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97lala · 22 days ago

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wake up

part two: awake

bob floyd x bradshaw!reader

word count: 4k

summary: bob goes on a mission for a week. he was supposed to be home two days ago.

warning: angst, lots of it. descriptions of violence.

a/n: another angst post in the same day??? <3 i love angst. wanna do a smut with bob bc i know he a freak but for now enjoy this!

requests open :)

lewis masterlist

love was something you had never fully understood until you met him. you went your whole dreaming of a someone who was going to of me into your life with flowers, secret love notes and unashamed love given freely to you. that's what you got too. all your dreams came true in the body of bob floyd.

then it all came crashing down.

you kissed him bye that morning, wishing him luck on his mission. he tasted like the bitter black coffee he drank mixed with his mint toothpaste. his hand squeezed your hip as he kissed you bye back. his hand lifted to your elbow and slid down your hand as he walked away, lastly giving your hand a squeeze before disappearing through the front door.

you locked the door, like always, and sat on the couch. your turned on some trashy reality show, trying to keep your mind off of the mission he was currently on. he always said he’d come back, that he wouldn’t be late for dinner.

this mission was only to last a week max. you were used to not getting a call from anyone, cyclone wouldn’t call you, neither would any of bobs teammates. he’d always call you, tell you he was on his way home. but when the eighth day came around you got antsy.

you popped your fingers more than usual, you paced more than usual. you couldn’t focus on anything.

when the ninth day came, your phone buzzed. it wasn’t bob. cyclones name came across the screen. your stomach dropped, your heart beat stuck in your throat. you mouth went dry.

you picked up the phone, after letting it ring for a moment, you clutched it harshly in your hand.

“hello?”

“i need you at the base,” was all he said and the line went dead.

you’ve gotten a call like this before. when bob was in training, when he first met everyone, him and phoenix had to eject from the f18 after birds flew into their engine. it was a freak accident and it scared the hell out of you. cyclone called saying the same thing and doing the same thing, hanging up like that.

something happened. you already feel that when you saw his name flash on the screen but now you knew something happened to him. something bad.

you felt different than that time before. more dread seeped into your bones, a shakiness placing itself in your muscles. your thoughts slamming against your head giving yourself a headache. you got in your car, your hands already sweaty against the steering wheel. you grip it with a hard grip, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath.

“he’s okay,” you tell yourself, barely believing it.

you pulled out of the garage and out onto the street. you sped down the back roads, the roads that got you to the base quicker. you pulled into the bases parking lot, parking next to bobs truck.

you get out of your car taking a moment to look into bobs truck, a coffee cup still in the holder, you laugh and shake your head. he never finished his coffee on the way to work. you saw your sunglasses resting on the dashboard and a hair tie of yours around the gear shift. the little things.

you walked into the lobby seeing the receptionist, “hi mrs. mary,”

“hi,” she greets you, less enthusiastically then you’re used to from her, “what are you doing here?” she asked, her brows pinching together.

“cyclone called,”

her face fell, her smile lessening, “oh yes, of course. i’ll let him know you’re here,”

she picks up a phone, dials a number and mutters some things before settling it back down on the base.

“briefing room,” she tells you. you nod, thanking her and walked through the doors on the left. a few doors down and you saw cyclone through the window. you opened the slowly, stepping in with the same pace.

“hi,” you say quietly.

“hey, thanks for coming so quickly,” he says standing and buttoning his suit jacket, “please come in,”

you step in closer and close the door behind you. you walk to a chair and pull it out slowly, sitting down.

“is he okay?” you ask, looking up to the captain.

he looks at you, then to the ground, “he and phoenix were shot down by enemy forces,” you stand quickly, “they both ejected from the 18 and they’re both at san diego general hospital,”

“why wasn’t i told that?” you ask, your voice raised and firm. you grab your bag that you let fall to ground before, digging your keys out and stepping towards the door.

cyclone grips your upper arm, “he’s in critical condition. he’s in surgery right now.”

“i should be at the hospital. i should’ve been told to go to the hospital not here to find out he’s there,” you yank away from him, opening the door and slamming it. you ignore his voice telling you to stop or slow down, you ignore mrs. mary calling your name.

you slide into your car and race to the hospital. you do a bad parking job and run to the lobby, the receptionist tells you which floor to go to and you go up the elevator to a waiting room.

you see the rest of the daggers there, a couple pacing and some in chairs. they’re flights suits still on.

you had to find rooster, he’d know what to do. he’d know what to say. you look around but can’t find him.

“where’s roo?” your voice came out broken and in a falter.

all the daggers heads snapped in your direction, those who say were stood up straight and making their way to you.

fanboy was the first to reach you, “he’s in the bathroom. we’ve been here for a couple of hours tops. they took bob into surgery as soon as we got here,” he finally told you what was happening.

you step forward, not knowing what else to do expect hug someone. he welcomed the hug, arms wrapping around you.

“i need to see roo,”

as if on cue, fanboy nodded, “behind you,”

you pull away from him, dropping your bag and turning around. your brother stands a few feet from you, face fallen.

you rush to him, slamming into him with your arms going around his waist, you head on his chest, “i don’t know what to do,”

he rubs his hand up and down your back, “he’s going to be okay, promise,”

“you know not to do that. don’t make promises you can’t keep,”

“sorry,” he whispered.

“is he gonna be okay?” you ask after a moment of silence.

“i don’t know,” you let out a shaky breath as the first of your many tears fell.

roo walked you over to a chair among everyone and sat you in the middle. you were surrounded by people who loved you and bob and phoenix.

“what about phoenix?”

“she’s fine. broken arm but she’s good. i think you can see her,” coyote says, standing and finding out if you can see her.

a nurse says you can and you and rooster walk back through a couple hallways to a room. you let the nurse know that bob was in surgery, you were his finance and if you weren’t out in the airing room you’d be here. she said she’d let the doctor know when he comes.

you walk into phoenix’s room and see here laying on the bed, laid back, eye don’t he tv.

“hey,” you force a small smile.

she looks over quickly, her eyes welling with tears, her name coming of your lip in an apology, “i didn’t see them, neither did he. we ejected but i don’t know where he went. i was on the ground, for hours before they-“

“hey hey, calm down. slow down. i just came to check on you. you did your job, you don’t have to explain that to me.” you keep your small smile, “we won’t know anything until the doctor comes. i’m sure-“ you clear your throat when your voice broken slightly, “im sure he’s okay. when he left a week ago he said he’d come back for dinner. he missed the last two night, he’s not missing tonight,” you comfort her.

she took your hand, “im sorry,”

“stop,” you whisper, leaning down and hugging her closely.

you take the seat beside the bed telling your brother you’d be here for a while. he nodded, knowing that was the cue for him to leave. he said he’d come get you if the doctor came, he gave a quick squeeze to your shoulder and walked out.

you and phoenix talked about anything but the mission. she could see you slightly flinch at the mention of it so she stayed away from the subject. instead, she asked about the wedding.

“made any venue decision yet?” she asks.

“i found one place, we were supposed to go se wit tomorrow but i don’t think that’ll happen,” you laugh lightly, “i think i have the colors picked out but i’m not sure yet. i don’t want to say before i actually know what i want,”

she nods, “any dress ideas?”

“well i’m thinking going dress shopping in a month. me, you and the rest of the bridesmaids.”

she nods, “i’m excited,” she smiles.

you nod back, “me too,” you force the small smile again, picking at your fingers. she reaches over, finger covered in the pulse tracker and squeezes your hand.

“he’ll be okay,”

you nod, trying to believe her words, “i’ll be right back,”

she wants to stop you but lets you go. you exit the room, looking for a bathroom. you find one a few feet down the hall. you go in, locking the door behind you. you turn to the sink, gripping the white porcelain.

“he’s going to be okay, he’s going to be okay,” the mantra slipping through your lips and repeating in a quiet prayer.

you look up in the mirror, your eyes big, puffy and red. your cheeks lightly stained with dried tears. you turn on the faucet and cup some cold water in your hands and rub it on your face. you grab a paper towel, drying your face. you grab another, wetting it and placing it under eyes for a few moments trying to de-puff your under eyes.

you grip the sink again, steadying yourself, “he’s okay,” you breathe.

your phone buzzes in your back pocket and once again your stomach drops. you pull it out, roosters name across in a text, “doctors looking for you,”

you snatch your bag and rush out of the bathroom back to the waiting room. you see the daggers with the doctor, hangman spots you and pints to you saying something to the doctor.

the doctor turns and sees you coming towards them, he smiles, “hi, are you mr. floyd’s fiancé?”

you nod, “yes. is- is he okay?”

“the surgery’s he needs are going to take longer than expected,” he ignores your question, “he’s still in critical condition but we are doing everything we can. he has a couple of compound breaks, two in his right leg and one on his right arm. he has a severe concussion and one of his vertebrae broke. i wanted you to know what we’re working with. it’ll be a few hours, but we are doing everything we possibly can for him,”

you nod, biting the inside of his lip. the doctor leaves with a sympathetic smile and the nurse appears in his place.

“could you fill these out please?” you stare at the clipboard in her hands, numb to the world around you. rooster takes them from her, thanking her and walking you back to a seat.

he sits next to you, laying the clipboard to the side. everyone around you sits too, trying not make you feel more out of control or anxious.

“i should’ve asked which vertebrae,” you whisper to yourself.

“what?” roo asks.

“i should’ve asked which vertebrae,” you say. little louder, just above a whisper, “anything broken above c5 could cause paralysis or death.” if you remember anything from your small amount of college classes you went it was that.

“he’s going to be-“

“i know i know,” you snap, “he- i know. give me the clipboard, please,” your voice raised.

roo hands it over and you begin to read the questions. you fill out the basics but the last page makes you stop.

the words “will,” and “power of attorney,” come up. you freeze, not knowing what to do, well you know what to do but it’s a numbing feeling that it gives you.

you’re the one who will have to decide if they take him off life support if it comes to that. you pray it doesn’t come to that.

you sign it slowly, hand shaking.

you give the clipboard to roo, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. tears slowly coming down your face. you never thought you’d have to do that.

sure you thought it about in passing thoughts, especially when he ejected during training. you were only his girlfriend back then but when he got home that night he told you that he wanted you to be his emergency contact and the person make decisions like that. you were taken aback by the conversation at first but the next day both of your emergency contacts changed to each other and a few weeks later he proposed.

you sat back in the uncomfortable waiting room chair for the next few hours. your back aching from the positions you’ve tried as you tried to get comfortable. some of the daggers left for food, get a shower and promises of coming back.

rooster left to get you some food, you told him to not bother, you couldn’t with what was happening but he got you some anyway, pleading you to just take a couple bits. you tried but soon felt sick.

he stayed with you the whole time. right by your side. hangman stayed back the whole time too, just in case. he couldn’t stand knowing two of his friends were int his hospital and that one of their fiancés had to be going through this.

hangman watched their f18 go down, saw them eject, phoenix going one way and bob going the other. he found the fighter jet that shot them down and shot them down. that pilot didn’t eject. he was the one who called search and rescue, he was the one who watched bob get life flighted to the hospital.

hangman stood up and took the seat next to yours where roosters originally sat but was gone for coffee. “i shot down the enemy pilot. they didn’t eject in time,”

“thank you,” was all you could muster. you leaned your head over and rested it on his shoulder.

“bob was the first guy that o had to make the first move on,” you tell him, “i met him when he was training in lemoore. we were in a small town bar, drinking after a hard day. we arrived at the same time,” you smile at the memory, “he held the door open for me, bought my drinks. and when i asked if he wanted to come back to my place, he blushed. first guy i ever made blush when asking they’d want to come back to my place. and we did, we went back to my apartment but we played a board game,” you felt hangman’s shoulders move slightly as he laughed.

“only bob,” he murmurs.

“i know,” you laugh lightly, “we played hues and cues, and his descriptions and clues were awful. he said backpack for one and i was supposed to assume he was talking about dora’s backpack,”

“ah,” hangman nodded, “i’m guessing it was a purple,”

“yep. i was way off. we did have our first kiss that night and he stayed the night but slept on the couch. i didn’t sleep at all knowing he was just in my living room. neither did he apparently. i moved out here with him, i didn’t mind leaving. needed a change and i’d go anywhere he went.”

“your love story is truly inspiring,” he jokes. you playfully hit his chest, he fakes injury.

you fall asleep against his shoulder, and he stays there the whole time. never moving an inch.

you were shaken lightly awake an hour later, the doctor standing across from you. you stand, instantly waking up at the sight of him.

“hi,” he smiles.

“which vertebrae?”

“i’m sorry?” he asks.

“which vertebrae did he break?”

“L2,”

you sigh in relief, okay if it was going to be any of them you’re glad it was that one.

“sorry, please continue,”

he nods with tight lipped smile, “it’s alright. we have him stable for, we can’t promise he’ll stay that way. he’s in a coma, and we can’t say when he’ll wake up or if he will.”

your knees buckle for a moment but you lock them, staying up right, “can i… can i see him?”

he nods, “we only two at a time especially in his condition,”

you look back at the daggers, your eyes meeting rooster, “roo, please,”

no one objected.

rooster follows closely behind you, knowing you’ll drop when you see him. you two follow the doctor to a room on a quieter floor. the last door on the right had his name written on a white board.

the doctor stepped aside letting you go in. you walk in slowly, moving the curtain over that covers him from your vision.

you stopped. your eyes trailing over him, head to toe.

a tube was down his throat, helping him breathe. wires covered his body and the beeping from the machines were so loud. he didn’t like loud noises- he doesn’t. he doesn’t like loud noises. a blanket was over him but not his feet. his feet had socks on them but not the blanket.

you swallow and move from the comfortable presence of your brother. your silent as you walk over to the bed, undoing the neat covers and covering his feet. you wished you could turn down the beeping, it’ll give him a headache.

his glasses. where are his glasses.

“where are his glasses?” you ask, looking around, “he can’t… he can’t see without his glasses,” you say in a low, broken whisper.

“we’ll find them later, here sit down,” rooster pulled a chair from the wall to where you were next to bob. you sat down taking his hand.

“hey, you scared the shit out of me,” you tell him, “thought you’d be home two days ago, brought out the good wine made your favorite for dinner. you owe me,” you try to joke.

“i’ll be outside,” rooster whispered to you. you nodded in response.

you broke as the door shut, “please wake up,” you squeeze his hand lightly, “please bob. i can’t do this without you. what would i even do? we get married in few months,” you remind him, “we still have to pick out our first dance song, and what colors we’re going to do. we’re supposed to go to that venue tomorrow but i already called and canceled. they said they’re thinking of you,” you tell him.

you lay your head down on the bed next to his hand, “please wake up,” you whisper.

he hadnt made any progress in a week. you left the hospital once, to shower at home and grab some clothes. you got him close to for when they discharge him. you wore sweatpants and one of his shirts.

you stayed at the hospital every day and every night since then. you showered in the small bathroom in his room and slept on the recliner they had in corner. you moved it over to his bed so you could hold his hand as you slept.

he hadn’t moved and his vitals never got stronger. a few days in they put him on life support.

you woke up in the middle of the night to a loud, constant beep. nurses rushed in and throw doctors came in as well. one of the nurses brought you out do the room, you fought for a moment before letting her take you.

a couple hours after sitting on the floor outside of his room and doctor came out telling you he had to be on life support. his kidneys were failing, and his left lung was filling with fluid. they did another surgery to to remove the liquid but that didn’t get him off the support.

all the daggers came by, and you left them alone for a minute or as long as you could stand it. they hugged you, some brought food and water, others brought cards and flowers.

phoenix cried, apologizing to bob. you heard her broken sobs from outside the room. that was the one time you went in immediately and hugged her. she apologized to you, begging for forgiveness. for a forgiveness you told her she didn’t need to ask for.

today, a doctor came in.

“we need to take him off-“

“no. no you have to keep him on. i’m begging you, please,” your voice breaking immediately as sobs ripped through your throat, “he- he’ll wake up just a few days please,” you begged.

“ma’am-,”

“i’m only asking for a few more days, maybe a week. please,”

“he hasn’t made any progress, if anything he’s worsened. he doesn’t have much-“

“i’m asking you for a few more days, that’s it. just let me have that, please,” you beg harder.

the doctor agreed.

four days went by and nothing happened. the machine still breathed for him.

“bob, baby, i need you. your team needs you. i need you,” you repeat.

“do you remember when we first met? i told hangman the story a little over a week ago. that bar, you coming back to my apartment only for us to play a board game,” you smile, “you were such a gentlemen. i moved out here with you because i knew you were meant for it. this was your dream and who was i to get in the way of that? every night you came home with a new story about what new training you did or a joke that was said at lunch. i’d come visit you a lunch, remember? i’d bring you a burger or pasta from your favorite diner down the road, everyone would be jealous that you got something good. sometimes you’d come home upset at something hangman said or you made a mistake but you never took it out on me. you asked for space but never hurled the anger at me. thank you. the love you have for me is so evident and keeps me up at night sometimes.” you tell him all of this, dragging your nails softly across the top of his arm.

“i know we haven’t had our cows yet but in sickness and in health. i will never leave you. i love you for all my life. you are mine and i’m yours for the rest of my life. there will never be another man who can make my heart race the way you do, make blush like you do, or make me as happy as you do. if i could take your place i would, i wouldn’t think twice of it.” you stand, placing a hand gently on his cheek, your thumb caressing his cheekbone.

“come back to me my love,” you say softly. you lean in kissing his forehead then sitting back down.

your hand back in his, “come back to me.” you whisper again.

“give me something, anything,”

you’ve never known a love like bob floyd. you had flings and boyfriends before but no one like him. he was it for you. he was your world, your oxygen, the very blood coursing through your veins.

“please bobby, please,” you plead.

the room is silent, expect for the machines, you can hear your heartbeat on your ears as you anticipate anything to happen.

you say prayer to anyone listening that they’d bring him back to you. you couldn’t imagine a world, a life without him.

“please, i love you,”

his finger twitched.

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97lala · 29 days ago

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Switch Up [Prologue/Pt.2] - Robert 'Bob' Floyd x f!Reader Smut

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Floyd x Female!Reader Word Count: 2,033 Request: : @shinzowosasageyoooo : can I request a bob x f!reader who also wears glasses? ✨ Warnings: SMUT 18+, unprotected piv sex, swearing, female genitalia Notes: I just could not resist doing a part two/prologue for my little glasses switch that ended on a 'Bob fucks' cliffhanger. I really hope you all like it as much as the first part! I feel like I might have rushed it a bit? i just really wanted to get it out. As always, please leave your feedback - I hope you enjoy! ~ Find Part 1 here for context ~ Find my Masterlist Here

...“So, how did you end up with her glasses this morning?” Jake asked as they headed back in from training, still unable to let the whole debacle go. “Yeah thinking about it, I’m sure you had yours on at breakfast in the mess?” Nat added without thought. Bob's cheeks flushed a deep red again as he avoided both of their gazes, choosing to plead the fifth instead. “Holy shit, Bob fucks!” Jake called out as the realisation dawned on him. “And on the compound too. You sly dog.” He didn’t even bother fighting the accusations. A small, sly smirk settled on his lips instead...

******

Balancing a take-out coffee in one hand, and two muffins in the other, Bob cautiously knocked on the office door, glancing around the corridor as he did so.

“Oh, hey,” you beamed as you opened the door to him and stepped to one side to let him in before someone turned the corner and spotted him. It wouldn’t be unusual for one of your ‘students’ to be visiting your office, per se, but the fewer risks taken, the better. “I didn’t spot you at breakfast, and I know you didn’t have anything before we left home, so I thought you might be in need of reinforcement,” he said as he placed the coffee and muffins on your desk.

“Have I ever told you how much I love you?” you smiled as you picked up one of the muffins – your favourite, you noted – and peeled off the casing, taking as big a bite as you could manage. Bob simply breathed a laugh at the sight.

“You might have mentioned it once or twice,” he replied quietly, admiring the way you still managed to look perfect white stuffing your face with food. You glanced up at him mid-chew, stopping when you saw his soft grin.

“What?”

“Nothing,” his smile widened as you finished it off, licking the stickiness off of your fingers as you did so. You didn’t miss the way his eyes darted down to watch them. “Did I ever tell you how beautiful you look even when you’re stuffing your face with cake?” He smirked, leaning back against your desk as you rounded it to carry on tidying up the papers you had abandoned to let him in.

“You know what, I might need a reminder,” you teased, not thinking anything of it until you felt a noticeable presence directly behind you.

“We have some time,” he murmured lowly, bringing his lips down to the shell of your ear. You felt the heat in your cheeks instantly. This wouldn’t be the first time you two had taken some risks on a base before, but it would be the first time since you were reassigned to Top Gun with him.

You turned to look up at him, acutely aware of your desk pressing in the back of your thighs. Your eyes flitted to the door, and he understood. In just a few strides, he had moved to lock it and was back in front of you, his lips instantly finding yours. His hands cradled the sides of your head, tilting your head back to get better access to your lips, his own moving hot and messily against yours. You both knew the drill. There was no playing around, you couldn’t afford more than a quickie.

Your own hands were fumbling behind you, trying to move the piles of paper and your laptop out of the way enough to sit back onto the cool wood. “Fuck, I can’t believe you came to work in this damn skirt again. This happens every time,” Bob groaned against your skin as he helped you sit back onto the desk, his hands then moving to rest on your thighs just beneath the skirt hem as you opened your legs to allow him to stand between them.

It was true, whenever you wore this skirt and these glasses, you always ended up sprawled out on your desk, or pushed up against the wall of a hangar. You just had a fun habit of forgetting what this combination did to your adoring boyfriend.

His lips found yours again as he started to push the skirt up your legs, your hips wiggling to help his movements until it was bunched a little around your arse and waist. At this angle, the edges of your glasses kept catching his,

“Oh for fucks sake,” he grumbled as he removed a hand momentarily to pull his glasses off, casting them somewhere across your desk haphazardly, causing you to giggle. The sound was quickly replaced by a moan, however, as his lips reconnected at the juncture of your throat, wet kisses making their way across your pulse point and down towards the collar of your shirt. You leaned back instinctively to let him closer, resting on your arms as his touch worked its way back down your body until his fingers brushed the outside of your already damp underwear. They circled a few times, the light friction still not enough as you tried to buck into him.

“Always so responsive.” You could hear the snigger in his voice and you roll your eyes, thankful he couldn’t see. Instead, you leaned forward, your hand reaching for the hard outline of his dick through his uniform, squeezing teasingly in response,

“I could say the same,” you said with a smirk as he whimpered a little at your touch. Nevertheless, it drew the response you wanted. His fingers went from teasing to pulling at the band of your panties, dragging them down your legs roughly, abandoning his endeavour as soon as they were out of his way, leaving them hanging loosely around one of your ankles. His fingers were immediately back on you, this time rubbing between your slick folds, gathering the wetness that was pooling and dragging it upwards over your clit, pulling a quiet groan from your throat as your head dropped forward at the feeling. There was no teasing here, Bob immediately sped up his pace, drawing tight, quick circles over your sensitive bud. It took everything in your power to hold back your moans, biting down on your lip as your brow furrowed and eyes shut, the last thing you needed was to be caught.

“Jesus, darlin’, I need to be inside you,” Bob groaned quietly, reaching for his belt. You stopped his hands with yours, however. Pulling his fingers into his mouth and sucking on them lightly, cleaning them of your arousal as your own hands worked on his belt, “Holy shit, you’re going to kill me.”

Finally, you had his belt undone and his zipper down and were tugging them down just enough to free him. His dick sprung up, hitting his shirt and leaving the smallest of marks from his precum. You automatically went to wrap your fingers around you, but he stopped you.

“Enough of that, need to feel you.” Parting your thighs again, he pressed his tip against your entrance as his lips crashed into yours again. He swallowed your moans as he pushed in, pulling away from you only briefly to shush you, his hot breath fanning over your skin as he bottomed out. “Gotta stay quiet, pretty girl.”

You nodded as your head dropped forward against his shoulder. Your skin felt like it was on fire, your clothes feeling far too restrictive as a fine layer of sweat broke out across your body. Your glasses were slipping down your nose as you buried your head in Bob's neck, trailing kisses across the exposed skin to keep your mouth busy and groans muffled. Pulling back for a moment, you too pulled them off and discarded them along with Bob’s somewhere on the desk behind you.

You were always surprised at just how full you felt with Bob’s thick cock inside of you. He had pulled you to the very edge of your desk to get his hips flush to yours as you clung onto the edge for dear life. Giving you almost no time to adjust, Bob pulled out all the way before surging back in, his tip kissing the deepest spots of you, gripping your hips to use as leverage to pull you into him to meet his thrusts. It took you both everything you had to keep it quiet and keep it quick. If it was up to you, you would let him fuck you over and over for hours right on this desk, until you couldn't get up to walk back to the car.

“Fuck, you fill me so good, so good to me, Lieutenant,” you drawled out, loving the way he sped up just a little and his grip tightened on your skin as he pounded into you, the sound of your slick uncomfortably loud in the small room as he tried to pull you both to your orgasms as soon as he could lest you be caught. Which, given how little restraint you had holding in your moans, was growing increasingly likely.

It wasn’t made any easier when Bob restarted his assault on your clit.

“Oh shit!’ you cried out, just for him to stop again, clapping his hand over your mouth but not stopping his thrusts.

“I will leave you here like this if you can’t stay quiet,” he threatened, but you could tell he didn’t mean it. He was as desperate for this as you were. You nodded, biting your lip as he moved his hand back and returned it to your sensitive bud. “You gotta cum for me, baby. Give it to me,” Bob murmured as he refocused his efforts, his movements becoming rushed and sloppy as you could feel him close. His cock was throbbing inside of you as it dragged back and forth relentlessly over your abused walls. You could do nothing but nod overenthusiastically as you felt yourself get closer to your peak, throwing your head back and furrowing your brow as you teetered on the edge. “Be a good girl for me.”

With that, your orgasm broke through you and you bit down on your knuckle to keep your cries in. Your whole body tensed as your pussy nearly pushed Bob out with the force of it. Bob, in turn, buried his head in your neck as he came shortly after you, filling you with his seed so that it started to drip out of you with his final frantic thrusts, your clenching milking him dry and messing up the edge of the desk, threatening to stain the carpet as he rode out his high.

He stilled for a moment as you both caught your breath, his head staying against your shoulder as you brought a hand up to stroke his hair and you placed a soft kiss to his hairline.

“God I love doing that,” Bob’s voice was muffled a little before he leaned back, grabbing some tissues from your desk and cleaning himself up, passing you a few to do the same before tossing them into your trash can. Usually, he would take all the time in the world cleaning you up, but a glance at the clock had him swearing; “shit! I’m late.” he worried, hissing a little as he rushed to tuck his still softening dick back into his boxers and tidy up his uniform. You were similarly rushing to push down your skirt over your now cold, but still-soaked panties.

“Go - I’ll clean up here,” you assured, already grabbing some more tissues to try and sort out your desk.

“Are you su-” Bob started, looking guilty as he grabbed a pair of glasses.

“Yes, now go!” you urged with a quick kiss to his cheek, pushing him towards your door.

“I love you,” he called quietly as he slipped out of the room and rushed down the corridor, starting to push the glasses back into his place on his nose.

You turned as he left, throwing the last of the tissues into the bin and straightening out your papers again, reaching for the remaining glasses and slipping them on, blinking a few times as you tried to adjust to them.

That’s when you realised… “oh fuck.”

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97lala · 1 month ago

Text

shy guy finish first ━ bob floyd (part one)

dedicated to: @bodhiscurls because i love her to bits and she’s the best writing buddy and chaotic little cheerleader i could ever ask for♡ word count: 15,777 words pairing: bob floyd x fem!reader synopsis: you were just trying to blow off steam at the hard deck, maybe flirt your way out of a dry spell, but then quiet, polite bob floyd snapped, cornered you in the bathroom, and showed you exactly what eight months of pent-up want really looked like. content warnings: smut, mdni, blowjob in a bar bathroom, desperate tension, grinding, throatfucking, glasses staying on, possessive!bob (which is ooc, i'm sorry!), overstimulation, mutual begging, heavy petting, light choking, swearing, and two idiots who haven’t even fucked yet but are already acting like it’s the end of the world. also my first time writing smut ever so please bear with me!! author's note: you guys might want to know that i physically cannot write anything without overthinking every line which is probably why this turned into a whole spiral instead of something normal, like i swear i sat down with one idea and now i’m here wondering what just happened, so yeah, thank you for reading and letting me be feral in peace! kofi︱request︱masterlist

“Chug! Chug! Chug!”

The whole Hard Deck roared as you tipped your head back, beer sloshing down your throat with not a single pause, not even a flinch. You didn’t even blink. You were standing on top of the bench now, one foot on the table and the other on Fanboy’s thigh for balance because you had somehow convinced him to sit still long enough for you to climb up like a drunken goat.

The squad was losing their minds. Rooster was banging his fist on the table like he was summoning a demon, Phoenix had her phone out recording everything, and someone, probably Hangman, let out the loudest “WOOOOO!” known to mankind the second you slammed the empty glass down on the counter.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, grinning like an absolute menace, your shirt slightly damp from the splashback, your hair a little messy, but your energy completely unbothered. You were glowing with the kind of chaotic pride only achievable through beer, adrenaline, and the undeniable high of being the most unhinged person in the room.

“Another!” you shouted, already reaching for someone else’s untouched pint.

The second your empty glass hit the wood, the whole place erupted. Cheering, whistles, someone slapped the bell behind the bar like it was a damn boxing match. Even Penny raised her eyebrows from across the counter, clearly impressed but already calculating how much trouble you'd cause in the next ten minutes.

You threw your arms up like you'd just won a championship, yelling out something unintelligible that made Fanboy yell back, “SHE’S UNSTOPPABLE!” and honestly, yeah. You kind of were.

“That was the hottest thing I’ve seen all week,” Jake said with a grin that could probably fry an egg on the nearest surface.

You turned, your head a little fuzzy, your lips still wet, and you locked eyes with him in that way the way that made people nervous, the way that made grown men second-guess all their choices. Jake was leaning back in his seat like he owned the damn place, legs spread, that lazy smirk tugging at his mouth, eyes doing things that should honestly be illegal.

You stepped down from the bench with the casual grace of someone who had no business still being upright, walked right up to him like you were in a slow-motion movie, and dropped your hands onto the back of his chair as you leaned in close. Close enough that your noses nearly brushed, your mouth just inches from his, and your breath tasted like beer and adrenaline and every terrible idea you had ever had.

Jake's lips parted, barely, like he was ready to close that gap, eyes flicking down to your mouth with all the grace of a man losing a game he thought he was winning.

And then, you laughed. You pulled back, slapped his cheek with exactly the kind of affection that made him blink in surprise, and said, “Nice try, Seresin,” before grabbing Phoenix’s drink and strutting away like you hadn't just short-circuited half the bar.

You didn’t look back, but you could feel the heat of Jake’s stunned stare drilling into the back of your head, and honestly? You were living for it.

───────

Not far from the noise and half the squad’s terrible chanting, Bob sat quietly at a small round table near the corner, shoulders a little hunched and nursing a cold glass of cola he hadn’t taken more than three sips from in the last hour.

The condensation had pooled under it, forming a perfect little ring, and he was absently tracing it with the tip of his finger, eyes flicking occasionally toward the bar but never staying there long enough to get caught staring.

Rooster slid into the seat beside him with a lopsided grin and two drinks in hand; one for himself, one that he placed in front of Bob with a hopeful raise of his brow.

“No, thank you,” Bob said instantly, as politely as ever, the corners of his mouth twitching up into the softest smile as he pushed the offered glass back with a gentle nudge. “Still got mine.”

Rooster chuckled and leaned his elbows onto the table, swirling his whiskey around as he gave Bob a pointed look. “You know, for someone who gets stared at like that every time she looks your way, you sure are committed to keeping your head down.”

Bob’s ears turned pink instantly. “She doesn’t—” he started, then stopped, then cleared his throat. “She’s just… being friendly.”

“Oh yeah,” Rooster said with a nod, full of playful sarcasm, “definitely the kind of friendly where she nearly kissed Hangman just now and then left him looking like a kicked puppy.”

Bob blinked, a little stunned, then took a very careful sip of his cola, mostly to buy time and to hide how fast his brain had started spinning.

Right on cue, Jake dropped himself into the third chair with a dramatic groan, throwing his head back like he’d been emotionally wounded by a Shakespearean tragedy. He reached across the table without even looking and grabbed Bob’s drink, taking a long sip before Bob could stop him.

“Hey—” Bob started, eyes wide, brows lifted in that quiet little protest that was never loud enough to actually work.

“She almost kissed me,” Jake said, voice filled with betrayal and beer. “She looked at me with those eyes, leaned in like she was gonna do it, and then she laughed. Laughed! Like I’m some kind of a joke. I’ve been emotionally dismantled, man. I’m not okay!”

Rooster snorted and tried to cover it with his glass, but Bob still heard it. He looked between the two of them, visibly confused and mildly horrified, and said softly, “You drank my cola…”

Jake waved a hand dismissively, still mid-rant. “I’ve been blue balled, Floyd. Absolutely slaughtered! Torn apart by her tease tactics. Do you know how many women have actually turned me down before the kiss? None. Zero. Zilch. This is uncharted territory. This is the end of an era. My era!”

Bob just stared at him, mouth parted, eyes wide, shoulders hunched like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to laugh or if this was somehow a moment that needed real sympathy.

Rooster let out a loud, careless laugh, the kind that made people at nearby tables glance over with raised eyebrows, and Jake immediately turned to him with a glare, sharp and squinting, like he couldn’t believe he was being laughed at during what was clearly a moment of personal crisis.

“What,” Jake snapped, dragging the word out like it was a threat, one hand flung toward Rooster in exasperation.

Rooster just leaned back into his chair like he had all the time in the world, nursing his drink with that usual smirk that made it impossible to tell if he was joking or being entirely serious. “You and Raven?” he said, voice casual, like he was just stating facts. “You two are too much alike. That’s your whole problem, dude.”

Jake furrowed his brows like he’d just been hit with a dictionary. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I mean you’re the same,” Rooster replied, gesturing lazily between him and the air, “like, exactly the same. You both walk into every room like it’s yours, you both flirt with anyone who gives you half a look, you both get bored unless something’s on fire, and honestly, you both kind of love causing chaos. You’re her with a bad haircut.”

Jake reeled like he’d been slapped with that one. “I am nothing like her,” he argued, his voice climbing a little, “she’s unpredictable, she’s loud, she does that thing where she flirts just to get people all hot and bothered and then walks away laughing like she didn’t just emotionally destroy someone—”

“Yeah,” Rooster said, looking directly at him now, “and who else does that, huh?”

Jake pointed at himself. “Not me.”

Rooster gave him a long, slow stare, clearly not convinced. “I know her type.”

Jake blinked and leaned forward now, like he was trying to get ahead of the thought before it landed. “I am her type.”

Rooster grinned. “Wrong, I know her type.”

Jake looked at him like he was waiting for the punchline, like maybe Rooster would laugh and say it was a joke, but he didn’t so Jake tilted his chin up, already defensive. “Who?”

Rooster didn’t say anything. He just turned his head slightly, just enough to glance past Jake’s shoulder.

And there, quietly wedged between them, like he had been the entire time, was Bob.

Still sitting perfectly still in his seat, both elbows on the table, his hands loosely holding the empty peanut box he had been reading for the past five minutes like it was the most riveting thing he’d ever seen.

His shoulders were drawn in just a little, his posture tight like he was trying not to take up space, and his lips were parted slightly like he was in the middle of mouthing a word printed on the back of the box.

The faintest blush still coloured his cheeks, and his glasses had slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose, but he hadn’t noticed or maybe just hadn’t bothered to fix them.

Jake followed Rooster’s gaze slowly, frowning, and when he finally landed on Bob, his eyes narrowed.

Rooster didn’t look away. He just kept his eyes on Bob and took a slow sip of his drink.

Jake turned to him again. “No.”

Rooster just raised a brow.

Jake turned back to Bob.

Bob, who now seemed to feel the weight of two stares drilling into him from both sides, slowly lifted his head, blinking like he had been deep underwater and was just coming up for air.

His eyes flicked to Rooster, then to Jake, then back to Rooster, then down at the peanut box like maybe it had answers, then back up again, and he looked completely overwhelmed.

“...Did I do something?” he asked softly, eyes wide, voice low and uncertain, like he was genuinely worried he’d somehow gotten himself involved in a conversation he hadn’t signed up for.

Jake blinked once, then sat up straighter like someone had just accused him of something criminal. “Hell no,” he said, scoffing, shaking his head so hard his hair bounced. “Come on, me I understand, but him?!”

Bob turned his head slowly, eyes still wide, clearly trying to keep up. “What’s going on?” he asked carefully, voice small, fingers curling tighter around the now slightly crumpled peanut box in his hands.

Rooster took a long, lazy sip from his drink, not looking at either of them, then shrugged like this whole thing wasn’t about to spiral into some kind of war. “I’m just saying,” he muttered, setting the glass back down, “every time Raven’s around, I catch her eye-fucking Bob like it’s her job.”

Bob choked instantly, eyes going comically wide as he nearly dropped the box and knocked his knee against the table. “What?” he said, voice cracking, the blush on his cheeks blooming into full-on panic as he looked between them. “I—I don’t think—I mean—I have no idea what you’re talking about—”

“She what?” Jake exploded, half standing, eyes wild as he stared at Bob like Bob had betrayed him without even knowing it. “There is no way. You’re messing with me. She flirts with me, man. I’m her type. This—this makes no sense.”

Rooster shrugged again, leaning his chin into his hand like this was all incredibly boring to him. “Nah. She flirts with you because she knows it gets a rise. It’s fun. You’re easy.”

Jake made a noise like he was being physically attacked. “Easy?!”

Rooster just kept going like he hadn’t said anything remotely controversial. “But every time Bob walks into a room, she looks at him like he’s a snack. And not like a chips-and-salsa kind of snack, but like a full-course, ruin-my-life, let-me-be-a-problem kind of snack.”

Bob made another squeaky little sound in his throat and turned fully toward the table, clutching the peanut box like it was a holy text, his ears now red, his voice barely above a whisper. “I—I think you’re mistaken,” he stammered, looking anywhere but at either of them, “I really don’t think she—I mean—she’s just friendly, I’m sure it’s not—”

“Oh come on!” Jake shouted, flinging his hands in the air like he couldn’t believe this was happening, like he had stepped into an alternate timeline where nothing made sense anymore. “This is actually insane. I flirt with her all the time, I wear nice cologne, I do the smirk thing, I lean against walls. What does he do? Sit there? Blink politely?! And that’s what gets her attention?!”

Bob looked absolutely horrified. He sat frozen for a moment, blinking rapidly, still clutching the peanut box like it was the last solid thing in his universe, and then, very quietly, barely loud enough to be heard over the music and laughter around them, he snapped.

“What are you guys even talking about?” he asked, voice sharper than usual, not mean, just overwhelmed, confused, a little cracked at the edges like he’d been cornered in the middle of a game he didn’t know he was playing.

Jake pointed a dramatic finger at him, looking genuinely betrayed. “You stole my wife!”

Bob reeled back. “What?! No! I—I didn’t—what are you even saying?! I haven’t done anything! I haven’t said anything! She doesn’t even—she hasn’t—this is ridiculous, I’m not even—look, I’m just sitting here!”

His voice broke halfway through, hands flailing a little in panic, glasses slipping further down his nose, and Rooster actually had to lean forward and grab one of Bob’s wrists before he knocked over someone’s drink. Bob looked utterly flustered, already blushing so badly he could probably cook an egg on his cheeks, chest rising and falling like he’d just run laps.

Jake and Rooster exchanged a look. Then, they both moved at once.

Jake grabbed Bob by the shoulders and turned him gently but firmly in his chair, while Rooster reached over and tilted Bob’s chin toward the centre of the room, both of them crowding in on either side like conspirators in some ridiculous, unspoken plan.

“Look at her,” Rooster said quietly, leaning in, voice low in Bob’s ear.

“Really look,” Jake added, his tone weirdly soft, like all the loud theatrics had suddenly drained from him.

Bob frowned, still confused, still flushed, but he blinked once and followed their direction, slowly turning his head, eyes scanning the bar, until they landed on you.

You, who were still standing by the jukebox surrounded by the others, all of them laughing at something you had just shouted across the room, your head thrown back with your hands up like you were telling a story, your cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the heat of the crowd, your grin completely unbothered, unstoppable, radiant.

Bob’s breath caught a little.

You hadn’t even noticed him staring, you weren’t even facing him directly, but he was looking now, really looking, like the shape of you had just rearranged something in him. The way your eyes danced when you laughed, the way your hands moved when you talked, the way you carried yourself like the entire bar existed just for your amusement, like you belonged everywhere all at once.

Bob couldn’t look away now. He took you in like he’d been starving for weeks and didn’t know it until now, like someone had hit the lights and the music all at once and all he could see was you.

And then, maybe because the universe had a sense of humour, or maybe because you could feel eyes on you even from across a crowded bar, you turned.

Your gaze swept lazily over the room, still laughing at whatever Fanboy was saying, still cradling someone’s beer in your hand like it was your own, but then your eyes landed on him.

You felt as though someone was staring at you, and you wanted to see who dared to look at him. You turned your head slightly, and your eyes met his, sharp and clear like a spotlight piercing through the background.

You remained silent. You didn't turn your head away. Bob felt his breath catch in his chest so painfully because you did nothing but look, really look, as if he were something worth examining, something you had already decided to destroy.

There was something in your eyes that knocked the thoughts clean out of his head. Not soft, not friendly, not even teasing. It was intense, it was focused, it was heat without warning, and Bob swore his heart skipped at least three beats and maybe restarted in a completely new rhythm.

His brain was trying to do something, maybe form a sentence, maybe just function, but everything short-circuited at once and all he could do was sit there and take it, jaw slack, eyes wide, face on fire.

Because you were looking at him. Like that. And he was pretty sure that if that stare lasted one more second, he was going to do something stupid and permanent.

He was going to—

“Oh come on!” Jake groaned, loud and long and absolutely miserable as he threw his whole body back into his chair like the world had personally wronged him. “Did you see that?! That was—that was straight-up eye-fucking, man, with capital letters and a neon sign!”

Rooster took a sip from his drink and leaned back, his voice calm and unbothered as he said, “Told you, man,” like he hadn’t just watched Jake’s pride collapse in real time.

But Bob didn’t move.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t blink, didn’t breathe properly, just sat there completely stunned, eyes still locked in your direction even though you’d already turned away again, already laughing at something Phoenix and Fanboy had said, already pulling someone into a side hug like you hadn’t just dismantled him from across the bar.

He was still sitting there, still staring at the spot where you had been, still dazed out of his mind, hands resting in his lap like he’d forgotten he had fingers, and somewhere down by his chair, the crushed peanut box had fallen and landed sideways on the floor without him noticing.

“Bro,” Rooster said suddenly, leaning in and snapping his fingers right in front of Bob’s face, “hey, Earth to Floyd, are you—wait, are you getting hard right now?”

Bob physically jerked like someone had slapped him, eyes wide as he whipped his head toward Rooster, mouth opening and closing without anything actually coming out for a full two seconds.

“I—I’m not—what?! No! I’m not—I wouldn’t—I didn’t even—” Bob stammered, his voice climbing an octave with every syllable, hands coming up like he could defend himself from the sheer accusation of it. His ears had gone so red they practically glowed under the bar lights, and he looked horrified in the most painfully sincere way.

“I can’t believe this,” Jake groaned beside him, slumping into the table like he was being punished by the universe itself, face pressed to the wood like he couldn’t physically carry the weight of his own disappointment anymore. “I flirted for months, I put in effort, I smiled with my eyes, and all it takes is one soft-spoken stare from a guy who reads peanut boxes like poetry and she’s ready to pounce?!”

Bob let out the most distressed sound anyone had ever heard from him, something between a gasp and a whimper, and looked like he was seriously debating crawling under the table and just staying there forever.

“I was not—I didn’t—Rooster!” he half-yelled, voice cracking again, both hands running through his hair now like he was seconds away from full shutdown, “You can’t just ask someone that! That’s—that’s not even—how would you even know?!”

Rooster shrugged, cool as ever. “I mean, you kinda spaced out for a full minute and then started breathing like someone pressed the turbo button.”

Jake let out another wounded groan, dragging his forehead across the table like he was physically trying to melt into it. “This is my villain origin story,” he mumbled, “this is how I go rogue.”

───────

You had really only meant to sneak a glance.

Just something quick, nothing serious, just a casual little look to see if he was still being flustered and adorable or if Jake had calmed down even a little or if Bradley was still wearing that smug older-brother-who-knows-something-you-don’t expression.

But the moment your eyes landed on Bob, blushing like mad, eyes wide, hands frozen mid-air like he was trying to figure out where they were supposed to go, and his shirt all slightly wrinkled from the way he had been messing with it nervously, your entire body tensed.

And the groan that left you wasn’t soft.

It was long and low and full of frustration, the kind that came from months of silently suffering in your own personal hell, and it slipped out before you could stop it.

Phoenix tilted her head, brows already raised. “You alright or are you gonna combust in public?”

Halo followed the direction of your stare, barely hiding her smirk. “I swear, if this is still about Lieutenant Eye Contact over there—”

You groaned again, dragging your hands down your face like maybe, just maybe, if you covered your eyes, your feelings would evaporate. “I swear on my last brain cell, I’m gonna lose it. I’m gonna actually lose it and scream. He’s sitting there looking like he just learned what sex is and it’s my fault somehow.”

Halo leaned closer, her drink balanced casually in her hand, voice low and amused. “Are we talking about the man you’ve been eye-fucking since last Christmas?”

“That’s the one,” Phoenix said under her breath, tapping the edge of her glass against the bar like she was keeping score.

“I have tried,” you hissed, slumping sideways against the jukebox, “I have flirted, I have smiled, I have worn outfits that would put a saint in a chokehold, I almost kissed Hangman for the sole purpose of emotional terrorism and he” — you pointed in Bob’s direction like it hurt — “he still thinks I’m being friendly.”

Phoenix blinked slowly. “You’re telling me that look you just gave him wasn’t a threat and a promise all in one?”

“I want to bite him,” you snapped. “And not in a weird way. I mean in a feral, I-don’t-care-if-this-is-socially-acceptable kind of way. I want to pin him to the wall and say oops.”

Halo just nodded solemnly. “Respect.”

“He’s so soft,” you went on, practically vibrating now, “like actually soft, not just emotionally soft but like if I kissed his neck he’d probably short-circuit and make a noise I wouldn’t recover from, and you’re all acting like I’m the crazy one—”

“You are the crazy one,” Phoenix interrupted calmly, “but it’s fine, you wear it well.”

“I need to get laid,” you groaned, dragging the words out like they hurt, your head dropping back against the jukebox again with a dull thud that none of them even reacted to anymore. “Like seriously laid. Like knock-me-out-and-reset-my-central-nervous-system kind of laid. My fucking vibrator at home is this close to giving up on me, I swear I can hear it sigh when I pick it up.”

Halo snorted, sipping her drink without breaking eye contact. “Okay, but Seresin’s right there. You could literally just make eye contact and he’d throw himself at you like a cartoon character.”

You scrunched your nose so fast it looked like a reflex. “Don’t be disgusting.”

Phoenix let out a snort of laughter that turned into a cough, nearly spilling her drink. “Did you just gag at the thought of Jake Seresin?”

“I’m sorry,” you said, holding up a hand, “I respect him as a fellow menace but if I ever have to look at his smug face while he’s naked I think I might actually start crying. I’d rather stay abstinent.”

“Okay, but seriously,” Halo leaned in, squinting like she was studying you, “when was the last time you got laid?”

You stared at her.

She blinked.

Phoenix leaned forward.

You blinked.

“...Nine months ago?” you said finally, very slowly, like you were doing the math in real time and were also a little offended by the number.

There was a pause. A full-body, what-the-fuck-did-you-just-say pause.

“Nine?!” Phoenix shouted, eyes wide, jaw actually dropping.

Halo looked personally attacked. “How are you alive?!”

You just shrugged, taking a long sip of your drink like this was normal, like you weren’t actively dying inside. “I think it’s Bob. Like he’s been reversing the effects of my last hook-up through sheer wholesomeness or something. Like every time he looks at me and blushes I forget what sex even is. I think I’ve been... un-fucked. Spiritually.”

Phoenix covered her mouth with her hand, wheezing. “You’ve gone insane.”

“I know,” you said again, voice muffled through your fingers, “and I’m not even sorry. It’s his fault. He says please and thank you and I want to ruin him.”

Halo nodded slowly, like it all made sense now. “You’ve got it bad.”

“Do I?” you snapped. “Because I’ve spent the last eight months wanting to throw that man against a wall and every time I try to flirt with him, he tells me to have a nice day.”

Phoenix was already laughing, her head tilted back, one hand pressed to her chest like she couldn’t believe the words coming out of your mouth. “Have a nice day,” she repeated, practically wheezing, “girl, he’s killing you.”

“He’s polite,” Halo added, eyes wide, voice dramatic like she was recounting a murder, “he calls people ma’am, he waits in lines, he probably says sorry when he bumps into furniture—”

“He does,” you cut in, voice sharp, pointing at her like that was the worst part. “He does say sorry when he runs into chairs. I’ve seen it. He bumped his knee on a coffee table in the rec room and he whispered sorry like it had feelings. It did something to me. I don’t want to be normal anymore.”

Halo covered her mouth and squeaked. “That’s adorable.”

“It’s lethal,” you said, arms crossed, foot tapping furiously against the floor. “I’m losing my mind. I’m walking around like I’m fine but inside it’s just Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob and then sometimes Bob in a towel because I saw that one time and it’s never left me.”

Phoenix spit her drink.

Halo grabbed your arm. “You saw Bob in a towel and you’ve been sitting on that information this whole time?!”

“It was months ago,” you hissed, glancing around like you were revealing top secret government intel, “I walked past the locker room and he had just come out of the showers and he had his little glasses on and a towel wrapped around his waist and wet hair and I genuinely almost fainted. Like black spots in my vision, I had to sit down.”

Phoenix looked devastated. “You sat on that. You kept that to yourself.”

“I tried to forget,” you said, pressing a hand to your chest like it still haunted you. “But it plays in my brain like a damn music video.”

Halo let out a long, low whistle. “You’ve got it so bad. You need to do something. You’re gonna combust.”

“Like what?” you asked, flailing your hands, fully spiralling now. “He probably thinks I’m just being nice! I wore a crop top last week and dropped my pen on purpose and bent over to pick it up and he said, “That's a safety hazard, ma’am.””

Phoenix wheezed again. “That man has no idea.”

“That man,” you said, staring at your drink like it had wronged you, “is my Roman Empire.”

Phoenix gave you a look. The kind that said she was about five seconds away from grabbing your shoulders and shaking the desperation out of you. “Okay then, if Bob’s gonna keep playing the oblivious virgin card, maybe it’s time to get some actual dick and stop hallucinating every time he says thank you.”

You opened your mouth to protest but she cut you off.

“No, don’t even argue,” she said, waving her drink around like a wand, “we’re surrounded by military-grade testosterone, someone in here has to be emotionally unavailable and hot enough to distract you for at least one night.”

Halo hummed and leaned forward, scanning the crowd like a hawk. “Alright then, let’s find her a rebound,” she said like it was a mission, eyes sharp, smile deadly.

You were about to tell them to chill, that you didn’t need a full-blown one-night-stand intervention, but then Halo suddenly pointed with her drink, her voice dropping into something lower, smugger.

“Okay, but like that guy,” she said, tilting her head slightly.

You followed her gaze, and your stomach flipped.

Across the room, leaning casually against the bar, was a man who honestly looked like he had walked straight out of a fantasy novel. Tall, dressed in a dark button-up with sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms, long fingers wrapped around a whiskey glass, head tilted slightly like he was thinking about something poetic. Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, soft curls pushed back, and the kind of slow, easy smirk that said he had ruined people before and never lost sleep over it.

And his eyes? Locked directly on you.

You blinked.

He raised his glass.

You blinked again.

“Why does he look like he writes sad poems for a living?” you whispered.

Halo grinned. “He’s been staring at you for the last ten minutes. And not like a guy who wants to talk, but like a guy who already has your Spotify password memorised.”

Phoenix sipped her drink. “He looks like if British regret was a person. That man reads Virginia Woolf in bed and then ruins lives with his hands.”

You gawked. “I mean he’s hot but what if he’s a serial killer?”

“I mean,” Halo said, eyes twinkling, “worth the risk, no?”

You groaned, slumping forward like this whole night was being personally orchestrated by the universe to destroy you. “I can’t. What if I sleep with him and then Bob finds out and I have to live with the shame of being dickmatized by a man who looks like he cries during jazz?”

Phoenix raised a brow. “Or... you could just march across the bar, grab Bob by the collar, and solve your little nine-month crisis tonight.”

You stared down into your drink like it was going to give you a divine answer, swirled the liquid slowly, lips pressed together, heartbeat a little too fast and brain way too loud.

Because on one hand, no. You weren’t about to throw yourself at some British man with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and a possible emotional support book of poetry in his back pocket.

You didn’t even know his name. What if he turned out to be weird? What if he asked you to call him “my muse” mid-way through? What if he wore socks during sex?

But also…

It had been nine months.

Nine. Whole. Fucking (not literally). Months.

You hadn't even realised how long it had been until you said it out loud earlier, and now the number was sitting in your chest like a dead weight, echoing louder than the music, making your brain short-circuit with every shift of Bob's glasses and every accidental flex of his forearms and every goddamn “ma’am” that slipped out of his mouth like he wasn’t slowly ruining your life with the power of respectful vocabulary.

You shifted on your feet and tried to act normal, but you were practically vibrating.

Am I really about to fold?

Am I that down bad?

Would having sex with a random man just to quiet the Bob voices in my head be considered spiritual cheating?

Is it even cheating if Bob has no idea I’ve mentally married him three times already?

You sighed. “I don’t know,” you muttered, finally answering your friends, still not looking up. “The idea of having sex with a stranger just makes me tired. Like emotionally, physically, mentally tired. The prep, the fake laughing, the pretending to be surprised when they say something dumb, the awkward moment when they ask if I came and I have to lie—”

Halo was already laughing. “Okay, that’s fair.”

Phoenix leaned in, smirking. “But...?”

You groaned and let your head fall forward until it bumped the jukebox again. “But I also feel like if I don’t get railed soon I’m gonna start seeing God in traffic lights.”

Halo choked on her drink. “Sweetheart, you are in hell.”

“I know,” you whined, “and he’s over there drinking soda like a virgin prince who doesn’t know he could absolutely destroy me with one firm sentence.”

“Hello…”

───────

Bob’s soul just fucking left his body the moment he saw that guy, tall and sharp and walking like he owned the place, like he belonged in the frame with you, like he was about to say something smooth and actually pull it off, and Bob didn’t even notice how Jake had started rambling again about something gross, probably his top three sex positions or some shit about eye contact and rhythm and Bradley, for some reason, was agreeing with him, even adding details, even leaning forward like this was an actual conversation people were meant to hear.

But none of it mattered because Bob wasn’t listening, couldn’t listen, not when he was too busy watching that guy talk to you, like really talk to you, not just throw lines but say something that actually made you laugh, something that made you shift a little and glance down like you were trying not to smile too much, and Bob just sat there, eyes locked and hands clenched and head starting to ring, because since when did you smile like that for anyone else?

Since when did you get flustered?!

Because he had watched you flirt with people for months, had seen you blow kisses at Hangman just to mess with him, had heard you call a superior officer “handsome” with a wink and not even blink after it, had seen you push Coyote’s buttons and knock back tequila and laugh like nothing could get to you.

But now, now you were playing with your drink, looking down at your shoes, tucking your hair behind your ear like you didn’t even realise you were doing it, and Bob was going to explode, he was going to lose it completely, and Phoenix wasn’t helping, she was right there giving you the most encouraging look he’d ever seen, and Halo was leaning in like she was ready to start chanting “take him home” in your ear, and Bob—

Bob was fucking stuck. Just stuck there in the middle of whatever hell this was, feeling his heart crawl up his throat as he watched the guy lean in closer to you, and you didn’t even pull away.

Bob kept watching though, he couldn’t not watch, and he couldn’t even pretend to glance away or look casual or participate in whatever the hell Jake was saying now about how shower sex was overrated if the water pressure sucked, because all he could do was stare across the room like he’d just been hit with something heavy, because you were still talking to that guy, nodding along and laughing at whatever he was saying.

And Bob could tell it was smooth, could tell the guy knew what he was doing, the way he was leaning with just enough space to be respectful but still make it feel like it meant something, the way his hand casually brushed the bar top right next to yours, like it was nothing, like he hadn’t been staring at you all night like you were the goddamn sun.

And you were eating it up.

You were laughing, you were twirling your straw around your glass, you were shifting one foot like you were nervous or shy or maybe just excited, and Bob’s heart was climbing, actually climbing, like physically trying to escape through his throat and he didn’t know what to do with his hands anymore, didn’t know where to look or how to sit or how to breathe, because you tilted your head and leaned in closer and the guy said something that made you smile so wide Bob felt it in his chest.

He didn’t even know the guy, had no clue if he was Navy or civilian or just some random who strolled into the Hard Deck like it was fate, but he hated him already, hated the way he looked at you like he deserved your attention, hated the way you gave it to him, hated that you weren’t looking back at Bob like you usually did, hated that you weren’t tossing him a glance just to see if he was paying attention, hated that this time, maybe you didn’t care if he was.

And maybe he’d imagined it all

Maybe all those looks across the bar and all the half-smiles and lingering hands on his shoulder or his wrist or the way you called him sweetheart when you thought no one was listening, maybe it was just how you were, maybe you were like this with everyone, maybe he was stupid to think it ever meant anything more than your usual mess of charm and games and heat, because now, now you were leaning against the bar and actually blushing at something some stranger said, and Bob’s lungs felt too small for his chest.

And Bradley nudged him, said something about looking like he’d seen a ghost, and Bob tried to answer but it came out wrong, because what was he supposed to say, hey man I think I’m watching my entire life spiral out of my control because the girl I’ve been lowkey in love with for the last ten months might be about to give her number to a guy who looks like he journals with a quill pen and kisses with poetry, because even thinking that made Bob’s stomach flip.

And he was still staring, still holding on to the fading hope that maybe you’d look at him, even for just a second, like maybe you’d catch his eye and do that thing where you smirk like you know you’ve got him wrapped around your finger, but you weren’t looking, you were still talking, and Bob could feel something in him starting to spiral.

And he wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.

“Dude.”

Bob blinked once, just once, because he was still looking at you, still watching how your fingers curled around your glass and how your mouth moved when you laughed, and maybe he imagined it, maybe it wasn’t real, but he could’ve sworn your eyes flicked up like you were about to glance around the room, and he waited, he actually held his breath like a loser waiting for you to look his way, but it never happened.

And then came Bradley, because of course it was Bradley, leaning in close like he was about to deliver classified information, his voice low, his brows up, his tone doing that annoying thing where it sounded casual but also absolutely meant business, and Bob didn’t even look at him properly because Jake, Jake was suddenly there too, on the other side, like they’d planned this, like they’d coordinated their chaos just to crowd him, shoulder to shoulder, pressure from both sides like they were about to shake sense into him.

“Are you seriously just gonna sit here?” Bradley muttered, and it was that tone, the really? tone, the are-you-fucking-kidding-me tone, and Bob wanted to argue, really he did, except Jake spoke at the same time.

“She’s right there, man,” Jake hissed like they were in the middle of some covert operation, “and you’re just... sitting? What, you think she’s gonna walk over here and propose to you?”

Bob blinked again.

“She’s laughing,” Bradley said, like Bob couldn’t see it himself, like Bob hadn’t been watching it happen in real time, like he didn’t know every shift of your weight and every twitch of your smile and every little habit you had when someone managed to genuinely get your attention, “and she’s smiling at him like he’s charming and she doesn’t usually do that, man, you know that, you know that.”

And Bob tried, he really did, he opened his mouth to explain that he was frozen, that he wasn’t physically capable of standing up right now, that his hands were literally sweating and his legs felt like twigs and his brain was caught somewhere between heartbreak and cardiac arrest, but Jake cut him off again, too loud for his own good, because he was Hangman and subtlety was a concept he never quite absorbed.

“Even I’m rooting for you now, Baby on board,” he said, like this was some kind of painful underdog movie, “you’re the quiet guy, the respectful guy, the one with the slow stare and the soft little voice that probably ruins people behind closed doors—”

Bob choked.

“—don’t act like you don’t know it either,” Jake pushed on, like Bob hadn’t already been living in denial for the past year, “you’ve got that whole Clark Kent thing going on and she’s been eye-fucking you since Christmas, and now you’re just gonna let her walk off with the guy who probably starts sentences with ‘Actually, in the original French—’?”

And Bradley was nodding along like this was completely reasonable.

Bob made a noise, something halfway between a breath and a crisis, and tried to look anywhere but at you, but that made it worse, because when he looked at the bar again, you were still there, still smiling, still twirling your straw and tilting your head and doing that thing where your knee bounced slightly when you were into a conversation, and Bob could see Phoenix give you this look, this wide-eyed, giddy, you got this, babe look, and Halo practically beaming beside her like she was your personal hype squad, and suddenly it felt like the floor was shifting, like the air in the bar got too thin.

And then Bradley leaned in even closer, close enough that Bob actually flinched, and his voice dropped so low it was almost unfair.

“She likes you,” he said simply, not a tease, not a push, just a fact laid flat between them like Bob hadn’t already known it, like he hadn’t been clinging to the maybe of it for months, “you just never do anything about it, man, and she’s not gonna wait forever.”

Bob opened his mouth again, completely panicked, completely lost.

Jake smacked his shoulder hard enough to jolt him and muttered, “Do something, Floyd, for fuck’s sake, before she gives Tall British Tragedy her number and breaks your entire bloodline.”

And Bob, poor, frozen, flustered, too-in-love-to-function Bob, just stared back at you like this was all some kind of test he wasn’t ready for, like maybe he’d already failed and this was the part where he had to find out what it felt like to lose something that was never his.

Bob’s eyes twitched behind his glasses, just a little at first, like his body was trying to warn him before his brain caught up, but then it happened again, sharper this time, more obvious, and he knew it wasn’t just a tick, it was rage or panic or maybe both, bubbling in his skin as he watched Phoenix and Halo walk away from you with the smuggest looks on their faces, winking like traitors, like they hadn’t just abandoned you with a man who looked like he belonged in a goddamn fragrance ad.

And you, of course you, tried to shoot them a glare, really tried, but it was weak and late and you didn’t even commit to it, because the second the guy opened his mouth again, you were distracted all over again, smiling, laughing softly, turning back toward him like he’d said something worth hearing, and that was when Bob realised he was going to snap.

He didn’t know how much time passed after that, couldn’t remember how many seconds or minutes had bled into one another while he sat there, too stiff and too warm and way too close to spiralling, because you were clearly flirting now, not just smiling and nodding politely, not just entertaining the guy because you were too nice to walk away, but genuinely engaged, leaning in ever so slightly, talking low, brushing your fingers along the bar while he mirrored the motion on his side, and it didn’t matter that he wasn’t actually touching you, because it was close enough, because the tension was there and the space was shrinking and Bob could see it, could see both of you slowly undressing each other with your eyes like this was the beginning of something that wasn’t supposed to happen in front of him.

And then you stood up. You stood up, and he did too.

He didn’t even realise it, didn’t plan it, just suddenly found himself walking, legs moving without consent, heart in his throat, and then his voice followed, shaky but determined, louder than it should have been as he crossed the room with his chest tight and his jaw clenched and his hands curled too tightly at his sides.

“Raven.”

You turned immediately, eyes catching his, and you tilted your head the second you recognised him, something surprised and amused settling over your expression like you hadn’t expected him to be standing there looking like he was two seconds away from short-circuiting.

“Yes, Bob?” you asked, calm and curious, lips parted just enough to make his brain freeze for a second longer than it should’ve.

He opened his mouth, words half-formed in the back of his throat, but the man beside you was already turning toward him, already offering his hand like he was made of pure class and silk, smiling like this wasn’t the most stressful moment of Bob’s entire year.

“Tom,” he said, accent undeniably British, voice smooth and kind, too kind, like this was all incredibly polite and not at all threatening, like he wasn’t on the verge of taking you home, like he wasn’t already halfway through winning you over.

And you, oblivious or maybe just cruel, smiled and gestured between them both like this was all normal.

“Bob, this is Tom. Tom, Bob. He’s my teammate.”

And Bob just stood there, face warm, hands awkward at his sides, heart screaming, because he hadn’t even gotten to say what he came here to say, because now he was meeting the man who might walk out the door with you tonight, the man who was taller and prettier and had an accent, and Bob had no idea how to compete with that.

Bob’s hand was clammy. He felt it the moment Tom’s fingers wrapped around his, calm and confident, like he’d never known a hint of nervousness in his entire life, and Bob knew his own grip was off, too strong at first then awkwardly loose, and when he said hi, it came out quiet and weird and he immediately followed it up with a second “hello” like that would make it better, and then he cleared his throat like that would help too, like somehow he could reset this entire moment and start over as someone cooler.

He let go too fast. And then he turned to you.

“Could we—” he started, voice unsure again, too high, too soft, and he cleared his throat again because fuck, “could we talk for a second?”

And your face, God, your face looked like you genuinely weren’t expecting that at all, because your brows furrowed and your lips parted like you were trying to remember if you’d forgotten something important, and then you glanced at Tom, probably just instinct, probably just checking if this was weird, if you needed to be worried, but Tom didn’t even flinch.

He was just standing there beside you, all tall and calm and British and perfect, looking at you like he was listening but not interfering, like he didn’t mind being interrupted, like he was curious, and it made Bob’s skin itch.

“Talk?” you asked, slower this time, confused and cautious. “About what?”

Bob could feel his heart thumping in his throat again, loud and uneven, and Tom didn’t say a word, just kept watching you like none of this was strange, and Bob hated it, hated the way Tom was so composed and kind and patient, hated the way he kept looking at you like you were something soft.

“About work,” Bob said, way too fast, voice firmer than before but still not convincing enough, and you gave him a look, the kind that made it obvious you were two seconds away from making up some excuse and walking back into whatever moment Bob had just interrupted.

You let out a sigh. A big one. The kind that came from your chest.

And you gave him this soft, apologetic smile, like you were about to let him down easy, like you weren’t mad at all but you definitely didn’t want to follow him away from the very charming, very hot man currently standing by your side with that soft-eyed patience that was making Bob feel violently unwell.

But before you could say anything, before that smile could fully settle into its place, Bob leaned in just the tiniest bit and dropped his voice. “It’s serious,” he said, and it was gentler now, like all that panic and fire had drained into something quieter, something realer.

And your eyes flicked up to meet his, like you could feel it, like maybe you finally understood that this wasn’t about work at all. “Please?”

───────

Was he really doing this right now?

Like seriously, was Bob Floyd, sweet, gentle, painfully shy Bob who couldn’t even hold your gaze for longer than five seconds without looking like he’d combust, really asking to talk about work, right now, when you were finally, finally about to break your absolutely pathetic nine-month streak of not getting laid, which was, let’s be honest here, kind of his fault in the first place, because if he hadn’t been looking at you all the time like you hung stars and also like he was absolutely terrified of you, then maybe, maybe, you wouldn’t have been stuck in this strange limbo of flirting and tension and frustration and sleeping beside a vibrator that honestly deserved retirement benefits at this point.

So yeah. You blinked. You tried not to groan. You tried to remember your manners.

But then Tom, ever the gentleman, ever the calmly spoken and irritatingly attractive British man who looked like he recited poetry and smelled like wealth, had the audacity to offer with a polite smile, “Why don’t you two talk about it while I’m here?”

And he didn’t even get to finish.

Because Bob, Bob who had just a second ago looked like he was about to melt into the floor, suddenly snapped his attention toward Tom with this polite but firm tone and went, “I’d prefer it was private.”

And then, it happened. A goddamn pissing contest is what happened.

“Oh come on,” Tom said lightly, clearly amused and clearly not realising that he was about ten seconds from being tackled by a man who probably hadn’t said the word “fuck” out loud in years. “It’s a bar, mate. Not a debriefing room.”

“I still think it’d be better if we stepped away,” Bob answered, still nice, still polite, still impossibly soft-spoken, but you could hear it now, the sharpness beneath it, the quiet frustration, the fact that he’d finally reached a limit and was now, apparently, taking a stand right here next to the jukebox.

And you just stood there, caught in the middle of it, not even sure what the hell was happening anymore, because you were supposed to be the chaotic one, you were supposed to be the one who caused scenes, but now you were watching Bob bicker with a English man like the slowest, politest trainwreck of your life, and the worst part, the most disarming part, was that your eyes had drifted, totally without permission, back to Bob.

Because he looked serious. Serious and flushed and focused and every bit like someone who had made a decision and was finally following through with it, and god, that look, that look alone might’ve short-circuited whatever parts of your brain were still functioning.

So ,you did what any emotionally unstable, horny, overthinking, severely overstimulated woman would do.

You stepped in the middle.

Literally.

You put yourself between them, palms raised, body angled to stop them from leaning in any further, because this was ridiculous, this was too much, this was like stepping into a fanfiction you forgot you were starring in.

And then, Tom took your right hand, and Bob took your left.

At the same fucking time.

And for a moment, you genuinely forgot how to speak, because the both of them were still holding your hands like it meant something, still glaring at each other over your shoulders like you were a trophy and they were fighting to the death, and you just stood there, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, absolutely certain that you were being pranked by the universe, because what in the Wattpad hell was going on.

And then Tom tugged your hand.

It wasn’t hard, it wasn’t aggressive, just a gentle kind of pull like he was trying to guide you back to his side or maybe get your attention again, but your wrist twisted just a little weird and the second the pressure hit your thumb the wrong way, you let out a soft, annoyed, “Ouch—”

And that was it.

Bob stepped forward. Not with words, not with a warning, not with anything but a shift, a movement, a quiet decision to put himself right in front of you like some kind of flesh-and-bone wall, and suddenly you were looking at the back of his jacket and the slope of his neck and the way his shoulders looked too tense to be real, and then he was leaning in, just a few inches, just enough that the space between him and Tom felt like it was about to catch fire.

And Tom was taller, yeah, by maybe an inch or two, and he was still calm, still composed, still fucking unbearable with how gentle his expression was, but Bob didn’t even flinch, didn’t look away, didn’t hesitate, just stared up at him with that quiet fury that only existed in people who usually kept everything buried.

“I think you should back off,” Bob said, soft and polite but absolutely not playing anymore, and you could hear the shift in his voice, could feel the ripple in the air around him like a fuse had just been lit under the surface.

Tom blinked, eyebrows raised, still not moving, still not letting go of your hand. “Look, I think you’ve misunderstood—”

But Bob cut in, not loud, not rude, just firm. “I’m going to say this nicely, because I’m still trying to be respectful,” he said, and you watched the way his jaw clenched as he exhaled through his nose, watched the way his voice stayed perfectly measured like he’d rehearsed it in his head a hundred times.

“But this is a bar full of Navy officers,” Bob continued, tilting his chin just slightly, like he was reminding Tom of exactly where the hell he was standing, “and I promise you, it won’t end well for you if you give anyone a reason to think you’re not welcome here.”

Bob gave a smile. It wasn’t sweet, and it wasn’t fake either, it was the kind of smile that made you blink and stop breathing for a second, the kind that made your stomach flip because it wasn’t Bob’s usual shy little corner-of-the-mouth smile, it was firm and controlled and slightly dangerous, and it made your pulse trip over itself.

Because holy shit, Bob Floyd was not playing.

And for a second, you genuinely thought you misheard him, like maybe you imagined it, maybe Bob didn’t just say what he very clearly said, but then you blinked and he was still looking at Tom like that, like that calm quiet stare could say everything he wasn’t shouting, and you actually felt your lungs stutter because what the fuck just happened, what do you even do when Bob Floyd says something like that so casually, like it’s already true, like he didn’t just light a match and throw it directly at your sex drive.

Tom didn’t say anything at first, just narrowed his eyes slightly, just shifted his jaw like he was still trying to decide whether this was a joke or a misunderstanding or something he could smooth over with enough English charm, and then he turned to you again, slower this time, voice measured and almost stiff like he was trying to keep it light, like he didn’t just get completely shut down in one sentence, and he goes, “I hope I get to see you again—”

But Bob spoke right over him.

Not loud, not mean, not rude, just... final.

“No, you won’t,” he said, and it didn’t even sound like a threat, it sounded like a certainty, like he knew for a fact that this night was going to end one way and one way only and it wasn’t going to involve Tom and his polite accent and his goddamn cheekbones.

And then, because apparently you hadn’t suffered enough, because apparently Bob wanted to absolutely end your life in the middle of the Hard Deck with a sentence, he added, “She’ll be with me.”

And your brain just stopped. Like fully, completely shut off.

You stared at him because you didn’t know what else to do, because your mouth had gone dry and your stomach had flipped and your knees genuinely, actually wobbled a little and you were so glad you were standing still because you were dangerously close to collapsing from sheer what the fuck was that.

Because Bob Floyd had never said anything like that to you before.

Because Bob Floyd was shy and sweet and respectful and he never looked at you too long unless he thought you weren’t paying attention, and now he was standing in front of you like he’d just decided this was done, that the tension between you wasn’t going to stretch out a day longer, that you were his, and that was it.

And the worst part, or maybe the best part, or maybe just the most terrifying part, was that you wanted it.

You wanted it so bad you couldn’t breathe.

Because it wasn’t even what he said, it was how he said it, that quiet steel in his voice, the soft but unshakable way he stood between you and Tom, the way he didn’t even look back at the guy anymore because he knew you were watching him, and god, god, you couldn’t stop watching him, you couldn’t look away, you couldn’t think of a single word to say because every part of you had short-circuited.

And yeah.

You were speechless.

And you were horny.

So catastrophically, unreasonably horny you nearly whimpered, because Bob Floyd just claimed you in the most Bob Floyd way possible and you might never recover from this moment.

You didn’t say another word. You just grabbed his hand, tight and determined and maybe even shaking a little because your brain had finally caught up to the rest of you and decided, yes, this was happening, this was actually happening, and Bob, and Bob didn’t even resist, just blinked in stunned silence as you pulled him along like some kind of feral force of nature who’d decided that tonight was it, tonight was the end of the waiting game, tonight was the fucking finale.

You didn’t check who was watching, didn’t glance at Jake or Bradley or even the girls because the second you looked back you might lose your nerve, might forget how to walk straight, might start overthinking everything and accidentally ruin it, so instead you just walked, fast and angry and certain, dragging Bob through the Hard Deck like a woman possessed, like your heartbeat was louder than the music, like your hands were about to start shaking from how badly you needed to feel something more than just the heat under your skin.

And the second you reached the bathroom that was blessedly empty, clean, the faint scent of lemony disinfectant still lingering from the cleaner who’d left maybe five minutes ago, and you yanked open the door, shoved him in with you, and locked it behind you without even giving him time to speak.

You were panting. You were flushed. You were a goddamn storm system ready to tear through everything in your path.

And Bob? Bob looked like he had no idea what just happened.

He was still trying to catch up, still standing there like he couldn’t decide if he should apologise or fall to his knees, and you didn’t say anything either, didn’t ask him if this was okay, didn’t ask if he wanted it, because you didn’t have to; his eyes already told you everything, wide and glassy and hungry, his chest rising fast beneath that stupid flight tee he still hadn’t taken off, his hands curled at his sides like he didn’t know where to put them, like if he touched you now he might lose it completely.

And maybe that was what you wanted.

Maybe that was why your breath hitched and your knees almost buckled, because he was just standing there, looking at you like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he didn’t know where to look first, like he didn’t know how to start, and it was killing you, it was absolutely killing you, the tension thick enough to choke on and your skin already buzzing, already hot, already wet, fuck, you were wet, and you could feel it now, every step you’d taken to get here, every heartbeat pounding between your legs like a countdown, like a warning, like something was about to break.

You could feel your panties clinging uncomfortably to your skin and it didn’t even embarrass you, it didn’t make you hesitate, because the only thing you could think about was how badly you needed him to touch you, how much it was already driving you insane that he wasn’t, how completely fucking unhinged it made you that Bob, sweet, soft, shy Bob, was the reason your thighs were clenching and your fingers were twitching and your back was already pressing to the cold tile wall just to keep yourself steady.

And he still hadn’t moved.

He was breathing like you were taking all the air in the room with you, like he didn’t know what the hell he’d just gotten himself into, and you could feel it now, the way your body was starting to shake with it, with all of it, the heat and the tension and the months of wanting, and the fact that you were both locked in a bathroom with less than three feet between you and only one possible outcome left—

And your voice broke out before you could stop it. “Do you know what you do to me?”

And you said it like a confession, like a sin, like something cracked open in the middle of your chest and bled out into the air between you, and your voice was hoarse and shallow and dazed and your back stayed right against the door because you weren’t sure your knees could handle even a step forward, weren’t sure if your legs would even work anymore because you were barely breathing and your palms were sweating and you were dizzy, not drunk dizzy, not flustered dizzy, just desperate, just overwhelmed, just fucking done with pretending you didn’t feel everything at once when it came to him, and when you finally looked up, when you really looked at Bob—

He wasn’t nervous.

He wasn’t stammering.

He wasn’t doing that soft little head tilt he always did when he was confused or shy or trying to figure out what the hell was going on in front of him, because this wasn’t confusion anymore, this wasn’t hesitation, this was heat, this was hunger, this was something unspoken and dangerous and so sharp it made your whole body lock up, because Bob Floyd was looking at you like he had been holding back for too long and maybe tonight he wasn’t going to anymore.

And then he stepped forward.

And your breath caught so hard it felt like something slammed into your lungs, and you didn’t mean to but you took a half-step back, only your back was already against the door, so it just made you straighten a little, made you tilt your chin up as his body closed in on yours, not touching yet, not even brushing, just crowding, just pressuring, just standing there like he could trap you with nothing more than proximity and silence and the way his eyes burned right through your fucking skin.

“Do you know what you do to me?”

He said it like it hurt, said it like a warning, like something he’d been trying so hard not to say and then failed, and the sound of it sent a whole-body shiver down your spine because it didn’t sound like Bob anymore, it didn’t sound like the shy, quiet, soft-spoken man you’d been lowkey in love with since forever, it sounded like something deeper, something hungrier, something wrecked and tired of waiting, and you felt your mouth go dry.

“You think I don’t notice,” he murmured, closer now, voice almost too calm, too quiet, like he was afraid if he let it rise at all he’d lose control of it, “but you look at me like you want me to lose it.”

And your stomach dropped.

Your legs shook.

Your hands itched to grab something, anything, because he wasn’t done, because he wasn’t backing away, because Bob was still coming closer even though there was nowhere else for you to go, and he tilted his head and let his eyes flick down to your mouth and then back up, and that was when you knew, that was when you really knew, because there was no coming back from this now.

“You don’t even realise,” he whispered, just loud enough for you to hear him over the blood rushing in your ears, “what it’s like watching you walk around like that, talking to everyone, laughing like that, wearing that dress like you didn’t know I’d be losing my mind the second I saw you tonight.”

Your chest was rising way too fast.

You couldn’t stop staring at him.

You could feel the heat building and building and your breath was shallow and uneven and your thighs were pressed together and you could swear you felt your own heartbeat between your legs, because Bob Floyd, Bob fucking Floyd, had you caged in with nothing but words and distance and tension and suddenly you weren’t even sure who was in control anymore.

You didn’t move, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything except stare at him because holy shit, holy actual fucking shit, you weren’t sure your body was yours anymore, weren’t sure your legs were holding you up or if it was just the door doing all the work, because Bob was still right in front of you, still not touching, still looking at you like he had months of frustration burning under his skin and he didn’t know where to put it anymore, and his voice, fuck, his voice was still low and tight and wrecked, and when he spoke again, it hit you straight in the spine.

“I’ve thought about what you’d look like,” he said, slowly, like every word was being dragged straight from his gut, “all fucked out and panting, still begging for more, still trying to say my name.”

Your breath caught so hard it hurt.

“I’ve thought about how wet you’d be,” he kept going, and your whole chest fluttered violently at that, “how you’d sound if I put my mouth on you, how long you’d last before you started begging me to let you come.”

And holy fucking hell, your knees buckled again, this time fully, but his hand shot out and caught your waist before you could even fall, and that was the first time he touched you, that was the first skin-on-skin contact you’d had all night and it was barely anything, just his fingers at your waist holding you steady, but your body reacted like he’d fucking thrown you onto the counter and split you open, because your lungs stuttered and your thighs squeezed tighter and your head was spinning and his hand just stayed there, firm and steady and grounding you like he knew he had to or else you were going to collapse completely.

“And I’ve touched myself to it,” he added, voice softer now but somehow more intense, like it was turning into something vulnerable, something real, “more times than I can count, but it’s never enough, it’s never enough, because it’s not you, and I can’t get you out of my head, and I swear to God, if you don’t kiss me soon I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

But he didn’t move. He stayed still, staring at you, breathing like he was barely holding himself together, waiting for you to close the distance, for you to make the first move, and your body was burning so hot it hurt, and the silence between you was so loud you thought it might break something in your chest, because holy fuck, this was happening, this was really happening, and all he’d done was speak.

“Bob,” you whispered, and your voice cracked a little, not from nerves, not from doubt, but from the sheer weight of how badly you needed him, how much it burned, how deep it sat in your chest, months and months of restraint clawing their way out of your throat in just one word, and you weren’t even sure if you could keep going but you had to, you had to, because if you didn’t say this now you were going to fucking explode. “Just kiss me, please.”

You barely had time to process the way your back hit the door, hard enough to make it rattle, before he was on you, really on you, his mouth hot and desperate and possessive against yours like he was trying to breathe you in and ruin you at the same time, like this had been killing him and he wasn’t going to wait another second, not even a heartbeat, and you kissed him back just as hard, your hands sliding into his hair, gripping like you needed to keep yourself grounded, like if you let go you might actually fall apart.

And Bob was groaning into your mouth now, low and helpless, the kind of sound that came straight from his chest and vibrated through yours, and it did something to you, something visceral, something that made your knees shake and your brain short-circuit and your fingers curl tighter in his hair just to feel him, just to know this was real, and he pressed his body closer, no hesitation, no question, just heat, just solid, overwhelming heat against every inch of you and you were melting into it, melting into him, gripping the back of his neck like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

And then he pulled back just barely, just far enough to breathe, just far enough for his eyes to crash into yours again, and his forehead dropped against yours and his hand was still on your jaw and the other still on your hip and his chest was heaving like he’d just run ten miles and he still wasn’t touching you enough, not even close.

“I’ve imagined this,” he whispered, voice all breath and wreckage, his lips brushing against yours even as he spoke, “I’ve imagined what you’d look like, pressed up against me, gasping, shaking, begging.”

You whimpered, actually whimpered, because you could feel your thighs pressing together now like they were trying to solve the problem on their own, and your head was swimming with it, dizzy and hot and aching, and Bob leaned in closer, his nose brushing yours, his hand sliding up your side until it was resting right beneath your ribs, holding you like you were breakable but his.

“Do you even know what you do to me?” he asked, and his voice was rougher now, low and shaken and dangerous, and it made your whole body clench, made your breath stutter out again as you stared up at him, completely gone.

You nodded, but it didn’t even matter, because he wasn’t done.

“How many times I’ve thought about this,” he said, and then he tilted his head, just slightly, just enough that his mouth brushed your jaw now instead of your lips, his breath hot against your skin, “how many times I’ve made myself come to the thought of you moaning my name, screaming for me, looking at me like you’re looking at me right now.”

You gasped, actually gasped, because you were looking at him like that, you were giving him every single unfiltered thought and ache and need in your body and he was eating it up like he’d been starving for it, like this was the only thing he’d ever wanted.

“You don’t even know what you’ve done to me,” he whispered, mouth still dragging along your jaw, and your fingers were digging into his shoulders now, your whole body trembling, your thighs pressed together and your hips tilted forward like your body was already moving without permission, like it was chasing the friction, and Bob didn’t stop, didn’t even pause, because he was too far gone now, his voice going darker and hungrier with every word.

“Months,” he breathed, “I’ve been dying for this for months, watching you flirt with every guy who’s not me, watching you laugh and tease and act like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing, and I still couldn’t stop thinking about how you’d sound, how you’d taste, how you’d fall apart under me.”

You almost cried. You almost cried right then and there because it was too much, it was everything, and you hadn’t even touched skin yet, hadn’t even unzipped anything, and your whole body was already humming with it, already aching, already so wet it hurt.

And then his hand slid from your waist to your thigh, slowly, like he was making sure you felt every inch, and his forehead still pressed against yours as his other hand slid into your hair, and you didn’t even realise you were holding your breath until he spoke again.

“Tell me,” he whispered, “tell me you want this.”

You let out a sound, not even a word, not even close, it was more like a broken moan caught halfway in your throat and your knees nearly gave out when his hand slid up and wrapped around the base of your neck, not squeezing, not choking, just holding, just owning, just enough pressure to ground you exactly where he wanted you, and you were already gasping before he even moved, already falling apart just from the weight of his palm and the way his thumb brushed your pulse, slow and knowing and devastating.

And then he rolled his hips, grounded into you, slow and deliberate and hard, and you swore the air was sucked out of the room because you could feel it, could feel the size of him through his jeans, thick and aching and right there, pressing up against where you needed him most and your whole body buckled forward into him like you couldn’t take it anymore, like it had already been too long and too much and too everything.

“Use your words, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and wrecked and almost gentle except it wasn’t, not really, because it was also dark and edged and dripping with heat, “I wanna hear you say it.”

And you could barely breathe now, could barely think, you could just feel, could feel the press of his thigh between yours and the way your hips had started moving without permission, grinding forward, chasing friction, chasing him, and your hands were on his chest and then his shoulders and then his neck and you were nodding and gasping and then finally it tumbled out, barely coherent.

“Yes,” you said, voice shaking and high and real, “Yes, yes, yes, I want this, I want you, I want you so bad, please—”

That was all it took.

He kissed you again like he was trying to consume you, like he was starved and you were the only thing in the world that could feed him, and this time it wasn’t slow, it wasn’t sweet, it was needy, it was all tongue and teeth and desperation, it was months of pent-up want coming out like a storm and you met him right there, kissed him back just as hard, grabbed the front of his shirt like you were about to tear it open just to get to more, because it wasn’t enough, you needed more.

And he was grinding into you again, harder now, rougher, like he couldn’t stop himself, like your body was pulling it out of him without even trying, and you could feel him now, full and heavy and aching through the denim, and you swore you were going to come from that alone, from the way his hips kept moving and the way your body kept chasing and the way you could already feel your panties sticking to you like second skin.

“Fuck,” he groaned into your mouth, voice barely there, all breath and grit and broken control, “You feel that? That’s what you do to me, that’s what months of you teasing me gets you.”

You whined against his lips and his hand was still on your throat and his thigh was still between yours and your hips were still rocking and you could feel him getting harder, could feel your own arousal making a mess of your underwear and he still hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

“You gonna let me ruin you in here, sweetheart?” he whispered, hot and heavy and almost sweet if it weren’t for the way his voice dropped on that last word, the way it felt more like a promise than a question, “Right here, against this fucking door?”

“Yes,” you breathed, and you didn’t even hesitate, not for a second, because it was already too much, you were already too far gone, “Yes, Bob, please, yes.”

And your hands moved before your brain could even keep up, fingers fumbling at his belt like you’d lose your mind if you didn’t get it open, like something in you would actually break if you didn’t get to feel him, right now, right here, against this fucking door like he promised, because your entire body was on fire and your panties were sticking to you and your head was spinning and the only thing anchoring you to this goddamn planet was him, was Bob, and the way he was looking at you like he’d been starving for months and only just now got his first real meal.

But then he stopped you.

His hand closed over yours, warm and firm and gentle and Bob, and it wasn’t rejection, not really, it was something else entirely, something that made your breath catch and your heart twist, because he looked at you like he meant it, like he meant you, and you watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice softer now, steadier, more grounded but still thick with that wrecked edge, still hungry, still barely hanging on, “I mean it, are you… are you okay? You’re not drunk or—”

You groaned, actually groaned, head hitting the bathroom door with a soft thud because this was just so Bob, of course he was going to make sure you weren’t tipsy even though you were stone-cold sober and vibrating out of your skin, of course he was going to check in with you first, even though you were seconds away from clawing his shirt off.

“Bob,” you said, and it came out more like a plea than a protest, your chest rising, your hands curling against his shoulders now instead of his belt, “I swear to God, I need you to ruin me.”

And you didn’t even mean to sound so desperate but that’s just what it was, that’s just what he did to you, that’s just where you were now, with him staring at you like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he wanted to wrap his hands around every part of you and keep it.

“I’ve gone nine months without getting laid,” you whispered, panting now, voice cracking like you were halfway to tears from the sheer intensity of it, “Nine months, Bob, and it’s literally your fault because no one’s ever been you and I didn’t even realise it until I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and now you’ve got me pinned against a fucking door and I’m shaking and I can’t feel my knees and if you don’t fuck me right now I swear I’ll—”

He kissed you again before you could finish.

His fingers slipped lower and you gasped, not even because he was touching you but because how he was touching you, slow and almost tender at first, just enough to make you shake with it, just enough to make you whine into his mouth like you were begging for more even though you hadn’t said a word yet, and that must’ve done something to him because suddenly he was groaning, deep in his throat, low and wrecked like he couldn’t help it, and his hips pressed against yours like instinct.

And that’s when you felt it the thick, hard press of him through his jeans, flush against your thigh, and holy shit, he was huge, bigger than you expected, and you let out a strangled breath that might’ve been a whimper if he hadn’t kissed it right out of you.

His fingers slid between your folds like he’d done it a hundred times, like he knew exactly where to find you, and when he brushed over your clit, soft but deliberate, your whole body arched, legs trembling, and he smiled, smiled, like he was proud of himself, like he’d just confirmed something he already suspected.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice hoarse now, darker, hungrier, “You’re soaking for me, baby.”

You nodded, desperate, mouth open like you couldn’t catch your breath, and when he circled your clit again, firmer this time, more focused, you let out a moan that echoed off the walls and made him growl, actually growl, his glasses fogging worse now, his other hand gripping your hip tight enough to leave marks.

“Tell me,” he whispered, right against your ear, lips brushing your skin, fingers still working you slow and lazy like he had all the time in the world, like he wasn’t one second away from snapping, “Tell me who did this to you?”

“You—” you choked out, barely able to speak through the heat curling up your spine, “You, Bob, fuck—”

“That’s damn right,” he muttered, dragging his fingers lower again, pressing two of them into you with a smooth, practiced motion that had you screaming, forehead against his shoulder, hands clawing at his shirt, “Only me.”

You were gripping his arms now, shaking, gasping, hips grinding down like you needed more, needed all of him, and he gave it to you, curling his fingers just right, just deep enough to make your legs shake, just rough enough to remind you that shy little Bob Floyd was gone, that this man touching you now had teeth and hunger and absolutely no patience left.

“Been thinking about this for months,” he said, voice low and filthy and way too fucking controlled for someone knuckle-deep in your pussy, “Thinking about getting you just like this, begging for me, dripping all over my hand.”

“Bob—” you gasped, eyes rolling back when he started moving faster, harder, hitting that spot so perfectly it almost hurt, and he groaned again, this deep, desperate sound that made your walls clench around his fingers, and he felt it.

“Oh, you like that?” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth, jaw tight with restraint, “You like when I fuck you with my fingers, sweetheart? You gonna cum for me like this?”

You didn’t even answer, couldn’t, because your brain had already stopped functioning and your legs were shaking so bad you could barely keep yourself upright, and thank God for the door behind you because without it you would’ve collapsed, folded right there under the weight of his fingers, under the sound of his voice, under the fact that Bob Floyd was saying things to you that should be illegal with the way they made your stomach twist and your pussy clench and your whole body feel like it was about to fall apart.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmured, low and thick and reverent, like he was watching something sacred happen right there in his hand, like you were something he’d worshipped from afar for too long and now he finally got to touch it, ruin it, claim it, “So wet for me, you’re fucking dripping, sweetheart, I can feel you, shit, you’re gonna cum just from my fingers, aren’t you?”

You nodded so fast your head spun, chest heaving, your back arching off the door as he started pumping into you faster, rougher, more focused now, and every curl of his fingers hit that spot so perfectly your thighs kept twitching, your mouth falling open in shock every time he found it again and again and again like he wanted to watch you unravel, like he wanted to see how much you could take before you broke completely.

And then he leaned in close, close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath on your neck, his glasses barely hanging on at this point, his body fully pressed to yours now, hard cock grinding up against your hip like he needed the friction, like it hurt not to be inside you, and when he whispered in your ear again, you almost sobbed.

“I touch myself to the thought of you,” he said, quietly, honestly, like he was confessing it right to your soul, “I fucking jerk off to the way you laugh, the way you walk around in those tight little shorts like you don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

You moaned, no, cried something high and shameless, and your hand shot out, grabbing at his belt again because you needed him, needed him, because no one had ever made you feel like this, and you didn’t care how messy it was or where you were or how fucking loud you were getting, because he was still fucking you with his fingers like it was all he ever wanted to do.

“Every night,” he breathed, nipping your jaw, “Every fucking night I’d get off thinking about how you’d sound falling apart for me, how tight you’d be, how wet you’d be, how desperate—fuck—how desperate you’d get just to have me inside you.”

You were gone, completely gone, head thrown back, hands gripping his biceps like you’d die without something to hold on to, and your legs were trembling now, your orgasm building so fast it was almost overwhelming, and he felt it, he knew, because his voice dropped again, soft and serious this time, his hand curling under your chin to tilt your face to his.

“Cum for me, baby,” he said, breathless, commanding, devastating, “Cum on my fingers, let me feel you.”

And you did.

You didn’t even wait for him to catch his breath, didn’t even let him steady himself after making you fall apart on his fingers like you’d been doing it together for years, like he knew your body better than you did, because you were already reaching for his belt again, fumbling, feverish, undoing the buckle like your hands had a mind of their own, and he was just watching you now, chest rising and falling like he’d run a goddamn marathon, lips parted, face flushed and stunned and still so fucking wrecked from watching you cum for him, and the second you pushed him back and made him sit on the edge of that sink, he let out a breath like his soul just left his body.

You dropped to your knees without even thinking about it, hands already yanking his jeans down past his hips, underwear too, and Bob let out the loudest fucking groan the moment his cock sprang free, flushed and hard and thick and twitching, and it was almost too much, almost stupid how pretty he looked like this, glasses slightly fogged, hands gripping the edges of the sink, head tilted back like he couldn’t believe this was happening, like he wasn’t sure if he was about to wake up.

“Fuck,” you breathed, voice gone already, mouth hanging open because you were soaked again just from the sight of him, because of course Bob Floyd had a cock that matched the rest of him, long and heavy and so fucking hard it actually made your mouth water, and you looked up at him once, eyes wide, dazed, overwhelmed, and you swear his face almost broke.

“You don’t have to—” he choked out, voice strained, already unraveling even though you hadn’t touched him yet, but you just looked up at him with this fucking look, like are you seriously trying to stop me right now, and then you licked your lips, slow and deliberate, and wrapped one hand around the base of his cock.

His entire body shuddered.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, jaw clenched, eyes squeezing shut, one of his hands flying up to your hair like he was trying to anchor himself to the moment, trying not to lose his shit too fast, but then your mouth was on him wet and warm and so eager, lips stretching, tongue swirling, and Bob let out a broken sound that made your thighs clench all over again.

“Jesus—fuck, sweetheart—shit, that’s—” he gritted out, hands twitching like he wanted to grab your head, wanted to fuck your throat, but he wouldn’t, he couldn’t, because even now he was still trying to hold back, still trying to be gentle, and it was killing him, you could feel it, you could see it all over his face, the way he was fighting not to lose control when he was so close.

You moaned around him, just to fuck with him, just to feel the way his hips jerked and how his fingers tangled tighter in your hair, and when you took him deeper, relaxed your throat and let him slide all the way in until your nose brushed his pelvis and your eyes were starting to water from it, that was when he snapped.

“Holy fuck, baby, you’re gonna make me cum, shit, fuck, you feel so good, you feel so fucking good,” he groaned, low and desperate, hips twitching, his other hand slamming against the wall like he needed something to break, and when you pulled back just enough to suck harder, bobbing your head, hand still working the base, mouth slick and messy and full of him, he looked down at you.

And the look on his face, flushed and sweating and wide-eyed and completely fucked-out it almost made you cum again.

“Look at you,” he muttered, voice wrecked now, barely holding it together, “On your knees for me, so fucking perfect, so fucking filthy, you’re gonna make me cum down your throat, sweetheart, you want that?”

He then came with a sound you’d never forget, raw and strained and so fucking desperate, fingers tangled in your hair like he’d completely lost track of the world, like all that mattered now was the way your mouth was wrapped around him, the way you swallowed every last drop like you’d been starving for it, like this was something you needed, like it was just for you.

And when you finally pulled off him, lips swollen and jaw aching and spit clinging to your chin, you were both gasping for air, your knees burning from the floor and your body shaking from everything, from the rush and the power and the absolute chaos of what the two of you had just done.

But before you could speak, before you could even get your breath back properly, Bob reached down and pulled you up, hands firm but shaking a little, and he kissed you like he meant to never stop, like he wanted to taste himself on your tongue, like he couldn’t believe you’d just done that, and God, the way he kissed you, all heat and teeth and soft little sounds at the back of his throat, it knocked the air right back out of you.

You whimpered into it, weak and overwhelmed and still so fucking turned on you could barely stand straight, and he kissed you again, slower this time, his palm cupping the side of your face like you were something fragile now, like he didn’t want to let go.

And when he finally pulled back, when he finally let you breathe again, he was still flushed and ruined-looking, but his voice was steady, low, thick, serious in a way that made your stomach drop.

“I’m not done with you,” he murmured, thumb brushing your bottom lip, and you swore your knees buckled, “Not here. Not in a bar bathroom. I’m gonna ruin you,” he said again, gentler now, firmer somehow, “But it’s gonna be in my bed.”

Then he kissed you again just once, slow and dizzying and so fucking full of promise and you knew, oh you fucking knew, you weren’t leaving his sheets in one piece.

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97lala · 1 month ago

Text

Boys are Gross

Bob Floyd x Fem!Wife!Reader

She’s a sad one. Death, child death, cancer, hospital visits, funeral.

The sun had barely broken past the horizon, but the house was already awake.

There were toys on the stairs. Crayons in the hallway. A stuffed tiger was hanging from the kitchen cabinet handle like it had tried to make a run for it and failed mid-heist. The walls were hand-painted in memories — from a sloppy height chart Sharpied on the doorframe to little fingerprints in flour and syrup across the island counter.

And in the middle of it all was Willa.

Four years old. Wild curls frizzed into a halo. Wearing her unicorn pajamas and Bob’s oversized aviators, she stood barefoot on a step stool, wielding a plastic spatula like a sword.

“I’m the pilot today!” she declared to no one in particular, raising the spatula to the sky. “And Beau’s the co-captain!”

“I’m not,” her brother mumbled through a mouthful of dry cereal from the box. “I’m the spaceship. You’re the alien.”

“I’m not an alien! I’m a GIRL!”

“You can be both,” Bob said, entering the kitchen with bed hair and bare feet, already wearing Willa’s sparkly clip in his bangs like it was part of his morning uniform. “Girls can be aliens and pilots. Right, sweetheart?”

“RIGHT,” Willa confirmed, as if she’d just been knighted.

You stood at the sink, hand-washing the last of the juice cups from yesterday’s chaos, watching your family like a woman watching her own dream play out in real time.

This was your every morning.

Beautiful. Loud. Messy. Yours.

Bob kissed the top of your head in passing, already balancing a child in each arm as he tried to shuffle them toward the table. You felt his lips smile against your temple.

“I thought we said no more cereal directly from the box, buddy.”

Beau shrugged. “I washed my hands.”

“He did,” Willa confirmed loyally. “I made him.”

Bob put them down and raised his arms like a boxing coach. “Alright. Who wants pancakes? Hands up.”

Both twins launched into chaos — hands up, hands flailing, Willa screaming “ME FIRST!” as Bob play-faked shock at her volume.

You turned off the sink, dried your hands on a towel, and leaned your hip against the counter just to watch them. Your little unit. Your world. A dad who never complained. A boy who was gentle. A girl who could conquer galaxies with a paper crown and a Sharpie mustache.

“Coffee?” Bob asked you.

“Desperately.”

He poured a cup and handed it to you without looking, already flipping pancakes one-handed while helping Willa down from the stool. It was like second nature now — every movement between you choreographed by love and repetition.

⸻

The kitchen smelled like cinnamon. The stereo played soft jazz.

Willa wore her breakfast like war paint.

Beau somehow managed to sit upside-down in a chair and still eat efficiently.

And Bob? Bob laughed like the sound of joy had only just been invented.

You caught yourself smiling.

You always did.

Even when it was exhausting.

Even when there were juice spills and tantrums and early meetings and late-night fevers.

Even when your body ached and your mind was cluttered and the days blurred together in a blur of stickiness and screams and bedtime books read half-asleep.

Because there was love here. Thick, loud, all-consuming love.

⸻

After breakfast, Bob helped them brush teeth (while Willa insisted she was brushing Beau’s), and you packed tiny backpacks with snacks and emergency plushies and nap-time blankets that smelled like home.

The plan was simple: Bob would take them to preschool on the way to the base. You had errands. Groceries. A PTA meeting. Nothing urgent. Nothing unusual.

Nothing that would tell you that this was one of the last “normal” days you’d ever have.

You kissed Willa’s curls and Beau’s forehead and watched them tumble into the backseat of Bob’s truck like it was a game show prize.

Bob lingered at the door just a second longer than usual. His hand found your waist.

“They’re getting so big,” he said softly.

You nodded.

“Feels fast, huh?”

“All the time,” you whispered, laying your head against his chest.

For a moment, the noise faded. The house settled. The world held still — like the universe itself was catching its breath just to give you one more second of peace.

He kissed you. Gently. Like he had a million times before, and like he would a million more.

———

It started with a limp.

Just a small one — barely noticeable. Willa was dancing barefoot on the couch (as she always did, to your dismay), when she jumped down and winced. She shook it off quickly, laughing, running after Beau with her usual half-pirate, half-princess shriek.

But you saw it.

The tiny flinch. The slight favoring of her left leg. The way her foot curled inward just a touch as she ran.

You told yourself it was nothing.

Maybe she landed weird. Maybe her legs were sore from gymnastics class. Maybe she slept funny. She was four. Kids were bouncy and breakable all at once.

Still, you mentioned it to Bob that night while folding laundry.

“She’s limping.”

Bob was in the closet, hanging up his uniform. He poked his head out, brow furrowed but soft.

“Willa?”

You nodded.

“I thought I imagined it earlier,” he said. “But she didn’t say anything when I asked.”

“She winced. Just once.”

“She’s probably sore. She took that flying leap off the armrest like she was trying to launch herself into orbit.”

You cracked a tired smile.

“I told her to stop doing that.”

“She doesn’t listen to either of us,” Bob said, chuckling. “Not when she’s mid-mission.”

⸻

The next day, she didn’t eat much.

Her half of the peanut butter sandwich sat untouched while Beau inhaled his and asked for yours too. Willa stared at hers, head tilted, quiet.

She wasn’t usually quiet.

You asked what was wrong.

“My belly hurts,” she said softly, one hand on her side.

Bob came home early that afternoon. You brought it up again. The limp. The stomach ache. The lack of appetite.

He crouched in front of her, resting a hand gently on her leg.

“You okay, firefly?”

She nodded. “Just sleepy.”

“Well, that makes two of us.”

And he scooped her up effortlessly into his arms, kissing the top of her head as she curled into his chest.

⸻

Two days later, she had a fever.

You woke to find her in your bed, wedged between you and Bob, drenched in sweat and whispering nonsense. Her skin was burning. Her breath came in hiccups. Her eyes barely opened when you touched her.

You sat upright in a panic.

Bob was already reaching for the thermometer.

“102.7,” he read aloud. “Shit.”

“Willa, baby,” you whispered, smoothing the hair from her damp forehead. “You’re okay. Mommy’s here.”

She mumbled something. A name? A color? You couldn’t tell.

Bob’s eyes flicked to yours, the way they always did when he was worried and didn’t want to say it.

“I’ll grab the Tylenol.”

⸻

It was the third fever in two weeks.

And then the bruises showed up.

You noticed them while giving her a bath. Pale purple shadows on her arms and thighs. Not the kind from bumping into the monkey bars. Not in the places that usually got scraped.

These were scattered. Subtle. But wrong.

You swallowed hard and ran your thumb gently over one.

“Does that hurt?”

“Nope,” Willa said, playing with a rubber duck. “He’s gonna bite Beau later.”

You forced a laugh.

You didn’t sleep that night.

⸻

The next morning, you scheduled a pediatrician appointment. Bob was supposed to be flying but told Cyclone he wasn’t going in — that he had a “bad feeling.” No one questioned it. They let him stay.

The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and stickers.

Willa sat in Bob’s lap, wearing her favorite blue dress with little daisies, holding Beau’s hand like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

“Are you gonna cry?” she asked him.

“I don’t cry,” Beau said bravely.

“Yes, you do. You cried when the goldfish died.”

“I was three!”

“You’re four.”

“You’re four too!”

Bob chuckled under his breath and leaned down to kiss her curls. His hand rested over hers. You noticed his thumb tapping — a nervous tic he thought you didn’t know about.

⸻

They called you back. Took Willa’s vitals. Drew some blood. Ran tests.

The doctor was sweet. But cautious.

He asked more questions than usual. Jotted more notes. Ordered a second blood panel after the first.

Bob held Willa on the exam table and made airplane noises while she giggled, weakly, reaching for the tongue depressor and calling it “a popsicle.”

You paced.

⸻

Two hours later, the doctor came back.

He had a folder in his hands. A frown under his eyes. And a sentence you’ll never forget.

“We’d like to run some imaging — just to be safe.”

Just to be safe.

You asked why.

“Her bloodwork came back with some irregularities we don’t love. Her white count is high. Her platelets are low. And there’s some inflammation we can’t explain.”

You looked at Bob. He blinked slowly.

“It could be nothing,” the doctor said. “But it’s better to be thorough.”

⸻

They scheduled an MRI for the next morning.

You went home with Willa half-asleep in Bob’s arms. Beau held your hand so tight it turned white. You couldn’t eat. Couldn’t speak. You sat on the couch staring at nothing while Bob made dinner and tried to hum a lullaby she liked.

The wind outside was loud that night.

Bob came to bed late, climbing in behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist like he was trying to keep you from floating away.

“She’s fine,” he whispered. “It’s probably viral.”

You didn’t answer.

But your arms went around his.

Because if you didn’t hold onto each other, you’d both fall apart before anything was even confirmed.

———

The MRI room was freezing.

The kind of cold that clings to your bones and makes you feel like you’re already somewhere sterile and sacred. The lights buzzed faintly overhead, and the nurses tried their best to smile like this wasn’t terrifying.

Willa laid still inside the tunnel. A little blanket up to her chest. Head strapped in gently, her curls tucked behind her ears. She didn’t cry. She didn’t flinch.

Bob stood behind the glass wall with his arms folded tightly across his chest. His jaw locked. His eyes locked harder. You could see the way he was tracking the technician’s every movement. Like he was trying to solve the scan himself.

You just… sat.

Your knees didn’t bounce. Your fingers didn’t twitch. You were still.

So still you weren’t sure if your heart was beating at all.

⸻

It took 37 minutes.

The longest of your life.

When it ended, Willa skipped over to you with her hospital socks skidding on the tile.

“I was a statue,” she beamed.

“You were perfect,” Bob whispered, scooping her up. “My brave girl.”

⸻

You were told the results would come “later this week.”

But then the nurse came in with a tight smile and said,

“The doctor would like to speak with you both right now, if that’s okay.”

Bob’s arms tightened around Willa.

You felt your pulse in your teeth.

“Can we leave Beau with someone?” you asked.

There was no babysitter. No family in town.

So you sat him in the waiting area with an iPad, a juice box, and a nurse who promised she’d sit beside him the whole time.

You and Bob followed the doctor down the hallway like you were walking into a courtroom.

⸻

The room had no windows.

Just a soft gray couch. A low table. Two chairs across from a desk.

A framed photo of a sunrise above the bookshelf.

You hated it instantly.

The doctor was already seated. His file was open. He gestured for you to sit.

Bob didn’t.

He stood behind your chair, hand on your shoulder.

“Tell us,” he said.

The doctor took a breath. You heard it before he even spoke.

“We found a mass in the lower spinal region of Willa’s back. Pressing near the base of the brainstem.”

You blinked.

“It’s abnormal in shape, size, and location. Which makes it extremely rare. The blood tests confirm what the MRI hinted at.”

He paused.

You knew what was coming.

“It’s a malignant tumor.”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

“Specifically, a diffuse intrinsic pontine glioma. DIPG. It’s a type of brainstem cancer. Very rare. Very aggressive.”

Bob’s fingers dug into your shoulder.

“We’ll do a biopsy to confirm, but I’ll be honest with you both — this diagnosis is consistent with everything we’re seeing. Willa’s symptoms, the bloodwork, the imaging…”

He kept talking, but you didn’t hear it anymore.

Words became muffled. Like you were underwater.

Something in your ears started ringing.

“Wait,” you finally said, interrupting. “What does that mean? What does that mean for her?”

The doctor hesitated. His face changed.

“There is no known cure. It’s… terminal. Median survival is about nine months.”

Your stomach dropped through the floor.

Bob stepped around your chair like he couldn’t physically stay still. His hand rubbed over his mouth. His chest rose and fell too fast.

“There’s nothing?” he choked. “Nothing we can do?”

“There are clinical trials,” the doctor said gently. “Radiation can buy time. Chemotherapy, in some cases, can ease the symptoms.”

“But—”

“There is no remission,” he said quietly. “There is no survival rate beyond a few cases we can count on one hand. I’m sorry.”

Bob’s knees gave out.

He sat beside you slowly, head in his hands, trying to keep it together in front of you, for you — but you felt the shudder in his body.

He was shaking.

And you? You were numb.

You weren’t crying. You weren’t screaming.

You were just…

Empty.

The kind of empty that makes you forget your own name.

⸻

They let you see her again. She was in a small playroom now, building a puzzle with Beau on the floor. She looked up when you entered.

“Mommy!” she squealed. “I made a flower! Look!”

You knelt.

You touched her cheeks. Her soft skin. Her smile. You looked at her like she was made of glass and already halfway gone.

“Did you cry?” she asked, tilting her head.

“No,” you lied. “Not even a little.”

“Daddy did,” she said with a small giggle, pointing at Bob. “He’s a crier.”

“Yeah,” Bob croaked, crouching beside her. “You got me, firefly.”

⸻

That night, you and Bob lay in silence.

Beau and Willa were asleep between you, little bodies tangled in a pile of warmth and trust.

You watched her tiny chest rise and fall.

Nine months.

That was all they gave her.

You reached for Bob’s hand under the blanket. Found it. Clutched it so tight your knuckles ached.

He didn’t say anything.

He just turned his head toward you, his eyes shining in the dark.

And he whispered the only thing that mattered anymore:

“We’re gonna give her everything.”

———

They started treatment on a Tuesday.

The hospital gave her a tiny gown with frogs on it.

You packed her favorite blanket. The pink one. The one with the worn corners and the apple juice stain that never quite came out. She held it like a lifeline while they explained the port, the IVs, the machine noises.

Bob didn’t let go of her hand.

Not once.

⸻

The first round of radiation made her sick.

She threw up in the car on the way home. Bob pulled over fast, climbing into the backseat while you scrambled for a towel and a bag.

She was crying, clutching her stomach.

“It hurts,” she sobbed.

Bob held her close, rocking her gently. “I know, baby. I know.”

You stared at the sky through the windshield. Your hands were shaking too hard to drive.

⸻

The chemo made her tired.

She stopped singing at breakfast.

Stopped jumping off furniture.

Stopped coloring.

The crayons sat untouched on the floor.

The TV was on, but she didn’t watch it. She just laid on the couch, curled up in Bob’s hoodie, watching dust float through the air like she was studying it.

One morning, you walked into the living room to find her hair on the pillow. Long, delicate strands. Tangled and sad.

She wasn’t crying. Just… quiet.

You knelt down. Touched her forehead. “Do you want to cut it, baby?”

She nodded once.

So Bob got the clippers. He pulled a stool into the kitchen. Draped a towel over her tiny shoulders. Willa climbed up slowly and held still.

Beau stood nearby, holding a stuffed animal like it was an anchor.

“Do I have to cut mine too?” he whispered.

Bob looked at him — and smiled through it.

“Only if you want to, buddy.”

Beau didn’t say anything. But five minutes later, he climbed up onto the counter.

“Cut mine next.”

⸻

That night, Willa sat on Bob’s lap in front of the fireplace, bald head tucked under his chin.

You watched them from the hallway, arms folded over your chest, heart breaking in total silence.

“I still look like me, right?” she whispered.

Bob kissed her forehead.

“You look like the bravest girl in the world.”

⸻

You started sleeping in shifts.

Bob stayed with Willa at the hospital when she needed to be admitted. You stayed with Beau at home. Then you’d switch. You passed each other in hallways, kissed over coffee, left sticky notes on mirrors that said things like:

• “Don’t forget her frog socks.”

• “Tell her I sang the lullaby.”

• “Love you. You’re doing amazing. Please eat today.”

The nurses knew you by name.

The receptionist had a keychain ready for Beau whenever he visited.

Your whole life shrunk down to hospital bags, whiteboards, and side effects.

⸻

There were good days too.

Willa laughed sometimes.

She danced in the hallway with her IV pole.

Bob taught her how to fly paper airplanes from the bed.

You painted her toenails every Sunday.

She still had that spark. That fire.

She still called Bob “Captain Daddy” and made him salute her before bedtime.

She still whispered to Beau at night, when they shared a bed at home, curled together like two halves of the same star.

⸻

But the cracks started to show.

Her speech slurred. Her balance worsened.

She stopped eating solid food.

She forgot how to hold a crayon.

Bob watched her stumble one day — and caught her before she hit the floor.

“Whoa, careful, firefly,” he said gently, scooping her up. “Gotcha. Always gotcha.”

But his hands were trembling.

⸻

Beau started asking harder questions.

“Is Willa gonna get better?”

You froze.

Bob crouched down, pressing a hand over Beau’s heart.

“We’re doing everything we can,” he said softly. “But… sometimes people get really, really sick. And even when everyone tries their hardest, they don’t get better.”

Beau’s lip wobbled.

“But I don’t want her to die.”

“I know,” Bob whispered, pulling him close. “I don’t either.”

⸻

You stopped answering calls.

Stopped responding to texts.

No one knew what to say anyway.

Everyone kept offering “thoughts” and “prayers” and “miracles happen,” like they were afraid to admit she was slipping away.

You didn’t need hope anymore.

You needed more time.

⸻

The doctors recommended a clinical trial out of state.

You flew with Willa while Bob stayed home with Beau.

You video-called every night. Bob read bedtime stories over the phone, voice cracking as Willa dozed off mid-chapter.

At one point, Willa reached for the screen with her tiny hand.

“Daddy,” she mumbled. “I wanna fly with you again.”

You looked up from the hospital cot.

Bob was crying silently.

“I promise,” he said. “When we get home. We’ll fly.”

⸻

When you returned weeks later, she was thinner. Slower. But still smiling.

Bob carried her off the plane like she weighed nothing. She laid her head on his shoulder, eyes half-closed.

“You’re really strong,” she whispered.

He held her tighter.

“So are you.”

⸻

You spent that night in bed — all four of you. Willa tucked between you and Bob. Beau curled at your side.

Outside, it rained softly against the windows.

Inside, it was quiet.

No beeping. No nurses. No hospital lights.

Just breath.

Just warmth.

Just family.

You wanted to freeze that moment and live in it forever.

Because somewhere in your chest, you knew:

Forever wasn’t coming.

———

It was sunny in Florida the day they landed.

The kind of sunshine that almost felt wrong — too bright, too warm, too normal. Like the world had no idea what you were carrying. Like the universe hadn’t gotten the message that your daughter was dying.

The Make-a-Wish staff met you at the airport with signs and flowers. They hugged Bob. They gave Beau a balloon sword. They handed Willa a sparkling tiara.

“For the bravest princess we’ve ever met,” they said.

Willa lit up.

And for a moment — a fleeting, golden moment — she looked like the firefly you remembered.

Not the girl with the port in her chest and the tremor in her fingers.

Just a kid. Smiling. Laughing. Alive.

⸻

Disney was everything they promised it would be.

They skipped the lines. Got private meet-and-greets. Rode every ride she was strong enough to handle.

Bob carried her most of the time. She got tired easily now. Her body felt too small in his arms — like she was fading into the air itself.

Beau clutched her hand on every ride, even when she fell asleep between them.

“I’ll tell you what happened,” he whispered. “You don’t have to miss it.”

⸻

The moment that broke you came on the second day.

You had a private audience scheduled at the castle.

Cinderella. Aurora. Belle. Snow White. Tiana. Rapunzel. Elsa. Anna. Ariel. All waiting inside.

A circle of royalty. All ready to welcome your daughter like the queen she was.

Willa entered slowly, walking on her own.

Her crown was crooked. Her eyes were glassy. She was wearing a dress Belle had picked out for her — yellow, sparkly, dragging slightly on the floor.

Bob let go of her hand at the door.

And she walked in alone.

Tiny. Bald. Brave.

The room fell silent.

The princesses were trained for this.

They had met Make-a-Wish kids before.

But this? This was different.

Because Willa didn’t just walk — she twirled.

“Hi,” she said, voice breathy but bright. “I came to see my sisters.”

Tiana was the first to crack.

She blinked too fast. Swallowed hard.

When Willa hugged her, she squeezed too tightly and held on too long.

Belle knelt down to her height.

“I heard you’re fighting a monster,” she said gently.

Willa nodded. “It’s in my back. But I’m winning. For now.”

Belle’s eyes filled.

“We believe in you,” she whispered, kissing Willa’s hand. “You are stronger than any story I’ve ever read.”

⸻

They gave her a dance.

The ballroom cleared. A speaker played soft instrumental music. The princesses circled around her like a constellation of light and lace.

Willa turned to Bob.

“Dance with me, Daddy?”

He hesitated — just one breath — then picked her up and held her close, slow-dancing under the chandeliers with tears in his eyes and a smile on his lips.

You stood off to the side with Beau, hand over your heart, watching your husband spin in slow circles with your daughter in his arms.

Snow White wiped her face discreetly.

Elsa held Anna’s hand too tightly.

Even the cast coordinator turned away for a moment, wiping her eyes.

Because they all knew.

They all knew.

⸻

After the dance, Willa got tired.

Her legs gave out. Bob caught her.

They let her rest on the chaise in the corner while the princesses brought her coloring books and sang lullabies softly. Aurora brushed her fingers through Willa’s hair — what was left of it.

“She’s sleeping,” she whispered.

“No,” Bob said gently. “She’s pretending.”

Because her eyes were fluttering. Her mouth was smiling.

She was soaking in the moment. The story. The ending.

⸻

That night, back in the hotel suite, Willa asked if she could sleep between you again.

You laid on one side. Bob on the other. Willa tucked between you in her Belle dress, tiara still slightly askew, clutching her frog blanket.

“Did I look like a real princess today?” she whispered.

You kissed her forehead.

“You were the only real one in the room.”

She smiled, eyes half-closed.

“I think the monster’s getting tired,” she said, voice small.

Bob went still.

You didn’t speak.

She was asleep within seconds.

Bob pulled the blanket up to her chin, kissed her cheek, and rested his forehead against hers.

You watched them. And in that moment, you thought:

Please let this be enough.

Please let this memory be louder than the grief.

———

They said it was a miracle.

That most kids didn’t last this long.

That most didn’t smile this long.

But Willa… she was different.

She was still making jokes. Still asking to race Beau to the mailbox in her wheelchair.

Still drawing pictures of stick-figure pilots and calling them “Captain Daddy.”

Bob clung to that.

He needed to.

You caught him Googling survivor stories at 3:27 a.m., eyes bloodshot, whispering to himself like he was trying to rewrite fate through sheer belief.

⸻

And then one morning, she woke up early.

Before the birds. Before the light.

She shook you both awake by tapping your cheeks with her little hands.

“Wake up,” she said, beaming. “Let’s go outside. It’s sunny.”

Bob sat up slowly, blinking. You stared at her.

She was glowing.

Her cheeks had color again.

Her voice was strong.

She stood — actually stood — and ran down the hallway barefoot like she hadn’t been in hospice care for weeks.

You and Bob just watched her, frozen.

“What is this?” you whispered.

Bob was already following her to the door.

⸻

That day…

She didn’t stop.

She danced in the grass.

She chased butterflies.

She begged Bob to lift her onto his shoulders.

She asked Beau to race her, barefoot and wild.

You sat on the porch and cried into your hands.

Bob joined you, arms wrapped around your back, chin on your shoulder.

“She’s better,” he said.

“She’s not,” you sobbed.

“I want to believe—”

“She’s dying,” you whispered, choking on it. “Her body’s tricking us. It’s the last burst. I read about it. It’s the end.”

Bob said nothing.

Just pulled you closer as Willa spun in the yard, arms outstretched like a girl trying to hug the whole sky.

⸻

That night, she wanted to sleep in her own room.

“I’m not scared,” she said.

Bob tucked her in.

You kissed her forehead. Smoothed her hair.

“I’m gonna wake up tomorrow,” she whispered, “and then I’m gonna marry Captain America.”

“You’d break his heart,” you smiled, eyes wet.

She giggled.

Bob turned off the light. “I love you, firefly.”

“I love you more,” she mumbled, already drifting.

⸻

It was 3:12 a.m. when you heard it.

The gasping.

The choking.

You ran.

Bob was already in her room. Holding her upright. Her eyes were wide. Terrified. She couldn’t breathe.

“Call 911!” Bob screamed. “Call them NOW!”

You fumbled the phone.

Her lips were blue.

Bob was begging her to look at him, to stay with him, but she couldn’t even blink. Her little body was seizing in his arms. Foam at her mouth. Her limbs jerking.

Beau appeared in the doorway — barefoot, silent.

“Beau, go back to bed!” Bob shouted, voice cracking.

“No,” Beau said. “No—”

⸻

You dropped the phone trying to hit speaker.

The operator in an eerily calm voice:

“Do you know CPR? If you know CPR, start it now”

Bob laid her down, hands shaking. He tilted her head, started compressions.

You sobbed at her feet, whispering, “Come back, come back, please don’t leave, baby, please—”

Beau was frozen.

You couldn’t look at him.

Couldn’t let him see this.

Bob was counting out loud.

One. Two. Three. Four—

Willa made a sound.

A wet, awful gurgle.

Then her head fell to the side.

⸻

The EMTs came.

The house filled with sirens and lights and noise.

You couldn’t stand.

Bob was on the ground, soaked in sweat, blood on his lips from trying to breathe for her.

He didn’t let them take over right away.

He begged them for five more seconds.

“She just—she just talked to me this morning,” he sobbed. “She ran. She danced—SHE DANCED—”

They tried everything.

You sat against the wall holding Beau’s face in your hands, trying to block his view, trying not to scream, trying not to fall apart while the people in uniforms fought a war they’d already lost.

And then someone said it.

Flat. Final.

“Time of death: 3:44 a.m.”

⸻

Bob collapsed.

Just fell, hands to the floor, sobbing like his soul was leaving his body too.

You were still frozen.

Still holding Beau.

Still whispering, “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” like a lie you’d tell until your dying breath.

⸻

They let you hold her one last time.

No wires.

No tubes.

Just your baby.

Still.

Warm.

Gone.

———

The first week after the funeral didn’t feel like time.

It felt like floating through a fog with bricks in your chest.

No music. No color.

Just stillness.

Just gray.

The fridge still had her strawberry yogurt cups.

The bathtub still had her duckie shampoo bottle half-squeezed.

Her toothbrush was still next to Beau’s.

You couldn’t touch any of it.

Neither of you could.

⸻

You and Bob didn’t talk much.

Not because you were mad.

Not because you didn’t care.

Because every word felt like a reminder.

She’s gone.

She’s not here.

She’s not coming back.

So you tiptoed around each other like ghosts in your own home.

You made Beau’s lunch in silence. Folded laundry in silence. Sat beside each other on the couch, watching TV you weren’t really watching — in silence.

⸻

Willa’s room stayed closed.

Beau didn’t ask to go in. He didn’t even look toward the door.

He slept in your bed now, curled between you both like a fragile heartbeat.

He didn’t ask questions anymore.

He just held your hand while he slept.

⸻

You couldn’t bring yourself to take the bows off her dresser.

You didn’t wash the clothes in her hamper.

Her bed was still unmade from the morning she danced across the yard.

The blanket still smelled like her.

Bob hadn’t stepped foot in the room.

Not once.

⸻

On the seventh night — or maybe it was the eighth, you couldn’t tell anymore — the house was dead silent at 3:17 a.m.

You woke up needing the bathroom.

Slipped out from under the sheets without waking Beau.

The floor creaked. The hallway light was off.

Everything was still.

Until you heard it.

Sobbing.

Choked. Raw. Buried-in-a-pillow kind of sobbing.

You froze.

Then you followed the sound.

You knew exactly where it was coming from.

⸻

The door to Willa’s room was cracked open.

Just enough for moonlight to slip through.

Bob was inside.

He was sitting on the floor by her bed — knees pulled up to his chest, holding her pillow against his face like it was oxygen.

He wasn’t trying to be quiet.

He was breaking.

Sobs racked his whole body, head bowed, rocking slightly like he was trying to stay afloat in grief that wouldn’t stop swallowing him.

You stood in the doorway, paralyzed.

Until you weren’t.

⸻

You crossed the room.

Sat beside him.

And reached out.

He didn’t look at you.

He just turned — still clutching the pillow — and collapsed into you.

And that’s when you broke.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, and the two of you sobbed together in that tiny bedroom.

The room your daughter had begged for when she was three:

“Because boys are gross, Mommy. And I’m gonna be a grown-up soon. I need my own space.”

Her favorite drawing was still taped to the wall.

Her princess dress still hung over the chair.

A stuffed unicorn stared down from the shelf like it was waiting for her.

She was everywhere in this room.

But she wasn’t here.

⸻

Neither of you spoke.

You couldn’t.

There were no words big enough for this ache.

You just sat.

Held each other.

Let the sobs come in waves.

Let the grief breathe.

Because what else was there?

What else could you possibly do?

⸻

Outside, the sun was soon to rise.

Inside, the world had ended.

And the two of you — two parents, one child left — clung to the memory of the one you lost.

Together.

———

Beau had stopped asking where Willa went.

But he started sleeping with the lights on.

⸻

Then came the first bruise.

It was small. Barely visible. On Beau’s shin. Probably from the playground.

But your stomach dropped.

Your chest tightened.

You couldn’t breathe.

Bob noticed too. He didn’t say anything — just stared at it for a long time.

His eyes went blank. Haunted.

You sat in the bathroom that night and whispered:

“What if he has it too?”

And Bob didn’t argue.

He just whispered back:

“Then we catch it early.”

⸻

The next day, you made the call.

Bloodwork.

Imaging.

Genetic tests.

The pediatrician was kind — but cautious.

She said, “I understand your fear. But this kind of cancer doesn’t usually affect twins. It’s not typically inherited.”

But you didn’t care what was typical.

You were done trusting odds.

Willa was rare.

She was 1 in 5 million.

You’d already lost 1 in 5 million.

You couldn’t lose the other half.

⸻

Beau cried during the scans.

You had to hold him down.

He begged for Willa.

Said she would’ve made it fun.

Bob left the room halfway through.

You found him in the hallway after — face in his hands.

“What if we’re doing this to him for nothing?” he asked, voice hollow.

“What if we’re not?” you answered.

⸻

The results came back normal.

Perfect, even.

No tumor.

No markers.

No reason to worry.

And for five whole hours… you breathed.

But then Beau woke up that night complaining his neck hurt.

And it all started again.

⸻

You began logging every symptom.

Every bump.

Every cough.

Every nap that lasted too long.

You made a spreadsheet.

Bob noticed.

He didn’t say anything.

He just added a tab.

⸻

The pediatrician suggested therapy.

You and Bob agreed.

Sort of.

You went once.

Bob sat in the car.

You told the therapist:

“I know he’s okay. I know he’s fine. But I don’t feel fine. I don’t feel anything but afraid.”

And she said:

“That’s grief. It doesn’t leave. It just wears new masks.”

⸻

Beau started acting out.

He threw a toy at the wall.

He screamed at dinner.

He cried when he couldn’t find his socks.

Bob yelled back once.

Then left the room and punched the wall so hard he split his knuckles.

Beau cried harder.

You held him in your lap and whispered, “He didn’t mean it. We’re all just tired.”

But what you didn’t say was:

“We’re all just broken.”

⸻

One night, you caught Bob standing in Willa’s doorway — just staring.

You didn’t say anything.

He finally said:

“Sometimes I think we brought her home too soon. That maybe we should’ve stayed in that trial. Tried one more treatment. Done something different. Anything different.”

You walked to him.

Stood beside him.

Took his hand.

“We gave her peace,” you whispered. “We gave her us.”

Bob didn’t answer.

He just closed the door.

⸻

Beau’s next test is already booked.

It’s a routine physical.

But you already asked them to add imaging.

Just to be safe.

Bob hasn’t objected.

Not once.

Because neither of you are healed.

Because you both know:

Grief doesn’t end.

It just learns to live beside you.

And if loving Beau too much means losing your mind a little?

You’ll take madness over another funeral.

Every time.

391 notes · View notes

97lala · 1 month ago

Text

bob floyd having a huge dick and thinking it’s no big deal.

now this is a guy who wore a t-shirt at the beach, he doesn’t need to flaunt his strength or even his looks. he wears the same style of glasses he has for years, only now are they in the ‘slutty fashion’ category.

Bob liked to be tidy, he always wore slacks and a crisp button up to any outing requiring nice wear. he was a respectful guy though so when Hangman requested everybody come to his apartment in pajamas to celebrate his birthday, Bob had relented.

he usually slept in loose jersey shorts and nothing else, too hot for a t-shirt most times of the year. especially that horrible summer when he’d had to buy three fans because his ac broke.

he rocked up in these grey sweatpants that seemed to hang off him enough to fly under the radar for a good few hours. but then they’d all lay down to watch a movie and he’d turned onto his side, forgetting that his bottoms were less supportive of his member in his also fairly loose boxers.

it had been Fanboy who noticed first, he’d then smacked Payback who’d laughed a little too hard and Hangman was clapping his hands after a moment, “Dang, Bobby, you really do have a Baby On Board with that kind of weapon.” his snickering jab led to the rest of the room noticing.

a bulge was hanging over the very top of Bob’s boxers and he was a shower not a grower so he was quite easily showing all eight-point-something inches of him.

Bob had wanted to die. especially when Phoenix smirked. Natasha just fucking smirked, like she knew and she was impressed.

he’d rushed off to the bathroom so he could use his hand to politely reposition himself and maybe rescue his reputation but the damage had been done. everyone knew he had a massive dick now.

every time after that they visited the bar as a group, Bob would smile at a girl and somebody, anybody, would bring up that she could have the ride of her life if she wanted. everybody always scampered away until you. not you. you’d immediately glanced down to Bob’s crotch with zero shame and just shrugged, “I like a challenge.”

he’d never been happier to have such a big dick than when you struggled to ride him that night.

433 notes · View notes

97lala · 1 month ago

Text

I wanna feel what love is

Summary : You're the Navy's most reserved systems specialist. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw is the loud, golden retriever pilot who can’t stop watching you work. He starts with coffee. Then conversation. Then a playlist. But you're silent, guarded… until the jukebox plays his song, and you finally speak in the loudest way you know how.

Bradley Bradshaw x f!reader/groundsystemstech!reader

Warnings : mutual pining, jealousy (brief flirtation), sunshine x quiet introvert, playlist flirting, he’s loud for both of you

Words : 5K

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

There was a certain stillness to the sim bay when you were in it—not silent, exactly, but quieter in a way that wasn't just about decibels. It was the kind of quiet that made people talk softer when they walked by you, as if your presence created a ripple of calm in the mechanical hum of monitors and diagnostic lights. You weren’t unfriendly. Just focused. Precise. A whisper in a world of voices raised too loud too often.

Bradley Bradshaw was not quiet, he was everything but quiet.

He was energy and swagger and sun-soaked charm, tall and golden, never without something to say. Usually something funny, sometimes something stupid, but always with that boyish confidence that made people laugh even when they didn’t want to.

And for some reason, lately, he kept orbiting around you.

Today, it was coffee.

You barely registered the footsteps until he was standing beside your desk, one hand curled around a cup, the other sliding the second one in front of you with practiced ease, like he’d done this before, like he’d made this part of his day.

“Hazelnut,” he said, voice low but cheerful, like you two were already in on some inside joke as he offered you the sweetest smile. “With oat milk. Thought I’d take a gamble, you look like an oat milk kind of girl.”

You paused mid-keystroke. Your eyes flicked up to his face—those soft brown eyes, wide and too curious for their own good—then down to the coffee. ‘Oat milk kind of girl’, what the hell does that mean ? Anyway, you took it without hesitation, your hand wrapping around the warm cup like it was familiar, though it wasn’t. At least not yet.

A quiet breath left your lips. “Thanks.” You murmured, voice just above the whir of the nearby fan: soft, clipped, barely there.

Then, you turned back to the screen, like the moment had never happened at all. Bradley stood there a beat too long, blinking once, then scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish kind of grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“…Cool.” He said to no one in particular, and walked off. Glancing back once to see if you looked at him again.

You didn’t.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

By the time lunch rolled around, the mess hall was its usual mess of uniformed pilots, engineers, and stray conversations about upcoming tests and simulations. Bradley slouched into a seat beside Phoenix and Bob, stealing a chip off Bob’s tray like it belonged to him.

“She never talks,” he said, more to himself than anyone else, watching you across the room as you sat alone, quietly eating, headphones on. You were scrolling something on your tablet—a manual, probably, or flight logs. You looked like you’d be anywhere else if you could, and still, you glowed in your own strange, distant way. Like a lighthouse in fog.

Phoenix didn’t even blink. “Whisper ? That’s her whole thing.”

Bradley raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, but she literally never talks. I’ve said good morning to her for like four days straight and got exactly two words in return. One of them was ‘thanks.’ The other was ‘hmm.’”

“She doesn’t waste words,” Bob offered gently. “I like that about her.”

“Yeah, but how does she communicate ? Like, with other humans ? Does she just telepathically vibe what she wants across the room ?”

Phoenix smirked. “You’re not mad she’s quiet, you’re mad she’s not talking to you.”

Bradley opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. He glanced across the cafeteria again. You were sipping the coffee he brought. Slowly. Still the only one you’d had all day. He watched the way you bit your lip, thinking intensely. How your hair fell back when you let it go, slightly hiding your face. But suddenly, a question popped in his head. “Why do we even call her whisper ?” He said still looking at you, not really waiting for an answer, more to make a statement.

“We talked once,” started Bob, cutting the brunet off from his observation. Rooster turned his head quickly, interested in what the blond had just told him. “Said she was a former pilot. Real good one too.”

His interest peaked, “Former pilot ? I thought she was a ground systems tech.”

“Well she is now.” The blond said. “But she used to fly, so people still use her call sign. Top of her class, sharp as a tack. Then she switched to ground—said she liked the quiet shadows better than the spotlight in the cockpit.”

Rooster took a slow sip of his glass of water, thinking about what his friend had just told him. “Guess I’ve got a mission then.”

Nat raised an eyebrow, “What kind of mission ?”

“To get her talking.” He answers, grinning like a kid who just found a new puzzle.

Bob laughed. “Good luck with that one.”

But that didn’t discourage Bradley, not even a little.

The sim bay had the kind of buzz that never quite went away—humming computers, faint whirring fans, a voice or two in the background reviewing telemetry. It was comfortable in a mechanical sort of way, and you liked it that way: your space, your rhythm, your quiet corner of the world. You were back at your console, headphones on, lips parted ever so slightly in focus as you adjusted a variable in the flight response program.

Bradley Bradshaw, on the other hand, existed in full color. He lingered in the doorway, pretending to look for someone, but mostly watching you work. He moved like someone born in the sun, all wide smiles and long limbs, always cracking a joke or throwing a casual wink in someone’s direction. So, when his boots thudded up beside your desk for the second time that day, coffee in hand again, you felt him coming before you even saw him. You slipped one of your headphones off as he stopped beside your desk, and he couldn’t help but smiled at the anticipation.

“You always drink coffee after lunch,” he said, setting the cup beside your keyboard like it was already tradition. “But I figured I’d switch it up. This one has vanilla instead of hazelnut. Dangerous, I know.” He chuckled for a bit.

You paused, glanced at him, and took the cup with both hands like it might vanish if you didn’t. “Thanks,” you murmured, the word barely above a breath.

He smiled like it was a full sentence. And then, to your surprise, he didn’t leave. He leaned against the edge of your console, arms crossed. “So… do you always have your headphones in, or is that just to avoid me ?”

You blinked, looked at him—not startled, just unreadable. Then: a quiet, short answer.

“No.”

His brows lifted. “Oh ? So it’s not personal.”

“No.”

Another beat passed. He was clearly trying to decide if that was good or bad.

“What do you listen to ?”

“…Music.”

That made him grin. “Wow. The mystery deepens.”

You looked back at your monitor. You weren’t trying to be cold, you just didn’t know what to do with all that energy, all that focus pointed at you like sunlight through a magnifying glass.

Still, he stayed.

“What kind of music ?” he asked, voice dipping into something gentler.

You hesitated. “…Instrumental.”

“No lyrics ?”

You shook your head.

“Okay. So you like stuff that doesn’t talk much. That makes sense.”

There was a tiny flicker at the corner of your lips. Not quite a smile. But almost. Bradley caught it like it was gold dust.

“Are you from around here ?” he tried again, as casually as he could.

You shrugged. “Sort of.”

“That’s not an answer.”

You glanced at him. “It is.”

He chuckled, arms dropping as he leaned a little closer to your screen, trying to read what you were working on. “You calibrating the response latency on Phoenix’s sim log ?”

“Yes.”

“Wanna explain it to me like I’m five ?”

“No.”

He laughed—this full, warm thing that drew glances from two other pilots on their way out. You didn’t laugh with him, but you did nod, slow and almost amused as you went back to work. And that was something. Bradley stared at you for another second. Then, without a word, he picked up the half-empty coffee cup you’d been nursing since morning and pulled a black Sharpie from his back pocket.

He scribbled something near the rim, just above the sleeve, and set it gently back beside you. You didn’t look up. But you didn’t tell him to go, either. He turned and left with a smirk playing at his lips.

Once you were sure he was gone, you reached out, fingers curling around the cup like it was something private. You turned it, just slightly. In dark, careful handwriting, it said:

‘Don’t worry,

I talk enough for both of us.’

You stared at it for a second. Just long enough for the smallest smile to touch your lips—the kind you’d never let him see.

Not yet.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

The Hard Deck was buzzing, already alive by the time you stepped through the doors. Half-empty beer bottles, familiar voices crashing over each other like waves, Phoenix’s laughter echoed from the pool table and a Springsteen song rumbled from the jukebox. Bradley was already there, leaning back at the bar, flashing that easy, sun-warmed smile at anyone who passed. As usual, he was dressed in an open Hawaiian shirt with a simple white T-shirt, his aviator pair on the tip of his nose, and his stupid moustache making him looking good as ever.

You hovered at the threshold longer than you meant to—long enough to wonder why you came, short enough that no one noticed—then slipped in quietly, the familiar hum of chatter wrapping around you like a cocoon. It wasn’t nerves, not exactly. You weren’t afraid of noise, just tired of being swallowed by it. But tonight, something pulled you in. Maybe it was the ache of loneliness that crept in when the hangar emptied you. Or maybe it was just the memory of Rooster’s smile earlier that morning, when he handed you coffee just to hear your thank-you.

“Watch this.” Bradley said to Phoenix, next to him, as he saw you cross the room.

“You're gonna make a fool of yourself.” She laughed as he stood up, walking with a determined step towards you.

You found your usual corner near the window, sliding onto a stool with your drink and earphones already tucked in your jacket pocket. Not quite ready to drown out the noise, but ready to keep some space from it. You hadn’t even settled on a stool before a shadow fell beside you.

“There she is,” Bradley drawled, smooth and pleased, sidling up beside you with his usual beer in hand. “Didn’t think this place was your scene.”

You glanced at him sideways, eyes unreadable, and shrugged. “Got bored.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, leaning one arm on the table next to you, his attention all yours. “You in a bar full of pilots ? That’s not boredom. That’s anthropology.”

You tilted your head. “Maybe I’m observing.”

He grinned wide, taking that as a win. “See ? She does talk.” He says loud enough so Nat could hear it.

You didn’t reply. Just looked at him with wide eyes and sipped your drink, letting the silence settle again.

Bradley seemed content to fill it. “You always just… listen ?” He asked, watching over the rim of his bottle.

You gave a small shrug. “Someone has to.”

His eyes softened, “I like your voice.” He said unbothered by your silence.

That pulled something from you—the tiniest exhale of laugh, gone before fully formed. But he caught it, and his grin widened even more when he saw your cheeks getting slightly red. “There it is,” he said, mock-dramatic. “A sound. We’ve got confirmation of life.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no heat in it.

Across the room, near the jukebox, Fanboy nudged Payback and nodded toward you both.

“Ten bucks says he won’t get her to say more than four words tonight,” Fanboy said.

Payback chuckled. “I’ll take that bet. Bradshaw’s relentless.”

Back at the corner, Bradley didn’t care. Didn’t even notice. He was too focused on you—on the way your fingers traced the rim of your glass, the way you listened like it mattered. Then, he seemed to be slowing down, leaning against the edge of your space like he might stay there all night.

“You ever drink anything stronger than water ?” He asked, nudging his empty bottle toward your glass.

“I had whiskey last week.” You murmured.

Bradley arched an eyebrow. “One whiskey ?”

You let the corner of your mouth twitch. “Two.”

He laughed, the sound full and bright, startling in the close space between you. You turned slightly toward him, just enough to give him your attention—not more, not yet.

“I think people forget you have a voice,” he said, his tone quieter now, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “I mean, I see you every day. Running diagnostics, fixing our busted egos in the sims, headphones always on. But nobody really talks to you.”

“I don’t mind,” you said, fingers tapping the base of your glass.

“Why’d you stop flying ?” He asked suddenly, not unkindly. Just… curious.

You glanced away for a beat, surprised he knew that, then shrugged. “Liked control more.”

Bradley’s smile softened, fading into something more thoughtful. “You ever miss it ?”

You paused. Then, so quiet he almost missed it: “Sometimes.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment—just looked at you, like he wanted to remember the sound of your voice exactly as it was. Then someone brushed past you on the way to the bar, a blonde woman in a sundress, tall and glowing, with a spark in her eye and a laugh that cut clean through the room. Confident in a way that glittered, she moved like she already knew who would be watching her, and her eyes locked onto Bradley.

You caught the way his eyes settled on her. Not just a glance, but a long, lingering stare, the kind that said he was interested, curious, maybe even impressed. His usual playful charm softened into something quieter, more focused, like he was seeing something worth leaning into, and for a moment, it was like you weren’t even in the room.

Anyway, he stayed with you a little longer.

And unconsciously, you gave him more than usual tonight—a full five minutes of quiet conversation, soft answers barely audible beneath the noise, a trace of a smile when he teased you about something you just said. It was the most you’d spoken to him outside the sim bay, and for a moment, it felt like something shifted. Like maybe he saw you a little more clearly now.

Then your glass emptied. You stood slowly, nodding toward the bartender on the far end. “Be right back.” You took his empty bottle in your hand, without asking him.

He thanked you and straightened, stretching his arms back just enough for the fabric of his shirt to pull across his broad shoulders. The movement was effortless, the kind of thing he didn’t even know he was doing. “Don’t disappear on me.” He called, half-laughing, as you stepped away, weaving through shoulders and laughter. You didn’t answer, just slipped into the crowd, quiet as ever.

You didn’t see the blonde until you were halfway to the bar, but he saw her. She brushed past you with the kind of scent you couldn’t name but somehow noticed. And by the time you looked back, his eyes were already on her. Focused. That warm, open grin of his softened into something more curious, the kind of look he gave to things he wanted to figure out—the same look he gave you earlier that morning. When she glanced over and smile, he smiled back like it was instinct. The blonde placed a hand on his forearm, light and lingering, nails painted in a summer pink. And he didn’t move an inch away.

He tilted his head, smiling down at her like they’d known each other longer than thirty seconds. That familiar warmth in his eyes—the one he gave you—was now entirely hers. Your grip on his bottle tightened and you turned back toward the bar, but not for the bartender anymore. Instead you set the bottle and your glass gently on a vacant corner.

“Doesn’t need his beer anymore.” You muttered under your breath.

“Ditching the golden boy already ?” Phoenix’s voice came from beside you, light but knowing.

You didn’t flinch, just gave her a small shrug, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere past the jukebox. “He’s got company.” You said quietly.

She followed your gaze. Her expression didn’t change, but you caught the way she exhaled slowly, like she wanted to say something. Instead, she offered a soft nudge to your shoulder. “Come shoot a round with me. Before Bradshaw says something stupid dumb and ruins both your nights.”

You nodded once, grateful, and let her steer you away—away from the laughter from the blonde, from the part of you that had started to hope he’s look for you first.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

The next few days passed in a blur of drills and simulator runs, but something was off. Bradley felt it before he even saw it. A shift in the air, subtle and sharp. The way people say you can sense a storm rolling on, not by the thunder, but by how still the birds go.

You were still there in the sim bay every morning, like clockwork. Still perched at your console with your headphones draped around your neck, fingers flying over diagnostic keys. Still responding to reports, confirming flight data, calling out corrections with crisp professionalism.

But you weren’t there. Not like before.

You didn’t glance over when he leaned on the edge of your desk with his usual swagger, coffee cup in hand, teasing tone ready. You’d just take the cup without eye contact, said a flat, “Thanks”, and go back to the screen like he hadn’t just offered you the sun.

No smile. No soft voice. No quiet moment like before. Bradley stood there a second longer, watching you scroll through diagnostics. The first time, he brushed it off. Maybe you were tired or busy. The second time, it tugged a little. But the third ? It started to sting.

“Rough morning ?” he asked that day, testing the waters. He watched you from just a few feet away, trying to catch your expression through the edge of your hair. But you didn’t even blink. Didn’t even lift your head. Just muttered, “No”, and continued typing.

Bradley lingered awkwardly for a few seconds longer, waiting—for a smile, a glance, anything. But you never looked up. He left the coffee on the corner of your console and walked away like a door had closed behind him.

And it stuck with him. It gnawed at him all day. During simulator drills, debriefs, even lunch where he barely touched his food, through endless conversations with teammates where he found himself half-listening, distracted by the feeling of something slipping out of reach. By the time evening rolled around, he couldn’t shake it. He found Phoenix on the flight deck catwalk, where the sky was bruising purple, and the air still carried salt and heat.

“What did I do ?” He asked impatient.

She didn’t looked away from the horizon, “To who ?”

He looked at her like it was obvious and sighed, “Whisper.”

Now she looked at him, one brow lifted. “You mean besides not shutting up around her ?”

Bradley narrowed his eyes. “No, I mean lately. She’s been…” He exhaled hard. “Different. Cold.”

Phoenix tilted her head, giving him a long, pointed look. Then she asked, “You really don’t get it ?”

His expression didn’t change, but there was hesitation in his eyes. “Get what ?”

“She saw you Bradshaw.”

He blinked, “Saw me what ?”

Phoenix pushed off the railing, folding her arms. “You flirted with some random at the Hard Deck right after spending all night talking her out of her shell. And she saw you. Every second of it.”

Bradley’s mouth opened slightly. “What ? No, I wasn’t— I just talked to her for a second—”

“Bradley,” Phoenix’s voice dropped, serious now. “She was holding your damn beer to get you a new one. She wanted to come back to you.”

He stopped. Actually stopped. Like the weight of those words landed straight on his chest. “I didn’t…” He scrubbed a hand down his jaw. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” He muttered.

She softened a little but didn’t let him off the hook. “Didn’t have to.” She waited a beat, then said more gently, “She’s quiet, not stupid. You think that kind of girl opens up to just anyone ?”

He didn’t answer. Because he was thinking about the bar now. About the way your eyes had briefly flicked toward him when the blonde leaned in. About how your expression had shuttered before he could even recognize the look behind it.

Phoenix watched him closely, then nudged his shoulder. “So. Fix it. Or at least don’t make it worse.”

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

Two days went by.

Long enough for Bradley to feel every inch of it—in the clipped responses, in the polite nods, in the way you passed him in the corridor like he was another file to be sorted and ignored.

And it was driving him insane.

Because you weren’t the kind of person to shut people out impulsively. You were calculated, quiet, deliberate in everything you did. And this coldness wasn’t sudden. It was chosen. Thought through.

Which meant it hurt.

He spent hours turning it over in his head, reliving that night at the Hard Deck, the way you’d said ‘Be right back’ like it meant something, like you were truly planning on coming back to him and not just disappear as he thought you would. And how he’d let himself be pulled into a meaningless moment with a girl he didn’t even remember the name of. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing. Not until Phoenix spelled it out for him in painfully clear words.

So now he sat with that. The guilt, the frustration, the quiet hollow ache of knowing he’d hurt someone who barely let people close to begin with. And he wanted to fix it. But with you, big gestures didn’t work. He knew that. You didn’t want spectacle, you wanted sincerity. Something simple. Something honest.

So that morning, before anyone else was in the sim bay, he left a flash drive on your console. No note. No explanation. Just slid it onto the edge of your desk beside your water bottle and walked away without a word.

You noticed it the moment you sat down.

A plain silver drive, no label. But when you hovered over the files on your screen an hour later, curiosity finally won over.

“Songs You Should Smile To — A Rooster Original”

You stared at the name for a long moment, your finger paused above the track list. You didn’t open it right away. Didn’t smile, either. Just… paused. Then clicked. The first song was soft, warm around the edges. The kind of sound that lingered like late sunshine on concrete. It played in your headphones for exactly thirty-eight seconds before you stopped it. Then closed the window. Then unplugged the drive.

You slipped it into your pocket like it was something fragile.

Later that day, while the rest of the pilots were out on deck, Bradley circled back into the sim bay. You were alone at your station, typing quietly, brows drawn together as you reviewed a diagnostic thread. He lingered by the edge of the console—not leaning in like usual, not crowding your space—just there. Treading softly.

“Hey,” he said gently, scratching at the back of his neck. “Did you, uh… open it?”

You didn’t look at him. Just nodded. “Yeah.”

That was it.

A single syllable, flat as an ocean on a windless day. You didn’t elaborate. Didn’t offer a smile. Didn’t even glance his way.

Bradley hesitated, thumb rubbing the edge of his palm. “Cool,” he said, too quickly. Then added, “Just figured… you might need a better soundtrack. Y’know. For… stuff.”

No reply. No warmth. Nothing to hold on to. You didn’t ignore him, but you didn’t give him anything, either. And that was somehow worse. He lingered for a second longer, then gave a small nod and turned away. Chest tight, mouth pressed into a thin line.

But he didn’t see the way your fingers curled slightly as he walked off. The way your eyes flicked toward the flash drive, still safe in your pocket. Or even the way you waited until the door hissed shut behind him before reaching for your headphones again.

You started the playlist over. From the beginning this time.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

The Hard Deck was loud that night. Louder than usual. Full of laughter, clinking bottles, half-sung choruses to half-remembered songs. Bradley was already two beers in when he dropped onto a stool by the bar, half-listening to Hangman brag about something no one cared about and trying not to look toward the door every few minutes like some hopeful idiot.

You hadn’t showed up yet.

He told himself he wasn’t looking. That he didn’t care. That it was just a normal night, and he was just enjoying the bar like everyone else.

But then he heard it.

The song.

Soft drums, rising gently above the noise, his heart stuttered.

“I want to know what love is” by the Foreigner.

It wasn’t one of the Hard Deck bangers, not on Penny’s usual rotation. It was his song. The first track on the playlist he gave you. One that made him grin when it came on during drives, made him think of wind in his hair and summers that never quite ended. It wasn’t loud enough to cut through pool games or Payback’s booming laugh across the room. But loud enough for him to hear it.

He blinked, turning toward the jukebox automatically.

And there you were.

Alone, standing quietly with one hand still resting lightly against the machine, like you weren’t quite sure you were allowed to touch it. Head bowed just a little, listening. You looked soft in the amber glow of the neon bar lights.

Playing his song.

Bradley was on his feet before he could stop himself. He crossed the floor slowly, weaving through the crowd as his pulse ticking somewhere behind his ribs, watching you with a quiet disbelief. You didn’t turn until he was almost beside you. Then, finally, your eyes lifted to meet his. There was something unreadable in your expression: something brave.

He opened his mouth to say something, but you beat him to it.

“I liked this one.” You said simply, your voice barely louder than the song.

Just that.

No buildup. No grand declaration. But your voice was warmer than it had been in days, and your eyes held a softness he hadn’t seen since before that night at the bar. And Bradley melted. A breath escaped his chest like relief and hope all tangled into one. “Yeah ?” He asked, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “I thought you might.”

You gave a tiny nod, barely there. “Had it on repeat all night.”

He smiled then. Really smiled. The kind that stretched across his face like a sunrise. His heart clenched in his chest, and for once, he couldn’t find a smooth comeback. Just stood there, quiet in front of the quietest person he knew, feeling every word like it had weight.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “For that night. I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t trying to…”

“I know.” Your eyes didn’t leave his.

And then—finally—you smiled. Bradley exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath since that night. You looked at him for a long time, longer than you ever had before. The jukebox kept playing as the music wrapped around you both like velvet.

Bradley laughed under his breath, “There it is.”

The jukebox’s glow flickered softly across your face, casting colors that shimmered like stained glass: red across your jaw, blue across your lashes. You were looking at him like he’d said something sacred. Like he hadn’t messed it all up.

Bradley’s throat tightened. His hands ached to move—to reach for you, to tuck that strand of hair behind your ear, to do something—but he didn’t. He didn’t move. Didn’t trust himself not to screw it up by rushing. So he stood there, holding his breath, watching you like he’d watch a sunrise he was afraid to blink through.

And you… you just looked at him for a moment longer. Eyes calm, unreadable, but soft. Then slowly—so slowly he almost thought he imagined it—your hand reached up. Fingers brushed lightly against the collar of his shirt, then steadied there, like an anchor. You leaned in, hesitant, but sure, eyes locked on his, not breaking even once. Bradley’s breath caught. His lips parted just slightly. He still didn’t move.

But you did.

You kissed him.

Not tentative. Not shy. Not loud, but louder than anything you’d ever said before. It was soft, but certain, the kind of kiss that said everything you never did. And Bradley melted into it. When he finally kissed you back—deeper, more grounded, hand slipping gently around your waist—it felt like exhaling after months of holding his breath. Like gravity stopped pulling and just let him float.

And in the background, Kelly Hansen sang on :

I wanna feel what love is, I know you can show me…

2K notes · View notes

97lala · 2 months ago

Note

Haii!

How do we feel about a smut with pornstar reader & pornstar Konig? Like- their comments in their vids/twts/etc. always saying to collab w/ eachother and after awhile, they finally do 👀

-🖤

(Also sorry if I already sent this- I forgot if I did😭)

You didn't! I love the idea of being shipped with Pornstar!König. The Austrian with a monster cock🤤

Pornstar!König x Pornstar!Reader (fem)

MDNI🔞

Master List

>cw: fem/afab, p in v, oral

3.1k word count

König is famous in the adult film world. During lock down he downloaded Only Fans and ended up making his own account. His striking blue eyes, hidden face mystery, and 6’10 280 lb frame of solid muscles weren’t the only reasons he became so famous; he also has a 10-inch cock the size of most women’s forearms.

You, on the other hand, are a cam girl turned OF girl. You are known by your fan base never being scared of a challenge. You use toys that make people's jaws drop. Your body being strikingly stunning along with a beautiful face and kinky appetite for sex, you blew up quickly on the platform.

Because of the material you make, your fans instantly made you aware of another content creator, König. After about the 100th comment, you decide to go on your X account and check out his page. Instantly you notice the mask covering his face and his blue eyes. His bio gives his height and weight, your jaw drops. You continue to scroll and see a photo he’s recently posted. He’s wearing gray sweatpants with no shirt. His body is stunning, but your eyes drop to the outline of his erection in his pants, his dick literally hanging down his leg. You smirk now, understanding why the fans think you two should film together. You go ahead and give him a follow.

◅ ◃ ▹ ▻

König has also seen the comments. After the first one he instantly looked you up. His eyes shot open when he saw the photo of toys on your profile. Scrolling down a few posts he sees you, and wow. You’re wearing a pink lace thong with your breast fully exposed. You have a sweet smile on your face and you’re standing in a field of wildflowers. You look ethereal. He instantly took notice of you, but contrary to his online persona, he is very socially awkward. He has no idea how to reach out to you, or any girl; that’s why he only posts solo. Then while he is scrolling looking at his feed, he gets a notification. You just followed him.

He quickly sits up and smiles. He clicks your profile and begins to look at all the photos you’ve posted again. His heart rate is picking up, he doesn’t know if he should message you or wait. That’s when your phone chimed and he got the notification that you messaged him.

> “Hey! I’m sure you know of me from your comments 😂, but I’m y/n!”

He reads your message probably ten times before getting the courage to respond to you.

> “Hey, ja, I know you. It’s nice to finally talk.”

He hits send quickly and waits for you to respond. He can feel his heart rate picking up. He hopes that you’re messaging him to make content together. He can feel his excitement rising as his leg bounces waiting for your next message.

You sit feeling nervous yourself as you look down at your phone. He responded so quickly it didn’t give you time to think of a smooth way to ask about a collab. You’ve only ever filmed solo or with women, never a man.

> “I was wondering if you’d be interested in maybe getting together? I see you mostly do solo, so please feel no pressure. I just figured the fans would love it.”

König stands and punches the air like his favorite sports team had just won the big game. Now he just has to act smoothly and not ruin this.

> “I’d love to.”

Both of you do a little celebration dance, feeling excited about the possibility of filming together. You both continue to message back and forth and work out how you’d both meet on account of him being based in Austria, but you both work something out.

◅ ◃ ▹ ▻

One week later you post on your social media accounts a photo of a plane at the airport. The comments explode with assumptions and more tagging of König. During the next few hours, you continue to post your travels while König doesn’t post at all.

That is until he posts a photo of a small feminine hand in his and then you post a bathroom mirror selfie with a man’s large arm around your waist. You sit with König in your Airbnb on the living room sofa, both giggling as people begin to realize the collab is about to happen.

König paid for you to fly to him, picked you up at the airport, and paid for your Airbnb. You knew König was 6’10, but seeing him in person actually blew you away. Plus, he is so sweet. In person, his face remains covered by the mask. You have questions, but you leave it alone.

Your first day together you spend the day going over health, boundaries, safe words, and any questions you might have for each other. Once everything is settled, you both plan to film the next day to allow you to get some rest.

◅ ◃ ▹ ▻

König wakes up early and works out the day of filming. He eats a light breakfast and takes a long shower to help with his nerves. He is excited to have sex with a woman that he knows is very capable of taking someone his size instead of having only the tip of his cock in someone. Getting dressed in sweats and a black shirt, he makes his way to you.

You are currently sitting on the floor in front of a full-length mirror to do your makeup. You just do a light natural look for today. You’re wearing a black silk robe over your nude body with two sets of lingerie set out, waiting to get König’s opinion.

A knock at the door, you jump up and rush to the front door. Smiling, you let König inside and motion for him to follow you to the main bedroom.

“Okay, so I have two options for today and I wanted your input.”

He follows you to see a large king size bed with white lush looking comforters and he feels his nerves spike again. He sees one black lingerie set and then a light pink one that looks like the one from the first photo he ever saw of you.

“Pink, it will look great with your skin tone.” König says looking at you with a soft smile behind his mask.

You grab pink and go to the connected bathroom to get dressed.

König walks around the room and sets up the ring lights and cameras for different angles. He stands looking around and waiting for you. Slowly he takes his shoes off when the bathroom door opens and he gets to see you. He’s seen you naked online, but in person you looked even more perfect. He stands and just looks at you for a while before speaking.

“You look lovely.”

“Thank you,” you can’t help but to find his Austrian accent attractive. “Thanks for setting up too.”

“Oh, it’s not a problem.” König reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it off.

Your eyes go over his body and smirk at how attractive he looks. You notice his erection forming as you walk to the bed.

“Do you want to film everything? Like role play and all?” You ask in a soft voice, the tension in the air heavy as you’re both ready now.

“Uh, let's film it all. I’d rather have more to edit from.” And also, because he’d want to watch these moments with you later.

◅ ◃ ▹ ▻

König lifts his mask slightly, the first time his audience will be seeing his sharp jawline and his thin soft lips. His lips meet yours in a tender first kiss as his hands begin to roam over your body. His hand squeezes your breast gently as your lips part and your tongues caress each other’s.

You move your hand down his chest, feeling the small amount of chest hair the covers his chest. His muscles twitch lightly at your touch. His penis now fully erect in his pants as he tastes your lips and feels the touch of your soft skin.

He moves his hands behind your back and begins to unhook your bra. Slipping the straps off your shoulders slowly before pulling it away from your body. He breaks the kiss and gently leans you back on the bed. His lips kiss all over your breasts until he finds one of your nipples. He licks in slow circles around it before closing his lips and sucking lightly. Opening his mouth again he begins to flick his tongue.

You let out a soft moan as your hand reaches for the back of his head, pressing him against you, the fabric of his mask soft. His other hand goes down to your thighs and begins to gently move up them, caressing the soft skin on the inside of your thighs.

He pulls away from your breasts and whispers to you, “Is it okay if I touch?”

“Yeah,” you smile at him asking for consent.

His hand grabs your leg and moves it to where the camera can see everything, He moves the thin fabric of your thong aside and begins to rub his thick fingers between your folds. You’re already wet when he touches you and that excites him knowing you’re so turned on. He moves his lips back to yours as he gently rubs your clit. Small moans leaving your lips, muffled into his. He eventually slips one finger down and pushes it gently into you. He feels the texture of your walls and feels how tight you are. He can only think about shoving himself deep inside of you, but he wants you to get off first.

He moves his kisses from your lips back down to your breast before kissing down your stomach. He moves your leg a little more as he rests his head on your thigh, he kisses your clit before flicking his tongue. Your legs jerk and you sit up to look down at him eating you out. He can’t get over how good you smell and taste. He is surprised you aren’t selling your panties; men would pay big money for this.

“Oh, fuck König,” you moan caressing the side of his face.

König slips in another finger as picks up his pace, as he continues to lick your clit. Hearing you moan his name means that he is on the right path to get you to orgasm for him. Your hand grasps the fabric of his mask, making him smirk before he switches to begin just sucking your clit. Your legs tremble as you drop your head back and lay back down. The sound of your wet cunt gets louder as you cum on his fingers. He keeps going for a while before pulling back.

You lie there panting before you giggle and sit up, “Your tongue is amazing.”

He chuckles and goes in to kiss you, making you taste your sweet pussy on your own lips. You move your hands to his chest before moving down to his cock, pulling back you pull at the waistband of his sweatpants. His heart rate began to pick up. The videos of you deep throating your toys comes into his mind and he gets excited. Lifting his ass, König helps you pull his sweats off of him, boxers as well.

Seeing his cock spring free makes you smile; his cock is as big as some of your toys. König leans back to support himself on his elbows to allow you room but he still wants to watch.

Grasping his dick at the base, you stroke it lightly as you lick the back of his tip. König’s breathing heavy as his blue eyes watch with anticipation. You move your hand and lick from the base all the way up his shaft, back and forth and a few times before finally wrapping your lips around the head of his cock. You begin to suck on the tip and move your head in a fast motion making König moan out. He reaches down and moves some of your hair out of your face.

“Ah, ja, just like that.” His voice shakes as you keep going.

Finally, you lower your head down the length of his shaft. Your full lips wrapping tightly around him as you take his ten inches inch by inch down your throat. König watches in amazement as he has never had a woman be able to take more than half his cock into their throat. He takes a sharp breath before letting a small moan out.

You feel a bit of pride being able to take someone like him, to make him moan like that. You look up at his eyes as you continue to suck his cock.

“Is this okay?” König asks as his hand moves to the back of your head.

“Mmhhmm,” you respond without stopping.

His hand gently guides you motion as the other one is behind him supporting himself. He lets himself enjoy the pleasure of your skills. Gently lifting your face with one hand he brings your lips to his, lifting his mask and kissing you. He wants you fully now.

Pushing your body back without breaking the kiss, his hands caress your body. You both agreed on no condom but to us the pull out method and since both of you are clean. Slowly pulling away from your soft lips he looks down at you and removes your thong, tossing it to the side.

“Are you ready, Schatz?”

“I am.”

“Gut.”

Grabbing you by your hips he drags you forward. He is such a massive man that he can easily move you. You giggle as he does and he responds with a chuckle of his own.

“Your voice is so sweet.” He tells you as he grasps your thigh as pulls one leg back for the camera view again. He rubs himself back and forth over your folds before he begins to push himself into you. His eyes watch your face to watch for pain or discomfort, yet he sees nothing but bliss.

König pushes himself as far in as your tight cunt will take at first. You moan out, grabbing his arm and the bed sheets. Your sweet pussy welcomes him with a warm wet hug and he pushes in more, a moan leaving his lips as you take him.

“You’re so tight, Schatz.” König speaks with a voice dripping with lust. His hips begin to thrust harder into you, letting his desire take over.

Your lips hug his fat cock as he pumps it into you leaving your creamy cum on his cock. He pulls out and stands to grab one of the cameras. He comes back and points it to your pussy as he slides his cock back into you, recording the way your tight cunt can easily stretch for him.

“Look at that beautiful pussy, you truly take cock so well. So fucking tight.” He picked up his pace, holding the camera in place as you reached down and put your own leg back. Your fingers digging into your own flesh as you moan out his name.

“Please König, fuck me.” You look into his eyes begging for him to get you off again.

König returns the gaze as he fucks you harder. The phone picking up the sounds your pussy is making and both of your moans.

“That’s it, cum for me, good girl.”

Your eyes flutter back as your body tenses, your cunt tightening around his cock. He puts the phone down and fucks you through your orgasm letting the other cameras pick it up. His body leaning into yours as your hands move to his back and begin to drag your nails along his pale skin.

“Good girl,” he whispers to you as he lifts his mask slightly to kiss you all over your neck and face. His hands grasp your body tightly as he continues to thrust into you. His balls begin to tighten and he feels the temptation of just cumming deep inside of you, but he can’t.

Quickly König pulls out and grabs the phone again to record. “Come here,” he grabs your hand to pull you up and sits at the edge of the bed. He points the camera down at you as you scoot closer to his cock.

Moving your pillowy lips up and down his cock, sucking as you do. You begin to lick your own wet from his cock.

“Suck it Liebling,” his voice breathy.

You move your mouth to wrap around his cock again. König grabs your hair in his hand to hold your head steady as he begins to buck his hops forward, face fucking you gently. You look up at him, not breaking eye contact as he looks down at you. He moves his 10-inch cock deeper and deeper as he fucks faster. Your eyes begin to water as you close your eyes.

“Open, look at me. Please.” König moans.

Once your eyes open and you look back up at him, he presses your head all the way down. His cock outline is visible in your throat. You gargle on his cock before he pulls it out and begins to jerk off quickly. You open your mouth and hold your breast up waiting for his load.

He cums on you, letting out loud grunts of pleasure as he does. His milky white seed shoots some on your breast, your mouth, but most on your face. He smiles at how beautiful you look covered in him. You play with it a little for the camera before he stops recording.

You both relax on the bed and pant, relaxing. König looks over to you and gestures for you to come snuggle with him. The other two cameras picked up the sweet moment.

◅ ◃ ▹ ▻

The video blows up on both of your pages. Fans ecstatic to see you get dominated by König’s monster cock finally. The chemistry you both had radiating through the camera adding to the passion. People requesting more and starting to ship the two of you.

You have 5 more days in Austria and König is excited to spend those few days with you. He’s at home, late at night, watching the clips of him snuggling you after sex. A small smile on his face as he watches it over and over. He didn’t want to, but he caught feelings. He wonders if you feel the same.

1K notes · View notes

97lala · 2 months ago

Note

https://twitter.com/Elizabeathof/status/1786741799345656150?t=tcjcoF3QJ3RVZBD8p2GWnw&s=19

Can you write about retired Konig who now lives in the country, walk pass the wood and accidentally catch reader like the video above and...well, you know, they fuck=)))

Imagine how lucky he would feel coming across reader. Also how lucky reader would be to come across a man like König. The one man I'd be okay seeing in the woods🤭😮‍💨🐻

Retired!König x Reader (fem)

MDNI🔞

Master List

>cw: fem/afab, voyeurism, p in v, oral, filming

1.4k word count

🌲

Once König had turned forty-seven, he decided it was time to retire. He had put thirty years into the service. It was about time he settled down and lived life. With some of his money, he paid in full for some land out in the county. It was 20 acres with a pleasant home on it. Part of the land was a heavily wooded area. It was perfect for him to start his new life away from KorTac and being Colonel König.

Today was like any day. After König ate breakfast, he puts on his boots, and leaves out the door. It is a bright summer day, so he heads into the woods to enjoy the shade. Branches snap underneath his heavy footsteps.

He bends down to grab a big stick, hitting it against trees as he wanders. When he’s in the woods, it’s as if he is a kid again. He approaches his favorite tree to climb when something distracts him, looking around, wondering where it’s coming from. It sounds like a woman moaning.

He walks with soft steps, being as quiet as he can be. His eyes darte all over, searching for the sound. That’s when he spots a white car parked on the side of the road near the tree line. As he approaches, he can see a fully naked young woman; bent over with a little pink thing dangling between your legs. His cock gets hard as he watches your body shake from the pleasure you’re feeling.

As you lean against your car you moan out loud, breasts jiggling as your body jumps. You make sure the camera is picking it all up, filming it for your Only Fans account. Looking up with a flirty smile, you grasp your breast. Moans continue to spill from your lips until you turn around and see an enormous man just looking at you.

“Oh, my god!” You jump, eyes wide as you look at the man.

König steps forward slightly, but still gives you space. “It’s okay.” His eyes are taking in your figure. “What are- why are you doing this here?”

“I’m filming…for Only Fans…” You slowly pull the vibrator out.

“What is that?” König doesn’t go online much and is out of the loop.

“Um…porn.” A small chuckle leaves your lips.

A heavy blush fell on König’s cheeks as he heard you film porn. “Oh, well then. I’m sorry to have interrupted.” His eyes gloss over your body once more. “Be safe out here.”

You look up at him, his eyes gazing into yours for a moment. He is a huge, older man. Good looking… it would be risky, but you’re filming porn, right? Might as well make it interesting.

“Excuse me, sir?” You call out as he walks away from you.

“Hm?” König turns to face you again.

“What’s your name?”

“I’m König. And you are?”

“I’m y/n. I was wondering if…” Your eyes drop from his icy blue to see the erection straining against his pants. “You’d like to film with me?”

König stood there appearing stoic when inside his heart began to beat 100mph. “Film?”

“Yeah, like sex. Of course, if you don’t want to-”

“I do.” He quickly cuts you off.

You smile, turning to your car to go into your glove box. Pulling out a condom you turn back to face König. He nods and grabs it from you, looking slightly nervous. You walk to him and begin to reach for his belt buckle.

“Is this okay?” You ask in a low sensual voice.

“Ja…” He watches as your small hands work on his pants and pull them down. A cocky smirk appears on his lips as he sees your reaction to the size of his dick. Your eyes go wide as you kneel before him with his cock in your face.

Grasping it, you begin to stroke him gently. König lets out a sigh and looks down at you, caressing the back of your head as he gently pushes your head closer to his cock. You open your mouth and accept him in. Sucking on the tip as you continue to stroke him. König looks up into your car to see the camera recording. Feeling instantly bashful, he looks back down at you.

Slowly you lower your head down onto the shaft of his cock, beginning to gag yourself on his length. König lets out a soft groan, lightly pushing you down so you can go farther before pulling your head back by your hair. You look up at him with a string of spit connected from your bottom lip to his cock, a smile on your beautiful lips.

You slowly open the condom and hold it up to his cock, rolling it down his shaft. Both of you share a deep gaze as you do.

“Are you ready?”

König nods in response, watching you stand up from the floor. You barely come up to his chest, you’re so short. Turning around, you position yourself so that you’re leaning on to the car, ass sticking out. König’s big hands slide down your thigh to hold behind your knee, lifting your right leg so the camera can get a better view.

With his free hand, he grasps his cock and pulls the condom down a little more. He rubs it against your wet pussy before thrusting forward, pushing his cock inside. Once his head slips in, you ball your hands up into a tight fist, looking back at him as he pushes in two more inches.

“Oh fuck, your cock is so big.” You moan.

König’s pupils fully dilated as he looks at you. Feeling your tight cunt struggle to take him as you give him those eyes is all too much. His other hand moves to your hips, holding it firmly as he pushes his cock the rest of the way in. Your walls flutter around him, being stretched like never before.

He begins to roll his hips forward at a quicker pace; his pants falling down from his thighs to his ankles. Small grunts leave his lips as his eyes fall to the way your ass bounces off of him with every thrust.

Lost in the moment he drops your leg. Pausing his thrust to pull his shirt off, revealing his strong body. His skin pale and covered in scars, his body solid like rock from all the years in the military. The flesh on his stomach is a little softer now that he’s retired, making him look desirable.

König returned his hands to your hips and began to thrust into you at a rapid pace. The sound of his hips slamming into your plump ass echoing around you. He lets out an animalistic groan as his hand comes down and slaps your ass hard.

The feeling of his cock fully shoving into you, hitting your cervix, made you bend over more. Standing was becoming harder as you couldn’t keep up with his pace. Slowly you lean into the open car door. The camera capturing your face contorted in pleasure as you moan out, reaching behind you to hold his arm as he fucks you so ruthlessly.

“I’m going to cum!” You shout as your head drops, the camera picking up the ripples of your ass as König holds it up for him to fuck.

“Cum on my fucking cock.” He growls.

Your tight walls flutter again on his cock and squeeze him. König’s head drops back and lets out a loud moan. “Perfect!”

Once you’ve calmed down, he quickly pulls out and flips your body over in the seat. Leaning in, he licks both of your nipples before lightly biting one. He pulls away, slapping his cock on your swollen clit. Rubbing it back and forth quickly as your leg’s twitch. You reach behind you and grab the camera, holding it for a better view.

As you hold the camera to your pussy, he slips his cock back inside of you. Lifting your legs up and to the side, so he can push all the way in. When he feels something suddenly change. The heat and wetness of your tight little cunt feel 1,000x better. Looking down he can see the base of the condom with scrunched up rubber around it. This is when he realized the condom broke.

In a split second he decided that he didn't care. He wasn’t going to pull out or stop fucking this pussy. Little did you know about König, he hasn’t had sex in a very long time, years actually. He has all this pent-up sexual energy and he plans on getting it all out on you. It's not every day a beautiful young woman readily offers themselves to you.

697 notes · View notes

97lala · 2 months ago

Text

Glide

Pairing: College AU! Frat Boy!Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader!

Summary: When your friends drag you to a frat house party during spring break you weren’t expecting much, but when you go to seek out a moment of silence and end up accidentally stepping into someone’s room, you end up forming an odd connection with one of the fraternity members.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Some Angst, Mentions of Alcohol and Drug Use, Reader gets a little anxious in the crowd and mentions agoraphobia, Swearing, Reader has beef with one of the fraternity members, Reader is a Chemistry Major, Bobs in Aerospace Engineering

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (Female and Male Receiving), Handjob, Bob is Inexperienced (but he’s enthusiastic to try everything), Bob talks a lot during sexual acts, Dirty Talk, Praise/Worship Kink, Breast Play, Making Out and Dry Humping, Bob is super sensitive.

Author’s Note: Frat Boy Bob y’all. This was technically a request, but I dashed away with it and truly came to enjoy this so so much. Also just as a side note lol, Frats aren’t really a huge thing where I am, they’re so subdued it’s not even funny, though if you go to party schools you’re definitely going to get an experience and a half (I did not go to a party school so I’m going off of my friends experiences at this point 😂)

Word Count: 17,352

”Tell me again why the hell we’re going to this party?” Your voice cut through the late evening air, low and flat, edged with irritation as you pulled your windbreaker tighter across your chest. The nylon rasped beneath your fingers, a poor excuse for protection against the sharp spring breeze. The smell of your dorm clung to it–laundry detergent, stale coffee, and whatever perfume your roommate had sprayed on in the vicinity of it.

The sidewalk beneath your sneakers was still damp from a passing rain shower. Faint streaks of moisture glimmered on the concerte, catching the fractured yellow light from the street lamps above. You stepped around a crushed beer can and kept your head down, following the clacking of heels and bare legs that were moving a few paces ahead of you.

Jess, Monica, and Sue, your friends by proximity. You had met them during welcome week and never managed to shake them–even though you didn’t really want to. They existed in a different orbit entirely, but they took you in with open arms and tried to crack the shell that you had built around yourself. They were the people that convinced you that college didn’t have to be all about studying and going to class and that it could also be fun too, despite the hefty tuition bill.

The girls had built a three person wall along the sidewalk, pushing against each other as they chatted and laughed about something you hadn’t heard, keeping balance on their heels, skipping cracks in the pavement. They were dressed like the party was going to be a runway show instead of an absolute chaotic mess. Jess wore a short leather skirt and a cropped corset top under a trench coat she wasn’t planning to keep on. Her hair was up, slick and sharp, gold hoops brushing her jaw. Monica had on a silver halter top that sparkled under every porch light you passed, paired with high-waisted jeans and glossy lipstick that matched the cherry polish on her nails. Sue, as always, looked like she’d stepped out of an editorial spread–draped in a backless silk dress and strappy heels that should’ve been impractical, but somehow weren’t.

You, on the other hand, were the outlier–and it was obvious.

Black low-rise jeans hugged your hips, the waistband dipping just enough to expose a sliver of your stomach where your t-shirt stopped. The top was fitted and a plain navy blue, not short enough to be bold, and not long enough to be considered modest–though it was enough to remind you of the cold every time the wind shifted. Your black sneakers were scuffed at the toes, laces uneven, but they were practical for the walk home.

Technically, you were dressed for the weather, but standing next to your friends made you feel underdressed in a different way. Not because you didn’t look good, but because you just didn’t meet the same standard they had set for the group.

Your question had interrupted whatever conversation they were tangled in. Jess glanced over her shoulder first, her earrings catching the light at the turn.

”Well, Jake personally invited us,” She explained, like that was a valid reason, “And you’ve been holed up in your room almost all of spring break studying. You needed to get out. Breathe some fresh air, get social contact apart from us…Maybe drink something that hits a little better than three iced coffees a day.” You groaned immediately at the name Jake, ignoring the rest of the comments she had made about what you had been doing during the break.

”Not that meathead…If I knew that moron invited you guys, I would’ve locked my door and turned off my phone.” Monica sighed.

”C’mon, Y/N, he’s not that bad.” You let out a short laugh–dry and humorless.

”He’s a douchebag. And he thinks I’m a cockblock because I don’t let him get handsy with you guys when you’re half a drink in. I think he’s exactly that bad.” Jess gave a low laugh.

”He’s just a flirt.” You hummed.

”Right, and I’m just a buzzkill.” You muttered. Sue looked over at you now.

”We appreciate the defense. Really. But tonight…We’ve got a bit of a bet going.” You raised an eyebrow.

“What, like who’s gonna bed him first?” There was a pause, and the silence was telling. It caused you to stop walking.

”Oh god.” You rubbed your fingers into the corners of your eyes like you could physically wipe the idea out of your brain. Monica didn’t even flinch.

”He’s hot! How can you not be curious?! I’ve heard a lot of good things…” You dropped your head, staring at her.

”You better make that guy bathe in hand sanitizer before he touches you. God only knows where he’s been.” That got a laugh–sharp, unapologetic. Jess bit back a grin. Sue let out a quiet, breathy chuckle behind her hand, and even Monica smiled.

They didn’t deny it. They didn’t defend him, either.

The four of you continued to walk, your pace catching up to them so you could get involved in their conversation a little more, as your ears caught a hint of bass echoing through the streets.

Campus was surprisingly crowded for a week that should’ve been quiet. Most students hadn’t gone home–not for lack of desire, but practicality. A three-day visit to your hometown wasn’t worth the bus ticket, the packing, and the return. The majority of people who didn’t travel long distances had quietly agreed to stay put, which caused a social pressure cooker of chaos. Parties bled from one house to the next, yards were flooded with empty kegs and pool floats, and of course people were out till all hours of the night taking in the extracurriculars.

You were one of the people who chose to stay, but it was for different reasons.

You had a chemistry midterm that was going to hit you on the Monday right after break, and you needed peace and quiet to get the thirty five page study guide your professor had emailed. You had been hunched over your laptop, dragging a pen across every other line and downing iced coffee like it counted as fuel. Your residence hall had been silent–peaceful in the way only empty buildings could be. No thumping floors. No bathroom chatter. Just the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional door shutting down the hall.

And honestly, you liked it that way.

Which was why walking up this street, with the scent of cheap body spray and beer already creeping into the air, made your skin itch.

Jess, Monica, and Sue weren’t wrong–you had wasted half your break studying. But a frat party was a far cry from the kind of break you would’ve chosen. You would’ve taken a quiet bookstore, a blackout curtained room, maybe a hot bath. Instead, you were heading straight into the epicenter of campus chaos.

The house came into view like a rising tide–inevitable and loud.

Theta Rho Alpha Sigma Heta.

TRASH, for short.

It was a reputation as much as a name. It was burned into every party story, every Camus warning, and every early morning regret that started with “so we went to TRASH last night.” Ten fraternity brothers lived inside, and every square foot off the place bore evidence of that fact. It was a massive, century-old house–once regal, now abused. Three floors, five bedrooms, two makeshift attic spaces, a finished basement that doubled as a moldy second living room. The paint on the siding had faded into a blotchy, sun-peeled gray, warped by years of weather and neglect. The porch sagged under the weight of too many bodies. One of the support beams had been duct-taped after someone fell through it last fall.

The front steps were uneven, patched with mismatched bricks and sagging plywood. Two of the railing posts were zip-tied together in a last-ditch effort to pass housing inspection. The fraternity’s letters were bolted crookedly above the door, one hanging loose on a single screw. Half-lit from a porch light that flickered like a dying candle.

Light poured from every window–yellow, blown out, too warm. It cast strange shadows across the lawn, catching in the curls of smoke that drifted from blunts and vapes and burning firewood in the backyard pit. The music pulsed through the siding—more vibration than melody. Heavy bass that flattened everything it touched, beating into your chest like an arrhythmic second heartbeat.

The lawn was packed–shoulder to shoulder, people overflowing onto the sidewalk, the flowerbeds, the hood of someone’s car parked at a bad angle. Plastic cups were everywhere, crushed or half-full or abandoned in the grass. The scent of spilled beer hung in the air, warm and sharp, mixing with sweat, weed, fast food, gasoline from a knocked-over jerry can, and the stale breath of a thousand unwashed Red Solo cups.

Someone was blasting a megaphone from the porch steps–a guy in a backwards cap, red-faced and laughing, trying to shout over the music. You caught pieces of it: something about jello shots, something about the beer pong table being “winner stays,” and something that sounded suspiciously like “naked mile.”

Two guys were wrestling in the grass by the mailbox, one of them missing a shirt, the other holding a can of whipped cream like a weapon. A girl stumbled past them in glitter boots and a bikini top, waving a phone and yelling at someone you couldn’t see. Another was throwing up behind a bush while her friend held her hair and nodded along to the music like it was a shared ritual.

From the second-floor balcony, a makeshift banner drooped crookedly on a frayed bedsheet:

TRASH FEST 2NITE - NO RULES. NO EXCUSES. NO SLEEP.

“Jesus,” Jess muttered under her breath, pausing at the edge of the lawn. “It’s already booming and it’s not even 9:30. We are so late.”

You followed a few paces behind her, stepping carefully around a puddle of cheap beer that had soaked into the grass. “Didn’t know we could be late for a frat party,” You mumbled, eyeing the porch like it might collapse under the weight of the crowd.

But the girls were already in motion, rushing toward the chaos like it was gravity pulling them in. You hung back just slightly, weaving your way around the worst of the lawn–dodging a guy hurling glow sticks into the crowd and stepping over a discarded takeout container that looked like it hadn’t survived the walk from the sidewalk. Your shoes slipped slightly on the wet grass as you moved toward the porch steps, where cigarette butts and crushed cups had collected like driftwood on the edge of a rising tide.

You stepped up, sneakers hitting the warped planets, hand grazing the rickety railing as the music began to rattle your teeth at full force. The door was open, the entryway wide and glowing with overexposed yellow light. You could smell it all before you even crossed the threshold–booze, sweat, pot, deodorant masking body odor, and something burnt that might’ve been food or someone’s hair.

The second your foot crossed the threshold, it hit you all at once–the heat, the crowd, the crush of music and smoke and too many bodies packed into too little space. The entryway smelled like spilled tequila and cheap cologne. Someone’s hoodie brushed your shoulder, sticky with sweat, and you recoiled instinctively, scanning for your friends. Jess’s trench coat disappeared into the living room. Monica’s glitter top flashed once, then vanished into the blur. Sue was already at the bar cart in the corner, snagging plastic cups.

You were still deciding whether to follow–or leave–when he stepped in front of you.

Jake Seresin.

Leaning casually against the wall near the stairs, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

He looked the same as always–clean cut and cocky, like a walking recruitment poster that never had to try too hard. His hair was neatly styled, strawberry blonde in colour, and slightly dampened from either sweat or a shower. You didn’t know and quite frankly you didn’t care.

He wore a snug black t-shirt that clung to the curve of his biceps, jeans slung low on his hips, worn-in boots planted like he owned the floorboards. A silver chain peeked from under his collar, catching the glow from the overhead bulb. The smirk on his face arrived before he spoke.

“Y/N…I see you’ve decided to come out of your cave.” Jake’s voice cut through the heat and noise like he owned the damn place–which, unfortunately, he sort of did, especially because he was the head of the house. His smirk was smug enough to slap off his face, and the way he looked at you–lazy, head tilted just slightly–made your blood itch.

“Didn’t realize you were doing doorman duty tonight. What’s the matter–couldn’t con a freshman into kissing your boots on the way in?”

Jake laughed, low and amused. He shifted his weight, arms crossing, biceps flexing like it was involuntary. “Cute. But if you really wanted to see me, you could’ve just said so. No need to pretend you’re here for the punch.”

“If I wanted to see you, I’d schedule a lobotomy first,” You said, eyes scanning past him to where the party stretched out like a sweaty nightmare, “You’re like athlete’s foot. Persistent. Itchy. Impossible to get rid of.”

That earned you a flash of teeth, the smirk sharpening. “Damn. Must’ve missed that sparkling charm of yours. Thought maybe you’d chilled out since fall semester.”

“Nah,” You replied, smiling without warmth, “You don’t know me well enough to assume something like that.” He hummed.

”You always this feisty, or do you just save it all for me?”

“I save it for pests,” You shot back, “Like you.” And with that, you pushed past him–your shoulder clipping his lightly–just enough to make it clear you were done. You didn’t wait for a comeback. You didn’t care what his smug ass had to said next. The music hit harder in the next room, and the humidity had already begun to creep under your clothes like steam.

Sue caught up to you almost instantly, already grinning like she’d watched the whole exchange from the sidelines.

“Thanks for buttering him up,” she said, patting your arm. Her tone was teasing, but not mocking. “I’m going in for the first interaction of the night.”

You raised your cup-less hand and gave her a small salute.

“Good luck,” You shouted back over the bass, smirking. She gave you a wink before disappearing into the crowd, swaying through the bodies with ease. You peeled off toward the kitchen, dodging a couple making out near the coat rack and stepping over a few abandoned beer cans. The kitchen was a warzone of overturned shot glasses, and a group of architecture students stacking some of the spare red solo cups in a tower. To your left, a half-empty bowl of lime wedges was slowly withering beside an array of crumpled napkins, and then your eyes found the coolers.

There were three of them, stacked neatly along the wall beneath the fogged kitchen window–white Igloo coolers with duct-tape labels stuck to their lids like someone had planned this out. You paused for a second, brow lifting slightly. It was the first thing you’d seen in this entire house that resembled forethought.

POP / ENERGY / SPORTS DRINKS

It was handwritten in black Sharpie, a little smudged from condensation, but legible. Organized.

You flipped the lid, expecting warm cans swimming in brown ice water and maybe the scent of something that had once been fruit punch. Instead, it was ice cold. There were cans lined up in half-hearted rows–soda, sports drinks, a few scattered energy drinks, and even a rogue seltzer tucked in the corner.

You spotted the ginger ale immediately and grabbed it, the can blessedly cold against your hand. You popped the tab with a low crack, the fizz whispering up as you turned around and leaned back against the counter. The metal felt cool through your jeans, a shock of comfort against your overheated skin.

You brought the can to your lips and took a sip–dry, sweet, clean. The carbonation hit your throat gently, but the cold grounded you.

The nausea that had been curling in your gut since you stepped into the house–maybe even since you left the dorm–began to quiet under the fizzy bite. Not completely. But enough.

Your eyes scanned the room as you sipped. People buzzed in and out like bees. Music bled through the drywall. There were beer pong shouts from the living room, someone screaming off-key to a pop remix from the basement, and a girl in the corner of the kitchen trying to convince her friend that no, taking another shot wouldn’t fix the situation.

You took another sip of your ginger ale, but this time it caught in your throat.

You coughed into your arm, quietly at first—then once more, harder, sharp enough to make your eyes water. The fizz didn’t settle your stomach like before. It turned sour, bubbling too fast. Heat rose under your skin, too much of it. The air felt wrong—like it wasn’t going in properly, like the room had subtly tilted without warning and your lungs were working against it.

Maybe it was the noise. The press of people. The humidity clinging to every surface like a second skin. Or maybe it was you.

You blinked slowly, dragging in another breath through your nose, but it didn’t go deep enough. Your chest tightened instead. Like a pressure band had cinched beneath your ribs, subtle at first, then steady, then sharp.

Shit.

You glanced around again, searching for something—a signal, maybe. A reason to leave. A place to bolt to. But everything looked the same: sticky floors, laughing strangers, red cups tipping on every flat surface. Too much noise. Too much movement. You couldn’t catch your footing in it. Couldn’t ground yourself.

You didn’t know if you were going to throw up or have a panic attack, and honestly, it didn’t matter—because either way, you needed out.

You pushed off the counter. The cold had left your jeans, and your hand trembled slightly as you set your can down, half-full and already forgotten. The kitchen was a blur behind you, the music thudding harder now, bass lines vibrating in your teeth.

You moved fast, weaving through the main floor with quick, shallow breaths. Eyes down. Shoulders tight. The living room passed in a smear of sweat and cheap cologne, someone’s laughter bouncing too loud off the crown molding. You didn’t stop to said anything. Didn’t look for your friends. You didn’t want to worry them–not yet. Not until you figured out what the hell was happening.

Going outside wasn’t an option. Not with the yard full of people. If one of your friends saw you slipping out, they’d follow. Or worse–they’d worry. You didn’t want that either.

So you made for the stairs.

The banister was sticky and warm under your palm as you took the steps two at a time. Your breath hitched halfway up, chest clenching like your ribs were welded shut. You swallowed hard and forced yourself to keep going.

The second floor was marginally quieter, but the walls were still too thin. Bass leaked through every inch. Laughter echoed from behind doors, and the smell of weed hung low like a fog.

You moved fast–hand grazing doorknobs, cracking one open only to find two people already tangled on a futon, backlit by LED strips. You didn’t pause. You just kept going.

Next room: a circle of guys smoking out of a gravity bong made from an Arizona bottle. One lifted his hand in greeting, eyes bloodshot and lazy. You shut the door.

Another: a girl crying on the floor while two of her friends huddled around her with shot glasses. You closed that one a little more gently.

The hallway seemed endless. Your chest was still too tight. Like there wasn’t enough air on this floor either.

Then finally the last door on the left creaked open to a well lit, completely empty room. You stepped in, fast, and shoved it shut behind you, the slam loud in the sudden quiet. Your back hit the wood, hard enough to jolt your spine, and you didn’t care. The silence was immediate, muffled and warm and blessedly still.

Your eyes adjusted to the sight in front of you and almost immediately you were absorbing all the details.

The room was bright in contrast to the rest of the house–lit by a desk lamp angled toward a bulletin board cluttered with index cards and printouts. The overhead light was on too, not dim or tinted like the others downstairs, but clean and soft and yellow, illuminating the space in a way that made everything feel more grounded. Less warped. Less unreal.

Your eyes scanned the details, cataloguing without meaning to.

A twin XL bed sat tucked in the corner, sharply made with a green-and-navy plaid duvet pulled taut at every corner. The sheet edges were squared, the pillows firm and aligned. Not a wrinkle in sight. There was a subtle indent on the right side of the mattress—someone had been sitting there recently. Maybe even within the hour. But whoever it was, they weren’t here now.

You stared at the bed like it might steady you. Like if you focused hard enough, the room would stop spinning entirely.

Beside the bed, a heavy oak bookcase ran nearly the full height of the wall. It was packed with titles, every shelf brimming. Not decorative either–thoroughly read. Dog-eared paperbacks leaned into thick hardcover editions, grouped not by color or aesthetic, but by subject. Biographies. Math. Novels. Non-Fiction. Chemistry and Science. A few textbooks on differential equations, stacked beside a worn copy of Dune and a boxed set of The Lord of the Rings. Your fingers twitched, instinctively wanting to trace the spines.

You blinked slowly. Breathed in through your nose. The room smelled faintly like pine and laundry detergent–clean and muted. No sweat, no beer, no weed. Just detergent, and the faint dry scent of paperback pages.

A corkboard hung above the desk, pinned with exam timetables, lab schedules, a few biology notes, and what looked like a printed-out list of citations in 12-point Times New Roman. The chair tucked neatly beneath was ergonomic, not cheap. Beside it sat a large, dented water bottle and a stack of neatly bound notebooks.

Posters lined the wall–nerdy ones. Retro Star Wars prints. A 2001: A Space Odyssey poster framed in black. There was a NASA diagram of the solar system pinned above the desk, annotated in ballpoint pen like whoever lived here used it to actually study, not just decorate.

You took a step forward, the floor creaking under your weight.

“…Geeky,” You muttered to yourself, voice hoarse, quiet. The sound came out more like a breath than a statement. Your knees nearly gave out when you reached the side of the bed. You sat down slowly, hands braced on the plaid comforter, fingers splayed across the dense fabric.

It gave a little under your palms. Still faintly warm.

You let out another breath–long, uneven, but better than before.

Your heart was still pounding, but it was loosening its grip. Slowly. The walls weren’t closing in anymore. Your lungs weren’t seizing.

You tapped your fingers against the mattress and started listing what you could see.

“Desk lamp. Physics textbooks. Star Wars poster. Clean sheets. Plaid pattern.”

Another breath.

“Water bottle. Books on aerospace…Math. Scent’s clean. No body spray. No beer.”

Another breath.

It wasn’t magic. But it helped. saiding it all aloud gave your mind something to anchor to.

You swallowed, eyes fixed on the corner of the room. “Big bookshelf. Index cards on the corkboard. Neatly folded blanket on the chair.” You paused, blinking. “Shit,” you whispered softly, dragging your hand down your face.

It wasn’t that you were weak. You knew what this was. You’d never been diagnosed, but the signs were hard to ignore. The panic. The way crowds made your body feel like it was misfiring from the inside out. How your throat closed up in packed rooms. How every party ended with your head spinning and your jaw locked in quiet dread.

Agoraphobia. You’d read about it. Dismissed it. Then quietly reconsidered it. And then dismissed it again.

But tonight? Tonight your body had decided to remind you it was real.

You leaned forward, elbows to knees, head in your hands. Not crying. Just breathing. For a long moment, you stayed like that–drinking in the quiet, letting the static in your limbs slowly begin to fade.

The sound of the door handle turning ripped through the quiet like a thunderclap.

You jolted upright–spine snapping straight, fingers braced against the mattress, breath catching mid-inhale.

The door creaked open slowly, a rectangle of warm hallway light spilling across the floor, cutting a golden line through the carpet and up your jeans. And then he stepped inside.

You blinked hard.

He froze halfway through the threshold. One foot in, one out, like he hadn’t meant to walk in on anyone–and certainly hadn’t expected to find a stranger perched on his bed.

He looked about your age, maybe slightly older. Tall but not imposing, lean in the kind of way that came from long hours of running or lifting–not bulking. His face was unmistakable even in the soft light: gentle features, tousled light brown hair that curled slightly at the ends from where it had dried naturally, no product. A strong jaw softened by the faintest dusting of stubble. He had a pair of glasses perched on his nose–simple, silver rimmed, they looked similar to aviator glasses, just a little more rounded off in the lenses. They were crooked but he didn’t reach up to fix them.

And those eyes…Wide, bright, and startlingly blue.

Like the ocean under a cold sky. The colour made your stomach turn, and the way they reflected in the light made your head spin.

He wore a navy crew neck sweater with the university crest stitched over the chest, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, revealing ink stains and a faint red pressure mark on his wrist where a watch probably used to be. Grey sweatpants hung low on his hips, worn at the knees, soft enough that they must’ve been his go-to. A can of sprite was in his hand, dripping from the ice that had melted over it.

“Oh. Oh god–I’m sorry.” The words rushed out of your mouth quickly, breathless, “I didn’t mean to–I wasn’t…” His brows lifted slightly, but there was no alarm on his face. Just surprise. His voice was low, quiet, and careful.

“It’s okay…I–uh–it’s alright.” He hesitated, eyes flicking across the room, landing briefly on your curled posture, your flushed face, the slight tremble in your hand as you pushed back from the bed. “Are you…Okay?” You blinked. Your heart was still hammering. Not from fear anymore–but embarrassment. Humiliation. He didn’t look like he thought you were stealing. He didn’t even glance toward the desk or the bookshelf. He was looking at you. Really looking. Reading the panic that hadn’t quite drained from your body yet.

You felt your shoulders curl in instinctively, defensive. But there was no judgment in his expression–just a quiet, earnest concern that felt way too soft for someone who’d just found a stranger in his room.

“I–” You swallowed, hand hovering mid-air like you weren’t sure whether to stand or bolt. “I didn’t know anyone was here. I just–I needed out. I was–I had to get out of the kitchen.” He nodded once, like he understood completely. He stepped the rest of the way into the room and closed the door behind him–not all the way, but enough to soften the noise from the hallway. It was strange how quickly the room felt like a bubble again. A barrier. A pause from everything that came before it.

“I figured…” He said quietly, “The parties here get pretty loud and overcrowded, so I don’t blame you for wanting to get some peace for a minute.” You swallowed thickly, your throat still tight with leftover nerves, and exhaled through your nose.

“Yeah,” you murmured, voice quieter now, “I can’t imagine living here, to be honest.” He smiled—not cocky like Jake, not smug or practiced. Just a small, self-deprecating curl of his lips, as if he agreed with you more than he was willing to admit.

“Noise-cancelling headphones really come in handy.” That earned a low breath of amusement from you.

“I guess you’re right with that one…”

He took a sip of his Sprite, the faint crackle of carbonation filling the small silence that followed. It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly–just heavy with all the things neither of you were sure how to said yet. He stayed near the door, not wanting to hover or crowd you in any way. You watched him for a second, and then another, noting the way his shoulders shifted under the weight of the conversation–or maybe just the attention.

Then, softly, like he was testing the waters:

“I’ve seen you around before…In the science building. You’re in Chem 241, right?”

Your brows lifted slightly, caught between surprise and guarded curiosity. “Yeah… it’s my major.” You tilted your head. “How do you know what class I’m in?” He gave a sheepish, quiet laugh, the kind that curled at the corners of his mouth without ever really reaching full confidence. He ran a hand through his hair, the motion making it stick up slightly in the front.

“You’re in the class before mine. You’ve got kind of a familiar face.”

You paused, eyes still on him, your heart starting to settle into something else–less fight-or-flight, more puzzled curiosity. He didn’t look embarrassed exactly, but there was a warmth in his cheeks now, visible even in the soft lighting. A flicker of nervous energy vibrated at the tips of his fingers as he shifted his Sprite to the other hand.

Then, like the thought had only just occurred to him:

“Oh–Jesus, sorry. I’m Bob, by the way. Bob Floyd.” He grimaced slightly at the awkwardness of it, wiping his damp palm against the thigh of his sweatpants before offering it out to you, fingers curled slightly.

You hesitated for only half a second before reaching out and slipping your hand into his. His palm was warm, slightly chilled from the condensation of the can but dry now. The grip was gentle, just enough to be firm without overcompensating.

“Y/N,” You said quietly. Your name sounded softer in this room than it had downstairs-like the sound itself respected the quiet.

He smiled again. “Y/N,” He repeated, a little slower this time, like he was filing it away in some meticulous corner of his brain. “Nice name,” Bob said, quiet and genuine. The words weren’t perfunctory–they landed with a softness that didn’t feel like filler. More like a real compliment, shaped by how he said it. You blinked once, caught off guard by how sincere it sounded.

Before either of you could speak again, a sudden crash reverberated through the floorboards beneath you–so loud and forceful that your feet actually lifted a half inch from the mattress. Something heavy had toppled on the first floor. Maybe furniture. Maybe a person. Followed by a cascade of laughter that barely muffled the groaning bass still pounding through the walls.

You flinched, eyes widening, then looked toward Bob with a raised brow.

“What’s a guy like you doing in a frat house, by the way?” You asked, your voice dry but curious, brushing your palms down the front of your jeans. “You seem too…Sane.” Bob took another slow sip of his Sprite, his glasses catching the overhead light as he tilted his head slightly.

“It’s pretty good to have on a résumé,” He said mildly. “Minus the parties, of course.”

You hummed, the sound low in your throat as your eyes flicked toward the ceiling like you were scanning for divine confirmation. “Yeah…I think if any future employer found out the type of parties TRASH throws, I’m pretty sure you’d be hired immediately. Just for surviving them.” That earned an actual laugh from him–low and warm, the kind that started in his chest and curled up into his mouth like it surprised even him. It settled something inside you. Not the panic entirely, but the vulnerability that had followed it. His laugh made the room feel a little more human. Less clinical. More like a moment you weren’t intruding on, but sharing.

“I don’t participate in them, evidently,” He claimed, gesturing lightly toward his desk. “So I’d be lying.”

You followed the motion with your eyes–the papers, the water bottle, a perfectly aligned mechanical pencil, and what looked like a cracked-open packet filled with printed slides and diagrams.

“Evidently,” you echoed softly, tilting your head a little as you looked around again. “What were you doing?” Bob exhaled–half sigh, half breath of frustration–and stepped toward the desk. He reached for the study packet, flipping the top corner up between his fingers to show you the first page. It was already heavily marked–some in black pen, some in red. Diagrams had been annotated, circled, dissected line by line. Across the top margin, written in neat, even letters, was the course title: Space Systems Design – Midterm Review Packet.

“Studying,” He said. “I have the test on Monday, and I’m nowhere near done with this thing.” His tone was tired but not bitter, just resigned in the way that only students deeply familiar with academic despair could be.

You gave a quiet, knowing laugh–one that felt more like release than amusement. “Of course. I guess every professor gets off on torturing science and engineering students,” You muttered, stretching your arms briefly. “Because I’ve got a very similar packet sitting on my desk right now for my Chem Midterm.” He placed the packet back on the desk with a soft tap.

”Misery loves company, I guess.” He offered.

“More like intellectual suffering,” You replied dryly, crossing one ankle over the other where you sat at the edge of his bed. There was a beat of silence, the kind that settled into the warmth between two people who hadn’t yet decided if they were strangers or acquaintances.

Bob leaned slightly against his desk, fingers still resting on the edge of the study packet. He tilted his head just enough for his glasses to slip down his nose for a moment, then asked softly, “So…Who dragged you out of your studying and brought you here?”

You huffed out a breath, half a laugh. “My friends got personally invited by your frat brother Jake,” you said, tone flat and unamused. “I’m assuming you know him well.”

That pulled a low, genuine laugh from Bob–his shoulders lifted slightly, the sound soft and disbelieving. “Well… I guess he’s trying to expand his roster again.”

You smirked, leaning back just a little on your palms. “Guess one of my friends is getting lucky tonight then, if he’s looking to score.”

Bob let out a hum, lips twitching toward a grin. “As long as they have a pulse, they’re fair game.”

You groaned. “Figured that…”

Another crash exploded beneath your feet–some combination of broken glass and furniture legs giving out–followed by a howling cheer from the crowd downstairs. You both winced slightly, shoulders tensing at the same time.

Bob exhaled a sharp breath, then straightened. He looked at you carefully–not with pity, but consideration–and then asked, quiet and steady:

“You wanna maybe…Get out of here?”

You blinked.

He shrugged one shoulder, casual but sincere. “Denny’s is 24 hours. We could sit there for a bit, get something to eat. And I’m sure if we stay long enough, the party’ll start to die down. Then you can get your friends when they’re all done here…” It was such a simple offer. No pressure. No weird edge. Just a safe, open hand held out toward the exit sign.

And god, it was tempting.

“Yeah…” you said almost immediately, your fingers already moving to unlock your phone. “Yeah, that sounds great, actually. I’ll just text them and let them know I’m going.”

Bob smiled–wide this time, soft and relieved. “Great.”

You glanced back up at him, still a little breathless from the past hour, still not sure if this was all a fever dream or the best part of your spring break. But you smiled back.

And maybe, just maybe, your night was finally starting to turn around.

———————————

The walk to Denny’s wasn’t long, but it was everything you needed.

The fresh air hit your lungs like a blessing–not sharp, not cold, just crisp enough to wash the smoke and sweat from your senses. Each breath cleared your head a little more. The bass from TRASH still thudded faintly in the distance, but the further you got from the house, the more it faded into the background noise of a quiet college town on a restless spring break night.

The streets were mostly empty, save for the occasional burst of laughter echoing down from a distant porch or a cluster of bikes propped against a lamppost. The rain from earlier had left the sidewalks glistening, catching the glow from streetlights and shop signs like scattered glass. Bob walked beside you, not too close, not too far–just an easy, steady presence. Every now and then, his shoulder would sway slightly toward yours, like gravity had its own opinion on the distance.

Denny’s sat at the edge of campus like a low-lit promise. The sign flickered faintly overhead, buzzing with the tired hum of fluorescent tubes, casting a pale glow on the nearly empty parking lot. It was a local staple–open all night, slightly grimy, and universally understood to be the unofficial overflow space for students who couldn’t sleep, didn’t want to go home, or just needed somewhere to exist without judgment. You’d studied here before. So had everyone. It smelled like syrup and fry oil and burnt coffee, and for some reason, it always felt safe.

Inside, the place was quieter than usual. A couple of booths were filled–one with a pair of students whispering over open textbooks, another with two guys splitting a plate of mozzarella sticks and arguing over a March Madness bracket. But the energy was muted. Dimmed. Like the whole place had taken a collective breath and decided to chill.

You and Bob slid into a booth by the window, vinyl seats squeaking under your weight. The table was slightly sticky with syrup residue–standard–but the lighting overhead was warm and soft. You could actually hear yourselves talk. You could actually think.

The waitress–a woman with tired eyes and a pen stuck behind her ear–dropped off two mugs and a full pot of coffee without asking. She must’ve pegged you both as regulars, or at least as students. Bob gave her a soft “thank you,” and you echoed it before she disappeared behind the counter.

Bob poured the coffee first, filling your mug before his. The gesture was small, automatic, but it made you pause for just a second.

“I think breakfast is one of the only meals I actually enjoy at any time of day,” he said as he handed you the sugar packet holder.

You hummed softly, stirring a little cream into your cup. “Pancakes, waffles, French toast–all sweet things,” You replied, voice a little lighter now, “But I do agree…Breakfast foods are definitely better than most.”

Bob nodded, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he reached for a menu. “Haven’t eaten much today, so I’m probably going to order a lot,” He said, deadpan but with a flicker of a smile. “Just warning you now.”

You laughed, slouching into your seat as you wrapped your hands around the warmth of the mug. “I won’t judge. As long as you don’t judge me for ordering an extra order of bacon. And possibly ham…And maybe another round of home fries.”

He looked up at that, a glint in his eyes beneath the lens glare. “Definitely won’t.”

Then, leaning forward just a little, voice conspiratorial and soft, he added, “But I will probably steal some of those home fries though, so…By all means, order away.”

You grinned, lifting your coffee to your lips. “Fair trade.”

And just like that, the tension that had wrapped itself around your ribs for hours began to unravel–for real this time.

It took a few minutes for both of you to confirm your orders–too many good, greasy options, too little brainpower left to commit. You squinted at the menu through the soft overhead glow, half your focus still caught in the feeling of warm coffee and the unexpected calm of the moment. Bob, meanwhile, flipped his menu once, then again, lips twitching like every option looked equally dangerous.

The waitress returned, pad in hand, looking only marginally more awake than when you walked in.

“I’ll have the fruit-topped pancakes,” You said, “With a side of bacon, ham…And an extra order of home fries…For the table of course…” You offered a small smile, like you were trying to excuse your own hunger, but she didn’t blink.

Bob, on the other hand, cleared his throat like he was preparing to read an oath. “Ultimate omelette, please. A side of pancakes, just the normal ones…And…A side of French toast, with bacon.”

She paused. Just slightly.

Her gaze slid over him like she was doing mental math on how someone built like a straight-laced study boy could possibly demolish what would equate to three breakfasts at once. Her brow lifted–just for a second–but she didn’t say anything. Just jotted it all down with a faint scribble of pen on paper, nodded, and disappeared with both menus in hand.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Bob let out a short, quiet laugh, leaning back in his seat. “I think I freaked her out a bit with all the food.”

You stifled your own laugh behind the rim of your mug. “Yeah, maybe a little. She’s probably wondering how you’re going to eat all of it.”

He shrugged, lifting his coffee. “We’ve got a bit of time. I think I can manage.”

That earned a proper laugh from you, low and genuine. You settled back against the booth as the hum of Denny’s buzzed softly in the background—silverware clinking, someone flipping a page from the next table over, a soft beep from the kitchen.

Bob took another sip of his coffee and set the mug down, fingers tracing the rim absently. “So…” He began, voice still gentle, “what’re you doing on campus during spring break?”

You exhaled slowly, watching the light catch the small glint of moisture still clinging to the window beside you. “My parents’ house is… A little chaotic,” You admitted. “And I really wouldn’t be able to study if I went back. So I just figured I’d stay in my dorm. Easier to focus. Cheaper, too.”

Bob nodded, listening like he really meant to. “Do you work?”

You reached up to scratch the back of your neck, sheepish. “Yeah. I work at Beans To You. Part-time barista. It gives me some extra spending money–enough to keep me caffeinated through exam season, anyway.”

That pulled another smile from him. “Do you like it?”

You lifted your hand and made a so-so motion in the air. “It’s fine. Tips are decent. My manager’s a nightmare, but I like the regulars.”

He nodded like he got it, then said, “I don’t really work…Not officially, anyway. Sometimes I write essays for a few of the frat guys and they pay me.” He gave a small shrug. “So I don’t know if you’d count that as a job or just…An Academic crime.”

You gasped dramatically, placing a hand over your chest like you’d just been personally betrayed. “You? Violating academic integrity? I’m shocked.”

Bob laughed, tipping his head down in mock shame. “Yeah, well…I can’t really keep a normal job while studying. Too much going on up here.” He tapped the side of his temple with a finger. “But I commend you for being able to juggle it.” You can feel your face heat up slightly.

“Thanks…” The silence between you and Bob stretches for a few seconds–comfortable, not strained. Outside the Denny’s window, a streetlight flickers, casting faint gold shadows across the table. The warmth of your coffee mug seeps into your palms, grounding you even as your thoughts turn over the night like a loose coin.

You glance over at him, chin tilted slightly, voice soft. “So why are you still on campus during spring break? Since you asked me…”

Bob’s hand curls around the coffee pot again. The ceramic glugs quietly as he refills his mug, steam rising faintly into the warm air between you. He doesn’t speak right away–just watches the dark liquid settle.

“Same as you, pretty much,” He replied after a beat, setting the pot back down. “But… I also don’t have a lock on my door, and the guys go into my room pretty often to steal things, so…” He shrugs one shoulder, faintly sheepish. “I figured it was better to be there. Y’know–stand guard.”

You smirk and lean forward slightly, grabbing a little plastic creamer cup from the holder and rolling it between your fingers. It clicks softly as it spins. “Interesting that you have a bunch of thieves in your presence.”

That earns a laugh from him–low and rough with amusement. “Well… they’ll always give the stuff back, of course. But only if I remind them.” He lifts his mug, lips quirking slightly as he takes a sip.

You hum, raising a brow. “Still sounds like thievery to me.”

His cheeks tint pink as he glances down into his cup, swirling it once before replying under his breath, “Touché I guess…” The silence slips in again—brief, like a shared breath—and you let your gaze settle on his hands for a moment. They’re long-fingered, a little ink-stained around the knuckles. Gentle, despite the size. His nails are clean but bitten at the edges. Tired hands. Capable ones.

Your voice cuts through the quiet again, this time softer, almost curious: “Your girlfriend must not like the guys coming in and out of your room, though.”

Bob pauses mid-sip. His lips part like he’s going to reply quickly, then he stops. A flicker of surprise crosses his face. He sets the mug down gently.

“No girlfriend,” He confirmed finally. His voice is steady, but there’s a faint guardedness behind it. “Kinda stopped trying with the whole dating thing. It was a bit… much.”

You blink at that. “Too much of a line-up?”

That draws a real laugh from him–quiet, exasperated, a hand lifting to rub at the back of his neck. His glasses slide slightly down his nose again.

“Oh, please…” He chuckles. “No. No line-up for me. I mean—look at me.”

You do, pointedly. “I am.”

He goes redder. You smirk.

“It’s just…” He exhales, shoulders relaxing as his fingers stir the coffee absentmindedly. “It’s complicated, y’know? I’m not very good at the whole–putting yourself out there thing. And I think people expect something when you show up to a date all prepared and polished. It gets weird. You have this whole pressure to perform. To be ‘on.’”

You tilt your head slightly. “Well, you seem to be outgoing. You’re doing pretty good with this conversation. I don’t know how it could be complicated.”

Bob stirs the sugar in his mug, the spoon clinking gently. He looks down at it, not quite meeting your eyes, but not avoiding them either.

“Maybe it’s because you’re pretty easy to talk to,” He explained. “It’s different when there’s no pressure. No expectations. You didn’t show up tonight wanting something from me. We just…Met. You don’t have a picture in your head of who I’m supposed to be.”

That strikes something in you–a truth you hadn’t quite realized was sitting at the edge of your own thoughts. You nod slowly, leaning a little further into the table.

“That makes sense,” You said softly. Your hand brushes the edge of the sugar packet holder again, fingertips tapping faintly. “I also think you walking in on me having a bit of an anxiety attack probably helped. With you staying calm, I mean.”

Bob’s head lifts slightly. His blue eyes catch yours again–bright, steady, warm. “That too,” he said, with a small smile. “It kind of cut through the usual noise. I knew what it was the second I saw you.”

You raise a brow gently. “Do you have experience with that kind of thing?”

He nods once. “I’ve had my moments. I’m…Pretty familiar with what it looks like. What it feels like.”

You feel your chest loosen–just slightly. There’s something in the quiet way he said it that wraps around you like a thread. Honest. Matter-of-fact. Not dramatic. Just shared.

You sip your coffee again, letting the silence settle in a way that feels companionable now, like you’ve both earned it.

Then Bob lifts his head a little more, his glasses catching the light as he looks at you across the table. His voice is lower now. “You’re okay now though, right?” You could feel your heart catch–not in that suffocating, chaotic way from earlier, but in a softer, almost stunned kind of ache. Because here he was: Bob, a stranger only hours ago, asking with quiet sincerity if you were okay. Not out of obligation. Not to get something from you. Just… because he cared. And somehow, that mattered more than you were prepared to admit.

“Yeah,” You replied, your voice light, but genuine. “I’m definitely feeling much better. I think it was just…How cramped the house was, to be honest.” You gave a soft, sheepish smile, pushing your hair behind your ear. “Wasn’t really a fan, I guess.”

Bob nodded, the corners of his mouth curling faintly. “That makes sense,” He murmured. “I think TRASH is like… the physical embodiment of a migraine.”

You snorted, and it broke the last of the lingering tension between you.

Before either of you could respond, the clatter of ceramic and the faint shuffle of sneakers announced the return of your waitress. She placed your food down with the weary grace of someone who’d balanced plates through hundreds of midnight shifts.

“Alright,” She said, eyeing the table, “Round one.”

She set down your fruit-topped pancakes–stacked high, glistening with syrup and dotted with blueberries and strawberries. The bacon was curled and crispy, the ham thick-cut and slightly charred at the edges. A steaming mountain of home fries followed, golden and peppered with bits of caramelized onion.

Bob’s first plate came next: a monstrous omelette, folded tight and stuffed with peppers, ham, cheese, and something else that looked like it might have once been alive and screaming. French toast followed, dusted with powdered sugar and still steaming, then the final plate of classic pancakes–plain, but perfectly browned and stacked like they belonged in a diner commercial.

“Damn,” You muttered as she walked away to grab another pot of coffee. “You weren’t kidding.”

Bob gave a faux-serious nod. “I take breakfast very seriously.”

Conversation flowed easily now, spilling over between bites and swipes of syrup, the low hum of the diner cocooning you in soft sounds: the hiss of the kitchen, the occasional ding of a timer, and the quiet scrape of forks over ceramic.

You talked about everything and nothing. Favorite professors. Weirdest drink orders you’d ever made at work. Other times, he said things you hadn’t expected: like how he wanted to work in aerospace design someday, or how he didn’t sleep well unless there was white noise playing somewhere nearby.

Somewhere between your second helping of home fries and Bob’s last piece of French toast, your phone buzzed. You picked it up mid-chew and glanced at the screen.

Jess: we’re heading back. dorms are too far but jake’s breath is worse. I’m tapping out.

Monica: don’t wait up <3

Sue: text when you’re home safe pls 🫶

You thumbed a quick reply, a warm smile tugging at your lips.

You: i’ll be good. i’ll text when i get back to the residence so you know i got home safe <3

When you set the phone down again, Bob was watching you–not in a weird way, just casually, curiously, like he could tell something in your expression had shifted.

“Friends bailing on you?” He asked, reaching for the last bite of his pancakes.

You nodded. “Yeah. Party must’ve worn them out.”

“Probably for the best,” He started, “It starts getting rowdy at around this time.” You snorted.

”What’s new? It’s like y’all don’t sleep, I’ve heard enough stories that it literally feels like when I don’t go to one of your parties I still attended.”

Bob laughed so hard he almost choked on his coffee.

By the time your plates were mostly empty and the coffee pot had been drained down to lukewarm remnants, you realized just how late it had gotten. The booths had began to thin out even more–there was just one table of students left, dozing over half-finished pancake stacks. The quiet was deeper now, but not uncomfortable.

The waitress returned to your table just as you were lifting your mug for one final sip, now half-cold and slightly bitter. Her pen was already poised, her notepad loose in one hand, her face unreadable behind the faint sheen of a night shift glaze.

“It’ll be one bill,” Bob said before she could even ask, his voice smooth but casual.

Your head jerked slightly in surprise, a protest already rising in your throat. “Wait, no–Bob, come on, you don’t have to–”

He shook his head gently, cutting you off with nothing more than a glance and a small smile. “It’s all good,” He murmured, already pulling out his wallet. “You got me out of the house for the first time this week. I owe you.” Your cheeks warmed, a slow bloom of heat rising into your ears. You blinked down at your mug, then back at him, and that’s when the sky opened.

A sudden roar of rain crashed against the diner’s roof, pounding like a thousand thrown pebbles. The windows misted almost instantly, a sheet of water streaming down the glass and distorting the world outside into a watercolor blur.

Bob flinched slightly, twisting in his seat to look outside. His shoulders hunched on instinct, and a low, resigned sound escaped from his throat. “Well…” he said, squinting past the droplets, “That doesn’t look good.”

You turned your gaze to the window and let out a dry laugh, exhaling softly as you looked down at the windbreaker you had draped over your lap. The nylon was thin and practically useless, more aesthetic than functional, and the idea of stepping into a monsoon in it was laughable at best.

“Guess I’m gonna be taking a second shower tonight,” you muttered.

Bob laughed—a soft, tired huff that carried the warmth of shared annoyance. He reached for the debit machine the waitress had just placed down, brows furrowing slightly at the glowing screen.

“I mean…” he began, eyes still on the numbers as he typed in a 20% tip with practiced ease, “TRASH is closer than your residence, I’m assuming…”

You stilled, your fingers lightly tapping the rim of your coffee cup. You raised an eyebrow and tilted your head toward him, a smirk flickering at the corner of your mouth. “Are you asking me to stay over at the frat house for the night?”

The question hung in the air, playful but open-ended, wrapped in something more vulnerable beneath the teasing. Bob’s fingers hesitated only a second on the keypad. Then he cleared his throat, his jaw flexing faintly as he focused a little too intently on the screen.

A tinge of pink crept into his cheeks, barely visible in the soft overhead glow, “Well,” He started, still looking at the machine, ““I don’t think it’ll be as chaotic as it was when we first left. It’s…”

He pulled his phone out of his hoodie pocket, thumb swiping the screen quickly before glancing at the time. His voice was slightly rough when he spoke again. “1:58…So most of the party crowd’s probably passed out or Ubered home.” You let the moment linger, your gaze resting on him as you traced the edge of your mug with your fingertip. The rain was still coming down hard, a near-constant shushing against the glass. You could feel the chill creeping in from the windowpane behind you, but your fingers were warm.

Your tongue flicked out to dampen your upper lip–an unconscious movement. “Okay,” you said quietly, meeting his eyes as he finally looked up. “You’re right.”

Something flickered behind his glasses–relief, maybe. Or hope.

“So…” He asked, voice gentler now, “Is that a yes?”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it for dramatic effect. Then you nodded, slow and sure, your smile small but certain. “Definitely.”

———————————

By the time you reached the frat house again, your windbreaker had clung to your frame like a second skin–useless, soaked through, plastered to your arms and back. Bob hadn’t fared much better; his sweatshirt was darkened with rain, sweatpants sticking to his legs, curls dripping water down the sides of his face. You both half-jogged the final stretch of the walk, laughing breathlessly as puddles splashed beneath your sneakers, your jeans growing heavier with every step.

The porch light still flickered above the sagging steps of TRASH, casting its usual jaundiced glow across the warped wood and the crowd that lingered despite the downpour. The music inside had dulled to a murmur now–more background hum than bassline. A few people still lounged on the porch and by the windows, some wrapped in borrowed blankets or wearing half-soaked hoodies, clearly unwilling to brave the rain to get home.

You and Bob didn’t say anything as you stepped back inside. You didn’t need to.

The shift in temperature was immediate. Warmth hit you like a wall–sticky and musty from the remains of the party, but comforting after the rain. Your wet clothes clung to your skin, and you blinked against the fog that immediately fogged up Bob’s glasses.

He muttered something under his breath and took them off, reaching blindly for the nearest surface. A tissue box sat crookedly on the edge of a table cluttered with empty bottles and a half-eaten slice of pizza. He snagged one with a quiet “thanks,” as if the house had done him a favor, and carefully wiped the raindrops from the lenses.

You stood beside him, dripping gently onto the floorboards, ignoring the damp squish of your socks in your shoes.

“This is your fault,” You murmured dryly, nudging him with your elbow, pointing down at your shoes.

Bob smiled behind the tissue, his glasses still in hand. “Can’t control the way I splashed the puddles, it’s not my fault.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth of the exchange settled between you like steam, softening the cold still clinging to your back.

The climb to the second floor was quieter than before–no bodies spilling down the stairs, no screams from behind doors. The hallway was dim, lit only by the faint blue glow of a nightlight near the bathroom and the soft hum of a TV still playing somewhere behind a closed door. You padded side by side, shoes squelching softly, until you reached the door at the very end.

Bob stopped and looked down at the wet prints you’d both left on the wood floor. “Wait,” He said, hooking a finger into the heel of his sneaker. “Let’s not trash the room on the way in.”

You mimicked him without question, tugging your own shoes off and stepping gingerly onto the dry patch of carpet just outside his door. Your barefeet were cold against the wood, but you followed his lead as he opened the door and ushered you inside.

The warmth of the room embraced you immediately–soft light still glowing from the desk lamp, books undisturbed, bed still neatly made. It looked exactly as you’d left it, like the universe had paused while you were gone. A pocket of calm in the storm.

Bob shut the door behind you with a quiet click, and you both stood there for a second, wet and shivering, taking in the familiar scent of detergent and paper and pine.

You turned to him, wringing out the bottom hem of your shirt slightly. “So…What’s the protocol here?” You asked, gesturing vaguely to your soaked clothes. Bob cleared his throat, the sound soft but a little strained as he shifted in place. His hair was damp and sticking to his forehead from the humidity of the rain and the faint warmth of the room.

“Um… I have some spare clothes you can wear,” He said, gesturing vaguely toward the small closet on the far side of the room. “They might be a little big, but…”

You shook your head immediately, brushing a few wet strands of hair back from your face as water dripped quietly from your sleeves. “I don’t mind,” You murmured. “Not really trying to impress anyone.”

That earned the faintest smirk from him, quick and crooked–just a twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. He turned away and opened his closet, the wooden door creaking faintly on old hinges. Inside, everything was neatly stacked or hung: flannel shirts, hoodies, folded sweats, a few plastic hangers twisting slightly from where they’d been jostled. It wasn’t much, but it was organized–just like the rest of him.

After a second of deliberation, Bob pulled out a pair of flannel pajama bottoms–soft-looking, forest green and navy plaid–and a white t-shirt with faded navy lettering stretched across the front.

You tilted your head, brows lifting slightly. “‘The All-State Mathletes’?”

He sighed. “Yeah…It was a math team I was on in my first year. Don’t ask.”

You grinned and took the bundle from his hands, brushing your thumb across the worn fabric of the shirt. “I’ll take anything at this point.”

“I figured,” He muttered with a low huff of a laugh. Then, with a tilt of his head, “Bathroom’s two doors down. Towels are in the top drawer if you need one.”

“Got it.” You nodded, stepping back into the hallway barefoot, flannel bundle tucked under your arm and your wet clothes slapping faintly against your side with every step.

The bathroom was empty–thank god–and you wasted no time peeling off your drenched clothes. The fabric clung stubbornly, cold and limp against your skin, your jeans making that awful suction sound as you dragged them down your legs. The windbreaker hit the floor with a wet slap, your socks not far behind.

The dry fabric of the borrowed clothes was a godsend.

The pajama pants were big, predictably, and you had to roll the waistband twice just to get them to sit above your hips. The t-shirt hung past your thighs, thin and worn soft with age, the letters cracked and faded from a thousand washes. You caught your reflection in the mirror briefly as you towel-dried your hair–still damp–but a little steadier now.

You bundled your soaked clothes into a loose pile in your arms and padded back down the hall, feet cool against the hardwood. The party had dulled into something sleepy and distant. A door creaked open somewhere behind you, but you ignored it, your focus set entirely on the quiet golden glow spilling from the crack beneath Bob’s door.

When you opened it, your hand halfway full of damp denim, you froze in the doorway.

Bob was halfway through pulling on a clean shirt, the fabric bunched in his hands as it hovered just below his collarbone. His back was to you, bare and still slightly damp, pale under the soft overhead light. And god–he was lean, sure, but he was defined. His shoulders tapered into the strong slope of his spine, the muscles along his back pulling tight with every breath as he raised his arms. His skin was smooth, but the planes of him were lined with quiet strength–faint dips and ridges casting gentle shadows across his shoulder blades and the curve of his waist. You hadn’t expected him to be built like that.

Your throat went dry.

You coughed–a soft, involuntary sound that slipped from your chest before you could stop it.

Bob startled slightly and turned, shirt still bunched in his hands. His glasses were back on, fogged faintly from the warmth of the room. His cheeks went pink almost instantly, like the realization had only just hit him. “Oh Jesus,” he muttered, yanking the shirt over his head in a single, awkward movement. “I didn’t know you’d be back already.”

You took a cautious step in, one hand tightening around the bundle of wet clothes clutched to your chest. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to just walk in–didn’t really expect you to be…Changing.”

Bob shook his head as he adjusted the hem of the shirt, tugging it into place at his hips, smoothing it over the faint damp patches on his new pair of navy sweatpants. “No–it’s fine. Really. Uh…Let me get you a towel for your pillow…And I can throw your clothes in the dryer so they’ll be good by morning.” He moved quickly, brushing past you with careful steps, warm air trailing in his wake. You caught the scent of him as he passed–faint detergent, piney body wash, something subtle and clean that clung to the soft cotton of his shirt.

He opened a small drawer near the dresser, pulling out a thick grey towel and handing it to you without making eye contact. Then he glanced down at the soaked bundle in your arms and gently reached for it.

“I’ll toss these downstairs now,” He offered. “Give me five minutes and they’ll be spinning.”

You nodded, lips parting slightly. “Thanks. Really.”

Bob’s expression softened as he looked up at you–his blue eyes still wide behind the lenses, but a little calmer now. “Do you want a drink or anything?” He asked as he backed toward the door. “I’m probably gonna grab some water before…Sleep.”

You hesitated, then gave a small, grateful smile. “Yeah. Water is fine…Thank you.”

He nodded once and slipped out the door, leaving you alone again in the soft glow of his bedroom. The sound of his footsteps faded down the stairs, and you sat slowly at the edge of the bed again, towel draped across your shoulders, the smell of his room slowly working its way deeper into your skin.

You thumbed open your group chat as you sat at the edge of Bob’s bed, the thick towel still draped over your shoulders like a shield. Your wet clothes were gone–already clunking softly in the dryer downstairs–and the cold had mostly left your skin, replaced by the slow radiating warmth of his room.

The group chat lit up under your fingers:

You: made it back to the frat house safe. staying here tonight—will explain tmrw. love you guys. <3

A second later, Sue reacted with a heart. Jess sent a gif of someone raising an eyebrow dramatically, and Monica just wrote: “knew it 😉”

You rolled your eyes and let out a soft breath of amusement, then set the phone down on Bob’s desk, the screen glowing faintly for another second before fading to black. You turned back toward the bed and let yourself sink into the mattress, exhaling slowly as your shoulders dropped. The towel slipped from your frame, and you folded it carefully, placing it over the pillow before lying back, arms stretched loosely at your sides.

The room hummed around you. Softly. Comfortably. A distant thump of music still pulsed from the floors below–muted now, a sleepy echo of chaos already starting to dissolve into morning fog. Somewhere, a door clicked shut. Pipes murmured in the walls. And the desk lamp bathed the room in a low, golden glow, casting soft shadows against the bookshelves and the edge of the closet.

Then, the door opened again.

Bob entered quietly, closing it behind him with the same practiced care he’d used all night. His hair was slightly less damp, the ends curling gently around his ears. A bottle of water was tucked in each hand, condensation trailing slow rivulets down his fingers.

“Here,” He said, holding one out to you.

You sat up slightly, taking the bottle with a soft “Thanks,” and cracking it open. The cap clicked beneath your fingers, the cool water a sharp contrast against your warm skin. Bob twisted the top off his own and took a quick sip, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. Then he lowered it and glanced toward the bookshelf with an unreadable expression.

“I’m just going to grab a blanket,” he said casually, “and take the spare room.”

You paused mid-sip, brows lifting. “What?” you said, letting the cap snap gently back in place. “You don’t want to share a bed?”

Bob’s eyes darted to yours, surprised. His lips parted faintly. “You…want to share a bed?”

You shrugged, voice light but steady. “Well…yeah. I don’t really mind. There’s enough room, isn’t there?”

His gaze flicked to the mattress like it needed to be double-checked. “Yeah, there is,” He admitted, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Just thought you wouldn’t want to be sleeping in a bed with a stranger.”

You tilted your head, the edge of a smirk tugging at your lips. “Hey now,” You teased softly, “Come on. We aren’t strangers.”

Bob huffed out a breath–a laugh, almost. “We met less than twelve hours ago and we’re already sleeping in the same bed. Seems fast.”

You stood slowly, the blanket falling back in soft folds behind your legs. “I’m fine with fast if you are,” you said, tone flirtier than before, the words curling at the edge like steam rising from pavement.

Bob looked at you for a long moment. His eyes flicked down your frame briefly–respectfully–but you caught it. Just the faintest breath of a glance at the oversized shirt, the rolled waistband of his pajama pants on your hips. Then he swallowed, the movement subtle but visible.

You climbed under the covers, placing your towel-topped pillow against the headboard and leaning back into it. The sheets were soft–cotton, a little warm from the dryer, carrying the faint scent of his detergent. Your body sank into the mattress like it remembered the panic you’d felt hours ago and wanted to nestle into something still, something safe.

You patted the empty space beside you, eyebrows raised in invitation. “Well?”

Bob didn’t answer right away. He just smiled–shy and a little stunned–and shuffled toward the bed like he didn’t quite believe this was real. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight as he climbed in beside you, his long legs folding under the blanket, which he pulled up to his shoulders like muscle memory.

His shoulder brushed yours–barely–but the heat of it lingered.

You reached across your chest and handed him your water bottle without a word. He blinked once, took it with a murmur of thanks, and leaned over to place it gently on the nightstand beside his own. The lamp clicked off a second later, plunging the room into darkness, save for the faint sliver of moonlight that slipped through the small window of his room. A silver-blue sheen spread softly across the edge of the comforter.

The quiet pressed in, not heavy or stifling, but thick with awareness.

Your bodies didn’t touch, but the heat between them curled like smoke.

You could hear the shift of the covers when Bob adjusted his legs, the soft whisper of fabric against skin as he rolled slightly toward you on instinct–then seemed to catch himself and settle again on his back. The bed creaked faintly beneath the motion, and then stillness returned.

The air smelled like clean cotton, pine body wash, the faintest trace of rainwater clinging to the ends of your hair. You turned your head on the pillow slightly, voice just above a whisper.

“Still awake?”

“…Yeah,” He said quietly. “You?”

You nodded in the dark. “Mm-hm.”

The quiet stillness wrapped around you like a weighted blanket, warm but buzzing with something new. It had shifted—gently, imperceptibly—but it was there now. Not the panic. Not the awkwardness. Something softer. Something waiting.

You turned over slowly, your arm sliding across the blanket as you rolled onto your side, the mattress giving slightly under your weight. The movement made a faint rustle, just enough for him to hear.

Bob shifted too.

His silhouette turned toward you, quiet and careful, until you could make out the soft rise of his chest beneath the covers, the faint slope of his shoulder, and the curve of his jaw in the pale wash of moonlight. His glasses were gone, probably folded on the nightstand with your water bottles, but even in the dim light you could see the glassy reflection of his eyes.

Blue. Gentle. Wide. Fixed on yours.

“Do you maybe want to maybe…Do something?” You asked, voice soft, watching as he swallowed hard.

”…What…What do you have in mind?” You didn’t answer right away. Just let the silence stretch between you like silk. Then your gaze dipped, slow and deliberate, to the shape of his mouth.

Soft, parted slightly. Waiting.

His breath caught–just the faintest hitch–and you saw his eyes flick down to your lips, mirroring you. Like instinct. Like gravity.

You leaned in.

It was tentative at first–your chest barely grazing his, your hand resting lightly on the edge of the pillow as you crossed the final few inches. Bob didn’t move, but his breath deepened, a quiet exhale drifting over your cheek as your nose brushed his. Then you closed the distance.

Your lips met his, soft and feather-light.

He froze for half a second, as if stunned–but then he kissed you back. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, but so gentle it almost made your ribs ache. He moved like he was afraid to shatter you, like this moment was too fragile to claim outright.

His hand came up slowly–hesitant at first, then steady. His palm cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing the curve of your cheekbone. The contact lit a slow-burning warmth across your skin. He let out a breath–long and unsteady against your lips, like the kind you exhale when you’ve been holding it too long.

He pulled back just a little, the tip of his nose brushing yours as he hovered, eyes open now, close enough that you could feel the faint tremble of his breath. You opened your eyes too.

And then you leaned forward again.

This time it wasn’t tentative. Still soft, still slow–but heavier now. More certain. You kissed him with your full mouth, with the weight of everything the night had built. Your lips parted slightly and so did his. The kiss deepened, quiet but lingering, the kind of kiss that said I see you. I feel this too.

Bob responded with a quiet sound in the back of his throat, like the breath had been pulled from him again. His hand shifted from your cheek to the base of your skull, fingers slipping into your damp hair, holding you with a gentleness that made your stomach flutter.

Your other hand found his forearm beneath the blanket, the heat of his skin a slow thrum against your fingertips. He tilted his head slightly to meet your mouth more fully, deepening the kiss just enough that you felt your body lean in instinctively. His lips moved against yours with the kind of reverence that made your breath catch–slow, aching, as if he didn’t want to stop.

When he finally pulled back, it was only by an inch. Just enough for air. Just enough to look at you.

The moonlight caught in his lashes, his irises shining like sea glass. His lips were redder now, parted slightly, the corner of his mouth trembling faintly from restraint or disbelief. His thumb brushed along your jaw as he studied you, breath still coming a little faster than before.

“Is this okay?” He whispered.

Your heart twisted at the softness in his voice. You nodded–barely a motion–but it was enough.

“Yeah,” You whispered back. “It’s perfect.” Bob stared at you for a breath longer, like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like this whole thing might vanish if he blinked too fast.

Then he leaned in again.

The kiss that followed was deeper–hungrier. Less tentative. His hand was still cradling the side of your face, thumb brushing under your eye, but there was a new weight behind the way he kissed you now. A heat that curled up from the pit of your stomach, spreading like honey beneath your skin. His lips parted a little faster, like he was giving in to something he’d been holding back.

You pressed in with him, lips slotting together again and again, and then you moved–your body shifting under the blanket as you brought one leg over his hip, slowly, testing.

Bob froze for half a second–just long enough for you to hesitate–but then his hand moved. The one on your cheek slid down, dragging lightly along your jaw, your neck, the curve of your shoulder, until it found your thigh. His fingers curled around the back of it, firm and warm, and pulled you gently closer.

You moved instinctively, hips settling into the cradle of his body, your leg draped loosely over his, pressing in. The blanket bunched around your waists, forgotten. The worn cotton of his borrowed flannel pants brushed against your skin as you rocked forward, just enough to feel the heat between your bodies catch.

His breath hitched.

The kiss deepened again, your lips parting just slightly, just enough to taste his breath. And then you felt it–his tongue, tentative but sure, slipping past your lips to meet yours. It wasn’t sloppy or rushed. It was slow and searching, like he wanted to memorize the shape of your mouth from the inside out. You responded in kind, your fingers curling lightly into his shirt, gripping the soft cotton as you rolled your hips again–just once.

Bob gasped against your lips.

It wasn’t loud, but it was raw–half breath, half sound, the air from his lungs catching in his throat. You felt the heat of him through the fabric, the slow, aching tension building there. His fingers dug into your thigh just slightly, not enough to hurt–just enough to pull.

You did it again. Slower this time. Your hips moved in a slow, steady circle, the friction sweet and hot even through the layers of borrowed clothes. Bob broke the kiss suddenly, his lips parting with a soft huff of air as his head tilted back against the pillow.

“Fuck–” He breathed, almost inaudible, as though it had been dragged from him by accident.

You pulled back slightly, brushing your nose along his cheek before pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Get on top?” he asked, voice rough, uncertain but yearning.

You nodded, lips still brushing his.

He shifted beneath you, back arching slightly as he rolled onto his back, adjusting the blanket so it slipped lower across his hips. You followed the motion, moving carefully, straddling him with slow, deliberate movements. The oversized shirt you wore fell forward slightly, hanging off your shoulders as you adjusted your weight over him.

His hands settled instinctively on your thighs, fingertips flexing gently as you leaned down to kiss him again–this time firmer, more desperate. It was less polished now, more honest. You kissed like people who hadn’t had something like this in a long time. Like this was a secret you weren’t supposed to be sharing but needed anyway.

You began to move again, hips rocking gently against him in a slow rhythm that made his jaw slacken beneath your mouth.

Bob groaned–quiet, tight–and his hands moved to your waist, holding you just a little more firmly now. His breath was hot against your mouth as he kissed you harder, sloppier now, letting go of some invisible restraint. Your thighs squeezed around his hips, the pressure sending heat curling down your spine. You could feel how hard he was through his sweatpants now, the heat of him pressed up between your legs with every slow drag of your hips.

His moan broke the rhythm.

Soft and helpless. It slipped into your mouth like a secret.

You pulled back, barely, kissing the line of his jaw and the soft, exposed skin of his neck. He tilted his head just enough to give you more space. His throat flexed when you kissed him there–gently, again and again–before murmuring softly:

“Are you okay?”

His fingers tightened just slightly where they rested on your hips. His breath came a little faster now, chest rising against yours in shallow waves. And then, softly, almost embarrassed:

“I…I’m a bit sensitive…”

You paused, still straddling him, your hand smoothing lightly over his chest. The thump of his heart was rapid beneath your palm.

You looked down at him, eyes searching in the dark. “Are you…A virgin?”

He shook his head quickly, cheeks flushed red even in the faint light.

“No…No, not a virgin. But it’s…It’s kind of been a while. And I haven’t… I haven’t had sex with many people.”

Your heart softened at the honesty. The way he said it, not ashamed–just cautious. Like he wanted you to know what you were working with. What you were holding in your hands.

You leaned down, brushing your lips gently against his jaw.

“We can stop if you want,” You murmured. “I don’t mind just doing this. You don’t have to prove anything.”

Bob shook his head immediately, voice quiet but steady. “No…No, we can keep going. I want to. I really want to.”

You smiled, slow and reassuring. A gentle hand slid down to his chest again, your thumb brushing the fabric of his shirt as you spoke.

“If you want to stop, just tell me, okay?”

He nodded, eyes wide and warm. “Okay.” You leaned down again, your lips brushing the corner of his jaw, then trailing lower, slow and coaxing. Bob tilted his head back, just enough to expose his throat to you, and you took the invitation without hesitation–pressing soft, lingering kisses to the curve of his neck, the warm hollow beneath his jaw. You let your tongue flick out lightly, tasting the salt of his skin, the faint tang of piney body wash and rainwater still clinging to him.

His breath hitched again when your lips ghosted over the edge of his collarbone.

You kept moving downward, slow and deliberate, your hips still rocking gently against his as your kisses followed the slope of his body. The heat between your legs pulsed against the firmness beneath his sweatpants with each subtle shift, each teasing grind of pressure. You could feel him trembling slightly under you–barely noticeable, but there.

Then, without a word, he shifted.

He leaned up just enough to grab the hem of his shirt and peel it over his head in one fluid, unhurried motion. His hair stuck up in damp little curls as he tossed the shirt aside, chest rising and falling more quickly now, bare and flushed under the faint light.

You paused.

Your gaze swept over him–up close now. Every inch of him laid out before you. His chest was broad, lined with soft muscle, not overworked but strong. The subtle lines of his ribs shifted with each breath. A faint trail of hair disappeared beneath the waistband of his sweats, and your mouth went dry again.

“Jesus,” You murmured, almost to yourself, your fingers ghosting over his sternum. He shivered under your touch. Your hands traced down slowly–past his chest, over his stomach, feeling the flutter of his abs tensing beneath your palm. You kissed each inch as you moved, warm and open-mouthed, pushing the comforter lower as you went.

He was breathing harder now, lips parted, one hand fisting the sheets beside him as he fought to stay still.

When you reached the waistband of his sweatpants, you looked up.

“Can I take these off?” You asked softly, fingers already hooked into the fabric.

Bob looked down at you, eyes glassy with heat, and nodded. “Yes… Please.”

You pulled them down slowly, dragging them past his hips, down his thighs, then off entirely. Your breath caught as he was finally exposed to you–fully, completely. He was big. Thick and flushed and already twitching under your stare, the head glossy with arousal, a vein pulsing visibly along the underside.

Your eyes widened just a little.

He saw it.

His face went red immediately, arms twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to cover himself or not. “Is…Everything okay?”

You nodded quickly–so quickly it made your hair shift. “Yes. Oh my god…Yes.” You reached up, wrapping your hand around him carefully. His whole body reacted–his hips stuttered and his eyes fluttered shut, a choked gasp leaving his lips. His thighs tensed beneath your knees.

“Still okay?” You asked gently, your hand already stroking him in slow, reverent pulls.

He opened his eyes, dazed and breathless, and nodded. “Yeah. Fuck–yeah.”

You leaned forward then, dragging your mouth along the sensitive skin of his lower abdomen, kissing just above the base of him. His hips jerked slightly under you. And then you took him into your mouth.

The reaction was immediate.

Bob let out a sound–high and broken, something between a moan and a whimper–and his hand flew up, grabbing at the pillow behind his head like he needed something to hold on to. You started slow, letting your lips stretch around him, your tongue tracing every inch you could reach, eyes flicking up to watch the way he unraveled.

It was messy. Your lips were already slick, your breath hot against him as you took him in deeper, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t manage. You let spit slide down your chin, let your tongue swirl at the sensitive underside of the head, and when you pulled back just enough to suck softly–he whimpered again.

“Fuck–Fuck, you’re–” He didn’t finish.

His chest was heaving now, one hand clenching the sheets, the other twitching at his side like he wanted to touch you but didn’t dare. You glanced up again, your eyes meeting his as you took him back into your mouth, deeper this time. His head fell back.

He tried to warn you. “I–I’m gonna–shit–”

You didn’t stop.

You kept going, messy and steady, humming softly around him. That was what pushed him over.

He came hard.

It hit like a jolt–his thighs tensed, a full-body tremble ran through him, and his hips jerked once, deep and involuntary. You swallowed everything, kept your mouth on him, letting him ride everything out with soft, wet pulls until he was gasping, his voice broken and breathless.

“Holy shit…” He whispered, “Holy shit.” You pulled off slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, then kissed the inside of his thigh gently. He twitched under the touch, already so sensitive.

You looked up at him.

His hair was wild against the pillow. His chest was still rising and falling fast. He looked wrecked–in the best way. Flushed and dazed and entirely undone.

“…You okay?” You asked softly, your voice a little hoarse. He nods. His chest rose and fell in shallow waves, a light sheen of sweat just beginning to bead at his collarbones. His voice was rough when he finally spoke.

“You’re…” He swallowed, almost like he didn’t believe it himself. “You’re so good at that.”

You smiled–lazy, warm, lips still glistening from where you’d had him in your mouth. “Glad I didn’t disappoint.”

Then you began kissing your way back up, slow and teasing, your mouth trailing over his thigh, the curve of his hip, the faint dip of his navel. His body tensed in small waves under you, his hands twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to grab you or ground himself.

By the time you reached his chest again, your lips hovered above his, your palms pressed flat against his ribcage as you straddled him once more. The moment your mouths met again–softer now, slower–he kissed you like he could still taste himself on your tongue. Like he didn’t care. Like it made him hungrier.

Then, without a word, he shifted beneath you.

His core tightened–subtle but strong–and his hands slid firmly up your sides. And in one smooth, steady motion, he turned you both. Rolled you right onto your back, his body pressing down over yours, careful but deliberate. The mattress dipped beneath the change in weight, the blanket twisting around your waists as he settled on top of you.

You gasped, then laughed, the sound half-breathless. “Oh, okay,” You whispered, grinning up at him in the moonlight. “You’ve got muscles after all.”

Bob smirked–still shy, still pink in the cheeks, but he liked that reaction. You could tell.

His hands skimmed up beneath the oversized shirt, fingers warm and reverent as they rested just below your ribs. His thumbs rubbed slow, uncertain circles into your skin.

“Is this okay?” He murmured, already breathless again, eyes locked on yours like he’d stop the world if you flinched.

You nodded slowly, voice quiet but steady. “Yeah. Let me take it off for you.”

Bob leaned back just enough to let you sit up, his hands sliding down to brace your waist. You grabbed the hem of the shirt and peeled it up and over your head in one swift motion, the cotton catching briefly at your wrists before falling in a heap beside the bed.

The second you were bare to him, Bob’s eyes darkened. Not with anything aggressive–just wonder. Awe.

Then his mouth was on you immediately.

He leaned down, lips brushing the curve of your breast, then the center of it, then closing over your nipple with a gentleness that made your breath stutter. His mouth was hot–wet and reverent–and when he sucked, slow and careful, your back arched instinctively off the bed.

You heard him moan against you.

It was low and quiet, but you felt the vibration hum through your skin, straight down your spine. One of his hands came up to cup the other breast, thumb flicking across the nipple, just barely grazing it–testing your reaction. You gasped, thighs shifting beneath him, and his fingers twitched in response.

He liked that. He really liked that.

Bob switched sides without warning–his lips moving from one breast to the other, leaving a trail of kisses behind. He sucked more firmly this time, tongue circling your nipple before pulling it into the warmth of his mouth. You couldn’t help it–you let out a soft, broken moan, your fingers threading into his hair.

You tugged. Not hard, but enough.

His breath hitched again, and he groaned into your skin.

The sounds he was making were softer than you’d expected–gentle and desperate all at once. As if pleasuring you was more overwhelming than being pleasured himself. He took his time with your chest, letting each kiss linger, letting each flick of his tongue draw another gasp from you. He alternated pressure, learning what made your back arch, what made you squirm, what made your thighs tremble against his hips.

You tightened your fingers in his curls and whispered, “Bob…Fuck.”

He pulled back, lips red and wet, his breath warm against your breast. His eyes flicked up to yours.

“Can I go down on you?”

The question hit low in your stomach–immediate, electric.

Your lips parted before you even thought. “Yes…” A breath. “Yes, please.”

His smile broke through slow and stunned, like it had just dawned on him that he’d get to do this–that this was real. He kissed your sternum once, then lower, reverent as he worked his way down your body. His hands slid beneath the waistband of your pajama pants, fingers brushing your hips gently.

You lifted your hips in silent offering.

The flannel was untied with fumbling fingers–more eager than graceful–and he tugged it down with care, eyes glued to your body like he couldn’t believe how lucky he was. You helped him, pushing the fabric past your thighs, letting it fall in a heap somewhere at the end of the bed.

Bob shifted between your legs, hands bracing your thighs as he kissed the inside of one, then the other. His short strands of hair brushed your skin, his breath hot and unsteady against the most sensitive part of you, and when he glanced up–eyes wide, lips parted–you thought you might actually combust.

He settled lower. Breathed deep. And then tasted you.

The sound he made was immediate—a choked, guttural moan that vibrated through your entire pelvis.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice wrecked already. “You taste so good…”

Then his mouth was back on you.

Hot, open, eager.

He didn’t know what he was doing at first—at least not perfectly—but he learned fast. Every whimper, every shift of your hips, every breathless moan was something he studied. His tongue flicked, then flattened. Lapped broad and slow, then circled tight and precise, adjusting to your reactions like he was memorizing you.

The warmth of his mouth was overwhelming. It was everywhere. Wet and insistent and so good.

Your back arched and your hips rolled forward on instinct, chasing the pressure, and he groaned into you again—into you—like the weight of your pleasure was his. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, spreading you open for him, holding you steady like he needed to stay here, buried here, like he couldn’t risk missing anything.

“Bob–oh my god–”

You felt him moan at the sound of his name, his tongue dragging slow and deep, lips sucking just enough to make your breath catch and stutter. It was dirty and worshipful all at once. Sloppy and reverent. It had you squirming against his mouth, your legs trembling on either side of his shoulders.

Then he paused.

Pulled back just barely–just enough to catch his breath and speak. His voice was thick and panting, his lips shiny, chin wet.

“I’m gonna…” He swallowed. “Add fingers.”

You let out a breathy, desperate moan, hips twitching up toward him involuntarily.

“Fuck, Bob…Please.”

He dipped his head again, kissing your clit once–soft and wet–before trailing lower with his tongue as his hand slid between your thighs. You felt the first press of his fingertips at your entrance–tentative, reverent–and then one slipped inside, slow and gentle, curling just enough to make you cry out.

“God,” He breathed, kissing your thigh as he moved. “You’re so wet…”

He added the second without warning–easing it in slowly, stretching you around his knuckles, and you swore the breath left your body in a rush. His fingers filled you, thick and warm and so good, and he started moving them–slow and firm, curling upward just right, just right–and then his mouth was back.

This time, he devoured you.

Messy, hungry, moaning against your clit as his fingers worked inside you, finding a rhythm that had your entire body going taut. You were writhing now–hips lifting, thighs clenching, voice catching in your throat as you tried to stay grounded, stay still, but he was relentless. Determined.

Like he’d waited years to do this and he was making up for lost time.

You felt it building–hot and sharp and inevitable–and your hands found his hair, pulling tight, holding on for dear life as your body surged forward.

“I–I’m gonna–fuck, Bob, don’t stop–”

And he didn’t. He just moaned into you, tongue flicking faster, fingers pumping deeper, curling as he groaned in response to your tightening around him.

You shattered.

Your thighs clamped around his head, heels digging into the mattress, your hips twitching against his face as you came with a full-body spasm, mouth open in a silent cry. You heard yourself babble his name, hips bucking helplessly as the orgasm tore through you, hard and fast and blinding.

Bob kept going. Gentle but steady. Lapping you through it, moaning into you like your pleasure was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

You finally collapsed back into the sheets, breathing ragged, hair clinging to your forehead. You laughed–soft and winded–still twitching every time he brushed too close.

He lifted his head slowly, face flushed, lips slick, chin glistening in the low light. His pupils were blown, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon.

“You okay?” He asked, voice hoarse.

You blinked up at him, dazed and completely blissed out.

“You’ve been blessed…” You dragged in a breath. “With such raw talent.”

Bob blinked–then laughed. Hard. Giddy. His smile broke wide across his face, messy and flushed and so proud. “Yeah?”

You nodded, still catching your breath. “Definitely. You were so good… So, so good.”

His cheeks turned red. “Like, uh… Good enough for a second round?” He teased, voice low. Your smile widened, slow and a little wicked, still flushed and catching your breath. “I think…” You murmured, voice soft but laced with heat, “I want to feel you. Actually.”

Bob’s breath caught. His eyebrows rose just slightly, like the words had short-circuited his brain. “Yeah?” he asked, half-disbelieving.

You nodded, lifting your hand to trace a lazy finger along the line of his jaw. “If you want to, of course.”

His eyes softened instantly. “I want to.” His voice was rough again, thick with desire, but gentled by the way he looked at you. With care. With hunger. With awe.

He crawled slowly up your body, his hands braced beside your ribs, his chest brushing softly against yours. His lips found your collarbone first–featherlight and reverent. Then your neck, where he pressed an open-mouthed kiss just below your ear, tongue flicking briefly against your skin.

You could feel him, hard and hot, dragging against your inner thigh as he moved. It made your hips roll on instinct.

“Going down on you really got me going…” He breathed into your skin, voice low and desperate, hips twitching slightly. His body was shaking with restraint.

You giggled–a breathy, warm sound that made him smile as you turned your face toward him. Your mouths met again, lips pressing together, and you tasted yourself on him–your own slickness still clinging faintly to his lips, his tongue. You kissed him deeper, your hand sliding along his spine.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. “You really want to?”

You nodded, brushing your nose against his. “Do I need a condom?”

You watched his pupils dilate at the question, a harsh breath catching in his throat. “I’m on the pill, and I haven’t had sex in a bit but my recent STD test was clean.” You added, voice even softer now.

“Fuck…” He breathed, voice cracking a little. “Okay.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time–urgent but not rushed. Like he needed to feel you everywhere before he could push in. One of his hands slid down between your bodies, finding the heat between your thighs with instinctive precision. He nudged the tip of himself against your folds, dragging it up and down–slick and hot–through your wetness.

You both groaned.

Your hands gripped his arms, fingers curling into his skin as he slowly began to push in. His body trembled above you, the pace careful but steady, like he wanted to feel every second of it. The stretch burned in the best way–deep, hot, slow.

“Jesus Christ,” Bob whispered, his voice completely wrecked. “You feel so good… You’re so fucking warm…”

You gasped when he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, every inch of him buried deep inside. The fullness made your toes curl, your whole body responding with an involuntary tremble.

He didn’t move right away. Just hovered above you, his breath ragged, his eyes searching your face. He kissed you–softly–his mouth trembling slightly as he whispered:

“You’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.”

You moaned at that, your thighs tightening around his waist, your hands sliding up his back and digging in just enough to make him gasp. His hips drew back and rolled forward again–deep, grinding, slow. Each thrust pressed his pubic bone against your clit, and the sensation made your breath stutter.

“Oh–fuck–“ You gasped, your voice catching.

Bob stilled immediately, looking down at you through glassy, blown eyes. “You okay?”

You nodded frantically, hand gripping his bicep. “Yeah. Do it again.”

He did.

Again. And again. A slow, sensual grind that hit exactly right every time. Your hips began to twitch under him, your breath breaking in little gasps as you chased the rhythm with your body.

He moaned into your mouth as he kissed you–lips sloppy now, too lost in the moment to care. Every sound he made was raw: gasps, whimpers, soft broken curses whispered against your lips and skin.

“Fuck… You feel so good, so good around me, sweetheart,” He rasped. “You’re squeezing me—God, you’re… You’re perfect…”

The praise was relentless. You could barely breathe from how hot it made you.

You tightened around him, fluttering involuntarily with every thrust. You were close again–dangerously close–and the next roll of his hips sent a bolt of heat straight through you.

Your orgasm hit with a choked moan, your nails digging into his back, your body clenching tight around him as your hips bucked helplessly. Bob groaned as your walls squeezed him, loud and unfiltered.

“Fuck–I’m gonna–” He gasped, hips stuttering.

Then he buried himself deep, letting out a ragged, whimpering moan as he came inside you, face pressed into your neck. You felt his teeth graze your skin, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

For a moment, you both just lay there–panting, gasping, covered in sweat and warmth and each other.

Then he slowly lifted his head, eyes dazed but bright, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bruised.

“…Do you,” He began, breathless, “Do you want to go out to dinner with me tomorrow?”

You blinked, and then started laughing–a soft, disbelieving, breathless laugh.

“That would be really great,” You murmured, your voice thick with affection.

Bob grinned, wide and flushed, before collapsing gently beside you on the mattress. Your legs tangled. Your breath slowed. The room hummed in the quiet aftermath, soft and safe and one with the both of you.

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