karrt

[karrt]

How about...

Sandor, or anyone of your choosing, enjoying his breakfast in bed; already warm and ready and right next to him. Of course, breakfast in bed really means a heavy arm across your stomach and his hot mouth on your sticky cunny, licking into your heat and forcing you to cum over and over- but he's as thankful that you're under him and squirming as he'd be if you'd made him a full course meal lmfao

As always,

-🐏non

oh i ate this UP. (pun intended)

table of contents; oral sex, face-sitting (i changed it cause i’m a slag), implied cum eating (he ate it all up).

it’s essential that a man of sandor’s magnitude breaks his fast before a days work. it takes a strong man to bear such armour all day every day. he needs a good, nourishing meal to last him until he returns home in the evenings.

“fuckin’ hells, woman.” he wrenches you back down onto his face. “stop movin’.”

his irritation is muffled by the weight of your thighs, his hands hooked around them. goosebumps ripple over your skin when his tongue lathers you again, knuckles whitening as you cling to the headboard. “gods, sandor— i’m going to suffocate you. . .”

“death by cunt.” he mutters against your engorged slit, ravishing you like a man starved. “guess i’m dying a happy man, then.”

he presses you against his face, inhaling like he’s coming up for air. hot embarrassment stains your skin, but arousal soon replaces the shame when the tip of his nose — crooked from so many breaks — bumps against your clit, his tongue swirling at your entrance.

your hips stammer, the fleshy hood of your mound catching his nose’s wide bridge. you both groan and his fingers curl into you tighter, tongue delving hungrily. then he retracts it, dragging the wet muscle backwards to slot between your swollen lips and toward your pearly bead of nerves.

his dark eyes flit up, wilted and languid. he’s been dining on you for some time; lapping at you and slurping from you and swallowing every drop. “look at me,” he orders, gruff and slightly slurred. you might be the only thing he drinks from more often than tankards.

with a breathless, barely-conscious moan, you cast your foggy gaze downward. your hands drop from the headboard to fist at his hair, his mouth pursing around your little bud as soon as your eyes meet.

you jolt against his face, the velcro roughness of his beard scratching at your slick. he alternates between suckling and pinching your clit to licking his way down the crevice of your folds and into your puckered little hole.

a man can soon grow sick of steak pie and venison casserole, but no man could ever sicken at the chance to eat cunt.

and to yours sandor clegane has certainly succumbed. maybe he’s running a little late, but no matter. a man can grow sick of the king, too. and as big a cunt the king may be, he doesn’t taste near as sweet as yours.

you mewl, rising on your knees when it all gets a little much.

“sit down.” he growls again, forcing you flush against his tongue. “and i didn’t tell you to look away.”

you didn’t realise your eyes had closed, too consumed by his mouth and its hunger. you drift in and out of a daze — eyes watering and stomach contracting. everything tingles, the room is stuffy, your limbs don’t feel like they’re part of you.

he’ll have you cum another four, maybe five times before he’s satisfied his appetite, leaving for work with your scent on his breath. and you’ll be just as he left you, ready to serve him supper.

[karrt]

waiter waiter i need more princess! reader/sandor clegane fics

[karrt]

Sometimes home is a person team - drabble

Your powers — wild, untamed — had lashed out, sending John flying into the wall with a crash that shook the training room. The panic had swallowed you whole, leaving you cowering in the corner, small and shaking, afraid of yourself.

And then he was there. On his knees, pulling you into a hug that wasn’t for him — it was for you. Strong, steady arms wrapping around your small frame as you trembled like a leaf.

“It’s okay,” he’d murmured, voice softer than you’d ever heard. “I’m okay. You’re okay.”

And for the first time, you’d let yourself be held.

Later that same night, it was Bob who found you curled up in John’s military hoodie and in bobs bed — which has become your safe place, to Bob you looked small and exhausted, head resting against his pillows. He sat down on the floor next to the bed, next to you, handed you a mug of tea without a word.

You leaned into him, heavy with relief.

And when he whispered something small — some rambling nonsense about Alexei stealing muffins — your lips twitched.

“…Liar.”

Your voice was barely there, cracked from disuse.

Bob froze, wide-eyed. And then that smile — that gentle, stunned, so-proud-it-hurt smile spread across his face.

He didn’t even tell the others. Just sat there with you until you fell asleep — leaning against his arm.

⸻

The Next Morning

John was glowing.

“Yeah,” he said, leaning back in his chair at the breakfast table like he was telling the story of a grand victory. “She hit me with her powers — slammed me into the wall. But did I freak out? No. I held her. Calmed her down. She let me. First time.”

Yelena rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of her head. “John, we were all there. Stop acting like you saved the world.”

“She let me hold her, though,” he said, grinning, tapping the table like he’d made some brilliant point. “Me.”

Alexei muttered, “He’s going to write poem about it next. Ode to Being Punched by Powers.”

Ava sipped her coffee and didn’t even look up. “It’s seven in the morning, John.”

Bucky groaned into his mug. “I swear to God, Walker—”

Just then, Bob walked in, still sleepy-eyed, hair messy, hands in his pockets, rubbing his back from falling asleep on the floor.

He paused, blinking at the table full of annoyed faces.

“…What’s going on?” he asked, grabbing some fruit from the counter.

“Walker’s bragging that she let him hold her after her powers went off,” Bucky muttered, giving John a look that could kill.

Bob raised his brows. “Oh.”

He casually grabbed a knife, started cutting up the fruit, listening as John kept going — louder now, trying to relive the moment like it was a battle medal.

“Yeah, it was pretty intense. She was shaking, man, but I held her — kept her grounded. It was a big deal.”

Bob kept slicing the red apple he had grabbed, smirking quietly to himself. He dropped the pieces into a bowl already mixed with bananas, strawberries and kiwis, grabbed two water bottles from the fridge, and started toward the door.

But then — as if it just occurred to him — he stopped. Backed up slowly. Poked his head back into the kitchen.

“Oh,” he said, grin soft, eyes twinkling. “But she talked to me first.”

The room went dead silent.

And then he was gone, slipping down the hall with the fruit bowl and waters like nothing had happened, leaving John sputtering behind him.

“Wait — what?!”

“Walker, sit down,” Yelena said, smirking now herself. “You got hugged. He got history.”

And for once… John had no comeback.

[karrt]

This is killing me

[karrt]

May I request a Bob Reynolds x Villain!Reader who -despite being a villain and doing villain things- they treat Bob really well,?

Like- if they heard about how Walker treats Bob, they'd already be planning to go after him first or smthng,?? Idek,,, just food for thoughts()

ferra (r.r.)

synopsis : You’re a weapon, feared, used, and long past redemption. The jobs don’t feel like victories anymore, just noise between silences. Then you meet Bob Reynolds. Too quiet, too powerful, and far too familiar. You should have walked away. Instead, you saved him, and now you’re in deeper than you meant to be.

pairing : bob reynolds x reader

content : slight angst, action, villain!reader (?),

warning/s : violence, swearing, mentions of past trauma

word count : 3.5k

A/N: thank you sm for the request! @d3adbr3inc3lls teehee i hope u like this one !!

You weren’t born a weapon.

But metal always loved you more than people did.

You learned that early, maybe too early. When your mother screamed and the bullet bent before it hit her, twisting midair like it had changed its mind. You remember her terrified face more than anything else. Not the blood. Not the man who ran. Just her, backing away from you like you’d grown claws.

You were seven.

That’s how it started.

Your power didn’t manifest gently. There was no warm glow, no magical accident. It wasn’t kind. It was messy and sharp and loud. You were loud. You cried for days afterward, not because you hurt someone—but because no one ever held you again.

By nine, you stopped flinching at sirens.

By eleven, you stopped waiting for help.

By thirteen, you were untraceable. Gone like smoke through every foster file, every underground program that wanted to “train” kids like you. The labs wanted you. The recruiters whispered your name like it was prophecy. The mercenary networks put a price on your head before they even met you.

Not because you were dangerous.

Because you were useful.

You learned quick that the world didn’t care if you were scared. Only if you were strong.

So you became strong.

By sixteen, you stopped caring about names altogether. You didn’t need one when they called you “the Iron Witch,” “the ferromancer,” “the girl with the gods-damned mind-magnet hands.” You didn’t care what they thought, as long as they feared you. Fear was safe. Fear made people back off. Fear paid the bills.

And the bills were always coming.

You’ve twisted steel into chains and walls and coffins. You’ve stopped bullets mid-flight, melted guns into slag while still in their owner’s grip, crushed skulls inside helmets without lifting a finger. You’ve dropped tanks from the sky. You’ve walked through warzones and left no survivors. You’ve been paid in gold, blood, and silence.

Because someone asked you to.

And that’s the thing about power. Once people know you have it, they stop asking if you want anything else.

No one ever asked what you wanted.

Not peace. Not forgiveness.

Certainly not love.

For a while, you thought you didn’t want anything else. You made a home out of silence. Built your bones out of iron and called it evolution. You convinced yourself that this—this mercenary, steel-skinned, blood-washed life—was freedom.

But freedom starts to rot when it’s just isolation in a prettier cage.

Then came the nights where even metal couldn’t drown out the silence. The weight of your own armor started to feel like a coffin. The kills got too easy. The jobs got too clean. You stopped sleeping well. Stopped laughing. Stopped pretending you liked the person you saw in the mirror. All you saw were sharp edges. All you heard was the sound of your own breath and the hum of weaponized walls.

You started to wonder if you’d always feel this alone.

And now?

Now you’re standing in a half-collapsed weapons facility in the Balkans, chasing something that might be worse than all the other jobs you’ve done put together. A “graviton pulse stabilizer” with phase-bending capabilities—something the wrong buyer could use to rewrite physics. To erase the laws of reality like a chalkboard. You don’t even want it. You told yourself you took the job because it was dangerous, and because if you didn’t get there first, someone worse would.

That’s the excuse you gave yourself.

But really?

You came because the Thunderbolts were coming too.

Because he was coming.

You wanted to see what second chances looked like.

You wanted to see him.

Bob Reynolds. The golden boy turned nuclear ghost. You’d read about him. Watched the footage.Somehow both the strongest and the most unstable of the bunch. You heard the whispers. The rumors. The fear that trembled behind closed doors.

He wasn’t what they called him.

Not just “The Void.” Not just a bomb in human skin.

No. You’d seen his file.

You saw the way he disappeared from fights more than he started them. The way he volunteered for backline duty, always carrying what the others needed. The way he stood slightly behind the rest, as if afraid of taking up space. The way he looked down in every surveillance clip, like the camera might flay him open if he met its gaze.

Someone like that… you understood.

Power that big didn’t come without breaking something first.

You wonder what broke in him. And whether it was the same thing that broke in you.

You move silently through the rusted remains of the upper floor, your boots gliding over warped steel catwalks. The old facility breathes around you—metal pipes groaning, floor beams shifting beneath the weight of history. The air is heavy with the scent of damp concrete, rust, and something darker beneath it—gunpowder, old smoke, dried blood trapped in stone.

Your fingers ghost along the wall. The pipes hum beneath your skin. There’s iron in the paint, copper in the wire, fragments of old blood in the dust. It listens when you touch it. The whole building does. The girders shiver at your passing. The screws twist a little looser, as if happy to see you.

This broken, half-dead ruin of a war machine. And for now, you’re the only god it worships.

But you didn’t come to rule, you came to watch.

You came to find the one man who might understand what it feels like to be a weapon no one asked to make.

You came to see if there’s still something in this world that doesn’t turn to steel when you reach for it.

And if there isn’t?

Then at least you’ll know.

Far below, across the fractured ribcage of the facility, something shifts.

Not the team. You’d recognize their weight—too heavy, too clumsy, too loud in the way soldiers always are. This is something else. Quieter. Hesitant.

You pause at the edge of a collapsed stairwell and feel the breath of metal shift through your lungs. It tells you before your eyes do.

He’s close.

Bob doesn’t hear her at first.

He feels her.

The echo of something magnetic. Not literal magnetism—he’s immune to that. But something more primal, like a thread tugging at the corners of his awareness. His skin prickles beneath the sleeves of his black tactical shirt, the borrowed Thunderbolts insignia feeling suddenly too snug across his shoulder blades. The weight of the portable containment unit slung across his back should ground him, but it doesn’t.

Something’s off.

He’s not one to say that aloud—he’s already the weird one, the twitchy one, the backliner with a temperamental nuclear god curled up in his ribcage—but he knows what it means when his instincts twist like this.

He’s being watched.

He adjusts the strap on his shoulder and slows his steps. His boots scuff against the concrete, careful and measured. The corridors here are tight, long-abandoned, gutted of anything valuable decades ago. Walls of peeling paint, corroded metal, broken signage in Cyrillic. The lights on his suit flicker faint blue against rust and shadow.

He doesn’t call for the others.

If something’s waiting for him, it’s not for them.

He rounds the corner. And there she is.

Propped casually against the metal frame of a broken doorway, arms crossed, a lazy smirk blooming like a bruise across her mouth.

She’s not dressed like the mercs they were briefed on. No heavy gear, no visible weapons. Just combat boots scuffed silver at the soles, black utility pants cinched with magnetic buckles, and a dark fitted jacket with plates of reinforced alloy glinting faintly beneath the fabric. She looks like she built her own armor and made it look good doing it.

Her eyes are lit with something half-feral, half-amused.

“Hey, cutie,” she says, voice silk-wrapped iron. “Bob, isn’t it?”

His mouth opens. Closes.

He blinks like a man short-circuiting.

“You have something I want.”

The containment unit on his back suddenly feels very, very heavy.

He shifts slightly, posture tightening. “We can’t just give it to you.”

“I figured you’d say that.” She shrugs, lazy and unbothered, like she’s got all the time in the world to toy with him. “But I thought it’d be polite to ask first. You seemed like the polite one.”

“How do you know who I am?” he asks, quiet but direct.

She grins wider. “Oh, Bob. You don’t know how many people watch you. Most of them are scared.” Her gaze rakes him—slow, analytical, amused. “I’m just… curious.”

He swallows hard. The hallway is too narrow. The air too thick. And her presence is loud without raising her voice—metal curls toward her like ivy to sunlight. The rusted screws in the wall vibrate when she shifts her weight. Even the broken pipes seem to listen.

Then—

“Bob?” Yelena’s voice cracks through his comm. Distant, somewhere on the west wing. “Do you copy? Got movement near Sector C.”

His head turns slightly, just for a second. But when he looks back—

She’s gone.

Just a faint vibration in the walls. A memory left in the air.

He breathes out slowly.

And for some reason, it almost feels like disappointment.

Bob stands frozen, his chest heaving slightly, still staring at the empty space where she stood a second ago. His ears ring from the silence she left behind, sharper than any explosion. Then the comms crackle again—Yelena’s voice cutting in, crisp and impatient.

“Bob? You’re lagging. Talk to me.”

He forces a breath out, fingers tapping his earpiece.

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“You sound weird.”

He hesitates, gaze still searching the shadows.

“Just… thought I saw someone.”

There’s a pause on the line. Then, with the unmistakable smirk in her tone:

“Was she hot?”

He doesn’t reply. Because yes. She was. But it wasn’t just that.

She felt like an unfinished sentence—both unsettling and magnetic. Something about her clung to the edges of his thoughts, even after she’d slipped back into the dark like she’d never been.

He breathes out through his nose, tension tightening between his shoulders.

That’s when the first shot cracks through the air.

Far off at first. Then closer.

It’s followed by another. And another—until the air is vibrating with it. A shuddering percussion of automatic gunfire rattling through the steel skeleton of the building.

“Contact! Third floor west—twelve targets, at least!” Ava’s voice bursts through the comms, loud over the staccato gunfire. “Unknown affiliation. They’re not on our list.”

“Copy that.” Bucky, already moving.

Bob spins toward the source of the noise, his boots scuffing over cracked concrete. His grip tightens on the sleek black pack strapped to his chest—the one carrying the weapon they were sent to retrieve. He can feel it pulsing faintly beneath the reinforced layers, like something alive is trying to wake up.

The hallway stretches ahead in ruin, flickering lights casting erratic shadows across warped steel beams. Dust filters down like ash from the upper levels, stirred by the footfalls of something heavy. Bob breaks into a run, rounding the corner—

And freezes.

Dozens of them.

They move like a hive— dark armored figures flooding into the space from a breached service door, their weapons raised. No symbols. No identifiers. No hesitation. They aren’t part of any team he’s briefed on. These guys don’t want the weapon for a mission, they want it for power.

Bucky is already engaged, trading blows with two attackers. Ava blinks in and out of visibility, phasing through solid walls and reappearing behind enemies with knives drawn. Yelena throws a flashbomb that sends sparks scattering. Alexei grabs a man by the torso and slams him into the ceiling like he’s swatting a fly.

Bob ducks behind a crumbling pillar, heart pounding, trying not to crush the pack as stray bullets ricochet dangerously close.

Another burst of gunfire—closer now—sends debris raining over his head. He risks a glance toward Ava, just in time to see a sniper lining her up in their sights.

And then the bullet stops.

Not misses.

Stops.

Frozen in midair like it hit a wall made of thought.

Time doesn’t stop. But for a moment, the air feels thick with static—every sound distorted, every motion just a fraction too slow. Bob’s eyes snap to the origin.

And there she is again. Unannounced. Unbothered.

Standing in the chaos like she belongs to it.

The bullets hover around her like planets orbiting a sun. She doesn’t even flinch. Her hand is raised lazily, her fingers poised like she’s playing a piano only she can hear. Her coat—black leather, long and battle-worn—flares around her knees. Dust settles in her hair like a crown.

She turns her wrist. The bullets drop.

One by one. A clattering rainfall of lead hitting the floor.

Bob stares. Not just at what she can do, but at the way she chooses to do it.

She stopped them.

She didn’t retaliate. Didn’t redirect. Just… stopped it all.

“She’s not with them!” Bob shouts, rising from cover. His voice is loud, cutting through the gunfire—but whether the others hear him or not, they’re too deep into the fight to pause.

Walker’s already mid-charge. His shield slices the air in a clean arc, sailing toward her like a buzzsaw.

She doesn’t move.

She doesn’t need to.

The shield twists midflight—snatched from its path and slammed down at her feet with a sharp clatter, controlled like it never belonged to him in the first place.

She doesn’t speak.

But her expression shifts—irritation blooming across her face like a storm cloud.

Her eyes flick to Bob.

Walker doesn’t back down. He lunges again, faster this time, less thinking, more brute force.

And that’s when she lifts her hand, just two fingers, and the metal beneath Walker’s boots rises.

A spike of iron twists out of the floor like a fang. It slices through his tactical vest and cuts a shallow line across his ribs, stopping just short of real damage.

He stumbles back, wide-eyed.

“Enough!” Bob’s voice breaks through again. He pushes forward, hand out, trying to reach her before this gets worse.

She doesn’t raise another weapon. Doesn’t retreat.

She turns to face him fully for the first time.

And in that moment, Bob sees the truth that the rest of the team is missing.

The set of her shoulders. The control in her stance. The restraint on her face.

She’s helping them.

She’s choosing not to kill them.

Before he can say anything else, the wall behind her explodes—mercs breaching from the south wing. Three of them, armed with heavy artillery, firing wildly.

She doesn’t flinch.

Instead, she yanks an entire sheet of ceiling metal down with a sweep of her arm, twisting it into a makeshift shield that curves around Bob, Yelena, and Ava before the bullets can make contact.

The noise is deafening. Rounds hitting steel like a drumline.

And she holds it.

One hand. Breathing steady. Eyes locked on Bob the entire time.l

He watches the metal glow faintly red from the heat of impact, then cool beneath her control. When the storm dies down, she lets it fall with a thunderous slam.

She’s covered in dust now. Smudges of soot on her jaw, blood on her sleeve—someone else’s, he thinks.

She takes a single step forward.

Bob does too.

Then Walker, furious, yells from behind them, “She’s right here and you let her go? What the hell do you even do, Reynolds?!”

And before Bob can answer—before he can even breathe—

The shield twitches.

Lifts.

Spins in the air like it remembers who really listens to metal.

And flies straight back at Walker.

But it stops—midair—hovering just an inch from his sternum.

Held there by invisible strings.

She’s glaring now, shoulders tight, mouth hard with fury.

“You want to try that again, asshole?” she snaps.

Bob doesn’t think. He moves—crossing the few feet between them and grabbing her wrist before she can hurl the shield with lethal force.

Her pulse thrums under his hand.

Her gaze flicks to his.

And just like that—the metal drops.

The air stills.

And in that space between violence and choice, something clicks.

They’re the same kind of dangerous, but maybe not to each other.

The moment her fingers leave the edge of Bob’s wrist, she’s moving again.

No words. No thanks. Just a flick of her eyes toward the scattered remains of the facility and the sharp metallic whine of something rising.

Bob whirls around just in time to see the security vault breach open—twisted apart like a peeled tin can. The weapon they were sent to retrieve, the one tucked behind five layers of biometric locks and reinforced alloys, floats to her open hand.

It’s not what he expected.

No glowing core, no sleek casing. It looks almost ancient—cylindrical, faintly humming, etched with equations even he can’t parse in the second he glimpses it. Like it doesn’t belong in any timeline.

“Wait—!” Bob starts.

But she’s already backing away, the weapon cradled against her hip like it was always meant for her. She gives him a look—equal parts regret and something warmer, softer, like she had considered staying.

Then she vanishes.

Metal peels back from the ceiling above her, forming a narrow escape tunnel. She rises with it—her shadow trailing like smoke—until the darkness swallows her whole.

This time, she doesn’t leave a bullet behind to stop.

Two hours later. Thunderbolts debrief room.

Val paces in front of the team like a drill sergeant with a caffeine addiction, tablet in one hand and sarcasm in the other.

“So let me get this straight,” she begins, boots clicking sharply across the metal floor. “You all fought off an unknown mercenary group, nearly died, and then let some goth scrapheap Barbie steal the very weapon we were sent to secure?”

Yelena slouches in her seat. “Technically, she helped.”

“She robbed us.”

“She saved us, then robbed us,” Ava offers flatly. “Important difference.”

Alexei grunts. “She was… very fast.”

John scoffs, arms crossed. “She made me bleed.”

“Good. You’re overdue.” Yelena doesn’t even look at him.

Val pinches the bridge of her nose. “You guys are unbelievable.”

Her eyes dart to Bob. He’s seated at the far end, hands folded too neatly, staring at the dark smear of dried blood on his boot like it’s got answers.

“And you,” Val barks. “Our backpack boy. The hell were you doing while she made off with the prize?"

Bob looks up. Quiet. “Trying not to get anyone killed.”

“Oh, well, round of applause,” she snaps. “Maybe next time you try a little harder not to help the enemy.”

“She’s not the enemy,” Bob says without thinking.

Val freezes. “Oh no?”

“She didn’t shoot us. She stopped them from killing us. She had our backs.”

“She had our weapon.”

Val’s voice rises. “For all we know, she’s going to sell it to the highest bidder or crack open a wormhole in her living room. We don’t know anything about her—”

A door hisses open behind them.

They all turn as a figure steps through the threshold, calm as a gunshot in the dark.

Long coat. One eye.

Nick Fury.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just strolls in, takes in the chaos, and raises a brow.

Val gestures wildly toward the screens behind her, which are replaying grainy footage of you stopping bullets mid-air and folding a blast door like paper. “Do you know what this is? Who the hell helped who out there?!”

Fury doesn’t flinch. He steps forward, tilts his chin at the paused screen.

“We call the subject: Ferra,” he says evenly. “Real name: unknown. Age: estimated early twenties. First surfaced in Moscow when she was around thirteen, leveling a black market tech ring in under five minutes. SHIELD’s been tracking her ever since.”

Yelena blinks. “You mean you knew she existed this whole time?”

Fury nods. “She’s a ghost with a kill record that puts most of your dossiers to shame. She doesn’t work for anyone. She doesn’t like anyone. Which means if she showed up, it wasn’t for the money.”

Bob straightens. “Then why?”

Fury glances at him. There’s something unreadable in his expression.

“That’s what we’re going to find out.”

Val sighs, dragging a hand down her face. “You’re telling me SHIELD’s Most Wanted just walked into our mission, saved your asses, stole the target, and now we’re just—what—gonna go look for her like a goddamn scavenger hunt?”

Fury just turns to the team, hands behind his back.

“Next mission’s simple. You find her. You figure out what she wants. And if there’s even a chance she’s planning to use that thing—”

He meets Bob’s eyes again.

“—you stop her.”

Silence settles again.

Bob exhales slowly.

And for the first time since she vanished, something flickers behind his sternum.

She didn’t hurt them. She chose not to.

And whatever came next…

He wasn’t going to let her face it alone.

A/N : first request! :>>> lmk what u think!

A/N 2 : not proofread yet ik im sorry

[karrt]

[karrt]

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.

[karrt]

anything freaky about bob pls

bob is not above eating his own cum out of you. not even close.

he’s the one who begged you to swallow in the first place—“please, baby, wanna see it on your tongue, wanna taste myself on you—”—so why would he ever be repulsed at the idea of swallowing it himself?

if anything, it feels like what he deserves.

especially now.

because you told him not to. you’d looked him dead in the eyes, already so full, so good, and whispered, “don’t cum inside me.” and he nodded. he swore he wouldn’t. but then his hips jerked. his hands pinned you down. and his strength—fuck, you forget how strong he really is until it’s too late—held you still while he emptied himself as deep as he could go.

and now?

now you won’t look at him. won’t answer when he murmurs apologies into your shoulder, hands ghosting along your ribs like he’s trying to soothe a storm he knows he caused. you’re quiet. cold. not yelling. just… distant. and that’s what makes him ache.

so he punishes himself the only way he knows how.

he gets on his stomach—still slick and flushed and naked—and lowers himself betwen your thighs without another word. you feel the first pass of his tongue slow and deliberate, like he’s not just trying to clean you up but taste everything he did wrong.

and then he goes deeper.

his mouth seals around your overstimulated cunt, tongue moving in slow, reverent circles before flattening out to push the mess back inside—his mess. his nose nudges your clit, breathing through it, groaning softly into you like he needs it to hurt. for him, not you.

you reach down and tug at his hair, hard. a warning.

but he only moans.

you can feel it—the obscene warmth of him trying to fuck his own cum deeper into you with his mouth, like if he can just make himself disappear inside you enough, you’ll forgive him. your fingers pull again, sharp and commanding, but he just lets out a muffled “mmph!—sorry,” and laps harder.

it’s not punishment to him. not really.

it’s devotion.

it’s guilt, soaked in spit and need and the thick taste of you both. and if this is what it takes for you to touch him again, he’ll stay between your legs all night.

you only have to say the word.

[karrt]

[karrt]

How about something smutty for the Thunderbolts headcanons 😳 Like how each of them would react to you making them cum in their pants

thank you so much for requesting and feeding my hyperfixation!! below you will find four separate baby blurbs for bucky, john, yelena, and bob. each section will have it's own summary, warnings, and whole lotta smut! enjoy :D

BUCKY BARNES X READER — you're with him in wakanda when he's cured of the trigger words in his head. he's able to touch you for the first time without feeling scared of himself. (established relationship, post-cacw | 1k words)

Bucky Barnes can’t remember the last time he felt this free. Maybe sometime in 1942, he guesses — before he got drafted, before Hydra captured him, before they put those goddamn words in his head. It feels weird that they’re gone now; to be without the dark cloud of impending doom that, at any moment, someone could utter the words and he’d just snap. 

But now, freshly cured and living on the Wakandan countryside, he can touch you for the first time without being terrified of himself.

“You’re so pretty,” he mumbles as his vibranium hand trails up the expanse of your bare back. He keeps his flesh one on your thigh, smoothing his thumb over the plush skin there, and tilts his scruffy chin to smile up at you. He’s got you straddled over his lap, barely clothed and bathed in golden candelight, like some kinda angel brought to life.

“You’re pretty,” you correct with a lovesick grin, raking your hands through his silky, growing locks.

Bucky leans instinctively into your touch. “Don’t make this about me,” he says, squinting.

“It is about you,” you remind him with a giggle, ducking down to kiss his neck. “I’m supposed to compliment you—” Your lips brush his pulse in a chaste kiss. Bucky fights back a shiver. “—Supposed to make you feel good.”

“You do,” Bucky sighs a contented moan, pulling you further into him. “You always do…”

His vibranium hand curls up your back and towards your shoulder. His other one holds tightly to your hip. You wrap your arms tighter around his neck until your bare chest is flush with his scruffy one — until your clothed cunt brushes his cock, half-hard and throbbing within the confines of his boxers.

A moan rumbles in Bucky’s throat. You feel it against your lips when you press them to his adam’s apple. “Do you want to?” you murmur against him, voice low like honey. “‘Cause it kinda seems like you want to.”

Bucky’s head is too clouded to respond properly to your teasing. He just nods his heavy head and flexes his hips beneath you in a desperate attempt to relieve the pulsing ache in his boxers. You let him, and with his consent, begin to rock slowly over his lap. 

“Say it,” you whisper in his ear.

“Want it,” he pants in yours. “Want you.”

“You have me, Buck,” you slur, trying to peer at him through the haze in your vision. Your panties drag over his stiffening cock and leave a damp spot at the center of them. You find yourself chasing your high just as much as Bucky’s. 

You snuck a few sips of alcohol to quell your worry before watching Ayo recite the wretched words back to the man haunted by them. You feel the consequences creeping up on you now and find yourself rambling before you can stop it, half-deluded with pleasure. 

“‘M already yours. My pussy’s already— shit,” you whimper in time with Bucky’s groaning when your clit drags over his lap. Through pants, you beg him, “Say you wanna fuck me. Please. Don’t wanna cum ’til you’re inside me.”

“Oh, fuck,” Bucky whines, face screwed and eyes shut tight. He tries to form the words in his head, but all he can think about is how wet you are — and how his leaking cock has left a damp spot in his underwear — and how the combination of both makes the friction between you so dizzying. “I wanna… fuck—” 

“Uh-huh,” you tease with a slow nod when you sense he’s getting close. “You can do it, Buck. C’mon. There you go.”

He can’t tell if you’re trying to coach him into saying the words or push him headfirst into an orgasm. He hopes it’s the latter, ‘cause he feels himself bursting into his boxers a second later.

“Fuck!” he blurts when he cums, half-muffled and half-whined, like it pains him. 

He holds your hips in both hands, keeping you still above him in a crueler grip than he means to. The quiet bedroom fills with the sound of crackling candles and his groaning. He tilts his face to the ceiling and moans into the golden darkness with his eyes squeezed shut. The sudden orgasm racks through his body in so many shivers up his spine, three warm ropes spit into the confines of his boxers.

“‘M sorry,” he pants when it’s done, still slightly airy from the aftershocks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t— Didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay,” you promise with a soft laugh as your own building pleasure begins to subside. You cup his scruffy face in your palms and try to kiss him through the smile on your lips. “You deserve it, Buck,” you whisper against his mouth, between your delicate kisses. “You deserve everything.”

Bucky shakes his head between your palms and smooths his fingers over the bruises he unknowingly stamped into your skin. “Don’t care about everything,” he murmurs lowly. “Just you.”

Your eyes narrow in a sarcastic squint, though you can’t hide the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Do you think we can get Shuri to erase the cheesiness from your brain, too?”

“Sure,” Bucky scoffs, smiling still, as he shoves you playfully onto your back. You giggle when you hit the mattress, caging your smile between your teeth as the man crawls back between your legs. He lies flat on the mattress, face-to-face with your clothed pussy. “I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You nod, obviously sarcastic. “Mhm. Very much.”

“Maybe I’ll just go get her then,” Bucky murmurs, punctuating his quip with a kiss to your inner thigh as he spreads them apart. You shiver when his scruff scrapes your delicate skin. “Tell her to put me back under the ice—”

Your feet lock behind his back to keep him against you. Bucky laughs and curls his arms around your thighs as you prop yourself on your elbows to shoot him a death glare. “You’re not going anywhere, Sergeant Barnes.”

And, truth be told, Bucky’s exactly where he wants to be.

JOHN WALKER X READER — john hates when valentina pairs the two of you on missions together. until he doesn't. (enemies to lovers, pre-thunderbolts, cw for brief mentions of injuries | 0.8k words)

John Walker can’t stand you most days. You’re too reckless, too impulsive, too quick to put yourselves in situations that might kill you. He hates that Valentina paired you together just as much as he hates that he cares so much about your well-being.

He knows it’d be easier to let you get yourself killed, to have one less thing to worry about, but he somehow ends up kissing you instead.

“I can’t fucking stand you,” he grumbles through labored breaths, with your spit still shining on his swollen mouth. He cages your body between his larger one and the unforgiving wall behind you. The men guarding the vault outside surely won’t mind the sexual tension rising inside it, seeing as they’re half-dead already.

You smile in the face of his anger until the fresh cut on your mouth starts to sting. “But you can fuck me?” you pant, eyes glazed over as they dart back and forth between his dilated ones. “I mean, you want to, right? ’S why you locked me in here, isn’t it?”

“I locked you in here because there were three guys outside trying to kill you, if you forgot.”

“Two,” you correct in a witty deadpan. “I killed the third one.”

“And I killed the other two, who gives a shit—”

“You’re obsessed with me, Walker,” you grin, pulling him close by the belt loops on his suit. 

Despite his near palpable rage, he melts into you with ease. The blonde man stumbles closer until he’s towering over you — hair messy from his helmet, face bruised, ocean eyes staring daggers into you.

“Well, that’s very presumptuous of you,” he gripes.

“I don’t think it is,” you lilt lowly and nudge his clothed crotch with your thigh. 

You watch the words of an argument form and dissolve on his tongue all at once. John exhales hard through his nose as his eyes go glassy. He hadn’t realized how hard he was until you pressed yourself against him — how sensitive he was — how long it had been since he’d had any sort of release.

“Admit it—” you whisper, pulling him closer until his stiff cock is pressed between your bodies. He smells like cologne and copper pennies, likely from the blood darkening his navy blue suit. You’re almost sure you’d be able to feel his racing heart from here, if it weren’t for the thick layers separating you. “—You love me…”

“I hate you,” he corrects, though his dark eyes cloud with lust.

Your smile widens. The cut on the corner of your mouth begins to weep all over again. John reaches for your jaw without thinking, cupping his palm there and swiping the crimson away with his thumb. 

“No, you don’t,” you coo with a shake of your head. The room goes quiet then, filled only by John’s heavy breaths and the clinking of his belt as you undo the buckle. You keep him close with one hand around his belt loop while the other creeps around the front of him. His breath catches in his throat when your fingers dip beneath the hem.

You don’t think he realizes how he’s rocking himself against your thigh. Or the way he subconsciously shakes his head in agreement. 

“You’ve always thought about this, haven’t you?” you continue mercilessly, grinning when your fingertips meet the coarse thatch of hair above his cock. 

John nods his heavy head and leans further into you, propping himself on the wall as his eyes flutter shut. He deserves this, he tells himself, for saving your ass a hundred times over. You owe him one, really.

“I know you have,” you whisper in his ear. “I bet you’ve gotten yourself off to the thought of me a thousand times.”

Again, John nods in response without ever really noticing it. Just like he doesn’t really notice the release building within him — like a creeping hand up his spine, or a tightening knot in his lean stomach. He just keeps rubbing himself against you, chasing a high he barely knows is there.

“But I think when you imagined me making you cum…” you trail off and smile when John moans against your pulse. “…You always thought it’d be inside me.”

John tenses at the thought of fucking you. He’s left trembling above you as a sudden orgasm racks through his body. The quiet room fills with his poorly heldback groans and your giggling while he cums in his pants. He feels the evidence, warm and wet, blooming in his boxers — just like the red-hot embarrassment exploding in his chest. 

He pulls away to find you grinning like the devil.

“Told ya,” you monotone and pull your hand from his boxers, only slightly mourning the fact that you never actually got to touch him. “You’re obsessed with me.”

John scoffs, like he has any room to be ambivalent after humping your thigh like a dog. He zips up his pants, belt buckle clinking as he fastens it again. “You ruined my suit,” is all he can think to say as you walk past him.

You roll your eyes and wrench open the heavy door to the vault, stepping over the bloody bodies littered on the other side of it. “Bill me,” you call over your shoulder.

YELENA BELOVA X READER — yelena is full of adrenaline after a mission, and you only know one way to calm her down (established relationship, post-thunderbolts, cw for very brief mentions of injuries | 0.8k words)

Yelena Belova has you flat on your back. The rest of the Avengers tower is dark, quiet, and asleep — each of you recovering from the latest mission in the sanctuary of your bedrooms. The blonde Russian girl is too full of adrenaline to rest, though, never mind how much she could probably use the sleep. She’s a relentless force on top of you — because of the adrenaline, of course, and not because she nearly lost you.

She tugs your pants down your legs with a pair of merciless hands, bruised knees digging into the foot of the mattress across from you. The mattress squeaks with each of your movements, and you fight back a laugh. “Be gentle, Belova!” you scold in a whisper. “Walker’s gonna hear.”

(John had the misfortune of his bedroom being one story below yours. And the floors were surprisingly thin. Or so he says.)

Yelena scoffs, face screwed. “I don’t care,” she mutters, voice accented and low like honey. “Let him hear.”

She makes a big show of climbing back over your body, moving much more violently than normal over the worn bed frame, so it creaks louder beneath her. “Yelena!” you snap quietly through gritted teeth, but hold her gently by the hips when she straddles you just the same.

“What?!” she exclaims, louder than necessary for the late, late night, as she tugs her shirt over her head. She throws the fabric to the side, discarding it with the rest of your pajamas littered on the floor — leaving both of you in mismatched sets of old, cotton underwear.

“God, you’re such a child,” you grouse and cross your arms beneath your head.

Yelena grins. “Stop flirting with me,” she lilts lowly and ducks down to kiss you.

Your eyes flutter shut when her plush lips trail from your jaw down to your neck. “We should rest, Lena…” you tell her, sighing when her teeth scrape your pulse. “We’re gonna be sore in the morning.”

You feel her mouth curl into a smile against your skin. “I hope so.”

“Child,” you repeat.

Yelena gets relentless rather quickly, feral in a way only a previous world-class assassin could be. She forgets about the exhaustion and the bruises that ache to the bone, littered across both your bodies. Her head fills only with thoughts of making you feel good, touching you like it could be the last time she ever gets to.

“Lena, Lena, Lena—” you echo, reaching for her wrist where her hand’s shoved into your panties. “Slow down,” you laugh.

“Why?” she whines.

You find her pretty face contorted in a girlish pout when you cup her cheeks in your hands. “Because we have all night,” you coo, smoothing your thumbs over her flushed jaw. “We don’t have to rush.”

Your words strike something deep in her chest. She refuses to let the vulnerability show. 

“I know that,” she scoffs, trying to look unbothered as you smooth the top of her tank top down her chest. You tuck it beneath her breasts, and her pink nipples perk when the cool air hits them.

“Good,” you hum, lifting your head to take her left breast in your mouth.

“I just— I wanted to make you feel good—” she whines in her low Russian accent, voice cracking when you nudge her clothed cunt with your thigh. “—Oh…”

You smile into her chest, teeth scraping her sensitive nipple. Yelena keeps you pressed against her with a hand on the back of your head. Your arms curl around her back to keep her flush to your thigh. You feel the warmth of her cunt against your skin, and the wet spot slowly forming there.

The stubborn girl turns into a puddle above you, in more ways than one. You feel her shuddering as she buries each of her moans in your hair. Your mouth leaves her nipple with a quiet pop, and a thin string of saliva threatens to connect you when you pull away.

“Are you gonna cum, Lena?” you coo, swollen mouth curling into a soft smile. “I’ve barely even touched you—”

Her fingers tighten in your hair. “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” she pleads in a broken voice.

You return to her chest, sucking on her sensitive nipple until she keens. She exhales a hoarse moan above you, flexing her hips over your thigh to keep her clit flush to your skin. She lets out several pretty “Uh, uh, uh”’s before tensing suddenly above you. 

Yelena holds her breath, grips you tight by your shoulder and the back of your neck, and begins to tremble over your thigh. “Oh, shit…” she moans, then sighs. “Oh, shit—” 

It comes out more disappointed the second time, as she pulls back from you to flash you a girlish pout. “What?” you laugh, mouth shining with spit, as you smooth a rouge blonde tendril behind her ear.

“I was supposed to make you feel good,” she whines, Russian accent sounding deep in her mouth. “I had it all planned— I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

“Well, then it’s a good thing we’ve got all the time in the world, right?”

Yelena’s frown curls into a more devilish grin at your words.

Neither of you get any sleep that night. Walker, included.

ROBERTY REYNOLDS X READER — a year after the void nearly destroyed new york, you're still teaching bob that it's okay to feel good (new-ish relationship, post-thunderbolts | 1k words)

Robert Reynolds is still getting used to touching you. He’s spent nearly every day with you since you found him — learning how to use his powers for good, how to touch you without hurting you, how to be human again. It’s been a year since then, and he’s starting to get the hang of it. But sometimes he thinks you have more faith in him than he does in himself.

You kiss him hard enough to bruise him on the center of the living room couch, with Sunset Boulevard playing quietly on the large TV behind you. Bob’s anxiety is only partly quelled by the rest of the Thunderbolts’ absence, but he’s still slightly scared of himself — what if The Void returned and swallowed him whole again? Who would be there to stop him from hurting you if it did?

You don’t seem half as panicked about the whole thing as your lips stamp wet kisses up and down the expanse of his long neck. “You’re so pretty, Bobby,” you murmur into his warm skin. “Such a pretty boy…”

Bob swallows hard at your praise, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He shifts uncomfortably beneath you on the sofa when he feels his cock twitching in the confines of his sweatpants. There’s a need for release inside of him that he can’t ignore, but he cares more about keeping you safe. Safe from himself.

You pull back, mouth swollen from your assault on his neck. “Can I…?” you smile and trail off, hands sliding down his clothed, lean chest to the waistband of his sweatpants.

Bob doesn’t know what you’re planning. It excites him as much as it frightens him. His mouth opens and closes like a fish until he finds the words. “Oh. I— I don’t— I don’t know,” he stammers through an awkward chuckle.

You shrug despite the pang of disappointment in your chest. “It’s okay. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to—”

“It’s not that!” Bob blurts, rushing to hold you by the waist when you threaten to move off him. (He forgets, for maybe the first time ever, to be scared of touching you.) He swallows hard at the look you give him, blinking wildly with glassy eyes. “I just… I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You’re not gonna hurt me,” you assure him with a pretty laugh. “You don’t even have to touch me.”

Bob’s brows furrow. “What?” he wonders aloud.

You don’t answer him with words. You just flash him a mischievous smirk and shift on the couch until you’re no longer straddling him. You press your lips to his — once, twice, and then a third time — in a silent reminder to relax before your mouth trails down his neck once more. 

You move past his jaw, to his pulse, and down towards his collarbone, sinking further onto your knees as you kiss down his body.

Bob exhales a shuddering breath and tilts his heavy head towards the back of the couch. He feels his hands start to ache with the urge to touch you. He balls them into fists, instead.

“Relax, baby,” you murmur between the kisses you press to his clothed sternum. “Let me make you feel good.”

Bob tenses beneath you when your hands brush his cock, growing harder in his boxers by the second. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to ignore the need swelling inside him. “Um… Maybe we should…” he stammers, voice shaking. “Maybe we should, like, slow down?”

He covers his desperate plea with a wavering half-smile.

You nod, now fully on your knees between his spread thighs, and give him a kind, tight-lipped smile in return. “‘Course. I’ll go slow. Promise.”

You feel Bob trembling beneath your hand when you lift the hem of his shirt. Your fingers brush the fine hair sprinkled on his lean stomach as you press chaste kisses to every inch of revealed skin. He takes in a shaking breath, burning red hot under your touch. 

He doesn’t know how to tell you how sensitive he is — how, if he thinks about you and your soft touches for too long, that he’ll explode. So he doesn’t. He just squeezes his eyes shut and tries to think about anything other than the way you’re making him feel just now.

“I’ll take care of you, Bobby. I promise,” you slur between languid kisses, holding his shirt up with one hand while your other teases the hem of his boxers. “I’ll make you feel so good—” Your lips brush the coarse hair peeking from his waistline. You flash him a pair of glassy, mischievous eyes. 

“And maybe—” A kiss. “If you’re real good—” Another, a bit lower this time. “I’ll let you fuck me—”

Bob face twists. His brows furrow, his eyes shut tight, his nose scrunches at the bridge. He makes a strangled noise in his throat, growing so tense beneath you that it makes him tremble. 

You just freeze, frightened that you might’ve done something wrong. You did just promise to take it slow, after all — and here he is now, cumming in his boxers. 

He feels the warmth of his orgasm wetting the plaid fabric and sticking awkwardly to his skin. He fails to stave off the pang of embarrassment searing his chest.

“I’m sorry,” both of you blurt at the same time.

Bob’s eyes snap open, still slightly glazed over. “You’re sorry?!” he gapes. “What are you sorry for?”

You falter for a moment. “I don’t know,” you answer and start to laugh. 

The pretty sound fills the quiet tower, and Bob can’t help but laugh along with you. He tilts his heavy head back against the couch as you rise from your knees, straddling him once more and avoiding the sensitive mess in his pants. 

“Did it feel good, at least?” you ask, smoothing your palms over his trembling shoulders.

Bob nods and swallows hard. “Yeah,” he mumbles, then clears his throat. “I haven’t— Haven’t been with anyone in a while, so… I guess you could say I’m… a little out of practice.”

“Don’t worry about it, okay?” you coo, ducking down to press a chaste kiss to his mouth. Even with his eyes closed, he can hear the smile in your voice as you whisper, “I’ll whip you back into shape in no time, Reynolds.”

[karrt]

john's beard makes me go insaneeeeeeee imagine eating r out or riding his face UGHHH

that fucking bearddd.

the second he drags his mouth over you — slow, hot, tongue pressing flat against your clit, his beard scraping like a burn you’ll feel later — you know you’re done for.

he knows it too. cocky bastard.

grips your thighs, pins you down against his mouth, one big hand splayed across your stomach to keep you still while the other digs bruises into your hip. he eats like a man starved, tongue flicking, lips sealing around you, beard soaked with slick in minutes. it’s filthy, wet sounds filling the room, your breath coming in sharp little gasps as he works you over like it’s a job only he can do.

and the way that rough hair drags against your skin?

you’re writhing, hips lifting off the bed, trying to get away and grind down at the same time because it’s too much, and he just groans against you, the low rumble vibrating through your core.

“that’s it, c’mon now, give it to me.”

the way his voice sounds with his mouth full of you, words slurred against swollen, spit-slick flesh — it’s enough to ruin you on the spot.

or if you’re riding his face?

forget any and all restraint.

he lies back, smug as sin, hands gripping your thighs, and watches you hover for a beat before dragging you down, grinding you against his face like he’s got nowhere else to be. beard rough against your inner thighs, mouth hot and hungry, and he moans into you when you rock against his tongue, nose bumping your clit just enough to make you sob.

the messier it gets, the harder he gets.

his cock’s straining against his jeans, untouched, but you can feel the way his hips keep lifting like he’s chasing friction. he won’t stop until you’re a shaking, soaked mess above him, thighs slick and burning from the scrape of his beard.

when you finally cum, broken and loud, he doesn’t even let you up.

just tightens his grip and mutters against you:

“one more, baby. beard’s already a mess, might as well make it worse.”

and fuck — you do.

[karrt]

I could take them all at the same time. (not in a fight)😵‍💫

[karrt]

only you

john walker 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – nsfw (18+), explicitl sexual content, MDNI, fem!masturbation, dirty talk, phone sex, domestic fluff, DILF!john x babysitter!reader, idk if it’s a slow burn but it’s sweet, friends to lovers, John had his redemption arc already but you’re the gift he never expected

word count: 11k

Summary: John Walker wasn’t looking for more. Not after everything. Not after the shield, the war, the wreckage. But then you showed up—hired by Val to watch his toddler son, Elijah Lemar—and somehow, without meaning to, you made yourself at home.

You, with your snarky comebacks and soft hands. With your coffee mugs and folded laundry and the way Elijah lights up when he sees you. You were supposed to be temporary.

But now you’re in his bed. In his life. And in his heart.

notes – not proofread. brought to you by: me wanting to write more thunderbolts banter and flirty John Walker, and me yearning over this idiot

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated.

You meet John Walker in sweatpants and a scowl.

It’s your second week working for Val full-time—enough to be cleared for field-adjacent duties, but not enough to be sent back into any real action. So when she said she had an “important private protection assignment” for someone with your skillset, you expected something high-profile. A diplomat’s kid, maybe. A VIP escort job.

You didn’t expect a toddler with a superhero sticker book and a half-eaten pouch of applesauce.

And you definitely didn’t expect him.

The door creaks open, and you freeze.

John Walker is… tall. Broad. Sleep-rumpled in a dark Henley and gray sweatpants, barefoot, jaw shadowed with stubble. His hair is messy like he ran his hands through it too many times, and his arm flexes as he leans against the frame.

He looks like every bad decision you’ve ever wanted to make twice.

Your mouth goes a little dry.

“You the sitter?” he asks, voice low and rough like it hasn’t been used all morning.

You blink. “Yeah. Val sent me.”

He doesn’t respond right away—just gives you a slow once-over. Not gross. Not leering. Just… assessing. Careful. Cautious. But there’s amusement, too, simmering just under the surface like he’s trying not to laugh at you for wearing tactical boots to a babysitting gig.

Before either of you can say another word, a tiny voice chirps behind him.

“Dada!”

Then a blur of motion: a toddler waddles into view, dark curls bouncing, chubby fists clutching a juice box half his size. He beams at you like you hung the moon.

You crouch instinctively. “Hi, little guy.”

John exhales, rubbing a hand over his face like he hasn’t slept in three years. “That’s Elijah,” he says. “He just turned two. He’s obsessed with trucks, blueberries, and throwing things he’s not supposed to.”

Elijah lunges toward your boots like you’re the most interesting thing he’s seen all day. You gently distract him with the toy dinosaur that was lying on the floor.

John watches. You feel it. “Val said you’re combat-certified,” he says after a beat.

You shrug, still smiling at the toddler. “Doesn’t mean I can’t handle diapers.”

That earns a low huff of a laugh. It curls under your skin and settles there. “Come in, then,” he says, stepping aside.

You do. And you don’t miss the way his eyes dip down one last time—just a flicker, one heartbeat too long.

John’s house is clean but lived-in. Toys scattered in organized chaos, a sippy cup upside down on the coffee table, a folded New Avengers hoodie tossed over the back of the couch.

You pick up on the quiet right away. No sign of a second parent. No recent photos with Olivia in the frames. Just John and Elijah—park days, bedtime stories, tiny hands on a too-big shield.

“His mom,” he says, catching you looking, “isn’t in the picture day-to-day. Olivia and I… didn’t work out.” You nod once, softly. “Just me and him, now.”

You glance at him. “You’re doing a good job.”

He huffs again. “You haven’t seen bedtime yet.”

-

Elijah’s easy. He clings to your legs the second John disappears to change into something less lingering, and hands you his favorite book upside down with a proud grin.

You don’t mind. You’re good with kids. Always have been. But it’s not the kid that’s messing with your head. It’s him.

John, when he comes back, is in jeans and a plain t-shirt. No socks. He moves through the room with a calm confidence that makes it hard not to look. He picks Elijah up with one arm like it’s nothing, bounces him once, presses a kiss to the top of his head.

You’re absolutely doomed.

He catches you watching. “You good?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow.

You clear your throat. “Y-Yup. Totally.”

He smirks. “Didn’t think the crime fighting babysitter would be nervous because of me.”

“I’m not,” you lie. “You’re just… not what I pictured.”

“You expected someone with a dad bod and a fanny pack?”

You glance at his biceps. “I expected an old diplomat with a brat. Not—” You stop yourself. Too late.

His smile is smug now. Dangerous. “Not what?”

You snatch the book from Elijah and hold it up like a shield. “Not someone who looks like that, okay?”

He laughs. Full-bodied. Deep. “You know you’re saying this in front of my three-year-old, right?”

“He doesn’t know what it means.”

“I do.”

Your cheeks burn. He’s enjoying this. “You’re an ass,” you mutter.

“You’re the one making it weird, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

God help you.

You think it’s over. You think the awkward tension is just that—awkward. A moment. Nothing more.

But when you pack up to leave after the first shift, John walks you to the door. Elijah’s already asleep, and the house has gone quiet. Too quiet.

You’re pulling your hoodie on when he speaks again. “Thanks. For today.”

You smile. “Of course. He’s great.”

“So are you.” That pulls your eyes back to his. He’s watching you again. That same careful, quiet assessment from the first minute you met. “You’ve got a calm about you that I definitely don’t,” he says. “And Eli likes that.”

You hesitate. “And you?”

He shrugs, slow and warm. “I like it too.”

Then, before you can reply, he opens the door for you like a gentleman. The night air is cool. You step out and turn back, already half-smiling. “See you next week, Mr. Walker.”

He leans against the frame, arms crossed, voice lower than it has any right to be. “Can’t wait.”

-

You’ve settled into a rhythm now. Babysitting Elijah on days when Walker was in the field and you weren’t, and then training in the tower or working with the New Avengers any other day of the week.

But somewhere in the middle of it all, bantering with John became the constant. He wormed his way into your messages regularly. At first under the guise of something about watching Eli, and now, whenever he had a snarky comment to make about Bob’s fashion choices or Alexei’s anti-capitalist rants.

One time he sent a message about Bucky’s “fuck ass bob” that made you laugh so hard during a debrief you got lectured from Val on professionalism.

Tonight is one such night in your routine, though, where you’re at John’s house, babysitting. And something new happens— a phone call.

The call comes just after 7 p.m., and you know it’s him before you even check the screen.

Walker🛡️: Incoming FaceTime…

You glance down at the two-year-old currently curled into your chest like a sleepy barnacle, thumb in mouth, warm and sticky from applesauce and a bath. He’s heavy now, relaxed in that total-trust way only toddlers can manage.

You answer with a quiet tap, careful not to jostle Elijah.

John’s face appears immediately—dusty, wind-blown, still in tac gear. You catch the edge of a transport ship behind him. And, faintly, two voices arguing about whose comms were off.

“There he is,” John says, softening the second he sees his son.

Elijah perks up just enough to murmur, “Hi, Dada,” before settling back down with a sleepy sigh.

“That his juice-drunk voice?” John asks with a grin.

You nod, cradling Elijah tighter. “Bath, blueberries, and five books. He’s down for the count.”

“You’re a miracle worker.”

“Something like that,” you deadpan.

Behind John, Yelena leans into frame. “Tell her she has to babysit me next time. I like cuddles and strawberries,” she mutters.

You snort.

Ava appears next. “Can she train Bob?”

“Nobody can train Bob,” you say, then glance back at John. “How much longer are you out?”

“Another twelve hours, tops. I’ll be back in time for breakfast. You okay staying overnight?” You look down at Elijah. He’s snoring now, clutching a truck in one hand and the edge of your sweater in the other.

“We’re good,” you say. “By the way, he called you ‘Duh-duh’ today. Not sure if that’s a promotion or a demotion.”

John laughs, quiet and fond. “I’ll take what I can get.” His eyes flick to you again. They linger. Just a second too long. Your thumb brushes Elijah’s curls. John notices that too. “You look good with him,” he says, voice lower, meant only for you to hear.

You raise a brow and try to pretend your heart didn’t fumble a beat. “Careful, Walker. That almost sounded like flirting.”

“Maybe it was.”

You grin. “You’re supposed to be saving the world, not making me blush.”

“Pretty sure I can do both.” Before you can answer, a loud crash echoes behind him. Bob, probably. John winces. “Gotta go, sweetheart,” he says. “Be good for her, bud.”

Elijah’s thumb wiggles in sleepy acknowledgment. The screen goes black.

-

John comes home just after 2 a.m.

You don’t hear the door. You’re dead asleep on the couch, curled under a throw blanket, one arm wrapped protectively around the baby monitor like it might explode if you let it go.

John stops in the doorway and just watches.

You’re tucked into the cushions like you belong there, face smushed against your shoulder, one sock half-off. He can hear Elijah’s white noise machine crackling softly through the monitor in your hand. The kid’s fine.

And you? You look…

He swallows. It shouldn’t be hot. But it is. Not just the curve of your legs, or the way your lips part in your sleep. It’s the whole damn picture—the domestic quiet, the way you smell faintly like his shampoo. He knows it’s a job. You’re just showing up for work. But something about the little messages you send to him throughout the day, the fact that you stay even when he could probably get another sitter for overnights, and the way that you do this, without question. Like this is normal. Like this is yours too.

It’s too much for a man as lonely as John Walker.

John exhales through his nose and shakes it off. Barely. He steps past you to drop his keys. Then pauses. Looks back. “Hey.”

You blink awake, startled. The baby monitor shifts in your grip. “Oh my god—sorry, I didn’t mean to—was gonna wait up—”

“Relax.” His voice is low. Warm. “It’s good. You’re good.”

You sit up slowly, brushing hair from your face. “He’s asleep. Didn’t even fuss.”

“I saw. Thanks again.”

You nod. “Welcome home.”

John rubs the back of his neck. “You, uh… want to crash here tonight? You’ve already got a blanket, and I just threw whatever you had in the washer in the dryer.”

You hesitate. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Couch is yours. Or the bed, if you want it.”

“Your bed?”

“I won’t be in it,” he says with a crooked smirk. “Scout’s honor.”

You roll your eyes. “You weren’t a scout.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you flirt like someone who got suspended from high school.”

He laughs, soft and raspy. “You gonna pick a spot or keep complimenting me?”

Twenty minutes later, you’re curled up on the couch again. Different blanket. Elijah’s still down for the count. The monitor’s on the end table and you’re watching something dumb and half-muted, chewing on the end of a Twizzler John handed you without asking.

He disappears into the shower. Reappears in low-slung sweats and a navy t-shirt, damp hair sticking up in all directions. He drops into the other end of the couch with a soft grunt, arm stretching along the back of it. You glance sideways. “You hover around me like I’m gonna bite.” He says with a smirk.

“I don’t think you’d bite,” you murmur. “I think you’d devour.”

John stills. His gaze cuts to you. Slow. Heated. “You flirt like someone who wants to be punished.”

Your mouth dries. “What if I do?”

Silence. Thick. Unforgiving. The look he gives you could melt glass.

And then a soft cry splits the air from the monitor. John exhales like he’s just been punched. “I got it,” he mutters, already rising. “You get some rest.”

You don’t argue. You just nod and watch him disappear down the hall. You hear the door creak open, then his low voice murmuring something you can’t quite catch.

You slip into his room a few minutes later. You didn’t mean to. You swear you were going to take the couch. But your eyes are already closing by the time your head hits his pillow.

He finds you there twenty minutes later, fast asleep. His side of the bed untouched. And for a second—just one second—John lets himself imagine what it’d be like if this was real.

If you were his.

Not the sitter. Not a job. Just… you. You, here. In his space. Staying.

He turns off the light. And quietly, silently, takes the couch.

For now.

-

6:32 a.m.

The monitor on the nightstand crackles to life with a cry that could rattle windows.

You jolt upright, bleary-eyed, hair flattened on one side.

Across the hall, John’s already moving. You hear the calm, familiar shuffle of a dad who’s done this a hundred times. “Shh, hey, little man. Dada’s got you. You okay?”

You swing your legs out of bed, rubbing your eyes, and pad toward the hallway in your socks. He meets you in the middle—Elijah on his hip, cheeks flushed and nose scrunched in that dramatic toddler way that always follows a nightmare or a diaper change.

John raises a brow at your tangled hair and your frown. “Mornin’, Sunshine.”

You squint at him. “Don’t call me that. It’s not even 7am.”

“Why not? You’re practically glowing.” Elijah babbles something incoherent, then leans forward and plants a sticky hand on your cheek.

“Sun,” he declares proudly.

You blink. “What’d he just call me?”

John chuckles, pressing a kiss to Elijah’s head. “Guess it stuck.”

Your ears go pink. You mutter something about needing coffee and duck into the kitchen, trying not to trip over the warmth blooming in your chest

Ten minutes later, you’re both in the kitchen—John barefoot, Elijah in his high chair, and you halfway through your first cup of coffee.

John’s slicing bananas. “You didn’t have to wake up,” he says.

“Try sleeping through a banshee scream.”

“He gets it from Olivia,” he deadpans.

“He gets it from you,” you shoot back.

“You calling me dramatic?”

You take a sip of coffee. “If the giant bicep fits.”

He grins. And then Elijah lets out a garbled squeak—right before he pukes all over your shirt.

There’s a beat of silence. John blinks. You stare down at yourself, frozen. “Oh my god—”

“Okay, okay, I got him,” John says, already lifting Elijah from the chair. “You—just don’t move.”

“I’m wearing it, John. Moving’s kind of the problem.”

“I’ll bring you a shirt,” he calls, already halfway down the hall. “Something that hides baby vomit and makes me look good.”

“You mean makes me look good.”

“That’s what I said.”

-

You’re wearing his shirt when he comes back from the bathroom.

A navy blue tee, stretched soft with age and clinging to your shoulders in all the right places. It’s massive on you—covers your tiny sleep shorts entirely. Your legs are bare, your hair is messy, and you’re lazily stirring a bowl of cereal while scrolling your phone.

He walks into the kitchen with Elijah on his hip and immediately forgets how to breathe. “Jesus.”

You glance up. “Something wrong?”

“You trying to kill me in my own kitchen?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Pretty sure Elijah already tried.”

John drags a hand over his face. “You’re in my shirt.”

“You literally just gave it to me, Walker.”

“Yeah but I didn’t mean for it to look like that.”

“Like what?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he shifts Elijah onto his other hip and leans one elbow against the counter, glancing at your phone. “What are you doing?”

“Swiping.”

“Swiping?”

“Dating app.”

His expression hardens in a second. “What for?”

You shrug. “Kinda single if you’ve not noticed. Kinda bored.”

John narrows his eyes.

You swipe on a guy with a dog. “This one’s cute.”

“That dog’s the only thing he’s bringing to the table.”

You laugh. Swipe again. “This one?”

“Wears socks in bed.”

Another. “This guy’s tall.”

“Yeah, so are murderers.”

“Okay, what do you approve of?”

“Me.” The word is out before he can stop it. You freeze. He doesn’t look away.

Elijah burps.

You snort. “Careful, Mr. Walker. That almost sounded like jealousy.”

“Did it?”

“You gonna tell me not to date other men?”

“No,” he says, voice lower now. “But I might start pickin’ you up after your dates just to make a point.”

“What kind of point?”

“That none of them know how to fold a stroller one-handed while carrying a two-year-old and a bag of wipes.”

You blink. “Okay, that was hot.”

“I know.” His smirk makes your heart melt.

-

Your clothes are dry by the time you’re getting ready to leave.

You change in the bathroom, folding the borrowed shirt with a little too much care, fingers brushing over the soft cotton like it’s still warm from his skin. When you step out, hoodie slung over your arm, John’s in the kitchen—back to you, shoulder muscles shifting under a bare upper back as he pours juice one-handed, balanced as ever.

“Hey, I’m gonna head out—”

And then he pulls on a shirt.

That shirt. The one you wore this morning. Faded navy, worn thin in a way that made it fall just right across your frame—and now it hugs his like a goddamn sin. It stretches over his chest, clings to his arms, and when he adjusts the hem casually, you go still.

Too still.

John turns.

Catches you.

And smirks. “You like that one, huh?”

Your throat goes dry. You recover fast, but not fast enough. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Walker.”

He takes a step toward you, slow and self-assured, that damn smirk growing. The shirt shifts with his body, and your stomach flips. “Oh, I’m not flattering myself, sweetheart. I’m flattering you.”

You shove the hoodie at his chest—harder than necessary—and pivot toward the door before you combust. “Bye, John.”

Your voice is too even. He knows it. “See you next week, Sunny.”

Behind you, you don’t see his face. But you feel his smile all the way down the front steps.

-

The mission is simple. In and out, minimal contact, no major threats. You, Yelena, and Bucky spend most of it in tactical sweats and earpieces, staking out a lead on an arms deal that’s taking forever to go sideways.

You’re barely paying attention when your phone buzzes in your back pocket. The soft trill of an incoming FaceTime rattles against the dull night air.

Walker🛡️: Incoming FaceTime…

You blink. “You gonna answer that?” Bucky asks, not looking up from his scope.

“Depends,” you mutter. “Could be a code red. Could be a three-year-old with questions about ducks.”

Yelena snorts. “Both equally deadly.”

You answer. John’s face fills the screen immediately—forehead first, like he hasn’t quite mastered the angle. “Hey, sweetheart.”

You lean against the wall, smirking. “Mid-mission, Walker. You miss the memo on operational silence?”

“Eli wanted to see you.”

Your breath catches. You say nothing. Then the camera tilts—and there he is. Tiny, curly-haired chaos. A juice stain on his cheek and a toy truck clutched in his chubby hand.

“Sunny!” he squeals. Your heart does a somersault.

“Hey, Buddy,” you coo. “You being good for your Dada?”

He nods solemnly, then drops the truck and leans closer to the screen. “I miss Sunny.”

You hear Yelena audibly melt beside you. “You’re going to kill that man,” she whispers.

John’s still holding the phone, expression unreadable. Except—no, not unreadable. Soft. Quiet. Like he’s trying not to show how much that nickname does to him.

“He didn’t nap,” John says casually, but his voice is off. Tighter than usual.

“I’m not surprised,” you reply, eyes still on Elijah. “He only naps for me.”

“Don’t start,” John mutters.

“Start what?”

“Flirting while I’m holding a toddler.”

You blink. “You started it.”

“You answered,” he counters, then smiles. “Lookin’ good, by the way. Field gear suits you.”

Bucky’s voice drifts in from your earpiece. “Tell him to stop checking you out mid-op.”

“Barnes says stop checking me out mid-op.”

John just grins. “Tell Barnes to mind his business.”

You roll your eyes. “Say bye, Eli.”

“Bye, Sunny!” He kisses the screen. “Luh you!”

And just like that, your body forgets the cold. The exhaustion. Everything. John’s eyes flick to you. And linger. “Be careful out there,” he says quietly.

You nod. “Always.”

The call ends.

You stare at the blank screen for a second longer than necessary.

-

Later that week, you weren’t planning to go out. The date was a favor to a friend-of-a-friend—a finance bro with decent hair and too much cologne. He picks a bar with overpriced cocktails and keeps talking about himself.

You check your phone four times in thirty minutes.

The fifth time, you don’t even hesitate.

You call him.

He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t mock you. Doesn’t tease. Just asks, “Where are you?” And then says, “I’m on my way.”

When he shows up, it’s without Elijah—thankfully. You assume Olivia has him tonight. John pulls up in that black SUV like he’s heading into battle, and when he steps out, he looks pissed.

He’s in jeans and a Henley, forearms taut where he slams the door shut.

Your date blinks. “Who’s that?”

You smile too wide. “My ride.”

John doesn’t say a word. Just stares the guy down, jaw tight. One hand on the open door, the other flexing like he wants a reason to use it.

“You okay?” he asks you, eyes only on you.

You nod. “Now I am.”

The bro tries to protest. “Hey, man, I was just—”

“You can shut up now,” John snaps, eyes narrowing. “She’s good. You’re done.”

You slide into the car before it gets worse. He doesn’t say anything until you’re two blocks away.

“What was that all about?” you finally ask, trying for light. “You show up like my dad. Or… my bodyguard.”

“You called me, remember?” he growls.

“Yeah, I did.” You fold your arms. “Didn’t think you’d actually come.”

“Don’t say shit like that,” he mutters. “You think I’m not gonna show when you ask?”

“I didn’t even think. That’s the problem.” His hands are gripping the wheel too tightly. You glance over. His jaw’s clenched, pulse jumping in his neck. “You jealous, Walker?”

“That guy looked at you like you were a joke.”

“And you don’t?”

“No. You know I look at you like I know exactly what kind of trouble you are.”

You swallow. “That supposed to scare me?”

“Should.”

The silence stretches. Thick. Hot. You shift in your seat, heart racing. “Why’d you come?” you ask quietly.

“Because you called me.”

“That’s not the real answer and we both know it, John.”

He glances at you. The streetlights flicker over his face, highlighting the shadows under his eyes. “It felt good,” he admits, voice raw. “Being your first call.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t.

He pulls up in front of your apartment and shifts into park—but doesn’t unlock the doors. Just sits there.

You turn to him. “You coming in?”

“Don’t ask unless you want me to.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m this close—” he holds up two fingers, barely apart “—to pulling over and finally kissing you senseless.”

Your breath catches. “You could,” you whisper. “If you wanted.”

He looks at you, really looks, and starts to lean in. You meet him halfway. The tension crackles. His hand brushes your cheek. Warm. Callused. Reverent.

And then—

BRRRRZZZZZT.

His phone buzzes violently in the cupholder. He pulls back fast, blinking like he forgot where he was. You exhale shakily. John checks the screen. His face shutters. “It’s Olivia. Probably about Eli.”

You nod. “Go ahead.”

He hesitates, then answers.

You open the door. “Goodnight, John.”

He grabs your wrist before you can leave. “Hey.”

You pause. Look back. His voice is soft. Wrecked. “Still want to kiss you.”

Your lips part. “Then maybe next time don’t wait.” You close the door behind you and don’t look back.

-

Elijah’s fever starts just after lunch.

Nothing dramatic—just a slow burn, cheeks flushed, whimpers between sips of water and repeated cries of “Sunny.” He doesn’t want to nap unless you’re holding him. Won’t eat unless you spoon-feed him applesauce. Every now and then, he drifts off mid-sentence, his fingers still tangled in your sleeve.

You don’t hesitate. You text John.

You snap one—Elijah asleep against your chest, thumb in his mouth, cheeks rosy. You’re not even fully in frame, but John doesn’t miss the detail of your hand resting over his son’s heart, or the way your body curls protectively around him.

You stare at the screen. Heart stuttering. Stomach flipping. You type. Delete. Type again.

You don’t. You should.

Instead, you curl tighter into the hoodie, into Elijah’s weight, into the house that smells like all the things you pretend don’t matter.

But they do.

Because no matter how many times you remind yourself that this isn’t your family, your heart keeps forgetting.

-

It’s 11:43 p.m. when your phone buzzes again. It’s a FaceTime from John.

You answer half-asleep, wrapped in fleece and shadows. Elijah’s down for the count, finally. His breathing even in the baby monitor beside you.

John’s face fills your screen—wet hair, a low-cut tee, tired eyes. “Hey, Sunshine.”

“Hey, Walker.”

His gaze drops to the hoodie you’re wearing. “That mine?”

“Maybe.”

“Looks good on you.”

“Everything looks good on me,” you deadpan.

He laughs, soft and warm. “True.”

You shift under the blanket, self-conscious. “I didn’t mean to steal it. I just… wanted to smell like you.”

He stills.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The tension creeps in. Thick. Slow. Heavy. He watches you like he wants to climb through the screen.

“I miss you,” he says.

You blink. “You miss me or the free childcare?”

“Don’t do that.”

Your breath catches. “Do what?”

“Pretend this doesn’t mean something.” The silence stretches.

You speak first. Quiet. Honest. “It’s getting harder to pretend.”

John exhales. Runs a hand down his face. “You’re in my clothes. In my house. My kid callin’ you Sunny like you’re his favorite damn person in the world.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah,” he says, no hesitation. “You are.”

Your throat tightens. “Come home, John.”

He nods slowly. “I’m trying.”

The call doesn’t end for another hour. But the moment? That lasts the whole damn night.

-

John gets home just after sunrise.

The house is quiet, humming with the soft static of early morning. No cartoons. No little feet slapping against hardwood. No voice calling out “Dada!” on repeat. Just stillness.

He toes off his boots, drops his bag by the door, and makes a beeline for the living room—half-expecting to find you passed out on the couch with the baby monitor tucked under your arm.

But you’re not there. You’re in his bed.

The door’s cracked. Enough for him to see. You’re curled under the blanket, deep asleep, wearing the hoodie you mentioned and nothing else he can see. And tucked into your side—sprawled across your stomach like a starfish—is Elijah, his little hand gripping the edge of the hoodie like it’s his favorite blanket.

John doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

He just… stands there.

And tries not to fall harder.

-

You wake up to the sound of someone clattering in the kitchen and the faint smell of coffee.

Elijah is still snoring on your chest, drooling through your shirt. You shift, stretching one arm and peeking at the monitor. Still on. Still safe.

When you shuffle into the hallway, John’s at the counter. Fresh clothes. Hair damp. Mug in hand. “Morning, Sunshine.”

“Hey,” you mumble, voice rough. He turns, eyes dragging down your legs—bare except for socks and his hoodie, sleeves too long, collar stretched from sleep.

You rub your face and try not to notice the way he stares just a second too long.

“You guys get any sleep?” he asks casually.

“Some. Your son’s a bed hog.”

“Takes after me.”

“I noticed.”

He grins. “You hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Good. You’re comin’ with us.”

You blink. “Us?”

“Me. Elijah. You. Target run. Maybe pancakes. You in?”

You pretend to groan. “Are you asking me on a date or kidnapping me?”

“I’m asking if you want to spend the morning with a grown man who folds laundry like a soldier and a toddler who can’t pronounce ‘banana.’”

You lean against the counter, smile soft. “Hard to say no to that.”

-

It’s so painfully domestic it makes your chest ache.

John pushing the cart with one hand, Elijah babbling nonsense in the seat. You trailing alongside, tossing snacks and wipes and sippy cups into the basket. Every few minutes, Elijah reaches for you—chubby fingers opening and closing with a determined “Sun. Sun!”

John doesn’t stop smiling the whole time. “You’re his favorite,” he says as you wrangle Elijah into his little jacket in the parking lot.

“He’s mine too,” you murmur. John looks at you. Long. Quiet. You look away first.

-

A week later and John’s gone again. Short mission. Three nights, maybe four. He doesn’t like leaving Eli, but Olivia’s schedule is slammed and—well. There’s only one person he trusts with his son when he can’t be there.

You.

You don’t think twice. You’re at the house within twenty minutes of his call, hoodie in your bag, toothbrush already stashed in the bathroom from last time.

By the second day, you’re back in the rhythm. Morning cartoons. Afternoon walks. Bedtime meltdowns and storybooks read on loop.

And John?mJohn’s texting you nonstop. Sometimes it’s just to check in. Other times? Other times it’s more.

You hesitate.

Then give in.

Snap a quick one in the hallway mirror—bare legs, messy bun, oversized hoodie swallowing your frame. No makeup. Just you.

That should’ve been it.

Light flirting. Nothing new. But you’re feeling reckless tonight. Sleep-deprived and warm and just buzzed enough from the glass of wine you allowed yourself after bedtime.

So you snap another photo. A little bolder this time. It’s still the hoodie—but this time you’re lying on the bed. The zipper pulled down just enough to show the dip of your collarbone. The swell of your breasts. A sliver of skin and nothing else. No caption. Just the photo.

And then:

The op’s supposed to be clean. Quiet. One-and-done extraction with minimal resistance and no unnecessary fire.

But then again, John should’ve known it wouldn’t be easy the second you stepped out of the briefing room in tactical gear and laced boots, stretching like it was just another Tuesday.

You lock eyes with him as you tighten your gloves. “You ready, Captain?”

He swallows. Hard. “Always, Sunshine.”

He’s seen you tired. Grouchy. Makeup-smudged and hoodie-drowned with a toddler half-asleep on your chest.

But this? This is something else entirely.

On the field, you’re fire and honey, all swaying hips and lethal grace. You move like a weapon—fast, fluid, fucking mesmerizing. You’re not flashy. You’re precise. Efficient. A ghost on the wind. And still somehow the brightest thing in the middle of a goddamn warehouse full of shadows and gunfire.

John nearly walks into a crate watching you dodge a stun charge.

“Eyes up, Walker,” Yelena snaps. “Not on her ass.”

“That’s a damn lie and you know it,” he mutters, adjusting his grip on the shield.

Ava chuckles. “You’re doomed.”

“Shut up.”

You don’t even notice the way he watches you. You’re too busy calling shots, redirecting momentum like a pro. You press your fingers to your comm, murmur something about extraction windows, and when you duck behind cover beside him, you’re all heat and focus.

You glance up, eyes shining with adrenaline. “Having fun yet?”

“Define fun,” John says, voice lower than it needs to be.

You flash a smirk. “I’d define it for you, but then you’d owe me dinner.”

“Bold of you to assume I haven’t been planning that since day one.”

“Bold of you to assume I haven’t been letting you.”

And just like that—boom. He’s gone. The second it settles—operation over, intel secured, comms cleared—John’s pacing outside the extraction van like a man possessed.

He’s not thinking about the objective. He’s thinking about the way your knee brushed his thigh when you both slid behind cover. The curve of your mouth when you called him Captain with a grin. The way you looked—covered in sweat and dirt and pride—laughing with Ava like none of it touched you.

He’s fucked.

He’s in love. It hits him hard. Like an elbow to the solar plexus. Because this isn’t just a crush or a phase or something he’ll sleep off when the hoodie doesn’t smell like you anymore. This is real.

And he’s John Walker.

The dumbass. The joke. The emotionally-stunted dad with the bad PR and the even worse track record. You deserve someone stable. Someone who knows how to hold it together when a woman like you steals his breath and calls his son “baby.”

So he does what he always does.

He covers it up with bullshit.

“You looked good out there,” he says once you’re alone in the back of the van.

“Thanks,” you murmur, leaning your head against the cool metal wall. “You did alright too. For an old man.”

“Old?” He snorts. “You gonna start tucking me in after bedtime too?”

“You want me to?”

You don’t see it—but his jaw tenses. “Depends. You bringin’ the hoodie you commandeered?”

“It’s still mine.”

“I’ll allow it. On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You wear it to bed again.”

Your eyes flick to him. Heat under your skin. “That almost sounded like a fantasy.”

“It is.”

Silence.

Thick.

And then—you both look away at the same time.

Like cowards.

Later that night, while you’re showering off the mission grime in the team’s safehouse, John’s lying on his bunk, staring at the ceiling, phone in hand.

He re-looks the last photo you sent. The one in his hoodie. No pants. Just legs and attitude and a caption that said: You’re missing the best part of your house.

He groans.

Slaps a hand over his eyes.

And says aloud, to no one in particular, “God help me, I think I’m gonna marry her.”

-

The post-mission bar isn’t glamorous, but it’s open late, and no one questions IDs or how many weapons you’re packing. The music’s loud, the lights are low, and the air smells like cheap beer and sweat.

Ava’s halfway through her second whiskey when she leans into John’s side, eyes narrowed. “You’re in love with her.”

John doesn’t look up from his beer. “Nope.”

“Liar.” Yelena slams her glass down and spins toward him on her stool, grinning like a gremlin. “I give it two weeks before you combust.”

“I’m not combusting,” he mutters.

“You were literally hard for half the op.”

John chokes on his drink. “Excuse me?!”

“I was behind you,” Yelena says sweetly. “Trust me. If there was a roundhouse kick, I would’ve caught friendly fire.”

“Can’t help it,” Ava adds, sipping. “Guy’s walking around with a lightsaber in his pants.”

“Val warned us during onboarding,” Yelena stage-whispers. “Special equipment.”

John groans, dragging a hand over his face. “You two done?”

“Not even close,” Ava says. “You were panting watching her knock out that merc in one hit.”

“She was hot!” John defends.

“Uh-huh,” Yelena grins. “You know what else was hot? Your entire face when she touched your arm. Looked like you were gonna propose.”

“You think I’d propose that fast?”

They both blink. “…So you’ve thought about proposing,” Ava says.

He slams his glass down. “I’m getting another drink.”

You find him twenty minutes later at the edge of the dance floor, sipping bourbon and looking like he’s trying not to die inside. You nudge him with your hip. “You hiding?”

“I was until you found me.”

You grin. “Poor baby. Girls giving you hell?”

“You mean the two harpies dissecting my facial expressions like I’m on trial? Yeah.”

“Can’t imagine why,” you say innocently.

“You want in on it too?”

“Nope.” You lean in, hand sliding around his wrist. “I just want a dance.”

He stiffens. “Here?”

“Scared?”

“Of you? Always.” Still, he follows when you tug him forward. Onto the floor. Into the blur of moving bodies and pulsing bass.

You press close. Not inappropriate. Not quite. But close enough that his breath catches when your hand slides up his arm. When you sway your hips to the beat and your chest brushes his. “You okay, Captain?”

“Peachy,” he says, voice tight.

You smirk. “Liar.”

He’s holding you too carefully. Like if he moves too fast, he’ll break the illusion—or maybe lose control entirely.

And you? You’re not helping. Your hand drags down his chest, slow and deliberate. His fingers curl into your waist. “You’ve been quiet all night,” you murmur against his ear.

“Trying not to say something stupid.”

“Try me.”

“You wore my hoodie. You sent me that photo. Then you walked onto the field like a goddamn fever dream. And now you’re doing this.” His voice drops, low and sharp. “You know exactly what you’re doing to me.”

You blink. Your smile softens. “Then stop pretending you don’t want it.” He exhales like he’s in pain.

Then Ava’s voice cuts through the crowd.’“Wrap it up, Walker! You’re two pelvic thrusts away from turning this into an HR violation!”

You laugh. He groans. The spell breaks. But the damage? It’s already done.

-

It’s well after midnight when you finally give in.

The house is too quiet. No Elijah babbling in the monitor. No cartoons humming from the TV. Just you. Alone in John Walker’s bed.

In his hoodie.

Wrapped up in sheets that still smell like him.

You’ve been here before. Dozens of times. But not like this. Not without the reason of babysitting. Not without the excuse of a sick toddler or a late mission briefing.

He’s away.

Elijah’s with Olivia.

And you’re still here.

Because when he handed you the spare key, it meant something. Even if neither of you said it out loud.

You roll over, check your phone, thumb hovering over his name.

It’s stupid.

You shouldn’t.

You do it anyway.

It rings. Once. Twice.

“Sunshine?” He sounds half-asleep. Low. Raspy. Like he rolled over to answer it without opening his eyes.

You breathe into the receiver. Just a second. Just long enough to gather the courage. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah?” His voice lifts a little. “You at home?”

Your heart stutters. “Yours.”

“…Wait, what?”

You curl tighter under his blanket, nose brushing the collar of the hoodie. “Mhm. Just—couldn’t settle down. Didn’t wanna be alone.”

He goes quiet for a second too long. “You’re at my house right now?”

“Yeah. In your bed.” Still quiet. Except now you hear it: his breathing changes. Deeper. Sharper.

“You wearin’ my hoodie?”

“Mhm.”

“Jesus.”

You press the edge of the phone tighter to your cheek. Say nothing.

“I didn’t think you’d actually go over while I was gone.”

“I didn’t plan to. Just… ended up here.”

“Yeah?” His tone softens. “That why you called? Wanted to say hi?”

You pause.

Then, barely above a whisper. “Wanted to hear your voice.”

He stills.bCompletely. You add, slower this time: “It helps.”

“…Helps with what, baby?” You let out a soft, shaky breath. A small, involuntary whimper slips out.

That does it.

He groans. Low. Rough. Like he can feel you through the phone. “Don’t do that, Sunshine.”

“Do what?”

“Sound like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re laid out in my bed, in my clothes, legs squeezed together, and all I’d have to do is say your name a little softer to make you fall apart.”

Your breath catches. Your fingers tighten in the sheets. “John…”

“Yeah, baby?” It’s devastating—how he says it. All breath. All heat. Like he’s already half-undone just imagining you.

“I miss the way your arms felt around me. When we danced.”

He swears softly under his breath. “You’re killin’ me.”

“You started it.”

“Nah, sweetheart. You started it the second you put that hoodie on and sent me that picture.”

“I didn’t send you a picture.”

“No, but I can see you. Right now. In my head.”

Another breath. Yours this time. Desperate. “John…”

“You need me there?”

“Yes.”

“You needy, baby?”

“You don’t get to tease me when I’m calling you like this.”

“I’m not teasing,” he says, voice gravel-thick. “I’m picturing it. You, all curled up in my bed. Hoodie soft on your skin. No pants, I bet.” Your throat is too tight to answer. “Bet you smell like me,” he murmurs. “Bet that’s why you’re in there. That’s what helps you sleep.”

You whimper again. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I’d put money on the fact you’re wet right now. Just from me talkin’ like this.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Then stop soundin’ like you wanna come apart just from my voice.”

You press the phone against your cheek, half-wrecked. “You’ll be home soon, right?”

“I’ll break every damn speed limit to get there if you keep talkin’ like that.”

“You’d better.”

“Sleep, baby. I mean it. I’ll be there soon.”

“You’ll hold me again?”

“Yeah,” he says, soft now. Reverent. “First thing.”

You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing on the other end. And the promise that the next time you call him like this… he’ll be there to answer with more than words.

-

The week after your last mission is brutal.

Not because of the job. The job’s easy—scouting, tailing, extraction, report.

What’s hard is the distance.

You and John are never in the same place at the same time anymore. Olivia’s got doubles, John’s doing recon, and you’re still watching Elijah whenever you’re in town. He always leaves the house spotless for you. Your favorite snacks. A fresh towel on the bathroom hook. Sometimes he texts you before he even lands. But it’s the late-night texts that really start to unravel you.

Tuesday, 11:47 p.m.

Wednesday, 12:06 a.m.

Thursday, 9:32 p.m.

By Friday, you’re calling him and asking what this is. What you’re doing. He meets the conversation head on— and then you talk.

You talk about dominance and softness. About control and being needed. About how you don’t want a savior—you want a partner. Someone who sees through your sharpness and knows you’re a little needy underneath.

He tells you he hasn’t wanted anyone like this in years. That it scares him how much you get under his skin. He talks about how he wants you physically. Emotionally. You swear you hear his voice shake when you tell him how safe he makes you feel.

You’re counting down the minutes until he comes home.

But you break on Saturday night when Elijah’s asleep. Olivia’s schedule didn’t change, so you’re staying over again. You’re alone in John’s house—his hoodie on your body, your thighs bare against his sheets.

And you miss him so bad it makes your whole body ache.

So you take a picture. You’re curled on your side in his bed, phone angled low, tank top pushed up a little. A flash of hip, the waistband of your underwear, the soft fall of your hair over the pillow. You send it. The only caption? please call me.

He calls five minutes later. You answer on the first ring. “Hi.”

He sounds wrecked. Like he sprinted somewhere and hasn’t caught his breath. “Sweetheart…”

“I’m sorry—”

“No. Don’t apologize.”

“I just—God, I missed you. I know I’m clingy, and I know I’m needy, and—”

“Hey. Hey.” His voice softens. “You’re allowed to need me.”

You swallow hard. “It’s embarrassing.”

“You wanna know what’s embarrassing?”

“What?”

“I saw that picture and had to excuse myself from the fuckin’ briefing room. Told Val I had heartburn. She’s gonna make fun of me for months.”

You laugh. It cracks under the weight of your chest. “You in my bed right now? In my clothes?” He asks voice warm.

“Yeah.”

“Goddamn. You touching yourself?”

“Not yet.”

“You want to?”

Your breath hitches. “Yeah.”

“You wet, baby?” You nod, before realizing he can’t see it. “Say it.”

“I’m wet.”

“For me?”

“Only ever for you.”

He groans—low, helpless. You hear a shift—his back hitting the headboard, his voice gravel-thick. “Slide your hand down.”

You do. “Under your panties.” You whimper. “How’s it feel?”

“Warm. Slick. I—John—”

“Yeah, baby?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you. About your hands. Your arms around me.”

“Fuck.”

“When we danced,” you whisper, “I didn’t wanna let go. I still don’t.”

He swears. You hear it muffled—like he’s trying not to fall apart with you. “You talk pretty when you’re needy,” he murmurs.

“So what are you gonna do about it?”

“Talk you through it. Make you come with nothin’ but my voice.”

“Only tonight?”

“Every night if you let me.”

Your hips roll into your palm. Slow. Desperate. “Tell me what to do.”

And he does. God, he does. Soft at first. Then sharper. Then reverent. His voice sinks into your skin until you’re squirming, moaning into his pillow, one hand clutching his sheets while the other follows his every word. “That’s it. Just like that, baby. You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“John—”

“Let go.” And you do. Quietly. Completely. His name is the only thing you know how to say. When it’s over, he’s still on the line. “You okay?”

“I think I saw stars.”

“You’re fuckin’ amazing.” He groans, and you laugh.

Then he takes a deep breath. “I don’t want almost anymore.”

“Me either.”

“We’re gonna talk. When I’m home.”

“Promise?”

“Swear to God, Sunshine. I’m comin’ home to you.”

-

John doesn’t tell you he’s coming back. You open your front door to let in more light, and there he is—car keys in hand, Eli balanced on his hip like nothing in the world’s changed.

Except everything has. Because when he sees you? He smiles. Like it means something. You don’t even get a full hello out before Elijah squeals, arms outstretched. “Sunny!”

He practically launches from John’s hold, and you catch him with a little spin, laughing as his tiny hands grab at your cheeks. “Hey, buddy. You missed me?”

“Mhm,” he mumbles, head tucked into your shoulder. “Missed snackies. Missed you.”

John watches from the threshold—quiet, lingering. “Told him that you were gonna cry,” he teases.

“Shut up,” you say, voice thick.

He just grins and reaches out to you. “C’mere,” he purrs and wraps an arm around your waist as he presses a kiss to your temple, one hand still resting on Elijah back between you. He doesn’t let go for a long time.

You spend the day with the boys. John takes Elijah to the park while you sit on the blanket and read and sneaks you gummy bears while Eli isn’t looking. He grills for lunch, makes fun of your overly complicated burger preferences, and threatens to throw you over his shoulder when you sass him. It’s… domestic. Easy. Like it’s always been this way.

Later, when Caleb goes down for a nap, John leans against the hallway doorway with his arms crossed. He’s quiet. Thoughtful.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Yeah.” He nods toward the living room. You follow him there, sitting close on the couch. Your knees brush. He doesn’t move away. “I been thinkin’.”

“Dangerous.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “I told you before. I don’t want this to stay… halfway,” he says.

You look up. “This?”

“You and me.”

Your heart flutters. “Me neither.”

He nods. Glances down. Like it took everything in him just to say that. You lean in. He kisses you. Not soft. Not tentative.

It’s hungry. Hot. His hand in your hair, your knees pulled across his lap, your body flush against his as his mouth takes yours over and over again like he’s starved for it.

And then—

A knock at the door.

You both freeze. “It’s probably—”

“Yeah.”

He opens it and Olivia stands there. You sit up, adjusting your shirt, face flushed. Olivia glances at you. Then at John. Then back. She raises an eyebrow. “Well, it’s about damn time.”

You blink. “Wait, you’re not mad?”

“Please.” She waves a hand. “I’ve known for weeks. Eli calls you Sunny like it’s a love song and I know he had to pick that up from somewhere.”

John groans. “I’m here to talk about my cousin’s grad party next weekend. But I can come back.”

“No, no,” you say quickly, standing. “I should head out anyway.” You brush past John with a small smile and he trails you to the door.

“You good?” he murmurs.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll text you.”

“You better.” You kiss his cheek and walk to your car. He watches you go.

-

You don’t know what to expect when John says he wants to take you out properly.

Not just for dinner. But for a date.

He said the words exactly like that—voice low, serious, a little shy. “Let me take you out. Like… not just ‘grab food and come back to my place.’ I want to do this right.”

So when he shows up at your door—clean-shaven, in a dark button-down that fits him too well, bouquet in hand, eyes soft—you just… blink.

“Hey, sunshine.”

You laugh, breathless, and step aside to let him in. “You got me flowers?”

He shrugs one shoulder, a little bashful. “They’re not great. But they’re yellow. Thought they’d fit.”

You smile, ear-to-ear. “They do.”

You let him watch you put them in water. He doesn’t say anything, just leans in the doorway and watches like he’s memorizing something private.

He takes you to a quiet place on the edge of the city. No press. No fanfare. Just dim lights, good food, and a view of the water. It’s not fancy. But it’s perfect.

John pulls your chair out. Orders your drink without asking, because he remembers. You talk. You laugh. You tease. But under it all, there’s a softness neither of you names yet.

He looks at you like he’s still in disbelief.

“You ever get tired of starin’ at me?” you tease, sipping your wine.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Not once.”

You blink. He grins, not cocky—just honest.

“I’m serious. You’re the best thing I’ve seen in years.” And then, quieter, he adds, “I think about you even when I shouldn’t.”

Later, when you’re walking side by side along the water, his hand brushes yours. You link fingers without a word.

He squeezes.

You squeeze back.

“You’re different,” he says.

“How so?”

“You’re the only person who ever made me feel like I could be good without tryin’ to prove it.”

That one hits. Deep. You stop. Turn to face him. “I already know you’re good, John.”

His jaw works. Like he’s trying to keep it together. You cup his cheek. He leans into it.

“I don’t care about the shield,” you whisper. “Or the past. Or what the world sees. I care about the man who holds his son like he’s the whole world. The one who lets me borrow his hoodie and watches cartoons with me. The one who shows up.”

He blinks. Hard.

And then he kisses you. Slow and deep. Nothing rushed. Just steady and real.

-

Back in the car, your hand stays on his thigh. He holds it there, thumb brushing the back of your knuckles like he’s trying to say thank you without words.

At a red light, he glances over. “You wanna come home with me?”

You smile. “Always.”

He lets out a breath. Like he didn’t know he was holding it. “You sure?”

You lean in, kiss his jaw. “Yeah, John. I’m sure.”

-

You kick your shoes off by the door and watch as John shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it neatly on the hook beside the fridge. He doesn’t even glance at it—but you notice the way his muscles move under his shirt when he lifts his arms.

“Want tea?” he asks, like he hasn’t been fighting the urge to kiss you again since the car.

You nod. “Sure.”

He puts the kettle on. You slide onto the couch. It’s familiar here—the soft click of the stove, the muted hum of the baby monitor in the other room (Elijah’s already tucked in at Olivia’s for the weekend). The space smells like cedar and coffee and laundry detergent. It smells like him.

You curl your legs beneath you and watch him move. The way his hand braces the counter. The flex of his forearms when he opens a cabinet. He’s domestic and devastating all at once.

“I had a good time tonight,” you say softly.

He glances over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

You nod. “You were sweet.”

“I’m always sweet,” he deadpans, but there’s a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

The kettle whistles. He pours two mugs and brings them over, sitting beside you with a quiet grunt. You take your tea. The brush of your fingers sends a small jolt through your spine. You sip in silence for a few seconds.

Then—

“You keep lookin’ at me like that, sunshine,” he murmurs, “and I’m gonna forget how to be a gentleman.”

Your gaze flicks to him. “I like you better when you’re not trying so hard to be one,” you reply, voice soft, teasing.

That gets you a huff of a laugh. But he doesn’t look away. Neither do you.

He shifts a little closer, the warmth of him seeping into your side. His fingers brush your knee. Then rest there, calloused and steady. “You keep wearin’ my hoodie to bed?”

“Mhm.”

“You sleep in my shirts, too?”

“I like to pretend you’re still here.”

His hand tightens slightly on your leg. His voice is rough when he speaks again. ��You think about me when I’m gone?”

You nod. “Too much.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you. “I think about you, too,” he finally says. “Sometimes I get home from a mission and this place’s too quiet. Too clean. Makes me wish you were already in it.”

You look at him, startled by the honesty. “John.”

He sets his mug down and turns toward you fully. Then, softly asks, “Can I kiss you again?”

You nod.

He kisses you like it’s instinct.

No rush.

No fight.

Just mouths brushing, hands finding skin. The slow, deliberate kind of kiss that builds. You end up straddling his lap before either of you really registers the shift, your arms looped around his neck, his hands splayed over your hips.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs into your mouth.

“You love it.”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I do.”

You roll your hips once, slowly. He groans. His fingers dig into your thighs. He looks up at you—eyes heavy, breathing uneven. “You wanna take this to bed?”

You nod. Breathless. Wanting. He stands, lifting you with him like it’s nothing.

His hands are firm on your hips as he carries you, your arms looped around his neck, your nose brushing his jaw.

It’s quiet in the bedroom when he sets you down.

But your pulse is loud. So is his breath.

He leans down, presses a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then your mouth—soft, almost cautious, like he’s waiting for you to flinch.

You don’t.

You chase his lips instead.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” you murmur, your fingers at the buttons of his shirt.

He helps you, undoing the rest with shaking hands. You drag it off his shoulders, and your breath hitches at the sight of him. Strong. Solid. Familiar, and yet so intimate like this.

“Your turn,” he says, low and warm.

You slip your top off and toss it aside, bare from the waist up. He stops. Just stares for a second. Then reaches out like you’re something holy.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re beautiful.”

You pull him close, skin to skin now, and he makes a noise that sounds like something breaking open.

You fall back onto the bed together—slow, careful, a tangle of hands and mouths. You’re not rushing. He touches you like he’s trying to learn you. Like he wants to memorize every reaction. Every sigh. Every shiver.

His mouth trails down your throat, across your collarbone, between your breasts. He kisses slow. Hands anchoring you to the bed.

You’re already trembling.

“Still good?” he asks, looking up at you.

You nod. “So good.”

“You nervous?”

“A little.”

His palm slides up your thigh. “Me too.”

You laugh softly. “You?”

“I’ve never wanted to do this right so badly.”

That admission—so honest, so raw—makes you kiss him again, hard and deep.

He groans into your mouth and presses a knee between your legs, parting them. He strokes over your panties, eyes on your face the whole time.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs. “For me?”

You nod. “Only you.”

He kisses you again. Then slides those panties down your legs, slow and reverent.

You feel bare. Exposed. But never unsafe.

When his fingers slide through your folds, your whole body jolts.

“Shh,” he soothes. “I’ve got you.”

He keeps his touch slow—teasing circles, dipping shallow just to watch your face. He kisses you through every gasp. Every twitch. When he sinks a finger in, your hips rise.

You’re clinging to him already.

“I love how you fall apart for me,” he murmurs.

You arch. “John—”

“I know, baby. I know.”

You tug at his jeans, and he chuckles as he shimmies out of them, followed by his boxers. When he presses against you—bare, thick, heavy—you freeze.

Oh, fuck.

Your eyes go wide. He’s thick. Long. Veined. Heavy in his hand. You whimper.

“That’s the sound I like,” he mutters. “Scared little gasp like you know I’m too big for this sweet little pussy.”

“You are,” you breathe.

“I’ll make it fit.”

He notices the look in your eye. “Still okay, baby?” He asks, tone soft again. Reverent.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Just… it’s a lot.”

He grins, a little cocky now. “It is.”

You swat at his chest. “I mean emotionally, jackass.”

But you’re laughing.

So is he.

It breaks the tension. Eases you back into it.

He lines himself up, the head of his cock nudging your entrance.

You’re soaked. Sensitive. Wrecked already.

And he knows it.

He leans down, mouth to your ear.

“Gonna split you open, baby. Real slow. Let you feel every inch.” He promises. “But you can stop me any time.”

You nod. And when he finally pushes in—slow, stretching, breath catching in his throat—you clutch him like a lifeline.

He curses softly. “That’s it,” he groans. “Take it. Just like that.”

He bottoms out, hips flush against yours.

You breathe through it, feeling every inch. The burn fades to fullness. To pressure. To something deep and real. “You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod. “Don’t stop.”

“Atta girl,” he purrs. He starts to move—shallow thrusts, careful, eyes locked on yours. You’re gasping into his shoulder, legs wrapping around his waist, trying to pull him closer.

He kisses your cheek. Your neck. Your temple. “I’m right here,” he whispers. “I’ve got you, baby.”

You’re not just moaning anymore.

You’re feeling.

Letting go.

He speeds up slightly, still controlled, but deeper now. His hand finds yours on the pillow, fingers threading tight.

“I missed you,” you say, voice breaking. Because you can’t say I love you yet. Not without feeling like it would be weird.

He kisses the corner of your eye, catching the tear that slips free. And you wonder, for a brief moment, if he knows what you really mean when he says, “I missed you, too, sunshine. So fuckin’ much.”

You come first—shaking and overwhelmed, sobbing his name into his neck as he holds you through it. He follows with a groan so low and deep it curls your toes, burying himself as far as he can go.

And when it’s over—

He doesn’t move.

Just stays inside you. Kisses your shoulder.

Then your hand.

Then your lips.

Like he’s still trying to believe it’s real.

-

You don’t plan to move in a few months later. You just… start forgetting things. A toothbrush here. A hoodie there. A mug you like. Socks in his laundry.

John notices. Of course he does. He just doesn’t say anything—until he trips over your slippers in the hallway. “These yours?” he asks, holding one like it personally offended him.

You look up from where you’re folding laundry. “Yeah.”

He waits.

You raise a brow. “Say thank you.”

“For what?”

“For finally admitting you like me being here.”

He snorts, tosses the slipper at your leg, and walks off grumbling something about “taking over his damn closet.”

The next week, Elijah insists on brushing his teeth next to you. He drags a little stepstool to the sink, looks up at you through the mirror, and declares, “I like when you sleep over. You make Dada eat pancakes.”

John, walking in with wet hair and a towel slung low on his hips, blinks at you both. “I do not eat pancakes.”

Elijah grins, toothpaste foam on his chin. “You had four.”

You grin at John, handing Elijah a washcloth.

“Busted.” You tease.

It builds from there. A basket of your skincare products in the bathroom. Books on his nightstand. Elijah’s drawings on the fridge—stick figures labeled me, Daddy, and Sunny.

You overhear John on the phone with Olivia one night, pacing the hallway. He doesn’t say coworker. Doesn’t say babysitter. Doesn’t even say gjrlfriend. He just says, “She’s here. Yeah. Home.”

And your heart does something it’s not supposed to do that casually.

You still argue sometimes. About dumb things—dish soap, laundry folding methods, whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie. About serious things. But you always prioritize communicating and not going to bed angry.

“You’re folding that shirt like a sociopath,” you say, elbow-deep in laundry.

“It’s a tactical fold,” he deadpans. “For maximum drawer efficiency.”

“It’s ugly.”

“You’re ugly.”

“You want me to fold your shirts or fold you?”

He smirks and wiggles his eyebrows at you. “Yes.” Then you throw a sock at his face.

One night, Elijah’s having a bad dream. You’re up before John even hears the cry, already halfway down the hallway. When John catches up, you’re rubbing Elijah’s back, murmuring something soft while he curls into your side, hiccuping through sleepy tears.

John leans in the doorway. Watches. Says nothing. Just crosses his arms over his chest and exhales like it hurts. Later that night, when he climbs into bed, he kisses your shoulder without a word and tucks you into his side a little tighter than usual.

One Saturday morning, Elijah’s curled into your lap on the couch, watching cartoons and feeding you dry cereal from a cup with sticky fingers. John walks in from a run, sweaty and flushed, and pauses in the doorway.

You glance up. “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothin’. Just…” He walks over, leans down, and kisses your temple. “You two are somethin’ else.”

Eventually, you realize half your wardrobe lives in his dresser. Your name’s on Elijah’s emergency contact forms. The barista at the corner shop starts calling you the “Walker order.”

You still have your own place. But every time you walk into this one— it feels like the only place that matters.

-

The house is dark when John returns.

He’s dusted with exhaustion, boots muddy from the field, duffel heavy on his shoulder. His neck aches. His mind’s still half on the debrief. But all of that vanishes the second he steps through the door.

Because it smells like home. There’s a familiar mug in the sink—your mug. One of Elijah’s little socks on the hallway floor. A quiet cartoon menu screen flickering on the living room TV.

And then—

Soft snoring.

He moves quietly down the hall, pushing the bedroom door open with careful fingers. There you are.

Asleep on top of the covers, legs tangled with Elijah’s, the two of you curled like a matched set. His son’s tiny hand is tucked beneath your cheek. You’ve got one of John’s hoodies on—oversized, worn soft—and your face is turned toward Elijah’s like you’d never dream of letting go.

John forgets to breathe. Because this? This is the part of his life he never thought he’d get back. Not after everything. Not after who he became. But it’s here. In his bed. In his house. With his son.

And you.

Always you.

He crosses to the edge of the bed and crouches down, elbows on his knees, just watching for a moment. His eyes drift over the soft rise and fall of your chest, the way Elijah sleeps with one foot tucked under your leg like he knows this is safe.

“Hey,” you whisper, barely stirring.

John blinks. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” Your voice is groggy. “Just… felt you.”

He swallows hard at that. His hand finds yours where it rests near Elijah’s shoulder.

“Mission go okay?” you ask softly.

“Yeah. Long.”

“You hungry?”

“Not for food,” he says, before he can stop himself.

Your eyes flick to his.

Something shifts.

Carefully, you ease yourself out from under Elijah’s weight, whisper a soft kiss to his curls, and meet John in the hallway, closing the door gently behind you.

And then it’s just the two of you. In the warm hush of the hallway. Nothing between you but air and months of everything.

“I missed you,” you say, voice tight.

John steps in, close—too close—and cups your cheek with one calloused hand.

“You’ve ruined me,” he murmurs.

You blink. “What?”

“You. This. I used to think I didn’t get to have soft things. That I didn’t deserve a second shot.”

Your heart beats faster. “And then you showed up in my house. Made Elijah laugh over and over. Took over my closet. Argued with me about dish soap. And I didn’t even realize I’d let you in until you were already home.”

You reach for him—palm to his chest. Right over his heart. “You’re not the only one who didn’t think they deserved this,” you whisper.

He leans in, forehead resting on yours. “I love you,” he says, rough and sure and without a single inch of hesitation.

Your breath catches. “I love you, too.”

He kisses you—slow and deep, not hurried or hungry, but like he knows. Like he’s trying to memorize how it feels when everything finally clicks. When he pulls back, he grins—thumb brushing your cheek, forehead still pressed to yours. “You’re in my bed every time I come home.”

You arch a brow. “Problem?”

“No,” he says quietly. “It’s my favorite damn thing.”

A pause. Then he says, “I don’t want you leaving it anymore.”

Your heart stutters. “John—”

“I mean it,” he says, voice rough now. “Don’t go back to your place. Don’t wake up somewhere that isn’t next to me.”

You look up at him—brows drawn, breath caught, that dangerous, tender thing stretching between you. “You asking me to move in?”

“I’m asking you to stay,” he says. “For good.”

You snort. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” he says. “I can be ridiculous.”

Then, softer, he murmurs, “only for you, sunshine. Always only you,” as he presses a kiss to your temple.

-

Elijah’s asleep. The dishes are done. The house is quiet. You’re curled into John’s side on the couch, wearing one of his old shirts and nothing else, your legs tangled under a shared blanket. He’s got a hand on your thigh, thumb brushing absentminded circles. On the coffee table, your mug sits next to his. Matching. Lived in. Home.

“You ever think we’d end up like this?” you murmur.

John smiles, kisses your temple, and pulls you closer.

“Not once,” he says. “But I’d do it all over again just to get here.”

[karrt]

God, the bounty hunter

[karrt]

₊˚ʚ 🫧 ₊˚✧ ﾟ. 𝐉𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐅. "𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧" 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐫

❄️ [Fluff] - 🧊 [Angst] - 🛋️ [Comfort] - 💙 [smut]

✮ [Headcanon] - ✰ [Fic] - ⚝ [SMAU] - ✶ [Lyrics]

‧₊˚ 🫐 ‧₊ BF!John

★ how he loves after being left [❄️, slight 🧊, 🛋️, 💙 ~ ✮]

[karrt]

This may be my favourite scene from the whole movie,

[karrt]

18+ minors dni

(cw: cum play, spitting, squirting, unprotected piv, bob's sloppy with it)

bob reynolds likes it messy.

it’s an inkling of suspicion in the back of your mind the first time you make out with him. his lips are wet, slick from the same tongue that’s sliding over yours.

he’s a little sloppy with it, too drunk on the feeling of your warm mouth to realise he’s kind of drooling. he’s just glad he finally knows what your lip gloss tastes like.

a string of spit keeps him connected to you when he pulls away.

bob goes a little cross-eyed, zeroing in on that glimmering thread. wonders if it’s his or yours, before he licks it away with that greedy tongue.

you get so used to it—wiping the shine away from your mouth every time your boyfriend pulls you in for those deep kisses he’s so fond of. it’s almost instinctual—running a thumb over the bead of saliva at the corner of your lips, smearing it down your chin.

the blown out pupils staring back at you make any complaints wither away in your throat.

he’s glued to the way your skin shines with him, turning your face in his big hands, trying to catch the light. he sees it as a new way of marking you (even if he pouts when it’s washed away with soap and water).

you just wish you would’ve known how all that translated to sex before you bought those expensive, high thread count sheets.

bob reynolds likes you covered in him—likes to be covered in you.

his reluctance to pulling out is nothing new. he whines when he’s balls deep that inside is where his cum is meant to go—he saved it all for you, after all.

it’s a warm, familiar sensation—how his cock twitches seconds before painting your insides. he likes to watch it drip out of you—even pushing down on your lower stomach sometimes to coax it along. he’ll follow the trail all the way down, groaning deep in his chest when his cum pools as the seam of your thigh.

but one day he accidentally slips out, thrusting erratically mid-orgasm, and spills over your belly instead. it’s like the missing puzzle piece when he realises he can scoop up what’s melting into your skin and push it back into you with his fingers.

that way, he can rest easy knowing nothing’s gone to waste, as well as get you to squirt while you writhe from overstimulation.

ever since he’d discovered you could, it’s been his personal mission to feel you gush all over him every time. he starts setting a towel down, and you pack away those fancy sheets because you both know damn well it’s going to get wet.

he’ll fuck you again after, sliding in with an obscene squelch and an even more debauched moan. trickles of his earlier load leak out around where he ruts into you.

you’re so far gone, four orgasms in—barely able to string together words, let alone complete sentences. but bob knows he’s doing a good job, if the white ring gathering at the base of him and the way you’re clinging to him is any indication.

that might be why it makes his brain go haywire. when it’s slippery, sticky and soaking fucking wet, and you’re mewling at him to keep going, he feels that reasurance he constantly craves—loves that you want it just as bad as he does.

he wants to see the embarrassed look you get when you can hear how sticky you’ve gotten between your thighs—wants to make you feel so good you forget why you were even worried.

and of course there are days where the roles are flipped. when you’re on top of him, threads of your combined arousal stretching with each slap of your hips against his.

his eyes roll back into his head, drooling out the corner of his mouth as he savours the way your pussy just keeps getting slicker around him.

and when your hand comes to rest on his sweaty neck, tilting his head back to spit into his eager mouth, it’s no surprise to either of you that that’s what makes him cum so hard he blacks out a little.