Summary : Your first date with Dex turns out to be an unforgettable one.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Vigilante! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Freak4freak, pen pal (?) meet cute, Romcom/dark comedy, Dex and reader being equally insane, task force murdered, stalking, break-ins, stolen clothing, surveillance photos, kidnapping, guns/knives/blood, food, sexual tension (no actual smut), you have a roommate called Mia and she's mentioned to be an arms dealer. (let me know if I missed anything!) Set in DDBA S2!
Word Count : 9.7k
Requested by : Ko-fi request <3
Notes : Y’all I have lots of work this week, so I won't be posting as much. I do have a John Walker kofi request for this Friday, and Bucky and Dex Blurbs scattered throughout the week. The title is inspired by a Royal Blood song of the same name. Enjoy!
You had never actually met Bullseye.
This, unfortunately, had never stopped him from ruining your day.
You picked up the paper, saw BULLSEYE STRIKES AGAIN printed above a body you had stabbed seven times, and nearly spat coffee all over the kitchen counter.
“Oh, fuck off.”
Your roommate, Mia, looked up from the table, where she was eating cereal beside an open ammo case. “Good morning?”
The guns she was disassembling meant there was less room for your food, but hey, you’ve gotten used to living with an arms dealer. Could you really complain? She gives you a friend-exclusive discount, after all.
You slapped the paper down in front of her. “They gave him credit for another one.”
Mia leaned over the headline. “Another another one?”
“Yes, another another one.”
She glanced past you at the fridge.
You didn’t need to look. You knew what was there.
Pinned under a strawberry magnet and a concerning number of takeout menus was the magnetic whiteboard you had made two weeks ago.
At the top, in red marker:
KILLS BULLSEYE STOLE FROM ME: 4
Underneath, in blue:
KILLS I STOLE FROM BULLSEYE: 4
Beneath that, taking up most of the fridge, were the newspaper clippings. Task force murders that were yours but had been attributed to him. Task force murders that were his but had somehow been attributed to you, because apparently every cop in the city had been dropped on the head as a baby.
Mia slowly chewed her cereal. “You’re losing.”
Your head snapped toward her. “We were tied.”
“Were.”
You scowled, tore the article out of the paper with unnecessary violence, grabbed a marker from the junk drawer, and stormed over to the board. You begrudgingly added one angry little tally mark that went under Bullseye’s side.
5.
Mia made a soft, faux-sympathetic noise. “Oof.”
“This is not oof,” you rolled your eyes. “This is fucking police incompetence! What was all that budget increase for, huh?”
“It is kind of oof.” She took another bite of cereal. “But you can catch up. He’s only up by one.”
You stared at the board. Your eye twitched.
Mia lifted her bowl toward you like a toast. “Very exciting season.”
“These stupid cops can’t tell the difference between a stab and a long-distance throw.” You turned back around, waving the paper like evidence in a trial you were fully prepared to win. “Look at the wound. Look at it. That’s clearly close quarters.”
Mia squinted at the grainy crime scene photo, her spoon hovering halfway to her mouth. The image was bad, blurred edges and cheap newspaper ink, but even from across the kitchen she could tell what it was: yours.
“Maybe they thought Bullseye walked up to him,” Mia said.
You stared at her.
“Bullseye doesn’t walk up to people. He has a ricochet fetish.”
Mia choked on a laugh, nearly spilling cereal milk onto the table. “Oh, so now you know him.”
You corrected her. “I know his work.”
“You know his work,” she repeated, deadpan. “You mean you’ve been staring at the leaked photos you saved again?”
You ignored her, because Mia had this very annoying habit of being right in ways that didn’t make you feel good about yourself.
The worst part was that you were angry.
That had been your kill. It was clearly your style. You were a melee specialist, for fuck’s sake!!! You liked the intimacy, the nearness. You like watching the life drain out of your victims’ eyes, being close enough to watch their face change when they finally understood why you were there.
Bullseye was different.
Bullseye liked a little distance. Bullseye was impossible accuracy. He could turn a room into a murder weapon without crossing it, and no, you definitely didn’t admire that.
You just understood skill when you saw it.
That was all.
But under the anger, in the small, horrible place where your dignity went to die, there was a humiliating feeling that curled in your stomach every time you thought about him opening the paper.
Because Bullseye was going to see this.
He was going to read the same headline, look at the same shitty photo, and know it was wrong.
He would know.
Maybe he would be offended. Maybe he would laugh. Maybe he would tilt his head at the paper and think, No. That wasn’t me.
Maybe he would wonder about you, and at this point, you were certain he knew of you. Because some of his knife-related rampages had been attributed to you too. Not often, but enough that sometimes your name got dragged into his mess, enough that you had stared at a clipping once for ten full minutes, heart crawling up your throat, because the paper had called one of his kills yours and you had hated how badly you wanted to know whether he had noticed.
Mia was staring at you again.
You folded the paper too carefully. “What?”
“You’re doing the thing again”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you pretend to be mad,” she said, pointing her spoon at you, “but really you’re hoping your murder crush noticed you.”
You frowned “He’s not my murder crush.”
Mia smiled into her cereal and ignored the denial altogether. “Want me to get you more knives for today?”
You looked down at the headline.
“Yes,” you finally said. “The nice ones.”
Mia’s grin got wider. “You dressing up, too? Just in case you run into him?”
“I’m hunting,” you corrected.
“Sure.”
“I am.”
“Wear something slutty and stab-proof!”
You threw the newspaper at her.
—
Later that night, you went out in the jacket Mia called your “bad decision jacket” (it had extra knife sheaths) which was rich coming from a woman who kept grenades in a biscuit tin.
You were definitely not hoping to run into Bullseye. You were working.
There was a difference, even if Mia would have said hahhaha, sure.
The AVTF agents were exactly where your source said they would be, inside a half-empty municipal building wearing the kind of confidence that came from believing the badge still meant something. They had files they should not have had, names they should not have known, and enough blood on their hands to make your little visit feel almost civic-minded.
You made it quick.
Messy, but quick.
You handled most of it the way you liked best: Close, direct, personal enough that nobody could pretend it was an accident. But halfway through, because you were still one point behind on the stupid fridge-board and your pride had apparently become an emergency, you tried to make it look like Bullseye.
Just a little. Just enough to even the score.
You threw a knife. It hit a filing cabinet and dropped to the floor with the saddest little clatter you had ever heard.
One of the AVTF men stared at it like what the fuck was that?
“Shut up,” you said, before he could say anything.
Then you threw a smaller knife, in the hopes that it was easier to control.
It bounced off a desk lamp, went nowhere useful, and spun under a chair.
Fine.
Whatever.
Throwing stuff was harder than it looked, which was annoying because he made it look like flirting with physics. You were not built for distance. So you gave up and did it properly.
By the time you left, the crime scene was mostly yours, with two deeply humiliating attempts at his signature scattered around like evidence of a mental breakdown. You lingered on the fire escape for a few seconds longer than necessary, checking the neighbouring rooftops.
Nothing.
No figure in black. No little glint of movement across the street.
Which was fine.
Obviously.
You were not disappointed.
—
When you got home, Mia was out. Work, she had said, which meant she was probably meeting Turk in the back of some terrible bar and calling an arms deal “networking”.
The apartment was dark when you unlocked the door.
Not unusual.
You stepped in, a takeout bag hanging from one hand, the other already sliding toward the knife under your jacket. The kitchen was empty. Mia’s cereal bowl was still in the sink. Mia’s boots were next to your sneakers.
Everything seemed normal until you saw the fridge.
Huh.
Your magnetic board had been straightened.
Not cleaned or erased. It was fixed.
The crooked newspaper clippings had been lined up into neat rows. The takeout menus had been stacked by alphabetic order, it seemed. The strawberry magnet sat dead centre at the top, no longer holding up three different things at once. Even the tallies had been corrected into clearer, cleaner marks.
And below your personal Bullseye vs Me board, in new black marker, someone had written:
I’ve been looking for you too.
Your gaze snapped to the wide-open window, and realised, oh my god.
He had been here.
—
Dex came back to his studio apartment with a smile on his face.
He locked the door behind him, slid the chain into place, and reached into his jacket for the shirt he had taken from your apartment.
Your shirt. It was a plain white shirt he’d seen you wear before, and you looked pretty in it. I mean, Dex thought you looked pretty all the time, but still.
The fabric was soft in his hands. In his head, it still felt warm, even though it had just been hanging over the back of a chair when he found it. You had been careless and made it easy for him, really. You basically left it out like you had no idea someone could come in through your window and take a piece of you home with him.
Dex knew better now.
He knew how your apartment sounded in the dark. He knew which floorboard creaked near the kitchen. He knew your roommate left dishes in the sink. He knew your takeout menus were a mess, your knives were hidden well but not well enough, and your window lock was insultingly easy to pick.
He knew how you smelled now.
Dex sat on the edge of his bed and brought the shirt to his face, breathing in like he was trying to memorise your scent: Detergent, metal, and city smoke.
He closed his eyes.
He had stalked people before. Julie. Matt. Vanessa. Targets. Problems. People he wanted. People he needed to understand. But this was different.
This was not surveillance, or a job, or a petty attempt to become a good person, whatever that meant anymore.
This was you.
Dex had been infatuated with you since the first time he saw one of your kills credited to him.
From there, he found a photo of you in the database: grainy, badly angled, and almost useless for the cops. You had silver reflective paint smeared around your eyes to ruin facial recognition, strange under the flash, but Dex knew enough to know what he was looking at.
Before long, he figured out who you were.
And now, he had been watching your window for almost a month.
Tonight was just the first time you and Mia were both gone long enough for him to finally climb inside.
And then, he found that you had made a board.
The thought should have made him happy, and it had, at first. For one perfect second in your dark kitchen, Dex had stood in front of that fridge and realised, you had noticed him, too.
You had clipped the articles. You had tracked the kills. You had written his name in red marker and stood there thinking about him long enough to make tallies.
Then he read the rest.
KILLS BULLSEYE STOLE FROM ME.
His smile had died so fast it almost broke his heart.
Stole.
You thought this was a competition.
Dex stared down at your shirt in his lap, fingers tightening in the fabric.
That was wrong.
That was so wrong it made his skin feel too tight for his body. He had not stolen anything from you. He had never thought of it that way. Every time the papers confused you for him or him for you, every time your names bled into each other in some stupid journalist’s mouth, Dex had felt it like a sign that you belonged together.
The mistaken murders were just evidence that you were close to him without even trying. Your work was intertwined, cosmically, with his. Your violence answered his. His name kept finding yours in the paper, in police files, like the whole city already understood a fact you were denying.
You and Dex were linked.
Obviously.
So why had you made sides?
Why had you put a line down the middle and placed him across from you like he was just another person to beat?
Dex swallowed, still holding your shirt to his mouth and frowned.
He thought you liked him.
He thought you understood. He thought, maybe, when you saw his kills printed under your name, you felt the same obsessive pull he did. The same recognition.
Instead, you were mad. You were keeping score. You had written him down like a rival.
His jaw tightened.
That was okay.
It really was.
You were confused, that’s all. You had misunderstood. People did that all the time.
You would understand eventually.
He had fixed the board for you, so maybe you’d realise there was no ill intent. He had straightened the clippings. Alphabetised the menus. Corrected the tallies. Left the message underneath because you needed help getting to the obvious conclusion that you belonged together:
I’ve been looking for you too.
In his head, it didn’t look threatening. It was merely a correction. Perhaps a little nudge in the right direction.
Dex lay back on the bed, dragging your shirt with him until it was pressed beneath his cheek. He breathed you in again, slower this time, and the hurt in his chest eased.
You thought it was a game.
Fine.
He could play.
He could let you have your angry little board and your angry little tally marks. He could let you pretend you were chasing him, fighting him, competing with him.
But eventually, Dex would fix that, too.
Eventually, you’d want him as much as he wanted you.
—
You wiped the note off before Mia got home, even though you didn’t really want to.
You stood there for an embarrassingly long time first, staring at the neat black marker beneath your board while your stomach did a stupid flip.
Then you remembered Mia was weird about outside people being in the apartment.
Fair. You were also weird about outside people being in the apartment, usually. Usually, if someone broke in, you handled it with a knife and made Mia bleach the floor while you tied a brick to the body and sunk it in the Hudson.
But this was Bullseye.
So you erased it, like an idiot getting rid of DNA evidence.
You wiped the board twice, fixed the strawberry magnet, and tried to look normal when Mia came home carrying a bag that clinked against her hip.
She stopped in the kitchen doorway and squinted. “Did you redo the murder board?”
You didn’t look up from your hot chocolate. “No.”
Mia stared at the fridge.
The whole thing looked less like a breakdown and more like a very well-done administrative system. “Why is it nicer?”
You took a sip. “I got bored.”
Mia looked at you. You looked at her.
Then she shrugged. “Whatever. It was ugly before.”
Totally clueless, Thank fuck.
By the next morning, you had bought reinforced locks, and not because you were scared of him getting into your apartment again. If anything, the memory of the open window had been sitting in your mind all night. You kept thinking about him standing in your kitchen. Touching your board. Straightening your things. Writing to you like he already knew you would read it and think about it all night.
So no, the new locks were not there out of fear. They were a message.
You installed them yourself, one after another, until all the windows looked almost impossible to open from the outside.
Then you stood back, smiled despite yourself, and imagined him finding it.
He’d know the message then:
If you want to get in again, earn it.
—
Three nights later, the paper was waiting on the kitchen table.
Mia had left it there under her empty coffee cup, either as a warning or because she had run out of coasters. You found it while the kettle boiled, still barefoot, still half-asleep, and then very suddenly awake.
AVTF INFORMANT FOUND DEAD.
You stared at the headline.
Then the photograph.
Then the headline again, and then the subtitle, crediting the kill to you,
But that kill wasn’t yours.
You knew it before you read the article. You knew it from the angle of the body, the precision of the knife in a fatal artery. He had not been stabbed. He had been aimed at by distance, by calculation.
Bullseye.
And the papers had given it to you.
For a second, all you could do was stand there while the kettle clicked off behind you.
Then you smiled a small, helpless twitch of your mouth before you walked across the kitchen, uncapped the blue marker, and added one clean tally to your side of the board.
5-5.
Yay! Level again!
You leaned back on your heels and looked at it.
Perfect.
Almost.
You picked up the paper again, meaning to cut out the article, when something in the crime scene photo caught your eye. It was half-hidden behind the dead man’s shoulder, smeared on the wall, small enough that most readers would miss it.
Not a threat or a boast, but a question, written in blood.
why the locks?
Your hand tightened around the paper.
Oh.
He’d left you a message.
You could almost feel him in your kitchen again, standing in the dark in front of your board, touching the magnets, straightening the clippings, noticing what had changed. Of course he had noticed the locks.
You stood there for too long, long enough that the tea went bitter in the mug you forgot to drink.
When Mia came in later, tying her hair back and looking for her keys, you had already finished cutting the article out with careful hands.
She glanced at the board.
“Even again?”
“Mhm.”
“Congrats.”
She took her keys off the hook and left without noticing the way your fingers hovered over the little blood-written question in the photograph.
Good.
You did not need an audience for whatever this was becoming.
—
You answered him three nights later, when you eventually found Benjamin Poindexter’s apartment building.
It took patience, two evenings of watching, a borrowed set of binoculars. One very stupid moment where you almost slipped on a drainpipe and decided not to think about how humiliating it would be to die before the flirting even got interesting.
But eventually, you found his window. Child’s play, really. As if going under a stupid fake name like “Tony” would ever hide him from you.
That night, you waited until the light in his apartment went off.
Then you left a brand new lock on his fire escape.
The same brand as the ones you had put on your windows. Heavy, reinforced, and annoyingly expensive. It was still sealed in its packaging, with the little paper instructions tucked under the shackle.
You added a note:
Jealous?
Then you left.
—
Dex found it before sunrise.
He hadn’t slept much. He had your shirt twisted between his fingers, the fabric pressed into his palm until his knuckles ached. He had been sitting across the window for hours the night before, looking across at your apartment, at the little row of reinforced locks catching the streetlight like tiny silver insults.
You were keeping him out.
On purpose.
He kept telling himself not to be hurt by it, which was useless, because he was hurt. He was so fucking hurt it made his chest feel crushed, like an anvil had been dropped on his ribs and left there. You had changed the windows because of him. You had looked at the place where he got in, thought about him standing in your kitchen, touching your things, breathing your air, and your first instinct had been to shut him out.
Dex hated that.
Dex hated that so much he almost hated you for half a second.
Then, that morning, he opened his window and saw the lock waiting on his fire escape.
He went still.
It sat there perfectly placed, right where his hand would find it. Same brand as yours, same little shine in the dark.
For a moment, he didn’t touch it.
Then he picked up the note.
Dex read it once.
And then, he smiled.
Because now he knew you hadn’t locked him out because you wanted him gone.
You had wanted him to notice.
You had wanted him to see the effort. You had wanted him to look at your windows and understand that you had been thinking about him too. You had not made a wall. You had made a challenge. You had left him the same lock like a matching star, like a little joke only the two of you were deranged enough to understand.
Dex sat on the fire escape with the lock in his hand until the sky began to lighten.
The note went into his wallet.
The lock went on his window.
—
The next mistake came no less than a week later.
You had gone out the night before. You had driven the knives into the agents and controlled the room, kept the distance intimate enough that any half-competent investigator should have known better.
Unfortunately, half-competent was not what New York had.
By morning, the headline said it was Bullseye.
You stared at the paper in silence. Ugh. You were losing again.
That was irritating, up until you realised he would see it.
He would know the city had handed him something that belonged to you again, and you hated how badly you wanted to know whether that would make him smile.
It did.
Dex smiled so hard it almost hurt.
He read the article at the counter of a diner, coffee untouched, thumb pressed lightly over the blurred photograph like he could feel the shape of your work through the cheap ink.
Obviously yours.
They had called it his, but it was yours. Anyone who understood you would know that.
I understand you.
The thought sat inside him like a lit match.
He folded the article with almost painful care and took it home.
That night, when you came back to your apartment, nothing was out of place.
The windows were shut. The door was bolted. Every lock you had installed still sat exactly where it was supposed to, heavy and unpicked.
For one stupid second, you were disappointed.
Then you saw the kitchen window. Outside the glass, taped neatly to the pane where you could not miss it, was the newest clipping.
Oh. So he had climbed all the way up to your window, pressed flat against the glass like an offering.
At the bottom of the clipping, in small black marker, Dex had written:
they got it wrong again.
Your heart climbed into your throat.
You stepped closer until your reflection overlapped the words. It looked strange like that, his handwriting across your chest in the dark glass.
It was as if it was the two of you against everyone else’s incompetence.
You didn’t leave it there. Mia would see it in the morning. Mia would ask why Bullseye was leaving notes on your window like some homicidal pen pal, and you had no answer that didn’t sound insane. That, and Mia just ordered in a bunch of assault rifles. The last thing you needed was your roommate pointing it at Dex when he visited.
So you opened the window just enough to reach out, peeled the clipping carefully off the glass, and tore away the strip with Dex’s writing.
You didn’t throw it out. Instead, you folded that little scrap of paper twice and tucked it into your jacket pocket, right over your heart like an idiot.
Then you pinned the clipping to the fridge yourself, neat and straight beneath the strawberry magnet, just the way Dex would like it.
You updated the score, still a bit annoyed.
6-5
And somewhere outside, across the dark gap between buildings, you hoped he had seen you keep it.
—
The next one made it even again.
You knew it the second you saw the headline, before you even got to the photograph. There was a kind of cleanliness to Dex’s violence that the papers never understood. They called it brutality because they didn’t have better words, but you did.
TASK FORCE OFFICER FOUND DEAD IN ALLEY.
Attributed to you.
You stood in front of the bodega newspaper rack for so long the man behind the counter asked if you were buying it or grieving it.
By the time you got home, the board was waiting for you.
You added the blue tally slowly, smiling despite yourself.
6-6.
They had given you his kill, and you should have been pleased because that was the game. That was the whole stupid point. But instead, your eyes kept drifting back to the photograph, to the blurred dark shape on the floor beside the victim’s hand.
It was a knife.
His, you thought.
Maybe the police had missed it in the chaos of the shot, or maybe the photographer had caught it before evidence got bagged. Either way, once you noticed it, you couldn’t stop looking.
He had left something behind, but he wasn’t careless
Which meant he had either wanted it found, or he had been interrupted.
So you went to the scene of the crime.
You waited until the scene thinned out, until the uniforms got bored and the detectives started making the kind of mistakes tired people made. You kept to the edges: fire escapes, alleys, rooflines, with the courtesy of a little patience.
To your surprise, the knife was still there, half-hidden beneath a radiator, dark with day-old blood, beautiful even like that.
You took it.
At home, you cleaned it carefully, until it gleamed again under the kitchen light. You sharpened the edge until it caught against your thumb, cutting a little bit of your skin to check.
A little blood trickled off. Yep. Sharp enough.
Then, you wrapped it in a strip of clean white cloth and waited until night.
You climbed the rooftop up until you got to Dex’s apartment building. His window was closed when you reached his fire escape.
The lock you had given him sat there now, installed properly, bright on the frame. For one second, the sight of it made your heart warm.
He had actually used it.
You crouched outside the glass and placed the knife carefully on the sill where he would find it.
Then you tucked the note beneath it.
they keep getting us wrong :(
You stared at the little sad face for a second. Then you almost snatched the note back because, Jesus Christ, that was humiliating.
But the light in his apartment flicked on.Through the thin curtain, you saw his shadow move.
So you left it and climbed away before he reached the window, heart kicking hard against your ribs like you had done something worse than trespassing on a known assassin’s fire escape.
Behind you, Dex opened the window.
His hand appeared, picking up the knife first.
Then he found the note.
Dex read it and chuckled.
He sat down on the edge of the fire escape with your note in one hand and his knife in the other. You had cleaned it. Sharpened it. Brought it home to him like it mattered.
Like his things were worth taking care of.
Like he was.
As this all happened in the background, the score climbed.
7-6.
Your kill, his credit.
Then finally, after one long, ugly night that left half an AVTF unit dead and every paper in the city contradicting itself, the board settled again.
Then 7-7.
His kill, your credit.
Perfectly even.
After that, the messages got cuter, which somehow made them worse.
The first note Dex left was taped to the outside of your kitchen window with a polished bullet casing tied beneath it in red thread.
there’s an us now?
You stared at it for so long your tea went cold.
Your answer came two nights later, left on his windowsill beside an AVTF badge you put there like an offering
don’t get sentimental. but yes.
After that, it became ridiculous. A loose knife sheath returned with a note that said you left this behind. be careful. A newspaper clipping from you with wrong again :( scribbled in the margin. A black marker from him, because he could tell from your last note that yours was running out. A little evidence tag folded into a paper heart, which you immediately flattened, put under your pillow, and thought about all day like an idiot.
That night, somewhere across the street, a shadow moved on the opposite rooftop.
You didn’t wave or smile, but you left the window unlocked when you went to bed.
—
The next morning, there was black fabric at the foot of your bed.
For one confused, half-asleep second, you stared at it like your brain hadn’t finished loading. Then you sat up, hair a mess, blanket sliding down your shoulder, and realised it was a black shirt.
It was folded very neatly, sleeves tucked in, collar smoothed flat, like whoever had left it there had taken his time.
Underneath it was a note:
I took one of yours. It’s only fair.
Your mouth parted. Then, you smiled.
“Oh,” you whispered.
That was where your white shirt had gone.
Of fucking course he had taken it, likely on the first night he broke in. And last night, he had climbed through your unlocked window like a nightmare with good manners, walked into your room while you were sleeping, stood close enough to see the rise and fall of your chest, and decided the polite thing to do was leave you one of his in return.
You picked up the shirt and brought it to your face before dignity could stop you. So this was he smelled like: gun oil, soap, cold air, and a metallic tang underneath that made your eyelids flutter for one horrible second.
Fuck.
You were actually smelling his shirt. Worse, you were smiling about it.
You pressed the fabric harder against your mouth, grinning into it like an idiot, because the thought of Dex standing at the foot of your bed while you slept should have made you afraid. It should have made you check the locks, grab a knife, call Mia, do literally anything normal.
Instead, all you could think was: he was here.
He saw you asleep and he didn’t hurt you. He saw you vulnerable and all he did was give something back.
Then, from the hallway, Mia’s voice floated through the apartment. “What the fuck?”
You froze, lowering the shirt from your face. “What?” you called out.
“WHAT THE FUCK?”
You scrambled out of bed, still clutching Dex’s shirt in one hand, and padded into the hall.
Mia stood at the entrance to the living room in yesterday’s shorts and a tank top, hair sticking up in six different directions, one hand wrapped around a pistol and the other holding a mug that said WORLD’S OKAYEST CRIMINAL.
You followed her stare. Then you saw what Dex had done.
There was a man tied to one of your dining chairs in the middle of the living room.
Alive. Barely conscious, but alive.
His ankles were zip-tied to the chair legs. His wrists were bound behind him. His mouth was taped shut. A neat little bow made of red ribbon had been tied around his chest like Dex had either found gift-wrapping funny or had no idea how gifts worked.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. Then Mia turned her head very slowly and looked at you with the exhausted expression of a woman who had been through a lot with you and was still somehow finding new reasons to be disappointed.
“I didn’t do that,” you said immediately, which was technically true and therefore the best kind of lie. You lowered the shirt slightly behind your thigh and hoped she was too busy processing the tied-up man to notice you were holding another assassin’s laundry.
Mia blinked at you. “There is a task force rat in our living room with a bow on him.”
“I can see that,” you said, stepping closer like you were being practical about it and not fighting the urge to smile. The man, when he finally opened his eyes, made a muffled sound through the tape, eyes wide and wet with panic, and you ignored him because the coffee table was more interesting.
Dex had laid out everything the man had been carrying in neat rows: A burner phone, a badge, a small recorder, a folded surveillance schedule, and four photographs of your building sat arranged with almost romantic precision.
One was of you, from your bedroom window, wrapped in your towel after a shower. Two photographs were of your living room window: one of you enjoying the sunset from the fire escape, and the other was of you and Mia drinking beers and sitting on the counters by the kitchen last week. One was of your window last night, zoomed in close enough to show the lock you had left undone.
Your stomach dropped and warmed at the same time, which was deeply inconvenient. You reached for the note pinned to the red thread across the man’s chest before Mia could get there first.
Underneath, in smaller writing:
I didn’t like that. You should be more careful.
You stared at the note for too long, long enough for Mia to notice exactly how not-horrified you were. That was the problem with Mia; she was nosy, armed, and unfortunately not stupid.
“What is that?” she asked, taking half a step toward you. You folded the note before she could read it properly and tucked it into your waistband like it was nothing.
“Evidence,” you said, because again, technically true.
Mia’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you holding a shirt?”
You looked down as if you had only just noticed the black fabric in your hand. “Laundry.”
“That’s not your shirt,” Mia said, huffing. “That is very obviously not your shirt.”
You forced yourself to shrug and moved past her into the living room, putting your body between her and the note on the hostage’s chest like that would somehow fix everything. “Maybe he brought it,” you said, nodding at the informant, which was such a stupid lie that even the tied-up man looked offended.
Mia stared at you. Then she stared at the man. Then she stared at the shirt again, and you could practically see her connecting dots you were trying to kick under the sofa.
“You’re being weird,” she said.
“I woke up to a federal informant in our living room, Mia. I think weird is allowed,” you said, and crouched in front of the man before she could keep interrogating you. His eyes fixed on you with desperate relief, like you were the reasonable person in the room, which was honestly insulting.
He had not killed the man. He had found him, hurt him, wrapped him up, and left him breathing in your living room because he knew you would want the choice.
That wasn’t sane. That wasn’t normal. That was not something you could explain to Mia without her opening the biscuit tin full of grenades and declaring a turf war in your apartment.
So you just tilted your head, and Mia watched the movement with open suspicion, her pistol still raised but her attention now split between the hostage and whatever the hell was happening to your face.
Instead of giving her a second of your time, you crouched in front of the informant and smiled like this was business as usual. Behind you, Mia muttered something about needing stronger coffee, and you tried not to think about Dex standing in your bedroom while you slept, leaving you something comforting before placing something violent in the next room.
“Morning,” you said.
The informant whimpered again. You softened your voice, and smiled just enough to make him regret being awake.
“Where shall we start?”
The man made a desperate noise behind the tape, eyes blown wide his whole body jerking against the zip ties like panic had gotten under his skin. You watched him for a second longer than necessary, Dex’s black shirt still clutched in one hand and hidden half-uselessly against your thigh.
You reached forward and pinched the edge of the duct tape.
The man started shaking his head before you even pulled it free, frantic little sounds building in his throat, but you only smiled at him and said, “Relax. I’m helping.”
Then you tore it off.
The second his mouth was free, he gasped so hard it sounded painful. “Bullseye sent me!”
You froze.
Mia’s confusion manifested in a little huh? behind you, but you barely registered it. The man was already blabbing, words falling out of him too fast to be clean. “Please, please, I swear, I swear to God, that’s all this is. He told me to deliver a message. That’s it. I’m just the messenger. I didn’t ask to come here. He grabbed me, he tied me up, he said if I didn’t tell you exactly what he said, he’d come back and cut my hands off, and I believe him, I really, really believe him.”
You crouched a little closer. Your heartbeat had gone quick under your skin. “What message?”
The informant swallowed. His eyes flicked to Mia’s gun, then back to you, and whatever he saw on your face made him more terrified. “He said it’s a date. He said that specifically. A date. He told me to say date, not meeting, not job, not negotiation. Date. He said if the city keeps putting your names together, maybe you should stop letting everyone else have all the fun. He said you should meet him tonight at eleven-thirty at The Black Rabbit on 46th. The back booth. He said you’d know which one because. He said you’d know it because you cut through the alley behind it last Thursday after the task force thing, and he said you ordered fries there once and didn’t finish them because the oil tasted old, and— and I don’t know what that means, I swear I don’t know what that means.”
Oh.
Oh, that absolute freak.
Your mouth parted before you could stop it. You knew The Black Rabbit. It was small, low-lit, always half-empty after ten. You had used the alley behind it twice. Of course he had picked somewhere cute in the most deranged possible way.
The man saw your expression and started crying harder. “Please. That’s all. That’s all he told me. back booth, I told you. I delivered it. Please let me go. I won’t say anything. I won’t tell the task force. I won’t tell anybody. I’ll leave the city. I swear, I swear, I swear—”
You were not listening anymore.
A date.
Dex had called it a date.
The thought landed low in your stomach, warm enough to be embarrassing. You looked down at his shirt in your hand, at the black fabric bunched between your fingers, and your thumb dragged over the seam before you could stop yourself.
You would’ve gotten lost in your own head if Mia did not shoot the informant in the head, and the man slumped on the floor so suddenly the ribbon went crooked across his chest.
You flinched, blinking yourself back into the room. “Mia.”
“What?” she said, lowering the gun with the exhausted irritation of someone who had just turned off a very loud alarm. “He’s a messenger. He delivered the message.”
You looked at the body, then back at her.
Mia stared at you for a long second. Her eyes dropped to the shirt in your hand, then to the dead man, then to your face, which was doing a terrible job of pretending it had not just been lit from the inside. Her mouth flattened when she connected the dots.
“Oh,” she said. “So you’ve been in contact with Bullseye and didn’t tell me.”
You opened your mouth.
Mia lifted a hand before you could say anything. “Cool. Cool, cool, cool. It’s not like I’m your best friend or anything.”
“It’s not like that,” you said, which was stupid, because there was a corpse in your living room wearing a bow and you were holding another man’s shirt like a keepsake.
Mia looked at the body again. Then at you. Then at the note still pinned under the ribbon. “Right. Not like that. Obviously. Men are always sending women hostage invitations to bars for completely normal reasons.”
You tucked Dex’s shirt closer to your side, as if that helped. “It’s complicated.”
“I bet.”
“Mia—”
“No, you know what?” she said, rubbing at her forehead with the heel of her free hand. “Fine. Go on your date.”
You had no answer for that, which was irritating, because you usually had an answer for everything.
Mia sighed so deeply, because this concern had come from years of friendship, unpaid rent, and every bad decision she had ever watched you make. She stepped around the dead informant, pistol still loose in her hand, then paused in the hallway and looked back at you with total, bone-deep exhaustion.
“Couldn’t he just send a singing telegram like a normal psychopath?” she muttered. Then, before you could smile too hard, she pointed the gun vaguely at your face. “Whatever. I’ll get you a gun. Just in case.”
You looked after her, trying and failing not to grin.
“And you’re telling me everything afterwards,” Mia called back.
—
You walked into The Black Rabbit at eleven twenty-seven wearing a skirt, a jacket, and Dex’s oversized black shirt tucked messily into your waistband.
It was a mistake.
You knew it the second he saw you.
Dex was in the back booth under the cracked mirror, one hand around a beer he hadn’t touched. He looked up when the door opened, and whatever expression he had prepared for you died instantly.
His eyes dropped to the shirt. Then to your skirt. Then back to your face.
For a second, Bullseye looked like he had forgotten how breathing worked.
You stopped at the edge of the booth. “Hi.”
Dex stood up too fast, almost hitting his knee on the table. “Hi.”
It was so stupidly endearing, you almost forgot your combined body count.
You looked him over, trying to be smug and failing because he was staring at you like you had walked in wearing his heart instead of his laundry.
“You picked a bar,” you said.
“I wanted it to be normal.”
“You sent a dying man to ask me out.”
Dex swallowed. “I wanted you to know I was serious.”
Your stomach flipped.
God. He was insane. Why did you think he was being cute about it?
His gaze dropped again, helplessly, to the shirt hanging loose off your shoulders. “You… wore what I gave to you.”
“You broke into my bedroom.”
“I gave it to you,” he repeated, like that was the important part. Like he had not stood at the foot of your bed in the dark and watched you sleep. Like that wasn’t the most frighteningly intimate thing anyone had ever done to you.
You should have been angry. Instead, you smiled.
Dex saw it and looked like he was about to explode.
Oh.
Your heartbeat kicked hard.
The bar noise blurred for a second: the jukebox skipping in the corner, the bartender moving glasses around, someone laughing too loudly near the door. Dex didn’t seem to hear any of it. He was looking at you with frightening, naked concentration, his hands flexing once at his sides like he wanted to touch you and was using every violent part of himself not to.
You slid into the booth across from him.
Dex sat after you did, still watching, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with food.
“If you want to talk,” you leaned back, trying to play it cool, “then talk.”
“I… I know you hate being miscredited,” he said. “I know you check rooftops when you leave a scene. I know you keep your knives cleaner than your kitchen. I know you pretend you’re angry when you’re interested. I know you left the window unlocked for me.”
Your mouth went dry.
Dex’s voice dropped. “And I know you wore my shirt because you wanted me to see it.”
You stared at him.
For one long second, neither of you moved.
Then you reached across the table, picked up his untouched beer, and took a sip.
It was awful. Bitter and poured badly and exactly the kind of thing he would order because he had no idea what people were supposed to enjoy.
You set it down and smiled. “You’re very confident for a man who had to kidnap someone to ask me out.”
Dex’s mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed ruined. “I didn’t know if you’d come.”
“You look surprised that I did,” you tilted your head with a genuine smile.
“I’m not surprised.” His gaze dragged over you again, softer this time, worse. “I’m trying not to do something stupid.”
Your heart climbed into your throat. “Like what?”
Dex looked at your mouth.
There it was.
The whole ridiculous game of notes and locks and knives suddenly collapsed into one fact sitting between you in the booth.
Dex wanted you.
Not abstractly or poetically. Not as some distant counterpart in a newspaper headline.
He wanted you right here, in his shirt, across the table, smiling like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.
You should have made a joke. You should have leaned away. You should have reminded him that this was public, that he was dangerous, that you were dangerous, that Mia had told you to report back and would absolutely ask invasive questions.
Instead, you leaned in.
“Careful,” you murmured. “It’s only the first date.”
His eyes darkened. Very slowly, he smiled. “Then I’ll be good.”
Fuck.
You were in trouble.
—
Talking was easy after that.
Annoyingly easy, actually. Once the first charged silence broke, once Dex stopped looking at you like the sight of you, awake and talking, had rewired everything essential in him, the conversation settled into normal. Well, almost. If normal could mean two killers sharing beer in the back booth of a shitty Hell’s Kitchen bar, talking about murder like it was music theory.
It started with the board, obviously. You accused him of taking your credit. He genuinely seemed upset, not because of the murders themselves, but because you put each other on opposite sides.
You should have laughed at him.
Instead, you understood it.
See, under all the insanity, he made a horrible kind of sense. His violence was clean where yours was intimate. Yours got close. His made distance feel personal. You said as much, lightly at first, and watched the words hit him harder than any knife could have.
Dex went quiet after that, as if he was moved by your observation. You’re starting to get it, he said.
He talked like nobody had ever looked at the ugliest part of him and called it skill without feeling afraid. Like nobody had ever understood the difference between chaos and control before you. He sat across from you with his beer untouched for too long, staring like he wanted to crawl inside into your lap and live there.
The two of you kept talking for hours. Murder one-to-one. Technique, preferences, mistakes other people made when they tried to imitate either of you. Bad police work. Worse journalism. The insult of being misunderstood by people too stupid to deserve the blatant fucking evidence left in front of them. It should have been ridiculous, and it was. But Dex listened like every petty complaint mattered, like your irritation was holy because it matched in the one in him.
He had never felt so understood before.
You could see it on his face, which was embarrassing for both of you. Every time you leaned forward, every time the collar of his shirt shifted against your shoulder, his focus narrowed so intensely it made the air feel thin.
You could’ve continued talking there for hours if your phone didn't buzz.
You glanced down, expecting Mia to be demanding details or threatening you if you died before telling her everything. Instead, your informant had sent you an address. Then another, along with a list of names. AVTF agents moving together, not far from the bar, practically gift-wrapped by circumstance.
You looked at the message for a second.
Then you smiled.
You slid the phone across the table, and Dex read the text.
You leaned forward, his shirt slipping loose at your shoulder, and smiled sweetly. “Wanna go hunting?”
—
By the time you reached the rooftop across from the location, you were only starting to realize how intimate this was, even though it should feel like mostly work.
From your crouch near the ledge, you could see the building your informant had sent. It had everything a vigilante could ever dream of: rooftop access, bad perimeter awareness, two lit windows on the upper floor, a side entrance that might as well have had an invitation nailed to it.
Dex, meanwhile, looked exactly as he had in the bar, which was to say unfairly good. He had that same wound-too-tight stillness, only now it had somewhere to go. Neither of you really needed to change because this was who you were. The bar hadn’t been the disguise. If anything, the bar had just been two vigilantes forced briefly into civilian setting, and now the city had handed you both an excuse to slip back into yourselves.
His hand disappeared into his jacket pocket, and when it came back out, there was the mask. He looked down at it for only a second before starting to pull it on like it was muscle memory, like it belonged to the shape of his body as naturally as breath.
Your fingers closed around his wrist, before you thought too hard about it.
Dex stopped, startled, his mask half-unfolded in his hand.
Then you took it from him.
For one long second, he just stared. Not suspicious or annoyed. He just looked completely thrown off, all his composure knocked sideways by the fact that you had interrupted him so casually, like this was your right.
You should have said something then. Instead, you just pulled the mask over your own face.
Oh.
The fabric settled over your features, and you felt Dex go catastrophically still.
His shirt was still hanging off your frame beneath your jacket, the hem tucked into your skirt carelessly in a way that had already ruined him once tonight. The skirt itself was too short to qualify as practical, which had been part of the fun. And now, on top of all that, you were wearing his mask?
It was not subtle, what it did to him.
Dex looked at you like something inside his brain had simply stopped functioning, overloaded so completely there was nothing left for him to do but stand there and take it.
You could practically see the short circuit happen.
His mouth parted uselessly. His eyes dragged over you, and you could've sworn you had never seen anyone look so gone while still technically upright.
You smiled under the mask.
“Hold still,” you murmured, reaching into your little bag, the one you never left home without, fingers finding the small tin by touch alone. It was silver reflective paint.
You flipped open the tin and stepped closer.
The silver caught the rooftop light as you dipped your fingers into it. You reached up and touched him beneath the eye first, dragging one clean line of paint over the sharp plane of his cheekbone, right above his scar. Then another, across the bridge of his nose, your hand steady, his breathing not.
Dex didn’t move. He was holding himself together just to let you do this. The city noise carried below you, distant traffic and sirens and the hum of night, but up there on the rooftop it felt strangely intimate in a way that had nothing to do with proximity.
You painted the silver around his eyes the way you did your own, ruining cameras, distorting the face, making him look stranger and somehow even more himself. When you were done, you leaned back just enough to look at him properly.
“Pretty,” you said.
Dex’s throat worked. His gaze pierced your eyes. If he had looked overwhelmed before, now he looked outright haunted. Like being handed pieces of you had already been bad enough, but having your paint on his skin, his disguise on your face, the two of you standing there in each other’s signatures… it was something else entirely.
And for one absurd, breathless second, on a rooftop above a building full of men you were both about to kill, it felt less like getting ready for a job and more like the strangest, sweetest kind of undressing.
For a second, neither of you moved. Below you, through dirty windows and bad blinds, Task Force agents moved around inside the building like they had no idea the night had already chosen death for them.
Then someone inside laughed too loudly, and the moment snapped.
Right, work.
Or something like a work-date.
You laughed sweetly and dropped first, down the fire escape and through the service entrance, Dex behind you without needing a word. There was no need to gesture twice or whisper instructions. He moved like he already understood where you would go, which side you preferred, you wanted distance cleared and when you wanted a body left close enough for your knife.
It should have unnerved you. Instead, it made you giddy.
You had known he was good. You had studied the clippings, the photos, the evidence left behind. But watching Dex work beside you was something else entirely.
Every throw made space for you. Every little movement answered one of yours. He never crowded you, never interrupted, never treated the room like it belonged to him alone.
He made room for your violence like he had been waiting to see it up close.
And you gave him a show.
You moved through the agents with your style, close and quick and pulsing with adrenaline. Dex stayed in the shadows until he didn’t, a small knife flashing from his hand, then an agent behind you dropped before you even turned.
You couldn’t help but laugh.
It bubbled out of you, delighted though completely inappropriate, and Dex heard it through everything. His eyes found you across the room, stunned.
Like he had never heard anything lovelier.
Fuck, it was wonderful how well you worked together.
You ducked when he needed you to duck. He shifted when you needed space. You slid under his arm once, close enough that your shoulder brushed his chest. It was like dancing, if dancing was a criminal offence and everyone else in the room had arrived mortally underprepared.
Where the hell have you been all my life?
You thought it so clearly it almost became speech.
You only chuckled again, and Dex looked at you like he might never recover.
By the end of the bloodbath, twenty dead agents later, the building had gone quiet.
The euphoric, ringing kind of quiet. Broken glass glittered under the lights. A chair had been knocked onto its side and papers had been scattered across the floor. The agents were ruined, and the two of you stood in the middle of it like the last two people left after the world ended.
You were breathing hard, and so was he.
Dex had silver paint smudged beneath one eye now, a little messier than when you had put it there. His jacket was open. His hands were flexing at his sides, not because he needed a weapon, but because he didn’t know what to do with all the wanting still left in him.
You knew the feeling.
So you walked across the room before either of you could make a joke and ruin it.
Dex did not move away.
He watched you come closer with that open hunger on his face.
You grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him down.
The kiss landed through the mask, a frustrating thin piece of fabric between your mouth and his.
Dex froze for half a second, and then the restraint in him cracked just enough for you to feel it. His hands lifted, stopped, hovered near your waist like touching you might be another line he needed permission to cross. You smiled against the mask, and that was somehow worse, because he made a low, wrecked sound into the almost-kiss like you had done an unforgivable sin.
You pulled back, and he followed.
Only an inch, maybe less. But enough.
Enough to tell you exactly how badly he wanted the real thing.
His eyes were dark now, fixed on the place where your lips hid beneath his mask. He looked almost hurt, almost betrayed by the fabric, almost desperate enough to forget every wall he had built for your benefit.
“Take it off,” he said, rough, almost a plea. “Do that again.”
Your heart picked up a beat.
You stepped back just far enough to make him feel the loss.
You smiled beneath his mask.
“Earn it.”
And as Dex stared at your mouth through his mask, silver still wet beneath his eyes and twenty bodies cooling around you, you wondered, almost fondly, who the cops would blame for this one.
—end.
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That’s why I have Ko-fi! If you request there, it’s pretty much guaranteed I’ll write it within a month of responding as a token of appreciation. If I’m uncomfortable with the request or don’t think I can do it justice, I’ll let you know and we can brainstorm something else.
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I had to make this post, it was very important. This is about Wilson Bethel and a fanpage named Hans is dexing it or however. She's on all social media platforms as well, her TikTok is Hautsch, she has me blocked after I called her out. There are many people that called out her gross behavior towards Wilson Bethel because she crossed all boundaries with him. This girl goes to filming sets where he is at, talks absolutely disgusting and explicitly about him, mentions about stalking him, has leaked out information about his family and kids. I mean how disgusting can you be to do that to a celebrity? Especially when he is always private about his personal life.
This is what she has done, this is only half of it. She did more.
stalking wilson and sending photos of his kid he found on family member’s account along with a bunch of other photos of wilson he got off of family and friend’s accounts including family of his wife’s.
She acts like his wife and tries to make it seem like she looks like him💀 (The fucking delusion).
Then she acts like a victim, blaming innocent fanpages for calling her out, she blames things on her groomer (I am absolutely sorry if she went through that but being abused does not mean you do horrible things in life).
His team literally knows about her and has taken action, but I am confused how she always meets him at comic con or other events like this.
Seriously there's no issue loving a celebrity and finding them hot or thirsting over them but going after his family? Leaking things out? Manipulating and twisting things is not okay.
This is a whole new level of parasocial and delusion. She literally found accounts of his family.
Then she convinced herself that he's in love with her, dude he's happily married with a family 💀.
She harasses everyone that calls her out, I find her disgusting and idk why seeing her gives me anxiety. God knows what she does next.
I love him so much, I also find him beautiful and read fanfics about his characters but I would never cross boundaries like she has done. How can you live with yourself doing these things. It's so beyond me and absolutely crazy. The way she stalks him and makes plans to go to his house? She shows up everywhere he is, this is so fucking scary. How does she even have a platform? This woman is grown and needs mental help. Please leave this unproblematic and professional celebrity alone. He's the best person, a good father, friend, celebrity, actor, he speaks up about issues too. Why are we going after someone innocent and kind?
My account is a joke, at least I don't harass people or bully them. What harm am I doing by saying wife of his? I don't go around stalking individuals and now she's getting mad at me for making a video about her💀. She needs help and she's speaking on behalf of him, be fucking fr. Pathetic how she's dropping low to call me names after I put that bio as a joke but her doing these things makes it okay cuz apparently she was groomed 🥀. (She was not, even so if she was, that does not excuse her actions or make it okay).
Btw he would love and appreciate me for standing up for him and his family but you do you ig.
Thragg who enters earth's atmosphere with only you in mind, his body moving quicker than his brain as if it's his natural instinct to see the human who has been lingering in his head for the past 4, almost 5 years
Thragg who knows the route to your apartment by heart. Truthfully, he forced himself not to forget, almost as if he knew he would come back
Thragg who accelerates his already rapid flying, the clouds dissipating from his path
Thragg who is hovering above your apartment, or WAS your apartment. Looking through the window, everything was not how he left it. New decor he KNOWS you wouldn't like, new furniture that greatly differentiates from yours, new framed pictures hanging from the wall, pictures that don't have you in it
Thragg who saw the imposters that are living in your apartment. A man and a woman he does not recognize, laying on the couch that he knows is not yours. Feeling resentment, Thragg does what he does best
Thragg who very aggressively, questioned the couple to get any information about your whereabouts. Silly human, why would you move away from here? Was this you challenging him to see if he could find you?
Thragg who flies all over the city for any hints of where you would be. He immediately heads to the spots you'd usually go to. The little shop that sells trinkets you regularly buy from, the place that sells your favorite ice cream, the supermarket you worked at as a cashier, the cafe where you two met. Nothing. There was no trace of you, it's almost as if you just disappeared completely
Thragg who starts to internally panic, your sudden disappearance causing his heart to beat faster than it should. Where could you possibly be?
Thragg who gets angry and fed up with this nonsense and starts flying out of control with no course, almost as if he's spiraling. His behavior causing a commotion from the people down below, witnessing him erratically losing his patience
Thragg who thinks about giving up. His human was no where in sight and he knows that you could be anywhere on this dreadful planet where anything could be happening to you, and hes not there to protect you. He hasn't been there to protect you. He needs to find you
Thragg who decides to look for you again, flying over the city one more time. He knows you wouldn't leave this city, he remembers you talking about how much you always wanted to live in a urban setting, surrounded by many boutiques and places that sells good food. He also knows that you have close friends and family here, he knows you too well and know you wouldnt leave them. You have to be here somewhere
Thragg who resolve to walking instead of flying. He figures that maybe he has a better chance at finding you on the ground rather than up above. He visits your favorite spots again, for the last time, before he gives up entirely, though he wouldn't want that to be the case
Thragg who gets hit with nostalgia while going to each spot, he imagines you walking by his side, his arm holding your waist—a subtle statement that you're his, while you rant on about your day. He was quite fond of those small moments
Thragg who makes one final stop. The cafe where you both met. He knows you go here daily for your favorite drink. He recalls the annoyance he felt when you'd drag him out of your home, to go to the cafe for the usual drink you'd always get. If you had to be anywhere, it'd be here
Thragg who is sitting down on the lounging chair the cafe has for its customers, watching the window to see if you pass by. This is ridiculous, you're not here, and yet he stays, hoping you'd come. He notices the sky getting darker, hence the fewer people he sees walking outside. It's getting late and he knows around this time, humans start to get ready to rest and awake for the next day. He feels his chest getting heavy, he hasn't been able to find you
Thragg who decides to leave. It was pointless, you weren't coming here. If he couldn't find you, then he needed to leave earth and continue to train his child—the child you gave him
Thragg who exits the cafe, mindlessly walking with no direction, he feels.. defeated. A feeling he's not familiar with. He hates that a human has this much effect on him. This was a foolish idea, he shouldn't have come here. He needs to resume his duties as a viltrumite and focus on important matters. He doesn't have time to be on earth, and he certainly doesn't have time to look for-
"..Thragg?"
Thragg who swiftly looks up to the voice that called out his name. His eyes landed on you. There you were, standing in front of him. You looked thinner, have you been eating? He eyes you up and down. Part of him doesn't believe that he found you, he spent all day looking for you and here you were, looking up at him with an unreadable expression. He can't help but stare at you, just taking in this moment. He dazed off, too stunned to say anything. He didn't expect this
Thragg who greets you with a simple "hello." he tried his best not to seem too eager upon seeing you. However, his nonchalant-ness gave you a terrible impression. Hello? 4 years after he suddenly disappears with your kid without a trace, and you get a "hello"? If only you were tall enough to smack him across his arrogant face
Thragg who explains everything to you while you sipped on your favorite drink. He goes into detail about his planet being destroyed and how it was his mission to breed for the sake of his declining population, along with the other viltrumites. He tells you everything you'd wanted to know and very briefly tells you how much he misses you
Thragg who is met with an angered response. What more could you want from him? He gave you a reason why he left, that's more than enough. You should be honored that he chose to see you when he's so busy with his duties. Ungrateful human
Thragg who acts quickly when you try to leave the cafe, grabbing your arm and gently pulling you to his warm body. He wraps his arms around you, eliminating any attempts of you escaping his grasp. He rubbed your shoulders to soothe you, unintentionally alleviating some of his own stress. He missed you way more than he thought
Thragg who stays on earth for a few days to make up for his mistake. Although you reject each of his advances, he continues to do so anyway. He learned some human customs he thought would work. He saw a man giving a woman a bouquet of vibrant flowers, her excited reaction concluding his idea. However, instead of actual flowers, he pulled a massive tree from its roots off the ground. He figures why have some measly pathetic flowers when you could be given a perfectly grown, big tree. You had to explain to him how dumb that idea was (he's trying, be patient with him)
Thragg who eventually apologizes, yes, an actual apology. He had no idea how hurt you had been from his absence. He hated himself for making you go through such grief and heartache. He tells himself he will never make you miserable again, his duties be damned
Thragg who tells you all about your child. You asked about their whereabouts and stated how much you missed them, and he couldn't help but feel guilty. He tells you how strong they've become at such a young age, highlighting how they'll be a proud asset to the viltrumite empire. He makes a mental note to bring them here so you can finally see your child after years of waiting
Thragg who begs for your forgiveness. He feels awful that his human is mad at him, and it was all his fault. He'll do anything for you, whatever you want, he'll give. He just needs to know that you understand and forgive him for leaving
Thragg who insists on you coming with him, he can't stay here. He would want you to be at his side 24/7, not wanting to leave you again, all alone for years. Its a perfect idea, he can have you and his child right next to him—a family. He's met with a rejection. Why would you want to stay here? He can give you your own planet, just for you and his child. Staying here would be idiotic
Thragg who gets circled by the other viltrumites. They must've been looking for him. They questioned why he's spending his time with a human. He's quick to defend you. However, they are not pleased with his actions. A weakness, Kregg called you. The grand regent, sneaking off to see a human. While you are a weakness, he does not plan to dispose of you. You're the first ever to make him realize there's more than just ruling and conquering. You were special to him, and he couldn't let anything happen to you
Thragg who now has to make a choice. His empire, title, and legacy, or you. He dedicated his whole life to viltrum and its ideology, destroying planets and committing genocide to whoever opposes it. And yet, he struggles to chose. You make it so hard for him. He doesn't want to leave you, but he can't leave his duties. Why do you make things so complicated?
Maybe Nolan was right
a/n: ahhhhh guys tysm for showing love to the first one. I didn't expect it to get so much attention!! Thank you to everyone who liked and reblogged 🤍
If I were to give a general estimation as to when i think Maomao gained romantic feelings for Jinshi, it would have been at the end of LN4
Jinshi saves Maomao from her kidnapping, and she returns to working as the Verdigris House's Apothecary. With Jinshi's true status revealed, Maomao assumes she's never going to see him again
She thinks about this a lot, about how she's too low born for someone of his status to ever see her, and how he doesn't even need her help with his injury anyway, because Luoman is at the rear palace now. There's no logical reason for them to ever see each other again. And it itches at her
And so she starts her experiments again, harming herself. There doesn't seem to be a purpose for the concoctions she's making either, as if she's trying to treat something with no obvious cause. Something too deep for the failed medicines to reach
So she goes to cut off her finger. Specifically, her left pinky finger.
Again, there doesn't seem to be a purpose for this behavior at all- until you remember that her mother cut off the tip of her left pinky, out of anguish and rage at Lakan for abandoning her. Fengxian's love for Lakan is the reason her mother harmed her.
Maomao relates that particular finger of her's to romantic love, because of her parent's tragic love story and the trauma it caused her
Maomao knows how stupid love can make even the most intelligent of people, and has consciously and subconsciously avoided it, because she doesn't want to experience that same sort of attachment and hurt. She's heard her parent's story, heard stories of those seeking love at the Verdigris House, how courtesan's speak about love in hushed tones, and how it always ended in pain for everyone involved
But when she thinks she's never going to see Jinshi again, she goes to cut off her left pinky finger, as if on instinct. The finger she associates with romantic love. The same action Fengxian did, when she thought she'd been abandoned by Lakan.
Maomao is doing the exact same thing as her mother, for the exact same reasons.
It's only when Jinshi walks in through the door that Maomao unties her pinky and puts away the knife, and returns to her normal self.
It's one of those things where - I don't think even Maomao understands the reasons behind her actions here. Something was bothering her, something deep, and she went to the only solution she could think of to fix it- cutting off the piece of her that she associates with romantic love- but she stops feeling that subconscious itch as soon as Jinshi comes to see her. As soon as he's back in her life, things are right again, and she stops hurting herself
it's a moment i think about a lot, and it's one of my favorites in the series, because of what it represents for Maomao specifically. it says a lot about her character and how she feels about Jinshi, even if it takes years for those feelings to fully bloom
summary: the squad are all pretty sure that bob has a thing for you, but you're not convinced, so you hatch a plan to tease him within an inch of his life until he snaps
notes: i fear i may never again experience as much joy as i did while writing this... guys, it was so much fun! i know it's long, but it's full of tension and pining and heat, please give it a read! i actually love this so much, and i hope you do too, so please let me know what you think!!! i literally fell in love with bob while writing this, the lewis pullman spiral is spiralling
warnings: swearing, big dick energy, movie references (the princess bride, the ugly truth, star wars), bob's big dick, tension, lots of horniness (18+ ONLY MDNI), italics, huge dick energy, jealousy, bob is secretly cut, emotional warfare but it's fun, and did i mention bob's massive dick? (let me know if i missed anything)
word count: 21143
your callsign is sunny
It wasn’t long after the uranium mission that Dagger Squad was asked to stay on North Island and train as an elite, mission-focused unit under Maverick’s command. Not that anyone had to be asked—most of the squad was more than happy to be reassigned and stick together.
Once everything was finalised and the official special operations squadron was born, the first thing most of you did was move out of the barracks. You needed more space—both physically, and from each other—and, frankly, something that didn’t reek of stale socks and floor polish.
You and Natasha thought you’d hit the jackpot when you found a two-bedroom apartment right by the beach, with a spacious open-plan living area and not one, but two balconies. It was perfect. You could hardly believe it. Full of natural light, and just far enough from the boys you already spent too much time with—training, flying, doing push-ups every time someone pissed off Maverick.
It was meant to be.
Until the apartment across the hall went up for lease.
And that’s how you failed to escape the boys entirely. Reuben and Mickey spotted the sign while helping you move in, and before you knew it, they were neighbours—closer than ever and almost impossible to get off your couch.
A knock at the door draws your attention from the TV, and Natasha pauses mid-step on her way from the kitchen—bowl of popcorn in hand.
“Ten bucks says it’s Fanboy,” she says, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
You know that Mickey is stuck on overtime tonight—punishment from Maverick for mouthing off during a fly drill this morning. Natasha, however, hadn’t been in the air with you and clearly wasn’t listening on comms.
Your eyes flick to the door and back to her. “Deal.”
She drops the bowl on the coffee table and doubles back, swinging the door open.
“Ugh,” she sighs. “It’s you.”
Reuben blinks, his smile faltering as his brow creases. “Nice to see you too, Phoenix.”
She heads back to the couch, Reuben trailing behind.
“Why’d you knock?” she asks. “It’s always open.”
“Wasn’t the other day.”
You sit up straighter, rolling your eyes. “That’s because it was two a.m. and I was home alone—sleeping.”
Natasha drops onto the couch, a little closer to you than before to make room for Reuben. “Do we seriously not have boundaries anymore?” she asks him. “What could you possibly need at two in the morning?”
He plucks the popcorn bowl off the table and settles it in his lap. “Fanboy really wanted to watch The Princess Bride, but Netflix logged us out and we couldn’t remember the password.”
You lean across Natasha for a handful of popcorn. “Then get your own Netflix account, you fucking freeloaders.”
Reuben gives you a wounded look. “Okay, rude.”
You roll your eyes again and flop back against the couch, shoving a handful of popcorn into your mouth.
“What’s got your panties in a twist?” he asks, peering at you from Natasha’s other side.
Natasha snorts but keeps her eyes on the TV.
“Nothing,” you mutter. “My panties are perfectly untwisted.”
Reuben chuckles and shifts his gaze to the screen. “Then maybe someone should twist them up—get some of that tension out.”
You flip him off without even glancing his way, your scowl still locked on the TV. He just laughs again, and Natasha shoots you a sidelong, knowing smirk.
Twenty minutes later—and after Reuben has all but annihilated the popcorn—the front door swings open and Mickey breezes in, making a beeline for the fridge.
“Have you guys eaten?” he calls out. “Because I’m starving. I skipped lunch and Mav still kept me back.” He grabs a beer and spins to face the living room. “Isn’t that, like, illegal? Something about duty of care? I’m about to pass out, and it wasn’t even my fault I got held back. Hangman was the one mouthing off—I just told him where to stick it. But no, now Mav’s all professional, like he’s a real CO with a stick up his ass. Honestly? I liked him better before.”
He yanks open a drawer, fishes out the bottle opener, and cracks the beer. “Anyway,” he says, glancing up at the three of you, “pizza?”
A long beat of silence stretches through the apartment as you all stare at him.
“Jesus Christ, Mick,” Reuben mutters. “Take a fucking breath.”
Mickey just shrugs, heading into the living room. “What?”
He drops onto the floor—figuring the couch is already squishy enough—and sets his beer on the coffee table before reaching for the remote.
“No one’s watching this, right?” he asks—not that it matters.
He doesn’t wait for a response—just clicks a few buttons and starts scrolling through Netflix. Frustration simmers under your skin, because yes, you were watching that, but you bite your tongue. You know you’re in a bad mood, and it’s not worth taking it out on your friends. No matter how irritating they can be.
He finally lands on The Princess Bride and makes a satisfied little hum as he hits play. Then he tosses the remote back onto the table, picks up his beer, and leans back against the couch—his elbow jabbing your knee in the process. Your glass, balanced loosely on your leg, sloshes and spills cold liquid onto your lap.
“Whoops,” Mickey says, glancing back at you. “My bad.”
“Uh oh,” Natasha mutters, scooting slightly away from you.
“Seriously, Mickey?” you snap, eyes narrowing. “Could you not act like a clumsy lapdog for five fucking seconds?”
His eyes go wide at your tone.
“How the hell did you even get into the navy?” you bite, rising from the couch. “You’ve got the spatial awareness of a drunk oaf and the grace of a newborn deer on ice.”
You storm into the kitchen, slam your half-empty glass on the counter, and tear off a wad of paper towels.
“Very descriptive insults,” Reuben mutters.
Natasha lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, that’s how you know she’s in a mood.”
You shoot him a glare over the kitchen island, dabbing paper towel at the top of your thigh.
“Bob didn’t talk to her today,” Natasha says. “Like, at all.”
“Ohhh,” Reuben and Mickey sigh in unison, the sound laced with realisation.
You toss the damp towel into the sink before turning toward the fridge and yanking it open, bottles rattling.
“To be fair,” Reuben offers, “you two were on different drills today. He probably just didn’t get the chance.”
You whirl around, beer in hand, glare sharp. “He asked Phoenix if she wanted to go for a run tomorrow morning—while I was standing right there.”
You shut the fridge with more force than necessary, then yank open the cutlery drawer and grab the bottle opener.
“Oh yeah,” Mickey adds. “He asked me too. Wants to do the Coronado Island Loop.”
You pop the cap off your beer and let it clatter to the floor. “Great. That’s great. Thanks, Mick. Love knowing I was the only one not invited.”
Natasha sighs, her eyes following you as you trudge back toward the lounge. “I told you—he probably just didn’t think you were interested. When have you ever wanted to go running?”
Reuben nods. “Yeah, you hate when Mav makes us run laps. You’re always the first to complain.”
You flop down into your spot and take a long pull from your beer, eyes on the screen. “Yeah, well,” you mutter, “he could’ve asked.”
“You could’ve spoken up,” Natasha points out.
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and invite myself to something I deliberately wasn’t invited to? No thanks.”
Mickey shakes his head. “Bob wouldn’t leave you out on purpose. He’s too nice.”
“Exactly,” Reuben says. “It’s Bob. He probably just got awkward about it.”
You scowl and gesture to Natasha. “He asked Phoenix.”
“Yeah, but that’s Phoenix,” Mickey says. “They’re crammed together in the cockpit almost all day, every day. She doesn’t make him nervous.”
You scoff and sink further into the couch. “I do not make him nervous.”
Natasha sighs again. “Yes. You do. I’ve told you before.”
“And I don’t believe you,” you say, despite the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “You’re always saying Bob has a thing for me, but I don’t see it. Wouldn’t he actually talk to me if he liked me?”
“It’s Bob,” Reuben repeats. “He’s not like the rest of us.”
“Exactly,” Natasha says. “He’s polite and respectful. Way better than the rest.”
Mickey turns from the TV, shooting her a wounded look. “Ouch.”
Reuben shrugs. “She’s right. That’s why we can’t tease him about it. We can’t even ask him if he likes you—though we’re pretty sure.”
You roll your eyes. “How can you be sure when he’s never admitted it?”
“Oh, it’s so obvious,” Mickey says with a giggle. “He gets all googly-eyed whenever you’re around.”
You shoot him a sceptical look, brows furrowed. “I don’t see it.”
“Well, of course he’s not going to let you catch him staring,” Reuben says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s a gentleman.”
“Yeah, and he’s not stupid,” Natasha adds.
“But whenever you’re not paying attention,” Mickey continues, “his eyes are glued to you, like a magnet.”
You roll your eyes, determined to seem unconvinced, even though you can feel the warmth rising in your cheeks.
“Oh, and every time you’re brought up in conversation,” Reuben says, “he’s locked in.”
“Unless we’re talking about you and another guy,” Natasha adds with a knowing look “Then he gets all huffy and weird.”
You snort a laugh before taking another sip of your beer.
“Why don’t you just ask him out?” Mickey suggests. “Put us all out of our misery. Bob will stop being so awkward, and you’ll stop being so—” He stops when you shoot him a glare.
“So what, Mick?”
He turns his gaze back to the TV, muttering, “Moody.”
You scoff. “Yeah, okay. So, I’m just supposed to believe you guys when I haven’t actually seen any of these so-called signs myself?”
Reuben and Mickey nod, but Natasha just watches.
“I’m not doing that,” you say flatly. “I’m not asking him out just to be humiliated.”
The conversation dies as you turn your attention back to the movie, taking another generous sip of beer. Mickey pulls out his phone to order pizza, and Reuben heads to the fridge for another round of beers.
You keep your eyes locked on the TV, even though you’re barely watching. Instead, your mind is replaying the day, wondering if you missed the part where it was ‘so obvious’ that Bob has a crush on you.
It’s hard not to agree with Reuben when he says, ‘It’s Bob,’ because it just is. He’s nice, considerate, raised to respect women and the navy. He’s the perfect officer and the perfect gentleman, and that’s half the reason you’re so damn attracted to him. A gorgeous guy with manners and respect to spare? Yes, please.
But, God, sometimes you wish he was just a little more basic. A little more in touch with his primal side, instead of always using the higher-functioning part of his brain that most guys don’t even know exists. You’ve never even heard Bob say a woman is attractive, let alone spew some of the caveman shit that comes out of Jake’s mouth.
And yeah, sure, you could ask him out. He might even say yes, just to be polite. But you don’t want to put that kind of pressure on him or the squad. Him dating you out of pity would be worse than flat-out rejection.
An hour later, full of pizza and halfway through your fourth beer, you’re curled up with your head on Natasha's shoulder while The Ugly Truth plays on the TV—Mickey’s latest pick.
“Man, what’s with you and romantic comedies?” Reuben asks, nose wrinkling as he watches Katherine Heigl flail on-screen.
Mickey shrugs. “Don’t judge. Maybe I’m feeling a little lonely lately.”
“Aww, Mick,” you coo, voice dripping mock-sympathy. “Better get used to it. You’re going to be alone forever.”
His head snaps toward you, a scowl forming. “Okay, Miss-I-Refuse-To-Ask-Out-A-Guy-Who’s-Clearly-Into-Me-Because-I’m-Terrified-of-Rejection.”
A smirk tugs at your mouth. “That was way too long to sting.”
“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re mean when you’re not getting laid.”
“Hey!” you gasp. “How do you know I’m not?”
There’s a beat—a static moment where you realise you’ve just fucked up—before they all burst out laughing. And even you can’t help joining in, despite the embarrassed flush crawling across your chest.
Then suddenly, Natasha jerks upright, knocking your head off her shoulder. Her laughter halts as she stares wide-eyed at the screen, lips parted in a gasp. “Holy shit. I have an idea.”
“An idea?” Reuben echoes, brows lifting.
“Yes!” She turns to you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I know how we’re going to get Bob to admit it.”
Mickey swivels on the floor to face her. “Admit what?”
Reuben rolls his eyes. “That he likes Sunny. Duh.”
“Oh.” Mickey glances your way, then back at Natasha. “How?”
“He’s only human, right?” she says, and both boys nod. “It’s obvious he likes her—he’s just too damn respectful. He probably thinks she’s out of her league. Or he’s worried about dating someone in the squad. But deep down? He’s still a guy. He has the same thoughts, the same... tendencies. He’s just better at hiding them.”
Mickey snorts. “Oh yeah. If the way he looks at Sunny in a bikini is anything to go by, he’s definitely got those thoughts.”
You shoot him a glare. “Don’t be gross.”
“No, he’s right,” Natasha says quickly. “I hate it, but he’s right. Every time we’re at the beach and you’re half-naked, he looks like he’s barely holding it together.”
You try to keep your face neutral, but your heart is thudding too fast against your ribs.
“Wait,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “I think you’re onto something. Like when she squeezes into the booth at the bar and hovers over his lap for a second—he looks like he’s about to combust.”
“Exactly!” Natasha exclaims. “That’s it. That’s what we need to do—we need to make him snap.”
You narrow your eyes, ignoring the spark of adrenaline beginning to curl in your gut. “Okay... but how?”
Natasha turns toward you, her eyes wide and full of focus. The same look she wears just before take-off. “You need to... tease him. Really make him suffer.”
Mickey’s grin turns wicked. “Oh, this could work.”
Your brow lifts. “Tease him how?”
“Tempt him,” Reuben says, matching Mickey’s grin. “Push every button. Get close. Make him want you so badly he can’t hide it anymore.”
You snort. “So, seduce him?”
“Worse,” Natasha says. “You’re going to give this man the worst case of blue balls in naval history.”
Both Mickey and Reuben flinch.
“He’s going to end up in the hospital with a permanent boner,” Natasha adds, mischief blazing in her eyes. “Crying. On. His. Knees.”
“Bob’s a good man,” Reuben says solemnly. “He’s respectful. Polite. Sensible. And we’re gonna have to break him.”
“We?” you repeat, pulse racing.
“Exactly,” Natasha nods. “If this were any other guy, you could get it done in a day. But Bob? Bob’s built different. If we want to unleash his inner caveman? It’s going to take a team.”
Your stomach flips, anticipation stirring beneath your skin.
“It won’t be easy,” Mickey says, his smirk returning. “But it will be fun.”
“Sunny,” Reuben says, locking eyes with you. “Are you in or are you out?”
That spark of adrenaline snaps through you like a live wire.
You nod. “Okay. I’m in.”
-
The plan is simple. Straightforward. One objective. Everyone's clear on it. It’s been mapped out and set into motion—now all you have to do is play your part. Which is probably why your heart is hammering against your sternum like a damn war drum.
“I don’t know, Nat,” you mutter as the two of you walk across the crunchy morning grass. “This feels wrong.”
“What does?” she asks. “The thong or the plan?”
You roll your eyes. “Both.”
“Well, suck it up. There’s no backing down now.”
You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath. Then you release it and reel yourself in. She’s right. You can’t be a chicken forever—and it’s not like you’re doing anything overtly humiliating. Besides, you’ve got a team at your back, and they’re not going to let you crash and burn.
Last night, Natasha had texted Bob to let him know she was inviting you on the morning run. He’d replied with a simple thumbs up—something you found a little rude, but the boys insisted he only sends that when he doesn’t know what else to say. Which, apparently, is a good sign.
This morning, you’d dug deep into your underwear drawer for a lacy black thong you bought a few years ago—back when you were more optimistic about your sex life. You pulled it on, despite the discomfort, and borrowed a pair of light blue workout tights from Natasha. Yep, that’s a black thong under pale blue, skin-tight leggings.
“Without being creepy,” Mickey says from a few paces behind, “the plan is looking really good from back here.”
You shoot him a scowl over your shoulder as Reuben smacks his arm, even though he’s wearing the same mischievous grin.
The four of you wait at a picnic table in the park where you’d agreed to meet, and it doesn’t take long before you spot Bob walking across the grass—dark grey sweats and an oversized U.S. Navy hoodie, his hands tucked firmly into the front pocket. Quite possibly the most innocent, basic outfit he could’ve worn—a ridiculous contrast to yours—and yet you still find yourself thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts.
About what’s under those sweats. About how good they’d look on your bedroom floor.
Even the soft smile on his lips as he approaches makes you want to scream. How is one man such pure, soft boyfriend material... yet still manages to awaken your most primal instincts? It doesn’t make any sense.
“Hey,” he says, eyes skimming over each of you before settling on Natasha. “We ready?”
Natasha nods, and the five of you start walking off the grass toward the footpath before breaking into a jog. She and Bob take the lead while you hang back, with Reuben and Mickey flanking you like a private escort. Exactly as planned. You might be trying to fluster Bob, but you don’t need half of Coronado getting a look at your underwear—hence the two-man protection detail.
Two kilometres later, you all stop for a quick stretch. Bob wanders off toward a water fountain, and you seize the opportunity to move up beside Natasha, placing yourself at the front of the group. Again—exactly according to plan.
When Bob returns and joins in on Reuben and Mickey’s conversation, you and Natasha shuffle a little closer. She props one foot up on the bench, leaning into the stretch as she gives a subtle nod—the signal to begin.
You let out a shaky breath, then slip on your best cool-and-confident facade.
“I’m never doing this again,” you say to Nat—loud enough for the boys to hear.
“I’m just gonna get a quick drink,” Reuben announces, conveniently cutting off their conversation. Right on cue.
Mickey busies himself with stretching, leaving Bob to ‘accidentally’ overhear what comes next.
“What?” Natasha asks. “Running? I told you you’d hate it.”
“No,” you reply, pretending to lower your voice—even though you don’t. “Wearing a fucking thong.”
She snorts, the laugh surprisingly genuine. Either she’s a fantastic actress, or she’s thoroughly enjoying herself.
“Why are you wearing a thong?”
You roll your eyes, falling deeper into the role. “Because I forgot to do my laundry and it was all I had left.”
She snickers. “Well, have fun on the next eight kilometres.”
“Oh yeah,” you sigh, “can’t wait.”
You glance casually over your shoulder—and bingo. Bob’s face is bright red. His lips are slightly parted. And he’s blatantly staring at your ass like it’s the final clue to finding the national treasure—and Nicholas Cage is depending on him.
Beside him, Mickey looks like he’s about to lose it.
“Ready to keep going?” Reuben asks, walking back up—perfect timing.
Everyone nods, and Bob clears his throat, licking his lips quickly. “Yep. Let’s go.”
You and Natasha take off first, keeping yourselves in the lead.
Every few minutes, you glance back—and without fail, Bob is staring. Each time, it sends your heart skittering, your cheeks heating, and your thoughts wandering into very unholy territory.
Maybe your friends have been right all along. Maybe he does like you. Maybe this will actually work.
By the seventh kilometre—with only three more to go—Bob looks like he’s hanging by a thread. He ditched his hoodie about two k’s ago, tying it around his waist. His hair his clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his glasses are fogging up slightly near the bridge of his nose.
You glance over your shoulder and give him a small smile. His lips pop open and he immediately averts his eyes, focusing instead on the pavement beneath his feet. You turn back, grinning to yourself, and that’s when he picks up his pace and jogs past both you and Natasha.
Natasha nearly bursts out laughing, but she smacks a hand to her face, pretending to wipe the sweat from her upper lip. She shoots you a sideways look and a smirk—and the two of you push forward to flank Bob, jogging on either side of him.
“Hey,” Natasha says, more than a little breathless. “You trying to make this a competition?”
Bob shakes his head, eyes locked on the path ahead. “Nope. Just staying focused.”
“What’s so distracting back there?” she asks, fighting a smirk.
“Is Fanboy being a pest?” you add, giving yourself a layer of plausible deniability—just in case he starts to suspect anything.
Bob’s gaze flicks to you, then drops briefly to your chest before snapping forward again. “Yeah,” he says, voice uneven. “He’s breathing like Darth Vader.”
“Hey!” Mickey calls from behind. “I’m not deaf!”
The five of you share a short, breathless laugh before settling into a comfortable silence. You’re thoroughly exhausted now and decide to give Bob a break for the last few kilometres—merciful, maybe, but also strategic.
Soon enough, the group slows to a walk as the café marking the end of your run comes into view.
“Thank God,” Mickey gasps. “I’m starving.”
“You’re always hungry,” you mutter, shooting him a flat look.
The café is busier than expected, and you’re about to start crafting a subtle excuse to avoid going in when Reuben steps up behind you and unzips his jacket.
“Cover your ass up, Sunny,” he says, smirking. “For fuck’s sake.”
You try—and fail—to suppress your grin as he hands you the jacket. You roll your eyes and tie it around your waist, grateful for the cover.
Once you’re feeling a little more decent, the group heads inside to order breakfast and find a table out back on the patio. The food and coffee arrive quickly, and soon everyone is digging in, quiet with post-run hunger. Though judging by how often Bob’s eyes keep darting toward you, his appetite might not be entirely food-related.
“So,” Mickey says through a mouthful of bacon, “are we finishing the Star Wars marathon this weekend, or what?”
Bob perks up instantly, eyes going bright, the usual stormy blue softening into something more sky-coloured. “Yes. Tomorrow night?”
Reuben frowns. “But that’s Sunday.”
“Mav gave us Monday off,” Natasha chimes in. “Weekend rotation, remember?”
“Oh, right.” Reuben nods. “Yeah, I’m in.”
“How many are left?” Natasha asks.
“Six,” Mickey replies. “Not including spin-offs.”
“We’re not getting through six in one night,” you point out. “We’ll be lucky to finish the prequels.”
“Unless…” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief as they flick between everyone at the table, “we had a sleepover.”
You snort into your coffee before taking a sip, expecting someone—probably Natasha or Reuben—to shut the idea down. But instead, their faces light up with the same devious smirk that Mickey is wearing.
“We could,” Natasha says casually. “I think it’d be fun.”
Bob blinks at her. “You do?”
She nods. “Yeah. Why not? We could play some drinking games and not worry about getting home.”
“Drinking games!” Reuben echoes with excitement. “You’re a genius, Phoenix.”
With the way their eyes keep bouncing between you and Bob, it’s clear now: they’re scheming again. Plotting the next phase of Operation Bob's Blue Balls—and your pulse is already quickening with anticipation.
“We could do it at my place,” Bob offers, earnest as ever. “I’ve got a spare room. Plenty of space.”
Reuben grins. “What a great idea, Bob.”
Bob glances around at his grinning friends, the smile on his face tinged with uncertainty. He has no clue what he’s just agreed to.
-
“Did you pack sexy PJs?” Natasha asks, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel.
You roll your eyes. “I don’t own any sexy PJs.”
She shoots you a sly smirk before her gaze flicks back to the road, her silence thick with something unspoken—as if she already has a plan to remedy your lack of Victoria’s Secret-worthy sleepwear.
Bob’s apartment isn’t far from yours. In fact, none of you live all that far from each other, but tonight, the distance doesn’t seem to matter. No—the real reason for tonight’s sleepover is something far more sinister.
You know you’re the last to arrive, not just from the cars parked along the street, but from the group chat where Mickey has been demanding you hurry up so he can order dinner. Your heart beats in your throat as you ride the elevator up, and the ding when it reaches Bob’s level startles you more than it should.
Natasha’s smirk stays plastered on her face until she knocks on the door, and the second it swings open, with Bob standing there, she’s all business.
“Hey,” she says casually, walking past him like she’s been here a thousand times.
A stab of jealousy twists in your stomach—completely unwarranted but sharp nonetheless. Has Natasha been here a lot?
“Hi,” you mutter, offering Bob a small smile as you follow Nat inside.
There’s a chorus of hellos from the squad scattered around the living room. Bradley lounges across the two-seater couch furthest from the door, and Mickey is sprawled in a bean bag beside him, grinning like a kid in a candy store. Jake and Javy are tangled together on one end of the three-seater couch, probably having just finished fighting over the remote. And then there’s Reuben, sitting in the middle, with Natasha plopping down beside him.
“Guess I’ll take the floor,” you mutter, dropping your bag beside the pile of everyone else’s stuff.
“That’s alright,” Jake says with his usual cocky grin, “You can sit on Bobby’s lap for a bit of comfort.”
Heat floods your cheeks, but you refuse to let him see the effect of his words. Instead, you roll your eyes and flip him off, then plop down onto the makeshift nest of cushions and blankets on the floor.
Bob reappears from the kitchen with another round of beers, while Mickey takes orders for dinner. Then Bob settles down beside you, his arm brushing yours just enough to send a sparks crackling across your skin. A moment later, Jake hits play on The Phantom Menace, and the room settles into a comfortable, albeit charged, quiet.
It doesn’t take long before Jake groans that he’s bored, and Reuben’s eyes immediately flick toward Natasha—like they’d both seen this coming from a mile away.
“We could play a game,” Mickey offers, all too innocently.
“Yes,” Jake grins, already invested. “Let’s play a game.”
“What game?” Javy asks.
Reuben opens his mouth, but Jake beats him to it. “Truth or Dare, obviously.”
Natasha snorts and slaps a hand over her mouth, but not before you catch it. That was exactly what Reuben had been about to suggest—and Jake is walking right into whatever scheme they’ve cooked up.
“How old are you?” Bradley asks Jake, brows furrowing.
“Not as old as you, Grandpa,” Jake fires back. “But you could at least pretend to enjoy fun.”
Bradley rolls his eyes but shrugs. “Fine.”
Everyone else falls in line, shifting around until you’ve all formed a lopsided circle on the floor, your back half-angled toward the movie. Jake claps his hands together like the ringmaster of a circus—which might not be far off from what this night is about to become.
“Alright. If you’re a chicken and won’t answer the truth or do the dare, you drink. Simple. I’ll go first.” He zeroes in on Bob—poor, unsuspecting Bob, who clearly just wanted to enjoy some Star Wars in peace. “Bob. Truth or Dare?”
“Truth,” Bob says, almost too quickly.
Jake leans forward with a shit-eating grin. “Who would you rather go on a date with—Phoenix or Sunny?”
You choke on nothing, smothering the sound behind your hand and pretending it’s just a casual cough.
Heat blooms across Bob’s cheeks and starts creeping up to the tips of his ears. He glances your way—just for a beat—then over at Natasha, and your stomach knots. Is he seriously having to think about this? Have your friends been totally misreading Bob this whole time?
Then, after a moment of hesitation, Bob simply lifts his beer and takes a long sip.
Jake groans. “Ugh, lame.”
“Don’t worry, Bob,” Javy says with a laugh. “That was a trap. There was no right answer.”
Bob chuckles—a low, rough sound right next to you that sends goosebumps up your arms. “I know,” he says, voice deceptively casual. Then he shifts his gaze toward Mickey. “Fanboy. Truth or Dare?”
Mickey’s face lights up. “Dare.”
Bob smiles—and for the first time tonight, it’s almost a smirk. There’s something sharp beneath the usual softness, and it makes your stomach flip.
“Text the last person you hooked up with ‘thinking about you’—no context. And you can't reply until tomorrow.”
Mickey’s grin drops. “What the fuck, man?”
Bob just shrugs, raising his beer like it’s a toast. “You picked dare.” Then he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a generous swig.
And holy shit—you might actually combust from the sight alone. Bob being just a little cocky. Bob utterly destroying Mickey with zero remorse. You know there’s a darker edge beneath that quiet, boy-next-door act. You know he’s got a mean streak. And God, you want to find it. Pull it out of him and ask—beg—for him to do things you can’t even say out loud.
The group erupts into cackles as Mickey reluctantly pulls out his phone, Reuben peering over his shoulder to make sure he follows through.
“There,” Mickey mutters, tossing the phone face-down on the floor. “You better watch your back.”
But Bob doesn’t flinch. He just sits there, calm and collected, with that damn smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth.
When you finally tear your gaze away from him, you find Mickey’s eyes locked on you—an evil grin stretched across his face. “Sunny,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “Truth or Dare?”
You steel your nerves, unsure of what’s coming but already sensing the trap. “Dare,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.
Mickey’s grin widens, tipping his head forward like some sinister villain—and you just walked straight into his web. “Google a dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey... and whisper it slowly in Bob’s ear.”
Jake snorts, his face twisted with amusement, and the rest of the group follows—dissolving into fits of laughter. All but Bob, who’s already choking on his beer, turning an even deeper shade of red before you’ve even touched your phone.
You blink, eyes going wide. “Are you serious?”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” Mickey replies, practically vibrating with excitement. “And no laughing. You have to sell it.”
You lock eyes with Mickey, your death-glare sharp as your hands shake slightly while you pick up your phone. Then, you reluctantly tap the search bar and type in ‘dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey.’ Before you realize what’s happening, Natasha leans over your shoulder.
“Ooh,” she giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one.”
You glance up at Bob, your expression a mix of apology and warning. He looks much less confident than before, his lips parted, cheeks flushed, blue eyes wide behind his glasses. His throat bobs as he swallows, and a small part of you—one that feels dangerous—stirs with excitement.
The room falls into eerie silence, and you realize that Jake has paused the movie. All eyes are on you as you shuffle closer to Bob, getting onto your knees beside him. You plant one hand on his thigh to steady yourself, and you feel the muscles in his leg twitch at your touch.
His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid.
You lean in close, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear as you murmur, “I want your hands on me. Your mouth. I want to feel you everywhere until I forget my own name.”
A beat of silence stretches, and then Bob exhales sharply, his hand tightening around his beer bottle as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth.
“Jesus Christ,” Jake mutters under his breath.
“Holy shit,” Reuben says, breaking into laughter.
Mickey is howling, pounding his fist against the beanbag. “Worth it! So worth it!”
You slowly pull back, biting back a grin as you settle back into your spot like nothing happened. Bob, however, is still stuck in the mental tailspin you just launched him into, blinking hard and adjusting his glasses like he needs a whole system reset.
You meet his eyes, and for the briefest second, you see it—buried beneath the shock and heat—that glint of hunger.
God help you, you're not making it out of tonight alive.
The game moves on, but you can’t quiet your mind. You’re stuck on the way Bob’s thigh had felt beneath your palm, the way the muscles shifted under your touch. You can’t stop replaying the brush of your lips near his ear, the hitch in his breath, or the way he’d smelled—clean, warm, intoxicating. You don’t just want to fuck this man—you want to ruin him. You want him panting and wrecked, bruised and breathless, oversensitive and spent. There are things you want to ask of him that would guarantee you a one-way ticket to hell. But if he said yes—if he gave you those things—it’d be worth it.
You’ve never wanted a man the way you want him, and it’s starting to feel like a genuine threat to your well-being.
“Bob,” Natasha says, her voice snapping you back to reality, “Truth or Dare?”
You’re not sure how many turns you’ve missed, but Bradley and Reuben seem to have swapped shirts, and there’s a bottle of tequila on the table that definitely wasn’t there earlier.
“Dare,” Bob replies, seemingly recovered from your whispered indecency.
Natasha grins. “I dare you to pick someone in this room to do a body shot off of—excluding me.”
Your heart stutters at the last part. Did she say that because she thought he’d pick her? Would he have? Out of comfort, knowing it wouldn’t mean anything—or for some other reason?
You shake the thought off quickly and join the group’s laughter, mentally scolding yourself for the jealous spiral.
“Seriously, Phoenix?” Bob sighs, his brows knit.
She just shrugs, laughing. “You picked dare.”
He tips his head back and groans, giving you a perfect view of the long line of his throat, the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.
“Come on, man,” Jake chuckles, “There’s only one clear choice.”
Your cheeks flush as Jake nods toward you, green eyes sparkling like he’s the one about to do the dare.
“As if you’re not going to pick Sunny,” Javy adds, watching as Bob’s eyes slowly scan the room.
Then his gaze lands on you—soft, but laced with something heavier. Something simmering.
He licks his lips, and you can’t stop yourself from imagining them on your skin. Imagining his tongue dragging over your body, slow and deliberate. The salt from your collarbone, your abdomen… or maybe lower—right above the waistband of your pants. Would he use the glass? Or would he press his mouth to your stomach, lips sealing around your navel, tongue lapping up the tequila while you tremble beneath him?
Then the lime—between your lips, waiting for him. His mouth brushing yours as he leans in, breath mingling, tasting more than just the fruit. You imagine the sharp burst of citrus, the tease of contact, tequila heat still slick on his tongue. He’d bite down, lips grazing yours, and it would wreck you more than any kiss ever could.
“Hangman,” Bob says suddenly, his gaze locked on the man across the circle—who now looks a lot less smug and a lot more stunned.
Jake’s brows shoot up. “Me?”
The room erupts into laughter. Bradley throws his head back, already fumbling for his phone to record whatever chaos is about to unfold. Mickey nearly falls over, gripping the bean bag for dear life, and Javy is doubled over, laughing so hard he can’t catch a breath.
“Why would you do this to me?” Jake gasps, eyes wide.
“You said there was only one clear option,” Bob replies evenly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I agree.”
“You bitch,” Jake mutters.
“Oh, this is so much better than what I thought was going to happen,” Natasha says. “Shirt off, Bagman. Let’s go.”
“This could be considered assault,” Jake mutters as he sits forward on the couch.
“Then press charges,” Bradley says, half-choking on a laugh. “But let him finish first.”
Natasha bolts to the kitchen for lime and salt, and the rest of the group scrambles to clear space on the lounge like they’re prepping for surgery. Jake peels off his shirt with the theatrics of a martyr, glaring at each of his cackling friends.
Bob, meanwhile, looks cool as ever—far more composed than Jake. And maybe that’s the point. Picking you would’ve set the room on fire. Picking someone else would’ve gotten laughs. But picking Hangman? That’s just cruel and perfect—and from the slow curl of a smirk on Bob’s lips, he knows it.
“Let’s go, Seresin,” Natasha says, reappearing with lime in one hand, salt in the other.
Jake lies back with exaggerated misery, like a man about to be sacrificed at the altar. “I swear to God, Floyd, if you do anything weird with your mouth-”
“I won’t,” Bob says, calm and unbothered. “Unless you want me to.”
Your stomach somersaults. He didn’t even look at you—but somehow, it still feels like the line was meant for you. Like he knows exactly what he does to you, without even trying.
Bob Floyd is fucking smooth when he wants to be.
The room falls eerily quiet as Bob kneels beside the couch, one hand braced on the cushion beneath Jake’s body, the other holding the tequila bottle. He looks serene—like he’s preparing for a sacred ritual rather than licking salt off another man’s chest.
“This is happening,” Mickey whispers, wide-eyed. “This is actually happening.”
“Focus, Bob,” Natasha says solemnly, holding the shot glass as he pours the tequila. “We believe in you.”
Bob sets the bottle down and leans toward Jake slowly, both hands now braced on the couch as he lowers his head to the other man’s chest. The room is absolutely silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the charged hush of everyone holding their breath.
Jake stares straight up, completely stiff. “Don’t look at me while you do it.”
“I’m not,” Bob says, deadpan.
He dips his head and licks the salt clean off Jake’s skin. Jake jerks like he’s been hit with a defibrillator.
“Oh my God,” Javy whispers, clutching his chest. “This is the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
Natasha hands Bob the shot, and he tosses it back like he’s sampling a fine whiskey. Then he turns to the lime Natasha has jammed between Jake’s clenched teeth.
“Don’t you dare,” Jake warns.
“I’m just following instructions,” Bob replies calmly, and leans in.
There’s a ridiculous half-second where it looks like they’re about to kiss—and everyone knows it. You bite your fist to keep from bursting out laughing… or something else entirely. Because Bob? Cool as ice. Smooth as ever. He doesn’t even flinch as his mouth brushes Jake’s, teeth clamping down on the lime and tugging it free.
Jake makes a choked sound halfway between outrage and existential crisis.
Then the room explodes.
Bradley nearly falls off the lounge, still recording, laughter shaking his whole body. Natasha collapses into Javy’s lap, practically wheezing. Mickey is making noises like he’s being exorcised, and you’re on the brink of tears, shoulders shaking with laughter as Bob calmly returns to his seat, lime in hand, mouth twisted slightly at the tartness.
Jake bolts upright, wiping his mouth. “I need therapy.”
Bob frowns. “You needed therapy before that.”
“Yeah,” Jake spits, yanking his shirt back on. “Well, now I need more.”
You’re not sure you’ve ever felt it before—and you definitely don’t plan on voicing it—but right now, you are incredibly fucking jealous of Jake Seresin.
It takes a while, but eventually the group settles down and the game fizzles out—mostly thanks to Jake’s relentless sulking. Not long after, Mickey gets a notification that the food is nearly delivered, and everyone jumps into action to clear the table and grab what’s needed for dinner.
Less than ten minutes later, you’re all crowded around the coffee table, shovelling Chinese food into your mouths and stealing bites off each other’s plates. Jake’s sour mood has mostly vanished, and everyone is focused on the final battle of the movie playing out on-screen.
By the time the credits start rolling, most of the food is gone. You and Natasha start carting plates, bowls, and empty containers into the kitchen while the guys finish polishing off their meals, scraping the last of the food off their plates and into their mouths.
“Did I mention I brought dessert?” Reuben pipes up, eyeing you as you stack a few plates in one hand.
You raise a brow. “Are you about to make a gross joke?”
“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “You know Barb, down the hall?”
“Neighbour Barb with the yappy chihuahua?”
He nods. “Yeah. She bakes, like… the most amazing stuff.”
You narrow your eyes, plates now balanced in both hands. “Do I even want to know how you know this?”
Mickey answers for him, talking around a mouthful of Mongolian beef. “Because we’re nice to our neighbours.”
You give him a disgusted look before turning back to Reuben. “Okay. Get to the point.”
He grins, a smug twist playing at the corner of his mouth. “She made a huge batch of cream pies—I mean, puffs. So she brought some over, and I brought them here. They’re to die for.”
Your eyes widen almost imperceptibly—but Reuben catches it, and you can see the spark of amusement flash across his face.
“Have you ever had a cream pie, Sunny?” Mickey asks, beaming up at you with sauce smeared on his face.
Jake and Javy snort, and behind you—you swear you hear Bob snicker.
“Yes, Mick,” you bite out. “I’ve had a cream puff.”
You turn sharply back toward the kitchen, but not before catching the small smirk on Bob’s lips, his cheeks pink as he spoons another mouthful of kung pao chicken into his mouth.
“That’s not what I asked!” Mickey calls after you, giggling like a grade-schooler.
You roll your eyes and drop the plates by the sink, where Natasha and Bradley are already washing up.
“Lookin’ a little red there, Floyd,” Reuben teases, his voice carrying from the living room to the kitchen.
It’s the chicken,” Bob replies quickly—but there’s something in his voice that makes a stupid, lovesick grin spread across your face.
Once everything is washed up and everyone has returned to the living room, Jake hits play on the next film. You’re back on the floor, this time with your back pressed to the couch beneath Natasha, who’s curled up with her legs tucked beneath her, leaving you space to lean. Bob is further away now, sprawled on his back across a fluffy blanket, a cluster of pillows beneath his head, hands folded neatly over his stomach.
You try to keep your eyes on the screen—it really shouldn’t be that hard with both Hayden Christensen and Ewan McGregor to enjoy—but your gaze keeps drifting to Bob. He looks so content, so cute, his lips tipped into a soft half-smile and his blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses. There’s something about him that turns your brain to absolute mush, and you still can’t figure out what.
Maybe it’s the dichotomy of him. How sweet and quiet he is—some might even say shy, but you know better. He’s just overwhelmingly nice, with a pretty face to match. And yet, you have to remind yourself that this man is in the navy. He’s not spineless—in fact, he’s the total opposite. He’s sharp and quick-witted, strong both mentally and physically. There’s not a single thing about him that’s weak, yet he lets people assume otherwise.
Maybe it’s confidence. The kind that doesn’t need to be loud. He doesn’t care what people think or say. Not that he isn’t awkward sometimes—he definitely can be—but that’s more about being introverted. He doesn’t need to show off or run his mouth like Jake. He doesn’t need to fly like an idiot to prove himself. He’s just Bob. He knows who he is, and he’s not apologetic about it.
What is it they call that?
Oh yeah… big dick energy.
Your eyes drift down his torso, lingering briefly on his hands—the way his long fingers are laced together—before continuing down to the waistband of his dark blue joggers. There’s a bulge in his lap. A notable one. And a slight outline continuing down the left leg of his pants…
Wait. That’s like… kind of huge.
A hard nudge to your shoulder startles you, and you whip around to see Natasha staring at you. Her eyes are wide, her lips pulled into a smirk—half disbelieving, half smug.
Stop staring, she mouths.
You press your lips together to hold back a laugh, a little giddy from your fourth—or maybe fifth—beer. Your face feels warm, and you know if you keep looking at Nat, you’ll start laughing, so you quickly turn back to the movie.
“Okay,” Mickey pipes up, scrambling out of the beanbag and to his feet, “who wants cream puffs?”
“Only if you serve them warm and full,” Jake shoots back.
The room erupts—half groans, half childish laughter. Mickey just snorts and disappears into the kitchen, Reuben trailing behind him. A few minutes later, they return, each holding a heaping plate stacked with warm, golden cream puffs.
“Fair warning,” Reuben says, setting one down on the table, “these things are insane. Like... dangerously good.”
You grab one without hesitation—soft, golden, still warm to the touch. It’s dusted in powdered sugar and practically bursting with cream. You bite into it and—holy hell—the taste explodes in your mouth. Sweet. Rich. Ridiculously creamy. You moan without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut.
“Oh, wow,” you say around a mouthful. “That’s... actually insane.”
The group hums and laughs in agreement, but you barely notice. You take another bite—bigger this time—and it squishes a little too easily in your hand. Cream oozes out the side, trailing down your chin and, with an audible plop, lands squarely between your breasts.
“Oh, shit,” you mutter, trying to swipe the cream away—but all you manage to do is smear it further.
There’s a beat of silence, and even the movie playing in the background seems to go quiet.
“Jesus Christ,” Reuben says, somewhere between impressed and scandalised. “You sure you don’t need a minute alone with that thing?”
Laughter rumbles around you, and only when you look up do you realise how provocative that just was—the heat in your cheeks deepening. But then your eyes catch on Bob.
He’s not laughing. He’s not even blinking.
The lazy smile he wore earlier? Gone. He’s sitting upright now, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. His gaze is locked on you like he forgot what movie is playing, what day it is—hell, maybe even his own name.
“Floyd?” Mickey nudges his leg with a foot. “You good?”
Bob jolts slightly, as if waking from a trance. He coughs, shifts, and yanks the blanket from the floor to cover his lap—too quickly to be casual.
“They, uh...” he clears his throat, voice rough. “They look really good.”
Your stomach swoops as he leans forward, still holding the blanket tight in place, and reaches for a cream puff from the plate right in front of you—still avoiding your eyes entirely.
Natasha leans in from behind, her voice low. “You are killing him.”
You press your lips together to hide your grin, eyes flicking back to Bob—who’s now doing everything in his power not to look in your direction.
The cream puffs disappear in what has to be a record amount of time. You’re pretty sure you watched Javy inhale at least four, and there was an unnecessarily loud argument between Mickey and Bradley over the last one, which ended in a begrudging decision to split it.
The rest of the movie plays out without incident, and afterward, everyone decides to change into their PJs for the final film of the night. You’re honestly surprised everyone has made it to movie number three, but you’re not complaining.
The boys start rummaging through their bags, swapping out jeans for boxers or stretchy pajama pants while Natasha grabs her bag and disappears into the bathroom. You keep your eyes glued to your phone screen to avoid catching a glimpse of something you definitely don’t want to see—because these boys? They have no shame.
“You can change in my room if you want,” Bob offers.
You glance up, making sure to keep your eyes fixed on him, because just a little to the left is where Jake is still mid-change.
“Yeah?”
Bob nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he gestures down the short hallway past the kitchen. “It’s the door just after the bathroom.”
“Thanks,” you mutter, pushing to your feet and grabbing your bag as you slip past the others—now teasing Mickey about his choice of boxers.
The door is open just a crack, and your heart thuds a little harder than it should as you ease it the rest of the way. The smell hits first—clean and warm, with a twist of vanilla that makes you want to wrap yourself in it and never leave.
You flick on the light and shut the door behind you, dropping your bag to the floor. You know you should just get changed, but… you can’t help it. You’ve only been to Bob’s apartment a couple times before—once to help him move in (because of course the whole squad helped), and once with Natasha to pick him up before a night out. But never in here. Never in his room.
It’s almost unusually tidy, but that’s navy life for you. His bed is made neatly, topped with a soft baby blue duvet, coordinated beige and cream pillows, and a throw blanket folded at the foot. It’s a little faded and looks handmade, like something passed down through generations.
On one side of the room, a bookshelf houses a quiet little collection of well-loved paperbacks, a few aviation manuals, and a line of model planes—some pristine and precise, others clearly glued together by a much younger version of him. A framed photo of a beaming, pint-sized Bob in oversized glasses sits on the dresser, nestled between a small baseball trophy and a display of navy challenge coins.
A pair of worn sneakers sits neatly by the door, and his uniform jacket hangs off the closet handle, the door slightly ajar. The name tag catches just enough light to pull your eyes toward it. Everything about the room feels like him—modest, thoughtful, quietly proud. It’s the kind of unintentional intimacy that makes you feel like you’ve slipped behind the curtain and gotten a glimpse of the real Bob.
And somehow… that makes your chest ache. It’s just a room. But it feels so much like him—like you could curl up in here with him for hours, doing nothing but talking and dreaming. Getting lost in each other. Letting the rest of the world wait. And then, later, getting tangled together. Soft kisses, whispered pleas, gentle moans—slow and unhurried, learning one another’s bodies until you know each other better than you know yourselves.
You shake your head hard and take a breath. You’ve already been in here too long. Pull it together.
You crouch beside your bag and pull out your pajamas—soft lounge shorts and a matching long-sleeved shirt. It’s nothing special, but a step up from your usual: an old, food-stained navy tee and nothing but underwear.
You change quickly and shove your clothes into your bag before leaving the room. The lounge room has quieted down, everyone now back in their seats—except for Mickey and Bob, who are in the kitchen grabbing another round of drinks.
Jake hits play as soon as they return, and everyone settles in again. There’s less chatter now, probably because of how late it’s gotten. Bradley is almost definitely asleep, eyes half-shut on the two-seater, while Mickey is having the time of his life seeing how many of Bradley’s fingers he can get stuck in the top of his beer bottle.
Natasha is curled up behind you, her head resting on Reuben’s shoulder, and his blinks are getting longer and slower by the second. Jake is surprisingly alert and invested in the film, but Javy looks like his head might lull back at any moment. And Bob—Bob is still wide awake, his eyes sparkling with interest as he watches the screen.
Halfway through the film, Mickey pushes to his feet and offers another round of drinks, prompting a few sleepy murmurs of ‘yes’ from the others.
“I’ll help,” you offer, stretching as you rise from the floor and follow him into the kitchen.
You open the fridge and start pulling out beers while Mickey pops the tops off. But when you close the fridge and turn back around, you spot Reuben—now suddenly very awake—watching Mickey with intent. He’s wearing that little smirk that always means trouble, clearly trying to telepathically communicate something to his WSO.
Your brow furrows as you glance between them, trying to decode the silent exchange. Mickey looks equally confused for a second... but then realisation dawns and a wicked grin curls onto his face.
He turns to you and mutters, “Sorry about this.” But he doesn’t sound even remotely apologetic.
Your frown deepens. “What are you-”
But you don’t get to finish the question before he starts shaking the beer bottle in his hand.
“Mick—!” you cry, just as he pops the top off and sprays you with beer.
You shriek, throwing your hands in front of your face like that’ll somehow stop the onslaught. But it doesn’t. You’re soaked.
“What the hell, Fanboy?” Reuben calls from the living room, as if this wasn’t entirely his doing.
“Mickey!” you shout, dropping your arms and glaring at him.
“Whoops,” he says with a grin. “My bad.”
Natasha snorts and smacks a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It’s not funny.”
“Wow, Fanboy,” Jake pipes up, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “Is that the first time you’ve made a girl wet?”
Mickey glares—or tries to. He’s way too pleased with himself for it to land properly.
“Hey, Floyd,” Reuben calls, “you got any spare clothes for Sunny?”
Bob is already looking at you, lips parted and cheeks flushed. He swallows hard before turning to Reuben and nodding. “Yeah, of course.” Then he stands, eyes flicking back to you. “Do you want to shower?”
Mickey gasps, scandalised. “Robert Floyd, are you propositioning her?”
Bob’s blush deepens, colouring his neck and the tips of his ears, but he doesn’t look particularly ashamed. He looks… flushed. Hot. Close to unravelling. His glare cuts back to Mickey, sharper than usual, a little too dark to be playful. And then his gaze shifts back to you—specifically, your chest.
You follow his line of sight and immediately wrap an arm around yourself. Your nipples are pebbled beneath your shirt, the damp fabric clinging in all the worst ways. Or the best—if you ask Bob Floyd.
“Yes,” you say tightly. “A shower would be good.”
The room dissolves into quiet laughter as you follow Bob down the hall. He slips into his room for a moment, then returns with a folded towel and some clothes stacked neatly on top.
“Here,” he says, offering them to you. “Take as long as you want. You can use whatever’s in there. Not that there’s much.”
He dips his head—blush still firmly in place—and heads back to the living room.
You stare after him for a second, dumbfounded. He got embarrassed about his lack of shower products? That’s what embarrassed him? Not the full-body, post-beer-shower eye-fucking he just gave you?
You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling hard. You’re buzzing. Overstimulated. Untouched and on fire. You feel like you’re being edged and then abandoned, left to squirm. You’re so sensitive it hurts. Bob is teasing you just as much as you’re teasing him—those glances, the heat behind his eyes, the way his mouth hangs open like he wants to say something but never does.
You might’ve thought you were playing a game, but Bob Floyd is about to kill you without even realising it.
You strip quickly, trying not to dwell on the fact that you’re naked in Bob’s apartment. You keep the water on the cooler side—a half-hearted attempt to wash away the heat still simmering under your skin. But it doesn’t help. You shower fast and step out even faster, wrapping yourself in the towel Bob gave you. It’s fluffy, soft, and smells just like him—which makes that spot deep behind your hipbones ache.
You dry off in record time, then turn to the small pile of clothes on the vanity—Bob’s clothes. Your hands tremble slightly as you lift the satin boxers, dark blue with little white stars, and slide them up your legs. Then the shirt: a worn white tee with a faded Star Wars logo across the chest.
His scent wraps around you the second you slide it over your head—oversized and impossibly soft against your warm skin. You try not to focus on the rasp of cotton against your nipples. God, if he ever actually touches you, you might just combust.
You take a deep breath, trying to calm the fire burning low in your belly, then scoop up your beer-soaked clothes and open the bathroom door—steam spilling into the hallway as you step out.
"Finally," Mickey says, popping up in front of you like he’s been waiting, holding out a plastic bag.
You blink. “What?”
“For your clothes,” he says simply.
“Oh.” You take it and shove the damp material inside.
His gaze dips—just for a beat—before sliding back up. Then he grins, gives you a cheeky wink, and turns back toward the lounge room. You follow, every eye lifting to you the second you reappear. Warmth floods your cheeks. You’re in Bob’s clothes. Bob's boxers. Bob's shirt.
“Can we play the movie now?” Jake whines, oblivious to the tension humming through the room. “It was just getting good.”
You nod, unable to speak, your gaze already locked with Bob’s.
His eyes rake down your body, slow and deliberate. He takes in the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the hang of his shirt against your chest. His gaze catches there, as if he can see straight through the fabric, then continues its journey down to the hem. The shorts are barely visible beneath the shirt, and judging by the heat in his eyes, he might be wondering why you're wearing pants at all.
You shift under the weight of his stare, hyper-aware of every inch of fabric against your skin—of how suddenly hot the room feels. Jake presses play, but no one is watching the screen. Every pair of eyes bounces between you and Bob, waiting—expecting—something to happen.
Bob looks wrecked. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white, jaw tight. Like he has to physically hold himself back.
Natasha clears her throat, startling you more than it should. You tear your gaze away and flash her a sheepish smile before finally forcing yourself to move, padding back to your spot on the floor.
Even then, you can feel Bob’s eyes tracking every step.
The rest of the movie plays out in near silence, broken only by the soft snoring that eventually starts up from Bradley and Javy. It takes a while for you to settle, but you finally curl up on the floor with a pillow hugged to your chest, watching Anakin fall apart on-screen and become Darth Vader.
Jake is the only one still fully invested in the film. Even Bob seems distracted now, his eyes flicking toward you more often than the TV. He shifts in place, uncomfortable, dragging the blanket higher across his lap and holding it like a lifeline. You try not to smirk.
You think you know what might be going on under there… but you’re not about to assume. It couldn't possibly be just because you’re wearing his clothes.
…Right?
Eventually, the credits start rolling and everyone begins to stir.
“Where am I sleeping?” Mickey asks, already eyeing Bob like he’s got plans.
Bob shrugs. “Wherever. There’s the couches and a couple beds in the spare room, but someone’ll have to sleep with me.”
“I think Rooster’s good here,” Jake says, glancing at the man awkwardly passed out on the two-seater couch. “I’ll take this one.”
“I’ll sleep with you, Bobby,” Javy says through a yawn, stretching so wide his joints pop.
“Damn it,” Mickey mutters as he walks past, bumping your shoulder with his. “Missed opportunity.”
You roll your eyes but can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. You know damn well you wouldn’t get any sleep next to Bob—not when he smells like that, looks like that, and keeps looking at you the way he does. So it’s probably for the best, but still, the thought lingers.
Everyone takes turns brushing their teeth and shuffling off to bed. You end up in the fold-out bed with Natasha in the spare room, while Reuben and Mickey claim the air mattress on the floor. Apparently, there’s no escaping these boys—not even for one night.
Mumbled goodnights fade into rustling fabric and shifting limbs, then finally, silence.
Too much silence.
You lie on your back, eyes on the ceiling, thoughts screaming through your head like they’re in a race. You should be tired—your body aches—but your brain refuses to shut up. You toss the blanket off, overheated, but even with the cooler air, your skin feels flushed. You roll to your side, careful not to jostle Natasha on the creaky mattress, but nothing helps.
You glance down at the boys, both snoring with their mouths open, and finally sigh. Swinging your legs off the bed, you wriggle out of Bob’s shorts, thinking maybe it’ll help. You don’t usually sleep in pants anyway.
It doesn’t.
Ten minutes later, you quietly slip off the bed and tiptoe toward the door, easing it open with practiced care to avoid the squeaky hinges. Then you turn down the hallway, barefoot and warm-skinned, and pad into the kitchen.
The hem of Bob’s shirt brushes against your bare thighs, stoking the fire already simmering between them as you stop in front of the fridge and pull the door open. A cool flood of light spills across the kitchen tiles. You grab a bottle of water and twist off the cap, stepping back and tipping it to your lips. But the cold rush does nothing to cool the heat thrumming beneath your skin.
“You always walk around other people’s places half naked?”
You choke, almost spilling water down your chin as you turn toward the voice—that low, raspy sound that makes your skin prickle and your spine snap straight.
Bob stands at the edge of the kitchen, leaning casually against the far counter—but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he holds himself. In the dim glow of the fridge light, he looks almost ethereal. His eyes are sharp, lit with something that borders on pain—hunger, maybe, or full-blown starvation—and his arms are crossed over his bare chest.
Yeah. Bob Floyd is shirtless.
You register a flicker of jealousy for Javy—the man who gets to sleep next to this—but you don’t let yourself linger on it. Not when Bob is standing right there in nothing but a pair of loose boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide the impressive shape beneath.
You don’t know if it’s because he’s a little turned on or just blessed, but damn.
“You okay?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a real question—because he already knows the answer.
No. No, you’re not.
You clear your throat, dragging your eyes back up to his. “Yeah, I—uh-”
Your words falter when his gaze drops to your legs. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to memorise every inch. His eyes drag slowly up your bare thighs, pausing at the hem of his shirt before gliding over your waist and stopping at your chest, where your nipples are clearly outlined beneath the thin cotton.
The heat of his stare burns hotter than any touch.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice quiet, like he’s just making conversation. Like he has no idea what he’s doing to you.
He pushes off the counter and walks straight toward you—slow, but sure. He stops right in front of the fridge, close enough that if you moved even a breath closer, you’d feel your nipples graze his skin.
You take a step back—barely. Just enough to let him slip past you.
He nods slightly—a silent thanks—and ducks into the fridge for his own water. When he shuts the door, the kitchen is plunged into darkness, save for dim moonlight filtering in from the far windows—but you can still see him. His outline, the dips and curves of his lean torso, the tilt of his head as he tips the bottle back and drinks.
You watch his throat move with every swallow, your lips parting slightly, craving his skin on your tongue. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just stand there, watching.
When he finishes, he turns to the sink and drops the empty bottle in before bracing both hands against the bench. His chin dips toward his chest, and you see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he exhales—hard.
Before you can stop yourself, your feet carry you forward until you’re beside him, your bare arm brushing against his. You place your own bottle in the sink, then turn toward him and lean your hip against the counter.
“Bob,” you whisper.
Every sound in the apartment feels louder now—the faint snores, the creak of the floorboards, your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears.
He looks at you, only turning his head, not his body. “Don’t—” he says softly. “Don’t say my name like that.”
You frown, sliding your hand over his. His grip tightens on the bench like he’s anchoring himself.
“Like what?” you ask softly.
“Like you want me,” he murmurs. His voice is thick—rough around the edges like it’s been scraped raw. Like he's holding something back with every laboured breath.
You press closer, your chest against his arm. The contact is electric. Your skin separated only by a whisper of cotton—his cotton.
“Bob,” you breathe, a little desperate now.
He exhales sharply and drops his gaze to the sink again, like something there might help him. “This isn’t…” His jaw flexes. “We can’t do this.”
“Do what?” you ask, playing innocent, even as your fingers trail lightly up his arm.
You can feel your chest rising and falling faster than it should, your breasts pressing against his arm like some wanton, starry-eyed girl. But you can’t bring yourself to step away. Every inch of you is on fire, every nerve ending singed and tingling. You want him to turn around and take you—bend you over the counter and make you scream his name. Who gives a fuck who’s listening... or watching. You just want Bob. You want him to know how much you want him, how deeply you need him. How desperate he makes you without even trying.
“Do you have any idea,” he whispers, finally turning to face you fully, “what you do to me?”
You feel it—hard and thick—pressing against your lower belly. There’s no mistaking it now.
“Bob…” Your voice is a sigh, wrecked and begging.
He catches your wrist, his grip firm, nearly bruising. His eyes are wild as they search your face—from your eyes to your lips, down to your chest, and back again—like he’s torn between reason and ruin.
You hold still. Waiting. Daring. Wanting him to snap.
But then... he’s gone—his warmth, his scent, the burning look in his eyes. All of it, gone in a breath.
“Goodnight,” he mutters, so low you barely hear it before the soft click of his bedroom door… and then the snap of the lock.
You’re left standing there, chest heaving, skin burning. Your eyes sting with unshed tears, and your mind is a mess. What the fuck just happened? Your panties are damp, and your chest aches like you've been torn in two. You want to cry, but you also want to break down his door. How dare he build you up like that? Look at you like that, talk to you like that—and then just walk away.
It takes several minutes before you can move, your legs shaky, your mind racing. You stumble back to the spare room, collapse into bed, and stare at the ceiling, flat on your back—Bob’s shirt clinging to your skin.
You don’t sleep. Not at all.
-
“He what?” Natasha’s eyes go impossibly wide. “And then he just—he left?”
You nod slowly, keeping your eyes fixed on your lunch. The mess hall is loud enough to muffle your conversation—one you should’ve had yesterday but couldn’t summon the strength for. So here you are, in the middle of the hall, with the boys a couple tables over, surrounded by lieutenants you don’t know—blissfully unaware of your current crisis.
“Yeah,” you sigh, stabbing at another piece of pasta you don’t plan to eat.
You haven’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours—not since the run-in with Bob. Everything feels bland now, drained of colour and taste, too dull to bother with. Anything that isn’t Bob just feels lacking, and you're starting to worry that one moment—one heated, breathless moment—has completely ruined you.
“That’s insane,” Natasha mutters. “That’s so... not Bob. How could he be so—I don’t know... rude? I just—I have no words.”
You shrug one shoulder. “It wasn’t rude. He just seemed... confused, I guess. And I don’t blame him. If I’m not what he wants, then-”
“Stop right there,” Mickey interrupts, sliding into the chair beside you.
Reuben drops into the seat next to Natasha, eyeing your tray of food.
“Sorry,” he says, reaching across the table to steal your apple. “We couldn’t get away any faster.”
You glance past Mickey, down the row of tables, and catch Bob’s eyes on you—just for a second—before he quickly looks away. Bradley, Jake, and Javy are still deep in conversation with the other guys, oblivious. Bob seems to be the only one noticing Reuben and Mickey’s absence.
“Start again,” Mickey says. “From the beginning. We knew something happened.”
Natasha snorts around a mouthful of pasta, and you sigh, knowing there’s no point arguing. They’d get it out of you one way or another.
Twenty minutes later, when you finally finish recapping the story for the second time, Natasha taps her watch and nods toward the exit. “We better get back before Mav, or he’ll keep us late tonight.”
Mickey’s brows are nearly touching as he processes everything you’ve said. “What does he mean, ‘you can’t do this’? He clearly wanted to—so why didn’t he?”
You pick up your tray and follow Natasha toward the return station. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“I mean,” Reuben says, brows furrowed, “you said he was... at attention, right?”
You blow a half-hearted laugh through your nose. “Yeah.”
“So he definitely wanted to,” he says as the four of you exit the mess hall. “I just can’t think of why he wouldn’t go for it.”
“I think it’s because you’re in the same squad,” Natasha offers. “He’s probably worried it’ll get weird—or worse, if it doesn’t work out.”
You roll your eyes as you cross the hot concrete, heading back to the hangar. “But we’re both adults. Why can’t he just sack up and fuck me, and we’ll worry about the consequences later?”
Your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you don’t miss the odd looks a few passing officers send your way.
Reuben chuckles. “Maybe you should just say that to him.”
“No,” Natasha says, turning toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ve got a better idea. Call it Plan B or whatever, but now... we’re bringing out the big guns.”
“So Sunny pressing her tits against him wasn’t the big guns?” Mickey quips with a grin.
You smack him lightly across the chest before looking back to Natasha. “I doubt anything will work at this point, but... I’m curious. What’s the idea?”
“How’s your gag reflex?” she asks, tilting her head thoughtfully.
You rear back, eyebrows raised—and both Reuben and Mickey choke on laughter.
Natasha sighs, rolling her eyes. “Not like that. I mean you’re going to need a strong stomach and a Juilliard degree to pull this off.”
You frown, slowing just slightly as the hangar looms into view. “Okay...”
She straightens up and faces forward, a proud smirk tugging at her mouth and her chin tilted high. “We’re going to make Bob jealous.”
-
Out of Mickey and Reuben, you all collectively decided that Reuben was the more convincing option. Not that you don’t think Mickey’s gorgeous—you do, and so does he—but his acting skills are questionable at best. You at least have a little more faith in Reuben’s ability to fake flirt without making it weird.
The plan is simple. Convince Bob that he’s lost his shot—or that he’s just about to. Make it clear you’re happy to move on. If he wants you... well, now he’s going to have to fight for it. Because tempting him wasn’t enough—apparently—you need to dig deeper. Tap into something primal and pull it to the surface. Exploit what lingers under the skin of every man: jealousy and competition.
You’re going to make this a game he can’t afford to lose.
“You ready for Phase Two?” Natasha asks as you cross the base, the sun still barely above the horizon.
You take a deep breath of fresh morning air. “Let’s do it.”
She and Mickey take off ahead of you and Reuben to arrive in the training room first. It’s a known fact that Bob is always ridiculously early—so you know he’ll already be there. You hang back with Reuben, rehashing the plan and trying to get used to flirting with him without cracking up.
At exactly ten past six, Natasha texts you to give the green light—no doubt having casually pointed out to Bob that you’re not with her, which you always are.
“What if he doesn’t care?” you ask Reuben softly as you climb the stairs.
He rolls his eyes like you’ve said something utterly insane. “He’ll care, trust me. He might be Bob, but he’s still a guy. And he’s obviously down bad for you—just needs a little push.”
You snort. “Little?”
Reuben chuckles. “Okay, more than a little. It’s Bob.”
You laugh too, quietly, and then steel yourself as you reach the door—slipping on your game face. You glance at Reuben, catching the smirk tugging at his mouth.
Then you both nod. It’s show time.
“So, you’re saying eye contact makes it better?” he asks as you step through the door, voice pitched perfectly.
You nod, casual but with a hint of something else. “Yep. A thousand times better. And bonus points if you know where to put your hands.”
He raises a brow, lips twitching. “Where do I put my hands?”
You giggle, soft and flirty, pausing a few steps into the room. “How about I show you later?”
His grin breaks loose. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
You head toward the rows of seats, sliding into your usual behind Natasha—not missing the way Bob’s gaze locks onto you like he’s been caught mid-thought. His head swivels as Reuben sits beside you instead of next to Mickey.
“See,” Reuben says, leaning in a little, “all these years I thought speed was the key. But you’re saying it’s finesse?”
“Oh, definitely finesse,” you say, holding his eyes. “Go too hard and too fast, and it’s just... messy. Sloppy. Unimpressive.”
Reuben licks his lips, his eyes flicking sideways to Bob—just for a second. “So, you’re offering me private lessons?”
You lower your voice slightly, knowing it’s still perfectly audible to the rest of the room. “Depends. Can you follow instruction without getting too flustered?”
Reuben’s grin sharpens. “I don’t fluster, sweetheart. I excel under pressure.”
You pause, your pulse a little too quick—partly from Bob’s stare, which he’s not even trying to hide now, and partly from the fact that yeah, it’s been a while. And if this whole plan does blow up in your face... well, Reuben doesn’t seem like the worst option for a little stress relief.
You fight down a laugh at the idea and finally drag your gaze toward the front of the room. Bob—just one row ahead—snaps his eyes forward like he’s been caught eavesdropping, but the bright red of his cheeks, the tight set of his shoulders, and the way his jaw flexes say it all. He’s tense. He’s listening. And he’s absolutely not okay.
A moment later, Maverick strolls in, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare brewing right beneath his nose.
The rest of the week passes in much the same way. Each evening, you regroup with your friends to scheme and strategize, brainstorming new antics to pull off the next day. Nothing over-the-top—just enough to catch Bob’s eye.
On Wednesday, you get Reuben to help you into your flight suit. You both time it perfectly: he exits the locker room just ahead of Bob, and you appear a second later, flashing a flirty grin before asking sweetly for his help. You giggle and call him a sweetheart while Bob nearly trips over his own feet, glancing back with a clenched jaw and a look that could burn a hole through steel.
Thursday morning, Reuben brings you a coffee—exactly how you like it—straight to the briefing room. You proclaim, not so quietly, that he’s giving total boyfriend material before he drops into the seat beside you and you both giggle over a (completely fabricated) inside joke.
That afternoon, during a short break between drills and the next briefing, he offers you a bite of his protein bar. You take it right from his hand, licking your lips and throwing him an innocent little wink before sauntering off like it’s nothing.
By Friday, Natasha warns you that the others are starting to notice. But you’re in too deep to pull back now—not when Bob looks like he’s about to unravel. He’s been tighter than ever, watching you like a hawk, eyes dark and stormy instead of their usual calm denim blue. You’re close. So close. And honestly? You’re kind of having a little too much fun.
That afternoon, during post-flight checks, Reuben sidles up behind you under the guise of pointing out something ‘mechanical’ on your jet. You’re not actually doing anything with it, but that doesn’t stop him from standing unnecessarily close, guiding your hand with his as he gestures toward something supposedly critical. The two of you are seconds from cracking up, but Bob doesn’t know that. Bob, from all the way across the hangar, looks frozen—eyes locked, breath held, jaw tight—as Reuben presses flush against your back.
Natasha really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as she is, but honestly? She can’t help it. It’s too damn entertaining.
“Hey,” she says, nodding at Bob as she approaches. “You good?”
He blinks, then turns his sharp gaze on her, jaw tight. “Yeah.”
She snorts. “That was very convincing.”
He rolls his eyes and turns robotically back to the maintenance logs he’d been filling out.
Natasha glances at the paperwork, noting the hard press of his pen and the uneven ticks and crosses—some scribbled over multiple times—down the checkbox column.
“Wow,” she mutters, raising a brow. “You sure you earned your pen licence? Or should you still be on pencils?”
Bob’s blue eyes flick up, darker than usual beneath his furrowed brow. “Ha. Ha.”
“Okay,” she says, biting back the laugh rising in her throat. “So, bad day?”
“Bad week,” Bob grumbles.
Natasha nods slowly. “Well, hey, why don’t we fix that by hitting up The Hard Deck tonight?”
He snaps the logbook shut and tucks the pen into his pocket. “Pass.”
“Oh, come on,” she sighs. “It might make you feel better.”
His eyes flick toward you again, watching as you and Reuben dissolve into giggles beside your jet.
“I doubt it.”
“Sunny’ll be there,” Natasha says, her voice light and teasing.
Bob doesn’t respond. Just keeps packing up his things—every motion a little too sharp, a little too fast.
Natasha exhales. “Come on, dude. Just come for one drink—it doesn’t have to be beer. Blow off some steam. If you hate it, you can bail early. But it won’t be the same without you.”
He takes a breath and closes his eyes for a beat before letting it out slow. “Fine. One drink.”
Natasha grins, her eyes sparkling even in the dimming light of the hangar. “Perfect.”
Later that night, Natasha drives the four of you—Reuben and Mickey included—to the bar. Everyone else agreed to meet there, and she insisted on driving so you could have a few drinks. Not just to loosen up for another round of torturing poor Bob, but to actually let loose a little. She can tell this whole thing is winding you up, and she figures a few beers and a night with friends might help ease the tension—and the guilt—and maybe even the gnawing fear that this whole plan could blow up in your face.
“Nat, are you sure this dress isn’t too short?” you ask, holding the hem down against the curve of your ass as you follow her toward the main entry door. “I haven’t worn it in years.”
“There’s no such thing as too short,” Mickey says, deadpan.
You roll your eyes and step inside, into the warm glow of golden lighting and the low hum of half-drunk conversation. You let go of your dress now that there’s no breeze threatening to lift it, and try to relax, even with the strange sensation of bare legs in public. You’re used to flight suits, not feeling this on display.
“Ready to put on your best performance yet?” Reuben murmurs, slinging an arm over your shoulder.
You take a deep breath, feeling it rattle faintly in your chest. “Let’s do this thing.”
Natasha shoots you a wink over her shoulder, already striding confidently across the bar, her gaze locked on the usual booth where the rest of your friends are waiting.
There’s a chorus of greetings as the four of you approach, and you all grin and wave, waiting as Bradley, Jake, Javy, and Bob shuffle around to make room. Natasha pointedly takes the spot beside Bob, with Mickey sliding in next to her. You claim the seat beside Jake—which puts Reuben on your other side. Just as planned.
It’s a little squishy, but after so many nights like this, none of you really notice. Except Bob. He’s noticed tonight. His eyes are locked on the way your side is pressed to Reuben’s, his arm is slung casually over the back of the booth, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder.
“He looks like he wants to kill me,” Reuben whispers in your ear, low enough that you can barely hear him over the chatter of the bar. “Pretend I said something funny. Laugh like you’ve got a secret.”
You blink slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, and let out a soft giggle as you lean toward him just a little.
“You’re a pretty good actress,” he mutters before pulling back slightly.
You glance up at him through your lashes, feeling more at ease with the close proximity after the past week. Then you straighten your spine and lean in, your lips grazing his jaw as you whisper in his ear.
“You’re annoying.”
He chuckles quietly, though you know he really wants to snort and smack you on the shoulder. You’re both enjoying this just a little too much, getting a kick out of your undercover roles.
When you turn back to the rest of the group, Natasha is very deliberately not looking at you—and you know it’s because she’ll laugh if she does. Mickey, on the other hand, is watching with wide eyes, as is Javy. Jake and Bradley are still arguing about something on your other side, and Bob… Bob still looks like he’s ready to commit first-degree murder.
“Drink?” Reuben asks after a beat, his smile smooth.
You nod. “Absolutely. I’ll help you.”
You both stand and offer a round to the rest of the table, most of whom accept—which makes it less suspicious that you’re going together. At the bar, you make sure to stand just a little closer than necessary as he orders a round of the usual from Penny.
“Are you sure we’re not pushing it?” you ask, your voice laced with quiet worry.
Reuben shakes his head. “Nah, not yet.”
You frown. “Yet?”
“He’ll snap one way or another,” he says, leaning casually against the bar. “He’ll either lose it and blow up over something totally unrelated—and that’s when we’ll know we’ve gone too far. Or he’ll wake the fuck up and fight for what he wants.”
You open your mouth to voice another concern, but Penny is already sliding the tray of drinks across the bar. Reuben thanks her with an easy smile as you grab the two beers that didn’t fit, flashing her your own grateful grin before following him back to the table.
When you set the beers down, you feel the neckline of your dress slip just a little lower. Your eyes flick up to see if anyone’s noticed—and of course… Bob. His gaze is dark and locked on your chest, clearly able to see right down your dress. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even try to look away. He just stares.
But then he blinks and glances aside, not flustered or ashamed—just determined not to meet your eyes.
You straighten up and clear your throat. “I’m just going to duck to the bathroom.”
Then you turn and begin weaving your way through the bar, desperate for a moment to yourself—even though you haven’t been here that long—and to check that you don’t look completely ridiculous in the dress Natasha convinced you to wear.
You take your time in the stall, then rinse your hands under the cool water for a little longer than necessary. When you glance at your reflection in the full-length mirror, you’re surprised—and a little impressed. Because damn… you do look good. Maybe this dress deserves to see the light of day more often. And if Bob’s stare is anything to go by, it’s definitely not a bad idea.
You take a deep breath before pushing open the bathroom door, ready to continue your little charade—but you barely make it a few steps before someone blocks your path. You blink and stumble, stopping short before you run right into him.
You sigh when you realise who it is, that cocky smirk etched across his face. “What do you want, Hangman?”
“I want to know what’s going on.”
Your pulse spikes, but you do your best to keep your expression calm. “What do you mean?”
“Between you and Payback,” he says, narrowing his green eyes. “Because I know that’s not real.”
Your breath catches—too quickly—giving you away as your gaze flicks to the side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He rolls his eyes and leans in slightly, keeping the conversation low and private in the hum of the bar. “Don’t try to gaslight me, Sunny. I’m not an idiot. I know Phoenix is in on it—because of course she is—and Fanboy too, judging by the way he giggles every time you and Payback so much as look at each other.” He quirks a brow, daring you to challenge him. “The only reason Coyote hasn’t said anything is because he’s too polite, and Rooster hasn’t noticed because he’s too wrapped up in his own shit.”
You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, matching his bravado. “You missed one.”
He frowns. “What?”
“You listed all the members of the squad… except one.”
“Right,” he chuckles dryly. “Bob. That’s the funny thing, because ever since we got to this island, you’ve been starry-eyed over Floyd, and he’s either too clueless to notice or too stupid to ask you out.” He pauses, letting it sink in, then leans just a bit closer. “Which is exactly why I’m not buying whatever you and Payback have been trying to sell this past week.”
You stare at each other for a beat, both stubborn and scowling, waiting for the other to fold first.
Then you sigh. “Okay, fine. But you have to swear yourself to secrecy.”
His smirk stretches into a full grin. “I knew it.”
“Swear it.”
“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up a hand. “I swear. I won’t even tell Coyote, and my pillow won’t hear a thing about it.”
You nod. “Good. Now come over and pretend to pick a song so this doesn’t look suspicious.”
You grab his wrist and tug him toward the jukebox, leaning over it and pretending to scroll through options while you give him a quick summary of Operation Bob’s Blue Balls—leaving out a few of the more... intimate details.
“So there,” you finish. “It’s underhanded and immature, but that’s what’s going on.”
His expression barely shifts the entire time, just the usual entertained glint in his eye and that ever-present smirk.
“Underhanded and immature?” he says. “I’m surprised I wasn’t in on this sooner.”
You roll your eyes.
“I want in.”
You blink, brow furrowed. “What?”
“I want to help,” he says, plainly.
You narrow your eyes, sceptical. “Why?”
He sighs and braces one hand on the jukebox, leaning in like he’s about to reveal some classified information. “Believe it or not, I’m not the worst guy in the world. I have a few ideas, and I think you two would be cute together.” He pauses, then adds in a quieter voice, “Besides, I’ve been going through a bit of a dry spell, and I figure helping other people get laid might buy me some good karma.”
You snort softly as he pulls back, his cheeks faintly pink.
“Alright,” you say. “You can help. But nothing obvious and nothing stupid. The last thing I need is Bob figuring this out and hating me for it.”
He rolls his eyes, that signature smirk firmly back in place. “Bob could never hate you. But I’ll be subtle.”
“Good.” You glance past his shoulder toward the booth across the bar. “We better get back before they get suspicious.”
“Wait,” he stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “One more question.”
You raise your brows, prompting him to go on.
“When you fantasise about Bob, is he the top or the bottom? Because I just think you should manage your expectations—ow!”
He winces, rubbing the spot on his chest where you smacked him, watching you with a wounded look as you shove past with an exasperated sigh.
Great. Now Hangman is involved...
You spend the rest of the night practically glued to Reuben’s side, as planned. But now you’re a little on edge. You keep half an ear tuned to Jake’s voice, waiting to see when he might strike—and what he might say when he does. You trust him not to blow the whole thing, but you’re more than a little nervous about what his version of ‘helping’ might actually look like.
“Another drink?” Reuben asks, just as you finish the last of your third beer.
You nod, a bit too eagerly. “Yes, please. Maybe something stronger this time.”
He chuckles and slides out of the booth, offering his hand. You take it, letting him guide you up toward the bar. You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you barely register the feel of his hand slipping from yours and settling at the small of your back, his thumb rubbing slow, comforting circles there.
But Bob notices.
And Jake notices Bob noticing—taking special joy in the way Bob’s hand tightens around his bottle of Coke, knuckles going white.
Jake clears his throat and casts a glance toward the bar, leaning forward slightly. “They’re cute, don’t you think?”
There’s a beat of silence as Bob swallows—hard—and Natasha just blinks, clearly trying to catch up. Then the lightbulb goes off, and a wicked grin stretches across her lips.
“Yeah,” she says, her eyes following Jake’s. “I think they’d make a good couple.”
Bob snorts. Actually snorts. But he keeps his gaze fixed on the label he’s been picking at on his bottle.
Natasha arches a brow. “Something funny?”
Bob shakes his head. “No.”
“Really?” Jake presses, grinning. “Could’ve sworn you just laughed, Floyd.”
“It wasn’t a laugh,” Bob mutters. “More of a… breath.”
“Oh, a breath,” Natasha echoes, clearly amused. “Because it sounded suspiciously like judgment.”
“Or jealousy,” Jake adds, leaning back with a smug grin.
Bob’s gaze flicks to the bar—and to you—then just as quickly snaps away. “I don’t care who she dates.”
Natasha hums, fighting a smirk as she lifts her beer to her lips, “Didn’t say you did.”
Shortly after you and Reuben return to the table, giggling like idiots, Bob leaves. He mutters something about not feeling well and ducks out before even saying a proper goodbye. Part of you feels wrecked with guilt—but another part… is quietly hopeful. Because Bob isn’t like this. He’s good at regulating his emotions, even better at staying calm under pressure—he’s a fighter pilot, for God’s sake. But this? This is different. He’s never stormed out on the brink of losing control. Sure, he can get a little frustrated sometimes, maybe throw a snarky comment—usually at Jake when he pushes too far—but that’s as far as it goes.
If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s starting to unravel…
You spend most of the next day on the couch with the aircon blasting, while Natasha works through some paperwork at the kitchen table. It’s too hot to go outside, and you’re too distracted to do anything that requires even an ounce of brainpower. So instead, you let your mind rot with cartoons, obsessively checking your phone for signs of life in the group chat.
“I can’t believe Hangman is in on this now,” Natasha mutters, not even glancing up from her papers.
You sigh and roll from your side onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe he hasn’t cracked yet. If the roles were reversed, I’d be like a feral cat in heat by now.”
She snorts and lifts her head, flashing you an amused smirk. “You were already like a feral cat in heat for that man. Hence this whole situation.”
You laugh softly. “Yeah, not wrong.”
Your head drops to the side as you half-watch the TV screen, until the apartment door swings open with a dramatic gust of air.
“I hate to say it,” Mickey says as he breezes in, eyes wide, “but the man is a genius.”
Reuben follows close behind, and then Jake—grinning like he just solved world peace.
“I don’t know why you didn’t come to me sooner,” Jake says, strolling toward the couch. “I’m the king of seduction.”
You sit up, curling into the corner to make room for Reuben and Jake as Mickey heads straight for the fridge.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at him.
“Just wait until you hear the plan,” Reuben says, practically buzzing. “It’s perfect.”
Intrigued now, Natasha gathers her papers into one neat pile and joins you on the lounge. “Alright, Bagman. Let’s hear it.”
Jake’s eyes sparkle with mischief as he settles in beside Reuben. “Tomorrow, we’re going to the beach.”
“You’re already way off,” you cut in. “Bob won’t agree to hang out again. Not after last night.”
Natasha nods. “She’s right. He needs to cool off before we wind him up again.”
“Absolutely not,” Jake snaps, brow furrowed. “You need to strike while the iron’s hot. You need to push his fucking limits.”
Mickey appears from the kitchen, a bag of pretzels already open in his hand.
Natasha frowns. “Okay, but how? He won’t agree to go if he thinks Sunny and Payback will be there.”
Jake grins. “Which is exactly why he’s going to think they won’t be there.”
“You want us to lie?” you ask.
He gives you a flat look. “After all this emotional warfare, now you’re drawing the line at lying?”
You shrink back slightly. “I guess not.”
“Exactly.” He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. “So—I’ll pitch the idea in the group chat. Sunny, you reply immediately that you’re busy—before Bob gets a chance to decline. Then Payback says something vague, like he might come or might not. That way, it looks like low numbers. And if Bob says no, the rest of us can guilt-trip him into coming. Which he will, as long as he thinks you’re not going to be there.”
Natasha tilts her head. “So... she will be there though?”
“Yes,” Jake says. “Just not right away. Give him time to relax, have some fun. We’ll play games—I’ll rile everyone up and get that competitive energy going.”
Everyone nods along, faces weirdly serious, like this is some highly classified mission briefing.
“Then, you two show up together,” Jake continues, gesturing to you and Reuben. “It’ll throw Bob off, but we won’t give him a chance to leave. We’ll keep the games going. Something with contact. You need to get right up in his space. Go all in. Because then... you’re going to knock him off his feet.”
“Literally,” Mickey mumbles, chewing a mouthful of pretzels.
You frown. “What?”
“Bump into him,” Jake says. “Literally knock him over. Skin-to-skin contact. I’ve seen the way he looks at you in a swimsuit—it’s borderline pornographic. Touching him? It’ll fry what’s left of his self-control. And then, when there’s a moment—just a second where you could apologise for being too competitive or whatever... you’re going to say something that makes him snap.”
You lean in, heart pounding now. “What am I going to say?”
-
The sun is high and brutal in the sky, and you’re already sweating—even though you’re still sitting in Reuben’s car with the aircon blasting.
“Do you really think this is going to work?” you ask, nervously bouncing your knee.
Reuben snorts. “If it doesn’t, the man isn’t human.”
“I feel bad,” you mutter, eyes scanning the stretch of gold sand through the windshield.
“You won’t feel bad when you finally see what’s in his pants,” Reuben says, barely paying attention as he scrolls through his phone.
Your eyes go wide and your head whips toward him. “So it is huge? I wasn’t just imagining that?”
He chuckles and looks up. “Oh yeah, he’s big. Like... big big. I remember the first time in the locker room—no one’s trying to look, obviously, that’s just not the vibe—but... damn. We couldn’t not look. Then everyone lost it. I think Hangman nearly cried.”
You press your lips together, trying to hold back a grin, but it’s no use—your cheeks are on fire, and your whole face feels like it's bright red.
“Damn,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the front as your heart slams against your ribs.
Reuben laughs again, then cuts the engine, killing the aircon. “Alright. Pull yourself together. It’s go time.”
You climb out of the car and immediately wince at the lick of heat curling across your skin. It’s blistering—almost hostile—but at least you’re at the beach. Worst-case scenario? You’ll drown yourself in the ocean. Just walk into the surf and keep going. No one would blame you.
“Relax,” Reuben says, sliding a hand into yours like this is nothing. “This is going to work. Hangman might be insane, but I’m pretty sure it’s because he’s an evil genius.”
You roll your eyes, exhale hard, then square your shoulders and lift your chin.
You let Reuben lead you onto the sand, legs already working overtime to stay steady in the heat-softened grains. You can hear the chaos before you see it. Shouts and thuds echo over the sand as your friends tumble and crash around in a messy game of what looks like overgrown keepy-uppies.
“No hands!” Javy yells, just as Mickey swats the ball to avoid a direct hit to the face.
Mickey drops his hands to his knees, panting. “Can we play literally any other game? I hate this.”
“You only hate it ‘cause you suck at it,” Natasha says, catching the ball like it’s second nature and bringing the game to a halt.
You swear you can see Mickey roll his eyes from here. You and Reuben are still on approach, trudging through the soft sand, unnoticed—so far.
“What about football?” Jake offers, tossing the round ball aside and already pulling a proper football from their pile of gear. “Dog-fight football?”
“Three versus three?” Javy asks, sceptical.
“What about four v. four?” Reuben calls, hand cupped to amplify his voice.
Everyone turns, and there’s a beat of stillness as they clock you. Then Natasha flashes a wide grin beneath her sunglasses, and Jake’s face lights up like a very satisfied evil villain—his plan falling perfectly into place.
“Well, if it ain’t Sunny and Payback!” he calls, spinning the football lazily in one hand. “You two done playing your own games already?”
You ignore the jab and focus on not rolling your ankle in the damn sand. At the pile of bags, you stop to drop your stuff and hesitate at the button of your shorts.
Jake’s eyes are practically gleaming. “How about a swim to cool off first?”
Reuben strips his shirt with a single tug. “You read my mind, Seresin.”
The guys—already in their swim trunks—bolt for the water, crashing into the surf in a chaotic stampede. Natasha peels off her shirt and shorts, shoots you a wink, and strolls in after them like she owns the ocean.
Reuben doesn’t say anything before he leaves you, but he gives a barely-there nod—directed past your shoulder.
You don’t need to turn around to know who it’s aimed at.
Bob’s still standing where he was when the game fizzled out, statuesque. His hair is tousled and his lips parted just enough to make your stomach flip. You’re at least ten feet away, but you can see the rise and fall of his chest—too fast, too hard. But he’s not out of breath. He’s not flustered.
He’s furious.
And those blue eyes? Laser-locked on you. His entire focus narrowed like a sniper sight. Not a blink. Not a breath wasted on anyone but you.
You swallow and force your body into motion, unbuttoning your shorts and shimmying out of them before pulling your loose shirt over your head. You drop your clothes on Natasha’s pile and turn toward the water, steady on the lumpy sand.
And then you hit the firm part—wet, packed, perfect footing—and you dig in. Hips swaying, deliberate and lethal.
You don’t need to look back. You can feel the heat of his stare on every inch of exposed skin. It’s scorching. Possessive. Almost punishing. Like if he could touch you right now, he’d brand you.
Hangman might be a genius after all.
You hit the water with a sigh, not even hesitating before diving beneath a wave before it can knock you off your feet. It’s the perfect temperature—delicious against your too-hot skin.
You dive under the next wave, cool saltwater rushing over your body, and come up laughing as you slick your hair back. Natasha is standing beside you, arms outstretched as the water laps at her waist, her eyes fixed on the shore.
You wade closer, smirking. “Did you see his face?” you ask breathlessly, heart still pounding from the walk down the beach—or maybe from the way Bob had looked at you like he was plotting your murder. “I thought he was going to spontaneously combust.”
She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring past you.
You frown as her jaw goes slack and her brows creep up, sunglasses slipping down her nose as she stares at something on the shore—expression caught somewhere between shock and awe.
You freeze. “What?”
She still doesn’t speak—just tips her chin the slightest bit, silently gesturing toward whatever has her stunned.
You twist around.
And promptly forget how to breathe.
Bob Floyd is pulling his shirt over his head.
Bob Floyd, the man who never takes his shirt off. The man who wears it in the ocean and somehow isn’t bothered by the soaking wet material clinging to his body like a second skin.
And holy shit.
It’s glorious.
Sure, you’ve seen him shirtless before. Once. That night. But that was in the dark—his body tense, your mind scrambled, neither of you thinking clearly enough to appreciate what was right in front of you.
But in the light of day?
Alabaster skin. Broad shoulders. Deep-cut abs like he walked straight off the set of a Marvel movie. Lean muscle rippling across his chest and arms in a way that feels criminal on someone so quiet and careful. Droplets of sweat cling to his torso like even the heat doesn’t want to let him go.
The sudden silence behind you confirms it—everyone else is staring too.
You blink, dumbfounded, mouth dry. “That’s illegal.”
Natasha huffs out a laugh like she’s short-circuiting. “I mean, I knew he was strong but—wow.”
You swallow. Hard. “I think I’m going to pass out.”
Your eyes follow him as he drops his shirt and turns toward the water, cutting through the waves like they’re nothing. He doesn’t glance at any of you. Just keeps his gaze locked on the horizon, jaw set tight, his body moving with single-minded purpose.
Before you can say something—or even blink—a surge of water smacks you in the face.
But it’s not a wave.
You cough and splutter, wiping the salt from your eyes and checking to make sure your sunglasses are still intact. When your vision clears, Jake is standing right in front of you.
“Wipe the drool off your chin,” he says, deadpan. “You’re supposed to be teasing him.”
You narrow your eyes, resisting the urge to shove him aside and keep watching Bob. “How did all of you know how cut that man is and not tell me?”
Jake blinks, thrown for a beat, then grins like the devil. “Wait—you’re mad because we didn’t tell you how ripped Bob is?”
You nod, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Correct.”
He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Well if that’s got you steamed, you’re gonna be beside yourself when you find out he’s got a massive-”
“I know,” you cut in smoothly, a wicked smirk curling at your lips. “Payback told me.”
Jake gapes at you, brows knitting—but before he can get another word out, you shove his shoulder and send him sprawling into the water.
When he resurfaces, sputtering and grinning, he points at you like a man on a mission—then lunges.
You squeal, laughing as he barrels toward you, sending up waves in every direction. The two of you splash around like kids, Jake playing it up—grabbing you, poking at your sides, both of you pretending to wrestle. All for show. Because you both know Bob is watching.
Eventually, the others join in, playful chaos erupting around you. And before long, you’re panting and breathless, dragging yourself back to shore, your cheeks and chest aching from laughter.
Everyone settles for a few minutes, drinking from their water bottles and trying to knock water from their ears. But then Jake stands up, football in hand and a wicked smirk on his lips, ready to commence Operation Bob’s Blue Balls – Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.
“All right, I’ll pick teams,” he announces.
Normally, this would cause an uproar. But since most of you are in on the plan, everyone just nods in agreement.
“Phoenix, Payback, Bob,” he says. “You’re with me. The rest of you are on Rooster’s team.”
You narrow your eyes and cock your hip—it would seem strange if you didn’t challenge Jake just a little. “Why are you two always team captains?”
He winks. “Because we’re the best.”
You roll your eyes and turn away, joining the huddle with your teammates as Bradley and Javy argue over what your game plan should be.
After a few minutes of strategizing, the game kicks off. You’ve never loved dog-fight football—not like some of the others—mostly because it can get a little rough. But today… it’s more than just a game. It’s a full-blown performance.
You hang back for a bit, letting Jake and Bradley rile each other up and fire up their teams. Bob is still shirtless, which is a tactical advantage he isn’t even aware of—because every time he has the ball, every time he runs or blocks or is just generally in your line of sight, your knees wobble.
You’ve nearly forgotten what you’re supposed to be doing when Reuben jumps in front of you and snags the ball before you can—thrown by a very disappointed-looking Javy.
“Getting tired, Sunny?” Reuben teases, his grin smug. “I’m just getting started.”
Right. The plan. Flirting. Banter. Teasing Bob.
You step closer, slowing the game down a touch as you stretch onto your toes and drop your voice—but not too low. “Tired? Please. I’m still waiting for you to make me sweat.”
There’s a beat where you worry Reuben might break, might laugh—high on adrenaline and endorphins.
But then Jake hollers, “Cut it out, you two! Save the dirty talk for the bedroom!”
And the game is back on.
The sun beats down mercilessly, making every flexed muscle shine, every drop of sweat slide in slow, glistening trails. The sand is hot beneath your feet, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building as you and Reuben turn the game into one of Bob’s personal nightmares.
You dart to the left, brushing past Reuben with a smug grin, your fingertips dragging across his chest like you’re checking his heart rate.
“C’mon, hotshot,” you tease. “You could try a little harder.”
He laughs—low and amused—but gives chase, throwing a hand around your waist as you pivot. It’s all too easy to make it look a little too intimate, a little too tight. He lifts you off the ground to ‘block’ your goal and your head falls back in a laugh that’s just shy of indecent.
And Bob sees everything.
You feel it—his stare like hot coals dragged across your skin. When you glance up between plays, he’s standing at the edge of the group, jaw tight, shoulders tense, hands flexing like they’re ready to throw a punch. His eyes follow your every move like he’s marking a target, and if looks could kill, Reuben would already be six feet under.
You catch a toss, and Reuben crashes into you to intercept, spinning you both until you fall together into the sand. You land side by side, giggling like idiots—some might even say lovesick idiots.
He pushes up first and grins down at you, tipping his head suggestively. “Need a hand?”
“Oh, I don’t mind being on my back,” you say sweetly, just loud enough for everyone to hear.
You take Reuben’s hand and let him haul you off the ground, pulling you into his body just a little more than necessary.
“Damn, Sunny,” Jake calls from the other side of the makeshift field. “Takin’ a few hits today. Hope it doesn’t affect your game.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically as you dust sand off your body like everyone else paid to watch. “You know I like it rough, Hangman.”
There’s a chorus of oohs and a whistle from Mickey, laughter rippling through the group.
Except Bob, of course. He’s suddenly very interested in the sand, eyes locked on the ground—even though his rigid posture is telling you everything you need to know.
The game revs up again, and after a few scuffles, you snag the ball off a fumbled toss and break into a sprint, cutting across the sand with laser focus. Reuben’s behind you, winded, and the others are tangled up with the second ball—leaving only one person standing in your way.
Bob.
“Stop her!” Jake shouts, too far behind to intercept.
Bob plants his feet like he’s ready to block—muscles tensing, arms coiled. It’s almost enough to distract you. But you’re feeling competitive. A little reckless. And you’re seconds from a goal.
He hesitates when your eyes lock, just long enough for your wicked grin to register as you blow past him and skid to a halt—well over the line.
Your team erupts into cheers behind you, and you throw your hands up, chest heaving as you catch your breath. When you turn back around, he’s still watching you—eyes wide.
You flash him a slow smile as you walk past, brushing close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin.
“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” you murmur. “I’ll go easy on you next time.”
After a breather and a drink of water, everyone lines up for another play. Jake and Bradley drop the footballs into the sand, crouched and ready. Jake turns his head your way and gives you a subtle nod.
This is it.
Your heart thunders behind your ribs as you sprint and block and laugh along with the others. The competition hasn’t cooled—everyone is still hungry. Even Bob has snapped into focus, finally playing like it matters instead of just standing there watching.
And for a moment, it is just fun. No schemes, no strategy. Just friends, shouting and stumbling and laughing too hard to score.
But then the ball is in your hands again—and it’s time.
Bob is on defence—Jake made sure of that. You just have to get past him again. Or at least… make it look like you’re trying.
You tear forward. Jake is already behind you, Natasha lunges and misses by a breath, and Reuben very dramatically wipes out in the sand.
It’s just Bob now.
He sets his stance, head tipped down in focus. He’s going to stop you this time. Poor thing. He has no idea that’s exactly the plan.
You charge, feet kicking up sand, heart in your throat. His eyes widen just a second before you collide—your body slamming into his with just enough force to topple you both.
The ball flies from your hand as you hit the sand hard, clutching at whatever you can—his shoulders, his arms, solid and warm beneath your grip. You spit sand from your mouth and sit up fast—only to freeze, breath caught in your throat.
You’re straddling him. Hips locked against his. Chest heaving. His hands on your waist.
You don’t move.
You’re both panting. The air between you buzzes like static, and everywhere your skin touches his feels sunburnt and alive. His blue eyes are locked on yours—wild and stunned. Bright enough to drown in.
Your chest rises and falls with ragged breath, but you stay put.
“Does this count?” you ask, voice low and rough with adrenaline.
His lips are parted, soft and pink, breath coming in short bursts. His curls are wild, tangled with sand, and his glasses—crooked from the fall—are still somehow on. He looks wrecked. Shattered. Like you’ve stolen every coherent thought out of his head. His gaze flickers—searching your face, desperate not to meet your eyes.
You lean in just a little.
“If anyone else looked at me like that, I’d probably kiss them,” you murmur, squeezing your thighs around his waist. Then you bring your mouth dangerously close to his ear. “But we can’t do that... right?”
His breath catches—and his eyes finally snap to yours.
They’re wide and stormy now, brows drawn tight. He doesn’t breathe. He just looks. His mouth parts a little further, and you can see it all happening behind his eyes—every thought, every realisation.
Everything falls into place—the flirting, the giggling, the deliberate touches, the stolen glances. All of it. You’ve been baiting him. This whole time.
Before you can say anything else—before you can blink or breathe—
He snaps.
He flips you, smooth and fast, moving your body like you weigh nothing. Suddenly, you’re on your back, pressed into the sand, and he’s the one on top—straddling you, his weight holding you down.
And the look in his eyes could burn the sky.
He leans in, gaze sweeping over your face—your lips, your eyes, the pulse at your throat. He watches it thrum, just for a second.
You’re frozen beneath him. Every nerve on fire. Every inch of your body sparking. Your lungs are screaming for air, but you don’t know how to breathe. You can’t think. You can barely feel anything except him.
His breath ghosts your lips as he whispers, “Oh, you’re in trouble now.”
And then he kisses you.
Hard.
It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s months of tension and stolen glances and aching want—every second of restraint finally unravelling in a dizzy, reckless crash. His mouth claims yours like he’s starving, like he’s waited too long and can’t wait another second.
His chest presses into yours, slick with sweat and dusted with sand, and you arch into it with a gasp. He groans against your mouth, a low, broken sound that feels like fire in your veins. You can feel every inch of him—solid and hot and so hard against your hip, unmistakable and unignorable.
You shift beneath him, dragging your leg up around his waist, just enough to tease. His breath hitches, and then he’s kissing you deeper, hungrier, like the noise you just pulled from him unspooled something he can’t reel back in.
You claw at his back—muscles tense and trembling under your fingers—trying to pull him closer when there’s no space left between you. The kiss turns feverish, tongues sliding, lips parting in desperate sync. You’re panting into each other’s mouths, completely lost.
There’s sand in your hair, in your mouth, sticking to your sweat-slick skin, but none of it matters. All that matters is the way he moves against you, the way he feels—like every bit of control he’d been clinging to has shattered.
When he finally tears his mouth from yours, he doesn’t go far. His forehead drops to yours, both of you gasping. He’s pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, lips swollen, pupils blown.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked, “you’re gonna kill me.”
And the way he says it—like a confession, like a prayer—makes you want to do it all over again.
“YES!" Mickey shouts, loud enough for all of North Island to hear.
Your friends erupt into cheers and screams, laughter lacing their gleeful proclamations as they jump and dance just a few feet away.
“Well, fuck me,” Jake drawls. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You both slowly—reluctantly—turn your heads toward the noise.
“I can’t believe it worked,” Reuben mutters, grinning wide, eyes sparkling. “Phase Three actually worked.”
You’re still pinned beneath Bob as they all close in, every face lit up with smug satisfaction.
“You named it?” Bob asks, closing his eyes as his cheeks somehow grow even hotter.
“Oh yeah,” Mickey says, beaming with pride. “Operation Bob’s Blue Balls. Phase One was the run and the sleepover. Phase Two, Reuben. And this—” he gestures wildly at the two of you tangled in the sand, “this is Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.”
Bob makes a noise. Somewhere between a strangled groan and a whispered prayer for death.
“You planned this?” he rasps, forehead dropping against yours again like he might just burrow into the sand and disappear.
Reuben shrugs, all innocence. “Worked like a charm.”
“Honestly,” Natasha adds, “we were starting to think you’d never get there. So… you’re welcome.”
You bury your face in Bob’s shoulder, mortified. He’s burning up beneath your hands—still—and breathing like he just ran a mile with you on his back.
Jake snickers. “Glad we could help you two get laid.”
“We haven’t—!” Bob blurts, redder than a stop sign.
You slap a hand over his mouth, grinning wickedly now despite the embarrassment. “Yet.”
There’s a beat—a millisecond of silence—before they all burst out laughing again.
Mickey curls over, clutching his stomach. Reuben walks away, cackling with his head tipped back. Natasha mutters, “Jesus Christ,” but she’s definitely smirking, and Jake claps his hands once as he says, “God bless the U.S. Navy.”
Bob drops his face into the crook of your neck and groans again, muffled, “I hate all of you.”
“Even me?” you ask, voice soft and teasing.
He lifts his head, chuckling softly. “No. But for all that? You’re definitely still in trouble.”
You lick your lips. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”
He sighs like you’re actively trying to kill him, then sits up and pushes to his feet—only to glance down at the massive bulge in his shorts, which looks borderline painful.
“Shit.”
You scramble up after him, stepping in close and pressing your body to his, barely able to contain your giggles as you shield him from the rest of the beach.
“Need a minute?” you tease, laughter lacing every word.
His eyes flash—dark, hungry. “You and I are gonna need more than a minute to deal with this.”
Heat floods your face and pools between your legs, thick and insistent.
“But,” he says, glancing toward the water, “I’m just gonna go for a quick swim.”
You nod, eyes wide and dreamy, watching him from beneath your lashes like an absolute idiot in love.
And he looks at you like you hung the sun. Like you’re everything. It’s enough to make your heart stutter and your pulse race. He has no business being this beautiful—this sinful—a perfect contradiction of sweetness and respect, with just enough hunger in him, just enough darkness, that you know you’ll be walking funny tomorrow.
And probably for the next few weeks while you learn how to handle his massive dick.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, a shy smile curling his lips. “You’re making it worse.”
Your jaw drops. “It gets bigger?”
He laughs, then leans in to press a kiss to your open mouth—chaste, but lingering. Like it physically pains him to pull away. But he does. And when he flashes you that boyish smile—equal parts sexy and shy—it knocks the breath out of you.
Then he turns and jogs toward the water.
It takes you more than a minute to remember how to move—how to function—but eventually, you manage to drag yourself back to the others, who are still laughing and chatting like the beach hasn’t just tilted sideways.
Natasha passes you your water bottle. “What’s Bob doing?”
You glance over your shoulder, catching sight of him ducking under a wave. A smile tugs at your lips.
Sum up : Telemachus is fighting between the feeling in his chest, and the duty he has to fulfill. Tomorrow, he has to leave on a diplomatic mission, and his heart tells him to say goodbye to reader. But his mind can't formulate it. Will he gather up the courage to tell her ? Will he need a little help ? How will reader react to the announce ?
The sea breeze tugged at Telemachus’s cloak as he wandered the cliffs near the shore, the waves rumbling below like distant thunder. The moon hung heavy and full, spilling light across the water in silver ribbons. Athena walked beside him, silent.
He wasn’t sure why he was out here. Tomorrow, at dawn, he would leave on a diplomatic mission to seek supplies and alliances. It wasn’t dangerous — not really — but it would take him away from home for weeks.
He thought about you all day.
All day, he thought about saying goodbye to you. He even tried once. You were helping the queen in the hall, hair falling in your eyes as you argued with one of the suitors. He lingered, waiting for a moment to speak, but the words died in his throat. He left before you noticed him. The thought of leaving without a word gnawed at him now.
He hated himself for it. You weren’t even kind to him most days. You argued. You rolled your eyes when he spoke. You called him a prince like it was an insult.
So why did he feel like he’d be leaving something behind if he didn’t see you one more time?
“Something weighs on you,” Athena said, her voice smooth and low.
Telemachus exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t bother pretending otherwise. She always knew. “It’s… her.” He hesitated, then laughed bitterly. “It’s always her. I don’t even know why. She’s infuriating, stubborn, and half the time she looks like she wants to throw me off a balcony.”
Athena hummed in amusement. “And yet, you can’t stop thinking about her.”
“No.” His voice dropped to something quieter, almost ashamed. “I can’t.” They walked a few more steps before he spoke again, voice low and raw. “I wanted to tell her I’m leaving. I wanted to… I don’t even know. Say goodbye? But I couldn’t.”
Athena glanced at him sidelong, her expression unreadable. If gods could feel nostalgia, this was it.
Athena said nothing, though her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary. He reminded her of Odysseus.
The way he walked now — restless, heart tangled in knots he didn’t understand — it was the same way his father once walked these shores, back when Penelope was still a distant hope and not yet his queen. But Athena didn’t say it. It wasn’t her place to.
A flicker of movement below caught Telemachus’s eye. He stopped, squinting down into the cove. It was about nine feet down, where the stream fed into a still, moonlit pool. The water glimmered like glass.
And then he saw you.
For a second, he thought he imagined it — that his mind, so tangled with you all day, had conjured a vision.
But it was you.
You moved through the water like a spirit of the sea, the moonlight tracing every line of you. Your hair, dark and wet, clung to your skin, shoulders bare above the water. Scars carved across your back and arms, old wounds from battles fought. He should’ve thought they ruined you. Somehow, they only made you more beautiful. Like proof you were too strong to break.
The breath left his lungs. You looked like something from a dream — a nymph, or a goddess, or maybe just the girl he couldn’t stop thinking about.
Athena glanced down, saw the way he stared, and decided he needed a push.
A literal one.
Telemachus barely had time to choke out a startled sound before his foot slipped — or was *pushed* — off the edge. He plunged into the water with a graceless, spluttering crash.
The cold hit him like a slap. His limbs flailed, and he surfaced, gasping for air, hair plastered to his face. For a second, he didn’t see you. Then he heard the splash, the hurried movement, and his stomach twisted.
You were hiding. He blinked water from his eyes and saw you half-submerged behind a rock, barely more than your head visible. Your eyes were wide, and for the first time, you weren’t glaring at him or spitting insults.
You were scared.
He realized too late — you weren’t wearing much, and the water didn’t exactly hide you. His face burned.
You stared at him like he was a monster that fell from the sky. “Do you—” Your voice came out shaky, breathless. You swallowed hard. “Do you always fall out of the gods-damned sky, or is this new?”
Telemachus coughed, spitting out a mouthful of seawater. “Only on special occasions.” Your brows pulled together in confusion and lingering panic. “What are you doing here?”
He swallowed, heart pounding. “I… I need to talk to you.”
Your voice was sharper this time, though it still wavered. “Turn around.”
“What?”
“Turn around, Telemachus.”
He turned so fast he nearly dunked himself again. Behind him, he heard the sound of you moving — water splashing, the rustle of fabric, and muffled cursing under your breath. He stared hard at the moonlit waves, face blazing with heat.
His heart wouldn’t stop racing.
After what felt like forever, your voice came again, quieter this time. “Okay. You can turn back now.” He turned slowly.
You stood there, damp hair dripping over your shoulder, fully dressed — though the fabric still clung to your skin. Your arms crossed tightly over your chest, but there was no hiding the flush on your cheeks, even in the moonlight. “Well?” you asked, voice low and wary. “What did you want to say?”
Telemachus swallowed hard. He didn’t know the right words — didn’t even know what he wanted to say, really — but he knew he couldn’t leave without saying something. “I’m leaving tomorrow.” His voice came out rougher than he meant it to. “At dawn. A diplomatic mission.”
Your expression didn’t change, but he saw the flicker of something in your eyes — surprise, maybe. Or disappointment. He wasn’t sure.
“And you swam all the way out here to tell me that?” He gave a breathless, awkward laugh. “No. I was supposed to tell you earlier. But I didn’t. And I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”
For a moment, you didn’t answer. You just stared at him, water dripping from your hair onto your shoulder. Then, finally, your voice came, quieter than before. “You’re an idiot, Telemachus.”
He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His lips tugged into a crooked smile. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I think I am.”
The night felt endless. You tossed and turned, but sleep wouldn’t come. Your mind wouldn’t stop circling back to him — to Telemachus. You told yourself you didn’t care. That you only hid to the cove because he startled you, and you only stayed to hear him out because Penelope would’ve wanted you to. But that was a lie.
The truth was harder to swallow.
The truth was… you didn’t want him to leave.
The truth was… you couldn’t stop thinking about how he looked last night — his dark hair dripping wet, strands sticking to his face and neck, his tunic clinging to his body like a second skin. He wasn’t a boy anymore. He was broad-shouldered, strong, his face sharp and noble, eyes burning with something you couldn’t quite place.
Gods, when did he get so—
You cut the thought off with a frustrated groan, shoving your face into your pillow.
Stop it.
But your mind wouldn’t stop. Not even when you wanted it to.
It wasn’t just how he looked. It was the way he spoke to you. The way his voice sounded raw and unsure when he said he didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye. The way he looked at you — like you mattered. Like you weren’t just a loyal fighter or a thorn in his side, but… something more.
You hated him for that. You hated him because now you couldn’t stop thinking about it.
The room was dim, shadows stretching against the walls, but you noticed the light shifting. The first hint of gold bled through the cracks.
The sun was rising. Your chest tightened.
He was leaving.
Your heart knew before your mind caught up. Your body moved on its own, throwing the blankets aside, your feet hitting the cold floor. You barely noticed. Before you could think, you were running.
The docks were alive with activity despite the early hour. Sailors hauled supplies onto the ship. The wind tugged at the sails, eager to pull the boat out to sea.
Your lungs burned from the run, but you barely felt it. Your eyes darted through the crowd, frantic, searching —
And then you saw him.
He stood near the edge of the dock, speaking with one of the captains. His armor gleamed in the soft dawn light, bronze catching the first golden rays. His sword was strapped to his side, his cloak rippling behind him. He looked like a prince — no, like a warrior. Like a king.
For a moment, you forgot how to breathe. As if he felt you, he turned.
His eyes widened, surprise flickering across his face. His mouth parted slightly, as if he meant to say something, but stopped himself.
You froze. What were you even doing here? You didn’t have the words to explain it. You didn’t even know what you wanted to say. You stared at each other — him standing on the dock, you standing on the worn wooden path, the sea breeze tugging at both of you.
He was waiting for you to speak. But nothing came.
His brows pulled together, concern flickering in his eyes. “What’s wrong? Did something happen? Are you—” You panicked.
Before he could finish, you reached into your hair, fingers fumbling. Your heart hammered so loudly you thought it might drown out the sound of the waves. Your hand closed around the familiar metal. Without thinking, you yanked the pin free.
It was small, worn from time and use — a simple bronze hairpin, shaped like a wolf. Your father’s last gift to you before he sailed with Odysseus. It was the only thing of his you had left.
You didn’t think. You didn’t hesitate. You marched forward and slammed it against his chest, forcing him to take it. His hand instinctively closed around it, startled.
“Take it.” Your voice came out steadier than you felt. “Keep it.”
His eyes flicked between the pin and your face. “I… I can’t. This is yours—”
“You have to.” Your voice wavered, but your gaze didn’t. “If you’re carrying something that matters to me, then you have to come back alive and well to return it.”
His throat bobbed, as though he wanted to argue — but the words wouldn’t come. He looked at the pin again, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Slowly, he closed his fist around it. He held it like it was something precious.
When he looked at you again, the dawn was rising behind him, light spilling over the sea. It caught your face, the wind tugging at your hair, the sun’s first rays filtering through your irises.
He stared, mesmerized — his breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he swore he saw his reflection in your eyes. He wondered if he could always be like that. If he could always be the only one in your eyes.
His voice came out low, steady, and serious. “I’ll come back. I'll give it back to you. I swear it.”
Your throat tightened. You nodded, forcing a smile — but you didn’t trust your voice to answer.
There were words you wanted to say. Words you didn’t even know how to form. They caught behind your teeth, too big for your pride to let out.
So you swallowed them down.
Telemachus stepped back, his gaze lingering on you for a heartbeat longer than it should have. Then he bowed — lower than he ever had before — and turned toward the boat.
You watched as he boarded, watched as the ship pulled away from the dock. He didn’t look away from you until the wind carried him too far to see. You stood there long after the ship disappeared beyond the horizon.
You told yourself you weren’t waiting for him to come back.
The next morning you dont talk about it. You because you're giving the guy you're probably gonna die with a little grace, Chilchuck probably because he would rather die.
The day goes much like the last for the first half of the day. You and Chilchuck make steady progress in the direction you've both agreed is likely to get you out. It's a decision that's based solely on intuition and guess work. The traps kinda seem like they get more complicated working one direction, so probably the labyrinth doesn't want you to go that way. Maybe.
You've started subconsciously thinking of the labyrinth as something alive and you cant help but wonder if it's smart enough to pull a double bluff. Maybe you're marching to your deaths along the path of most resistance because the labyrinth thinks it's funny.
Your musings are interrupted when Chilchuck abruptly stiffens and makes a "Hsst!" sound at you, whipping his head around. You freeze as well, looking around. You hear it too now that you're paying sttention, the soft padding of paws on stone up ahead.
Chilchuck grabs your upper arm and roughly yanks you into the nearest room, quietly closing and locking the door behind you.
It's the same as any of the other rooms you've been in. Barren of anything useful, just four stone walls.
"You think that's what attacked us before we fell down here?" You ask softly.
Chilchuck nods grimly. "Sounds like it. Or one of its kind."
You both fall quiet, listening.
You hear something walk down the hallway and pause in front of your door. You feel Chilchuck go rigid beside you and you both hold very still. You find yourself holding your breath.
Eventually you hear it moving on and you breathe out, relaxing slightly. Neither of you speak for a little bit.
"You think it knows we're here?" You break the silence finally, still speaking quietly.
"I think we have to assume it does now" Chilchuck responds, just as quietly. "We're going to have to be on the lookout for it from now on. If it catches us it's over."
You nod, no way you could fight the thing, even working together. "What do you think it is?"
"No idea, I didn't exactly get a good look at it. Did you?'
You frown. "It had wings and a beak, I was too busy trying to keep you alive to notice anything else."
He shrugs. "Guess it doesn't really matter."
Eventually you both venture back out into the hallway. You have to keep moving, monster or no.
You both stay deadly quiet as you work your way down the passages again. There are a couple times one of you hears something and you're forced to duck into one of the rooms and hide. It's exhausting constantly being on high alert, and you're ready to collapse by the time Chilchuck suggests stopping for the night.
You both gather what wood you can from the torches outside. Maybe enough for a couple hours.
You both sit against a wall staring into the flames. You feel dizzy and faint. Normally you could go longer without food but you hadn't fully recovered from rez sickness by the time you were separated from the party. This wasn't good.
Chilchuck breaks the silence this time. "You look rough."
You glance up from where you've sunk down in a half stupor. "Fuck you."
"I'm serious. I know you can't have been recovered fully from getting resurrected and you also took a lot of energy to heal me. How much longer can you keep going?"
You glare at him, trying to quell the rising panic in your chest. "As long as I need to."
Chilchuck snaps back. "There's no need for fucking bravado, I just need to know when you're going to collapse on me. I can tell just by looking at you you're not going to make it much longer." His voice gets a little softer. "Look I'm not gonna just leave you behind if that's what you're worried about. Even if you're too weak to help me with traps I'm gonna keep you with me as long as I can. I'm not just gonna abandon you."
You grit your teeth. "A day. Maybe. Maybe two if you take over the bulk of disarming."
Chilchuck nods. He doesn't seem surprised. "Alright, I can work with that."
There's another silence.
"Do you know any offensive magic?"
You glance up, surprised. "No. Just healing magic. I'm not half bad at healing when I'm not fucked up concussed but I don't know anything else off the top of my head. Why?"
He shrugs. "Just not a bad idea to get an idea of your capabilities. You know, just in case."
You nod grimly. "Yeah well we're shit out of luck. We didn't get around to anything beyond healing. We were going to start on offensive magic but, well, I died right as we were getting started."
Chilchuck turns to look at you. "Who taught you magic anyway? Not many will teach halffoots and not many halffoots are stupid or desperate enough to learn."
"My party mage." You reply. "He wasn't exactly a reputable mage and he didn't care what I was as long as he had some kind of backup in case he got badly injured. None of us were really thinking about the possibility of an afterwards, so we didn't care about consequences."
"Why were you all so set on killing the mage anyway? Why were you so desperate?" Chilchuck asks slowly.
You wriggle your way up into a more seated position, eyes still fixed dully ahead. "The deal still stands, you tell me even one personal thing about you and I'll think about telling you something. Professional distance works both ways."
"I have three daughters." He says, like it's a confession wrenched from him. "I was married, now I'm not, we went our separate ways."
You turn your head to stare at him and he glances away. You wet your lips. "What are their names?"
For a minute you think he's not going to answer and then he says "Meijack, Flertom, and Puckpattie."
"Oh." You say, and go back to staring straight ahead. "I had a daughter. And a husband. I'm not married anymore either. After our daughter - well after, we just didn't make it. Went our separate ways too. It was better that way."
Chilchuck is very quiet next to you as you continue. "So that's why. I don't care about any rewards. I just want to be a part of the party that takes down the bastard that caused all this. For - for her."
You take a deep breath. "I don't know the others stories, I think they were similar. We didn't talk about it."
"Oh." He replies. And then neither of you speak anymore. There's no reason to.
Eventually you pass out from exhaustion, curled up on the cold stone floor.
first of all i love ur hcs and i just binge them whenever im bored! u write so well pls dont d word
and for my request,,,im both a onedoor and zerose so whichever from the two of them u choose to write for this, i will surely enjoy
so i really like those idol bf hcs with like "pulling another members' pc" "finding out u collect another members' pc" etc. but i havent really found anyone write abt like pc decor?? with the stickers or the colored glue thing (?) and charms etc like wouldnt that be idk interesting and cute like how would they react to reader possibly having pc holder decorating as a hobby and like who would be interested in doing it themselves.
for instance i think hanbin would find it fascinating like hes only seen fans show them to him but never the process of making it. and i think taesan would be so into it, if it was idol reader he would totally do it to their pcs that he pulled....
pls...🧎♂️➡️🧎♀️➡️🧎➡️
ZB1 REACTING TO THEIR S/O DECORATING PC HOLDERS
genre : ot9, fluff “ 🧁 .*
김지웅 kim jiwoong
Jiwoong would first notice your growing collection of decorated PC holders while you were sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by sticker sheets, glittery washi tape, and tiny charms. He’d tilt his head, watching as you carefully placed a holographic heart sticker over a PC sleeve.
He’d kneel beside you, picking up a finished one.
Jiwoong: “So, this is what you’ve been busy with lately?” He’d smirk, running his fingers over the neatly arranged stickers.
You nod enthusiastically, showing him another one.
You: “Look at this one! I added little stars because it matched the outfit in the photocard.”
Jiwoong would chuckle softly, his eyes filled with affection.
Jiwoong: “It actually looks really nice. You’re putting so much effort into these… Want me to help?”
If you let him, he’d try placing a sticker, but he’d hesitate.
Jiwoong: “Wait, this is permanent, right? I feel like I’ll ruin it.”
He’d ultimately enjoy just watching you work, occasionally passing you stickers and admiring your creativity.
성한빈 sung hanbin
Hanbin would love your hobby and support it to the fullest. He’d walk into the room to find you meticulously aligning a row of sparkly stickers, and his face would light up.
Hanbin: “Ohhh, what are you making this time?”
You’d show him a photocard holder decorated with tiny bear stickers and a ribbon charm.
You: “This one’s for my friend! She loves cute things.”
Hanbin would rest his chin on his hand, watching you with pure admiration.
Hanbin: “I swear, everything you make looks professional. Have you ever thought about selling these?”
If you said you just do it for fun, he’d insist on showing them off anyway. He might even send pictures of your work to his members.
장하오 zhanghao
Zhanghao would be so into your hobby. The moment he found out, he’d sit beside you with pure excitement, studying your collection like an art critic.
Zhanghao: “This is amazing. How do you even come up with these designs?”
You’d explain that you just match the vibes of the photocard with cute decorations, and he’d nod like he was learning a new skill.
Zhanghao: “I feel like I need a whole tutorial. Can you make one for me?”
You agree and start crafting a special holder just for him. When you show him the final result—a photocard of him with a soft pink heart charm attached—he’d burst into laughter.
Zhanghao: “This is adorable. I’m putting this in my bag forever.”
He’d end up collecting all the holders you made, treating them like limited-edition art pieces.
석매큐 seok matthew
Matthew would be so fascinated by your collection of stickers and charms. One day, he’d sit beside you and start picking through them, holding up different stickers to examine them.
Matthew: “You have, like, a whole store’s worth of stickers in here!”
You laugh and continue decorating, but Matthew suddenly gasps and holds up a sticker of a cartoon bunny.
Matthew: “Wait. Can I put this one? Please?”
He’d very carefully place the sticker on a PC holder, looking super proud of himself. When you compliment his choice, he’d grin.
Matthew: “I think I have a talent for this. We should make matching ones!”
By the end of the night, he’d be fully invested, asking for his own starter pack of stickers so you two could decorate together.
김태래 kim taerae
Taerae would be so soft about your hobby. He’d walk in and find you completely focused on decorating, and he wouldn’t disturb you—just silently watching with a gentle smile.
After a while, he’d quietly sit next to you and pick up a finished holder.
Taerae: “You put so much love into these. It’s really sweet.”
He’d be especially touched if you made one for him. If you gave him a photocard holder with his own picture inside, decorated with music notes and little stars, he’d melt on the spot.
Taerae: “You even matched it to my favorite colors? You’re seriously the best.”
He’d keep it safe forever and even show it off to his friends.
리키 ricky
Ricky would pretend to be indifferent at first, but deep down, he’d find your hobby incredibly cute. He’d walk in, see you surrounded by stickers, and smirk.
Ricky: “So this is what you do in your free time, huh?”
You’d pout and tell him it’s fun, and he’d chuckle before sitting beside you.
Ricky: “Okay, okay. Show me what you’ve got.”
When you hand him a PC holder with a photocard of him inside—decorated with sleek, stylish stickers that match his aesthetic—he’d raise an eyebrow.
Ricky: “Wow. You made me look even cooler than I already do.”
He’d secretly love it and attach it to his bag, but if you pointed it out, he’d just shrug.
Ricky: “What? It’s good work. You have good taste, after all.”
김규빈 kim gyuvin
Gyuvin would be so confused at first. He’d walk in, see you carefully placing stickers on a PC holder, and squint.
Gyuvin: “Wait… so you decorate these… just for fun?”
When you excitedly explain your process, he’d nod slowly, trying to understand.
Gyuvin: “I mean, it looks cool, but… what do you do with them after?”
When you tell him they’re just for collection or display, he’d laugh.
Gyuvin: “You’re such a perfectionist. But hey, if it makes you happy, I’m all for it.”
He’d still support you, even if he didn’t fully get it, and he’d definitely tease you about how many you’ve made.
박건욱 park gunwook
Gunwook would think your hobby is adorable and would be weirdly protective over your collection. He’d sit beside you and watch as you carefully placed stickers.
Gunwook: “Okay, but what if someone tries to take one of your PC holders? Do you just let them?”
You laugh and say they’re meant to be shared, but he shakes his head.
Gunwook: “No way. You put too much effort into these. If anyone takes them, they better treat them like treasure.”
If you ever made him one, he’d guard it with his life.
한유진 han yujin
Yujin would be so shy about it at first but would secretly find it adorable. He’d watch as you worked, occasionally asking small questions.
Yujin: “So… do you always match the stickers to the photocard?”
If you made him a holder, he’d get so flustered but would treasure it forever.
Yujin: “You really made this for me? …I’m keeping this forever.”
He’d ultimately enjoy just watching you work, occasionally passing you stickers and admiring your creativity.
☆ Twin Flame to a Firelight — Scar x GN Reader HCs ☆
Genre: Fluff || they/them pronouns for reader || No warnings needed
──────.𖥔 ݁ ˖˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──────
ᯓᡣ𐭩 Looks out for you all the time, he's constantly making sure no one's bugging you. Maybe gets a little too caught up and snaps unfairly here and there, but you can reel him back in
ᯓᡣ𐭩 Tries to keep up appearances so not really the biggest fan of PDA, but if he thinks you need it he'll do small gestures to try and be comforting or remind you that he cares
ᯓᡣ𐭩 Probably one of the few things you consistently argue about is the fact that his mask REEKS but he insists he doesn't need to clean it that much
ᯓᡣ𐭩 If you ever mention wanting a piercing he's gonna offer to do it himself cause he did his own earrings and is completely insistent that he can do it best
ᯓᡣ𐭩 He gets hot wearing so many layers and so much leather but he's gonna refuse to admit it, you gotta convince him to dress lighter so he doesn't faint
ᯓᡣ𐭩 He was VERY anxious when you held his baby for the first time, kept hovering his hands under yours and fussing over and over about making sure you're both okay
ᯓᡣ𐭩 Chirean courting rituals really didn't make sense to you for a long time. Some of it was cute, like singing or rubbing his head against you. But the screeching and flying around you on the Firelight hoverboards was.. a little more baffling
ᯓᡣ𐭩 He's not above just straight up picking you up and carrying you somewhere safe if a situation feels off or if you're getting out of hand. He likes picking you up in general (if you're okay with it, of course), bridal carry especially
ᯓᡣ𐭩 He wants to compliment you almost all the time but he gets tongue-tied and can't think of the words he wants to say. Better at giving Acts of Service as a love language
ᯓᡣ𐭩 Genuinely speechless when you confessed to liking him cause he knows he comes off as standoffish and unapproachable, he got so nervous from being caught off guard he almost forgot to reply before quickly reassuring you the attraction is mutual
