo shoots and the yearly Christmas cards that you’ll undoubtably make us all wear matching outfits for and yes I really do want to marry you if that’s something you’re into and if not then that’s fine just know I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”

“You love the silly photo shoots.” You mumble as you feel your eyes begin to sting with the unshed tears that you’re trying so hard to keep from falling down your face.

“Yeah. I do.” He says with a smile as one of his hands comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb wiping away a stray tear that managed to slip over your lash line and slide down your face.

“What if you change your mind? What if all this becomes too much and-”

“I won’t change my mind because you and those two tiny little humans we managed to make together are my whole world I can’t-I can’t imagine living without the three of you in my life so please believe me when I tell you I’m not going anywhere.”

“I believe you. I’m not going anywhere either.” Your voice is watery but Harry hears you loud and clear making him let out a small sigh of relief that he feels like he’s been holding in for months now, not being able to stop himself from constantly wondering what your future looks like and if he’s in it or not.

“Good.”

“We can discuss the marriage thing later.”

“What about the more babies thing? Can we discuss that?” He wiggles his eyebrows at you making you let out a laugh as he leans down and kisses your cheek. “Styles party of six just sounds good doesn’t it?”

“Is that including Paris because if so then sure I’ll give you one more baby in about two years.”

“Knowing us you’ll end up with triplets.” Harry lets out a groan as you give his stomach a harsh smack at the mention of triplets.

“Why would you put that into the universe Harry? I mean seriously?”

“Sorry sorry you’ll only have one baby at a time now-how’s that sound?”

“God you’re already talking about knocking her up again? Jesus Harry let the girl’s body have some rest.” Niall says as he walks into the living room with Nora now tucked close to his chest. You let out a quiet snicker as you wipe at your eyes while Harry just shoots his bestfriend the bird as he takes a seat on the couch.

“He asked me to marry him as well can you believe that?” Harry feels his face get hot as you casually let the words slip out of your mouth while getting comfortable in his lap. Niall lets out a fake gasp just as Ethan makes his way into the living room holding little Edward.

“What’s with all the gasping? It sounds like an episode of Rue Paul’s Drag Race in here.”

“Harry asked her to marry him and asked to let him get her knocked up a few more times.”

“What? We-we were gone for less than ten minutes? You really are quick huh?” Ethan says with a playful wink sent in your direction that has Harry staring at you confused but as you struggle to hold back a laugh while trying to wiggle out of his hold it all clicks for him and his eyes go wide.

“You-you told him?” He asks only mildly shocked because he knows you tell Ethan everything so of course you let him know certain things that happen between you and Harry in the bedroom, including the few times he’s managed to beat you to the finish line so to speak. You just ignore him as you try to stand up after swinging your legs over and placing your feet on the floor but Harry isn’t having it as his arms snake around your waist pulling your back flush against his chest.

“Told him what?” Niall asks as Ethan takes a seat next to him on the couch. “Why’s it Ethan always gets to know the juicy bits before me?”

“Because I live across the hall.” Ethan answers with a shrug as he looks down at Edward who is perfectly content in his uncle’s arms. “But apparently Harry has been-”

“Baby make him stop.” Harry whines as he hides his face in the crook of your neck making you giggle while Niall just rolls his eyes at his friend’s dramatics. “If you love me at all you’ll-”

“Oi! Don’t go bein a baby H let the man tell the gossip so I can share it with Amelia tonight over dinner.” Harry lets out a groan as his hold on you tightens while Ethan just turns to look at Niall.

“Harry puts the quick in quickie if you catch my drift.”

“He puts the what in-oh oh wow really? You a selfish lover now Styles?”

“Oh for fuck sake I’m not having this conversation with the two of you.” Harry snaps as he lifts his head and sends the two men on the sofa a glare as he rests his chin on your shoulder.

“It’s perfectly healthy to discuss your sex life amongst friends Harry don’t be embarrassed.” You give Harry’s knee a pat as Ethan tries his best to reassure him but before anyone can respond Nora lets out a tiny whimper that has Niall’s eyes softening as he stares at the little girl in his arms.

“That’s my queue.” You smile as Harry’s arms drop from around your waist so you can stand up allowing him to get up from his seat and reach his arms out over the coffee table. “She’s due for some daddy time while she gets a bottle.” Harry explains as Niall stands up, leaning down to give the little girl’s head a kiss before handing her over to Harry.

“She just got some daddy time but it’s fine I’ll let you feed her.” Harry narrows his eyes at his bestfriend who just breaks out into a fit of laughter as he reaches over and gives Harry’s shoulder a pat. “Lighten up Harry m’just messin with you besides we all know Nora is the spitting image of her mom.”

“It’s true sweetheart she looks exactly like you.” Harry confirms with a smile as he looks at you over his shoulder. “Come on lovey let’s go get some lunch.” He whispers to Nora as he leans down and kisses her nose making a little tiny coo escape her causing Niall and Ethan to make awe sounds while Harry takes a few steps towards the kitchen.

“I still think Ed looks like Zayn.”

“For Christ sake don’t get him goin on the Zayn thing.” Niall mumbles as Harry walks into the kitchen to get Nora’s bottle ready, luckily not hearing Ethan’s little teasing comment.

“You two are horrible.” You tell them as you point at them both with as stern of a look you can muster on your face. “Edward looks just like Harry and you both know it.” You add as you place a hand on your hip, Niall just shrugs while Ethan rolls his eyes.

“Well duh-of course he looks like Harry it’s just fun to mess with him that’s all.” Ethan argues as his eyes land on the little boy in his arms that without a doubt belongs to the green eyed brunette in the kitchen.

“Well stop before he starts talking about of his kids look like him or not with his therapist.”

“Fine.” Ethan answers with a huff.

“Niall?” You quirk a brow at him making him let out a sigh.

“Fine yeah no more he’s not the daddy jokes.”

“Thank you.” You say with a smile as you walk around the back of the couch and look over Ethan’s shoulder letting Edward get a decent view of you causing his face to light up. “Hi baby-you enjoying your uncle time?” You ask in a sugary sweet voice that has his little feet moving causing Ethan and Niall to chuckle at how excited he is hearing your voice. “Daddy went to go get your lunch okay? Just a few more minutes my sweet boy.”

“He’s so obsessed with you.” Niall jokes as Edward makes happy noises as you reach over and give the tip of his nose a little boop.

“Oh yeah proper momma’s boy that one is.” Harry says as he walks back into the living room with two bottles in one hand while holding Nora tight to his chest with his other one.

“Takes one to know one.” You tease making him laugh as you take one of the bottles from him and hand it to Ethan so he can start feeding the happy little boy in his arms.

“Speaking of momma’s boys where is-” Before Ethan can get the rest of his sentence out Paris walks into the living room, stoping at the entrance and looking around and when his eyes lock on Harry who is sitting down in the loveseat with Nora to start feeding her he automatically begins walking over to him.

“He’s going to make sure I feed her properly.” Harry huffs as Paris gracefully leaps up onto the armrest of the couch. “Hi Paris before you even get to meowing at me- m’supporting her head don’t worry.” He tells the orange cat as he perches on the armrest so he can face Harry and look down at Nora who is contently sucking on the bottle in her mouth.

As you look around the living room you can’t help but smile as you watch Edward begin to happily drink his bottle while Ethan and Niall talk to him, you glance over at Harry who is smiling down at Nora while she drinks and Paris supervises and your smile turns into a full blown grin. You feel incredibly full of love for everyone in the room and you know the two little babies currently getting fed lunch are so adored by the people surrounding them it makes you wonder what it would’ve been like if you never gave Harry a chance to be in your life as more than just the father of your children. You imagine your life would look a bit different but before you can begin to slip into the never ending pool of ‘what ifs’ you look up just as Harry looks over at you with a smile and eyes that hold nothing but love in them and you know you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be and that all the tears, petty arguments, emotional rants and fights really were worth it.

[godoreo22]

Saja boys x Manager reader: Part 2

Fake it till you make it

(Name) is ushered into the apartment by the group of guys.

"Whoa." (Name) gapes as they take in the lavish home. Flat screen TV mounted on the walk plush couches in the living room, white marble counter in the kitchen and a fountain in the middle of the foyer because why not?

"I'd have to sell every organ in my body to even afford one of those couches." (Name) sits on one and melts into the soft material as if they were sitting on a cloud.

"Well we're glad you like it." The sweet husky voice of who (Name) assumed was the leader coaxed her out of her relaxation. (Name) straightens and stands up. "RIGHT yes this is still a job interview technically."

"Hello my name is (Name), i am here the the manager position, but you all already knew that." (Name) stammers a bit with a deep bow.

All five of the beautiful men smirk.

"Oh they're adorable" said the one with with long pink hair causing the rest of them to chuckle and murmur in agreement

"You've already got the job baby" The one with their eyes covered says while holding their chin. (Name) can practically feel their brain buffering. They take and a big step back and takes a deep breath to calm they haywire nerves and burning face.

"That's amazing but we need to keep a professional relationship... mainly for my sanity." (Name) mumbles the last bit but plasters a large smile.

All the boys look at each other a little surprised at the swift shut down but each of them have a challenging look on their faces.

"Alright Boss, no more funny business." Said the one with long pink hair says with a flirtatious smile.

"Right... So this manager job, i assume you're all a boyband?" (Name) inquires.

"You assume right, I'm Jinu" Said the one with dark hair and deep eyes. "This is Romance." He gestures to the one with long pink haired boy who blows them a kiss at that forms a heart that actually flies.

"Interesting..." (Name) notes watching it before focusing back on the others introductions.

"That's Abby." The boy with a chiseled jaw line flexes causing his shirt to stretch and his abs to become exposed. (Name) pupils dilate as they stare at his magnificent physique, imagining how it feels to lick them like a glazed doughnut. They take a deep breath and pinch their side hard to steel themselves.

"Mhm" Abby chuckles a their reaction and relaxes.

"Mystery." (Name) looks at the boy with long silver hair who gives them a small smile and a nod of acknowledgement which (Name) returns

"And finally, baby." (Name) looks at the last boy with an adorable face and a cute smile "What's up girl?" Only for his deep voice to completely catch her off guard.

"Hmm well you're all... unique individuals. Definitely boyband esque." (Name) nod in thought. "So i assume you all your roles."

"Yup, I'm lead singer, Abby is on choreo, Baby is the wrapper, Mystery is the lyricist, and Romance is the vocalist." Jinu says which makes (Name) sigh in relief. Less work.

"Ok great well first your gonna need a debut, put your name out there." (Name) starts pacing with a purpose.

"We gotta deal with booking a venue, Instruments, choreography." (Name) starts the drone now feeling like they've trained their whole life for this.

'Cute.' All the boys think in unison.

"Whoa whoa Boss calm down, let us get to know know you first." Romance wraps their arm around (Name)'s shoulder.

"I don't know, I'm sure there is so much we have to get to for the debut." (Name) squeaks out as they feel heat rise in them. "Come on, we're gonna be spending a lot of time together, might as well."Baby adds getting closer to them.

"Whoa you just kinda popped up outta no where." (Name) chuckles nervously before gasping loudly.

"I have the perfect idea for your debut."

UGH i wanted to get this out like yesterday but i fractured my knee on top of getting braces again because i have some rare teeth condition. I'm just out of it kinda but i have my computer so i will continue to type.

Taglist: @imaginarydreams @sparky2020sworld @strayharmony943 @lysira340 @crescent-z

[cinder-stella]

𝐉𝐉𝐊 𝐌𝐞𝐧 𝐀𝐭 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐭!

multiverse fluff, slice of life, comedy

<MDNI>toji,satoru,kento,choso,sukuna<MDNI>

Across countless timelines, you utter the same words, “We’re just getting one thing.”

Only one thing at home depot. Seems simple enough, right? Just in and out. No distractions.

In every timeline, the man beside you says, “Yeah, sure. Just one thing.”

That's a lie. They all lie.

──✿──

TOJI

Mission: Find a socket wrench.

You step inside Home Depot with Toji, hoping to buy a basic wrench. But then you blink and he’s gone. No explanation. No warning. Just the faint remnants of cologne that he sprayed on quickly before leaving the house.

You find him twenty minutes later in the Hunting & Outdoor section, crouching like a cryptid—his limbs too long and bulky to squat neatly. His shirt’s askew, hair tousled and he’s holding a roll of duct tape as if it’s speaking directly to him.

“This is the good kind,” he says without looking at you. “Industrial strength. Can restrain a grown man. Even hold a bumper on.”

"...We’re here for a wrench, Toji."

He ignores you and holds up a crowbar, testing the weight in his hand. “This one’s balanced. Nice grip. Could kill a guy.”

“That’s nice, sweetie. Definitely not alarming.”

You trail him as he tosses it into the cart alongside zip ties, work gloves and a beef jerky bag he’s already torn open and started eating. An employee clocks it from the corner of the aisle, starts to say something but then decides he values his life too much.

Toji pauses in front of a grill, stares at it like he’s yearning. “For the kid,” he mutters, tossing it in. “He’s gotta eat.”

You stare at the mountain of vaguely criminal hardware and protein snacks in the cart and run a hand down your face. “We came for a wrench. One.”

Toji shrugs. “And now we have a tactical advantage.”

You should’ve just ordered it online. “Alright, big guy. You’re paying.”

Toji swivels around with an eyebrow raised.

SATORU

Mission: Buy a shower head.

He walks in like he owns the place. As if the automatic doors opened just for him. Tall, smug, sunglasses indoors (as usual), and dressed like he’s on a luxurious trip instead of a store for plumbing fixtures.

“Now, this is a man’s store,” he announces, immediately drawing attention. “I love it.”

You sigh. “Satoru, please. Just one thing. We’re not here to mess around.”

He nods solemnly. “Of course. One thing. I’m laser focused.”

He is not.

Within five minutes, he’s critiquing paint swatches aloud like he’s on Project Runway. “This one says ‘murder in a pastel kitchen.’ This one screams ‘lower tax bracket.’ This one? Oh yeah, this one’s sexy. Like me.”

He strolls through the aisles with cocky grace, picking up tools and using them completely wrong on purpose.

He holds up two caulking guns like they’re pistols. “I could dual wield these,” he muses, making the sound and movements that actual guns make.

“Satoru.” You roll your eyes. “I’m so sorry,” you mutter to a nearby employee who seems just as annoyed.

At one point, he picks up a wood stain sample and says, “This one’s called ‘shit-brown in London.’ This one’s ‘porta potty walnut.’”

Eventually, you don’t know how, but he ends up wearing a tool belt and holding a pack of nails like he just came back from his blue collar job.

“How ya’ like me now?” he smirks and strikes a pose that looks eerily similar to Woody from Toy story.

“Not a lot,” you sigh.

In the end, you, in fact, don’t leave with a showerhead. but instead a novelty “#1 DIY DAD” mug and several useless gadgets.

“We should go to Lowe’s next.”

KENTO

Mission: Replace the leaky faucet.

Nanami enters Home Depot like he’s walking into a board meeting. Button-up shirt rolled at the sleeves, clipboard app open on his phone, and that furrow in his eyebrow that meant business.

“This should take no more than twenty minutes,” he says. “I’ve reviewed the layout online, and I know the exact model we need.”

On a completely sexual note, you loved seeing Kento in his sexy manly element. You fight the urge to bite your index finger and giggle like a school girl. “Ay, ay, captain.”

Ten minutes in, it seems like Kento hit a wall at high speed. He stands in the plumbing aisle staring at the different faucet models. The one he came for? Out of stock. The aisle signage? Mislabeled. The finishes? All brushed nickel when he clearly wanted chrome.

“Of course,” he mutters through clenched teeth. ““Every fixture here looks like it belongs in a chain restaurant bathroom from 2006.”

“What’s so wrong with brushed nickel? It’s a softer look,” you try input in a cheery tone.

He deadpans.

When an employee walks by and chirps, “Need help finding something?” Kento just breathes in slowly, as if it’s the poor employee's fault.

Eventually, you find him organizing a shelf that wasn’t crooked until he looked at it. He’s muttering about SKU numbers and poor inventory management like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“Babe. Honey. Sweetheart. We can just call a plumber,” you offer, gently.

He turns to you, jaw tight, voice level. “We are not letting a complete stranger touch our pipes. I’ll fix it myself or die trying.”

It’s kinda sexy…seeing him all worked up. Anyways, in the end you leave with a completely different faucet along with a pack of precision screwdrivers of course. Kento softly massages his temples in the driver’s seat.

You give him a kiss on the cheek. “You did great, champ.”

He doesn’t respond. But he does hold your hand the whole drive home.

CHOSO

Mission: Get one (1) bag of soil.

You tell Choso it’s just a quick stop. Grab soil, maybe a new pot. That’s it.

He nods solemnly. “Yeah. Got it.”

Well…Within five minutes of entering the garden section, he’s gone quiet. You briefly look around, thinking he’s wandered off but he was just kneeling by the succulents like they’ve been waiting for him.

He gently strokes a Mexican snowball. “This one’s thirsty,” he murmurs.

“Don’t they…store water?” you whisper.

“Thirsty emotionally.”

You try to stay focused. But every time you turn around, there’s a new plant in the cart. A string of pearls. Then a tiny bonsai. Then a pothos you’re pretty sure was dying until he whispered to it.

He picks up a discounted cactus—on its tag it reads, ‘Final Sale.’

Choso reads it, horrified. “They’re giving him away like he doesn’t matter.”

“He’ll be just fine. They’re very resilient, y'know.”

He stares right through you. Then he gently placed the cactus into the cart.

Somehow, you also now have three ceramic mushrooms, a gnome with moss on his hat, and a biodegradable watering can Choso swore would help the plants to grow.

“I don't think we have space for all this…” you huff.

He looks at you, completely serious. “I’ll make space.”

You did end up getting the soil. But also seven plants, a huge frog statue named Gorb and a bag of organic fertilizer.

At checkout, he pats the cart lovingly. “We’re a family now.”

RYOMEN

Mission: Buy a new toilet seat.

You should’ve gone alone.

You said it three times in the car. “We’re going in, we’re getting the toilet seat you broke, and we’re leaving.”

Ryomen nodded, “Sure, sure.”

Now he’s walking three steps ahead of you, dragging his hand along the displays like he’s inspecting the quality of weapons.

You try to steer him to the plumbing aisle but he keeps veering left. Obviously towards the chainsaws and other dangerous looking machinery.

That’s when it happens.

He makes eye contact with a kid. Maybe seven—rounds the corner with his mom’s cart. Toolbelt on and light-up Spider-Man sneakers.

Ryomen locks eyes with him. The kid looks back, unblinking.

There was mutual, immediate hatred.

You don’t know why and you don't ask. But you feel the air shift, the lights dim and somewhere, a wolf howls.

You whisper, “Please don’t start beef with a literal child.”

They pass each other. Ryomen bumps the cart just slightly.

The kid bumps it back harder.

“Ryomen,” you warn.

“He started it,” he growls back.

Eventually, you drag him to plumbing. He picks the most unnecessary toilet seat imaginable—heated, LED lights, Bluetooth connectivity, massage settings.

“Heated seats,” he says, tossing it in the cart. “I deserve luxury.”

You don’t even bother. You got what you came for.

Later, as you check out, you glance back towards the lumber aisle.

The kid is still there. Just staring.

Ryomen flips him off, ensuring that his mother was right there to see.

“Oh my god.” You grab his arm and quickly head to the front.

So, you did leave with the toilet seat and somehow an additional motion-sensor soap dispenser that Ryomen liked the sound of. Oh yeah, and an unspoken rivalry that will haunt one suburban child for the rest of his life.

Ryomen hums in the passenger seat. “I’ll see him again,” he says.

You don’t ask what that means.

──✿──

Somewhere in the multiverse, five versions of you all sigh at the same time.

You each mutter, with different levels of exhaustion, disbelief, and affection. “Next time…I’m going alone.”

But you surely won’t.

Because chaos aside, you do really love them.

…And to be fair you never really wanted just one thing.

ฅ^>⩊<^ ฅ

a/n: i rly enjoy this format. also taking a break from smut for a bit. lmk how u guys like it!

[maiyami]

Post Time-skip Headcanons For Bakugou Katsuki with F!Hero/Wife

25+

Minors Do Not Interact

A lot of these are from the perspective that Bakugou watched you died before he died in the war.

Some NSFW at the end

Warnings: Angst, mentions of death/dying, mentions of blood and broken bones, anxiety, scars, panic attacks, overprotecting, and more.

NSFW Warnings: Slight scar kink (Bakugou likes your scars even though you hate them), creampies, dominance, and more.

Waking up in the hospital after the war, you were the first thing on his mind besides Izuku. Now even years later, anytime he wakes up and you aren’t next to him, he panics a bit.

Bakugou had watched you take (what he thought was) your last breath right in front of his eyes. Lying in the dirt with blood coming from your nose and ear. The light fading from your bright eyes as you muttered his first name before your breath was gone.

He didn’t know if you truly had left him until after the war was done. Izuku was a top thought on his mind but you were Bakugou’s priority. Basically collapsing next to your bed side when he found you alive. Even with how injured he was, he did not leave your bedside for days. It would give him an insane amount of anxiety anytime the nurses would have to take you away from him. At the end of it, the nurses just allowed Bakugou to go wherever you went.

Now even years later, he still doesn’t like leaving your side. Yes, with both your jobs as pro heroes he has to leave you but he always knows exactly where you are. You do work at his agency with him, he knows your patrols and routes just incase anything were to happen to you. But if you get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom or get a drink of water and he wakes up to an empty bed? He believes that he’s only dreamed that you lived through the war. Panicking that you aren’t there or something happened to you.

You try your hardest to comfort him but the ptsd is trills through both you. Anytime he wakes up without you in bed, it ends with a short crying session and an hour of cuddles until he falls back asleep. Therapy is working wonders on him to work past the restless nights.

2. Since he wears a pace marking now for his heart, you wear a tracker to make sure his heart rate doesn’t go out of sorts. In return, he wears a tracker for your brainwaves to make sure nothing happens to you.

When you were thought to be dead, you had an extensive brain bleed. The doctors did amazing at repairing the damage, however you have lingering side effects. Blurry vision, dizziness, and sometimes even memory gaps for things that had just happened. You can get there but sometimes it takes a few tries to remember. Bakugou had become so worried of a possible aneurysm or another brain bleed that you both wear special bracelets. His bracelet allows him to track your breathing, brainwaves, and blood pressure. While your bracelet allows you to track his heart rate, breathing, and blood pressure.

It’s made both of your anxiety lessen knowing that all you both have to do is look at the fancy bracelet on your wrists to check in on how the other is doing. It was actually Kirishima’s idea for the bracelets one day when Bakugou was pacing around his office nervous when you had come back late from patrol. Now neither of you leave the house without them on.

3. He’s much more protective of you.

When you are on a mission together, he makes sure to keep an eye on you at all times. It’s not that he doesn’t trust in your skills but he just doesn’t want to relive the worst day of his life even more. He knows you’re a confident woman, can handle your own. However, your silent tells of anxiety building or stress coming to the forefront of your mind are now much easier for him to notice. He will step in on interviews when he sees your fist clench out of stress. He will shield you from the flash of cameras since it heightens your anxiety now.

If you’re out in public off duty, he doesn’t let your hand go. Making sure to always have you within reach just incase. There are check ins, soft whispers against your ear to make sure you’re doing okay. And once you have had enough for one day, it’s a wrap. He’s carting you away to bring you to a quiet space to unwind. Your health physically and mentally being top priority, even over his own. That will cause some arguments since that’s all you want to do for him as well. But he insists you are taken care of first.

4. He rubs scar treatment oil on your scars, even though he thinks you’re beautiful with them.

It’s no secret that both Bakugou and yourself gained a lot of scars from the war. Scars that will possibly never fade even with time. That doesn’t stop you from trying every treatment under the sun to get rid of them on yourself. You hate your own scars, they make you feel less beautiful. Someone not worthy of Bakugou.

However that doesn’t matter at all to him, he loves you with or without your scars. You accepted him for his new scars, why would he do anything less for you? Even though he has told you countless times that you’re beautiful, it still nags at you. So the nightly routine is that Bakugou will take your scar treatment oil and delicately massage it into your scars one by one. He knows it likely won’t do much but if it eases your thoughts about it? He’ll do it again and again until he dies again.

5. He doesn’t rush anything you do.

Bakugou by trait is an impatient man. He despises when things take to long, like if he needs to be somewhere but is stuck in traffic. His friends are taking to long to meet at a restaurant, you know all and all minor things.

But, he does not rush you for anything. Since you have lingering side effects from your surgery after the war, he takes everything slow for you. He doesn’t want to risk overworking you or raising your stress levels. He has actually found it very easy to let go of his impatient side with you. He would rather you take it slow and make the pair of you late instead of rushing around and missing the small things in life. He takes the time to admire anything you do while he waits.

Bonus: NSFW Headcanons

He found out he has a scar kink, but only for you.

After the war, your body was littered in scars. Some that were easily seen while others…not so much. Hidden away under layers of clothing that only yourself or him could see. He obviously hates the fact that you were hurt like this to case marks on your beautiful body. However, something feral in his brain loves the idea of how strong you are while looking at them. Like you challenged the world to do its worst and you still came out of it. It turns him on at the thought of how powerful you are.

He’ll trace your scars with his tongue every time you two have sex. His favorite one being the scar that’s just above your left hip bone, running up onto your stomach. Anytime his tongue flicks over that one, you make a sinful noise that makes him go crazy. Wanting to pull more pretty sounds from your chest and he grazes his teeth against the scar on your left thigh as well. He knows that they are long gone from being sensitive but you still react in a way that gets his cock harder than it’s ever been.

2. He likes giving more than receiving.

He enjoys you laid out on the bed while he does everything he wants to your body. He rather you sit there and look pretty while he eats you up. He takes his time with you, eating your pussy like a man starved. Even when you’re begging to let you have a turn making him feel good, he shakes his head no. “Let me take care of you first, Princess. Then we’ll see if I need anything more.” Is what he says every time you’re squirming under him as he laps his way to your climax.

He also isn’t a big talker through worshiping your body, he will whisper sweet words every once in a while but he is to focused on how good you are feeling. Having you cum at least two to three times on his tongue before finally sinking his large cock into your body. Still not letting up on making you feel good before him. It makes him more dominant in the bedroom with you, making sure that he’s in charge of your pleasure and that you are receiving it well enough for him to get it back.

3. Cockwarming is a must after sex.

When you a revived from death, your body usually feels colder after. That has never left Bakugou since the war (His body temperature is the same from before the war but he just feels like it isn’t). While having sex with you is the second to closest thing that keeps his body feeling like it’s back to its old self. (Cuddling is the first closest to how his temperature used to feel.)

So every time after he fills you to the brim with his warm cum, he repositions the both of you to have his cock sheathed back inside of you while cuddling. His creampie staying deep inside of you while he basks in the warm your body is giving him. It also makes him feel even closer to you than he did before. He loves the way your velvety walls tighten around him with every small shift of your body. The warmth of your back pressed to his chest, the way your thigh hangs over his. He can never get enough of it.

4. He whispers dirty things he wants to do with you out in public.

Your hearing suffered a little bit after the war, you’ve become much more sensitive to louder noises. So when you’re out somewhere that is just a hair too loud for you, Bakugou knows exactly how to counteract it. Especially since it’ll make you want to go home quicker.

He’ll lean in and whisper all the dirty things he wants to do to you with his low gravely voice. Knowing the low hum of his rasp does something to your now over sensitive hearing. Talks about making you sit on his face when you get home, riding his cock in the back of a taxi on the drive back. Sometimes even saying hello take you in the bathroom right then and there. It makes your eyelashes flutter and your knees weak. Bakugou knows it’ll get you to say your goodbyes and head straight home with him.

Thank you for reading~

[astrae4]

SHOULD I PRETEND TO DROWN SO THE HOT LIFEGUARD CAN SAVE ME? | Kim Donghyun

pairings — boynextdoor’s leehan x reader (non-idol au)

genre — romance, slice of life, comedy

warnings — (wc. 1k) swearing, lowk you down bad.. mentions of drowning also!

note — wanna eat biceps.

more works: navigation | bnd!masterlist

YOU’RE THANKFUL THAT YOU’RE using sunglasses right now, because if you weren’t the lifeguard across the pool would have caught onto your glutinous stare by now.

It has to be illegal—how good the man across of you looks right now, I mean. Girl dinner? At this point it’s a woman’s feast.

Blonde, with a red and white sleeveless uniform and a facecard so lethal it’s rendered you speechless the first time you visited the pool.

At first the pool was supposed to be a one time thing—just to stop your brother Jaehyun from nagging you about the fact that you never hang out with him.

You remember showing up to the pool with a permanent frown. Only it curved up happily when the guy that checked you in whose name tag spelled Kim Donghyun turned up in his lifeguard uniform.

Now, it’s a daily occurrence to see you at the pool—with or without the presence of your brother.

Today, however, your brother had decided to join you and your mission to finally work up the courage and approach this lifeguard.

Except he’s being a little shit about it.

Jaehyun munches on a box of chips, joining you on the daybed as he looks at you amusingly.

“You’ve been looking at him since summer started and have not made a single move.”

”Shut up, Jae.”

”At this point you might as well delusionalize your whole relationship in your head instead since reality’s never catching up.”

”Leave.”

It’s silent for a while, the sound of chips being munched louder than the background of people swimming.

Your eyes come back to the sight of his glistening bicep. It looks like a glazed donut. You want to eat that do—

“You’re not even subtle. Just go drown a little or something,” Jaehyun says, cutting your train of thoughts.

“No way. I can’t even save myself because I can’t swim, remember? I’m not going to risk my life for a man.”

”A man you’ve been eyeing this summer,” Jae mutters, sick of it. “If you don’t approach him right now, I will.”

That got your attention.

Your neck almost snaps at him.

”What—no way!” You whisper-shouted—but it’s too late.

He leaves the daybed and starts walking in the direction of your fine shyt of the month.

You try to catch up to him—to stop your downfall, but he’s clearly a lot faster.

You hear his voice before you see your glazed donut.

”Yo! You busy right now, dude?”

You want to actually jump in the pool right now and drown when you hear Donghyun speak in that sexy, deep voice of his.

“Nope. What’s up?”

”Jae—“ You try to stop him, but Jaehyun speaks to Donghyun like you don’t exist.

“My sister sucks at swimming—doesn’t know how to, actually—but she’s been wanting to try this whole summer yet keeps backing out. Can you help?”

Hahahaha…. your foot is one step into the pool to drown yourself.

“Stop it—“ You shush him, pulling Jaehyun at his arm, before looking at the snack in front of you, “Sorry to bother..”

Surprisingly, Donghyun smiles and it’s so damn cute you almost tripped yourself.

“Oh it’s no worries, I’m down to teach you how to swim.”

Your only response was “Huh?”

That’s how you find yourself in the big kids pool for once. Actually swimming. With the hot lifeguard. ( What in the fanfiction? )

“You can hold on to my arm if you want,” he says politely. Professionally. Like—you know, an angel.

Your head spirals and despite being painfully terrified your face flushes in deep red. Maybe because of your embarrassment. Maybe because of him.

“Oh, no, I’m not good at… grabbing things. I mean—swimming.” You want the ground ( or pool ) to swallow you whole.

He laughs, his eyes squinting at yours in amusement.

“Please—I insist.”

“Okay.” You don’t argue anymore.

Holding his bicep, you lowkey copped a feel. ( In your defense, he told you to! )

For the first ten minutes, he’s all business — calm instructions, steady encouragement, gentle corrections when you panic halfway across the pool.

You tell yourself to focus. On swimming. On not dying. On not embarrassing yourself in front of someone who looks like he was handcrafted by a Greek god with a lifeguard certificate.

But it gets harder when he steps closer.

When his fingers brush your shoulders, “fixing” your posture — warm against your skin, lingering a second too long.

When he scoops you up by the waist after you flail mid-float — muscles flexing, his arms wrapped around your bare stomach like it’s just another Tuesday.

You’re no expert, but…some of these corrections feel more like contact than instruction.

And every single time, he meets your wide-eyed look with the same charming smile. A little too smooth. A little too knowing.

Maybe you’re imagining things.

Or maybe Leehan knows exactly what he’s doing.

Either way, you’re dangerously close to developing a heart condition.

“You’re a fast learner,” he says as you finally cling to the edge of the pool.

You turn to him, a little breathless. “Thanks.”

He smiles again — that same warm, practiced grin, but this time, there’s something behind it.

“Guess I’ll have to make your next lesson harder.”

You blink. “Wait—there’s a next time?”

“Shouldn’t there be?” He asked innocently.

You don’t have time to respond. He’s already swimming to the ladder like it’s the most normal thing in the world, water dripping off his hair, muscles shining under the sun like a CGI character.

“By the way,” he calls over his shoulder, “You should give me your number. In case I need to schedule you in.”

Your jaw almost drops.

That man knew exactly what he was doing.

By the time you get your brain back into your head, Jaehyun jumps into the pool next to you, splashing you in the process.

You shriek in surprise, and by the time you finish wiping the water off your face your brother’s head bobbed up the surface of the pool.

“So.” He says, holding your shoulders and giving you an annoyingly teasing look, “How’d your date go?”

Usually you’d respond with ‘go away’ or something along the lines of it—but this is different.

“Oh my fuck, Jae.” You respond, eyes wide and holding his shoulder too.

That got the teasing smile off his face as his eyes went wide too, nosy and full of anticipation. “What, what—?”

”I think he just scheduled our next like..date.”

It was silent for a second—

“Oh my shit.”

TAGLIST: @ja4hyvn @flwoie @sulkygyu @xiaoderrrr @ineedaherosavemeenow @lonewolfjinji @teddywonss @taerae-verse @bbangbies @Ize325

NETWORKS: @k-labels @k-films @onedoornet

© astrae4 2025 — please don't copy, translate, or plagiarize my works on all platforms!

[arceespinkgun]

I feel like the weird treatment of Megatron in MTMTE highlights how Roberts, despite his intentions and the dialogue in the comic, unintentionally depicted the character more like a former violent criminal: someone who had done terrible things in the past, but whose actions were not on the same scale as a war-mongering dictator. I think the best example of this is how Megatron using violence for the most justified self-defense situations is treated as one step towards him potentially becoming evil again, but him commanding other characters to use violence is completely fine. In contrast, Getaway is depicted more as a dictator than Megatron ever was in MTMTE, with the comics making it clear his actions are more to secure power and try to vindicate his delusional beliefs than any sympathetic or rational motivation.

I think this is a interesting way to look at it—I hadn't thought of it before, but I think you're right because it makes sense with a lot of the most bizarre details of MTMTE/LL:

Roberts retconned Megatron into having been a pacifist originally, ascribing the violent and radical ideology to other characters like Terminus and Impactor.

When Tarn argues with Megatron and asks if there's anything Megatron doesn't regret doing, Megatron says he doesn't know... he doesn't even stand by the earliest beginnings of the revolution. Then, Megatron says that if he's being mind-controlled with drugs in order to keep him in-line, he's "better this way"! (This is one of my least favorite Transformers moments, actually.)

The "don't change back" thing with Ravage.

When Ultra Magnus thinks Megatron's betrayed them all, he decries him as a "serial abuser." It isn't wrong to call him that, but that's an incredibly weird way to talk about someone who killed 100+ billion people.

What I find so weird is that Roberts handled things this way, but he is also the same writer who introduced things like the death camps and 100+ billion deaths figure. Also, when I think about this, it's interesting to see how this echoes with how Roberts wrote mnemosurgery—an addictive act that will either kill you or make you go insane if you keep doing it, but this addiction is to a thing that is assaulting another person!

With Getaway, I think you're right, too. Especially when he's ranting like this:

Getaway was written to suffer delusions, and I remember thinking that even someone like Megatron would think he's laying it on a little thick when he says things like this, right? And Getaway directly uses the words of Nigel Farage and also uses the term "fake news" in this issue, too!

Very funny that "All Hail Getaway" was used as an allusion to "All Hail Megatron" but Megatron wasn't written like himself from back then lol

[thepeaklegendoffirstgen]

Gun, Goo, James and Kitae proposing

GUN PARK

You two had been talking about the future, a lot. And one day, out of nowhere, he asks whether you want kids.

You hesitate. It feels like a slippery slope. Saying yes might mean giving in to the expectations of the Yamazaki clan. Saying no could mean defying them entirely. So, you go with the vaguest response possible:

"I haven’t really thought about it."

But Gun knows you. He knows the anxiety that lingers beneath your words. He knows you’re afraid of becoming nothing more than the bearer of an heir. That what you want is something sacred, something just between the two of you, untouched by obligation.

And honestly? He wouldn’t mind if it stayed that way. Just you and him.

So when he catches you staring at a dress a little longer than usual, something clicks.

Maybe… it’s time.

It doesn’t happen with grand gestures or dramatic declarations. One evening, he comes home later than usual. He doesn’t say much. Just reaches into his pocket, places a ring in your hand, and asks:

"Do you want to accept it or not?"

Then, simply but firmly, he tells you what it means.

And you accept, without hesitation, without second thoughts. You kiss him softly, and his hand comes to rest on your waist. Quietly, without a word more, he seals your forever.

GOO KIM

You went with him to one of his colleague’s weddings. He groaned the whole way there.

"Why do people need to make such a big deal out of this crap?" he muttered.

But when he sees your eyes light up, hopeful, a little teary, as the couple exchange vows, something short-circuits in his brain.

"Wanna recreate this?" he blurts.

You shove his side with your elbow, embarrassed. But the blush creeping up your cheeks doesn’t go unnoticed. He files it away in his mind, a grin twitching on his lips.

Maybe... it wouldn’t be so bad with you.

So, he does it the Goo way.

He slips a ring into your drink, like a maniac, and you, obviously, don’t notice until it’s already in your mouth. Chaos ensues. You start choking, he helps you spit it out, and you stare at him in shock like, what the actual fuck?

And then, with zero shame, he drops to one knee and says:

"If I can help you pull a ring out of your mouth, I can definitely help you pull our baby out of your womb. So how about letting me help you... forever?"

You're stumped. You're delighted. You're slightly horrified.

But this is Goo. This madman is your madman.

You laugh, say yes, and he pulls you into his arms like he’s just won the lottery, yelling to the heavens that he’s finally won at life.

JAMES LEE/DIEGO KANG

James has made many important decisions in his life, and far too young, at that. Stepping into politics was just another one of them.

He showed up one day with a new hair colour and a quiet announcement: he was retiring from KPOP and stepping into politics. Just like that.

No warning. No discussion. No heads-up.

When you confronted him, your voice didn’t even rise.

"Why do you keep hiding things from me, James? What decision have you made about us this time?"

Your words hit hard. His jaw clenched, his hand tightening into a fist, the ring sitting heavy in his pocket.

You turned away, letting things cool down before either of you said something you'd regret.

But James didn’t let you go.

Suddenly, he spun you around, his grip firm around your waist. His voice didn’t shake.

"Now is the right time to make the next decision for us." He said as he had already made this decision a long time ago.

You braced yourself, heart thudding. Were you being left behind again?

But instead, he pressed a kiss to your eyes, soft, aching, and lowered himself onto one knee.

"Will you stay with me? Will you walk this road with me… forever? I promise not to keep you in the dark anymore."

Your tears answered before your words did. You cursed him as you nodded, called him every name in the book through snorts and shaky laughter, but you said yes !

He pulled you into his arms, chuckling into your hair.

"You love drama more than I do."

You smacked his arm.

"Shut up and hold me properly."

And he did.

KITAE KIM

It started with a question, quiet but cutting.

"Why do you keep sleeping around when I’m right here?"

Kitae brushed it off like he always did. Until one particularly rough day, the anger burst from you like a dam breaking:

"With the way you act… how are you any different from your father?"

For a moment, you thought he might reach for the axe. His hand twitched instinctively, then stopped. It hit him. He didn’t keep it in your shared space. He had sworn not to.

Your words had shaken something real in him. And so, you left the room, the silence splitting you both apart.

Weeks passed. The tension cooled just enough to breathe, but never truly vanished.

One day, without warning, he cornered you.

"Listen without interrupting."

You froze.

"Before you ever use Gapryong Kim’s name like that again,watch your mouth." His fingers hovered near your lips, not quite touching, just a breath away.

"I don’t want that filth coming out of your mouth. Not ever again. Promise me."

Was it a request? Or a demand for total submission and obedience? You couldn’t tell.

Then his voice dropped lower:

"It’s you and me against the world. You know that, right? So don’t question it again. It hurts, coming from my wife."

You blinked.

Wife?

Only then did you notice the cool weight on your finger. Somewhere in that tense exchange, he had slipped a ring on your hand.

You stared at him, stunned.

"You manipulative bastard threatening and proposing in the same breath?"

He just smirked.

Before you could argue, he hauled you over his shoulder like it was nothing, making you shriek.

"Where the hell are you taking me?!"

"To claim my wife properly," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

And this time, you didn’t fight it.

[lunarruled]

Once it was agreed that they would go into the backyard, which Kyleigh was very happy to do, the half lycan stood back and armed herself. She couldn't hear any of the dead out there but that didn't mean they couldn't show up in an instant. She especially hated it when they came out of nowhere, lunging at her with those half rotted arms and snapping their teeth. Like a damn haunted house come to life. Kyleigh could almost kick her own ass for how many times she had wished that would happen since now she was living it every single day and it sucked. Coming out of her thoughts as the first rays of the sun hit her face she slowly moved behind Magna, relieved to see that there was nothing out there to greet them.

As soon as she was also fully outside Kyleigh began to look around. If their little safe house wasn't there when they got back or if someone had taken it over she wouldn't mind camping out a few days in this place. They still had the rest of the neighborhood to check out too and she hoped that it would be just like this house had been. Relatively easy to get into, only a few bodies to take care of and a lot of shit left behind. She did scan around to see if that person who had left the blood in the bathroom might be around but either they were long gone or went back the way they came in as she found no evidence of them. Good, she didn't feel like having to deal with that whole mess too. The smell of the charcoal hit her before Magna said anything, and if their lucky streak continued Kyleigh would be more than happy to help drag that grill back to their spot. Or find some way to fit it into the car if there was one in the garage. Taking the lighter she was handed she placed it into her pocket for safer keeping than her bag. "You know I hate to say it but some barbeque squirrel does sound kind of good right now." She joked, though if that was the only thing they could find to eat she wouldn't turn her nose up at either.

Stepping beside Magna to get a better view at the garage door Kyleigh's eyes went up to the gap. It would have been pretty easy for her to slip her fingers in there if she had been tall enough. Magna had a few inches on her, but without the aid of a chair or ladder neither one of them would be able to reach it. "I actually do have some more fishing wire on me and a hook."

Taking off her bag for a few moments Kyleigh set it down on the ground and went into the front pocket of it. She had used some of it to set up a trip wire back at their camp but had enough left that Magna should be able to fashion the hook to it and drop it down to pull the cord.

"One of those chairs over there should be able to hold you up since you're taller than me and we don't want to waste time trying to get into the garage."

Handing the line and hook over to Magna the half lycan went over to the small outside table and chairs set and grabbed one of them. Thankfully they weren't those plastic kind that broke when the slightest weight was put on it, though she wasn't really worried about that considering neither one of them looked like they were over ninety pounds.

Coming back over she placed the chair in front of the garage door and leaned on the back of it to keep it steady. "If this doesn't work we could always try to pry it open from the ground, or bust one of the panels open. I could crawl through it if it comes down to it."

"Good idea. We shouldn't put ourselves on display."

She knew that at any time, there could be a whole pack of them wandering the streets, just like earlier when they'd hid behind that trash can. So backyard it was. Especially since prying open that garage might make some noise that could draw that pack from earlier back to them. They should be a bit further away from them now, far enough not to hear anything, but sometimes they made stops for something or turned back, putting them closer to a survivor than anticipated. She couldn't take any risks.

Carefully opening the door leading to the backyard, Magna's eyes scanned the area. The grass obviously hadn't been mowed in weeks, but that didn't change how idyllic the sight in front of her was. No sign of any dead. No groans, no blood stains, no bodies or guts on the lawn. Even that scent of decay that seemed to follow you wherever you went was absent. For once, what Magna could see and smell was just bright green grass, its fresh scent lingering in the air thanks to the recent rain. Flowers still blooming in yellows, purples and oranges, although it was only a matter of time until they would crumble and fall apart with no one there to water them. The area to her left, furnished with some chairs, loungers and a table, featured a grill, which immediately told her there might be something to make fire nearby, and she was right.

A big bag of charcoal and a propane tank, both things too heavy to carry in their backpacks (but maybe if they found a car they could take it), alongside two lighters. She took one with her, leaving the other one for Kyleigh to play things fair. "We can't leave that shit here. One way or another we'll have to make fire. If we don't find a car, we hide it somewhere so no one steals it from us."

For all Magna knew, they might not even find any supplies anymore, as looted as the grocery stores were. At some point, they'd probably have to resort to going back to some primitive lifestyle and eating whatever they could find in nature. Magna didn't know much about making fire, but she knew a propane tank would make things so much easier.

"That garage's got an emergency release cord. See that little gap in the top seal? Got some tool you could slide through that gap to pull the cord? Maybe a spare fishing line?"

If she didn't have anything, they could get back inside and get a coat hanger.

[athetos]

3rd day of 2024 and I’m already seeing Europeans making and sharing “vote blue no matter who” posts we are not doing this again

[makismei]

“my love,” nanami calls, stepping into the living room with wrinkled pjs and damp hair. you’re laying on the couch, mindlessly scrolling through one of your various shopping apps— spring sales have you adding everything to your cart.

“yes?” you reply, craning your neck to meet his gaze. he lifts your legs, sitting where they were resting before lowering them back down, in his lap. he smells like water and clean laundry— it’s familiar and comforting.

warm hands rest on your calves, you put your phone down to give him your full attention.

“you have my debit card on your phone and wallet,” he starts, “you know that, right?”

you nod slowly, giving him a confused look. “i know.”

“you haven’t used it at all. i just checked my statement.” he says, “didn’t i tell you to buy whatever you want?”

“you did,” you smile, almost laughing at the situation. “and i’m grateful, always, that you offer to pay for my things, but i have my own money too, ken— also! i did use it, actually.”

he rolls his eyes, not malicious, of course. “yeah, for boba. twice. do you know how many shopping bags you’ve hauled into this house the past month?”

he’s being sarcastic and you laugh. this has always been something you guys quarrel about, kento giving you all his money and assets, immediately throwing his card whenever you mention something you like. “why do you want me to spend your money so bad?”

kento pouts, just slightly, it’s barely even noticeable.

“i’m grateful, baby,” you say, “but you already pay for so much— this house, my car insurance, the bills and date nights… i’m already spending quite a lot, no?”

“you can spend more,” he pouts, “what i pay for already is nothing— i want to buy you more, for you to have everything you want.”

“i already have everything i want,” you tease, “he’s actually sitting in front of me, kindly massaging my calves.”

he narrows his gaze, a smile twitching onto his lips.

“we’re going to the mall this weekend— the far one,” he decides, “we haven’t been to the mall together for a while, love. i wonder why is that?”

you hum, avoiding his gaze, “maybe because the last time we went, you secretly took my wallet out of my purse and hid it in your underwear drawer so you could pay for everything?”

he laughs, recalling the moment. “i am absolutely doing that again— also, i saw that app you were scrolling on, let me see what you have, i’ll get it for you.”

notes from mei! i do have a shopping addiction actually (im dirt poor rn and in withdrawal) but i see my future (this fic) and its so so bright

[veal-exe]

EDIT

This has gotten a lot of traction so I’m gonna be rude and say that if anyone here has the means, that my spouse and I need help to not be homeless and hungry.

my paypal is Lahoreling@Gmail.com

END EDIT

———

I was discussing the incident mentioned later in this piece with my wife yesterday and I saw another post by someone earlier doing something mentioned in here and I'm finally going to say something about it.

There is a serious problem in leftist spaces, especially online, especially on Tumblr, when it comes to language.

The way people are expected to speak just to even enter these spaces is incredibly complex, to the point of being outright hostile to those who haven’t already spent time in them. And it’s not just newcomers; people who have important things to say, people speaking from lived experiences, people who don’t have English as a first language but still deserve to be heard, are constantly talked down to or even pushed out entirely for not using the "right" words.

This gets even worse when you factor in how often new terms are coined in English, and then people are shamed for not immediately knowing or using them.

I saw someone reblog their own post saying something like, "I know for a fact more than half of y’all didn’t understand a fucking word I said here."

And honestly? That stuck with me, because yeah, I’ve felt that before. Not because I don’t value critical thinking! because I absolutely do! I just made a post on that too! but because so many of these posts are written in a way that makes them Functionally Inaccessible to anyone who doesn’t already have the right background knowledge. And at a certain point, if you actually want your words to have an impact, if you actually want to create meaningful change, then you’re going to have to accept some things:

People will not always use perfect language.

2. People will not always know the exact terminology you personally prefer they use when engaging in discourse.

3. Dismissing or attacking people for how they say something, instead of engaging with what they’re saying, is actively harmful.

And more than that, if you genuinely want people to understand and engage with the things you’re talking about, especially people who don’t speak English as a first language, especially people without access to higher education, especially people who don’t even know where to begin when it comes to self-education (because yes, that is a skill that has to be taught) then you are going to have to be the one to adjust sometimes. You are going to have to let people say things imperfectly. You are going to have to take a step back and engage with the message rather than just the words being used to express it.

One of the experiences that made me realize that I, as a non-native English speaker, was not welcome in Tumblr leftist spaces was when I spoke about real-life oppression I had experienced. I left one word out of my post, a word which honestly, was not even important when talking about an incident that had Happened To Me, not theory, not hypotheticals or any what-ifs of oppression, a story, a story about something that happened to me.

And because of that, people sat in a Discord server, picking apart my words, accusing me of awful things, and then came into my askbox throwing jargon and buzzwords I’d never even heard before, then got mad at me for being frustrated that this was happening.

Think about that. People who are directly impacted by oppression are being pushed out of spaces meant to discuss it because the way they speak doesn’t conform to certain expectations. That is not justice. That is not solidarity. That is not progress.

There is a fundamental disconnect here between theory and praxis. Ironically so many of you do not know what praxis is, because most of you engage with a lot of theory, and not a lot of praxis, you use the word praxis a lot, but, ironically, you have no idea what it means.

{to put my money where my mouth is, it means Doing Something, in the simplest possible terms}

In theory, leftist spaces should be accessible. They should be places where people can speak openly about their experiences, learn from each other, and work toward meaningful change. But in practice? There’s a gatekeeping of language so intense that many people, particularly those who are marginalized in ways beyond just their political beliefs, are outright excluded.

And this is something I need people to sit with: The assumption that the "right" language is easy to learn, or that anyone who doesn’t use it is being willfully ignorant, is an inherently privileged stance. Knowing where to find information, how to process it, and how to integrate new terminology into your vocabulary is a skill that is largely tied to education. Having the time to engage with leftist literature and theory, to stay up-to-date on every new term that gets introduced, is also a privilege. And the fact that so many people refuse to acknowledge this, that they expect perfect articulation from everyone, regardless of background, and punish those who don’t measure up, is a huge problem.

Worse still, the same people who act as gatekeepers of this language often fail to communicate their ideas in a way that is accessible at all.

This doesn’t mean that complex ideas should never be discussed. It doesn’t mean that people shouldn’t strive for accuracy in their language. But it does mean that if your goal is to educate, if your goal is to spread awareness, if your goal is to help people understand and join the movement, if your goal is to engage with fellow oppressed people, then you have a responsibility to meet people where they are. You have a responsibility to make your language understandable.

Because if people can’t even process what you’re saying, then what’s the fucking point?

And before anyone says, "Well, people should put in the effort to learn!" Let me make something very clear: They do.

People who are new to leftist spaces, or who are coming in from different linguistic and cultural backgrounds, are often trying their best to engage. They are listening, they are learning, they are processing. But if the response to every mistake, every slightly off phrasing, every unfamiliarity with a new term, is immediate hostility,

or even if it's just 'hey I see you're sharing a personal moment, but can you change your language to make me, personally, more comfortable with you discussing your oppression?' then you’re not teaching.

You’re just making sure only the people who already think and speak exactly like you get to stay in the room.

Your language, your terminology, your theory? none of it means anything if you can’t make it accessible to the people who actually need it. And it means nothing if you use it to Exclude rather than Include.

[beemovieerotica]

struggling with how to word this, but putting it out there anyway:

i can fully understand the posts on here from a lot of americans being tired of "vote blue no matter who" posts when the #1 thing that people are constantly (and sometimes only?) addressing is how the republican party is going treat trans/queer people if elected.

it's part of an unfortunate pattern of prioritizing the effects on a demographic that includes white + upper class people, when people of color and those in the global south are actively and currently being killed or relegated to circumstances in which their survival is very unlikely

it is genuinely exhausting to witness this, and i was also on the fence about even participating in voting because i a) felt like it didn't matter and b) every time i voiced being frustrated with the current state of the country, white queer people would immediately step in with "but what about trans people!" -> (i am mixed race trans man)

and i say this with unending patience toward people who do this, because i know that it's not something they actively think about. but everyone already knows how the republican party is going to treat queer people. you are probably talking to another queer person when you bring up project 2025. the issue is that, for those of us who aren't white, or for those of us who are but who are conscious of ongoing struggles for people of color worldwide, the safety of people around the world feels more urgent than our own. that is the calculation that's being made.

you're not going to win votes for the democratic party by dismissing or minimizing these realities and by continually centering (white) queer people.

very few people on here and twitter are actually talking about issues beyond queer rights that concern people of color, or how the two administrations differ on these issues instead of constantly circling back to single-issue politics. this isn't an exhaustive list. but these are the issues that have actually altered my perspective and motivated me to the point of committing to casting a vote

the biden administration has been engaged in a years-long fight to allow new applicants to DACA (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, the program that allows undocumented individuals who arrived as children to remain in the country) after the Trump administration attempted to terminate it. the program is in limbo currently because of the actions of Trump-backed judges, with those who applied before the ruling being allowed to stay, but no new applications are being processed. Trump has repeatedly toyed with the idea of just deporting the 1.8 million people, but he continues to change his mind depending on whatever the fuck goes on in his head. he cannot be relied on to be sympathetic toward people of hispanic descent or to guarantee that DREAMers will be allowed stay in the country. biden + a democratic controlled congress will allow legal challenges to the DACA moratorium to gain ground.

the biden administration is open to returning and protecting portions of culturally important indigenous land in a way that the trump administration absolutely does not give a fuck. as of may 2024, they have established seven national monuments with plans to expand the San Gabriel Monument where the Gabrielino, Kizh / Tongva, the Chumash, Kitanemuk, Serrano, and Tataviam reside. the Berryessa Snow Mountain is also on the list, as a sacred region to the Patwin.

i'm recognizing that the US's plans for clean energy have often come into conflict with tribal sovereignty, and the biden administration could absolutely do better in navigating this. but the unfortunate dichotomy is that there would be zero commitment or investment in clean energy under a trump-led government, which poses an astounding existential threat and destabilizing force to the global south beyond any human-to-human conflict. climate change has caused and will continue to cause resource shortages, greater natural disasters, and near-lethal living conditions for those in the tropics - and the actions of the highest energy consumers (US) are to blame. biden has funneled billions of dollars into climate change mitigation and clean energy generation - trump does not believe that any of it matters.

i may circle back to this and add more as it comes up, but i'm hoping that those who are skeptical / discouraged / tired of the white queer-centric discourse on tumblr and twitter can at least process some of this. please feel free to add more articles + points but i'm asking for the sake of this post to please focus on issues that affect people of color.

[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.

[darlingsblackbook]

Zayne x CrushingNurse!Reader | Part Five

Where has your smile gone? ANGST PT.2

Part One • Part Two • Part Three • Part Four

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

I | Zayne drops his voice a little lower than necessary while standing beside you knowing it will usually make you nervous, murmuring, “You’ve stopped stuttering. I almost miss it.” Your heart skips a beat but you keep your face neutral, “I practiced.”, you reply before walking away.

II | Zayne purposely asks you to help with something simple, things he could easily do himself. He knew it made you nervous, he could always feel the ice around his heart melt everytime he saw your hands shake as you tried to help. What he loved even more was teasing you about it. “Hands shaking today?” he asks lightly- carefully. You don’t even smile. “Not at all." He frowns.

III | “Your notes are unusually thorough, much more than usual. Am I making you nervous again?”

“No.”

He pauses. He pauses in that way that would always make you squirm, eye darting everywhere but his way, fingers twisting in the cloth of your scrubs.Now, you don’t even blush.

IV | During rounds, he lingers at your side a beat too long- long enough that you’d normally turn tomato-red and trip over your words. Now, you just shift away and keep taking notes. He stares at you. Silent.

V | You haven't brought him coffee today, nor did you yesterday - or the day before that actually. A routine you had been stuck to for months, suddenly halted. Zayne tried to recall the few days before you started acting so distant, had he done something? Said something? Where has your smile gone? Zayne thought, just as he saw you walk past his office- cup of coffee in hand.

VI | He bumps your shoulder very lightly while reaching for a chart. “Careful,” he says dryly, “wouldn't want our nurse to fall and get hurt." You reply, “There are things that cause a lot more pain than just a fall." He stops mid-motion, like what?

VII | He starts standing closer when reviewing reports with you—close enough that your elbow brushes his. You used to flinch. Now you don’t even react. You shift your chair away and don't even look his way.

VIII | “Nurse." Zayne calls out one day, "Could I speak to you for a moment?" You hesitated for a moment before taking a step forward before halting again at the faint sound of giggles. "I'm busy, Doctor." “Yeah." Zayne mutters, eyes locked on you, "You seem to be a lot these days.” You could barely keep your bottom lip from trembling, responding with a simple, "Yeah." before you walked away.

IX | Zayne starts correcting your minor errors in a purposely sharp voice, just enough to gurantuee a reaction from you - at least it used to. You only say, “Thanks for pointing it out." and fix it. It feels too calm. Too clinical. Nothing like his nurse.

X | He tries to joke during a lull between patients: “Still not a slightest hint of a smile. Should I be worried?” You just reply, “Probably not,” without even looking up. Zayne’s smile falters just slightly.

XI | He casually mentions, “You haven’t tripped over the IV cart all week.” You respond, “I learned how to walk.” There’s no laughter in your voice. It doesn’t sit right with him at all.

XII | He walks up behind you while you’re writing and says your name. A few weeks ago that would’ve made you jump and stammer. Now, you turn slowly, blink, and wait.

“…Yes, Doctor?”

It irritates him- if only you knew how much.

XV | He's done, he can't take it anymore. He corners you one day, just as you're about to leavs, quietly and not so casually this time, “Did I… do something?”

You give him a polite smile. “Of course not.”

"Then why? Why have you been acting like this? Who hurt you?" He fires one question after another.

You feel the tears pool in your eyes but you don't say a word. Not one. You just push those tears back and smile sadly, breaking the doctor's heart into a millions of pieces and walk past him and out of the door.

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This is a bit of a filler part but it is needed to fill the gap between the last part and the next one ( a lot of drama will go down )

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[mggslover]

Stuck

In which reader finds herself stuck in an elevator with her colleagues.

Pairing: Hotch x Reid x Morgan x Fem!BAU!Reader Genre: smut (18+) Content warnings: fingering, oral (f and m receiving), face riding, p in v sex, overstimulation, masturbation, breast play Word count: 5,4k A/n: I'm ovulating, so you know what time it is 🤭 I'm really nervous to post this, so I hope you will enjoy!

“Oh, you guys are such babies!” You laugh as Spencer and Derek refuse to step into the elevator, explaining how they’ve been stuck in one before. 

“It’s not funny, Y/N,” Spencer chimes in. “There are six elevator deaths per year. Not to mention ten thousand injuries that require hospitalization.”   

You roll your eyes at his comment, just as Hotch walks toward the elevator. “See!” You exclaim. “Hotch is joining us, and he saved you last time. We’ll be fine.” You add cheerfully.

“You’re coming?” Hotch asks, holding the elevator door open. You nod, pulling Morgan and Reid with you by their arms. 

You chuckle at their nervous reflections in the mirror as the elevator starts moving. A sudden creak causes Derek to snap his head towards you. “It made the same sound the last time!” You were just about to shut Derek up as the elevator shakes and the lights start flickering. 

“Not again!” Spencer whimpers, his eyes squeezed shut like he’s about to fall to his death at any given moment.

Hotch inspects the tight space, his expression grim. “It seems like the electricity went out…” 

“Actually, there are a lot of reasons why an elevator might stop,” Spencer interjects. “It could be worn-out suspension ropes, and it actually happens quite regularly that the motor overheats the safety sensors of the-“ 

“Let’s just solve this problem, shall we?” You cut him off, nudging Morgan out of the way to hit the red button on the panel. 

“You think that’ll do something?” Morgan asks, brow lifted. 

“It will alert someone that we’re stuck. We have to wait until somebody comes and gets us out of here.” Hotch adds. 

“Well at least I’ll be missing my meeting with Strauss,” I sigh in relief. 

“It was at twelve, right?” Spencer asks. 

“Yeah,” you respond with a nod.

“Statistically the average wait time to be rescued from an elevator is less than an hour,” Spencer continues, checking his watch. “That means you could still make it in time.” 

“Now that’s just what I wanted to hear,” you say sarcastically, earning a grin from Morgan. 

“We can only hope we won’t be in here for that long,” Hotch mutters, his impatience visible as he leans uncomfortably against the elevator doors. 

“Okay… so now what? Want to go over a case to pass the time?” 

“No, no cases please,” Morgan groans. “We’ve had three in a row. I’m done.” 

“Morgan is right. We’ve done enough cases in the past few days.” Hotch agrees. 

You mutter an “alright” as you sit down with your back against the elevator wall, smoothing out the crinkles in your skirt. The others look at you with uncertainty. Eventually Reid decides to sit next to you, exchanging a soft smile. Morgan follows suit, sitting in front of you. Hotch remains standing. You leave him be and turn to Spencer. 

“So Reid, I’m sure you’ve got enough interesting facts to pass the time.” 

Spencer looks surprised by the request, not used to directly being asked to share his facts, but his eyes quickly brighten, eager to share. “Well, actually, there are a lot of interesting things to say about elevators. There are approximately 20 million elevators worldwide,” you chuckle at his obvious enthusiasm. “The first elevator was created in 236 B.C. by Archimedes, a Greek mathematician. He used a water wheel and tied animals together with rope to create a lift mechanism.” You hum in interest. “They used lifts in the Colosseum, right?” 

“Yes! Exactly!” he responds excitedly. “The system was powered by eight men who would turn this massive wooden shaft connected to ropes. It could hold more than 600 pounds!” 

“Oh come on,” Derek says, his hand falling to his knee. “You’re telling me you’re actually interested in the mechanics of ancient elevators?”. 

Hotch glances at Morgan, silently agreeing with Derek’s skepticism. 

“Derek Morgan…” you feign offense, placing a hand on your chest. “Don’t act like I’m not curious about knowledge. At least Spence’s got something interesting to say.” 

Spencer blushes faintly, appreciating your defense. 

“Hey, I know facts too,” Morgan says smugly. “How about there being 7000 languages in the world today.” 

“The overall number is actually closer to 8000,” Spencer corrects him. “You only counted verbal communication.” 

“You guys are going to have a facts competition now?” You ask, bewildered. “It’s way too hot in here. I need some light conversation.”

“I agree,” Hotch mutters. “It is getting a little warm.”

You glance up at the AC in the corner of the elevator, which is clearly not working. It probably shut down along with the power. There’s a brief silence before Reid speaks up again. 

“I never thought I’d be trapped in an elevator with my colleagues,” he muses. “It’s a little cliché.”

“Cliche, how?” Hotch asks, intrigued despite himself. 

“You know how, in movies, a group of people get stuck in an elevator and they have to learn to overcome their differences to escape?” 

You shake your head in confusion, “I think I only know the dirty movies where they get stuck in an elevator,” you laugh. 

Spencer blinks at you, clearly thrown off. Derek chuckles at the scene, and even Hotch manages a faint smile. 

“I should’ve known you’ve only watched the dirty ones,” Derek teases. 

“What about you, pretty boy?  Ever seen a dirty movie?” He asks Spencer, grinning. 

Reid looks flustered. “I grew up in Vegas… I’ve seen some things.” 

“Ah, Vegas,” you say, sighing dreamily. “The place where you can’t drive for a minute without seeing a giant porn billboard.”

Morgan grins, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. “Sounds like my kind of place.” 

You laugh and kick his leg playfully. Morgan winks at you, enjoying the lighthearted banter. You glance up at Hotch, who is still the only one standing. 

“What about you, Hotch? What’s your favorite dirty movie?” You ask with a mischievous grin, but your expression quickly drops when you see his stern look. 

“Watch it, Y/L/N.” Hotch warns.

“Come on, Hotch,” Derek says. “Let loose a little!”

“See it as the universe’s sign.” I press on. 

“How is being stuck in here a sign of the universe?” Hotch asks, brows raised.

“Well, no way would you willingly take a break yourself. Now the universe got you stuck in here and is forcing you to relax,” you explain, with a playful gleam in your eyes. 

To everyone’s surprise, he slowly lowers himself to the floor, sitting down next to you. 

You exchange surprised looks with Derek and Spencer. All amazed at how you managed to get Hotch to sit down.

The next few minutes are spent in comfortable silence, scared to say something that will make Hotch change his mind. You’re glad he joined you, but it’s hard to ignore the rising temperature now that another person is sitting in close proximity to you. 

“How long has it been?” you ask, fanning yourself with your blazer. “I’m starting to sweat.”

“Thirty-five minutes so far,” Derek replies, following your lead and fanning himself. 

Hotch looks mildly uncomfortable, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Spencer, however, looks the most miserable using the collar of his sweater vest to wipe his face. 

“You guys should take your jackets off,” you suggest, eyeing Morgan and Hotch. 

You don’t need to tell Derek twice, as he removes his jacket, revealing a black short sleeved shirt that looks a lot more comfortable. Hotch looks reluctant to do the same, but eventually gives in, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt collar. You take a peak as he reveals his broad, muscled shoulders for a moment, before readjusting his shirt. Hotch notices your glance and his eyes shoot up to yours, catching you in the moment as your cheeks flush. You quickly look away. 

“Oh, she’s enjoying the view, alright,” Derek smirks and you give him a warning glance.

“Shut up. I was just surprised Hotch would give in.” 

Morgan grins and nudges Hotch with his elbow, “Look at that, Hotch. You’re surprising us all today. First you smile and now you’re taking your jacket off. What’s next, dancing a jig?” You and Spencer snort at his comment. Hotch rolls his eyes at Morgan’s teasing but can’t help a small smile from appearing on his lips. 

Spencer struggles with his vest and you give him a hand. “Here, let me help you”, you say as you scoot closer, pulling the vest over his head. The fabric feels soft, but incredibly warm in your hands. You don’t know how he managed to keep it on for this long. Reid is taken aback for a moment, but mutters a soft thanks. Morgan and Hotch watch the exchange with interest, clearly amused at the sight of you being so forward with Reid.

“Now it’s your turn, you’re the one who insisted,” Morgan states, and you can’t help but agree as you take your blazer off, giving a satisfied hum at the immediate relief.

“I’ll open up some buttons too, if you don’t mind,” you announce as your fingers start working on your blouse. You don’t give them a chance to respond, since it seems only fair. Their eyes widen at your gesture, all of them staring at the sight of your blouse slightly opening up. Morgan lets out a low whistle, “Now that’s a nice view.”

“You’re insufferable,” you scoff as you stop unbuttoning, showing just a hint of your lacy bra. Morgan’s eyes linger on the sight, clearly enjoying the view. Hotch and Reid look like they’re struggling to keep their cool. Reid is the most flustered of all, turning bright red as he focuses on his hands. Morgan glances around at the others, seeing them struggle to keep themselves composed. 

He chuckles and shakes his head, enjoying the effect you’re having on them. “You know, you’re driving all of us a little crazy here, sweetheart.” 

You let out a small huff, “Give me a break. You’re wearing shortsleeves, I’m the one wearing a blouse.” 

Hotch speaks up, his gaze lingering on your blouse. “That blouse does seem a bit warm.” 

“Thank you!” You say, glad someone is on your side. 

Hotch eyes stay focused on you though, or specifically the bit of exposed collarbone and the lace that’s hugged around the swell of your breast. Your breathing heaves when you find Spencer taking occasional peaks as well, watching with a mixture of awe and embarrassment, finding difficulty in looking away. 

“Let’s just all take our shirts off, I want it to be fair”, you quickly exclaim, done with the heavy tension that’s driving you crazy. Hotch and Morgan exchange amused glances as Spencer eyes turn big, taking in your proposal. 

“All our shirts, are you sure about that?” Derek asks, a hint of surprise in his voice. 

“Then at least you won’t eye me like that.” 

“Oh, I think I’ll eye you only more.” Derek teases, licking his lips. 

“Just take your damn shirt off.” 

Derek chuckles and raises his hands in surrender, “Alright, alright. No need to get feisty.” He says as he lifts his shirt off in a smooth motion. It’s a known fact that Derek is jacked, but seeing him in a setting like this, abs glistening with sweat and pupils still dilated from looking at you, is on a whole ‘nother level. 

You’re glad the attention is taken away from your peering eyes as Hotch follows suit, unbuttoning his shirt, revealing a clearly defined muscular chest with just a hint of hair. You start doubting your suggestion as it feels like the room is only growing hotter. You look over at Spencer, seeing whether he’ll be the next. Spencer hesitates for a moment, his eyes darting between the other’s bare chests and your unbuttoned blouse. His chest heaving with his breath, suggesting that he’s more affected than he’s letting on. 

“Come on, pretty boy. Join the party.” Derek says.

“I’ll go first,” you assure Spencer, not wanting him to suffer under peer pressure. Your hands start working on the buttons. Spencer’s eyes widened at the scene in front of him.

“See, it’s not that hard,” you reassure Spencer, folding your blouse and placing it next to you. 

“I don’t know about that. You’re making things pretty hard, baby girl.” Morgan comments, making you laugh. 

“You’re way too dirty for your own good.” 

Morgan grins. “Can you blame me? I mean, look at you. You’re looking mighty tempting right now.”

You softly smile at the compliment and focus back on Spencer. “You’ll feel a lot cooler, I promise,” you encourage. 

“I don’t know. I’m not as… toned as the others.” It hurts you to hear how he’s comparing himself to his colleagues. 

“Do you truly think I care about that?” You ask him. “It’s not a competition. I just want you to feel comfortable,” you speak genuinely. Spencer looks up at you, his eyes searching yours for any signs of mockery or deception. When he finds none, his face softens and he nods. He lifts his shirt over his head, revealing a body no less impressive than the others. 

“Not too bad, pretty boy. You’re looking pretty good without that vest on.” Derek compliments. 

“You do,” You agree, as you fold his shirt and place it on top of my blouse. Spencer gives you a sheepish smile, grateful for your help. Glad he decided to take his shirt off as he felt the cool air hit his chest, “Yeah, that does feel better.” 

You look around the room, the scene for sure one to be put down in the history books of the BAU. “I think it’s safe to say we’ve entered a new step in our colleague bonding,” you awkwardly chuckle, trying to lighten the mood but the air feels charged with an unspoken tension that’s impossible to ignore. You can feel their eyes on you, the way they linger, the weight of their gazes following your every movement. You try to ignore it, to stay professional, but your body betrays you. You shift slightly, adjusting your skirt, and that’s when you feel it - the subtle brush of Hotch’s fingers caressing your arm.

You swallow hard as you look away. The air around you is suddenly too tight. You want to curse your body as your nipples harden under his steady gaze, there being no way to blame it on the cold. Derek notices the exchange and leans in, the heat between you two palpable. 

His voice is low and husky, “You're all worked up, sweetheart. Don’t think we haven’t noticed.” 

Your pulse quickens, the sound of your heartbeat almost drowning out his words. “I’m not the only one,” you counter, voice quieter, but the challenge in it is unmistakable. You feel Spencer shift next to you, his body tense as he feels like he’s been caught staring at your chest. “Don’t be shy, genius,” Derek teases. “We’re all thinking the same thing right now.” You can’t help but smile at Spencer’s flustered look. “It’s… It’s hard not to, when you-” He cuts himself off, his voice faltering as his eyes dart away from your breasts. 

Hotch is still standing by the door, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watches the dynamic play out. “We’ve been stuck in here long enough. I think it’s safe to say we all want and feel the same thing.” The air thickens with desire as he dares to say the thought that’s been occupying everyone’s mind. You glance at the others, seeing how Spencer is adjusting himself in his pants and the way Derek is watching you, his gaze so intense it almost feels like he’s touching you. 

“Guess it’s only fair if we all just… give in to it,” you murmur, your eyes flicking between them. The suggestion is there, unspoken but understood. 

From there on everything feels like a blur. You hear Hotch growl behind you as he wraps his bicep around your neck, pulling you in as his lips crash against yours. You whimper against his mouth, which gives him the opportunity to let his tongue slide in. You welcome his tongue with yours as your hand moves to squeeze the arm around your neck, making full use of the circumstances to feel up on his muscles. 

“You’re always driving me crazy when wearing this skirt,” Hotch groans in your ear as his teeth pull on your earlobe. You can find no other way to respond than let out a high pitched sound of enjoyment as his free hand kneads your ass through your pencil skirt. Spencer watches the scene unfold in front of him. How his boss roughly grabs and kisses you, manhandling you. 

 “I- I don’t know about this…” Spencer stammers. 

Morgan turns to him, breaking the intense gaze he had on you and Hotch. “Don’t worry Reid, she’s enjoying it.” 

“Are you sure?” Spencer asks, uncertainty in his voice as Hotch is pulling on your hair, giving him access to plant kisses and bites on your neck. 

Morgan grins, “Let me show you how sure I am,” he says as he steps towards you and Hotch. He rolls your skirt up to your stomach and lets his fingers slide over your panties, cursing when it easily slips between your folds, creating a wet sound. You moan at the friction, not in the state to feel embarrassed by how wet you are. 

“See Reid, she loves it,” Derek points out, licking his lips as he pulls your damp panties to the side. Spencer lets out a groan as Derek reveals your glistening pussy, his hand subconsciously squeezing the bulge in his pants for any form of release.

“Let me see,” Hotch insists, removing his lips from your neck. Derek slides a finger through your folds and proudly displays the stickiness to Hotch. 

“You’re such a little slut, aren’t you?,” Hotch whispers, his nose pressed against the side of your face. “Just been begging to get in a situation like this so we could all fuck you the way you deserve.” You whimper at his dirty words and hot breath on your skin. Your legs feel like jelly as he grinds himself against your ass. Derek continues to apply pressure with his hand as he lets his fingers rub up and down your lips and clit. 

Spencer’s eyes are burning holes in your chest. He just can’t understand how no one has touched your lovely tits, while they’ve been teasing him the entire time. 

“You can come here Spence,” you purr, hypnotizing him to walk towards you. He swallows as he’s close enough to touch you, close enough to hear all the little sounds you’re making as you’re being touched all over. 

“Can I-?” You don’t let Spencer finish his question as you quickly nod, throwing your head back as his finger grazes over your nipple, sending a direct spark of pleasure to your clit. 

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers mostly to himself in awe as he cups your breast, the shape fitting perfectly in his large hand. 

“Thank you,” you whisper back. It’s ironic how his sweet compliment is the thing that's making you shy.

Derek slips a finger inside of you with ease, and you bite your lip to hold back your mewls. “Don’t do that. I like the way you sound.” Spencer encourages, resulting in another moan from you, loving the effect his words have on you. 

Hotch unclasps your bra from behind and Spencer helps him by pulling your straps down, letting your breasts fall free. Hotch grabs your left breast, kneading it with his strong, calloused hands as he rolls your nipple in between his fingers. Spencer uses the momentary distraction to bend down and experimentally licks your nipple, humming at the sensation. He gives a couple more licks to your breast as he pulls your nipple in between his lips, sucking on it as he flicks his tongue against the sensitive bud. 

You feel overwhelmed by the way all of your erogenous zones are stimulated at once; Hotch licking and biting on your neck and ear, while massaging your breast and grinding his hardness against your ass. Spencer’s swollen lips and wet tongue tracing over your nipple as Derek caresses your thighs as he adds a second finger into your pussy. You realize that this is what pleasure is supposed to be like. The zones on your body are all connected and you haven’t experienced true bliss until those spots get triggered at the same time. 

“Morgan, is she ready?” Hotch asks, breathing heavily. 

“More than ready, sir,” Derek grins as he takes a step back. He lets his fingers slide out of you, making you whimper at the loss of contact, but then Hotch turns you around so that your chest is pressed up against the elevator doors where he was standing. 

“I need you for myself,” he groans. Derek tosses a condom from his jeans and Hotch catches it, ripping the package with his teeth while pulling his trousers down to his knees, not wanting to let a single moment go to waste. Your hands are pressed against the wall as he slowly enters you. 

“Oh my god… I feel so full,” you whine and you swear you could feel him grin as you register that he’s not even fully inside of you. You let out a long breath as you feel his balls make contact with your ass. 

“You’re doing okay there, princess?” Derek chuckles and you nod. Hotch slowly moves his length out of you as he slams his hips back in with a groan. You gasp as you wrap your hand around the back of his head, keeping yourself steady as he continues thrusting into you. His growls feel hot against your neck. His sweaty chest pressed up against your back, leaving you completely in his grasp.

“You feel that angel? How your pussy swallows my cock?” You let out a cry as you nod your head in agreement. 

“I don’t understand Y/N. You’re a big girl, use your words.” 

“Oh god…’’ Your head spins as he pounds into you. “I’m not going to tell you again Y/N, use your words.” He orders. 

“Yes!’’ you cry out. ‘’God yes Aaron, it feels so good. I can feel you so deep inside of me.” 

“Say my name again.” He moans as his hand trails down your stomach until it reaches your swollen bud. “Aaron, please… I’m so, so close.” He gives some quick taps to your clit, making you squirm in pleasure as your knees give out. His strong hands grip you by the waist and he hoists you back up on his dick. “I’m almost there honey, you can keep it up, be good for me.” 

You let out a string of whines as he uses the palm of his hand to swiftly move against your folds, indirectly bringing pleasure to your clit. You can’t take it any more, pressing your nails into his arms as you crouch down in front of him, shaking as your release hits you. Hotch groans loudly as his dick slips out of your pussy. His dick twitches as he takes off the condom, painting your back with hot spurts of cum.

You have your eyes closed, trying to catch your breath as you’re still riding down your orgasm. You hum as you feel the soft material of Spencer’s sweater vest against your back, cleaning you up. 

“You okay?” Spencer asks, kneeled in front of you. You nod your head and softly smile at his tenderness. 

“Yeah. I feel really, really good.” You answer, making Spencer return your smile. With him in front of you, you notice the visible outline of his bulge pressed against his thigh and reach out to touch it. Your fingers lightly brush over his length, causing him to shudder. 

“Do you want me to take care of you?” You ask sensually, looking in his eyes. 

“Not really,” he responds, taking you by surprise. He sees your expression and quickly corrects himself. “It’s not like I don’t want you to! I’d- I’d love you to do…”, he’s not actually sure what you planned on doing to him. “Whatever you would do. I just-,” his voice softens, meeting your gaze. “I really need to know what you taste like.” 

Your cheeks warm, feeling your arousal grow. “Okay,” you exhale. Spencer extends his hand, helping you up. You find your blazer and bundle it up for Spencer to lay his head on. You’re amazed at how willing he is to get down on the floor, ready to eat you out in a very nontraditional and arguable unsanitized way. You hover over his face as you get down on your knees, letting out a hum as his breath tingles your pussy. Spencer kneads your calves and runs his hands up the back of your thighs. He tilts his head up, placing a wet kiss on your inner thigh.

“Feels good,” you mumble. Spencer responds with a hum against your skin, the vibration causing you to moan. He grabs your thighs, slowly pulling them further apart. “I can’t wait to taste you,” he admits, sticking out his tongue and licking a stripe up your folds. You moan, arching your back. Through hooded eyes you spot the figure of Hotch. He’s sitting against the wall in front of you, lazily stroking his half hard length as he stares at you. 

Just when you were about to question where Morgan was, you catch him in your periphery. He holds your gaze as he approaches, coming to a stop right in front of you. His belt buckle hangs open, but it doesn’t look like he’s touched himself. 

“If you don’t mind, I’d really like to take up on that offer genius here denied.” You grin at him, hands reaching out to his belt. Spencer is keeping himself busy, licking and sucking up your juices. You pull Derek’s pants down, gasping as his dick springs free, slapping against his happy trail. You groan in delight as you wrap your hand around his shaft. He tilts his head back at the contact. “Fuck baby, your hands feel so warm and soft.” You lean forward and let some of your spit dribble down on his dick, making him hiss. You move your thumb in circles over his tip, mixing your saliva with his precum. When it feels like it’s wet enough, you move your hand up and down his length in a steady motion.

His tip grows red and you cannot resist licking your lips before putting your mouth on him. He feels heavy in your mouth as you take him in deeper, stimulating him with your tongue as you suck. His hands tangle in your hair, holding you as he moves in sync with your movements. 

Spencer moves a hand up the curve of your ass while he uses the other to unbuckle his belt. He slides his hand in his pants, rubbing himself over his boxers as he relishes in your taste. His lips nibble on your labia as his nose tickles against your clit. 

“Don’t get distracted, baby girl,” Derek states, softly pushing your head back down. You swallow around him and try to up your pace. Derek takes your breast in his hand, massaging it. As your nipples harden he takes one in between his fingers, pulling on it. You gasp at the sensation, making his dick slide deeper down your throat. 

“Fuck! Right there baby, that feels so good,” he pants. You blink away tears, continuing the steady movement of your head and swirls of your tongue. 

Spencer’s dick starts feeling too hot in his boxers and he pulls it out, so that it lays against his stomach. Your pussy is absolutely dripping because of the swipes of Spencer’s tongue and the taste of Derek in your mouth. Spencer can’t keep up with licking you clean, your wetness dripping down his chin. He reaches out to grab his length, the skin to skin contact overstimulating him. 

You notice Spencer getting restless underneath you. Derek’s dick pops out of your mouth. “Are you okay, Spence?” You ask. He hums against your clit in response, you let out a high pitched moan and instinctively bend your knees. “Sorry,” you apologize as you want to tilt your hips back up, but Spencer pulls you back down by your thighs, making you sit on his face.

“Oh god…” You moan as he starts devouring you. He keeps a hand firm on your ass as he starts jerking himself off to the beautiful sounds that you’re making. You lazily tug on Derek’s cock, too distracted by Spencer’s tongue. 

“Oh Spencer, I’m going to cum,” you whimper, mouth open and brows furrowed in pleasure. You start grinding yourself on his tongue, seeking your release. You find the perfect spot and Spencer presses the tip of his tongue against your clit, as you fall undone. Spencer laps up your juices and squeezes the load out of his dick as it splatters on his belly. You lift your hips to give Spencer some space. He moves away, joining you on his knees as he sits behind you, pressing featherlight kisses to your back. 

“I’m not gonna last that much longer,” Derek announces, who’s been stroking himself to your orgasm. “Come here, then,” you invite as you take him back in your mouth. Placing a hand on his thigh for support, you use all of the energy that is left in you to suck him off. Your free hand reaches out to play with his balls, which seems to be the trigger for him.

“Fuck, Y/N, baby, I’m going to cum!” He groans deeply as he fills your mouth. You quickly swallow his load, eyes watering as he pulls you in by your head, needing your lips on him as he rides out the aftershocks. 

“Fuck… You’re amazing, sweetheart.” He sighs, letting go of your hair so that you can catch your breath. 

-

“Who the hell is in there?” 

The voice outside is sharp and gruff. Everyone’s heads whip around, startled. Hotch swiftly buckles his belt as he strides towards the elevator doors.

“This is SSA Aaron Hotchner of the BAU. I’m stuck here with three of my agents.” 

The voice responds quickly, dripping with disbelief. "Why didn’t you morons use the emergency button?"

Your colleagues look at each other, then shift their gaze to you, all with accusing looks plastered on their faces.

"Hey, don’t look at me! I’m the first one that pressed the red button!" You say in defense. 

The voice outside huffs in frustration. "Red? It's a black button."

You blink in surprise, your gaze snapping to the panel. You crawl up to get a better look, and sure enough, there's a black button, boldly labeled ‘EMERGENCY.’

"What in the world?" you mutter under your breath. "Then what the hell is the red button for?!"

The voice outside laughs sarcastically. "How the hell am I supposed to know? I’ve been working here for six months. Don’t blame me because you can’t read." He pauses, clearly shaking his head. "FBI agents, my ass."

You blink in disbelief. You share an incredulous glance with Derek, then burst out laughing, your frustration giving way to amusement. "Seriously?" you mutter, shaking your head. 

Derek notices how Spencer’s been unusually quiet. “Speak up, kid,” he urged. 

“I’ve known what the buttons do the entire time,” he says, voice casual.

You and Hotch both turn to look at him, eyes wide. “What?!” You both exclaim at the same time. 

Spencer shrugs, a playful glint in his eyes. “I told you about those movies where people overcome their differences to try to escape. I wanted to see how we would solve it.”

Derek’s mouth drops open. “You’ve been sitting here the whole time knowing exactly what to do and didn’t say anything?!” 

Spencer smiles, looking almost proud of himself. “It’s a team-building exercise,” he says matter-of-factly. “Don’t tell me that you didn’t enjoy it.”

You shake your head, laughing in disbelief. “You’re unbelievable, Reid.”

As if on cue, the elevator jolts, and the soft ding of the doors opening fills the space.