#i keep making things and then forgetting about it

[flowersforbucky]

means i care

joaquín torres x reader

"You were dead, Joaquín. Your heart wasn't beating when I pulled you from that water."

He grins, taking your hand in his. He brings it to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

“Well, it’s beating now. Because of you. But what’s new? My heart always beats for you.”

word count: 3.3k

warnings/tags: friends to lovers, idiots in love, pining, enhanced!reader with energy manipulation powers, canon level injuries, some angst, fluff, no use of y/n, reader has she/her pronouns, pov switches

☆☆☆☆☆☆

“You know, if we don't succeed here, we'll be looking at World War III. I could use a little extra good luck. If you know what I'm sayin’.”

You shift your gaze from the Indian Ocean outside of the jet's window to the man sitting beside you. At first, you question whether or not you heard him correctly. Then, you see the sly smirk on his lips and the glimmer of mischief in his brown eyes and you realize that you had, in fact, heard him correctly.

If you had any doubt about what he meant by a little extra good luck, the look on his face makes it abundantly clear.

Your eyes flicker to his lips for a split-second before you look back out to the endless expanse of blue water surrounding you. God knows that if you stare at him for a moment too long, you might just be weak enough to give in.

It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve come dangerously close.

“Good luck, huh? I hope you’ve got a four-leaf clover or a rabbit’s foot stashed somewhere in that suit of yours, then.”

He laughs. The sound fills the jet and for a second, you forget where you are and what all is on the line.

“A thousand four-leaf clovers wouldn’t give me a fraction of the good luck that I’d get from a kis—”

“Landing in five!” Sam calls, effectively breaking the tension in the air. You doubt that it was intentional, but you’re thankful for the interruption nonetheless. As if the list of things on your mind isn’t already a mile long – the last thing you need to add to it right now is kissing Joaquín.

You should be used to it – the flirting and teasing. He hasn’t held back since the moment you met. First, you had assumed it’s just how he is – that he says the same things to any halfway decent looking girl in his age bracket.

Sam had insisted that’s not the case.

Still, past relationship trauma had left you unable to believe that he was being genuine –and unable to believe that any good could come from returning his flirtatious sentiments. Best case scenario, you hook up and relieve the tension that’s been brewing between you for months, things fizzle, and you have to continue to work together while attempting to ignore any awkwardness. Worst case scenario, you let yourself completely fall for him and someone inevitably gets hurt.

This line of work, this lifestyle – it doesn’t mesh well with romantic relationships. You’ve learned that lesson the hard way, a few times over.

So, despite the fact that you think he’s annoyingly attractive, you brush off the compliments and cheesy one-liners. You look for every excuse when he tries to spend time with you outside of work and missions, never letting yourself give in even when every fiber of your being is dying to do so.

Like right now. He sits beside you, his arm and thigh brushing against yours. Even through his thick, heavy gear, it sends a shiver up your spine. You resist the urge to grab his hand in yours and tell him that you and Sam have this handled if he wants to help from the sidelines.

You can hear his response as clear as day in your mind. “Keep to the sidelines? And let you and Sam have all the fun? Pshhh. You wish.”

You bite your tongue, afraid to let him know just how much you care. You might not let it show, but you’re more worried for his safety than you are your own.

There’s no chance of him staying on the base while you and Sam potentially risk your lives. But maybe you can at least give him an incentive to keep himself alive.

Joaquín starts to stand when you place a hand on his arm. He freezes, an almost hopeful expression on his face as he looks at you expectantly.

“Don’t die out there and we’ll see about that kiss. Okay?”

☆☆☆☆☆☆

“Are you listening to a word I say?”

Sam’s voice snaps you out of your trance. You blink rapidly, lubricating your eyes that had been locked on a beeping monitor for an embarrassing amount of time.

“No,” you answer honestly. You glance at him for a brief moment before your eyes are back on the sleeping body a few feet away from you. “Not really. Sorry. What did you say?”

He sighs. He’s trying his hardest to not let it show, but you know that he’s getting a little annoyed with you.

You can’t really find the energy to care. You’re a little annoyed with him, too. He won’t stop tapping his fucking foot against the linoleum floor and the whole room still smells like the Chinese take-out he’d eaten hours ago.

Your stomach growls. Maybe you’re just hangry.

“I said you need to go home,” Sam says in an even tone. “Get a few hours of sleep, take a shower. Eat something that didn’t come out of a vending machine.”

Over the last four days, you’ve spent more time in this hospital room than your own apartment. You’ve only left to go home long enough to shower every other day, and to get gas stations snacks and coffee on occasion. The longest you’d been away from Joaquín’s bedside was yesterday morning, when you went to the Target down the road to put together a get well soon basket for when he wakes up.

Most guests would be asked to leave after standard visiting hours, but you suppose working with Captain America does come with some perks. You suppose it also helps that you were the one who pulled Joaquín from the ocean, flew him to safety, and restarted his heart with your powers while you waited on the emergency medical team to get to you on Celestial Island.

Maybe the hospital staff pities or – or maybe they’re a little scared of you. Either is fine, as long as you aren’t asked to leave for an extended period of time.

You’re hungry, and you need to shower, and a few hours of sleep in an actual bed certainly wouldn’t hurt. But the thought of not being here when he wakes up…

“I’ll call you,” Sam says, as if reading your mind. “I swear. As soon as he wakes up, I’ll let you know.”

You don’t trust your voice enough to speak, so you just nod. You’ve somehow managed to refrain from crying up until this point, but you’re running on a few hours of sleep and it’s starting to get to you.

Despite the various wounds and bruising across his body, he looks peaceful in his sleep. His chest rises and falls with steady breaths, and you feel yourself relax at the visual reminder that he’s okay. He’s resting, and healing, and he’ll wake when his body is ready.

“Okay,” you whisper as you stand up from the scratchy, old recliner that you have been glued to for the majority of the last few days. “You call me as soon as he opens his eyes.”

Before leaving, you walk to the side of his bed. On the table next to him sits a vase of wildflowers that have already started to wilt, and the basket that you had brought, full of some of his favorite things – beef jerky, Takis, gummy bears – as well as a few personal care items that may be of use for the duration of his hospital stay after waking up – deodorant, a toothbrush and travel sized toothpaste, and the biggest stainless steel tumbler that you could find.

In the middle of the basket sits a small, plush falcon. You hadn’t even been looking for it when it caught your eye in the store, but you immediately knew you had to get it for him. Seeing it had felt like a sign that everything is going to be okay.

You remove the stuffed bird from the basket and tuck it between his side and his arm before leaning down and pressing a tender kiss to the center of his forehead. It’s the first time you’ve touched him since the accident, and you’re reluctant to pull away.

Your eyes sting with all of the emotions that you’ve been holding inside for days. You don’t look back at Sam or say another word as you walk out of the room, hoping with everything in you that the next time you walk into this room, he greets you with one of his obnoxiously perfect smiles and a corny pick-up line.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

The first thing Joaquín hears is the low, repetitive beeping of a monitor. When he opens his eyes, he’s momentarily blinded by violent, early morning sunlight creeping through the blind slats.

“Well, well, well. How nice of you to decide to join the living today, Sleeping Beauty.”

He recognizes Sam’s voice a second before he sees him. Slumped in a chair in the corner of the room, he looks like he could use some sleep, himself.

All at once, images of the moments leading up to him plummeting into the ocean come flooding back. He remembers Sam yelling at him to back off from the last missile, the missile firing right at him, and then nose-diving into the ocean as you shriek his name.

You.

His eyes dart around the room in a panic, looking for any sign of you. His heartrate spikes on the monitor. Sam jumps up, rushing over to his side.

“What – where is she – is she okay?”

God, his throat is painfully dry. How long has he been unconscious?

“Easy, easy,” Sam soothes as he takes a seat at the foot of the hospital bed. “She is fine. She was unharmed and has hardly left your side in five days. It was like pulling teeth just to convince her to go home for the night. Made me promise to call her the second you woke up.”

At first, he assumes Sam is just messing with him. You have hardly left his side? You, the same person who has rejected every one of his advances for nearly a year?

“You’re being serious? She’s been here?” He asks in disbelief.

“Oh, yeah,” Sam exhales. “She’s been a mess, man. I don’t know how much you remember, but…” He trails off, avoiding Joaquín’s gaze.

“She’s the one who pulled you from that water. By the time she flew you somewhere safe, you weren’t breathing. She had to restart your heart with her powers until the medical team got to you.”

He can tell by Sam’s demeanor that he isn’t joking around, but he still struggles to wrap his head around it all. He had fucking died? His heart stopped, and you’re the reason that he’s alive? And you stayed with him while he’s been recovering?

Then, he remembers the last words you said to him before arriving on Celestial Island.

Don’t die out there and we’ll see about that kiss. Okay?

He isn’t sure if you really spoke those words, or if it’s some false memory that his subconscious conjured to keep him holding on while on the brink of death.

If it’s the latter, it worked. If it’s the former, and you really did say that, he supposes that offer is probably off the table since he technically did die.

Damn it.

Joaquín attempts to sit up and becomes aware of two things at once – he feels like he has been repeatedly ran over by a bus, and there's something fuzzy tickling his arm.

“What the hell…”

He picks up the small, stuffed falcon and can’t help but smile at it. “You shouldn’t have,” he chuckles, tossing the bird at Sam.

He catches it, smirking. “Oh, I didn’t.”

Sam gestures towards the table beside Joaquín. He follows his gaze, noticing the dying flowers and basket stuffed full of various snacks and self-care items. Whoever chose the contents of the basket, knows him well. He could live off of beef jerky if he had to, and gummy bears are his favorite.

“Who..?” Joaquín asks, trying not to get his hopes up that it could be from the person he most wants it to be from – the person who apparently saved his life.

“Take a guess,” Sam jabs as he tosses the stuffed animal back to Joaquín.

For a second, he thinks his heart just might stop again. He pictures you picking out the items and he has to shake his head to keep himself from grinning too big.

“Man, if I knew that all I had to do was die to get her attention, I would’ve done it a hell of a lot sooner.”

Sam rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Just don’t go making a habit of it, okay? I don’t know if she would forgive you if you did it again.”

Sam then pulls out his cell phone, excusing himself from the room to give you a call and to get Joaquin’s nurse. Once he’s alone, Joaquín fights against all of the stiffness in his body to reach for the basket sitting on the bedside table. In addition to all of the other goodies, there’s a card tucked between a stick of Old Spice deodorant and a bag of Takis.

It isn’t in an envelope. He instantly snorts at the image on the front of the card – it’s a cartoon dog wearing a cone collar with a dejected expression. In bold print, it reads: At least you don’t have to wear a cone.

He opens the card, and immediately recognizes your handwriting.

I specifically remember asking you to not die. Guess you were right about that good luck kiss, after all. I'll remember that next time.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

The simultaneous dread and relief that you feel when you see Sam’s name pop up on your phone can’t be described in words. Dread at the mere possibility of bad news. Relief that it could be what you’ve been hoping to hear for days.

As soon as you hear him say that Joaquín is awake, you’re jumping out of bed at the ass crack of dawn. You don’t think about taking the time to eat any breakfast or even make yourself a cup of coffee – you just throw on some clean clothes, brush your teeth, and you’re out the door.

The short drive to the hospital is spent talking to yourself about what you're even going to say to him. How are things supposed to just go back to normal between the two of after something like this? After it felt like your heart stopped when his did? Do you even want things to go back to normal?

You knew you’d feel relieved to see him awake, but you don’t expect the overwhelming rush of emotions that comes over you as soon as you hear his voice murmur your name.

He's sitting up in his bed, holding the stuffed falcon that you’d given him and smiling at you like you hung the moon and stars as soon as you walk through the door.

That’s when you know the answer to your question – no, you don’t want things to go back to normal between you. With the way that you feel your heart in your throat, you don't think that’s a possibility, anyway.

“This little guy was a nice surprise to wake up to, you know. Kind of wish it had been you, but he’s cute, too.”

You no longer attempt to hold back the tears that had been threatening to spill over for the last five days. You sit on the edge of his bed, directly beside his thigh and meagerly wipe the teardrops that leak down both of your cheeks.

“Hey, hey,” His demeanor completely shifts when he realizes that you’re crying. He leans in closer and pulls you to him. You sob against his chest, and he runs a large hand up and down your back. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m here. It's gonna take more than a missile or two to take me out.”

You nod against his chest, but don’t pull away. He continues to massage your back as you attempt to calm down, focusing on the feeling of him against you. When you finally lean back, he wipes a lingering tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“You were dead, Joaquín. Your heart wasn’t beating when I pulled you from that water.”

He grins, taking your hand in his. He brings it to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

“Well, it’s beating now. Because of you. But what’s new? My heart always beats for you.”

You exhale, finally letting yourself return his cheeky grin. The teasing remark makes you feel the happiest you have in days.

“Leave it to you to find a way to flirt when we are having a conversation about your death.”

“I know, I know,” he sighs, his expression suddenly turning more serious. “I do have a question, though.”

You tilt your head in curiosity.

“When you brought me back to life, was it like a mouth to mouth type thing? Or..?”

You roll your eyes, playfully shoving him back against his pillows. He cackles, his cheeks turning pink. He pulls you back to him, this time even closer than before. You can smell mint on his breath from the toothpaste you’d put in his get well soon basket.

“No. Thought I’d save that for when you’re awake.”

He places his hands on your sides, the light touches sending a thrill through you. The normally chilly hospital room suddenly feels a whole lot warmer.

“Are you sure?” He murmurs. “I don’t want you to think that you.. owe me anything, or have to kiss me just because of what happened—”

You’re shaking your head before he finishes speaking.

“Joaquín,” you interrupt him softly. “I’ve been stupid. So, so stupid and I'm so sorry. I'm sorry that it took something like this for me to open my eyes to what’s been right in front of me this whole time. I knew that if I let myself want more, if I let myself give in, that’d be it for me. And that terrified me. But I don’t care anymore. I’m more terrified of never getting the chance to—”

Suddenly, his hands move from your hips to either side of your face. He pulls you the remainder of the short distance to him, and then his lips are against yours; effectively ending your rambling.

One of your hands cups the nape of his neck, your fingers intertwined in his soft curls. His tongue ghosts along your bottom lip and you eagerly part them for him. The sounds from various machines and the voices out in the hallway all fade to white noise as he moves his lips with yours.

He's gentle. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s still relatively bedridden, but he touches you like he’s touching fine, breakable China. There’s an underlying urgency, like he’s scared he’s dreaming and wants to savor this as much as possible before he opens his eyes.

You pull away with a gentle tug of his bottom lip between your teeth. He doesn’t drop his hands from caressing your face, and your rest your forehead against his, basking in the afterglow of a kiss long overdue.

“Damn,” he breathes. “Please tell me we can do that again, minus all of the months of rejection and the close call with death.”

You laugh. “I can promise you no more rejection, but you have to promise me no more close calls with death.”

A gentle stroke of his thumb across your cheekbone sends goosebumps down your spine. “I promise, mi vida. I’ve been waiting too long for this. There’s no getting rid of me now.”

☆☆☆☆☆☆

mi vida: spanish for "my life"

thank you so much for reading!!! as always, comments and reblogs are very appreciated ♡

[redvexillum]

"EPISODE 5 ISN'T A RAGATHA EPISO--"

So I just finished watching Episodes 4 and 5 of The Amazing Digital Circus for the third time because I’ve clearly given my life to this show and Gooseworx owns my soul. Genuinely, what phenomenal writing. I've seen mixed reception for episode five but I’m thrilled that the majority of the fandom can agree this episode was amazing. Because that means I can scream with all you FunnyBunny shippers and dedicated emotional wrecks alike.

Now. Let me get into why Episode 5 wasn’t just a Jax episode (though it very much was)—but why it was, at its core, Ragatha’s episode. This is gonna be long and laced with “am I overthinking this?” moments. Buckle up.

WHO IS RAGATHA?

When we first meet her in Episode One, she’s nice. Incredibly kind. Super peppy. But there's this teeny-tiny crack in that candy coating. She spirals, just a little, and we see a nervous, anxious edge slipping through her “positive vibes only” persona.

And that spiral? It’s not a one-time thing. It gets worse. The deeper you go into the series, the more you notice how her overbearing positivity feels less like optimism and more like a coping mechanism. A weaponized smile. She’s not just trying to cheer everyone up, she’s gaslighting herself into believing she has to be happy. She has to be likable. That it’s the only way she’ll be accepted.

And in the Digital Circus, where identity is shredded (like you forget your name for fuck's sakes) and everything’s performative? That’s not just sad...it’s devastating.

EPISODE 4: THE CRACKS BEGIN TO SHOW

Episode Four set the entire foundation. When Ragatha gets “stupid sauce” in her eyes and all her emotional filters drop, you finally see her. She stops curating how she’s perceived and just exists...and what comes out? She reminisces of her life (which gets confirmed in Episode 5). Gangle tries to warn her she might get hurt, and her response is almost eerie in how casually she brushes it off.

Sure, it could be a nod to Raggedy Ann and all that doll-abuse lore, but when you learn about Ragatha’s real past: abusive, narcissistic mother, high-society pressure cooker upbringing...that “hurt” starts feeling very literal. Maybe this line wasn’t just random doll humor. Maybe it’s a whisper of childhood trauma, manifesting through a false smile.

And then comes the Gloink Queen. The way Ragatha lights up at the idea of a mother who genuinely cherishes every single one of her hundreds of children? I fucking felt that. It wasn’t just admiration; it was longing. Desperation. Like she never got that kind of love growing up, so the concept itself is intoxicating. It’s this quiet heartbreak that adds a whole new layer to her need for approval.

She hates Jax. Let’s be real. He antagonizes her constantly, pushes every one of her buttons (he literally threw her in a goddamn vat of boiling oil for fucks sakes). But the part that wrecks me? She doesn’t want him to hate her. Not because she likes him, but because anyone disliking her is unbearable. Being disliked means she failed. Means she’s unworthy. Means she’s alone.

That’s why her facade, this grinning, chipper armour? It's everything. And the more we see of her, the more we understand that it’s crumbling.

I NEED YOU ALL TO LOCK THIS SCENE INTO YOUR BRAINS, OKAY? Because this exact emotional thread gets replayed like a broken record all throughout Episode Five. It’s not just a one-off moment, it’s the theme. The cast knows Ragatha’s cheer is fake. And honestly? It makes sense. They’ve been stuck together for who-knows-how-long, and you learn a lot about someone in that kind of nightmare.

But here’s the thing: when someone keeps pushing toxic positivity, constantly trying to “cheer you up” without actually listening, it doesn’t help. It hurts. It makes the person reaching out feel like they’re talking to a wall. Ragatha so badly wants people to open up to her, but she’s terrified of doing the same in return, and that’s where the entire disconnect lies. She’s hyper-aware of how she’s perceived. Her self-image is a prison. And at the core of it all?

Rejection.

Her biggest, ugliest, most soul-deep fear. Because rejection leads to isolation. And isolation? Leads straight back to the kind of loneliness she probably drowned in as a child.

Now, you're probably wondering: why am I still going off about Episode Four when I promised this was a breakdown of Episode Five?

Because Episode Four is the breadcrumb trail. It's the soft warning. The writer’s subtle little “hey, pay attention to her” moment. It’s the appetizer. It preps us, emotionally and narratively, for the main course of Episode Five, where Ragatha's carefully-constructed image begins to crack and we finally, finally, start to understand the full scope of her trauma.

Let’s address the big criticism real quick: a lot of people think this was a Jax-centric episode. And I get it. Jax got depth, growth, actual backstory. But here’s my take: Jax and Ragatha are each other’s foils.

One is warm, soft-spoken, always smiling, but secretly repressing everything real.

The other is brash, rude, antagonistic—but when he opens up? He’s real. He’s genuine.

They’ve been clashing since Episode One, and their dynamic works because they’re mirrors: distorted, but parallel.

Why was using Jax as Ragatha’s foil so brilliant? Because it does two huge things. First, it finally shows us Jax as a person instead of just telling us he’s a dick with a smile. But more importantly?

It amplifies Ragatha.

A foil, by definition, is a character who highlights the traits of another character by contrasting with them. And what better way to show Ragatha’s entire internal collapse than by placing her beside someone who, while difficult and abrasive, actually manages to connect with someone else?

Because as Jax grows closer to Pomni, the very connection Ragatha has been chasing since Day One, it throws Ragatha’s failures into painful high-def. She’s tried everything. She’s been kind, supportive, the “good friend.” And yet, it’s not her Pomni opens up to. It’s not her Pomni laughs with.

And that is why Episode Five is a Ragatha episode. Maybe not in the obvious, center-stage way. But in the subtle, devastating unraveling that plays out just beneath the surface.

Now, let’s talk receipts. I’ve got observations, breakdowns, and repeat viewings of Episodes Four and Five loaded and ready.

I don’t know if it was a deliberate artistic choice or just an organic part of the scene composition, but I can’t not point out how telling it is that the characters are all paired off: Jax and Pomni, Kinger with Zooble and Gangle, and yet Ragatha? She’s standing off in the distance. Alone. Isolated. Visibly excluded from every natural dynamic.

And I really want to believe that was purposeful. A quiet visual cue for us, the audience, to understand not just the social dynamics of the group, but how deeply disconnected Ragatha truly is from the others.

Honestly, I think this was the moment her carefully held-together mask started to split. The start of the spiral. Go back to the earlier episodes and you’ll start noticing it: Ragatha drops a lot of sharp, snarky comments. Some subtle. Some cutting. Whether intentional or not, those little moments are emotional leaks. She drops her filter more often around Jax, which makes sense, she hates him. She doesn’t bother hiding it. But the fact that her snark surfaces at all tells us something: the mask is slipping.

Think about Episode One, when Ragatha spirals, it’s visceral. It’s raw and disturbing in a way the others’ breakdowns just… aren’t. Why? Because for Ragatha, cracking isn’t just about stress or fear. It’s about exposing something she’s worked so hard to hide: her real, “ugly,” human feelings. She’s repressed them for so long, forced herself to smile through it all, because she believes that if she isn’t likable, if she isn’t “good,” she’ll be abandoned.

And now? That bottle’s starting to shake.

I'll circle back to this moment when I dive into the bar scene later (because oof—there’s so much there), but let’s keep things chronological for now.

Right after Ragatha leaves, Jax drops a line on Pomni: “[She] is taking advantage of you.” And it hits especially hard because just before that, Gangle told Pomni she didn’t think Ragatha was genuine. That? That’s when the discomfort surrounding Ragatha starts to really take shape.

Here’s why I think that hit a nerve with the rest of the cast.

They are all constantly fighting for their sanity. For their identities. They’re trapped in this surreal, terrifying digital purgatory where reality is questionable at best and all they’ve got are each other. That’s it. Just a bunch of strangers trying not to fall apart or, worse, abstract.

And when you're in that space? Vulnerability becomes everything. And it’s risky.

Being vulnerable to the wrong person, someone who doesn’t reciprocate, or worse, uses your openness against you is traumatic. It teaches you to close up. To withdraw.

To stop trying.

Now imagine reaching out to someone like Ragatha, who seems supportive on the surface, who says the right things, but there’s a disconnect. You don’t feel like you’re being seen. You don’t feel safe. You don’t feel like you’re talking to someone who’s willing to meet you in the mess.

And when that happens? Of course they gravitate elsewhere. Of course they pair off, find comfort in each other, and leave her on the fringes.

What hurts the most, though, is this: Ragatha wants connection. She’s starving for it. But she doesn’t know how to give it back in a way that feels real. She’s so wrapped up in being “the nice one,” the peacemaker, the cheerful glue of the group, that she can’t drop the act—even when it’s pushing people away. Even when it’s exactly what’s isolating her.

She wants to be close. She just doesn’t know how to be vulnerable.

Now, the biggest lore drop of Ragatha's past, let's break this down:

Throughout the entire series so far, Ragatha always speaks with this carefully curated tone: gentle, friendly, overly polite. But every time she gets a moment alone to monologue? It always derails. Every time. Her words unravel, her tone falters, and what starts as “everything’s fine” ends with something much darker, much sadder.

And this scene? God. This one hurt. Because when she starts talking about her mother, it stops feeling like just another breakdown. It feels like the core of her trauma is being yanked out into the open. She’s clearly an adult. Had a life. A career. Probably responsibilities and routines. And yet, that wound from her mother is still festering: deep, raw, and most importantly?

Completely unresolved.

This is where you see her coping mechanisms in full force. Ragatha has this heartbreaking tendency to downplay her own pain. She’ll smile through it, make a light comment, move on like it doesn’t ache. But it does. And that habit? It sabotages her ability to connect with people in a real, vulnerable way. Because how can someone share mutual pain with you if you never admit to having any? If you can’t even be real with yourself?

Remember when she confessed she hates Jax, but she doesn’t want Jax to hate her? That moment says everything. That desperate need to be liked, even by someone who openly antagonizes her, speaks volumes about her internal wiring. She’s terrified of rejection. Of being disliked. Of being seen as not enough.

And this scene, to me, is one of the most heartbreaking moments in the show. Ragatha is caught in this awful limbo: she wants connection, deeply. She wants friendship, understanding, belonging. But the second she senses discomfort, awkwardness, even the slightest ripple of tension, she backpedals. She shrinks. She brushes it off with a laugh or a sugar-coated phrase. And that’s exactly why the others can’t reach her.

She’s surrounded by people and still completely alone.

This scene also confirms what we’ve suspected all along: her mother had impossibly high standards. That nothing Ragatha did was ever good enough. That she had to perform perfection just to maybe receive love. It was a transaction. "Be the perfect little girl, the perfect daughter, the perfect doll, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll earn affection."

So of course she acts like this now. Of course she wraps herself in forced smiles and gentle words. Because somewhere deep down, she still believes that if she slips, if she messes up, if she shows anything “ugly”...then no one will love her.

Jax was a grade A asshole for this one. No sugarcoating it. He knew how badly Ragatha wanted to be Pomni’s friend. He’s not clueless. So when he swooped in and started getting close to her? Of course it triggered Ragatha. You could practically see her flinch.

And that sting? It echoes through the rest of the episode five from that point onwards. Especially when they get to the ball game scene.

That was the moment Ragatha finally let some of that bottled-up frustration out. She flat-out called Jax out, asking why he was trying to influence Pomni into acting like some careless, insensitive jerk. And yeah, on the surface it seems like just another clash between the two of them, but if you look a little closer (and maybe I’m reaching this), there’s something deeper going on.

From earlier episodes, we’ve seen Ragatha has this habit of telling Pomni how she should feel. She does it in this oddly motherly tone, like she’s trying to guide her, but in a way that almost infantilizes her. In Episode Two, in the candy kingdom bit, Ragatha starts talking to Pomni like she’s a child and Pomni immediately shuts it down: “I’m not a kid.”

That wasn’t just sass.

That was a boundary.

And it clicked for me: Ragatha might be echoing her mother’s behavior here. That condescending tone disguised as “help.” The “cheer up, it’s not that bad” mindset. The insistence that things should be okay, instead of just lettingpeople feel. Maybe that’s all she ever knew. And now, she’s unknowingly replicating it.

So when she follows Pomni’s advice to “try being a jerk sometimes,” and it backfires, when Pomni looks at her, clearly uncomfortable, it hits Ragatha like a rock. That same feeling of rejection, all over again.

And did anyone else notice the glitch when she apologized? Because I sure as hell did. It was subtle, but holy fuck, please don't be the next abstraction!

Then came the "Pomni Saves the Day (Almost)" scene, when it’s her turn to bat. She asks Ragatha if she wants to take her place, to "redeem" herself from her earlier miss. And for just a second, Ragatha lights up. It’s this tiny flicker of hope. Maybe this is her chance. Maybe she can fix things.

Maybe she’s needed.

But then… the game was already over and they won before she had a chance to bat because their evil version is basically KO'd. She turns to Pomni and sees them.

Pomni and Jax. Laughing. Close. Connected.

And suddenly that hope? It deflates.

Just like in the stargazing scene, we get this physical distance motif again. Ragatha is always just far enough to see the connection—but never be part of it. And in that moment, you can see it on her face, this quiet, confused heartbreak. The kind of grief that doesn’t explode...it just sinks in. Like she’s trying to understand why her kindness, her effort, her presence was never enough. Why being “nice” only pushed Pomni further away.

That expression she gives, caught somewhere between confusion, disappointment, and slowly-processed loss? God, that got me. It wrecked me. Because in that moment, she’s not angry. She’s not dramatic.

She’s just... alone.

And then finally… the nail in the coffin. The moment where the silent divide between Pomni and Ragatha becomes undeniable. The moment the entire show has been quietly building toward since Episode One.

Ragatha, who has tried so hard to make Pomni smile. To be her rock. To forge a connection. She wants that closeness. She craves that intimacy. But instead, she watches as Pomni laughs, genuinely, mind you, and effortlessly at Jax’s antics. And the second Pomni notices Ragatha looking? Her smile drops. Instantly. That joy disappears, replaced by awkwardness, tension, that same guarded expression we’ve seen before.

And it says everything.

Pomni can’t be herself around Ragatha. She doesn’t feel safe doing so. She might think Ragatha is a “nice enough” person… but that’s it. That’s where the connection ends. She doesn’t let her guard down. Doesn’t let Ragatha in. Because Ragatha, in all her curated cheer, never really opens up either.

And then the show drives it home with brutal elegance: the group starts to drift off, one by one, naturally falling into their new little dynamics. And Ragatha? Left standing in the middle. Alone. Forgotten. No one turns to her. No one invites her. She’s just there.

For all the time she’s spent in the Digital Circus, Pomni managed to connect with everyone else. Even Jax. And that, right there, is pure devastation for me.

Because all Ragatha has ever known is people-pleasing. That’s how she survives. That’s what she was taught. Be the sunshine, be the good girl, be agreeable and comforting and helpful then you’ll be loved. Then you’ll be safe. But what happens when that mask doesn’t work? When it actually pushes people away instead of bringing them in?

She doesn’t know how to express her loneliness. She doesn’t know how to say, “I’m hurting too.” Because that’s not what was modeled for her. That’s not what her mother taught her.

And this...this right fucking here is why Gooseworx was so right when they said this was a Ragatha episode.

Because Ragatha’s character flaws, the heart of her tragedy, are brought into the light not by spotlighting her, but by quietly contrasting her with a pair of characters we never expected to bond: Jax and Pomni.

From the start, we’re fed this narrative: Jax is an asshole. He teases Pomni. He’s rude, smug, abrasive. And yet… Pomni starts to soften around him. She connects. She even laughs. And you start to wonder...why is he getting through to her when Ragatha can’t?

Because Jax, in his own messed-up way, gets real. He opens up. He admits things. He’s emotionally messy, but it’s genuine. And that rawness, that honesty, is something Ragatha can’t allow herself to show. So while Jax slowly reveals the depth beneath his snark, Ragatha clings to her role: the always-smiling, ever-positive comfort character.

And that contrast? It’s heartbreaking.

You see it at the very end. How alone she is. And the cruel twist? She’s probably the one who needs connection the most. But she’s so stuck in her pattern, so locked in that internalized belief that she has to perform to be loved, that she ends up isolating herself even further.

I can’t stop thinking about this: Ragatha feels like someone who’s spent her entire life just close enough to be seen, but never close enough to be reached. She’s the background character in her own life: present, smiling, helpful… and utterly alone.

And maybe the reason so many people felt like this episode was more about Jax than Ragatha is because we’re supposed to feel her slipping into the background. Just like the cast is starting to overlook her, we as the audience are starting to, too.

That slow fade?

It’s intentional.

Thank you for coming to my rant. I never done a character analysis before, but I just fucking love this series so much.

[lvl109]

"so what i'm hearing is that you hate me and you want me dead.”

a noncommittal hum sounds through the speakers of your phone. “i said no such thing. is there a reason why the dramatics are pertinent even more tonight?”

your eyes narrow. “you haven't called in two days. two days. clearly you hate me.”

a laugh now, tinged with fondness. you try your best to fight off the smile threatening to spread across your lips. “my most sincere apologies, my love. how can i begin to grovel for your forgiveness?”

“you're not getting a lick of forgiveness from me. two days! i was worried.” your brows furrow, amping up the act. “i keep forgetting my stupid boyfriend loves to put himself in harm’s way.”

sylus’ expression softens in the face of your exaggerated complaints, going quiet in the way he does when he realizes his actions have upset you even if just a little bit. when he realizes you care more than just saying it verbally. it makes your heart sink.

“i really was worried,” you finally relent, cracking first underneath the silence. “i know you have to do these things, but. it's not just you anymore. you have people who care about you.”

he looks away for a moment, his gaze downcast. when his gaze returns to the screen, he offers an apologetic smile. “i'm sorry, sweetheart. i didn't mean to frighten you. i'm alright. i promise.”

“you can show you're sorry by getting on the earliest flight home.” your joke slips past in an attempt to divert attention from your growing sadness from being apart for so long. his expression knowing, he agrees without hesitation. “i mean it. i want to see the wine glass when you're on board.”

it's not long before the two of you are engrossed in a recount of your day—from grueling paperwork to wanderer attacks to discounted groceries (a steal) and so on. he listens with rapt attention, adding little comments either to stoke your dramatized frustration or make you laugh between words. in turn, sylus fills you in on what he's able to share on his end, ensuring you that while things were hectic, he'd run into little to no trouble in the two days you hadn't heard from him.

opening your mouth to grill him once again—really, it was that serious—your attention is caught by the sound of keys entering a lock at the front door. sylus pauses when you stop talking, letting out a confused sound at your silence.

“sweetheart? is everything alright?”

muffled footsteps sound from the living room followed by the faint sound of a bag dropping on the couch. the drag of socked feet against the floor is heard for a few more seconds until the bedroom door is pushed open a bit wider, revealing none other than a tired mass of limbs in slightly rumpled work clothes.

still, the sight of him makes you smile. “zayne is home,” you say quietly, partly in response to sylus’ question, partly in greeting to your other boyfriend.

too tired for words at the moment, he sheds his jacket and falls forward on to the bed, letting out a tired sigh as he worms his way between your legs much to your vocal surprise. his cheek rests against your thigh, your legs folded over his shoulders.

“long day?” you ask softly, threading a hand through his hair. his lashes rest above his cheeks, casting shadows as he nods after a long beat.

“almost lost a patient.” his voice is muffled against your skin, his brows furrowed as his arms wrap around your thighs. “a child. coded during the surgery.” 

he takes a long breath, his exhale shaky even after successfully completing the surgery. “i keep thinking about what would have happened had i hesitated even one second. what if i had cost him his life? what if i had made a wrong decision?”

you glance back at your screen with a frown, meeting sylus’ concerned gaze. there were times when he'd lost patients and had resigned himself to exhausting as much of his knowledge as possible, but children had always hit the closest to him. it makes your chest squeeze with both worry and sympathy.

“i kept thinking about what i would have done if it was either of you on the table, with my hands being the barrier between death. i don't think i could bear it. losing either of you would kill me.”

he doesn't cry, but his shoulders tremble with the weight of the near loss. haunting. your hand smooths across his back in soothing circles, trying to ground him as much as you can.

“has he…” zayne clears his throat, his eyes still closed. his voice is quiet. “called…? it's been two days. it's worrying.”

your head inclines slightly towards your phone, eyes narrowed with no heat as if to say see? sylus’ expression falls a bit, realization further weighing his shoulders down. 

“two days too many. i'm sorry for worrying for you as well.”

zayne’s head snaps up upon hearing his voice, wincing as it causes his vision to swim a little. tired eyes squint at your phone before two and two is put together, pushing up on his arms to move forward and look at your screen as well.

“glad to see you're doing well enough to answer the phone.” zayne’s tone, while neutral, is pointed, making sylus look increasingly chided over the few words uttered. “you don't get to pout. stop pouting.”

“i'm not pouting.”

“he's definitely pouting.” you pipe up in a cheerful tone, your smile sweet when sylus scowls. you shift into a more comfortable position that ends up with your head against zayne’s chest, sighing in content as the steady beat of his heart lulls you into a sleepy haze.

zayne takes the phone from you as you move, fond in the way his other hand settles on your hip. all the way sylus watches, growing a bit skittish from the lack of attention.

“is my punishment watching the two of you cuddle without me? is this my momentary prison? the both of you are cruel. heartless.”

“come home, then,” you grumble, sticking your tongue out at him. “miss your stupid face.”

“i concur.” zayne shakes his head at your antics, a soft smile gracing his lips. “stupid face and all.”

sylus sighs as he settles into his own bed, the pillows soft against his head but unfamiliar without the scent of your shampoo and zayne’s jasmine scent lingering in the fabric. he watches the both of you succumb more and more to the pull of sleep, gently probing the both of you to go to bed.

you fall asleep first after mumbling your goodnight, out like a light before the phone call ends. zayne stifles a yawn of his own before also bidding him goodnight, but not without sending him a photo to his messages.

when the call ends, his heart eases just a little bit when he opens the picture sent to him of the two of you in each other's arms. waiting for him to come back to your shared home. and he'd come back to the both of you every single time no matter what obstacle lay itself before his path.

"i'll be home soon," he murmurs into the quiet air. "promise."

[lascvitae]

not sure if ur reqs are open but yk that one unreleased song gigi wrote, the “call me mommy” one can u pls write something about that 🙏 u can add anything u like!!

ᝰ.ᐟ katty please… yall KNOW ima proud sugar mommy giselle truther so that was immediately the first thing that came to my mind 😫😫

ᝰ.ᐟ warnings/tags. smut (18+) 内永枝利 x bratty/spoiled fem!reader degradation overstimulation thigh riding choking age gap mommy kink ───── ꒰ 𝓿ault. ꒱

YOU’RE STANDING IN FRONT OF the mirror in one of her hoodies and tiny boxers, holding a brand new designer bag she literally flew you to paris for. “…it’s just really loud, unnie.” you hold the bag up with a pout, twisting your lips in the mirror.

“you’re joking.” aeri doesn’t even look up from her glass of wine.

“i’m serious! i mean, i like it. but like… do i like it? or was it just a heat of the moment kinda thing?” you hug it to your chest dramatically.

she doesn’t respond, so you drop the bag with a sigh, coming to sit sideways on her lap. she sets down her glass of wine with a quiet clink. “wanna tell me what this little attitude is about?”

you shrug. “you didn’t even get me the pink one.”

“you didn’t ask for the pink one.”

“i said i was thinking about it.”

“you moaned my name into a pillow and said i’ll do anything for the black one, baby.”

you huff. “well now i changed my mind.”

she smiles. “stand up.”

“why—“

“stand. up.”

you do. she adjusts in the chair, spreading her legs slightly before patting her thigh.

“ride.”

your heart skips. “right here?”

“do you see another fucking seat?”

you crawl into her lap, hover for a second and then press down. you both gasp.

her expensive slacks are still on, and your soaked cunt drags against them perfectly as you grind down slowly, hips twitching already.

“messy little thing. don’t even need me to fuck you anymore, huh? just wanna make a mess and whine until i buy you something else.” she murmurs, resting a hand on your hip.

you whimper. “feels so good—”

“then keep going.”

you rock your hips, grinding in tight circles as you head falls onto her shoulder. her thigh tenses under you, helping you slightly. you’re already whining and desperate, clit throbbing and soaking her pants with every needy hump.

she even doesn’t help or guide you. she just lets you use her thigh and watches.

“that’s it. use my thigh. show me how spoiled this little pussy really is.” she whispers. your legs tremble, hands gripping her blouse.

“mommy— gonna— please—”

“go ahead.”

you cry out, grind faster and cum with a loud moan. you’re soaking her slacks, hips stuttering and breath caught in your throat as your pussy pulses and literally drools down her leg.

and then she finally touches you. her hand slides up your body slowly and wraps firmly around your throat.

“you wanna take that back? what you said about the bag?” she murmurs, thigh still flexed beneath you.

“n-no—”

“no? you sure? i flew you to paris. paid for the suite. bought you dinner at a five star michelin restaurant. even fucked you stupid in chanel and you’re sitting here pouting over a color.” her grip tightens.

you gasp, cunt clenching hard. “i-i’m sorry—”

she lets out a pleased hum and finally slides her hand between your legs, pressing slow and teasing circles over swollen clit. “good girl. now keep going. i didn’t say you could stop.” she purrs.

your eyes roll back. “mommy— i can’t—”

“shhh. you can. you will.” she kisses your cheek and she keeps playing with your clit, gentle yet cruel. you grind harder, soaked and messy and mewling from the overstimulation.

“i’ll buy you the pink one.” you nod frantically.

“but i’m keeping the receipt. in case this pussy forgets how to behave.”

taglist @saysirhc @blissfulflw @yuyuy90

[revelboo]

Can ES Tarantulas sense our cycles or ovulation? Bet his tippy taps would go insane once he sniffs us out

🤣 he’s so fidgety and clingy, he was already touch starved, but now he’s worse 🔞 mass displaced mech 🌶️

Scent

ES Tarantulas x Reader

• Extra limbs nervously tapping, he vents to pull the scent of you deep, almost able to taste that subtle shift in your scent. Heat and need, and he’s reaching up to rub a clawed hand over his helm. Because you’re sprawled on your belly wearing only his silk, the bottom hem riding up to flash the apex of your thighs and the curve of your butt as he shifts uncomfortably. Spike trying to pressurize behind his modesty panel. And you’re not even paying him any attention, reading a book. Teasing him.

• Glancing back at your big spidery mate when he makes a low, hissing growl, one of his extra limbs taps against the outside of your thigh as he straddles your legs. And another limb nervously taps against the berth under you when kneels and cages you with his frame. Limbs hooking under your hips to lift them and pulling you to him before you can try to mark your page. “Sorry,” he growls. “I need you.” Feel his spike pressurize against you as he slides himself against you, the length of his spike stroking back and forth until you heat and your palms slide on the berth. What’s gotten into him? You’re not complaining, but you’re not used to him taking charge. Feel his mouth brush your neck and you grab at one of his spidery limbs for balance.

• Your scent strings him tight, needing to fill you with a desperation he doesn’t understand. Just rut against you until you’re both too exhausted to move. Shuddering with a groan, his mandibles flare slightly as he lines himself up and sinks into your wet heat. Are you slicker than normal? Tighter? Keeping your hips up, he moves against you with a hiss. “Don’t stop,” you moan, a leg sliding against his own as he splays a hand on the berth, hips pumping. Isn’t sure he could stop if he wanted to. “Right there.”

• Groaning at the feel of his spike driving into you with wet noises, he’s keeping your hips up and you can feel every ridge on his spike as it strokes inside you. Body heating as your breath hitches. “Now,” he growls, getting rougher. Demanding like you have any control over it. And he’s overloading hard, hips snapping, the feel of his heat filling you dragging you over that edge with him. Whimpering when he lazily begins moving again, you squirm as his extra limbs adjust you slightly. What’s got him so wound up?

• Are you in heat? Is that what that subtle difference is? Do humans do that? Has no idea, but he feels almost overenergized on the scent and feel of you. Hears you whimper his name as he thrusts inside you, head thrown back. “One more,” he growls, shifting against you as his biolights pulse. Knows it’s a lie, though. That he’s going to claim you over and over until he has nothing left to give you. Can feel your weak biofield sinking into him where your skin touches his plating and he feels out of control from it, your need sinking into him. “I’ve got you.” Groaning, he’s trembles as he overloads again and you moan. Head turning to look at him when brushes his face against your cheek and slips out, scooping you up and making for his nest high above, because he’s not done with you yet. Not while you need him.

I always manage to forget about Sky Lynx and then just stare when I see him again and remember he’s a lonely, talkative old bot.

He’s just doing his thing

[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.

[archiveluna]

BSF!RAFE S1–S4! ₊˚ෆ INSPIRED BY THIS & THIS!

season one. what a horrible boy… literally the worst friend ever. honestly treats you like shit and he’s probably made you cry before—but also kinda overprotective? he can say mean shit to you but the moment someone else tries to do the same he is not having it! and more often than not, topper and you have to pull him away because he tries to start a fight with whoever said anything to you. constantly ditching you, forgetting any plans you’d made, and only offering half-assed apologies to get you off his back. it’s such a toxic friendship. you’ve tried cutting him off before, but it doesn’t really work because he refuses to let you go. you can block his number, block him on social media, but the next day he’s still showing up to your house like nothing happened, letting himself in. straight up laughs in your face if you tell him to get out. condescendingly calls you baby. “think you’re overreactin’ a little bit, baby. i already said i was sorry—dunno what else you want from me.”

season two. still kinda toxic, but let’s also add codependency and possessiveness now. he’s spiraling and you’re the only who’s there for him. he honestly scares you a little bit at times… but you genuinely do care for him. how can you not? it’s rafe—you’ve known each other your whole lives. and in his own way, you know he cares for you too, so you stick by him. doesn’t want you to look at him the same way everyone else does, so he doesn’t tell you about peterkin or any of the other shady shit he does, and you don’t ask either. he shows up to your house at unholy hours of the night, rarely ever calm. he’s always wide–eyed and jittery from the lines he’d done before leaving his house, seeking your comfort and reassurance. you show up to pick him up when he’s released from jail after ward ‘dies’ and you hold him in your arms later that night when he breaks down and tells you everything. now that you know what he’s done, he sees no point in keeping anything from you… but just know he’s never letting you go now. “don’t know what i’d do without you baby… you’re the only thing that’s keeping me from losin’ my goddamn mind.”

season three. you couldn’t leave with him when he’d left for guadeloupe with his family, so you don’t hear from him for a while. it’s not that he didn’t want to text or call you—he was dying to. rafe genuinely felt like he was going crazy without you, but he couldn’t risk it. when ward sends him back to the obx, you’re the first person he pays a visit to. you freeze when you open the front door, and there he is. he looks different. more… put together. the buzzcut makes him look mature, the way he was dressed—the way he carried himself. god and then he’s smiling at you. “hey baby…” he drawls. you throw yourself into his arms, gasping out his name, and rafe doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around you, gently swaying you both. “missed you so damn much,” he mumbles into your hair. apart from when he’s out with barry dealing with some ‘business’, the two of you are glued to each other. and he’s sooo touchy… <3 always has to have an arm lazily slung over your shoulders or around your waist. also likes to rest his hand on the small of your back. things definitely change between you two—in a good way.

season four. the line between ‘best friends’ and more is getting blurry between you two. but neither of you really talk about it—not yet, at least. he’s so sweet and attentive sometimes you can’t believe this is the same rafe who used to treat you like shit. now that he has his own house you spend most, if not all, of your time there. he even cleared one of his drawers out for you. you have makeup, jewelry, and other things scattered around his room or bathroom. and honestly? rafe loves it. he loves you. he doesn’t know why it took him this long to come to his senses but he’s never been more sure of anything than he is about this—about you. you’re his girl, the one person who stood by him through it all without judging him and he knows he most definitely doesn't deserve you, but he'll be damned if he lets anyone else sweep in and take you from him. rafe doesn’t outright ask you to be his girlfriend but his sudden change in behavior doesn’t go unnoticed by you. the way he calls you “baby” or “sweetheart” feels way more intimate and possessive now. ‘unintentionally’ kisses you once as he’s heading out. when you don’t immediately shut him down he keeps doing it until the quick kisses turn to making out, and making out turns into you two getting a little too carried away. gifts you a promise ring and officially asks you to be his girlfriend—proceeds to fuck you into the mattress later! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ “my girl,” he grunts against your ear, sliding in and out of you as the bed creaks beneath you both from the force of his thrusts. “never lettin’ you go baby. you hear me? you’re stuck with me forever sweetheart.”

[lowkeyremi]

"Hi," His smooth voice greets over the phone. This is already a bad idea... you shouldn't have picked up the phone.

"Hello, Miya. Is there a reason you called?" Your voice sounds like ice to his ears; his end of the line went silent. He hates hearing that tone directed at him.

He shutters quietly, the sound makes your heart throb, "I'm not Miya. Not to you." Is all he can mutter. His voice sounds broken, more so then when you first answered his call. If he starts to cry, you'll lose it too. Everything is still too fresh in your opinion.

"I don't want to do this— not today." You whisper quietly into the phone. In an attempt to calm yourself down, you glance at things in your living room; the tv, the mug your best friend made for you, the blanket covering your lap, just anything.

"I miss ya so fucking much, please hear me out." Atsumu pleads desperately.

"We broke up for a reason," You offer, trying to remind him why this wouldn't be a good idea.

"Our timing was off— well mostly mine but, baby, I promise I'll always make time for ya." You've heard that before... it was when you first started dating him. Worry took over you, you'd wonder if volleyball would ever make him too busy for you; he reassured you that it wouldn't. Until it did.

"I-i can't go back to being second priority in your life." It was awful.

---

Atsumu had missed so much within your relationship, because he was always working and practicing.

Evenings were the absolute worst. All you had wanted was for him to enjoy meals with you, but you'd often have to set a plate aside for him in the microwave. You found yourself watching movies by yourself, showering alone, winding down for bed on your own, amongst other things. The loneliness started to get to you. After working all day, all you had wanted to see was the man you loved.

The worst part of it all was that he chose to leave you alone. His practices never really ran late into the evening, but he insisted on staying longer in order to perfect something he's been working on or hit the gym after practice.

It was always:

"Hey, baby, so sorry but I'm staying at the gym later than usual."

"Don't wait up for me, I'll be back late."

"Ya don't have to cook, just get takeout since I'll be home late."

"I promise I'll make up for lost time."

You could only handle so much of that. Your last straw was when Atsumu stayed at the gym late despite it being your birthday. You weren't even sure he remembered that it was your birthday.

You stayed up that night, giving him the benefit of the doubt. When he got home, he was confused as to why you were still up; that's when you snapped at him. He snapped back of course, arguing that if he wasn't playing at his best then he'd get behind.

The night ended with you crying, and telling him that you were done, with everything. He didn't believe you at first. Of course he felt bad for forgetting your birthday, but he didn't think it was major enough for you to break up with him.

It all started to get very real, when he came home to you packing up your stuff. He pleaded and begged you to stay, but you couldn't do it. How could you stay for him when he couldn't even see that he was in the wrong? Or try to correct himself for that matter. It was all about Atsumu, Atsumu, Atsumu.

---

Atsumu clears his throat over the phone and sighs sadly, "I understand. I still miss ya though. Didn't realize what I had until I lost ya."

Neither of you speak after his confession, but eventually, Atsumu breaks the silence.

"Well I, I just wanted to tell ya happy birthday, since I fucked that up last year." His voice is so quiet that you could barely hear it.

You were doing so well, keeping composed during this phone call, but hearing him say that caused you to tear up. He remembered your birthday. No, it's not enough to win you back, but it's a start.

"Thank you, Atsumu."

©𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐊𝐄𝐘𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈 All works are written by me! Please do not copy, translate, or upload onto other sites without my permission, thanks!

credit to: @uzmacchiato for the pearl banner!!

[purinfelix]

YOU ASK FOR REQUESTS AND I SHALL GIVE. since most riki aus r often w him being the ‘nonchalant’ guy, what if its switched.. riki being riki who is the most troublemaking, silly, goofy, wont-get-off-your-tail guy while the reader is always keeping to herself, quiet. but when they get close shes a whole diff person

just for me - n. riki ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

summary: you and ni-ki's friendship makes no sense, but maybe that's what makes it so special ─────────── extroverted ni-ki x introverted reader || fluff, wholesome, college au || w/c: 1.5k

a/n: I LOVE THIS IDEA AAA i think so many people forget about how silly and cute niki can be when he's around someone he's comfortable with so i loved writing thissss hope u enjoy pookie!! <333

To most people, it didn’t make sense for you and Niki to be friends. 

Almost everyone on campus knew who Niki was, and those who didn’t had at least heard stories. It was hard not to, with the way he was constantly getting told off for chatting loudly during class - on the rare occasion that he actually showed up - or bounding down halls like he was on a mission, his backpack barely hanging on one shoulder, the other arm slung around whichever friend he’d dragged into his chaos for the day.

Most often, he could be found at the campus basketball courts, dunking on his opponents and then making sure everyone heard about it after. He was the kind of person who naturally demanded people’s attention wherever he went - loud, unfiltered, and almost annoyingly attractive.  

You, on the other hand, had yet to be late to a single lecture and could almost always be found in your favourite front-row seat. People typically only heard your voice when you’d answer questions, and even then, you only said what was needed to get your point across. Sure, it might’ve had something to do with shyness or introversion, but more than anything, you just preferred the peace that came with quiet - the control you felt when enjoying your own company. 

It was just your luck that Niki seemed to like your company almost as much as you did.

“Doesn’t he annoy you?” One of your friends whispered in a hushed tone as you left class together, being greeted by a familiarly lanky figure waiting out in the hallway. 

You don’t blame her confusion because, a couple of weeks ago, you would’ve reacted exactly the same way. He did annoy you, at first at least - you had always reserved a special kind of irritation for people like him. People who showed up late to things, were disorganised and loud for no reason, who always seemed to be disrupting things for others without so much as a modicum of guilt. 

But it was difficult to be so snarky when you were slowly trudging home from an almost 10-hour-long study session at the university library. And it was there, when you were dragging your feet along the dimly lit pavement, that you heard Niki’s voice calling out to you. Lifting your head just enough, you saw him bounding quickly towards you, chasing after a stray basketball.

It hits your feet, but you don’t move, seemingly frozen in place. He jogs up to you, scooping it up in his arm casually before turning to you.

“Sorry about that,” he says in between pants, and it hits you that this is the first time he’s actually spoken directly to you. 

“All good,” you mumble curtly, without much thought. 

You’re waiting for him to turn back around, to just leave this tiny insignificant interaction between two people who should be strangers at just that. But he doesn’t - instead, he stands there silently, as if studying you, running a hand through his hair. 

“Can I help you?” you ask, and it comes out a little meaner than you’d intended. You blame this on your exhaustion, hours of studying muddling the lines between what’s polite and not - though you can’t deny the sudden shyness you feel under his attention. 

“No, sorry,” he pauses, caught off guard by your tone, “you just look sorta tired, are you alright?” 

It’s your turn to be surprised, the sudden concern in his words feeling so alien that you’re unsure of how to respond. “Yeah,” you breathe out, “I mean, I’ve been at the library almost the entire day, so I am kind of tired.” 

The laugh you let out is almost self-depracating, an attempt to make light of your pathetic admission, and you wait for his response - for him to mock you for being such a nerd, or a try-hard. But it never comes.

“Wow,” he says instead, somewhat impressed, “you work really hard in class, don’t you.” 

You raise your head to catch his eye, trying to study his expression for any signs of mockery. “I mean, I guess.” 

Behind him, you spot his group of friends huddled around watching the two of you talk from a distance, presumably waiting for their ball to return to their game. 

“Your friends are waiting.” You shove your hands in your pockets, unsure of what else to do with them. 

“Oh, right,” he says calmly, and with a swift motion, he tosses the ball over to them, but doesn’t go to join them. There’s a beat of silence, the awkwardness of the whole situation heavy. 

Then, after what feels like forever - “You don’t have that little keychain today.” 

Your brows furrow as you look up at him in confusion. “What?” 

He blinks, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. “Uh- just, you know that little stuffed keychain you have? I’ve seen it before, on your bag, I think - it’s, it’s not there today.” 

You stare at him for a moment, genuinely at a loss for words. It’s such a small, stupid detail, something that no one else has ever pointed you - not your classmates, not even your friends. But somehow, he of all people noticed. “Oh, the little bear?” 

“Yeah!” he smiles bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck, “Sorry, that sounded creepy. You just always had it when you walked past the courts - I thought it was cute.” 

You don’t really know what to say, but before you realise it, your cheeks are warming up and a smile is tugging at your lips as if threatening to break through. 

“Thanks,” you say softly, but earnestly, “I think it fell off somewhere.” 

He offers a small frown. “That sucks, I thought it suited you.” 

There’s a weird flutter in your chest that you try not to think too much about. He glances over his shoulder at his friends, and you take that as your cue for the conversation ending. 

“Well, I’ll uh- see you aro-” 

“Are you headed home now?” 

You nod without thinking.

“Mind if I walk with you?” 

You nod again. 

And you hadn’t really thought much of it then, but that walk proved to be the first of many. What started as a rare one-off encounter turned into something regular. Turned into meeting before class for drinks, into late night study sessions, which were basically you tutoring him - and once you both came to the conclusion that his grades were a lost cause, even later night snack runs. 

Something strange happened when you were around him.  You let yourself say things without filtering them in your head first, you laughed louder, and more often. Being around him felt a little less restrained, a little less quiet. 

And now here he was, waiting for you outside your class to take you to the newly opened cafe you hadn’t shut up about. 

“He’s not as bad as everyone makes him out to seem,” you say, turning to your friend with a small shrug. 

“I mean, no offence, but he’s Niki,” she sighs, like that explains everything “the only times I hear about him is people complaining about him tanking their group assignment, or whatever went down at his last party. I mean, you saw those photos, who even thinks ot hire a bouncy castle for a 19th birthday party?” 

You let out a soft chuckle that contrasts your friend’s incredulous tone, but she doesn’t stop.

“He’s never on time for class, I mean, I don’t think he even knows our professor’s name.” 

“Well, he’s never late to meet me,” you say, watching as she shoots you one last look - half confused, half resigned- before leaving. 

“Hey,” Niki says through a smile, waving you down, “ready to go?” 

“Of course,” you say, beaming up at him as he falls into step beside you like he’s done a thousand times before - like he belongs there. 

“Oh wait,” he says, stopping just before you reach the building’s door, “got you something.” 

He slings his backpack around, rummaging around in the mess inside it for a bit as you stand there, curious. Finally, he pulls something out with a dramatic flair, dropping it into your hands. 

You look at it - a tiny stuffed bear keychain, a little squished, but adorable nonetheless. Your breath hitches. 

“I know it’s not the same one you lost,” he says sheepishly, “but I saw it and it reminded me of you. Plus-” 

He holds up his own keys which you now notice has the exact same bear, just in a different colour. You stare at it, then back at him. 

“Twins,” he smiles. 

You let out a breathy laugh, fingers curling around the bear as you attach it onto your bag quickly. “You’re unbelievable,” you laugh. 

“Unbelievably thoughtful,” he corrects, shrugging smugly as you continue to walk beside him.

To others, it shouldn’t have made much sense - and really, it didn’t.

But whenever he flashed you that warm smile, or laughed honestly at a joke you made, one that really wasn’t that funny, it all seemed to make sense, at least to you - and that’s all that mattered. 

taglist for niki fics! <333 - @miniw0nz @microwvdstrawb3rri3s @charsworld96 @jenjnk @nocturnebite @nodoubtily @teireiii @starniras

[ericshoney]

Forgotten Birthday ~ Avengers

Summary: Being the youngest Avenger usually means you get looked over for missions, but you never thought they'd forget your birthday.

Warnings: Possible swearing, angst, tears, fluff at end.

Reader's age: 17

Being the youngest Avenger had its perks. I could outrun a speeding car, manipulate energy fields, and occasionally, snag the last slice of pizza before Tony could. But it also meant being underestimated, sidelined on the ‘easier’ missions, and treated with a gentle, almost patronising, kind of care. I knew they meant well. They were protective, especially Steve, who saw me as the kid sister he never had. But sometimes, I just wanted to be seen as an equal. A capable, contributing member of the team.

And today, on my birthday, I just wanted them to remember that I wasn't just a little kid anymore.

The day had started like any other. I woke up, expecting at least a mumbled "Happy Birthday" from whoever was awake. Nothing. I figured they were busy, caught up in some impending doom I hadn't been briefed on. I made my own breakfast, a sad, solitary affair with a bowl of cereal and a heavy dose of disappointment.

The day dragged on. Peter came over, rambling on about something that happened in school - the one place I think I was happy I never attended, Tony deciding I could learn at the tower - listened patiently as Sam complained about the lack of decent bird-watching spots in New York, and somehow sat through a lecture from Bruce talking about gamma radiation.

I paced the common room, trying to look busy, hoping someone would notice the date on their phone, the faint decorations I'd secretly put up last night (easily dismissed as late Halloween ornaments, I supposed). The clock ticked with maddening precision, each second a hammer blow to my already fragile hopes.

Finally, around late afternoon, Natasha walked in, her face etched with a familiar weariness. “Rough day,” she sighed, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch.

“You could say that,” I muttered, trying to keep my voice neutral.

She glanced at me, her eyes narrowed slightly. “Something up?”

This was my chance. “Just… a little forgotten,” I said, carefully avoiding eye contact.

She studied me for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, she stood up. “Wait here.”

Hope flickered within me, a tiny, fragile flame. Maybe she remembered. Maybe she was going to orchestrate a surprise party, a cake with seventeen candles, a chorus of off-key "Happy Birthdays."

But no, she returned empty handed, “Tony needs help re-calibrating the repulsors. He’s about to blow up the lab. You're closest. Go.”

My heart sank. The flicker of hope extinguished. I forced a smile. “Sure thing, Nat.”

The lab was, indeed, a controlled chaos. Tony was covered in grease, his usually impeccable hair a mess. He barked orders at a bewildered-looking Peter, who was struggling to hold a wrench twice his size.

“Ah, Y/n! Perfect timing,” Tony exclaimed, without even looking at me. “Hold this. Tight. And don't breathe on it.”

I spent the next hour balancing carefully on a stool, holding a delicate piece of Stark tech, trying not to sneeze, and feeling utterly invisible.

Finally, Tony declared the repulsors “minimally functional,” and Peter, bless his heart, after being dismissed as a “potential explosion hazard,” whispered a quick, “Happy birthday, Y/n!” before scurrying off.

It was enough to make me want to cry.

I mumbled a thank you and slumped back into the common room, defeated. I couldn't even muster the energy to be angry. Just… sad.

The others slowly trickled back in, one by one. Steve, Bucky, Sam, and Bruce, all looking exhausted and preoccupied. Each of them passed me with a cursory nod, completely oblivious.

I decided to retreat to my room, to wallow in self-pity and watch bad reality TV. As I reached the door, Steve’s voice stopped me.

“Y/n, could you…” he trailed off, looking slightly sheepish. "You look a little down. Everything okay?"

"Fine," I lied, my voice barely a whisper.

He frowned. "You sure? You know you can talk to me."

I wanted to scream, to tell him that no, everything was not fine, that it was my birthday, and they had all completely forgotten. But the words caught in my throat, choked by disappointment.

"Yeah, Steve. I'm fine. Just tired." I turned and walked into my room, closing the door softly behind me. I leaned against it, tears welling in my eyes.

A moment later, there was a knock. I ignored it.

The door opened.

It wasn’t Steve. It was Bucky, looking uncharacteristically awkward.

“Hey, kid,” he said, his voice rough around the edges. “Heard you weren’t having such a great day.”

I glared at him, tears threatening to spill over. “What do you want, Bucky?”

He shuffled his feet. “Just… figured you might want this.” He held out a small, rectangular box.

I took it, my fingers trembling. Inside, nestled on a bed of velvet, was a silver bracelet. It was simple, elegant, and perfectly me.

"Natasha picked it out," Bucky said, avoiding my gaze. "Said it was…appropriate."

My breath hitched. “But… they forgot.”

Bucky shook his head. “We didn’t forget, kid. We just… we wanted it to be a surprise.”

He stepped aside, and I saw them. Standing in the hallway, all of them, looking sheepish and slightly apologetic. Tony held a half-eaten cake (chocolate, my favourite). Natasha had a stack of presents wrapped in brightly coloured paper. Steve was grinning, a genuine, warm smile that reached his eyes. Sam was holding a boombox, which he promptly turned on, blasting a slightly off-key version of "Happy Birthday."

“Surprise!” they all yelled, their voices blending together in a cacophony of sound.

Tears streamed down my face, but this time, they were tears of relief and joy. I laughed, a shaky, emotional sound.

"You guys…" I choked out, unable to find the right words.

"We may not always show it, Y/n," Steve said, stepping forward and giving me a hug, "but you're an important part of this team. And you're important to us."

Tony clapped me on the shoulder. “Alright, enough with the mushy stuff. Cake time! And presents! And then, maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll let you drive one of my cars.”

The rest of the evening was a blur of laughter, cake, terrible presents (thanks, Tony), and surprisingly heartfelt speeches. I learned that Natasha had been planning the surprise for weeks and that Bucky had spent hours agonising over the perfect gift.

As I sat there, surrounded by my dysfunctional, chaotic, but ultimately loving family, I realised that being the youngest Avenger wasn’t so bad after all. They might forget things sometimes, they might underestimate me, but they would always, eventually, come through. And sometimes, that's all that really matters. Especially on a birthday.

Tags:

@riowritesitall @mandmilovehim @onelesslonelygirlbieber6 @lgbtq-girl @parkjihoonsnudes @rajah-oliver

Dividers by: @issysh3ll

[tetsubub]

The Little Things ៸៸៸

a/n: the things they do in relationship

including - kuroo, bokuto, iwa, hinata, sakusa, suna, miya twins

KUROO TETSURŌ

— Morning Memos

You always find them.

Sticky notes on your laptop, your coffee mug, sometimes even stuck to the cat.

“Don’t forget your umbrella.”

“You looked so good in that shirt last night, I’m still recovering.”

“Important: there's banana bread on the counter. Also, I love you.”

You don’t tell him, but you keep every single one of them in a drawer by your desk.

BOKUTO KŌTARŌ

— Running Commentary

“YOU’RE WEARING THE BLUE SWEATER!”

His voice echoes through the apartment.

“I KNEW YOU LOOKED EXTRA CUDDLY TODAY.”

You’re brushing your teeth, foam threatening to spill, because Bokuto gives you play-by-play affirmations like you’re the star athlete of his dreams—for brushing your hair, finishing your toast, or laughing too loud during dinner.

And you love it. You love him.

HINATA SHŌYŌ

— Home Is a Hoodie

He always gives you his hoodie before you ask. When the wind picks up, he shrugs it off and wraps it around your shoulders.

When you’re curled up studying on his floor, he tosses it to you with a grin.

The best part?

It always smells like sunlight, detergent, and something so uniquely him that even when he’s far away playing in Brazil, wearing it feels like being held.

IWAIZUMI HAJIME

— Hands That Fix

Your desk wobbled. The bookshelf leaned. Your key got stuck in the lock.

You never had to ask.

Iwaizumi notices, rolls up his sleeves, and quietly takes care of it all before you can say a word.

It’s not about the tasks. It’s how he leaves everything just a little better than he found it—including you.

SAKUSA KIYOOMI

— The Way He Listens

He doesn’t interrupt when you talk. Ever.

No hasty advice. No platitudes. Just that steady, patient gaze of his—eyes fixed on you, like you’re the most important part of the room.

And when you fall silent, unsure if you’ve said too much or gone in circles, he still waits.

Then comes the quiet hum of his voice.

“You don’t have to make it make sense. I understand you.”

Sometimes he sits beside you in stillness, shoulder brushing yours, and says nothing at all.

Because he knows it’s not always about fixing things. It’s about being there. Letting you unravel and still feel held.

You used to think he was reserved.

Now you know he’s just careful—with everything.

Especially you.

SUNA RINTARŌ

— Hidden Screenshots

You find them one day while using his phone : screenshots of your texts. The ones where you rambled about a dumb dream. Or where you said, “I love you” in the middle of a rant about instant noodles.

He doesn’t say much when you ask.

“Didn’t want to forget the good stuff,” he shrugs.

His lock screen? It’s one of them.

MIYA OSAMU

— Love, Packed in Lunch

“Tryin’ a new onigiri flavor,” he tells you, handing you your bento. “Tell me if it tastes like kissin’.”

You laugh. But later, when you bite into the umeboshi-spiced rice and taste that signature Osamu comfort, your eyes sting a little.

Because he packs your lunch with more care than he gives himself.

And when he says, “It’s got all your favorites,” what he means is: I know you. I love you. I’ll feed you forever if you let me.

MIYA ATSUMU

— Late Night, Low Voice

You always thought Atsumu would be the kind of boyfriend who shouted his love from rooftops. And he is, sometimes. Loud declarations in front of his teammates, flirty grins across the gym, exaggerated winks in the middle of dinner.

But the version of him you love the most comes out around midnight, when it’s just the two of you in bed, the lights low, the world quiet.

That’s when he tangles your fingers together and whispers, “I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone this much before.”

Like it’s a secret too fragile to say in daylight.

Like he’s still stunned by it.

Like you’ve changed everything.

[demie90s]

CONTROL YOURSELF

Diana Taurasi x fem!reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:Diana Taurasi isn’t just a legend—she’s your undoing. When Diana walks into the room, you unravel. She turns you quiet.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 2.5k

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ:Emotional tension, slow burn, sensual power imbalance, psychological unraveling

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Sensual tension, emotional restraint, dominant energy, physical reactions (shaky hands, clenching, breathlessness), soft obsession

Oh, she makes it hard to keep it together. Not just a little hard. I mean shaky hands, deep breath, thighs clenched like I’m trying to hold the ocean in type hard.

Diana Taurasi walks into the room and suddenly I’m not me anymore. Not the talkative, bold, always-got-something-smart-to-say version everyone else gets. No. Around her, I’m soft-spoken. Careful. Shy in a way I didn’t even know I had the capacity to be.

She’s got this presence, man. This thing. It’s not just the way she looks—though God knows that’s enough. That tall, fine, smooth-walkin’, no-fucks-given look she wears like custom armor. No, it’s deeper. It’s the energy. The way the air shifts when she steps in. The way her eyes find yours and stay there.

She doesn’t glance. She locks in. And when it’s me she’s locking onto. I forget what day it is. What planet we’re on. If my heart is still supposed to be inside my body or beating out of my damn mouth.

It’s humiliating, how fast she strips me of everything I thought I knew about myself. Usually, I talk too much. Run my mouth ‘til people laugh or blush or roll their eyes. I’ve got charm, okay? I know how to work a room.

But Diana. She is the room.

When she walks in, my voice packs up and evacuates. My usual wit starts buffering. It’s embarrassing. One time she brushed past me to grab her water bottle and I froze so hard I almost dropped mine. Literally had to talk myself into walking away like a normal person.

She doesn’t even know. She has no idea what she’s doing to me. None.

She’ll ask me simple shit—where’s the file, did you see that article, how many points did I drop in that game—and I can answer. But I never just answer. I overthink. I look everywhere but at her. I speak slower, like my mouth is trying to figure out if it’s safe.

And if she steps closer. Oh, I’m done. Done. Like today.

She was trying to find something—an email or link or video or something she’d asked for. I had it. I always have it. I’m quick like that.

But instead of just showing her like a normal person, I tried to explain it. Roundabout, convoluted, damn near cryptic—because if I leaned in, if I touched her phone, if I got too close, I’d forget how to breathe. Again.

She finally groaned, impatient. “Oh my g—Just show me.”

My heart damn near stopped. My fingers twitched. My lips parted. But nothing came out. I just stood there.

She looked at me, exasperated and gorgeous. “You good?”

“…Yeah.”

Lie number thirty-four of the week. I am not good.

I am wet for absolutely no reason. Unnecessarily. Irrationally. Just standing there, fully clothed and dying. From what? Her voice? Her vibe? Her scent?

Yes. Yes I am bitch.

I don’t know how someone makes their presence sexy. But she does. Diana stands like she owns whatever’s beneath her feet. She speaks like she already knows what you’re thinking. She listens like she’s taking notes for later—like maybe she plans to undress your thoughts before your body.

I’m not saying she’s trying to ruin me. I’m saying if she did? I wouldn’t stop her.

I know I’m lucky my skin is dark because if I was lighter, she’d see it. All of it. The heat. The red. The God-help-me-she’s-talking-to-me glow. I play it cool, sit quiet, sip my water, blink slow—but inside I’m burning up. I’m clenching air. I’m whispering prayers to a God I don’t talk to unless it’s about her.

She doesn’t know what she does to me. But she will. One day I’m gonna crack. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow.

But one day, Diana’s gonna say just show me again—and I’m gonna grab her hand, pull her somewhere private, and say:

“You asked.” And then I’ll let her see just how bad I’ve been holding it together.

It starts with eye contact. That’s it. That’s all. She looked at me. And I blinked for thirty whole seconds like my brain just hit the kill switch.

Diana fucking Taurasi. Six feet of God-did-something-dangerous, with a stare like a trigger and a mouth that moves like every word is an invitation. I was just trying to exist, just sitting there—probably on my phone, probably scrolling nothing—and then she looked at me. Not glanced. Looked. Made eye contact.

I folded internally. Like it was a damn natural disaster.

Horny. By accident. Like it wasn’t even a choice. A force of nature, plain and simple. Like catching a fever when the wind blows or crying in church for no reason. Just boom—there it was. Warm in my gut, hot in my thighs, my pulse skipping like it’s tryna warn me. I had to get up and walk. Couldn’t even fake it. Couldn’t stay seated and pretend I wasn’t suddenly soaked through my underwear from a look.

And here’s the kicker.

She saw me go.

I didn’t think she did. I was smooth, or so I thought. Kept my face still. Walked off like I needed air or a charger or whatever. Didn’t speak. Just dipped. But she noticed. And now she’s following me.

I feel her before I see her. That voice low and calm behind me. “You good?”

My hand hits the wall first. I’m in the hallway now, nowhere special. Just leaned against it like I’m catching my breath—which I am. But I don’t look at her. I can’t.

I just nod once.

“Mhm.”

She steps closer.

I swear… if she touches me, it’s over. If her hand so much as grazes my wrist, I’m liable to slide down this wall in front of her and embarrass my entire bloodline. Because the effect she has on me?

It’s not normal.

It’s chemical. Like smoke in the lungs or lightning through copper. My chest’s tight, and my thighs are tighter, and I can’t get my eyes off her mouth.

She’s talking. I don’t even know about what. But I’m watching her lips like they’re speaking directly to my clit. Every now and then I huff in response, just to let her think I’m listening—but my eyes are dazed. Half-lidded. Focused on the curve of her mouth, the flick of her tongue when she pauses.

Still, she doesn’t stop talking. She thinks I’m quiet. Thinks I’m being shy or rude or cold or tired. But I’m none of that.

I’m suffering.

Because I can feel this. Deep in my body. The ache. The slow throb of want that’s turned more into need. My heart’s not beating—it’s growling. There’s a tension just under my skin that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with wanting her teeth in me. Her tongue. Her hands. Something. Anything. My jaw’s clenched so hard, I could probably snap a pencil between my teeth.

And still… she’s talking. Still watching me. Still not touching me. I’m trying—trying—to stay upright. To be normal. To hold whatever shred of dignity I’ve got left.

But then she leans in a little.

Not even dramatically. Just slightly closer. Her hand lifts like she’s gonna gesture or fix her hair or something completely innocent—but the second her face gets near mine, I hum.

A soft sound. Barely a breath. “Mm…”

I drop my head like I’m praying. Like I’m trying to hold the devil back.

My back still against the wall, but my knees weaken. I slide down an inch. Just an inch. Just enough for her to notice. Mid-sentence, she pauses. I feel her watching.

My hands are on my thighs now, gripping hard, and my face is doing its usual thing—expression blank, eyes low, lips slightly pursed like I don’t give a fuck. But I do. I so do. I’m dying here.

I know—oh, I know—she can feel it too.

She has to. Either she feels it just as much or not at all. That’s almost worse. That means I’m suffering in silence, flushed and throbbing while she stands there, perfectly calm.

I’m melting against this wall like a bitch in heat, blinking slow, heart pounding like it’s trying to crawl out through my teeth.

If she kisses me, I’ll cum. (Yall im freaked out ion even care)

That’s the truth. She wouldn’t even have to do much. Just lean in and whisper something hot, something soft, and I’d fall to my knees, smiling through it. Shake all the way down. That’s how deep she’s got me. That’s how badly my body wants her.

She has no idea. Or maybe… maybe she does. Because when she tilts her head, lets those eyes drop to my mouth the way I’ve been staring at hers, I feel it.

She’s like a walking and talking hazard . And I’m ready to be destroyed.

Let me be real. I’m no better than a man right now.

Because she’s still talking—full sentences, gestures, probably saying something useful—but I don’t hear a damn word. Not one.

All I see is her mouth. Her lips. The way they move, stretch, curve, lick. God. The way her tongue presses into the corner when she pauses. Like that mouth wasn’t made for interviews or strategy. Like it wasn’t wasted on words.

No. That mouth. That mouth could be so much more useful.

On parts of my body that are literally screaming. Minus the ‘s.’ One scream. One sharp, high-pitched, echoing-in-my-spine wail that hasn’t left my chest since she looked at me.

I’m tryna be civil. I swear to God. Trying to be a good teammate. A good listener. A functioning human being. Hands folded. Back straight. Face blank.

Trying so hard not to look like I’m mentally straddling her. But my thighs are pressed together like they know what’s at stake and my breathing’s shallow, like I’m on the verge of doing something I can’t take back.

Because I want to ride her face. Plain and simple. No deep metaphor. No long, dramatic simile. Just raw, hot, face-riding desire that’s sat on my chest like a demon since I first caught sight of her smirk. What’s doja cat say?

Would I be embarrassed? Absolutely.

Would I finally get Diana? Also yes.

In this hallway that feels like it’s shrinking.

Like the walls are moving in. Like there’s too much air and not enough. Like my body’s overheating and there’s nowhere to put all this want.

I shift my weight against the wall like it’ll help. Like adjusting will make the tension less heavy, like pressing harder into this sheetrock will cool me off. It won’t.

It doesn’t. My thighs are burning, my jaw’s tight, and her voice keeps hitting my nerves like drumsticks.

Maybe she’s testing me. Seeing how long I can stand there, nodding every few seconds, while the fantasy plays behind my eyes on a loop. My hands in her hair. My hips rolling. My breath catching on her cheekbone.

The way she’d grab me if I tried to move too fast. The way I’d beg if she slowed down.

She’s just…talking. Still.

While I’m trapped here. Slick. Unwell. Fantasizing in high definition with my head cocked like, mhm, totally understand, when all I want to say is:

“Get on your knees or let me use your face. Either way, I’m not walking out this hallway dry.”

But I don’t say it. I bite my lip. Breathe slow. And hum again when she leans just a little closer.

The hallway feels smaller now. Like it’s closing in on me. Or maybe I’m expanding—swelling with heat and frustration and the kind of need that makes it hard to breathe through your nose.

Still standing in front of me, voice low and steady like always. I swear I’m trying to be normal. To nod when appropriate. To keep my face in that neutral, unimpressed shape I’ve mastered so well. But she’s not making it easy.

That soft curve of her upper lip, the way she licks the bottom one when she pauses. The slight tug at the corner when she smirks like she knows she’s said something slick.

L

The throbbing between my thighs is not figurative. It’s a full-blown, undeniable ache. I’m uncomfortable in my pants. Like, shifting-my-weight-awkwardly, don’t-look-too-close, “maybe I should go pray” kind of uncomfortable.

And still, she stands too close. And still, I try to act like a good teammate.

In my head I am riding her face.

Not slowly. Not romantically. I mean grinding down on it like I lost my mind somewhere near her collarbone. My thighs locked tight around her ears, my hand in her hair, my eyes rolled so far back I might see God—or whoever made her.

I’d probably cry later. Call myself names. Lock myself in my room and swear I’ll never be horny again.

She shifts, and I flinch. Not visibly—just a flicker of breath, a blink. But she reaches out, wraps her fingers gently around my wrist, and I almost die. Because that touch? It’s not even sexual. It’s not rough or teasing. It’s soft. Just a light hold.

Like she’s grounding me. Or guiding me. Or maybe I’m just moving on my own and she’s the gravity I’m giving into.

Either way—my body leans. I stand quickly, like I can outrun the feeling. Like if I move fast enough, I’ll be okay. But I’m not. Not even close. Because she doesn’t let go. She holds my wrist, and I move straight into her.

My forehead hits her chest. Soft. Warm. I melt. Fully.

My knees don’t buckle, but they want to. My eyes squeeze shut. My other hand curls at my side like it’s begging for permission to hold onto something—anything.

And then I whisper it.

“…Please stop touching me.”

It’s barely a breath. I don’t even say it with meaning. Not like I want her to stop.

It’s more like a cry for help. A weak protest from whatever part of me still has sense. Because I’m unraveling in real time. In her arms. In the middle of a damn hallway. With nothing between us but her shirt and the thin thread of self-control I’m holding onto by the grace of God.

I’m not a dom. I don’t have it in me. Not with her. Not with Diana, who’s steady and calm and so much older than me in a way that makes her dangerous.

She’s not new to this game. She knows.

That’s the part that scares me. She probably knows exactly what she’s doing. The subtle touches. The way she always gets close when she talks. The eye contact. The voice.

She’s built for control. She’s holding me up like she owns me.

Like she’s letting me pretend I still have a say in anything. I’m letting her. Because fuck… She’s so hot. And I am so, so gone.

@letsnowtalk @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan @footy-lover264

[welcome-tothe-mystery-shack]

There's so much goodness in other reblog chaina (please go check them out!) but I have a slightly different idea in mind, because I'm a slut for the GhostKing!Danny trope.

(Sidenote: I'm writing this with a headache so please forgive me if it gets a little loopy or doesn't make sense at some points, I just wanted to get this out there before I forget.)

The meeting immediately screeches to a halt as the older heroes are struggling to keep their cool. On the one hand, they knew that ghosts function VERY differently from living beings, regardless of species. That a ghost's age and appearance don't have to match. But they also know that Phantom is still half alive (none of them understand how that works, not even Danny). That Danny's human half is 20, and his ghost half is only six.

Not to mention that in spite of his young age, for the last two years, he's been officially crowned High King of the Infinite and about this time last year he'd joined the JL. A fact that had made Constantine nearly faint.

The sorcerer had been petrified to learn that the Ghost King was now an ally, as the last he heard, the King had been Pariah. When he learned that the position had been usurped by not only a teenager, but a BABY GHOST? He'd been simultaneously relieved and stricken because if he'd been that strong as what was essentially the ghostly version of a toddler, then that had some heavy implications for the strength of said toddler once he came into his full power as an adult.

Now they were hearing that he was apparently having CONTRACTIONS? As in about to give birth?!

Batman spoke up, his voice a trained calm tone. "Would you please elaborate? Do you mean to tell us that you are currently in the process of... giving birth?"

Phantom blinked owlishly before sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. "Ohhh crap, I totally forgot to tell you all didn't I? Umm to answer your question, yeah? But technically I have been for the last... what day is it? Tuesday?"

Someone nodded.

"For the last 4 days then. See, ghost pregnancies are, like most things with us, are really complicated. TECHNICALLY I'm not actually pregnant? But I also am? Basically my former arch nemesis tried to clone me after he largely gave up on trying to convert me to being his son and he failed. A lot. There were only 5 clones that survived long enough to form their own cores that he then sent after me. But I was stronger, and they weren't stable enough to last long and since they were 'failures', Vlad was gonna let them dissolve while he watched and studied them destabilizing."

The table creaked as Superman's grip on the rim tightened, but Phantom continued.

"I wasn't gonna let them End like that, they didn't ASK to be made, they were just babies that were doing what they could to please the only parent they knew they had. Four of them didn't last long at all and reverted to their cores pretty quickly, but one of them was stable long enough to help me against Vlad and went exploring on her own for awhile to try and learn who she was while I kept the other four in a tub of ecto. But when she started destabilizing too, she came back and we went to Frostbite and he said the only way to help them all was to incubate them next to my own core, so they could mirror its stability and be fed a constant flow of healthy ecto. So that's what I did."

The halfa shrugged as if it wasn't a massive bomb that he just dropped, only to add a second even bigger one. "Oh, and then an evil version of my ghost half from a dead timeline that fused with Vlad's ghost half started destabilzing in his timelocked prison, so I decided to incubate him too. Clockwork assured me that the chance of him trying to destroy the Earth again was extremely unlikely, so I wanted to give him a second chance too."

If they weren't in space, there would be crickets chirping as Phantom finally finished speaking.

Batman had to swallow the bile rising in his throat at the prospect of a 16 year old choosing to become a single parent to sextuplets created by a creepy old man. "I see... Where is this 'Vlad'?"

"He's rotting in Walker's prison for crimes against the crown, both before and after I took over, and many other crimes. Don't worry, he's also got no legal custody over my kids. Since he'd abandoned my clones and technically had no direct part in creating my evil version, the courts agreed that he has no right to any of them."

That was... mildly relieving. "You are being very mature about this." Wonder Woman added.

"I mean yeah? I had to grow up quick even before this, but if I had to make the choice again, I would." He smiled softly, resting a hand on his sternum, where they assumed the baby cores rested.

"If you've been in labor for four days, how much longer will this go on? Do you require medical assistance or accommodations?" Wonder Woman was worried for the young man, though she had to admire his dedication.

"Average pregnancies last beween 1 and 10 years, depending on the size of the..." He paused and looked thoughtful before continuing. "Litter, for lack of better translation. Once contractions begin, they last for up to a week until the ghostling's ready, then they're born one at a time, with usually a couple weeks to maybe a month or two between them. It's incredibly taxing on the parent's core, since we have to make sure that each one gets enough ecto to form a body. So the first one should be born any day now, and I'll be able to sense when. As far as accommodations, I just have to ask that no one goes into my quarters for now? Frostbite says that birthing parents get extremely territorial during and after giving birth so I'd rather not accidentally hurt anyone. I should be fine medically wise? I've got plenty of emergency ecto in my quarters. Ideally I'll be in my castle for the next few months, but knowing my luck, there'll probably be at least one world ending threat that needs my help."

"Understood. Thank you for sharing all this with us." She smiled softly at him as he returned one, embarrassed.

"No problem. Sorry for not bringing this up sooner, I genuinely thought I had."

"Don't worry about it, young Phantom. Just know that if you require any assistance, we are more than willing to provide it."

"Oh- um- thank you." He blushed, face turning a pale shade of green that made his silver freckles stand out more, his long ears drooping a tad. "I'll keep that in mind. Though I would appreciate any pointers from those of you with kids? I don't know what their temperments will be yet, but if they're anything like me, they're gonna be absolute gremlins." The whole table turned to look pointedly at Batman, whom sighed.

"I will provide you with a pamphlet, as well as a copy of Agent A's more simple meal and desert recipes. You are more than welcome to stop by the Batcave to pick them up at your convenience, as I am sure tha Agent A would like to guide you through some recipes if you are inexperienced."

"Woah really?!" Phantom perked up, eyes literally shining like neon green beacons. "That would be amazing! Thank you so much!"

Batman grunted quietly, though those that knew him well could see the amusement lingering in his body language. After a few more minutes, Phantom had to run, as another contraction hit and he wanted to visit his doctor to make sure that things were progressing properly. Once he was gone, silence settled over the conference table for several moments before Hal spoke up.

"So we're breaking into Walker's prison to beat that sonuva bitch into ectopulp, right?"

So if ghosts can revert into their core, what if Dani did when she was destabilizing?

What if cores needed a safe resting place with access to ectoplasm? And it's instinct for ghosts to protect and nurture cores. As they're very vulnerable.

Danny acting on instinct absorbs the core or cores??(other clones?) into his body. To keep them safe.

So he carries these cores around until they mature and are stable enough to take form.

However, this takes time, like years.

So I propose. Newest JL member Danny Phantom just suddenly gasping and keeling over in the middle of a meeting or fight??

JL members start panicking. Like wtf?? What's wrong with Phantom? An attack? Is he hurt?

Phantom just sits up and continues the meeting or fight like normal until it happens again and they're like " Are you hurt? Poisoned? What is it!"

Danny just shrugs and goes " It's fine, just contractions".

"Contractions?..."

"Yeah! They suck, but I'm glad they'll be here soon. It's been like 4 years".

Just the JL or whoever panicking and being super protective over there newest and youngest member, who, through a series of misunderstandings, thinks Phantoms been knocked up for 4 years by his arch nemesis.

[rockyfiligree]

Steve forgets to bring the dog in before a storm. You’re upset, but it’s not just about the dog. It’s about peanut butter jars, parenthood, and the quiet fear that maybe you’re too much. Or not enough. Mostly, it’s about love - real, messy, aching love, and trying to believe you deserve it. 14k words

(angst, mentions of parenthood/pregnancy, self-doubt, slightly suggestive)

Rain shot down like obsidian arrowheads, cutting through the heat and sinking into skin. Shirts clung, shoes sagged, and the world turned waterlogged beneath their steps.

Silence took on a new sound - the cannonade of rain filling the space between them, a wordless exchange still fluent in that strange, comic connection lovers know too well.

Told you it was going to rain, he thought, chest inflated, heavy with humid pine and loamy air.

And I told you to bring Pinto inside. The thought wasn’t cruel, just persistent. Your fingers worried at the frayed edge of your shirt, chasing some outlet for the ache spreading through your chest. Every step felt like wading through water with rocks in your shoes.

His thoughts turned over like tired wheels. You’re impossible, he sighed inwardly. First the peanut butter, now Pinto. Just one thing after another.

A sidelong glance was enough to clench your jaw. An open jar left on the counter. Who even knows where the lid is? Angry tears mixed with rain - an imperfect, raw blend. Pinto could get hurt. Hit by a car with lousy wipers, snatched by a coyote, or what if someone takes him in and wants to keep him? He’s our dog. He belongs with us.

Hands were shoved deep in his pockets, pruned fingerstips rubbed together. He was a stray once. He knows how to take care of himself. That’s what they said at the pound. It was more a hopeful statement, wishful thinking meant to make Steve feel better.

I'm worried. One small hiccup bounced in your chest, lips pursed tightly so no other noise was made.

The slow burn of his annoyance eased the moment his eyes found you. He caught the difference in droplets on your cheeks - rain, light and fleeting, tracing soft paths; and tears, slow and briny, weighted with every ounce of your frustration.

The inward spiral broke, replaced by sudden clarity.

He reached over, hand caught your own in a tight, reassuring hold.

All that was left was to find Pinto. With thunder cracking in the distance, it was likely he was trying to outrun the storm, or more accurately, just hiding somewhere nearby.

After twenty-some-odd minutes, your hand kept trying to pull away. No longer spurred on by anger, it had switched to fear. Shoulders had dropped. Feet dragged. Your nose ran from both the wet weather and dejection.

He wouldn't let go.

Steve yelled, called out in a sing-song voice, and whistled for five more minutes up the street. Neighbors peered past curtains, out of peepholes, and one elderly couple opened their front door.

A loud clap of thunder set off heinous crying, completely unrestricted. The heels of your palms pressed into closed, tear-streaked eyes. Steps faltered. Breaths caught, trapped in your lungs. In a second, a zeptosecond, Steve rubbed your upper arms, an attempt to pacify the labored wheezing.

Wordless, yet all the while fluent, he cradled the back of your head and gently tugged your body to his. Kisses were peppered along your crown, soothing strokes down the nape of your neck.

Between sobs, you whispered, "I don’t-" A heave caught your breath. "He's my respons-" Another choke, as if tar had coated your larynx, thick and suffocating.

Aware of the marrow of your words, Steve drew back slightly. Ardent hands cupped your cheeks, foreheads pressed together. Tentative promises couldn’t liberate your pain. All he could do was be there for you, with you.

And that, he hoped, would be enough.

A panic far deeper than the fear of a lost dog swelled in his chest. From your reaction, he wondered if you felt it too. That awful thought: what if we’d be terrible parents?

Tears streamed down his flushed face. “It’s okay,” He whispered. He would make it okay - raise homes, carve out patches of thicket, for as long as it took. Hours, days, weeks - he’d give his time like the sunrise: inevitable and resolute.

Your head nodded, heavy with sniffles and a trembling chin. Steve slipped his hand beneath his shirt, lifting the fabric to your face, wiping away the runaway tears and snot. An irrefutable gentleman, no matter how humiliating the gesture.

"Oh, God," You lowly mumbled. "That's gross."

He smiled, not repelled in the slightest. You’d done way “worse” for him before - cleaned his stomach-bug vomit off the bathroom vinyl without a single complaint. Even sat on the floor beside him with a damp towel, saltine crackers, and a couple bottles of water.

An urge to laugh swelled in his chest but couldn’t ricochet out. There was too much ache for humor to coexist.

Only three minutes passed as you trudged down the road when another bolt of lightning split the sky, followed by a howl of thunder. The storm was practically overhead now - too dangerous to stay out in.

Hand clasped in Steve’s, eyes squinting through the downpour, he shouted, “We have to go home.” When defiance pinched your expression, he added, “No. Right now.” Water caught in his mouth, sputtering as he insisted.

A dour frown. Your body slackened. You let Steve haul you behind him without resistance. Hurried feet dashed through streets, cutting across strangers’ yards.

Within minutes, legs sore and hearts pounding, you made it home.

Halfway up the driveway, the loudest, most violent explosion of thunder tore through the sky. Pebbles tumbled down the concrete, wet leaves bounced, and eardrums partially burst. Bones rattled - a lingering vibration from such a tactile lash.

A blessing in disguise, however vicious: a string of spooked whines, barely discernible beneath the steel clunker of your car.

Kneeling down, suspicion mingled with a twinge of hope, hands pressed to the wet cement. Turning your head, your eyes traced the undercarriage - where a small miracle huddled, trembling.

In less than an instant, voice pitched, “Steve, Steve,”

Prompted by your muted but joyful expression, he crouched next to the driver’s side door. Pinto’s saucer-like, panicked eyes blinked back. Though the weather made it tricky, Steve reached in carefully until his fingers hooked the D-ring of Pinto’s collar. He pried gently as Pinto wrestled backward. A surge of relief echoed in his chest when the martingale didn’t slip. With more care, he used his other hand to guide Pinto’s back legs forward.

A proper mixture of giddy baby talk and hushed profanity spilled from Steve’s lips when Pinto was finally out in the open.

“Get the door.” Logged, twice as heavy as normal, Pinto was lifted into Steve’s arms. A little flushed and strained, he carried the flailing dog inside.

The second Pinto was free from Steve’s hold and the shackles of the storm, he bolted like a pull-back motor. Your hand grazed his crimped fur before he vanished, buried under the blankets on his homemade dog bed.

Before a step turned into two, Steve stopped you. “We should let him calm down a little.” His hand slid up the backside of your arm.

Your shoulders rolled, and your glance caught his bobbing Adam’s apple before drifting to the crooked parlor palm by the sidelight window. Its slanted leaves browned at the tips - fussy, always needing just the right mix of light and water. A child would require so much more care. How could I possibly be a good mother?

Attention shifted. Soggy clothes created pools on already warped laminate. The old, well-lived-in house bore its frays in chipped corners, missing shingles, unfinished projects; half a patio of pavers, half gravel. Ungrouted backsplash. Popcorn ceilings in only some rooms. A home full of potential, tried again and again.

You and Steve had plans, painted futures on these walls, patch by patch, but goals don’t fly straight like bullets. They loop and waver like dragonflies.

“We should change.” Your voice was mild, scarcely more than a whisper. Nails picked debris from his forearm. “Maybe clean up a bit too.”

He fought against a smile, worried the gesture might be misread. All he showed was softness, a lovesick expression in its place.

He pulled a tiny fragment of a crimson-colored maple leaf from your hair. “Yeah.”

At the door, shoes were toed off and left like husks. Socks, three of them at least, missed the coir mat, tumbling aimlessly across the floor.

Lights hummed on, flickering their way down the hallway and into the bathroom.

Outside, the wind had talons. Tree branches scraped and tapped at the glass, insistent and wild. Steve’s fingers swept the curtain closed. “The wind’s really picking up now,” He said, more to the night than to you, his brow lifted in quiet concern.

“There’s a few of those unused candles your grandma got you in the closet. I’ll get them, just in case.” Your shirt was peeled from your body, then your shorts and underwear. “Isn’t the flashlight in there too?”

His clothes met the tub with yours, forgotten.

You stood bare, body all skin and scaffolding, and behind it, your heart, a red cardinal beating its wings, steady and alive in its cage of ribs.

“No, I think I put it on the baker’s rack.” Bare against the hush, he was a silhouette of calm strength, vulnerable but unyielding.

With a nod, you disappeared into the bedroom. The dresser creaked open, he knew you were rummaging through that cluttered sock drawer, each pair mismatched. A dreamy, sanguine smile tugged at his lips as you passed by: one sock pink, the other striped.

The bulbs flickered, like the house blinking against the storm’s dark gaze. He pulled a Sonic Youth shirt over his head, the fabric slipping softly, and stood beside you. Two of five wicks already danced with a wispy flame.

As he struck a match, he said, “I got this. Grab the flashlight.”

Balsam fir wax climbed the braided cotton Then plumeria. Then seaside holiday.

“Does this count as a vacation?” He asked, voice teasing, as the faint scent of musk and sea salt drifted in - a strange, warm medley that tickled the inside of his nose.

The flashlight switched on, a dim beam illuminating a gallery of Polaroids on the wall. Steve. You. Pinto. Families.

With care, each picture was lit up - tucked in sleeping bags, Steve on his first day as a carpenter, ugly Christmas sweaters, him bawling at your college graduation. Family photos with everyone grinning far too wide.

“No beach,” He said, flicking his head toward the garden doors, “But we’ll have plenty of mud to play in once this clears.”

You tilted your head, adoration creasing your features. “It’ll probably be dark by then.”

“And?”

You neared the island. Steve leaned in, the crest of his hip bone brushing the border like it dared him. Willful as ever, he seemed on the brink - if he just pushed, he’d pass right through.

He sought forgiveness, knowing that to ask when it would come would be to betray the very humility it demanded.

“We’re still young, right? That counts for something.” He said as he brought a candle closer.

Your head dipped, hiding a playful eye-roll. “Still? Pretty sure we’re the ones who peak early.”

Your skin, once velvet, had weathered beneath the weight of time. Youth fell away like antlers, leaving behind a shape less tender, more bone than bloom. The mirror hadn’t changed - only the person inside it had.

Steve’s eyes answered first, a glint of warmth. “Well, now I like carrot cake. That’s a step up. Who knows, five years from now, maybe I’ll eat every vegetable.”

You smiled softly. “Yeah, right. I guess that’s why I like going to bed early now.”

“Pretty soon we’ll be trading in our bed for something with rails,” He teased.

Featherlight movements carried him to your side. Giggles rang like wind chimes in a summer squall.

“Steve,” A breathless laugh. “Sto-” More laughter echoed, startling Pinto beneath the blanket.

Steve spotted the ripple of the afghan -  a rogue wave in technicolor. Slowly, movements died. His hands stilled. Your laughter faded to breaths,  just a few quiet gasps from emptied lungs.

You stood pressed together. Dilated pupils. Subtle gulps. That unbearable rise in heat.

His cheek had come to rest against the side of your head. What he’d always wanted was this - skin and soul tucked together in the dark, not reaching, not chasing. Just safe.

He had loved you the way water carved valleys, the way light moved - straight and sure. Natural. Uncomplicated. Peaceful.

“I love you.”

Your lashes fluttered against his jaw. You exhaled.

Once, silence would’ve sent him searching - for signs, for meaning, for a door swinging shut. But now, he knew better. He knew you. Knew that silence, in your world, was a kind of trust.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, reverent and still. His arms curled tighter, wordless reassurance wrapped in the shape of him.

A smile rose, unbidden and slow, blooming from some hidden corner of your chest - shaped by safety, by being known. The warmth of it trickled down your spine, filling the hollow places you used to brace against.

“I love you,” You whispered.

There was only one Steve Harrington. Only one heart like his - stubborn, tender, impossible to outrun. Love, spun fine as spider silk, held fast to every part of you - the bitter, the bright, the parts even you looked away from.

Hearts beat as one, a matched rhythm. For minutes, it stayed like that. Comfortable. Assured. Until the wind howled again and a splintered oak snapped. The power cut off, plunging the room into darkness beyond the candlelight’s fragile glow. Shadows deepened, flickering at the edges of the soft, golden light. Sight faded, but touch grew sharper - your fingers found the line of his jaw, his hand warmed yours, anchoring you both in the trembling lull.

Amidst the faint, shimmering light, you kissed his chest.

“I’m going to check on Pinto.” You stepped back. “And maybe...you could get Monopoly?”

He cupped your face, his expression half-hidden in the gloom, but a bright glint in his eyes pulled you in.“Boardwalk’s mine.”

“If we’re picking,” Plumeria in hand, “Then I’m getting all the railroads.” A smirk. You walked away, calling over your shoulder. “And the utilities!”

The storm had passed hours ago, leaving the world washed clean and quiet. The tension between you and Steve drifted away with the rain, like the last stubborn mist fading under a waking sun. The electricity still hadn’t come back on. Outside, the trees stood slick and shining, their leaves catching the faintest glimmers of moonlight, each droplet a tiny prism.

It was one in the morning. The weekend. No one was rushing anywhere. The house settled into a soft silence, broken only by the faint creaks and sighs of wood cooling from the day’s heat.

Steve lay sprawled on the couch, the dim glow of your flashlight casting flickering shadows behind you as you moved. He could only see the gentle outline of your back, the soft sway of your hair catching the weak beam like a halo. The light made you look like a quiet beacon in the dark, something steady and true he could hold onto.

In that dim light, his chest tightened, because you carried yourself like ivy along old stone: deliberate, unwavering, beautiful in the way you never asked permission to belong. He thought how you must be the roots of this place, holding it steady in the dark, and felt a flush rise behind his ears. The thought made his throat dry and his pulse quicken just a touch.

“You really lost at Monopoly.” He teased softly, voice rough with tired amusement.

You smiled without turning, your fingers tracing the edge of the game box as you put it away. “I let you win, obviously,” You said, voice low and playful.

“Obviously,” His smile was slow and knowing, like a river curling around rocks. “Sure.”

You walked toward the back of the room, flashlight glow gliding over the well-trodden rug, its surface like old love letters - edges blurred and faded, every thread telling a story that hadn’t worn out yet.

Pinto was still curled up in his bed, his fur coarse in places, soft in others, warmed by sleep. You crouched beside him, your hand gliding through the uneven coat. He let out a slow sigh, the kind that sank straight to your bones - deep, content, like he finally trusted the night to stay quiet.

Steve watched, his gaze tracing your gentle movements. You moved with the kind of care that came from habit and heart - unspoken, intentional, and real.

He remembered the way your hand felt just last night, how it slipped into his as if it had always belonged there. The memory bloomed warm and bright in his chest, like the first slow light of dawn spilling through fog. It made him ache to lean closer, to close the small space between you.

You stayed there a moment, resting your forehead against Pinto’s head, feeling the slow, steady pulse beneath the fur. For a breath, it made your chest swell with something warm and fierce: satisfaction, a kind of quiet pride in having him finally safe, in maybe being enough for him.

Sadly, beneath that glow, a shadow flickered - a whisper of doubt you couldn’t shake. Could you protect something smaller? You nearly lost him just hours ago, your protection faltered. The accusal settled heavy and cold, like a sudden chill under a summer sun. It pressed against your ribs, tightening just enough to remind you that some hopes carried a weight heavier than you wanted to admit.

Steve’s voice was a soft rumble, like distant thunder fading into memory. “You take really good care of him.”

You looked up then, catching the faint light in his eyes. What scratched up your throat was, “I don’t deserve him, or you.” What rushed out instead was, “Well, I’m lucky to have him, and you.”

The words were simple, but the weight behind them made the dark room glow warmer than any flame ever could.

Steve felt like the lucky one between you two. Despite the struggles you carried, when you showed your cracks and still kept moving forward, your love never wavered. It was mighty and constant in its own messy, beautiful way. There was no greater gift, no brighter light, than being loved by you, than existing in the orbit of your heart, strong enough to hold him through anything.

He got up, shifted closer, the slow heat of his body pressing into yours. His fingers found your waist, gentle but sure, an anchor in the quiet night.

The house creaked again, like a slow breath from some ancient creature settling after the storm, and outside the wind whispered through the fields, soft as a lullaby.

You let your fingers tangle in his hair, the way you’ve done countless times before, and he sighed deeply - this time not the weight of the day, but something lighter, something held close.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, “For earlier.” 

His nose brushed yours, lips barely touched. “No, I’m sorry. I should’ve let him inside.” 

The slight shake of your head drew Steve back. His eyes searched your downcast gaze - unreadable, but aching to be understood. If he could see clearly, he’d know the brimming tears came from shame. Guilt burned beneath your skin, and his touch, though gentle, only made it hotter.

“I was upset over peanut butter, Steve.” The ghost of a laugh - embarrassed, thin - hovered between your bodies. “It was stupid.”A crease tugged at your brow, lips flattening as he silently pleaded to hear and dispel the cruel words spinning in your head. “I get moody about everything. I hate it. I wish I’d just found the lid and left you alone. Next time, I will. I promise.”

His hands moved to cradle your face, as if holding the sorrow itself - wanting to see it, to soothe it, to damn it away with love. “What? No. Tell me when I mess up. I don’t want bugs to get in the house because I left food out. Yell at me when you’re mad, hug me when you’re sad, or - or use my shirt to blow your nose. I don’t care as long as you’re not silencing yourself for me.”

Your bottom lip trembled, voice catching on the swell of emotion. “That’s not fair.”

“Who cares? I love you.”

Your warmth slipped from his grasp as you stepped back, as if bracing against the kind of rebuttals that always disarmed you. “You don’t deserve my anger, especially not over something small. That’s mine to manage.”

He kept his hands at his sides, though every instinct screamed to pull you close - if only to soothe the wild thrum in his chest. “All I’m asking is for you to come to me, with anything. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Stillness settled between you, padded and heavy. You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Instead, your hand crept forward, curling into the hem of his shirt.

“You’re not wrong for being upset,” He said softly, as if too much noise might startle you away. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve snapped at some guy at work for being a total idiot. I feel bad about it afterward. Well, sometimes. Sometimes they deserve it.” His head tilted, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth as he thought it through. “That new guy I told you about? Keeps skipping his goggles while sanding. I told him once, twice...three times. Ended up practically yelling at him in front of the whole crew. I just hate feeling like someone’s gonna lose an eye on my watch.”

A soft huff slipped past your parted lips, like wind through a cracked window. Too faint to shake anything loose, but still there, still felt. “That’s a good reason, though.” Your nails picked at the frayed stitching, a quiet fidget. A mental note tucked itself away: fix the seam before washing his shirt. “No one loses an eye over an uncapped jar…or a toilet seat left up.”

Steve caught your wrist, halting the nervous tug of your fingers as he knelt before you, desperate to meet your gaze. “Listen to me, baby. Please. Stop giving those mean voices in your pretty head any airtime.” His hands were warm. His voice was softer now, more deliberate. “I used to get pissed when my dad left every light on in the house. I get irritated when you flush while I’m showering, and I get weirdly bothered when Pinto puts his butt on my pillow every time I’m gone.” His eyes flicked to Pinto, laying belly up and lip caught on a snagged canine. “Why he won’t lay on your pillow is beyond me.” A dry shake of his head, and then his focus was back on you. “The point is, what you feel is natural. It’s okay. You’re not unkind. You’re not unfit to love, or to be loved.”

Each of Steve’s hands clasped your wrists, bringing the underside to his lips to kiss your pulse. like he was greeting the place closest to your heart that his mouth could reach, as if the beat there called to something in him. For a moment, the world beyond the walls slipped away, and there was only this: the two of you, wrapped in stillness, holding onto each other like roots gripping soil - firm, growing, and unbreakable.

“Come here,” Your voice wavered, a sudden surrender that caught you off guard.

Slowly, you moved together through the dim house, the faint glow of the flashlight tracing the outlines of familiar shadows. You reached the bedroom, the air cool and heavy with the scent of damp earth and candle wax. The sheets fluttered beneath you as you sank into the bed, your body folding into the familiar weight of soft cotton. The comforter, passed down from Steve’s grandmother, wore its floral patterns proudly, despite the itchy fabric and pills from years of use - a reminder that love is often wrapped in imperfections.

The bedroom held its own stories. The bed, made but softened in the places where Steve sat every morning to tie his shoes, the gentle crease a quiet mark of routine. The wooden dresser stood nearby, its drawers stubbornly misaligned, opening with a faint protest like an old book unwilling to yield its secrets. Beside the boombox, cassettes were stacked haphazardly.

Steve climbed in after you. He lay behind you, warm and quiet. He pressed in close, arm hooked around your waist, his palm settling low, fingers spread like he needed more surface just to be sure you were there. The pads rubbed against the band of your shorts. 

His face nuzzled into the soft crook of your neck, and you felt his breath when he spoke, “We should dig out the gutter tomorrow.”

A pause, then a quiet, “Mhm?”

“The backyard overflowed again.I saw mulch floating all the way to the fence.”

You turned your face toward the window, catching only the haze of silver light. “We should cut the grass too.”

“Can’t cut wet grass,” He mumbled. “You know that. I’ll end up flinging clumps at the neighbor’s lawn.”

“Maybe they’ll enjoy the fertilizer.”

“Maybe they’ll finally wave at us after seeing that gift.”

You smiled, soft and unseen. His thumb brushed along your ribs absently, like he didn’t even realize it. It felt like the kind of gesture you’d see in animals, something instinctual - seeking reassurance in the dark.

Inside, Steve’s mind traced the shapes he loved most - the gentle arch of her neck, the sweep of her collarbone, the quiet strength in the curve of her silhouette. A subtle cadence moved through him, like the slow turning of a weathered wheel, drawn by the gravity of those familiar lines. His body responded before his mind caught up, heart fluttering like a bird startled into flight, skin warming in the dark.

The conversation drifted away, like morning fog thinning beneath a rising sun.

Steve stayed pressed to you, head buried now somewhere between your shoulder and the curve of your spine. His breath came slower, heavier, like the weight of his day had finally peeled itself off and left him here.

A quiet, telling sigh escaped him, like a secret slipping from his lungs before he could stop it. Turning over, your hand moved up to his scalp, finding the crown of his head and scratching gently, fingers parting his hair. His whole body softened against you, as if your touch unraveled every knot the day had tied inside him.

Still, he clung. Not out of desperation, but something older, serene. Like a vine curling toward the only thing that ever gave it sun.

Brief, unwelcome thoughts flickered through your mind. A feeling you couldn’t name, only carry. That every good thing you were given was something you’d have to pay for later. That happiness, when it came to you, came on borrowed time.

And that - that man with his arm curled around you like you were something precious - he was the best of them all.

You truly didn’t feel worthy of him. Not of the way he looked at you like you held the sun in your smile, or the way he never pulled away when your feelings got too big, too complicated. You’d give him everything - your time, your strength, every last shred of tenderness you had. You’d give him the whole world, and still, it wouldn’t feel like enough.

You wanted to give him more. A child. A piece of him, shaped by both of you. A small, perfect echo of your love made real. Yet, it felt like a gift meant for someone else to give - someone warmer, better, more sure of herself. Someone who didn’t lose the dog for an hour because she was stewing over peanut butter. The wanting didn’t stop, but it lived beside shame now, like glass trembling on the edge of a shelf.

Your fingers continued their slow rhythm in his hair. He gave no words, just a hum, almost a purr, as his hand tightened slightly at your hip.

Outside, somewhere far off, a branch scraped along the side of the house. The ceiling fan creaked above like an old bird still watching the nest.

Inside: two bodies folded together, saying nothing, meaning everything.

The sun had dried the yard in a patchwork, bright puddles of heat baked onto the bricks, steam lifting off the fence posts. The humidity lingered like something draped over the shoulders, clinging to skin and hair, the kind of thick warmth that made every breath taste like water.

You were crouched near the patio table, knuckles raw with effort, trying to fix the crooked umbrella arm that had blown out of alignment again. You swore it was held together by stubbornness and the one bolt Steve hadn’t gotten around to replacing.

Sweat gathered behind your knees as you wrestled the metal hinge, pressing your thumb into it until it gave the cruelest little click and then, maddeningly, popped loose again.

“You okay over there?” Steve called from the far side of the yard, voice half-lost under the grind of his shovel. “Need any help?”

“No, no,” You grunted, your hair sticking to your neck. “Just…trying not to fry.”

He dropped the shovel with a thunk and jogged over, boots squelching slightly in the damp grass. You didn’t look up, too embarrassed and too hot to offer anything but your stubborn squint.

“You’re gonna break your thumb,” he said, crouching beside you.

“I’m not.”

“Move,” His hand brushed yours gently, then took over. It took him maybe seven seconds, firm pressure, one palm holding the post steady while the other coaxed the joint into locking.

Click.

The umbrella blossomed above you, casting a dappled patch of shade that felt like relief itself. You exhaled through your teeth, nearly limp with gratitude.

“Hmph,” You muttered, standing upright. He looked smug, already turning to jog back toward the trench. “Thanks,”

You caught his collar, yanked him back a step, and pressed your lips against his cheek. A little sun-warm, a little sweat-salty. You held there for a second longer than usual.

“Always coming to the rescue,” You said softly. 

“Oh, no,” He smirked. “I saved the umbrella from you breaking it.”

“Here I thought you cared about my bones not breaking,” You hummed.

His smile twitched, crooked and boyish. “You’re resilient.”

He made it three steps away before the words built too fast in your throat. That buzz again - low and full, under your ribs and in the soles of your feet, fluttering up into your hands. You sat down in the shaded patio chair and watched him pick the shovel back up.

And before you could talk yourself out of it, “Hey, Steve?”

He looked up.

“You’re…I just-” You scratched behind your ear, squinting past the umbrella spokes. “You’re really…good at this. At all of it. Everything.”

He blinked. “At shoveling wet dirt?”

“Yes, but, also, no.” You shifted, pulling your other leg up onto the chair and hugging it. “You’re good at fixing stuff. Not just this rusted patio set,” You gestured to the wrought iron and glass. “But anything that’s broken…you always know how to put things back together.”

He said nothing, so you kept going, because if you didn’t let it out, it would rot in your throat, “And Pinto sleeps better when you’re home, and the house just…it feels like a home because of you. Because what you’ve done, and your presence. I know you don’t think you’re doing anything special, but you are. You’re special.” You paused. “It’s not the shovel, or the umbrella, or the way you organize the junk drawer better than I ever could. It’s you.”

Steve stared at you like you’d just opened your chest and handed him a small, fluttering thing he wasn’t sure how to hold.

“Anyway,” You mumbled, “That’s all.”

He turned back to the trench too fast to hide the way his ears had gone red. His shoulders rounded forward a little, like he was trying to disappear into the job, but his next scoop of mud came up lighter. Smoother.

“Who knew you were such a sap?” He called over his shoulder.

“I can be,” You said, biting back a grin. “When I want to.”

He paused mid-dig, glanced back at you - his smile cracked wide and helpless, full of all the things he couldn’t lay out in the open. For a brief second, his eyes held admiration for your courage, for the words you’d dared to say when you usually kept them locked inside. Then he turned back to work, head bowed, digging in again with just a little more joy in the swing of his arms.

Left alone, you settled into the chair, the  rust scratching at your thighs, a grounding contrast to the buzzing flutter in your chest that came every time you watched him. The sun filtered through the umbrella’s thin canopy, dappling your skin with light like the soft dappling of leaves on a forest floor.

Thirty minutes later, you rose and made your way inside to cool off. You lifted the hem of your shirt and fanned your chest with quick, practiced flicks before starting on a late lunch.

The house had stilled into something comfortable and slow. The air inside smelled like cooled metal and pine bark, remnants of the yard clinging to the open windows. You stood barefoot in the kitchen, the tile cold against your soles, slicing heirloom tomatoes with a blunt knife, hands moving more by muscle memory than thought.

The fridge wore a collage of colorful postcards, notes from Steve’s friends; Nancy, Robin, and even his parents - each carrying a little piece of their lives and well-wishes. Scribbled grocery lists and reminders curled at the edges, held in place by an assortment of mismatched magnets. Nearby, clean dishes sat stacked on the counter, their smooth surfaces dotted with faint water stains that caught the dim light like tiny fingerprints of the day. A glass vase cradled a small bouquet of roses Steve had brought you, their petals still fresh but tinged with the faintest blush of evening, filling the kitchen with a subtle, lingering sweetness.

Outside, Steve was still at it - arms deep in dirt and elbow grease. His shirt, a gray one that had once been thin and loose, now clung to him with sweat and summer’s humidity, darkened down the spine and chest. Through the window, you watched him lean over the fence, tapping mud from a spade, hair stuck to his forehead in golden-brown strands. It was the kind of sight that hit low and warm in your stomach - a modest, earned sort of attraction. Hard work. A shared home. Something sacred in the ordinary.

You plated two sandwiches, poured water over ice, and walked outside with the food balanced against your hip. The heat kissed your arms immediately. Steve looked up, blinking through sun and sweat.

“You didn’t have to-” He started.

“You say that like I didn’t want to,” You replied, setting the plates on the patio table. “C’mon,”

He chuckled, dropping the trowel and brushing dirt off his hands. His boots thudded on the porch steps as he sat beside you. A breeze caught the umbrella just enough to sway shadow patterns across his face.

The first bite tasted like salt and garden - ripe tomato, a smear of mayo, the tang of cracked pepper. Steve groaned softly, pleased and satiating his hunger.

“You should’ve said something.” You said, shifting your weight carefully to avoid the scorching metal burning your skin.

“I didn’t want to stop.”

You glanced at him, watched a bead of sweat slide down the column of his throat. “You look like you haven’t stopped.”

He caught your stare and grinned, boyish. “You’ve got something-” He gestured vaguely to your forehead. You wiped at it with your wrist. “No, not there. Let me,”

Before you could stop him, he leaned in and used his thumb to brush the strand of hair from your forehead. He let it linger for half a second too long, fingers trailing down your temple like he couldn’t help it.

“You’re staring,” You murmured, not moving away.

“So are you.”

You smiled and took another bite, letting the juice from the tomato dribble against your knuckle. Songbirds filled the air with a sweet, scattered melody - as if they trilled just for the two of you. Pinto’s distant, happy grunts came from the yard where he rolled enthusiastically in a muddy puddle, leaving little wet paw prints across the pavers. 

Toeing a displaced brick back into place, you said, “I’ll come move these back where they’re supposed to be.”

Steve looked down through the glass tabletop. The patio showed the storm’s handiwork: half the bricks shifted from their positions, the gravel scattered like spilled sugar. The rain had left its mark everywhere, and now had muck clung to your foot. 

“They’ll just move again the next time it rains.” His voice cracked slightly, dry from the thick summer heat and no water left to soothe it. “Don’t worry about it.”

His tongue flicked out, moistening his lips. Without hesitation, you swapped your half-full glass for his empty one. His eyes held gratitude, and something deeper, something thoughtful.

As you tore off the crust that a fly had landed on, the faint crackle of crumbs breaking under your fingers, you asked, “About done?” And nodded toward the shredded ground, where the mud lay thick and dark, slick like the raw guts of the earth.

He swallowed his bite slowly, exhaling a breath that stirred the warm, humid air. “For today, yeah. I’ll go to the store first thing tomorrow to buy a perforated pipe and finish the swale.” His eyes darted to the neighbor’s window. “I hope they don’t say anything about the mess.”

With a budding smile, eager to steal your boyfriend back to the cool indoors, you hummed, “I’ll help you clean.” 

“I got it,” He said, mouth tugging sideways as his eyes flicked down, briefly, to where your shirt clung to your skin. “I’ll be quick.”

“It’ll be faster with another pair of hands.” You raised your brow, picking up your sandwich. 

Both finished around the same time - the seeds of the tomato squashed onto the plate, the glasses of water all emptied. Steve leaned back in his chair, eyes roaming over you. From the curve of your tank top to the worn edges of your denim shorts, down to your bare feet dusted with dirt.

You stood and began gathering the plates and cups, and before you could step away, Steve knelt down beside you, gently brushing the dirt from your feet with his hand.

Before he turned away, he kissed your lips - not deep, not rushed, just rich with meaning, like punctuation to a sentence only the two of you understood. His voice was low, like it didn’t want to interrupt the moment. “You’re not even trying, and still…” He trailed off, smiling, eyes flicking down to where the sunlight touched your cheek. “It’s unreal.”

You watched him walk back to the tools, the way his shoulders flexed, how even covered in grime he still looked like something made from sunlight and soil. You followed him moments later, helping him rinse trowels and coil the garden hose. The silence between you wasn’t empty - it was full, brimming with shared rhythms.

By the time you made it back to the door, Steve was stripping off his shirt and kicking off his boots to remove his jeans. 

“I’m not tracking this through the house,” He said. 

You were about to praise his thoughtfulness when Pinto came barreling from the yard - mud-caked, joyful, and very fast.

“Pinto!” You both shouted.

It was too late. The dog raced through the open door Steve had left behind him, leaving pawprints like little muddy constellations across the floor.

Steve muttered a quiet curse under his breath, a trace of frustration passing through him before he pushed it aside, the warmth of seeing Pinto so full of life lingering beneath it.

“I’ve got him,” You called, already grabbing a towel and chasing Pinto into the kitchen.

“I’ll get the floor.” He shouted back.

You rounded the corner and found him kneeling near the dining table. The curve of his back catching what was left of the afternoon light. He’d followed the muddy trail from the back door - a smear of paw prints, now beginning to dry into soft brown ghosts along the laminate. His hand moved in slow circles with a handful of damp paper towels, like he could coax the mess away with enough patience.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, the towel dangling from your fingers - sopping, foul-smelling, and warm in a way that made your stomach turn. You held it away from your body like it might stain you on contact.

“He stinks,” You finally said, flat with certainty.

Steve glanced up. His mouth tugged into something soft - a crooked, amused smile that flashed through the sweat on his face. “Yeah?”

“Like something that crawled out of a swamp and died in the sun,” You muttered, inching the towel farther from your chest. That made him laugh, a low sound that eased the tension from his shoulders. You loved when he laughed like that - unguarded, rough around the edges. It curled in your chest like warmth finding a place to settle. “We need to give him a bath,” 

Steve leaned back on his heels. The light caught his collarbone, the damp shine along his ribs. “We?”

With narrowed eyes, your hand went to your hip. “He’s your son too.” Steve’s smile grew. You exhaled through your nose, stepped past him to the kitchen, and dropped the towel in the sink with a wet splat. “You’re on soaping duty.”

He rose, slow and deliberate, wiping his palms on his boxers. You caught the motion out of the corner of your eye, and he glanced up just in time to meet your gaze - his smile twitching like he knew exactly what you were thinking. “Rinsing,” He said, the word hanging between you with a subtle challenge.

“And drying.”

Steve shot you a look, affectionate and resigned. He brushed past you on his way down the hall, and you followed - both of you already peeling away the parts of the afternoon that didn’t matter anymore.

Five minutes later, the bathroom was a small ecosystem of humidity, dog hair, and glossy patches on the tile. Pinto stood like a soggy statue, fur heavy and matted with suds, the oatmeal shampoo working its way slowly through his thick coat. 

“He acts like we’re torturing him.” Steve said as he held the shower head, spraying the curved porcelain rim of the tub, sending a steady stream of lukewarm water swirling the dirt and suds down the drain. Every so often, the spray caught a stray droplet that landed on your arms, cool and welcome against the heat of the room. “It makes me feel bad.”

With a grunt, you said, “We’ll give him some yogurt or peanut butter to make it up to him. I’ll even let you give it to him, since you’re on rinsing and drying duty.”

Your shoulders bumped against his as you leaned over Pinto, reaching around to scrub a stubborn patch behind his ears. Each small contact sent a quiet pulse beneath your skin - an unspoken closeness threaded through the simple rhythm of the bath.

Pinto huffed through his nose, then leaned forward and licked your cheek - an appeasement, gentle and warm. You let out a soft sound, part laugh, part sigh, and pressed a kiss to the bridge of his snout, right between his soapy eyes. The shampoo clung to your fingers in thin ribbons, slipping through the fur like cream.

“Alright then,” You said, easing back on your heels, legs stiff from crouching. “He’s ready. He’s all yours.”

Steve shifted beside you, knees brushing yours as he straightened to reach better. You didn’t move. The contact, subtle and solid, sent a hush through your thoughts. Pinto’s tail gave a soft wag, barely there. Just enough.

You watched him closely. His posture still held tension - ears tipped back, eyes a little too wide, but even so, he leaned into Steve’s presence like it secured him. 

Like love could soothe every nerve. That, and Steve’s baby-voice could undo any worry. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re a good little trooper.” The water ran from the showerhead in Steve’s hand, a low hiss echoing off porcelain. He rinsed with care, sweeping suds down the curve of Pinto’s legs, guiding the stream in practiced arcs. Each pass cleared a layer of murky gray, revealing soft curls beneath. “Momma said you could get a treat after this.” 

Your eyes looked around, at the rim of the tub that was cluttered with cheap shared shampoos - labels peeling, one nearly empty and flipped upside down. The loofah that was hung slack from its hook, its edges frayed and dulled from months of use. To the clean towel lay folded in your lap for Pinto, its corners soft and curled from use, and you smoothed your palm over it without thinking, chasing creases with your pruned fingertips. 

I would need to get new towels for a baby. You glanced at Steve. Our baby. 

Not abstract, not someday, but vividly, like a memory imagined forward. A small body with flushed cheeks and a mess of dark-blonde curls plastered to their forehead. Toys floated around - tiny boats, squeaky ducks, a sponge shaped like a star. From the next room, a cassette would hum, something old and soft, something that made the light feel golden.

Steve’s hands, those same hands, would cradle your child gently, like he was made for it. Like every callus and scar had been softened by the sheer want to protect something smaller, something his.

The thought bloomed, full and sudden. It pooled low in your belly, warm and ache-sweet.

You didn’t say anything. Just watched him rinse the last of the lather from Pinto’s haunches as he cooed nonsense, and felt that tug again - not a throe exactly, but something illusive, more tender, more dangerous. Because maybe loving something before it exists is just another way to hurt yourself. Maybe this daydreaming, this soft imagining, was its own kind of cruelty. 

Steve glanced over, hair sticking in every direction from the day’s heat and work, flattened in places and fluffed wild in others. He smiled, lopsided and easy, like he felt you thinking.

“I think he’s the cleanest he’ll get.”

You nodded once, gaze surveying Pinto, who was starting to shake. You dropped the towel over the dog, scratching and rubbing to draw out the moisture. 

Steve watched you, head bowed in thought, light brushing over the edge of your cheekbone like a whisper. Your mouth was set, movements precise, the towel twisting between your hands as you pressed it down against Pinto’s back. He didn’t need words to know something had shifted - the air between you thrummed just slightly out of tune, like a guitar string pulled too tight.

He saw it in the line of your jaw, the way your shoulder lifted a breath too high. You didn’t look at him, not fully,  just the faintest glance from the corner of your eye before you straightened, composure sliding into place like a sheet pulled too neatly over a bed.

He had expected something biting, a throwaway quip to shield the quiet unraveling. Instead, silence.

His hand found your thigh, slow, familiar, brushing the warmth there like he was thumbing over a page he knew by heart. The skin was damp and dappled with the warmth of the room, and he rested there a moment, grounding you both.

“What is it?” He asked, voice low with something like knowing, though he hadn’t yet named it.

Your fingers curled gently around Pinto’s muddy paws, lifting each one with care to pat dry the darkened pads. “Nothing,” The dog’s body shivered beneath your touch, small ripples of unease you swallowed down. Steve shifted closer, the heat of his thigh nudging yours, a silent offer of company. You glanced up just enough to murmur, “He’s cold. We should get him out.”

That simple admission drew from him a slow, lingering breath, like twilight folding over restless grass, carrying both surrender and a tender, unwavering hold. He rose with deliberate ease, his eyes lingering on you, a gaze full of patient understanding and gentle resolve. Not ready to press you, not yet, but not willing to let the silence grow too deep.

Steve bent low, cradling Pinto like a small, sodden treasure as he lifted him from the tub. The dog’s legs stiffened briefly before a shuddering shake erupted - droplets bursting outward in a sparkling arc, catching the light like scattered glass shards. They rained down, splattering the mirror’s surface with watery stars, drumming softly against the vitreous china of the toilet, and speckling your arms and Steve’s chest with chilly kisses. You raised the towel like a flimsy sail, twisting it between your fingers to shield yourself, a breathless laugh slipping free.

Steve’s head turned away just in time, his eyes crinkling with merriment. “He waited to do that. That was malicious.”

He stood slowly, the bathroom door yawning open, and Pinto, unfettered with freedom, bounded out like a river breaking its banks.

Knees popped softly as you pushed away from the tub’s edge, a quiet creak of tired bones settling into motion. 

His voice broke the warm haze, light and teasing. “Sounds like those knees are calling for some oil.”A playful swat met his words, fingers brushing his chest as you tried to slip past him, but the doorway became his mild trap. He leaned in, effortless and sure. “Where’re you going smelling like that?”

An eye roll, half-smile curling at your lips. “I smell better than you.”

Your grin grew, and it took him to his knees. His hands moved with practiced ease, unbuttoning your shorts, tugging the fabric low enough to tease the skin beneath. A surge of kinetic charge vibrated low and wild beneath your calm exterior, restless and awake.

Steve’s breath hitched, not from lust, but from reverence. Like the kind felt in chapels or forests. You saw the look in his eyes - the awe, the disbelief.

In his mind: this is where life begins. This is where softness is made holy.

You smiled, fingertips ghosting through his damp hair. “Steve,” You whispered. 

Hearing you say his name like that - dulcet, almost like a prayer - turned the world inside out. You spoke as though he were the divine, a presence too extraordinary to be standing right there before you.

Steve turned, reaching for the shower knobs, the metal clicking softly beneath his fingers. Steam began to bloom against the curtain, curling like breath on glass. He tested the water, wrist held under the stream, eyes narrowing in quiet concentration. You moved behind him, fingertips grazing the hem of his shirt, gathering it in your hands. Before you could lift it…

“You’re taking the fun away from me,” He teased, half-turned toward you, a grin tugging at his mouth.

You paused, then let go, hands falling back to your sides. “How mean of me.”

The smile slipped into something gentler. He stepped forward, undoing the edge of your tank top with the same care he'd once reserved for old Polaroids and saved letters. The fabric skimmed your skin as it rose, catching at your shoulder blades before slipping free. Steve’s gaze followed every movement - where the cotton had rested, where the blue bra now hugged the slope of your chest, the soft crease of your waist as you shifted under his attention.

His breath deepened.

His eyes took in the rise and fall of you - measured, deliberate - like he could read each breath, like it was telling him something sacred. The room felt thick with something unnameable. Behind him, the water kept running, an unbroken hush that made every heartbeat feel louder. His hands hovered just shy of your skin, as if even the space between you might catch fire, or fold under its own gravity.

For a moment, he forgot the feel of dirt under his nails, the noise of the world outside the bathroom door. He knew only this: the heat your skin gave off, rich and steady like a midsummer dusk; the pale gleam catching along your collarbone like moonlight on polished stone; and the slow roll of moisture down your shoulder, as if your body was translating the air into something finer.

He swallowed hard, then reached again - slow, obedient - as if your body was a place to be blessed, not hurried.

Your breath caught, not quite from nerves, but something kin to it, fluttering under your ribs like a bird unsure of its own wings. You leaned in with a flicker of boldness, brushing your lips against his, quick and almost clumsy, landing just shy of center.

Steve’s mouth twitched, a breath of a laugh threatening, but he bit it back - he couldn't make light of it, not now, not when your heartbeat was tucked so close to the surface. Instead, he cupped your face in both hands, thumbs brushing your temples, and kissed you the way you deserved to be kissed.

It was full, anchored in everything unspoken. His lips were warm and certain against yours, the kiss unfolding like a deep exhale after holding your breath too long. It tasted of salt and steam and closeness - something humid and heady, like rain clinging to the petals of an overgrown garden. His fingers curled just slightly at your jaw, grounding you both there in that moment, where time had no edges and the only sound was the hush of water waiting.

He drew back a breath’s width, just enough for the space between you to pulse. His exhale traced your cheek like a tide pulling back from shore.

“You’re perfect,” He stated, the words tasting like conviction.

You gave a huff through your nose, more bark than breeze. The kind of sound meant to make things lighter, even as you braced beneath the weight of what he’d said. Your features twitched with disbelief, but he didn’t try to unravel that knot. Not with explanations, not with reason.

Instead, his fingers returned to your shoulders, drawing the bra straps down in a gradual descent. The fabric resisted faintly, then slipped free like dusk falling from the edge of a roof. His arms moved behind you, precise and familiar, and the clasp came undone with a subtle click, not sharp, not grand, just the sound of something long-held being released.

It dropped to the floor, a pool of worn fabric landing on tile.

You adjusted your footing, and one bare foot landed square atop the cotton. You lifted it again without thought, dragging it up your opposite calf, the motion instinctual and oddly childlike. The crease of your ankle brushed lightly against the bone below your knee, a momentary fidget as the world shifted shape between you.

Steve watched, his gaze caught not on grandeur, but on the living details of you. The way your skin carried the flush of summer, the way the light clung to the bend of your elbow, the arc of your neck. You weren’t posing. You weren’t trying, and still, it stole the air from his lungs.

Not divinity, not myth. Just you. And that, somehow, felt like the most angelic thing he’d ever seen.

Your gaze lifted, drawn by the weight of his stare. When your eyes met his, it was like recognizing a face you’d loved in a dream long before you'd ever touched it.

You studied him openly now, the same way he’d just looked at you - without flinching, without artifice.

The slope of his nose, once proud and boyish, now softened slightly at the bridge - recast by years of holding his breath through fights he hadn’t wanted, by learning patience the long, painful way. The smattering of freckles across his cheeks looked like they’d been pressed there by sun and time both, dusted on like cinnamon. His lips - still full, still shaped like they were made for smiling - wore the faint imprint of restraint. A tenderness he hadn’t spoken. The kind that only deepens with age.

You let your gaze wander lower - his jaw, shadowed and a little unshaven, carried a line that looked carved from intention more than pride. His hair disorderly, stuck out in tufts that curled and straightened in the same breath - flattened where the heat had pressed against him, wild where your hands had left their memory. That hair had once been vanity, you remembered. Now it just looked like him.

And his eyes…God, those eyes. Still honey-warm, still holding all the gold of August afternoons, but with something deeper now threaded through them. Something like ache, like home.

Love had weathered him gently, like water smoothing stone.

“You’ve changed,” You said, voice quiet but thick with wonder. He raised an eyebrow, a question forming behind his lashes. “Not worse,” You rushed, nervous with a sudden frantic energy. “Just…loved. It’s in your face. You wear it everywhere.”

Something flickered across his expression - an emotion you couldn’t name, something between humility and heartbreak. 

Then, without a word, his hand reached for yours again, fingertips grazing your knuckles like he was still learning how to deserve them. “Trust me, I know it’s for the better.” He said, eyes tracing your face like it was the only map he’d ever learned. “I’m a better man with you around.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just leaned in and pressed your nose beneath the hinge of his jaw, breathing him in - soil and salt and familiar, like summer clinging to linen. Your lips brushed the skin there, and he dipped his head to kiss the slope of your shoulder, where the warmth gathered like honey left in sunlight.

His hands slid to the curve of your hips. Fingers curled just beneath the waistband of your underwear - cotton, damp from splashed bathwater and sweat, clinging in places like a secret held too long. The fabric caught slightly where your body curved most, and you felt the drag, the slow give as it eased past.

You helped, thumbs slipping into the sides to guide them down - his hands ghosting yours, not rushing, just…there. The elastic fell to your thighs, then your ankles, a hush of fabric gathering at your feet.

The air hit you like a second skin - cool and close, thick with steam. You felt the difference immediately: the shift from clothed to bare, from protected to seen. It wasn’t shame, it was magnitude. Like standing on the edge of something vast, water lapping at your toes, knowing you were about to step in.

And still, despite all the closeness, despite how much he’d already touched - his gaze didn’t devour. It honored. It made your skin feel like a landscape worth exploring, not just undressing.

You reached for him next, fingers brushing the curve of his hips where sweat still clung like sea salt on driftwood. The elastic waistband gave a little resistance. Your grip faltered for a heartbeat, just enough to make the gesture feel human, unsure. He felt the shake in your touch like a ripple through still water, and instinctively went still, breath drawn in like a held note.

You tried again. The fabric dragged slightly, clinging to the warmth of his thighs. It wouldn’t fall easily, so you leaned back on your heels and gave a firmer tug, a small grunt rising in your throat before you could stifle it. The movement broke the hush for a beat - something almost mundane, almost funny, like dropping a spoon in a church. He smiled, barely, and kicked the boxers away with a lazy sweep of his foot. They landed against the cabinet.

Now it was only skin. Only the hush of breath between you and the thin shimmer of condensation on his chest, where heat and effort had drawn patterns you’d never tire of tracing. Your eyes roamed upward, over the swell of his ribs, the mole near his shoulder blade, the hollow where his collarbone cast a shadow. Every inch of him held the story of a life weathered and softened by care. Not untouched. Tended.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move.

You looked at each other like people seeing dawn for the first time - no fireworks, just light cresting the horizon, slow and certain. It was the kind of nakedness that lived beyond the body.

In that breath between heartbeats, the moment gathered weight - not heavy, but hallowed. Like standing ankle-deep in a tide that knew your name.

You stepped into the tub first. The water beat down like something pure, immediate. Not like the rain that had come last night - cold and feral and full of warning. This was warmth drawn through copper, coaxed from deep within the walls, a comfort made domestic. It kissed your shoulders, curled behind your ears, sluiced down your back in ribbons.

Steve waited behind you, not crowding, letting you have the first touch. You felt his presence in the quiet, in the shift of air behind you, the way the curtain swayed from his breath.

“Ladies first,” He said, a faint smile in his voice. His hand brushed your hip, like a suggestion, and he reached as if to tug you into the spray with him.

But you angled sideways, blocking him with your shoulder, already reaching for the loofah hanging limp from its hook. It sagged like a well-loved rag, frayed and sweet with the scent of your shared soaps - lavender and citrus and something faintly herbal from a forgotten bottle long out of label.

“Uh-uh,” You said, squeezing a line of soap along its surface. “You were elbow-deep in the earth, Harrington. You’re up first.”

He laughed - a low sound, all breath and affection - as you turned toward him. His hair stuck to his forehead, his lashes clumped from steam, and his skin bore the faint shadow of the day.

You began at his shoulders, dragging the loofah over sun-warmed skin. The suds caught in the valleys of his muscles, tracing the map of work done well. His breath hitched just slightly as you reached the dip beneath his ribs.

“Keep still,” You said softly, not because he was moving, but because it felt good to say - to pretend he needed instruction. To mark the moment.

He did.

As the water laced down over both of you, as your hands moved with care and familiarity, you weren’t scrubbing away the day so much as honoring it - turning labor into intimacy, sweat into something sanctified.

Steve’s hand brushed yours, gentle and unassuming, as he took the loofah from your grasp.

“My turn,” He said, voice softer now, shaped more by feeling than words.

The sponge lathered quickly in his hand, and he moved with unhurried care, as if your skin were made of something rare and fleeting - cloud vapor, the silvered hush of a moth’s wing, the breathless shimmer of snowfall just before it touches ground.

He started at your shoulder, dragging the loofah down in a slow arc. The suds curled along your collarbone like mist spilling over stone. His eyes followed the path they made, watching as the bubbles caught light and clung, as though they too were reluctant to leave you.

When he reached your stomach, his hand stilled for a moment. The curve of you beneath his palm - familiar, but never less than extraordinary - held him suspended. The soap traced around your navel, sliding in rivulets down your side. His eyes dropped, unable to look away, even when the water washed the suds clean.

Still, he looked.

Something folded open in him then. It wasn’t hunger, but wasn’t devotion either. It was the fear of standing before something beautiful and fearing it won’t stay.

How could he deserve this? You. This moment. This body that trusted his hands, this heart that let him in without armor. He thought of all the years before you - the ones marked by carelessness, by recklessness, by the casual damage boys like him did without thinking. He remembered being cruel in ways he never apologized for, selfish in ways that never came back to bite him - until now, maybe. Until you.

Because now, with his hands on your stomach and the water running clean down your chest, he felt unworthy. Like he’d been given something holy without having ever gone searching for redemption.

What if it slipped through his fingers?

He swallowed, loofah forgotten in his hand, and let his palm rest flat over your stomach - bare and open, where life could begin if you both let it.

His thumb moved just slightly across your skin, like he was trying to remember something he hadn’t earned.

You glanced down at him, sensing the shift, but you didn’t speak. Not yet.

And he didn’t look up. Not yet.

Because he was still there, caught in the pause between devotion and doubt. Watching you. Watching the place where the future could take root, and wondering if a man like him was meant to hold it.

You placed your hand over his, fingers slipping between the spaces his left - warm on warm, skin on skin, something wordless passing there. Not comfort exactly, not permission, but a knowing. A promise made without breath.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t, for a moment.

Something fragile welled up beneath his ribs, caught in the soft hollow of his chest where old guilt still lingered. It was all there - the ache of what he’d been, and the ache of what he wanted to become. For you. With you.

His voice cracked low, barely shaped into sound. “You’d be such a great mother.” So soft, it didn’t reach you over the thrum of water.

Clueless to his admission, you’d reached behind him for the bottle of shampoo and cupped his jaw to tilt his head back. The droplets traced down the planes of his throat as you worked the lather in, fingers drawing small spirals into his scalp, coaxing loose whatever weight he still carried. His lashes fluttered, lips parting faintly - not from desire, but something heavier and older.

When he opened his eyes again, he leaned in, nose brushing yours in a kiss that didn’t need lips.

His hands found the crown of your head, palms full of adoration. Shampoo pooled between his fingers as he worked through your hair, careful not to tangle, not to tug. You both stood there, haze curling in delicate skeins, as if the room were trying to remember a dream.

Each of you washing the other. Each act an offering. A benediction.

A shared baptism for the life not yet made, but hoped for, already.

You both leaned back beneath the spray, the warmth slipping through your hair, down your spines. Fingers combed, coaxed, cleared the last traces of lather from scalp and skin. Just as the water sluiced over your brow, you caught him watching you - head tilted, eyes open in defiance of soap and common sense.

A blink too late.

“Shit, shit, shit,” He hissed, squeezing them shut, blinking furiously.

You laughed - a bright, sudden sound that bounced off the tile and blossomed into something whole. A sound that shook the steam loose from the corners, that cracked through whatever weight had gathered behind his ribs.

Steve groaned dramatically, rubbing his face like it might fix him. “That’s what I get for looking at an angel,” He muttered, half-teasing, half-meaning it.

He reached blindly for the curtain, hand finding the edge. A quick tug, and his arm extended for the two towels hanging like flags of peace on the rack. He shook one out and wrapped it around you with a gentleness that didn’t need ceremony, just presence. Then the other went around his hips, clinging to damp skin as he stepped over the edge of the tub.

The air outside the bathroom hit sharp - cool against flushed skin, goosebumps trailing your arms and legs as you padded into the bedroom. It felt like stepping out of something consecrated and into something lived-in, the silence of the hallway giving way to the creak of the floorboards, the whisper of towel against skin, the quiet promise that followed.

You crossed the room, still wrapped in warmth and dampness, fingers grazing the edge of the dresser as you pulled it open. 

You paused, turned to look at Steve, blinking once - twice.

Your lashes fluttered like butterflies caught in a breath of wind as you watched him from across the room - the way his arms moved, muscles flexing beneath a faded college tee he’d never attended, but wore as if it belonged to a version of himself still waiting to be.

Your gaze dropped. The towel at his hips hung like a whisper, more memory than fabric, the last edge of modesty, a promise he wasn’t in any hurry to keep. Something in you burst, sudden and unrelenting, like a star remembering its fire.

Love.

Not the careful kind you speak about in daylight. This was nocturnal. Something winged and wordless. You felt it skitter through your chest like fireflies made of ink - staining you with the knowing. Something magical touched you then - just briefly, just enough - and you felt like if you reached for him, your fingertips might glow.

Because he was real, and he was yours. And loving him…loving him was the bravest thing you'd ever done.

You, who feared the unknown like it had teeth. You, who’d bowed to uncertainty like it ruled the sky. You, who’d surrendered to doubt more times than you could count.

But not now.

Now, you stepped forward.

The rug beneath your toes was thick, tangled - your feet sank into it like wading through moss or the fur of something primeval and breathing. The floor didn’t creak surprisingly, but the world seemed to tilt anyway as you crossed the space between you.

He didn’t see you at first. His back was turned, shirt falling into place, hands adjusting the roping of the hem. 

He sensed you moving, quiet and deliberate, and his skin prickled as the space between you suddenly shortened. Before he could turn, your hands were already there, slipping beneath his shirt, palms sweeping the planes of his hips, sliding up over his stomach and chest in a single reverent motion. As if to say: this is mine, and I’ve remembered it from the beginning.

You leaned in. Your mouth pressed to the space between his shoulder blades, the place his heart lived behind. The kiss landed like a vow, unspoken but undeniable. You lingered there, lips brushing the fabric. 

Steve stilled. Not with shock. Not with confusion, but with wonder. Because he could feel it in your touch this time: you weren’t just reaching for him. You were choosing him.

Your fingers found the knot of the towel, moving slow and gentle, an unsaid question hanging in the space between you both. Time stretched. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he let the fabric fall, then hastily shed his shirt in one smooth motion, finally turning to meet your gaze.

He caught it then, the flicker in your eyes, the way they shimmered like spun sugar, fragile and fleeting, as if you might dissolve if he blinked too long. 

Just like that, the fear he’d glimpsed in you threatened to rise.

His voice dropped, steady and soft, a balm for the trembling. “I told you, I’m not going anywhere.” His hand reached for the towel wrapped around you, fingers deft and slow as he began to undo it. “I meant it, baby. No matter what. You’re stuck with me.”

You looked at each other like you'd done this a hundred times, and somehow like it was the first.

You heard the kettle whistle itself out as you stirred beneath the comforter.

The bed was warm and tangled, a little wild where he'd just been. One pillow slumped, still holding the shape of his head. The comforter twisted, the sheet damp with the heat of bodies and quiet breaths. You sat up slowly, skin buzzing, muscles pleasantly heavy. His shirt lay crumpled on the floor - careless, like an afterthought. You reached for it, sliding it over your arms. The cotton stretched loose with wear, clinging softly to your shoulders. It smelled like him - salt and soap and something rich, like leather softened by time.

Bent to the hamper, you pulled out a pair of clean shorts you’d meant to fold days ago. The fabric was chilled from the AC, catching against the heat still clinging to your thighs. You tugged them on, the waistband settling low on your hips.

The hallway was dim, lit only by the warm spill of the ceiling light Steve has always called the 'boob light’ - soft yellow, humming faintly overhead. You moved toward the kitchen by sound alone: the gentle clink of ceramic, the kettle settling, and the soft ticking of a clock marking time.

At the stove, Steve wore only his joggers - black and hanging loose at the waist. He held a spoon out for Pinto, who sat with his back legs sliding out, tongue already working the peanut butter into the corners. His tail tapped the floor in slow, uneven rhythms.

You leaned against the doorway. Let your voice carry. “So that’s why the jar was left out.”

Steve didn’t look over, but you saw the smirk creep in. “Pinto’s got a way of convincing me.”

“Sneaky,” You said, eyes narrowing playfully.

“Yeah, he knows exactly how to work the system.” He said, handing over the last bit of peanut butter like it was a treaty. 

Your mug was waiting on the counter - the one with the Christmas tree, its handle darkened by years of use. You reached for it. The steam rose in lazy threads.

“I already put honey in there,” Steve said, wiping his hands on a towel, facing the sink. 

You smiled at his back, fingers curled around your mug. “Did you put sugar in yours?” You asked, nodding at the second mug left to the side when he faced you.

“Duh,” Steve said, wiping his hands on the dish towel, then tossing it like a basketball toward the counter. It missed. “I can’t drink it any other way.”

You took a sip, let it linger on your tongue. It tasted like the kind of tea your grandmother might’ve made - earthy and a little sharp, with the right amount of honey stirred in until it turned mellow. You could almost hear the spoon clinking in a cup from years ago.

“Wanna go sit on the couch?” You asked.

His eyes gleamed with something boyish, mischievous. “Let’s go sit on the swing.”

Your brow lifted. “It’s two in the morning.”

He shrugged, reaching for his mug. “Exactly.”

You squinted at him over the rim of your cup, but he was already walking toward the door, bare feet quiet against the laminate. The screen gave a soft squeak as he nudged it open with his elbow. You followed, half-laughing, half-sleepy, rubbing one eye as you stepped into the dim.

Outside, the night folded around you like an old quilt. The porch light had been left off, but the streetlamp at the corner caught the edge of the railing in silver. Fireflies blinked lazily across the yard, tiny amber beacons drifting through the tall grass. A chorus of crickets sang somewhere in the dark, and beyond them, the hush of sleeping houses - just shapes behind curtains, lit faintly from without.

The sky was wide and starlit, smeared with a faint trail of clouds like someone had smudged their thumb across velvet. A warm breeze stirred the hem of your shorts. Pinto snuffled behind you, nosing the screen door before deciding to stay in.

You made your way to the porch swing, your tea in one hand, the other brushing the banister as you passed. The swing moved slightly as you sat, the wood familiar beneath your legs, the chain groaning just faintly in its moorings.

Steve plopped down beside you a second later. The swing jolted, creaked, then settled again with a low whine.

You side-eyed him. “This thing’s gonna snap one day.”

He froze for half a second, glancing up at the chain like it might give out right then and there.

You grinned into your mug. “Not tonight, probably.”

“Yeah, how comforting,” He deadpanned, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward as he leaned back, arm brushing yours. “I’ll fix it next weekend.”

For a long moment, you sat like that - shoulders close, tea cooling between your palms, air soft with summer sounds.

Then Steve tipped his chin upward. “Think she’s out tonight?”

You didn’t need to ask who. Your gaze drifted to the telephone pole near the end of the driveway, where the branches of an old pecan tree curved like ribs toward the sky. You both looked, waiting.

And there - perched just above the transformer box, where shadow met shadow - a faint shape blinked into being. Round, hunched, nearly still. One eye glinting gold, the other dark as pitch.

“There she is,” You said quietly. “Mrs. Voorhees.”

Steve laughed, just under his breath. “You still think that’s funny.”

“You named her,” You said, nudging his knee with yours.

“You insisted.”

“It fits her. Creepy, solitary, shows up when the moon’s full.”

He took a sip of his tea. “You forgot ‘spotted us going to Amoco at least twice a week.”

“And when Pinto’s got indigestion,” You added, glancing through the screen where the dog had curled up, muzzle tucked to his side.

The owl didn’t move. Just watched from her throne of bark and cable wire, that one glinting eye catching the light like a penny at the bottom of a well.

You wondered how many nights she’d seen you like this - Steve in joggers, you in his shirt, sitting on a swing that moaned in protest every time he shifted. The two of you talking in half-whispers, like if you were too loud, the magic might snap.

Steve’s eyes drifted to the owl, her silhouette framed in streetlamp spill and moonlight.

She always appeared. Not every night, but most.

He wondered if she understood. If, in that little untamed heart, she sensed what it meant to sit like this - him in joggers, you in his shirt, both of you calm and content and holding thoughts not yet spoken aloud.

Maybe she was more than feathers and shadow. Maybe she was something older. Watching over you both, bearing witness. A keeper of good omens.

And maybe, if you both were lucky, she’d still be there, blinking slow and all-knowing, when there were little footsteps padding out to join you guys one day.

Steve’s arm stretched along the back of the porch swing, fingertips tracing the worn tear in the collar of his shirt. Well, the one of his that you wore like a second skin. His mug rested forgotten on the armrest, steam curling upward in soft spirals that disappeared into the night.

He caught your profile in the mild glow - the way your eyes drifted across the dark street, searching the spaces between the gloom.

His heart hammered beneath his chest, a twin-turbo’s rumble waiting to break loose, but his voice stayed tethered, caught in the hush between breaths.

You were like a fox beneath the silver moon - shy, searching - pausing at the fringe of the dark, wary yet unyielding. So he lingered in the silence, gentle as a hymn, hoping the stillness would wheedle your walls down.

With a voice as soft as the curl of smoke from a candle, he said, “I feel that way too sometimes.” As you parted your lips, he added, “Actually, most of the time.” 

“What?” You asked, shifting slightly - crossing the leg closest to him like a subtle retreat.

Steve had always been too much with his hands; reaching, holding, hoping. Half the time, he felt like he overstepped without knowing it. Took too much, gave too little, left fingerprints where he didn’t mean to. “Like I’m no good to anyone.” The words hovered, half-swallowed, suspended in the hush. He let them hang there, weightless but heavy, buying time to catch his breath. “To friends. To family. To you...” His voice lowered, the timbre roughened. “That I’d be the kind of dad who forgets where he put the bottle, can’t find the pacifier when she’s screaming. Falls asleep when she needs me the most.”

Your stomach turned molten, soft and wrecked and hopeful. “You’d want a girl?” The question tasted too sweet to be safe.

Of all the things he said, that was the one you could hold without it burning.

A nervous breath slipped out too quick, catching on a crooked laugh. He took a sip of his tea and grimaced. Lukewarm and grassy - not his thing, but you loved it.“I’d be happy either way,” He said. “But a girl first…a little version of you. That’s how I picture it.” He paused. “Then a boy. Another boy. And maybe a few more girls running around.”

You didn’t say anything.

Just pressed your lips together, like you could seal the ache - keep it from slipping out in a sound, a sob, a confession. Your throat closed itself on purpose, the way it does when you try not to cry during a song or a commercial or someone else’s joy.

Because what he said, what he wanted, was beautiful. Too beautiful.

A part of you wanted to throw your arms around his neck and promise him the world: the little girl, the boys, the second mug always waiting on the counter. Yet, another part, the one that curled into corners and remembered all the ways you’ve messed things up before, held you back.

What if you failed her, or him, or all of them?

You drew your knee in, the chain above your shoulder ticking softly with the motion, but Steve didn’t say anything. He just looked at you with that same patient, open thing in his eyes that made it so hard to lie.

“That sounds nice,” It wasn’t a full-on lie, it did sound nice. It sounded like something you only get to live in someone else’s story.

You watched him.

The way his lips pressed together like he was trying to trap his dream behind his teeth. The way his gaze drifted downward, to the rim of his mug, to the porch steps, to anywhere but you - like he didn’t trust what he might see if he looked too long.

But you saw it. That trace of hope. A fragile thread stitched into the corners of his mouth, the soft lean of his shoulder into yours.

You set your mug down, barely hearing it clink against the wood.

Hands reached for him and cupped his jaw. Your thumb swept just beneath his cheekbone, like you could smooth the ache right out of him. He tried to look away, but you didn’t let him. Your palm followed, coaxing him back to you, until your eyes met again.

"Steve," You said, low but certain. "You’d be the best dad."

His brows pulled together, skeptical, braced for kindness like it might sting.

"You’d remember the bottle. You’d memorize her favorite toys. You’d sit on the floor with her until your back ached and build a wonky castle out of blocks just because she asked you to. You’d carry her through fevers and nightmares and the days she thinks no one understands her." You leaned in closer, forehead nearly brushing his. "You’d make her laugh when she feels like crying. You’d braid her hair with too many elastics. You’d call just to say you miss her voice when she’s out of town for a day.” 

His throat worked around something too big to swallow. 

"And you’d never, not once, make her feel like she wasn’t loved. Because that’s who you are, Steve. You love like it’s the most natural thing in the world."

You didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. Because if you could carve those words into his bones, you would.

For a second, he didn’t move.

Just looked at you like you’d said something sacred. Like your words had cracked something in him, split him down the middle in the gentlest, most painful way. His breath caught. His eyes shimmered, and then…

He kissed you.

Quick and full, like he couldn’t bear to be apart from your mouth another moment. His hands cradled your face, thumbs brushing the skin just in front of your ears, as if he had to anchor himself to something before the swell inside him broke loose. When he pulled back, his face crumpled. Not all at once, but in stages. First the crease between his brows, then the tremble of his mouth, and then -

Then the tears came. Silent at first. Just a blink too full, then a blink that spilled over.

He dropped his forehead to yours, voice cracking in your shared breath. “It’s not fair,” He whispered, hoarse. “It’s not fair you get to love me like that and still talk about yourself like you’re not enough.”

You opened your mouth, but he shook his head, hands still cupping your jaw like you might float off if he let go. “No. No, don’t - don’t try to deny it. I see it in the way you flinch when someone compliments you. The way you hold your breath when I talk about the future like it’s not meant for us.” He swallowed, the next words dragged up like roots. “You’d be… God, you'd be the kind of mom that kid tells their friends about. The one who lets them cry over stupid things and never makes them feel stupid for it. Who always remembers their teacher’s name, and how they like their pancakes, and tucks little notes into their lunch even when she’s running late.”

His voice dropped, thick and shaking. “You’d teach them how to be soft and strong. How to feel everything. How to survive it.”

He looked at you like he was memorizing you, every flicker of your expression. “You’d teach them how to be kind.” Then, quieter, “You taught me.”

Your whole face gave you away before you could say a word.

The subtle quiver of your jaw betrayed the calm you tried to hold. But Steve’s hands, soft and sure, traced your skin like a whispered promise, tempting out the emotions you’d locked away long ago. 

You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know how to say it. Because a part of you still believed that it wasn’t true, that you weren’t enough. But looking at him, feeling him, knowing the truth in his gaze, you understood this: he would never lie to you.

So you sat there, breath shallow, heart bare, wanting nothing more than to give him everything you were. To hand him the fragile pieces of your soul and finally let them be held with the tenderness they deserved.

Words faltered, but your eyes spoke with a language all their own - a vulnerable offering, a steadfast trust, an invitation.

Steve’s hands cradled your face, like holding something precious and rare. “You don’t have to believe me yet,” He said, voice low and certain, full of a fierce kind of promise. “But I’ll spend my life showing you how much you matter. How deeply you’re loved. How good you are.”

Tears slipped past his defenses again, carving warm trails down his cheeks. You pressed your lips to each one, slow and deliberate, a silent surrender that held a thousand words.

“Okay,” You breathed, the single word carrying all the trust you’d been holding back.

His chest, once heavy and closed off, eased open, a spark kindling behind his eyes - bright and alive, steady as a rising sun.

“Our kids,” He said, the curve of his smile folding into the night, “They’ll help me show you, day by day.”

The night wrapped around you both like a living thing, the porch swing creaking beneath the weight of new promises and delicate hopes.

(patterned banner source! cafekitsune)

[tobiosbbyghorl]

part 2 please my heart hurts 😭😭

ALMOST. MAYBE. NEVER | psh

already wrote part 2 cause i know you guys will want it🤪

Nights hurt more than days.

Because in the dark, everything you tried to forget whispered louder.

Your fingers ached with the absence of him.

Not in the physical sense, but in the kind of way your body remembers—

how he used to trace idle shapes on your back,

how he’d pull you close like you were the only thing grounding him.

But he never said that.

Sunghoon never put those things into words.

He loved you in silences. In almosts.

And you tried to tell yourself that was enough.

You found yourself passing the ramen shop again one night.

The scent of broth and seaweed instantly brought memories rushing in.

That one evening where you both got caught in the rain, and he held your wrist instead of your hand, like even then—he wasn’t sure.

You had laughed so hard that night, soaked to the bone, leaning against his shoulder like it was home.

Now, all it did was make your chest feel hollow.

Sunghoon wasn’t doing well either.

He stared at his phone more than he used to.

Read old messages. Re-read the ones he never answered.

He’d scroll up to that one photo you took of him mid-laugh, when you’d stolen his hoodie and called it tax. He told you to delete it. You never did. He was secretly glad you didn’t.

He saw your name light up at the top of his chat list every time he opened the app.

And still—he didn’t text.

What would he even say?

“Sorry I was a coward.”

“Sorry I thought I could keep you in a box without breaking you.”

“Sorry I didn’t realize you were the real thing until you walked away.”

He kept thinking back to the time you stayed over during that typhoon.

The power had gone out. You had lit candles and played music on your phone, swaying in the dim room.

“You don’t dance,” he’d teased.

“Not for everyone,” you said with a wink.

And then, you took his hand and pulled him into a slow, lazy sway.

There was no one else in the world that night.

And he almost told you then.

That he was scared of how much he was falling for you.

But he didn’t.

He held you tighter instead, as if that could say it for him.

Now?

Now he wonders if that was his only chance—and if he ruined it by mistaking your love for convenience.

You scrolled through old photos too.

One of them had you both on a rooftop, lying under a blanket, sharing a milk tea.

His head was resting in your lap. He had fallen asleep like that.

You remember brushing his bangs away gently, wondering how someone could look so unguarded—so yours—and still not be.

You deleted that one.

But it took three tries.

You met again—accidentally.

Weeks later. Outside a bookstore. He looked thinner. You looked tired.

He didn’t smile right away. You didn’t pretend to.

“Hey,” he said softly, as if even that word was fragile now.

“Hey,” you replied, forcing yourself not to search his eyes too long.

Silence stretched between you.

He was the first to speak.

“I’ve been thinking…about you.”

You swallowed. “Me too. Doesn’t help.”

He laughed bitterly. “No, it doesn’t.”

You wanted to scream at him.

Why did you let me go? Why didn’t you choose me sooner? Why was I never enough to make you stay?

But instead, you just nodded.

Some people say goodbye without ever saying the words.

Sunghoon watched you walk away again.

And this time—he knew.

She wasn’t coming back.

Because even the strongest hearts have a limit.

And loving someone who’s always halfway in eventually teaches you to open the door and never look back.

That night, he re-read your last message again:

“Take care, Sunghoon. I hope the next girl gets a version of you I never did.”

And maybe…

Just maybe…

He’d spend the rest of his life becoming that version—

for someone else,

because he failed to be it

when it mattered most.

Three years slipped by like a quiet goodbye.

The kind of time that doesn’t make noise, but leaves behind shadows.

In that time, you moved cities. Got a new job. Cut your hair shorter. Smiled more, even if sometimes it still felt like a performance. You stopped checking your phone at midnight.

You stopped hoping for a message that never came.

You dated.

Laughed.

Felt the warmth of someone else’s hand.

But some part of you—quiet and buried—still flinched at the memory of Park Sunghoon.

Not because you still loved him.

But because there was a version of you that had.

Fiercely. Silently. Fully.

And that kind of love? It leaves fingerprints on your ribs, even when it’s long gone.

You saw him again on a quiet Sunday afternoon.

You were walking out of an art gallery, your heels clicking softly on marble, when you heard your name.

Not your full name.

Not your title.

But your name—the way he used to say it. Soft, like a secret.

You turned.

And there he was.

Sunghoon.

Older. His features sharper, posture straighter. Hair still parted the same. He wore a black turtleneck, fingers wrapped around a takeaway coffee cup. A camera hung from his shoulder. He looked like every moment you tried to forget.

“Y/N,” he breathed, like saying your name physically hurt.

You gave him a polite smile. “Hey.”

It wasn’t cold. But it wasn’t warm either.

You stood there, the silence filling the space where once, there was everything.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he said.

You shrugged, hands in your coat pockets. “That’s how time works. It moves.”

He laughed under his breath. Nervous. “Yeah… yeah, it does.”

You looked at him fully then.

He looked better. Healthier. A little sad, but in the way people look when they’ve been through something and survived.

You tilted your head. “You look good.”

“So do you,” he said immediately. Too quickly. Then, softer—

“You always did.”

⸻

A pause.

Then he asked, quietly, “Can we sit?”

You nodded.

The two of you found a bench nearby, watching the soft breeze sweep through the trees. For a while, you didn’t talk. You didn’t need to. The silence between you was no longer awkward—it was familiar. Comfortable, even.

Then—

“I think I loved you,” Sunghoon said. “Back then.”

You looked straight ahead. “You think?”

He sighed. “No. I did. I just… I didn’t know how to love anyone right then. I thought I could hold you at arm’s length and still keep you close.”

You nodded. “You couldn’t.”

“I know that now.”

More silence. Softer this time.

“I’ve changed,” he said quietly. “Not for anyone else. Just… for myself. But part of me always hoped I’d run into you someday. That maybe—if I got another chance—I could do it differently.”

You looked at him, truly looked. He was no longer the boy who ran when things got too real. He was still him, but steadier now. Like time carved patience into his bones.

“I don’t know if I can just… fall back into this,” you said, honest.

“I’m not asking you to,” he replied. “I don’t want to fall back into anything.”

He leaned forward, voice low. Hopeful.

“I want to start over. I want to learn who you are now. I want to earn it—your time, your trust, your smile. I’ll do the work this time. No almosts. No gray areas. No disappearing.”

You felt your chest tighten.

“And if I say no?”

He smiled, gentle and sad. “Then I’ll still be glad I tried.”

Three weeks later, you found a letter in your mailbox.

No text. No message. Just a handwritten note.

Dear Y/N,

I hope today was kind to you.

If you’re free this Saturday, there’s a jazz exhibit opening downtown. Thought of you.

*If not, I’ll try again next week.

No pressure. Just a boy trying to learn how to love the right way.*

— PSH <3

You smiled. And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel forced.

You went.

He didn’t hold your hand right away.

Didn’t push.

Didn’t ask for anything except your presence.

And every week after that—he kept showing up.

Coffee left at your desk. Flowers sent with no card.

Late night phone calls where he asked about your day and actually listened.

Moments, not grand gestures.

Intent, not performance.

He courted you in the quiet ways love grows best.

It wasn’t a movie.

There was no fireworks moment, no big kiss in the rain.

But one night, months later, you fell asleep on his shoulder after a long walk home.

And he didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe too loud.

Like holding you again was a privilege he didn’t dare take for granted.

So maybe this time

It wouldn’t be almost.

It wouldn’t be maybe.

It wouldn’t be never.

Maybe this time,

it would be

always.

tobiosbbyghorl 2025

part 3?😄

[rosenclaws]

HI!!!

what would every logan do or think when there s/o is tipsy or drunk??

Hi!! This is such a cute prompt and I am fully imaging myself bc I get really loopy when I'm drunk. I am not a runner though lmao

Origins Logan -

So you're out at the bar with Logan and some of his work buddies. You're pretty uninterested in whatever story their telling but you like being with Logan. You slip out of his comforting grip and head to the bar to order another drink. Its there you end up locked in conversation with a very nice lady who just moved here. You don't realize you keep ordering drinks as you're too wrapped up in conversation. You feel a hand on your back and look up to see Logan smiling at you.

He's silently checking to make sure you're okay and once he's sure you're alright he's telling you it's time to head home. You say bye and let Logan drag you out of the bar. You might be a littleee drunk. You tell Logan you're fine but you trip on your way to the car and he just sighs. You're adorable as you cling onto him as he carries you to the car and drives you home. You go on and on about how you miss your boyfriend and that he's so hot and strong and pretty. He's eating all this up as he gets you home and in bed. You pass out pretty quickly and Logan just chuckles as he tucks you in and places two advil on the bedside table.

Trilogy Logan -

He loves when you get tipsy because you're super clingy. He's extra flirty and you eat it up every time. Your practically in his lap as he sips his beer. Your hands are slipping under his jacket as you whisper how much you missed him. That you want to live on him like a parasite if it means you never have to be apart. He just smirks and tells you how cute you are. He keeps a watchful eye on how much you’ve been drinking and makes sure you don’t drink more than you said you would.

When it’s time to go you’re still saying cute things that border on dirty that you will so regret in the morning. Logan tucks you in and cuddles close next to you. When morning comes he so teases you about everything you said but he loves it so much.

DOFP!Logan -

He’s all protective boyfriend mode. Not hovering but always watching. Making sure you’re not drinking too much, that you’re being safe, that you’re having fun. If he’s with you at the bars then he’s only a few feet away ready to be at your side in a heartbeat. He likes it when you get tipsy because you’re just so cute. Plus you loveeee to kiss him. Like you can’t stop kissing him. When he pulls away you pout and cry and he just coos and tells you not to be bratty.

If he’s not with you he does wait for you to call. He never wants you to take an uber or taxi. He doesn’t care how late you call. He’ll come pick you up.

Old Man Logan -

He thinks you’re clingy but he kinda likes it. He’ll huff about having to be your damn babysitter but he wouldn’t want anyone else to pick you up or help you when you’re drunk. You call him drunk as hell. Your words slurring as you tell him your friends left and you don’t know where you really are. You read the name of the bar you’re at and Logan sighs. He totally kicks out whoever he was giving a ride to. Forgetting about the money to come get you. When he pulls up he’s pissed but also worried. He scolds you for drinking this much and costing him a job.

You’re clingy and kind of a crybaby. But he wipes those tears away as you apologize. He drives you home and makes sure you’re safe and in bed before he leaves. You ask him to stay but he never does. Still the next morning you find a note on your kitchen counter telling you to get some food from the diner down the street because he’s there waiting.

Worst Logan -

He’s not used to be the sober one lmao. He has to drink a lot to get drunk and for some reason in your already tipsy state you told him you could go shot for shot with a man who has literal super healing. Safe to say you were utterly wasted. At some point Logan stopped pouring you alcohol and just gave you water. You were too drunk to notice. He’s worried as you cling onto him. You tell him how hot he is and how bad you want him and he just brushes you off, assuming its the alcohol talking and you don’t actually want him.

He carries you to bed with ease. Its kind of cute seeing you pout when he tries to leave. He teases you just a little but he won’t stay when you’re this drunk. He will turn his back when you messily change into pajamas and even read you a bedtime story because you begged and literally almost fell out of bed trying to grab onto him. You’re just so fucking adorable. He wants to kiss you so bad but he can’t.

In the morning you’re fighting for your life. Absolutely worst hangover you’ve ever had. He doesn’t mention last night but when you remember everything you said you shyly ask him if he remembers too and he just grins. Of course he does.