astro/cherry, she/they, 23, hopeless romantic, submissive man supporter, smut addict, edward nashton's gf.
✷ all characters are automatically 18+ when I write them.
.·:*¨ about the author -- (before you) ask the author ¨*:·.
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works in progress ✩••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑
tear you apart // vampire!eddie munson (nsfw/18+)
✷ [inspired bytear you apart by she wants revenge] eddie's got two secrets from you. one he has to tell you before it takes over his whole being and drives him to the brink of insanity, forever changing him into a beast of instinct only. The other is that he's a vampire. A blood thirsty, fanged, silver-fearing vampire. he'd rather tell you he loves you.
spiderhead // mcu!peter parker (nsfw/18+)
✷ [inspired by spiderhead by cage the elephant] loving peter, hating Spiderman, being left for dead, and impossible secrets. Also the damn Lizard. -- spiderperson!reader
here are some marvel character stories i’ve read, loved, and reblogged. all the admiration for the writers who share their talent so generously. please be sure to read the warnings on each fic. and if you enjoy them, let the author know by a comment, reblog, or both! ♡
BUCKY BARNES I TWO I THREE I FOUR I FIVE I SIX
STEVE ROGERS
ROBERT ‘BOB’ REYNOLDS I TWO
PETER PARKER I TWO I THREE
MOON KNIGHT I TWO I THREE I FOUR I A03
MATT MURDOCK
THOR ODINSON
LOKI LAUFEYSON
JOHNNY STORM
JOHN WALKER
MISCELLANEOUS CHARACTERS
↳ stucky, tony, sam, peter q, joaquín, stephen s, thunderbolts, ben grimm, frank castle
synopsis: when investigating an abandoned lab, bob accidentally breaks a vial containing a mysterious substance, leaving him and yelena to work you through the fallout.
tags: 18+ MDNI, dubcon, aphrodisiac/drugged sex, threesome, fingering, blowjob, penetration (p in v), platonic boblena, team dynamics, we're totally just doing this to help you hahaha we'd never fuck sober hahaha
wordcount: 4.2k
requested by: @deltamel <3
EASY MONEY. That’s how the mission was described to you, anyways. Something simple according to Valentina. Just a smash-and-grab at an abandoned lab on the outskirts of Bucharest. The instructions were almost insultingly simple:
1. Find the experimental serum.
2. Call a retrieval team.
3. Hand it over to Ross’s people.
4. Go the fuck home.
Except nothing with the New Avengers was ever easy, and you have a sneaking suspicion that this is about to blow up in your faces. Figuratively or literally, it’s inevitable, and very often the latter with this lot.
Yelena is the first to say it out loud. “Simple mission, my ass,” she mutters from the co-pilot seat, fiddling with the front of her combat vest. “Place your bets on how we die today.”
“You always think we’re going to die,” Bob chips in brightly, far too cheerful for three people discussing their own mortality.
“That’s because we always almost do,” she deadpans. “I’m just being realistic.”
You look up from the tablet in your lap, adjusting your headset. “Relax. It’s just recon. It can’t be that hard.”
“That’s what you said in Berlin,” Bob says.
“Berlin was an outlier!”
“Berlin was a shitshow,” Yelena cuts in dryly.
You sigh as Bob laughs in the seat next to you. Definitely not winning this one.
With the rest of the team on the other side of the country visiting a similar lab, you’re stuck as a trio. Not that you mind. The three of you work well together. Surprisingly so, given how different you are. Bob, a bundle of energy to get you through hard times. Yelena, sharp and unpredictable, chaos in human form. You’d like to think you’re somewhere in the middle. Alexei likes to call you the glue of the bunch—”ah, it iz my favourite neutraliser!”—thanks to your ability to talk everyone down when sparks fly.
And boy, do they fly.
The jet touches down outside the old facility at dusk. The air is thick with fog, and Bob shudders at how eerie it looks as you all clamber out of your seats.
“Why’d we have to do this in the dark? This mystery thing would be way easier to find during the day,” he complains. (And gets ignored, as per usual.)
“Thermal says minimal heat signatures,” you supply informatively with a glance to your wrist display.
“Well, at least we aren’t walking into a nest,” Yelena says. (But chambers a round anyways.)
“Oh! We got lucky.” Bob shoulders his gear—he’s not much use when he isn’t being all creepy and powerful, but he’s content enough with the role of glorified equipment mule.
“When have you ever been the kind of man to rely on luck?” Yelena flashes a toothy smirk over her shoulder.
His smile fades at that, a look of mild offence briefly crossing his features. But he holds out a hand to help you down the ramp anyways. “Such a gentleman,” you drawl, and he brightens up immediately, spending the rest of the walk into the facility grinning proudly to himself as your pilot departs.
Inside, the lab is mostly stripped bare—empty containment units, shattered glass, flickering lights. You can still smell the sharp sting of chemicals in the air, faint but persistent.
“Creepy. I don’t like it.” Bob wrinkles his nose behind you.
You can’t help but agree. The place is so quiet you can hear your own breathing, quickened with nerves. You almost jump when Yelena flicks on her flashlight, sweeping it across the ruined lab benches, shards of glass glinting menacingly on every surface.
“Looks like they packed up in a hurry,” she mutters, crouching down to inspect a cluster of overturned canisters. “Or... someone made them.”
You follow her gaze to a set of marks scarring the floor—parallel lines like someone’s boots had been dragged against the floor. Bob lets out a nervous laugh. “Maybe the janitor just sucks at cleaning.”
Yeah. You all doubt that.
The deeper you head into the lab, the worse it gets. Flickering emergency lights hum overhead, casting the hallways in stuttered bursts of red and shadow. You half expect someone to pop out screaming from every door you pass.
You tighten your grip on your sidearm. “Thermals still clear,” you mutter. “No life signs.”
“Let’s split up, then. I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to,” Yelena says.
Despite Bob’s obvious reluctance about not having someone to (metaphorically) hold his hand, the three of you split off to search in different directions. Eventually you stumble across a lab room significantly less destroyed than the first one—you doubt you’ll have much luck, but it’s better than roaming dark hallways with scary flickering lights.
You’re only halfway through tagging sample cases when you find it. A row of vials sealed in a reinforced crate, the liquid inside glowing faintly pink under your flashlight. There’s something unsettling about the fuchsia shimmer.
“Uh, found something,” you mutter into your comms link.
When you regroup, Bob gives a low whistle at the sight. “Pretty. Like a Valentine’s Day gift.”
Yelena stifles a snort. “Yeah. I’m sure you’ve had a lot of luck giving pretty girls weird chemicals from creepy labs.”
You tune out their playful bickering about Cupid’s arrows to kneel down, studying the label on the side of the crate. “Project Eros,” you recite aloud, and they fall silent, eyes shooting towards you. “Experimental biochem formula.”
“Translation?” Bob asks with a tipped head, rocking back and forth on his feet.
You shrug. “There’s no data sheet. Could be anything. A pheromone enhancer, neural stimulant—”
“—Or poison,” Yelena chips in.
“... Or poison,” you sigh.
Bob groans. “Great.”
You reach for the scanner tucked into your belt, intending to log the crate for Ross’ team to pick up… and that’s when Bob loses his balance behind you from his bored rocking. His hand hits your shoulder to keep himself upright, knocking you against the crate. The vials within jostle as you catch yourself.
“Fuck, careful—”
“Sorry!” He grimaces, straightening up and patting your shoulder apologetically. Before you can reply, you hear the hiss of a pressure seal. A thin mist shoots out of one of the cracked vials, coating the air around you.
“Shit—!” Yelena lunges, grabbing you by the arm to yank you back while Bob stumbles out of the way. But it’s too late. You’ve already inhaled it. The pink haze shimmers, disappearing in seconds, leaving a metallic taste in your mouth and a rush of heat in your chest.
Yelena’s voice sounds sharp and distant. “You okay?”
Your heart is racing and your skin tingles with static. “I—I think so,” you manage shakily, blinking out of it.
“I’m so sorry!” Bob says, hands raised in panicked surrender. “I was just— I didn’t mean to—”
“Let’s just get her out of here,” Yelena interjects, already requesting extraction on her wrist. All the easy teasing from before is gone, her brows pinched together as she studies your face for any adverse reactions. “Run some tests back at base. Maybe it’s nothing.”
But as the jet lifts off minutes later, the heat under your skin doesn’t fade. When Yelena straps you in to the sound of Bob’s profuse apologies, it only spreads. It feels like a molten crawl along your sensitive nerves, lighting you up from the inside.
By the time you get back to base, you feel like you’re about to die. Not from pain, or blood loss, or any of the usual ways someone in your line of work dies. But from pure fucking horniness. You can’t imagine a more embarrassing way to go.
You shift uncomfortably in your seat as Yelena hovers above you to check your blood pressure. The base—if you could even call it that—is a humble thing. A low-level apartment on a busy street, hidden in plain sight. The kitchen you’re in is stocked with rations and medical supplies, though you’re certain half of them are expired.
Your skin feels too tight, and your breath catches as she touches your arm. Just a slight brush of fingers has you fighting the urge to jolt.
“Are you okay?” She asks, brows pinched together.
“I’m fine,” you lie through your teeth, voice rougher than it should be. “Just… warm.”
Bob’s preoccupied with pacing on the opposite side of the room like a caged animal, talking animatedly with his hands. “I knew I shouldn’t have come. It never goes well. I ruin everything. Oh my god, Valentina is gonna kill me—”
“Shut up, Bob,” Yelena snaps, eyes never once leaving you. And then it hits suddenly. A wave so strong it makes your thighs clench under the fabric of your suit. Yelena watches as your pupils dilate when they land on Bob.
It’s so sudden it takes you by surprise. This sudden, overwhelming hunger coiling tight inside you, fixated on him. On his stupid earnest eyes, his stupid broad shoulders crammed into a too-tight shirt. He’s fidgeting now, and you have the sudden urge to pin those hands down until he stops moving.
But it’s not just him, you realise, when your panicked eyes snap back to Yelena. All cool and sharp-eyed with blood on her lips from biting them with worry as you snuck back into the city. With her, the urge is to taste where she bled. You inhale shakily as the drug sinks deeper into your bloodstream—everything feels amplified. The scent of Yelena next to you, the sound of Bob wringing his hands nervously, the feeling of want between your legs.
And suddenly, Project Eros is making a lot of fucking sense.
“Shit,” you whisper as it dawns on you.
Yelena’s eyes narrow. “What is it?”
You can’t bring yourself to answer. Not when the truth is so humiliating.
What are you meant to say? That all you can feel is something twisting through your body like liquid arousal, sharpening every sense until all you can think about is them: Bob with his stupidly pretty face and that lost-puppy look in his eyes, Yelena with her razor-sharp grace and blood on her lip.
“I’m horny,” you blurt out.
Oh, okay. That works.
A strangled noise of surprise escapes Bob. Yelena manages to remain a little more composed, clearing her throat. “Horny?”
You squirm awkwardly in your seat, forcing yourself to avert your eyes. Your body flushes hot under your skin. “Yeah. I don’t know. I just feel warm. And really, really turned on. Like, you don’t even understand how wet I am right now—“
Bob chokes on another sound.
“—Sorry,” you grimace. “Maybe it’s making me honest too. I just… fuck. I really want to fuck you both. Oh my god, I can’t stop talking.”
There’s a perverse sort of joy in watching Bob’s face turn red, eyes wide as saucers. You promptly file that away as another symptom of the drug. Yelena hovers awkwardly by your side for a moment.
“Well, that’s flattering,” she says, a weak attempt at lightness.
“I’m sorry,” you repeat, shifting in your chair. Your thighs chafe together, and the slight friction between your thighs has you stifling a desperate moan. “I don’t know how to make it stop. Maybe I need to just sit in a cold shower until Valentina’s people get here.”
“Can’t we help?” Bob tries. You both turn towards him, and he falters for a moment like he’s unsure of himself. Then, with a confidence he doesn’t necessarily feel, “I mean, it was my fault, right? I’m kind of responsible for getting you out of this.”
“How are we supposed to help her? Fuck the horniness out?” Yelena counters exasperatedly.
The silence that follows her question looms awkwardly. Because the truth is you’ve all been thinking about it since you blurted out the dreaded words of I’m horny. It’s the only viable solution when you’re surrounded by expired medical supplies and a double bed in the next room.
“... Yes?” Bob says with uncertainty.
“Yes,” you blurt out at the same time with significantly less.
Her gaze shifts between you. “Wait, you’re serious..?”
“Deadly.” You shift again, the dampness between your legs making you ache with an impatience you haven’t felt in a long time. “Please, Lena? I’m going insane.”
Yelena’s breath catches in her throat, then she stutters out a dry laugh. “Jesus. Okay.”
Bob is still frozen—wide-eyed and red-faced—but the thought of him being useful forces him out of that temporary paralysis. He owes it to you to fix what he broke, right? That’s the only reason his cock is stirring in his pants. Probably. Maybe.
“Okay,” he says. Then louder: “Okay! We can do this.”
So, the decision is made. Yelena helps you out of your chair and ushers you out of the kitchenette towards the bed. You stumble a little, legs weak, as she aids you into a sitting position on the edge. Bob hesitates as he follows, but when you reach out and tug at his waistband, he falls into the space in front of you like a well-trained dog.
Yelena exhales sharply—half laugh, half disbelief. “We’re really doing this.” Not that she makes any effort to put an end to it, taking a seat next to you.
Bob is looking up at you with those big, dumb eyes of his, half-expecting you to snap out of it any moment and tell him he’s insane for suggesting this. So you cup his face and pull him down until your lips brush his ear.
“Do I need to beg?” You whisper. “Because I will.” And when he whimpers, you do. “Please, Bob,” you breathe. “Let me suck your cock.”
Bob didn’t think he had any more blood left to blush with—especially considering how much rushed to his cock as soon as you agreed to this—but fuck if his face isn’t on fire. It’s like some dirty fantasy: come to life: smoking hot teammate needs you to fuck her to save her from drug. He makes an inarticulate noise in the back of his throat at the thought.
For a second—and you aren’t sure why—you think he’s going to say no. But then:
“Um. Okay.”
A low laugh bubbles out of you. “Okay..?”
He nods, more confident this time. “If it helps, I’ve—I’ve just never really…”
“What? Had your dick sucked?” Yelena chips in from your side.
“No!” He protests. “I’ve… I’ve had sex. Like… a few times, actually.” She laughs. “Just never, y’know, like this. With a friend. But it’s just to… to help you out, right? Cure you. So it’s fine.” His hands fall to the button of his trousers, nervously fumbling to undo them.
“Let me,” you murmur, voice already thick with need. You undo him yourself, zipper dragging down, loud in an otherwise quiet room. Then the fabric is shoved down just enough to free his cock. He’s already hard, twitching as the cool air hits him.
You didn’t think it was possible to be any wetter than you currently are. Even Yelena seems to enjoy the sight of his flushed pink cock (though maybe she just thinks it's amusing how easy it is to turn him on), humming with approval next to you. You lean forward, licking a slow stripe up his shaft, moaning at the salty taste that fills your mouth.
Then you take him deep without hesitation, hollowing your cheeks around his thick cock while he gasps above you. “Fuck—“ He chokes out, fingers trembling against your shoulders. “You don’t have to— I mean, I just want to get you off and fix you— you don’t need to do this—“
You pull off just long enough to smirk up at him, eyes hazy from the aphrodisiac pulsing through your blood. “I know I don’t have to,” you whisper, tongue dragging along his veiny underside. “I want to.”
Yelena’s hands find your hair, pulling it out of your face as you devote yourself to sucking him off. “There you go,” she murmurs, and you catch the hitch in her breath when your lips glide down Bob’s length.
He’s already a whimpering mess above you. He can barely bring himself to meet either of your eyes, as if that’ll make it too real. Like you aren’t already sitting on the bed of a safe house with your head bobbing in his lap.
You can feel it building higher: that desperate, coiled heat in your belly, rising with every slide of his cock against your tongue. Yelena leans in closer over your shoulder, studying the way your lips stretch around him.
“There you go,” she murmurs. “Nice and slow.”
You take him deep, eyes fluttering shut as your mouth works at his cock. Soft sucks, long pulls, tongue swirling around the head before diving back down until your nose is nuzzling into the hair at his base. Bob briefly wonders whether you’re always this skilled with your tongue or Project Eros has just made you insanely good at giving head.
“I—I can’t… oh, God. That’s so good—“ He can’t quite help himself, fucking into your mouth with slow, desperate thrusts. And then he’s whimpering suddenly:
“Wait, wait, wait. Supposed to making you cum, not me—“
With a wet slurp, you pull off of him, an obscene string of saliva connecting you to his tip. You wipe sheepishly at the corner of your mouth. “Right.”
Yelena helps ease you onto your back, hooking a thumb under your waistband. “Lift for me,” she prompts, and slides the fabric down your hips. Your underwear follows, and both of them inhale sharply at the sight of your cunt. You’re glistening with desperation, legs parting wider under their hungry gazes.
“Such a pretty pussy,” she breathes.
“Yeah,” he echoes stupidly.
Yelena braces a hand on your thigh while the other brushes through your damp folds. Tentative at first, but she grows bolder when she feels how soaked you are. A Russian curse slips out that flies right over your head.
“You’re drenched. All this just for us?”
Both of them know that’s not technically true. You were seconds away from humping your hand for relief in the kitchen—it’s not quite them you’re eager for. But the thought is arousing nonetheless as you squirm desperately underneath them.
“Can I…?” Bob asks.
Her hand withdraws, replaced with his own. You moan as he slides two fingers easily into your eager cunt—slow at first, then curling in a way that has your back arching and a broken cry slipping out. “More,” you whimper, grinding against his trembling hand. “Please. I need more.”
He obeys instantly. A third finger sinks inside you as Yelena guides him deeper with one firm push to his wrist. “That’s it. Finger her like you mean it.”
Bob stammers something about not wanting to hurt you, but the way you’re clenching around him and bucking against his hand has his protests dying away. The wet sound of his fingers pumping into you fills the cramped room.
But when he starts to falter—fingers slipping from the sheer panic of having someone this undone because of him—Yelena rolls her eyes and nudges him out of the way. “Let me,” she says. “You’re never going to get her off that way.”
She takes over as he apologises bashfully, shifting out of the way with his cock still throbbing between his legs. And then her fingers are working you beautifully: strong, precise strokes that hit exactly where you need them, a practiced thumb gliding over your clit. When she leans forward to spit on your hole, fucking her saliva into you with deep strokes of her fingers, your thighs clamp around her hand at how filthy it is.
“Oh— oh, Lena, that’s— mm—“
Bob can only stare. You look like heaven, with your head thrown back and lips parted in ecstasy—but Yelena looks like a goddess, perched above you as she works you towards the edge with ease. Her bleached blonde hair falls into her face, bitten lip caught between her teeth in concentration.
“Fuck,” you whine, jerking against her. “Right there— m’gonna—“
A wave of pleasure hits you before you can finish. Your back arches up off the bed, toes curling inside your boots, and a choked cry tears from your throat as your orgasm rips violently.
She fingers you through it until your back hits the bed again, then pulls her fingers out slowly, glistening with your release. “Told you I knew what I was doing,” she smirks. “Take notes, eh, Bob?”
You’re still trembling and coming down from your high when you realise you can still feel it. The heat of the drug pulsing through you, and the aching feeling of emptiness. It takes every ounce of strength to look up at them both, breath still ragged.
“It didn’t work.”
“What?” She asks. Bob looks concerned, fiddling beside her.
All you can manage is a helpless, humiliating whimper. “It wasn’t enough. I need more.” Your hips cant upwards. “I still feel empty. Like… like I need something bigger.”
Yelena glances at Bob—or more accurately at his cock—then back to you. “You want him to fill you up?” She murmurs.
You’d be embarrassed by how eagerly you nod—jerky and desperate—if your mind wasn’t currently clouded with insatiable lust. “Please,” you pant. “I know I’m asking a lot— oh, God— but I need it.”
“It’s worth trying,” she says after a moment of deliberation. Your thighs, already slick with your release, clench around nothing and you almost feel like crying when you hear Bob’s hesitant voice.
“Are you sure?”
“Please,” you repeat, entirely devoid of the usual mortification that comes with begging.
He hesitates for just another moment, then withers under Yelena’s sharp look. “Okay.”
You roll over, positioning yourself with your ass high in the air. The thin fabric of your underwear is still hooked around one thigh, but you don’t bother yourself with removing them. Just spread your legs wider and look back at him over your shoulder.
“Bob,” you whimper, bottom lip jutted out. “Please hurry.”
He scrambles behind you, his cock already thick and wet from his unfinished blowjob. One hand braces on your hip, the other wrapping around himself to line up with your dripping cunt. Then he pushes inside.
“Fuck,” he grunts, eyes rolling back at the warmth and tightness surrounding him as he sinks in inch by inch. The stretch has you groaning into your forearms, walls fluttering as they adjust to the size of him. “I didn’t think I’d actually be doing this. I thought I’d just— ah, you’re so tight— I don’t know. Eat you out, or something. But this is so much better.”
“Move,” you beg, fingers twisting into the sheets as he bottoms out. “Just fucking move.”
He obeys instantly—shallow thrusts that make your spine bow and your breath hitch—but is not enough. Not when you can feel that fiery heat burning through you, desperate for release. So you rock your hips back to meet him harder.
“Faster,” you moan. “Harder.”
Bob almost stumbles forward with the force of it, then adjusts himself. He grips both of your hips and starts to fuck into you in earnest. Each thrust drives a cry out of you, bed creaking against the wall to the rhythm of his movements.
You feel the bed dip next to you with Yelena’s weight, and two hands on your stomach. One snakes up under your shirt, palming one of your breasts through your bra.
“Oh, wha—?”
“Extra stimulation,” she cuts you off, as if groping your tits is necessary right now when you already have Bob fucking you senseless. But any remark about that dies in your throat when her other hand slides down further, gathering the creamy wetness around your hole as he pummels into you. She drags it back up, fingers slick against your swollen clit, circling it gently.
“Nghhh—“ Bob moans out as you clench around his cock at the feeling. “I’m gonna cum if you do that—“
Yelena’s hand manages to find its way under your bra cup, fingers gently tweaking your nipple, and that’s what sends you over the edge. Your face buries into your arm and you cry out, fluttering around Bob’s thick cock as Yelena rubs you through it in tantalising circles that have your legs trembling.
“Wait, I’m— fuck, relax. Squeezing me so tight,” he chokes out. But he barely manages a few more sloppy thrusts before he’s whimpering his way through his own orgasm.
“Ah, s-sorry—“ He stutters out as the warmth of him floods your cunt without permission. His pulsing hot release floods down your thighs as he hastily tries to pull out—as if the damage hasn’t already been done—with a grimace.
Both of Yelena’s hands retreat, and you collapse into the sheets with a sigh. You don’t want to get ahead of yourself—or maybe you do want to keep going—but with your cunt (somewhat) full and your body thrumming with the pleasure of a second orgasm, you feel better.
Or, more accurately, you don’t feel like you’ll die if you don’t get fucked anymore.
“I think I’m good,” you mumble into your arm.
Bob collapses onto his back next to you with a groan, face flushed with exertion and sweat beading along his hairline. You barely have it in you to turn your head towards Yelena. Only now has it dawned on you that she hasn’t found the same release you and Bob have.
“You didn’t get to—“ You start.
“Oh, no need. I’m a professional,” she declines, leaning back lazily on her hands. As if she hadn’t been knuckle deep in your cunt and telling you how pretty your pussy was five minutes ago. “One of us has to be fit to answer the call and explain why we’ve been radio silent for half an hour post opp.”
That pulls you back to an unfortunate reality. “Shit,” you laugh weakly. You know you’re all in for a lecture about incompetence and the sheer audacity of the three of you to sleep together instead of waiting for them to get a medic on the ground.
“Well,” Bob says chipperly, still panting. “At least we know there’s a cure!”
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut, porn without plot, wet dream, mild voyeurism, subbish!bob, praise kink, handjob (m!rec), dirty talk, graphic cum descriptions, male masturbation.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: first kinktober fic is down! lowkey I really loved writing this one, been on a bit of a bob kick lately! I hope you all enjoy it too! 🫶
𝐒𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄’𝐒 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓.
It was the same dream again — his face between your thighs, flushed and heated, with your hands fisted tightly into his tresses.
Bob couldn’t recall the last time he’d wanted someone with such raging carnality. In the past, he’d slept around out of convenience; for drugs, money, or to fill some gaping chasm inside of him.
Every night, he was plagued by thoughts of you, where he’d wake up sticky and disheveled, covered in sweat and his own cum.
Tonight wasn’t any different; in fact, it was worse.
You’d stayed up with him in the Watchtower’s lounge room, television humming in the background while the both of you talked about something meaningless.
The curve of your lips stayed rooted in his mind, or how your shirt hugged your chest, or the dizzying sound of your laughter.
He thought about what you might sound like with his mouth on your body, or with his cock inside of you. When he’d gone to bed sometime after midnight, it was almost cruel how swift the dreams came.
Clammy and dry-mouthed, Bob stared aimlessly at the ceiling, taut with frustration and only one avenue to try and purge that repression from his bones.
Sweat beaded along his temples, tongue absentmindedly wetting his bottom lip. His stomach felt tight, skin burning with a constant heat; even his sweater felt like it was suffocating him.
With every wet dream he’d had about you, he’d awoken to ruined boxers and endless desperation.
Relief seemed within his grasp, and he brazenly took a step in that direction. He felt pathetic, like some perverse stranger, unable to stop thinking about you.
Bob’s throat thickened as he swallowed down a wave of panic, hand moving to untether the ties of his pajama pants.
He’d gotten in a habit of doing this; of jerking off to you.
“Stupid.” He mumbled, body screaming for some form of release. As he hastily slipped out of his pants, he settled down amidst sweat-soaked sheets, hand reaching into his boxers.
He was aching already, cock swollen and flushed from his dream, tip angry and glistening with a sheen of precum. Bob groaned from the contact, hand circling around the base of his length.
Somewhere in the corridor, you were returning from the kitchen after having a late-night snack, barefoot as you padded across cool, tile floors.
As you passed by Bob’s room, some depraved sliver of your being begged to press your ear to the door.
The intrusive thought was immediate and perhaps strange; you weren’t some creep, but you were curious to know if he was still awake. After all, you were friends — and this was harmless fun.
Beyond the door, Bob was actively caught in the throes of ecstasy.
His hand stroked along his cock, thumb circling the aching tip, tendrils of precum oozing onto his palm. He tried to muffle his sounds, but it was useless.
A breathy, strained groan ripped through his chest, echoing throughout his room as he jerked himself off. Even through it all, he pictured you; pictured your hand instead.
Within his tangled fantasies, you were there too, whispering in his ear and stroking his cheek, telling him that he was perfect like this.
Ripples of bliss flood through his stomach, muscled abdomen tight with want. It’s incredible — he can’t remember the last time it all felt so amazing.
You hear him moan your name from behind the door.
For a moment, you almost mistake it as a trick of the mind or something else, but you hear it again. It’s a hoarse, desperate plea that draws you in like a siren’s song, and before you know it, you’re opening his door.
Bob doesn’t notice you whatsoever when the door inches open, doesn’t notice you watching him.
There’s a rush of blood to your head when you glimpse him through the inky black of his room, framed only by the blanched light coming from his bathroom.
Pale glimmers of light curl over his body, sinking into the cut junctures of his muscles, like he’s some chiseled adonis. His hand is snug around his cock, head tossed back into the pillows.
You stand there, dumbfounded, and you know you shouldn’t be.
This sight was something you’d dreamt about too, growing hotter in the longing glances and accidental brushing of fingers. You don’t want to interrupt him, but you suddenly feel invasive.
“Please, shit — I need you.” A broken plea bubbles from his mouth, husky and frayed as his hips spasm, jolting into his hand.
“Bob.”
For a second, he doesn’t hear you; he’s too lost in the pleasure, imagining you in his mind’s eye. Though, when you say his name again, the fantasy comes to a screeching halt.
Embarrassment burns like wildfire when he sees you standing there, lips agape and hands twisted in front of you. Shame follows suit, like a razor-sharp knife digging into him.
“I — I can explain,” Bob starts in, but he’s bewildered to find you shutting the door and stepping closer. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, this is embarrassing.” He gushes, features flushed.
“You can keep going,” You interject, feather-light and entirely serious. “It’s not embarrassing, I think you’re so pretty when you touch yourself.”
Frazzled, Bob swallows again, partially sitting up, cock still painfully hard and leaking against his belly. “What? You — This doesn’t bother you?”
“No,” Admittedly, it’s everything you’ve wanted and beyond. “Lay back down, Bob.” Through a soft, soothing whisper, he finds himself beginning to relax.
For a moment, he stares in mild disbelief, frayed and aching with want. You look so beautiful, in one of your shirts that brushes over your thighs, panties underneath.
It’s still a shock to the system, but he obeys, licking his bottom lip. “C’mere.” He mumbles, wanting you to be closer. He wants to ask you to help, but it already seems like too much.
Arousal rips through you like a shockwave, pulsing hotly between your thighs as you join him in bed. He looks overjoyed, brunette curls matted with perspiration.
“May I?” Quietly, you ask for consent before going any further, and he nods several times over.
Nestling beside him, you press kisses against his cheek, starting off slow. The noise he makes is one of delight, and you shudder when he resumes.
He’s hung; you shouldn’t have been surprised.
Bob tentatively goes back to stroking himself off, veined hand pumping from base to tip, still oozing precum. Knowing that you’re beside him only makes it all worse, more intense.
“You think about me a lot when you jerk off?” You inquire, teeth grazing along his jaw. Bob is firm in your arms; a little sweaty, but akin to a solid boulder.
“Yeah,” Bob confesses through a low moan, eyes fluttering shut as he lets you steer the conversation. “Think about you all the time, I — I want you.”
“You’re so handsome,” Beside his ear, you fill it with honey-thick sweetness, with softly-spoken praise. “I wish you knew how much I want you, too.”
A groan splits his diaphragm, hips jerking again as he fists at his cock. He’s still somewhat slow, gaining in momentum; you think he’s beautiful.
He shivers when your hand comes to caress over his collarbone, and then across his shoulder. The muscle is raw and godlike, but you can only look at his face through it all.
It’s contorted into an expression of agonized bliss, eyes closed, lips parted, skin flushed scarlet. You kiss his jaw again, listening to the slick strokes as he pumps at his cock.
“Doing really well, Bob,” The tender encouragement you provide nearly sends him into some frenzy. “Keep going, just like that. I wanna see you cum.”
Bob groans, ragged and wanton, turning his head enough to mash his mouth with yours. The gesture makes you gasp, but you’re eager to melt right into it, hand lightly cupping his chin.
Your name floats from his mouth like a prayer, and you let the kiss carry on, tongues tangled and spit exchanged until you’re stopping for air.
A tendril of saliva connects your mouth to his lips, his pupils pitch-black and cresting with gold. Bob looks thoroughly debauched, staring at you as if you’re ethereal.
Settling down fully, you lay beside him, hand drawing lazy circles across his abdomen. He’s still touching himself, coiled tight into a knot of bliss, and he’s about to explode.
“You’re so beautiful,” Bob moans, low and husky, the pitch of his voice scratching something pleasant inside of you. The lewd, wet sounds of his cock make your thighs rub together. “M’close.”
Mesmerized, you keep watching, pressing light kisses to the side of his face, eyes glued elsewhere. He goes faster, other hand gripping at the front of your shirt.
Part of you was tired of watching, desiring to help him finish if he’d let you. He fists at his cock, stroking from base to tip, thumb shaky and circling before he continued.
“That’s it, Bob,” You praise him, kissing at the pulse point beneath his jaw. “Do you want me to help?”
Bob immediately nods, knowing it’s your hand he’s been dreaming of anyway. “Yes, fuck.” He pants, and hearing him curse makes your stomach ripple with butterflies. “Please.”
His chest rises and falls with ragged sighs, and he’s on the verge of an orgasm. With visible anticipation, he watches as your hand slides down, further and further, slinking across his abdomen.
It’s agony, but he endures it, gaze owlish as your smaller hand wraps around the base of his cock. He moans your name, deep and hoarse, hips jerking forward.
Your thumb circles over the tip of his length, feeling the hot pulsing of his cock in your palm. Bob’s head rolls back into the pillows, visage scrunched, mouth slackened.
He says your name again, forehead pressing into the juncture between your throat and shoulder. His flesh is abnormally hot, like he’s a furnace bleeding heat.
It’s deliciously messy and slick, between the wet noises of your hand pumping at his cock and Bob’s myriad of noises. He wants to touch you, too; he can smell you.
The arousal that’s seeped between your thighs ensnares his senses, sends him into a haze, but he behaves himself. Instead, he tries to focus on you touching him, and he’s almost there.
Again, he jerks his hips into your hand, cock lewdly clashing with your hand. You keep going, planting another kiss against his brow.
“Almost there?” You whisper, watching as he nods, all wrecked and wanton. “You’re doing so perfectly, want to make you feel good.”
Bob shivers at that, at your willingness to pleasure him. He can’t remember the last time someone wanted to without an ulterior motive.
He shifts his head enough to kiss you, irises ringed with a blaze of gold, loosing another desperate groan into your mouth. You reciprocate, hand still fisting at his cock with a steady pace.
All at once, it’s too much — too blissful, too perfect.
That tight coil of heat unclenches within his stomach, and he accidentally bites your lower lip in the heat of your kiss.
A soft gasp escapes you, and he’s apologizing before succumbing to ecstasy. “Sorry, sorry.” Bob groans, bucking into your hand as he comes apart.
You watch as he fucks your hand, flesh glistening with sweat, body finally exploding into shockwaves. He’s beautiful when he cums, ropes of pearly-white painting his abdomen.
Another low-pitched moan escapes him, feeling your fist pump along his cock another time or two. Everything feels hot, and you can’t take your eyes off of him.
The sight is downright sinful, stomach layered in smatters of his spend, still oozing down the length of his shaft. He exhales, shaky, looking like he’d seen something supernatural.
He swallows, regaining his composure as he props himself up on his elbows. Bob flushes at the sticky mess he’s left on his body, swiping at matted strands of hair.
Taking your hand away, you prepare to lick the remnants of his orgasm from your finger, but he’s suddenly grabbing your wrist.
“Let me see.” Bob pants, voice splintered with a raw desire. It’s enough to make you shiver, but you treat him to the salacious sight anyway.
Sluggish, you pop your index and middle fingers into your mouth, tongue swirling over the pearly strands. You watch his gaze become hooded, jaw beginning to slack.
When you stop, he seems hard-pressed for you to continue, pupils dark and glittering with adoration. “You’re so beautiful,” He huffs. “Let me clean up, don’t go anywhere.”
Part of you is mildly surprised that he’s keen for you to stick around after the suddenness of it all, but you obey anyway.
As he moves off of his bed, you know you can’t resist asking. “I can let you have some privacy, Bob.” You murmur, but he shakes his head.
He stands, rigid cock halfway stuffed into his boxers, lips shimmering with spit, and his cum all over his stomach. It’s a sight that makes you covet; you want to be the only one to see him like this.
“No,” He sounds exhilarated, excited; it’s as if he’s gained some wave of vigor instead. “When I come back, it’ll be your turn.” Bob’s tone is resolute, a touch confident and sure of himself.
the part that scares me most about the supernatural fandom is when they need a certain gif to add to a post they know exactly where to find it or know exactly what episode of any of the nine whole seasons to make one
word count: 12k (idk what happened, just go with it!)
contents: enemies to lovers, steve harrington x fem!reader, group beach trip, alcohol consumption, reader avoiding steve/feelings (so real) angst, angry love confession, smut, 18+ MDNI!
The car smelled like a mix of sunscreen, stale French fries, and the faintest hint of Robin’s strawberry shampoo. The summer air drifted in through the cracked windows, warm enough that it stuck to your skin, but not enough to justify the whining coming from the passenger seat.
“You drive like an old man,” you muttered, arms crossed as you glared at Steve’s profile.
His jaw flexed. “And you chew gum like a cow. Guess we all have our flaws.”
“Excuse me?” You turned fully toward him, mouth falling open.
“I said,” he repeated, voice smooth and infuriatingly calm, “that every single smack of your gum is making me want to drive this car straight into the ocean.”
Robin snorted from the back seat. “Play nice, children. We’ve got, what, three more hours of this? I don’t think Nancy’s cousin’s beach house comes with free therapy.”
“I am being nice,” you shot back, twisting around in your seat to face her. “I didn’t say anything about his tragic taste in music.”
“Hey!” Steve glanced at you, scandalized. “This mix is golden era, thank you very much.”
“Golden era of what? Bad decisions?” You jabbed a finger toward the cassette deck where REO Speedwagon was blaring like a soundtrack to your personal hell.
Robin leaned forward, “As much as I love a good lovers’ quarrel—”
“We’re not—” you both started at the same time, voices overlapping.
Eddie cut in, grinning. “—I vote we keep it going. Way more entertaining than the highway.”
Jonathan, driving the second car with Nancy, had made the smarter decision, splitting up the group so not everyone was trapped in the same vehicle. Of course, luck had cursed you into Steve Harrington’s passenger seat.
⋆ ୨ৎ ⋆
By the time the convoy finally rolled into the driveway of the beach house, the sun was sinking low, streaking the sky in pinks and oranges. The house was perched just a short walk from the water, a sprawling two-story with a wide porch and weathered shutters. It should’ve been the kind of view that took your breath away—except Steve had beaten you to it.
“Finally,” he groaned, throwing the car into park like he was landing a plane. “I thought I was gonna have to listen to you complain until retirement.”
“I wasn’t complaining,” you snapped, unbuckling with more force than necessary. “I was pointing out your shortcomings.”
“Same thing.” He smirked, and you had to resist the violent urge to slam the door in his face.
Instead, you plastered on a sweet smile and turned toward the trunk, where everyone’s bags were stacked. Robin was already grabbing hers, Eddie juggling his guitar case, and you made a point of helping with Nancy and Jonathan’s things.
Steve’s bag? The one sitting right there, obnoxiously labeled with a dumb Harrington monogram patch? You breezed right past it.
“Uh, are you blind?” Steve’s voice came sharp from behind you. “Bag. Right there. Big one. With my initials on it.”
“Oh, weird. Didn’t see it,” you said, feigning innocence as you handed Nancy her duffel.
Steve narrowed his eyes. “You saw it.”
“Did I?” You tilted your head. “Must’ve been a hallucination.”
“Unbelievable.” He shoved past you, yanking his own bag out of the trunk with a muttered curse. The muscles in his arm flexed as he hoisted it onto his shoulder, and you hated yourself for noticing—even more than you hated him.
Inside, the beach house smelled like salt and sunscreen, the wooden floors worn smooth from years of sand-scuffed feet. Nancy gave the quick tour—living room with giant windows, a kitchen stocked with mismatched mugs, a handful of bedrooms upstairs and down.
“I call the room with the balcony!” Robin declared immediately.
“Already taken,” Nancy said smoothly. “Jonathan and I have it.”
Eddie groaned. “Guess that leaves the rest of us to fight to the death.”
“No fighting necessary,” Steve chimed in. “I’m not rooming with her.” He jabbed a finger in your direction.
“Perfect,” you shot back. “Because I’d rather sleep outside with the seagulls.”
“Glad we agree.”
Robin sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is gonna be a long weekend.”
⋆ ୨ৎ ⋆
That night, after pizza boxes were scattered across the table and everyone was sprawled in various states of exhaustion, you found yourself staring out the big front windows. The ocean was just visible past the dunes, waves glowing faintly in the moonlight. It should’ve been peaceful.
But of course, Steve had to ruin it.
He brushed past you to grab another slice, muttering just loud enough for you to hear: “You know, if you’re gonna spend the whole trip glaring, maybe invest in sunglasses.”
You snapped your head toward him. “If you’re gonna spend the whole trip breathing, maybe learn how to do it quieter.”
His smirk came fast, sharp. “Keep dreaming, sweetheart.”
God, you hated him.
Or at least… you kept telling yourself you did.
The morning sun crept through the thin curtains, tugging you awake with the salty tang of ocean air drifting through the cracked window. You stretched, every muscle slow and stiff from the road trip, and for a brief moment you forgot you were sharing a house with Steve Harrington.
Until you walked into the kitchen.
There he was, hair already perfect, tan skin glowing under the pale light as he leaned against the counter drinking orange juice straight from the carton.
“Do you mind?” you asked, crossing your arms.
He glanced at you over the rim, unfazed. “Do you own the carton?”
“That’s disgusting.”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smirk curling. “You’re welcome to join me.”
“God, you’re so annoying.” You yanked a mug from the cabinet, focusing on pouring coffee just so you wouldn’t throw it at his head.
Robin wandered in then, hair a mess, yawning. “You two already fighting? It’s not even nine.”
“Not fighting,” Steve said smoothly, plunking the empty carton back in the fridge. “Just making conversation.”
Your glare could’ve burned holes in the linoleum.
⋆ ୨ৎ ⋆
By midmorning, the group had migrated down to the beach. Towels sprawled across the sand, umbrellas pitched into place, coolers filled with sodas and beers sweating in the heat. The ocean sparkled like glass, small waves lapping gently at the shore.
Nancy and Jonathan were out in the water almost immediately, laughing as they splashed each other. Robin was stretched across her towel with a book, sunglasses slipping down her nose, while Eddie attempted to teach himself how to skimboard and nearly faceplanted on his second try.
You settled into your chair with a sigh, soaking up the warmth. For a blissful ten seconds, you actually relaxed.
Until Steve dropped into the chair beside you.
“Seriously?” you asked, shielding your eyes to glare at him.
“Seriously what?”
“There are literally a dozen other spots.”
He shrugged, tilting his sunglasses down to flash you that smug grin. “Best view’s right here.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, you keep talking to me.”
Before you could snap back, Eddie shouted from the shoreline. “Oi, Harrington! Get your Baywatch ass over here, I need backup.”
Steve shot you a wink, then jogged off to join him, muscles shifting under his sun-warmed skin as he moved. You hated that your eyes lingered. Hated it more that your stomach flipped when he tackled Eddie into the surf, both of them laughing like idiots.
When he returned, dripping wet and shaking his hair out like a dog, you turned your gaze back to your book, pretending you hadn’t been watching.
“You staring at me?” His voice came smug, low, right by your ear.
You didn’t even look up. “In your dreams.”
“Mm.” He stretched out on his towel beside you, chest gleaming with salt water. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll save you a spot.”
You gripped your book tighter, cheeks burning despite the heat.
⋆ ୨ৎ ⋆
By the time the sun dipped lower, everyone was pink-cheeked and sandy, trudging back toward the house for showers and dinner. The air buzzed with laughter, stories spilling out of Eddie as he described his wipeouts in dramatic detail.
You carried a bag of towels, deliberately walking ahead of Steve. But of course, he caught up easily, brushing past you on the narrow path.
“You’ve got sand on your face,” he said casually.
You frowned, swiping at your cheek. “Where?”
“Everywhere.” He grinned, smug as ever.
“You’re a child.”
“And you’re fun to mess with.” He leaned down, voice dipping just enough to make your stomach twist. “Admit it—you’d miss me if I didn’t.”
You opened your mouth to retort, but Robin’s voice carried from up ahead, saving you. “Hurry up, slowpokes! I’m starving.”
Steve chuckled, and you forced your legs to move faster, ignoring the way his words stuck in your chest.
Dinner was chaotic in the best way. Nancy was focused on making sure the pasta didn’t burn, Jonathan dutifully chopping garlic under her watchful eye. Eddie sat on the counter, swinging his legs and plucking a lazy tune on his guitar, while Robin raided the fridge for the beer she swore she’d packed.
“You didn’t,” Nancy said flatly, catching Robin rooting through a drawer instead of helping.
“I did! I literally packed it myself—” Robin’s voice pitched higher when Steve appeared at her side, holding up a six-pack with an infuriating grin.
“You mean this?” he asked.
Robin snatched it from him. “You absolute troll.”
“Saved dinner,” Steve said smugly.
You rolled your eyes. “You found the beer. Congratulations.”
“Don’t be jealous just because you didn’t.” He winked before turning back to help Jonathan stir sauce like he’d been cooking all his life.
By the time plates hit the table, the house was alive with chatter. Eddie held court with a story about the time his band had been double-booked with a clown act. Robin nearly choked on her pasta from laughing, and even Jonathan cracked a grin.
Nancy nudged him, smiling. “You should write these down.”
“What, like memoirs?” Eddie grinned. “The Life and Times of Eddie the Great.”
“Self-published disaster,” you muttered, sipping your beer.
Eddie pointed a noodle-laden fork at you. “Better than ‘How to Be a Buzzkill: By You-Know-Who.’”
The table erupted in laughter. Even Steve chuckled, his eyes flicking toward you, daring.
“Glad I could provide entertainment,” you muttered, stabbing your pasta.
Steve leaned back in his chair, swirling his beer bottle lazily between his fingers. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re always entertaining.”
The way he said it made heat crawl up your neck, and you dropped your gaze to your plate before anyone noticed.
⋆ ୨ৎ ⋆
After dinner, the group migrated down to the beach with blankets, the night warm and humming with cicadas. Eddie and Robin built a fire with more enthusiasm than skill, Jonathan patiently helping until flames licked skyward and the smell of woodsmoke mingled with the salt air.
You sat wrapped in a blanket, sand cool beneath your toes, the ocean a black stretch beyond the firelight.
“Marshmallows?” Nancy offered, passing a bag around.
Eddie immediately burned his to a crisp, holding it up like a trophy. “Charred perfection.”
“That’s not how you’re supposed to do it,” Steve scoffed, carefully rotating his marshmallow until it was golden brown.
“Oh, sorry, Harrington,” Eddie drawled. “Didn’t realize I was dining at a five-star Michelin beach.”
Robin snorted soda out her nose, sending everyone into fits of laughter.
For a while, it was easy—stories, firelight, the soothing crash of waves. Until you realized Steve was across from you, fire painting gold into his hair, gaze fixed on you again.
He didn’t smirk this time. Didn’t tease. Just watched. And it made your chest feel too tight.
You tore your eyes away, focusing on Nancy and Jonathan curled together, whispering. Anything but him.
When the fire burned low and the group finally dragged themselves back to the house, you slipped away to your room, heart pounding.
You told yourself it was just exhaustion. Just the alcohol, the laughter, the firelight.
But when you crawled into bed, sheets cool against your skin, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.
⋆ ୨ৎ ⋆
The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against your ears. You’d been staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours, blanket twisted around your legs, too hot, too restless, too aware of the faint thrum still buzzing in your chest from the beach fire.
With a groan, you shoved the blanket off and slipped out of bed. A glass of water, you told yourself. That’s it.
The hallway creaked under your bare feet as you padded toward the kitchen. But when you rounded the corner, the dim glow of the lamp in the living room stopped you.
Steve was there.
He sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. His hair was mussed, his t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, and the soft lamplight made him look… less like the smug jerk who’d driven you crazy all day, and more like a boy who couldn’t sleep either.
You froze. “What are you doing up?”
His head lifted, eyes finding yours. Something unreadable flickered there. “Could ask you the same thing.”
“I couldn’t sleep, too quiet.” You hugged your arms around yourself, shifting your weight. “Came to get water.”
Steve huffed a soft laugh. “You? Complaining about quiet? That’s a first.”
You scowled, but the bite was weak. “Funny.”
He gestured toward the kitchen. “Get your water.”
You did, filling a glass at the sink, trying not to notice the way his gaze followed you. When you came back, you hovered awkwardly near the couch.
“Don’t just stand there,” he said quietly, patting the cushion beside him.
Against your better judgment, you sat. The couch dipped under both your weight, your knees almost brushing.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the ocean, faint through the open window.
Finally, you cleared your throat. “What’s your excuse?”
“For being awake?” He leaned back, stretching an arm across the back of the couch. “Couldn’t shut my brain off.”
“Too much ego rattling around in there?”
That earned you a real smile, crooked and soft. “You’d know, huh?”
You rolled your eyes, but your lips tugged upward before you could stop them.
It was dangerous, this. Sitting here in the half-light, bantering without the sharp edges. His knee brushed yours, and you didn’t pull away.
“You really hate me that much?” he asked suddenly, voice low.
The question startled you. You looked at him, really looked, and for once there wasn’t mockery in his eyes. Just curiosity. Maybe something else.
“I…” Your throat went dry. “You make it easy to.”
His lips quirked, but there was no humor in it. “Guess I deserve that.”
Silence stretched again, heavier now. And then, as if pulled by some invisible string, you found yourself leaning closer.
So did he.
The kiss was slow at first, tentative. Testing. His lips were warm, softer than you expected, and the moment you sighed against him, he deepened it—hand cupping your jaw, tilting your face up as his tongue brushed yours.
You gasped, fingers curling into his shirt, and that was all the encouragement he needed. The kiss turned hungry, years of bickering collapsing into heat and want.
“Steve—” you breathed when his mouth trailed to your throat.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against your skin, teeth grazing your pulse.
But you didn’t. You couldn’t.
Instead, you tangled your hand in his hair and pulled him back to your lips.
By the time you stumbled into your room, the door clicking shut behind you, you were both breathless, laughing quietly against each other’s mouths as if you couldn’t believe what you were doing.
⋆ ୨ৎ ⋆
Steve pressed you against the door, kissing you like he’d been starving for it. His hands slid under your shirt, palms hot against your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left.
“You drive me fucking crazy,” he muttered, mouth moving down your neck.
“You’re the one—” Your protest dissolved into a moan when his hand cupped your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple through thin fabric.
He groaned, head falling back. “Jesus, you sound… fuck.”
Clothes came off in a messy blur—his shirt over his head, your sleep shorts tossed to the floor. His body was warm, solid, muscles shifting under your hands as you traced down his chest.
He kissed you again, deeper this time, as he guided you back to the bed. You fell onto the sheets together, tangled and desperate. His hips ground against yours, the hard press of him making your breath catch.
“Want you,” he whispered into your mouth. “So bad. Been trying not to—”
You silenced him with another kiss, pulling him closer, not caring about what he had to say, just wanting him.
His mouth trailed down your body, tasting, worshiping, until you were trembling under his touch. His fingers slid against you, slow and skilled, and when he finally pushed inside, you clutched at his shoulders, moaning his name like a confession.
“Look at me,” he demanded softly, hovering above you. “I want to see you.”
You did—and the heat in his eyes undid you completely.
The rhythm built, frantic and tender all at once, until every thought blurred into him—his lips, his voice, his body moving with yours. The insults and banter and years of friction melted into something raw, something real.
When you came apart beneath him, he followed, burying his face in your neck with a groan that sounded like your name.
⋆ ୨ৎ ⋆
You lay tangled together in the dark, hearts pounding. His hand smoothed over your side, gentle now, and for a second you let yourself sink into the warmth.
Then reality crashed back.
This was Steve Harrington. The boy you’d sworn to hate. The boy you’d told yourself you couldn’t stand.
You pulled away, rolling onto your side. “You should go.”
He went still. “…Right.”
You heard him shift behind you and when the door clicked shut behind him, the room felt too quiet, too empty.
You closed your eyes, willing yourself to believe it didn’t mean anything. That it was just desperation. Or maybe the beer.
Anything but the truth—that it had meant everything.
The next morning, sunlight poured through the windows like nothing had changed. Birds sang. The ocean waves kept their steady rhythm. The house smelled like coffee and toast.
And you felt like you were crawling out of your own skin.
You’d barely slept after Steve left your room, tossing and turning with his touch still ghosting over your skin, his voice still echoing in your head. When you finally dragged yourself downstairs, you plastered on a smile like armor.
Robin was at the table with cereal, flipping through a magazine. Eddie was sprawled across the couch strumming his guitar, hair wild from sleep. Nancy and Jonathan were already dressed, making plans to head into town for supplies.
Steve was at the counter.
He turned when you walked in, eyes locking with yours instantly. The memory of last night flared between you, hot and undeniable.
You broke it first, looking past him like he wasn’t even there. “Morning.”
“Morning,” Robin echoed, oblivious. “Want coffee?”
“Please.” You busied yourself pouring a cup, keeping your back to Steve, keeping your voice even.
But you could feel him watching. Could feel the tension buzzing like static every time you moved.
⋆ ୨ৎ ⋆
The whole day dragged on like that.
At the beach, you stuck close to Robin and Nancy, pretending you were absorbed in their chatter while Steve and Eddie tossed a football back and forth in the surf. You laughed too loud at Robin’s jokes, stared too hard at the horizon, did everything you could to avoid looking at him.
But sometimes, you slipped.
Your eyes caught on the curve of his shoulders as he dove into a wave, on the way water slicked down his chest when he came up. And every time, he caught you watching.
You’d whip your head away, cheeks burning, pretending it hadn’t happened. Pretending last night hadn’t happened.
Because if you acknowledged it, if you let yourself believe it meant anything… you’d unravel.
⋆ ୨ৎ ⋆
By late afternoon, you were helping Nancy prep dinner in the kitchen when Steve walked in.
“Need any help?” His voice was casual, too casual.
Nancy smiled. “Sure, can you grab the—”
“I’ve got it,” you cut in quickly, brushing past him to grab the pan yourself. “No worries.”
Steve’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t push it. Just leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you.
You refused to look at him. Refused to let him corner you here, in front of everyone.
Nancy glanced between you, brow furrowed like she could sense something off, but she didn’t comment.
When Steve finally left the room, your shoulders slumped in relief.
⋆ ୨ৎ ⋆
That night, everyone gathered in the living room for a movie. You chose the chair farthest from the couch, sinking into it with a blanket pulled tight around you.
Steve sat on the couch, one arm slung across the back, eyes flicking to you every few minutes.
You ignored him. You laughed at Eddie’s commentary, teased Robin about her snack hoard, anything to avoid meeting his gaze.
But you felt it anyway. That burn. That pull.
When the movie ended and everyone started yawning their way off to bed, you bolted upstairs first, shutting your door behind you with shaky hands.
⋆ ୨ৎ ⋆
You thought you’d gotten away with it.
Until the next morning, when you came down for breakfast and Steve cornered you in the hallway.
“Seriously?” His voice was sharp, quiet enough not to draw attention from the others. “You’re just gonna pretend the other night didn’t happen?”
You froze, heart slamming. “Keep your voice down.”
“Answer the question.”
You forced your chin up, even as panic twisted in your gut. “It was nothing, Harrington. Just… we’d had a lot to drink, that’s all.”
His eyes darkened. “Don’t bullshit me.”
“I’m not.” You shoved past him, ignoring the way his hand twitched like he almost reached for you. “Drop it.”
He let you go, but the muscle in his jaw ticked furiously.
And for the rest of the day, the air between you was electric—charged, ready to spark.
⋆ ୨ৎ ⋆
That night, lying in bed with the sound of the ocean drifting through the open window, you realized you were waiting. Waiting for the door to creak open, for him to appear again.
But it never happened.
And somehow, that made it worse.
The last night of the trip smelled like smoke and salt.
Eddie had gone all out, building a fire twice the size of the first, flames leaping high enough to lick at the stars. Nancy had found marshmallows and chocolate in her cousin’s cupboards, Jonathan had his camera balanced on his knee, and Robin was already giggling too loudly after a few pulls from Eddie’s stash.
Everyone was loose, warm, glowing with the kind of contentment only summer nights could bring.
Everyone except you.
You sat stiff on your blanket, knees hugged to your chest, eyes fixed on the fire. Every laugh felt too loud, every smile too sharp. Steve sat across from you, beer bottle dangling from his fingers, and every time his gaze brushed yours, your stomach twisted.
You’d spent days convincing yourself it was nothing. That the night in your bed was just desperation, or maybe boredom, or maybe the heat of the moment.
But every look he gave you made that lie harder to swallow.
Robin broke into another fit of giggles, Eddie trying to teach her how to blow smoke rings, Nancy pretending not to laugh at Jonathan’s deadpan commentary. It should’ve been easy to join in. To let yourself drift.
But then Steve opened his mouth.
“You know,” he said, his tone just sharp enough to cut, “I think this is the longest you’ve gone without complaining all trip.”
The words hit like a slap.
Your head snapped toward him. “Excuse me?”
He smirked, lazy and cruel. “Just saying. Guess miracles do happen.”
Heat flushed your cheeks, anger bubbling up before you could stop it. “God, you’re insufferable.”
“And you’re predictable.”
The group went quiet, tension slicing through the smoke. Robin shifted uncomfortably, Eddie raised his brows, but no one jumped in. They knew better by now.
You shoved to your feet, sand scattering. “I’m not doing this with you.”
“Where are you going?” Robin called after you.
“Anywhere he’s not,” you snapped, stalking toward the dark stretch of shoreline.
⋆ ୨ৎ ⋆
The cool night air hit you as you left the glow of the fire behind, the ocean hissing in the distance. You kicked at the sand, fury tangled with something messier, heavier.
You’d made it halfway down the beach when footsteps crunched behind you.
“Of course,” you muttered, not bothering to turn. “Can’t let me get five minutes of peace, can you?”
“Peace?” Steve’s voice was low, sharp. “You think that’s what this is?”
You spun, firelight faint behind him, the ocean silver at his back. “What the hell do you want, Harrington?”
He stopped a few feet away, chest heaving, eyes blazing. “I want you to stop acting like that night didn’t mean anything.”
Your stomach dropped. “Keep your voice down—”
“No.” He stepped closer, fists clenching at his sides. “I’m done pretending. You keep running, keep avoiding me, keep acting like I was drunk or desperate or—”
“You were!” The words tore out, too loud, too desperate. “It was a mistake, Steve.”
“Bullshit.” He closed the space between you in two strides, so close now the heat of him seared against your skin. “I wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t desperate. I wanted you. I want you.”
Your throat went dry, heart hammering so hard it hurt. “You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t I?” His voice cracked, raw. “You think I stay up at night replaying it because I didn’t mean it? You think I’d follow you down here just to fight if I didn’t—”
He broke off, raking a hand through his hair. For once, he looked wrecked. Vulnerable.
“I’ve tried to hate you,” he admitted, voice low and rough. “God knows you make it easy. But I can’t. I never could. And the second we kissed—” He shook his head. “I was done for.”
You stood frozen, the ocean crashing behind you, his words crashing harder inside you.
“Steve…”
“Tell me you don’t feel it,” he demanded, eyes searching yours. “Tell me, and I’ll leave you alone. But don’t lie.”
The anger in his voice was gone now, stripped bare. All that was left was fear. And something that looked a hell of a lot like love.
You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. Because the truth was there, burning through every nerve, impossible to deny.
“I…” Your voice shook. “I don’t hate you.”
His chest rose, hope flaring in his eyes. “Say it.”
“I don’t hate you,” you repeated, louder this time, truer. “I never did. I just—god, you drive me insane, and it was easier to fight than…”
“Than what?” He stepped even closer, so close the waves lapped at your ankles together.
“Than admit it.” You surged forward, grabbing his shirt, pulling his mouth to yours.
The kiss was fire and salt, angry and desperate and sweet all at once. He groaned against you, arms wrapping around your waist, lifting you like he couldn’t get you close enough.
When you finally broke apart, breathless, his forehead rested against yours.
“You’re mine,” he whispered. Not cocky, not smug—just certain. “You’ve always been mine.”
And for once, you didn’t argue.
⋆ ୨ৎ ⋆
Back at the fire, Robin elbowed Eddie. “Where’d they go?”
Eddie smirked, eyes on the dark stretch of beach. “Nowhere good for our sleep schedules.”
Robin groaned. “Finally.”
The sun woke you before you were ready.
It filtered in through gauzy curtains, golden and warm, tangling across tangled sheets and tangled limbs. Steve was sprawled beside you, one arm heavy over your waist, his face buried in your neck like he was trying to hide from the light.
For a second, you didn’t move. Just listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing, felt the lazy brush of his thumb against your hip. It was terrifying how easy it felt. How right.
Eventually, he groaned, shifting. “Morning.” His voice was rough with sleep.
“Morning,” you whispered back.
He cracked an eye open, smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re smiling.”
“I am not.”
“You are.” He nuzzled against your jaw, smug and soft all at once. “Can’t believe it. All those years of you wanting to strangle me and here you are, smiling in my bed.”
“It’s technically my bed,” you shot back.
He kissed the corner of your mouth, quick, sweet. “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re mine now.”
Your heart did a stupid little flip. You tried to cover it with a scoff, a giggle slipping through. “You’re so annoying.”
“And you love it.”
You didn’t answer, but the smile on your face betrayed you.
⋆ ୨ৎ ⋆
Breakfast was chaos.
Nancy tried to wrangle eggs on a pan that clearly hated her, Robin burned toast, and Eddie ate half a bag of marshmallows before anyone could stop him. Jonathan just documented it all with his camera, unbothered.
You and Steve walked in together, and the room went very still.
Then Eddie grinned like a wolf. “Well, well, well. Look who finally pulled the stick out of their—”
“Eddie,” Nancy warned.
Robin’s eyes were bright with triumph. “Knew it. I knew it.”
You froze, heat creeping up your neck. “Knew what?”
“That you two were gonna…” She gestured vaguely, grinning. “Explode. In one way or another.”
Jonathan, without looking up from his camera, muttered, “About time.”
Steve slung an arm around your shoulders, annoyingly pleased with himself. “What can I say? She couldn’t resist my charm.”
You elbowed him in the ribs, but he just laughed, pressing a kiss to your temple like he didn’t care the whole room was watching.
And maybe, you realized, you didn’t care either.
⋆ ୨ৎ ⋆
The drive home was… different.
Still bickering, still jabs thrown back and forth, but lighter. Softer. Every time you rolled your eyes, Steve’s fingers brushed yours on the seat between you, and you didn’t pull away.
Robin caught it in the rearview mirror and whispered to Nancy, “They’re disgustingly cute.”
Nancy smiled, leaning back in her seat. “Told you it would work out.”
The ocean was miles behind you now, but the warmth lingered, woven into your skin like salt and sun.
And for once, you weren’t dreading what came next.
You were looking forward to it.
A/n: i drive down to the oregon coast every summer for a few days, and im now realizing that I need an angry love confession on the beach. I crave it actually. also catching up on tsitp isn’t helping.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
summary: touch-starved doesn’t even begin to cover it. steve harrington is affection-starved. love-starved. he’s been handing out pieces of his heart for years, getting nothing but scraps back. now, he clings like glue—always leaning, always touching, like his body craves closeness and he never learned how to pull back. and it would’ve all been fine… if this wasn't supposed to be just a casual thing. if he hadn’t said I love you, with his whole heart, mid-fuck.
warnings: 18+ mdni, fwb to lovers, piv sex, oral (f!receiving), touchstarved!steve, i'd call him subby in this but he's rlly just pathetically in love, unexpected L-bomb, domestic fluff, light angst, happy ending
a/n: everyone’s moved on from that s1 scene where steve asks nancy ‘you don’t love me?’ but I’m still there. anyway. here’s 5k words of painfully touch-starved steve.
So, like.
This isn’t a real thing.
That’s the important part. The crux. The root of it all.
The problem.
It’s the reason you haven’t slept in your own bed in over a week. The reason there’s a stupid little bruise on your neck (seriously, who even gives hickeys anymore?) and the reason you know exactly how Steve Harrington takes his coffee (three sugars, no cream, no shame).
It’s not real.
Because if it were real, then… that would be something.
And you don’t do “something.” You don’t like “something.”
Because “something” has weight. Teeth. Expectations.
And Steve? Well.
Steve is—
He’s lonely.
That’s what this is.
No, seriously. That’s the whole thing.
You didn’t clock it at first. Thought maybe he was just hot and bored. Smooth in that lazy, practiced way that makes everything feel like a dare. He flirts like he’s handing out candy. Smiles like it’s a reflex.
But it’s not boredom.
Steve Harrington is lonely.
The kind of lonely that clings to skin like summer sweat.
The kind that seeps in slow—after years of being everybody’s something and then, suddenly, nobody’s anything.
The kind that turns touch into a transaction. That turns you into a distraction.
He speaks in half-jokes and full smiles. Loose shoulders, quick grins. Charm so polished it starts to sound like an echo—hollow, if you know what to listen for.
But when he touches you—god, when he touches you—
It’s like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he’s scared he won’t get another chance.
And somehow, that’s what keeps bringing you back.
Not the sex. Though—yeah, okay. The sex is good. Annoyingly good.
The kind that makes you forget your name. That has you laughing one second and gasping the next. The kind where he holds your hand through it and whispers ridiculous, tender shit into your neck. Nonsense, really. Things no one should find hot, and yet… you do.
But that’s not why you stay.
It’s not the sex.
It’s what happens after.
It’s the way he presses a hand to your lower back when you shift beneath the covers, like he’s making sure you’re still there. It’s the way he gets up first, hair a mess, pulling on flannel pajama pants that hang low on his hips while he makes you scrambled eggs.
Burnt edges. Drenched in pepper.
You wrinkle your nose and grumble about having breakfast at 2 PM.
He slides the plate toward you with a smug little, “You’ll eat what I give you and you'll like it.”
You always grin.
“You’re lucky I’m easy,” you tell him, mouth full.
He shrugs, sips his coffee (three sugars, no shame), and says, “Yeah. I am.”
You think that’s a joke. Maybe. Hopefully.
You don’t ask.
You don’t ask a lot of things.
Like why he waits to kiss you until your hands are under his shirt. Or why he pulls you in like he wants to keep you there, and then lets you go as soon as the sun comes up. Why his eyes go distant when he thinks you’re not looking.
You tell yourself he just needs the connection. That you’re just a body. A placeholder. A habit.
But he gets so quiet sometimes. After.
That strange, suspended kind of quiet, when the sweat’s dried and the room’s gone still. When his arm is still slung over your waist and his gaze is locked on the ceiling like it's got answers he doesn’t.
Not asleep. Never asleep.
Just still.
Like he’s bracing for impact.
Once—just once—you asked, “You good?”
And he said, “Yeah.”
But he said it in that voice. The soft one. The one he uses when he’s lying.
You could’ve pressed. But you didn’t.
Because this isn’t a real thing.
It’s just comfort.
Borrowed heat. Mutual use. Skin and breath and the occasional earth-shattering orgasm.
That’s it.
Until one night, he says something.
And it changes everything.
…
Steve Harrington is a leaner.
You noticed that before anything ever happened between you.
Before the late nights. Before toothbrushes and t-shirts that weren’t yours. Back when he was just a name, a familiar face at parties with warm drinks and bad music. The guy with the hair and the reputation.
One night, you ended up on the same couch.
By accident. Well, mostly.
You’d had one too many drinks and slumped into the cushions like your bones had melted. Someone handed you a bottle of water and asked, “You okay?”
That someone was Steve.
He didn’t say much else. Just sat next to you, a respectful distance away, not even close enough for your knees to brush.
You said something dumb. He laughed. Asked a follow-up question.
And that’s when you noticed it.
The lean.
Steve Harrington leans like it’s instinct. Like gravity doesn’t pull him down, it pulls him toward. Like his body craves closeness and he never learned how to resist it.
But then when your hand brushed his thigh while reaching for a bowl of chips—
He froze.
Just for a second. A flicker. A sharp inhale. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of thing.
But you didn’t miss it.
You noticed.
…
It started stupid. You tell yourself that a lot.
Especially when you’re staring at yourself in his bathroom, brushing your teeth with the toothbrush he bought you, trying to figure out what the hell you’re doing.
It was stupid. An accident, really.
He called one night. Said, "I can’t sleep."
You said, "That sucks."
Then: "Can I come over?"
And: "Sure."
Just sex. That was the deal. No strings, no expectations.
There were rules, in the beginning.
No cuddling. No staying over.
No kissing unless clothes were already off.
That one lasted exactly one round.
Because on the second night, he kissed you first. Before either of you had taken off a single layer. Like kissing was the point, not the sex.
And afterward? He held you. Just an arm across your waist, skin warm, breath steady. Like you were his favorite teddy bear. Or a security blanket that talks back.
And he didn’t ask you to stay, but when you fell asleep there, he was already awake by the time you opened your eyes. Lying there. Watching you.
Like he hadn’t slept at all.
It was fine. Totally fine.
“Just friends,” you’d said.
And he nodded. “Yeah. Totally.”
But his fingers were laced through yours when he said it.
…
Sometimes he says things you don’t know how to hear.
Like that weekend after finals. Both of you a little drunk. Loose-limbed and grinning for no reason. Buzzed on cheap beer and end-of-term freedom, on the promise of summer stretching out like a dare. You were parked outside your place, engine off, windows fogging in the humidity. Music low, the kind of old-school ballad Steve pretends to hate but knows every word to.
You kissed him over the console of his Beemer. Messy, open-mouthed, like the world was ending and tongues were currency—a last-ditch effort to spend everything before it was too late. He laughed into your mouth, and you felt it everywhere.
Then, soft and slurred:
“Missed you this week.”
You smiled. Didn’t answer.
He kissed your neck like he could hide into it.
You didn’t ask what he meant. Didn’t ask if he meant your mouth or your body or just the convenience of you.
You just climbed into his lap.
Straddled him.
Ground down on him like you were trying to forget how soft he’d sounded. How scared.
And he let you.
Because Steve Harrington always lets you.
…
Tonight, it’s raining.
You show up at his door soaked to the bone, hoodie dripping, pajama pants clinging to your legs. There’s water in your eyelashes, in your socks, probably in your dignity.
Steve opens the door like he’s been waiting. Like he knew.
“Jesus, get in here,” he mutters, tugging you inside by the wrist. “You’re soaked.”
He peels off your jacket, pushes your hood down. His knuckles brush your cheek.
His hands feel warm. Or maybe cold. You can’t tell anymore with him.
…
He makes soup.
Chicken noodle, way too much pepper.
You sit on the counter in dry clothes that smell like him while he stirs in silence; barefoot, bedhead, wearing sleep pants and an old Hawkins basketball tee with a hole in the collar.
He hands you the bowl and watches you blow on the steam.
Then he puts on a movie neither of you ends up watching.
He sits close, arms touching from shoulder to elbow.
It’s nothing.
Except, with Steve, nothing always feels like everything.
Because he doesn’t move away.
He leans.
…
Touch-starved doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Steve Harrington is affection-starved. Love-starved. He’s been handing his heart out to people for years and getting scraps in return.
He was the king of a kingdom that left him stranded in his own tower.
Now, he wields proximity like armor. Like glue. Stick close, so maybe they won’t leave.
You sit next to him, he leans. You stand near him, his fingers brush yours. You yawn, and suddenly he’s cradling your head, smoothing your hair like you’re going through something traumatic.
You’re not.
You’re yawning.
And it would be funny, if it wasn’t all so completely, irreparably fucked.
…
The rain's louder now.
Not quite a storm, but loud enough that it fills the room with its own kind of hush. Soft and constant, like white noise between thoughts.
Steve leans back against the couch, head tilted, throat exposed. The light from the TV paints him in soft blues and grays.
You look at him too long. Then say, quietly:
“You don’t let people touch you much.”
He blinks. “What?”
“I mean, you do,” you say, glancing at his hands. “But not really.”
He lets out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Okay, detective. What’s that mean?”
You shift, pulling your knees up.
“It means…” you pause. “That you act like it’s natural. Like touching’s easy for you. But it’s not.”
His eyes drift away. His throat bobs.
Then, a low chuckle. Pained and impressed in the same breath. “Jesus. You should be a therapist or something.”
“So I’m right?”
He goes quiet for a bit. Just tugs the blanket higher over your knees.
“People think I’m good at it,” he says eventually. “Being… I don’t know, flirty.”
“You are,” you say, like it's a fact. And it is.
He laughs, soft and empty. “Yeah. Well. I’ve had a lot of practice.”
He starts picking at a loose thread. Doesn’t look at you.
“But that’s all it is. Practice. I think… I think I just got good at pretending.”
A pause.
“My parents weren’t really... around. You know? And when they were, it was all rules. Appearances. Be polite. Be perfect. Don’t embarrass the family.”
You stare at your lap. “That sucks.”
He stiffens a little. “I’m not saying it for pity.”
“I know,” you bump your knee against his. “And don’t worry, you’re not getting any.”
He snorts, soft and real.
But then his hand stirs in his lap, tightening around the blanket, white-knuckled. It’s subtle. A detail most people wouldn’t notice.
But you do.
You always notice.
So you reach out. Slip your fingers between his like you’ve done it a hundred times before. Laced together, palm to palm, thumb brushing over the tense tendons in his wrist.
He freezes. Just for a second.
Then his hand twitches. Loosens. Curls back around yours.
He holds on.
…
Steve Harrington has always been golden.
Golden boy. Golden skin. Golden smile. The kind of person who walks into a room and soaks up all the oxygen without even trying. The kind people fall for in flashes, bright and fast and dizzying.
They love parts of him. The hair, the grin, the effortless charm. The storybook confidence that makes everyone else fade to grayscale. But if they looked closer—and most don’t—they might notice a flicker of something else. Something dimmer. Something tired.
You notice.
You always notice.
You see the way his smile stutters, the half-second where it slips before he wrestles it back into place. The way he shrugs off compliments like they sting. Laughs off praise like it doesn't fester in his chest long after it’s said. Like he doesn’t believe a word of it, even when it’s true.
He’s used to it, you think. Being loved for the surface. Wanted for being golden.
Never seen for what’s underneath.
But that’s not the Steve you want.
You want this Steve—sleepy-eyed, soft-voiced, weirdly-good-at-playing-with-your-hair Steve.
The one in faded sweatpants and mismatched socks, slurping soup too loudly and pretending your knee against his isn’t the most intimate thing that’s happened to him all week.
The one who sings along to bad radio ballads in the car and gets quiet when you ask him about childhood birthdays. The one who never learned how to ask for love—only how to give too much of it away.
You want the mess. The ache. The scared little boy behind the golden grin.
You want to know what song he hums when he’s doing his laundry. What memory makes him smile when no one’s watching.
The parts of him that aren’t polished, the cracks that run through the gold. The ones he tucks away because he's convinced no one could ever love them.
You want the parts he hides.
…
You don’t remember how your shirt came off.
One minute you were doubled over laughing—some dumb line from the movie, something even dumber from Steve—and then he’s just there.
Mouth hot on your neck. Hands everywhere. Greedy and reverent in the same stroke, in the way only Steve Harrington can be.
He kisses down your throat, mumbling something against your skin. Something that sounds like, “You’re so beautiful,” voice so full it cracks a little.
Your fingers sink into his hair.
“Steve,” you breathe. “You’re shaking.”
He lifts his head. Eyes wide and round and glassy.
“I just…” He swallows. “Wanna make you feel good. Let me?”
You nod, throat tight.
You’d let him do anything.
…
He eats you out like he missed you.
Like this is the only way he knows how to say it.
You’re sprawled across his couch, thighs over his shoulders, his arms hooked under your hips. Holding you open as he devours you. Sloppy, desperate, like he missed this, missed you, even though you were here just two nights ago. He groans into you like this is worship, and maybe it is. Maybe it always has been.
“Fuck,” he moans, voice wrecked. “You taste so good. So wet for me.”
Your fingers twist harder in his hair. He moans at that too; loves it when you tug him closer.
"Steve—"
“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles, mouth full. “I got you.”
You arch into him, thighs clamped tight around his head.
“I—fuck, I’m gonna—"
He groans like he’s the one coming. Eats you through it, grinding his hips into the carpet, riding it out with you. Stays through the twitching and the aftershocks, still licking, like he can’t bear to stop, can’t bear to let you go.
And even when you’re spent, legs trembling, chest heaving, he doesn’t move away.
Kisses your thighs. Your stomach. Your breasts.
Soft, wet little marks. Greedy, but not in the way that takes. In the way that keeps.
You breathe through the haze, arm flung over your eyes because it stings too much sometimes, looking at him.
“You wanna fuck me now?”
…
He fucks you like a confession.
Slow. Deep. Forehead to forehead. Breathing into your mouth. Nose bumping with each stroke, his breath hitching every time you moan.
Like he’s making love, even though that’s not what this is.
The room is quiet except for the slick sounds of skin on skin, and the soft hush of your name as he passes it from his lips over to yours.
“So good,” he breathes. “So fucking perfect.”
You curl your fingers around the back of his neck, pull him closer.
“I think about you all time,” he whispers, hips rolling into you. “All the time. Can't—can’t stop.”
You tense, just slightly. Barely a hitch in your breath.
He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does, and just barrels forward anyway, words spilling faster than he can catch them. He’s shaking again.
“Can’t get you out of my head. Fuck, you’re all I think about, I—”
And then—
He says it.
The thing.
The one thing you can’t undo.
“I love you.”
…
Everything stills.
Steve stills. You still.
He pulls back, blinking fast. Searching your face, fingers twitching against your waist.
You can’t breathe.
“Steve…”
You say it like it hurts. Like it’s an apology. Like you didn’t mean to hear it, and he didn’t mean to say it.
He sees it, whatever’s written on your face. Sees it and folds in on himself.
His mouth twists, words souring on his tongue.
“Sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean—”
You kiss him before he can finish.
Messy. Desperate. Mouth open, teeth clashing. Like you’re trying to shove the words back down his throat. Like if you just kiss him hard enough, they’ll sink back into him and never make it out.
He kisses you back, fast and clumsy. Picks up his pace again, thrusts turning erratic, rhythm gone. He comes like that—hands gripping too tight, teeth in your shoulder, breathing like he’s drowning.
He doesn’t say it again.
Not out loud.
…
You told him once, weeks ago—maybe during the eighth or ninth time, when things were still light enough to float. You were lying in his bed, naked on blue linen, post-coital and quiet. You were staring at the ceiling. He was tracing circles on your arm.
“I’ve never said it,” you murmured.
He turned, frowning. “What do you mean, never?”
“Like… out loud. To anyone.”
“Not even to, like, a boyfriend?”
You snorted. Gave him a look. He just frowned deeper.
“I mean, it’s just words, right?” you shrugged. “Doesn’t really mean shit. Not unless you show it.”
He was quiet for a long time. Then he nodded, like he was filing it away.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I guess.”
…
The scariest part isn’t that he said it.
It’s how little changes after.
He pulls out. Kisses your forehead. Disappears for a towel, water, wipes, the whole post-sex routine. He wraps you in a blanket, like always.
He sits on the edge of the couch, shirtless and quiet. Still catching his breath.
But he won’t look at you.
You’re staring at the ceiling now. Body still buzzing, your mind a blur. Your chest feels raw, like you’ve swallowed glass and it’s still cutting on the way down.
Finally, you speak.
“You’re an idiot.”
His head turns, brows knit. “What?”
You sit up a little. “You’re an idiot. You can’t just say that mid-fuck and expect me not to spiral.”
He laughs, caught off guard. It’s soft. A little broken.
“I didn’t mean to,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… came out.”
“Yeah. I noticed.”
He starts fidgeting with the blanket again.
“I can take it back, if you want.”
You pause.
A long, slow beat.
Then you shake your head.
“No. Don’t.”
…
He’s sitting on the bed when you come out of the shower.
Hair damp, skin flushed from the heat, a line of steam following you out the bathroom. You’re toweling off the ends of your hair, not really expecting conversation. He’s quiet—bent forward, elbows on his knees, bare foot tapping a slow rhythm into the floorboards.
Then, without looking up, he says:
“Do you want to stay over?”
You almost drop the towel. Frozen mid-motion, terrycloth bunched in your hands.
It’s not the first time he’s asked that. Not really.
There was one night, early on, when you came over to his place, still a little nervous about the whole thing. He’d made you come three times, then followed you out of bed, shirtless and flushed, and said:
“You could, uh… stay. If you want. It’s late. I don’t—sleep great. And I just…” He’d swallowed it. “Forget it. Never mind.”
You’d made it exactly two steps before turning around.
But that was then.
Now, five months in, you’ve never needed the words. Your toothbrush is in his medicine cabinet. Your hoodie is slung over the back of his desk chair. You spend most nights here anyway—falling asleep during half-watched movies and waking up tangled in limbs you no longer bother to count.
So the fact that he asks—now, of all nights—makes you pause.
“Sure,” You say quietly, then walk past him to grab the lotion off his nightstand like it's nothing.
He doesn’t smile, not really. But his shoulders soften. His eyes go from holding tension to holding you.
He looks tired. Relieved in a way that makes your chest ache.
You slip under the covers, the way you always do. He follows. And for a beat, everything feels normal. Familiar. Easy.
He’s warm. He always is.
Your body knows the choreography—roll away, let him pull you in, slot your legs together until he’s all but spooning you. But tonight, for reasons you can’t name, you end up facing him instead. On your side. Eyes open. Nose to nose.
Close enough to feel the soft rise of his chest. To smell his shampoo. The expensive one you always make fun of, the one you pretend not to use.
Close enough to catch the exhale when he speaks.
“Can I—?” he stops.
You wait.
He licks his lips, gaze darting down to the space between you.
“Can I hold your hand?”
Your stomach drops, fluttering like a trapped bird.
Because what kind of person asks to hold your hand after they’ve had their hands everywhere else?
And why does that make you feel more vulnerable than anything he’s ever done?
You say, “Sure,” because you don’t know what else to say.
And then you do it. You reach out, he meets you halfway—fingers slotting between yours like they were made to be there.
His thumb skates slowly over your knuckles. His hand is warm, a little rough in places. Callused in a way that reminds you he’s probably fought for things—for people—before. Real things. Hard things. Love-shaped things.
Eventually, he shifts closer. Not pulling you into him. Just… aligning. Until your knees touch. Until your breaths sync.
He’s so close you can count the gold flecks in his eyes.
Then, quietly:
“I meant it. What I said.”
You don’t answer right away.
Because something in your chest lurches and twists and stretches like it’s never been moved before. Like it’s being made into something new.
“I know,” you say eventually, voice soft as worn cotton.
He swallows. Starts again, then stops. There’s a crack in his voice when he says:
“You don’t have to say it back. I know it’s not fair. That I said it like that. I just—” He looks down. Shrinks in on himself a little. “I couldn’t not.”
You reach out before he can spiral. Fingers to his jaw, steady and slow.
He flinches instinctively, then stills beneath your touch.
And god, he looks so young like this. Eyes glassy. Lips bitten raw. Desperate crease between his brows like he’s bracing for impact.
“Steve,” you whisper, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “I’m not mad.”
He searches your face like it might change mid-sentence.
“I just… I need time. That’s all.”
He nods. Once. Then again.
“Okay,” he says, and it sounds like breathing for the first time in days. “Okay.”
He squeezes your hand, like a question.
You squeeze back, like an answer.
…
You don’t plan it.
There’s no perfect moment. No grand confession. No string quartet swelling in the background, or a slow-motion kiss in the rain.
There’s just a Tuesday.
Or maybe a Wednesday.
One of those in-between days that doesn’t really exist. Gray sky. Light drizzle. Everything muted and quiet, just a little smudged around the edges.
When you open your door, Steve’s already there.
Curled into the corner of your couch in fuzzy socks, eating dry cereal out of the box and watching a rerun of something he’s already seen three times. His hair’s damp. Probably showered at your place again because its closer to the gym, or maybe he just likes your shampoo better than his.
You don’t even ask anymore.
He grins when he sees you. Tosses a Cheerio in his mouth and says, “How was hell?”
You toe off your shoes and shrug. “Corporate’s an absolute dream. Only cried twice in the break room today.”
He opens his arms without a word. “C’mere.”
You go.
He pulls you in without pretense, folding you into his chest like he’s been waiting all day just to do it. You melt into it, cheek pressed to his collarbone. He smells like your body wash. It does something to your ribs. Cracks them open. Lets the light in.
You sit like that for a while. Not talking. Not needing to.
Eventually, he gently nudges you off him.
“I’m making tea,” he says. “Don’t move.”
You do, of course. You follow him.
He's humming something tuneless, drumming his fingers on the counter while the kettle boils. And when it whistles, he moves automatically, like he’s done it a hundred times. Two mugs. Two tea bags. Your chipped dinosaur mug and his plain blue one. He insists it’s “just a mug” even though he always reaches for it first.
He doesn’t have to ask. He knows. Honey in both. Lemon in yours. He moves with the kind of ease that only comes from repetition. From caring.
He hands it to you without looking. You take it with both hands, the warmth of the ceramic bleeding into your palms.
And for some reason, that’s what does it.
Not the cuddling. Not the hand-holding. Not the sex, or the sleepovers, or the toothbrush he bought without asking
Just—this.
This moment. This man. This stupid kitchen and this cup of tea made exactly how you like it.
It hits you like a low tide: gentle, inevitable, impossible to ignore.
You’re still holding the mug when you say it. Still standing in the half-lit kitchen in your sad little apartment with the flickering stove light and the perpetually leaking faucet and the love of your life stirring a teabag like it’s the most serious task in the universe.
Soft. Barely above the whistle of the kettle.
“I love you.”
His spoon stops mid-stir.
He doesn’t move for a second. Doesn’t look up.
You think maybe he didn’t hear you. Maybe you should repeat it. Louder. Clearer.
But then—he smiles.
Not the charming one. Not the grin he uses when for baristas or strangers or people who don’t know any better.
This one’s smaller. Like it snuck up on him.
He sets the spoon down carefully.
“Yeah?” he asks, still not turning around.
You nod.
Then, braver: “Yeah.”
He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it in his lungs since February.
And without looking at you—like looking might make it collapse—he just says:
“Okay.”
Then, a beat later, with a kind of awe:
“I love you too.”
You step closer. Lean your head against his back, arms circling his waist just to feel him. He goes still under your touch, the way he does when something matters a little too much.
Then he relaxes. Covers your hands with his. Holds you there.
And the thing is, nothing else changes.
You still drink your tea. Still argue over who gets the remote. Still end up half-asleep on the couch with pretzel crumbs all over the upholstery and Steve mumbling nonsense into your shoulder.
But later, when he takes you to bed, he says it again.
Not in the heat of it. Not as a plea. Just a soft, quiet:
“I love you.”
You don’t panic.
You don’t question it.
You just say it back. Steadier, this time.
“I love you.”
He grins against your mouth. “About time.”
You roll your eyes.
He kisses your nose.
…
“I just—I’m sorry, but I really think this one tastes the same as the other one.
Steve’s in an argument with the beekeeper lady at the farmer’s market. About honey.
She gasps like he’s insulted her bloodline, then launches into a spiel about how wildflower honey tastes completely different from clover honey—something about the blossoms and the weather and the bees' mood.
You, standing ten feet away with an armful of Honeycrisps, don’t even try to save him. You just lean against a crate of pumpkins and watch the disaster unfold.
This is your Saturday now.
Groceries and small-town drama. Coffee stops and joint laundry loads and dumb little errands that somehow feel like sacred rituals because he’s there.
He jogs back to you a minute later, holding a jar of orange blossom honey.
He's grinning like an idiot. “She loved me.”
“She called you ‘boy.’”
“Exactly. Affectionate.”
You bump his hip. “You’re a menace.”
“And you love that about me.”
You glance at him, lips twitching.
You do.
You really do.
…
It’s been eight months.
Eight months of toothbrushes side-by-side. Of his socks in your drawer and your hair ties in his bathroom.
Of grocery lists that say things like “Steve’s weird granola” and “that cinnamon roll candle" you've been dying to try.
Of falling asleep on the couch and waking up in bed because he carried you. Of him saying “morning, baby" in that morning-after voice then smirking when yours is too hoarse to respond.
Of fights that don’t break things, just bend them. Of learning how to disagree without flinching. How to apologize without pride.
Of knowing it’s safe now. Not perfect, not painless, but safe.
…
One night, he’s reading beside you in bed.
Trying to, at least.
The book’s open in his lap, but he’s clearly dozing off mid-paragraph. Lips parted, breath steady.
You’re on your side, just watching him.
You don’t let yourself stare too often, but he’s so soft like this. Soft in a way he only is at home. With you.
There’s a scar on his collarbone you’ve never asked about.
You probably could. He’d tell you.
You think you will, someday.
But right now, you're happy just tracing it with your fingertip. He stirs, nuzzling your shoulder like he’s chasing warmth in his sleep.
And then, half-conscious, he murmurs:
“You’re it for me.”
You go still. Heart in your throat.
And then—just as simply, just as truthfully—you say:
“You are too.”
He hums at that. Smiles against your skin.
Wraps an arm around your waist and lets the world fade out.
…
In the morning, you’ll make him coffee the way he likes it: three sugars, no cream, no shame.
He’ll kiss your shoulder while you pour it, thank you with a sleepy voice and wandering hands.
You’ll sit on the couch, eat burnt toast, and laugh at some dumb segment on the morning news.
He’ll offer to fix your car. Again.
You’ll roll your eyes and say no. Again.
He’ll grin.
He'll drive you to work.
And just like that, the day will begin.
Like it did today.
Like it will tomorrow.
Like it will every day after.
a/n: when I tell you I took a super long nap yesterday and then stayed awake the whole night... this is what came crawling out of my brain at 4 am... wrote this in like 3 hrs so i'm sorry if this is all over the place 🥲
i always love hearing your thoughts abt my silly little stories! feel free to reblog/comment/come find me in my inbox :)
Summary: Johnny knows best—well, until he meets you.
Warnings: 18+ mdni, intern!reader, himbo!johnny, lots of bickering, uncle!johnny, explosions and fire alarms, awkward flirting, some humor but mostly smut, sub!johnny, edging, a smidge of humiliation, dry humping, make that man beg! — wc: 5.1k
Author's Note: a small break and i'm back with more smut, of course. the interests are shifting and i fear this man is pulling me back in
When you took the offer as Reed’s intern at the Baxter Building you had expected challenges.
But, you hadn’t imagined them in the form of Johnny Storm.
Any feasible problem had been rectified.
But Johnny, he was just…there.
Lingering, watching.
When you first meet him, it was an impromptu introduction as he flew through the open glass doors, flames dissipating as he landed on his feet, eyes wide and curious of a new face.
You quickly realize that despite his role on the team when it came to saving Earth, always gaining the glory of a well-defeated enemy, he didn’t have much to do at home.
It was how he found himself in Reed’s lab most days, sometimes occupied, sometimes not.
“Don’t pay him much mind,” Reed had insisted, “he’ll get bored and leave eventually,”
And he always did.
But, not without noticeable eyes set on you for an extended amount of time, like he was trying to examine you from afar, learn you.
He oozes confidence that has clearly never been tested, addressing Reed with a rather flippant tone when he tried to get a point across or make a suggestion that was quickly shut down.
He tried, bless his heart.
And you sensed the flash of embarrassment as your gazes collided when he sulked past but you didn’t poke the beast.
Even with the minimal words you’ve spoken, you feel the silent tug of interest despite any and all logical reasoning why you shouldn’t find him intriguing.
Your curiosity was a goddamn killer.
He did seem helpful, though.
He often tried to apply an extra set of hands wherever needed when he wasn’t bothering Reed about new schematics for suits or upgrades on the Fantasticar.
And he made a great sandwich when he was feeling generous enough to share his half without so much of a word your way, only sliding the plate down beside you quietly with a quick snap to toast the bread when you mentioned to him how you liked the crunch.
He liked to tinker and fiddle, always tapping away a beat against a surface when his body was restless.
It was always an object you needed, too.
Your wrench had become a common makeshift drumstick to him when he was burying himself in his own work, headphones blaring over his ears as you approached him without warning.
You pluck it away wordlessly, watching as he shifted one side of his headphones away from his ear and peered up at you, “I was getting to the good part,” he offered defensively.
“Darn,” you deadpan, “how will I go on?”
Johnny huffs out a short laugh and shakes his head, “Your loss, baby,” he quips before he replaces the wrench with his fingers, entering a quiet drum solo.
You freeze at the slip of words, knowing he was being patronizing, but he smiles with his sickening confidence and adds even more annoying sound effects with his mouth.
You soon discover he found his peace came when he flamed up and fought the enemy, but it wasn’t a daily occurrence. You could tell when he was getting restless, always waiting for the go ahead from Reed to blow off some steam.
Most flinched at the change in form, but you had always found it interesting, eyes watching him intently. You think you’re being more sly about it than he’s ever been, but his eyes always catch you, sealing your fate with a wink.
Johnny had an unavoidable charm and even you had fallen under that spell.
-
Lately, he’d been stuck on Franklin watch.
He adored his nephew, he did.
But, with his powers revealing themselves as time went on, you realized just how much that young boy liked to tease his uncle.
It was a late evening when Franklin unexpectedly teleported into Reed’s lab, sans your boss as he had taken out Sue on a much needed evening away.
You were tracking through notes, rewriting them in your own notes and committing them to memory, color coded equations and all.
Franklin had startled you with his toddler babble, hands slapping against the floor as he pushed to his feet and waddled toward you with a toothy grin.
You picked him up with glee as you adjusted him on your hip.
“Johnny hates when you play hide and seek,” you tell him with a soft but playful tone, “but I find it amusing,”
The doors split open a minute later and you spot Johnny jogging toward you, wide-eyed and worried before he spots the identical smiles and his face quickly sets to annoyance.
“Dude, you disappeared right out of my arms,” he scolds Franklin gently, ignoring you entirely as you wordlessly handed off the child, brushing a stray hair away from your mouth and behind your ear as he then unexpectedly acknowledges you, “You’re really good with him, you know. He likes you,”
You clear your throat and turn back toward your notes, slipping into your chair and organizing the papers out perfectly, waiting for Johnny’s departure.
But, it doesn’t come.
“He’s a sweet kid,” you shrug, looking over your shoulder slightly,
He turns, shoes squeaking against the floor as you watch two fingers pluck a paper from the table, then another, completely disorganizing your system as you turn to him, face set with a look of disdain.
“Colorful,” he notes with a smirk, “…cute,”
You snatch the paper from his grip and quickly readjust the order, “it helps my brain memorize things,” you snap.
Johnny makes a dismissive noise of acknowledgment, peering curiously over your shoulder at the array of colors with an ever-growing grin.
“You seem…unpashed by all of this,” Johnny adds, vagueness intentional but you understand his words, “any normal person would flinch at us and our powers, him,”
“Any normal person?” You reply, mincing the words and trying to decipher what he meant, “Are you calling me strange?”
“Oh, no,” he quickly corrects, “no, no—you’re…you’re just different,”
Johnny had an unbeatable case of foot in mouth around you and he wasn’t sure why.
Okay.
Rolling your eyes, you glance at your watch and snort, “They’ll be back in thirty minutes and his bedtime was an hour ago,”
Johnny, oblivious, glances down at his watch too.
“Shit,” he curses and your eyes widen in disbelief at the excessive expletive around Franklin, “er—shoot, uh—“
You realize that while Johnny watched him often, he’s never been bestowed the duty of his nighttime routine.
Luckily, Sue had found her intuition serving her well, seeking you out as backup in the off—but very possible—chance that Johnny lost his head, you could help.
“Bath, bottle, bed,” you tell him, “Ben would probably make the bottle while you do the first part,”
Johnny balks, “Sue clued me in—you know, in case you floundered, which…”
Your eyes drag from head to toe and back before humming with a subtle smirk, “you totally are,”
He looks embarrassed, cheeks reddening despite his efforts to hide it.
He doesn’t come around for at least a week after that.
His ego needed time to heal.
—
You begin to think you’ve irritated him enough that he would stay away, but he’s soon back with a vengeance.
Reed had opened the lab up to you on the weekends and you had eagerly accepted the offer, even if it was just to test out experiments while he and the others were busy with the super side of things.
This particular experiment was extremely tempermental, needing just the right environmental forces to keep it balanced and you were so quietly focused on griping about the level of heat that you hadn’t heard Johnny approach—or even expected him to be here— and flick his pointer finger out like a party trick.
“I can help with that,” he says with the innocence of a child, helplessly unaware as the flame shot from his finger and let the burner explode with a poof of fire.
You gasp, “Johnny, no!”
But, it was too late.
The flame shot up and immediately set off the fire alarm, forcing the emergency sprinkles on as you slapped your hands against the surface of the table before turning to him.
He’d jumped at the sudden jolt of freezing water, looking a mix of surprise and confusion as you stepped toward him.
“I didn’t ask for your help,” you snapped at him, “do you ever bother Reed when he’s working in the lab?”
“Yeah,” Johnny answers defensively, his mouth turning down as he nods, “It’s—you looked like you were struggling with the burner, I figured—“
“You figured?” you echo mockingly, “What is your deal?”
“My deal?” It was his turn to mimic.
“Why do you insist on messing with me?” you ask him candidly, “The first day I got here you spent two hours pretending like you had a reason to be in here just to watch me and for nearly a month after that, you found every possible opportunity to interrupt my work in the past couple months—believe it or not, this is my job. I’m getting paid, I have responsibilities, and I can’t waste my time looking over my shoulder wondering when Johnny is going to disrupt my day,”
“Well, you could’ve just said something,” Johnny offers, the sprinkles slowing shutting off but leaving you both dripping wet, “I just—“
Except you have, but he didn’t take you seriously.
“You just what, Johnny?” you press him, chest rising with the quickness of your angered breath.
“I thought I was helping,” he shrugs, “I really didn’t mean to—“
You sigh, pushing your soaked hair away from your face and setting your hands against your hips, “Well now I’m drowning and I don’t have a change of clothes,”
“I can fix that,” He offers innocently but with some hesitance under your heavy gaze, jutting his thumb toward the doors leading to the living quarters.
“Oh, can you?” you patronize him before finally relenting, following close behind as he led you through a room, down a hall, and up a flight of stairs before you reached a laundry room, “Genius plan, but I’m not going to stand here naked while my clothes dry,”
Johnny quickly assesses the area, finding a stack of fresh, clean white shirts that were neatly folded on the dryer. You slowly unfold the cotton to watch the shirt from to nearly knee level.
“You’re kidding me?”
“I guess it was laundry day for Ben,” Johnny offers a warm smile that melts your cold exterior despite your qualms.
You clear your throat and silently order him to leave as you quickly discard your wet clothes into the dryer and switch into the shirt, feeling like Johnny was only doing this for pure amusement.
Eventually, the door creaks open and Johnny turns on his heels, his back having faced the door despite it also being closed. He was already shirtless, though.
It was only slightly startling, your eyes immediately tracking to his toned chest as he takes a moment to bite the laugh away that creeps up his throat.
He’s curbing himself, knowing he was skating on thin ice.
Good boy.
Johnny doesn’t seem to mind your eyes, finding that it was your time to stare as he stripped out of his jeans, leaving him in his still fairly dry boxer briefs that clung tight to toned thighs.
Johnny clears his throat to grab your attention, attempting to hide the smirk as he catches your gaze that lingers on the curve of his ass, your eyes quickly averting to the floor.
“It shouldn’t take long but you can wait in my room,” Johnny offers, “If…if Reed asks, I’ll tell him it was my fault.”
“Well, it was,” you correct him, following Johnny to his room.
“You’re just…different from the others,” Johnny offers randomly, turning to him curiously as the door clicks shut.
“Elaborate, maybe? Because it feels like you’re just calling me weird,” you retort, looking around curiously as Johnny takes a seat in the chair beside his record player.
“He’d gone through a handful of interns before you,” Johnny begins, “they all seem pretty freaked being around us, around Franklin, and they can’t really keep up with Reed the way you can. You—you don’t even seem phased…by any of it,”
“I didn’t take this job to fulfill my curiosity about the Fantastic Four,” you could care less about the fantastical aspect of their lives, “I admire Reed’s work, I’d like to learn from him, this job doesn’t just land on your desk on day, it chooses you,”
“My sister said she picked you out,” Johnny admits, “I think her judgement is a little better than Reed,”
“So, what’s your judgement then?” you ask with an enticing curiosity, watching the way Johnny’s eyes track the fabric of Ben’s massively oversized shirt as it bunches at your thigh when you sit in the chair across from him.
“Confident,” he begins, though you find the word too strong for your own liking, “thoughtful, resourceful—uh, personable but shy. You’re great with Franklin, like Sue. Reed struggles just as much as Ben and I,”
It gets a soft laugh out of you and Johnny takes that as a win.
“What about me?” Johnny asks, leaning back in the chair as his arms cross, biceps flexing as his jaw sets tight.
His gaze is piercing even when he isn’t trying, the richness in his blue eyes like an unintentional truth serum.
“Stubborn,” you begin but it seems like Johnny expects that, “hot-headed, infuriating,”
“Don’t hold back,” he snorts, “anything else, babydoll?”
You roll your eyes at the patronizing term of endearment.
His legs are inching open, spreading until he’s comfortable and relaxed, his hands clasped loosely over his chest as his elbow settled against the arms of the chair.
“You’re enjoying this,” you scoff, “aren’t you?”
Johnny shrugs and offers a warm smile.
“I don’t think you’d have a clue what to do if someone put you in your place, Johnny,” you taunt him, watching his expression change slightly, head tilting, “I think you count on flirting your way out of shit and you know that won’t work with me and you’re helpless,”
“It wouldn’t?” Johnny asks curiously, his hands separating to spread out over his thick thighs, underwear creased at his groin and drawing your eyes in like a magnet, “Don’t think I haven’t caught you looking, too,”
You needed it out of your system, this pull.
You tried to keep it dormant, blaming it on proximity and Johnny’s insisting presence. But here, in the silence that grew between you both, you wanted nothing more than to wipe that smug ass smile off his face.
Johnny slowly leans forward, just enough that his finger can wrap around the leg of your chair and pull you toward him.
Your foot presses into the space between his legs, stopping the movement as you stand from the chair.
This had to be grounds for termination; hooking up with your boss's brother-in-law was a definite reason for firing.
Still, the heat Johnny emitted even without his trademark flames was addicting up close, like an unbreakable curse on your body.
Johnny stares with a curious expression but matches your movement, your own fingers slowly curling around his arm as the pull comes easy, his fingers threading through your hair like they belong there, cradling the back of your head as your lips pressed together in a soft but solid kiss, unsure of what to expect.
It shouldn’t feel this pleasant, as irritating as Johnny was.
He’s quick to commandeer, like second nature as your head tilts and moves to his whim, slow kisses turning increasingly sloppy as his other hand squeezes at your waist through the excessive fabric, pulling you close.
Your own hands had twisted up and around his neck, arms slung as you pulled him closer, the quietest mewl slipping from your lips as Johnny made the pivot toward his bed, your hand catching behind you on the way down as you pulled apart for a much needed breath of air.
“Not like this,” you explain to him gently, fingers curling under the band of his underwear as you pull him toward you and swiftly change positions, leaving him sprawled out as he topples to the mattress, elbows catching the blow as you settle over his legs, “this is better,”
The bed creaks with the movement and Johnny stares up at you—he’s curious, unoccupied hands curling into fists at his side.
“The thing about observing and staying quiet,” you explain with a breath, thighs spread out over his lap, shirt keeping your modest at bay for the moment, “is that I’m really good at reading people,”
“And you’ve found that I’m devilishly handsome,” Johnny offers with a teasing grin, “who knew?”
Johnny watches as your hands move from your own thighs toward the apex of his own, the noticeable tent in his underwear twitching as your fingers graze the fabric.
You shrug,”I don’t know, I’m more curious how easy it is to make you beg,” offering a gentle squeeze to his shaft, his stomach flexing at the touch but his face remaining unchanged as he tilts his head slightly.
“I can put on a show,” he answers cockily, moving from his elbows to the palm of his hands, leading him closer to you as he sits up, “if you’re interested,”
You laugh quietly to yourself, shaking your head as you look down, feeling the gentle touch of a hand shifting over your thigh and under the shirt you were wearing.
“No need,” you retort with a smile as you pull at the collar and slip the shirt over your head, leaving you completely bare before him as you work through the surge of adrenaline and quickly push his hand away and further behind his back.
Johnny can’t even compute what was happening until his hands are already bound in the knotted fabric, looking up at you with a furrowed brow.
“Don’t burn through it,” It was an extension of trust, hoping that he wouldn’t, but knowing that he could.
Luckily, Johnny was already distracted with other things.
Namely, the sight of your tits as you leaned back on his strong thighs and the glorious motion of them pushing together as you palmed him fully with both hands, his lips parting only slightly.
Clearly, he wasn’t bothered.
Not good enough.
You stand, the plushness of your thighs pressing together as his eyes drag to point of divinity, catching the moment his eyes dilated and his tongue drags over his bottom lip.
“You’re out of luck, flame boy,” you tease him, kneeling down to the floor as your fingers curl around his underwear and tug.
He lifts his ass wordlessly, mesmerized by you.
His cock springs free without a single ounce of shame and rightfully so, knowing that if you had a list for prettiest cocks that he would be sitting at the top, no contest.
Your bottom lip pulls between your teeth slightly, taking in all eight inches of him and watching where the head of his cock rests just above his belly button, weeping at the tip despite his efforts to remain unaffected.
There’s a thick vein that runs from the base of his shaft to his head and you test it with a finger, tentatively, his skin like velvet under your touch as you circle the head, smearing the precum over your finger before bringing it to your mouth, pressing it flat against your tongue.
Johnny lets out an involuntary huff of air as you hum, returning to his lap without a word, eyes unable to break away from you.
You teasingly roll your fingers around his balls, featherlight up the seam as he releases another shaky breath that doesn’t seem anything like the man who constantly sported a shit-eating grin and an annoying air of confidence, sealing his fate as your hand grips his cock with a kind of pressure that makes Johnny swallow, hard.
“You’ve done this before right, Johnny?”
He clears his throat, “Plenty,” he offers and you know he isn’t really lying, “if you’re trying to embarrass me, it won’t work,”
“That’s not the idea,” you quickly assure him, “I want you to enjoy this, really,”
You slowly move your hand up his shaft and down, jerking his cock at a pace that doesn’t quite satisfy.
“I don’t beg,” Johnny makes an effort to remind you.
You shrug, twisting your hand around his shaft as your pace gradually quickens, watching the rhythmic twitches in his stomach as he tries to maintain a steady breath.
“Is—is this like a control thing?” Johnny unexpectedly begins to ramble, his tone rather calm—last ditch effort?
“Control? No,” you answer truthfully, “a good way to fuck with you? Absolutely,”
Johnny scoffs in amusement and leans back more confidently into the weight of his hands, eyes raking over your exposed skin with a greediness that you’ve always expected he kept under lock and key until moments like this.
“You know, it’s been three months,” he continues, “if you had a crush you could’ve just told me, I thought I was being pretty obvious how I felt,”
“Painfully,” you laugh softly, leaning back slightly as you bring your hand to your mouth and spit gently into your palm before your hand returns to his cock, hearing the slight quiver in his tone as he hums at the touch.
“What triggers it?” You ask curiously, “The flames,”
Johnny pauses for a moment, eyes fluttering slightly as your thumb rubbed over the slit and along the ridge beneath the head of his cock.
“I’ve always had it under control,” Johnny answers with his usual air of confidence, “Nothing has ever really—it’s not like an emotional thing, if that makes sense,”
“Really?” you were genuinely curious despite Johnny’s subtle skepticism.
“Really,” Johnny retorts, “are you trying to study me? Now? Like, right now? I’m not gonna flame up if you make me—“
You silence him with a teasing kiss, lips barely grazing his own but his argument falls dead in an instant, your hand grips into his short blonde hair and he grunts, teeth bared.
“Who said I planned on making you cum anyways?” you whisper against his mouth as he lips part with your suddenly intensifying pace, fingers squeezing over the head with each tug.
“Huh?” It sounds pathetic.
And with the way his shoulders flexed, fingers curling into the fabric of his bed, you can tell he’s growing close already.
He moans into your mouth as you hold his gaze this close, watching his sanity slowly drift away.
“Fuck,” he breathes softly, “see—I knew there was something about you,”
“Did you?” You tease him, “Does that line always work?”
Johnny shakes his head and groans, stubbornly avoiding a careful few words and you begin to switch between a slow and fast pace, teasing him to near delirium.
“Clothes are prob—probably dry,” Johnny interjects, trying to switch subjects.
You hum in acknowledgement, watching the tension in his shoulders build, his chest flushed as he breaths come out like pants, nearing the edge as you let him go without warning, “Shit, why did you—“
He peels his eyes open to look at you, watching you sport his trademark grin and serve him a proper dose of his own medicine.
“Did you think I was lying?” you ponder his frustration, gently dragging the back of your finger along the underside of his cock and watching as it twitches involuntarily.
“Part—partly,” Johnny admits and clears his throat,
“I will,” you tell him, “just, you know, say the words,”
Johnny eyes you with a clueless expression.
“Please,” you whisper softly in a mock tone of desperation, tightening your grip around his dick again, “oh, please,”
Johnny can’t help the way his gut somersaults at the way you speak to him, the faux agony in your tone that he’d do nothing short of self-sacrifice to be on the other end of.
“I’m not,” Johnny challenges, “you know I’m not,”
“Mmm,” you contemplate quietly, “not even if I get on my knees and let you watch while I suck you off?”
“Nope,” his voice is pinched but you can feel the pulse of satisfaction at your words, giggling to yourself, “not a chance,”
“Too bad,” you pout slightly and offer your words as innocently and as truthful as you can, even though it was fairly easy, “I like the way you taste,”
Johnny jaw clamps down at your words paired with the unexpected introduction of your other hand as you work over his cock at a relentless pace, watching his expression carefully.
“What?” You ask him curiously, “Too much?”
Johnny shakes his head, “Just—didn’t expect this—from you,” he struggles to explain, “you’re always so quiet around everyone,”
“You only see the parts of me I want you to, Johnny,”
“I like this side, too,” he admits with a slight grin as you mirror his expression, “just to be clear,”
“If I untie your hands,” you begin, his attention pulling taut, “you still have to keep them to yourself,”
“Done deal, babydoll,” he appeases, “I’ll be good,”
You snort at his obvious enjoyment and lean forward to loosen the fabric and toss it away, but are less than obliging as you immediately push him back into the mattress.
“What’re you—“ the air is pushed from his lungs as you easily position your cunt over his messy cock, a mix of your own saliva and his slick,
“Desperate times,” you offer with a smile, bending down to meet his lips again, “remember, hands off,”
It was a little selfish, chasing your own pleasure at the expense of his torture, but the moment your folds fit snug over his shaft and he groans, full body, you knew it was the right choice to make.
Johnny can’t help but watch the warmth of your pussy sliding over his cock in a carefully timed rhythm as he watches the head disappear when your hips tilt forward.
He knows, for the foreseeable future, that he would find every reason, every way, to bury himself there.
Be it his face, fingers, or his cock—he was an absolute goner and he needed you in every way imaginable.
“She fits perfectly, don’t you think?” Johnny teases, surely signing his death certificate with those words.
“You were on the verge of tears just a few seconds ago,” you remind him, watching the last bits of his sanity flee as you grinded down against him, “so shut up and be good,”
Johnny clears his throat and nods without thinking. His hands are resting loosely above his hand, curling into fists when the pace gets too overwhelming, helping you manage your movement as you feel yourself crawling closer to your own orgasm, the head of his cock catching against your clit with every drag of your hips.
All you had to do was drag this out long enough to break him, even just a little, but you were learning that he was indeed the most stubborn creature in existence.
He does eventually crack though, pulling him so close to the edge that he fears he might not have any control before he blows his load, but your careful timing leaves him unsatisfied and all he can manage is a pathetic moan and look of pleading that didn’t match up to the words you wanted to hear.
“It hurts,” he manages, but was far too blissed out on the overdose of pleasure to care, “come on, this isn’t fair,”
You drag your hips against him tantalizingly slow, almost to the point of no movement at all, hands pressed into the mattress beside his head.
You shrug, clueless, dragging your thumb against his abused bottom lip, indented with teeth marks from how hard he’d been biting it.
“Ask for it,” you coax him, “tell me how badly you want it,”
Johnny swallows sharply, feeling the faint adjustment of your hips, moving but barely.
“You can’t—can’t tease me for it,” Johnny retorts, groaning softly as you pick up your pace slightly.
“Never,” you promise him, “our secret,”
“Fuck,” he breathes, “baby—“
He’s right there, you can feel it.
Luckily, your patience had also worn thin and you’d be a mess just as soon as he, grinding your hips over him in time with his plea of words.
“Please,” he sighs, “please, just let me—“
“Yeah?” you nod, hips stuttering as you own pleasure coils in your gut.
“I’m begging, okay?” Johnny gives in, “Please just—just let me come,”
“Good boy,” you speak into the curve of his neck as his hands release from their invisible bindings and find you as he, squeezing tightly into your hips as he guides you over his cock, spurts of his thick cum painting his chest and your own, moaning brokenly against his skin as you come, pussy spasming against his cock as he chokes out a groan of your name.
As the silence bestows you, it’s met with tired laughter.
Delirious and sated, Johnny’s hand rubbing over his face as he attempts to catch his breath.
“You’re…evil,” Johnny admits, “I’m adding that one to the list, pure—pure evil,”
“Well, this just proves you can listen,” you grab the discarded shirt from the edge of the bed and wipe away the mess with a casualness that has Johnny’s gaze locked on you as you ball up the soiled fabric and shove it into his clean chest, “you should…probably burn that now,”
“Yeah,” Johnny agrees with a short laugh, but tosses it aside for now.
He grunts softly moving to sit up, his hand coming up to rest at the center of your back and your hands naturally fall to his shoulders as his chin tilts up and presses between the valley of your breasts, puppy dog eyed and all smiles, “I’m sorry for bothering you so much,”
“I don’t…mind,” you admit to him, “but you should really listen when someone tells you something instead of brushing it off,”
“I think I just proved I can,” Johnny defends,
“You did touch me,” Johnny closes his eyes with a silent laugh, “couldn’t hold out on those last few seconds, could you?”
“I’ll be honest, I think I blacked out toward the end,” Johnny pleads with you,
“Oh?”
“Shut up,” he huffs lightheartedly, “I’ll grab our clothes, the others should be back soon,”
You nod, climbing off of his lap carefully as he plucks his underwear from the ground and slips them on as he heads toward the door.
“Have fun explaining the lab to Reed,” you tease him,
Johnny shakes his head and looks up at the ceiling helplessly, “Don’t remind me,”
summary: You hate three things: Johnny Storm, Lucky Charms’ Human Torch Special Edition Cereal, and motion sickness. Unfortunately, you’re stuck in space with the three so try your best not to puke, not to punch him, and definitely not to fuck him. You’re failing at all three.
note: this one’s for my friends… ! @burymenot and @coffinkissd who helped me build the plot because we are thirsting over johnny. i fear we ate. <3 hope you enjoyed it and reblog if you so !
Johnny Storm loves three things in this world. Women. Space. Sex.
It is not always in that order, but it is close enough. People can always catch him flirting with women, it’s like he’s not picking a date and time. As long as you got his attention? He will charm you. And space, yeah, he loves it for a thrill. Maybe for attention too. He likes the way his stomach flips. He also likes the adrenaline in his system when he’s in the air. Oh, don’t forget when people cheer for him because his grin is so big when he’s witnessing that. And sex? Well, that’s his favorite hobby, if you can call it a hobby when he makes it sound like a public service.
Meanwhile, you hate three things. For starters, Johnny himself, with his cocky grin and the way he tips his head when he thinks he’s charming. Then there’s his cereal. The kind of cereal with marshmallows shaped like little fireballs and his face plastered across the box. He always leaves sugary crumbs all over the counters in the lab. You hate how he always leaves the box open, like it’s waiting for him to come back for another handful. And third, motion sickness. The kind that churns in your gut and makes you want to vomit or shake.
They picked you as a trainee engineer for this mission. A fresh assistant for the Fantastic Four. Reed said you were the top candidate. Sue was excited to have another woman on board. Ben just gave you a gruff nod of approval. Johnny? Johnny has the biggest smile like he won the lottery while leaning against the doorway in his suit. His hair is brushed clean and his eyes are glinting like he knows something you don’t. He must think he’s smooth when he gazes down at your body slowly and lazily sweeps before he throws a wink in your way.
You wanted to throw your knuckles in his face and it also didn’t help that you caught him laughing with other assistant candidates in the hall. It’s always the same grin he throws at women and he has that plastered to his face right now while giving them false promises about taking them to fly sometime. The thing is, it’s also the same shit he told you about you days ago in the cafeteria when you spilled your coffee on your shirt. The way he looks at you during training didn’t also help. It’s like he was waiting for you to mess up so he could enter and make a joke out of it.
What's way worse is when your little overthinking brain starts to wonder if he is only annoying… or noticing you because you were the one who got picked for this mission. Because it’s you who are standing next to him now. You are the one who is strapping yourself into the seat next to him. The one who is holding your breath while the engine is ready for its function and you can feel it under your boots. You feel you’re in some kind of game you didn’t agree to play because of the way he looks, how his fingers brush against you, or the way he says his stupid joke that makes your lips curl up even if you don’t want to.
You hated that too because it’s one thing to stand next to Johnny Storm on Earth while fighting the urge to roll your eyes every time he winks. It’s another to sit shoulder to shoulder when the shuttle left the earth. You can already feel your stomach crawling from there up to your throat. The warmth that sneaking around your neck and sweat beads are already forming under your collar. It’s sticking to the fabric while you are clamping the straps so hard that you feel your knuckles shaking. His low hum of excitement doesn’t help, fingers drumming a beat only he hears.
The shuttle tilts into that first dizzy climb, and a hot and sour wave rolls in your gut. Closing your eyes doesn’t help. The air is thick with plastic and metal. A small groan slips before you can swallow it back. “Aw, don’t puke yet,” Johnny says, leaning closer. His warm breath ghosts across your cheek. “We’re barely at the fun part.” Your glare snaps toward him, but your stomach flips again while forcing your mouth shut as you swallow hard.
When the engines ease, your forehead presses to the cool seat. Breathing slowly helps, but nausea still hangs heavy that pulling another groan from your lips. A rustle drags your eyes open, and Johnny’s smirk greets you like the world’s worst sunrise. “Got you something,” he says, tone bright with that fake sweetness he uses when he’s about to be annoying. A cereal box drops in your lap. Not just any box, but one with his face printed beside a cartoon of him flying with texts saying ‘Get your free Johnny Storm figure inside!’
You can see the bright letters label of Lucky Charms Cereal. There’s also a cheap figurine picture placed on top, its head too big, hair bright yellow and spiky in a tiny blue uniform. He presses the figurine he’s already holding, and a tinny voice echoes, “FLAME ON!” You blink. The figurine’s grin matches his. “Bitchass,” you mutter, pushing the box back toward him with a shaky hand. “What is this?” Johnny waves the cereal closer, ignoring your glare. “A welcome gift,” he says with eyes wide, and a grin stretching. “I heard sugar helps with motion sickness.”
A hand slaps over your face as another groan pushes out as you feel half nausea, and half exasperation. You peek through your fingers just to see if he’s already walked away but you catch him hovering and shaking the box so marshmallows rattle. “You’re unbelievable,” you said while your voice clearly sounded annoyed. He just shrugged lazily and brought the figurine into your face before tilting it so you could see it more. Once he makes sure it’s close enough, he presses the button so it yells “FLAME ON!” in your ear. You nearly choke on a laugh, pressing your lips tight, but they curl up anyway.
Your stomach flips for a different reason when you catch him watching with a grin softening before snapping back bright and smug. “Eat your cereal, rookie,” he says, dropping it back into your lap. “Captain’s orders.” When the cereal stops rattling, you think the worst is over. You survived launch without puking on his boots, and he leaves you alone while Reed walks you through cabin checks. Sugar sits heavy in your stomach, at least giving you something to focus on besides the engine hum.
A small hope sparks that you’ll get a moment to breathe without Johnny in your space. That hope dies fast when Sue finishes crew assignments, tapping her tablet with a small, apologetic smile. “Unfortunately, we’re tight on sleeping quarters for this mission,” she says, and unfortunately already sounds like a death sentence. Tension curls in your shoulders as your gaze skips over the narrow bunks. A tiny piece of you praying Johnny’s is on the other side of the shuttle.
Sue’s finger slides down the screen, eyes flicking to Johnny, who’s lounging near the wall, arms crossed, grin lazy, boots kicked out like he owns the air. “You’ll be bunking with Johnny,” she says. Silence slams so hard your brain takes a second to catch up. Johnny’s eyebrows shoot up, that grin widening like someone handed him a medal. “Hell no,” you blurt. Sue’s smile tightens. “Space limitations. We need you in Engineering and him in Pilot standby. It’s easier if you two are near each other.”
Your jaw hangs open, but Johnny beats you to a response, pushing off the wall with a clap of his hands that makes you flinch. “Sweet. I don’t snore.” You hate the way he says it like it’s going to fix everything. You hate the way his eyes glint while looking at you. “Usually.” Heat travels up to your neck and the irritation prickles under your skin. A small sputter leaves your lips, but you clamp them shut before saying something that’ll get you launched back to Earth without a parachute. He leans to you so close that you can smell the faint scent of his soap before he throws a wink at you. “Guess we’re roommates now, rookie.”
The rooms are small. Maybe it’s just two outstretched arms wide and two narrow bunks are touching the walls. A very tiny round window to see the view and enough floor for you to stand. The ceiling is low enough for you but not tall enough for Johnny so he has to duck. Of course, he already does it. He’s even laughing as he drops his duffel on the lower bunk… Asshole. Claiming it without talking to you, but you can’t fight much about it because what if he toasts you? Or your things. No, thanks. Your stomach sinks while the cereal box is tucked under your arm as you hover in the doorway. You look like you’re praying for Sue to come back and tell you it’s a mistake.
Reed’s voice echoed over the comms and Reed being Reed, he’s listing the safety protocols while Sue’s laughter can be heard in the background. Johnny peeks to look at you with his brow arching as he sprawls across the lower bunk. It looks small to him because it takes every inch of the space with his legs being long and his shoulders just fitting right in. His hand is patting the mattress beside him if he wants you to lie down and cuddle him. “This is the worst,” you say with a voice that sounds annoyed, and stepping inside so the door slides shut. His grin spreads slowly, pushing into that dimple as he props an arm behind his head. “Aw, come on. It’s not like we haven’t been close before.”
Your jaw clenches while you set the cereal on the shelf while ignoring the figurine beside it that he gave you. The room smells like metal and the hint of the shampoo he used before the launch. Also, the sweet smell of sugar is clinging to his clothes because his clumsy ass spilled half of the cereal on his body earlier. By just looking at the bunk above him already earned a groan. It’s narrow and cramped. The ladder wobbles a little when you test it. The launch still feels heavy in your body, and nausea curls in your gut while the world spins a little.
“Why can’t I be with Sue?” you mutter, hauling yourself up onto the top bunk with a thump that rattles the thin mattress. Johnny’s laugh follows, warm and smug, as you flop down and stare at the metal ceiling. Below, boots scrape the floor while the mattress creaks as he unpacks, humming under his breath. “Because, rookie,” he says, voice drifting up, “you’re lucky enough to get the Johnny Storm experience.” The urge to throw the cereal box at his head is strong, but your arm feels too heavy, your stomach uneasy, and your eyes slipping shut as you press your hand over your mouth.
Rustling sounds below. It’s probably him grinning while waiting for you to lean over and glare. “Don’t worry,” he says, softer, words pulling your eyes open as the shuttle hums, “You won’t even realize I’m here.” Another groan crawls out as your arm drops over your eyes. You’re swallowing down a roll of nausea while his laughter drifts up, the cereal box rattling on the shelf, and that stupid figurine’s head that makes you pissed. And just that’s the start because you don’t know how funny a routine builds in space. Mornings mean protein bars and Johnny bragging about only needing five hours of sleep. Afternoons pass with you elbow-deep in wires while he hovers, tossing marshmallows in his mouth, talking too much while you work. Nights end with him flopping onto his bunk, smirking up at you while you pretend he’s not there.
After dinner, Reed reads updates while Sue flicks peas across the table at Johnny, who pretends to catch them in his mouth, while Ben rumbles about wasting food. Zero gravity training comes up again and Johnny swears he can handle it. He even calls himself the “human torch and human rocket” so floating should be easy. He says it with a grin that makes you want to call him an idiot with your foot knocking your boot under the table. Sue rolls her eyes, telling Reed to let everyone have one night of fun. Ben mutters that if you want a good way to bruise a rib then zero gravity sounds fun, but he doesn’t say no. Although you can tell he’s not loving the idea very much. Reed sighs because Johnny won’t stop listing reasons why it should be turned off. You’re sure that Reed only flipped the switch off for Johnny to shut up. Gravity slips out like someone pulls the floor away from you.
The air changes and whooshes in your ear while your body drifts and floats. Your hair is messy, and some of it is going in front of your face while your stomach churns. It feels fizzy in a way that makes you giggle before you catch yourself you just did that. Johnny whoops funnily and pushes off the wall with one foot like he’s in a game. His arms spread while he spins around as if he’s a kid. One of Johnny’s open cereals is now scattered around, and a marshmallow drifts near your face before you swat it away. You grab the rail as your feet lift while knees curl as you tumble softly. At first, it feels like a dream because you are just floating around and fulfilling some kid’s dream and you move like you’re swimming in the air. You push off one wall to drift toward the opposite you. Carelessly bumping into Johnny’s shoulder when he cuts across your path. His laugh vibrates in your ear as he grabs a cabinet edge, curls floating around his head. “Watch it, rookie,” he says. He’s smirking widely as his legs tangling with yours before you both push off, spinning in opposite directions.
“You’re the one in the way,” you fire back, flipping before your elbow thumps against the wall that sends you drifting. Hours pass while you float, push off walls, and try to drink water from a bubble that nearly ends up in Johnny’s nose because he won’t stop making you laugh. Your stomach finally settles. Your body feels light. Air tasted faintly of metal and the sweet scent of cereal stuck in Johnny’s pocket. Floating is fun for exactly twenty minutes. But when it’s time to sleep, the fun dies fast. Your bunk is useless without gravity, the mattress doing nothing but thankfully it’s strapped there so it’s not floating around as your body hovers. You’re drifting the second you exhale too hard. Knees bump the frame while your arms wave, fingers curling around the rail before your legs float up again. You flip until your face nearly plants into the ceiling.
Johnny’s behind you, and trying to get into his bunk. He’s laughing too hard because he’s failing so his feet are kicking while he spins like a slow top. “Get your foot out of my face,” you snap before batting his ankle away when it drifts near your nose. “Stop hogging the air, then,” he fires back, snorting when you shove at his thigh. It sent him drifting in a slow spin. Both of you should have gotten the sleeping bag ready so that you both know how to strap in the railings so you can sleep when the idea of turning off the gravity for the whole night is laid on the table. Now both of you try to hold the rails, but every small movement sends you floating again. You are trying your best to ignore him when an elbow knocks your ribs and his knee bumps your hip. But when it comes to him, you have no patience, so your hand catches his arm to stop him, but you two just spin together slowly. It’s ridiculous and the two of you are now tangled clumsily. Hair drifts across your eyes that tickling your cheek, and you blow it away. You catch a glimpse of Johnny’s face inches from yours and he’s upside down while grinning like an idiot. His laugh is low and breath warm when it puffs across your lips.
“This sucks,” you mutter, trying to untangle your arm from where it’s pinned. “It’s awesome,” he says, spinning you until your head bumps softly against the bunk frame, making you hiss. His calf brushes against your thigh when your legs tangle again with his. Breath caught in your chest while your bodies are hovering over each other. Are you ignoring now how you bump into him with every shift because it’s really not spacious here. There’s the grin you hate but it quickly dies down and is replaced by something soft that also didn’t last long. His throat bobs while he gets closer to you. Noses almost brushing to each other while warm breath grazes your cheek. “Can’t sleep like this,” you whisper. “Yeah,” Johnny says and voice lower, “I know.” Neither of you moves. The ship hums, vibrations running through the metal while your arms and legs drift, tangled around him, floating above the bunk in the tiny room you hate sharing but suddenly don’t hate as much.
No one speaks after that, and for a moment, it almost feels like you could fall asleep. Yeah, you are delusional like that and ignoring the fact that you are floating. Your eyes drift shut, and your hair fanned around your face in the cold air while you let yourself sink into the smallest drowsiness you feel. The soft bump of your knee against the bunk frame barely even registers. Limbs float, legs drifting out, toes brushing the ceiling as you chase the edges of sleep. Your last clear thought being that maybe, just maybe, zero gravity isn’t the worst thing in the universe.
Then the heater dies. There’s the loud sound of a click rattling in the pipes and it is followed by silence. It feels too empty, and the quietness feels too loud, even though you can’t hear anything besides the breathing of you and Johnny. The heat is slowly exiting out of the air like someone banging the window open in space. The coldness slapping on your skin, especially on your stomach, because your shirt is riding up with zero gravity. That leaves goosebumps in its wake. Oxygen from your body puffs into tiny white smoke in front of your face, and you wrap your arms around your body. You try to tuck your knees in but couldn’t hold it because it’s floating back out uselessly.
Johnny’s voice was sliding through the muffled coldness somewhere in the darkness. “Don’t tell me you’re cold already,” he says teasing but it disappears the moment he hears the soft clatter of your teeth grinding together. You sniff before you can stop it, and the environment is too quiet to hide it. Lips pressed together and shivers crept into your system so hard that your body spins a little in the air. Your hands are holding tightly against the rail of the bunk like you are trying to fight the zero gravity but your arms feel wobbly and like a noodle. Especially in the cold so you just end up floating sideways again.
Johnny sighs exaggeratedly, but you can feel the faint concern and softness there while he comes closer to you. He’s drifting until his feet bump your hip. “Come on, you’ll freeze,” he says. The warmth of his body reaches you even in the freezing air, and it’s infuriating how much you want to cling to it. “Don’t you dare,” you mutter, voice shaking, but another shiver cuts through your ribs. It makes your arms fly up as your body twirls again. Your eyes closed when you feel the coldness in your fingertips. But honestly, you just refuse to look at him. “Seriously, rookie,” Johnny says, closer now, breathing warm for half a second as it ghosts across your cheek. “You’re shivering like a Chihuahua.”
The retort dies on your tongue when another shiver runs through your spine. Your body curls instinctively toward the nearest heat source, which happens to be him. Fingers press into the soft fabric of his shirt as you catch yourself steady. Legs bumping his thighs, and your forehead landing against his shoulder. A muffled curse leaves your mouth. Voice low and defeated. “Just for heat,” you grumble. “Sure, just heat,” Johnny says, but his voice dips. It’s teasing in that way that makes you want to smack him, except your hands are too busy clutching his sides to keep from floating away.
Both of you drift in the middle of the tiny room while tangled together, and spinning slowly as your legs bump into his hips. Your arms are hooking around his shoulder tightly. Each tiny movement sends you rotating again and your hair brushing across his face. You can feel his breath fanning over your temple. It’s cold, which is ironic because his power is flame, and he could easily heat up the room, but he doesn’t. He chooses to offer this way. You can feel the heat from his chest that soothes you when you press closer, and it’s enough to ease the coldness for a moment.
The quiet and uneven breathing fills the space. You can hear his heartbeat thudding under the ear that’s pressed to his chest. It’s steady and grounding, even the zero gravity makes you rock in gentle, slow circles. Fingers curl into his shirt, holding tight, and your eyes slip shut against the cold. “This is so stupid,” you whisper. “Yeah,” Johnny says, a grin in his voice as he shifts. He’s pulling you closer until your legs hook around his waist, keeping you steady. “Best stupid idea ever.”
You don’t answer because it’s easier to focus on the heat spreading in your chest. It’s easier to focus on the vibration of his stupid laugh when your bodies bump against the wall. It’s easier to listen to the quiet whooshing of the breaths in the dark. See? You can focus, even every few seconds, there’s a gentle spin that moves your hair across his jaw, and his hand settles at the small of your back. He’s keeping you from drifting too far each time you shift. The heater might be dead, but at least you’re not freezing alone and you’re with this stupid guy.
Floating around him in half-sleep almost works. Your eyes slip closed, warmth pressing against your front, and the sound of the ship mixes with Johnny’s soft breathing near your ear. Every so often your bodies drift in a slow spin with limbs shifting as you try to settle in the cold that is kept away only by the heat trapped between you. For a moment it feels like you could actually rest. Then a small bump jolts through your hips. A warm and solid pressure that drags right between your thighs. It’s sliding over your clit through the thin layers of your sleep shorts. It forces a gasp out of your mouth before you can swallow it down.
“Shit- sorry.” He apologizes quickly like it’s an accident. His voice sounds low and muffled near your neck. The words brushed warm against your skin. The feeling you can’t explain is collecting in your cheeks as your legs tighten around his hips. You try to keep steady so it doesn’t happen again. Breath is choked and stuck in your chest. Your heart is beating so fast, like you are having hypertension, while you wait for the moment for it to disappear. It does, eventually, leaving a silence so heavy you can almost taste it. A few minutes later, the slow spin of your bodies brings you back into alignment. Another shift pushes your hips against his. It’s the same heat and pressure catching you off guard again. Your breath leaves in a shaky puff, and your thighs clench before you can stop them.
“Fuck- okay, that was me this time,” Johnny mutters, a strained laugh rumbling under your palms where they rest on his shoulders. “Sorry. Really.” It’s impossible to answer, your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth while you try to pretend you don’t feel how hard he is, and how your pussy throbs at the drag of fabric over your clit. The heat spreads low in your belly. Silence wraps around both of you. It’s only broken by the soft rattle of something shifting on the wall as you spin. Your bodies pressing together again in a way that makes your head spin.
It happens again. For the third time, there’s no apology. You initiate after he does that, and you start chasing the friction before you can even stop yourself. There’s a quiet whimper slipping past your lips. His breath catches, and his arms tighten around your waist to pull you closer. The movement is slow, but bodies glide in the cold air while warmth builds where you press together. “What are we doing?” Your whisper hangs between you, breathless. Your forehead pressing to his as you try to keep your eyes open, try to ignore the way your hips keep moving to chase another drag of the pleasurable friction.
“Fuck if I know,” Johnny says, his voice rough, hand sliding down to your lower back to hold you there. “Feels good, though.” Legs tangling around his waist as your hips roll again while the spinning of your bodies slows down. The movements are not hurried. Fabric dragging against fabric with the heat spreading in your body every time you both repeat the motion. The shape of his cock is grinding right exactly at your clothed clit. The friction makes your breath catch and your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt. Every small drag goes straight through your nerves, which makes your thighs twitch while you fight the noise boiling in your throat. Head dropping to your shoulder when a groan slips from his mouth. Every exhale is warm against your neck. “Fuck- sorry, I can’t-”
“Shut up,” you manage to say despite your voice breaking on a gasp. But it’s endearing how he can’t hold himself back. Hips continue to grind down and contact remains. Your clit catching on the hard ridge of his cock again makes your eyes flutter. When you make another roll of your hips, it pulls a needy sound from his throat. His hands grip your waist tighter while returning the movements and rocking up to meet you. It’s slow and shaky. Pressing closer while floating in the cold and chasing every spark both of you can find. The quietness of the environment feels too loud around the two of you, which mixes with the sounds from your mouths. Everything is narrowing down to the way the bodies rub, slide, and catch together again and again. The head builds until it’s too much to ignore. Hands clutch fabric, hips rolling as another breathless whimper slips free, your forehead pressed to his shoulder while you grind again, chasing another slow drag of pressure that makes your clit throb.
A soft curse vibrates in his chest. His breath is hot against your neck while he tries to stay still. It doesn’t work for either of you. The small shift sends your bodies apart, and it’s enough for the cold to get in between you. It makes your skin crawl while your fingers clutch his shirt before it slips away from his body after he removes it. The fabric is floating in the air and twisting in the low light. His chest comes into view, and warm skin catches the dim glow while his hands hover near your waist. Touch feels unsure like he doesn’t know if he’s doing anything right. Your breath comes out in a shaky laugh. “How the fuck does sex even work up here?”
A crooked grin lifts his lips, eyes flicking down between your bodies before coming back to yours. “Wanna find out?” He asks like it’s already decided. You float backwards and your hair lifts around your face while you try to keep your knees pulled up. Thighs pressing together as a tingly feeling is buzzing heavily in you. All you can give him is a nod with your teeth caging your bottom lip when your eyes drop to his chest. You watch how it rises and falls while he breathes.
Johnny’s hand touches the hem of your sleep shirt, and his fingertips brush against your chest when he pulls it up. The shirt slipping over your head and drifting in the air to join his that’s already somewhere settling in the air. You don’t even realize that your bra is also off now on how his hand moves fast. Just realized it when goosebumps scatter across your skin. Your nipples harden when they come into contact with the cold air while your arm floats upwards. Hands are trying to push your hair back from your face. His eyes catch on your tits, pupils darkening before he drags them back up to meet yours. Lips parted as he breathed out a soft, “Fuck.”
Shorts come next, your fingers sliding with the waistband while your body spins gently in the air. The fabric of your shorts and panties slides down to your thighs. He just throws it somewhere that joins the clothes above your eyes. Your cunt is exposed now. It’s wet and warm in the cold at the same time. His gaze drops again and the muscles in his jaw flex as he swallows. “Come here.” His voice has a glint of a perfect mix of roughness and softness that pulls your organs tangled deep in your stomach. A hand lands on your waist to guide you closer to him. His knee makes your thigh drift apart to open.
Your hands are shaking with the waistband of his sweats before you tug it down along with his boxers inside. It’s enough for his cock to spring free. He removes the rest, and your eyes lock at his flushed tip. There’s a bead of precum glistening on the head. It doesn’t stay in his body for too long because it drifts away in a tiny droplet. After all, there’s no gravity right now. “Johnny,” you whisper. Voice sounds broken already. Forehead pressing to his and your body shivering as your cunt clenches around nothing. It’s desperate for friction.
“Yeah.” His breath mixes with yours warmly and softly, while his hands slide down to your ass to pull you closer until your hips align. “Hold on to me.” Fingers clutch his shoulders as your legs wrap around his waist. Your body presses closer as the head of his cock brushes through your folds. It catches on your clit in a way that sends a whimper from your lips. A shiver runs down your spine before your hips tilt to chase the feeling again. Forehead bumps against his white hair floating between your faces.
“Fuck, wait- shit- Johnny,” you stammer as you try to keep your body steady while you adjust. The slide of his cock against your pussy makes your thighs twitch. “I’m trying,” he mutters with a breathless laugh leaving him. His hand slides up your spine to steady you and presses you back against the nearest wall panel. “Just- here, like this.” You could feel the cold metal when your back meets it. The feeling sends electricity to your spine, but it gives you enough leverage to change the position of your hips and tilt them. You start grinding his cock between your folds with your clit catching on the thick ridge as your body rocks. It chases the growing forest in your belly that, at this point, it’s not just butterflies or fluttering you feel right now. His forehead drops to your shoulder as a low groan vibrates against your skin. His hips roll in a slow and shaky motion.
“Fuck, you feel- hnngh- good,” he breathes out, his cock gliding through your slick, and dragging over your clit with each slow thrust. “Don’t stop,” you whisper. Your voice breaks on a gasp as your legs tighten around his waist to pull him close. Hips moving to grind your pussy against his cock while your body starts to tremble. “Not gonna,” Johnny says, his hand slipping under your thigh to hold you in place. The other is bracing against the wall near your head as he thrusts again in slow and careful motion. His cockhead slides against your clit in a way that will make it pulse.
Both of you are floating in the cold with bodies pressed together. The warmth you feel is getting worse with every grind especially how your cunt gets more slicked and needy. Clit throbbing each time the tip drags over it. Every breath he makes comes out shaky. Every small movement you both made sends sparks in your skin. It feels awkward how things are floating around you like it’s some kind of silent witness. It’s also forgotten in the low gravity while your hips roll again, desperate for more. The burn builds the moment his cock slides in slowly. It’s thick and long and it’s splitting you open until your walks flutter around him. It snatches a rough sound from his throat.
Head falling back against the wall while you try to anchor yourself. Knees tight and legs wrapped around his hips while your nails scratch the muscles in his back. Nails digging and clearly will draw red lines that you’ll see tomorrow. The stretch of his cock makes your cunt pulse and clench. There’s a soft gasp that catches in your throat while your toes curl. The small shifts send your body floating a few inches from the wall and the gravity. A small shift sends your bodies floating a few inches from the wall. The gravity is nonexistent in the cold air while your hair drifts around your face. His hands grab your waist to pull you down on his cock again, but the movement only sends you both drifting. A laugh slips from your lips. It’s breathless but it turns into a whimper when his cock nudges deeper.
“Hold on,” Johnny grits out, trying to push you back toward the wall again. His hips roll, pressing you against the cold metal as your thighs tighten around him, ankles locking behind his back to keep yourself close. “Trying,” you manage to say while your fingers are gripping his shoulders. Nails dig into his skin and will create moon shapes when you pull them away. It makes you press them harder when he thrusts again. It’s slow but deep. You can feel all of him. Cunt so slick, so you can hear how it moves, especially since it’s so quiet right now. He drags against your walls and his tip kisses your cervix, which makes your stomach turn upside down.
Your back arches when his hand slips between your bodies and fingers brushing over your clit. The touch is light, teasing, making your hips jerk forward as you chase the pressure. A soft “fuck” leaves your lips when he circles it again, slow and steady, matching the slow thrust of his cock as he fills you. “D-don’t stop,” you whine out. Breathing hitch as your nipples brush against his chest. The friction makes your pussy clench more around him. He managed to drop his mouth to your neck and teeth grazing over your pulse point before his tongue licks it. Doesn’t take long before he bites it like he wants to taste more of you. It pulls another shaky moan from your throat.
When he thrusts, it sends you both to drift upward again. Bodies are moving away from the wall. It made you clutch into him tighter just to try to pull him back down. The movement just makes him press deeper inside of you. Angle hitting it perfectly as your head drops forward to rest against his shoulder. It makes you wetter as the warmth spreads in your stomach. Feels heavy and sweet when your hips roll and trying to keep the pace slow. “Fuck, you feel so good,” Johnny mutters against your skin, breath warm on your neck while his hand keeps working your clit. His other hand grips your ass, pulling you closer as he thrusts again, the slide messy and perfect, your cunt squeezing around him with every slow drag.
“Johnny,” you whimper. Voice breaking when his cock pushes in deep, hips grinding as you feel the ridge of his cockhead catch on your spot. The drag is so good it sends your legs shaking, thighs trembling around him while your toes curl. “Yeah, baby, just like that,” he mutters before groaning. He presses you against the wall again, and it makes a soft thud when your back touches it. The coldness is fighting the heat burning in your body while he’s thrusting in slow and deep motion. Each roll of his hips sends green lights of pleasure through your body while your nails scratch down his back. It leaves faint red lines on his skin. Your body starts to float again with each slow grind, and. your hair drifts while your cunt clenches around him.
It feels wet and tight for him when his cock slides in and out. The pace is impossible to keep steady in zero gravity, but it doesn’t matter when every push sends you both one step closer to finishing. His head dropped down to the ground, and you can feel his hot breath on you. “This is so fucking hot,” he whispers, voice rough, before his mouth catches yours in a messy kiss, teeth clacking softly as your bodies float and bump in the air. Your hips roll again, clit grinding against his hand, heat building and building without letting you fall over the edge. The drag of his cock inside you is too good to stop, each slow thrust making your cunt clench tighter, slick dripping down your thighs while you both breathe each other in, your legs wrapped around his hips like you’ll never let go.
Floating bodies knock together as Johnny tries to thrust, hands braced on your hips while the two of you spin lazily in the room’s low light. A soft laugh breaks from your lips when your back bumps against a panel. The impact made you shove your body to him and you felt him slide deeper. Arms tangled around his shoulder like you are locking him in place. Nails are marking him up on his back muscles. Legs wrap tighter around his waist like you are scared he will go. “Fuck, hold on,” Johnny mutters, shifting to press you back against the nearest wall.
His palm slides between your thighs, fingers slipping down to find your clit. The touch sparks, making your head tip back while a breathy, “nhh- Johnny,” falls from your mouth. A rough moan vibrates in his chest as he continues to thrust into you again. “Yeah, that’s it,” he says with his lips brushing against your jaw. Freehand squeezing your thigh hard, enlistment to make it bruise if you don't remove it from there. He’s trying to keep the angle where he can slide deeper as he thrusts into you. Each movement is messy. It’s pushing you both off the wall a little before he drags you back while his forehead pressed against yours.
Pussy clenching around him when he thumbs your clit. It pulsed underneath his thumb while your hips rocked forward to welcome his movements. The weather smells like sweat, sex, and metal and it hangs in the air. When your chest slides against him it feels a little cold because the sweat is cold in your body. The soft, needy moan leaves your mouth while your toes curl in the air. Heels brushing along the hard muscle of his lower back. His lips find yours in a sloppy kiss, all wet heat and breath, muffling your broken sounds as he keeps moving inside you. Hips jerk upward, bumping you both away from the wall, forcing his hand to grab a rail to pull you back into place.
The moment you settle, he thrusts again. It’s harder and makes you gasp. “Johnny, oh- shit, Johnny-” Your voice breaks as your head tips forward with eyes squeezing shut while his cock drags against your walls. He hits the spot that makes your thighs tremble around him. “Can’t- can’t keep us steady,” he pants, but his hand doesn’t stop on your clit, rubbing tight circles as your body tenses. A small laugh breaks between your moans, but it’s cut off by a gasp when he thrusts again. “Feels good,” you whisper, breathless, forehead pressing to him as your hips push back against him, wanting more.
He grins, but it’s strained, his eyes dark as he looks down between your bodies. “Yeah? You like this, baby?” His voice drops, rough, while his thumb presses down, making you jerk. Hands sliding and caressing his shoulders. Nails continue to draw red lines on his skin just to make him closer if that’s even possible. You just want him to fill you again despite him being inside you already. The sound of the skin slapping and wetness fills the space, mixed with his heavy breathing and your shaky moans. Johnny, on the other hand, tries to keep the pace, but every thrust pushes you both away. He just keeps dragging you back and forcing your back to scrape against the wall before he ruts forward again.
The constant push and pull turns everything sloppy, his cock slipping deeper with each grind while your walls flutter, getting close. “Fuck- fuck, Johnny, wait-” Your voice breaks when his hips roll again, cock pressing inside so deep your toes curl. “Not yet,” he mutters, forehead pressed to yours as he slows, but his thumb keeps working your clit. “Just a little longer.” Legs starting to shake and knees knocking on the sides of his ribs while you cling to him like a koala. Your mouth falls open, but there's no sound when he thrusts up again into your pussy. His lips catch yours. He’s swallowing your soft and broken moans as you float together in the cold cabin. The heat between your bodies is the only thing keeping you balanced.
Each breath you release feels tight inside your chest. Your body is straining toward him and needing to let go, but trying to hold on just a little longer. The sounds from the ship got silenced by the sounds you are making. The quiet whimpers, the slick slide of your bodies, and Johnny’s rough groans as he tries not to lose it. Your pussy is squeezing around him again and again while you hover on the edge and are almost there. You don’t care if it’s hard to move or when you move around. Or when your back makes a noise against the wall again. A curse leaves your lips when you tighten around him. The stretch has you panting. Nails digging into his shoulders while your legs squeeze tighter around his waist to keep him close.
You try to muffle a moan but each thrust makes out a needy and breathy moan for you. The way your clit has been getting a lot of affection from him. It is catching that spot that makes your hips jerk against him. A soft whimper was made by you when he thrusts again. It’s deeper this time. His cockhead nudging your sweet spot so good it steals your breath. The slide of his skin against yours feels hot, sweat sticking where your chests touch, and the air cold on your skin in the small cabin. His mouth finds your neck, teeth catching your skin in a way that makes your eyes flutter shut while your thighs shake around him.
“Shit- Johnny, please-” The words come out broken as your cunt tightens again, squeezing around him as you chase the edge. His hand doesn’t stop, thumb rubbing fast circles over your clit while his cock keeps pressing deep, making you gasp, “ngh- fuck, Johnny- !” His low groan vibrates against your skin when your pussy finally gives out, fluttering around him as your orgasm hits, sharp and sweet, pulling a cry from your throat. Legs spasm around his waist, body arching into him as your hands claw at his back, leaving red lines down to his hips while you whimper, “oh- oh god- Johnny, Johnny-”
“Fuck, that’s it, baby,” he pants, voice rough in your ear. His thrusts get sloppy as your cunt keeps squeezing around him, wetness dripping down your thighs in the low gravity while you feel him swell inside you. Another thrust pushes you up the wall before he drags you back down, his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep, cock throbbing. A grunt leaves his chest, head dropping to your shoulder as he mutters, “Gonna- fuck, gonna cum-” before his hips snap once, twice, pressing all the way in as warmth fills you, thick and heavy.
His arms locked around your waist like he’s caging you with the way he holds you tight as his cock twitches inside. Your cunt pulsing around him while you both float around and panting into each other’s neck. He can’t feel you clenching from time to time and it’s actually impressive how he doesn't cum yet straight inside your pussy. Your arms loosen so your hand can brush through his hair while your legs stay hooked around him. You're keeping him inside as your pussy throbs with the aftershocks. A small laugh bubbles out of you, breathless and shaky, and Johnny lifts his head, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead while he grins.
His breathing slows down while both of you float in the air and tangle with each other. Legs still clinging tight around him while his cock is softening inside you. Your forehead rests on his chest as you try to catch your breath. Lips brushing against his skin while the sweat cools on your body. The room feels too quiet, your ears ringing from how hard you came, from how loud your moans must have been in the thin metal walls.
Something small bumps against your ankle. Plastic scrapes against the floor before a loud, cheery voice blares into the silence. “FLAME ON!” Your eyes fly open in horror. A groan leaves your mouth, head tipping back as you cover your face with your hand. The stupid Johnny Storm figurine floats near your foot, the one he gave you just to annoy you, its speaker crackling in the quiet.
“Johnny.” Your voice sounds tired, deadpan, while your pussy still clenches weakly around him. “I hate that thing. I hate you for giving me that thing.” A snort breaks out of him, bright and sharp, his chest shaking against yours while his laugh bounces off the metal walls. “It’s my biggest fan,” he says, wheezing through the giggles while his hand slides down to your hip to keep you steady. You glare at him, fingers smacking lightly at his shoulder. “It’s fucking creepy. Turn it off.” The figurine keeps spinning near your feet, repeating in that stupid tinny voice, “FLAME ON! FLAME ON! FLAME ON!”
“Johnny, if you don’t turn it off, I swear-” Your threat dies off when he shifts to stomp it with his heel, but the zero gravity just sends it floating away, still yelling. You burst out laughing, your head dropping onto his shoulder while your body shakes against him. He wheezes, snorts again, and tries to kick it into the corner, but it bounces off the wall, shouting, “FLAME ON!” in a muffled echo. “God, I hate you.” You choke on another laugh, legs still wrapped around his waist, trying not to slip off his cock while you both float.
Johnny’s head tilts back, mouth open with laughter, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. “You don’t,” he teases you before reaching to grab the figurine and shove it into a drawer. It muffles the voice at last. Moment of peace for you. Silence falls again. It’s broken only by your soft panting. Your pussy flutters once more around him and making you both flinch with a small gasp. The last bit of warmth drips down your thigh, floating away in tiny drops before sticking to the wall.
“Do you think the others heard us?” You ask him even though you know they heard both of you. Your voice comes out small, embarrassed, and shy. All three, while your cunt clenches around him one last time, and makes you both flinch. Johnny’s grin widens as he leans in. He presses a quick kiss to your lips while he’s still buried deep. “Nah,” he says but it’s clear he’s just trying to reassure you by saying that, “but if they did, I’m never gonna let you live it down.” You groan, letting your head fall against the wall while he laughs, holding you tight in zero gravity ,your bodies sticking together, your legs wrapped around him, the two of you still floating and warm, close in the cold dark of the cabin.
summary: bob gets drunk and confesses some things that make your thoughts spiral—then after a night of bad dreams, you overreact to natasha and bob's jet malfunctioning during a hop, which results in some heated words and a very heated locker room confrontation (based on req from @alyygx)
notes: this was really difficult to write, so i really hope it doesn't suck? sorry if it's a little flat, or if it feels off in places, i definitely had to force myself through it at some points... but i'm still really proud that i got it finished! and as always, please let me know what you think! (p.s. sorry if there are any weird formatting breaks, word was being annoying and i don't think it copied over... but it's possible?)
warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, drunk bob, angst, miscommunication, jealousy, negative / spiralling thoughts, moderate overreacting (reader is a lil dramatic), italics, kind of heated arguments with both natasha and bob, probably some serious violation of naval law, and SMUT (m oral receiving, semi-public sex (on base), shower sex, unprotected p in v) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!
word count: 16830
your callsign is dove
Bob Floyd doesn’t drink.
Usually.
You don’t even realise that he’s drunk until the fifth round of Never Have I Ever, when he blinks slowly at his beer like it betrayed him. And this is after a particularly harsh round of Where’s The Water that Mickey somehow convinced Bob to play.
Three tequila shots and a lot of targeted questions later, Bob is flushed and slumped against the arm of Jake’s couch, nursing his second bottle of beer. Granted, five standard drinks might not get a regular fighter pilot this drunk—but Bob Floyd is a lightweight, that much you’re sure of.
“Bob,” Mickey says, grinning across the coffee table. “I heard you the other day, man—drink up!”
Bob frowns. “Heard me what?”
Reuben chuckles. “Singing in the shower.”
Bob just blinks at him—slowly—head tilting slightly like he’s buffering.
“Oh my God,” Natasha smirks, “Floyd is drunk.”
You bite your cheek to keep from smiling too wide, watching Bob from across the couch where you’ve been sensibly sipping soda all night. It’s almost adorable. You can tell he’s fighting hard not to let it show, but the colour in his cheeks—and on the tip of his nose—and the way his eyes have gone all glassy are too much of a giveaway.
Bob Floyd is indeed drunk.
“Come on, Bobby, keep up,” Jake says with a shit-eating grin. “Javy said never has he ever sung in the shower—which, I don’t believe, by the way—” He gives Javy a pointed look. “But the rest of us have had a drink, and you...?”
Bob’s frown deepens as he lifts the beer to his lips, his nose scrunching up like the taste offends him.
“Maybe we should stop playing drinking games,” you offer—at which the whole room actually boos.
“Just because you’re sitting up there all high and mighty with your soda,” Mickey says, “doesn’t mean you have to mother all of us.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not mothering you, Garcia. I’m looking out for future-you, the one who can't afford a forty-eight-hour hangover.”
Mickey’s eyes narrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Looking out for me, or for Bob?”
There’s a round of oohs then, and a couple of poorly disguised giggles from your half-drunk friends—but you ignore it.
“I’m looking out for all of you.”
Mickey opens his mouth to retort, but Bob speaks first.
“I don’t feel s’ good,” he mutters.
Every head turns toward him, eyes wide. He’s gone pale, except for the red flush on the tip of his nose, and his breathing is laboured. His hand rises slowly to his mouth as his eyes squeeze shut.
“Bathroom!” you shout, scrambling off the couch. “Come on, Bobby. Bathroom—now.”
There’s a chorus of laughter and teasing as you grab Bob by the arm and yank him off the couch. Mickey and Bradley—who are sitting on the floor—shuffle quickly out of your way, and you drag Bob through the apartment toward the bathroom.
He only just makes it to the toilet bowl.
He drops to his knees, hands gripping the sides, and throws up everything he’s eaten tonight—while you just stand there.
You’re not sure what to do. If it were Natasha, you’d hold her hair. If it were Jake, you’d laugh. If it were Mickey, you’d rub his back while biting back an I told you so. But Bob? You’ve never even seen Bob drunk, let alone on his knees in Jake’s bathroom, heaving into the toilet.
It also doesn’t help that you have a ridiculous, all-consuming crush on the man. A crush so deep, so completely devouring, that not even this is giving you the ick. Which it absolutely should. You should not be looking at him right now thinking about wrapping him in your arms and kissing his sweaty forehead until he feels better.
Like, no. That’s weird.
When he finally stops heaving, he hovers for a moment—face still over the bowl, breathing hard. His knuckles are white on the porcelain and his glasses are sitting slightly crooked on his nose. You want to offer to take them off for him, but you’re not really sure how to act. You’re never sure how to act around him—but right now, the wires in your head feel completely fried.
“You—you good?” you ask quietly.
He sinks back on his heels, chin dropping to his chest. “Feel dizzy.”
You crouch beside him and place a hand on his back, ignoring the way his warmth burns your palm. “Do you want some water?”
He nods slowly. “Yes, please.”
“Okay. Stay put.”
You jump to your feet and head for the kitchen, ignoring all the teasing and giggling in the living room.
“Is he still conscious?” Natasha calls, her voice edged with mild concern.
You nod. “Yeah. Lost all his dinner, though.”
“Maybe we should call him an Uber,” Bradley suggests.
Jake grins. “Or Dove can drive him home.”
Your face heats, but you don’t answer—you just spend a few extra seconds pretending to look for a bottle of water in the fridge, even though it’s sitting right there in front of you.
You wait until you hear them move on—new game, new round, new victim—before grabbing the water, shutting the fridge, and slipping back to the bathroom.
Bob hasn’t moved much. He’s sitting on the floor now, back resting against the bathtub, glasses pushed up into his hair, eyes shut.
“Hey,” you say softly, crouching in front of him. “Got some water.”
His eyes crack open—and he blinks at you a few times, like he’s not sure if you’re real, then gives you the tiniest, tired smile. “You’re nice,” he mumbles.
You hand him the bottle. “You’re drunk.”
He uncaps it carefully and sips slowly, sighing as he swallows. Then he lets his head fall back and his eyes slip shut again. “Don’t feel good.”
“I know,” you murmur. “Think you can stand?”
He opens one eye. “Why?”
“Because I’m taking you home.”
He pauses. “You—you don’t have to.”
“I know,” you say. “Come on, Bobby.”
You stand, holding out a hand—and he stares at it like you’ve just offered him a miracle. Then he slips his fingers into yours and lets you help him up. He sways a little, steadying himself with a hand on your shoulder, and you slide an arm around his waist before you can think too hard about it.
He leans into you without hesitation—heavy in the way that only a six-foot-something man who’s forgotten how to carry his own body weight can be. Your arm tenses instinctively to hold him up, and for a second, that’s all you can focus on—the solid weight of him, the quiet pressure where your bodies meet.
Then everything else hits you—hard.
He’s so warm. And solid. His arm drapes clumsily across your shoulders, his hip bumping yours as you guide him out of the bathroom, and your heart decides now is a great time to try to beat its way out of your chest.
This is so much worse than you expected.
He smells like clean laundry and cedarwood and maybe just a hint of tequila—and somehow that combination makes your knees weak. His breath ghosts across your cheek as he stumbles and leans more heavily into you, and holy shit, he’s basically wrapped around you now.
You try to focus on walking. One foot in front of the other. Normal things. Simple things. Not the feel of his fingers curling loosely into the fabric of your shirt, or the quiet shift of his body leaning heavier into yours with every step. Not the little huff of air he lets out every time he exhales, like just existing right now takes effort.
You are not thinking about how close his mouth is to your temple.
You are not thinking about how easy it would be to turn your head and kiss his jaw.
You are—absolutely, definitely—not thinking about how badly you want to take care of him forever.
You clear your throat. “You still with me?”
He hums, barely audible, and your grip on him tightens just a little.
You guide him back through the apartment, trying to ignore the amused glances from your friends as you shuffle past the lounge like some awkward, tangled two-person creature. Whatever game they’ve moved on to is still going, and Mickey is in the middle of a dramatic retelling of something that definitely didn’t happen—judging by the look on Reuben’s face.
“Hey,” Natasha calls, pushing off the couch. “You guys leaving?”
“Yeah,” you say, adjusting your grip on Bob. “Try to get him home before he forgets how to walk.”
“Need help getting him to the car?”
You shake your head. “We’ve got it. Right, Floyd?”
Bob blinks slowly, eyes unfocused as he glances down at you—then he turns to Natasha and mumbles, almost dreamily, “S’ pretty…”
Your chest tightens—just a fraction, but enough to notice.
Natasha snorts. “Thanks, Bob.”
He turns back to you and frowns—slow, confused—like he doesn’t understand why she’s laughing.
You keep your expression neutral, ignoring the green-eyed monster trying to claw its way out of your chest. “Alright, Casanova. Let’s get you out of here before you really embarrass yourself.”
Natasha moves ahead to open the front door, and you guide Bob carefully through it, calling a quick goodbye over your shoulder as the others shout after you.
“Bye!”
“Drive safe!”
“Use protection!” Jake—of course.
There’s a chorus of drunken laughter before the door clicks shut behind you—and just like that, it’s quiet.
You exhale slowly, trying to focus on your steps, on keeping Bob upright. But your brain is still stuck in that moment—caught on two little words he probably won’t even remember saying.
So pretty.
He didn’t say a name, but he didn’t have to. He was looking at Natasha. And you know you shouldn’t care. He’s drunk. Out of his mind. He’d probably say the same thing about Jake if he had a chance to stare too long into those pretty green eyes.
But still. It hits. Harder than you want to admit.
Because he’s the one you’ve been quietly crushing on for months—carrying the weight of it in silence, like some secret you’re too scared to say out loud. And maybe you knew he didn’t feel the same. Maybe you were always bracing for this. But hearing it—watching him slur soft compliments to someone else while clinging to you like you’re nothing more than the designated driver—that hurts more than you expected.
Not that you can blame him. Natasha is gorgeous. She’s cool and charming and easy to like. You don’t fault him for noticing. You just wish he hadn’t said it out loud. Not like that. Not with his arm slung around your shoulders, not while you were trying so hard not to fall even deeper for him.
You know it shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
And right now, it feels like it matters more than anything else.
“Come on, Bob,” you sigh as the elevator stops on the ground level. “Let’s get you home.”
You steer him through the lobby and out into the cool night air, guiding him down the short walkway to where your car is parked beneath a flickering streetlight. He’s quieter now, but no less heavy, one arm still slung around your shoulders like it belongs there.
But it doesn’t. And you need to remember that.
You open the passenger door and ease him down into the seat. He folds his legs in slowly, letting his head fall back against the headrest, eyes half-lidded but still tracking your movements as you reach across to buckle him in. His cheeks are pink from the alcohol—or maybe the night air—and there’s a dazed little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“You’re staring,” you murmur, trying not to look directly at him.
He hums, but doesn’t deny it.
With a deep breath, you close his door and circle around the car, forcing your hands to steady as you slide into the driver’s seat.
“You look sad,” he says quietly.
“I’m fine,” you lie, jamming the key into the ignition. “Just tired.”
The car rumbles to life. You adjust the heat, dial down the radio before your music can start blaring, then flick on your indicator and ease away from the curb.
Bob watches you silently, eyes a little clearer now. There’s a small frown between his brows when you glance at him, but it softens as you turn your focus back to the road.
“Let me know if you feel sick,” you say. “I’ll pull over.”
He nods once, eyes drifting closed again as his head lolls against the seat. “I don’t like being drunk.”
You let out a breathy laugh. “Then why’d you let Fanboy talk you into it?”
“I dunno.” His voice is softer now. “’M too boring. I wanna be fun.”
Your brows pull together. “You’re not boring. Who told you that?”
He doesn’t answer—just squeezes his eyes shut and breathes in deep through his nose. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, half-expecting him to be sick, but he exhales slowly—and then lets his head turn toward you again, those tired blue eyes finding your face.
“You don’t know, do you?” he murmurs.
You blink, checking your mirror before flicking on your indicator. “Know what?”
“How pretty she is.”
Your stomach twists, heart stuttering in your chest.
“I wanted to tell her,” he adds, words a little slurred. “Tried to.”
You swallow. “You did tell her, Bob.”
He shakes his head. “She didn’t hear me.”
You almost roll your eyes—but don’t. “Yes, she did.”
He turns back toward the windshield with a frustrated sigh, like a kid trying to explain something you just won’t get. And maybe that’s what makes it worse. Because even now—even with him slurring compliments about Natasha and leaning heavy against your passenger seat—he still looks so unfairly sweet. Pink cheeks, soft mouth, hair mussed from running his hands through it while he threw up his dinner.
If he wasn’t so goddamn him, you might’ve left him passed out on Jake’s bathroom floor. But no—you just have to be half in love with the man. And now here you are, driving him home while he whispers about how beautiful someone else is.
The drive doesn’t take long—barely ten minutes of quiet roads and warm white streetlights. Bob keeps his head tipped back against the seat, but his eyes stay open, watching you like he’s trying to memorise something. Or maybe he’s just trying not to be sick.
You pull into the lot beside his apartment building and park in one of the visitor spots. The engine cuts off with a shudder, and for a moment, neither of you move.
“Come on, Lieutenant,” you sigh, unbuckling your seatbelt. “Home stretch.”
He mumbles something you don’t catch, but lets you help him out of the car. He’s steadier now—barely—but still leans on you as you guide him across the lot and through the front doors of his building.
The elevator ride is mercifully short—just the third floor. You keep him upright with an arm around his waist, fingers curled in the fabric of his jacket, trying not to notice how easily he fits against you. Like he belongs there.
The hallway blurs past as you walk him to his door. He fumbles with his keys, brows drawn in determined concentration, until the lock finally clicks open. You push the door in and steer him gently inside.
It’s warm, dimly lit, and perfectly tidy—but still cozy in a way that surprises you. Like he’s not home much, but still tries. There’s a jacket draped over the back of a dining chair, a pair of boots by the door, and an array of model planes lined up neatly on a shelf above the TV.
You help him toward the couch and ease him down into the cushions. He lets out a heavy sigh, head tipping back again. You hover for a beat, your eyes flicking toward the door.
“You need anything?” you ask.
He shakes his head, lids heavy. “Just… sit with me. For a bit.”
You hesitate, but then you nod—because it’s easier than saying no. Because you don’t really want to leave. Even if he does keep talking about Natasha.
You toe off your shoes and lower yourself onto the far end of the couch, keeping your distance.
“I tried to tell her,” he says after a moment, voice thick and quiet.
You resist the urge to sigh or roll your eyes or bolt for the door.
“Bob, you did tell her,” you say, keeping your voice steady.
He rolls his head from side to side. “I didn’t say it right.”
Your throat goes dry and your eyes drop to your lap.
“‘M sorry,” he mumbles. “Should’ve said it sooner. Before tonight. Before… tequila.”
You force a small smile. “Yeah, well. Tequila tends to make everything worse.”
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t respond. Just stares at nothing, blue eyes bleary and brows drawn like he’s trying to work something out.
“She’s not just pretty,” he murmurs, eventually. “She’s… all the time. You know? Even when she’s mad. Or quiet. Or trying not to laugh.”
Your heart gives a slow, aching lurch.
You nod—once—because you can’t bring yourself to say anything.
He goes quiet after that, eyes half-lidded, like the weight of his own words is catching up to him. You glance over, half-expecting him to nod off—but he shifts slightly, slouching deeper into the cushions and sliding one arm along the back of the couch. Not quite around you, but closer.
You pretend not to notice.
A minute passes. Then another. You sit still, hands folded in your lap, gaze fixed on a spot somewhere between the rug and the coffee table, trying not to fidget—trying to figure out how you can leave this sweet but incredibly drunk man without feeling guilty.
“Y’know…” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and honey, “you’re real warm.”
Your head turns—slowly—and you find him blinking at you with that same soft, open expression he always wears when he’s not paying attention to how much he’s giving away.
You raise an eyebrow. “Warm?”
He nods, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. Like, you got that—like—sunshine heat. Not hot. Just…” He pauses, frowning like the words are slipping through his fingers. “Comfortable.”
You stare at him, caught off guard—and then, despite yourself, you laugh. A quiet, helpless sound, full of affection you wish you were better at hiding.
“Jesus, Floyd,” you mutter, shaking your head. “You’re really drunk.”
He grins—lazy, lopsided, impossibly endearing—and lets his head roll to the side. “Yeah. But m’not wrong.”
You look away, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too wide. The compliment shouldn’t mean anything—especially not when it’s coming from the same lips that called someone else pretty just ten minutes ago. But it does mean something. Because it’s him. Because it’s soft and unfiltered and just for you.
You don’t say anything—you can’t—you just stare down at your knees and hope the dim light hides the heat rising in your cheeks.
A moment later, the cushions shift again—just barely—and you feel the soft brush of his fingers at your wrist. He’s not holding your hand. Not quite. Just resting there.
You glance down, heart fluttering.
“Thanks for takin’ care of me,” he mumbles, already halfway to sleep. “You’re real good. Like… best I know.”
Your throat tightens.
He doesn’t mean it the way you want him to. He probably won’t even remember saying it. But you still let yourself lean in just a little—close enough to breathe him in, to feel the warmth of him radiating through the narrow space between you.
Just for a moment.
Just until he falls asleep.
And when he finally does, you wait just a little longer—watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing. His lashes rest delicately against flushed cheeks, and his mouth is parted just slightly—pink and relaxed, no trace of the words that made your chest ache a few minutes ago.
He’s beautiful. Even now. Especially now.
Then you shift—slow and careful as you ease off the couch, holding your breath until you’re certain you haven’t disturbed him. He doesn’t stir. Just sinks deeper into the cushions with a sleepy sigh, one hand slipping off his chest to rest beside him.
You find a blanket in a basket beside the couch and drape it gently over him. Then you grab a glass from the kitchen, fill it with water, and set it down on the coffee table with a couple of painkillers you found in the cabinet above the fridge.
You hesitate one last time before you go, glancing back at him from the doorway.
Still asleep.
Still beautiful.
Still not yours.
You close the door behind you with a soft click, and force your feet to move away from the man you’re almost certainly falling in love with.
- Bob -
Bob has never woken up so sore in his life.
Not after hell week at the Academy. Not even after the emergency ejection he and Natasha had to pull a few months back. Nothing compares to this—the pounding headache, the dry throat, the dull throb at the base of his skull from sleeping upright on a couch not made for someone his size. His mouth tastes like regret, his eyes are burning, and his heart feels like it’s trying to beat out of rhythm just to spite him.
God. Why does anyone drink?
He groans softly as he shifts all the way upright, his body creaking like an old ship. His back cracks, his neck pulls, and his stomach gives a slow, threatening roll as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Don’t die.
In front of him, on the coffee table, sits a full glass of water and two painkillers neatly placed on a napkin. He frowns, confused—his brain crawling through the fog to figure out when exactly he’d gotten up to—
And then it hits him.
You.
You were the one sitting across from him with that sugary little half-smile when Mickey started heckling him into playing drinking games.
You were the one who laughed that sweet laugh when he took his first shot of tequila like a rookie and winced so hard his glasses slipped down his nose.
You were the one who sipped your soda, calm and smug, when Javy threw out a never have I ever had sex in public—and he’d looked away so fast, cheeks burning, pants suddenly too tight. He can’t even remember who else drank. Just you. Just the way your lips curved around your straw like it was no big deal. Like you hadn’t just rewritten the entire architecture of his brain.
And after that—God, after all that—you were the one who helped him to the bathroom. Who rubbed his back. Who got him water. Who helped him into the car, buckled him in, walked him up to his apartment and didn’t even flinch when he all but collapsed into your side like some drunken deadweight.
You were the one who sat next to him on the couch and listened to him ramble.
About how warm you are.
How soft you are.
How pretty.
Oh, my God.
He scrubs both hands down his face, like he can erase the memory if he just tries hard enough.
He’s managed to keep it together for months. He hasn’t told anyone. Not even Natasha. And now, one night, one bad decision, one slurred drink too many, and he’s spilling it all over you like an idiot.
Telling you you’re warm like sunshine?
That you’re good?
He’s lucky you didn’t just dump him on the couch and leave. But you didn’t. You stayed. You made sure he had water. Painkillers. A blanket.
You took care of him.
And now he’s sitting here, mortified beyond belief, stomach churning for reasons that have nothing to do with tequila—and everything to do with the way he probably just ruined the one chance he had at something good.
After a good ten minutes of trying—and failing—to remember more of last night, Bob sighs and pushes to his feet. The room tilts, his head pounds, and his stomach threatens to evict the few sips of water he managed with the painkillers.
“Never drinking again,” he mutters to himself, voice rough.
Then—slowly—he makes his way to the bathroom, flinching as he flicks on the light. His reflection is a horror show—paler than usual, bloodshot eyes, deep shadows beneath them. His lips are cracked and white, his hair looks like he’s been electrocuted, and he smells like something recently exhumed.
He draws a deep breath and reaches past the shower curtain to turn on the shower. Then he strips off yesterday’s clothes, drops them in a pile on the floor, ditches his glasses, and steps into the tub.
The water is too hot, scalding almost, but he doesn’t adjust it. He just stands there with his eyes closed, letting it beat against his shoulders until his skin turns pink and his fingertips start to wrinkle. As if he can sweat out the memories clinging to him. As if he can burn the words off his tongue, the ones he knows he said but wishes he hadn’t. He wants to come out clean—clear-headed and no longer haunted by your voice saying you’re really drunk.
But it doesn’t work.
You’re still there. Behind his eyes, in his chest, beneath his ribs. He can still feel the ghost of your arm around his waist, your hand on his back, the steady way you helped him out of the car like he was something worth holding on to.
He brushes his teeth—twice—but it doesn’t help. He can still taste tequila. Still taste regret.
Eventually, he pulls on a pair of old sweatpants and a faded Navy Athletics hoodie, and makes his way to the kitchen, blinking hard against the headache still pressing at his temples. He manages to put a slice of bread in the toaster, butter it, and eat half before his stomach turns and he abandons the rest of it.
He drags himself over to the couch, slumps onto it, and pulls the blanket over his lap, fishing his phone out from between the cushions. He hasn’t checked it all morning—hadn’t even looked when he got home last night—but there’s nothing urgent. A few spam notifications. A weather alert. Nothing from you.
Just two texts from Mickey. One from earlier in the morning:
FANBOY: u alive or should we start carving your name into the memorial wall?
And another, more recent:
FANBOY: I’m coming over. Prepare for judgment.
Bob groans and lets the phone fall to his chest. He considers replying, telling him not to bother, but he knows it won’t matter—Mickey’s probably already halfway here.
And sure enough, right on cue—
Knock, knock, knock.
With a long sigh—and unsteady steps—Bob makes his way to the door and pulls it open.
“You look awful,” Mickey says by way of greeting, holding up a paper bag. “I brought Pedialyte, ibuprofen, and a sausage roll. Which one do you want first?”
Bob squints at the bag like it might kill him. “None of the above.” He steps aside to let Mickey in, letting the door swing shut behind him.
“Suit yourself,” Mickey says cheerfully, dropping the bag on the coffee table and collapsing onto the couch. “Dude. Seriously. You look bad. Like… medieval plague bad.”
“I’m aware,” Bob mutters, dragging a hand down his face as he sinks onto the cushions beside his friend.
“If I’d known you were this close to death’s door, I would’ve brought flowers and a priest.”
“Keep talking and I’ll throw up in your lap,” Bob warns.
Mickey grins. “There he is. There’s my boy.”
Bob rolls his eyes and sinks further down, letting his eyes flutter shut as his head falls back.
“Wanna talk about it?” Mickey asks.
“Talk about what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The tequila shots. The beer. The part where you threw up in Hangman’s bathroom.”
Bob cracks one eye open. “Hm. Not really.”
“You kissed Payback on the cheek when he brought you a drink,” Mickey goes on, unperturbed. “And told Coyote he could be the next Captain America. Then you lost four rounds of Never Have I Ever, and I’m pretty sure you said yes to something about a sex swing in Croatia—which, by the way, I will be following up on—”
“I did not—” Bob starts, sitting up straighter. “Wait. Did I?”
Mickey just laughs.
Bob exhales heavily. “I didn’t do anything too embarrassing, right?”
“Well, you told Hangman he had ‘beautiful eyes’. That’s probably going to haunt you for a while.” Mickey pauses. “But nah. You were mostly just… sweet. A little dazed. Giggled a lot.”
Bob leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and dropping his head into his hands. He breathes deeply, trying to ignore the nausea still curling in his gut—made worse by whatever godawful body spray Mickey’s wearing.
Then, quietly, he mutters, “I told her I think she’s pretty.”
Mickey frowns. “You told Dove?”
Bob nods slowly. “Like… repeatedly.”
Mickey snorts. “Oh no. Please tell me you didn’t confess your undying love half-faced on Don Julio.”
Bob grimaces. “Not… exactly.”
“That’s not a no.”
“I think I called her sunshine,” Bob mumbles.
Mickey throws his head back, laughing. “You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“Holy shit,” Mickey leans in, eyes gleaming. “You really like her, don’t you?”
Bob groans. “I’m never drinking again.”
“I don’t see the problem,” Mickey says, still grinning. “If she took you home and tucked you in, she clearly didn’t hate it.”
“She hasn’t texted me.”
“Yet,” Mickey says firmly. “It’s barely eleven. She probably thinks you’re still asleep—or hugging the toilet bowl. And come on, man. You were a lot last night. She’s probably still processing.”
“Great,” Bob mutters. “Just what every girl wants—too much Robert Floyd.”
Mickey grabs a throw pillow and chucks it at him. “Shut up. You’re adorable.”
Bob doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t argue either. He just sighs and lets the pillow rest in his lap.
Mickey watches him for a beat, then asks, “You want some Pedialyte now, or do you need to flirt with death a little longer?”
Bob hesitates. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“That’s the spirit.”
- You -
You fall onto your couch at exactly eleven o’clock. You’ve already done all the things that usually make a Sunday feel like a Sunday—sheets changed, dishwasher emptied, a slow grocery run while still half asleep. You even stopped for a coffee on the way back, hoping maybe the caffeine would help clear your head, shake something loose.
It didn’t.
Your phone’s been on Do Not Disturb for most of the morning, flipped screen-down on the kitchen counter while you folded laundry or stared into the fridge like something inside might offer you answers. But you’ve still tapped the screen more times than you care to admit. Just to check. Just in case.
Even now, half-reclined on the couch with one leg dangling off the side, you tug it out of your pocket and hold it up like it might have changed in the last five seconds.
The screen lights up.
Still nothing.
He still hasn’t texted.
Which isn’t surprising, really. He was slurring when you helped him out of the car—barely keeping his eyes open when you sat him down and stayed just long enough to be sure he wouldn’t get sick or wander off somewhere to sleep on the floor. He probably doesn’t even remember you were there.
Or maybe he does. Maybe he remembers everything—and wishes he didn’t. Maybe he regrets it. Maybe he’s embarrassed about what he hadn't meant to say out loud—that thing about Natasha.
Not that you expect a message. Not really. You don’t expect some long, gushing paragraph about how grateful he is or how sweet you were or how sorry he is for getting so drunk he couldn’t make it up the stairs on his own. You don’t expect a text saying he remembers what he said and that it isn’t true. That he doesn’t look at Natasha like that. That it was the tequila talking. Not Bob.
You don’t expect anything like that.
You’re just... hoping.
The group chat has been mildly active this morning—Javy posted a blurry selfie with an ice pack on his forehead, Natasha sent a string of skull emojis, and Jake contributed several photos of the wreckage left behind in his apartment, including what appears to be a half-eaten burrito wedged into the couch cushions.
But nothing from Bob. Not last night. Not this morning.
You haven’t texted him either.
Part of you wants to. Just to check in. Just to make sure he’s alive and—well, not concussed. But you just can’t. You can’t bring yourself to open that thread, to type those little letters and hit send.
Because if he wants to talk to you—if he wants to talk about last night—he’ll text you.
And if he doesn’t?
Well... that’s your answer. Simple.
You sigh and sit upright, lobbing your phone to the other end of the couch like it personally offended you.
There’s no point spiralling about it. He’s probably just sleeping. Or nursing a brutal hangover. Or too embarrassed to face anyone, not just you.
It doesn’t mean anything.
And you’re not going to sit here and twist yourself into knots over a few drunk comments and a silence that might not even be about you.
You're fine.
It’s fine.
Everything is fine.
After a quiet afternoon spent half-watching reruns of an old CW show—phone face-down on the couch beside you—you finally decide to run a bath. Something about the warm water might help, you figure. Or at least give your brain a break.
You even go to the small effort of digging out some bath salts someone gave to you last Christmas and lighting a couple of candles—mostly for the ritual of it. Then you flip off the lights, strip out of your clothes, and sink into the tub with a sigh, letting your eyes flutter shut.
But half a second later—
Ping!
Your phone—no longer on Do Not Disturb—lights up on the vanity just an arm’s length away.
You hesitate, but only for a second, before drying one hand on the towel, leaning over, and picking it up.
Bob.
It’s in the group chat, but you still feel that little rush of relief. That he’s alive. That he’s awake. That he decided to say something.
He’s sent a selfie—sprawled on a couch with a damp towel folded over his forehead, cheeks flushed, his glasses off. His expression is somewhere between dramatic and pitiful, lips turned in an exaggerated pout, big blue eyes aimed squarely at the camera. And you can’t help the small, involuntary smile that creeps across your face.
God. How does he always manage to look like that? Like someone’s kicked a puppy and he’s taking it personally. Like all he needs is a warm blanket and a forehead kiss and maybe someone to promise him the world won’t end just yet.
A message pops up beneath it:
I’m never drinking again. Ever.
You let out a quiet laugh, the sound echoing off the tile. And then—because you’re completely, hopelessly, inescapably soft—you stare at the photo for a beat longer than you should. Pulse humming. Chest aching. Head filling with images that aren't at all helpful. Him in your doorway. That lazy smile. The slow, sleepy way he’d looked at you last night.
You sink a little lower in the water, trying to chase the thoughts out.
It was just the alcohol. Just the moment. Just a passing, drunken compliment he probably doesn't even remember. It wasn’t real. Not in the way you want it to be.
He said a lot more about Natasha than he did about you.
Sure, he called you sunshine—but that doesn’t mean anything.
You’re not going to overthink it. There’s no point. And you’re definitely not going to start rehashing everything else he said.
You just need to stop thinking.
Relax.
Enjoy your bath.
Don’t think about Bob. Or his eyes. Or his soft smile. Or the fact that you’ll have to see him tomorrow and confront every stupid emotion that you’ve been trying to ignore for the past twenty-four hours.
-
You barely sleep.
You spend most of the night tossing and turning, waking every hour from a different version of the same nightmare—each one starring Bob Floyd. Each one worse than the last.
The first is expected. Nothing too strange. You’re back at Jake’s apartment, but it’s quiet. Just you and Bob. He’s drunk, but not sloppy—smiling at you like he’s been waiting all night to be alone with you. His words are slurred, soft around the edges, but his gaze doesn’t waver.
“You’re so pretty,” he murmurs, eyes warm, fingertips brushing your jaw.
And then—
“Natasha…”
Your eyes snap open to the dark ceiling above. Your chest is tight, your pulse won’t settle, and it's suddenly too warm. You shift and roll to the other side, pushing the covers halfway down your body—trying to convince yourself it was just the wires of your subconscious getting crossed. Nothing more.
And eventually, you drift off again.
The second dream is stranger. You’re standing on the tarmac, watching jets land one by one. Callsigns crackle over the radio—Phoenix, Payback, Coyote, Fanboy. But never Bob.
You keep scanning the horizon—the perfectly clear sky—but the tower says nothing. Natasha is there, helmet in hand, nodding like everything’s normal. But her WSO isn’t there. Bob isn’t there. And no one seems to notice.
When you ask where he is, they blink at you.
“Who?”
You wake with a jolt, air dragging rough through your throat. You throw the covers all the way off this time, fingers pressing into the mattress like you need to anchor yourself. It was just a dream. Nothing real. But your chest still aches like you’ve lost something—something vital you can’t name.
You fall asleep again eventually, but not for long.
The third dream is quiet. Almost eerily so. You’re home, sitting on the edge of the couch in the dark—phone in your lap, the screen black. You don’t know what time it is, you just know you’re waiting.
When the screen finally lights up, you flinch. It’s Maverick.
“Hello?”
“There was an accident,” he says, voice calm. “Bob… didn’t make it.”
No detail. No apology. Just a flat statement of fact.
And then silence.
You wake up gasping, lungs pulling too much air too fast. You’re still alone in your room, knuckles white against your bedsheet, nausea twisting deep in your stomach. It was just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream.
But God, it felt like the truth.
It takes ten minutes of staring at the ceiling and counting your own breaths before you manage to fall asleep again. But you wish you hadn’t.
Because the last dream is the worst.
You’re in the air. Mid-hop. Everyone is flying too close, their jets brushing into formation like magnets. Their faces are hidden behind masks. Their voices crackle with static and urgency. You can’t understand what they’re saying—but they sound afraid.
You glance down.
And see blood.
Your gloves are red. So is your chest. Thick, dark blood stains your suit—fresh and everywhere. Sticky between your fingers. Spattered up your sleeves.
You don’t know where it came from. You don’t know whose it is.
You try to call for Bob. Try to find his voice in the chaos. But the screaming starts before you can get a word out. And it’s not over the comms.
It’s inside your helmet.
You wake with a rasping cry, bolting upright, chest heaving. Your hands are shaking. Your heart is thundering. Your whole body is drenched in sweat.
You sit there for a long time—just breathing. Just reminding yourself what’s real. Telling yourself that Bob is fine. That you’re fine.
But it doesn’t help. Not really.
Because how is that fair?
Four bad dreams in one night. Four twisted omens in a row. Four reminders—loud and clear—that no matter what you do, you’re going to lose him. That it’s already written.
That it’s only a matter of time.
You don’t fall back asleep. You can’t.
It’s barely four a.m., but there’s no way you’re risking another dream—not after all that. So you throw your legs over the side of the mattress, plant your feet on the carpet, and force yourself out of bed.
You take a long, hot shower and make a full breakfast—eggs, toast, even some blistered tomatoes. You eat about half of it before your stomach twists too tight to finish, so you scrape the rest into a container for later, pretending that makes it less of a waste.
Then you sit in front of the TV, but you’re not watching. Not really. The volume is low, the coffee in your hand has already gone lukewarm, and your mind won’t stop looping. Every image, every sound, every dream. Over and over and over.
You’ve never had dreams like that before. Not all at once. Not so vivid, so loud. It’s like your subconscious was trying to shake you awake. Trying to tell you something.
Maybe it’s a warning.
Maybe it’s a sign.
You want to believe you’re smarter than that. More rational. But how do you ignore something that felt so real? That many dreams, that brutal, that clear?
Panic rises hard in your chest—fast and sharp and hot. Your heart flutters. Your stomach lurches. You dig your fingernails into the cushion beneath you, trying to tether yourself, but your hands won’t stop shaking.
An hour passes. Maybe more. You just sit there—spiralling.
Then your mouth floods with saliva—that sick, unmistakable warning—and you jump to your feet, already halfway to the bathroom when your phone chimes. Loud. Sharp.
It’s your alarm—your backup alarm. The one you set for the absolute latest you can leave without being late for work. The oh-shit alarm.
Which means you don’t have time to be sick. Or to panic. Or to think.
You grab your bag—keys, wallet, ID card—shove your feet into your boots, and run out the door.
The drive to base is a blur. You don’t remember the lights, the traffic, the turns—only the moment your car is in the lot and you’re jogging across the tarmac toward the squadron building. The second you push the doors open, you can hear voices echoing down the hall, which means Maverick hasn’t called the room to attention yet.
You slow your pace as you make your way down the corridor, pulling in steady breaths so you don’t look like you sprinted the whole way here. Then you turn into the briefing room.
“Well, look who decided to join us,” Jake drawls from the back row. “I was about to send out a search party.”
You don’t reply—just shoot him a flat look.
“Hey,” Natasha says from her seat, a small crease between her brows. “You alright?”
You nod once and drop into the chair closest to the door, furthest from everyone else. Natasha is only two seats down, and beside her—Bob. Clean shave. Hair perfect. That crisp flight suit making his shoulders look broader than usual. He’s smiling faintly at something Natasha said, and it twists in your gut before you can stop it.
You drop your gaze to your lap, focusing on a loose thread on your sleeve until Maverick breezes in and calls the room to attention.
He starts running through the plan for the day, even though you went over all of it Friday afternoon. It’s a flight day, which normally wouldn't be so bad—if you weren’t paired with Natasha and Bob. Which means not only are they both going to be in your ear during the hop, but you’ll have to spend most of the day in the ready room with them—watching them talk, watching him smile—waiting for your slot at the very end of the schedule.
Eventually, Maverick dismisses Jake, Reuben, and Mickey to the hangar and the rest of you to the ready room. You’re the first out the door, quick down the hall, and into the room before anyone else. You head straight for the back and drop into a chair, pulling out your phone like you’ve just remembered something vitally important—anything to keep your eyes down and your thoughts to yourself.
The others file in and Bradley makes a beeline for the ancient coffee machine, smacking it to life. Bob and Javy sink into the couch near the radio, heads bent over some quiet conversation you can’t quite hear—and Natasha walks straight up to you.
“You seem off today,” she says—no preamble.
“I’m fine,” you mutter, eyes locked on your phone. “Just tired.”
She studies you for a beat—eyes sharp, searching—before leaning back against the desk behind her.
“So… how was the rest of your weekend?”
“Fine.”
“How was the drive home with Bob on Saturday night?”
Your pulse kicks, but your voice stays level. “Fine.”
She tilts her head. “How are you feeling about today’s hop?”
“Fine.”
“Seriously?”
You glance up, brows raised. “Yes. Seriously. Everything is fine.”
You don't mean to be snappy, but it slips out anyway. You’re tired, on edge, and jealous—and the woman at the centre of it all is standing right in front of you. Normally you’d swallow it down—bury it—but after a night of barely any sleep, your fuse is short.
“Damn,” Bradley says, appearing with his mug in hand, “someone’s feisty today.”
Natasha is still watching you. She doesn’t look hurt or upset—just curious, like she’s trying to work out why you’re acting like this. Because she knows this isn’t you. She knows something is wrong.
“I barely slept,” you say, softer now. “I’m sorry. I’m just… not in the mood.”
She lifts a brow. “Not in the mood to talk to your friends?”
“Not in the mood to talk—period.” The words come out sharper than intended, but you can’t take them back—the green-eyed monster living in your chest won’t let you.
“Okay,” she says quietly. “I’ll leave you alone.” She pushes off the desk and steps away, then glances over her shoulder. “But don’t let whatever this is affect your flying.”
Guilt stirs low in your gut as you lower your eyes back to your phone. Bradley’s hand lands gently on your shoulder, giving a quick, reassuring squeeze before he moves away to join the others by the radio.
After a beat, you glance up through your lashes—and catch Bob looking right at you. His eyes go wide, cheeks flushing pink, and then—nothing. No smile. No nod. He turns back to the others like you don't even exist.
And he keeps it that way. All day. No acknowledgement.
Not when your names are called over the speakers.
Not on the cart ride to the hangar.
Not during pre-flight, inspections, or the final briefing.
The first time he speaks to you all day is over comms, thirty thousand feet up, running a check.
“Maverick to all stations, comms check. Over.”
“Dove, comms clear,” you respond, voice steady despite the lump in your throat.
Then Natasha’s voice cuts through the static, clear and confident. “Phoenix, loud and clear.”
And finally, Bob’s voice—quieter than usual but unmistakably his. “Bob, reading you.”
You swallow hard and exhale slowly, your eyes flicking toward Natasha’s jet just ahead, the faint silhouette of Bob visible behind her.
You’re doing your best not to think about last night—about those nightmares—but up here, surrounded by nothing but sky and cold metal, the memories cling tight, vivid and unrelenting. Your pulse pounds in your ears, drowning out Maverick’s steady instructions.
You follow along, scanning the sky, then your instruments, then back again—your head spinning with the endless cross-checks. Your grip on the stick tightens until your knuckles turn white. You know, logically, that you’ve done this a thousand times before. You know there’s nothing to fear.
But today feels different. And maybe it’s just your nerves, or your paranoia playing tricks—but you can’t shake the sense that something is wrong.
After twenty minutes of easy flying and a lull in comms, you notice something. Natasha and Bob’s jet suddenly rocks, a subtle but unmistakable tremble that sets your pulse racing. You squint through your canopy, trying to pinpoint what’s wrong. It’s almost imperceptible—but it isn’t normal.
You flick your comm switch, keeping your voice even despite the tightening in your chest. “Phoenix, your jet’s handling looks off. You sure everything’s okay over there?”
Natasha’s reply is smooth, steady. “We’re fine, Dove. Just minor turbulence. Nothing to worry about.”
Your eyes don’t leave their jet as it shudders again, your heart pounding hard enough you’re sure they can hear it through the radio. Your chest rises and falls too fast.
“Maverick to Phoenix and Bob, status check. All systems nominal?”
“Copy, Maverick,” Natasha answers, but then her tone shifts. “Fuel’s looking—wait, hold on. We’ve got an unusual fuel imbalance warning. Left wing tank is reading low, right wing high. Bob, you seeing the same?”
“Affirmative,” Bob’s voice is clipped, calm but serious. “Left tank down by nearly three-hundred pounds. Right tank steady. Running cross-feed now to balance.”
“Maintain heading,” Maverick instructs. “Monitor fuel flow and report any changes. How’s the transfer rate?”
“Nominal transfer rate, but imbalance isn’t correcting. Left tank keeps dropping faster than it’s filling,” Natasha reports, unease creeping in.
“Suggests possible leak or valve malfunction,” Bob adds. “Running diagnostics.”
Your hands start to shake despite your best efforts, pulse pounding in your throat. You keep glancing toward their jet, watching them handle this with practiced calm while your stomach twists in panic.
You try to steady yourself, but the silence over comms drags on, and your nerves fray. You need to hear something. Anything. You need to know they’re okay. You need to stop imagining flames, ejecting pilots, and worse.
“Phoenix, what’s going on over there?” you break the silence, voice tight. “That imbalance is getting worse. You need to declare an emergency if there’s a leak.”
Natasha’s voice returns, still calm and collected. “Dove, negative. We’re on top of it. No leak indications. Bob’s running valve checks now. Maverick, we’ll advise if status changes.”
The knot in your stomach tightens, panic bubbling up like a tide you can’t hold back. A few months ago, you watched them eject after a bird strike—you feared for them then, but now? It’s different. They’re your friends. Your family. And Bob... he’s so much more. You can’t lose them.
“No, listen—fuel imbalance can cause roll issues,” you say, voice trembling. “I’m getting a warning on my HUD too. Formation sensors say you might lose control if it worsens. Want me to take lead and help stabilise?”
“Dove, stand down,” Bob interrupts, his tone hesitant but firm. “We have it handled. No need to complicate things. Maverick, isolating problem now.”
“Handled?” you repeat, disbelief sharpening your words. “That doesn’t sound handled. I’m not telling you how to do your job, but if you don’t act fast, this’ll become a real problem.”
“Dove, this is why we train,” Natasha snaps, frustration clear now. “Bob and I know our aircraft. Trust us. You focus on your own jet.”
“I’m just trying to keep us all safe!” you fire back.
“Enough,” Maverick cuts in, voice sharp and commanding. “Everyone, breathe. Dove, Bob and Phoenix are managing it. Bob, update me every minute. Dove, maintain position and stay ready to assist. No sudden moves.”
“Understood, Mav,” Bob replies. “Running manual balance procedure now. Should level out soon.”
You don’t say anything after that. Not because you’re calm—but because you’re not sure your voice won’t crack if you open your mouth again.
The silence over the radio is heavier than engine noise, heavier than altitude, heavier than gravity. You keep formation, hands tense on the stick, eyes flitting back to the silhouette of Natasha and Bob’s jet just ahead—waiting for the next wobble, the next slip, the next warning light.
But it never comes.
“Fuel flow has stabilised,” Bob reports after two long minutes. “Manual balance is holding. No further discrepancies.”
“Copy that,” Maverick says, voice calm but wary—like he’s waiting to see who’s going to blow next. “We’ll cut the hop early. Everyone maintain spacing and begin RTB. Keep comms clear unless it’s mission critical.”
You acknowledge him with a short “Copy,” then fall back slightly, trying to breathe through the adrenaline still thrumming through your veins.
The flight back is quiet. Too quiet.
No one says a word—not Bob, not Natasha, not even Maverick. The silence should be comforting, but it isn’t. It leaves you too much time to replay the argument in your head—your voice sharp, your tone panicked, the way Bob cut you off without even hesitating.
You taxi in last, eyes flicking toward their jet on the tarmac. The canopy lifts, and Bob climbs out, dropping from the ladder with practiced ease—without even glancing your way. Natasha follows, speaking to him as they start toward the hangar—and again, neither of them look at you.
You kill your systems, climb out, and by the time your boots hit the ground, the only evidence of the afternoon’s drama is the tight ache in your chest and the adrenaline you haven’t quite managed to shake.
You’re safe. They’re safe.
But it sure as hell doesn’t feel like a win.
Especially not when Natasha storms toward you, her stride sharp and purposeful. She stops just short of you—close enough that you feel the heat of her glare, far enough to keep up appearances.
“You want to tell me what the hell that was up there?” she says, voice low and taut with frustration. “Because from where I was sitting, it felt a lot like you didn’t trust us to do our jobs.”
You finish unclipping your helmet and look at her, heart racing. “I was just trying to keep you safe.”
She exhales sharply through her nose. “We didn’t need saving. We had it under control.”
“Did you?” you ask, harsher than you mean to. “Because from where I was sitting, you were losing fuel and altitude and acting like it was nothing.”
Her jaw tightens. “And from where I was sitting, you were losing your damn composure over something we train for all the time.”
You glance around—the tarmac is buzzing with motion, but no one seems to be paying attention to the two of you.
“You could’ve declared an emergency,” you say, voice dropping. “You should have.”
Her brows shoot up. “So now you’re telling me how to fly?”
“No,” you bite out. “I’m saying if something happened to you—if something happened to him—”
“You don’t get to play the protective card when it comes at the expense of the team,” Natasha cuts in—her voice is still low, but the edge is razor sharp. “We had a job to do. We did it.”
You open your mouth, but she’s already turning away.
“Next time? Trust us,” she throws over her shoulder, walking back toward the hangar without waiting for a reply.
And you’re left standing alone on the tarmac, helmet in hand, adrenaline still surging through your veins—and the sting of her words settling deep beneath your ribs.
You walk through post-flight like you’re on autopilot, following each step by habit more than focus, and then debrief with the ground crew. You nod when you're supposed to, say all the right things—but you’re barely paying attention. Your eyes keep drifting to the group across the tarmac—Maverick, Natasha, Bob, and the crew chief, deep in conversation beside their jet. They’re obviously going over the fuel imbalance, and normally, you’d be right there with them—listening, learning.
Not today.
Bob is standing stiffly, arms folded tight, a small crease between his brows. He doesn’t look your way. Doesn’t say a word. Just listens, nods, offers the occasional clipped reply. The silence from him is deafening. And you know it has something to do with you.
You glance down, pretending to double-check your own paperwork, but your mind is a million miles away.
The problem is, you don’t know what you did. Not just now, in the air—but before that. Maybe even back on Saturday night. Something shifted. Something went wrong. And now you’ve only made it worse—running your mouth like that, second-guessing his and Natasha’s judgment.
Maybe he’s still embarrassed about how drunk he got. Or what he said about Natasha. Maybe he’s worried you’ll tell her. Or maybe he just regrets the whole thing—and doesn’t want to deal with you anymore.
You replay every moment, searching for the crack where things split open. And still, you come up empty.
“Alright, team,” Maverick calls, cutting through your thoughts. “Good effort today. We cut the hop short for the right reasons, and we all got back on the ground safely.”
You look up, and Natasha meets your eyes for a moment—her stare cool, unreadable. Bob doesn’t look at you at all. He just folds his arms tighter across his chest.
Maverick continues, “Debrief in the ready room. Full honesty. No sugar-coating. We don’t get better by pretending everything went fine. Understood?”
“Understood,” you say with the others, though your voice sticks in your throat.
You all climb into the cart. No one says a word. The silence follows you all the way to the squadron building, and by the time you step into the ready room, it’s heavier than ever. The air feels too thin, the lighting too harsh. You take the seat closest to the door and Bob settles at the opposite end, eyes fixed on the table, fingers drumming quietly. Natasha sits beside him, posture easy—but you can tell her jaw is still set.
Maverick starts the debrief, his tone even, but your focus is shot. You can’t stop your thoughts from spiralling. You sit there staring at the scuffs on the linoleum floor, wondering when exactly it all went wrong. Wondering if you’re just imagining everything—or worse, if you’re not.
By the time Maverick wraps up with a few final notes, you’re barely breathing. And the second he dismisses you, you're on your feet.
You don’t wait for the others. You grab your gear and walk fast—too fast—straight out into the hall and down toward the locker rooms, the echo of your boots the only sound. You need a second. A breath. Anything to shake the tight grip of panic clawing at your ribs.
You just need to be alone.
You burst into the women’s locker room and drop onto the bench between the rows of lockers. You brace your elbows on your knees, bury your face in your hands, and try to remember how to breathe. But the cool, sterile air does nothing to settle the heat in your chest. With a heavy sigh, you sit up, tug off your gloves and shove your flight suit down around your waist.
You didn’t mean to lose it out there. In the air. On the tarmac.
But you did.
Bob couldn’t even look at you this morning—and now, after the way you acted, he probably hates you. Or at the very least, thinks less of you.
He’s probably with Natasha right now, talking about you. Laughing about you. Calling you a jerk for snapping at them. And honestly? You wouldn’t blame them. You were a jerk.
You replay every moment again and again in your head again, searching for a way to make it make sense. Trying to convince yourself this isn’t the end of something. That you haven’t just undone all the trust you spent so long building.
You breathe in. Hold it. Let it out slow. Then do it again.
And again.
The room is silent except for the distant buzz of fluorescent lights and the faint hum of the base beyond the walls. You’re just starting to settle—your pulse finally dipping below emergency levels—when the door creaks open.
And footsteps.
Then the distinct, unmistakable click of the lock turning.
Your head snaps up.
“Bob?”
He steps forward slowly, like you’re some wounded animal he’s afraid to spook. His eyes dart around the room—taking in everything except you. The tiled walls, the metal lockers, the fact that he’s probably never set foot in here before.
“Hey,” he mutters, voice low—but it lands sharp in the quiet space.
You blink at him, startled. “What are you doing in here?”
He hesitates, still not looking directly at you. “Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” you mumble, sitting up straighter.
He takes a deep breath, shoving his hands as deep into his pockets as they’ll go. “You don’t seem fine.”
“Well, I am,” you say, firmer.
There’s a beat of silence—and your heart is pounding so hard, you wouldn’t be surprised if he could hear it.
“I—I just want to know why,” he says eventually.
You exhale sharply and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Why what?”
“You know what.”
You let out a bitter little laugh and shake your head, eyes fixed on the locker in front of you. “I was just being overcautious. It won’t happen again.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Well, that’s the only answer I’ve got right now,” you say, sharper this time. “So if you’re here to yell at me too, maybe just don’t.”
“I’m not here to yell,” he says softly. “I’m here because I want to understand.”
You sigh. “I don’t know, Bob. I just—I freaked out. I saw the numbers and panicked. I just didn’t want to lose—” You cut yourself off with a shake of your head. “It doesn’t matter.”
He steps forward, eyes wide behind his glasses. “It matters to me.”
You press your lips together and nod once, throat tight. “Well, it was stupid. And it’s done.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t leave. Just keeps standing there like he’s got all the time in the world, like he’s not going to let you hide behind flimsy excuses or brush him off. And the silence presses in again, heavier than before.
“It’s not done,” he says—quiet, but steady. “I’m not done.”
You stare at him—finally locking eyes—your jaw tight. “What do you want me to say, Bob?”
“I want the truth.”
You laugh again, dry and humourless. “Yeah? Which part?”
His expression doesn’t change. “All of it.”
Your mouth opens, then shuts. Your chest aches. There’s too much to say and no good way to say any of it. You can’t tell him you’re jealous. You can’t tell him you’re in love with him. So instead, you go for the sharpest edge.
“Well, what’s your problem then, huh?” you snap. “You don’t message me all day yesterday. You don’t look at me this morning. You barely speak to me on the flight line. So if we’re handing out truths, maybe start with that.”
He blinks like you’ve slapped him. “That’s—”
“I don’t know what I did,” you go on, heat rising fast in your voice. “I’ve been trying to figure it out, Bob, I really have. How did so much change in twenty-four hours? If you’re pissed at me, just say it. Stop looking at me like I’m the one who—who broke something.”
“You didn’t break anything,” he mutters through a breath. “And I’m not pissed at you.”
“Sure doesn’t feel that way.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Then what is simple, Bob?” you ask, standing with your arms crossed. “Is the way you feel about Natasha simple? Was getting drunk and telling me how much you like her simple? Because it sure as hell didn’t seem very complicated on Saturday night when you were slurring about how pretty you think she is.”
The words slip out before you can fully process them—and your face burns immediately.
His eyes go wide. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
“Shit,” you mutter, covering your face with both hands. “Fuck. I—I’m sorry, Bob. I didn’t mean—”
“Natasha?”
You peek between your fingers to find him standing right in front of you now—brows furrowed, cheeks flushed, eyes full of confused disbelief.
“I—I wasn’t talking about Natasha,” he stammers, “I wasn’t—oh, God. You thought I meant—”
You drop your hands. “Bob, I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to talk about this right now.”
He shakes his head quickly, stepping even closer. “No—wait, hold on. You thought I meant Natasha? That that’s who I—no. No, you’ve got it all wrong.”
You rear back a little, frowning. “Well, forgive me for getting the wrong impression when you were six drinks deep and rambling about how beautiful she is.”
“I—I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “I swear. I wasn’t even—God, I wasn’t thinking about her. You’ve got this all backwards.”
You fold your arms across your chest, retreating half a step toward the bench. Your heart is pounding again—loud in your ears, high in your throat.
“Then what were you thinking, Bob? Because from where I was standing, it looked pretty damn obvious.”
He runs a hand through his hair, clearly flustered. “No, you don’t get it—what I said wasn’t about Natasha. It was never about her.”
You scoff. “Sure.”
“Please—listen.” He takes another step forward, then hesitates. His mouth opens. Closes. He frowns, eyes narrowing. “But if—if you thought I was talking about Natasha… is that why you were mad?”
The words hit you square in the chest.
You freeze.
“I wasn’t mad,” you say quickly. “I was—” You stop, the words catching in your throat.
“You were mad,” he insists.
“I wasn’t mad!”
He flinches slightly at your tone.
You take a deep breath and drop your gaze. “I wasn’t mad,” you repeat, quieter this time, “I just—”
You bite the inside of your cheek. You can feel it building—the real reason, the words you’ve buried so deep they’ve started to choke you. But you can’t let them out. Not yet. Not when it’s this messy. Not when your heart feels like it’s dangling off a ledge.
“I just thought I knew where we stood,” you say instead, eyes burning. “And maybe I was wrong.”
Bob doesn’t move.
He’s staring at you now, really staring, like he’s trying to read between every word you’re not saying.
“You thought you knew where we stood,” he repeats softly. “So… where did you think we stood?”
You shake your head, but he doesn’t let up.
“Because from where I’m standing,” he goes on, voice tight with something that might be desperation, “we flew a perfect hop three days ago, spent half the weekend practically glued at the hip. You drove my drunk ass home and looked after me when you didn’t have to—then today you’re… upset. Angry. You start a pointless fight with Phoenix and claim you were just being overcautious.” His eyes search yours, hard and fast. “I’m not stupid, Dove. You knew we’d be okay.”
You look away. “Drop it, Bob.”
“No,” he says, stepping closer. “I want to know. I need to know. Why did you do that?”
You open your mouth—then close it. Your pulse is thudding in your ears again. Loudly. Your hands curl into fists at your sides.
“I just—” You bite down, hard. “I panicked. I saw the numbers, and I panicked.”
“Why?”
“Because I—I’m tired, I wasn’t thinking straight.”
He shakes his head. “The truth. Why?”
You lock eyes with him again, breathless at the proximity of him. “I—I wasn’t—
“Don’t lie,” he whispers—soft, desperate.
“Because I couldn’t lose you,” you say before you can stop yourself, voice breaking at the edges.
The words hit the air like a shockwave, echoing in the small space left between your bodies.
Bob blinks, stunned.
But now it’s out, and you can’t stop.
“I couldn’t lose you,” you repeat, voice trembling. “I was in my jet, and I saw that you weren’t steady, and I didn’t think, I just—I reacted. And I know it was out of line—I know what I said was too far, but I just kept thinking that if something happened to you, I would never forgive myself. That if I let it go and you went down in flames, I—” Your breath catches hard in your throat, and you press your palms against your closed eyes. “Shit.”
You’re crying. Hot, angry tears that blur everything.
Your breath stutters.
“I’m in love with you, okay?” you choke out. “That’s why. That’s why I freaked out. That’s why I’m all messed up. Why I was angry—and jealous. Because I’m in love with you and I can’t lose you and—and if you’re in love with her then fine, I’ll deal with it, I will, but I can’t pretend like it doesn’t matter. Because it does. You do.”
Your voice finally crumbles at the edges, and you suck in a ragged breath, heart hammering, shoulders curled forward like they’re bracing for impact.
Bob doesn’t speak.
Not yet.
He just stares, stunned—and you don’t dare look up to see what’s written on his face.
For a long, aching moment, there’s nothing but silence.
Then—he snorts.
Actually snorts. A small, stunned breath of disbelief that turns into a short, shaky laugh.
Your hands fall from your face, eyes snapping up to his. “Are you—” You blink hard, throat raw. “Are you laughing at me?”
“No—God, no.” He shakes his head, still breathless, mouth curled into something halfway between a smile and a wince. “I’m not—I’m not laughing at you. I’m just…”
He exhales hard, like he’s been punched in the chest.
“Jesus, Dove. You think I’m in love with Natasha?”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
His hand comes up—almost instinctively—then drops again before he touches you.
“I wasn’t talking about her,” he says, more serious now. “On Saturday—I mean, yeah, I was drunk, and I probably said too much, but none of it was about Phoenix.”
You stare at him, heart still hammering.
“I was talking about you,” he says. “It’s always been you.”
You blink once—then twice. “Me?”
He nods. “You, dumbass.”
Your breath catches. He takes a step closer.
“I honestly thought you knew,” he says softly. “I thought I’d freaked you out. Screwed everything up. You were looking after me, and I was—God, I was so far gone I barely remember half of what I said. But I remember thinking that I’d ruined it.”
You’re staring now, wide-eyed, frozen in place—and he’s only inches away.
“And you being mad at me the next day. Avoiding me. I thought it was because I’d crossed a line.”
“No,” you whisper. “I—I was avoiding you because I didn’t want you to see how upset I was.”
He lets out another shaky breath. “God. We’re both dumbasses.”
Heat rises in your chest, crawling up your neck, into your cheeks. The air between you feels heavier now, charged with something neither of you has the will to break. His gaze doesn’t waver, and it’s no longer searching for answers—he’s already found them. There’s warmth there now, deep and unguarded, and it makes your pulse stutter hard enough to hurt.
Bob takes a step forward, close enough that you can feel the ghost of his breath. His hand starts to lift, hesitates, then settles gently on your jaw like he’s testing whether you’ll pull away.
You don’t.
Your name slips from him in a low, almost disbelieving murmur.
And before you can even think, his mouth is on yours—no warning, no time to brace. The kiss crashes into you, fierce in its need but softened by the way his lips linger, like he’s been holding this back for far too long. You melt into him instinctively, hands curling into the front of his suit, feeling the solid weight of him anchoring you. He draws you closer still, one arm winding around your waist, the other cupping your face like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched.
It’s dizzying, the rush of it—heat, relief, something that tastes dangerously like hope. You gasp against him and he kisses you deeper, like he’s trying to make up for every day he didn’t do this.
When you finally part, it’s only by a breath, foreheads pressed together, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek in slow, almost reverent strokes.
“You,” he says softly. “Always you.”
Your lips curve into a smile before you even realise, a rush of warmth flooding your chest—and then you’re surging up to kiss him again. Harder this time. Needier. He makes a low sound in his throat as you push into him, and he stumbles back until his shoulders meet the lockers with a dull, rattling thud.
You don’t stop. You press closer, chasing the heat of him, your fingers sliding into his hair and tugging until he groans. His mouth parts under yours and you take advantage, kissing him deeper, hotter, until the air between you is nothing but shared breath and the faint taste of him.
He’s flustered now, breathless, his hands clutching at your hips like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. The kiss turns wet and frantic, your mouths dragging together in a mess of heat and want. When you nip at his lower lip, he exhales sharply against your cheek, the sound so rough it makes your knees buckle.
His hips press forward without thought, and you feel the hard, insistent heat of him through the fabric of your flight suit. The low, helpless sound that escapes him only makes you kiss him harder.
Bob breaks away just enough to catch his breath, his forehead pressed to yours. His pupils are blown wide, lips kiss-swollen, and he swallows like speaking takes effort. “We need to stop before I—”
“Before you what?” you murmur, brushing your lips over his again, your smile curling slow and wicked.
A faint groan catches in his throat. He’s still looking at you like you’re something half-dangerous, half-divine when you lace your fingers through his and start backing toward the showers.
“Come on, Lieutenant,” you say, heat threading through every word. “We’ll both feel better after this.”
You walk through the door to where the showers are and stop halfway down the row of stalls. Then you reach in, twist the tap, and listen to the pipes groan before water rushes out. It always takes a little too long to heat up, so you turn back to Bob, your hand still in his, and catch the way his eyes flick anxiously toward the door.
“We shouldn’t,” he says, “someone could—”
You shut him up with a kiss before he can finish, your mouth hot and insistent against his. His protest melts under the press of your lips, his breath catching as he stumbles back a step.
Your fingers find the zipper of his flight suit, dragging it down in one slow, deliberate motion. His shoulders go tight, like the good part of him still wants to behave, but you push the fabric back, shoving it down until it hangs loose around his waist.
“You’re thinking too much,” you murmur.
Your palms smooth slowly down the front of his thin cotton shirt, feeling the quick stutter of his breath beneath your hands. You linger there, just long enough for the air between you to grow heavier—then you sink slowly to your knees.
And his eyes go impossibly wide.
Your fingers curl into the fabric of his flight suit, still bunched low on his hips, and you start easing it down. Inch by inch, dragging it slowly over his thighs until it pools around his ankles. The white of his briefs is a sharp contrast against the dark of his suit, the outline beneath leaving very little to your imagination.
When your palm slides over him, gentle at first, he inhales hard through his nose. His hands twitch at his sides like he’s not sure whether to stop you or pull you closer.
“Dove…” His voice is hoarse, strained.
You glance up to see his jaw tight, his pupils wide and dark, every inch of him pulled taut between doing the right thing and giving in completely.
You rub him again, slower this time, and his knees flex like he’s fighting to stay upright.
You lean in closer, warm breath ghosting over his hips as your lips trace the lines of muscle disappearing beneath his briefs. The subtle movement of your mouth, the gentle brush against fabric, is pure temptation—too much for him to resist.
Bob’s head dips forward, eyes fluttering closed for a fraction of a second before snapping open, wide and glassy. His hands twitch again, hesitating at first, then finally reaching down, clutching your hair gently as if anchoring himself.
“God,” he breathes out, voice rough and broken. “You’re going to kill me.”
You part your lips against the fabric covering his hard length, teeth grazing just a touch, making him shiver. The tension between needing to stay composed and losing himself in the moment warps his expression—one foot in restraint, the other sliding toward surrender.
His hips shift forward, pressing subtly into your mouth, and you take that as your invitation to deepen the motion, sliding your tongue slowly against him, tasting through the cloth.
He groans low, hands tightening in your hair, pulling you closer like he’s trying to claim what you’re offering—like he can’t wait a second longer.
You pull back just enough to meet his gaze—those dark eyes wide, pupils dilated, searching yours with a mix of desperation and longing. Then you curl your fingers into the waistband of his briefs and start dragging them down—slowly—savouring the shiver that ripples through him, the subtle hitch in his breath like a secret confession.
His body stiffens, muscles tightening, but his eyes don’t waver. They stay locked on yours, silent and electric. You see the war in his expression—part restraint, part surrender—like he’s weighing the consequences of being caught here. Like this. With you.
His hands grip your hair tighter, desperate and possessive, and it makes your pulse spike. The contrast between his tension and the softness in his eyes twists your chest with want. The room feels impossibly small, the only sound your shared breathing—heavy and uneven.
You tug his briefs lower, inch by inch, the fabric sliding down his thighs. You can feel the heat of his skin beneath your fingertips, taut muscles flexing under your touch. His dark eyes flick to your lips, then back to your eyes, pupils heavy with need and confusion.
His breath hitches sharply when you free him completely—his cock springing free. Hard, hot, even bigger than you imagined. It bobs barely an inch from your face, making your mouth water and your core clench.
“God,” he breathes, voice ragged, “you’re driving me crazy.”
You lick your lips, eyes shamelessly locked on the impressive length in front of you. “Good.”
You lean in slowly, bracing a hand on each of his thighs, your breath warm against the sensitive skin of his cock. Your tongue flicks out, just barely grazing the tip, tasting the salty heat lingering there—and he lets out a sharp, startled breath.
The knot behind your hips tightens, your pulse thrumming in time with the wetness gathering between your legs.
One hand slides up slowly, your fingers curling around the base of him, feeling the way he pulses beneath your touch. His hips twitch forward instinctively, chasing the friction your mouth teases.
Your eyes lift to meet his, holding his gaze as you close your lips around the tip—and he gasps.
Your tongue traces tiny, teasing circles around the head, savouring every tiny twitch that ripples through his body. You pull back just enough to release him, slow and deliberate, as if memorising every desperate sound that slips from him.
His breathing is uneven now, stuttering sharply when you take him into your mouth again. Deeper this time, letting the weight of him slide against your tongue. You hum softly, tightening your grip, revelling in the way he chokes on his next breath.
The taste of him is intoxicating—the warmth, the slickness—and you can feel the pool of your own saliva at the corners of your mouth. His eyes never leave your face, glued to the slow, steady slide of his cock between your lips.
He looks almost completely unravelled—cheeks flushed, pupils blown so wide there’s barely any blue left. His glasses are still sitting crooked, fogged slightly from his heavy breathing and the steam curling through the air.
Your tongue slides along the underside of his cock, tracing the tender, swollen ridge where the head meets the shaft. Drool slips freely now—slick, warm—dripping down your chin, making every movement slippery and delicious.
Bob’s breath hitches, his hands tightening again in your hair, holding him steady even as he starts to lose control. You feel the tremble in his thighs, the subtle jerk of his hips—desperate for more friction, more sensation.
But you don’t rush. You pull back just enough, then take him deeper again. Soft moans escape his lips, barely held back. His pulse throbs visibly beneath your palm, his cock twitching under your touch, telling you exactly how close he’s getting.
You hollow your cheeks and suck gently, pulling at him like you’re savouring a rare, delicious taste. Your hand strokes in rhythm, slow and steady, and his whole body shudders—a sharp breath catching in his throat.
His eyes flutter closed, lashes resting against flushed cheeks, but then snap open again, glazed and wild with need. You pull back again, lips swollen, mouth slick with drool and precum.
“Sweetheart,” he rasps, voice ragged, desperate, “‘m not gonna last if you keep teasing me like this.”
You smile around him and increase the pressure of your tongue, moving your mouth faster now. His breath stutters, low groans slipping free as his hands tighten in your hair, holding you firm. His body trembles beneath your touch, muscles clenched.
Then suddenly—his grip on your hair sharpens, almost painfully, and before you can deepen the rhythm, he pulls back with a harsh breath.
“Seriously,” he mutters, “you’re going to kill me.”
You glance up, lips parted and cheeks flushed, but before you can answer, his hands slide down to your shoulders, gripping them firmly. With a sharp tug, he pulls you off your knees, making you stumble slightly as your legs lose balance.
His mouth claims yours immediately—hard, urgent, desperate—silencing every word you might have spoken. The sudden closeness sends heat rushing through you, your bodies pressed tight as his hands slide lower, tracing the curves of your waist.
When he pulls away, his breath is heavy, chest rising and falling fast. His dark eyes search yours, pupils blown wide with want.
“We need to be quick,” he says softly, voice thick. “Before we get caught.”
Without hesitation, you start pulling at the zipper of your flight suit, fingers trembling with anticipation. The fabric falls open, and you shrug out of it, pushing it down around your hips and kicking it off into a pile on the floor.
Bob moves quickly too, kicking off his flight suit and briefs, and yanking his shirt over his head.
You can’t take your eyes off him even as you continue undressing—pulling your shirt over your head, discarding your bra, stepping out of your embarrassingly damp panties.
“God,” Bob exhales, voice low. “You’re beautiful.”
His lips find your neck, hands wrapping around your ribs. The heat of his skin on yours makes your head spin, but you don’t have time to dwell on it.
“Shower,” you murmur, voice breathless.
His tongue laves at your collarbone, soothing the spot where his teeth had just been.
“Bob,” you breathe.
He glances up, his glasses almost completely fogged.
You laugh softly, carefully slipping them off for him, folding them, and placing them on the pile of clothes. Then you turn toward the shower stall and step inside, never losing the heat of his body close behind yours.
You step beneath the spray of hot water and turn to face Bob, your bodies pressing close, chest to chest, breath mingling with the mist. His lips ghost over your temple, then trail down the curve of your neck, each kiss feather-light but charged.
Your fingers curl into his hair, tugging him just enough to draw his mouth back to yours. The kiss is softer now—a pause after the urgency—but no less full of want.
Bob’s hands slide higher, tracing your ribs, skimming the sensitive skin beneath your breasts. You arch toward him, pulse thudding as his touch sets every nerve alight.
If you had a moment to think, you’d probably nearly faint at the fact that you’re naked with Bob in the shower right now. But there’s no time. You’re on base, and if you get caught—the consequences would be too severe to imagine.
“I need you,” you whisper, barely audible over the rush of water.
A low groan rumbles deep in his chest before his lips find yours again—more urgent this time. Your hands grip his shoulders as his slide down your sides, fingertips tracing wet skin until they settle at your hips.
He pulls back just enough to lock eyes with you, his expression suddenly serious.
“Are you sure?”
You press your body tighter to his, hips moving deliberately to grind his hard length against your slick skin—and he chokes on a moan.
“Yes,” you murmur. “I’m sure.”
That’s all it takes for one of his hands to slip between your legs, fingers sliding easily through your wet heat.
“Sweetheart,” he sighs, eyes fluttering shut, voice thick. “You’re so wet.”
Your cheeks flush as a tremor rips through your body, aching low and fierce. His fingers move slow, teasing, coaxing you open—each touch setting fire to your nerves.
“F—Fuck,” you breathe out, breath hitching. “I’m not going to last long.”
He chuckles low and presses a finger to your entrance.
You gasp sharply, gripping his shoulders tighter, nails digging in. He pumps once—then twice—and then slides another finger in, curling just right, making your knees wobble.
“‘M sorry, baby,” he murmurs, voice husky. “Gotta get you ready.”
You nod, resting your forehead against his shoulder and trailing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along his chest as his fingers stretch you. When he adds the third, the delicious burn makes your muscles tremble and a broken moan spill free.
“Shh, sweetheart,” he soothes. “We have to be quiet. Someone could hear.”
The way he’s holding you steady while coaxing you open—so tender yet so commanding—makes your chest ache with something fierce. You’ve never seen this side of Bob before—obviously—but you always knew every part of him was perfect. Especially this part, raw and vulnerable, naked and intimate… and about to fuck you right here in the showers at North Island Naval Base.
“Turn around for me,” he says softly.
You whimper at the sudden loss of his fingers, and he chuckles low against your skin, pressing a kiss to your temple. His hands find your shoulders—turning you to face the wall—before sliding down and gently gripping your wrists, lifting them until your palms rest flat against the cool tile.
His lips drop to your shoulder and trail up your neck, tongue flicking softly beneath your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “You ready?” he whispers, breath hot against your skin.
“‘M ready,” you murmur, voice trembling.
His hands glide down to your hips, fingers digging in as he pulls you flush against him. Your back arches instinctively, your ass pressing against the hard length of him, and he lets out a choked sound—half groan, half sigh.
You glance over your shoulder, breath heavy, catching sight of his hand dipping down to trace through your slick again. “You’re so ready for me, sweetheart.”
A low whimper leaves your lips and you push back, desperate for more.
The hand still on your hip tightens while the other guides his cock to your entrance, the head nudging between your folds. His eyes flicker between your face and where he’s about to sink in, torn between watching you and watching the way you take him.
Then, with breath held tight between you, he pushes forward.
You gasp at the delicious stretch—the first inch testing you.
“It’s okay, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You can take me.”
His grip on your hip tightens—almost painfully so—as if bruising your skin will ground him enough to hold back some of the need threatening to overwhelm him. The other hand slides up your ribs, palms your breast, fingers pinching your nipple until you gasp sharply—and that’s when he pushes in another inch.
“So good for me,” he mutters, voice rough and strained.
You let out a breathy, garbled moan, hips wriggling slightly. The stretch is immense, filling you completely—intense but not painful, just enough to make you ache for more.
Slowly, reverently, he sinks deeper. Your breaths come ragged, moans choked and urgent. You both know the danger—any noise could give you away, the clock ticking mercilessly down as the threat of being discovered looms.
Bob’s hand stays on your breast, fingers teasing your nipple just enough to distract you from the growing pressure of him buried inside. And finally, he bottoms out, hips flush against your ass.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he breathes. “You’ve got all of me.”
He pauses for a moment—still—but you feel the tightrope of his control beginning to fray.
“It’s okay,” you whisper, voice trembling. “You—you can move.”
His hands find your hips again, this time gentle, grounding.
“I’ll go slow—”
“No,” you interrupt, glancing over your shoulder again, breath hitching. “I want you to fuck me, Bob. We don’t have much time, so just—please.”
His hips jerk back and then thrust forward, the sudden movement nearly buckling your knees if he wasn’t holding you so steady.
“Fuck,” you choke out, breathless.
“You want me to fuck you?” His voice drops low, dangerous.
You throw your head back, pressing your fingertips harder against the tile. “Yes. Please.”
“Such pretty manners,” he murmurs, voice laced with heat. “Such a good girl.”
He thrusts forward again—harder this time. And again. And again. There’s no stopping now.
His movements are relentless and rough, but his touch holds a tenderness that makes you feel like something sacred—like you’re his alone to claim. He fucks into you with fierce need, and the noises climbing up your throat are raw and inhuman, impossible to fully stifle.
Every thrust hits the perfect spot, sending your vision hazy and your skin aflame. You can hear his ragged breaths, the obscene, wet slap of skin against skin—but his rhythm never falters, steady and unyielding.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice rough and broken. “You’re so perfect.”
He leans forward, hands sliding up your sides. One finds your breast again, fingers pinching your nipple hard enough to make you cry out, while the other dips between your legs.
His fingers draw teasing, deliberate circles around your clit—coaxing, taunting—careful to avoid the bundle of nerves just enough to make you ache. He rolls your nipple with practiced ease, like he’s always known exactly how to make you come undone. Like it’s etched into his very bones. You and him. Perfect pleasure. Perfect harmony.
“Bob,” you whine—really whine this time, desperate and breathless. “Please.”
He grunts low into your ear, chest pressing against your back, claiming you utterly.
“Please what?”
“T—Touch me,” you choke out, the words riding the rhythm of his thrusts.
His hand slips from your breast to grip your hip, steadying you both—and for the first time, his hips stutter. You know he’s close; neither of you are lasting much longer.
“I am touching you, sweetheart,” he breathes against your skin, voice thick.
You groan, frustrated, bratty, and desperate.
He chuckles softly. “You want me to touch your clit, baby?”
Before you can answer, his fingers find it—making you choke on a sharp breath. The pressure is perfect. The fullness of him inside you. The slick heat of his skin against yours. You’ve wanted this—wanted him—so badly that you’re trembling, on the edge, about to come apart embarrassingly fast.
His thrusts grow harder, sharper, until each one drags a broken sound from your throat. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but take it, his cock stretching you just right while his fingers work you into a fever.
“Bob—” His name leaves your lips in a gasp, your knees threatening to give out as white heat coils low in your belly.
“I’ve got you,” he rasps, voice fraying at the edges. His hips piston into you, chasing the end, the wet sounds between you filthy and relentless. “Come for me, baby. I want to feel you.”
It hits hard. Your orgasm rips through you with a sharp cry you barely manage to swallow, clenching tight around him, body shaking under the force of it. His fingers stay firm on your clit, drawing it out, making you gasp and whimper through every pulsing wave.
“Jesus, sweetheart—” His voice breaks as his rhythm falters. One, two more deep drives and he’s gone, spilling into you with a guttural groan, hips pressed tight against yours. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath ragged, heartbeat thundering against your back.
Neither of you move for a moment. The air is thick with steam, heat, and the heavy sound of breathing. His hands stay on you—steadying, grounding—as if letting go might mean waking from a dream.
It’s only when your heartbeat starts to slow that the world begins to filter back in—the tile under your palms, the rush of water, the faint sounds of life outside. And you remember that you’re still on base, in the showers, with the door locked and his cum inside you.
Bob shifts behind you, gently pulling out and turning you in his arms. You go willingly, your legs a little unsteady, your gaze catching his. His hair is wet and plastered to his forehead, his eyes dark in a way you’ve never seen before—raw, open, and a little unsure.
Without a word, he pulls you against his chest. His arms wrap around you, strong and solid, the heat of him sinking into you, indistinguishable from the shower’s embrace. You press your face to his shoulder, inhaling the faint scent of sweat beneath the steam.
For a moment, there’s nothing but the beat of his heart against yours, the steady rise and fall of his chest. The reality is there, a quiet hum beneath the comfort—what you just did, what it means, how much has changed—but neither of you say it. Not yet.
You swallow hard, chest still heaving. “We should—”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low in your ear. “Before someone finds us.”
When you pull back, he’s smiling softly—boyish, almost shy—and it makes your chest ache. How can this man do what he just did to you and then have the audacity to look so damn sweet about it?
You can’t stop yourself from grinning as you push up onto your toes and press a quick kiss to his mouth, both of you smiling into it like idiots now. You pull away before it gets dangerous again and rinse off in a rush. The water shuts off with a squeak, and you crack the stall door just enough to snag the single towel hanging on the hook outside.
There’s only one—since you weren’t exactly expecting company—but you make do, passing it between you in quick swipes, bumping elbows, stealing kisses, stifling laughter.
Bob redresses and tugs his flight suit up just enough to hang loose around his hips, hair still wet, while you wrap yourself in the towel. Then you head back to the locker room together, about to round the corner toward your row of lockers when—
“You know the lock didn’t latch properly, right?”
Natasha is perched on the bench in the middle of the room, brows arched, lips pursed.
“Holy shit,” you gasp, stumbling back into Bob.
“Oh my God,” he mutters, dropping his head into your shoulder as if he can hide there.
“H—How long have you—”
“Only a few minutes,” she says, and her smirk is lethal. “Which is about two minutes more than anyone should have to endure. You’re lucky I’m a professional.” She tilts her head. “I came in earlier to apologise to Dove and heard… noises. I recognised your voice—” she gives Bob a pointed look that turns his whole face crimson— “and immediately fled for my own survival. But then I ran into Mav, who was wandering this way, so I had to stall him with a full TED Talk on the history of carburettors versus fuel-injection. You’re welcome.”
Your eyes go wide. “He didn’t… hear anything, did he?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. I saved you from public humiliation and probable court-martial. And now…” She crosses her arms, grinning like the cat who caught the canary. “I get to sit here and watch you two try to pretend you’re not freshly defiled in a government facility. This is my new favourite reality show.”
You groan. “Nat—”
“Relax,” she says, eyes sparkling. “Your secret’s safe with me. But you owe me a therapy session.”
Your lips twitch. “Happy hour at The Hard Deck?”
“That’s my girl.” She winks, already backing toward the door. “Now get dressed. I’m parched, and the others are dying to hear all the details that I’m definitely not keeping to myself.”
Then she’s gone—the door clicking shut before you can even think of a comeback.
You turn to Bob. “We’re never living this down, are we?”
His cheeks are still flushed, but he shakes his head. “Never.”
“And she’s going to tell everyone before we even get there?”
He nods, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Definitely.”
You narrow your eyes. “Then why are you smiling?”
He shrugs, sliding his arms around your waist and tugging you close. “Because I just had sex with the woman I’m in love with—for the first time.”
Heat rushes through you so fast it’s almost dizzying. “Yeah?”
He rests his forehead against yours with a dramatic sigh, his shoulders sagging. “And now I get to be interrogated about it by my entire squad.”
You giggle softly. “Or… we could skip the interrogation and go back to my place.”
His groan melts into your mouth as he kisses you.
“I’d love to,” he murmurs, “but you promised Phoenix cheap cocktails and free therapy. And frankly, I fear her more than the navy.”
You sigh. “Yeah, you’re right.”
He kisses you again, deeper this time, and your arms loop around his neck.
“How about,” you murmur against his mouth, “one drink, just enough explanation to make Mickey stop asking questions… then we go home and have Olympic-level sex until we pass out?”
His grin is warm against your lips. “Deal. And then I’m never letting you go.”
summary: you and bob are obviously into each other, but he's hesitant to make a move claiming you're too young for him, until a whole lot of miscommunication—jealousy, tension, the works—and a training accident lands you in hospital
notes: the lew spiral is still spiralling and i almost struggled writing this because i love him so much??? anyways, it's heaps of fun, has all the tension, jealousy, angst, fluff, and of course... lots of horny thoughts! please let me know what you think!!! (p.s. shout out to the critical role nerds for the callsign, iykyk)
warnings: swearing, miscommunication, reference to a slight age gap (but it isn't specified and it's also described as 'barely there'), teasing, short skirts (sorry bob), jealousy, switching pov (kind of), plane crash, very minor description of injury, and horniness so 18+ ONLY MDNI! (let me know if i missed anything)
word count: 18022 (i have no chill whatsoever)
your callsign is vex
Bob Floyd never thought of himself as someone who took particular interest in the weather—unless it had to do with flying, of course. But on the ground? He couldn’t care less. Or, he shouldn’t.
Especially not when it comes to what the weather makes people wear. How is that any of his business? It shouldn’t matter how hot it is outside or how that directly affects the amount of material someone’s wearing. It really shouldn’t.
But it does. And not just with anyone. No—this has everything to do with you.
You, in that damn sundress and those ridiculous cowboy boots that shouldn’t be giving Bob a semi in the middle of the goddamn bar.
And yet, there you are in all your glory. Legs on display, that flowy little skirt just barely covering the curve of your ass. And fuck if it isn’t making it impossible for Bob to keep his eyes from wandering.
“God damn,” Jake says, his southern drawl thick as his green eyes lock onto you—or more specifically, your ass. “Do you think she knows?”
Bob blinks, brows pulling together as he turns toward Jake, trying—and failing, miserably—not to sound annoyed that he’s checking you out. “Know what?”
“What a girl like that does to guys like us,” Jake replies easily.
Reuben chuckles and takes a slow sip of his beer. “Oh, she knows. She definitely knows.”
“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Could you creeps stop looking at her like she’s something to eat? It’s gross. She’s our friend. Our teammate.”
Jake opens his mouth, lips already curled into his usual smirk, but Natasha puts a hand up to stop him.
“And she’s barely younger than us, so don’t say anything weird about her age.”
Jake rolls his eyes and lifts his beer. “Wasn’t gonna…”
There’s a beat of silence as Bob lets his eyes drift back to you, drinking in the way you’re leaning against the bar. Elbow propped, hip cocked, one boot crossed over the other, and your head tipped just slightly as you talk to the dark-haired stranger beside you.
“Wait,” Mickey leans forward, squinting—very unsubtly—across the bar. “Is that her date?”
Natasha nods. “Think so. Looks like the guy she showed me.”
Bob’s head snaps toward her, dark blue eyes wide. “She’s on a date?”
Mickey giggles. Reuben snorts. Even Bradley has to hide a laugh behind his beer.
“Alright,” Jake says, slapping a hand on the table in mock outrage. “Who didn’t tell Bob?”
Natasha shoots him a flat look before turning back to Bob. “Didn’t you hear us talking about it at lunch? She met some guy on Hinge or something.”
“Said she was gonna go home with him and let him keep her up all night,” Jake adds with a wicked grin. “Y’know, since we’re starting night rides next week—figured she’d get used to staying up late.”
“I was intentionally leaving that part out,” Nat says, glaring at Jake. “But thanks for clearing it all up, Bagman.”
Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.”
Bob’s jaw twitches. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, but he can’t relax—not with that guy’s hand on your hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric like he has some right to touch you. Like you belong to him.
Which you don’t. You don’t belong to anyone.
At least, that’s what Bob has to keep telling himself.
“Easy, Floyd,” Bradley mutters beside him. “You keep staring like that, the poor guy’s gonna catch fire.”
Bob doesn’t respond. He can’t. His voice is gone, breath caught somewhere in his throat. He’s too focused on your smile—how it flickers, just a little off. Not quite like the one you wear with them. With him.
It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care whether or not you’re giving that stranger the same bright smile or soft laugh you always give him. Because it’s none of his business.
Who you date and what you do—none of it is his business. You’re allowed to wear tiny dresses, flirt with strangers, and laugh at guys who think they’re clever.
It shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
God, it fucking matters—way more than it should.
Because for the first time in weeks, you’re not looking at him. You’re looking at... that guy.
And even though he tells himself—repeatedly, a thousand times a day—not to enjoy being the centre of your attention... he does.
He lives for it.
“You know,” Reuben says slowly, lips curled into the tiniest smirk, “this wouldn’t even be happening if you’d sack up and—”
“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.”
“What?” He raises both hands in mock innocence. “All I’m trying to say is, if he likes her that much, he should just ask her out. She’s clearly into him. We all know it.”
Bob’s eyes flick between you and Reuben, his brows furrowed slightly as his thoughts tug in opposite directions. On one hand, yeah, Reuben’s logic makes perfect sense. Bob’s not blind—he sees the way you look at him. The way your face lights up when you talk to him, the quiet smile you wear just for him, the blush you try to hide when he says something low and teasing.
But on the other hand? He just can’t do it. You’re young—too young. And he’s... well, he’s not old, but he’s older. It’s not a huge age gap, not really, but that paired with how drop-dead gorgeous you are? It’s enough to make him feel like a—
“Nothin’ wrong with being a cradle-snatcher,” Jake chimes in, eyes sparkling as he lifts his beer.
Bradley chuckles quietly. “Jesus, Hangman. You’re on fire tonight.”
“Why thank you, Rooster,” Jake replies smoothly.
Natasha rolls her eyes and downs the rest of her beer in one long swig, looking thoroughly done with all of them.
The conversation shifts then—to next week’s night ops training—but Bob barely hears it. The pounding of his pulse is too loud, drowning everything out. And he can’t stop watching you.
The way your hands move when you talk, how your dress sways as you shift your weight, the gentle curve of your smile. Even over the music and chatter, he swears he can hear your laughter—if he strains.
And it kills him. Because he’s not the one making you laugh tonight.
-
“Wanna get out of here?” Ryan asks, his voice low in your ear, breath warm against your neck.
But not in a sexy way. Not in the way that sends goosebumps down your arms or makes your skin prickle with anticipation. It just makes you feel warm—too warm—in the packed, overheated bar.
Honestly, for the last forty-five minutes, while Ryan has been telling you all about his super interesting job—he's a carpenter, it’s not that interesting—you’ve been seriously considering hopping behind the bar to help Penny and Jimmy.
“It’s barely nine,” you say, forcing a polite smile as you tilt your head.
“Yeah,” he chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’ve got to be at work by six tomorrow morning, so I figured if we ducked out now, we could... you know, mess around a bit before bed.”
The way he says it nearly makes you laugh. He sounds like a teenager trying to sneak in some action before curfew.
“Look,” you sigh, laying a hand on his knee, “this has been fun, but I’m just not your girl. And honestly? I was kinda hoping this would distract me from someone else, but... you’re not him. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault—this one’s on me. But, uh... good luck!”
He looks completely flabbergasted. Like the blank stare you’ve worn for most of the evening—or the way your gaze kept drifting across the bar toward someone else—wasn’t a hint. God, he might be even dumber than you thought.
You slip off the barstool with a clipped smile, wishing you looked more sincere, but your body is already moving toward where you really want to be—where your squad is.
Where Bob is.
You’re just about to head for the booth when your eye catches on Penny—and the very large crowd waiting to be served.
“Damn it,” you sigh, pivoting sharply and hurrying around the bar.
You slip through the swinging wooden doors behind the bar and fall in beside Penny, listening closely to the man ordering drinks—his voice raised over the music and chatter. Without hesitation, you start grabbing clean glasses, catching Penny off guard as you begin pouring pints of golden beer.
“Sorry,” you say with a soft laugh. “I saw the crowd and couldn’t just let you suffer.”
She rolls her eyes but smiles. “I’d tell you to scram if you weren’t so gorgeous—and a literal lifesaver.”
You give her a cheeky wink before lining up the beers on a tray for the man. Penny swipes his card, and he’s gone in half the time. Then the next patron steps up, and you keep working smoothly, moving effortlessly behind the bar and easing the pressure.
Eventually, the line dies down, and Penny takes full advantage of your presence by sending Jimmy out back for more stock. You stay behind the bar while she ducks off to collect empties, keeping yourself busy wiping benches, refilling lime wedges, and unloading the freshly washed glasses.
You’re so focused on scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on the bar top that you don’t notice someone approach—someone you usually have a hard time not noticing.
“You don’t work here,” Bob says, voice light, lips twitching at the corners.
You glance up, your heart immediately jumping into overdrive. “I could,” you say, straightening. “Maybe I should quit the Navy. Bartending might be my true calling.”
He chuckles. “You’re one of the best fighter pilots in the country, and you think slinging drinks is your destiny?”
You shrug, leaning forward casually—knowing exactly what you’re doing. His eyes flick down to your chest for a split second before snapping back up, fast enough to pretend it didn’t happen.
“Hey, don’t knock it. This job is harder than it looks.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he says softly, watching with quiet intensity as you pour him a pint of cherry soda—without him even needing to ask.
You slide it over with a small smile. “What do you think? I’m a pretty good bartender, huh?”
His cheeks tint pink, the flush dusting across his nose. “Yeah. I think you make a very pretty bartender.”
You smirk. “Was that a compliment, Lieutenant?”
He rolls his eyes and drops a crumpled ten onto the bar like it might save him from saying more.
You shake your head. “Don’t worry, it’s on the house.”
“You sure you’ve got that kind of authority?” he teases.
“Penny said our drinks are free tonight,” you reply, smug. “Payment for being an excellent bartender.”
“And for filling the tip jar faster than I’ve ever seen,” Penny chimes in as she reappears, arms full of empty glasses.
Your cheeks heat as Bob’s gaze flicks toward the overflowing jar.
“Wow,” he chuckles softly.
You flick your hair dramatically and bat your lashes. “Perks of being a pretty bartender, I guess.”
Then you turn around and bend over to grab something from the fridge—very aware of the effect—and sure enough, Bob promptly chokes on his soda. He coughs, his whole face turning red as he pounds a fist against his chest.
“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, “more like consequences of a skirt that short.”
You snap upright, brows lifting and eyes gleaming with amusement. “Bob Floyd, did you just comment on the length of my skirt?”
He blinks fast. “No.”
You tilt your head, fighting a grin. “You sure? Because the colour in your cheeks looks a little guilty to me.”
He straightens up, his usual walls clicking into place like armour. “Didn’t say anything.”
You roll your eyes and plant both hands on the bar, leaning forward just enough to make him squirm. “Bob, I’m not a baby. And I’m not some virginal schoolgirl, either. You’re not going to hell just for flirting with me.” You pause, letting your gaze hold his. “Hell, if you did it more often, I might take you to heaven.”
His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and you see the want flicker in his eyes—just before he reins it back in.
“But if the age gap is that big of a deal to you—which, for the record, is barely anything—then maybe stop looking at me like you’re picturing me naked.” Your voice drops. “Mixed signals can really confuse a girl.”
You hear the softest laugh from Penny, but your eyes stay locked on Bob’s—daring him to look down again, to do something other than walk away.
He clears his throat. “Thanks for the drink.”
Then he turns and walks away, heading straight back to the booth where all your friends are—acting like they haven’t been watching, but you know better. They’re all too nosy for their own good.
You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.”
Penny laughs again, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Fighter pilots, actually. They’re a very special breed of difficult.”
“Hey,” you giggle. “I am a fighter pilot.”
She nods, smirking. “And there’s not a doubt in my mind how difficult you’re makin’ life for that boy right now.”
You press your lips together and give her a flat look—because yeah… she’s not wrong.
After all, why else bring a guy to the bar you knew your friends would be at—you knew he would be at? Why wear a dress this short? And why spend half the night with your eyes locked on him, just wishing he’d walk over and interrupt your lousy date?
-
Graveyard shift. Bat hours. Vampire runs. Ghost hops. Night rides.
Whatever you want to call it—the squad hates night ops.
It’s dark, it’s eerie, and your NVGs fog up if you so much as breathe wrong. Fatigue hits harder, the skeleton crew slows everything down, and visibility is shot—so you’re flying blind, trusting your radar and your WSO to keep you alive.
“You know what’s great about night ops?” Mickey says, head tipped back in his chair. “Nothing. Not the dark, not the sleep deprivation, not the existential dread at two a.m. while staring into the black void wondering if your wingman ghosted you or just changed frequency.”
You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee.
“It’s night one, Fanboy,” Natasha mutters beside you. “We still have four weeks of this. Are you going to complain the whole time?”
Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.”
“Did Mav piss Cyclone off or something?” Reuben asks.
You shake your head. “Nah. He heard there might be a mission coming up with night flying. Figured we should get ahead of it.”
“Or he just hates us,” Javy sighs, eyes half-shut.
Natasha snorts. “Did you sleep at all today, Coyote?”
“Nope,” he grumbles, shifting a glare toward Jake. “Someone had his whale noises up too loud and bit my head off when I told him to turn it down.”
Jake shoots him a look. “They help me sleep. If you’ve got a problem, buy some earplugs.”
“Damn,” you mutter. “Glad you’re not my wingman tonight, Coyote.”
He shifts his glare your way and flips you off lazily before letting his eyes shut completely.
“So, Vex,” Jake says, twisting in his seat toward you, “never did hear how that date went the other night.”
You arch a brow. “Oh, so now I have to report back on all my dates?”
Jake’s lips twitch, his gaze flicking toward Bob. “Dates? As in plural? Just how many are we talking here?”
“That’s none of your business,” you reply, taking another sip of coffee.
There’s a brief pause, and his eyes narrow—seeing through you a little too easily. “The date tanked?”
Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side.
“Yes,” you mutter. “It sucked. He was boring. And no, I didn’t get laid. So yes, I’m in a less-than-favourable mood.”
Jake’s smirk turns wicked. “Sweetheart, if getting laid is what you need, you only have to ask.”
Your brows shoot up. “That so?”
He nods.
You turn to Javy, who’s about one breath away from snoring. “Coyote.”
His eyes snap open. “Huh?”
“Want to fuck me?”
He startles—eyes wide, mouth dropping open. “I—uh, what?”
Laughter rumbles through the room—everyone giggling softly at poor, confused Javy.
Well... almost everyone.
Bob isn’t laughing. In fact, he’s not even smiling, or looking your way. His eyes are glued to his phone—even though you can see the screen is blank.
Which means he’s definitely listening.
You shift in your chair and give Natasha a sidelong smirk. Her brow furrows slightly—a silent question about what you’re up to—but she nods anyway, signalling that she’ll follow your lead no matter where it goes.
“Does anyone know if Cyclone’s single?” you ask, voice light and dripping with faux innocence.
Mickey’s eyes go wide. “Admiral Simpson?”
You nod, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. He’s hot.”
“Agreed,” Natasha says—and from the way her mouth curves, she’s not just playing along. She definitely agrees.
“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks.
Javy frowns, still half-asleep but clearly paying attention now. “Nah, I think they divorced.”
“So,” you say slowly, “what I’m hearing is... he’s single?”
Bradley’s gaze flicks to Bob—just for a second—before settling back on you, reading you like a damn open book. “Bit old for you, isn’t he, Vex?”
You shrug with a smile. “Not at all. I like older men. More experience.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way Bob shifts in his seat—just slightly, but it’s enough. He’s not looking at you, but the tips of his ears have turned pink, and his jaw is locked tight as he keeps his eyes on his phone. Still blank.
“I swear he’s still married,” Mickey says, clearly trying to get this train back on the rails.
“Yeah,” Reuben adds. “Didn’t they do couples counselling?”
“They did,” Maverick says, breezing into the room like the punchline to your joke. “Didn’t stick. So yes, he’s single.” He pauses in front of you, green eyes sparkling with amusement. “But I’m not sure how he feels about dating subordinates. Want me to find out?”
You match his smirk with one of your own, sitting up a little straighter as you meet his gaze. “How generous of you, Captain. That would be great.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he moves to the front of the room and sets a stack of papers down on the desk. “Alright, aviators,” he says. “Welcome to night ops.”
After an hour-long briefing and way too many questions about why you’re all stuck on night training, Maverick orders everyone to get ready for the first hop. You’re on deck with Jake, Natasha, and, of course... Bob.
The four of you ride in silence across the flight line, packed into one of the motorised carts as Maverick drives you from the squadron building to the hangar. There’s a low buzz of anticipation in the air, but no one says much. It’s late, and everyone is focusing on their own little preflight rituals.
Once you reach the hangar, the ground crew directs you toward the night ops staging area where your NVGs and gear are laid out. You’ve done enough of these late-night flights to know the drill, so you join the others in wordlessly collecting your kit and starting to suit up.
By the time you make it out onto the tarmac, your jets are already prepped and the crew chiefs are finishing up their walk-arounds. You head over to your jet, nodding to the plane captain before starting your own pre-flight check—walking the length of the fuselage, scanning for anything off, running a practiced eye over control surfaces, landing gear, intakes. It’s second nature by now, but you don’t cut corners. Especially not in the dark.
Once you’re satisfied, you turn to face the runway and pull your helmet on, checking the vision through your NVGs. It’s blurry—just enough to make you squint. The image is skewed, the edges fuzzy, crawling inward like shadows that shouldn’t be there.
You mutter something sharp under your breath, reaching up to adjust the settings yourself when—
“Don’t move.” The voice is low. Steady. Too close.
You freeze instinctively as Bob steps in—right into your space, like you’re the only two souls on the glowing stretch of tarmac. His gloved hand finds the side of your helmet, fingers sliding into place with steady control. It should feel clinical—routine—but it doesn’t. It burns. Even through the goddamn helmet.
“I can fix it,” he murmurs, eyes on your goggles, not your face. “Tilt your chin up.”
You obey—barely—and he leans in, his body almost touching to yours. One hand on your cheek-plate now, the other carefully turning the tiny focus dial above your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and shallow, and it sends a pulse through your ribs that you’re trying desperately not to show.
“Didn't this happen last time?” he asks, the corner of his lips twitching. “You jam the strap too tight.”
“I like it snug,” you mutter, not trusting your voice with anything flirtier. Not when he’s this close.
Bob hums, low in his throat. “Of course you do.”
Your heart stutters.
He adjusts something with a flick of his thumb—the pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful. Like he's memorising the shape of you under the gear. Your jaw flexes.
“You always get this close when you’re adjusting gear?” you ask, pretending the heat in your voice is a joke and not a plea.
Bob stills for a beat. Just one.
Then—very softly—he whispers, “Only yours.”
You swear your knees nearly give.
But before you can breathe or speak or lean the half-inch forward that would start something you probably shouldn’t want this badly, Bob finishes the final adjustment and lets his hands fall. Slowly. Like it costs him something.
“There,” he says, voice low but distant now. “Better?”
You blink behind the goggles. “Yeah. Clear.”
He lingers for half a second more—just enough to feel like maybe he wants to say something else—then turns and walks back toward the others without another word.
You don’t move. You can’t. You’re just standing there in the dark, goggles perfectly focused, heart pounding like you’re about to hit Mach 1.
It takes an embarrassingly long minute for you to remember how to function. To stop thinking about how close he’d just been—how you could smell him, feel his heat, and how, if you’d tipped your chin up and stretched just a little… you might’ve been able to kiss him.
But then you hear Maverick shouting across the tarmac, calling for a final rundown before wheels-up.
You shake your head, yank your helmet off, and join the others for a quick debrief before splitting up again and climbing into your jets. You settle in, strap your helmet back on, check your now perfectly focused NVGs, and run your usual internal systems check.
Then—after the green light from ground crew—you’re in the sky. Squinting through your goggles, seeing the world saturated in green and grey, and wondering why the fuck no one has invented a better form of night vision yet.
“Remind me again why we’re stuck on the graveyard shift,” Jake says, voice dry. “Because as much as I love flying blind through pitch-black nothingness, I’d really rather be in bed right now.”
“You’re not blind, Hangman,” Maverick replies. “We’ve got one of the best WSOs in the world with us.”
“Oh, good,” Jake says sarcastically. “My life’s in the hands of Phoenix’s baby on board.”
You roll your eyes. “I’d rather have my life in Bob’s hands than yours, Bagman.”
His chuckle crackles through the radio. “Yeah, I know where you’d like to have Bob’s hands. And it’s not holding your life.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks, making the cockpit suddenly feel way too hot—your flight suit practically suffocating.
“Hangman,” Maverick warns. “Be professional.”
Jake scoffs. “Oh, so those two can eye-fuck each other all night long, but I can’t say the obvious out loud?”
There’s a pause—a beat where you wonder if he’s finally pushed it too far—but then Maverick’s laughter cuts through.
“Yes. Because they do it quietly.”
Your eyes go wide and you almost—almost—fumble a right bank. “Mav!”
More laughter crackles through the radio, Natasha now joining in. You’re just about to tell them all to stick it when the mood shifts, and the laughter stops.
“Vex, check your two,” Maverick says, voice sharp and low. “Something’s throwing heat.”
“Negative,” Bob cuts in. “Let me scan it first.”
You hesitate, holding formation, but frustration flares under your skin. Did Bob really just override a direct order?
“Confirming IR spike,” Bob says after a beat. “Something’s cooking down there, but it doesn’t match any known signature.”
You glance down at the blur on your MFD. “I’ll break off, check it out.”
“Wait. Don’t.” Bob’s voice is low but tense, edged with something more than caution.
“Why?” you snap, anger prickling your chest.
“I... I don’t like it,” he says. “It’s not worth the risk.”
You grit your teeth and break off anyway, flying low and steady toward the suspicious heat signature.
“I’m going to check it out, Mav,” you say, voice tight. “Hangman, got my six?”
“Copy,” Jake replies.
You bank left, staying quiet as you approach the stretch of uninhabited grassland. Your HUD flickers with the steady IR pulse—a dull orange glow against the dark terrain. Too concentrated for a campfire. Too controlled for a random burn. It’s creeping north—methodical.
You drop lower when you spot flashing lights—fire crews moving with purpose, reflective gear flickering like stars in the NVG haze. This isn’t an accident. It’s a controlled burn.
“Mav, why is there a fire in a training zone?” you ask. “Shouldn’t that be logged?”
“It’s just brush management?” Maverick asks, sounding almost relieved.
“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can.
“Copy. I’ll flag it with air traffic—looks like someone forgot to tell the rest of us.”
You and Jake return to formation without issue.
“Lucky it wasn’t Bigfoot, huh Bob?” Jake says, his smug grin practically audible. “Might’ve leapt right onto Vex’s jet and dragged her into the woods.”
There’s no response, just the soft static of the open channel.
Then Natasha mutters, “Don’t be a dick, Hangman. He was being cautious.”
“Well, I’m sure she appreciates the concern,” Jake says. “But she’s not made of glass.” He waits for a retort—gets none—and chuckles. “And if she’d died out there, I would’ve avenged her. Dramatically.”
“Hangman,” Maverick sighs. “That’s enough. Bob’s got better eyes than the rest of us tonight. Maybe don’t piss him off.”
Still, nothing from Bob. You even crane your neck, catching sight of his and Natasha's jet—nothing but a shadow at your five o’clock. Like you could somehow see him in the cockpit, tensing his jaw or rolling his eyes at Jake’s jabs.
Frustration simmers in your chest. You know he was just being cautious—or protective—but this is your job. He doesn’t get to tell you what you can and can’t do, especially when it’s a direct order from your CO. Even if you were dating, you wouldn’t let him boss you around—well, not outside of the bedroom, anyway. He can care. He can worry. But making it sound like you’re incapable? That’s what he just did. And it makes your skin crawl.
The rest of the flight passes without incident, but the comms stay unusually quiet—even Jake gives up his teasing—and you’re still pissed by the time you’re back on the ground.
You move through the post-flight motions with a frown on your face and your jaw locked tight. First, the ground crew helps you out of the jet and you do a quick walk-around. Then you ditch your night gear, knock out a maintenance report, and sit through a short debrief with Maverick before jumping in the cart back to the ready room.
By the time you walk in, the others are already gone. You’re not sure if you were too caught up in your own grumpiness to notice them pass you on the way over, but you don’t bother asking. You’re still too busy being pissed.
In fact, you’re so busy scowling at the coffee machine as it splutters out an espresso shot you know is going to taste like dirt that you don’t notice someone step up beside you.
“I’m sorry,” Bob says, voice soft. “About what happened up there.”
You jump—just slightly—then twist to face him, arms crossed tight over your chest. He's standing just a few feet away—helmet gone, flight suit half unzipped with the collar tugged open just enough to make your stomach flip.
“I didn’t mean to undermine you.”
“Sure felt like it,” you mutter.
“I know.” His eyes finally lift to meet yours—midnight blue, heavy with regret and something else that makes your breath catch. “That’s why I’m apologising.”
You turn back to the coffee machine, hoping the clatter and gurgle of the old machine will cover the sudden pounding of your heart. “Look, I get you were trying to be cautious, but Mav gave me a directive. You don’t get to override that just because your gut didn’t like it.”
“I wasn’t thinking about you as a teammate back there,” he says quietly. “I was thinking—”
“That I’m a little kid?” you snap, spinning to face him again. “Because whatever issue you have with my age, I need you to remember that I got here the same way you did. I worked my ass off to be the pilot I am today, and I don’t need someone second-guessing me just because they’re a little older. Especially when I know what I’m capable of.”
His frown deepens. “No, it—it’s not that at all. I just—I didn’t see what it was, it was dark, and when you went low...” He drags a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?”
You blink, startled by the raw edge in his voice.
“If anything had gone wrong, it would’ve been my fault,” he says, softer now. “I’m the WSO. I should’ve seen it first.”
“Bob,” you whisper, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. You can feel the heat radiating off him now. “If I ever end up in a bad spot, that’s on me. I trust you to have my back, always—but it’s my responsibility when I make a call. And I broke off because I knew you’d be there. You and Phoenix, Mav, Hangman... I knew I had the best team in the sky behind me.”
His jaw clenches as his gaze drifts over your face, like he’s trying to memorise every inch.
Then he moves closer—close enough for one of the clips on his suit to catch yours—and reaches out. His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suit’s hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch.
“You’re not just my teammate,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. I—”
“I don’t believe it,” a familiar voice cuts through the room. “The famous Dagger Squad stuck on the graveyard shift? What’d you do, lose another bet?”
Bob startles, stepping quickly away from you with bright red cheeks, unnecessarily adjusting his glasses.
You turn toward the door, ready to rip into whoever just decided to interrupt the closest you’ve ever gotten to Bob... when you realize who it is. It’s Trevor—an old friend from flight school and one of the newer instructors on NAS. You’ve been meaning to catch up with him, but being in an elite squadron doesn’t leave you much time for a social life.
“Damn,” you say with a playful smile, “who let you in the building?”
He steps fully into the room, wearing his signature shit-eating grin. “Vex,” he says, voice full of mock disbelief. “You’re still here? I figured Maverick would’ve canned your reckless ass by now.”
Jake swivels in his chair to look at you. “So you’re a renowned little chaos gremlin? Good to know.”
You roll your eyes and step toward your friend. “Guys, this is Trevor—or Grinder—I’ve known him since flight school. He gave me my callsign, actually.”
Trevor snorts. “Technically, Admiral Prescott gave you your callsign. What exactly was it he said again? That you’re a living, breathing vexation who’s going to be the sole reason for his retirement?”
Jake and Natasha giggle from across the room, and Trevor grins proudly.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Want to tell my squad how you got yours?”
He tips his head, brows raised. “Maybe I should get to know them first.”
Then his eyes flick toward Jake—grinning, handsome, utterly clueless Jake. Yep. That’s the real reason Trevor decided to drop by your squadron building tonight, because he knew Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin would be here. The very pilot he’s had a crush on for more months than you care to remember. He’s been bugging you for ages to introduce them, even though you told him—repeatedly—that you’re not sure Jake swings that way. He wasn’t deterred though; he said he’s happy to figure it out and see if he can negotiate if not. You just rolled your eyes.
“So, Grinder,” Natasha says, “what do you do?”
Trevor’s face lights up and he quickly launches into a long-winded explanation of his new role as a flight instructor. He walks toward her as he talks, inching closer to where Jake is seated not far from Natasha.
You turn back to Bob, clearing your throat. “Sorry about him. He’s... a lot. But you were saying...?”
He shakes his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
You frown. “It didn’t sound like nothing.” You take a slow step forward. “Didn’t feel like... nothing.”
“It’s okay,” he says quickly, his eyes snapping up as he forces a tight smile. “We can talk later. Really, it’s fine.”
You hesitate, wanting to push but knowing it’s no use now—those walls are well and truly back in place.
“Okay,” you say, nodding once. “Later.”
-
Unfortunately, later never comes.
You want to talk to him toward the end of the shift, but you’re both so exhausted after the first night that you can’t find the energy to push him for answers. So you let it go and head home.
The next night, you’re on opposite hops, which means you don’t see him until the debrief in the early morning—when, once again, everyone is too wiped out to talk and just wants to wrap up and get home.
The rest of the week slips by the same way. Every little thing keeps getting in the way of you and Bob actually talking. Even Thursday night, after a routine hop, when you’re both finally in the ready room and the moment couldn’t be more perfect—Trevor bursts in again, and Bob shuts down.
When you finally leave base on Friday morning—glaring at the well-rested day-shifters on your way out like it’s their fault you’re dead inside—you make a promise to yourself. You’re going to talk to him this weekend. It doesn’t matter when or how or if you have to fake an emergency just to get five uninterrupted minutes. You’re going to do it. Because whatever weird, half-finished thing is hanging between you and Bob has been living rent-free in your head all week—and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate.
“You sure you don’t mind?” Trevor asks, even though he’s already at your door with a duffel bag and a pillow.
You roll your eyes. “Why would I mind?”
He shrugs as he steps into your apartment. “I don’t know. Maybe you were planning to invite that gorgeous little blue-eyed lieutenant over.” He throws a cheeky wink over his shoulder. “You know, the one with the glasses. I’ve seen the way you look at him and—oof—does the man know what he’s in for? I mean, he looks at you just the same but—actually, come to think of it… why haven’t you screwed his brains out yet?”
You shut your eyes and let out a deep sigh. When you open them again, Trevor is already sprawled across your three-seater couch like he owns the place.
“First of all, he’s not little—you’re just freakishly tall—and secondly…” You step slowly toward the lounge, shoulders sagging in defeat. “He’s too good.”
Trevor frowns. “Too good? Like… too good for you or—?”
“That. And he’s respectful,” you say, flopping onto the end of the couch. “He’s got this thing about our age gap. It’s not a big one, but it’s… there, I guess. Maybe it’s also because we’re in the same squad.”
“Yeah,” he says, tone cool and baiting as he casually searches for the TV remote. “I mean, if I was in love with a guy—which, you’re clearly in love with him—I wouldn’t stop until he had a restraining order against me.”
You snort. “Yeah? Well, I like my job and my squad, so—”
He lets out an exasperated sigh. “My God, Vex. Don’t take everything so literally. The man’s in love with you too. Just fucking go for it before your whole squad murders both of you for being whiny dumbasses.”
He finds the remote and flicks the TV on, giving you a very pointed look—brows raised—before settling in and scrolling through streaming apps.
And God, you hate to admit it, but maybe he’s right. Maybe instead of teasing Bob, you just need to go for it. Cut through the hesitation, stop him from overthinking, and make the damn decision for him.
“Fine,” you say, standing up with purpose. “I’m going out tonight, by the way.”
“Good,” he replies, not even glancing your way. “Just keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.”
“Trev!”
He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.”
You roll your eyes, cheeks burning, and storm off toward your room.
Tonight, the squad has decided to go bowling. Everyone wanted to shake things up from the usual at The Hard Deck, and the only thing you could all agree on was bowling.
Even though you hate the gross bowling shoes that have been worn in by a hundred other people—and the sticky holes on the balls after grubby little kids have been shoving their nasty fingers in them.
But when Bob mentioned that he’s actually pretty good at bowling… well, how could you protest?
Plus, it’s still short skirt weather—Bob’s favourite, as you’ve come to notice—and bowling in a tiny skirt feels like a fun, flirty little risk you’re more than willing to take.
All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis? Bob doesn’t stand a chance.
At 7PM, Natasha picks you up, shooting a very pointed look at the flowy little sundress you’re wearing under your denim jacket. But she doesn’t say a word.
The drive to the bowling alley isn’t far, and soon you’re walking inside with Mickey and Reuben—who arrived around the same time. Jake, Bradley, Javy, and Bob are already there. They’ve got a lane, swapped into their shoes, and Jake is busy squeezing creative versions of everyone’s callsigns into the limited-character name slot.
“Can’t you just be ‘Roster’?” he asks Bradley.
Bradley frowns. “Can’t I just be Brad?”
“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “No way. You’re not a Brad. Just put Roo.”
Jake’s face lights up like he just solved the mystery of why the sky is blue. “Good one, Phoenix. Thanks.”
“What am I?” she asks.
“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan.
Natasha blinks. “Phone? As in P-H-O-N-E?”
“Yep,” Bradley chuckles.
“What the fuck, Bagman?” She steps up to the little tablet where he’s typing the names. “Move. You’re an idiot.”
You stifle a laugh and turn to Mickey and Reuben. “Want to get shoes?”
They both nod, and you head toward the main counter—though not without catching the way Bob’s eyes drop to your legs, his throat working on a swallow as you walk away.
You grab your shoes and rejoin the group, flopping down beside Bob just close enough to make him squirm. Then you lean forward, swapping your Converse for the white, red, and blue striped Velcro bowling shoes.
When you’re done, you stand up and put one foot out. “These shoes are hot. Might have to steal them.”
“You know what,” Jake says with a smirk, “I think you’re just gorgeous enough to make ‘em work. What do you think, Bobby?”
You glance down at the man sitting beside you. The poor guy who’s basically eye-level—thanks to these ridiculously low seats—with your ass. The man whose glasses are just a little foggy by the bridge of his nose as he breathes a bit faster than usual. His cheeks are pink, lips parted, and his eyes are so wide—and so blatantly glued to your short, short skirt—that you can barely keep from laughing.
“Bob?” you ask, voice full of faux innocence.
He clears his throat, blue eyes flicking up to your face. “Y-Yeah. It’s a nice dress.”
There’s a beat—everyone turns to Bob—and then they all burst out laughing. Mickey curls over, Reuben tips his head back, Jake’s face twists up, and Natasha has to hold on to Bradley’s shoulder to keep from falling over.
Bob blinks, brow furrowed, looking back at you as the red in his cheeks deepens. “He wasn’t—we weren’t talking about the dress… were we?”
You shake your head, biting back a smile. And with the way he’s looking at you—wide-eyed, breathless, full of heat—you feel a spark of boldness rise up in your chest.
You reach out, pinch his chin between your fingers, and tilt his face up toward you. Then you lean in, slow and teasing, until there’s barely an inch of air between you—your voice a soft whisper just for him.
“Don’t worry, Bobby,” you murmur. “I wore this dress just for you.”
Then you straighten up with a wicked smile, leaving him speechless, blushing, and absolutely wrecked.
You resist the urge to look back—even with all the teasing going on behind you—as you browse the rack of bowling balls. You pick one, mostly for its colour rather than its weight, and carry it over to the ball return where the others have already placed theirs.
“We ready?” Natasha asks, finally tapping ‘finish’ on the tablet.
The names pop up on the screen above the lane: Roo, Hngmn, Pback, Fboy, Nix, Bob, and Vex.
“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.”
Bradley steps forward, grabs a ball, and promptly sends it flying into the gutter. That’s all it takes. One terrible bowl and the trash talk ignites—like gasoline on an open flame.
“Jesus, Rooster,” Reuben says. “My nephew could bowl better than that blindfolded—and he’s six, man.”
“Yeah, dude,” Mickey laughs, “you sure you should be flying jets with that kind of coordination?”
Bradley flips them off before picking up the ball again, dialling in his focus and managing to knock over seven pins on his second try.
“Alright, losers,” Jake says, swaggering up to the ball return. “Time to watch how a real man bowls.”
Unfortunately for everyone, Jake is obnoxiously good at bowling and casually lands a spare without breaking a sweat. But then Reuben steps up and nails a strike, which earns him an impressive amount of booing.
“What can I say?” he grins as he drops back into his seat. “I’m just too good.”
Next up is Mickey, who insists he has a ‘signature move that never fails’. He then immediately wipes himself out and lands on his ass as the ball rolls tragically slow down the lane. It takes everyone a solid few minutes to recover from laughing.
Natasha follows, and—with terrifying precision—manages to hit a spare, knocking down a seven-ten split like it’s nothing.
“Alright, Baby,” Jake says, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “You ready to show us what you got?”
Bob rolls his eyes and shrugs off Jake’s hand, the corner of his mouth twitching as he stands and heads for the ball return. You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but the jeans hugging his ass are outrageously distracting, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to look at the pins instead of his backside.
By the time you finally manage to drag your eyes down the lane, the pins are already gone—swept clean away as Bob turns around with just the faintest hint of a smug grin.
“Fuck,” Reuben mutters. “Bob can bowl.”
“Oh, damn,” Mickey giggles. “Going after that is gonna suck.”
You shoot him a look as you push out of your seat. “Thanks, Mick.”
Bob doesn’t sit down right away—he steps over to the ball return, picks up your ball, and hands it to you with a soft smile.
You take it, intentionally placing half a hand over his. “Thanks.”
He nods once, then retreats to where the rest of the squad are waiting.
“Need a little guidance, Vex?” Jake drawls, voice low and smug. “I give excellent hands-on instruction.”
You roll your eyes, sliding your fingers into the holes. “I think I’d rather roll a gutter ball than have you breathing down my neck, Bagman. But thanks for the offer.”
There's a chorus of oohs behind you as you turn back toward the lane. You step forward, swing the ball back, and—thunk—release it way too late. You’re honestly surprised it doesn’t leave a dent in the floor. It wobbles down the lane before veering off and sinking into the gutter just before the pins.
“Damn,” you sigh, turning around with a sheepish grin. “I’m going to score lower than Rooster.”
There are a few murmured insults about your lack of bowling skill, but you barely hear them. Bob catches your eye, his lips parted like he’s about to say something—offer to help maybe—but then he just... doesn’t.
You watch him sink back in his seat as you pick up your ball and turn to the lane—this time with a bit more intention.
Bending lower than strictly necessary, you wiggle your fingers into the ball’s grip and line up your shot with exaggerated focus. The hem of your dress shifts just enough to tease the tops of your thighs, and you don’t have to look to know Bob’s watching. You can feel it—the weight of his stare, the sudden shift in the air like gravity is a pressing down just little harder.
You swing the ball back and release with a cleaner motion this time. It rolls straight—miraculously—and clips five pins on the right. Not bad. Not great. But right now, you're more interested in the reaction behind you.
When you turn, Bob’s gaze jerks up like he’s been caught red-handed. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and he looks absolutely wrecked—like someone just knocked the wind out of him with a feather.
Jake whistles low. “Pretty sure what I just witnessed is actually a crime in several states.”
Reuben leans forward, eyes on Bob. “Oh, no. I think Bob is broken.”
Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.”
Bob blinks hard, still dazed, and mumbles something under his breath. The rest of the squad continue laughing quietly, their eyes flicking between you and the flustered lieutenant—who is now very interested in the floor.
You smile to yourself as you walk back, fighting the urge to smirk too hard as you drop into the seat beside him.
“You know,” Bradley says as he steps up to the ball return, “if I’d known this game was about showing as much ass as possible, I would’ve worn my shortest skirt.”
You roll your eyes and lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Please. You would've blinded everyone—and that’s probably the only way you'd have a shot at winning.”
The squad bursts out laughing again while Bradley shoots you an unimpressed glare. Then he grabs his ball, turns toward the lane, and kicks off the next round.
You stay quietly pressed to Bob’s side while the others take their turns. And honestly? You don’t care if the game ever continues. With his jean-clad thigh snug against your bare one, you could stay right here all night.
And Bob doesn’t seem eager to move either. He stays close, legs aligned, knees brushing, arm grazing yours—his warmth wrapped around you like your favourite blanket.
You’re seconds away from resting your head on his shoulder when Mickey pipes up, announcing that it’s Bob’s turn. He shifts slowly, giving you a soft smile as he stands and walks toward the ball return.
This time, instead of watching his ass, your eyes track his hands.
You’ve always had a thing for hands—especially Bob’s. They’re just... really nice hands. Big and steady, with long fingers that look like they could touch you in ways that would rewrite your entire understanding of pleasure. You’ve imagined those hands everywhere—ghosting over your skin, gripping your thighs, digging bruises into your hips, clawing down your back.
You’ve thought about them more than what could ever be considered healthy. You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion.
And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes?
Well, fuck. There’s nothing PG about this game—not when your brain is spiralling into fantasies about all the downright filthy ways that Bob Floyd could ruin you.
“Hey,” Javy nudges your shoulder, knocking you out of your Bob-induced daydream. “It’s your turn, dude.”
You blink, shaking your head and hoping your blush isn’t as obvious as it feels as you push out of your chair and walk up toward where Bob is.
“Do you—uh, do you want some help?” he asks, holding your bowling ball in his hands.
You fight the grin threatening to break across your face, nodding. “Sure.”
“Hey!” Jake calls from behind you. “I offered first.”
Reuben snorts. “Yeah, but she doesn’t want to bone you, does she?”
Both you and Bob ignore them. You take the ball from his hand and move up to the lane, slipping your fingers into the holes and holding it at your chest.
“Okay, coach,” you say with a small smirk. “Tell me what to do.”
“Alright, here,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he reaches out and gently takes your wrists.
His touch is light, reverent, and it makes your breath catch. He adjusts your hands around the ball, slow and precise, like he’s memorising the shape of you. How warm you are. The way you respond so eagerly to his touch.
“Fingers like this,” he murmurs. “You want a solid grip. Not too tight.”
Your heart stutters. His hands are big—warm and rough in the best way—and they settle over yours like they were made to. When he steps closer to correct your stance, his chest brushes your back, and you feel everything. The press of him. The tension in his thighs. The tremble in his exhale.
“Now,” he says, gently guiding your arm, “swing back like this—smooth, steady…”
You try to follow, but it’s hard to focus when his hands slide down to your hips, positioning them with the lightest squeeze. You swear he groans under his breath—just barely audible, like he’s suffering.
“That’s… yeah. Perfect.”
He freezes.
You don’t move. Neither does he. His hands are still on your hips, his breath coming faster now, his body just slightly more rigid.
And then you feel it.
Oh.
Oh.
You shift your hips—just a fraction—and he instantly jerks back like he’s been electrocuted.
“Shit—uh, yeah, you—you got it. You’ll do great,” he stammers, voice suddenly strangled and two octaves higher. “I—uh—I’ve got to—bathroom. Real quick.”
You turn just in time to see him rush off, pink in the ears, tripping slightly over a chair leg.
“Was it something I said?” you call after him sweetly.
Jake cackles from the bench. “Nah, I think you just short-circuited the poor guy.”
Natasha leans forward, watching Bob disappear down the hallway. “Oh no,” she says with a grin. “I think Bob is completely falling apart at this point.”
You grin, still tingling from where his hands touched you, as you turn back toward the lane. You roll the ball and, somehow, end up getting a spare—despite your brain being completely stuck on Bob... and what exactly had made him bolt so fast.
Bradley gets up for his turn as you move dazedly back to your seat, mind hazy with thoughts of how Bob had felt pressed against you.
“God, you’re so gone,” Natasha says with a soft laugh.
You roll your eyes, but the dopey smile refuses to budge.
“It’s a shame he’s too stupid to do anything about it,” Jake mutters.
Natasha shoots him a look. “He’s not stupid. He’s cautious.”
Reuben chuckles. “Yeah, well, if tonight’s anything to go by, Bobby might be throwing caution to the wind pretty soon.”
You sigh as you sink into one of the low seats. “Not tonight, unfortunately.”
They all look at you, confused.
“Trevor’s staying at my place,” you explain simply.
The group gasps—everyone but Natasha staring at you in disbelief.
You frown. “What?”
“I thought—” Mickey glances around like someone else might back him up. “I thought you only liked Bob.”
You and Natasha—the only two in this group with any emotional intelligence, apparently—exchange a look.
“She’s not into Trevor,” Nat says dryly. “And he’s definitely not into her.”
“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.”
“Like, very gay,” Natasha says. “Like, into Hangman gay.”
Jake’s head snaps toward her. “Excuse me?”
“Ohhh,” Mickey sighs. “That makes so much sense.”
Reuben laughs. “Is that why he’s been stopping by every couple nights?”
You laugh too, nodding. “Yeah. He’s been stuck on nights since getting stationed here, and he’s been bugging me to introduce him to Hangman. Thought it was fate when he found out our squad got moved to nights too.”
“Excuse me,” Jake repeats. “What exactly makes a man extra gay for being into me?”
The whole group breaks out laughing—Bradley included as he returns from taking his turn.
“You’re just... pretty,” Javy says with a shrug.
“So?” Jake throws up his hands. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a compliment, dude,” Reuben says. “Just take it.”
Jake huffs, but the rest of the group turns back to you.
“So, why is he staying at your place?” Mickey asks.
“Yeah,” Bradley adds, “and why can’t you bring someone home? It’s your place.”
“His plumbing at the barracks is all messed up, so I offered him my couch,” you explain, before looking at Bradley. “And I could bring someone home, but I’m pretty sure he’d make it weird. Plus, I’m not exactly a fan of… being quiet.”
Jake tips his head back with a dramatic groan. “God, why is it always the quiet nerds who get the hot freaky girls?”
You giggle and pat his knee. “Oh, Hangman. You’re delusional if you think Floyd isn’t a freak too.”
“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Why does this feel like you’re talking about my brother?”
The rest of the squad nods, unspoken agreement passing between them while Jake’s eyes flick around in horrified disbelief.
“What’d I miss?” Bob asks, suddenly reappearing at the edge of the group.
Everyone falls silent.
“Hangman’s stalling,” Natasha says coolly, “because he realised he’s going to lose.”
Jake narrows his eyes at her as he stands. “You’re going down, Trace. This next one’s a strike.”
He stalks off toward the ball return, and the game resumes.
Thankfully, Bob doesn’t question the odd look Mickey gives him as he sits down beside you. Only this time, he keeps his distance—at least an inch between your bodies, careful not to let even the fabric of his shirt brush your arm. He doesn’t look at you, either. His gaze stays locked on the lane, watching each turn with intense focus. And he definitely doesn’t offer any more hands-on guidance for the rest of the night— though the blush on his cheeks stays stubbornly in place.
After two games of bowling, a round of hot dogs, and more shit-talking than could possibly be quantified, everyone decides to call it a night. It isn’t even that late, but with your wrecked sleep schedules, you’re all starting to feel a little loopy.
You swap back into your own shoes, return the bowling pair, duck into the bathroom, and head for the door. Everyone but Bob is already outside, but like the gentleman he is, he’s still inside—waiting by the claw machine with his nose buried in his phone.
“Hey, superstar,” you say as you approach. “How’s it feel to be the best bowler in the squad?”
He glances up with a soft smile. “One of the best,” he corrects. “I only won the first game.”
You smirk, confidence flooding your gut. “Was it first-game luck or my skirt that threw you off during the second?”
His face flushes bright red, eyes going wide like he’s just been caught in a lie. “I—uh, no, I just—”
You roll your eyes playfully. “I was joking, Bob. Calm down.”
He presses his lips together and nods, eyes flicking down to your bare legs for the briefest second before returning to your face.
You nod toward the doors. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the others get suspicious.”
He nods and gestures for you to lead the way—so you do, swinging your hips just a little extra.
He hesitates for a beat, and you can feel his gaze sear into the exposed skin of your legs before he doubles his steps to catch up and walk beside you.
“I was wondering,” you say quickly, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. “Did you—um,” you clear your throat, “want to hang out tomorrow night?”
He glances at you, blue eyes swimming with something you can’t quite place.
“Just us,” you clarify, voice dropping. “Kind of like… a date?”
There’s a pause. An awkward pause.
The hairs on the back of your neck rise and your stomach twists.
“Um,” he drops his gaze to the ground, brows knitting. “I—I can’t tomorrow. I’ve got—I mean, I haven’t done laundry like… all week with the shift change, and I really need to catch up before Monday.”
Heat floods your face, embarrassment settling heavy and sour in your gut.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, still staring at the floor.
You dip your chin and blink hard, swallowing the burn rising behind your eyes. “No problem,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Hope you have fun doing laundry.”
Then you double your pace and slip out the doors, not bothering to hold it open. You cross the parking lot quickly, making a beeline for Natasha’s car without so much as a glance toward the others. You yank the passenger door open, slide in, and slam it shut.
- Bob -
“What’d you do?” Natasha asks, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.
Bob takes a slow breath as he drags his eyes up to meet her glare. “Nothing,” he mutters.
“Yeah?” She arches a brow. “So, Vex will say the same thing when I ask her?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Probably not, Phoenix. But you know what? I don’t really feel like explaining myself to you right now, so please—just drop it.”
She rolls her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides, keys jingling in one hand. “I really thought you were one of the good ones, Floyd. I’m a little disappointed.”
Then she turns and mumbles goodbye to the rest of the squad—who are all watching with wide eyes—before walking to her car and climbing into the driver’s seat.
Bob can still feel your glare through the windshield, even if the dark night doesn’t let him see you clearly inside the car.
As soon as Natasha peels out of the lot, Bob feels the shift—the boys’ eyes snap toward him.
“So,” Jake says, brows raised, “what did you do?”
Bob exhales and leans back against his car, arms crossing over his chest. “She asked me out,” he says quietly, “and I told her no… because I have laundry to do.”
There’s a collective intake of breath. The atmosphere sharpens with something unspoken but easily understood: Bob fucked up—bad.
“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in.
Bradley lets out a low chuckle. “Holy shit, Floyd. That was dumb.”
“I know,” Bob huffs.
He’s not sure why he couldn’t tell Natasha but has no issue telling the others. Maybe because Natasha was about to get in a car with you and hear the story anyway—so why bother? Or maybe it’s because he’s a little afraid of Nat. And he knows, deep down, that he messed up. He just didn’t feel like getting chewed out by his sharp-tongued pilot tonight.
“Why the hell wouldn’t you say yes?” Jake frowns. “She’s so into you—it’s almost a joke. And she’s gorgeous. Who cares about the age gap?”
Bob’s eyes snap toward him, brow furrowed. “You’re the one who always has something to say about it. You literally call me a cradle-snatcher, like… once a week.”
Jake rolls his eyes. “Because it’s fun to get a rise out of you. I don’t actually mean it.”
“Yeah, dude,” Javy adds. “If we thought it was wrong, we’d say something. We make fun of you both because it’s obvious you’re obsessed with each other.”
“Honestly,” Mickey pipes up, “I thought you two were already dating and just keeping it from us.”
Bob buries his face in his hands, the heat in his cheeks burning against his palms. “For fuck’s sake.”
“Oh, wow,” Reuben mutters. “Bob just swore.”
Bradley drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Maybe you should call her. Or—I don’t know—go see her tomorrow. Apologise. You don’t have to date her, but if that’s how you feel, you need to be clear. Don’t lead her on. And you definitely owe her an apology for that shitty laundry excuse.”
Bob nods slowly, letting his hands drop. “Yeah. I know.”
Mickey chuckles, pulling his keys from his pocket. “Good luck, dude.”
They all say their goodbyes and head for their cars, leaving Bob still leaning against the side of his own, a far-off look in his eyes and guilt twisting in his chest.
He barely sleeps that night.
Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the profile of your face after he said no—the way your eyes glossed over, your jaw clenched, and your lips pressed into a thin, unshakable line. The memory cuts through him like a blade.
He hates the thought of hurting you. But more than that, he hates himself—because he knows he did. He knows you cried, whether it happened in the car or the moment you got home. Either way, the result is the same—he made you cry. And that thought alone makes him feel sick.
Before the sun even rises, he’s out of bed. Sleep abandoned, guilt gnawing at his insides, he laces up his shoes and goes for a run—trying to outrun the tight knot in his chest. He knows he’ll have to sleep later and stay up again tonight, thanks to another stretch of night shifts. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is talking to you. This morning. If you’ll even let him.
After his run, sweat still cooling on his skin, he finally works up the nerve to text you: ‘Hey, sorry about last night. Are you free this morning?’
An hour passes. Nothing.
And he knows you’re ignoring him—because you’ve reacted to a couple of messages in the group chat. You’re awake. You’re just not answering him. And honestly, he doesn’t blame you.
By ten o’clock, he can’t stand it anymore.
The ache in his chest is unbearable. His head is pounding. The guilt in his stomach is curling tighter with every passing second. But it’s not just guilt. It’s not just the regret of hurting a friend’s feelings.
It’s worse—because it’s you.
You’re his favourite person in the whole damn world. He can admit that now. You make him laugh. You make him feel like himself. And as much as he’s tried not to need you… he does. Desperately.
The age gap isn’t the real problem—it never was. Maybe it’s just an excuse, something to hide behind because deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves you. But that’s not good enough anymore. He has to fix this. Even if you never forgive him, even if things can’t go back to how they were—he has to try.
Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that he’s in love with you.
And God, he hopes he can say it out loud—because it might be the only thing that can save him now.
Before Bob even knows exactly how he’s going to say everything that’s been spinning through his head, he’s already outside your apartment building. He knows where it is because he helped you move in after the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit at North Island.
He still thinks about that day, too. About the exercise tights you wore—how they clung to your ass like a second skin. About the loose tee you eventually peeled off because you were overheating, leaving you in nothing but a sports bra. And when you finally took a break, beer in hand on your new balcony, he watched you cool down… and watched your nipples pebble beneath the Lycra fabric.
Bob felt like a total creep that day, but that hasn’t stopped him from—repeatedly—getting off to the memory of you on that balcony. Cheeks pink, lips wet with beer, eyes so wide and innocent, even though he’s pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing to him…
He shakes his head and forces his feet to move—into the building, into the elevator, and up to your floor. The hallway feels both way too long and not nearly long enough as he approaches your door. Then, with a deep breath, he raises his hand and knocks three times.
His heart is caught in his throat, hammering like it’s trying to escape. He’s felt pressure in the cockpit, but nothing like this. This is worse than pulling 8 Gs.
The door swings open, and he opens his mouth to immediately beg you to hear him out—but… it’s not you.
“Bob,” Trevor says with a sleepy grin and a wicked glint in his eye. “What a surprise to see you here.”
His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are half-lidded. He looks like he either just woke up… or just got done doing something naked and personal with someone else. Which might explain why he’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a crooked pair of boxers that—at least in Bob’s opinion—aren’t leaving much to the imagination.
“I—uh, Trevor?”
Trevor nods, brow furrowing slightly. “The one and only. You good, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Bob wishes it were a ghost. Because what he’s seeing right now is ten times more horrifying than anything spooky or undead.
He clears his throat. “Y-Yeah, I’m good. I just—um, I was going to ask Vex if—”
“Who is it?” you call groggily from deeper inside the apartment, your voice thick with sleep.
Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!”
“What?”
He nudges the door open a little wider, revealing you in nothing but an oversized U.S. Navy tee. Your hair is mussed, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are narrowed—definitely not surprised. Just… pissed.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, arms crossed tight against your chest.
Bob stares, wide-eyed. You’re not shocked. You’re not flustered. You're still mad. How could you still be mad at him now?
“I—uh, well—” He shakes his head and steps back, his stomach swirling nauseously. “Nothing. It’s fine. Just—forget it. You two have fun.”
Then he turns on his heel and practically jogs down the hall, mashing the elevator button hard enough to hurt. He can hear your voice behind him, Trevor’s too, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to care. He just wants to get the hell out of here before he goddamn cries over the fact that the woman he loves just jumped into bed with the next guy right after he turned her down.
Does he have any right to be this angry? Probably not. But still—why couldn’t you see it from his point of view? Why couldn’t you understand he was just… hesitant? That he needed some time to wrap his head around it?
But no. You couldn’t be patient. You couldn’t wait.
Because maybe you’re not as into him as everyone keeps saying. Maybe you never were.
God, he should’ve known. He should have known it was too good to be true. Why would someone like you want someone like him? And why would you waste your time waiting—when you could have just about any man you wanted?
- You -
“What was that about?” Trevor asks, his head still half-stuck out the door like Bob might suddenly come back.
You drop onto the couch, shoving aside the blanket Trevor had been using. “Don’t know,” you mutter. “Maybe he was thinking about apologising for being a jerk, but then decided to just keep being one.”
Trevor turns to you with a puzzled frown. “What?”
“You heard me.”
He shuts the door and walks slowly toward to the lounge. “Yeah, but I didn’t understand you. What’s with the attitude?”
You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I asked him out last night.”
Trevor gasps—loudly.
“But he said no.”
He rears back, brows drawn. “What? Why?”
“Because he has laundry to do.”
Trevor’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. “No.”
“Yup,” you mutter, sinking deeper into the cushions. “That’s what the attitude is for.”
He nods slowly, still staring. “Right… but then why did he show up here?”
You shrug. “Maybe to apologise. Or maybe he was going to let me down for good. Tell me to stop flirting with him, or whatever.”
Trevor frowns again, his eyes glazing over like he's lost in thought.
You nudge his knee with your foot. “What’s that look for?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the curiosity stays fixed on his face.
“Trevor…”
He exhales a short breath. “I mean—do you think he thought… you and I…? You know?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “He knows I’m gay, right?”
You snort. “Yes, Grinder. Bob Floyd, along with all of North Island, is very aware that you’re gay. I was literally talking about it with the squad last night.”
He nods. “Good. ‘Cause if he didn’t, me opening the door shirtless and you in that ridiculously oversized tee might’ve looked real bad.”
You barely hear him as he continues to rant about men and miscommunication. Instead, you flick on the TV, letting the background noise of old cartoon reruns wash over you while the memory of last night replays on loop.
You let yourself feel it—let your chest ache with it—and hope it’s enough to kill off this stupid crush once and for all.
But deep down, you know the truth.
Whatever this is, it stopped being just a crush a while ago.
And you’re starting to fear that maybe—just maybe—you’ve accidentally fallen in love with Bob Floyd.
You spend the rest of the day sulking on the couch like it’s your full-time job, while Trevor obliterates your kitchen trying to make homemade macarons to ‘cheer you up.’ Normally, you’d be in there with him, correcting his technique and keeping the apartment from burning down, but not today. Today, you’re tired and heartbroken.
The two of you stay up late trying to adjust to the coming week of night shifts, but by two a.m. you’re passed out on the lounge… and promptly woken at four by Trevor’s snoring. That’s when you give up, throw on your shoes, and go for a run—hoping to burn through enough energy to sleep through the day before shift.
Trevor is gone by the time your alarm goes off at eight p.m., giving you an hour to tidy the apartment before showering and heading off to base. You stopped living on base when the Dagger Squad was made permanent at North Island, same as most of the others. It’s nice not having to share bathrooms or constantly wonder whether you’re going to get all your socks back from the laundry room. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss running into your friends all the time—running into Bob.
The sky is dark and the base is quiet as you park your car and make your way to the squadron building. Your stomach twists nervously at the thought of seeing not just Bob, but your whole squad. You know they’d all know by now—that you asked Bob out and he shut you down.
Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if Maverick knew.
“Hey,” Natasha says, meeting you by the stairs before you enter the briefing room.
You give her a tight smile.
“Feeling any better?”
You shake your head, lips still pulled into a watery smile as you push the door open.
Bob is already in his usual seat—because of course he is—but he doesn’t look up when you walk in. He doesn’t give you that soft smile he usually does whenever he sees you.
Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the lid of his travel mug, jaw tight as he flicks the little tab open and closed.
Natasha gives you a sidelong glance, her brows drawn curiously. She knows what happened—you told her—but you haven’t yet filled her in on the part where he showed up at your apartment and then left in a hurry.
You shake your head, giving her a silent look that says you’ll fill her in later. Then you turn and make your way to the back of the room, sinking into one of the furthest possible chairs from where Bob is seated.
It isn’t long before Maverick walks in and starts the briefing. He rambles on about a possible mission on the horizon, which means upcoming hops and drills are going to be more purpose-driven. He wants to work closely with the WSOs, having them and their pilots fly point to spot anything the night might hide from the F/A-18E drivers.
You’re not particularly bothered by that, because after tonight, the rest of your hops are scheduled with Reuben and Mickey. Which means you only have to deal with Bob for one night. Just one. You only have to pretend to listen to him for one night. Then you get almost a full week’s reprieve.
“Alright,” Maverick says, shutting his notebook. “Phoenix, Bob, Hangman, Vex—you’re on deck. The rest of you, head to the ready room.”
Everyone shuffles out, the group splitting down the corridor as half of you head outside and the other half veer toward the ready room.
You let Natasha and Bob take the lead, half-listening to Jake whine about how much he hates NVGs and how night shifts ruin his gym schedule.
Then the cart ride is silent—tension so thick that even Maverick doesn’t bother breaking it.
Once at the hangar, you start gearing up and going through the motions—chatting with ground crew, checking your jet, adjusting your equipment, running internals. You wait until it’s your turn to be taxied out, then climb into the cockpit and try to settle your nerves.
You take a deep breath and call on every ounce of focus and maturity you have just to stop yourself from shutting off comms. You might be pissed right now, but this is your job. The job you worked way too hard for to let some ridiculously gorgeous lieutenant break your heart badly enough to get you grounded.
Tonight, the sky is clear but moonless—the darkness heavier than usual. You check your instruments twice—three times—and remind yourself it’s just another hop. You’ve done this a thousand times before.
But still, your hands stay tight on the controls.
You fly in relative radio silence for the first twenty minutes, squinting through slightly misaligned NVGs. You’d fiddled with them on the ground until you gave up and told yourself your vision was good enough. It’s quieter than usual, and you’re not sure if that’s because no one has anything to say—or because the night feels eerily still.
Natasha and Bob are flying point, with you and Jake in the second element. Maverick is out here too, but only observing—watching closely as you run a low-level, terrain-following route meant to simulate a high-risk strike.
You’ve done this kind of thing a hundred times, even at night. But something about this hop feels off. Or maybe it’s just you, flying like you’ve got something to prove—to yourself, or to someone else. You haven’t decided yet.
Then Bob’s voice crackles through the comms, steady and low. “Vex, you’re a little wide on your spacing.”
You bite the inside of your cheek and flick your radio toggle. “Copy.”
You fall back into formation as the terrain-following manoeuvres begin—tight dips, sweeping curves, a mock run on radar targets ahead. You lock in, gripping the stick, head tipped forward, forcing your focus to drown out the simmering frustration.
It’s not an easy run, but you’ve done it before. You know the tricky spots, and you’re watching out for your team, flying just a little closer than what’s usually comfortable. You’d be flying almost perfectly—if it weren’t for Bob’s corrections crackling through the radio. His voice in your ear every few minutes, low and steady. Commanding. It’s making your skin crawl and your pulse race.
You know you’re better than this. You’ve trained to handle the worst. To stay sharp pulling 10 Gs, to keep cool weaving through canyons at Mach 2. And yet somehow, Bob Floyd’s maddeningly smooth voice telling you and Jake how not to crash is what’s making you consider pulling the damn ejection handle.
“Vex, you’ve got a ridge coming up,” Bob says, his tone sharper now, more urgent. “Drop throttle. Adjust heading five degrees right.”
You hesitate. Your altimeter says you’re good, and your gut says you’re fine. You think—no, you know—you can hold it.
“Vex—” he tries again.
“I’ve got it,” you snap, breathless as you press on, trying to hold your line.
Jake cuts in with something sharp, but you don’t catch it—because suddenly the warning tone in your headset screams.
Your heart lurches.
Terrain. Too close. Too fast.
“Pull up! Pull up!” Bob’s voice slices through the comms. “Vex, you’re too low!”
You grit your teeth, trying to correct, trying to climb—but it’s too dark, too fast. Everything is a blur.
“Vex, listen to me—pull up!” His voice cracks. “You’re going to hit—”
“Eject!” Maverick shouts, raw panic in his tone. “Vex, eject now!”
“I can save it,” you mutter, voice strained. “I can—"
Then you see it. A flash of jagged terrain through the cockpit glass—a dark silhouette where there should be sky. And in that split second, the truth hits you like a punch to the chest.
You’re not going to make it.
Your hand flies to the ejection handle, pulling it hard.
The canopy blasts away with a deafening crack, wind slamming into you like a freight train. The violent jolt of the seat launches you skyward, your body wrenched into the dark as the jet disappears in a blur of motion below.
Then—freefall.
The sky spins. The world tilts. The parachute deploys with a brutal yank that rattles your spine.
But you’re too low. Far too low.
You don’t even have time to brace.
You hit the ground hard—a bone-snapping impact that knocks every breath from your lungs. The force slams through your leg with a sickening pop.
White-hot pain detonates through you.
Your vision flashes. Your stomach turns. You can’t even scream.
And then… everything goes still.
Muted.
Quiet.
Like the world took a breath—and left you behind.
-
You wake to the steady beep of a monitor. Your eyelids are heavy, your mouth is dry, and there’s pain everywhere. It’s not as excruciating as it had been right before you blacked out, but it’s there—dull and throbbing, a bitter reminder of what had happened when you ejected from your jet.
It feels like it was only seconds ago, but you know better than that. You’re not that out of it.
The sharp sting of antiseptic hits your nose. There are low murmurs nearby, the shuffle of feet across tile, and the distant sounds of other beeping machines. Even before you manage to open your eyes, you know—you’re in a hospital.
The white and blue walls are almost blinding, but after a few sticky blinks, your vision finally sharpens. You roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, searching for moisture.
You try—and fail—to sit up. Your body is too heavy against the crunchy hospital pillows, and your right leg is pinned down even more by a thick black-and-white brace.
“Ow,” you mutter, voice hoarse and barely audible.
There’s a sudden gasp beside you, then a quick shuffle of movement.
A warm hand wraps around yours as dark blue eyes swim into focus above you, wide and full of concern—rimmed red, with deep purple shadows underneath.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough before he clears his throat, like he's trying to swallow down something heavier.
“Bob,” you whisper, lips cracking as they stretch into a soft smile.
He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. His face is pale, exhaustion carved into every line, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorise it. Or maybe—trying to recognise it. Because whatever softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours… then lets go.
He stands straight, jaw clenched, and turns to the wall to press the nurse call button.
You frown, but before you can speak—if you even could with how dry your mouth is—a nurse rushes in.
“Oh, you’re awake!” she says brightly, green eyes lighting up as she stops beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”
You clear your throat. “Thirsty.”
She nods and quickly wheels the little table over, pouring water from the pitcher into a small plastic cup. She then hands it to you before using the bed remote to ease you into a more upright position.
“Thanks,” you rasp after a few sips, your voice clearer now.
The nurse smiles softly, her eyes flicking between you and Bob. “He didn’t leave your side. Not for a second.”
You turn to look at him, but all traces of warmth are gone. He looks almost angry, his gaze fixed straight ahead—not at you or the nurse, but at the wall. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and his hands are clearly balled into fists in his pockets.
He’s still in his flight suit, which means he’s been with you since the second search and rescue found you.
“I’ll give you two a minute,” the nurse says. “I’m just going to grab the doctor, alright?”
You nod, not even looking at her, and she shuffles out of the room, swinging the door half shut on her way.
Bob’s eyes flick to you. “Are you in pain?”
You shift slightly, the dull throb in your leg pulsing back to life. “Yeah,” you wince. “A little. But it’s bearable.”
He doesn’t move. His whole body is tense, only his eyes locked on you—sharp and unrelenting.
“You have a hairline fracture in your femur,” he says.
You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t a full break,” he adds. “You’d have been grounded for at least six months—or longer. Probably would’ve had to requalify, if you even got cleared again.”
You swallow hard. He’s angry—really angry. The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s torn between wrapping you in his arms or walking out the door and never looking back.
“You didn’t listen,” he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. “You were supposed to listen to me, and you didn’t. I—I told you just last week that if something happened, it would be my fault.”
Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision. “This isn’t your—”
“No,” he snaps. “It’s not. This is your fault. Because you were reckless, and cocky, and too caught up in your own shit to listen to a perfectly sound call from your WSO.”
You blink, warm tears slipping down your cheek. “Bob, I—”
“Don’t,” he says, voice low and raw. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t look at me like I’m the only person you want to see right now.” He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve been here for two days. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead. You went down so fast, you—you—”
The door swings open and a middle-aged woman with white-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun steps in. “Lieutenants,” she greets briskly. “Sorry to interrupt, but there are a few things we need to go over.”
Bob straightens immediately. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be leaving now.”
Her brows knit together, but she doesn’t stop him as he turns and walks out.
His footsteps are heavy. Forced. Like it’s taking everything he’s got to walk away and not look back.
After a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and a long debrief with the flight surgeon, you're finally discharged. You can’t drive—of course—so they pack you into a general escort car with your leg still in the brace and a pair of crutches tossed in beside you. Fantastic.
Once you’re home, you collapse into bed and immediately pass out. But it’s not exactly restful. Your brain won’t shut off—won’t stop replaying the way Bob looked at you, the anger in his voice, the exhaustion written all over his face. How he never left your side. How he still hasn’t responded to your text thanking him for staying. Or the one where you apologised for not listening to him in the air.
You want to talk to him. Need to talk to him. Because you're not planning on staying grounded forever, and when you’re back on your feet, you’re not transferring out. The Dagger Squad isn’t just a group of friends—they’re your family. Bob included. In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously. Even though there are definitely some things you’d like to do to him that would make a family dinner wildly uncomfortable.
But first, he has to reply. He has to acknowledge that you exist.
When you wake again, it’s dark, and your phone is lit up with a flood of messages from the team. You take your time replying to each one, then hobble into the bathroom, ditch the brace, and take the hottest, longest shower your body can tolerate.
The next few hours are spent on the couch, anxiously watching the clock until Natasha finally texts you to say they’ve been dismissed. Which means Bob is off. Which means he has no excuse.
But still—nothing. You call. He doesn’t answer. Then Natasha texts again to let you know she watched him decline it.
Great. Another win.
Two whole days pass, and still no word.
You’re supposed to be on bed rest for two weeks before the flight surgeon clears you for light duties, but you’re going stir-crazy. With the squad on night shifts and your circadian rhythm completely fucked, you haven’t spoken to anyone but Trevor—once, over the phone—in forty-eight hours. Unless you count text messages, which you don’t.
All you want is to talk to Bob. Ask him why the hell he came to your house that day. Why he was so pissed at you that night. And why he thinks it’s okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened.
At this point, you don’t even care if he professes his undying love for you—though you’d strongly prefer it—you just want an explanation. You want to know what you did to hurt him so badly, and how to make it right. Because more than anything, you need him. And if friendship is the only version of him you’re allowed to have... then you’ll take it.
Even if it kills you.
By the third day… or night—you’re not even sure anymore—you decide to take matters into your own hands.
Your alarm blares at four a.m., an hour before you know the squad will be dismissed, and you wriggle out of bed and into a loose pair of sweatpants before securing your brace over the top. Then you tug on your stupidly oversized U.S. Navy shirt, grab your crutches, and hobble out the door.
You know where Bob lives—in the least creepy way possible—because you all moved out of the barracks around the same time, and you helped each other move. So, you call an Uber, hauling your injured self into the back seat with grim determination and only a small amount of whining.
It’s barely a ten-minute drive, which gives you about half an hour to crutch your way up the fire stairs—because of course the elevator requires a swipe card—to his apartment.
You know it’s ridiculous. You could’ve just waited in the lobby. But you don’t want to give him the chance to run away—again, in the least creepy way possible. The plan is to corner him at his apartment door, and maybe guilt-trip him a little with how much effort it took just for you to get there. At the very least, he’d have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card… and maybe you could ‘accidentally’ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then he’d be stuck with you.
Jesus. Thirty-six hours alone and you’re already in full-blown serial killer mode.
It takes twenty minutes to reach his floor, with plenty of breaks along the way, but eventually, you make it. You hobble down the hallway and lean against his door, dropping your head back with a soft thunk.
Not even a minute later, Natasha texts you to say they’ve been dismissed—because of course you filled her in on your plan.
And then you wait. With a racing pulse, a throbbing leg, and about a thousand thoughts spiralling through your brain. You wait.
At one point, a neighbour emerges from a nearby door, startling you. They give you a deeply dubious look before slipping into the elevator, and you make a mental note to tell Bob that they might warn him about a crazy, broken-legged woman lurking outside his apartment.
Your breathing picks up as the minutes pass—faster and faster until it feels impossible to catch. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out just waiting for him. But then—ding.
The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out.
Seeing him for the first time in three days shouldn’t feel like a religious experience—but it fucking does. God, he looks good. Even sleep-deprived, rumpled, and sporting messy helmet hair, he’s a walking wet dream in a flight suit deliberately designed for your destruction.
“Hey,” you say quietly, not wanting to startle him.
He jumps anyway—just a little. His feet still, eyes widening behind his glasses, brows pulling together.
“What are you doing here?”
You push off the door, steadying yourself on your crutches. “Good to see you too,” you say dryly. “I’ve been alright. A little lonely, borderline insane. My leg’s killing me after a thousand stairs. But hey—you look... tired. How’s the squad?”
He studies you for a moment. His frown softens, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches.
“I am tired,” he says. “The squad’s fine. Also tired.”
You nod. “Cool. So... everyone’s tired.”
He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking toward you, closing the distance.
“That all you came to talk about?” he asks.
You roll your eyes and shuffle aside. “What do you think?”
He sighs. “I think I’m not going straight to bed anymore.”
The door swings inward and he steps through, holding it open for you—wide as possible.
“That would be correct,” you say, flashing a grin as you hobble inside.
He shuts the door behind you and slides the chain lock into place.
You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches aren’t exactly graceful—and you haven’t had much practice. You make your way past the kitchen toward the small living room, where a plush cream sofa waits with perfectly fluffed pillows and a decorative throw draped neatly over the back. You’re just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow.
“Here,” he says softly, his other hand reaching to take the crutches from you.
He’s so close you can feel his warmth. You catch his scent—clean linen, a hint of jet fuel, and something subtle and spicy that’s so unmistakably him.
“Thanks,” you murmur, eyes locked on his lips.
He helps ease you down slowly onto the couch before straightening and setting your crutches aside, leaning them against the wall beside the TV cabinet.
“Let me just get changed,” he says, already turning toward his bedroom without a second glance.
He’s gone less than a minute. When he returns, he’s wearing dark blue joggers and a white sleep shirt worn so thin it’s almost translucent.
“Water?” he asks, detouring into the kitchen.
You shake your head. “I’m good—but thanks.”
He’s stalling. You know it. But you can be patient.
He pours himself a glass, drains it, then pours another before finally making his way back into the living room. He sits at the very end of the chaise lounge—about as far from you as possible.
“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?”
You nod, adjusting your posture even though you're already stiff with nerves.
“Look,” you begin, eyes dropping to your lap. “I know why you’re mad about the accident—I get it. It was stupid. I was reckless. I deserve to be in this stupid brace. I shouldn’t have ignored you, and I shouldn’t have let personal shit bleed into work. I’m sorry.”
You glance up, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t move. He just blinks.
Still, you press on. “If I could go back, I would. If there was anything I could do to make it up to you—or the squad—I’d do it. But we’re here now, I feel like shit, and the accident is on my record. I’m just glad none of you, or Mav, are in trouble because of me.”
He’s still silent, but you can see it now—his eyes keep flicking down to your shirt, his frown darkening each time.
“What I don’t get,” you say, your voice tightening, “is why you were already mad that night. Why you came to my apartment that morning but ran off without—”
“That’s irrelevant,” he cuts in, voice low—lethal.
You frown. “What do you mean irrelevant? The whole reason I was in a bad mood that night is because you rejected me and then acted like I did something wrong.”
His eyes widen. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? That what you’re saying?”
“No,” you snap. “Of course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine. I was the idiot who asked you out, the idiot who got mad when you said no, and the idiot who let it affect her at work. I’m not blaming you. I just want to understand.”
He takes an infuriatingly calm sip of water, gaze still fixed on your torso.
“You want to know why I said no when you asked me out?”
You shake your head. “I know why you said no.”
His brow creases. “You do?”
You sigh, eyes falling to your fingers as they toy with the hem of your shirt. “Because you don’t like me. That’s it. And I need to accept that. I shouldn’t have pushed it, or forced myself on you, and—”
He scoffs—sharp and dry—cutting you off. “You’re joking, right?”
You look up, blinking slowly. “Um… no. Not really.”
His laugh is sharp—bitter and cracked—so not Bob.
“You think I don’t like you?” he says, voice rising—unsteady now. “Are you insane?”
He stands suddenly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from flying apart.
“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” His eyes are wild when they meet yours. “And yeah, I said no when you asked me out, but that wasn’t because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. But I was scared.”
He paces now, voice building like the pressure in a cockpit.
“It wasn’t about your age—that was just a dumb excuse. It was you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re so sharp. You walk into a room and everything shifts. And I kept thinking, how the hell does someone like you want someone like me?”
His voice cracks, and he stops pacing, facing you full on. “So yeah. I panicked. I said no. And the second you walked away, I regretted it. I hated myself for it. And that morning—I came to tell you. I was ready to throw it all on the table.” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “But then he answered the door. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. And you—”
He gestures at you, helpless. His eyes—dark blue and burning—shine with the storm he’s been holding back.
“You just stood there. In his shirt. Like you hadn’t just ripped my heart out and stepped over it. Like I was nothing. Like I’d missed my shot and you’d already moved on.” His voice dips—raw now. “And now? You’re here. In the same goddamn shirt.”
He laughs again, broken this time.
“And I know I had no right to be angry. I know it. But Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to look at the woman you love knowing you’re the one who ruined it? Who let her go?”
He’s panting now, standing between the couch and the coffee table with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. Just looking at you. Waiting.
You swallow hard, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling. Your pulse is racing, pounding in your ears like a war drum. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break bone. You can’t breathe. You can barely think. There’s only one word echoing in your head.
“Love?” you whisper.
He rubs his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath.
“Yes. Love.” His arms drop to his sides as he meets your eyes again. “I love you.”
Your heart lurches into your throat.
“But that doesn’t change anything,” he adds quickly, dropping onto the couch—closer this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “I don’t expect it to change anything. I let you down, and you moved on. You had every right to. I should never have been angry about it—and for that, I’m sorry. Just…” He sighs again. “Just give me some time, okay? Just let me—”
“Trevor’s gay,” you blurt, louder than you mean to.
He blinks. “What?”
“Gay,” you repeat. “He’s gay. Like, so incredibly gay he’s into Hangman.”
Bob’s lips part, a soft breath slipping out.
You lean forward, brows drawn tight. “His callsign is Grinder. I mean, yes—partly because he’s a hard worker—but mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. But—Bob, I thought you knew—” You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.”
The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence.
The air between you crackles—so thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down.
“Hangman?” he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly.
You nod. “Hangman.”
He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. “So, you didn’t—”
“No,” you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. “Is that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy who’d fuck me?”
He cringes—actually cringes. “That’s just how it looked, I—”
“So you assumed?” you cut in, voice sharp. “You didn’t even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though you’re the one who rejected me?”
You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, something—but you can't. Not with your stupid leg.
“I know I had no right,” he mutters.
“Damn straight you didn’t,” you bite out. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, I’m looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. I’m in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fucking—”
His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips.
It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall.
His hands are in your hair, on your jaw, trembling as they try to hold you steady while his lips crash into yours with blistering need. It’s hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing he’s carried igniting in a single breathless second.
You gasp, shocked by the force of it—your lips parting, letting him in.
And then it’s chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos.
His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if he’s trying to memorise you with his fingertips and palms. Your hands claw into his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, dragging him closer, gasping into his mouth like you’re both trying to breathe each other in.
You feel like you’re on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half.
There’s a sharp pain in your leg from how hard you’re leaning in, but you don’t care. You’d burn your whole body just to keep this going.
Because he kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hunger—because you’ve wanted this forever. Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.”
You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. “I’m not leaving.”
“Good,” he murmurs, then kisses you again—soft, lingering.
His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail down the line of your jaw to your neck. Your skin ignites beneath every brush of his mouth, like your whole body is wired to spark beneath his touch.
Your stomach flips like you’ve been dropped from a height. Your thoughts dissolve into haze. Limbs weightless, breath shallow. All you can feel is the hot press of his lips and the growing ache in your stupid leg.
“Bob,” you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. “Bob, m—my leg.”
He jolts back like he’s touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space he’s no longer filling.
“I’m so sorry,” he gasps.
You shake your head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m okay.”
He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes your chest tighten. His glasses are askew, his cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet. His eyes are wild and wide, pupils blown so far they swallow the blue.
Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. “So... whose shirt is that?”
You blink, then glance down. “Oh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.”
He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. “It looks good on you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “but I think I prefer the short skirts.”
Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. “Bob Floyd,” you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, “did you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?”
He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. “Only when the skirts are on you.”
“That so?” Your lips curl into a slow smirk. “Well, unfortunately, I think this—” you tap the brace on your leg “—means short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.”
He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yours—burning now. There’s a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something you’ve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clench—if it weren’t for your stupid goddamn injury.
Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, “What about sex?”
The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening.
“Can you be gentle?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
“I can try,” he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire.
Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You don’t care how sore your leg might be—you want him. All of him. Finally.
So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, “Then what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?”
a/n: another Bob played by Lewis that i absolutely love and never got to writing for.
Warnings: readers call sign is Echo, fluff, Bob being a nervous cutie, kissing, mutual pinning, cheesy lines (its fluff guys let me have this one), no use of y/n.
Word count: 2.2K
“Hey there, pretty boy.”
Bob didn’t need to raise his eyes to know you were the one talking to him. You’d given him the nickname and made it extremely clear only you were allowed to use it. He lifted his eyes from the pool table, gaze finding your frame. You were wearing civilian clothes like the rest of the crew, but somehow, seeing you out of uniform affected Bob more than seeing the others. Maybe it wasn’t the clothes. Maybe it was just who was wearing them.
“Can I have some?”
Bob understood you were talking about the chips in his hands—his go-to snack at The Hard Deck. He lifted the container from the table beside him, offering it to you. You gave him a small smile of gratitude, grabbing a handful and stuffing it into your mouth. Bob continued to look at you as you chewed, but you were focused on the pool game before you. Phoenix scored a shot, causing you to yell out in victory. The rest of the crew raised their heads to look in your direction, realizing for the first time that you had arrived.
“Didn’t think you were coming, Echo.”
“Oh yeah? Why, scared I'd beat you again, Hangman?”
Phoenix grinned at your words. You two always had a knack for getting on the boys' nerves. Hangman was an easy target thanks to his inflated ego, so you took whatever shot you could when it came to him.
“Better put your money where your mouth is.”
Hangman moved over to you, lifting the pool stick in invitation. You raised your eyebrows at him—you knew better than to take the bait.
“Nah, I’m good. Don’t need to prove myself to you.”
The others let out small noises like “uff” and “oh, burn” at your words, causing your smirk to widen.
“Plus, I think I'd rather spend time with Bob anyway.”
Hangman's eyes shifted to the man beside you, lips curling into a teasing smile before turning back to you.
“I’m sure you would.”
There was something cruel hidden beneath the phrase. You chose to ignore it. Like you often did. Realizing he wouldn’t get a rise out of you, Hangman turned on his heels, moving back to where Phoenix was still waiting for him to take his shot.
You turned your attention back to Bob, moving to sit next to him. The stools were small and close together—an attempt to use up as much of the limited space as possible—which caused your body to be flush against Bob’s. You felt him shift a bit, body slightly tense.
“This okay? I can sit somewhere else.”
You moved to get up, but Bob placed a hand on your thigh in desperation.
“No, it’s okay.”
He paused, realizing where his hand rested on your body, then moved it as quick as lightning. You laughed at the action.
“Sorry. I was just trying to be a—”
“Gentleman?”
“Yeah.”
You smiled at him, patting his thigh with your hand.
“You’re all good, Bob. Don’t worry about it.”
With that, you removed your hand from his thigh, resting it in your own lap. Bob's eyes remained glued to where you had touched him. His skin felt warm. You always seemed to have that effect on him. Whenever you were close, Bob would find himself getting flushed. He forced himself to drag his eyes back to the pool table, even though he’d much rather continue looking at you.
Upon remembering your request for his chips, Bob reached for his beer, touching your shoulder gently with his to get your attention. You looked over at him, glancing at the cup in his hand before giving him a questioning gaze.
“You want some?”
“Oh. Yeah, sure, thanks.”
Bob merely shrugged, handing you his cup. You took a sip before passing it back. You continued to do that until the cup was empty.
“Oh shoot. I finished it. Sorry, Bob—I’ll go get another one.”
“Oh, it’s okay, I don’t need—”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll get it.”
You turned to the others.
“Anyone else want a top-up?”
After getting everyone's cups, you began moving toward the bar. Bob grabbed your arm as you passed, causing you to pause.
“I’ll go with you.”
“Oh, you don’t have to. Really, it’s—”
“I want to.”
You were slightly taken aback by the words, but you welcomed the company.
“If you’re sure.”
You and Bob made your way through the crowd toward the bar, weaving between bodies and half-full tables. The Hard Deck was packed tonight—sailors, aviators, and locals all jostling for elbow room. The air smelled like beer and salt, and the music thumped loud enough to feel in your ribs.
Bob stayed close, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes scanning the room like he always did—quiet, alert, steady. You liked that about him. No pretense. No bluster. Just Bob.
You’d only just placed the drink order when the song changed—one of those upbeat, slightly retro tracks with a funky bass line and smooth vocals, the kind that immediately lit a spark in your chest. Your head snapped toward the jukebox like it had called your name. A wide grin spread across your face.
“Oh my god, I love this song.”
Bob turned to look at you, eyebrows lifting behind his glasses. “
Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You bobbed your head to the beat, already feeling the rhythm in your limbs.
“Come on, Bob. Dance with me.”
His eyes widened slightly. “Dance?”
You didn’t wait for a full yes. You grabbed his hand, tugging him gently but insistently away from the bar.
“You can’t say no, Bob. It's the rules.”
“What rules?”
He asked, but you were already halfway to the open space between the dartboard and the old jukebox, a makeshift dance floor when the vibe was right.
“The ones I just made up.”
Bob stumbled after you, half-laughing, half-dreading, though his fingers stayed laced in yours. You stopped in the center of the room, turning to face him, still swaying to the music.
“Just follow my lead, pretty boy.”
“I don’t really dance,” he admitted quietly, looking everywhere but at you.
“Doesn’t matter. Just move. It’s not about looking good, it’s about having fun.”
You placed his hands on your waist and gave him an encouraging smile. Bob hesitated a second longer, then slowly let the music guide him, shifting his weight side to side. He was awkward at first, uncertain, but you were patient—moving in closer, syncing your steps with his, laughing when he accidentally bumped your knee with his.
“You’re doing fine,” you said, leaning in like you were telling a secret.
He gave you a small, sheepish smile—the kind that made your chest flutter a little.
“I think you’re just saying that.”
“Maybe,” you said, teasing. “But I’m still glad you’re out here.”
And then, like some switch flipped inside him, Bob started to relax. His shoulders dropped. His grip on your waist grew surer. The next spin you pulled him into wasn’t met with hesitation—it was met with a chuckle.
Maybe he wasn’t a dancer. But dancing with you? That, he could do.
And then the song changed into a slower one, causing your body to move closer. Bob’s breath hitched as he felt the shift—the proximity of your bodies finally settling in his mind. His throat felt dry. His gaze moved around the room, searching to see if anyone was watching. No one was, each person glued to their own conversation to notice a couple of people dancing near the bar.
You felt the tension in Bob’s body, causing you to call out his name. He forced his eyes to meet yours.
“You okay?”
Bob didn’t answer at first, trying to figure out what he should do. He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to kiss you. But that wouldn’t be appropriate. Not in front of all these people. Not without making sure you’d be okay with him doing it.
The lack of response made you pull away slightly, becoming a bit self-conscious yourself. Had you gone too far? Had your desire to be near him made him feel uncomfortable?
“We can stop if you want. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Bob began to feel you pull away. The feeling caused him to act, his hands tightening around your waist. Not forceful—just reassuring.
“No, I…” he paused for a moment, uncertain.
“I want to keep dancing with you. If you want to, that is.”
You smiled at him, shoulders relaxing. You hadn’t scared him. Not yet.
“I’d like that.”
You moved together in an easy rhythm, your bodies swaying gently, comfortably. Bob’s hands rested on your waist like he was afraid to hold you too tightly, but they stayed. Steady. Sure. You looped your arms around his shoulders, fingers brushing the back of his neck, and for a moment, the world felt small in the best way—just the two of you in a noisy bar, dancing like no one was watching.
You leaned your cheek against his, lips close to his ear.
“You’re a fast learner,” you murmured, your breath making him shiver.
Bob gave a quiet laugh, the sound low and close.
“I have a good teacher.”
Another minute passed like that—close and quiet—until Bob pulled back slightly, eyes searching yours.
“Would it be okay if we stepped outside for a bit?”
His voice was soft, almost uncertain.
“It’s a little loud in here.”
You nodded immediately.
“Yeah, I’d like that.”
Bob gently took your hand again, weaving you both through the crowd. The door creaked open and spilled warm air into the cooler night, the ocean breeze brushing against your skin. You both stepped out into the open air, away from the music, away from the bodies and lights and laughter.
Once you’d stepped out, Bob let go of your hand. You longed for the feeling again, but you understood that he’d probably let go because he wasn’t sure if you'd be okay with him holding you like that. You opted to stay quiet, tailing beside him as you two walked. You didn’t know where he wanted to go exactly, but you continued to follow him. You looked up at the sky, a soft “wow” escaping your lips as you caught sight of the moon. Bob heard the sound, gaze shifting to see what you were staring at. A soft smile made its way onto his face as he looked at you taking in the moon.
“Come on. I want to show you something.”
He lifted his hand to you. You took it, glad to have his palm back in yours. He began running—not fast, but enough to make you have to race a bit to keep up with him. Once you made it to the spot, he let go of your hand, moving to lean over the railing. You copied his movements. And then you saw it: the way the moon reflected against the ocean. You let out a soft gasp.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It really is.”
You turned to face Bob, finding his eyes on you instead of the sight before you. You flushed a bit, realizing he’d been talking about you and not the moon. Bob inched closer to you, pulling off the railing so he could face you directly. You allowed him to go at his own pace, making his way to you slowly.
Bob stopped a breath away from you, his eyes flickering down to your lips before darting quickly back up to your gaze. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. You waited, giving him time. He always seemed to need a second longer to speak his mind.
“I’ve been wanting to do something,” he finally said, voice low, as if afraid the wind might carry it away.
You tilted your head slightly. “Yeah?”
He nodded. “But I don’t want to mess this up. I don’t want to... assume anything.”
Your chest tightened at the sincerity in his tone. You stepped in a little closer, closing the last of the distance between you. Close enough to feel his warmth.
“You won’t.”
Bob leaned in, slow and deliberate. Giving you every chance to pull away. When you didn’t—when you leaned into him too—his hand found your cheek, thumb brushing softly against your skin. His lips met yours in a kiss that was every bit as sweet and careful as you’d expected from him. No rush. No push. Just Bob. Steady. Honest.
The kiss was soft at first—testing the waters. But when you kissed him back, really kissed him, he melted into it, his hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your neck, like he’d finally stopped holding himself back.
When you pulled apart, your forehead rested against his.
You stood there in silence for a moment, just breathing each other in, the ocean crashing softly below, the moonlight catching in his glasses.
“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he admitted, not quite looking at you.
“I was hoping you would.”
You both smiled. Then Bob reached for your hand again, interlacing your fingers.
“Wanna stay out here a little longer?”
You nodded, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.
“Yeah. I think I could stay right here all night.”
Bob gave you a full, toothy smile.
“Not a problem with me.”
You settled back into his arms, breathing in the scent of his cologne and the warmth radiating from his body. He was your pretty boy—yours, and no one else’s.
It had taken him a while to realize it, but he’d managed to get there eventually. And you couldn’t have been happier.
The 5 Times You Flirted With Bob + The 1 Time He Picked Up on It
Summary: You've fallen for your friend and have decided to drop some hints that you're flirting. Unfortunately, Bob doesn't realize that immediately.
Warnings: Language, no y/n, female reader, reader has a callsign (Honey)
Thank you to @dissonannce for this amazing idea. Thank you @acewritesfics for the dividers!
"Your hands are so big."
It took Bob a moment to register that you were in fact, talking to him.
"Oh! Um yeah. My ma made me do piano because she felt I was given the hands for them," Bob wiggled his fingers for extra effect, "Y'know, since they're so long."
Yes, they were quite long. It was one of the first things you noticed about Bob. Well, after you noticed his beautiful blue eyes, his endearing lopsided smile, the way he was so considerate of everyone else, so gentle, and yet there was an underlying confidence about him. He was sure of himself, but he didn't feel the need to brag.
Who could blame you for falling head over heels for him?
You flashed him a smile, hand reaching towards his.
"It's just, your hand is so much bigger than mine. See?" You propped his arm up, allowing your palm to press against his, both your fingers spread out to showcase the difference in size.
"See? My hand is so small compared to yours," You giggled. Bob looked down at your hands. Your breath hitched, your fingers twitching, dying to entwine with his.
"Yeah, there is quite a difference in size," Bob said, giving you that small smile you adored so much. That smile gave you the confidence to entwine your fingers with his.
"I think they fit pretty well together, see?" He wasn't letting go. He was still smiling as he looked down at your hand holding his.
Maybe this was finally it, he'd finally realized that you liked him and would-
"I'm gonna go get some more peanuts, can I get ya anything?"
You mustered up a smile, trying to cover up your disappointment, "I'll take a water. Thanks Robby."
As soon as he left, you shot Jake a dirty look, "Seresin, you said that shit would work!"
Jake, who had been pretending to play a game of pool with Bradley, Javy, and Mickey, put his hands up in defense, "Because it usually does! Everyone knows when a girl compares hand sizes it means she wants you!"
"Everyone but Bob apparently," Javy muttered.
"Maybe you just need to be more obvious?" Mickey suggested.
You sighed. You knew Bob. The last thing you wanted was to be so blunt it would overwhelm him. But at the same time, you two had been doing this whole 'friends but also more than that and I'm pretty sure we're flirting?' for the last month and you were getting annoyed with it how seemed to be going nowhere.
Perhaps Mickey was right. You were going to have to be a bit more obvious.
"Bee? You ready?" Bob called out from your living room. Bob's nickname of your callsign (Honey) always brought a smile to your face, as well as heat to your cheeks.
"Almost! Can I get your thoughts on this top?" You asked as you walked in.
"Yeah, I'm sure you look-oh." Bob's eyes widened as he took in the green top you were wearing.
It was tighter than the shirts you normally wore, highlighting your breasts. The fabric stopped right at the end of your rib cage, showing off your stomach and bringing attention to your high waisted jeans, which according to Jake "did wonders for your ass".
"What do you think?" You clasped your hands together, the action causing your breasts to stick out even further.
"Um the uh, the color is really great on you. B-brings out your eyes," Bob said, his eyes looking everywhere except you.
With the way his cheeks were bright red, it gave you confidence to step forward, your body now inches away from his, "I was hoping it would bring out something else besides my eyes Robby."
"I mean you you look great in everything you wear! So mission accomplished," Bob said quickly, his hands fidgeting with his car keys.
"Anything else you want to say about the outfit Robby? I really value your opinion." You stood on the tips of your toes, bringing your chest closer to Bob's face.
It was the first time since you walked in that his eyes landed on your chest. He cleared his throat, as if he was gathering up the courage to say it.
"You should grab a jacket, it's supposed to go down to the low sixties tonight," He said, turning around to head out the door.
God damn it.
You grabbed your phone, quickly texting the group.
Honey: We need to go to Plan C.
Rooster: Plan C?! You're saying the top didn't work?
Bagman: Dude, your tits were like out.
Rooster: Maybe they weren't out enough?
Coyote: If they were out any more, Honey would be getting a public indecency charge.
Phoenix: Maybe we shouldn't use clothes to express our feelings? Just a thought 🤦🏽
Fanboy: Yeah Nat, that's plan C.
Payback: Can we not blow up the group chat tonight? The finale of Insecure is on.
Your right leg bounced up and down in nervous anticipation, your eyes never leaving the entrance to the Hard Deck.
"You don't think this is too much, is it?" You asked your friends/coworkers.
"Nah, it'll be perfect!" Mickey reassured you.
"You and Bob are going to walk out of here holding hands by the end of the night, guarantee it," Jake commented as he lined up the balls for a round of pool.
It took all your strength not to jump out of your seat when you saw Bob walk in. His iridescent blue eyes scanned the room, landing on you. He always seemed to search for you, which had to be a sign that he wanted more, that he felt the same way as you did.
You greeted him with a smile, patting the empty seat next to him.
"Hey Robby! I got something for you!" You called out.
Bob just smiled as he sat down, "I see you got my signature: water and peanuts. Thanks Bee!"
You giggled, shaking your head, "Yes, but that's not just it. These are for you!"
Bob stared at the bouquet of flowers you were holding out for him.
"For me? These are for me?" He asked, eyes wide as saucers.
"Yes! I was just thinking, like why is giving guys flowers not a thing? Because it totally should be! And no one deserves these flowers more than you Robby," You explained, a hopeful smile adorning your face.
Bob gently took the bouquet, admiring each flower.
"I thought they would go well with your eyes-that's why a most of them are yellow," you explained, trying to hide how nervous you were.
"These are perfect," Bob said before leaning down to smell the flowers.
"Really? Each flower has a different meaning," you began, hoping that by fidgeting with your hands, you'd be able to conceal your nerves.
Bob simply smiled, his face the epitome of saccharine, "Oh, I already know."
Your breath hitched, "You do?"
Bob nodded, "Oh yeah! Alstroemerias symbolize support, sunflowers are for loyalty, and violets stand for intuition!"
He wasn't wrong. You couldn't tell if you were upset by that or the fact that Mickey forgot flowers can have more than one meaning.
Time for Plan D.
"Hey Robby! You ready to watch hot people make poor decisions?"
"Ready as I'll ever-that's new," Bob said softly, taking in the new loungewear you had on for your biweekly Love Island watch.
"Oh this? I think I got it last week," you said as you let Bob into your apartment, "It's super comfy and it has pockets!"
It also was cut low, showing off your cleavage, as well as the tops of your thigh.
"Yeah, the uh, color looks really good on you Bee," Bob commented. The compliment brought a smile to your face. He noticed you, noticed you were wearing something new, and seemed to be noticing your now exposed skin.
"Well, let's go see if these folks gain any common sense," you grabbed his hand, practically beaming at how your hand fit perfectly in his.
"Somehow I doubt it," Bob chuckled.
When he offered to hold the popcorn for while you two watched, you weren't disappointed. Sure, it meant you weren't able to hold his hand. But it did mean you could move closer to him, your thighs practically touching.
"I really hope he doesn't take her back," Bob muttered, his eyes glued to the screen.
"He will. They always do," you sighed, gently moving your head so it rested against one of his broad shoulders.
If your action had any effect on Bob, he didn't show it. Which was the problem.
"I would pick you in the recoupling," You revealed, hoping that would be enough, would finally be enough.
Bob smiled, placing a hand on your knee, "That's kind of you Bee. But I think friendship couples go against the nature of the show."
It took everything in you not to scream.
The rest of the night was just a typical Love Island watch night, no touching, no initiating, no declarations of love, and ending with Bob giving you a friendly hug goodbye.
With a sigh, you flopped onto your bed to check your messages.
Bagman: Bee, please tell us it worked and you're marking sweet love to baby on board
Phoenix: you're disgusting Seresin.
Rooster: why would they stop fucking just to text you Bagman?
Bagman: so we can pop some champagne to celebrate
Fanboy: Why the fuck is would we do that?
Coyote: It's a big event! Bee told Bob how she feels AND Bob's getting laid!
Payback: Can I just get one night of peace? Just one night?
You: No one's doing anything bc it didn't work!
Rooster: Not trying to be rude, but weren't you like almost naked?
Bagman: Like 52% nude.
Phoenix: JFC, we're going to plan E folks.
Coyote: Is that when we just lock them in a closet?
Bagman: No that's plan G
"Hey Bee!"
The cheerful, charming voice always brought a smile to your face.
"Hi Robby!" You greeted him with a hug, the comforting scent of rosemary filling your nostrils, "You smell really nice."
"Oh um thanks," A hand flew to the back of Bob's neck, a nervous (and also adorable) habit, "Wanted to smell nice after doing all those pushups out in the sun."
"Well it worked, you smell great," One of your hands reached up to the nape of his neck, toying with the hair that had curled at the end, "Look great too."
The tops of Bob's cheeks were now a dusty pink, "It's just a white Tshirt."
You took a step forward, placing your hands on his chest, "It's a good look Robby. Shows off your muscles. I like it on you.
Bob's lips parted, then promptly closed.
"Uh, t-thanks Bee." He had to know now that you were flirting with him. It was clear as day.
Feeling confident, your hands trailed down to his, grasping them, "We should dance!"
You didn't wait for Bob to answer, dragging him out to the middle of the floor. The sounds of Bradley covering Frankie Valli (begrudgingly, as apparently Jerry Lee Lewis was better) filled the bar.
After a few minutes, Bob's shoulders visibly relaxed, a smile spreading across his face. You threw your head back laughing as he bust out a goofy dance move.
Everyone thought Bob was shy, but that wasn't the case. He was observant, determined to get a good read on someone so he knew how to approach the situation accordingly. Once he was comfortable, his personality shined and he was a sweet, goofy man who you adored with all your heart.
The grin you had was so wide, your cheeks were beginning to hurt. But you couldn't stop, not when he was twirling you around.
"Where did you learn to dance like that?" You asked, having to say it into his ear so he could hear your voice above the music.
Bob shrugged, "I come from a big family. When you know you're going to a lot of weddings, knowing how to dance helps. That and my mom made me do cotillion."
"Well, all that practice paid off. You're a great dance partner Robby." You rested your chin against his broad chest, looking up to meet eyes bluer than the ocean.
In that moment, all you could do was focus on him. The way the corner of his eyes creased when he truly smiled, his comforting scent, his pink, thin lips that you were dying to feel on yours.
You wondered if he could hear your heart pounding, if he could feel it since your body was practically on his.
His hands found their way to your arms, gently placing themselves on your biceps. Was this it? It had to be.
So you stood on the tips of your toes, your lips now closer to his. Your eyes began to close as you leaned in to-
"I gotta go. Jake stuck his foot in his mouth again."
This wasn't a lie. But it still didn't dull your disappointment. Nor did it sedate your growing frustration at this whole situation.
Perhaps you didn't need Plan G or H Perhaps it was time to go with your original plan.
The next time you saw Bob was when Nat threw a small get together to celebrate the end of a long week.
He was wearing that damn white Tshirt again. Whenever he brought his cup of water to his mouth, the fabric stretched across his bicep.
Was he doing this on purpose? Did he know? Consciously or not, that you had fallen for him ever since you two first met at training?
Either way, you were tired of this game you had been playing for the past month.
"Are you sure about this?" Natasha asked.
You simply nodded before taking a shot of vodka. A little liquid courage was always nice.
"Nat, he's oblivious. Honestly, I don't know why we didn't do this the first time," Jake commented as he took the shot glass out of your hand.
"Because we didn't expect him to be that oblivious," Mickey countered.
"Well everyone, wish me luck." You walked out of the kitchen to find Bob still sitting on the couch, glass of water in hand.
His eyes met yours and he gave you a smile sweeter than honey. Your legs began to wobble, whether it was from that smile or your nerves, you couldn't say.
You walked over, making a beeline for him. Bob's eyes widened, his fingers gripping his cup. Your gaze was so intense.
"Hey Bee-oh!" Bob froze as you sat down in his lap, your thighs straddling his lithe hips.
"Hey Robby," your hands found his shoulders, fingers toying with the thin cotton fabric of his shirt.
"Uh Bee, there's um, there's a seat right there," Bob weakly pointed to the empty space next to him.
"I don't want that," you leaned forward, your forehead grazing his, "I want you Robby."
His eyes widened once more, as if he just saw an incoming train, "M-me?"
"Yes. Wanted you ever since that first day of training, when you offered me a mint," you told him.
"I uh, you looked sleepy and mint is known to wake you up and," Bob paused, "Did you say since the first day of training?"
You nodded, smiling at how you were able to see him process this information.
"The first day of training?" He repeated.
"Yes Bob, all you did was offer me a mint and smile to make me fall head over heels for ya," your fingers now went up to the back of his neck, twirling the curled ends of his hair, "Been trying to tell you that for the last month."
Bob opened his mouth, then promptly closed it, his brain still processing everything.
"You good Rob-" You never got to finish your sentence, as Bob decided right then was the best time to press his lips against yours.
His lips were soft and tasted faintly of vanilla, no doubt from the chapstick you watched him reapply. His touch was gentle, his thick fingers ghosting over your thighs, trailing up to your waist. Every move, no matter how small, made your heart fluttered.
Being so close to him, you could smell his aftershave, a mix of eucalyptus and sage. It was intoxicating and you wanted to be surrounded by it all the time, wanted to kiss him all the time.
When he broke away for air, you had to hold back a whimper, your lips desperate for more.
"FINALLY!"
You turned your head to find Bradley, along with Mickey, Natasha, Jake, Javy, and Reuben standing by the doorframe, in perfect view of you and Bob.
You smiled and opened your mouth, ready to make a quick remark. But Bob's fingers hooked underneath your chin, turning your head back to meet his lips again.
Unlike the first kiss, this one was bolder. His lips moved against yours with more confidence. Your whole body felt warm, as if you were floating. His hands now cupped your jawline, which is how you learned that Bob's hands practically covered your whole neck, a discovery that sent you reeling.
Your hands trailed up to his head, desperate to feel his sun kissed locks, desperate to find out if they were as soft as they looked. But just before you could, Bob broke away.
"What?" Anxiety came rushing back, dragging you away from Cloud Nine, your previous location. Did he regret it?
"Let's go."
He moved your body to the empty space on the couch, quickly getting up. You took his hands, allowing him to help you get up. You held onto one hand as he led you to the front door.
"Bob! What are you doing with my backseater?" Javy called out.
"Making up for lost time!"
Maybe you should be a little embarrassed. But how could you? You had finally kissed the man of your dreams, he kissed you back. He wanted to leave with you.
The sounds of the house party fainted, becoming soft background noise as you went outside.
Bob stopped, turning around to face you. Before you could get out a sound, his lips were on you again. His hands pulled your body to his, closing the gap in-between.
You couldn't help but moan when you felt his tongue slide against your bottom lip, immediately granting him entrance. You could hear Bob's breath hitch, his hands roaming across your body, touching your soft skin.
Abruptly, he pulled away, leaving you desperate for more.
"Why do you keep doing that?!"
"I...." His face was flushed, "I meant to ask you if if you drove yourself here. But you looked so kissable. You still do, God I just wanna kiss you again."
"I'm not stopping you Robby," you grinned, stepping towards him, "I'm not stopping you at all."
"Oh don't tell me that darlin'" his Midwestern upbringing laced his words. You always loved his accent, having found it not just unique but also comforting.
Somehow, despite his lips pressed against yours, Bob was able to walk you back to his car, your back meeting the cool metal.
His broad body draped over yours, his tongue frantically exploring your mouth. Your fingers reached up, grasping his hair. It was soft and much thicker than you expected.
What else was there about Bob you had yet to learn? What kind of toothpaste he used, if he drank tea or coffee in the morning. Did he fall asleep to rain sounds or silence? How many pillows were on his bed?
You wanted to know everything.
But right now, you just wanted to kiss Bob.
Your fingers tugged on his hair in an attempt to pull him closer to you. Despite his chest being pressed against yours, it wasn't enough. You wanted all of him.
"We should get in the car," He said, voice breathless. With the way his chest was rising, one would think he had just ran ten miles.
Bob began moving towards the driver's side of his truck, but he stopped, turning back to you.
"I want to take you home," He stated. It sounded like a confession with the way guilt laced his eyes.
"I would love that Robby."
Instead, he just shook his head, "But I shouldn't because you deserve more than that. You deserve a nice date, like that Italian restaurant we always pass when we go to Bradley's. You deserve that and flowers and a lovely dinner with candles and wine that's older than both of us-"
You cut him off by gently pecking his lips, "It's okay Bob. You could take me to that diner up the room from your place tomorrow morning and I'd be elated because I would be with you."
He shook his head, clearly torn between continuing to talk and continuing to kiss you, "But....it's the least I should do. I mean, after all the hints you were dropping. I thought you were just being friendly and-"
"What friend asks another friend to look at their chest?" You asked incredulously.
"I thought maybe we were just really close! That you were really comfortable around me, which is why I didn't think anything regarding what you wore when we watched Love Island. I mean," his face reddened, "I did think about it. Um I thought about it a lot and if you ever want to wear it again, I would not mind-"
"Bob," you stepped forward, placing your hands on his chest.
"I mean, you got me Violets! Those mean loyalty and devotion, as well as delicate love! And believe me I wanted to kiss you at the Hard Deck, but that is entirely Jake's fault-"
"As most things are."
"And looking back it was so obvious and I can't believe I didn't pick up on it," He paused, "Sorry, I I had to get that out. I can take you home or back to my place, whatever you want."
You giggled, delighted by his ramblings. You wanted to hear more of it.
"And now I just want to kiss you. Like all the time," He confessed, his lips moving closer to yours.
"Robby, get in the car," you instructed.
"Oh, um, okay," Bob unlocked his car, moving towards the driver seat.
"No Bob. Get in the back of the car," you instructed.
Bob's brows knitted together in confusion, "But then how will I drive-oh!"
Who knows if you were going to make it back to his place or yours. All you cared about was getting your lips and hands back on Bob Floyd.
Summary: Over your four years working for Reed Richards, you'd given yourself one job: you can be his friend, but don't fall for Johnny Storm's charms. Too bad you had already failed that mission before it could even begin.
Warnings: 18+ ONLY MDNI, SMUT (making out, unprotected sex, p in v, nipple play, oral f. receiving, temperature play, creampie, aftercare), porn with a LOT of plot, slight hint of some angst, fluff, friends to lovers, Johnny is a massive flirt, mutual pining, SPOILERS! for The Fantastic Four: First Steps, female reader but no characteristics described, mentions of parental loss, maybe some incorrect stuff regarding the 60s and how it worked but it's a fantasy world, lightly edited so apologies for any mistakes
“We need to adjust the parameters for this. There’s a few more levels that I want to adjust, to ensure that we’ve scanned the baby for all possible anomalies,”
Years ago, when you had miraculously been offered the position as Dr. Reed Richards assistant, it was a dream come true. The smartest man alive, holding 18 Doctorate degrees himself, choosing you out of the thousands of applicants to be his assistant was a ‘pinch me’ moment. Of course, he didn’t want an assistant, it was thrust upon him by his wife, but you liked to think after all this time you’d wormed your way into his heart.
Working with Reed…was something else entirely. It was a learning curve, understanding just how the man’s brain worked. Even to this day, you weren’t sure you understood it. Even when things went perfectly, when test runs on prototypes worked out better than you could’ve ever imagined, Reed was never satisfied. Something could always be better, be improved, as if his brain was factoring in the hundreds of thousands of possibilities that could occur and alter your data. You made it work, though–with patience and understanding–you managed to find the best way to work around Reed’s faults and work with him, to support him.
What was supposed to be just a job in the Baxter Building became so much more. Through it, you gained a family you never thought quite possible.
Reed’s wife, Susan Storm, was another one of the brightest minds that you had ever encountered. Kind, compassionate, but fiercely loyal and unafraid to step up to the plate when a challenge arrived, when the people she loved were threatened. You admired her and everything she stood for, the way she carried herself day in and day out. And since the day you had arrived at the Baxter Building, she welcomed you with open arms, as if you had always been part of the family.
Ben Grimm was the most talented pilot you’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. The perfect counter to Reed and his panicky mind at times, having known the man long enough to understand his quirks in a way you could only hope to. Ben was always kind, always open, always ready to lend a hand or be a shoulder for anyone that needed to listen.
Johnny Storm…was the bane of your existence, in the best way.
“Wrong address, sweetheart. The modeling agency is two blocks down. I could escort you over there, if you’d like?”
Those were the first words the hot-headed younger brother of Sue Storm had said to you, passing by you in the lobby of the building on your first day, a wink thrown in for good measure when he’d spoken.
Having followed Dr. Richards' work long enough, which meant knowing bits about his personal life, you were well aware of the reputation that Johnny Storm carried. The papers and magazines, talk shows and gossip blogs, all called him a playboy simply because he’d never been in a long-term relationship but was still a ladies man. You never saw him like that, though. All you saw was a brilliant guy, a lover of space, even if that passion of his was sometimes overlooked because of his ‘love for women’.
And, oh, how you wished his empty, blatant flirting with you didn’t bring a blush to your cheeks every time, or make your heart skip a beat, but it did. Every single time, it did. You weren’t blind: Johnny Storm was objectively handsome and much too charming for his own good, and you decided right then and there that you would use every ounce of your willpower to ignore his empty flirts. You didn’t need to become another girl hopelessly in love with the heartthrob of the Fantastic Four, even if your heart ached when you saw him with anyone else.
Those four had become important to you in ways that you would never be able to describe, but Sue always described it best: a family.
That’s why when four of the closest people to you in life went up into space for Reed’s exploration mission, and came back cosmically changed forever, you never left their sides. They were your family, and family stuck together, no matter what.
“Reed,” your comment was cautious, hands stilling at your work station in the lab of the Baxter Building. Glancing over your shoulder, Reed was hunched over the machine he’d built in just a day, specifically to monitor the health of the baby growing inside of Sue’s stomach, as Herbie rocked back and forth beside him. “You’ve scanned Sue a thousand times at this point-”
“That’s an exaggeration. I’ve scanned her 123 times-”
“That’s not the point,” he glanced over at you then, looking away the second he saw the pointed look you were throwing at him. With a sigh, you abandoned your work, leaning back against the table behind you to watch him fret over the device. “We have run every test possible, scanned for every data point that links back to the fluctuations in your DNA from the cosmic rays we noted years ago, and we’ve gotten nothing. Your baby is okay.”
“There are still more tests to run,”
Another sigh escaped past your lips, and you allowed yourself to hang your head with a shake.
Since the moment Sue had announced her pregnancy, he’d been like this: even more on edge than usual. Baby-proofing the kitchen, smoke detectors in every single room and hallway, baby gates around every corner, it was getting insufferable. A sweet gesture, overall, and a testament to how much he loved and adored Sue, but exhausting to everyone else that had to be in his presence.
“Fine, but I’m not breaking the news to Sue that you want to scan her…again,”
“I already told her to meet me down here before dinner for another scan. We can adjust the parameters tomorrow. I want another data set from today’s scan at the current parameters to compare the changes with,” Reed never looked in your direction, still fiddling with the machine in front of him. “You’re staying for dinner, yes?”
“I’m making it,” was the response you shot back to him, powering down your workstation in the lab and rising from your chair, crossing the room to stand in front of him. “Apparently Sue has been craving spaghetti, and requested my family recipe.”
“You can’t argue with a pregnant woman,” Reed muttered, just loud enough for you to hear, but he still never looked up. “I’ll see you up there for dinner, then. There’s a few more tests that I want to run.”
“You also have a meeting at 5:45 and one at 6:15,” you shot back to him as you turned to leave the lab, checking the desk calendar lying beside your work station. There was a hum from the man, the smallest acknowledgement you were going to get, so you set your sights on Herbie and waved him forward. “Come on, Herb. An extra hand in the kitchen is always nice.”
As much as you thought of the Fantastic Four as your family, you never stayed for dinner often. You always tried your hardest to uphold the lines between your work life and personal life, not wanting to blur them completely (though, you were sure you had already blurred them enough for it to be too late). There had been plenty of times over the years where you’d stayed for dinner, usually once a month at this rate.
Sue always invited you, and you never wanted to disappoint her, and you gave in often. Ben had a way of wrangling you into saying yes before you were ever given the chance to speak at all. Reed had only asked once, asking you to stay back for the dinner months ago in which they announced to you that Sue was pregnant.
Johnny asked every day. You said no, most of the time, but when you did stay for dinner it was usually because those captivating, bright blue eyes were staring into your soul and pleading with you to stay.
Speak of the devil: there he sat at the dining room table. Clad in a white t-shirt with their logo resting over the pocket and the blue pants of his suit, a weird sight given that you had been in the lab with Reed all day and didn’t think any of them had left to attend to any ‘hero’ work.
You didn’t say a word as you strolled past him into the kitchen with Herbie on your heels, simply plucking the box of Lucky Charms from his hands as you swooped past. It was impossible not to smile to yourself at the scoff of indignation he let out at your actions.
“Hey-!”
“You’re going to spoil your appetite,” you shot back at him, throwing him a smirk over your shoulder before slotting the now closed cereal box into the cupboard where it usually sat.
Herbie beeped out a set of beeps that, over the years, you had come to understand. This time, he was agreeing with you, pointing out some facts about how eating out of the box lacked moderation, and would in turn actually spoil his appetite. You gave the little robot a fist bump for that, something that Johnny shot the little helper a glare for.
“Come on, Herbert, you’re supposed to take my side on these things!” There was no real malice in his words as he got up from the dining room table, rounding into the kitchen as you took the pots and pans that Herbie had gathered for you, setting them out along the counter where you needed them. “Baby, you didn’t tell me you were staying for dinner.”
When you told yourself that you weren’t going to fall into the trap that was the charming and charismatic Johnny Storm, you weren’t prepared for two things.
One: when he got comfortable around someone, he could be an even bigger flirt. Pet names were constant. Baby, sweetheart, honey, doll, love…you name it, Johnny called you it. Constantly. So constantly you were sure the blush on your cheeks was a permanent staple. He’d even once called you his little flame–that had been met with the tip of your heel being dug into his foot.
The second thing you weren’t prepared for: touch. Johnny Storm didn’t understand personal space, not when he was comfortable around you. If you were in the room with him, he was standing less than a foot from you, and you always knew because you could feel the warmth that radiated off his unusually hot skin. His hands would always rest on your arm, your elbow, right at the bottom of your lower back.
Moments like this in the kitchen were normal, and yet they still fried your brain. That simply little pet name, and Johnny’s warm hand ghosting over your lower back, before coming to rest on your hip. Clearing your throat, you gently pried his hand from your body, shooting him a look as you moved around to get the ingredients for dinner, hoping your flushed cheeks didn’t give you away.
“When your pregnant sister has cravings for my personal family recipe spaghetti, I’m required to oblige her,”
“I asked you to make this for me two weeks ago and you refused,”
Johnny followed close behind you, like a little puppy following its owner. You tried, and failed, to contain your smile at his actions. The media might paint him as some sex god (you weren’t going to lie…if he wanted to be, he could be) but you saw him for what he was: the epitome of a little golden retriever at times.
“Well you aren’t a hormonal pregnant woman with super powers,” you shot back at him, taking the opened jar of spaghetti sauce from Herbie’s hand and dumping it into the pot on the stove top, turning up the heat on the boiling pot of water for the noodles Herbie had laid out for you.
“No, but Johnny is a hormonal guy with super powers, who adores your cooking,” bumping his hip with yours, Johnny stole the wooden spoon from your hand with ease, dipping it into the simmering sauce to stir. With that same ease, he leaned down just slightly, leaving a kiss to your bare shoulder that felt as if it had left a brand into your skin. “Johnny also happens to just adore you, and loves when you stay for dinner.”
You had given up on the blush by now. He’d surely seen it enough over the years with his incessant flirting, there was no use in hiding it. Bumping your hip back with him, biting into your bottom lip in a failed attempt to conceal the smile spreading across your lips, you stole the wooden spoon back from him.
“Johnny also talks in the third person too much, and is an insufferable flirt half the time,” he dipped his hand into the sauce, coating his fingers in red as you whacked lightly at his hand, forcing him to withdraw as quickly as he’d dipped in. “What have I told you about doing that!”
He’d laughed, one of your favorite sounds, as you glanced over at him with a bright smile, unable to truly stay mad at him…ever.
That was, until he dipped his sauce-covered ring finger and middle finger into his mouth to lick the sauce clean off, eyes never leaving yours and a smirk curling up on his lips. It forced you to swallow the lump that had formed in your throat and look away as quickly as you could, feeling a different kind of heat swelling in your body: yeah, Johnny knew exactly what he was doing.
“Not sure, baby, that look you’re giving me right now doesn’t scream that I’m insufferable-”
“Oh, that’s exactly what it’s screaming,” you shot back, even with the ghost of a smile pulling at your lips as Herbie readied the garlic bread on the counter behind you. “If you’re not going to help, you can leave this kitchen. I don’t care if you live here.”
Johnny rolled his eyes in response, hopping up onto the counter next to the stove where you worked. You caught the box of noodles he knocked over before they could fall to the ground, shooting him a look as he held his hands up innocently, dumping them into the boiling water pot.
“You basically live here, too,”
“I don’t-”
“Yeah, because you keep refusing the room that Sue prepared for you,”
He…wasn’t wrong. Two years ago, Sue had transformed what was previously the guest room into a room that looked like it had been built just for you. Your favorite color on the walls, a matching quilt set on the bed, and she’d offered it to you. A place to stay, to live, given that Reed sometimes had you in the Baxter Building until the oddest hours of the morning.
You declined, still desperate to keep that line between your work life and your personal life separate, as tempting of an offer as it was. Sue wasn’t slighted by your decision at all, instead offering it to you to use whenever you needed to. There had been times in which you had taken up that offer, a few changes of clothes tucked away in the room on the odd chance that you’d need them.
“This place is your home, not mine,” you didn’t look at Johnny as you spoke, simply shaking your head as you stirred both the sauce and the noodles in their respective pots. “I’m Reed’s assistant, I’m not family-”
“Stop it,”
Even with the heat that rolled off Johnny Storm, every time his bare skin touched your own it sent a shiver straight down the length of your spine. His hand curled around your jawline, thumb and index finger pinching at your chin to force you to look up at him, to gaze into those intense blue eyes and the look on his face that had morphed so quickly from playful to serious.
“Johnny-”
“You are family, whether you like it or not,” the statement didn’t surprise you, it wasn’t the first time in your four years of knowing him that Johnny had said something like this to you, or anyone on the team for that matter. It always made you feel warm inside, though, to hear him say it, to see that loyalty and love for the people he cared about shine through in his words, such a stark contrast to the way the media sometimes portrayed him. “There’s not a thing I wouldn’t do for you.”
That was new. He hadn’t made a declaration like that to you before.
It was something about the look in his eyes as he said it–so genuine, so soft–that had you melting into his touch. His hand curled back up to your cheek, thumb just barely caressing the apple of your cheek, leaving a trail of heat with every swipe of his finger against your skin. Your heart betrayed you, fluttering in that moment like it always did.
These moments used to be few and far between. You didn’t know how else to describe them besides just calling them moments. Over the first few years of knowing Johnny Storm, there were small moments where that empty flirts verged on the edge of something different, something raw and real. But in the last year, they happened more often than they didn’t. Johnny wasn’t pictured out with as many women anymore, wasn’t brazenly caught flirting with anyone with legs and a pulse at events. And in moments like this, even in front of his family, he’d touch you, caress you, speak to you in a way that felt so genuine, that felt like it was real. Like the flirting was no longer just empty, meaningless fun.
That line between your work and personal life might have been a muddled mess, but the line between being Johnny Storm’s friend and something entirely more was practically non-existent now.
“You say that to all your women?” you quipped back, trying to hold your own, even as you were melting inside and your voice came out as a whisper. The playful look on Johnny’s face returned in a second, his fingers instead pinching the cheek he’d just been so softly caressing.
“Never, honey. Those words are reserved for my brother-in-law’s pretty little assistant,”
In typical Johnny fashion, he was able to dissolve and ruin whatever the moment was in an instant with his usual ‘charm’. Swatting his hand away, you returned your attention to the food on the stove in front of you, smiling to yourself as Herbie beeped out a popular song you’d heard on the radio behind you.
“You always have a line, don’t you?”
“Hey, you know what you signed up for, being friends with all this,” he jokingly motioned to his body, and you caught sight of the smile lighting up his face again as you laughed incredulously at his actions. “As part of the package deal, being friends with me, you are legally required to attend movie night in the living room with me after dinner.”
You hummed in response, even if you were smiling the entire time just from listening to him talk.
“This sounds like an impromptu movie night-”
“All of our movie nights are impromptu, babe-”
“I saw earlier that channel 2 is playing The Sound of Music tonight,” you shot back at him, finally looking up at him with an expectant look on your face. “That’s what I want to watch.”
Johnny groaned, throwing his head back and knocking it against the cupboards with a wince on his face. You couldn’t help but chuckle at his overdramatic antics, as usual.
“But channel 3 is showing Psycho!”
“And you dipped your hand–which, god knows where that thing might have been–into my sauce for dinner,”
Johnny opened his mouth to speak, before mulling over your words, and effectively shutting it with a nod.
“You know what, if it gets you to have a movie night with me, then I’ll take it,”
God, you adored this man, more than you should. More than you wanted to. In his presence, especially now, you were pretty sure the smile on your face was a constant, that it would never leave, as you laughed at him once more.
Finishing off the special blend of additions to your sauce, giving it another swirl with the wooden spoon, you brought it up to your lips for a quick taste. Satisfied, you held one hand under the spoon to keep it from dripping, holding it up toward Johnny.
“Alright, give it a taste,”
His eyes stayed locked on yours, that familiar intensity and warmth in them keeping you locked in place, holding your breath, as he took a quick slurp from the spoon. Smacking his lips together, running his tongue out along his lips, he gave a definitive nod.
“As always…perfection. Though, I expect nothing less from you,”
Before you could retort to his cheesy comment, his hand reached out, eyes still locked on yours, as he cupped your chin once more and ran his finger over your lips. With the slightest of glances down, you saw the small spot of red on his finger, the remnants of the sauce he’d so gently just wiped from your lips.
Glancing back up to those blue eyes you loved more than you cared to admit, you caught the way they finally glanced down at your lips, before looking away as if to not get caught.
“...am I interrupting something?”
As if Johnny had burst into flames and burned you, you jumped away from him immediately the second you heard the voice of Sue Storm across the room. You never even looked back up at Johnny, or turned around to look at the woman by the dining room table, just stared down into the sauce pot as you continued to stir it and the noodles.
“Actually, sis, you very much are interrupting something here,” Johnny called out across the room, and you could see him gesturing with his hands between you both from the corners of your vision.
“Johnny,” you rolled your eyes, glancing over at him with flushed red cheeks from what had just transpired. “Sue isn’t interrupting anything.”
“She kind of is. We were kind of having a moment here-”
“Johnny, we were not having a moment,”
You very much were having a moment, but you weren’t admitting that to him. His ego burned hot enough, no need to stroke the fire.
Sue laughed, rounding into the kitchen as she stopped by Herbie, thanking him and taking the garlic bread tray from him to pop into the oven he had preheated.
“Johnny, why don’t you go get cleaned up for dinner and stop bothering the poor girl. Bad enough I’m making her cook for me, she doesn’t need you hovering,”
The man let out a sigh, muttering something mocking toward his sister, as he threw himself off the counter with dramatic flair. He wasn’t done making your heart race, though, his hand curling around the back of your head as he planted a kiss directly to your hairline, before he disappeared from the kitchen with a pat to Herbie’s head.
The pots on the stove were forgotten as you turned around, simply watching him disappear with an incredulous look on your face. Quickly, your eyes shot to Sue, who was watching you with a smirk as she leaned against the island counter.
“There was nothing happening there,”
“I didn’t say there was,”
“But you’re giving me that look,”
“I’m not giving you any kind of look,” the blonde laughed, stepping up beside you to take the wooden spoon from your hand, tasting the sauce herself with a happy little sigh. “Just…enjoying watching the show from the sidelines, waiting for one of you to make a move.”
“Sue, there’s no move to make. He’s just…he’s Johnny,”
“And Johnny is my brother,” she shot back with a grin. “And Johnny has never been like that with someone, just with you.”
You didn’t get to respond, before Herbie cut in with another series of beeps. Your eyes shot wide as you listened to what he was saying, cheeks flaring an even brighter shade of red as Sue choked on air, laughing to herself at your side.
“HERBIE! THAT’S SO INAPPROPRIATE!”
❤︎
It had been two weeks, and Reed had somehow managed to scan Sue a total of 142 times, now. Sometimes, you wondered how she was able to put up with his hovering, the hovering that had gotten exponentially worse since she announced she was pregnant.
“I’m not getting clear imaging,” Reed called out from the other side of the lab, the only sound in the room being the incessant beeping of the machine he’d built to monitor the baby, and the solder iron in your hand as it worked away on the small device in front of you. You shook your head at his comments once more, adjusting the eye protectors resting on the bridge of your nose as little sparks jumped up as the last piece of the triangular device was finally attached. “I’m going to have Herbie recalibrate this, I don’t like the data output I’m getting, I want a clear image on the next scan. Is the second bridge device ready?”
“Just finished fixing the soldering on the stand, so it should be good to go,” you shot back, tossing your eye protectors down at your workstation, lifting the device carefully and carrying it over to Reed’s station, setting it down with the matching device. “And, once again, you really don’t need to scan the baby again.”
You were met with silence, unsurprisingly. Until, the workstation down the room set off its alarm bell, a familiar tone that had you stand up straighter where you stood.
“New deep space transmission,” there was a hint of elation in Reed’s tone as he said it, quickening his pace across the room with Herbie hot on his trail. “Let’s identify the origin, then record it for further analysis.”
Quickly walking back over to your workstation, your eyes drifted to that desk calendar sitting next to you, and to today’s date: a poorly drawn flame, and the time “2:15” scribbled in a barely legible handwriting that you recognized instantly. Even if you hadn’t, the terribly drawn heart with your initials in it scribbled in the corner would’ve given it away.
“Your analysis is going to have to wait, Reed,” you called out with a sigh, knowing you weren’t the one who put this meeting on the calendar, but you sure knew who had. “You have a 2:15 incoming.”
“2:15? What 2:15?” Reed never even looked in your direction, focused on the new transmission. “You didn’t tell me there was anything on my calendar.”
“Well, I didn’t put this one on the calendar myself, but you must have cleared it at some point…”
Just then, the elevator doors to the lab popped open with a familiar ding sound.
“Ah–Reed!”
Good god, Johnny Storm was trying to kill you. You weren’t even sure if that was an exaggeration at this point, because you wouldn’t put it past him.
Blue looked good on him, it always had, but the navy blue button up he was wearing was doing nothing for your mind that was screaming at you to “keep it professional.” It didn’t help that the first few buttons were already undone, giving a slight peak to his chest. The white chinos–those were the nail in your metaphorical coffin. They had no right to be that tight, and he had no right to look so damn good in them.
“Ah…that 2:15,” you tried your best to conceal your laugh at Reed’s comment across the lab. “Johnny, do we have to today?”
“Johnny, do we have to today? As if I didn’t ask to put it on the schedule,” the blonde man in question mumbled mockingly to himself as he slid up to your side at your workstation as you laughed at his antics. One of his hands grabbed the back of your neck, tugging you closer before you could even think about it, pressing another kiss to your hairline. Suddenly, you felt like you were back in the kitchen weeks ago. “Darling, have I ever told you how breathtaking you look in your lab coat?”
“It’s a white coat, Johnny, it’s nothing special,” you deflected, taking just a short glance up at him before you had to look away, already knowing you were as red as the table beneath your hands.
“But the girl wearing it is-”
“Johnny, do you want to have this meeting or do you want to flirt with my assistant?”
You hung your head with a groan, even as Johnny laughed at the comment from his brother-in-law. His arm slung around your waist, hand settling on your hip as the heat that rolled off his body enveloped you for a moment, letting yourself lean into the side hug he gave you and the squeeze to your hip, before he was gone.
“There’s enough time in the day to do both! No, I had some thoughts about the new suit designs,”
“There are no new space suit designs-”
You glanced over at the pair as they met face-to-face in the middle of the lab, Johnny holding up the sheet he was concealing behind his back.
“You finished them years ago…they have dust on them,” Johnny deadpanned, letting out a sigh as Reed took the design sheet from him. “Look, I get it. You’re going to be a father soon, you’re scared-”
“I’m not-I’m not scared,” Reed cut in immediately, and you could hear the anxious undertone that overtook him immediately at Johnny’s words. Without even having to be summoned, knowing how his brain worked after all this time, you simply shrugged off your lab coat and stalked over to the pair, taking the design sheet from Reed’s hands without a word and placing it on his chalkboard full of equations. “I’m-I’m busy, Johnny. I’m busy. I’m busy, there’s a difference.”
“He means busy on his pace to scan Sue at least 200 times before she gives birth,” you shot back, sending Reed a bright smile that he frowned at, clearly seeing that you were siding with Johnny here. “Not terrified of becoming a father at all, those two things definitely don’t correlate.”
Johnny laughed, smile bright, and it only brightened the one on your face, a tug somewhere deep in your chest pulling on you when he locked eyes with you. Reed snapped your attention back to him in an instant, running a hand down his face as he gestured in Herbie’s direction.
“Just handle the new deep space transmission, please, instead of ganging up on me with Johnny,”
You laughed, heels clicking against the floors of the lab as you joined Herbie’s side as he waited for the transmission to be scratched into the record. There was a woosh of air, the air beside you heating up instantly as a hand found its way to rest on your lower back.
“Have you listened to it yet?”
The smile on your face softened as you glanced over at Johnny, who was staring down at the record in front of you both with pure excitement in his eyes. Beyond the physical moments, his flirtatious moments, these were the moments that had your plan to not fall for Johnny Storm splitting at the seams, if it hadn’t already.
“Seems to be a lot more of the same, just another complex signal,” Johnny left your side, the heat going with him, as he leaned against the blue table behind him. Herbie took the record from its place, rolling over to Johnny to hand it directly to him. “You’re more than welcome to take it with you, give it a listen.”
He twirled the record in his hands with a grin, absentmindedly reaching out to scratch the top of Herbie’s head. That simple little action elicited a giggle, hand coming up to cover your mouth as Johnny glanced up at you with a smirk.
“What’s so funny?”
“Herbie isn’t a dog, and yet you treat him like one,” you explained, stepping up just in front of him and grabbing his hand lightly, stopping the twirling of the record in his hands. “Also, you do know you aren’t supposed to get your fingerprints all over these, right?”
It was Johnny’s turn to laugh as he spun his hand, catching it in his palm and bringing it up to his lips, leaving a scorching hot, but gentle, kiss to your knuckles, sending a shiver straight through your bones. He didn’t even have a retort to your comment, just simply held your hand in his, thumb stroking along your skin, while your entire body flushed with a feeling you wanted to ignore.
“Johnny, what have I told you about flirting in my lab? I need my assistant, we’re trying to run a test,”
The moment was gone in seconds, your hand dropped from Johnny’s as he raced to the other side of the lab, following closely behind Reed and tossing the record onto the closest table.
You could only shake your head with a laugh, walking beside Herbie to join them, knowing Reed would be mumbling to himself the rest of the week about this moment and how much Johnny liked pissing him off.
“Cool! I got time,”
Reed didn’t roll his eyes as you and Herbie joined them back at your workstations, but you could see how much he wanted to. Holding the device you’d just finished off in his hand, you watched in the same awe you had for four years as his arm stretched across the length of the lab, placing it right back beside your own workstation.
“Bridge teleportation test one,” grabbing the notebook lying beside the device that contained your notes on the project, you flipped to a new page, prepared to note down any disparities that occurred during the test, as Reed placed an egg on the newly soldered stand. “Movement of organic matter six meters.”
Johnny grabbed the protective glasses beside the work desk, about to slip them on, before Reed took them with no hesitation and slipped them on himself. The blonde turned to you with an incredulous look that simply drew a laugh from you.
“Those are his pair, you can’t touch his pair,” you teased the man, who simply shot you a wink in return, as you both took the pairs that Herbie was holding out to you both. Johnny gave the little robot a quick fist bump.
Such a simple action that still had you grinning in childlike adoration at the side of his face.
Reed gave you a simple look, confirming you were ready. You gave him a nod, as he took hold of the switch to activate the device.
“Let’s run it,”
The whirring of the machine sounded, three silver beams of energy emitting from the device and encasing the egg within a sphere of energy. There was a shift in the room as that energy grew, as the hum of the machine filled the air, before there was a simple POP–and the egg was gone.
One glance from each of you over your shoulders was enough to confirm that the egg was, in fact, sitting on the opposite platform. Completely untouched and intact.
“It worked!” Johnny exclaimed, gesturing toward the egg.
That’s when the power to the building cut out.
It wasn’t surprising, given the notes you both had taken. The amount of energy that needed to be funneled through the device in order to channel enough energy to actually move organic matter without hurting it was sure to be beyond the energy limits of the Baxter Building. A full power outage…not what you were expecting. Not that you could write that note down in the pitch black of the room.
“Johnny,” Reed’s voice called out in the dark, steady with no hint of any emotion you could decipher in it. The man in question came to life beside you, body engulfed in flames, the flame resistant fabric of his specially tailored clothing working overtime to keep him from being stark naked. He stood with his hands on his hips, and even from the side you could see the smirk curling up on his lips. “Could you reset the breaker?”
You’d known Johnny long enough now, been his friend for enough years, to know him. Know him better than a colleague should. The instant dip in his smirk to a frown was clear, the tension in his broad shoulders, as he tossed his glasses down onto the table. He didn’t spare either of you another look, crossing the room to grab the record.
“Other way-”
“I know,” Johnny snapped, beside his flame engulfed body was on the other side of the lab, flipping the breaker as the electricity of the building roared to life again. The second it did, he was in the elevator, doors shutting without another word.
Neither you nor Reed spoke for a moment, simply looking down at the bridge teleportation device on the table in front of him.
“I’ve upset him,”
Reed didn’t phrase it like a question, he said it like a statement. Both were true, though. Reed always knew when he had upset Johnny, but never how he had really upset him.
You took a deep breath, nodding, as you scribbled a note in your notebook before turning on your heels, stalking back to your own workstation.
“Well, he went out of his way to put time on your calendar just to talk to you about the suits, and you did dismiss him…” you trailed off as you reached your station, eyes flickering back down to that desk calendar beside you. You couldn’t help it, letting your fingers lightly trail over that little heart with your initials, smiling to yourself, wishing it meant more than what it did mean: nothing. “Johnny loves space, he only got to go up once before…this all happened. You can’t blame him for wanting to go back.”
It was quiet for another moment in the lab, before Reed spoke up again.
“You know him well…better than I think I do,”
The flush in your cheeks was inevitable at that, embarrassment flooding you as it was easy for you to read between the lines of what Reed was trying to insinuate.
“I-I just listen to him. I always listen,”
It was quiet again.
“Go check on him,” was all Reed said. “If there’s anyone he’d want to talk to right now, it’s you.”
You wanted to argue, to save the crumbling bits of that wall between work and personal, but even you knew it was too late for that.
Johnny’s bedroom door was just two down from the guest room Sue had offered you years ago, a bathroom being the only thing that separated them. Ben’s room was at the other end of the hallway, along with the nursery where the soon to be baby Richards would sleep.
You may not have stayed in that guest room often, but you’d been in these hallways enough to know it like the back of your hand. To know it like it was your own home.
There were countless nights, before you’d make the short walk back to your apartment, where Johnny had coerced you into movie nights in his room. He’d never try anything, never push you into something, always leaving the door open to make sure you knew he wasn’t bringing you upstairs for some alternative reason. His room was just quieter, and felt more private. It gave you the chance to see the side of Johnny that the world didn’t get to see.
The space lover, who spent his life dreaming of being an astronaut, of going into space and seeing the stars. He was a thrill-seeker, always wanting to live his life on the edge, to find joy in those rushes of adrenaline. But beyond it all, just a good man. A man who had an entire collection of records lining one wall of his room, organized from his favorite records to his least favorite, even though he claimed there wasn’t really a least favorite. The world got to know the Human Torch, but in the confines of those four walls, you got to know Johnny Storm. The second you did, you knew your heart was fucked.
You found him in a spot you’d found him in before: leaning against the floor to ceiling windows of his room, staring out at the spaceship he hadn’t stepped foot in for four years. Your heart broke slightly from where you stood in the doorway, able to see the longing that was woven into his frown, that shone through his eyes that never strayed far from the Excelsior.
“You know,” with a few steps into the room, standing beside the record player, you lifted the needle to stop the replay of the foreign language from the deep space transmission that played on a loop. Johnny looked over, a soft smile overtaking his frown at the sight of you, as you kept your own voice soft and light. “I don’t think deep space transmissions are the right background music if you’re going to stare longingly out your window.”
Johnny laughed in a huff, turning on his heel to flick through his record collection.
“And suggestions then for a melancholic moment such as this?”
“Elvis typically has some hits that can set that mood,”
You watched him, the slight shake in his body that hinted he was laughing again, before he plucked a record from the shelves and rose back to his feed. Standing beside the record player with you, he slid it into your hands without another word and plopped into the chair just across from the player.
With care, like you’d done it a hundred times before (you had, right here in this room), you slipped the record onto the player, dropping the needle down as it coasted along the grooves etched into the record.
When no-one else can understand me, when everything I do is wrong…you give me hope and consolation. You give me strength to carry on.
The lyrics settled in you heavily, but it made your body feel lighter. It was impossible not to read into them, to not think too hard about the deliberate music choice that Johnny had made. You couldn’t help that, somewhere deep in your heart where you had buried your feelings for the flaming man years ago, you were hoping these lyrics were a personal message to you.
“Reed send you to check on me?” Johnny asked after a moment, leaning back in his chair, arms folded over his chest as he watched you. Composing yourself for a moment, shoving the flurry of butterflies beating against your chest down, you turned to face him and his blue eyes with a shrug.
“Technically, but I would’ve come on my own,” Johnny hummed, the ghost of a smile on his lips, as his gaze found its way back to the spaceship taunting him just beyond the window. “Come on, matchstick, talk to me.”
He huffed out another laugh, stretching his arms above his head as you tried your best to keep your eyes trained on his face and not drift down his torso. Eventually, his arms settled back across his chest, his gaze still stuck out the window.
“I don’t know…it’s stupid. Last time we went up, we came back with superpowers, trust me, I get that. Now, he’s got a kid on the way. But I know–I know–that he knows how much space means to me. So, when he just dismisses me like that-”
“It makes you feel inadequate? Like you’re a child?” Johnny’s gaze found you again as you shrugged with a light smile. “I’ve worked in an enclosed space with him almost every day for four years, Johnny. He used to make me feel that way all the time, until I realized that Reed’s never trying to make me feel like that.”
“I know he’s not doing it on purpose…doesn’t mean I’m not going to shit talk him in the confines of these walls,” he gestured around the room as you laughed, coming to stand beside his chair, looking down on him as he sighed once more. His hands fell, gripping his knees, as he rubbed them back and forth against the fabric of his pants. “I love space. Simple as that.”
You hummed, bending down beside the chair Johnny sat in so that you were essentially squatting before him, having to look up at him. Hesitation caught you for just a second, your brain actively fighting a war with your heart as you raised your hands, but you ultimately took his hands in yours.
All it took was a second for your eyes to drift over to the table beside him. One lamp, a stack of books, and the flash of a polaroid photo leaning against those books: a photo of you. Taken at some point in the lab, laughter written across your face, your hand almost blocking a portion of the lens as you tried to stop him from taking the photo. You didn’t even remember it being taken in the first place.
Good god, he was really going to be the death of you.
Eyes quickly back on him, with a little squeeze to his hands, you gave Johnny the most comforting smile you could, even as your heart did somersaults in your chest.
“I know you do. You’ll go back to space, Johnny, I promise,”
His eyes watched your hands, and you could see it on his face: that hint of adoration, that hint of something genuine that suggested it wasn’t all just a game, that you weren’t imaging moments for more than they were.
“What if I don’t?”
“You’re Johnny Storm, I’ve never seen you not get something you wanted before. Especially not something you want this bad,”
His mouth parted just slightly as he hesitated. You watched as his tongue darted out, just barely grazing over the edge of his bottom lip, before you flicked your eyes back to his.
“You’re wrong…I think there’s something I want more. Been trying to get it for awhile, but…she just keeps slipping through my fingers somehow,”
That tug on your heart was back. Your heart was surely beating so fast that it could be heard, hammering against your ribcage, as his thumbs glided back and forth across your skin. You could barely think of a response, too stuck on his words: the closest thing to a confession of any kind you’d heard in four years. Raw, real, genuine.
Johnny stood quickly, barely giving you a chance to potentially think of a response as he tugged you back to your feet. His arm enveloped your waist, your hand falling to his bicep as he still held your other hand in the air beside you both. You weren’t sure now if the flush crawling up your neck into your cheeks was from the moment, or from the heat radiating off of him.
“W-What are you doing?”
“We’re dancing,” he said it as if it was the most casual thing in the world, that usual smirk of his back on his face. Whatever had happened moments before, whatever confession may or may not have been said, was brushed away in an instant, that charming, flirty personality of his back in full force. “Can’t turn on Elvis and not dance, I think that’s a literal crime.”
“I didn’t know you even knew how to dance,”
“Oh, I don’t, Sue’s been telling me for years that I have two left feet,” Johnny shot back, shooting a wink down at you as his hand readjusted its grip along your waist. “Can’t be that hard with the prettiest girl in the building in my arms, right?”
Swaying back and forth, wrapped up in the heat of his body, in the faint smell of the cologne that coated his clothing, you were very certain that Johnny Storm was going to be the death of you.
And when you smile the world is brighter. You touch my hand and I'm a king. Your kiss to me is worth a fortune, your love for me is everything.
Johnny tilted his head back from you by just a hair, and you followed suit. Deep blue eyes, as captivating to you as they were the first time you ever saw them, shone with an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher. If you could, you weren’t sure you would survive knowing.
Faces just an inch away, the closest and most intimate moment you’d ever shared with the man you knew in your heart was never going to be just your friend, your colleague, you were verging on the edge of making a terrible choice. Of opening the floodgates, of unlocking the feelings you’d buried away so long ago and letting them flow.
“This is an interesting little relationship you and I have, you know,”
Johnny always found a way to ruin these moments, and this was just another example. Lips tugged up into a smirk, mischief swarming his eyes as he teased you, that fleeting moment of raw vulnerability was gone.
Hand slipped from his, body pulled back from his and a roll of your eyes, you turned on your heel within seconds.
“So typical of you, Storm,”
“What-? What did I do!”
You huffed out a laugh, a smile creeping onto your lips even as you tried to keep it at bay, as you threw your comment over your shoulder as you walked toward the door.
“You went and killed the moment, Johnny, as per usual,”
“...so you admit it, we WERE having a moment!”
You barked out a laugh, shaking your head as you crossed through the doorframe. You could never stay mad at him, not when your heart yearned for him in a way you wish it didn’t.
“Come on! At least let me make it up to you. Will you stay for dinner?”
With a final glance cast over your shoulder toward him, you shot him a bright smile.
“If you’re lucky, flame boy!”
❤︎
Yeah, you really couldn’t say no to Johnny Storm.
Not when he’d spoken so sweetly to you, held you so tenderly, and all around just invaded every part of your brain and your heart. To be fair, he barely had to try honestly to do that.
It wasn’t shocking to see Ben in the kitchen, it seemed to be one of his happy places. You weren’t complaining: on the nights you did stay for dinner, and Ben was cooking, you knew you were going home with the best leftovers the city of New York had ever seen.
“Decided to stay for dinner again?” Sue called out toward you with a smile, giving Herbie a pat on the head as he worked away at carving a pumpkin. You shot her a smile in return, pouring yourself a quick glass of water before making your way toward Ben.
“Johnny asked…and I decided to be nice and oblige him,” you didn’t miss the teasing hum that Ben let out, lightly whacking him on his rocky shoulder. Not that it did you any good, hurting your hand more than it would ever hurt him. His laughter was ignored as your eyes lit up, catching sight of the familiar black and white cookies he was dumping onto a plate. “Oh my god, did you go grab these from Maisie’s?”
“Yes,” Ben waved your hand away when you went to reach for the cookies, producing another paper bag and sliding it your way. “These ones are yours.”
The smell that wafted from the bag was enough to have you almost moaning in the middle of the kitchen, eagerly digging one of the cookies out. Maisie’s famous snickerdoodle cookies, the perfect blend of cinnamon and sugar that you had adored since you were a little girl. One bite of the cookie had you in absolute heaven.
“Oh my god, I haven’t had these in ages!” Ben and Sue both laughed at your excitement as you took another bite of the warm cookie in your hand. “How did you know these were my favorites?”
Ben’s smirk wasn’t hard to miss at all.
“Oh, I didn’t. Johnny asked me to pick those up for you,”
It was probably time to accept that blushing around this family was the only thing you were capable of.
Sue’s laughter rang loudest as she rounded the island counter, high fiving Ben as she shot you a pointed look.
“You really have my brother wrapped around your finger without even trying, huh? You know, before I went to get scanned–again–in the lab, I stopped by the nursery to check out the crib progress. Heard a little The Wonder of You from down the hall, thought I’d peek in…”
The groan you emitted could probably be heard from the other side of the country, leaning down to barely bang your head against the countertop. Ben and Sue’s laughter rang through the air again as you looked up, desperately waving your hands.
“I swear, it wasn’t what it looked like-”
“What wasn’t what it looked like?”
Of course, Johnny chose to make his grand entrance at that moment. Thankfully for you, he’d changed out of that ridiculously hot button up. Unfortunately for you, he was still wearing those god forsaken white chinos.
“Your little dance Sue was telling me about earlier,” Ben teased, easily catching your hand as it came up to whack him again in his rough, oversized one. “What’s with the long face?”
“Oh that dance was exactly what it looked like. Thanks for coming to dinner though, sweetheart, glad you like the cookies,” Johnny tacked on a wink in your direction, one you affectionately rolled your eyes over, before his smile was back to a frown. “And what of it, Ben?”
“Sounds like your 2:15 with Reed didn’t go well. I’m sorry, pal,”
From across the room, you could see Johnny’s shoulders move in a huff of laughter as he clapped, bringing down the cabinet shelf that held the same box of cereal you had taken from him two weeks ago. You moved around the island counter, filming your cup with more water before standing opposite of Ben while Johnny made his way back over.
“Hey, I’m fine,” he spoke, though the edge in his words was clear as he did, coming to stand directly at your side. “I don’t mind or anything, it’s just, uh-”
“I hear you, pal. We’ll go to space again,”
“That’s what I was trying to tell him earlier,” you tacked on, bumping your hip with Johnny’s, who quickly did the same back to you.
That smile you adored was back in moments, though, as he dug his hand into the box and produced the action figure waiting inside: a miniature Johnny Storm. His bright grin was turned in your direction as he waved the toy toward you, his signature catchphrase from the cartoon–flame on–ringing through the air as Reed entered the room, greeting his wife by the dining room table.
“They captured my likeness so perfectly, don’t you think?” he quipped, activating the catchphrase once again as you rolled your eyes. “Do you still have the one I gave you a few months ago?”
“Yeah, buried in the junk drawer of my kitchen,”
Johnny feigned shock, pinching your side quickly as you squirmed away with a laugh.
“At least upgrade me to your bedside table so I can be with you while you sleep,” that stupid line was accented with another wink before Johnny thrust the toy in Ben’s face. “Come on, admit it’s cool.”
That catchphrase just kept repeating.
I’m Johnny Storm! Flame On!
Flame On!
Flame On!
Ben grabbed the toy from Johnny’s hand in seconds, crushing it to nothing but dust and blowing it back in Johnny’s face with a smirk. You tried everything to conceal your laughter, but it was inevitable.
“Flame off!”
Sirens rang outside the balcony of the building’s living room. The flying cars of the police force raced past, bathing the room in red and blue lights. The second they disappeared, another squadron flew past in the other direction, the sirens all intermixing in the air.
These were the moments you never got to see often, when the team sprung into action. It was clear in Johnny and Ben alone, how their silly little moment was forgotten as they thrust into action, prepared to go running out of the building into danger. Reed simply held up a hand, shaking his head at the group.
“No, no, it’s alright. This is me,”
Ben and Sue followed Reed out onto the balcony, but Johnny hung back, his gaze stuck on you as you hadn’t moved from the kitchen. He simply tilted his head toward his family, holding his hand out for you. Such a simple move that shouldn’t have kickstarted your heart into what was surely an irregular rhythm, but it did.
The second you were at his side, Johnny’s hand rested at the small of your back, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt just so to tug you slightly closer to his side. Together, you stepped out onto the balcony of the Baxter Building beside Ben, overlooking New York as it was bathed in every corner in red and blue.
“For the past few months, I’ve been tracking a small number of criminal organizations throughout the city,”
You shot a look down at your boss, eyebrow raised.
“That’s what you’ve been doing in that notebook by your desk?” Reed simply waved your comment off, pointing just down the block, fairly close to the area in which your apartment resided.
“47 of them, to be exact. Including the Puppet Master in the Bowery, the Wizard in Gramercy Park, and Diablo in Washington Heights,”
Everyone on the balcony went quiet for a moment.
“You…baby-proofed the world,” Ben finally spoke. Sue’s sigh could be heard from the other end of the balcony as she tried to defend her husband.
“It’s a sweet gesture,”
“It’s a little insane,” you mumbled to yourself, just loud enough for you and Johnny to hear. The blonde at your side simply shrugged, glancing down at you and catching your gaze.
“It’s not totally crazy. He’s trying to protect the things he loves, what’s most precious to him…” Johnny’s lips quirked up just slightly. “I’d do it too…I’d do it for you.”
He said it so…so earnestly. With so much conviction in his tone, as if this was a certainty to him. That protecting not just his family, but you, was something he needed to do. That if it came down to it, he’d do it without a second thought.
“You…you have to stop saying things like that to me, Johnny,” you hated how breathless your voice came out, how wrecked you sounded as you whispered your response back to him, the conversation still droning on in the background between the other three.
The smile on Johnny’s face only widened, his hand slipping around from your lower back to your waist, as he gave you a light squeeze.
“Stop saying what, the truth?”
No, you need to stop saying things that are making me fall in love with you.
Love. That was a word that had only crossed your mind once when it came to Johnny Storm.
It was two years ago, a week to the day that you had lost your mother, your biggest supporter in life. You stood at that funeral, surrounded by estranged family members you hadn’t spoken to in years, and family friends who wept for your loss. Reed, Sue, Ben and Johnny had come, offered their condolences, paid their respects.
When the others left, Johnny stayed. He stood by your side through the first viewing, never left it during the second viewing, and stood with you in the pouring rain an hour after they’d put her in the ground. You had cried, he held you, and he’d simply never left you alone that day. The colleague that had quickly become a friend, who flirted with you every chance he got, never uttered a single flirtatious comment that day. He’d simply been there, been the shoulder you needed.
That was the day you realized you may have fallen in love with the one man you told yourself not to fall in love with, and you buried those feelings in your heart for what you thought would be forever.
“Stuck in your head over there? Come on, it’s dinner time,”
Ben’s voice broke you from your stupor. The team had all started to make their way inside while you were left at the balcony railing, hands white knuckled on top of the rail.
Johnny’s hand was held out toward you, and you ignored every part of your brain that told you not to and slipped your hand into his, letting him pull you back in toward the living room.
That’s what their watches all went off, alerts blaring in sync with one another.
It was like a firework went off, a boom shattering the night air of the city. The clouds, the sky, were painted in gold, streaks of meteors and debris crossing the sky as they fell to the earth. The sound that emitted from the golden cloud that stretched across the sky, bathing the city in its light, felt…otherwordly. Like a scream, like a warning.
A warm hand enveloped your face, turning your wide eyes away from the scene.
There were very few times you saw Johnny as serious as he was now. Jaw locked, eyes narrowed but still soft as they looked at you, the cascades of gold shone over his face, highlighting his features as another boom sounded off in the distance.
“Go inside, don’t come out,”
Words were caught in your throat. All you could manage was a nod, his thumb doing a single swipe over your cheek, before he patted Reed on the shoulder and launched himself over the railing and into the air, igniting himself as he went.
If not for the moment, you would have stopped to admire him as he flew, bathed in the reds and oranges of his fire. You were awestruck every time you got to witness those cosmic powers firsthand.
Reed, Sue, and Ben had followed not long after, as you could hear the familiar whirled of their car through the air, chasing after Johnny through the city, following whatever had just appeared from the sky.
You? You sat on the living room couch, wringing your hands together to keep them from shaking. You’d been there as they had dealt with Red Ghost, or even Moleman, but this?
This was different. This was otherworldly. This was terrifying. And when Herbie flipped the switch of the television, rolling to your side, you were greeted with the sight of the silver alien woman hovering in Times Square for the first time.
“Your planet is now marked for death. Your world will be consumed by the devourer,”
Her voice sent a single chill down the column of your spine. Herbie’s robotic hand reached out for yours, ceasing the endless wringing of your hands together. You took it without hesitation, though you wished in your heart it was someone else’s hand holding yours in this moment.
“Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak. Use this time to rejoice, and celebrate, for your time is short. I herald his beginning…I herald your end…I herald, Galactus.”
And thus began the longest night of your life since the day your colleagues went into space and came back forever changed.
Sending the team into space was the only option, to confront this mystery at its source. Reed had given you the basics in passing: the threat was real, there was documentation of plants across the universe disappearing entirely, the chrome woman’s signature left on each of them. He’d tasked you to the launch team, to prepare Excelsior for launch in T-16 hours.
Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak.
Those words rattled around your brain the entire night, into the wee hours of the morning. Even as you helped Lynn set up the press conference, as you conferred with the launch team to ensure that the Excelsior was prepared in every conceivable way, as you checked and double-checked every data point throughout the entire ship, her words never left you.
Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak.
The anxiety was clawing at you, even as you threw yourself into work. The notion of what her words meant, of what could happen, of how close the end could be.
The clock read sometime around 2 a.m. when you had finally stepped foot in that guest room made for you. There was no way you were walking home tonight. Besides, come morning, there would still be too much to do, too many data points that needed to be checked, too many scenarios that would need to be run through to make sure your team came back to you.
You knew sleep wasn’t coming to you, though, not when that metallic voice was rattling around your head. Not when an alien threat was upending your life. Not when, two doors away, there was a man that you did, in fact, want to hold close…in case you never got the chance to again.
You loved him. All it took was the end of the world to admit it.
Clad in nothing but an old t-shirt with the 4 logo on the front, one you were sure was Johnny’s, and a pair of shorts, you didn’t care what you looked like as you tore out of the room and into the hallway. Not now, not when your world was being threatened, not when your entire life could be ripped from you in a matter of seconds.
Johnny was awake, just as you knew he would be. White shirt, plaid blue pants you’d seen him sleep in so many times, he stood in his dark room by the windows once more, watching the crews rush around on the ground as they prepared the ship for launch in just a few hours. That same record from earlier in the day was still playing.
I guess I'll never know the reason why you love me as you do. That's the wonder, the wonder of you.
With a step into the room, shutting the door behind you and flicking on the lamp just beside the door, Johnny finally met your eyes.
“I couldn’t sleep,” was the only thing you could manage to say. Johnny tilted his head, studying you silently, before he held out his hand just as he had done hours before.
“Come here,”
Crossing the room in a matter of moments, you all but fell into his arms. His outstretched hand ignored, he was frozen in place for just a moment as you curled your arms around his neck, throwing yourself into his arms. The faint smell of his cologne lingered, as did his bodywash, and the sigh you let out the second the smell hit you was in comfort.
It didn’t take Johnny long to unfreeze, his arms finding their place around your waist. One hand rested on your upper back, one pressing into your lower back. A faint kiss was placed to the side of your head, heat lingering for a second. Heat lingered in your entire body, radiating off of him in waves.
“You have to talk to me, baby,”
Talk? The truth was, you didn’t know where to start. How were you supposed to explain that, since the moment you had met Johnny Storm, your heart was already his. That in all your moments over the years, you’d fallen for the man you told yourself not to fall for. And as the threat from the metallic woman loomed over the world, as he prepared to try and save life as you knew it, the only thing you wanted was to be held by him. To know he was here, that he was okay, that he was with you.
“I-I’m scared,”
Those were the only words you could settle on. Johnny pulled back, his hands sliding gently around the fabric of the shirt hanging loosely from your body until they reached your face. He cradled you, so softly and gently in his hands, it was almost involuntary the way you closed your eyes and leaned into his touch, his warmth, chasing the feeling of security it brought you.
“It’s okay to be,” the gentle tone in his voice washed over you, covering you like a blanket. It’s exactly how he had spoken to you that day, standing in the rain when you refused to leave your mother’s side, reassuring you he was there. “I don’t care what the herald said, I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You know that, right?”
Of course you knew that. If there was anything you knew for certain in this world, it was that when Johnny Storm said he’d protect you, he meant it. He’d spent long enough proving that to you.
There was no hesitation on your part when you laid your own hands overtop of his. Fingers curling around them, tugging his right hand just barely from your cheek, you turned and pressed the lightest of kisses to the palm of his hand.
Johnny froze. You could feel it. The slight tilt of his head, the questioning look that flickered across his face in the moonlight that shone through the windows. It was all fair. You were never the one to cross the boundary like this, to make a move such as this.
“I can’t stop thinking about what she said,” was how you tried to explain yourself, stopping and starting your sentence over and over as you tried to find the right way to explain yourself, the walls crumbling and the floodgates bursting wide open. “Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak…it’s why I came to you.”
A single emotion crossed Johnny’s face in seconds: understanding.
That signature smirk of his was back in moments, even if it was twinged with a softness reserved only for you. The heat left your cheeks, but found your hands as Johnny’s fingers intertwined with yours, hanging your joined hands down between you both. There was a bright light that passed over the window for just a moment, bathing the two of you in bright light, before you were plunged back into the darkness of his room yet again.
“You did come to me…why’s that?”
“You know why-”
“I do,” he said it so matter-of-factly, that smirk growing just a tad as he leaned into your personal bubble by just a hair. “This push and pull, four years of ‘will they’ or ‘won’t they.’ I want to hear you say it, baby.”
“It’s not that easy,” you immediately shook your head, teeth gnawing at your bottom lip as Johnny simply watched you. “Saying it…makes it real.”
He scoffed, the sound mixed with laughter, as his head cocked slightly more to the side.
“You came into my bedroom at 2 in the morning–wearing my shirt, might I add–is that not real enough?”
“When you’ve spent years trying to ignore how you feel and refusing to say it, it’s not that easy to say,” you desperately tried to explain. “If I say it…then everything changes.”
Johnny took barely another step forward, and you almost wanted to step back, to bring back the space between you and preserve the small, crumbling wall that still stood between you both.
“A sexy, naked alien woman came to earth and basically prophesied our demise, darling. If there was ever a time to ‘change everything’ and lay it all on the line, I think it’s now,”
Your heart wanted to hang onto the word darling, but your brain was too stuck on the ‘sexy, naked alien woman’ part of his sentence. The sigh that escaped you was instantaneous, as well as the frown, as you shot the blonde man a pointed look.
“Sexy, naked alien woman, Johnny? Seriously?”
“Come on! She was–objectively–attractive. You can’t deny that!”
It was your turn to scoff, tearing your hands from his in a heartbeat, before spinning on your heel. You felt like an idiot–on the precipice of finally confessing your deepest, darkest secret you’d kept locked away for years, and this is what you got.
“I try to be serious with you, Johnny, and you turn it into a joke once again-”
You didn’t get far from him. A hand enveloped your upper arm mid sentence, tugging and spinning your back around. A gasp fell from your lips as you collided with the chest of the man before you.
Whatever you were going to say never saw the light of day. Not when Johnny Storm gripped at your hips, tugged you as impossibly close as he could, and finally–finally–kissed you.
The kiss you’d dreamed about for four years, finally yours.
Johnny’s lips were soft as they slanted against your own, enveloping you in his warmth. They moved against you in a steady rhythm, passionate but still gentle, still testing the waters of the line you had never crossed before.
His hands curled into the fabric of the t-shirt clinging to your body, pushing it up just enough so that his hands could dip underneath. Your breath caught, even as his lips continued to move against yours, as his heated skin made contact with yours, and any part of your brain begging you to stop this was silenced as you melted into him.
Hands landed on his broad chest, gripping the fabric as you let him mold your body to his, the scent of his bodywash enveloping you as your body almost became one with him. In the pits of your stomach, as those heated hands trailed up your waist and ghosted over your ribcage, another flurry of butterflies erupted as a moan slipped past your lips, swallowed by his mouth.
A moan left Johnny’s lips at the sound of your own, one hand leaving your waist to curl around the back of your neck. Those slender fingers buried themselves into your hair, gripping just enough to have another groan of pleasure tumbling from your lips, as he guided your mouth against his own.
“You can’t keep making little noises like that,” his mouth barely left yours as he spoke, lips moving against yours, as he dove back in for another kiss the second he was done speaking.
“Your fault,” was all you could manage out, trying to back away just enough to speak, but Johnny never let your lips go far. Your hands glided up his chest, his neck, curling into his short hair as your thumb crested the ridge of his ear. “I’m trying to be mad at you.”
“Be mad at me later,” was his immediate response, his lips leaving yours just to find their place along your jawline and slide down into the hollow of your neck. His tongue danced its way across your skin, leaving tingles of electricity everywhere he touched you, his words murmured into your neck as he buried himself there. “I’m trying to kiss you.”
There was some part of you that wanted to protest him–over what, you weren’t even sure at this point–but you couldn’t. Not when his teeth dug just so into the side of your neck, leaving his mark on your skin as if he was claiming you as his.
You were always his.
“You c-called–oh god–you called the alien sexy while I was trying to confess,” you just barely managed to get the words out through your moans. Johnny was slowly walking you backward, straight in the direction of his bed while his lips never left the side of your neck, leaving his mark on every inch of skin he could see.
Your foot caught on the raised edge of the platform his seating area sat on, your feet stumbling backward. Johnny was there–he was always there–and tugged you back into him. And god, if you loved those blue eyes before, you loved them even more now: pupils blown wide, Johnny Storm looked about as wrecked as you felt.
“Your confession was four years late, and I’m impatient,” he stole another kiss from you, his teeth sinking just barely into your bottom lip, tugging gently. He let go, pressing a messy kiss to your lips to soothe the pain of his bite, words fanning out over your lips. “I’ve been trying to tell you I’m in love with you for four years now, so please just shut up and let me show you instead. Now–jump.”
At this point, you’d do just about anything he asked of you.
Johnny caught you with ease, both of his hands splayed out across the bare skin of your thighs, locking your legs around his hips. A choked moan fell from your lips the second your core was dragged against the painfully hard length bulging against his own pants, hands curling into his hair as you, this time, desperately pulled him into a kiss.
I’m in love with you. Those words repeated like a mantra in your head. Johnny Storm, the Human Torch, the world’s fire boy and hero that they painted like a sex symbol. The ‘playboy’ with a new girl all the time, never able to hold down a girl…was in love with you.
Your back hit the bed, body bouncing just slightly before settling. His eyes never left you as you crawled back just slightly, propping yourself up on your elbows to look up at him in the dark of the room, lit only by sky and the lamp by the door. The music played faintly in the background, but at this moment, it meant nothing to you.
Johnny’s hands gently touched your knees from where they dangled off the edge of the bed, parting them just so in order to step between them. You watched, entranced by every move he made, body flushed from the heat that coursed through your bare skin at the slightest of touches from him. With a practiced ease, his hand took hold of the back of his shirt, yanking it over his head without hesitation. It found a place to lay somewhere across the room, discarded until the following morning.
It was impossible not to stare. His broad chest, those biceps that always threatened to bulge out of every shirt he wore. His toned abdomen and the trail of hair that led straight to the waistband of his pants, the outline of him still prevalent and straining against the fabric.
“I need to know that you’re sure…about this,” you weren’t used to it, the vulnerability in Johnny’s tone. He leaned over you now, hands splayed across the bed on either side of you, barely a few inches from your face. Those blue eyes flickered down to your lips time and time again. “Because if I kiss you again, I’m not stopping until you’re mine.”
There was no hesitation on your part. Just a single movement of your arms, tossing the old shirt hanging from your upper body across the room to join his. As simple as that, you sat bare before him, chest heaving with every deep breath you took in.
“I was already yours. I always have been,” there was only certainty in your tone as you held his gaze. “Speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak…that’s why I came to you. Because if this is the end of the world, I needed you to know that I love-”
He didn’t let you finish your words. His next kiss was anything but gentle.
Messy, spit coating your lips as Johnny’s tongue seemed to invade your mouth and every one of your senses, his lips devoured yours as if you were his first meal in decades. He kissed with the hunger of a starved man, his hands grasping at every part of your skin they could–your waist, your hip, before finally your ass. The squeeze he gave to your skin, the uptick in heat you felt as if he was burning himself just slightly hotter on purpose, had another moan tumbling from your lips and into his mouth.
The hand still gripping your ass tugged you upward on the bed until your head fell against the silk pillows at the headboard. Your hands never left Johnny’s hair, carding through the strands as you frantically kissed him back, addicted to the feeling, as his hips ground into yours. That bulge in his pants pressed heavenly into your core, the friction rolling your eyes into the back of your head as you let your head fall to the pillows with a moan.
Johnny’s lips were everywhere. From your jawline, to your neck, until they finally reached your collarbone. He lavished you with his lips, tongue running over your skin as his hands trailed up the sides of your lower abdomen, stopping just as they reached the swell of your breasts.
“Since the day you walked in, I’ve thought about this,” his voice was raspy, the words barely understood as they were spoken against your skin. “Since the moment Reed introduced you to us.”
“I-I was wearing a lab coat,” you choked on your words as Johnny’s lips reached your sternum, trailing kissing down your chest, but never where you wanted him. “Hardly sexy, I’d argue.”
“It is when I’m picturing you in that coat and your heels, and nothing else,” he tacked on, before his lips wrapped around your nipple without warning.
You mewled at the sudden contact, one hand returning to his hair on instinct as your back arched off the bed and into him. Johnny’s hand on your abdomen was quick to push you back down, holding you down against the bedding beneath you.
God, with the fire that felt like it was burning through your body, you could’ve sworn that Johnny had caught you on fire. His teeth just barely grazed the sensitive bud in his mouth, a sharp intake of breath leaving your lips on instinct. He was quick to soothe you, tongue swirling around the erect and sensitive bud with rapt attention. A moan slipped through him, felt through your entire body, as your other hand tore into the bedding. Desperate for something to hold onto. Something to ground you in your pleasure.
“I’ve dreamed about you under me. Kissing you, tasting you, loving you,” his practically purred out every single word, tongue flicking back and forth over your sensitive nipple. He moved to the other one easily, delivering the same rapt attention to it.
“I’ve thought about you, too,” you relented, divulging every secret you held dear to the man who lavished every inch of you in love and adoration. “In the kitchen, the lab, in that stupid button up from earlier-”
“I knew you liked that shirt. Wore it just for you,” his husky tone sent another shot of pleasure through you, heat curling through every inch of your body.
The tips of his fingers trailed lightly down your stomach. When Johnny’s head lifted for just a moment to lock his eyes with yours, that familiar smirk on his face, you weren’t given a second to react before heat poured through his touch.
Gasps mixed with moans of pleasure fell from your lips on instinct, that unnatural heat of his pouring through his touch and into your skin. Every movement of his fingers over your ribcage and down your abdomen felt as if it was leaving your skin on fire, branding his touch into your skin so that you would never forget the feeling. Burning him into your memory so that you would always feel the phantom sensations of his touch on your skin.
“You’re absolute perfection, you always have been,” Johnny moaned into your skin, lips trailing over the mounds of your breasts with another series of a thousand kisses. Those heated fingers dipped past the waistband of your shorts, pressing directly against your clothed clit without a warning. The moan you let escape mixed in the air with the moan that tumbled from Johnny’s lips against your skin. “Jesus Christ, baby, you’re so soaked.”
The heat was still there in his fingers, setting off every little nerve ending in you even through the soaked fabric of your panties that you desperately wanted gone. Your hips ground up into his hand, whimpers falling from your lips as you chased after the feeling of him, desperate for friction.
“All for you,” even this hint of pleasure had you stumbling toward the edge, babbling almost incoherently. With a tug to his hair, you were quick to bring Johnny’s lips back to yours, arms wound around his neck. He gave into your needs immediately, devouring you in a kiss as heated as his touch was, fingers rubbing slow circles over where you needed him so desperately. “Please–Johnny, please! Please, I need you. Need you–need you so bad.”
“I got you, baby. I got you. Keep moaning my name like that, and I’ll give you the world”
Those whispered words stayed on your lips, lingering, as Johnny left you. His touch wasn’t gone long. Fingers curling into your shorts, they were discarded across the room in a flash, panties gone with them as well.
For the first time, you laid completely bare in front of the man you loved–the man you denied loving for so long. And Johnny Storm was a mess. His hair stuck up in multiple directions, skin flushed, but he was still beautiful. The most beautiful man you’d ever met, inside and out.
Johnny didn’t give you a second to truly breathe once he was done admiring you. He sprawled out along the end of the bed, head dipping between your thighs, as he licked a single stripe with his flattened tongue directly up your center.
“Fucking beautiful, and all mine,” his words were growled into your core, two fingers lazily moving between your folds and spreading every ounce of wetness around, holding you open so he could see every inch of you. “Sweeter than I ever dreamed you could be.”
He dove into you like you were the only thing that mattered. Fingers spreading you open, giving him access to every square inch, his mouth devoured you. A cool drink of water for a starving man in the middle of the desert. Johnny moved his tongue with precise expertise, as if he knew exactly what your body craved.
Delving into you, flicking back and forth as he drank in every secretion of arousal that dripped from you. That same tongue dragged its way up to your clit, swirling around in figure eights, flicking back and forth.
Cries fell from your lips wantonly, hands digging into his hair. Eyes fluttered shut, head tilted back to the ceiling, there was only one word you could repeat over and over again: Johnny, Johnny, Johnny.
His name was all you knew anymore, too lost in your own bliss and pleasure.
In one fell swoop, your thighs were settled over his shoulders, before his head was back where you wanted it more than anything. His lips and tongue focused on your clit, still swirling back and forth, as his fingers dipped slightly lower, dancing right across your opening.
It started with one long, slender finger sliding into you. One of your hands was forced to leave Johnny’s hair, falling over your own mouth to try and conceal the cry that threatened to burst from you, afraid that the others would hear you.
“Let me hear you, baby,” he laughed against your core, his finger curling just perfectly against your walls as they clenched around him every time he dragged his finger back and forth. “Want to hear you.”
“Don’t want to–fucking hell, Johnny–let the others hear,”
“Let them. Let them hear me love you,”
Fuck Johnny Storm and his stupid lines. His stupid dirty talk that had your walls clenching around him again and again.
Another finger joined the first, followed by another, before you were stretched as wide as you could be around Johnny. The squelch of your juices rung through the air with every move of his fingers–dragging so deliciously into you, curling up, before dragging out just to the edge of your opening. His mouth–god, his mouth–never let up, lapping away at your core like it was his job, what he was meant to do.
That coil of pleasure deep within your lower body came out of nowhere, sneaking up on you just like your love for this man had.
“Johnny–baby–I can’t. I can’t–I’m gonna-”
“Let go, darling,” came that growl in his voice again, the speed of his fingers increasing. “I got you baby, let go.”
That coil snapped in seconds after he spoke. The precipice of your orgasm was earth-shattering, like you’d never felt before. Like trails of fire through your veins, the pleasure coursing through you had your head buried into the pillow behind your head, desperately trying to conceal the wails of pleasure that tumbled from your lips. Your thighs snapped shut around Johnny’s head, but his ministrations never let up as he eagerly drank up every bit of your arousal that leaked from you.
The come down was slow, like waking up. Your breath was uneven, heart beating erratically when you finally pulled your head from the pillow. Eyes bleary, it took a moment to blink them back to life.
Johnny stood at the edge of the bed, discarding his pants and boxers to the pile of clothing littering the other side of the room. And even in your fucked-out, blissful state, one look at him for the first time had that burning desire coursing back through your veins.
He was big. There was no way around it, no denying it, no other way to put it. Flushed, hanging with that beautiful reddened tip, one large and prominent vein throbbing along the edge of it. Beads of precum collected at the tip, his hand smearing it down along his length as he gave himself one single pump before he was crawling back onto the bed.
Johnny knelt between your legs again. Even with limbs that felt like Jell-O, you met him halfway, dragging yourself into a seated position. It was the smile on his face right now, the one erupting those butterflies once more, that you decided was your favorite: soft, adoring, loving.
It was your hands that cupped his cheeks, bringing him into a soft kiss. The taste of you lingered on his lips, sweet just like he said. You poured every ounce of emotion into your kiss, trying to convey to him the years you’d spent loving him so quietly that you couldn’t admit it.
“I might be addicted to you, Johnny Storm,” your words were mumbled into his lips. He laughed so gently, stealing another peck.
“Glad you finally caught up with me, princess, I’ve been addicted since day one,”
Pressed to him, his lips stealing a thousand pecks from yours, the lust in your bones was back in full force. All you could do was hum in response, one of your hands trailing down his chest, nails dragging slowly over his abdomen, before you finally took his throbbing cock in your hand.
He felt even bigger than he looked, which didn’t even make sense in your mind. But he was hot, the skin searing into your hand in the best way. You gave him one squeeze, one tug, and you smiled at the hitch in his breath. The twitch of his cock in your hold.
Johnny’s hand quickly grabbed yours, though, unlatching it from him. All you could do was shake your head, practically whining as you tried to take your hand back.
“Johnny-”
“God, it’s so hot how eager you are to touch me,” he laughed again, tilting his head to leave a single kiss to the column of your throat. “This is about you, doll. Save that for next time. It can be a ‘welcome home from space’ gift for me. A ‘thanks for saving the world’ gift, if you will.”
Space.
That word was enough to have your next words caught in your throat as the weight of everything came crashing back down on you. The threat, the herald, the space launch commencing in a matter of hours now, the events that brought you here in the first place.
You weren’t sure when you started crying, when a single tear slipped down your cheek, but Johnny caught it. Eyes full of concern, but understanding, he simply wiped the tears from your cheek, laying a kiss to the wet splotch of your skin.
“No crying, none of that. Just lay back, baby,”
You listened, letting his hands guide you gently to rest back against the pillows once more. Parting your legs, Johnny placed himself between them, holding himself up over your body on his forearms. Right where he belonged.
Your hands rested on his chest, sliding up so gently to his neck. His eyes never left yours, his length sitting right against your soaked and sensitive core, gliding back and forth with each gentle twitch of his hips.
“You didn’t let me say it earlier. So let me say it, for the first time outloud,” you gave him a watery smile, lips quivering as you looked up at him. “I love you, Johnny Storm. I’ve loved you for so long. I’m sorry it took the world maybe ending for this, that I didn’t let myself be yours sooner.
He smiled, that same charming smile he always did, as he rolled his hips once more. His cock caught just along the edge of your opening as Johnny dipped down, breath fanning over your lips.
“Like you said: you’ve always been mine,”
The first press of his length into your core stung. As wet as you were, as prepared as you were for him, it had been so long. He stretched your walls little by little, taking his time as your body adjusted to him. Then, inch by inch, he sunk within your walls that clung to him tightly.
His cock bottomed out, sunk fully within you, bare hips pressed to bare hips as you both let out shaky breaths. Your nails dug into the hair at the nape of his neck while his hands trailed up your ribcage, squeezing every moment or so as choked out moans fell from his lips.
“God–so tight for me, baby–you feel like heaven,”
His name was the only thing you could manage to choke out between your moans as he dragged himself back to the tip, before burying himself again to the hilt. Your moans, your cries and the way your hands threaded into his hair only spurred him on more, Johnny’s hips snapping into yours again and again and again.
His lips found yours amidst every snap of his hips, every drag of his cock against your walls. Every moan that slipped through your lips was drowned out by him, by the feverish movements of his lips against yours. They trailed away, back to your neck, leaving a trail of saliva connecting you together as he bit another love bite into the side of your neck. It didn’t matter to you how this would look to others, how scandalous you might look in the light of day to others.
All that mattered was Johnny Storm.
“Oh god, Johnny!” your head fell to his shoulder, teeth sinking into his skin as his hips snapped against yours over and over, driving him deeper with every thrust into you. “Holy fuck, w-why weren’t we doing this for years?”
“Because you’ve been a stubborn–fuck–little tease all these years,” his tongue dragged up the column of your throat, peppering kissing up and down your skin as his cock dragged against your walls. “Bent over your workstation in the lab–oh god–you don’t know how many times I’ve thought about it. Thought about walking in and taking you right there, making a mess right at your desk.”
“R-Reed would walk in and you’d scar him for life,”
“Sounds like a win-win to me,” there was shared laughter, punctuated with a shared moan as his cock dragged right against that spot nestled within you. “And try not to talk about my brother-in-law when I’m fucking you.”
There was no time to reply as Johnny scooped up your wrists in his hand in a single motion, pinning them down above your head. He adjusted your waist, suddenly driving into you at a new angle that had you mewling his name all over again.
Johnny whispered your name into your skin with every kiss, timed just so with every snap of his hips against yours. That coil of heat was burning, wounding itself tighter and tighter for the second time that night. All you could feel was him, was Johnny.
His warmth, the heat that burned off of him. It warmed your skin, it had beads of sweat dripping down your forehead. It was uncomfortable in the best way. His one hand still trailed up and down your ribcage, every so often tweaking your sensitive nipple between his thumb and index finger and coaxing another moan of pleasure from you.
He worshiped you, every inch of you, like you were the greatest thing to ever grace the earth. To him, you might have been
“Fucking perfect, baby. Fucking made for me,” his lips found yours again, slick with spit as his tongue dipped into your mouth to taste every inch of you possible.
His stroke faltered, the rhythm uneven, and you knew he was close. That coil of heat in your stomach was threatening to snap any second every time his cock pulsed and throbbed within your walls. His grip on your wrists was tight, even as you struggled against him, desperate to just hold him.
“Johnny–baby–please I-I’m so close-”
You choked on your words once more, the hand still trailing across your stomach heating up again, leaving a burning trail of heat in your skin. Those heated fingers found your clit like it was second nature, a cry of pure pleasure leaving your lips as they circle that bundle of a thousand nerves over and over again, hips still snapping into you as quickly and desperately as they can.
“Let go,” his voice was husky, eyes blown wide as he looked down at you. Your wrists were finally let go, your hands immediately finding their place in the strands of his hair again as his free hand cups the back of your neck, smashing your lips into his in a flurry of moans. “Let go, baby, let go.”
Your second climax burned hotter than the first.
The pleasure burned so hot, so bright, you were practically sobbing, every cry and moan of pure bliss muffled by his kiss. Your legs locked around Johnny’s waist–tightly–so tight he could barely move away from you. It was overwhelming, the shockwaves of bliss that ran through your veins, the shaking of your thighs as you held onto his hair like it’s a lifeline.
He ground himself into you over and over, rhythm so far gone he was struggling. But all it took was your lips lazily finding his neck, teeth sinking in to leave your matching mark to his, for his hips to still as he spilt into you.
Johnny breathed out every moan into the side of your head, your name tumbling from his lips along with a flurry of swears. The grip he had on your hip was bruising, so tight you think he could snap the damn bone if he held any tighter. And his cock? Seated so deeply inside of you it’s as if you are one, heat pooled within your lower abdomen with every wave of cum that filled you to the brim.
On the other side of the room, the record was still playing softly. Bright lights still flashed by the windows every so often, crews still at work on the spaceship set for launch by mid-morning.
None of it mattered in the silence of the bed.
You aren’t sure how long either of you laid there. Your heartbeat, eventually, returned to normal, even as your chest still heaved to take in every breath that it could. Johnny still laid half on top of you, pressing repeated kisses to the side of your head, but said nothing. Your hand stayed in his hair, carding through it, as your core pulsed. It would ache come morning–hell, it already did–but it was worth it. It was so worth it.
Neither of you were quite sure when he pulled out of you, or how long you simply laid there and basked in the afterglow of a moment that should’ve happened years ago.
Eventually, Johnny shifted down. His lips trailed down your body in worship, like they’d done already that night. From your cheek, to your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, and down your lower abdomen.
“Careful…not sure I’d survive a round three,” your voice was hoarse, mouth dry. Johnny laughed against your skin, still kissing every inch he could see.
“I don’t think I would, either,”
His hands were heated once more, but not for the same purpose as moments before. Now, his touch was gentle, massaging every piece of you that he could get his hands on. His thumbs rubbed into your wrists, your waist, and your hips, digging into the muscles. A sigh escaped you at the comforting feeling, taut muscles loosening at the feeling of the heat and the movement of his hands.
With every kiss pressed to your skin, you could feel it: Johnny was humming. It didn’t take long to know which song he was humming, which lyrics: that same song once again.
I guess I'll never know the reason why, you love me as you do. That's the wonder, the wonder of you.
“Is that our song now?” you laughed, even if your heart was clenching at the mere thought. The mere idea of that song belonging to the two of you–the idea that Johnny Storm belonged to you.
You could feel his smile against your abdomen as he spoke. “It should be. It’s accurate. Because I don’t ever think I’ll get over the miracle that is you…loving me.”
It’s not a miracle. What you really want to tell him is that falling in love with him was so easy, you barely realized you had done it. It might be the easiest thing you’ve ever done.
Johnny crawled back up your body, slotting himself onto the bed beside you, before tugging you in. There’s no hesitation on your part, simply curling into his side with your head over his chest and arm slung around his waist. Words aren’t needed in the silence, not when you’ve both clearly laid everything out on the table now. Instead, you just listened to the beat of his heart, the natural rhythm that lulls you into a state of peacefulness.
He’s yours. Johnny Storm is yours. He’s always been yours, you just didn’t know it.
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, hand cradling the back of your head as he said his next words confidently.
“We’re going to go up there tomorrow, and we’re going to stop this guy. We’re going to protect this Earth, like we’ve sworn to do. But me? I’m going to do it so I can come home to you, and love you for the rest of my life. I promise,”
He can’t promise that, you knew he couldn’t. There was no telling what might happen when that ship took off tomorrow, what they might encounter, or who this Galactus really was.
But Johnny Storm loved you. For now, in the quiet of the night, just between the two of you, that’s enough.
