Moonchild

start: jan 6 / 2026 end: . . .

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❝ index ;

𑣲 teaser

𑣲 ch: 01 been on my worst

𑣲 ch: 02 don't need no savior

𑣲 ch: 03 way outta line

𑣲 ch: 04 kinda like the way i feel

𑣲 ch: 05 don’t give a fuck

𑣲 ch: 06 i’ll be there in five

𑣲 ch: 07 talk too much

𑣲 ch: 08 show each other

𑣲 ch: 09 other ways to catch you up

𑣲 ch: 10 on the phone

𑣲 ch: 11 can you keep it secret?

𑣲 ch: 12 this time i know

𑣲 ch: 13 i’ll stay with you

𑣲 ch: 14 just promise you won't

𑣲 ch: 15 no pics, no postin’ us

𑣲 ch: 16 just in my nature

𑣲 ch: 17 to be a littlе troublemaker

𑣲 ch: 18 so wrong but so right

𑣲 ch: 19 you really likе the way i taste

𑣲 ch: 20 when we kiss

𑣲 ch: 21 you reminisce

𑣲 ch: 22 this ain’t the last time

𑣲 ch: 23 just stay by my side

𑣲 ch: 24 this ain’t no game

𑣲 ch: 25 won’t play with you

𑣲 ch: 26 this love just ain’t disposable

𑣲 ch: 27 just take what’s yours

𑣲 ch: 28 don’t run from it

𑣲 ch: 29 don’t you be actin' like that

𑣲 ch: 30 babe ♡

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Your hand was just as he’d imagined it. It was like his own hand had been molded with yours in mind, so that could slot together like two pieces of the same puzzles.

“Uh, yes, yes. I’m Clark Kent. It’s so nice to finally meet you, and, um, of course, welcome to the office.”

Everyone knows Superman’s greatest weakness is kryptonite. But Clark Kent’s greatest weakness had always been pretty girls. He’d wished he could be more suave, more charming, but all of his cognitive abilities seemed to fly right through the window whenever you spoke to him.

As luck would have it, you were given a desk right in front of his. It took you two hours to turn it into a pink haven. You’d brought your own keyboard and mouse — both pink, of course — and a wrist pad. Your pastel purple travel mug found itself sitting next to Clark’s own and boring black thermos. 

You also had a lot of pencils, and suddenly, Clark, who’d never lost a pen before, found himself losing his every single day, just so he could ask you for once. He would feel guilty about it if you weren’t always so sweet about it. 

One week into your job, you’d become sort of friends, bound together by missing pencils and neighbor mugs. 

Every time you caught him staring at you, you just stuck your tongue out at him, making him flush so red you actually got worried for him. 

The first time you’d touched him unexpectedly, Clark had thought his powers had left him and that he’d turned human, because his heart had suddenly stopped working. 

It was during lunch, but he’d stayed behind, too into the text he was writing and he wasn’t willing to lose that state of flow just to go eat something he couldn’t even properly appreciate. You’d come backv into the office first, holding in your arms two sandwiches and a drink — you look like you need to eat a lot to keep up with that muscle, you’d explained, so it was just the two of you. 

“Hey,” you said. “I saw that you didn’t take a lunch break so I brought you something to eat.” Your rings shone in the midday light. 

Clark had looked up, entire body shifting to face you, article instantly forgotten. “Oh, um… that’s so sweet of you, thank you so much. You shouldn’t have, really, but I appreciate it immensely.”

His face had turned red once again. You put the food on his desk and approached him, slightly frowning. “Are you sick?” you’d asked. And before waiting for an answer, you gently touched his forehead with the back of your fingers.

His entire body had gone rigid, before slowly melting until he was entirely sure that he’d turned into a puddle. Subconsciously, mortifyingly, he’d realized that his head had leaned against your touch, like a sunflower always trying to reach for the sun. He couldn’t get enough. A simple touch, and he’d already gotten addicted. 

Your hand was fresh like a summer breeze, and soft the way clouds felt when he slowly flew through one. Her touch was morning dew against his feverish skin.

“Oh gee,” you said. “You’re quite hot. Are you sure you’re okay to keep working?”

And you were so genuine. You had no idea that the only reason he was this hot was because you were talking to him, and now your hand was touching him, and the only moments he’d ever felt this good was when he flew close to the sun.

“It’s fine,” he croaked out. “I’m fine. It will pass, I promise. But thank you for your worry, and the food. Really– thank you, darling.”

The petname had come out unbidden and Clark was really close to just giving up and fleeing Metropolis altogether to go back to Smallville. Why did he even think that a farmboy like him could be made into a city boy?

But – you’d blushed, at the petname, and you’d let out the softest Oh he was only able to hear thanks to his superhearing, instead of slapping him and running away, and maybe he hadn’t messed everything up. Maybe he could still stay in Metropolis for one more day. Maybe he could still be your friend for one more day. 

One month into your friendship, Clark Kent had hopelessly and pathetically fallen in love with you. He couldn’t help it. None of his Kryptonian biology had helped him prepare for the hurricane that was your existence. He had survived the destruction of his own home planet; he could survive an entire building falling down on him; he could hold his own against the universe’s strongest creatures. But all of that meant nothing in the face of your shy smile and your glitter. 

As naturally as water inescapably found its way back to the ocean, Clark had found its way right to you. Falling in love with you was just the natural consequence of life and atoms and everything else Clark hadn’t listened to in class. 

He hadn’t messed anything up yet, but he was messed up. Simply from seeing your smile first thing at the office, or smelling that kiss touch of vanilla that always floated around you.

“So…” Lois started, with a knowing glint in her eyes that meant that she’d found a good source to dig from. She was half sitting against Clark’s desk, one bent leg against his desk, the other stretched, while she cradled a cup of coffee — nine parts sugar, one part watery coffee — with both hands.  “You and the office’s sunshine, huh?”

“What the what?” he yelped, sitting up straight in his chair. You’d gone to the break room, but it didn’t mean that you couldn’t accidentally overhear Lois from there, even if Clark knew that you were completely human (even if your otherworldly beauty begged otherwise). “What are you talking about, Lois? There’s… there’s nothing between her and me,” he whispered, his heart a spooked rabbit trying to outrun a wolf — Lois.

She rolled her eyes. “Oh please. I know you, Clark.”

And she did. They’d dated before. They gave it a shot, and they were good together. Nothing crazy, just good. And so, three months into the relationship, they’d both naturally came to the decision that they were better off as friends. But that also meant that Lois knew him better than any of his other friends, and nothing flies past her. It’s part of what made her so good as a reporter, and so bad as a friend. 

“I hate you,” he’d muttered angrily. Well, as angrily as he could get. 

“I love you too, big guy,” she replied mirthfully, taking a sip of her disgusting potion. He’d tried it once and almost spat it out. The only reason he didn’t actually spit it out was because his ma had raised him better than that, so he’d reluctantly swallowed everything with a wince-smile while Lois was busy making fun of him and Jimmy had taken pictures of the entire ordeal with his fancy camera. Very humbling experience. “So, why aren’t you asking her out?” she asked, bending forward to look him in the eyes. The sugary smell of her potion was potent and sickening.

“None of your business,” he’d replied, trying to sound stern, but failing almost adorably so. 

“Clark,” she started. “You know I’m always right, right?”

He nodded, but reluctantly. She was right of course — as always — but that didn’t mean that he had to like, or even accept it.

“So trust me when I say this: she likes you too. Go for it. Stop being a pussy.”

His mouth opened before closing, realizing he’d almost manexplained to Lois Lane — the most woman to ever woman (and also accessorarily the world’s most feminist person he’d ever met) — how saying that word to insult someone was sexist and misogynist because it implied that people with a female reproductive organ were somehow less than people who didn’t. 

She knew. She knew he’d almost done that, and she was looking evilly gleeful about it. He’s half convinced she only used that word around him to mess with him.

“Think about it. Sleep on it. Do whatever the hell you want with it, but for the love of God, talk to her and confess. I’m sick and tired of seeing the two of you pine over each other like the world’s pinkest reendition of Romeo and Juliet.”

Maybe she was right. But Clark Kent was a coward. Maybe Superman wasn’t, but Clark was, and that’s how it is. He was too afraid of losing you to ever risk it, even if the reward was high. 

Heels clicked against the floorboard, approaching the two of them. Your crinkets were softly tinkering together, announcing your presence with your very own theme.

“Hi Lois,” you chirped at her with one of your dizzying smile. Even Lois wasn’t immune against it. Then, you turned to him. “Hi Clark, how are you?” you asked. And then you did the thing that you always did yet always took him in complete disarray — you brushed the messy curls on his forehead. He didn’t know why you did it, only that you did it whenever you saw his hair was messier than usual. And just like every single other time you did it, his shoulders dropped and his head leaned towards your touch, like a dog asking without asking for more pets. 

Lois was watching the two of you with the focus of someone who’d just stumbled across the idea of their next top story. “Remember what I told you, lover boy,” she’d said to him as parting words.

Lover boy. He closed his eyes and used all of his strength not to blush again.

“Hey darling,” he said instead, ignoring Lois and her mocking vibes. She wasn’t even looking at him anymore but he could feel her judging and mocking him inwardly. “Um, I’m good thank you. How are you?”

“I’m good,” you replied, but you sounded distracted and unlike yourself. He opened his eyes to look at you, and found you slightly frowning, looking at Lois’ retreating figure. “Lover boy?” you asked, sounding so unsure and betrayed Clark’s heart broke. Gosh darn Lois. She’d probably done it on purpose, like the world’s most evil Cupid. 

“She just calls me that sometimes to make fun of me,” he explained quickly, stumbling over his words. “She, uh… there’s nothing between her and me. I mean, we used to date, but really, we were better off as friend so we quickly broke up, and there are no lasting feelings.”

For a man who could face the sun directly in space without flinching, watching your face break into the world’s sunniest smile without looking away was his weakness. 

“Okay. I like it,” you said. “Lover boy. It really suits you.”

I could be your lover boy if you just said the word, he thought so fervently he’d worried he’d accidentally sent it to you through telepathy — let alone that telepathy wasn’t one of the super powers he had. 

Clark Kent stayed late at work the next day, not because he had an important deadline coming up, but because you’d stayed late, and he didn’t feel good at the thought of leaving you behind all alone — and worse, walking home all by yourself, with only your cat keychains and frog clay rings and your disarming smile as protection. 

So he pretended he had to stay behind too, and used that time to actually be productive, but the majority of his time was spent gazing upon you. If Lois were here, she would tell him to stop the sickening yearning and act like a man, but she wasn’t here, so that meant Clark could be as disgustingly and as pathetically forlorn as he wanted to be. 

He was lucky you were completely dead to the rest of the world when you were working, because it meant that he could drink his fill of you all he wanted. 

Your hair was looking particularly soft and pretty that night. He had never seen it before, this type of haircut, but you’d said it was a jellyfish hair cut because you loved jellyfishes, and that if you could, you would become one. 

It was shorter in the front and longer in the back. He wasn’t very good with everything that had to do with hair care and even skin care — when he dated Lois, she’d hated how he could just wash his face with handsoap and have a clearer skin than her, even though she had a ten-step skin care routine daily and nightly — but he was willing to make an effort for you, just so he could understand you and everything you did better. 

The tips of your hair were pink too, and you had two front long strands of hair pink too. It made him go crazy. He’d probably lost ten hours of his life that he’ll never get back just staring at your hair and wishing he was woman enough to touch them just like you always touched his with ease, as if it was your birthright. (Clark would definitely not make you think otherwise.)

Lois was wrong, though. He wasn’t a lover boy. He was love sick.

When he offered you to walk you home and you’d said yes, he had to take a second to calm down enough to not combust. 

Your hand kept brushing his as you walked, because you were the kind of person whose arms swung as they walked, and he tried so hard to not find that as devastatingly endearing as he did. And of course, he failed. Everything about you was a losing battle to him, only in the loveliest of ways. 

You’d almost gotten to your place when you stopped him with a hand on his — his heart going thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. — and you asked him to wait for you while you stared at the rat the size of a shoe that was holding a honest to God piece of cheese in his ratty hands, eating it without a single care in the world. 

You were a strange girl. The kind of girl who stopped traffic to help a lazy pigeon who refused to fly away from getting killed. The kind of girl who forgot to continue talking because you’d noticed a dog walking down the straight in a way that was particularly cute (you said the same thing about all types of dogs). And now the kind of girl who thought somehow that a rat eating cheese was the world’s most entertaining sight. Clark was sure that if Perry had allowed you to, you would write about it and fight to get it on the first page.

And Clark would fight with you.

The first time you held his hand and kept it in yours was the second time he’d walked you home. You were the one who actually asked him if he wanted to walk with you, and he said of course, anything for you. Well, he didn’t actually say it, but he thought it so strongly he felt it vibrate his bones. 

You’d held his hand because you noticed a bakery you’d never seen before, and said that you must try it, or else the croissants and what have you will be sad, because they definitely called for you, and it would be rude to not answer their call.

So, you grabbed his hand and dragged him the other way of your way home, and didn’t let go of his hand. Not even while you ordered for the both of you, or when he’d fought you to pay for everything (he won, because of course he did).

You only let go of his hand when you realized that sitting and eating was impossible while holding hands. So you squeezed his hand softly before letting go, as if you were sad to do so, and sat down.

Clark’s heart threatened to flee from his mouth.

“This is good, right?” you said, before even biting into your cookie. 

(Maybe you’d meant this as in, the two of you, sitting in a bakery, eating together. Like a date.)

“Y-yeah,” Clark said, before clearing his throat. “Really good.”

He didn’t even know what you’d picked for him. He hadn’t paid any attention to anything in the entire bakery but you and everything in your vicinity. 

When you both left the bakery, you’d taken his hand in yours. Water, ocean, all that. (Bury Clark with that feeling.)

“What is this?” Clark asked, looking at you with a blend of helpless adoration and expectation. It was a few days after the unofficial official date, and instead of telling him good morning like a normal person, you’d branded a gift in his face like a threat. 

“A gift,” you replied helpfully. “I saw it yesterday and it made me think of you. I hope you like it.”

You could offer him a brown leaf and he’ll encase it in resin so he could keep it forever. 

He opened the gift wrapping gently, aware of how Jimmy and Lois had not so discreetly rolled their chairs to his desk, neck craning trying to spy and cursing him for taking so damn long.

It was a box of pencils. A pack of a dozen pencils, with Superman design. Did you know? No, that was impossible. But how..?

“You like it? Maybe I should have gotten you pencils like mine? I don’t know, I just thought since you always lost your pencils, this would help you. Not that I don’t like lending you mine, of course, that’s not what I’m saying, but I thought maybe that would be nice? Especially if I’m not here one day to lend you one, so you can always be prepared,” you said, both excited and nervous, slightly bouncing on your feet. “So, do you like it? Do you? Or should I change it?”

“No!” he said, before clearing his throat, aware of how insane he’d just sounded. “No, I mean, no, don’t do that, I love it, and I love that you thought of me like that. Thank you so much, darling.”

I won’t ever use them. I’ll just keep them in my shrine of you, he thought. 

Your smile was blinding.

Lois coughed. “Lover boy,” she said, disgusted. Jimmy snorted. They both went back to their desk.

You’d used no strength but throwing yourself at him to hug him punched the air out of his lungs. 

He’d almost forgotten how small you were, until you were pressed against him and his hands instinctively found their place on each side of your waist and he realized he could easily circle your waist with just two hands. 

And then he was blushing for a completely different reason. 

After that, he kept noticing it. How you barely came up to his chest, how his left hand could easily hide both of yours if he wanted to. 

He didn’t think you were made for him. He thought he was born this way just for you. 

He was invited to your place after almost four months of friendship. Simultaneously the best and worst four months of his entire life. Lois’ words haunted him every waking moment. Even when he was Superman and was fighting for his life, he kept thinking about it.

What if I just confess right here and then?

But no. Not yet. He didn’t want to rush anything. 

Your apartment was exactly the way he’d envisioned it to be. Pastel pink and colorful and sparkly, and homey. You didn’t have a couch, and you said it was because you preferred sitting on the floor. You said it’s a family tradition, and you’d grown used to it. 

So he sat down on your soft carpet (of course it was soft, you hated anything that wasn’t), knees to his chest, arms wrapped around his knees like a little kid, waiting for you as you prepared homemade strawberry lemonade. 

“There you go,” you said, handing him a tall glass of pink lemonade. “Make yourself at home. I hope the carpet’s not too uncomfortable for you. If you want, we can move to my bedroom so you can sit on my bed.”

The simple thought of him being inside your bedroom was enough to make him flustered. “N-no, that’s alright, I don’t mind sitting like this.”

Especially not when you’d sat down cross legged right next to him, so close your knees touched. Clark’s entire focus was on that single point of contact. The rest of his body no longer existed. He could only feel his knee, and the rest of you. 

He wished he could ask you to hold his hand again. Touch his hair, touch his thigh. Make the rest of his body come alive again. 

But he was too scared. Too much of a coward. 

But as if you’d heard him, your hand was on his thigh and you were suddenly on your knees, showing him something on your phone excitedly. You were showing him pictures of the time you’d decided to follow the color pink all over Metropolis and ended up in Gotham, but had to go back home because there wasn’t nothing pink in Gotham.

He took a huge sip of his lemonade, barely tasting it. He was sure it was delicious, but he just couldn’t handle just how close you were. 

It became a regular occurence, Clark going to your place. At first, it was just after work, after he walks you home. But then, you invited him over during weekends as well, and then days off too. Until suddenly, he was at your place almost every single time. 

That day, when he came over, you opened the door in your pajamas and quickly dragged him inside your living room without even bothering to say hi. Clark figured you’d forgotten how to be a human again.

But this time, instead of stopping at your living room, you took him to your bedroom. He’d never seen it before today, partly because he felt it was too intimate, even though you’d offered him plenty of time.

“We’re going to watch rom-coms until we fall asleep. I made cookies and bought chips and popcorns and drinks. You’re staying the night,” you’d declared, with the confidence of a general leading his army to battle. 

“I– um, okay?” was all he could say. He couldn’t say no, even if he’d wanted to, which he didn’t. He hadn’t had a sleepover in eons, and while he’d never particularly cared for it, he found that he suddenly really wanted one. “I don’t have clothes, though.”

“It’s okay, you can just sleep in your boxers if none of my clothes fit you,” you said while you were sorting through actual DVDs, totally oblivious to Clark who was fighting for his life after swallowing wrong. 

If it were anyone else, Clark would have thought you said it on purpose, and that you just wanted him to get naked, because there was no possible way on Earth that any of your clothes would fit him, but this was you. The girl who said hi to every single animal she crossed in the streets. The girl who hugged like she breathed. Who thought social cues were a myth and marched to the beat of her own drums.

You probably didn’t even think anything of it, which made it really embarrassing for him to be so hung up about it.

In the end though, he did find clothes that fit, because you were a lover of oversized clothing and you hoarded them like dragons hoarded gold. But Clark could smell the faint smell of men, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that they were from your old boyfriends. 

He really despised the idea of wearing clothes that once belonged to men who were with you in a way he never would be, but he did it anyway, just because you were so happy you found him something to wear.

Dressed comfortably (it wasn’t as bad, all things considered, because he only smelt the other guys if he really focused, and your smell was the strongest one anyway), you made him get on the bed before bringing all of the snacks — holy moly, you’d even cooked — and climbing next to him. You pressed play on the first movie of your choice — The Princess Bride — and nestled comfortably against him, your head against his shoulder.

Clark may have stopped breathing for ten minutes because he was so worried he would somehow bother you, until you’d murmured sleepily about how weird it was that he didn’t seem to be breathing at all. 

God, he loved you. He loved everything about you, and it was getting more difficult by the day to keep hiding how he felt.

But there was nothing he wouldn’t do for preserving his relationship with you. 

He wasn’t really sure why you’d picked The Notebook as part of your rom-com marathon, but he didn’t question it. Especially not when it meant that you sobbed into his neck, crying about how it was so unfair and how sad it was. 

He just held you through it, wrapping you with his arms, reminded once again of just how bigger he was. How easy it would be for him to protect you against anything and everything. 

“There, there,” he cooed, gently holding you against him.

You sniffed one last time before untangling yourself from his arms. You wiped your snotty nose with the sleeve of your pajamas. “Okay, I’m done crying,” you said.

He chuckled, because this such a you thing to do — deciding that you’re done with something, and just stopping. 

“Let’s watch Pride & Prejudice now,” you said.

You sighed dreamily. “Mr Darcy is the dream, isn’t he?”

Clark had nothing against men, or women. Only the fact that they weren’t you.

“He’s alright,” he said, trying not to sound jealous. He was here. Darcy wasn’t even real. And Clark was sure he could treat you better than a man who insulted Elizabeth in the same breath he confessed to her with. 

“You don’t get it,” you huffed indignantly. “It’s the yearning, the desperation, the restraint. So dreamy,” you repeated. 

Clark thought to himself that he did all of that on the daily, and you never noticed. Why didn’t he get that treatment too?

Today was finally the day, Clark thought. He was going to ask you out. No, scratch that, he was going to ask you if you would do him the honor of being his girlfriend.

Quite frankly, he wasn’t completely ready yet, but as Lois had told him the night before, he was only going to regret not asking you out now. She said she overheard you talking to coworkers abou a guy who asked her out, and Clark realized he had to act quick.

There was no way he could let someone else steal you from him.

So, he’d asked you to meet him at a fancy restaurant downtown. He told you to wear fancy, though he didn’t care if you came in sleepwear.

He came thirty minutes early, because he was a loser like that (Lois’ words, not his). He was just so worried that something would happen and he would lose you forever. 

He almost tilted the chair back when he saw you, because he stood up so fast and so strongly. 

You were absolutely stunning. Of course, he always thought you were stunning, but tonight even more so. You were radiant, and you reminded him of the moon. Not just the moon you can see with the naked eye. But the moon he sees when he’s in space, and it’s so bright and huge it was all he could think about.

You were breathtaking, and he was so glad for his Kryptonian biology for the nth time around you, because he wasn’t sure how he could have survived you without his in-built invincibility.

“You look absolutely mesmerizing,” he said. And he was so convinced that you were the prettiest sight the universes had to offer that he didn’t even sound flustered for him. 

You blushed prettily, and he fought the urge to kiss you right then and there. 

He pulled the chair back for you and helped you sit down.

You talked about everything and nothing. Conversation had always been so easy with you. You could talk to him about the life cycle of bugs, and he would be just as enthralled. And you did, by the way, you spoke of bugs to him one day for almost four hours. Another day, you talked about ducks for five. You weren’t even being smart or scientific about it. You were just talking about how cute and fluffy they were, and how you loved going to the parc to watch them all day long. 

But he knew he was running out of time when their desserts came in (you picked his dessert because it was your second option, and you couldn’t make up your mind so you asked him to pick it so you could taste both, and he happily obliged). 

It was now or never.

He cleared his throat. “I, uh… I have something I want to ask you,” he said nervously.

You barely looked up from cutting into your lava cake. “Yes, Clark? What is it? Did you lose a pencil again? I wish I could help but I didn’t think to bring any tonight. I didn’t think we would need any.”

That made him chuckle, and it eased some of his nerves. “No, uh, it’s not about that. It’s… listen, darling, I was wondering if…”

You finally looked up, and you put your fork and knife down. “Yeah?” 

“If you would do me the honor of being my girlfriend,” he blurted out quickly before he lost his courage.

He’d imagined you reacting in a thousand ways, but frowning confusedly was not one of them. “What?” you said. 

“I, um, I am asking you out. These past few months being your friend were perfect, but I’ve always wanted more. I realized being just your friend wasn’t enough, so…”

You still looked confused. “Friend?” you repeated, head tilted to the side. “Clark, I have been your girlfriend for the past five months. What are you talking about?”

“Uh…” It was his turn to be confused. 

You started enumerating things off your fingers. “You walk me home every day, you sleep over, you have your toothbrush at my place, you let me talk to you about insect, we go on dates every day, we hold hands and hug and sleep together. Am I missing something? Isn’t this what people do when they’re together?”

Clark’s entire world just shifted on its axis. 

“I, uh…”

You were right but…

“I just assumed you didn’t want to kiss because you were too shy,” you said. “And I’m completely fine with that too. I’m shy too, so I get it.”

Clark’s brain still couldn’t form a single thought. You guys were dating all this time?

“You okay?” you asked him, leaning over the table to check his temperature on his forehead with the back of your fingers.

“Ah, yes,” he said, before clearing his throat again. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. We have been dating all this time.”

He's hard to resist, looking at you with those puppy dog eyes of his. You understood his reasoning, but the idea of being surrounded on the beach with a bunch of cocky aviators...well, that was something you didn't really like the idea of.

You groan, looking at his reflection in the mirror before fully turning to face him. You give him a pouty look, one that makes him come forward and hold your face in his hands. "They're not gonna like me." You say, muffled from the way your cheeks are squished in his hold.

"Yes they will." He says.

"I'm boring."

"Your the most interesting thing in the world, honey."

He was always so sweet with his words, he calms your nerves every time. You know it means something to him to have his squad know who his girl is, so you try and be brave, pushing your worry out of your mind. You smile reassuringly. "Okay." You say. "It's a date."

Bob smiles, leaning down to kiss your lips, then your forehead. "It'll be a good day, I promise."

As you get into his bed, surrounded by the scent of him, he pulls you closer. "Maybe then they'll stop saying I'll never get laid." He states, making you look at him with disbelief.

"What, are we in middle school?" You ask.

He lightly chuckles. "You're gonna see the level of immaturity these guys have on Saturday, then you'll understand."

And when Saturday came, you gripped onto his hand like your life depended on it. You wore a white baby doll dress over your bikini, your sandals in your hand as you walked across the sand. As the two of you come closer, you see the group of pilots all gathered, setting up camp.

"Well, look who showed up." One of them call out as you come to join them.

You immediately blush at the amount of eyes on you They all look you over, almost like they were detectives and you were a case they needed to crack. You get introduced to them and quickly come to learn just what Bob meant, this group of the best fighter pilots in North America were no better than kids.

"I uh, I brought some snacks if y'all want some." You say, laying out multiple floral tupperware containers that were filled with homemade goods. Immediately, the boys were on it, fighting over who got what. They reminded you of seagulls.

Natasha, who was the most excited to meet the girl who Bob spoke about non stop, is yelling at the boys to mind their manners. "You wouldn't even think they were functioning adults." She jokes, making you smile.

You wait till the last minute to take your cover off, looking at the well built bodies around you made you retreat to modesty as a defense. You didn't put on your usual bathing suit because Bob said you should wear his favorite one. One that showed more skin, one that drew more attention to you. Stupidly, you agreed with him and put it on. You regret that decision now.

"Aren't you hot?" Nat asks as she pulls her tank top off.

"Oh no, I'm good." You say, giving her an awkward smile and then dig in your bag for the bottle of sunscreen.

You didn't really think it'd be embarrassing to pursue the routine you always have with Bob when you come to the beach, so as he, Hangman, Coyote and Rooster stand, talking about something way above your pay grade, you come to Bob's side. You try not to interrupt their conversation, but words slowly start to slow and they get distracted by the way you pull Bob's glasses off his face. You squirt some of the sunscreen out and into your hands, then you gently apply it to his face. The three others stop and watch, faces full of amusement as you make sure he has an even coverage. Bob doesn't mind, he was never one to be embarrassed of the loving acts you do for him, so you find it strange when you turn around and see the guys watching you.

"That's awfully sweet of you." Coyote comments, and you make the mistake of taking him literally.

"Bob, do you get your mom to fly in and do it for you when she's not around or do you just risk the sunburn?" Hangman teases, making the other two laugh.

You look at the tall aviator. "Sunscreens important, Jake, do you need some? I could help you with it or I'm sure your boyfriend here could do it for you." You say, motioning to Coyote.

Rooster bursts with laughter, wheezing at the joke you make, and behind you, Bob stands with a proud and smug look on his face.

Jake fumbles with his words, in disbelief that you’re being outspoken.

Back at your beach blanket, you clip your hair up and look around, making sure no eyes were directly on you as you pull your dress off and drop it into your bag. Any previous jokes that some of the boys made about Bob finding a goody-two-shoes for a girlfriend, are immediately regretted when they see how great you look in a bikini.

Payback looks ultimately confused. "Anyone else wondering how Baby on Board gets to sleep with a girl like that?" He asks out of ear shot from you.

"Probably because he's not a total dick like you are." Nat suggests.

"Bobby?" You get his attention as you lay on the blanket, holding up the sunscreen, silently asking him to get your back so you can tan for awhile.

At the sound of the name, some of the boys laugh, making you blush.

"Hey, Bobby, will you get my back next?" Fanboy teases, making Bob glare as he sits beside you. "Did he just glare at me?" He asks, in utter disbelief that Bob was capable of it.

Bob undoes the back of your suit, gently running his hands over your bare skin. "Are you good here for awhile? We're gonna play a game of dog fight football." He asks.

You turn your head to look at him. "I'll survive."

He ties your suit back together, then meets your lips as you lean up to kiss him.

It was peaceful, laying and watching the aviators goof around, running up and down the beach. You had no idea that the questions being asked between plays were all about you.

"What'd you do in order to win her over?" Rooster asks, grunting as he throws the football.

"I'm still trying to figure that out." Bob huffs, blocking Fanboy so he can't intercept.

"She's cute, doesn't talk much though." Fanboy adds.

"She does, just not to people she barely knows." Bob defends.

As Hangman runs by, he pauses. "Be honest with us, Bobby, you ever get bored of her?"

Bob looks at him like he's crazy. "Never. One of these days, Hangman, you'll learn that crazy bar girls don't make girlfriends. Maybe my girl's shy but she's a whole lot better than whatever new girl you can't make stick around."

The ones around them laugh at Hangman getting called out for the second time today.

"Jokes aside." Rooster says. "I'm happy for you, man, she seems good to you."

Bob looks back at you lazily reading a book, your feet kicking back and fourth in the air behind you. "Yeah, I really like her...actually I'm gonna ask her to move in."

They all gasp.

"We'll say a prayer for you man." Coyote shakes his head.

At some point, you had rolled onto you back and let your hair down, sunglasses on your face as you rest your eyes. Though, your sun is covered by a shadow after a while. You open our eyes, gazing up at the man who's standing above you. You prop yourself up on your elbows.

"Hi." You grin, watching as Bob pulls his sweaty shirt off, revealing his toned upper body. You move your sunglasses down your nose to get a better look, then take them off entirely.

"Hey, you ready to go into the water?" He asks, making you shake your head.

"I'm good on dry land, sailor."

Bob gives you a smirk. "Now, that's just not going to do."

"I'm okay here, Bobby, go have fun with your squad, they're already in the water." You say.

"So you want me to join them and leave you here?" He asks, making you nod in agreement.

He hums, pausing before leaning down and scooping you into his arms. You gasp, flailing in his hold but his grip is too strong. "Bobby, no! Put me down!"

"Not a chance."

You form a death grip, arms holding tightly around his neck as he makes it to the water with you. "Don't do this." You laugh loudly.

"Are you ready?" He asks.

"No! Bobby!"

He loosens his grip, pretending to drop you, making you yell and tighten your grip around him even more. The dagger squad starts chanting ‘overboard’, and you feel the cool water slosh up against you as Bob walks further in.

“Bobby!”

“One.”

“No, baby, please.”

“Two.”

“Robert Floyd!”

“Three!”

He falls sideways into the water with you, making you sink under before you pop back up, wiping your eyes. You can’t help but laugh, splashing him as he pops up in front of you.

“I can’t believe you.” You say, wrapping your arms around him.

He grins boyishly. “Sorry, honey.”

The squad watches as the two of you swim beside each other.

“So…Bob is getting laid.” Coyote says.