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high-on-darren-criss · 22 days ago

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I'm Not Blind

This is my first imagine for Bob Floyd from Top Gun Maverick, I hope you will all like it. Please let me know what you think.

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Summary: While hanging out with the squad at the bar, Bob's glasses get broken, meaning he can't drive home. So he calls a special someone and asks for a favour.

Enjoy.

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Bob angled his head down, staring at the rim of the glass he was cradling between his hands. The condensation was starting to tickle his skin and trickle between his fingers. His eyes watched the coke swirl around in the glass, clinking with the ice cubes that were starting to melt now.

He knew that most people in the bar presumed he was drinking vodka and coke or even rum and coke, because what kind of Aviator came to a bar and didn't drink alcohol? Him. He did that.

Drinking wasn't something Bob particularly enjoyed. He didn't like the loss of control over his senses, the inhibition it created and the drowsy state it put him in. He didn't like the hangovers in the morning or how sick drinking made him feel after a few strong drinks.

Bob couldn't understand why people liked to drink so much. He didn't see how it could be fun to lose one's senses and become sick and fatigued and not be able to act properly or be coherent. And he didn't see why people drank so often that they made themselves sick and bore the side effects and consequences of alcohol.

On occasion, sure, he had one drink, two at a stretch every blue moon. But it wasn't something that Bob could see the big deal about.

Plus, if he had an alcoholic drink or two like the rest of the team, then how was he supposed to get home? He was driving, and he presumed that Phoenix would want a ride too when she was done.

Bob couldn't understand the rest of the Dagger Squad being so happy to leave their cars at work or here at the Hard Deck and get taxis home together. Then another taxi back in the morning to wherever their cars were parked. Staying sober was much easier, less time consuming and less costly, and those were just some of the benefits.

He continued to glide his fingers across the condensation on the glass, letting the water soak into his palm and send shivers running through his blood.

He took a few sips of coke, letting the ice cubes clash against his teeth and send shivers through his jaw. When the glass was half empty in his hand, Bob turned on the stool he had perched himself on and faced the pool table to his right.

It was Phoenix's turn to play against Jake, who wasn't so happy considering Bob had beaten him in two games. Pool never used to be Bob's kind of game, but he was all for playing against the Dagger squad because he seemed rather good at beating them, so much so that he was putting on wagers.

But it wasn't his turn to play yet, and he was growing tired. After watching this game Bob would head back, and if Phoenix wanted a lift he would drop her home on his way.

He took another swig of coke as he leant back on the stool, quickly reminding himself not to lean too far because there was no back and he didn't want to topple over and make a fool of himself.

Tipping his head down, he nudged the glasses further up on his nose and stared down at the clinking eye cubes in his glass. But his head snapped up and his glassy eyes danced around until they found the source of the voice calling out to him.

"You know you're the only one not drinking. Alcohol, I mean."

A faint blush began to paint Bob's features and he once again found himself staring into his glass. Of course Hangman would either recognise or guess with pure speculation that Bob wasn't properly drinking. Or maybe he knew the signs, knew that Bob wasn't anywhere near intoxicated with an ounce of alcohol.

Did it matter if Bob was the only one who wasn't having a drink? Was that really a problem for anyone? Maybe Jake wasn't talking as if it was a problem, perhaps he was just making a statement. Either way, it didn't really matter. Bob was always explaining to people why he preferred not to drink or why he didn't want a drink or why he didn't get drunk on social occasions.

"Yeah, I know. I'm driving home." Bob gave a little shrug of his shoulders and set his drink down on the little table next to him.

His way of getting home was to drive, and Bob wasn't stupid enough to do that while under the influence. Even one drink could impair his judgement, and if he got caught that was his licence on the line and his job in tatters. He wouldn't risk any of that.

"So, why don't you drink?"

This time, Bob's attention shifted to Bradley, who was stood near the open doors that led out onto the beach. He rose the bottle of beer in his hand to make his point before he took a swig.

None of them were being rude or pedantic, they weren't trying to goad Bob or upset him or single him out, they were just curious. Most of them had been drinking since their teens, they were used to having drinks after work or sneaking a bottle away with them when they were sent out overseas on their calls and training.

With Bob being the only one who didn't drink, it made them feel like they were leaving him out or singling him out. The least they could do was ask him why he didn't drink and try to understand so they never did or said anything that offended him.

A soft look crossed Bob's face and a small smile twitched across his lips as he ran his hand across his jaw and angled his head back so he was looking up at his fellow aviators.

"Isn't it more appropriate question is why do you drink, rather than why I don't."

"What?"

Of course they weren't going to follow his logic or his line of thought, but it made sense to Bob. It seemed more understandable to ask someone why they did drink rather than why they didn't. Drinking caused inhibition, loss of memory, function, ability to stay in control and comprehend surroundings. The same as smoking caused illnesses and lung conditions in the long-term.

They were called bad habits for a reason, so it seemed reasonable to ask why someone would continue a bad habit than why another would refrain from them.

"All the side effects, all the long-term problems, isn't it easier to ask why you bother to drink yourself into a stuper than why I don't?" The quirk of Bob's lips caused the squad to roll their eyes and a few nodded their heads with little murmurs of agreement.

He had then there. If this had been a debate, Bob surely would win this one if he continued with that train of thought.

"Suppose." Jake gave a little nod as he seemed to ponder on Bob's words, but ultimately finished his beer and agreed when Bradley said he was getting them all another round. So he didn't take Bob's words to heart, even if he saw the logic in them.

Not that it mattered at all, Bob didn't want to give the team a lecture, he didn't care if they or anyone else drank or how much they consumed. He just didn't want to drink, personally.

When his drink was finished, Bob hopped off his stool but he found himself smiling when Bradley held another glass out towards him.

"Just coke, right?"

Bob felt sure there had to be a punchline in there somewhere, that Bradley was messing with him and when he took a sip of that drink he would find a shot of vodka or bourbon or rum laced in with it. But the look on Bradley's face made him take the glass.

He wasn't smiling or grinning and flashing his teeth, and he wasn't biting his tongue or eagerly waiting for Bob to take a sip. He was being kind, he wasn't trying to wind him up, he was trying to include him. And if any of them was to try and play a little prank on him, it would be Jake, not Bradley.

Bob nodded his head and took the drink, after all he didn't want to be rude. He would have this last drink and then set off home. He couldn't turn the drink down, not when the team was quickly becoming like a second family to him.

Setting his new drink down, Bob weaved around the pool table so he was near the doors. He liked listening to the sea and smelling the salt water rolling in on the sand.

But he took a few steps back when Phoenix stepped back as Javy stumbled, spilling whatever vodka concoction was in his glass.

Bob couldn't help but curl his lips in distaste when droplets of Javy's drink rained through the air and splattered on his glasses. God, he hated when he got his glasses mucky. And he could see Phoenix wasn't too happy to have vodka in her hair and dotted on her shirt.

"God, are you drunk?"

"Sorry, Rooster's got big feet."

Tripping over Bradley's feet was a good excuse, although Bob wasn't sure he actually believed it.

With squinting eyes and a twitching nose, Bob slid off his glasses and proceeded to grab a napkin from the table next to him. He huffed, muttering a sarcastic "Thanks Javy," although his tone showed he wasn't truly irritated or annoyed.

God knows Bob could be clumsy at times, his wife told him often enough. He couldn't be angry at someone else for tripping over.

He didn't like the look of the smudge marks on his glasses which he set down on the edge of the pool table. He had a headache. His hands pinched at the bridge of his nose and he sighed, wishing away the headache that had been blossoming over the last hour or so. Sometimes Bob wondered if his headaches were little yearnings, his body's way of telling him he was desperate to be back home.

Often enough he had gone home and the headaches had disappeared. Although that could be because home wasn't as loud as the deafening, drunken voices in this bar and the people and attitudes here were boysterous and sometimes overwhelming.

"Alright, I think this round is mine."

Bob lifted his head at the sound of Jake's voice and his lips quirked into a sideways grin. He liked how confident Jake sounded because that was exactly how he sounded twenty minutes ago just before Bob beat him at his own game.

His hand continued to rub at his temple and he tried not to squint too much, considering his sight was adjusting without his glasses. He wasn't used to spending too much time without his glasses on unless he was getting a shower or just waking up in the morning.

But shudders coursed through Bob's system and he cringed when a God awful crunch suddenly eclipsed through the air. Louder than any of the laughs or raised voices and background music coming from the jukebox in the other corner of the bar.

"Oh come on." The frustration in Bob's voice took everyone off guard and they all seemed to freeze or turn to look over at him with bewilderment in their eyes.

"What?"

He sucked in a deep breath which he held in his lungs to try and calm himself down and his headache increased tenfold when he stepped forward and had to look through blurred, unfocused vision rather than through his lenses.

That didn't stop him from being able to clearly make out the view of Jake who swiftly jumped up from the edge of the pool table where he had just sat down. His jaw hung open and his blue eyes went wide with panic and an edge of fright when he looked down and realised what he'd done. His pool cue was held in a tight grip but Jake's other hand began to tap against the table.

"You sat on my glasses?" Bob tried hard not to sound angry but his tone was disgruntled and clearly gave away that he was now irritated.

Jake had plonked down on the edge of the table, right where Bob had set his glasses. He had sat on them. He had broken them, the unmistakeable sound of a crunch was clearly the lenses popping out or the arms or frames breaking.

And when Bob reached out and picked them up, he grunted. The bridge of the frame had snapped. He now had two glasses as opposed to one single pair. And one of the arms was bent right out of shape, that would never sit round his ear. He couldn't try and wear them until he got home and scouted out his spare pair. There was no saving these now.

"Hey I didn't mean to, you've got spares, right?" Panic was laced into Jake's voice and he patted one hand down on Bob's shoulder, which he quickly removed once Bob lifted his head and have him a very dark look through his unfocused eyes.

Why didn't Jake look before he sat down? Why did he have to sit on that exact spot where Bob had put his glasses? He had taken them off for a minute, if that and now they were broken. He needed those.

"You broke his glasses?"

It was clear by the tone of Phoenix's voice that she was trying her hardest to keep a straight face. She didn't want to begin laughing and upset Bob, after all he was her co-pilot and upsetting him wasn't the right move to make. But it was funny. Poor Bob, stood there with a broken arm of his glasses held within each hand and squinting, unfocused eyes that showed how he was starting to seethe.

The Squad were almost expecting to see steam coming out of his ears at any given moment.

Jake twisted his head to look over his shoulder and hissed "By accident," under his breath with a stern look and a tense jaw.

He hadn't done it on purpose. Okay, so maybe he was crude at times and he liked winning by whatever means necessary when he was up in the air, but he wasn't a jerk all of the time. He wouldn't intentionally do something like that to Bob, he had nothing against him.

Another sigh spat past Bob's lips as he tossed his broken glasses onto the pool table, uncaring whether he knocked into the balls and adjusted the play of the game or not. His hands moved to clamp down on his pointed hips and he tossed his head back as his lips curled.

"I can't drive home without my glasses."

How was he going to get home? He needed his glasses to drive, he could barely see the road signs without them, let alone focus on what they said or the layout of the road or the bends. And it would be just his luck to pull out on someone and have a minor accident and get his licence suspended because he didn't have his glasses which he was obligated to wear when driving.

"Seriously?" It was Bradley who laughed this time, although he stopped the moment Bob scowled in his direction.

"If I can't fly without them then it's kind of probable that I can't drive without them too."

Had the team not noticed that Bob never took his glasses off? Did they not see what he had to wear a helmet, glasses and his oxygen mask when they were in high altitude? Did they not realise that they could barely see his face with all the equipment that he wore?

None of them had ever seen Bob take his glasses off to fly, he was always wearing them. He needed them to see without blurred edges or fuzzy images in front of him. He couldn't work out the coordinates or altitude or algorithms if he didn't have his glasses on.

"Guess we'll all be getting taxis home." Phoenix nudged her elbow into Bob's to try and make him smile and lighten his mood, but it didn't work very well.

With a sigh, Bob took a few steps away from the pool table and the Squad until he was stood in the corner of the bar, and he grabbed his drink too. He may as well down this drink and see if it would dull his headache that was only going to get worse the longer he went without his glasses. It was a good job he had a spare pair at home somewhere. He would have to dig them out once he got back.

Fishing around in his pocket, he found his phone and took a deep breath, dithering on whether or not he really should be doing this or not. He didn't want to be an inconvenience, but he also didn't want to wait around and get a taxi home with the Squad when he knew they were going to be here for a few hours hours yet.

*Hi babe, kind of had an accident with my glasses. Any chance you could give me a ride home? Or find my spare pair? xx

It took him a few minutes to actually send the message when he could barely see the keyboard on his phone. And he was sure he misspelt a few words here and there. But Bob was rather shocked by the instant reply he got, and he felt jolts of adrenaline surging through his stomach and up to his chest when he dared to open the new message.

*Sure baby, just tell me where you are. xx

The irritation on Bob's features melted away into a relaxed, soppy grin once he squinted hard enough and brought the phone right up to his nose so he could read the reply without so much of a headache.

(Y/n) was coming to his rescue.

The music from the Hard Deck bar was the first thing that (Y/n) paid attention to. She barely noticed the few people stood outside smoking or the ones hurrying into the bar as if it was last orders at this time in the afternoon.

She could hear the music from all the way out here in the car park. She had parked up next to Bob's car, the midnight blue colour struck her the moment she pulled in.

With her bag hooked on her shoulder, (Y/n) closed the car door and rounded to the back. A soft look melted across her face and she leaned in towards the toddler who hadn't long woken up from his nap. Although she knew he would wake up now that he had heard the music and knew that they were going somewhere new.

(Y/n) unclipped the buckles and reached in to scoop Robbie up. Once he was settled on her hip, he laid his cheek on her shoulder and scrunched his hand up in the neckline of her shirt, clinging to her like he thought someone might try and rip them apart.

"Alright, let's go find daddy."

Once the car was locked, (Y/n) proceeded towards the bar she had only been in on very few occasions. The Hard Deck bar wasn't somewhere (Y/n) frequented often, and it was a place she knew Bob only went when the team begged him to join them for a celebration or a drink or to cheer themselves up if their training had gone wrong. Her free hand moved to cradle the back of Robbie's head and she pressed her lips to his temple before heading through the main doors.

She knew it wasn't exactly ideal to be bringing a toddler into a bar, but it wasn't as if (Y/n) was going to sit him in a corner while she had a drink or a catch up with friends. She was only coming inside to find Bob and check that he was ready to go. And children were allowed in the bar if supervised.

Her lips curved into a smile when she felt Robbie jolt in her arms once they were inside, as if a flip had been switched within him. He felt the music vibrating through him, how it had gone from distant drumming to loud and overwhelming.

He grinned against her skin, eyes wide as he lifted his head from her shoulder so he could take a look around.

A few looks were cast in her direction, after all it wasn't often that a woman walked into the bar with a child in her arms. But it was mostly smiles and quirked brows, no malice or dark looks or scoffs, much to (Y/n)'s relief.

She scanned her eyes around, unsure whereabouts her husband would be and it was hard to pinpoint his Squad when she had only seem them on photographs.

Bob had been waiting for the right time to introduce them to his family, and he secretly liked having something to himself. He liked having his family as his little secret, his and only his. But he knew he couldn't keep both worlds separate forever.

"Excuse me," (Y/n) turned to the side, weaving between a group of women and a man trying to play darts.

She kept Robbie bouncing high on her left hip which caused her to slouch slightly to the right. Her eyes scoured the unfamiliar faces and she felt rather like how she imagined Bob felt at the moment without his glasses as she tried to locate him.

It felt as if a flare had been shot through her chest when her eyes finally located a familiar flock of golden sandy hair that formed a wave to the left of his temple. And those bright pale eyes that were so often seen behind circular frames looked somehow smaller, more petite without the glasses in the way to magnify them.

(Y/n) took a moment to look Bob up and down, watching how he was perched on a stool sitting a good two feet away from everyone else who was surrounding the pool table. It was almost as if he had cast himself out. He had one foot pressing down into the floor and the other pressed against the leg of the stool, balancing himself on the edge while his hands messed with what looked to be an empty glass full of ice.

Now that she had him in her sights, (Y/n) wasn't sure whether to truly approach him or not. She wasn't sure if Bob would want her to be introduced to his friends like this, right now, in this bar. She thought maybe she should have messaged him and told him she was outside. Or perhaps she should try and catch his eye and then wait outside until he was ready to head home.

But she didn't have chance to try and catch Bob's eye before Robbie realised where he was.

"There's daddy." His voice wasn't loud enough to catch very much attention, but either Bob had super hearing or he had been looking in their general vicinity and clocked them at that precise moment.

A light seemed to sparkle in those unfocused eyes and his lips quirked up into an open mouthed grin when he realised (Y/n) was finally here. And she had brought Robbie along too.

The little wave of Bob's hand caused (Y/n) to take a deep breath as she realised he wanted her to come over. He didn't mind if the team saw her and met her right here and now.

(Y/n) moved her free hand to begin to gliding up and down Robbie's arm while she treaded closer towards the back of the bar where her husband and his Squad were all situated.

It felt like jolts of electricity were shooting through Bob's veins and the added energy had him jumping up to his feet and patting his hands against his thighs out of anxious habit. But he couldn't tear his eyes away from (Y/n). The light beaming through the open doors seemed to cast straight upon her like it was her very own spotlight, and it drew Bob's attention to her gorgeous smile.

When she reached him, (Y/n) settled her free hand on his shoulder and pushed up on her toes so she could give him a kiss. Her own lips curved into a grin when she kissed him and she darted her tongue across Bob's lips, tasting the remnants of sugar clinging to his lips which she guessed was from a glass of coke. His drink of choice wherever they went.

It was soothing to feel Bob's hand settling on her waist and when she slid her hand from his shoulder to rest over his chest, (Y/n) could feel the frenzy his heart was going into. It was endearing.

Bob's right hand reached out to cradle the back of Robbie's head and he ducked down to kiss his son's temple, who began to giggle. He could see the slight change in Robbie's eyes when the two year old noticed that his dad wasn't wearing his usual spectacles, but he didn't comment on it. There were often times he saw his dad without them, when he was in the shower or mulling around the bathroom or when he was just waking up in the morning. They weren't permanently glued to his face, even if it did feel that way sometimes.

"You ordered a ride?"

Bob hummed quietly, and when Robbie started to wriggle and whine, he bent at the knees to reach out for his boy.

"C'mere." He lifted Robbie up into his own arms, holding him high enough to kiss his cheek before he let him wriggle and get comfy against Bob's chest.

The three of them seemed to be in their own little bubble, right until a small cough from behind caught their attention and Bob quickly turned on his heel to look around. He'd almost forgotten the reason why he asked for (Y/n) to come and pick him up. The team were here with him, or rather, he was here with them.

(Y/n) rolled her lips together as she took a step closer into Bob's side. Her arm looped around his middle and she rested her cheek against his shoulder as she looked around the people now gawping and staring at them like they had come from another planet entirely.

"And uh, who's this?" The smirk on Phoenix's face was enough to show that she had an inkling of who (Y/n) was in regards to Bob, but none of them had been properly introduced yet.

Phoenix was quietly tapping the pool cue in her hand against the floor while her other hand was now on her hip, with one leg crossed over the other. She arched a brow as she looked between her co-pilot and his partner, and when she looked down at Bob's hand that was cradling his boy, she realised there was a plain gold band strapped around his finger.

She hadn't noticed that ring before. How could she have been so blind? How could she not have noticed that little giveaway and not questioned him about this little secret family?

"Guys, this is (Y/n)… my wife. And this is Robbie."

Robbie gave a little wave, smiling when he watched Bradley's lopsided grin spread beneath the moustache that looked ticklish and made the two year old giggle.

"Robbie, as in junior?"

A faint blush crept along Bob's neck and dusted his cheeks as he nodded. That was the nickname he usually gave when he was calling out to his boy at home. He was always calling him junior, and it was something Robbie loved.

Both (Y/n) and Bob agreed that they wanted to call him Robbie, as calling them both Bob would be a bit too confusing and weird, but they thought Robbie was a lovely nickname. And it was different to Bob so there would be no confusion. Although ninety percent of the time he was called Junior.

Looking down, Bob bounced his boy a little higher in his arms which caused Robbie to loop his arms around his dad's neck and kiss the end of his nose. An action which caused Bob to grin madly and made (Y/n) chuckle.

Although both of them looked in Jake's direction when he tutted. He had a look of disbelief painting his face and his lips parted silently for a moment or two before he tried to find the right words that were on his mind.

"Oh, no way. No way that's your wife." He shook his head again and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth while he leant over the pool table to take his shot.

"Why not?"

(Y/n) was rather surprised by the snappy tone to Bob's voice and the frown that pulled at his features, despite the way that their boy was clinging and humming against his neck which usually made Bob grin madly.

Why was it so unbelievable that (Y/n) was his wife? Why did Jake think that Bob was lying or that this was somehow too unreal to be true?

A smirk pulled at Jake's lips when he realised he'd touched a nerve. He wouldn't want to irritate or offend Bob, but toying with him a little was a way of fun.

He cracked his jaw at the same time as he took his shot before his eyes cast over to (Y/n). "She's a catch."

It was Bob's turn to smile and he rolled his eyes which adverted down to look at his boy instead. If Jake was going to try and bait him then Bob was going to try and best him. He wasn't stupid, he knew (Y/n) was a catch, but he also knew that he himself wasn't such a bad person or a bad looker. Bob was modest, but he wasn't totally ignorant to think that he was so unlovable or frightful to look at.

"My sight isn't twenty-twenty but I'm not blind." He couldn't disagree, his wife was beautiful and Bob took every opportunity to tell people so. He didn't need his glasses to know that.

Robbie tilted his head back and reached out to drag the tip of his finger along the bridge of Bob's nose and around his eyes.

"No glasses?"

"Not today, somebody sat on them." Bob ticked his head in Jake's direction but he glanced back at his wife when her head lifted from his shoulder and she narrowed her eyes across at Jake.

"You think my husband isn't a catch?"

There was something about (Y/n)'s tone of voice and the steel expression on her face that made it hard to tell whether she was joking or not. Even Phoenix couldn't be sure if (Y/n) was trying to wind Jake up or if she was genuinely upset and offended by what Jake had said.

Either way, it caused Jake's smile to fade and his skin to turn a shade lighter at the thought that he had offended her upon first meeting her. He didn't want to offend a fellow aviator's wife, that wouldn't be a good move to make, especially when he had to work with Bob almost every day.

"No, no… just surprised our quiet Bob managed to land such a beauty. He doesn't seem the type." Jake took a deep breath, hoping to have redeemed himself there and he was sure he had when (Y/n)'s lips curved into a soft, if contemplating, smile.

"Hm, well you're exactly the type I guessed you'd be."

"Oh, and what's that, handsome and charming?" It seemed rather clear by the smirk on Jake's features and the way he took a step closer that he had a high esteem and a big image of himself in his mind. But that smirk faded when (Y/n) spoke.

"All mouth and no trousers."

The way (Y/n) swept her eyes up and down his frame with pursed lips and almost a look of disappointment in her eyes made Jake's brows raise and had his jaw hanging towards the floor.

Bob couldn't help how widely he smiled. He loved the gobsmacked look on Jake's face and the fact that his wife was the first person to render Jake speechless.

He turned his head to bury his nose- and his triumphant grin- in (Y/n)'s hairline and he pecked her temple a few times before he felt her murmuring into his skin.

"We'd better go, we need to pick up the girls soon." (Y/n) kept her right arm looped low around Bob's waist and she moved with him when he reached to grab his broken glasses from the table. Which he stuffed into his back pocket so he could get them replaced soon while he took the time to find his spare pair once they got home.

They were about to turn and say their goodbyes to the team when Phoenix spoke up before they could get a word in.

"Girls? You have more kids?"

Bob found himself nodding with a grin that spread from ear to ear, which he hid when Robbie began to nuzzle his temple into Bob's chin.

"Three girls and a boy."

Bob wasn't the shy quiet guy they all took him for, and he wasn't plain and simple like they suggested when he simply wrote his name on his helmet rather than a callsign. He just let them assume those things because it was easier and it was fun to go along with it and see how long he could make it last before he had to let his two worlds merge.

He was a dark horse when he wanted to be.

#bob floyd fanfic #fanfiction

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high-on-darren-criss · 22 days ago

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#lewis pullman #the forearm 🥵

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high-on-darren-criss · 23 days ago

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call sign: lover boy | bob floyd

part two of “i thought you liked navigating rocky terrain”

summary: it was supposed to be a day off for the squadron, until maverick had called a team bonding and exercise drill. you had been distracted and fell asleep before you could set an alarm. of course, it was one of the only days when there wasn’t a wake up call. it was a bad day to be running late. it was a bad day to be frantically finding clothes in the dark. it was a bad day to put on someone else’s shirt.

warnings: suggestive fluff ?? implied sexual themes, embarrassment, over protective brother. protective father figure…

you shifted slightly in your sleep, pulling yourself closer to the warm body beside you. bob hummed contentedly, pulling you tightly against him, until you were nearly on top of him. you nestled your face into his bare chest. he exhaled slowly, kissing right above his sternum. bob let out the faintest moan; he wasn’t completely awake yet, a small smile on his lips. your phone buzzed once from the nightstand, the screen lighting up the dark room. bob shifted slightly underneath you, arms wrapping around your waist, letting his fingers draw small circles on your back. your phone buzzed again. then again. then it started ringing. why the hell was your brother calling you at seven a.m. on a day off? you pulled yourself off bob and flailed around slightly before stumbling to your feet and grabbing your phone. “bra-“ “where are you!?” huh? “well i was in bed…” you drawled. bob was sitting up now, eyeing you in question. “you don’t ever check your damn phone do you?” “i- my phone-?” “get your ass here now. everyone else is here and maverick is getting pissed.” “mav-?” you moved the phone away from your ear- no longer hearing your brother lecturing you like you were little- and saw the notifications. seven text messages, four missed calls. crap. it was a day off, what could possibly be so urgent. you clicked on maverick’s string of notifications, looking for the text.

it came last night, at eight o’clock pm:

‘training exercise and team building tomorrow morning. hard deck. 0500. don’t be late. dress for heat. uniforms not required, bring swim gear.’

it was 5:30.

“shit—!.” you dropped your phone, kicked it as you struggled to grab it again. bob had scrambled to his feet, looking terrified at your suddenly outburst. “we need to go right now.” bob scrambled to find his glasses in the dark room. you were frantically trying to find your clothes, not thinking- or having time- to turn on the light. “god- where- -ing thing–?” the muffled voice from under your arm startled you as you pulled on your shirt and your phone fell to the floor again. “—hell are you talking to–“ you were out of breath from frantically trying to dress yourself, and now your knee was hurting from slamming it against the nightstand. you cursed again, “myself, bradley!”

“damn, —ing shirt where the hell is it—“

“why don’t you have a shirt on? how can you not find a shirt?”

“i have to go—!”

bob held up the flashlight on his phone, already dressed and now helping you look, “what color was it?” “it was my uniform—“ clearly he hadn’t remembered that. he really just remembered taking it off, “oh right..” he finally found the tan shirt crumpled on the chair across the room, “here–!“ he threw it to you as you struggled into it, while trying to hang up on your brother, who was still lecturing. “who was that?” bradley paused, mumbling in something, before taking a slow, shaky breath, “where is bob?” rude, that he hadn’t noticed he was not present. he took a sharp breath, “is he with you—? what the hell are you doing with bob at six in the morning—!?”

damn it.

you urgently hung up the phone and scrambled to grab your keys. “we have to show up separately—“ “i drove you here!” great. “it will look suspicious—!” “as people in a hurry, carpooling would be the logical, quickest solution!” “we obviously arent that smart—!” bob sighed, always getting slightly anxious if you argued. “come on…” he held the door open for you and you passed him the keys on the way out. “sorry for snapping.” you were still tense, biting your lip as you obsessively kept checking the time. bob was driving faster than he normally would, “we’ll be there before six…” he squeezed your thigh gently, trying to reassure you and calm your anxiety. “we needed to be there at five, robert.” your voice still edged on anger, but it was gentler. his cheeks reddened slightly, “this is my fault.” “don’t.” you eyed him sharply, “it took two people for that, bob.” he failed miserably at hiding his smirk. “well, yes. but… we could have stopped after one… or two…” you smirked this time, cheeks reddening slightly, “i did initiate both of those, robert…” he smirked this time, more suggestive than it had been, “couldn’t argue with you and waste a perfectly good- quiet, off base, away from other people- hotell room.” you scrunched your nose, feeling your cheeks heat up. “you certainly didn’t.” technically, you would likely be in a lot of trouble if someone found out that you had gone off base, together, to a hotel. and now, to top it off, you were almost an hour late to an impromptu, mandatory team building, training thing, on what was supposed to be a day off. at five thirty in the morning.

at least things couldn’t get worse.

oh, but they did.

you had parked further out, thankful the boys were far out, on the beach. but not all of them. bradley was speed walking towards the car, murder in his eyes. “oh, god-“bob visibly shrank down in his seat. he was yanking the driver’s side door open, “what the hell were you two doing?” “training- paperwork- strategizing- shit—!” “bradley, don’t!” you had jumped out and wrestled him away from bob, “stop it- knock it off!” you pushed him hard, sending him stumbling backwards. he caught himself and lunged again. you stepped in front of him, pulling him into something almost like a hug. he still fought, trying to wrestle out of your arms. you cursed slightly, struggling to hold on to him. “bob, you can probably just run, yeah?” bob paled slightly, but didn’t hesitate to take off towards the beach. “i’ll kill him.” he was now dragging you slightly, as you kept your arms around his waist tightly. “stop. stop it! bradley- hey!” he stopped finally, turning to face you angrily. “i’m gonna kill him.” he motioned behind him, accusingly. “no, you won’t.” your brother’s eyes flared slightly, “i am already late. you will not kill my boyfriend.” he was still glaring after bob, but his head snapped to you again, “your what- you- boy—“ he took a deep breath, likely to make sure he didn’t explode. “boyfriend?” you crossed your arms and glared at him. clearly this was much more important than how late you were, or how he had lectured you over the phone for ten minutes about it. “yes, boyfriend. do you know what that is? or did you really think i was the type to just have a best friend with benefits?” bradley gaped at you slightly, now feeling bad for assuming that. “well, i- no. i didn’t.” “if i wanted to just climb in bed with random guys and have it mean nothing, hangman would be the obvious choice.” you bit back a smirk at his reaction to that, watching his mouth hang open slightly. “besides, it’s bob. you said he was harmless.” this time you did smirk, brushing past him. he let his mouth hang open, clearly picturing the horror of that relationship. “and don’t worry. we always make sure theres no possibility of you becoming an uncle.” you heard the very obvious sound come from him, definitely not english, and barely even human. he put his arm around you as he caught up, still glaring slightly. “were you ever going to tell me?” you turned and gave him a playful smile, “were you ever going to not react like that?” he rolled his eyes slightly, “how long?”

“oh, only a month.” you smirked again as you finally joined the others. maverick was eyeing you, arms crossed. you didn’t need the sunglasses to know he was pissed. you walked up to him like a scolded puppy, imaginary tail tucked hey week your legs. “care to explain why you’re late?” you tensed slightly, having no acceptable excuses. “i’m sorry, sir. i fell asleep before i got your message. and then my phone was on silent.” you had expected to sleep in. “i’m sorry. there’s no excuse.” maverick eyed you, nodding slightly, “sleeping, hm? by eight?” your heart lept slightly, “i–“ you hated lying. he tilted his head at you, looking at your frantically, blindly, thrown on outfit. “you didn’t need to wear your uniform.” you had thrown on your uniform top and black sweat-shorts. it was the only clothes you had. “i’m- i know. i’m sorry. i was in a hurry and it was the first things i found. i accept whatever consequences there are for my actions.” maverick’s mouth twitched just slightly into a smirk, “i’m not going to give you any punishment. i won’t have to,” he leaned down, just barely away from your ear, “‘bob,’” your eyebrows furrowed slightly, confused. your wide eyes snapped up to him, then down to your shirt.

you were wearing the wrong shirt.

this would be so fun…

you tried flailing out of your- bob’s— shirt, into your sports bra, but you had been too slow. “are we finally ready, or what?” hangman, fanboy and rooster had climbed onto the deck. everyone else was shortly behind them. phoenix pushed past the boys and greeted you with a grin, “finally, i’m not the only girl here. these boys are insane.” bob nodded to you from behind hangman, still keeping his distance from your brother. hangman pulled you into an obnoxious hug. you pushed him off you, shoving his face playfully. “i was starting to think you weren’t coming.” he smirked, “late and in uniform, huh?” his eyes stopped looking you over, dropping, and hovering on your chest. “subtle, hangman.” phoenix smacked the back of his head, rolling her eyes. jake didn’t even flinch, eyes frozen to your chest you had just sprouted a third boob. “i’m sorry,” he smirked, eyes narrowing slightly as his expression grew smugger, “but since when is your name bob?” you closed your eyes as heads snapped all around you, turning their wide eyes to your chest. smirks spread around the group like a pandemic. bob was standing wide eyed, face completely scarlet. bradley stood with his head in his hands, shaking his head in embarrassment. “we were—“ might as well embrace it, “doing team building exercises.” hangman snorted, phoenix, fanboy and payback all whistled, bradley was back to glaring at bob, and bob… bob had hiccuped nervously and tumbled right off the deck. you gasped, everyone winced, but bob was back on his feet, somehow even redder.

“you alright, lover boy?” snickers spread throughout the group. “awe, lover boy is shy.” “look at loverboy, clearly not as shy and modest as we thought.” maverick was trying to hide his smirk, eyes shifting to give you a look that very clearly screamed ‘told you so’. “loverboy has been keeping secrets!” bob looked like he was about to combust, he was pale, looking like had gotten several inches shorter. you gave him a sympathetic, apologetic smile. “alright, that’s enough.” maverick clapped once, “let’s just get things started.” he smirked just slightly, still eyeing you with that amused look, “shirts off, boys.” bob pulled his shirt off with a groan. you followed suit; you were already sweaty, and if this got physical- or wet- you didn’t want loose clothing sticking to you, or making it easier to grab you. “ooo, look at lover boy now.” hangman tousled his hair, “he’s eyeing sprout down like she’s a meal.” you rolled your eyes, bumping into him a little too roughly as you passed. “jealous hangman? that i get to look at her all the time?” you bit back a smirk, feeling heat rise up your neck. the bottle bradley was holding fell to the ground, a murderous glare directed towards bob once again. he stopped smirking, stepping back slightly, “i was…kidding..” bradley narrowed his eyes. “sorry,” bob mouthed it, shrinking again. you pulled bob’s arm so he would follow you, amused smile on your lips. your brother liked bob; he wouldn’t actually kill him. or hurt him. most likely…

maverick threw the football and you braced yourself. boys and their aggression in ball-involved games. hangman slammed directly into you, knocking you off your feet, “what the hell, bagman?! i haven’t even touched the ball!” he just smirked slightly, “oh, my mistake. guess i was just pulling you out of daydreaming over loverboy.” hangman tumbled over as bob slammed into him, hard, somehow ending up with the ball. he sent you a wink as he ran past you. maverick and rooster were right behind him, both looking more pissed off than dog fight football required. “rooster, aren’t you on the same team as–“ phoenix knocked you over, exhaling quickly as she made contact. “i’m so sorry-“ she was up and running off again. “i- but-“ was this just everyone against bob? rooster and maverick had caught up with him. rooster was trying to tackle bob to the ground. bob struggled against him but didn’t let go of the ball. maverick swiped bob’s feet out from under him while bradley tried getting the ball. “this is so not how you play football!” bob struggled against the other two, now curled up on the ground around the ball, “i don’t think they care, sweetheart!”

hangman had accidentally tripped maverick and bob finally wrestled away from bradley enough to throw the ball to you, just before hangman pulled him by his ankles back into the water. “oh- shit-“ you grabbed the ball and started sprinting. hearing the splash of almost a dozen marines stampeding after you. you let out an expletive everytime your feet hit the ground, adrenaline carrying you faster, along with the utter terror of being run down by any of them. your brother had caught up first, bradley grabbed you right by the waist, throwing you over his shoulder as he wrestled the ball out of your hands. “cheating! excuse me–!” you threw all your weight to your top half, holding your breath as you sent bradley tumbling into the water. you grabbed the ball before he could and sent it flying back towards bob. his eyes widened as he caught it, now seeing exactly how it felt to outrun a stampede. hangman was first as you tried holding back your brother, who was now just trying to wrestle with you. bob, quite impressively, tripped hangman with his leg, shoved phoenix into the water- apologizing as she fell. he jumped over fanboy as he was falling to tackle him. the sudden pause, and person now on the ground, caused a pile up.

hangman had stood back up, and maverick was the only one who caught himself before falling within the mass chaos event. bob was heading towards you, and you shook your head. the pause and distraction have bradley enough time to throw you off of him, literally, into the water. when you found your footing against, they were heading for you again. bob was sprinting, eyes wide, but laughing slightly. you were scrambling to get out of the way, not wanting the ball, not wanting to get trampled again. you hit the sand just as bob tripped. the ball tumbled forward with him, skipping across the sand. bob collided with you with a curse. he landed on top of you, face buried under your chin. he out his arms over his head, laughing nervously as the insane stampede jumped over the top of both of you. bradley returned with the ball in his hand, smiling smugly. “what a great game.” bob just sighed, peeling himself off of you. he was soaked in sweat and sea water- or maybe sweat- dripped from his hair. “not bad, loverboy. you lasted much longer than we thought you would.” rooster held out his hand to him, helping him stand fully. “hey, do you think sprout ever says that?” bradshaw pushed hangman into the water, hitting his chest so hard he was gasping for air. maverick smacked bob on the back, “not bad, floyd. and congratulations on the new call sign.” bob just sighed, loverboy wasn’t the worst thing he had been called. especially since it was for you.

you smirked at him slightly, “good job, loverboy. they certainly underestimated you.” you wrapped your arms around his neck, tugging on his hair lightly. his eyes darkened slightly, smirking back at you, “see, when you call me loverboy it negates the fact that they’re trying to embarrass me. i don’t get embarrassed by you.” you smirked again, softly, pulling him closer with a few tugs of his hair, “you keep telling yourself that, loverboy.” just before his lips could brush against you, you shoved him into the water.

#bob floyd fanfic #fanfiction

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high-on-darren-criss · 25 days ago

Text

Darker than death

Summary : You need to think of something else since your mother's death. Seeing you in that short dress of yours gave Rhett an idea to help you.

Rhett Abbott x f!reader

Warnings : dark Rhett kinda ?, smut, rough sex (MY SMUT IS CRINGY SORRY im trying my best lol), mention of death, mention of religion, no y/n

Words : 6K+

A/N : I'm trying to work on smut so sorry if it's not good I'm new with that. Please don't hesitate giving me advices. And reminder that English is absolutely not my first language.

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Royal and Rhett had just finished repairing the last ranch's fences when the two men arrived at the diner not far from downtown. The older man entered and wasted no time going to the restroom while his son walked up to the bar and waited for one of the waitresses to come and attend to him. A tall redhead he'd never seen before greeted him and led him to a table, not forgetting to put down the menus before leaving quickly to attend to another customer. The restaurant was full, almost bursting at the seams. They got lucky to get a seat so quickly. Waiting for his father, Rhett carefully observed the people around him but didn't seem satisfied with what he saw. His eyes roamed every corner of the restaurant, but he couldn't find you in the wave of people. He became impatient, refusing to believe that you weren't working today. He waited all week for this day, looking forward to running into you and your pretty face.

Once Royal returned, he opened the menu and looked at what he was about to eat. Unsurprisingly, both agreed on a double cheeseburger. In an almost ponderous silence, the two men waited calmly. Then, out of nowhere, you arrived. Greeting the two men quickly, you took out your little notebook and pen from one of your apron pockets and smiled at them, waiting for them to announce their order. Rhett couldn't keep his eyes off you. He loved your messy hair up in a bun, from which a few strands escaped. He would have preferred a ponytail though, so he could pull your hair more easily. He imagined his hand in your hair, controlling the movements of your head as you sucked his cock. He visualized you on your knees, there in the middle of the restaurant giving him a head. Those pretty eyes of you, looking up at him through your long lashes as he made you go faster. The sensation of your little mouth on his big cock as you chocked. Fucking your throat till missing air in your lungs must be divine. He shook his head, pushing the thoughts away.

It had been a long time since you'd seen each other. Rhett looked down at your bare legs, wearing short shorts that hugged your thighs just right. However, he was a little disappointed to see that you'd opted for a simple t-shirt. He couldn't help but give you a smile as you glanced at him before moving away from their table once you took their order. As you walked towards the bar, Rhett was tempted by a misplaced glance. Indeed, your short were also quite tight, he looked for a second at how the clothe made your ass look before definitely turning his head towards his father, deciding he'd seen enough.

“She seems better...” began Royal, looking at his son.

The youngest merely nodded, to be honest he hadn't been looking to hear from you that much. Since that day at the church he had another vision of you. He never thought of you that way. You were younger, too pretty and certainly too innocent. You were definitely too good for a man like him, however he liked looking at you from afar. Imagining what he could do with your pretty little body. As his eldest began to discuss the day's program, he was distracted by the image of your ass in those too-short shorts. He couldn't help but follow you with his eyes every time you passed their table.

Once both had finished their meal, strangely Rhett got up first and quickly made his way to the counter. Royal didn't wait any longer and was already out of the diner, leaving his table to the other customers, heading to his truck to wait for his son. The younger man waited his turn to pay, it wasn't unusual for him to pay for the meal but his father usually did. Today, however, he felt an essential need to do so.

When the customer in front of him had finished, he couldn't help smiling as your eyes met. He waited peacefully for you to give him the bill, “Busy day huh ?”

You raised your head slightly, “Yeah... but I prefer days like that. It's less boring than waiting for the hours to pass.”

From this angle, he realized that you were much smaller than him, something he'd never really paid attention to. Rhett nodded his head as he paid you, and then said, “Isn't Ashley here ?”. Without even glancing at your form, you replied that she was ill, which was why the redhead had replaced her for the day. “Good for you,” you couldn't help rolling your eyes at his comment. He took the opportunity to look a little at your breasts, and noticed you weren't wearing a bra, he liked that. There was nothing provocative about it, and you certainly weren't looking for cowboys’ attention, but he liked the fact that he could see your nipples through the fabric.

As you returned his change, your fingers brushed the hard hand of the man in front of you for a moment. “You’re coming to the rodeo tomorrow night ?”.

His question surprised you but without hesitation you nodded, “Ash’ will probably come with me”, he sighed and nodded as you gave him a smirk. “See you tomorrow then.”

“Yeah... have a good day Rhett” you replied in a soft voice.

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Rhett had slept horribly and was tired the night of the rodeo. He had no idea or rational explanation as to why his night had gone wrong, but hell now, he was paying the consequences. He had retrained and lost the title of winner, coming in second place. He'd been working like crazy for months to keep that damn prize and now, in a matter of seconds, all those dreams had gone up in smoke. With the money from rodeos and contests, he was trying to raise a certain amount of money to get out of this rotten town once and for all. Between his father, who was becoming more and more unbearable -even execrable with him- and his brother, desperately waiting for his wife's return without doing anything else, he couldn't take it anymore.

He dreamed of escaping this rat hole, starting all over again and trying to be happy. The reason that stopped or he should say slowed him from leaving was his niece Amy, he didn't want to leave her alone in a family that was falling apart. But he realized by now that he'd never be important enough to tighten the bonds. And now, with tonight's loss, he was even further from his goal. Always one step forward but three steps back huh ? Rhett sighed as he leaned against a post behind him, he had left the track quickly after seeing his score in order to reach the area reserved for participants. The best idea was to wait long enough for his family to return to the ranch, not feeling up to facing his father again tonight. He wiped his hands thinking about what he was going to do. He could go to the bar. But he knew that if he let himself be tempted by a drink, he'd end the night there, or worse in cell. The rage bubbling up inside him was becoming more and more difficult to control, and even more so when he let himself be carried away by the effects of alcohol.

The young cowboy raised his head and looked around, spotting in the distance the man who now held his winning title. He couldn't help but feel a little jealous, anyway he quickly banished the feeling before he would do something he might regret after. Around him, other participants and organizers were chatting, but he didn't had the strength to join them. He preferred not to stir up the pity of some or the mockery of others. But just when he thought the night couldn't get any worse, he heard an all-too annoying voice in the distance, and without even glancing towards it, he knew Ashley was coming to disturb him. He straightened up, putting his hat back on properly before setting his eyes on the blonde who was about to disturb him for far too long.

“Sorry Rhett for your defeat...” began Ashley, addressing him with a pout. “You'll do better next time !” he looked at her for a second but his gaze quickly fell on you.

You were moving silently towards the duo, and the man couldn't help noticing your attire. If your father saw how short your dress was, it would certainly give him a heart attack. He let his eyes wander from your old boots to your cleavage, a little too pronounced for his taste. He shook his head before addressing the girl in front of him, who was already looking at him with a smirk. “Did you dress her like that ?”.

“I thought it would please you, all doll up just for you. I mean you’re the one who wanted her to come, wasn't it ?” she teased.

So you talked to her about it ? Interesting. He didn't add anything since you arrived next to your friend, “They didn’t got any sweet popcorn left Ash’”. The blonde placed one of her arm around your shoulders, assuring you it was no big deal, as Rhett gave you a nod.

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As usual Ashley monopolized the conversation and asked Rhett a whole bunch of stupid questions. You watched the exchange without paying too much attention, until you cut your friend off “Isn't that Arthur over there ?”.

Without waiting another second, she turned her head and her eyes opened a little wider. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to create some volume. You couldn't help laughing as she asked you in a panic to check that her make-up was intact. The man beside you watched the scene a little indifferent, hoping Ashley would go away for good and quickly. The blonde then kissed you on both cheeks before winking at the cowboy, trotting off towards the famous Arthur a little further on. Once he got rid of your friend, he moved a little closer to you, filling the empty space between you.

“Like that she'll stop bothering you.” You explained, raising your head to look at him.

A smirk slowly formed, “Did she ask you to wear that ?”. He didn't even have to say anything, you knew he was talking about the dress.

“Tell me about it,” you sighed. “I'm doing it to please her, don't think I like walking around like that in the middle of a rodeo.” He hummed as you continued, “She's nice, you know. If you gave her a chance, you'd see she's not all bad. And since... well- you know-”

“ -yes ”

“She's very considerate of me.” Rhett had more the impression you were trying to convince yourself but said nothing about it. After a silence you added, “Plus her guys stories are funny, so that keeps me busy a bit.”

He laughed softly and leaned a little closer to you, letting his gaze slide over your breasts. From where he was, he could see a small part of them, but above all he could see that you were still not wearing a bra. Damn. He did, however, notice a thin necklace with a cross. “I didn't know you went to church.”

You lowered your head, grabbing your necklace to look at it He couldn't help smiling tenderly at you. “Yes, I've been back a few times since... well, you know. It helps a little.”

“You seem to be doing better, you manage ?” in his voice you could heard concern.

“Yeah, don't worry-”

“-are you sure ?” you looked at him puzzled. Rhett had always been kind to you, but he never really cared. “I mean, I guess it's hard when you lose your mother. But when I see you dressed like-”

Your dry laugh cut him off. Was he serious ? “I beg your pardon ?”

Your name came out softly, almost like a prayer from his mouth, “You understood what I meant-”

“-well not exactly. First you criticize Ashley and now the way I dress is a problem ? No way.” Anger was slowly building up inside you, his comment had hit you right in the heart. As if the length of your dress had anything to do with how you deal with grief. “Before you question certain things, maybe work on yourself a bit. I find it cheeky of you to criticize Ash’ when you haven't even checked up on me. She may not be the most perfect friend, but at least she makes sure I'm okay.”

You stared at him, eyebrows furrowed, waiting for an answer even though you didn't really care about what he could add. But something deep inside forced you to stay in front of him. Rhett was confused and didn't know what to do. He didn't want to upset you any more than you already were but wanted to express his idea properly. And he couldn’t pretend that seeing you all worked up because if him was kind of exciting. He knew he shouldn’t like that but god, you were so cute when you were mad. “I don't doubt that she's a good friend in your eyes but imagine for two seconds if I wasn't here.”

You rolled your eyes as you crossed your arms, who do he thinks he is ? “What are you talking about ?”.

Rhett gulped, your movement caused your breasts to rise, exposing them a little more to his eyes. Trying to compose himself, he quickly resumed, “She just left you to fuck Arthur or whoever. Can you imagine being alone, here at this hour ? I don't doubt your ability to tell a guy to fuck off. But let me doubt on your ability to stand up for yourself with three drunken cowboys.” He watched carefully your reaction then realized quickly you were going to retort again. He dropped your glare and picked up his jacket before handing it to you not wanting to cause a scene. “Now you put this on and I'll take you home.”

You lowered your arms, accepting defeat, and put on the jacket sighing as you started walking away. The image of you in his jacket made him feel possessive. He liked it. The cowboy behind you shook his head, catching you quickly before you went too far into the night. He arrived in front of his truck but didn't even had time to open the door for you before you rushed into the vehicle, not forgetting to slam the door behind you. The man sighed in annoyance and climbed behind the wheel. Turning on the engine, he turned his head towards you in an attempt to calm your anger, but froze when he saw a tear roll down your cheek. You quickly wiped it away, letting out a sniff before turning your head towards the window.

He called your name, but you didn't answer. Hesitantly, he laid a hand on your shoulder to comfort you, if you could call it that. After a moment, you let yourself be carried away and broke down in front of him, curling into yourself and letting your sobs echo in the car. Rhett rushed to pull you against him but you gently pushed him away. However, he left you no choice and took you in his arms, encircling your trembling body and resting his chin on the top of your head, waiting patiently for you to calm down.

A few minutes passed and you straightened up in your seat. Running a hand over your face, Rhett looked at you intently, not wanting to rush you. Deep down he liked being the only one seeing you that weak. “I'm sorry...”

“You don't have to apologize, I shouldn't have mentioned your-”

“I'm not talking about my mother. That's not why I'm crying.” You cut him off but your explanation confused him more than anything else. You turned your body towards him, looking at him, tilting your head against the seat. “I'm crying because you're right and it’s getting on my nerves. It's stupid to wear a dress that short just to please Ashley. It's just...”

He brought a hand to your cheek, caressing it gently, inviting you to continue. He was right and you were wrong. His gesture was delicate. In no way did he wanted to make you feel uncomfortable or hurt your feelings. He just wanted to make you feel better. Seeing you cry had made his heart ache, and when you looked up at him with your puffy red eyes he wanted to take you back in his arms.

“I'm sick of everything. I miss my mom, my dad's been drinking all the time since she died, the people in this town make me go slightly mad,... I just want to live my life but everywhere I go people see me as the poor kid who lost her mom. I'm tired of being pitied.”

“You're not pitied. People just try to be nice but they don't realize how heavy it is.” He pressed your cheek lightly trying to comfort you.

You rolled your eyes and broke the contact between you, moving closer to the door. He didn't like this, but he couldn't say anything. “Even at Church people act like I'm lost and-” you interrupted yourself, sighing for the umpteenth time, ”I don't even know why I keep going there to be honest. My mother was an adherent, that's probably why. I don't know...”

You turned your head towards Rhett again, he was still looking at you and seemed to be really listening to what you were saying. Realizing that you must be annoying him more than anything else, you closed your eyes. “Sorry to bother you with all this, you've certainly got better things to do than listen to me complain.”

He was shaking his head even though you couldn't see him, moving a little closer to you. “Nah, nah no worries. Go on.”

Your eyes reopened as you felt the touch of his hand on your thigh. Suddenly looking into his eyes seemed far too difficult. Your gaze remained fixed on his veiny hand. “I thought if I went out tonight I'd be able to think about something else. Then Ashley made me wear this stupid dress because she said you'd like it or something.”

Without realizing it, he'd tightened his grip on you as he listened, “Why should I care ? Did you talk to her about something ?”. His voice was much huskier than before, and it was as if he was implying something. Even if he didn't like seeing you dressed in such short clothes at the rodeo, he had to admit that made you look rather sexy. To be honest, the idea that others might have seen you in his company -dressed like that- with his jacket over your shoulders, excited him greatly.

You straightened up again, realizing your sudden closeness. You didn't dare look at him in the eye, but you felt his gaze. Suddenly you felt a wave of warmth wash over your whole body. “I just told her you'd asked me if I was coming and- well, she started making up stories. You know Ash’, no big deal...”

Rhett let go of your thigh but didn't pull away, humming once more as he looked out of the car window. It had been dark for a while, but he noticed that a light fog was beginning to form, making it difficult to see what was going on outside. You raised your head without looking directly at him as a silence settled between you, “What are you thinking about ?”.

“Are you feeling better ?”

You didn't hold back your laugh, “That's not the answer to my question-”

“Answer my question first and maybe I'll answer yours.” he asserted authoritatively. You looked at him, disturbed by his sudden change of mood. Your eyebrows furrowed as he glanced at you, still preoccupied with what might be going on outside.

“Yes...” You began softly, but your voice broke slightly, so you cleared your throat and resumed, “Yes, I'm feeling better. Thanks for listening. I just needed to... say it all out loud, I guess ?”

He finally turned his head towards you and was now looking straight into your eyes. You gulped, looking away. You were all quiet. He didn't answer and continued to look at you, a satisfied smile forming on his lips as he watched you intently. Suddenly you felt so small next to him, something in his eyes had changed but you couldn't say what. “Is it about the rodeo ? I'm sure you'll do better next time, I'm not worried about you.”

“Nah it's not about the rodeo. It's darker than the rodeo.”

“Darker than the rodeo ?” You were completely lost and felt a strange sensation forming in your lower belly. Suddenly, it seemed much too hot in the truck. You felt your face grow warm at the sight of the man in front of you.

“Darker than death.” He moved closer to you as you watched his every move. “Are you sure you're feeling better ? I'd hate to rush you.” God knows how he doesn’t care ‘bout that.

He was so close you could smell his perfume. Forming a sentence seemed impossible, you couldn't think straight. Naturally, your body recoiled but you were already against the car door. Your breathing quickened as Rhett took off his hat and put it behind him. Your name escaped his mouth in a whisper, “Answer my question.”

You nodded without taking your eyes off him as he continued to move towards your face. When your noses touched, you let out a shaking sigh that made the cowboy laugh slightly “Would you like me to help you think of something else ?”

“Please...” That's all it took before he crushed his lips to yours. A cry of surprise escaped you as Rhett pulled you against him, he lifted you and with ease placed you on his lap. Your hands went to his torso, then his shoulders, before finding their place at the nape of his neck. The cowboy slid his tongue against your lip, asking for access to your mouth.

You let him as he tightened his grip on your hips. Quickly, one of his hands slid along your back before abruptly grabbing the back of your neck.

“Jesus !” You whispered as you stopped kissing him, his grip was hard but not hurtful.

“He's not coming to help you, sugar.” The young man smiled before sliding the hand that had been at the nape of your neck down to your throat. He found your necklace and played with it a little, “It’s not your mother's, right ?” you shook your head, assuring him that it wasn't. Then without any warning, he yanked it off you. A cry of surprise escaped your throat as he looked at you with his trusty smirk.

“Rhett !”

“What ?” You shook your head, biting your lip at his reaction but he ran his thumb over your bottom lip to stop you, “Don't hurt yourself, please.” His eyes were so soft and gentle on you but his thoughts were the complete opposite. Without giving you time to reply, he captured your lips again in a fiery kiss.

His hands delicately caressed your back as he kissed your neck, you couldn't hold back your moans any longer. Your whimpers sounded like music to the cowboy's ears. He pressed you against him, holding you firmly with his rough hands before moving both your bodies to lie on the bench. Now on top of you, he attacked your cleavage, leaving a trail of wet kisses on your boiling skin. He continues to move his mouth over your body, his lips and tongue tracing every curve and contour. His hands followed, exploding and touching every inch of you. Your hands found his hair, which you gently tugged on without trying to pull him away. It felt so fucking good. You couldn't think about anything else except the sensation of his thin lips on your skin. He pulled at your dress, letting one of your breasts slip out and took it into his mouth. As he sucked on your nipple, nibbling lightly, you moaned loudly.

“Shhh baby. You don't want the others to hear you.” You couldn't answer him, too absorbed with the different emotions consuming you. Seeing you that flustered for him made him want to fuck you all night long. You nodded as he took your other breast in his hand, massaging it sensually, and never taking his eyes off you. “Naughty girl. You're not even wearing a bra, are you doing this so I can see your nipples through your dress ? So I can see how much I turn you on huh ?”

You bite your lip, closing your eyes as he let go of your breasts, sliding gently down your body. He lifted the bottom of your dress and poked his head underneath. Soon you felt his breath against your inner thigh, making you tremble. With his big hands, he grabbed both of your thighs to stop you from moving. Once held in place, you could hear him laugh as he saw the wet spot on your panties, your pussy was that soaked just for him. His name rolled off your tongue, but he didn't stop, smelling your arousal. Delicately, so as not to hurt you, he bit down on your panties, grabbed them and pulled them off. Once he'd removed the piece of fabric, he observed your unveiled intimacy. He could see how wet you were and ran his tongue over his lip before placing a tender kiss on your crotch, signaling that he was going to take care of you. Which made you feel a wave of heat.

As he placed another kiss on your clit, you almost let yourself melt back onto the bench. You had sex before, but something about Rhett turned you on even more. You couldn't see him but could imagine the gleam of desire in his eyes. He was licking your intimacy like a hungry cat, his tongue tender and warm against you. He savored every second, his nose pressed against your clit as he let his tongue burrow deeper into you. He sucked all your juices making you moan more. No longer able to control your body, you closed your legs over his head. He grunted in displeasure, causing vibrations against your pussy that made you moan louder. He tightened his grip on your thighs and spread them further apart, then continue eating your dripping pussy.

Without a warning you felt yourself coming, you tried to straighten up by pulling a little more on Rhett's hair, but he placed one of his hands on your stomach to hold you in place. He said something without drawing away from your pussy without understanding what he was saying, and once again you felt vibrations throughout your body. You felt him smirked against your core as you struggled. You were breathing harder and harder, but when he started to play with your clit with the hand on your stomach, your breath almost stopped. It became jerkier. You were hot, very hot. Then you closed your eyes and let the man between your legs handle the situation. Bringing your hand to your mouth to try and disguise the few whimpers escaping from your mouth, you felt yourself coming soon.

Your hips lifted slightly from time to time to encourage him to continue, to go deeper. Suddenly you came, moaning against your hand as Rhett licked your juices as if he hadn't had enough. Your legs trembled and you felt your eyes moisten. As you tried to recover from your emotions, the man between your legs kissed your crotch one last time before moving up to your face. He kissed your lips as you could taste yourself. He wasted no time in removing your dress, pulling it over your head. Revealing the rest of your naked body, without taking his eyes off you he let his veiny hand slide down your legs to remove your panties once and for all, throwing them in his jeans pocket. And as you struggled to remove your boots, you watched him take off his shirt.

That's when you realized you were completely naked in front of him, even though he had taken off his top. You fold your legs and try to hide your breasts with your arms. It was as if he'd heard you, without further ado he removed his jeans, leaving him in just his boxers in front of you. You could see his erection, which made you smile anxiously. You let your hand go to his last garment as it settled back over your still trembling body. Your fingers played with the elastic of his underwear, but he stopped you by shaking his head.

“You're sure ?” you kissed him. “Good because every time I see your pretty face I want to fuck you hard.” With that he kissed you even more savagely, you pulled him by the nape of his neck wanting to feel him even closer. He let himself fall onto your body as his knee spread your legs. Again, your hands grabbed his boxers, moaning into his mouth as you slid the clothe down his thighs as he managed to pull it off.

“Do you want me to suck you ?” You asked in an almost innocent voice, he suddenly stopped in his movements to look at you with tenderness. You straightened up on your elbows looking at him through your lashes, waiting for his answer. It was exactly like in his imagination. You were there, just underneath him all naked. Almost begging for it. But he needed to wait.

“I don't think I can take it if you do. Let me fuck you first.” With that you nodded, letting yourself slide a little further onto the bench. He reached into the glove box and pulled out a condom. He tore off the wrapping with his teeth before taking it out. You took it from his hands, straightened up again and for the first time laid eyes on his cock. Fuck. Rhett was big. His penis was thick and veiny, and not just because of the erection. You remained frozen on his intimacy for a few moments. He laughed at your reaction before placing a kiss on your forehead and taking your wrist in his big hand. “You wanna stop doll ?”

“No ! I mean... no please.” You were far too excited at the sight of his erect member, you definitely didn't want to stop. When you thought back to the way he'd eaten your pussy, you could only wait impatiently to feel his full length inside you.

“Alright baby...” he took the condom from your hand and put it on before placing himself at your entrance. He placed one of his hands on your hip to hold you while the other allowed him to hold himself pressed down so as not to crush you. He licked his lips and entered you hard, making you lie back against the bench fast. A moan escaped your mouth as the cowboy began thrusting in your tight and wet pussy. He was so fucking big. He slammed into you with no mercy. You were already seeing stars while he was still slow. You clung to his shoulders feeling his pace quicken, “You like that ?”.

You nodded as you closed your eyes, feeling your orgasm coming already. Your hand gripped his bicep as he lowered his head to nibble your earlobe. You could feel his cock in your stomach, it was so big. With every thrust, a whimper escaped you. “If you keep making that kind of noises I'm going to cum in your pretty pussy baby,” a whine was the only answer you could give him.

He slowed a little before thrusting in harder again, “Fuck you’re so tight.” your back arched as you groaned loudly. You cried loudly and begged for him to continue. His thrusts were hard and you wanted more. The fire inside, your burning desire grew even more. Your hips tried to move to his rhythm, but he was too abrupt for you to imitate. “Feels like your pussy has been made for me.” He growled. Your nails scratched his back as he nibbled the skin of your neck, enough to leave a mark tomorrow morning. “All innocent in your little white dress. You wore it for me ?”

You nodded with difficulty, and he laughed darkly. “Use your words, doll” he added, penetrating you hard which took your breath away, preventing you from gathering enough air to form even a word.

“I- Jesus! y-yes...”

“Fuck,” he groaned, “You’re close ?”

You hummed, but it wasn't enough for him. He lifted one of your legs and placed it on his shoulder, allowing him to fuck you even deeper. His hands gripped and pushed on you. You moaned so loudly that you put your hand back over your mouth to shut up. He remove your hand by grabbing your wrist, continuing to penetrate you hard. “Answer me.” his tone was almost as harsh as the way he was treating you. He fucked you like an animal.

“Do you like it when I fuck you hard ?” you nodded as tears of pleasure escaped your eyes. “Attagirl.”

Just when you thought it couldn't get any more euphoric, Rhett began nibbling your nipple once more. It was too much for you. You wrapped your other leg around his pelvis to pull him even closer to you. You had the vital need to feel him even deeper inside you.

“Rhett- please... Please !” you whined. He looked down at you with a growl, he shook his head at your mess. Desperate, you were unsure of what you were begging for anymore. Losing track of your time, you didn’t even knew for how long you were in that fucking truck.

You were biting your tongue when suddenly you felt he was hitting the right spot. He was deep inside you. You let yourself slide but he caught you with his big arms, holding you against him. He straightened both your bodies, forcing you into a new position. Giving him more access to fuck you hard. You could feel his whole cock inside you, his balls were hitting hard against your skin. You couldn't take it anymore; you were going to fucking cum. You looked briefly at him, his eyes were focusing on the view of his cock harshly coming in and out your pussy. His brows were furrowed because of his concentration.

“Fuck ! Yes, yes, yes just there ! Please Rhett just- yeah just there...” the tears that flowed prevented you from seeing properly. He kept you close to his body, almost not letting his dick out anymore. Enjoying your inside too much he wanted to make you cum very soon. Feeling your wet and tight hole, stretching just for him made him consider taking off the condom but he resisted.

Rhett kissed you one last time and without you seeing it coming you let yourself be carried away and your cum ran down the length of his cock. You let out a moan that echoed through the truck as he could feel your hot cum dripping onto his balls. You tried to catch your breath but couldn't get over your orgasm. You kept moving your hips a little so Rhett could cum too, but he put your leg back, holding your hips. As he immobilized you, you let out a few whines of pleasure. He came out of your pussy, letting out a pop. Then he'd slide off before resting his head on your sweaty belly.

“Rhett-”

“-baby rest a bit. I’m not finished with you yet.” He felt your body trembling at his words. Now that he'd fucked you and made you cum, it was time for him to use you to his needs. It was even better than in his dreams. He knew you weren't going to be able to take it all, so he preferred to give you some time to rest before he began to do what he wanted with you.

#Rhett Abbott fanfic #fanfiction

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high-on-darren-criss · 26 days ago

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Mat Cauthon Bloopers from Wheel of Time S3 Original video

#mat cauthon #dónal finn #the wheel of time

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high-on-darren-criss · 27 days ago

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My Ewan Mitchell Starter Pack (Human Art Edition) 🥹💎

#fan art #ewan mitchell

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high-on-darren-criss · 1 month ago

Note

Bob and a reader who bruises easily and when they have sex the reader is usually marked up the next day?

Marked ✩ Bob Reynolds

Pairings: Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolt!Reader

Warnings: +18 SMUT MINORS DNI. explicit sexual scenes, bruising (reader bruises easily), rough sex, possessive!bob, protective older brother!bucky, strong language, secret relationship, minor angst, fluff, found family, chaotic thunderbolts energy, family dynamics, violence (threatened),

Summary: You and Bob had been sneaking around for months, the thrill of secrecy only fueling the fire and desire. But bruises from the night before threaten to unravel everything—especially when Bucky Barnes sees them and goes into full protective big brother mode.

Author's Note: omg you guyssssssss!!! i had so much fun writing this one. i am so obsessed with the whole secret relationship setup, and bucky going full protective older brother mode???? ughhhhhh I'm obsessed. i love my boyfriends<3 yelena my baby I love love love writing her so much she's sooo ughhh I love her!!!! i love myself some found family<3 keep the requests comingggggg!!!! i’ve got so many on my inbox already i’ve been planning out all of the fics so they’ll be posted soon<3

You woke up tangled in sheets, muscles aching, skin kissed with tenderness. Bob's arm was drapped heavy over your waist, the rise and fall of his chest pressing your back into him, grounding you, like he needed the contact to breathe. He always held you like that after—like if he let go, you might vanish.

A dull ache throbbed deep in your thighs, your hips, the slope of your neck. Each mark a reminder of the night before. Of how careful he tried to be. Of how easily he lost himself in you when the door was closed and the rest of the world disappeared.

It had started slow, like it always did.

Quiet knock on your door, late enough for the others to be asleep or buried in their own distractions. Bob would linger in the hall, hoodie thrown over his head, hands in his pockets like some kind of teenage boy sneaking into his girlfriend's room.

The moment the door clicked shut, the tension would snap. You’d throw yourself at him—starving, always starving—and he’d catch you every time.

Last night was no different. You'd been watching him all day, practically squirming on the sidelines of the gym while he trained with Yelena.

That damn white shirt clung to him, soaked through sweat, riding up every time he moved. His biceps flexed with every punch, his golden curls damp and wild. You caught him watching you more than once, eyes dark, mouth parted.

He looked wrecked before you even touched him.

By the time he showed up at your door, you didn’t say a word. You grabbed him by the collar of his hoodie, yanked him into your room, and kissed him like he was oxygen.

His hands trembled when they touched your waist. “I’ll be careful,” he whispered, even as you guided him to the bed, tugging his clothes off, already breathless.

“You don’t have to be,” you said. "I don't want you to be."

He kissed down your neck, hands gripping your thighs like he was anchoring himself. When his mouth found your pulse point, he sucked just hard enough to draw a moan—and the bruise bloomed seconds later.

He pulled back to look at the mark, already forming, then looked up at you with something feral in his eyes. “You’re so fucking soft,” he groaned. “I’m gonna mark every inch of you. Mine. All of you.”

You gripped his hair, kissed him harder. “Then do it.”

His fingers laced with yours, pinning them above your head as he pushed into you slowly, the stretch of him drawing a gasp from your lips. He watched your face like it was the only thing that mattered.

His thrusts were slow, deep, patient at first—until you begged.

“Harder, Bob. Please. Don’t hold back.”

He shuddered. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I do,” you gasped. “I want all of you.”

His mouth crashed into yours, and the dam broke.

You swore the headboard cracked. The bed groaned beneath you. Your name was a prayer on his tongue, murmured between bruising kisses and gasped apologies he didn’t need to make.

Because you loved the marks. The ache. The secrecy.

The thrill of sneaking out of his room at 3AM, hair a mess, lips swollen. Of pretending nothing happened in the halls the next day. Of brushing fingers under the table during briefings, eyes meeting like a promise.

And in those moments—when no one else knew, when it was just you and him—you felt more his than ever.

You traced a bruise on your collarbone absently as you slipped out of his bed, one of his t-shirts falling to mid-thigh. You bit your lip to hide the satisfied smile. Bruised and adored. Just how you liked it.

The tower was still quiet as you crept back to your room to change, slipping into gym shorts and a hoodie for morning training. You paused once, catching your reflection in your bathroom mirror—faint marks painting your hips, the curve of your neck, the inside of your thigh.

Heat flushed through you at the memory. His hands gripping your waist. His voice—“You’re mine.”

You tugged the hoodie tighter and headed down to start training.

The gym was already humming with low music and the sound of punches hitting pads. Bucky was setting up on the mat, hoodie off, sweat darkening the collar of his black shirt. He gave you a quick nod when you walked in—his version of a good morning.

Bucky Barnes had been like a brother to you since day one. Not in the forced “everyone on a team is family” way—no, this was different. Real.

He was rough around the edges when you first joined the Thunderbolts, all tight-lipped commands and watchful eyes. Cold. Distance. Guarded. But something in you cracked through that hard soldier shell. Maybe it was how stubborn you were. How warm. Unafraid to rile him up, to poke the bear. Maybe it was how you asked too many questions. Or the way you always saved him a seat in the briefing room. Or how you reminded him—without meaning to—what it felt like to care about someone without it turning into war.

You sometimes reminded him of Steve.

He saw him in you. In the way you saw people. In how you never gave up on anyone, not even him. In the way you could smile even after a mission gone sideways and still say, "We're okay. We'll figure this shit out."

You were brave. Kind. Loyal.

You were the thing Steve used to fight for.

And Bucky—he didn’t say it, couldn’t say it—but he clung to that. To you. Because if someone like you could believe in him, then maybe there was still something worth saving inside him.

That’s why he called you “kid,” even though you weren’t.

That’s why he tossed you his hoodie when you were cold, sat beside you when you couldn’t sleep, and taught you how to break a man’s wrist with a flick of your body weight.

He watched over you in the field. Back-to-back in a firefight. A quiet hand on your shoulder after a tough mission. His voice, always steady, always low: “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

He wasn’t your teammate. He wasn’t a friend.

He was your brother. Your family. Not by blood. But by bond. By choice.

And that made what happened next inevitable.

Because when he saw those bruises, the ground shifted underneath his feet. All he could see was someone hurting you. And he'd spent decades trying to protect people like you, people he cared about. He had lost Steve. He wasn't going to lose you.

“You’re late,” he said.

“Barely,” you said, grinning. “Try smiling once in a while.”

He rolled his eyes. “Try not tripping over your own feet.”

“Rude,” you said.

He tossed you a set of gloves. “Let’s go. Standard drills.”

You started slow. Footwork. Blocks. He moved easily, but watched your form like a hawk, correcting gently with a hand at your hip, your wrist, your shoulder.

“Looser on the right,” he murmured. “You’re tightening up too much, kiddo.”

“I’m fine.”

“Mm-hmm.” His tone was skeptical. “Take off the hoodie.”

You froze.

“It’s hot in here,” he added, too casually. “And you’re sweating like hell.”

“Bucky—”

“Off, Y/N.”

Shit.

You sighed, peeled it off, revealing the tank top beneath—and the faint, fresh constellation of bruises that peppered your collarbone and shoulders.

The moment the hoodie dropped to the mat, everything stopped.

Bucky’s whole body tensed.

His eyes locked on the marks. A slow, terrible realization crawling across his face like storm clouds. His voice was suddenly razor sharp.

He stopped breathing.

“What the fuck is that?”

You blinked, already knowing where this was going. “It’s nothing, Bucky.”

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice dropped, deadly quiet. “Who did this?”

“I said it’s nothing—”

His gaze narrowed. “Don’t bullshit me. Y/N, what is that?” He stepped forward, fingers brushing the side of your neck. His touch was soft, but his jaw was tight. “Who the fuck did this to you?”

“I—” You swallowed. “It’s fine, Bucky. It’s—just mosquito bites, that's all.”

“I'm not stupid. I know what bruises look like,” he snapped, his voice rising. “And those? They didn’t come from sparring.”

You stepped back. "Please don't do this."

“Do not follow me unless you’re gonna tell me the truth.”

And then he was storming down the hall, headed for the common room. Straight into the storm.

Because to him? This wasn’t just bruises.

It was his kid—his sister—hurt, marked, and silent about it.

And he’d tear down the whole damn team to protect you.

But of course, you followed him. You fumbled to put the hoodie back on, trying to catch up with Bucky.

You caught up to him just as he stormed into the common room, boots stomping accross the floor. You barely had time to catch your breath before all hell broke loose.

Bob was sprawled on the couch, legs stretched out, hoodie pulled halfway over his head, curls messy on his forehead. Yelena sat beside him eating chips straight from the bag, one boot resting on the coffee table. Walker was slumped on the other, flipping channels again and again.

"Just pick a damn channel already, jeez," Yelena scoffed.

"We have Netflix you know?" Bob chimed in softly.

The second Bucky entered, everyone looked up.

“Do you know who fucking did this to her?” Bucky barked, voice sharp enough to cut metal.

Yelena blinked, slow and unbothered. She raised one perfectly arched brow and held up her bag of chips. “Wow. Good morning to you too, soldier boy. Want a chip?”

Walker frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about this!” Bucky turned, grabbed your armg gently, always gently, and tugged the hoodie sleeve up to show the fading bruise near your wrist. “And that,” he pointed to your neck. “And that.”

“Bucky, please—” you tried, stepping in front of him, but he wasn’t hearing it.

“You better start talking,” he growled, pointing at each of them like they were suspects in a murder trial. “Because if one of you laid a hand on her—”

“Okay, this is very dramatic,” Yelena said, popping another chip in her mouth. “I love it. Are we in a movie right now? Because damn, the drama.”

“I’m being very fucking serious right now, Yelena.”

She shrugged. “Just trying to defuse the tension.”

“And you're not helping!”

“I know,” she said sweetly.

Bucky whirled on Walker next. “Was it you?”

Walker sat up straighter, blinking. “What? No! Jesus—”

“I swear—if you even looked at her wrong—”

“Oh, come on, man!” Walker snapped, tossing the remote on the couch. “I’m not suicidal.”

While Bucky and Walker bickered, Yelena turned to you slowly, her eyes cool but curious. Then—subtle as smoke—her gaze dropped to the bruises peeking from your hoodie, then flicked to Bob.

Bob hadn’t moved. But he was watching. His shoulders tense. His jaw clenched.

Yelena raised one perfectly arched brow. You saw the moment it clicked for her.

Of course she knew.

She wasn’t stupid. She’d seen the way you looked at each other during debriefs. The way you flushed when Bob’s fingers brushed yours in the kitchen. She’d definitely heard the sounds coming from your room last night—because, shocker, spies hear everything.

But she wasn’t going to rat you out to Bucky. No. She gave you the look—the look—tilting her head with the tiniest smirk like, girl, really? him? damn okay.

Then she turned back to her chips like none of this concerned her.

Meanwhile, Bucky was still in full interrogation mode.

“I will find out who did this,” he said, voice rising again. “And when I do—”

“You’re going to do what, Barnes?” Walker snapped back. “Ground us? You're not her dad.”

“I don’t have to be,” Bucky growled. “She’s family. I raised her on this goddamn team while you were still figuring out which way the bathroom was!”

“Oh my god,” Yelena said through a mouthful of chips, “this is better than anything on TV.”

You rubbed your hands down your face and slowly met Bob's eyes, just for a second.

It was enough.

He stood up. Violently. Almost knocking off the entire coffee table.

Yelena sat up straighter, chip bag rustling. "Oh, here we go."

Walker looked from Bob to Bucky, then back. “Wait. Wait wait wait—are we fighting now? In the middle of the living room? Are you guys serious?"

Bucky turned toward Bob, chest puffe like a feral bull. "Say something. I dare you."

“Enough!” Bob’s voice cracked like a whip across the room, thunderous, vibrating in the air like it came from somewhere deeper than his chest.

Yelena froze, chip halfway to her mouth. “Well, there goes the drywall.”

Bucky took one menacing step forward. “What did you say?”

Bob didn’t flinch. His voice was low. "It was me."

Dead. Silence.

Oh, fuck.

You could've heard a pin drop.

Yelena whispered, “Oh my god, I knew it.”

Walker blinked. “Hold the fuck on.” He gasped like he just found out Santa wasn’t real. “Wait—you two?! You’ve been doing it?”

“You?” Bucky spat, stepping forward. “You think that’s fucking funny?”

“No,” Bob said calm. Too calm.

And that snapped Bucky.

He lunged. “I’m going to kill you right now!”

“Bucky!” you shouted, throwing yourself between them just as Bucky’s fist came up.

You caught him mid-swing, grabbing his wrist, bracing your weight against him with everything you had.

“NO! No, no, no—Bucky, stop!” you yelled, pushing back on his chest, eyes wide.

Bob didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His hands stayed at his sides, jaw set like he was ready to take it.

“You did this to her?” he hissed. “You put your hands on her?”

“I didn’t hurt her,” Bob bit out. “I’ve never laid a hand on her in anger—”

“You left bruises!” Bucky shouted, jabbing a finger toward Bob like he was issuing a death sentence. “You don’t get to decide what hurting her looks like! You don’t get to be the one who touches her and makes her lie to me about it!”

“Bucky, please,” you pleaded, voice breaking.

“I didn’t hurt her,” Bob snapped. “You think I don’t know what I’m capable of? I’ve been terrified of it since day one. Every time I touch her, I’m scared shitless I’ll lose control—but I don’t. Because I’d rather die than ever cross that line.”

Bucky’s jaw locked. “That’s not comforting.”

“She’s not a child, Bucky,” Bob bit out. “She knows what she wants."

"But she's my child, Bob! Mine," Bucky roared, voice cracking with something other than rage, like fear. "I've been protecting her since she joined this team. I've bled for her. I would take a bullet for her if it meant keeping her safe. You think you can just crawl into her bed—what? Expect me to shake your hand? Pat your back? You're fucking delusional."

"She's not yours to own!" Bob roared. "You don't get to decide who touches her, who loves her. She’s not some piece of property. She made a choice. I made my choice."

Bucky’s breathing was ragged, fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white. “She’s my family!" he hissed. "And you didn’t even have the balls to tell me.”

“I wanted to,” Bob snapped. “She told me you’d do this.”

“She was right!” Bucky barked, his eyes glossing over with betrayal. “Because I trusted you. You were supposed to be safe.”

“I am.” Bob’s voice dropped. “I love her. I’m careful with her. You know she bruises easily. Everyone knows it. I try. I always try. But she wanted it. She asked me to. I never forced her. I’d never do that to her.”

You stepped in closer, your hand sliding to Bucky’s chest. “He’s telling the truth.”

Bucky stared at you like he didn’t recognize you for a second. “You let him…”

“I wanted him,” you said simply. “And I still do.”

Walker stood up slowly, blinking like a deer in headlights. “Oh my god,” he muttered, running a hand down his face. “Is this… is this a thing? Like a regular thing? You two just… sneak around and… Jesus Christ, you two fuck?”

Yelena nearly choked on her chips.

She turned to him slowly, eyes wide with disbelief. “Walker. My guy. You live here. How have you not noticed?”

“I thought the noise was the pipes!” he said, flailing.

Yelena tilted her head. “You thought the pipes moaned her name at 2AM?”

“HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?!”

She blinked. "Walker, if your pipes ever sound like that, you call an exorcist. Not maintenance."

He shook his head, exhaling hard. Then he looked at Bob, fury simmering low. “If you ever cross a line—if you so much as make her flinch or cry—I will end you. You break her heart, I break your face. Deal?”

“Deal,” Bob said without hesitation.

Bucky stared at Bob, his jaw ticking. But then his eyes shifted—back to you. Still tight with anger, but… softer now.

“You okay?”

You smiled—small, soft, but sure. “I promise,” you said. “I’m more than okay.”

You glanced back at Bob. He was still watching you like the room didn’t exist.

“He makes me happy, Buck.”

Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Goddammit.”

He yanked you into a hug, a little too tight, one arm slung around your neck like he was both scolding you and shielding you. You melted into it as he pressed a kiss to your head.

“I swear to God, Y/N,” he muttered, voice low in your ear, “if he hurts you, I’ll kill him myself.”

You chuckled against his chest. “I know you would.”

Bucky sighed and pulled back, plopping down onto the couch like the last ten minutes had aged him a decade. “And for the love of all that is holy—use protection.”

Yelena snorted next to him. “And do not fuck in the communal shower. Please. I beg you.”

Walker looked horrified. “Wait—have they?!”

You and Bob exchanged a look. He blushed. You smirked. Then you crossed the room, and without missing a beat, Bob reached out and pulled you into him. His arm slid over your shoulders like muscle memory, tucking you against his side with an ease that made everyone in the room groan. He looked down at you with that soft, dopey grin, like a damn teenager who just scored the girl of his dreams.

Yelena let out the loudest groan of all. “Oh my god, you’re disgusting. Look at you—so in love. Yuck!” She made a dramatic gagging noise. “This is vile. I feel violated.”

Bob chuckled.

Bucky didn’t even look. He just threw his head back. “Jesus Christ, please stop this. I can’t take it anymore.”

Yelena didn’t miss a beat. “Honestly, Buck? I’m surprised she can still walk after what I heard last night.”

Bob choked violently.

You burst into laughter, burying your face in his hoodie, muffling a wheeze.

Bob cleared his throat, red as a tomato. “Okay, wow.”

Bucky clapped his hands, hard. “OKAY! Great. That’s enough. Breakfast. Anyone?”

Walker, still pale, raised a hand. “I need alcohol.”

Bucky didn’t even hesitate. “You know what? Make it two. Double.”

Yelena leaned back, completely unbothered, tossing a chip in her mouth. “God, I love this team.”

And you? You looked around—at the chaos, the bickering, the laughter—and felt it settle deep in your chest.

You loved them too.

With all your heart.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

taglist ⊱☆⊰ @the-a-word-2214 @favestxrboy @uraesthete @abbysbenchpr @sammystarswrite @pey2618 @qardasngan @lunaoieoie @orithyia-eriphyle @amatiswayland @madzzz6958 @all-by-myself98 @dark-silhouette @ghost-ghost-13 @wyvernthekriger @gayfiretruck @watermeezer @lvmxla @novausstuff @mommymilkers0526 @natureartisian @feralgoblinbabe @misaki-evans (if you want to be tagged in my future works lmk! <3)

#bob reynolds fanfic #fanfiction

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high-on-darren-criss · 1 month ago

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Twisters (2024) dir. Lee Isaac Chung

#twisters #film #tyler owens #kate carter #daisy edgar jones #glen powell

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high-on-darren-criss · 1 month ago

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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.

#Bob Floyd fanfic #fanfiction

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