#But sometimes you just know something was….wrong

[hauntedbyjoel]

Show Me How

pairing: joel miller x f!reader warnings: age gap | oral (f & m) | unprotected sex | dirty talk | praise | virginity loss | gentle aftercare | no outbreak word count - 5.7k summary - He’s told himself a hundred times it can’t happen. He’s too old, too close to her family, too careful. But now she’s standing in front of him, asking him for the one thing he swore he wouldn’t give.

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You’d always told yourself it was harmless.

The crush. The looks. The way your stomach flipped when Joel said your name or glanced your way for a little too long. He was older—older in a way that should’ve been enough to stop this before it started. He’d known your family for years. Helped your uncle redo the kitchen. Fixed your car once when it stalled in your mom’s driveway. Brought over soup when you got sick last winter and couldn’t get out of bed.

He was just… around. Always steady. Always quiet. Always Joel.

And somehow, over time, that steadiness started to feel like gravity.

You learned his habits without meaning to—when he left for work, what time he ran errands, how he always wore that same faded Texas Longhorns shirt to mow the lawn on Saturdays. You pretended not to notice the way he looked at you sometimes, like he wasn’t sure if he should be. Like maybe he wanted to look away but didn’t.

You never let yourself believe he could actually want you. Not really.

Which is why showing up at his house tonight felt like something you weren’t supposed to do. Like stepping out of line in a way you couldn’t walk back from.

But you couldn’t stop thinking about it. About him.

About the fact that you were tired of feeling like the only one who hadn’t done anything—hadn’t been touched, kissed right, wanted for more than a second. And more than that, you were tired of not knowing. Of being afraid you’d do it wrong. Say the wrong thing. Be too soft. Too quiet. Not enough.

And if you were going to ask anyone—

It’d be him.

Joel, who never rushed you. Who always noticed. Who fixed things with careful hands and never made you feel small.

That was what brought you to his door.

And the second he opened it—hair damp, eyes tired, wearing sweatpants and a shirt you’d seen a dozen times before—your throat locked.

He blinked at you. Didn’t speak right away. Then: “You okay?”

You nodded, fingers curled in your hoodie sleeves. “Yeah. I was just… out. I didn’t know where else to go.”

Joel studied you for a beat, then stepped aside. “Come in.”

The door shut behind you with a soft click. You stood awkwardly in the entryway, clutching the sleeves of your hoodie like they might anchor you. Joel moved past without a word, walking toward the kitchen.

“Want some tea or somethin’?” he asked, already reaching for the kettle. “Still got the kind you like, I think.”

You nodded, unsure if your voice would even work right now. He filled the kettle. Lit the stove. Moved around the kitchen like this was just another Tuesday night and not the most reckless thing you’d ever done.

The house was warm. Familiar. You’d been here before—birthday barbecues, a couple of holidays, quick visits with your family—but never alone. Never this late. Never when the windows were dark and the only light came from that little flickering candle on the counter.

Joel glanced over his shoulder. “You can sit, y’know.”

You did. Quietly, on the edge of the couch like your body didn’t know where to land. Your heart wouldn’t stop stuttering. You weren’t sure what he saw when he looked at you, but it didn’t feel like much. Not yet.

He brought over a mug. Set it down on the coffee table. Then took the armchair across from you and let out a low sigh.

“So,” he said. “You wanna tell me what’s really goin’ on?”

You looked down at the mug. Steam rising. Hands still tucked in your sleeves. “It’s dumb.”

“Doesn’t sound dumb.”

You let the silence hang for a beat too long. Then: “Can I ask you something?”

Joel nodded. “Course.”

Your heart climbed straight into your throat.

You stared at the mug, every nerve in your body buzzing, fingers twitching. It wasn’t that you didn’t know what to say—it was that once you said it, everything would change.

“I don’t have a lot of experience,” you said finally. Quiet. Careful. “Like… any.”

Joel tilted his head. But didn’t say anything.

“I mean, I’ve kissed people. But I’ve never really…” You swallowed hard. “I just feel behind. Everyone I know has—done things. They know what they like. What to do. And I just… don’t.”

Joel leaned back a little. His jaw worked once. Still quiet.

“I’m not saying this right,” you said quickly. “It’s not that I want to rush or that I feel like I have to, I just—” You looked up, finally, and your stomach flipped. “You’re the only person I trust to… to teach me.”

He stared at you.

Not with shock. Not with judgment. Just stillness. Like he was trying to decide if you meant it—if you even understood what you were asking.

“Sweetheart…” he started, then stopped.

“I’m not trying to make things weird,” you rushed. “And I know it’s selfish. And I’m probably not even your type or whatever, and I’ll never bring it up again if it’s weird, I just—”

Joel didn’t say anything right away.

You could hear the second hand ticking on the clock across the room. The silence felt like pressure on your chest. You weren’t sure what you expected when you showed up here—but it wasn’t this. This long, still moment where he just looked at you like he didn’t know what to do.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Careful.

“You’re so young.”

It wasn’t harsh. It didn’t sound like judgment. If anything, it sounded like he was trying to talk himself out of something.

You stared down at your lap, throat tightening.

“I know,” you said softly, barely more than a breath. “You don’t have to say it.”

Joel sat up straighter.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, quickly but still gentle. “I’m not—I didn’t mean it like that.”

You gave a small nod, even though you weren’t really sure what to say. Your fingers curled tighter around the sleeves of your hoodie. Your eyes stayed on the floor.

“I just thought...” Your voice thinned out. You cleared your throat, tried again. “I just thought maybe—never mind.”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” you mumbled. “You’ve always been nice to me and I... I shouldn’t have ruined that.”

His heart dropped. He saw your hands shaking, saw the way you blinked too fast.

Then he saw it—your lashes catching just slightly, that faint shimmer in your eyes before you ducked your head.

You were trying not to cry.

“Hey,” Joel said, gently. “Hey, no—don’t do that.”

You shook your head, swallowing hard. “It’s fine. Really. I don’t want you to feel bad. Or like I’m putting you in a weird spot. I just—”

Your voice cracked. You turned your face away.

And that was it for him.

“Aww, baby,” Joel said softly, barely more than a breath. “Come here.”

You didn’t move at first, but he was already leaning in, hand reaching out slow, warm, careful. His palm cupped the side of your jaw, thumb brushing under your eye like he could erase the tears before they fell.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he murmured. “You hear me?”

You nodded—barely. Joel’s other hand found yours, steady and sure, lacing his fingers between yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I just didn’t expect it,” he said. “Didn’t let myself think about it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you.”

Your breath hitched.

“I’ve wanted you,” he said, voice lower now, rough around the edges. “I just didn’t think I was allowed to.”

You looked up at him, blinking slowly.

Joel’s thumb traced your cheekbone.

“I’d take my time with you,” he said. “Make sure you felt safe. Make sure it felt good. I wouldn’t rush anything.”

You leaned into his hand just slightly—barely—but it was enough.

Joel’s eyes dropped to your lips.

“You still want this?” he asked.

You nodded, soft and breathless.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay, sweetheart.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. His thumb still brushed your cheek, your fingers still curled inside his. You were so aware of the space between you—barely anything, and yet everything. You could feel the warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing. It made you ache.

Joel hesitated.

“You sure you want me to kiss you?”

God, he really was trying. Still giving you an out, even now. Even when your whole body was already leaning in.

You nodded again, just as shy. “Please.”

That was all he needed.

Joel leaned in slowly—like he was afraid to startle you—and tilted his head just enough to brush his lips against yours. It was soft at first, barely a kiss at all, more like a question. When you didn’t pull away—when your breath caught and your hand tightened around his—he kissed you again, deeper this time. Warmer.

His other hand slid to your waist, grounding you.

You shifted closer without thinking, your knees brushing his thigh. Joel made a low sound in his throat, something surprised and almost pained. He pulled you gently, letting you settle in his lap with careful hands, like he didn’t want to scare you.

You felt so small like that. Not in a bad way. Just—held. His arms around you, his mouth on yours, the scratch of his stubble against your skin. Every inch of him was solid and steady.

He kissed you like he had time. Like he didn’t need anything else.

When he finally pulled back, his hand lingered on your cheek.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded, a little dazed. Your lips tingled, your heart pounding. “I—I’ve never kissed anyone like that.”

Joel smiled, soft and a little crooked. “Yeah? You did real good, sweetheart.”

Your cheeks burned, but you smiled too. You felt warm. Safe. Wanted.

And you still wanted more.

Joel kissed you again, deeper this time, like he was trying to show you what he couldn’t say out loud. His hands were warm where they held your waist, steady even though you could feel how tense he was—like he was holding back something big. Something sharp.

“Alright,” he murmured against your mouth. “We’re not gonna rush. Just want you to feel good.”

You nodded, breathless. “Okay.”

He leaned back, just enough to look at you. “Tell me somethin’, sweetheart.”

Your heart skipped. “What?”

His thumb brushed your cheek. “What’ve you done before?”

You blinked, nervous all over again. “Not much. Just… kissing. A little touching.”

“Okay,” he said softly. “That’s good. Just wanna know what you’re comfortable with.”

You bit your lip. “I want this.”

“I know. But I still wanna go slow.” He paused. “Has anyone ever touched you? Down here?”

His hand slid gently along your thigh, stopping just shy of where you were warm and aching.

You shook your head.

Joel’s eyes flicked to yours, his voice low. “And you?”

Your cheeks flushed. You nodded. “Yeah. A few times.”

He smiled—gentle, not mocking. “Good. That’s good, baby.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your neck. “I’m gonna touch you now. Just with my hand. That alright?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

Joel moved with such care—his fingers easing between your thighs, slipping beneath the hem of your shorts. When he found you already soft and wet, he groaned low in his throat.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You feel that?”

You nodded, shivering.

“This all for me?”

“Yeah,” you whispered.

“Shit,” he exhaled. “You’re soaked.”

His fingers moved slow, parting you gently. You gasped, your hips twitching.

“Too much?” he asked.

“No,” you said, breath catching. “Just… new.”

He kissed the side of your face, murmured, “We’ll take it nice and easy. You tell me how everything feels, alright?”

You nodded.

He stroked you carefully—exploring, learning. Finding the spots that made your breath hitch, your thighs tighten, your lashes flutter. His fingers circled your clit, featherlight at first, and you whimpered.

“There it is,” he said, voice husky. “That feel good?”

You nodded frantically, too overwhelmed to speak.

“You’re bein’ so good for me, baby. You let me take care of you, yeah?”

Your whole body was warm and buzzing, every nerve alive under his touch. When he slid one finger inside, slow and patient, you gasped.

“Okay?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” you said, breathless. “Feels… full.”

He smiled against your cheek. “That’s what it’s s’posed to feel like. Just one for now. Gonna get you used to it.”

He curled it—just a little—and you whimpered again. Joel groaned.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he rasped. “Look at you. All pretty and sweet, takin’ my hand like it’s the only thing you ever needed.”

You clenched around him, involuntarily. His eyes darkened.

“Shit. You’re squeezin’ me already.”

You whimpered. “I—I don’t mean to—”

“I know,” he said, kissing you again, slow and deep. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

Joel kissed you through it, his lips warm and slow while his hand moved between your legs—gentle but focused, like he already knew your body better than you did. He didn’t rush. He didn’t push.

He paid attention.

Your hips bucked when his thumb brushed over your clit again, light and teasing. You gasped into his mouth.

“That feel good?” he murmured.

You nodded. “Mhm.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you—his eyes dark, focused. “Yeah? You like when I touch you there?”

Your face went hot, but you nodded again, biting your bottom lip.

He smiled—soft, proud, dangerously patient. “Good girl.”

Then he went back to it. Circling your clit in slow, deliberate strokes while that one finger inside you pressed deeper, exploring every new reaction you gave him. You were trying so hard not to make noise, but your body betrayed you. Your thighs trembled. Your stomach fluttered. Your breath hitched and broke.

Joel noticed everything.

“Y’ever touch yourself like this?” he asked, voice low.

You hesitated. “Not… like this.”

He raised a brow. “Not like what?”

You swallowed. “Not this slow.”

Joel chuckled—quiet and warm against your skin. “That’s ‘cause you’ve never been taught right.”

His words hit low in your belly. You whimpered as he curled his finger again, hitting something deeper this time. Your legs jerked.

“There?” he asked, voice roughening.

You nodded, breath caught. “Y-Yeah—oh—there.”

Joel groaned softly. “Fuck, baby. You’re already close, ain’t you?”

You nodded helplessly.

“Think you can come for me? Just from my fingers?”

You whined. He took it as a yes.

His movements stayed slow, but more rhythmic now—his thumb drawing tight little circles, his finger pumping deeper, coaxing something out of you so carefully, so sweetly. You clutched at his shirt, fingers trembling.

“Joel,” you gasped, barely able to breathe. “I—I think I’m—”

“That’s it,” he said. “Let it happen. Let me feel it.”

And then you broke.

It hit you like a wave—sharp and hot and overwhelming. Your body seized around him, legs clamping tight as the pleasure surged up and through you. You cried out, loud and wrecked, and Joel caught it with his mouth, kissing you hard while his hand worked you through every second of it.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty when you come.”

You were shaking when he finally pulled his hand away—slow and careful. He kissed your forehead, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“You okay?”

You nodded, dazed, still trembling in his lap. “Mhm. Just… I’ve never felt anything like that.”

Joel smiled. “You’ve got a lot more to feel, sweetheart.”

He kissed you again—longer this time. Slower. But now there was something heavier beneath it, something hungrier.

When he pulled back, his voice was deeper. Rough.

“Can I show you more?”

You looked up at him. Your limbs were still jelly, your heart still racing, but all you could think was yes. You trusted him. Even like this. Maybe especially like this.

You nodded.

“Yeah. Show me.”

Joel smiled when you said it. Not cocky—just warm. Soft around the edges, like the tension in him had finally given way to something sweeter. He tucked your hair behind your ear with a gentle hand, his other still cradling your bare thigh.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Then lie back for me.”

You nodded, breath still shaky. Your skin was buzzing—still oversensitive, still warm, but already aching for more.

You obeyed without a word, heart thudding as your spine met the mattress again. The air felt cooler now against your flushed skin, your body still buzzing from the first time he touched you like that.

Joel moved with you, settling between your legs without urgency. He leaned down and pressed a kiss just above your knee—then another, higher up. It was careful. Unrushed. Like he wanted you to feel every second of it.

“I want you to tell me if anything doesn’t feel good,” he murmured against your skin. “You just say the word, alright?”

You nodded.

“Words, baby.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “I will.”

“Good girl.”

His hands spread your thighs, slow and sure. Not to expose you—at least, not just that. More like reverence. Like unfolding something precious.

And then his mouth was on you.

Not forceful. Not greedy. Just… exploring. His tongue traced slow, soft circles, tasting you like he was learning something new and didn’t want to miss a detail. Every shift in your breath made him hum a little deeper, adjust, draw it out.

“Doing so good,” he murmured, pausing only to kiss the inside of your thigh again. “You let me know if it’s too much.”

It wasn’t.

It was everything.

You tried to be quiet, but your body had other plans.

Joel’s mouth moved with slow, deliberate rhythm—tongue tracing lazy circles that built heat like kindling. He didn’t rush you. Just stayed right there, steady and patient, until your hips started to lift, chasing every pass of his tongue like it might save you.

And he noticed.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice barely a rumble. “That’s it, sweetheart. Let me have it.”

His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you just a little closer, anchoring you in place like he was afraid you might float off. And maybe you would’ve. Your hands gripped the sheets, searching for something solid as your breathing turned erratic.

“Joel—” you whispered, and it cracked.

He groaned low in his throat—like hearing you say his name like that did something to him.

“Feels good?” he asked, and when you nodded too fast, too desperate, he just hummed against you. “Thought so. You’re so fuckin’ sweet down here.”

The tension coiled again—hotter this time, faster. Your legs started to tremble, and Joel didn’t let up. Just flattened his tongue, applied more pressure, and listened to you fall apart.

“Don’t fight it,” he whispered. “Let it happen.”

You came with a sound that barely made it out—a soft, broken cry, thighs clamping around his head as you shook through it. Joel didn’t stop. Didn’t even think about it. He kept licking you through every wave, gentle and relentless, holding your hips like you might slip away otherwise.

Only when your body finally gave out—hips twitching, breath coming in shallow little gasps—did he pull back. His mouth was shiny, lips wet, beard damp. And his eyes…

Like he’d just seen something holy.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then leaned up slowly, palm cupping your cheek.

“There she is,” he murmured, voice like honey and gravel. “That’s my girl.”

Your lashes fluttered. You felt soft all over, unraveled, held together only by the weight of his gaze.

Joel smiled, just a little.

“You did so good for me, baby. So fuckin’ good.”

He leaned in before you could even catch your breath.

One hand still cradled the back of your head, the other brushing your thigh, grounding you. His mouth met yours in a way that felt earned—soft at first, just lips to lips, letting you settle into it.

You tasted yourself on him immediately.

Warm. Humid. Faintly salty. It made your whole body shiver.

You pulled back, eyes fluttering open like it surprised you. Joel didn’t move far. His forehead rested against yours.

“Sorry,” he said, voice a little rough.

You shook your head. “No. I just… I’ve never…”

His thumb stroked your cheek. “It’s alright.”

You blinked up at him, still a little dazed. “That was… nice.”

Joel huffed a soft laugh, like he wasn’t sure what to do with that word. “Nice?”

You nodded, suddenly shy again. “I liked it.”

His smile turned quieter—almost reverent.

“Good,” he murmured. “That’s all I wanted.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time. Your fingers found the hem of his shirt, pushing it up slowly, and he let you. Let you explore his skin, the soft stretch of his stomach, the trail of hair leading down beneath his jeans.

And still, he didn’t rush.

Just kept kissing you—until your body relaxed fully beneath his, until the last of your nerves melted into heat.

Joel pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing under your eye.

“You alright?” he asked, quiet.

You nodded. “I want to… I want to do something for you.”

His brow creased, surprised. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Your voice didn’t shake that time.

Joel hesitated like he was going to argue again, but then his gaze softened, and he gave the smallest nod. He leaned back against the pillows, watching you carefully—curious, cautious, but clearly affected.

You sat up slowly, heart pounding. Reached for his waistband with trembling fingers, giving him one last glance for permission. He lifted his hips, helping you ease his jeans down until he was bare to you.

Joel’s eyes darkened, but his voice stayed low. “You ever seen a man before? Like this?”

You shook your head, heart thudding. “Just… in pictures.”

He chuckled, more breath than sound. “Yeah?”

Your cheeks burned. “Not those kinds of pictures.”

He smiled, slow and fond. “Didn’t say they were.”

You swallowed. Then curled your fingers around him.

God—he was warm. Heavy. Hard already. You inhaled sharply as your hand moved, just a little, feeling the weight of him against your palm.

Joel groaned. Quiet. Barely restrained.

“Jesus, baby…”

You looked up, eyes wide. “Did I do something wrong?”

He shook his head fast, eyes pinched. “No. Fuck, no. Just—been holdin’ back too long.”

You smiled, nervous but proud. Then you started to stroke him—tentative at first, just trying to feel out the rhythm.

Joel let out a soft, broken sound and tipped his head back.

“Just like that,” he muttered. “You’re doin’ so good.”

Your confidence grew with every soft grunt he made. Every time his hips twitched or his hand gripped the edge of the couch harder.

“You wanna try your mouth?” he asked, voice rough with restraint.

You blinked. “I… yeah. But I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Joel’s eyes locked on yours—hungry and warm all at once. He cupped your cheek. “That’s okay, baby. I’ll teach you.”

You shifted down between his legs slowly, your knees pressing into the couch cushions as your hands settled on his thighs. He was already breathing heavier, watching you with those dark, heavy-lidded eyes that made your stomach flip.

“Start with your hand,” Joel murmured, voice low and coaxing. “Get comfortable first.”

You nodded, wrapping your fingers around him again. The weight of it still shocked you. How hard he felt. How hot.

You gave him a slow stroke. Then another.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Just like that. You’re doin’ perfect.”

The praise made your cheeks burn.

You looked up at him, a little shy. “Tell me what to do.”

Joel groaned. “Jesus, baby.”

His hand moved gently to your hair, not pushing, not guiding—just resting there. Steady.

“Kiss the tip,” he said softly. “Start there.”

You leaned in and pressed a hesitant kiss to the flushed head of his cock. His breath hitched. You did it again, slower, then let your tongue flick out to taste him.

“That’s it,” Joel said. His voice had gone hoarse. “Just your tongue, nice and easy.”

You licked a slow stripe up the underside, watching his stomach tense. He was biting back a sound, jaw locked tight.

“You can put it in your mouth now,” he said, rasping. “Only as much as you want.”

You parted your lips and wrapped them around him—just the tip at first. He exhaled sharply, hips twitching. You stilled, looking up at him in alarm, but Joel shook his head fast.

“Don’t stop,” he said. “You feel so fuckin’ good.”

You sank a little deeper, hollowing your cheeks. He groaned, one hand tightening slightly in your hair, still not pushing.

“Use your hand too, sweetheart,” he said. “You’re so good, baby. So fuckin’ good for me.”

Your hand stroked the base while your mouth worked the rest. You tried to keep a rhythm, breathing through your nose just like he told you.

When he swore under his breath, you felt it in your chest.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did. Eyes wide, lips stretched around him, cheeks flushed.

He groaned—deep and wrecked. “Fuck, that’s it.”

You took him deeper, feeling your throat tighten, your eyes sting. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t—not with the way he was looking at you.

“You okay?” he managed to ask, even through the haze.

You nodded around him, and he growled.

“Goddamn. You were made for this.”

You pulled off slowly, a little breathless, a string of spit catching between your lips and the tip of his cock. He was flushed, panting, hands clenched into fists beside him.

“Holy fuck,” he said, voice blown out. “You sure you’ve never done that before?”

You laughed quietly. “I told you I’d be a fast learner.”

Joel leaned forward and pulled you into his lap again. His hands were everywhere—your back, your thighs, the side of your neck.

“You still sure about all this?” he whispered.

You nodded. Quiet. A little nervous. But you didn’t look away.

His hand brushed down your thigh, then between your legs—stroking over you slowly, making sure you were ready. “Feels like you are,” he whispered. “But I need you to tell me.”

“I want you to,” you said, barely louder than a breath. “Please.”

He exhaled like that did something to him. Something deep.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m gonna go slow, alright? Real slow. You just hold on to me.”

You nodded again.

Then he lined himself up, hand guiding, the heat of him settling right where you were softest. “You let me know if it’s too much.”

The pressure started before you could prepare for it—warm and wide and stretching you in a way you didn’t expect. You gasped, instinctively grabbing his arm, nails digging in.

Joel stopped instantly. “Too much?”

“I—I don’t know,” you whispered. “It just—hurts a little.”

He leaned down, kissed your forehead, your cheek, your jaw.

“I know, baby,” he murmured. “You’re doing so good.”

His hand found yours, threading your fingers together. Then he kissed you again—slow and deep, distracting, stealing your focus from the tight pull of your body adjusting to him.

Bit by bit, he eased in further, pausing when your breath hitched, pressing kisses to your mouth until the discomfort dulled to something else. Something warmer.

When he was fully inside you, Joel didn’t move. He just held himself there, breathing hard against your skin. “You okay?”

You nodded, stunned by how full you felt. “I think so.”

“God, you’re tight,” he whispered. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

His hand brushed your hair back, and he kissed you again—gentler this time, slower. “Tell me when I can move.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, breathless. “Okay… now.”

Joel started to move, just barely. A gentle pull back, then a slow press in, rocking his hips with an almost reverent kind of care. He didn’t take his eyes off your face—not for a second.

“You’re doin’ so good,” he murmured. “Feelin’ okay?”

You nodded, still a little overwhelmed. The stretch still lingered, but there was something else starting to build beneath it—heat, pressure, something that made your toes curl when he pushed a little deeper.

He felt it.

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice rough with restraint. “There she is.”

He moved again, a little more confident this time, keeping his pace slow and steady. One hand stayed laced with yours. The other braced at your waist, thumb stroking gently over your skin.

Every inch of him felt impossibly warm. Full. You couldn’t believe how close he was—how real it was. And yet he still treated you like you might break.

“You okay?” he asked again, quieter now.

You bit your lip. “It… feels weird. Good. But—intense.”

His eyes darkened a little, smile soft at the corners. “Yeah? Gonna get better, sweetheart. Promise.”

He leaned down, kissed the side of your neck, murmuring something you barely caught—so tight, so sweet, can’t believe I’m inside you. The praise made your cheeks burn, made your hips tilt up without thinking.

He groaned. "Fuck, baby. Careful—you keep doin’ that, I won’t last long."

You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, heat buzzing through your chest and down your spine.

“I don’t care,” you whispered. “I just want to feel you.”

Something about that must’ve broken the last of his resolve, because Joel kissed you again—messy this time, like he needed to feel your mouth while he kept moving inside you, slow but deep.

You gasped into the kiss when he hit a spot that made your whole body jolt.

“There?” he asked, voice low and strained.

You nodded fast. “Yes—God, Joel—”

“That’s my girl,” he murmured. “Just let go. I’ve got you.”

He kept hitting that spot, rhythm just right, hand tightening around yours like he could feel every wave of heat building inside you. You were shaking, thighs trembling, nails digging into his shoulder—

And then it happened.

You came with a breathless cry, body locking up around him, vision going hazy at the edges. Joel groaned, burying his face in your neck as he lost it too, hips stuttering, voice rough against your skin.

You must’ve dozed off at some point, warm and aching and curled into Joel’s side, barely able to keep your eyes open.

He didn’t fall asleep.

You stirred when you felt his hand brush your thigh—gentle, coaxing. Not trying to start something again. Just checking. Making sure you were okay.

“Hey,” he murmured. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

You blinked, disoriented, but nodded. He helped you sit up slowly, one hand steady at your back. You winced just a little, hips sore, thighs still trembling—and he saw it.

“Easy,” he said, voice softer now. “I got you.”

Joel guided you to the bathroom, flipping on the dim light. He grabbed a towel, ran the tap until it was warm, and knelt in front of you like it was the most natural thing in the world. You watched him in the mirror—his face focused, his touch careful as he cleaned you up with slow, steady hands.

“Still okay?” he asked, glancing up at you.

You nodded, a little breathless. “Yeah. Just… sore.”

“That’s normal,” he murmured. “First time’s not easy. But you did real good.”

You looked down, cheeks burning.

He noticed that too. Stood up. Pressed a kiss to your forehead.

When he walked you back to bed, he helped you lie down, then disappeared for a second. You heard the fridge open, the sound of water filling a glass.

Joel came back with a bottle of ibuprofen and handed you the water. “Take a couple. You’ll be stiff in the morning.”

You gave him a sleepy smile. “What, no post-sex pancakes?”

He grinned. “Tomorrow.”

He climbed into bed beside you again, tugged you into his arms like he needed you close to sleep. You let your body settle into his chest, warm and safe and still humming from everything that happened.

His fingers traced your spine, slow and rhythmic.

“Get some rest,” he said. “M’not goin’ anywhere.”

You believed him.

And for once, that was enough.

[cressidagrey]

The Red Notebook

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:  Every season, Felicity Piastri keeps a red notebook—meticulously filled with race notes, corner analysis, and tyre data—not for the engineers, but for Oscar.

Warnings and Notes: This adds much needed context to a mention of the Red Notebook in the eventual Silverstone one shot. Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

Oscar knew every driver had their rituals.

Some tapped the side of the car before lights out. Some listened to the same playlist before quali. Some wore lucky socks. He wasn’t one for superstition. (Unless it was Felicity’s notes tucked into his gloves.)

Oscar was calm, calculated, precise. But if there was one thing in his world that carried the same sacred weight as a prayer before battle, it was this:

The red notebook.

Felicity had been keeping one since he was fifteen.

Oscar had never asked her to do it.

But she did it anyway.

Every season of his career, starting in 2016, from karting to F4 to now, had its own red notebook. Same brand, same size, same weight. Always red. The kind with a soft leather cover and a ribbon bookmark. He’d once asked why that colour.

Felicity had blinked. “Because Racing is in your blood.”

Every year, a new one. Lined up in a quiet row on the shelf at home. 2016. 2017. 2018. All the way through now.

The season’s notebook started the day before pre-season testing. She’d jotted down tyre compound data while he was still learning the steering wheel settings. 

She never missed a race.

Even before they’d been married, even before they’d been anything more than best friends, she’d been the one watching grainy livestreams of karting races at three in the morning. She’d pause, rewind, scribble something, frown, rewind again. Always in pencil first. Always rewatching later with a cup of tea and writing with black ink. 

Oscar still remembered when it started. One day he’d come back to Haileybury from a junior series race, his helmet still damp with sweat, and found her at the kitchen table with a notebook open beside her laptop. She’d been watching his onboard, pausing it at the exit of Turn 9.

"You were lifting earlier here," she’d said casually, as if they weren’t fifteen and chronically exhausted. "Were the rears giving out or was it just the balance shift?"

He’d stared at her. “How do you even—”

She’d shrugged. “I rewatched the last three races. Thought maybe it was setup. But I think it’s tire fatigue.”

She hadn’t been wrong.

She never was.

He’d protested, at first. Told her she didn’t have to. That she could sleep in. That she didn’t need to rewatch every one of his races in painstaking detail. But she’d just looked at him, calm and matter-of-fact.

“I like watching you work,” she said. “And I like knowing how to help.”

Since then, every race season had a notebook.

She’d never stopped. Not in F4. Not in Renault Eurocup. Not in F3. Not in F2. Not even now, when the races were streamed to millions, and Oscar had an entire team of strategists and data analysts and performance engineers.

By the time he got to F1, the habit was ingrained.

Every season had a new red notebook.

Neatly labeled with the year on the inside cover. Oscar – 2019. Oscar – 2020. Oscar – 2021.

 All the way up to Oscar – 2024, tucked beside her laptop, the pen clipped to the side like always.

Each race had its own section—track map hand-drawn in the corner, weather data scribbled in the margins, key overtakes underlined in green, mistakes circled in blue. 

Notes on setup balance, driver behavior, tire drop-off. Observations from free practice. Quali patterns. Sector deltas compared across weekends.

One red notebook for every season.

Lined pages, neatly labelled.

Her handwriting somehow managing to be both clinical and caring.

Oscar sometimes thought about all those notebooks. How they formed a silent record of his life—not the headlines, not the points on a screen, but the real story. The choices. The nuance. The growing.

Oscar had once asked what she’d do with them all.

She’d just smiled and said, “Maybe I’ll give them to you. When you’re old and don’t remember why you did all this.”

But he thought she was wrong.

Because all he’d have to do was look at her.

And he’d remember.

Every Monday night—after every race, whether he won, DNFed, or trundled home in P9—they’d debrief.

Not officially. Not in a team room. Just the two of them. 

Over the phone. Or curled up on a couch somewhere. He’d grab a water bottle. She’d open the notebook. And they’d go through it—one sector at a time.

“You want the good or the bad first?” she’d ask.

And Oscar would always say, “Start with the bad.”

She never softened it. That wasn’t her style. But she never made it cruel. Just observations, always grounded in care.

“You were oversteering into Turn 4,” she might say. “You hesitated on the switchback in Lap 36. And you always get a little sloppy after safety car restarts.”

Then she’d pause. Let him breathe.

“Your tire management in the middle stint was beautiful, though,” she’d add. “And your dive on Lap 21? That was perfect.”

She always ended on that. Something kind. Something true.

It wasn’t just racecraft. She tracked patterns— behavior, tyre drop-off curves, pit wall communications. 

She never shoved it in his face. Never acted like she knew better. She just… saw him. All of him. His driving, his instincts, his cracks, his triumphs. And she held it with reverence. She had, always.

That was Felicity.

Not loud. Not flashy. But constant. Fiercely observant. Quietly all in.

Oscar had always known Felicity was the kind of person who remembered things.

Not in the casual way, either—this wasn’t *oh yeah, I think you mentioned that once* kind of memory.

This was weaponized recall. Pattern-tracking. Observation to the point of quiet obsession.

She always said it wasn’t for coaching. She didn’t have the right license for that.

But they both knew—Felicity’s mind was the license.

Oscar hadn’t missed a single debrief with her since he was fiteen.

Even now — full McLaren kit, media commitments, a dozen engineers and strategists surrounding him — he still came home after every race and sat at the kitchen table with her, red notebook open between them, a cup of tea cooling by her elbow.

She’d never push. Never judge. Just turned a page and say, “I think you started lifting earlier here. Did it feel different?”

And she was always right.

He didn’t know what he’d do without her voice in his ear. Her notes. Her calm, razor-sharp logic that made him better every single season — not by force, but by faith. She believed in him like it was a given. Like his success was a shared equation they were solving together.

That notebook was sacred now. A quiet, red witness to every win, every loss, every hard-earned point. 

Felicity never missed a race. Never skipped a page. Never stopped showing up, quietly and completely, with the kind of devotion that made him ache.

And Oscar knew how lucky he was to be loved like that. To be studied and understood and quietly backed with a red notebook full of margins and maybes.

By 2023, the red notebook wasn’t just Felicity’s anymore.

It was still hers in the way rituals are—quiet, sacred, consistent. But now it had new fingerprints on it. Smaller ones.

Bee had started watching races more intently after the summer break that year. Not just to cheer for “Papa’s car” or to spot “the man who always says ‘box box’ in the funny accent.” No—she started paying attention. The way Felicity did. The way Oscar did.

It began with questions.

“Why did the other car pit sooner than Papa?”

“Was he happy with that last lap?”

Oscar hadn’t thought much of it at first. Just curiosity. The kind of natural interest you’d expect from a kid who was surrounded by racing. And who could identify tyre compounds before she could spell tangerine.

But then, one day after the Dutch GP, he opened the notebook and found a sticky note wedged between Lap 28 and 29. Bee’s handwriting was still wobbly, more squiggle than letter, but it was there. Carefully written in her purple glitter pen:

“I think Papa was fast in the twisty bits. The Red car was slow. Tell him?”

He’d laughed. Soft and stunned and warm all over.

Felicity had just smiled. “She asked if she could help.”

After that, it became a thing.

 Usually marked with a tiny star, or Felicity’s added annotation: “Bee’s call. She might be right.”

And the thing was — sometimes she was.

Bee had an instinct for rhythm. For flow. She couldn’t articulate it like her mother could, but she felt when something was off. Her feedback wasn’t technical, but it was honest. Raw. Oscar had learned not to dismiss it.

After the Japanese GP, she had scrawled, “Car sounded grumpy today.” Turned out there had been a small issue with engine mapping.

Bee’s contributions were scattered throughout the pages like little bursts of joy — added while Felicity reviewed footage with her on her lap or at the table. Sometimes Oscar came home to find the notebook open beside a half-drunk juice box and a crayon drawing of Turn 4 with a heart around it.

He never took them out.

Felicity never corrected them either. Never scolded Bee for scribbling in what had once been her own sacred system. If anything, she looked quietly proud.

“She watches with me now,” Felicity had told him once, her voice soft as she passed him the notebook. “She wanted to write something after Suzuka. Said she thought your car was sliding more than usual in the esses.”

Oscar had blinked. “She said esses?”

“Specifically. She said ‘I think it’s the bit where the car goes whoosh whoosh left right left really fast.’ So… the esses.”

Oscar had laughed. Then paused.

Bee was three.

Sometimes she asked questions that made even him pause — about racing lines and brake bias and why tyre wear seemed worse on warmer weekends. 

Sometimes, when Oscar flipped it open after a race, he’d find a different kind of note squeezed into the margins — messier handwriting, uneven spelling, sparkly gel pen in place of Felicity’s precise script.

“You did really really good at the overtake!!” “I think maybe you were sad in the middle. Was it because the tyres were bad?” “Next time try even more zoom!!”

There was one he’d never forget — a page where Bee had stuck a neon orange post-it and written, painstakingly, in huge capital letters:

“I WAS SO PROUD I DID A LITTLE JUMP.”

Underneath, in smaller, steadier handwriting:

Same. – F

Other times she just wanted to draw pictures of his helmet and write “GO PAPA” in shaky block letters across the page. But she was watching. Really watching.

And the red notebook had become a shared ritual.

Oscar would come home after races and find them curled together on the couch, the replay paused mid-turn, Felicity with her pen and Bee with her toy car in hand, mimicking every motion.

And when the notebook was passed to him, it felt heavier. Fuller. Like legacy.

Because in those pages—lined with analytics and corrections and glittery three-year-old commentary—was something unshakeable.

A family.

A home.

And the quiet, unspoken truth:

They saw him.

Every lap. Every decision. Every tenth gained or lost.

They watched. They learned. They remembered.

And in between the margins and the tyre notes and the childish stickers that said "GO PAPAYA GO!!", Oscar Piastri could read something else:

He was never doing this alone.

And after all these years, Oscar still found himself sitting on the couch, a cup of tea in his hand, watching the girl he loved scribble something in the margin of the notebook — the red one, the current one — and thinking:

She knows me better than telemetry ever could.

He didn’t need a strategist when he had Felicity. He didn’t need a publicist, a hype reel, or a season highlight package.

He had a girl with a red notebook and a brain like fire — and a heart that chose to use it for love.

And when he won—really won—it would be written there, too.

In pencil first.

In ink, later.

With love, always.

Written down. Every season. Every race. Every lap.

[luna-azzurra]

How to Write Long-Distance Friendships

⊹ Most of the friendship lives on screens now. And no, that doesn’t make it less real. It’s TikToks at Midnight, blurry selfies captioned “alive I guess,” a random “thinking of you” that hits harder than a Shakespeare monologue. These tiny, chaotic digital crumbs? That’s modern affection, guys.

⊹ Time zones are the actual villain. Like, congrats, your best friend is awake when you’re half-dead. You get really good at leaving messages in little bottles ( I mean, texts) that’ll wash up on their shore eight hours later. It's strangely poetic, if you ignore how annoying it is.

⊹ Calls turn into special events... You plan them like dinner reservations. Reschedule them like flaky exes and when they do happen, it’s either three hours of emotional unpacking or fifteen minutes of “I love you but my soul is leaking out my ears.” Either way, it counts.

⊹ They don’t know you're right now. Not really, they weren’t there for the coworker who ruined your day or the little bakery you fell in love with. So you have to explain everything, but sometimes you don’t. And that weird little space between what they know and what they don’t? That’s amazing, for Storytelling.

⊹ You start summarizing your life like a newsletter. “Still alive. Work sucks. Ate something questionable.” Not because you don’t want to share (you do) but because it’s hard to cram the full play-by-play into a 30-second voice note between meetings. Distance edits you down, that’s just how it works.

⊹ Big stuff hits differently. The good, the bad, the absolutely unhinged... it all feels heavier when you can’t scream-laugh or ugly-cry in the same room. No amount of phone calls makes up for sitting on the floor together eating cereal out of the box and feeling like maybe the world isn’t ending.

⊹ And yet, the love finds ways. It shows up in birthday texts sent in the wrong time zone, in Venmo notes like “for coffee and emotional damage,” And in playlists with suspiciously specific vibes.

⊹ Some don’t survive the distance. That’s just the truth, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t real or important. And the ones that do? the ones that hang on through all the missed calls and delayed replies and half-finished conversations? Those are steel-reinforced, weirdly telepathic, practically immortal friendships. The kind worth writing about.

[dandydilfdiddler]

Notes while I read in chronological order because I am a yapper and I love to scream about fics and I ain't got friends I can scream to in DM's so the world is gonna see the filth

THEY ARE A FAMILY YOUR HONOR. The fact the boys saw the chance to move close and they did has me crying in the corner. I need my Dagger Family, not squad, family. I came to Bob Floyd from Bob Reynolds okay, that means Thunderbolts Found Family is my saved tag. The fact I get this now for the Daggers. Yes.

I love Natasha. I just do. The idea of living with her has my heart swooning. She is already a goddess but I am now imagining being besties and having movie nights on our apartment. Thank you ❤️

*clutching my chest* It’s always open.

*sobbing* they steal netflix, this is so brother coded it hurts

Oop, yeah the snapping is valid but even I’m ducking from the fire

He IS a gentleman!!!!!!

Kicking my feet and giggling at Bob all huffy. Something about a jealous sweet boy has me melty every time

“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.” GIVE ME DIRTY, FOUL MOUTHED BOBBY OR GIVE ME DEATH. The only time I want to be disrespected is by fictional men.

Oh wait. Oh wait did you answer my prayers? Natasha you are a girl’s girl. Please. I am praying on my knees.

My prayers are answered. God is good. Make him snap

This is a team effort and nothing says bonding like trying to torture the cutie patootie

HAHAHAHA PLEASE I AM PICTURING THEM IN A HUDDLE CHEESY HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL STYLE TO PLOT

“… but the boys insisted he only sends that when he doesn’t know what else to say. Which, apparently, is a good sign.” This is correct. This. This is the realism I need in my fics.

MICKEY! He wouldn’t be wrong tho

Baby grey sweats is universal for sex appeal in men. I am delulu and believe that Bob knows that to be seductive on purpose (even if it is cuter that he has no idea)

THEY ARE SO GOOD!!!! THEY KEEP THE PANTY SHOT PRIVATE!!!!!! I AM SCREAMING I LOVE THIS I NEED THIS!!!!! A MILLION VERSIONS OF THIS KIND OF FRIENDSHIP FOR ME PLEASE!!!!!!!!!

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. This man, this poor man has no chance hearing about the thong. As a chronically forgetful girlie tho the fact it was all that was left is so relatable that this is believable.

“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.” When I grow up I want to be able to drop the funniest fucking lines known to man in a fic too.

Crying, his foggy glasses will always get me. I wear glasses. You fog those bitches only in the most extreme sense. Adorable.

I love Reuben. Thank you. A king.

They are all conspiring and I love them. This dynamic keeps getting better and better and I am so happy.

TENSION NOOOOO NAT WOULD NEVER. SHE IS A BESTIE

Bobby! You do have a lil devious side. (eating it with a spoon)

“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. ” YES BEOTCH!!!!!!!!!!!!! When the reader insert is me I totally lose my shit

The added tension with the Nat stuff has my stomach twisting too and I can respect the game for the fic but goddamnit noooooooooooo

SHOT SHOT SHOT EVERYBODY

NO WAIT GO BACK STOP HEY THAT WASN’T NICE I THOUGHT I WAS GETTING A BODY SHOT

Okay but I do love Bob being a little shit

I do admit I have read a Bob x Hangman fic as a one off because I liked the tags and this just flashed me back and I gotta do a reread now - you are serving all top gun writers

“sound halfway between outrage and existential crisis “ baby this is an existential crisis. Bob has a way of being everyone’s type

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

“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.” A GIRL’S GIRL. But like… how could you not if it’s that big… like… that’s dinner

The food set up. Yes. You are a god of literature.

Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww he is so polite changing in his room my heart I am swooooooning

Pillows. I see that. I know Bob is a real man with pillows plural.

I love them. Reuben I love you.

LMFAOOOOOO YOU LITTLE SHITS I LOVE YOU NOT THE BEER - at least he apologized first

Oh yes. Oh yes. Wearing his clothes. Oh god I love this trope. Did you make this fic for me beacuase it feels like you did.

When a nerd is more interested in you than their nerd thing. I am in love. Swooning. Screaming. Running around my house because I need a walk to get this tension off.

JAVY NO WHAT THE FUCK YOU COCK BLOCK

Oh this is better. Yes. Oh. Oh he is going for it. Please.

Yummy. Oh when they say they shouldn’t I froth.

NOOOOOOO GONE NOOOOOOOOOOOO NO NO NONONONOONONONO

This fic is edging me worse than a regular session

Ouch. You are an amazing writer because my chest hurts too irl

OH JEALOUS?? OH OH OH OH You wrote this for me. I know it. Cosmically the stars aligned and put you on my discover page on tumblr so I could get this fic

REUDEN YOU ARE SUCH A GOOD FRIEND

Nat you goddess. I love you being a little puppeteer

Yes. No dress is too short when you have an objective

LMFAO JAKE SAID “YOU LIARS”

Awwww okay I want to smack his cocky ass a little less ❤️

I woke my dog up cackling at “Oh, God,” Natasha mutters. “They’re multiplying.” 

REUBEN YOU LIL GOSSIP BITCH I LOVE YOU

LMFAOOOOOO THE ABS GOT THE GROUP DROOL ON

Jake is evil - gimme 10

SCREAMINGING YESSSSSSS YES SNAP YESSSSSSS

My heart fell outta my pussy at the “you’re in trouble now”

FINALLLLLLYYYYY A KISS A KISS THST GETS THE WHOLE BEACH PREGNANT

END? END? WHERE’S THE REST O YA?! MORE?!!! I CANT LIVE WITHOUT MORE?!

1000000000/10 - amazing. Perfect. I love this.

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.

[yukkiji]

surprise, baby

on his birthday, hinata thought you forgot—but what he didn't know was that you were already on a flight, halfway across the world, just to surprise and remind him you'd always be his favorite gift.

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. hinata shoyo x fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance, smut, timeskip!hinata

wc: 8.4k

warning: 18+ mdni., smut. nsfw. praise kink. oral (m and f receiving). multiple orgasms. overstimulation. squirting. food play. hair pulling. dom!hinata. unprotected sex. hinata loves readers boobs. lingerie. multiple sex positions. slight voyeurism.

author's note: happy birthday shoyo! this was supposed to be posted yesterday, but i was so busy organizing some stuff huhu

he thought you forgot.

not in the dramatic, storming-out, shouting match kind of way.

but in that quiet, heavy kind of hurt—the one that sits in your chest all day, just waiting for something that never comes.

hinata had already gotten dozens of birthday greetings.

his teammates tackled him in the sand that morning with cheers and a beach-made cake. old friends lit up the group chat. even the landlady knocked on his door with a homemade papaya dessert and sang to him in soft, clumsy portuguese.

but you?

nothing.

but you hadn’t messaged him.

not a single word. not even a “hey.” not even a lazy emoji you sometimes sent when you were tired but still wanted him to know you remembered.

you had always been the first to greet him on his birthday. no matter the difference in time zones. no matter how late it was. even during those stretches where he was halfway across the world, even when you were sick and bedridden, even when he was mid-flight and unreachable—you still found a way. scheduled messages. early voice memos. paper letters you’d timed to arrive at the perfect moment. you’d never once let it pass unnoticed.

but today, there was nothing.

what hurt more was that this wasn’t just today. this was already the second day without a reply from you. his messages yesterday had gone unopened. his usual “good night, i love you” left hanging in the silence. unread. unseen. not even marked.

he had tried to keep himself together. had told himself that maybe you were swamped with work, or sleeping through a long overdue rest, or maybe something had come up and your phone was out of reach. but it was hard to hold onto those thoughts when the hours passed and still nothing came.

he wasn’t angry. he wasn’t even upset, not really.

he was just starting to feel small in the quiet. like maybe he had done something wrong without realizing it. like maybe something between you had shifted and no one had told him. like maybe you had simply… forgotten.

the thought settled into his chest heavier with each hour.

by the time his teammates pulled him to the beach to celebrate, he could barely fake the usual brightness he was known for. he still smiled, still spiked, still cheered when the ball hit sand—but his heart wasn’t in any of it.

his mind kept wandering back to his phone, to the empty screen that hadn’t lit up all day, to the absence of your name that usually came with a teasing message or a voice note just meant for him. the silence carved a hollow space inside him that only grew heavier with each passing hour. he tried not to show it, tried to laugh with his teammates, play like nothing was wrong, but he was sulking—quietly, bitterly. not the kind of sulking that came with loud complaints or visible tantrums, but the kind that settled deep in the chest, dragging everything else down with it.

when the sun had begun to set, casting long orange streaks across the shoreline, his teammates started packing up—their laughter fading into gentle goodbyes. they patted him on the back, ruffled his hair, and wished him a happy birthday one last time, their voices loud and warm, but none of it quite reaching the part of him that mattered. he smiled for them, because he always did, but it didn’t reach his eyes. the ache in his chest was still there, pulsing quietly beneath the surface, heavier now that the day was nearly over and still… nothing from you.

he slung the towel over his shoulder and walked barefoot through the sand, tracing the familiar path that led to the apartment building just a few minutes away. it stood right along the beachfront, nestled in the perfect corner of the coast, where he could still hear the waves crashing as he stepped off the sand and onto pavement. the air smelled like salt and sunscreen, but none of it felt like home the way it usually did. not without you. not with this silence still hanging between you.

opening his door, hinata could feel something shift in his chest. it wasn’t panic, not exactly—but something soft and startling, like a quiet breath held between beats. something didn’t feel right… but at the same time, it did. his eyes dropped to the floor, and there they were—your shoes, neatly placed beside his. not forgotten, not kicked off in a rush, but arranged carefully like you always did when you came over. like you belonged there.

his heart thudded hard against his ribs.

hope bloomed in his chest so suddenly, so fiercely, it almost hurt.

the scent hit him next. lavender. not the sharp kind from candles or air freshener, but the subtle, worn-in kind that always clung to your skin and clothes. like home. like you.

he stepped inside slowly, as if afraid that moving too fast would break the spell. each step down the hallway was cautious, reverent, like he was walking toward something sacred. and then—there they were. your luggages. two of them. sitting near the entrance, still zipped but clearly used, one with your little red tag hanging off the side.

hinata stood there, stunned, for a second too long. his mouth parted. his fingers twitched like he didn’t know what to do with them. and then, like a switch flipping in his chest, he was moving—quiet, quick steps through the hallway, pulse pounding in his ears, something between disbelief and joy burning behind his eyes.

he heard soft humming coming from the kitchen—faint, familiar, and achingly real. he held his breath as he turned the corner, half afraid he was dreaming. but there you were.

standing with your back to him, barefoot on the tile, wearing his shirt—the one you always stole from his closet, oversized and worn, the hem landing just at the tops of your thighs. there was no sign of shorts beneath it, just the bare stretch of your legs moving gently as you swayed to the quiet tune you were humming.

you looked so natural there, like you had never left. like you had always belonged in this space, in his space, in his shirt, humming like the silence hadn’t broken him all day.

hinata’s mouth went dry. his heart slammed against his ribs.

you turned toward him, still smiling, and in your hands was a small cake—messily decorated, the frosting slightly smudged at the edge, and a single candle planted right in the center. the kind of cake you probably had to sneak around to make or buy without him noticing. the kind that made his chest tighten with something overwhelming and warm.

“happy birthday, sho,” you said, your voice soft but steady.

he didn’t speak at first. his throat had closed up, his heart stuttering somewhere between disbelief and relief. he stepped forward slowly, eyes locked on you like you might disappear if he blinked.

“you…” his voice cracked. “you’re here?”

you nodded, smile deepening. “surprise.”

he stared for a second longer, then let out a shaky breath that sounded half like a laugh. “you’re the best birthday gift i’ve ever had.”

you lifted the cake slightly. “should i bring this over to the table or—”

“no,” he said, voice suddenly low, husky. “the cake can wait.”

your eyes widened slightly, heart jumping as he stepped in closer.

“sho—”

“no,” he repeated, curling a hand behind your neck and kissing you breathless. “you kept me waiting all day. two whole days. i thought you forgot me.”

his kiss was hungry, unrelenting, like he was trying to make up for every unread message, every unanswered call. he barely gave you time to set the cake down on the counter before his hands found your waist and lifted you onto it, mouth never leaving yours.

“you sulking was cute, though,” you teased, breathless between kisses.

“don’t,” he groaned, nipping at your lower lip. “i was fucking miserable.”

“guess i should make it up to you, huh?”

his hands slid up your thighs, pushing the hem of his own shirt higher, revealing bare skin and the edge of red lace. when he saw it—really saw it—his breath caught hard in his throat.

“you’re not wearing shorts,” he murmured, voice roughening. his gaze dipped lower, pupils dilating. “and is that…”

you nodded, biting your lip, heat rising to your cheeks. “your favorite. figured you’d be greedy tonight.”

“greedy?” his voice dropped an octave, lips curling into something dangerous. “baby, you have no idea.”

hinata’s hands ghosted up the sides of your thighs, thumbs hooking under the edge of your shirt—his shirt—and in one slow, reverent motion, he peeled it off you.

his breath hitched again.

the red lace bra was barely anything—completely see-through, your nipples soft and peaked under the delicate floral pattern, the fabric kissing your skin like a whisper. his hands froze, breath stuttering out of him as his eyes dragged over you like he hadn’t seen you in years.

“holy shit,” he murmured, reverently. “you wore this for me?”

you nodded, lips parted, watching his jaw clench and unclench. “it’s been months since you’ve touched me, sho. figured i’d give you something to remember tonight by.”

“months,” he echoed, voice dropping. “yeah. too fucking long.”

his mouth was on your breast in the next second—licking over the sheer lace, tongue wet and hot as he swirled over your nipple before closing his lips around it and sucking. the friction of the fabric sent sparks shooting straight to your core. you gasped, back arching, and he groaned against your skin.

“fuck, i missed your taste,” he mumbled, moving to your other breast. “missed everything. the way you sound, the way you moan, the way you fall apart for me.”

your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him growl.

and then, without warning, he dropped to his knees in front of the counter.

his hands slid down your thighs again, and he kissed the inside of your knee like it was sacred. “stay right there, baby.”

you shivered as he spread your legs wide on the counter, eyes locked with yours the entire time.

“look at you,” he whispered. “you’re already so wet for me.”

your panties—thin, red, and nearly transparent—were soaked through. the triangle of fabric barely covered you, and from his position between your thighs, the evidence of your arousal glistened even through the lace.

he didn’t touch yet.

instead, he leaned in, tongue flat and hot as he licked the wet fabric slowly, from bottom to top, groaning into you like he was starved. the sensation made your thighs twitch, your body instinctively rocking toward his mouth.

“fuck—sho—”

“mmhm,” he hummed, doing it again. “you taste just as good through this. but i want more.”

he pulled the panties aside, fingers sliding the soaked lace down your legs and tossing it somewhere behind him. your cunt was exposed now, dripping, desperate.

“perfect,” he said softly, almost in awe. “absolutely perfect.”

then—he smirked, reached over the counter, and grabbed the little cake.

“sho?” you blinked.

he dipped his finger into the frosting, gathered a dollop, and smeared it gently over your clit.

“you surprised me,” he said, licking the icing off his fingertip. “so i’m returning the favor.”

and then he devoured you.

his mouth latched onto your icing-covered clit, tongue flicking, sucking, licking in slow, messy circles as you cried out and gripped the edge of the counter. the mixture of sweetness and heat made your head spin. his tongue was relentless—pressing into you, tracing every inch, flicking just right as he sucked the icing clean, only to go again like he couldn’t get enough.

your hips rolled into his face. he groaned like it was heaven.

“taste even better than i remember,” he said between licks, voice muffled, tongue greedy. “missed this. missed you.”

“sho—i’m gonna—!”

he flattened his tongue and circled harder, letting your orgasm crash over you right there on the counter. your moans echoed off the kitchen tiles, and your thighs clamped around his head. he stayed buried, licking you through the waves, only pulling back when you slumped forward, gasping.

“one,” he said with a grin, licking his lips. “and we’re just getting started.”

your eyes fluttered, still hazy. “oh my god…”

before you could recover, hinata leaned in and kissed you again—slow and deep, tongue curling against yours, mouth tasting of sugar and sin. his hands moved with purpose, slipping behind your back, fingers unclasping your bra in one practiced motion. he didn’t even wait for it to slide off completely before trailing his kisses downward, lips hot and eager against your neck, your collarbone, the slope between your breasts. he was leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses that turned into love bites, dotting your skin with little red blooms, hungry to worship every inch of you he’d been missing.

but when he reached the valley of your chest, his breath hot and panting against your skin, you suddenly pushed him back with a palm to his shoulder.

“wait—” he blinked at you, slightly breathless, confused and aroused all at once. “what’s wrong?”

you smirked, eyes gleaming with mischief as you reached for the small frosting piping bag you had made earlier. the one you used to decorate his cake just hours ago. you didn't say a word as you squeezed the tip and drew a slow, teasing swirl right over one nipple—then the other. thick, glossy icing coated your skin in spirals and streaks, and you didn’t stop there. you smeared it with your fingers, dragging it across your breasts, sticky and sweet, your breath hitching at the sensation.

it was messy. decadent. obscene. and the sticky chill of frosting mixing with your heat made your nipples pebble instantly.

“holy fuck,” hinata breathed.

you bit your lip, watching his jaw flex as he stared at you—at your breasts, now gleaming with icing, skin flushed and shimmering. you felt sticky, yes, but your horniness drowned out everything else. the way he looked at you—like he was unraveling—made your core clench.

“you’re really trying to kill me,” he muttered, kneeling again with purpose. “you know that?”

“i’m just giving you your birthday cake,” you teased, voice husky. “what, don’t you want a taste?”

hinata didn’t answer. he just dove in.

his tongue dragged a long, slow line up your breast, collecting frosting and saliva in one warm pass. you gasped, fingers flying into his hair, hips instinctively arching toward him. he latched onto one nipple, groaning at the mix of sweet and skin, sucking greedily before switching to the other—licking, nibbling, moaning like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

and maybe it was.

“so good,” he breathed between licks. “you’re so fucking sweet, baby.”

his mouth left your skin with a wet sound, only for him to grab the piping bag from your lax fingers. he gave you a look—mischievous, ravenous—and squeezed another thick swirl of icing directly onto your already overstimulated, perked-up nipple. the cool frosting made you shiver violently, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat.

“let’s see how much more you can take,” he murmured, licking his lips, eyes locked on your chest like a man worshiping something divine.

you could feel it now—the heat between your legs turning molten. your slickness was dripping onto the counter, a soft obscene sound every time your thighs shifted. it was shameless, messy, and utterly overwhelming. but you didn’t care. not when he looked at you like this. not when his tongue was back on your chest, slowly, torturously licking the icing off again—sucking your nipple into his mouth and groaning deep in his throat like he needed it to live.

you whimpered, arching toward him, fingers trembling as they gripped the edge of the counter behind you. your pussy throbbed—clenching around nothing, begging for his fingers, his tongue, his cock—anything.

hinata’s mouth never left your chest.

he squeezed the last bit of frosting from the piping bag, slow and deliberate, letting thick spirals drip onto your breasts. he painted over the curve of one, then the other, covering your skin in messy loops until the whole surface was sticky, shimmering in sugar and saliva. your nipples were red, achingly hard, buried under icing and his insistent tongue.

“fuck, you’re unreal,” he groaned as he licked across your sternum, dragging his mouth from one nipple to the other, switching between soft sucks and sharp flicks of his tongue. “so fucking good. so soft. i could do this all night.”

he was doing it all night.

each slow drag of his mouth made your thighs tremble. your core ached from neglect, slick pooling between your legs, soaking the counter beneath you. you needed relief—needed it—but he was still so focused on your breasts, on cleaning up every bit of the mess he made. the frosting was almost gone now, melting into your skin from his body heat and saliva, leaving behind a sticky sheen that only made everything filthier.

desperate, you let one hand trail down your stomach, slipping between your thighs. your fingers found your clit instantly—wet, swollen, throbbing—and you began to rub tight, fast circles, chasing your second orgasm. your eyes fluttered shut, lips parting in a gasp.

and then suddenly—slap.

a sharp sound filled the air. your hand jerked away on instinct.

hinata had slapped it.

“ah—sho—”

his eyes were dark. mouth still glistening, fingers gripping your wrist as he pulled your hand away from your pussy. his jaw clenched as he stared at you—something between mock scolding and complete lust.

“you really think i’m gonna let you do that yourself?” he growled, grabbing your thighs and yanking you closer to the edge of the counter. “you’re mine tonight. only i get to make you cum.”

before you could answer, two fingers slid inside you—deep, fast, curling just right. you gasped, legs flying open wider as your walls clenched down hard. hinata leaned forward again, still playing with your breasts, licking and sucking, all while his fingers thrust deep into your soaked pussy, curling up into your sweet spot over and over again.

“fuck—you’re already so tight,” he grunted, voice low against your chest. “you were gonna come without me, huh? greedy little thing.”

your hips bucked, moans pouring out of you as his fingers worked you faster, thumb circling your clit in perfect sync. your body was already on edge—still sensitive from the first orgasm, hypersensitive from his mouth, the frosting, the heat, everything.

“sh-sho—i’m gonna—!”

“yeah, you are,” he murmured, dragging his tongue across your nipple again. “give it to me, baby. let me feel you.”

your eyes rolled back, mouth falling open in a silent cry as your second orgasm ripped through you. your walls spasmed around his fingers, juices gushing out and soaking his hand, your thighs, the counter. hinata groaned at the sight, watching you unravel—your body arching, tits bouncing, mouth slack with pleasure.

he didn't stop right away. his fingers slowed, easing you down from the high, but he was still inside you, still pressing soft kisses across your sticky, marked-up chest like he wasn’t finished yet.

because he wasn’t.

hinata grabbed you by the waist and lifted you off the counter, steadying you when your legs wobbled from the two orgasms he’d already pulled from you. your skin was flushed and still glistening—sticky from sweat and frosting, breasts shining from his tongue and attention. you were bare, completely, the red lace discarded somewhere behind you, leaving nothing between you and his greedy hands.

he turned you around gently, and you let him—your palms bracing the edge of the counter again as he took a moment to admire you. your back arched, hips tilted up, ass fully on display—slick dripping down your thighs. you felt his hand trail up your spine slowly, fingers light and reverent. then came his mouth.

he pressed soft kisses along your back, trailing down your spine like a slow fuse of heat. when he reached your lower back, he groaned quietly, then dropped to his knees again.

his lips pressed to the crease where your thigh met your ass, kissing slowly before his tongue dipped lower—licking a long stripe through your folds.

you shuddered, gripping the counter.

“so fucking wet,” he murmured, voice thick, just inches from your core. “and i haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

his mouth sealed over your clit in the next second, sucking hard.

you cried out, knees buckling slightly. his hands gripped your ass firmly to keep you upright, spreading you open wider. he devoured you like he was starved—groaning against your pussy, tongue moving in slow, thorough circles until your moans turned shaky again.

when you clenched around nothing, desperate for more, he pulled away with one last lick, standing quickly. and before you could even turn around, he spun you to face him and caught your mouth in another deep kiss—messy, wet, tasting entirely of your arousal.

you whimpered into it, wrapping your arms around his shoulders just as his hands found your thighs.

he picked you up with ease—your bare, slick body clinging to his like you belonged there. instinct had you wrapping your legs around his waist, the heat of his cock pressing against your pussy through the fabric of his shorts, your body arching toward him, needing friction.

your hands fumbled at the hem of his shirt, dragging it up over his chest. he broke the kiss just long enough to pull it off and toss it aside, his eyes never leaving yours.

“bed?” you breathed against his lips.

hinata didn’t say a word. he carried you down the hallway like you were weightless, like he needed you in the bedroom now.

your back hit the mattress seconds later, the sheets cool against your overheated skin. hinata hovered over you, bare-chested and flushed, his eyes dark with something raw and aching. but it was his body—broad and lean with muscle, every inch of him toned and golden from the brazilian sun—that made your breath hitch. his shoulders looked wider, his arms more defined, and his chest, glistening slightly with sweat, flexed as he held himself over you. his abs tensed with every breath. he was bigger. stronger. tan and utterly unfair. the sight of him alone made your pussy clench with need.

“you got hotter,” you whispered, breathless, fingers trailing down the sharp cut of his abs.

he smirked, leaning closer until his lips hovered just above yours. “you’re one to talk,” he murmured, eyes raking down your naked body like he was starving. “you’re dripping. i’ve barely touched you again.”

and just like that, he kissed you—deep and full of promise—like he planned to make good on every filthy thought running through his mind.

your chest rose and fell as you stared up at him, lips swollen from his kisses, body already aching in all the right places. he looked like a dream above you—hair messy, golden skin glowing in the low light, chest still heaving from how tightly he’d held himself back. but you wanted to give him something too. needed to.

“can i suck you off?” you whispered, voice shy but laced with hunger.

his jaw clenched, nostrils flaring just slightly. you watched the way his cock twitched beneath the waistband of his shorts. he didn’t answer at first—just sat back, chest rising with anticipation as he shifted to the edge of the bed and spread his legs slightly, his eyes locked on yours.

“you wanna be my good girl tonight?” he murmured, voice thick, already dazed from how ruined you looked.

you nodded eagerly, slipping off the bed and dropping to your knees on the floor in front of him, your bare body catching the dim light, curves still flushed and slick from everything he'd already done. your eyes met his, lips parted as your fingers reached for his waistband. he raised his hips to help, letting you pull his shorts and briefs down in one slow motion.

his cock sprang free—hard, flushed at the tip, already leaking with precum. you licked your lips at the sight.

“so pretty,” you whispered, wrapping your hand around the base and giving him a slow stroke.

hinata groaned low in his throat, one hand sinking into your hair. “fuck, you look so good on your knees. my pretty girl.”

you leaned in, tongue flicking out to lap at the bead of precum at the tip. his thighs tensed, and you smiled—then dragged your tongue slowly along the underside of his cock, licking from base to tip like you were savoring it.

“just like that,” he breathed, eyes heavy. “such a good girl for me…”

you wrapped your lips around him, hollowing your cheeks as you slowly began to take him deeper. your hand stroked what your mouth couldn’t reach yet, and you could feel his grip in your hair tighten—gentle but possessive, like he didn’t want to let go.

his head fell back slightly, a moan slipping from his lips as you bobbed your head, tongue swirling, sucking harder when he twitched in your mouth.

“fuck, baby…” he hissed, hips jerking slightly. “your mouth feels like heaven.”

he looked down again, watching you with blown pupils, chest rising and falling harder now. “look at you… on your knees for me, taking it so well. such a fucking good girl.”

you moaned around him in response, loving the way his praise made heat coil in your belly all over again. spit dribbled from the corner of your mouth, but you didn’t stop—not when his muscles tensed, not when his voice dropped into a groan that sounded like it had been building for weeks.

“you keep going like that,” he warned, voice almost breaking, “and i’m gonna cum down that pretty throat.”

your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, moaning softly around him—loving the weight of his cock on your tongue, the way his fingers threaded so gently through your hair, thumb brushing over your cheek like you were fragile in his hands.

but you weren’t. not for him.

and hinata knew it.

without a word, he fisted your hair into a makeshift ponytail and pulled you back just an inch—just enough to look down into your eyes with something dark and hungry swimming in his.

“fuck, look at you,” he groaned. “all pretty and desperate. you can take it, right? be my good girl and take it?”

you nodded as best you could, lips stretching wide again as you opened up for him, tongue flat, throat ready.

then he moved.

his hips thrust forward sharply—fucking his cock deep into your mouth, the head hitting the back of your throat on the second thrust. your hands scrambled to brace against his thighs, nails digging into the hard muscle as tears pricked your eyes instantly.

“shit—shit,” hinata moaned, his voice unraveling. “that’s it, baby, take it— god, just like that—”

his pace quickened, shallow but fast, each thrust pushing deeper down your throat. spit was dripping from your chin now, the obscene wet sounds of your mouth echoing through the room. your eyes blurred with tears, mascara streaking, but you didn’t care. you moaned around him, letting him use your mouth, letting the pleasure of being his favorite ruin wash through you.

he looked down and groaned hard—seeing you with glassy, wet eyes and flushed cheeks, his cock buried in your throat, lips stretched and drool coating your chin.

“fuck, you’re so pretty like this,” he panted. “ruined just for me.”

you blinked up at him, eyes overflowing, and that was what did it.

he groaned deep from his chest, hips stuttering. “gonna cum—baby, fuck—”

he pulled out just before the edge, hand still tight in your hair as his cock twitched in front of your lips, thick ropes of cum spilling across your tongue and chin as he moaned your name like a prayer. some of it dripped down your chest, streaking across your already sticky skin and frosting-coated breasts.

you swallowed what you could, licking him clean with slow, teasing swipes of your tongue.

when you finally looked up at him again, breathing heavy, cheeks flushed, makeup utterly destroyed—mascara smudged, eyeliner running, lipstick long gone—he just stared. eyes wide. mesmerized.

“jesus,” he breathed. “you look so fucking hot like this.”

his thumb reached to wipe under your eye, smearing the tears and makeup even more.

“my pretty girl,” he whispered, voice thick with lust and awe as he pulled you up into his lap. his hands were steady on your hips, grounding you, while his cock—still slick from your mouth and already twitching back to life—pressed hot and heavy against your thigh.

you felt the ache in your core pulse with need, the emptiness of the past months catching up to you all at once. his fingers squeezed your waist gently, guiding you as you raised yourself onto your knees. the tip of his cock brushed against your folds, and you both gasped at the contact.

“fuck, i missed you,” you murmured, forehead resting against his. “missed this. missed you.”

hinata’s eyes flickered up to yours, jaw clenched with restraint. “baby, you have no idea how long i’ve dreamed about this.”

you began to sink down slowly, your hands bracing against his shoulders. the stretch was intense after so long—months of nothing but phone sex, teasing words whispered across staticky calls, fingers between your own thighs as you imagined it was him instead. and now he was here, hot and hard and deep, splitting you open in the most perfect way.

your head fell back, a moan tumbling from your lips. “god—shoyo—you feel so good. i almost forgot how big you are…”

his grip tightened. “yeah?” he panted, watching every inch as you slid down him. “forgot how full i make you feel, baby?”

“mhm—fuck, yes—i tried,” you gasped, your thighs trembling as you bottomed out fully, his cock buried deep inside. “but nothing—nothing compares to this. to you.”

you could feel everything. every vein, every pulse. he filled you so completely, so perfectly, it was almost overwhelming.

“used to fuck myself thinking about this,” you confessed breathlessly, hips already beginning to rock, slow and desperate. “had to put my pillow between my legs while i listened to you on the phone—pretending it was you.”

hinata groaned deep, his head falling against your shoulder. “fuck—baby—you’re killing me.”

his hands slid down to your ass, squeezing hard as you began to move, riding him with long, slow grinds. he met your rhythm, thrusting up to meet you as his mouth found your neck again.

“you think i didn’t do the same?” he muttered into your skin. “jerking off with my phone on my chest, moaning your name, fucking my hand while i imagined you saying ‘please, shoyo, cum inside me’.”

you clenched around him at the words, whimpering.

“i need you to,” you cried. “please—i want to feel you fill me again.”

“oh baby,” he rasped, guiding your hips harder now. “i’m gonna give it to you. again and again. until you can’t walk tomorrow.”

and from the way you started bouncing faster on his cock, your body already arching with building pleasure, he knew you wanted exactly that.

and from the way you started bouncing faster on his cock, your body already arching with building pleasure, he knew you wanted exactly that.

hinata’s gaze dropped, utterly mesmerized.

your breasts moved with every bounce—soft, flushed, still faintly sticky from the frosting he’d licked off earlier—and it was hypnotic. they jiggled beautifully each time your hips met his, your body riding him with abandon. his hands gripped your waist, then slid up slowly to cup your chest, thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you whimper even harder.

“look at you,” he breathed, voice trembling. “so fucking perfect—fuck—these tits, baby, they were made for me to touch, weren’t they?”

you nodded, already breathless, crying out when he pinched your nipples between his fingers just enough to sting.

“say it,” he demanded, rutting up into you as your thighs started to shake.

“they’re yours,” you gasped, hands clawing at his shoulders for balance. “they’re all yours, shoyo—everything. my body, my pussy—fuck—yours.”

his mouth found your breast again, tongue swirling around your nipple as he slammed up into you, the wet slap of skin-on-skin echoing in the room. you nearly sobbed from the pressure building inside, his cock hitting all the right spots, your clit brushing perfectly against his pelvis with every bounce.

he leaned back just a little, eyes wild, watching your slick drip down his cock every time you lifted your hips.

“you gonna cum again for me?” he asked, voice low, desperate. “gonna cum while i’m still deep inside you?”

you nodded frantically, tears pricking your eyes. “yes—yes, baby, i’m so close, don’t stop—”

and he didn’t. his grip on your hips turned bruising, his cock thrusting up with more urgency as he chased your high right alongside his own.

“good girl,” he growled, his lips trailing back up to yours. “cum for me, my pretty girl. be good and let me feel you—”

you shattered with a scream, walls clenching so tightly around him that it made his hips stutter. your orgasm crashed through you like a wave, your entire body trembling in his lap, thighs locking tight around him.

hinata barely held on—his own orgasm hitting seconds after yours. he groaned your name, hips jerking erratically as he emptied inside of you, cock twitching deep within your fluttering walls.

he held you close as you both trembled, sweat slicked skin sticking together, your forehead against his as you caught your breath.

and when he finally pulled back to look at you, his cum already starting to drip down your inner thighs, he only smiled.

“fuck… we’re doing that again,” he whispered. “many times.”

and true to his words, he had you on your back seconds later, your legs folded high against your chest, his hands pinning them there as he settled between your thighs. the position had you completely open to him—spread wide and vulnerable, slick and swollen, still pulsing from your last orgasm.

his cock slid back inside with little resistance, the stretch just as deep and satisfying as the first time. you both moaned in unison, your fingers clutching at the sheets as he bottomed out completely.

“this—” hinata hissed through clenched teeth, “—this is where i belong. right here, inside you.”

he pressed forward, folding you tighter beneath him, his face just inches above yours as his hips began to roll. each thrust was deep, slow at first—measured and purposeful—making sure you felt every inch of him. your breath hitched with every movement, nails raking down his back as he filled you up all over again.

“you feel so fucking good,” he gritted out. “so wet, so tight. like you were made for me, baby.”

“i was,” you moaned, barely coherent. “shoyo, please—don’t stop—i want more.”

“yeah?” he growled, pace quickening. “you want more? my greedy girl.”

he leaned down, lips brushing against yours as his thrusts picked up, cock slamming into you with a force that had the headboard knocking against the wall. your breasts bounced with every movement, body jolting with the pressure and pleasure as he fucked you into the mattress.

his praise was relentless—“that’s it, take it like the good girl you are,” and “so tight, baby, always clenching around me like you don’t want to let me go.” his mouth trailed down your jaw to your neck, kissing and biting, marking you as his.

and all you could do was take it. the angle was perfect—his cock hitting so deep you swore you saw stars. your moans became cries, your hands flying to his back, then to his arms, your legs trembling in his hold as another orgasm built like fire in your core.

“gonna cum again, baby?” he panted, his voice hoarse. “cum on this cock for me—make a mess all over me again.”

“shoyo—oh my god—yes, yes, i’m gonna—!”

you shattered beneath him, the pressure too much, your orgasm ripping through you hard enough to make your vision blur. you screamed his name, body locking up under his relentless pace as you gushed around him, slick and heat coating his cock.

he groaned loud and deep when he felt you cum, his hips jerking wildly before he drove in one last time and spilled inside you again. hot and thick and overwhelming, it filled you up, his cock twitching deep as he rode out the waves of his own climax.

but even when you were shaking, overstimulated, whining from the sensitivity—he didn’t pull out.

he just leaned down, kissing your lips tenderly as he whispered, “one more, baby. just one more. you can give me that, right?”

you barely had time to recover before he was moving again, his strong arms flipping you onto your stomach with ease. your cheek pressed into the pillows, legs still trembling when you felt the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance from behind.

“up, baby,” he whispered, voice low and wrecked. “on your hands for me.”

you obeyed, slowly pushing yourself up on shaky arms, arching your back the way you knew he liked—your ass high, your slick glistening in the low light of the bedroom.

“fuck,” he hissed, running his hands over your hips. “look at this. you’re dripping.”

with a low groan, he pushed back into you—deep, hard, one fluid thrust that made you cry out, your arms shaking beneath you.

his pace was ruthless, hips slamming against your ass with a wet, loud rhythm, his groans matching your broken moans. he gripped your waist tightly, angling just right to hit the deepest part of you with every thrust, and it was dizzying.

“sh-shoyo, i can’t—” you gasped, tears forming in your eyes again from the intensity. “feels too good—”

“yes, you can,” he growled. “you’ve been so good for me. my pretty girl can take it.”

and just as you felt him twitch, just when you knew he was close, hinata did something that made your breath completely vanish.

he pulled you up.

his arm wrapped tight around your waist and dragged you against him, your back hitting his sweaty chest as he stayed buried inside you. you moaned out loud, the new angle even deeper—fuller—your neck falling back against his shoulder.

his other hand found your breast, groping the soft flesh, playing with your nipple as he kissed the shell of your ear. his cock was still thrusting, deep and purposeful, while his fingers slid between your legs again, finding your clit and circling it with skill that had your knees buckling.

“shoyo—please—”

“you’re so close,” he panted into your ear, grinding his cock deeper. “i can feel you. clenching around me like you’re trying to milk me dry.”

his fingers worked your clit faster, his other hand tugging at your nipple, and the heat inside your belly snapped—your fourth orgasm tearing through you like lightning. you screamed his name, your entire body shaking in his arms, his cock locked tight inside your pulsing walls.

“fuck, that’s it—that’s it,” he growled, and with one more deep thrust, he buried himself fully inside and came hard.

hot spurts filled you again, his hips jerking, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as he held you tightly, both of you trembling from the intensity. you felt everything—his arms around you, his lips on your neck, his cum dripping down your thighs—and you never wanted it to stop.

“my girl,” he breathed, still rocking gently inside you. “my pretty, perfect, greedy girl.”

and when you finally collapsed forward onto the bed, boneless and spent, he followed—blanketing your body with his, still hard inside you, not ready to let go.

not yet.

you should’ve been asleep. after everything—after all those orgasms, after his cum still dripping between your thighs—you should’ve been done.

but the way hinata’s lips kissed the sweat off your shoulder and how his hands gently kneaded your hips as he whispered, “one more, baby. i want to taste you again…”—you couldn’t say no.

and that’s how you found yourself on the chair outside on his balcony, the night air cool against your sticky skin. rio’s glow shimmered in the distance, a faint breeze brushing over your fever-warmed body. your legs were spread wide over the arms of the chair, your pussy already glistening, open and wet from everything he gave you earlier.

hinata knelt before you like a man starved, eyes locked on your core like it was the only thing in the world he craved.

“look at you,” he muttered, voice low with awe. “still leaking from me. fuck, i missed this taste.”

his hands slid beneath your thighs, gripping tight, and when his tongue made first contact—flat and slow from base to clit—you moaned loud enough that someone might have heard.

you didn’t care.

your hands immediately found your breasts, fingers tugging at your own nipples as your head dropped back against the chair. the red lace had long been discarded, and now you were bare under the stars, on full display, as hinata devoured you like a man possessed.

he noticed what you were doing, of course. “god, look at you,” he rasped between licks. “touching your pretty tits while i eat you out. do you have any idea how fucking hot that is?”

you whimpered, twisting your nipples harder, the sensation mixing with the slick flicks of his tongue, the rough scrape of his teeth, and the soft suction around your clit that sent shocks of pleasure down your spine.

he moaned into you when he felt you start to shake again.

“that’s it. cum for me, baby. make a mess all over me.”

and you did.

your body seized, the orgasm crashing into you so violently it left you breathless. your legs trembled uncontrollably, and when he didn’t stop—when he kept licking, sucking, growling—you squirted, a sharp cry ripping from your throat as your hips bucked into his face.

but hinata didn’t pull back.

he groaned as you squirted again, wetter this time, your juices splashing onto his tongue and chin. he pulled back for just a moment, absolutely soaked, grinning as he wiped his face with the back of his hand and said, “fuck, i missed this pussy. she missed me too, huh?”

your body was still twitching in the chair when he stood, his cock rock-hard again.

he didn’t even wait.

he pulled you up, turned the chair slightly to face the view, and bent you over the armrest with your ass presented perfectly for him. he slid back into you with ease, a deep, wet glide that had you both moaning.

“sh-shoyo—i can’t,” you whimpered.

“yes, you can,” he growled, thrusting deep. “i need to feel you cum one more time.”

and he fucked you like he meant it—fast, hard, hips snapping against your ass, his hand sneaking between your legs to play with your clit again. your breasts bounced with every thrust, still sensitive, and your moans echoed off the quiet buildings.

“gonna make you squirt again,” he panted, voice wild, one hand gripping your hip while the other found your breast—kneading it roughly, fingers pinching at your sensitive nipple. “gonna fuck it out of you.”

you cried out, trembling beneath him, every nerve ending already alight. “shoyo—i don’t… i can’t—”

“yes, you can,” he growled against your ear, his thrusts picking up again, deep and hungry. “you’re doing so good. taking me so well.”

your body jolted with each stroke, his cock dragging against every slick, swollen inch inside you. your breasts bounced in his hands, too sensitive, too raw, but you didn’t want him to stop. your legs were weak, hips slapping against the edge of the chair, but all you could think about was how full you felt. how deep he was. how he just kept going.

you were already overstimulated—eyes wet, chest flushed, every moan breaking in your throat—but the way he filled you, the way his voice dripped with praise and hunger, you wanted it.

and then—

you shattered.

your release hit like a tidal wave, your body seizing as you squirted again, helplessly, soaking his hips and thighs. you moaned—sobbed—as the wetness gushed out of you, dripping down your legs, splashing onto the chair and hinata’s body.

“fuck, baby,” he groaned, watching it happen with a mix of awe and pure arousal. “look at you. so messy for me.”

you thought he might stop, let you catch your breath—but he didn’t.

he kept thrusting, slower now but just as deep, chasing his own high, both hands now gripping your waist tight.

you were shaking, overstimulated and aching, but you didn’t want him to pull out. you needed it—you needed him.

and with a low, broken moan, he buried himself one final time, his hips pressed flush against your ass as he came. hot, thick release filled you, pulse after pulse, warmth flooding deep inside.

he didn’t move for a moment, just breathed raggedly against your back, arms wrapped around you.

when he finally pulled out, his cock slid free with a wet sound, and your body gave a little involuntary shudder. his cum was already dripping from your swollen folds—thick and slow and so much of it. some of it smeared down your inner thighs, mixing with your slick and everything else he’d wrung from you tonight.

he reached down lazily, dragging two fingers through the mess between your legs and groaned softly. “fuck… i’m gonna be thinking about this for weeks.”

you were boneless in his arms, utterly spent, skin still sticky with sweat and your release. outside, the night had quieted. the air was humid with the sea breeze drifting through the open windows, but the heat that had built between your bodies still clung to your skin.

without a word, hinata scooped you up.

you didn’t resist. couldn’t, really. your muscles had melted into a hazy tremble, and the soft hum of afterglow blurred your senses. your cheek rested against his shoulder, eyelids fluttering shut as he walked you into the bathroom.

the scent of lavender hit you first.

you blinked, dazed, as you noticed the tub already filling. he must’ve turned it on before the last round. steam rolled off the surface of the water, laced with a familiar calming fragrance. one of the bath oils you always left in the cabinet.

"figured you'd want this after your flight," he said softly, kneeling down with you still in his arms before gently sliding you into the tub.

a small gasp escaped your lips as the warm water wrapped around your tired body like a second skin. you leaned back against the ceramic edge with a sigh, feeling the first ripple of relief loosen your aching limbs.

but then he stepped in, too.

hinata lowered himself behind you, his long legs bracketing yours as he pulled you against his chest. his skin was so warm. his arms—so solid—wrapped around your waist, anchoring you to him. you felt small in his hold, delicate even after everything he’d done to you tonight.

his hands moved slowly—massaging up and down your sides with deliberate care. the pads of his thumbs found your hips, working small circles into them before he kissed your temple.

“you okay?” he murmured into your hair.

you hummed in response, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. “mhm. just… warm.”

“that’s good,” he said, brushing a damp lock of hair behind your ear. “you were amazing tonight.”

you flushed even deeper beneath the water. it felt silly to be shy after everything, but the way he was speaking to you—gentle, reverent—it made your chest feel tight.

his hands dipped lower, fingers grazing the tops of your thighs beneath the water. the movement was slow. soothing.

until he dragged one hand inward.

you tensed.

"shoyo…" your voice came out barely above a whisper, thick with exhaustion and lingering arousal.

“shh,” he breathed, voice husky and soft. “not trying to start anything. just want to help you relax.”

but his fingers pressed into your clit anyway—tentative at first, circling lightly, letting the warmth of the water soothe the sting of your overstimulated nerves.

you whimpered, body twitching in the tub. his other hand came up, cupping your breast, and your head fell back harder against him as your breath hitched.

“you’re still so sensitive,” he said with a soft smile, fingers teasing around your nipple. “look at you, baby. still wet for me. even now.”

you squirmed in his lap, thighs clenching around his hand beneath the surface. your legs were still weak, and the water only made it harder to fight the way your body responded to him.

“shoyo… it’s too much,” you whispered, even as your hips began to roll slowly into his fingers.

“you can take it,” he murmured, kissing down the side of your face. “just a little more. just want to see you let go again.”

his fingers moved with practiced rhythm—circling your clit in just the way he knew you liked. your body arched, pressing back into his chest, your hands gripping his thighs as the pleasure rose again, relentless and sweet.

you couldn’t stop the moans that left your lips. not even when you tried.

“there you go,” he whispered against your ear. “just like that. my pretty girl. let go.”

and you did.

you didn’t even know how many times you’d come at this point. your mind was hazy, body weightless, every nerve ending frayed from the pleasure he kept coaxing out of you. the latest orgasm—whatever number it was—hit you like a soft crash of waves, blooming low in your stomach and rippling out in molten, aching pulses.

your breath caught. then broke. and all you could do was slump back into him, limbs boneless, heart pounding against your chest like it was trying to remember how to beat.

“that’s it, baby,” he whispered, holding you tighter. “that’s my girl.”

he didn’t move. just stayed there with you in the water, arms anchored around your waist, his chest rising and falling steadily behind your back. he pressed a kiss to your temple. then one to your jaw. and another—longer, slower—to the crown of your head.

his hands never left your body. they kept tracing lazy circles over your hips, up your ribs, as if to calm every aftershock still wracking through you.

after a while, the water began to cool, and hinata gently shifted behind you. “come on,” he whispered against your damp skin, arms slipping beneath your knees and back, “let’s get you warm and dry.”

you didn’t protest—couldn’t, really—your body limp in his hold as he lifted you effortlessly from the bath. he moved carefully, tender in every step, as though you were something precious. the towel he wrapped you in was plush and warm, and his hands were patient, drying every inch of your skin with a care that made your chest ache.

he dried himself quickly after, hair tousled and damp, torso still glistening under the soft bathroom lights. he caught your gaze in the mirror and smirked, cocking a brow.

“wanna wear one of my shirts?” he asked, voice a little rough, a little teasing.

you leaned into him from behind, pressing your lips to the slope of his back, then murmured, “no. just wanna sleep naked with you.”

his laugh was quiet but smug. “oh? bold of you, babe. you do know i have very little self-control around you, right?”

you rolled your eyes with a sleepy smile. “you’ve already wrecked me tonight. i think i’m safe.”

“we’ll see,” he murmured playfully.

by the time you both made it to bed, the moonlight spilling in through the curtains, you’d already forgotten how exhaustion felt. the sheets were cool, the air soft, and hinata’s skin warm against yours as he slid in behind you, arms wrapping around your waist.

your breasts pressed to his chest, bare and warm, but it wasn’t sexual—not this time. just grounding. comforting.

he rested his chin on top of your head, one hand drawing absentminded shapes along the small of your back. stars, maybe. a volleyball. a heart. he didn’t say anything about it, but you could feel the smile tugging at his lips every time your breath hitched from the ticklish trails.

you let out a low hum. “you didn’t answer me.”

“hmm?” his voice was drowsy now, heavy with contentment.

“did you like your present?” you whispered, fingers grazing his ribs. “me. flying here. surprising you.”

his reply was immediate—murmured into your hair with a reverence that made your stomach flutter. “you’re the best gift i’ve ever gotten.”

your throat tightened.

he kissed your temple and added with a soft chuckle, “though, the red lingerie and frosting on your tits did bump you up to god-tier.”

you laughed, smacking his side lightly, but you could hear the affection laced between the tease. and you knew, without him having to say it again—

he loved you. wholly. hungrily. reverently.

and as you drifted off, tangled in his arms with your bare skin pressed to his beneath the hush of moonlight, you knew this would be a birthday he’d never forget—not because of the cake, or the surprises, or even the lingerie.

but because you were there.

his favorite person, his greatest gift.

finally home.

[makeitworse]

SEOUL CITY

♬ seungcheol as your older bf. (age gap hcs. 18+)

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀HE SAYS MY ATTITUDE OUT OF CONTROL ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀TELL ME WHAT TO DO, MR GENERAL

✦ the first time you called him “oppa,” he flinched. not because he didn’t like it— oh he did, too much— but it hit him like bricks just how young you sounded when you said it. how wrong it should feel. it never stopped you, though. and he’d never ask you to.

✦ he didn’t act on his feelings at first. he’s well aware of just how much older he is, how often people talk. but you’re a persistent little thing: always coming to him for advice, always calling late at night, always so damn sweet when you look up at him and say his name like he’s your whole world. so eventually, inevitably, he gives in.

✦ the power imbalance isn't lost on him. he pays for everything. teaches you things he’s learned over the years. set boundaries you’re too passive to set for yourself. cheol justifies it as protection— but there's a part of him that likes it. the dependency. the trust. how you lean on him, need him.

✦ cheol spoils you in ways that blur the line between boyfriend and provider. gas tanks full, appointments paid for, new clothes ‘just because’. he’ll never say it out loud, but it’s like his way of staking his claim, you know? taking care of you in a way no one else could compete.

✦ he’s incredibly protective. doesn’t like you staying out late without him, gets irritated if you mention a guy friend your age. he tells himself it’s cause he knows better, knows what boys that young are after. but it’s jealousy. he hates the damn word, but it is. the fear you’ll wake up one day and want someone you can relate to a little more.

✦ he’ll often pull you into his lap when he’s sitting down. he has a tendency to after arguments too. his voice low, hands firm on your waist, tone shifting to tender in a single breath. it’s his way of grounding. a reminder that he’s the one who adores you, and still the one in charge.

✦ “you don’t know what you want yet,” he’d tell you more than once. especially when you try to push his buttons, act older, test his limits. it’s part concern, part arrogance. sometimes he thinks you’re not ready for a ‘real’ relationship— but he’s not strong enough to stay away.

✦ cheol calls you “baby” more than your name. at times it’s “kid,” like when he’s annoyed. other times it’s “good girl,” when you’ve done something that makes him feel pride. there’s a tenderness in it, but also a sense of ownership. like you belong to him in every sense.

✦ it took some time before you actually slept together. there’d been no end of cheol going down on you, making you cry with just his hands. but he never asked for anything in return; always shaking his head when you’d offer. cheol didn’t want to rush, wanted to ease you into it. and you found out why the first time he pulled down his pants. he’s huge. rightfully worried about hurting you. it took about a week of foreplay before he had the courage.

✦ cheol’s usually careful during sex: obsessively so. gentle, slow, constantly checking in. but there’s an underlying tension simmering under his skin. that part of him he suppresses, that wants to utterly ruin you. to make sure no one else will ever measure up. he bites it back— most of the time.

✦ once you called him “daddy,” just as a joke. but with how he went still next to you, his pupils swallowed with black— you knew you had that over him. cheol had promptly plucked you up with two big hands on your waist, tossing you to the nearest couch, hands already unbuckling his belt. he’d lost himself in a way you only rarely get to see. but you try to rile it out of him.

✦ the guilt creeps in during quiet moments. when you’re asleep beside him, curled up peacefully, and he realises just how small you look. remembers the gaps between your worlds. he wonders what your parents really think. what his members bite their tongues about. but cheol doesn’t stop. not when his own advice to himself would be that he probably should. because you sleeping soundly next to him, warm and safe, is all that he gives two shits about.

✦ you told him you love him first. he had hesitated: not because he doesn’t feel it— you’ve got no idea how deeply he does— but because it’s like he’s holding something fragile in his hands. and if he says it back, there’s no undoing it. no going back. but he does anyway. “i love you too, my girl.” and he knows then that there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you.

notes: another age gap fic by attie welcome to the club coups og post

taglist (join here): @lightinbug @sherrayyyyy @ferrarifinnick @namsgyu @riddlerloveb0t @pinkpunkdynamite @babycaratdeul @sseungcheols @cheers2hani @chocolattexyz @riyahwooahae @macheriezz @onceuponateenagetrash @choshushu @theold8 @thedragonholder @jihooniesss @markkiatocafe @channieschubbycake @okinawwa @sseungcheols @cheers2hani @accalus @hhwksixjshs @priisprii @wenhuihuii @t-bag2 @natalicss @jmkookie0 < can’t tag

[sidequestobserver]

“What will you give, my dear?” The fae smiles, knowing she’s won. I need this deal.

I slump and turn away. My mind races through what I can sacrifice. My firstborn? I can’t give her Emma. She’s my daughter, my treasure. She just entered preschool. My name? I would forget who I am, and who knows what kind of damage that could do. No. No. I need to think of something else.

“Hurry darling, I can find someone else.”

“Give me a second,” I snarl. Come on Warren, think. What can you give. I smack my head with my hand. Think think think. My head hurts. Gosh I need a cigarette. I fumble in my pocket. Pull out a pack of Camels. Cancer sticks, my mum calls them. She’s not wrong. I stick one in my mouth, grab the plastic Bic lighter from my jeans. Sorry mum, I’m a lost cause, but I promise I don’t smoke around Emma.

I pause, cigarette unlit between my lips. Turn back to the fae, who is tapping her fingers idly on one cheek. I pull the cigarette out and study it. The thin white and brown cylinder rolls on my palm.

I’ve been a smoking cigarettes for a while. Tried them in high school, thought they looked cool. A few tries later I was gone. The corner store knows my face because I buy them there, have been buying them there, for years. I smoke with friends, smoke when I’m taking a break at work. They’re part of routine, part of life.

I look at the fae, who is looking at my face with a bored expression. I don’t know what she sees. I don’t know what is showing on my face, because I don’t know what I am feeling as I lift my hand and offer it to her.

“I will give you my addiction.” I whisper.

Her eyes flick to my palm. Back to my face. Back to my palm. I start to tremble. I grab my forearm with my other hand, lighter dropping on the ground. Steadying my open palm, my offering.

The fae’s smile returns, brighter and sharper than before. “Deal.”

And just like that she’s gone. The air before me is empty.

My hands are empty as well. So are my pockets. The cheap plastic lighter and pack of cigarettes erased, as if they’d never existed at all.

I wipe my hands on my jeans, check around to make sure the fae is gone. I rub my temple. My head hurts. I should drink some water, I think I’m dehydrated.

I grab a Gatorade from the fridge and a pack of mentos for Emma, then step up to the corner store register. The clerk rings me up. When it comes time to tell me the total, he hesitates. Waiting for me to say something.

I prompt him. “How much?”

“Will that be all?” he asks.

I look at him, a bit confused. “Yes.”

“Just Gatorade?”

“And the Mentos.”

“You sure?”

I stare at him. “Yes, I’m sure.”

The clerk wavers for a moment longer. His mouth opens and closes like a goldfish, wanting to ask something. I can’t think of what. Instead he says, “That’ll be $4.31.”

I pay. I walk out the door. Time to pick up Emma.

Jason stared as Warren exited the corner store. Five years he’s worked here, and Warren has come by at least once every week in those five years, usually more. Sometimes he bought Mentos, sometimes not. But he never left without buying a pack.

A finger tapping on the glass counter brought Jason’s attention to a customer at the register. He hadn’t noticed her come in. A woman dressed in a fancy dress, with ethereal beauty and a razor sharp smile. Many men would have stared. Jason didn’t. Jason was a professional. Professionals don’t stare at customers. He hadn’t stared when that guy wearing macaroni briefs and nothing else had came in for chips, he was not going to stare at the pretty lady.

“How may I help you?” Jason asked politely.

“A pack of Camel, please.”

In a deal with a fae, you must give up something you hold dear. Whether it be your name, your first born, or something else, it must be held dear. You, gave up your addiction. It worked.

[mrsbarnesblog]

˖˚⊹ let me taste it

➤ summary: Rafe is desperate to help when you're struggling with being constantly full after delivering your baby

➤ w/c: 2k.

➤ warnings: smut, postpartum, breastfeeding, lactation kink and everything that comes with it, feral daddy!Rafe

➤ a/n: he's driving me insane, so I might write more for daddy!Rafe

masterlist

Rafe watched you feed your daughter, who still looked like a tiny bundle nestled in your arms. He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, shirt only half-buttoned from a long day, but his eyes were trained on you, watching you closely, with admiration. Not just your body, but the way your fingers moved gently over her back, the curve of your lips when you hummed something under your breath, and the way you swayed instinctively like your body knew what peace felt like even when your mind didn’t.

But he saw it all—all the parts that you didn’t really tell him. How tired you were, how frustrated sometimes it was to constantly worry about feeding your daughter and about doing everything right. Not to mention the constant pain and weight in your body, in your breasts. They were always heavy with milk, so damn tender, and no matter how much your baby took or how much you pumped, the feeling didn’t go away. 

You changed ruined shirts and tried those special pads that didn’t do shit while trying to act like it was not driving you crazy, like you didn’t want to cry every time it happened. Something dark and primal curled in Rafe’s stomach whenever he saw the outline of milk stains on your shirt, or when your nipples hardened under the fabric because it had been too long since you pumped, and your chest was heavy, tender, and sensitive in a way that made his throat go tight.

You thought he didn’t notice.

You wish he didn’t.

But he did. 

And one night it was already late. The house is quiet, baby finally asleep in the bassinet down the hall. You were standing by the sink, one hand on the counter to steady yourself because your back hurt, and your old, soft shirt, already stretched from months of wear, was damp at the chest, nipples outlined clearly from the milk seeping through. 

You were stressed. Overwhelmed. You were on the verge of tears after ruining another shirt, after being too embarrassed for always leaking right in front of Rafe. Even though he said that it was alright, or when he just silently brought you different clothes, never judging, you felt awful. Your eyes fluttered shut for just a second as you exhaled, muttering curses under your breath, wanting for it all to go away. “I’m so tired of leaking everywhere. I already pumped twice, God—why am I still full?”

Rafe came up behind you slowly, like he knew that one wrong movement might hurt you or make you snap. He was gentle with his hands, even after almost three weeks of you delivering, still being afraid to touch you the wrong way. His hands slid over your hips, and his voice was low and hoarse.

“You’re still full?” He asked, like he didn’t already know. Like he didn’t see every single nursing bra and shirt you threw in the washing machine in frustration, every pained look you threw toward the fridge full of bottles, every time you touched the underside of your breasts in hope to relieve some pressure. 

“Yeah.” You whispered, embarrassed, not turning to look at him. “It won’t stop. It just—hurts.”

“I thought about something, read about it on the internet…”He paused, leaning closer to your neck, inhaling your scent, which definitely changed over the past few weeks—now it was something warm, comforting, something that he couldn’t even name but craved all the time. “Can I taste you? It’ll make you feel better.”

Your body stiffened. “Rafe—”

“I mean it.” His voice was firmer now, lips brushing your neck. “You’re in pain, baby. You’re leaking. You need to be relieved.” And then, softer, darker. “Let me help you. Please.”

Your cheeks burned hot. “It’s not—it’s weird.”

He turned you around gently, hands cradling your face, eyes boring into yours like he was not asking for something dirty, but something normal.

“You remember that we have a baby, right? We’ve done much worse. And it’s not weird to me. It’s you. And I wanna take care of you. Every part of you. Even the ones you think are too much.”

You looked down, hesitating, but your body betrayed you again, and when Rafe noticed a fresh drop slide through the fabric, his jaw clenched like it physically hurt him not to sink to his knees right then and there.

You finally nodded, shy, and Rafe moved like his life was depending on it. He took your hand in his, leading you to the couch and then softly pushing you down until you were flat on the cushions. He peeled your shirt away so slowly, reverently, like he was unwrapping something sacred.

His mouth went dry at the sight of you, and he crawled on top of your body, carefully, to not put too much weight on you. His thumbs were ghosting over your nipples, swollen and leaking, and you flinched, being too sensitive. Rafe hummed, ghosting his nose against your skin, slowly getting his mouth to the part of you that he wanted to try the most. You two didn’t have much personal time together since your daughter was born—he still had to work, you both were way too exhausted at the end of the day, and she had always required all of your attention. But he missed you like crazy. “It’s okay, I got you.” He mumbled softly before his mouth finally closed around one nipple, making you gasp in pure surprise.

Your spine arched from the sofa, seeking his touch more, suddenly feeling like everything was not enough. Rafe softly circled your nipple with his tongue, then closed his lips around it and suckled. He moaned from the feeling and taste that flooded his mouth instantly, the warm liquid making his eyes roll back. His hand carefully squeezed another breast, not to hurt you, while his other hand almost instinctively pressed against the tent in his pants. 

He switched sides, wanting to give his full attention and relieve as much pain and weight as possible. He moaned each time you softly gasped, each time your milk filled his taste buds, at the same time grinding against his hand, being so fucking painfully hard that he could barely think straight. 

“Oh God—Rafe…” You moaned, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the unusual feeling of how good it felt. 

“Fuck, you’re ‘s sweet, baby.” He groaned deeper, pushing harder into his hand when your fingers threaded through his hair and tugged. Your eyes, barely focused, darted toward his body briefly, finally noticing how turned on he was, how he was getting off just from putting his mouth on you. 

“We can’t have sex—“

“I know, mama. You’re still healing.” Rafe looked at you, releasing your nipple with a soft pop, chin and lips clearly wet and glistening. “Let me make you feel better, ‘kay? I can’t help with how hard I am from you, baby… So pretty, so sweet—fuck, I love you.”

You nodded slowly, chest rising and falling like you’d just run up a hill, and Rafe just looked at you for a moment, like he was memorizing this version of you. This version with flushed cheeks, bare chest, and hair messy from nursing and crying and taking care of your little girl.

He leaned in again, his mouth finding your nipple like it was second nature now, like it was something that he meant to do. His tongue swirled gently before suckling, and the noise you made, something between a gasp and a sob, went straight to his cock.

“Shh.” He whispered against your skin. “I got you.”

And Rafe meant it with the way his palm smoothed over your thigh, steadying you. His other hand squeezed himself through the thin cotton of his sweats, hips rolling against his palm without rhythm, without relief, and in pure desperation.

Because he couldn’t touch you the way he wanted. Couldn’t fuck into you like he used to do before, and it was fucking killing him. It’s been a little over a month since he had an opportunity to feel you wrapped around him and hear your sweet moans when he was buried so deep it felt surreal. You were still sore, still healing, your body still recovering from carrying and delivering his child, and no matter how much he wanted you, Rafe would never push you into anything. 

But he could do this. He could taste you. He could make your discomfort easier. He could drink every drop of you if it meant that some of the pain would go away

And God, it was.

Rafe moaned again, soft and guttural, and you felt the sound reverberate through your whole chest. Your back arched, your hands tugged at his hair, and he whimpered—he actually fucking whimpered—his hips grinding into his hand harder, like it hurt to hold back.

You bit your lip, chest heaving. “Rafe…”

He pulled back just barely, lips flushed and wet, pupils blown.

“I’m not gonna fuck you.” He said roughly, eyes locked on yours. “But I’m gonna come in my pants if you keep looking at me like that.”

The flush on your skin deepened, but your thighs shifted against the couch cushions and your breath got caught in your throat from how desperate he sounded. 

“That’s not fair.” You whispered, brushing your finger over his cheek. “You’re helping me, but you’re in pain too.”

He let out a low laugh, his forehead falling to your stomach, still catching his breath. “With your tits in my mouth and the way you moan for me? I’m in fuckin’ heaven, baby.” 

His lips closed around you again, sucking a little bit harder, lapping at every drop that your body was willing to give him. You squeezed your thighs a little bit tighter, tugging his messy hair and finally feeling like the world was not collapsing, like breathing was easy again. 

But Rafe, God, Rafe was gone. He was greedy, switching sides, glazing his teeth ever-so-slightly over your sensitive nipples, and rubbing the undersides of your boobs… while also squeezing his cock once, twice, through the soaked front of his pants. 

He came hard and so suddenly that it surprised both of you when his body twitched and he let out a desperate moan. Didn’t even take his pants off. Didn’t touch himself skin-to-skin. Just came, huffing your name into your breast like a prayer, mouth still sticky with the taste of you.

You stared at him, wide-eyed, heart pounding. “Did you just…?” Your body felt lighter, with no heavy feeling in your chest, while the sexiest man on earth was looking at you like you were his last meal.

“Yeah.” He exhaled, his voice wrecked. “God, yeah. From you. Just from taking care of you.” He collapsed beside you gently, lips brushing your shoulder, still breathless. “D’you feel better? ‘Cause I am.”

“I do.” You turned your head to him, blinking softly, lazily. His eyes studied your face as if for the first time, reaching out and mindlessly tracing your cheek. 

“Whenever you need me, I’m here, yeah?” Rafe asked softly, waiting for a small nod from you. The atmosphere was heavy and warm when you two probably had the most amount of time together since your daughter was born—she was quiet in her bassinet the whole time, as if allowing you two to have some time for yourselves. 

Rafe was still curled against you, already nosing back toward your chest with a lazy smirk, whispering. “You still got a little left in you, don’t you, sweet girl?”

You laughed, shaky and warm, your fingers threading into his hair again like it was second nature. “You’re insatiable.”

He kissed over your ribs, crawling back. “Only for you.”

[ooooo-mcyt]

Scar has SUCH a victim complex and we really should talk about it more.

In an average Scar pov of the Life Series, two things are basically guaranteed:

a.) Scar never does anything wrong. Any perceived wrongdoing on Scar's part is simply him being silly and goofy which people keep blowing it out of proportion. Or he really didn't mean to do anything wrong and people are just so paranoid and keep misinterpreting his good intentioned actions. Or he did something bad but it wasn't his idea and some outside force made him and it wasn't that big a deal anyways when you think about it.

b.) Everyone's out to get Scar. People wrongfully don't trust him because they're just blind to his inherent trustworthiness. People are always shooting down his brilliant plans because they hate fun or are just mean. People take advantage of him when he's never done anything wrong to them (if you think he has done anything wrong, see point a). People betray him so much, him, the silliest funnest most trustworthy teammate who only wants friendship.

Now, a lot of this is tactical on Scar's part, to give credit where credit is due! Scar is in fact very intelligent, and most of the time he knows what he's doing! A lot of time Scar plays innocent and dumb because playing innocent and dumb keeps working to get him what he wants and to keep him out of trouble. People buy into the facade with shocking ease. And the really clever thing is that even when people don't buy into the facade, there's no argument. Because it doesn't matter if Scar is as dumb and innocent as he pretends to be (he's not), people can't prove he doesn't believe what he says, so they don't waste energy arguing, and he gets away with a shocking amount because of it. Scar is incredible at playing with tactical facades and twisted narratives. So yes, a lot of Scar's "victim complex" is tactic, not necessarily a genuinely held belief on Scar's end.

That being said, I think sometimes Scar gets so caught up in his own false narratives that he starts to believe them, and I think Scar can be painfully, and ironically, blind to his own faults. When he says he felt abandoned and betrayed by everyone in Last Life, I believe he meant it, though I'd argue he actively pushed people away and was the reason nobody trusted him. When he says he treated Grian right and "built him a panda sanctuary" in Double Life, I think Scar actually means that, though it's factually incorrect. When he says he was "forced" to be alone in Secret Life, I'm sure he meant that too, though again I'd argue Scar had a very active role in self isolating.

While I think Scar is a very intelligent person who very much purposefully crafts narratives that benefit him, I also think Scar is a person who likes to live in those narratives, someone who uses his boundless imagination to integrate himself into the realities he builds so seamlessly that they start to feel real. I think this is a very efficient coping mechanism, in a lot of ways, for Scar to blame any genuine suffering he has entirely on outside persecution and minimize his own responsibility. It's comforting, if nothing else.

But this self imposed hand crafted victim complex doesn't actually help with the ways Scar really struggles the most. Scar consistently struggles with isolation, whether through literal distance from other players or simply emotional inability to connect. And unfortunately, most of it is a result of Scar's own behavior. Scar lies, Scar cheats, Scar pushes people away. Scar is the reason nobody trusts him. Scar is the one who consistently refuses to seek out companionship even when he needs it. This is an agonizingly fixable problem, but it's one Scar cannot see the solution to, because ironically his own cunning and creative mind has spun a web so thick it's trapped him inside, and he can't see past it to realize he has the way out!

Anyways sorry for rambling I'm just insane about Scar, he has such a brilliant mind and the tongue to back it up but his fatal flaw has always been in how his creative mind loses itself in its own false narratives until he cannot see the exit door five feet in front of him. He's sooooooooooooo !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[littlelovelunette]

Toxic!Ranvika pressuring reader to go out drinking with them, and them pushing it a bit too far where reader gets too messy? Either smut or not, your choice!

Intoxicated

Toxic!Sevika x Reader x Toxic!Ran

Coercing reader into drinking, alcohol intoxication, reader gets horny as fuck after consuming mentioned alcohol, not smut really, fics kinda messy tbh.

★ It started with a stare too long when you refused to drink with them. You told them how bad you were at handling your alcohol but they weren't listening. They'd always been like this— often forcing you to do things that you didn't want to do even if sometimes it ended up with brutal consequences.

"We both know how this night's gonna end," Sevika whispered in your ear. "It's gonna end with your legs over your head."

You sighed and shook your head. "It doesn't have to end that way."

Ran's hands wrapped around your waist from behind. "Just the tiniest little drink? C'mon, now!"

You shook your head, hesitantly although. "You know you want it."

Sevika said, "Let those walls down, we'll take care of you."

You exhaled deeply before looking over to where the drinks were being made. Should you really? You fumbled with the chain of your purse, a million thoughts coursing through your brain at the speed of light.

"Fine."

"Atta girl."

Sevika left to get the drinks, leaving you with Ran whose hands knew no restraints— hands squeezing your waist gently and bringing you closer in a silent promise for a good night.

★ "I'm not sure if this is a good idea." You told Ran.

"You'll be fine." They assured carelessly, hands guiding up and giving your breast a small squeeze.

You swatted it away, "Not here... Besides, how are you so sure? I could end up unconscious."

"Then I'll carry you back, princess," Ran chuckled.

You sighed and crossed your arms, watching as Sevika brought the glass. You didn't want to this but sometimes the pair made you feel like you needed to do all these to still be with them romantically. They were so sweet when they weren't being forceful with you, and the way they took you in bed was always so loving too. Well, most of the times, loving. It was a lot on your mind.

"For the pretty lady," Sevika winked.

You took it gingerly and downed it all in one go. Your throat burnt. You exhaled through your nose, grunting.

"Nope. That was not magical." You put the glass down, shaking your head.

Sevika pulled you close, her lips lingering on the middle of your neck, "Oh, baby doll, just relax. Let loose a little."

"Yeah," Ran chimed in. "You're gonna be okay."

★ The night went by like a blur. You had no idea what was happening. No clear sense. Sevika saw the way you were dizzy and completely off-balance. The smile wiped right off her face and she glanced at Ran, a concerned look on her face.

"Do you think something went wrong?" Sevika asked.

"What didn't go wrong?" Ran asked back before huffing exasperatedly, "I can't tell if she's overreacting or really intoxicated."

"I'm gonna take her back to ours..." Sevika said, "Cmon, cmere, sweetheart," she tried but you drunkenly giggled and tried to walk away.

Ran sighed and grabbed you by the wrist, pulling you into place, closer to them. "Oh hey, handsome." You slurred.

"Oh goodness." Ran groaned and Sevika took the chance, grabbing you up bridal style and carrying you back home. "I'm worried as fuck." She told Ran who walked by her side.

"I am, too... What if she's like this the entire night? Do we knock her out?"

Sevika gave Ran a look and they shut up.

★ You didn't stop kissing them both when you both were finally home. You grabbed Sevika's hands, feeling brave under the influence and put them on your ass as you kissed her hungrily. Ran watched, mouth open in astonishment. They blinked, and then they were next. You didn't even pause to breathe, grabbing them by the collar and pulling them in next for a kiss.

"Hey!—"

Ran's protest was cut short as you kissed them deeply, letting your tongue wander about their mouth and tasting the liquor theyd drunk beforehand. As you parted, your eyes were half-lidded and you gave them the most perverted grin ever. You were rutting on Sevika's lap.

"Baby, you're drunk, we can't do this," Sevika said gently, trying to pry you off but you didn't budge.

"Don't be such a coward!" You said, grabbing the buttons of Sevika's top and pulling them open quite easily considering how drunk and messy you were. You ogled at her tits as if you were seeing them for the first time.

"Baby, you need to—" Ran tried to interfere but you pushed them down beside Sevika and grabbed their thigh, hand moving upto their crotch slowly.

"I thought this is what you both wanted," you slurred. "For me to let loose."

Sevika opened her mouth to respond but you cut her off kissing messily, your pantie-covered wet pussy dragging against her abdomen as your hand squeezed her breast, the other reaching for the zipper of Ran's pants.

★ Eventually they managed to put you to bed, you were knocked the fuck out.

"I feel terrible." Sevika said, sitting down beside Ran and grabbing a cigarillo. She let out a deep sigh and Ran helped her light it up.

"Same... We pushed her too much."

"Wanna plan apology breakfast?" Sevika asked after a pause.

"Y'know what? Fuck yeah."

[makingsenseofwhathappened]

Building a Support Network (when work gets messy)

Hello friends. Hello work week.

In the spirit of getting through, I wanted to start this Monday off by sharing a few quick thoughts about how to keep your head when something at work crosses a line (harassment, retaliation, just a gut-level this isn’t okay thing).

In my experience, it's easy to veer into full on self-protection mode. By either shutting down completely or oversharing too fast. That's normal, but trust me, it can backfire. One moment of panic or pressure can lock you into choices you didn’t actually want to make.

You need people who help you stay grounded and make decisions that are right for you, not reactive ones fuelled by fear or rage.

WARNING: I have a feeling this one might be a longer post than usual, but I think (I hope) it’s worth it!

Assess Your Workplace First: Before you confide in anyone or take action, pause. Does this place protect its people or protect itself? Have others been supported, or quietly pushed out? Taking the pulse will help you gauge how careful you need to be, and what kind of support makes sense.

Go slow with coworkers: Even the ones who seem safe and the ones who “get it” If you share too soon, you risk gossip, misinterpretation, or triggering a formal response before you’re ready. You deserve time to process and decide what you want to do.

Pay attention to who isn’t helpful: If someone dismisses it, changes the subject, or says “Are you sure it was that bad?” that may seem neutral, but I'd say it's a red flag. You’re not wrong to notice who makes you feel smaller.

Try trained support: Hotlines and harassment-specific services exist for moments like this, not just worst case scenarios. You don’t need a full story, just a place to think out loud with someone who won’t judge, push, or oversimplify.

Friends & family aren’t always it: Sometimes the people closest to you don’t know how to help. Start with someone who truly listens - who doesn’t immediately problem-solve, give ultimatums, or make it about themselves. Your needs have to come first here.

Look for survivor spaces: Online communities. like subreddits, Discords, private groups, can help you feel less alone. But a lot of advice is U.S.-based. If you’re in Canada, double-check legal guidance locally before taking steps at work.

Build a layered team: A steady friend, a trained listener, a survivor community. Each offers something different, and together they give you options and a feeling of control when things feel chaotic.

Rule of Thumb: Caution is wise and boundaries are healthy. Taking your time doesn’t make you weak. it makes you smart. And if you can find even one person who helps you feel clear, grounded, and believed, that’s a solid start. The rest? You get to choose.

TL;DR = Partly covered in this nice article.

And a really solid Canadian-based Reddit for support with workplace sexual harassment.

Take care & much love 🥰

[rawme-price]

So...healer!reader pt 5, shes already healed the guys individually, where will they go from here?🤭

It becomes a bit of a routine. The guys try not to ask for ur healing too often, they value u as a genuine member of the team and would hate for u to think ur just here for that. But, you do notice they all perform much better after you heal them. Plus, it kind of gets on ur nerves when they try to 'tough out' some of the minor pain, bc u can feel it radiating from them and now that you have healed them before there's really no reason for u to be shy about it again.

So, you make sure to heal them all at least once a week, sometimes more if they actually are hurt. Ghost goes all soft and pliant, simply enjoying the fact his chronic pain is gone for a bit. Price tends to take the time to smoke, hes learned that ur healing with smoke in his lungs feels devine. Soap doesnt have much constant pain besides mild tinnitus, so he and gaz tend to work out like hell beforehand bc it feels alot better when the magic has something to focus on.

But you never seem to ask anything in return. Its frustrating. Especially considering soap has explicitly offered you to bed and all you've done is turn him down with a small smile. Needless to say, the guys are concerned. Gaz calls a team meeting between the four of them, a furrow in his brow.

"Do you think we're taking advantage?"

Its a long and serious discussion. Price thinks they are, they all have some sort of power dynamic over you (some more than others). Ghost doesnt think so, hes seen you punch a guy's lights out for looking at you the wrong way, if you didnt want to do something then you wouldnt. Soap seems mixed, he trusts your decisions, but he doesnt want to have accidentally coerced you into anything. The discussion gets them nowhere, so finally gaz calls you in.

U give them a confused look, but seem overall relaxed. "Uh- everything okay?"

"What?" Youre honestly baffled, looking between them like they're crazy. "What on earth makes you think i dont want to heal you?? If I didnt then I wouldnt??"

Price doesnt mince words, "if you dont want to heal us. You dont have to. If you dont feel comfortable working in this team, give me the paperwork and ill approve it, no questions asked."

So they explain they're reasoning, finally leading to the last point of u never seeking out ur own satisfaction. They don't want to make u heal them if u dont get some sort of satisfaction in return, it feels predatory or whatever.

You cant help it, you laugh. A bit from nerves but also from relief bc you thought you were being kicked out. "Oh my god- thats it?" You try to cover ur grin with a hand.

"the hell do you mean thats it?!" Soap retorts, a bit put off by ur sudden mirth "this is serious!"

"God! No- its- you dont understand-" you take a few deep breaths before calming down. Looking them in the eyes you shrug "im asexual. I uh- dont feel sexual desire. Like. At all."

Before they can freak out, you strike down whatever fears u know they're thinking "whatever sexual moments did occur were totally my choice. I may not get satisfaction like you guys do, but I like to see you guys happy, I like to help. Besides, all this healing has given me alot of practice with my magic, I really dont want to stop."

You and them have another, quite long discussion, and decide to keep up the arrangement. You get to practice magic, and they get to have the best damn orgasms of their lives. In fact, this probably means you can heal them more often now that you have permission to really experiment with ur methods.

(HA YALL THOUGHT IT WOULD BE A FIVESOME HUH??? WRONG!! anyways happy pride to all my fellow asexuals!! Also dw guys this is NOT the end of the series lol)

[malsmind]

one more.

𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘰 𝘹 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

contains ➛ ★ dry humping ★ best friends to something ★ thigh riding ★ dirty talk ★ pet names ★ praising ★ multiple orgasms ★ overstimulation ★ matt makin’ a mess in his pants ★

𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦!

word count: 1.8k

the fight wasn’t even about anything serious. maybe that’s what pissed you off the most. just a few careless words thrown back and forth. a sarcastic comment. a defensive look. something that snowballed too fast. you’d rolled your eyes, muttered something under your breath, and before you knew it, you were storming off, heart pounding too hard for how stupid it all was. matt followed you, of course he did.

“can you stop walking away from me?” he called out, voice low but firm.

you didn’t answer. just pushed the back door open and stepped into the yard, letting the night air cool the heat in your cheeks. it was quiet outside—just the low hum of the city a few blocks off, the chirp of crickets, the gentle rustle of leaves. the bench near the edge of the yard was cold beneath you when you sat down, arms crossed tight, eyes on the ground. then the door creaked again. he stepped out. you didn’t look at him. not at first. he didn’t say anything either. just walked over and sat beside you on the bench, not too close. not too far. just enough for you to feel the weight of his presence, familiar and frustrating and safe all at once.

“i didn’t mean to piss you off,” he said eventually. “i just… i don’t know. you seemed off lately.”

“and you thought pushing my buttons would help?” you muttered.

he sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. “no. i thought being your friend meant i could say dumb shit sometimes without you walking out.”

that one hit deeper than you wanted it to. because he wasn’t wrong. and maybe you weren’t just mad at him. maybe you were mad at yourself. or everything. or the way your heart had been feeling so loud around him lately and you didn’t know what to do about it. you pulled a lighter from your pocket, flicked it open, and lit the blunt you’d tucked behind your ear earlier. took a drag, slow and quiet. the smoke filled your lungs, settled in your chest.

matt watched you, eyes soft now. no more irritation. just… something else. something gentler. like he could feel that this wasn’t really about the argument anymore. you passed the blunt to him without a word. he took it. inhaled. held. exhaled. silence again. but this one didn’t sting. it just… lingered.

and then somehow, without really thinking about it, you ended up leaning into him. shoulder to shoulder. thigh to thigh. the kind of closeness that used to feel normal, until your body started reacting differently every time he touched you. you don’t know who moved first. maybe it was you. maybe it was him. maybe it was both of you, drawn into each other like gravity. but you ended up beneath him on that old wooden bench, his body hovering over yours, supported on his forearms, his face inches from yours.

“this is a bad idea,” you whispered.

“probably,” he whispered back.

but neither of you moved. his thigh slipped between yours naturally, his knee brushing up against the heat of your center, the rough denim of his jeans dragging against you as your breath caught in your throat. matt’s eyes darkened.

“fuck,” he murmured, voice low, like he wasn’t even saying it to you. “you’re not wearing—”

“i am. shorts. just… thin ones,” you breathed, hands gripping his shirt.

you didn’t mean for your hips to move. they just did. just a soft grind. testing. craving. and the friction—god, it was too much. too sharp. too good. the pressure of his thigh against your aching center sent a jolt up your spine and had your lips parting with a tiny, broken sound. he heard it. felt it. his lips found your neck, slow and warm and dangerous, kissing down to the place just beneath your jaw that always made you shiver. and when his thigh flexed slightly, pushing up into you with just a little more pressure, u whimpered. actual whimpered, clutching at the fabric of his shirt like you might float away otherwise.

“jesus,” he muttered, pulling back just enough to look at you. “you’re sensitive.”

you nodded helplessly, biting your lip, grinding again. his hands slipped under your hoodie, fingers splayed across your waist. his touch wasn’t rushed. wasn’t frantic. just slow and hot and careful. like he was memorizing every part of you. you moaned—quiet, needy—and it caught in your throat, tangled in the tension of your lungs.

then his thigh pressed up again, and your hips moved down to meet it like your body was making choices without your brain. the pleasure was too sharp. too consuming. like fire lapping at your nerves. you were trying to stay quiet. really, you were. but when he started kissing your neck again, slow and open-mouthed, his breath hot and mouth wet, you lost it. your back arched. your lips parted.

“i-i’m gonna— fuck—i’m gonna c—” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut.

but then he pulled his thigh away.

“matt—!” you cried, hips chasing the pressure desperately, already throbbing from how close you were.

his hands grip your waist, holding you in place. his lips curved into a smirk as he leaned down, eyes watching your trembling form.

“not yet,” he murmured, voice rough, strained. “not yet, sweetheart.”

you whimpered, hands fisting the fabric of his shirt.

“why’re you so sensitive?” he asked, voice a little gentler now. teasing, but not mean. “m’ just kissing your neck and you’re practically dripping cum already…”

“been a while…” you admitted, voice small. barely there.

he paused. then exhaled slowly. something changed in his face—his teasing smirk melted into surprise… and something else. something warmer. pride, maybe. or possession. like the thought of you falling apart under him after so long made something primal in him snap.

“oh, sweetheart…”

his hand slipped up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your flushed skin. “been holding it all in, huh?”

“just—please,” you begged softly, hips rocking. “please, matt… just keep going.”

his breath caught at the way your voice broke. and he gave you what you needed. his thigh slid back between yours, and you sighed like it was air after drowning. your hips moved on their own, grinding down harder, needier, chasing that edge again. your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling, gripping, desperate to feel everything.

matt groaned softly. “that’s it, baby. just like that. keep goin’.”

he watched you with awe—like he couldn’t believe this was happening. you were moaning again, louder than before, hips stuttering. your eyes squeezed shut as your body trembled beneath him. his hands gripped your waist tighter, trying to keep you steady.

“m’ gonna cum—fuck—” you gasped.

and you did. it ripped through you like lightning, sharp and fast. your back arched off the bench, fingers digging into his shoulders, loud moans spilling from your lips before you could stop them. matt’s eyes widened.

“shhh, shh…” he said quickly, his hand coming up to your mouth. “you’re too loud, baby…”

you whimpered into his palm, body shaking, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how intense it all felt. and still, your hips kept moving, like you couldn’t stop. like your body hadn’t gotten the memo.

“gotta be quiet f’me, yeah?” he whispered, watching you with blown pupils. “don’t want any of your neighbors hearing you… such a needy n’ desperate mess…”

you tried to speak, but all you could get out was a strangled sound against his hand.

“i-i can’t—matt—shit… you n-need to—fuck—you need to stop…” you whimpered, even as your hips refused to stop grinding.

he let out a soft laugh, voice full of warmth and need.

“i don’t think you want me to stop” he whispered, mouth close to your ear. “look at you. still grinding against my thigh. such a needy fuckin’ pussy…”

“i can’t!” you cried, eyes full of tears now, face buried in his shirt. your hips were still moving. you couldn’t stop.

he hushed you gently, his hand still over your mouth. “shh… gotta be quiet, aight?”

you nodded weakly. you didn’t trust your voice. his eyes locked with yours, soft and dark and shining with something you couldn’t name. when you nodded again, he finally lifted his hand off your mouth.

“yeah? you’re gonna be a good girl and stay quiet?”

“yes,” you breathed. but your hips wiggled away from his thigh. just for a second. just for a small break.

his hands slid back to your waist, holding you firm. “no no, it’s okay, sweetheart… ride my thigh just like that, okay?”

“matt i can’t—” you whimpered, body trembling.

“yes you can…” he said softly, guiding your hips. “come on. been so good. you got it, angel.”

you hesitated for a second, but eventually, your body and the need still flooding your system made you give in. your moans were quieter now, but still choked, still needy. you were getting close again, too fast, everything overstimulated and raw, your body burning at every nerve. his eyes never left you.

he could feel it building in you. could see it.

“mhm…just a little more, mama… you look so fuckin’ perfect like this…”

“m-matt i cant—i cant take anymore… please i—fuck…”

your voice broke as you buried your face in his chest, sobbing into his shirt. he groaned at the sound, the feel of your tears, your desperate body. he held you tighter.

“shh, it’s okay… just one more, sweetheart. can you do one more for me?”

you whimpered into his shirt. and then… you nodded. your hips kept moving, grinding down with shaking, unsteady rhythm. and then—it hit you. harder than the first. your body bowed, your fingers dug into his shoulders, your legs clenched around his waist. you screamed his name, too loud, too raw, and that was it.

matt groaned deeply, low in his throat, like the sound of you coming for him again finally broke him. he rocked forward slightly, his hips grinding down as his breath stuttered—and then he gasped, loud and sudden, eyes fluttering shut as he came in his boxers, body tense and shaking from the way you sounded, the way you felt, the way you looked under him, fucked-out and shaking.

“ohhh fuck…” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting.

his arms wrapped around you tightly.

“you okay?” he whispered after a long moment.

you nodded slowly, still catching your breath.

“you?”

he chuckled softly. “i think i just came in my fuckin’ pants. so… yeah. i’m good.”

you both laughed, breathless and dazed and kind of ruined in the best way.

“we should… probably go back inside,” you murmured.

“probably,” he said. but he didn’t move.

neither did you.

[jigglyjeon]

all the things she said -> jjk (two)

summary: pretty much everyone knows the truth about you now, and you’re trying your best to carry on with your life, but duty calls and the show must go on.

rating: R18+ MATURE, minors please do not interact

genre: roommate au, angst, fluff, eventual smut

word count: 5k

warnings/tags: reader kinda spirals this chapter, tension between friends, reader kind of…relapses? is that a fair choice of words? idek, allusions to masturbation in public, jk x reader fight, much angst, confessions, jk gets a text that marks the beginning of a lot of drama to unfold!!! oh shietttt

notes: i have to preface this chapter by saying that there is absolutely nothing wrong with sex work so long as you’ve weighed out all your options and know you have a support system around you that allows you not to feel guilt or shame. You have so many options, but sometimes they just don’t work out— and that’s okay. y/n and her friends painting sex work as something negative is not how i view sex work at all, i respect it in its right, but it is not an easy job and the weight of it doesn’t come lightly! okay my lovelies? okay. buckle up for some more angst (: i promise things won’t be all bad throughout this fic. the first three chapters are heavy, but towards the end of chapter three things will become lighter <3

soundtrack: pushing it down and praying – lizzy mcalpine

⋆ ࣪.  masterlist  ˖ ࣪⭑ 

<- prev | next ->

You haven’t left the house in days. The only person outside of Jungkook that you saw was Jimin, who had shown up during the day to pick up something from your apartment that Jungkook had forgotten on his desk this morning. You had answered the door thinking it was Jungkook.

“Oh butterfly,” he cooed, a genuine look of softness in his usually mischievous eyes. “Who went and clipped your wings?”

You step aside, pulling the door fully open to allow him into the apartment with a lazy huff. You follow him into Jungkook’s room, leaning against the door as you watch him search his desk. It’s organised and tidy, because Jungkook didn’t like mess. It doesn’t take him long to find the black folder he’s searching for, and then he walks to you with a sigh, his hand hovers over your lower back as you walk him back to the door. You were lonely, you cherished the moments amount of company seeing a different face provided you. Jimin smiles at you softly, pats the top of your head and bids you a goodbye, leaving you alone just as quick as he came.

Your mother called you; it was a real miracle that she had believed you when you told her it was some bad practical joke someone was playing on you using AI. Yet of course that didn't make things much easier, she was still your mother; she still goes on an entire spiel about how the internet was going to kill everyone.

You let her spew nonsense while you forced down a cup of tea. It was supposedly meant to calm your nerves and ease your stress, that's what it said on the back of the box when you bought it. You only felt a little bit lighter when you tell her you love her and end the call.

The phone rings almost as soon as you put it down, and you throw your head bag with a groan, she must have forgotten to tell you something, but only it isn’t your mother like you anticipate, it’s Jungkook.

You answer promptly, bringing the phone to your ear.

“What is it?”

His soft chuckle makes you realise your entire body was tensing before, because you feel your shoulders loosen the moment it hits your ears. “Hello to you too, grumpy.”

“Sorry,” you mumble, bringing your legs up onto the couch to tuck beneath your weight. “I just got off the phone with my mum.”

Jungkook sucks a breath between his teeth. “Tragic.” It elicits the smallest giggle from your lips, and he lights up at the sound. You don’t see the way he grins from ear to ear; it would have probably made your heart swell if you had. “I’m taking you out tonight.” He suddenly says, smacking a hand onto his knee, swaying back and forth in his chair.

“What? No. I’m not going anywhere.” You’re quick to shut the idea down. You don’t even know what he has planned, but you could only assume it meant facing friends and familiar faces.

“Y/N, nobody hates you. They just want to know if you’re okay. Come on, it’ll be good for you. You’re usually begging for us all to spend time together.”

It’s true, you missed them. Even though you ignore their texts and calls, too frightened to open them to see what they have to say about everything. Your sanity is fragile, and you don’t know if you can handle it, you think. “They won’t look at me the same.”

“I don’t look at you any differently.” A lie.

How could he not see you differently? How could he not when he thought he knew you through and through? It was only fair when you had told him you worked at the grocery store doing night stock. Where were you going to take all these pictures? A motel? You had gone through those lengths just to make ends meet? He doesn’t let it fester in his mind any longer, because if he was actually going to be honest with you, those images weigh on his mind more often than he’d like to admit. But honesty isn’t what you needed right now.

It would have been more truthful if he had told you that he didn’t feel any differently about you. He bites his tongue, though. “You’re still you, Y/N.”

He pulls his phone away from his ear when he doesn’t hear anything in return. The call is ongoing, but when he hears the smallest sniffle ring through the silence. “Don’t cry, dove.” He sighs, and you whimper, your words struggling to leave your lips when you know they will crack and wobble. You were so ashamed. “When I get back, we’re going to wash up, and I’m gonna help you pick what to wear. Then we’re gonna drive to the restaurant, and I’ll be sitting beside you all night.”

You still don’t answer, your sad sounds increase when in his reassurance. A quiet sob makes the frown on his face lower even more. Jungkook bites on his bottom lip. “Okay?”

“Okay.” You whisper, inhaling shakily. His lips twitch upwards, but he can’t bring it in him to smile completely. He wishes he could make you smile.

“Jungkook?” Your voice is quiet and small, twisting the metaphorical knife further.

“Hm?” He hums, pressing his lip together tightly. There’s a sudden lump in his throat that he fights to swallow back down.

“You lied before,” you accuse, and Jungkook slumps back into his chair, lips parting to question you but you’re too quick to finish your thought. “I see the way you look at me.”

A dozen thoughts plague his thoughts, the weight of your words raising questions within himself to decode them. What exactly do you mean by that? His heart races. He’s never confessed to you because the timing was just never right; he still wasn’t sure if it was worth the thought of losing you because of his own selfish feelings. He’d rather live loving you from a distance than you lose you altogether, because the fact of the matter was that you cared for him so loudly, so much more genuinely than other people in his life did.

But that’s just you— you were too kind for your own good. A giver.

“How’s that, dove?”

“You look at me like you don’t even know who I am,” you squeeze the words out, unable to hold back your feelings, “You pity me.”

Jungkook exhales, shutting his eyes. “Y/N…” You can’t help but think he sounds exhausted, “I would never pity you.”

But you’re tired of me. Is what you want to say, you can hear it in his voice, it’s low and quiet and he’s said the words to you one too many times in the span of a week. You pull your brows together, “Then why are you helping me?” You raise your voice, and he opens his eyes again, staring at the empty excel spreadsheet on his computer screen.

“You’re my girl, Y/N.” Once again, he just lets the words fall from his lips, speaks before he thinks. “Look, I have to go but I’ll see you when I get home, okay?” He ends the call when your quiet goodbye sounds through his phone. He tosses it onto his desk, stares at it for a moment. The next three hours were going to be gruellingly long, he thinks.

You were right about this being extremely uncomfortable.

When you and Jungkook arrive, you freeze by the door when you catch a glimpse of your friends at the table, they’re chatting loudly and laughing as if things were normal. Jungkook only takes a few more steps before he looks over his shoulder at you, clicking his tongue. His hands raise to your shoulders, thumbs soothing against your skin gingerly.

From the table Jimin is looking over at you and Jungkook, he can’t help but feel guilty about the sudden decline in your typical personality. You had always been the one to reassure others, to lift them up in times of darkness. Even when Jimin insulted you, you would shrug and tell him if taking it out on you was going to help him relieve stress, then you didn’t mind. He never really took into consideration the weight of that. Your friends wanted to be there for, they did, but they didn’t know how. You didn’t expect them to know how. That was just part of your character, it was both a strength and a weakness.

Jimin wishes you bit back a little more, when the boundaries have been overstepped, when something makes you feel a little bit uncomfortable. He’s been thinking a lot about how much baggage you carry on your shoulders, not just from the people around you but some of your own, too.

Truthfully, he had been too blind seeing you as the girl that didn’t reciprocate the feelings that Jungkook’s had for you. Even when you wiped at the corners of his mouth when he ate so messily or hugged him just as tightly even when he approached you with faux tears. He was so convinced you were stringing him along, that you had some ulterior motive or thrived of his attention. He had always been especially protective of his youngest friend, sensitive and stoic all in the same rippling, intimidating build. Tattoos, piercings and muscles on the outside but a head filled with hard-to-hide emotions on the inside.

He can see it in the way you’re looking up at him now. Teary eyed with a quivering bottom lip, he understands you a little more now. You didn’t even know it; he was your safe space, the light in the darkness— your home. Even when it was blatantly obvious to everyone else in the room.

You had spent so much time being overbearing with Jungkook, wishing that he wouldn’t feel pain, that the moment your life crumbled you had wanted to run straight into his arms. You were regurgitating your feeling in actions that you didn’t even realise what they meant to him, and for that Jimin gets it now, realises that you’re the one who is damaged. You are for Jungkook what you wish someone would be for you.  

Jimin rejoins his focus to the conversation at the table, now hushed and low when you and Jungkook slowly make your way to the table.  

“–should collectively agree to not bring anything weird up to Y/N.”

Jimin takes a breath, is about to reply but the two of you are already at the table. Jungkook smiles and greets the table, even when he notices the pointed glare Taehyung gives Namjoon, Taehyung because he might have said that loud enough for you to hear. You heard.

You look like a newborn deer, your steps are shaky, and your fingers cling tightly onto the strap of your bag like it was the only thing keep you stable. You’re looking up at Jungkook for reassurance, unable to meet the gazes of the friends you haven’t seen since the incident.

Jia stands up and greets you with a hug. Jungkook removes his hand from your lower back, taking a seat next to Taehyung and patting him on the back. Jimin’s still looking at you, the way your smile is forced as you return her hug with an awkward one-handed one. Jia grins widely at you, tells her she misses you and you nod and tell her the same. She pushes your strands over your shoulders as she compliments you, suffocating you with kindness disguised with curiosities about you. Jia being one of your closest friends, the entire interaction looks estranged. You’re still trying to appease. Jimin sighs and turns away.

You slump down into the seat next to Jungkook. Your eyes flicker over to him, but he’s distracted by everyone else, slipping into conversation with ease. Hanna and Jia are chatting, and when you make eye contact with the girls sat across from you, you smile in hopes to insert yourself in their own conversation, but it causes them to stop talking and smile back at you only.

You look down at your lap defeatedly with slumped shoulders as your leg begins to bounce, your palms rub up and down your thighs nervously. Jungkook still doesn’t look at you, but his hand pats and rests against your knee to stop the movement. Your eyes are big and a little bit glassy as they scan the room, searching for solace when your phone buzzes in your bag. You reach for it, bent over your device as your scroll through the unopened notifications on your home screen. Your hair curtains over you, and your breath hitches in your throat when you come across a message from the very app you’ve tried to avoid for the past week.

Your thumb hovers over the notification.

You’ve got an offer!

You peer up from your phone to make sure no one is paying attention to you. When you look back down at your phone, it’s only convenient that it’s Jimin that turns his head to check on you again. Your thumb taps against it. He narrows his stare at you.

You were going to stop doing this, you told yourself that the moment your photos were leaked. You wouldn’t humiliate your friends, or yourself, any further. You’d look for a night job that wasn’t risky.

From Anonymous:

Amount - $600

Request – Can I get a picture of your hand in your panties, princess? Add another photo of the wet patch on your panties too please, gorgeous.

Nobody has offered you this much money before.

You blink down at your phone, reading over all the words over and over again until your head begins to spin. Then you’re slipping Jungkook’s hand off your leg to rise from your seat, quietly excusing yourself to the bathroom. The talking slows, glances bouncing between you and each other; Jungkook looks at you with a slight frown, only just catching the way Jimin’s stare follows you around the table before he makes eye contact with him. Jimin raises his brow at him, the slight nod in your direction causing Jungkook to act.

“I’m gonna go check on her.” He smiles politely, which only intensifies the tension further.

“You guys could include her, you know?” Jimin cocks his head at the girls who look concerned. “Instead of clinging to each other like a couple of mean girls.”

They don’t beat the allegations when they look at each other. “We don’t know what to say to her.” Jia shrugs, chewing on her bottom lip as her brows lower. “She like, kept this from us without thinking about how this could affect others, you know?”

“You’re worried about your reputation?” He fires back, looking to Taehyung and Namjoon with disbelief. Namjoon slips quietly on his drink and Taehyung sinks into his seat. “I can’t believe you guys, you’ve been friends with her for so long, and you’re worried about how this is going to affect your lives?”

Hanna’s shoulder rise to her ears sheepishly, “I think it was a little irresponsible of her to resort to sex work without weighing out her options first.”

Jimin can feel the fire rising up his throat, ready to defend you. He just couldn’t believe what he was hearing; these people, that you’d bend over backwards to protect, have kicked you to the curb the moment things got messy. Was this why you felt like you had to do more? For their validation? Did they ever really like you?

“Why do you even care Jimin? You’re not even close.” Jia questions, folding her arms over her chest. “We never said we don’t still care for her, either— you’re acting like we just told you we hate her or something.”

“You may as well have.” He mutters under his bread with a roll of his eyes. Silence plagues the table louder than ever before.

Your heart races as you lock the cubicle behind you, pressing your back against it. Your fingers shake as you unlock your phone to open the app again, reading over your request one last time. You swallow thickly, resting your head against the door, slowing your breaths to calm your nerves. You had done this many times before, but things were different when everyone outside had known about it now. You lift a shaky hand, fingers ghosting over your neck as you begin to drag your touch down. Your palm pushes and grips gently at your breasts, and your breaths shake in the same way your hands had been. Your feet shuffle slightly, parting your legs when your fingers fiddle with the zipper of your shorts. You pull drag it down slowly, face contorted and scrunched as your cup your own heat. You whimper, pushing your lips together to bite back a sob.  

Jungkook is pacing in front of the women’s restroom. Two minutes go by, then five, then ten when he officially begins to worry. Multiple others have come and went in that span of time, giving him strange looks. He looks over his shoulder at the table and watches at Jia and Hanna make their leave, then he notes the time on his phone to read 7:45. He taps the call button and pulls the phone to his ear with a huff.

You sniffle, wiping at your cheeks as you pull your shorts back up your legs. You flush the toilet even though the lid is shut and you haven’t even used it, walking out to wash your hands. You look up at your reflection, your mascara is a little bit smudged, and your face is hot. Your lids feel heavy and the beating in your chest feels heavier than before. You don’t even register your phone is ring, letting it buzz in your bag as you walk out with wobbling legs. You nearly walk into Jungkook’s chest, looking down at your shoes when you come out.

“Y/N,” he sighs, “Are you okay?” You can hear the worry in his tone, but it only makes that familiar feeling of shame bubble up within your chest. You look up at him slowly, your lids feel heavy, and you try to ignore the way your wetness sticks to your panties, how you didn’t finish and how much you’re throbbing with the need to.

“Can–” your throat feels dry, your voice crackles, “Could you just take me home?”

Jungkook nods almost immediately, “Everyone’s just about to leave anyway,” You hum, looking over at the table. Three boys are staring, averting their gazes when you’ve caught them.

“Where’d Jia and Hanna go?” You wonder, straightening your posture, attempting to ignore the heaviness you feel in your legs. Jungkook pretends not to notice how tense you are. He clears his throat.

“They, uh— they left.”

You nod slowly, tucking your hair behind your ears. “I told you this wasn’t a good idea.” You whisper, and Jungkook looks at you apologetically, though you don’t look at him again. Not as you say goodbye to those who remain at the table, not as he leads you out of the restaurant. You keep your temple pressed against the window as he drives the two of you home in silence.

You curl up on the couch that evening, channel surfing through the late-night shows and throwback television movies that only your parents would have seen before, maybe even your grandparents. You click your tongue when you can’t settle, so you turn it off altogether, falling on your side into the cushions when Jungkook walks in, rubbing a towel against his wet hair. “Nothing good?” He asks, and you groan in response. He walks around the coffee table to squeeze into the spot next to you, lifting your legs slightly and resting them against his lap when he sits. You try to push down the flutter you feel when his fingers wrap around one of your ankles, the way his fingers twitch down to the tops of your feet, squeezing them lightly with a crooked smile on his face. He tilts his head, “I’m sorry.” He whispers. “I thought it would fix things a little.”

You shrug, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Everything happens for a reason, right?”

Jungkook hums in agreeance. “I’m still here, though.” He reminds you, and you can’t fight the smile that breaks through your pouting lips, its tight and it makes your cheeks look pinchable. Jungkook laughs, he squeezes your ankle again, leaning back into the couch. “Jimin worries for you too, you know?”

You don’t mean for your snort to be as loud as it was, it makes Jungkook raise his brow, a grin growing in amusement. You hide your face in your hands, “Jimin is Jimin, he doesn’t know anything.” You mumble into your palms, and Jungkook rolls his eyes, leaning over to pull your hands away. “Nothing serious ever leaves that man’s mouth.”

“It’s how he shows love, and I think you know that.” He leans back again, head resting atop the edge of the back of the couch, eyes shut. You blink at him, allowing yourself to take in the sight of him while he isn’t looking; his jaw is clenching and unclenching, there’s a dent between his brows and the way his chest rises and falls with every slow breath he takes makes your mind wander to a place it never has before. Your breath gets caught in your throat, and your thighs rub together, just a little, and your panties still feel sticky, and you’re only reminded when they tighten against you from your slight movement. That awful sickly feeling in your stomach from before returns, and you have half a mind to pull your legs away from him.

“What are you thinking about?” Your voice comes out shakier than you intend. He tilts his head toward you, eyes blinking open to reveal the tired orbs, slightly red around a soft, deep brown that was easy to get lost within. They scan you; you look off— you’re sinking into the couch; your breaths are short and staggering. His pupils blow out, but he doesn’t react in other way.

“Why didn’t you come to me, dove?” His voice is raspy, low; he must’ve been half asleep before you called for his attention again.

“What do you mean?” You sit up now, this time you do pull your legs away from his lap and you pull them into your chest, resting your chin on your knees. Jungkook shivers from the loss of your warmth.

“If you needed money, or a job, I could’ve helped you.”

His expression is flat, but his eyes speak all the emotions he feels in the moment all at once. He blinks at you with big eyes, awaiting your response. You breathe in sharply, shutting your lips, looking away then back at him. You blink away tears. “I didn’t want to bother you.” Your voice breaks, but you shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut to blink away your sadness. “I don’t like dragging people down.”

“Dove…” He sighs, “You should know by now that there’s nothing you can do that will make you bothersome to me.”  

“Why is that Jungkook?” You question comes out a little harsher than you want it to. You can see his lips twitch downward, but he catches it before he can make it known. “Why is it that nearly everyone has had something to say about my choices, but you have had nothing to say at all?”

He stares at you, huffing out an amusement breath. He runs a hand through his hair, and it curtains above his eyes again. “Okay.” He nods, his lips pressed tightly together. “I don’t like that you’re selling your body to strangers.”

“How long have you been doing it, Y/N?” He slaps his hands against his knees, looking down only to meet your shocked expression with a sterner look. “Hm?”

“I-I don’t know,” You look down at your fingers, shrugging timidly, “Six– seven months?” He doesn’t break his eyes away from yours, and you feel small under his gaze. He shifts his weight forward, his elbows resting on his knees now, clasping his hands together. “I knew it,” you grow meeker with every word, “I knew you were mad at me.”

“Not mad,” he furrows his brow, “I just, I don’t like it. I don’t like that there are people out there that hold such lewd photos of you that you don’t even know.”

“I…”

“People that don’t even care about you, not like I do.”

“Jungkook—”

“I have feelings for you, Y/N!” He grits his confession through his teeth, turning away from you the moment your mouth shuts and your posture straightens, lowering your legs from your chest. “I haven’t been exactly subtle about it, either. I don’t think so, anyway.”

“Then why?” You throw your hands up, letting them fall against the couch. “Why do you fuck other girls in your bed, which is right next to my room, so loudly that I need to wear headphones to drown out the sound?”

Jungkook throws his head back, a sour laugh leaving his throat. His fingers rub into his eyes when he feels the tension behind them. “You don’t get to do that, Y/N. No.”  

“Oh my god,” you get up from the couch, “oh my god!” You shout into the open space of your apartment, thinking it was going to end there before anything could get worse. You didn’t want to fight, you tried to remove yourself, but Jungkook followed you to your bedroom. You turn to shut the door but his palm slams against it before it can close fully.

“You’re good at that, you know?” There’s a faux amusement in his features, you scowl at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Running away from your feelings.”

“Well, I’d hate to subject you to dating such a careless, cheap whore that sells herself for money!” You turn away from him, marching around your room for your pyjamas, tossing them onto your unmade bed, the bed you shared with him that night and took care of him while he was weak. The memory is fleeting when his presence only makes the air in your room thick with judgement.

“I never called you a cheap whore, don’t put words into my mouth.” He points at you, “I just hate the way that mother fucker used your photo to blackmail you like that. I’m just saying what you’re doing is dangerous, Y/N.”

“I’m not doing it anymore.” You mutter under your breath, clutching your towel in your hands when you face him.

“Enlighten me then, what were you doing in the bathroom for half an hour at the restaurant?” His stare is cold, taking a step toward you. You take one back on instinct, the backs of your legs hitting the bed frame and you fall back onto your bed. You’re look ahead, past his face when he bends down to come face to face with you. “Did you send them?”

You shake your head. No, you hadn’t sent the images. You touched yourself in that bathroom, you took the photos as per the request, and you didn’t send them. Not when you saw his face behind your eyes, hidden in your thoughts. The whispers from the people that were dear to you, who couldn’t look at you because of it.

“No?”

You shut your eyes, shaking your head with a sniffle. Tears fall silently down your cheeks, hot with anger and guilt.

“You listen to me,” He lowers himself to his knees in front of you, taking a breath as he softens his tone. “I can only be there for you if you let me. I would go to the ends of the earth for you— you’re my best friend.”

You let yourself cry, letting your head fall to hide your blubbering but his fingers catch your chin. “Look at me, Dove.”

“How could you have feelings for me when–” You croak, but he hushes you, pulling your frame into his arms.

“There’s nothing you could do in this world.” He cuts you off, finger raking through your hair to soothe your hiccupping sobs. “I don’t expect you to feel the same way, I know you don’t,” He mutters into your hair, fighting that familiar sting in his eyes, “I just don’t think I can pretend that I don’t anymore, either.”

You pull away to look at him, and your heart shattered when his nose twitches, and his glossy eyes are straining to keep away his own tears. “It’s okay.” He smiles softly, but you know him well. You know him well enough to read between the lines; the things he said hadn’t matched the way he looked at you when he lied through his teeth. It’s not okay when he knows he wants you so bad it hurts, that his chest is so tight, and he fights to keep his breathing steady while he waits for you to say something.

You know that look— it’s hope.

Your hand lifts to cup his cheek, and you don’t miss the way he sinks into your touch. You want to listen to the way your heart pounds too, but your mind…it tells you that you’ve ruined any chances you had to make him happy.

“You should get some rest,” you tell him, letting your hand slip away from him. “You look exhausted.” He nods, rises from his knees as he drags his feet toward your door. He looks over his shoulder one last time before he closes your door behind him, leaving you with the quiet tears and self-loathing that troubled you.

You never should have thought this was just easy money, shouldn’t have convinced yourself that you would be safe so long as nobody knew. But most of all, you shouldn’t have assumed your friends were going to be supportive. Would it have been different if you were honest with them? Why didn’t you just ask someone for help? Did you hate yourself that much?

From beyond your door, Jungkook receives a text that blurs his vision— makes him see red.

©jigglyjeon 2025 all rights reserved

taglist: @bhonbhon , @rikifever , @jungkookswifeeeeeee , @songbyeonkim , @ttanniett

comment or send in an ask if you'd like to be added to the taglist for attss! <3 love you guys thank you so much for enjoying the story so far!

[mona-risms]

perchance relationship headcanons for mira w/ a gn reader?? i don’t really have too many ideas in mind so you can do whatever feels right 😭

◆ MAIN COURSE: Mira x gn!Reader

◆ TYPE: SFW

◆ ALLERGEN WARNINGS: N/A

◆ NOTES: This req came running in a matter of mere mins since sending out that annoucement my GOD 🥰 THANK YOU 🥰🥰🥰 I've been having their songs on loop I swear to god

I LOVE MY BABY I personally think it's a crime that when you think about it Mira and Zoey are very underdeveloped in the plot 😞 but that's not relevant rn ANYWAY

Mira is someone who holds her cards REALLY close to her chest. She's had to grow up that way—being considered the problem child meant whatever she did was scrutinised to all hell and back, so as rebellious as she was, sometimes that didn't necessarily mean feeling 'free' to express herself either. And when she does, it's blunt, cutting, usually ending up with her parents telling her to hush or soften her words to something befitting of......well........someone Not Her

That carries on to how she is with romance, unfortunately. Dating her would be, for simplicity's sake, difficult, and even getting to that point in the first place is even more so. But I swear, trust me when I say that the effort will be so incredibly worth it

Mira would tend to analyse your words a LOT. The other HUNTR/X members are one thing, she's so extremely close with them now that she's comfortable to let her guard down. But with anyone else? Even you? Oh god she is a SCEPTIC through and through; she's the type to prefer actions over words, otherwise she'll take everything you say with more than a grain of salt

And like I said, Mira would also be extremely blunt. She doesn't hold back with her words, so if she's pissed off or disappointed, she WILL make it known. I think it'd be even more so when it comes to someone she has feelings for as well, not for the sake of maliciousness but it's her own way of letting you know how she genuinely feels in the moment without mixing shit up

I think if you genuinely show her that you respect her agency and how she is, if you give her the time and space she needs, she'll slowly but surely start to open up to you and allow herself to not get her guard up all the time

"Hey."

Mira's sharp tone caught your attention, but you've learned to easily take it in stride. Where staff would've cowed slightly at the feeling of being intimidated, you simply lifted your head up and met the idol's gaze head-on. "Mira," you nodded in acknowledgement, "need something? I thought you were rehearsing."

Mira shrugged as she approached, the penthouse windows reflecting her movements for you to see, "We were, but Bobby needed to talk to Rumi about something and Zoey went to finish her rapping verse for the new song."

You couldn't help the chuckle that escaped past your lips, "I'd have assumed she went to eat her heart out."

"That girl can multitask," the corner of Mira's lips lifted in barely-contained amusement when she leans on the arm of the sofa across you.

"And you?" You tilted your head slightly, "What are you doing now?"

"Taking a break, obviously."

"I thought there was no rest for a K-Pop idol."

"That is Rumi's thing, you're talking to the wrong idol."

"Right, right, my bad, Ms. 'I came to the Met Gala in a sleeping bag'."

Mira huffed in slight laughter at the memory, "If everyone's just going to abandon all sense of comprehensible fashion, what does it matter if I wore a sleeping bag? Realistically speaking, I was the only one there who felt comfortable."

"Fair enough," is all you offer.

And really, the silence should've bothered her. Usually it did. Without Rumi or Zoey to fill the silence, the lack of.. anything would usually make her feel like she's being internally scrutinised for any reason—the way she dressed, the way she spoke, the way she presented herself in general.

But with you? Mira felt none of that. With interacting, the responses flowed easily, and she didn't feel like she was wittingly stepping on landmines whenever she said anything. In silence, there was no pressure, there was no prickling feeling of scrutiny, it was just.. comfortable.

Not quite the same sort of comfortable she had with the other HUNTR/X members, of course, but.. something different.

Honestly she didn't know whether she wanted to lean into it or pull away.

So she tests the waters instead, "You're weird."

"Am I?"

"Yeah, you are. People would either freak out, use us for clout, or give Dispatch the time of their lives," she crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes, "but you've done none of that. You're just.. here. "

"..Am I not allowed to be here?"

"Not my point. I mean you don't push yourself onto the three of us," on her, though that goes completely unsaid in favour for the feeling of protectiveness for what her trio had. "What's your angle?"

Maybe the question should've offended, but.. all you did was shrug as you answered with complete sincerity, your voice not wavering even once, "None. Is it that hard to believe that I just genuinely enjoy your company?"

Mira blinked. "Yes."

(Some small part of her mind, clearly unimportant, wondered whether you meant to refer to HUNTR/X as a whole.. or just her.)

And you laughed, a low chime in the otherwise quiet penthouse living room, "Not much I can do there, unfortunately. Guess you'll just have to trust me."

Trust.

That never came easy for her, not now and certainly not back then.

And yet.

"..Guess I do."

Once you actually end up dating, it's ☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️ UGH I love her

Yk how she'd be blunt as hell? See that still stays. HOWEVER. When you're not in, say, a professional or a life-or-death situation, her voice takes on a certain care and softness that she doesn't even have with HUNTR/X. It's not wholly noticeable, but you can hear it in the way she's slightly less sharp when addressing you, you can see it in the way that her expression softens subtly when she talks about you (and Zoey and Rumi tease her to the moon and back, mostly Zoey LMFAO)

I don't think she'd use nicknames personally, feels too cheesy for her. Actually, saying things in general is too cheesy for her, not to mention again she much prefers showing than telling. So instead of nicknames, it's sudden gifts like the jacket she clocked you eyeing up but didn't buy or even just your favourite snack from the convenience store. Instead of waxing poetry about what she adores about you, she expresses it in gestures. An example would be if you did makeup, she'd watch you and if there's something specific that she's noticed about your features but YOU didn't, she might even guide you or do the makeup herself so that your makeup is properly done justice

She won't be clingy, but she'd be EXTREMELY protective of you. Friends (and especially HUNTR/X actually) are one thing, but Mira letting herself date someone in the first place? Shit man that means she considers you as someone she genuinely wants to stay with. She recognises very well that you have your own life, and she has hers, and she wouldn't want to suffocate in the way SHE doesn't want to be suffocated either. But at the same time, when you're out together, she'd step a little closer, guide you through crowds like a bodyguard instead of your girlfriend (lol), and in the case of demons ever coming near you? Oooooh MAN it's over for them—no one, and I mean NO ONE, is taking the person who makes her feel like she belongs and she's lovable

I feel the need to add that if you like dancing or you ARE a dancer/fellow choreographer, then it's bonus points to you. Mira's bluntness actually helps here, since she'll freely give you feedback on your movements AND even demonstate the dances/suggest alternatives. And because the two of you are together? Yes. Yes she'll come close and guide you with touch without hesitation 🥰🥰🥰. OH OH OH AND LET'S NOT FORGET COUPLE DANCES TOO!!!! PLEAAAASE it'd just be the two of you in the dance studio and you're doing the tango or even ballroom dancing (you can tease her about it and she'll say she's multifaceted)

I think there are moments where she'd retreat to herself, especially during the beginning of your relationship or after the first few times you fight. It's already a huge insecurity of hers, being aware that she can be easily UNapproachable due to how brutally honest she can be. The time with Rumi was one thing, but you're someone who she willingly gave and entrusted her entire heart to—what happens if that's.. gone? Please give her space before the two of you talk again, she's genuinely a reasonable person. Reassure her that you're willing to give her whatever she needs, and over time she grows more comfortable with the new form of vulnerability, and she'll withdraw less when she realises that yes! You're staying, and nothing she does will change that

Also? Nap times. Relaxations in the hot springs. GOD yes. Couple spa dates? Genuine bliss 🥰🥰🥰 And speaking of dates, she knows she's busy as HELL. But she tries her best to either carve out time for you or she actually has you involved with whatever it is she's busy with, surprisingly (like having you watch her choreo to see if there's anything that sticks out, watching her and the other girls go on reality shows, etc)

Overall? It's like having a cat for a girlfriend. One that genuinely treasures you when she finds herself wanting your presence to be a constant bc of how you make her feel ☹️

[voroxpete]

"They know public opinion doesn't matter."

NO. BAD, WRONG!

First off, public opinion always matters. Every nation, ultimately, has the government they are willing to tolerate. Democracy is just a system for doing that with the least likelihood of people dying. Even North Korea has the government they are willing to tolerate.

This is something you all really need to get through your heads. There are no fascist autocracies where 90% of the population hate the government but no one can do anything about it because of the lack of human rights or whatever. All of the tools of control that governments operate through; police, military, bureaucrats... They're all just people. Tyranny does not remove the requirement to care about the will of the people, it only reduces it. Or, perhaps, delays it.

Second, they're not confident, they're incompetent and desperate. Trumps approval - even among Republican voters - is tanking. Even on subjects like immigration, he's losing them. They voted to kick out all the nasty evil criminal immigrants and then they found out that meant Jose, the guy down the street who sometimes walks their dog for them. They voted to cut government spending and then they found out that meant no longer being able to phone someone when their social security doesn't come through on time. They're getting everything they asked for good and hard, and while some of them are loving it, some of them are absolutely hating it.

Trump's government is an abject failure. He has passed no meaningful legislation. His "Big Beautiful Bill" is horrendously unpopular, and even when it does inevitably pass, it'll be the only thing he can pass this year because he has zero ability to reach across the aisle and he can only do one bill through reconciliation per year. His proclamations are getting shot down in the courts. He brought in his best bud Elon to take a chainsaw to the government, Elon did this so incompetently that Republican congressmen had to stop giving townhalls in the face of the angry outcry from their voters, and then he very publicly broke up with Elon in a giant slap fight. He shilled for electric cars that his voters hate on the lawn of the White House. His immigration raids have met with massive resistance and he's not even close to hitting his target numbers. ICE is running out of money. His military parade was a wet fart, while the No Kings protests were the biggest in US history, mobilizing literally millions of people across the country (that is insane!) He looks weak, fumbling and ineffectual.

Iran is his attempt to regain some measure of power, to pull attention away from all his failures. But even that isn't working, because Trump sold himself as the anti-war president, and a not insignificant portion of his hardcore based believed him. They see foreign wars and foreign aid as being the same thing; money being wasted for the sake of people who aren't them. Marjorie Taylor Green is calling out his "bait and switch" (her words). That is nuts. His biggest fangirl is going after him. Tucker Fucking Carlson is calling him out. His alliance is shattering over this.

This isn't confidence you're seeing, it's desperation. They're failing to properly manufacture consent because at this point they have no idea how to. They didn't plan ahead because they didn't plan any of this, it's just an impulsive child flailing wildly while all the people around him try to bail out their sinking ship.

Their dreams of a fascist US are crumbling around their ears. You are winning. That doesn't mean they can't still succeed. They can turn this around and still achieve their goals, if you let them.

DON'T. FUCKING. LET. THEM.

Fight like hell. Victory is in your grasp.