ae-aeitch

[ae-aeitch]

Scooby-Doo (2002) dir. Raja Gosnell

[ae-aeitch]

You and me against the world,

You were my man and I your girl.

[ae-aeitch]

Jesus

rhett abbott | the new boutique in town

a/n: okayyy yes i have a breeding kink. whatever. complain about it

cw: breeding, mentions of future pregnancy, slight cnc? maybe? if you squint, slight daddy kink, slight mommy kink

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

There's a new boutique in town. Nondescript, cute, with a quaint little sign.

Walking in has you sighing in relief as the air conditioning hits your face. Wabash summers are no joke, after all, the air outside sticky and suffocating. You hair is stuck, matted, to your forehead with sweat as you step inside.

Only once inside do you realize what kind of boutique it is exactly. A slow heat creeps up your face, having nothing to do with the sun blazing outside those doors. You avoid eye contact with the lingerie clad half-mannequins.

"Ma'am?" One of the store clerks greets you eagerly. "Lookin' for somethin' new?"

You almost turn tail. You almost say no, and walk right back out those doors. But, the thought, the mere idea, of the look on Rhett's face if he saw you in one of these lacy, silky things has you pausing. Humming in interest.

"Actually," You grin. "Maybe you can help me."

Rhett never comes home quietly. Sometimes he tries, oh, dear, does he try. He'll think he's slick, quiet as a mouse, trampling in like one of those rodeo bulls he mounts in his heavy boots and clacking spurs. He'll set down his keys in the little dish on the counter by the door, right on top of yours, and take his hat off, throwing it on the table as he shakes his sweaty hair out.

He's not quiet today, trampling in, screen door slamming. "Darlin'? 'M home."

It's hard not to be nervous. It's even harder not to be excited. Things like this don't come easy, and they don't come cheap. Silk stretches across your chest, drapes down over your stomach and just barely hits the top of your thighs. Lace adorns the edges, soft as anything.

"In here!"

"Where's my pretty thing?" Comes Rhett's rumbling voice, low and tired, as he makes his way to your bedroom. "Darling?"

"Hey," You breathe as he appears in your doorway. You lean back on your hands from where you're sitting, perched, on the edge of the bed. Your hands smooth over the sheets.

Rhett stops. Stares at you, eyes darkening. His throat, that damned Adam's apple that's gonna get you in trouble one day, bobs in a damn near thirsty swallow.

He melts against the doorway, groaning appreciatively.

"Oh, God," Rhett rumbles, quickly making his way across the room. You giggle as his hands scramble at his belt, huge hands working the buckle and practically throwing the damn thing across the room. It skids on the floor with a noise neither of you care to listen to. "God, Mama, ain't you a sight."

"Y'like it?" You ask shyly as he finally gets his hands on you, placing your own hands on his firm chest (and God, the hard muscle there has saliva pooling in your mouth). Rhett's palms slide up your waist, fisting silk between his fingers like he's just barely got a reign on himself. He takes a few deep breaths in through his nose and out his mouth, warm breath fanning across the skin of your neck as he nudges his nose there.

Rhett just... hovers over you for a second, breathing in your scent with his eyes closed.

"Baby, I don't even know what to do wi' myself right now," He admits quietly, voice thick. "You- When'd you- Where'd you-?"

"There's this new little place in town, y'know, in historic downtown-?" You try and tell him but you're thoroughly distracted by his roaming hands, grabbing at your thighs and hovering over your chest like he wants to grab so, so badly. Your voice comes out breathy, "Yeah, well, anyway... they're sellin' stuff like this."

"This- you get-" Rhett clenches the meat of your thigh in his hand, just on the side of painful. Like he can't help it. "-More?"

"This ain't the only one, if'n that's what you're askin'." You breathe out. A groan tears itself from Rhett's chest, deep in his throat as he tips you backwards onto the bed. You go eagerly, happy to be splayed out under your cowboy as he climbs on top of you, boots and jeans and all. "Got a couple more. Y'really like it?"

Rhett's eyes are suspiciously wet when he lifts his head from your neck, mouth dropped open just barely.

"Hell," He rasps. "How'd I become the luckiest man alive? Huh?"

"Well, I don't know about all'a that, now..." You huff, secretly pleased. "I'm glad you like it, 'cause it came out your bank account."

"Good," The cowboy replies immediately. "You use every last drop that's in that account, honey, and I'd die a happy man."

You slowly, carefully, trail your fingers down his chest as your thigh lifts to meet in-between his, nudging the bulge straining the fabric of his jeans. He's hot and heavy against your thigh. "You sayin' you wouldn't die a happy man right now, cowboy?"

Rhett huffs under his breath, letting his chin thunk down on top of your head as he grabs at you, steadying himself. "I'm not all certain I ain't dead right now, I'll be honest wi' you, babydoll."

"Well, I'm glad you're not," You huff a laugh as you tangle your hand in his shirt. "'Cause I'm hoping you're 'bout to get this thing off me, instead."

"Oh, darlin', I'm not sure you could stop me from gettin' this off'a you," Rhett admits quietly, leaning back to just... stare at you. He drags his gaze over your form like a weapon, heavy and armed.

"Cowboy, you'd be lucky to pry me off you," You laugh, tugging gently at the curls at the base of his neck. He grins like the Devil at that, leaning into you're touch like he just can't help it.

"Ohh, I'm real sure," Rhett agrees eagerly. "How 'bout you help me get this bullshit off first?"

Immediately, you're helping him tug his shirt off over his head (helping is a loose term, more like running your hands up his now revealed stomach and pecs, smoothing your palms over his warm skin). He shakes his hair out once the shirt is off, throwing it somewhere across the room to join his belt.

Rhett's dark eyes meet your heated gaze.

"Quit lookin' at me like that 'fore I do somethin' real stupid," He says quietly. You grin up at him.

"I want you to do something stupid," Leaning back on your hands again, palms smoothing over the sheets as you bare your chest to him. His eyes lock on your chest, where silk is stretched over your soft skin. Something hungry erupts in his eyes and you swear you see drool pooling at the corner of his mouth. "Jeans?"

He hastily kicks off his dirty boots, the wood and leather of them hitting the floor loudly as he scrambles at his fly, getting off of you just briefly to shove his jeans off, past his thighs and pooling on the floor.

Rhett's on you in between one second and the next, sliding his hand across your jaw and the other into your hair, slamming your lips together in a heated mash of tongue and eagerness.

You moan into his mouth, his tongue already lapping at yours, and receive a happy groan in return. Rhett's grabbing at you, holding your head in place as he tries his darndest to get close, to get deeper inside your mouth, as far as you'll let him reach. You grip his shoulders in your hands, nails digging crescent moons into his tanned and sweaty skin. He likes that, too, and makes his appreciation known by nudging his hips into the crux of your thigh, cock sitting hot and heavy in his dark boxer briefs.

"Tell me you wan' it, baby," He mumbles into your mouth. "Tell me you need this as badly as I do, cause-"

"I need it, please," You try not to whine, you really do, but you're already getting moist between your thighs, pulse thudding. "Please?"

"Been thinkin' about you all damned day," Rhett rumbles, eyebrows furrowed as he breaks the kiss and reconnects your lips rapidly, once, twice, slick lips sliding against your jaw and over your mouth in his haste. "Out in that heat, God, you're all I can think about. Your pretty little mouth, those fuckin' red lips, and- Good God, your pretty little fuckin' pussy, baby-"

"The Devil talks outta your mouth, Rhett!" You laugh as he travels down your neck, biting at you like some sort of rabid dog. "That mouth of yours is gonna get you in some real trouble one day, cowboy."

"Well," He huffs against your skin. "I'm hoping it gets me into some real trouble with you right now, Mama."

Instead of dignifying that with a response, you just huff another laugh at bite at his jaw, face already sore from where he's dragged his stubble at against your skin. You shriek a laugh as he hauls you up the bed, fingers digging bruises into your waist as he settles over you.

"Now, as pretty as you look, baby," Rhett starts, staring at your chest mournfully. "I'm thinkin' it's time you get this off."

His fingers slide under the strap of your lingerie, snapping it back against your skin. You stare up at him, eyes dark and mouth open just slightly to breathe.

"Whatever you say," You breathe eagerly, already nodding your head. Rhett slides his hands up under the silk, palms smoothing over the heated skin of your stomach and up to cup your chest. He holds you reverently, like something precious. Like something he don't wanna break. "C'mon, Daddy, get this shit off me."

Rhett rumbles through an incredulous laugh before he's peeling you out of the silky, lacy thing, same way y'all went about getting his shirt off, like he's eager to see it go. And maybe he is- as pretty as it is, you're real sure he likes the sight of your bare chest a whole lot better.

"You're so pretty, baby," He murmurs as he settles your lingerie to the side (keeping it for later? You laugh internally). Rhett's gaze falls to your chest and then lower, where you're bare. "You weren't wearing anythin' beneath that? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."

"Don't pretend you don't like it that way," You retort, sliding your hands up his thighs, feeling the hair there brush against your palms. You hitch your leg up, just barely, and give him a real show. His eyes tighten, and so do the hands now on your hips.

Rhett takes a deep breath, hands flexing against your skin.

"I- I can't keep holdin' back like this much longer, darlin'," He admits, accent thicker and voice just slightly deeper.

"I want you inside, Daddy," You murmur, trailing your hands up his stomach. He shivers. "Please?"

"You damned tease," The cowboy breathes, head hung low. "You were sent by the Devil."

"Yeah, well, the Devil says go 'head and hurry up," You tell him, tapping at his chest. Your hand finds his and you lead him down, slower, nudging his fingers at your wetness. "Can you feel how wet I am for you? How bad I want it?"

The boxers are off in less than three seconds, flat, and he's forcing his fingers inside of you before you can get more than a glimpse at his hard, aching cock, on the wrong side of an angry purple and bobbing in the air like an eager dog. You whimper happily as he works you open, not really doing anything more than feeling your wetness, before you're empty again.

"I can't really wait much longer, darlin'," Rhett confesses, sweat dripping down his nose and blotting into the sheets. "You think you can take it?"

He nudges the tip of his cock against your opening, just resting there. His fingers are wrapped so tight under the head it looks painful.

"I can take it," You soothe, running your hand down his arm. God, his arms. "You're gonna make me take it, right, cowboy?"

"Yeah," He breathes, head nodding just barely. "Yeah. I'll make it fit, honey."

And he does. God, does he. It's not enough prep, not nearly enough for his stupidly big cock that gives him more of an ego every day that passes by, but he forces it in nonetheless. Inch by inch, he breaches your walls, carving a way for himself inside of you, stinging just enough to be painful.

It's good. It's so fucking good.

"Rhett, Rhett," You mewl, clawing at his arms. He shushes you like a wild animal, little soothing "sh, sh, sh" noises as he goes deeper and deeper. You gulp down air like your life depends on it. Rhett holds your thighs open, settled between them like he belongs there, thumb soothing over your heated skin.

"Takin' it so good, baby," He praises, petting down your hair. You breathe into the skin of his chest. "Like you were fuckin' made for me."

He's so snug against your cervix that you feel like maybe he was the one made for you. A perfect fit, his hips flush with yours. It's a feeling you'll never quite get over.

"Move," You croak. "Please. Please, Rhett?"

"Ain't no reason to beg, baby," Rhett grunts as he slides out of you, just to the tip, before slamming in again. His hips stutter into a steady pace, tip dragging over your walls on each tug out. "Fuck. Fuck! Baby, darlin'-"

You mewl. High, embarrassing, but it only eggs Rhett on, his hips slamming into yours even harder. Huge hands scramble at your hips, tugging you down to meet his thrusts (not that it's needed- you're rolling your hips back in time with him, goading him on).

"You gon' let me cum inside, baby?" He questions, pitched and breathy. "You gon' let me in? Huh?"

"Still not on birth control- oh, my God!" You break out into a cry of pleasure as he slams on that spot inside of you.

"I don't give a fuck," He snarls, low in his throat. "If you cared, you wouldn't've let me in bare. You wan' it, don't you, baby? You want me to put a baby in your little tummy? Plant my fucking seed there, get you all knocked up like a good little Mommy?"

"Oh, my fucking God," You whimpers, eyes screwed shut. You don't know how he does it, how he gets heat to race through your veins, how he gets you to draw so close so fast, heat pooling into your abdomen and threatening to spill out. "Oh, God, oh, God,"

"Yeah, baby, you like that?" Rhett murmurs. "You like my cock in your little pussy? You like me fuckin' you raw?"

"Uh-huh," You nod pathetically, the wind knocked out of you with each rock of his hips into yours. "Fuck, please, please-"

"Good girl, good fucking girl," Rhett rumbles in your ear. His hips stutter. "You gonna take it, baby? Fuck, I'm so close, where- where you want it, baby, you gotta tell me- fuck, you gotta let me pull out-"

Hell to the fucking no. You roll your hips up into his, locking your legs around his hips as he fucks into you deeper. He's panting into your shoulder, now, lips sliding down until they can find your chest, biting and sucking at the skin there. Your fingers slide into his hair without thinking, holding him there as he suckles at you.

"Inside, honey," You murmur. "Inside, inside, please, cum inside me-"

Rhett doesn't respond, just groans into your skin as his hips stutter noticeably. He holds you down so hard you have no chance of escape, that is if you even wanted to. The way you pulse around him certainly gives you away.

"I'm gonna come," You rasp desperately, clutching at his shoulder. The headboard slams loudly against the wall, over and over, the entire bed shaking with your combined efforts.

"C'mon, baby, give it to me, come on Daddy's cock, babydoll," Rhett whines, scrambling at your waist. "I ain't gon' last much longer neither, honey, c'mon-"

"Fuck!" You weep as he drags over that spot again, then again, slowing his hips to a grind as you draw closer. The heat pooling in your abdomen explodes, stars lighting up behind your eyes as Rhett shoves his hand between the two of you, thumbing over where you're joined. "Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck-" "That's it, baby, give it to me," Rhett murmurs, eyes lidded. His pupils are completely blown, those baby blues nothing but a faint, thin ring. He holds your hips flush to him as he comes with you twitching and pulsing around him, pumping you full of his cum. Heat spreads hot through you, the head of his cock pressed direct to your open, spongey cervix. "Atta girl, that's my good girl, God, baby..."

"Daddy," You whine. His cock twitches in you, just enough to feel it. "Fuck, wait, you came inside..."

"My momma's gon' be so pissed," Rhett breathes out heavily. You giggle, and that sets him off, too, the cowboy laughing on top of you. "Okay, wait, jus' hold on..."

He slowly slips his softening cock from your aching hole, the lack of prep catching up to you. There's one moment of quiet before his cum starts dripping out of you, sliding down your skin.

Without a word, Rhett swallows as he gathers it back onto his fingers and shoves it back inside your hole. Your hips twitch.

He doesn't meet your content, languid gaze as he sighs, petting over your thigh with his opposite hand.

"There's- pills now," Rhett struggles to say, practically biting it through his lips. "For this sorta thing."

"Naw," You say. His dark gaze meets yours. You cover his hand with yours, silently shaking your head. "No."

"Yeah?" He whispers, like he can't quite believe it. His eyes brighten as he fully registers what you're saying. "Yeah?"

You bite your lip between your teeth, nodding. A disbelieving smile breaks out across Rhett's pretty face.

"Yeah, Rhett," You tell him sweetly as he whoops, laughing loudly as he gathers you up in his arms. You laugh back.

"Oh, baby," He swears. "Oh, darlin'. Just you wait. You're not leaving this bed for the next week, hell, this next month, not if I can help it."

"Oh, cowboy," You smile back. "I'm counting on it."

[ae-aeitch]

Callsign: Heartbreaker [B. F.]

Bob Floyd x fem!reader

wc: 1.3k summary: Jake runs his mouth. You do something about it.

Hangman was, to say the least, a tremendous pain in the ass. He had been annoying the entire squad for weeks since you guys had arrived at TOPGUN, and that night at The Hard Deck wasn't about to break his streak. Maverick had given you the night off, and you all agreed to meet at the bar to relax, share laughs, and, for once, behave like normal young people and not like human weapons ready to take off.

But, as usual, the atmosphere ended up turning in an uncomfortable direction.

“You know what, Bobby? I’ve always wondered…” Jake began with his snake-like grin, leaning his elbow on the bar and twirling his beer glass between his fingers. “How is it possible that someone so boring, so… a glasses-wearing model, made the cut for TOPGUN?”

Bob looked up from his soda, confused, as if he really thought he'd heard him wrong.

"Sorry?"

“Yeah! I mean, just look at you,” Jake leaned toward him, with the enthusiasm of someone who thinks he’s about to say something brilliant. “We have pilots with incredible reflexes, combat instincts, good looks… and then there’s you.”

The entire group looked at him in annoyance. Phoenix snorted. Rooster put down his glass with a thud. No one had the energy for another one of those nights.

“Maybe the filter measures talent,” Bob replied calmly. “Not cheap charisma.”

“God! What a virginal answer,” he let out a husky laugh, taking a long drink of his beer. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way… but I’m curious.”

Suddenly he turned to the rest of the group, his words slurred with some alcohol already on his tongue.

“Do you think if I walked up to the ladies at the bar and asked if they’d sleep with Bob, anyone would say yes? Anyone? Just one?”

Phoenix, sitting next to Bob, tensed.

“Shut up already”

"Come on, I'm talking about science! I'm sure they wouldn't even choose him in a simulation with limited oxygen."

“Yeah, Hangman. You’re not in high school,” Rooster muttered, rolling his eyes.

"I'm serious," he insisted, growing more and more satisfied. "You've probably never been kissed without eyes closed, and I bet no one asked you to a dance in high school. Am I right?"

Fanboy, crossing his arms, decided to intervene:

“Do you have any medical needs or are you just afraid of going unnoticed?”

Jake shrugged in mock humility.

“Nah, I'm fine. I just don't want anyone to get confused and think he represent the standard of what women want.”

Then, with the elegance of a Casanova-like idiot, he turned toward a group of girls sitting nearby.

“Ladies,” he said, pointing at each other with his thumbs, “who would you rather spend the night with: the cowboy with the perfect smile… or Bob?”

The girls laughed, amused by the show, but said nothing. Jake took it as a victory.

“I think you have your answer there.”

He was about to take another sip of his beer when you stepped forward. Without a word, you firmly took the bottle from his hand, brought it to your lips, and downed the entire thing in one gulp. When you were finished, you set it down in front of him with a thud.

The sound rang like a bell.

The group fell silent. Everyone looked at you. Jake raised his eyebrows, puzzled. You stood up slowly, with that dangerous calm that comes before a storm, and walked over to Bob. His eyes widened in surprise.

Once there, you sat sideways on his lap, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He immediately tensed, as if he'd just been thrown into a burning cockpit.

“Hey, what are you…?”

“You have beautiful eyes. Has anyone told you that before?” you asked with a sweet smile, tilting your head.

Your hands gently moved up to his cheeks, as if you were about to fix something delicate. He swallowed, motionless. Then your fingers slid to the gold frames of his glasses.

“Let me get this out of the way, ‘kay?”

You carefully placed them on the table, though your fingers trembled slightly. Not from nerves, but from anticipation. Then you leaned in and kissed him.

But it wasn't a tender or symbolic kiss. It was a kiss with intention. Your lips pressed firmly against his, pushing in without asking permission, as if you'd been waiting for an excuse to do so. It wasn't sweet. It was slow. Deliberate. With tongue.

Bob froze at first. Literally frozen. As if his system was trying to process what the hell was going on. But when you felt him exhale against your mouth, exhausted, you knew you'd broken him.

His hands flew to your waist. He held you awkwardly, and in the next second, he pulled you tightly against him. He sat up straighter in his chair, his lips began to respond more decisively, and his fingers crept up your back as if he wanted to memorize every inch of you through your clothes. You shifted slightly on his lap, searching for a better angle, and you felt him tense even more.

You bit his lower lip. Hard. He gasped, barely audible, and took the moment to slip his tongue in, slowly, uncertainly, but hungry. He touched yours tentatively, then more boldly, and you moaned softly against his mouth.

Your hands tangled in his hair, gently squeezing the back of his neck as you kissed him deeper. He held you more firmly, and your hips moved against him once more, intentionally. He moaned. It was noticeable. And it wasn't from discomfort.

When you pulled away, both of you were breathless. Your lips were wet. His too. The tension was still there, vibrating between the two of you.

Fanboy's eyes were wide open. Rooster choked on his beer, staring at Hangman as if he'd just seen his soul leave his body. Phoenix was smiling as if a wish had just been granted. Everyone else watched in surprise.

Slyly, without moving yet, you decided to speak:

“You’re a good kisser, Lieutenant.”

Bob was completely flushed. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, as if he'd just run ten miles. You retrieved his glasses from the table and, without taking your eyes off him, put them on him yourself. You took your time, adjusting them as if it justified touching him one more time.

Then you calmly climbed off his lap. Your legs were slightly trembling, but you pretended not to. As you passed Jake, you looked down at him—because he was always taller, but never bigger—and narrowed your eyes.

"Keep messing with him and I’ll take him to my room and won’t stop until he’s wrecked and exhausted. Capiche?"

Jake didn't move. His forced smile failed to hide the tension in his jaw. Embarrassment burned across his face.

“Oh, and by the way…” you added without looking back “If you want someone to pay attention to you, stop using teasing people as a flirting technique. You just look pathetic.”

The group tried to hold back, but the laughter was too much. Until Fanboy blurted it out, in a broadcaster's voice:

“And the award for the most insecure pilot disguised as arrogant goes to…!”

The collective laughter was thunderous. Jake said nothing. He turned toward the bar, as if he needed to hide in his own reflection.

Congratulations to Bob were not long in coming.

"Who would have thought the shyest guy could win over the hottest pilot on the team? No offense, Phoenix..."

"Do you want any more of us to keep bothering you, Bob? We can do that. Maybe she'll make good on her threat."

Between whistles, jokes, and pats on the back, Bob could barely contain his smile. His eyes never left yours. They sparkled. As if the world had changed color.

You winked at him, flirtatiously.

And that was all it took to shatter him.

[ae-aeitch]

I write like English is my first language and I hope everyone understands how disappointing that is.

[ae-aeitch]

writing is so humbling. one day you're like “this paragraph could end war.” next day you're like “was I having a stroke when I wrote this???”

[ae-aeitch]

me after a 16 hour work day, writing 30,000 words of a Bob Floyd fic that will probably never see the light of day

Me, heading home from work sick.

Also me, writing 8k words of foster kid AU Icemav as I forget to blink for like six hours straight.

Worth it.

[ae-aeitch]

i see tons of bob reynolds fics but where are the bob FLOYD fics ???? pls i need to read about my nerdy husband !!! pls pls pls

[ae-aeitch]

constantly coming back to this one and winding back up in horny jail

Shutterbug

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader (feat. Rooster and Phoenix)

Warnings: MDNI, 18+, SMUT, voyeurism, exhibitionism, nudes, dirty pics, general filth and explicit content

A/N: based on this post, thank you to @sebsxphia for the convo 💕 also, James Bond fucked so much because martinis make you horny as hell. gin is to blame for what follows, not me

_ _ _ _ _

Attraction tends to wane as time passes in a relationship. Couples need to be careful not to lose that spark. Bob Floyd didn't have that problem. His desire for you only grew, spiking after being able to call you his wife as of six months ago. He was grateful to have you, and even more grateful that you didn't mind the ways his lust for you manifested. Specifically, his shutterbug habit.

Bob had loved photography since high school, keeping his hobby alive even with his career in the Navy. The longer you had been together, the more you...inspired him. He had a few different albums dedicated to you, but only two of them were password protected.

The first was full of nude photos of you, raunchy videos of your lovemaking, and other explicit content Bob felt needed to be documented.

Somehow, the second album feels sleazier to him. It's all candid content of you doing things your husband decided were too provocative not to sneakily whip out his camera for. Common subjects in this collection include your ass bent over in miniskirts, close ups of your cleavage, and your pretty lips wrapped around anything vaguely phallic shaped.

Bobby told you about these photos and you were more than on board with it. It was thrilling knowing he wanted you constantly, even when you weren't trying. Sometimes you notice when his phone is aimed at you and put on a show for him, aiming your breasts in his direction or striking more provocative poses during your morning stretches.

Up until tonight, you and Bob had been the only ones privy to these.

_ _ _ _ _

A few hours into a Dagger Squad hangout at the Hard Deck, Bob found himself at a lonely table in the bar hunched over his phone. His thoughts had drifted to one of the most recent videos he had taken and he couldn't wait to get home to watch it again. He was so entranced he didn't notice Rooster and Phoenix sneaking up behind them. They noticed their friend's absence among the group, spotted him all alone, and wondered what he was so focused on. As they peered over his shoulder, both pilots' jaws dropped.

Bob was watching a video of you in a stringy bikini, laid out in your backyard as you basked in the Southern California sunshine, with your mouth wrapped around a cherry red jumbo popsicle. The camera zoomed in on your stained lips and hollowed cheeks taking the treat all the way down to the stick again and again.

Phoenix regained composure first and coughed to signal their presence to Bob. He nearly jumped out of his seat at the noise, hurriedly putting his phone back in his jeans. He turned to see his friends smirking at him and blushed in response.

"Who knew your wizzo was such a dog, taking sneaky videos of his wife like that?", Rooster teased.

"Can you blame him? Mrs. Floyd is a sexy little thing."

_ _ _ _ _

Upon returning home that night, Bob immediately told you what happened. He feared you would be upset or embarrassed someone else saw you like that, but after telling you he saw no indication of that on your face. Pink flesh poked out to lick your lips as your pupils dilated.

"So, um, did they say anything about it? H-how did they react?", you questioned.

Bob smiled at your sudden shyness and said, "Well they both looked very pleased at the whole situation...and Phoenix said you were a sexy little thing."

He heard your breath hitch and glanced down to see your nipples poking through your thin tank top. In an instant, he had your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you to bed. This conversation could wait.

_ _ _ _ _

After a few rounds in the sheets, you were using your husband's chest as a pillow and unpausing that previous discussion.

"You're sure this is okay with you," you ask.

"Absolutely, sweetheart. I've always thought you were a work of art. It would be selfish not to let other people see," Bob teased.

Natasha and Bradley were at their respective homes and getting ready for bed when their phones pinged. They both opened their messaging apps to see they had been added to a group chat with Bob. A chat that was filled with assorted dirty photos and videos of you.

_ _ _ _ _

Rooster gets off twice: first to the full length popsicle video, and second to some domestically sexy videos videos of you. He learns about your habit of doing chores without pants, and sometimes in just your underwear. Bradley cums when he sees a close up of your ass bent over in a pair of cheeky panties while dusting a cabinet, and he makes a note to stop by unannounced during spring cleaning.

Phoenix gets warmed up that night with a few close up shots of your chest, particularly the ones of you in a tube top. She imagines how easy it would be to yank it down and expose your heavy breasts. Moving onto a video of you running at the gym, she admires your tits bouncing in a tight white sports bra. However, it's the video of you wearing a thong bikini Nat fingers herself to completion to. She finishes watching you put on sunscreen, squirting and smearing it all over your nearly nude body.

Both aviators fall asleep soon after their releases, satiated but very confused.

_ _ _ _ _

Bob is an absolute menace. Most people wouldn't guess it, but your husband loves to be a tease. Edging you was one of his favorite pastimes. That's why it doesn't surprise you when over the next two weeks, Bob sporadically sends out more of his favorite photos to Bradley and Nat. It's always late at night when he knows they'll be alone.

In the mornings, he sees them at work and behaves like nothing is out of the ordinary. Bob makes small talk and comments on the weather, as if last night he wasn't sending two of his coworkers videos of his wife dancing around in nothing but the top of his khaki uniform.

Bob enjoys teasing you with this all well. He's got you on your knees and gagging on his cock when he says through gritted teeth, "I bet Roo and Nix would love to see you like this. Makeup all ruined, tearing up, choking on Daddy like you were made to."

_ _ _ _ _

Like the first incident, Bob takes things up a notch at the next Hard Deck night. The bar was busy by the time you and Bob arrived. You spot Rooster and Phoenix, their eyes meeting yours immediately. They had been waiting for your arrival.

You and Bobby mingled for a bit before heading to one of the pool tables in the back. The two pilots across the bar snuck glances at you throughout the night, paying special attention when Bob leaned in close and whispered something in your ear. You gave him an eager nod before heading off in the direction of the bathroom. When you rejoined your husband, Bradley and Nat watched as you slipped something into his pocket before returning to the game. They were too distracted by the way your tits nearly spilled out of your top as you leaned over to take your shot to notice Bobby taking another photo.

Both pilots felt their pockets vibrate, opening their devices to find a photo of you bent over the pool table. Your skirt was hiked up just enough to see a glimpse of your bare pussy, glistening under the bar lights. Rooster bit down on his fist to keep from groaning out loud at the sight, while Nat felt a pool of arousal rush to her core when she realized you had given Bob your panties earlier.

They were now hyper-focused on your actions, no longer subtle about their gaze. Bob sent them a nod towards the back of the bar before leading you outside with his hand on the small of your back. Bradley and Natasha follow without hesitation, weaving their way through the crowds until they reach the back exit.

Nat's jaw drops when she sees her backseater on his knees in the alley, head partially obscured by the hem of your skirt. Rooster's dick twitches in his shorts at the sight of you against the wall, back arched with one hand covering your mouth and the other fisted in your husband's hair.

"Oh Robby! I'm so-so close!"

Bob's head peeked out, glasses made askew by your writhing hips.

"Keep quiet darlin', or we might attract some un-wanted visitors." You bite down on your bottom lip in response and turn to look at the two pilots. A bead of sweat drips down Nat's face down to her neck. You imagine what she tastes like as you cum on Bob's tongue. He laps it all up, taking his time suckling on your delicate inner thighs, before wiping his mouth on his forearm and standing up.

The two of you walk over to Nat and Bradley, your legs still wobbly from the mind-blowing orgasm your husband gave you. Bob notices Rooster palming himself through his jeans, clearly painfully erect.

In a voice too low and dark than his coworkers were used to, Bob asks, "If you two are free tomorrow, the missus and I would just love it if you could come over to the house. I need help with a little photography project. Does noon sound okay?"

The pilots nod mutely.

"Great! See you then," you nearly moan aloud, your body heating up at the prospect of what tomorrow would bring.

A/N: teehee just pushing the #bobfucks agenda

[ae-aeitch]

just imagine bob getting kidnapped

Kidnapper, on the phone: I've kidnapped Bob. Bail will be €10000-".

Bucky: Oh no. DON'T HURT HIM. DO YOU HEAR ME??

Kidnapper: I won't hurt Bob if you pay the-

Bucky: Shut the fuck up BOB CAN YOU HEAR ME???? DO NOT HURT HIM!

Kidnapper, now sweating: what

[ae-aeitch]

Something Like Salvation Masterlist

Owen Taylor x Reader

Summary: You visit home reluctantly, only to find Owen Taylor has returned. But some things are different now. No longer are you the obedient girl nor is Owen Taylor the pious golden boy. In quiet corners and long drives, you chase something warm and reckless. It may not be redemption... but for Owen, you felt something like salvation.

🔴 MINORS DNI 🔴 Warnings: 18+ content, religious guilt & themes, explicit sexual content, nsfw, eventual smut, dirty talk, praise kink, semi-public sex, soft aftercare, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, mild praise kink, foreplay

Author's Note: Please note that this is set in a universe the Jem Starling DOES NOT exist. Owen is also NOT married here. Although I set this to be in a 2nd Person POV, my entire intention is to establish that Y/N is a full-grown adult.

📌 Sign Up for TAGLIST

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Epilogue

[ae-aeitch]

Jesus Christ. I’m starving and this is all I’m hungry for

Something Like Salvation Masterlist

Owen Taylor x Reader

Summary: You visit home reluctantly, only to find Owen Taylor has returned. But some things are different now. No longer are you the obedient girl nor is Owen Taylor the pious golden boy. In quiet corners and long drives, you chase something warm and reckless. It may not be redemption... but for Owen, you felt something like salvation.

🔴 MINORS DNI 🔴 Warnings: 18+ content, religious guilt & themes, explicit sexual content, nsfw, eventual smut, dirty talk, praise kink, semi-public sex, soft aftercare, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, mild praise kink, foreplay

Author's Note: Please note that this is set in a universe the Jem Starling DOES NOT exist. Owen is also NOT married here. Although I set this to be in a 2nd Person POV, my entire intention is to establish that Y/N is a full-grown adult.

💫 Something Like Salvation Masterlist 📌 Sign Up for TAGLIST

Chapter 1: Come As You Are

You hadn't planned on staying long.

Three days max, a blip in your time-off, you told yourself. It would be just enough time to check on your mom, help your sister with her grad party, and then head back to Austin before the church folks even knew you were in town. You'd outgrown this place. Meticulously scrubbed the judgment from your skin and learned to breathe without shame. 

But somehow, you find your feet pressed into the familiar red clay parking lot of New Light Revival on a humid Wednesday evening, staring at the glowing cross mounted above the double doors like it was daring you to come inside.

"It'll mean a lot to Mom if you just show your face," your sister had pleaded. "Owen’s back in town too. He’s giving the message tonight. Remember him?"

Unfortunately.

You had very much remembered Owen Taylor. He was the golden boy of your youth group once upon a time — all gentle voice and piercing eyes. He was a few years older, always watching without speaking unless it was to gently correct. 

You used to catch him looking at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Nothing ever happened though. Nothing inappropriate, nothing confessed. Moments filled with the kind of lingering glances that burrow under your skin and stay there.

You were always told to guard your heart, your purity, like a glass house in a war zone. Back then, you listened.

You don't anymore.

You smoothed your dress and stepped inside. You’re wearing one of your favorite sundresses–soft cotton, a little shorter than what was considered decent in these pews. Unfortunately sleeveless and so you had to don a cardigan over it. The dress was by no means provocative, especially compared to what you wore in Austin, but you were certain it was not made for revival meetings.

You hadn’t worn it to make a statement. You would even say this was one of your most “proper” dresses. But walking past the elders and their disapproving glances, it felt like one anyway. You hated how a piece of fabric could still make you feel like you were being graded on a scale of virtue. You’d left that behind — the quiet rules, the measured hemlines, the shame stitched into every stitch. But stepping into that sanctuary, you felt the nostalgic shame creeping back like a vine.

Of course nothing had changed. How could it when the people in it refused to move on? The church smelled the same, like lemon polish and something old beneath it. The carpet hadn’t changed, neither had the fake ivy wrapped around the railings or the banner over the stage: He Is Risen. 

A few heads turned when you entered. You didn’t flinch. Let them stare.

You slid into the back pew just as the band struck the last note of a worship song, and the pastor introduced the guest speaker. You didn’t even have time to steel yourself.

He walked out slowly. No tie, sleeves rolled to his forearms, Bible in hand.

Owen Taylor.

Older. Broader. Jaw more defined, light stubble grown, hair swept neatly back. Same eyes.

Then, just as he was mid-stride on the stage, he saw you. He slightly faltered, blinked but kept going. It was only a second but you saw it. Somehow, it sent a static jolt to your spine.

He almost lost his breath when he saw you.

He thought it was a trick of the light at first. The sanctuary lights catching a face in the back row that shouldn’t have been there. You couldn’t have been there. But then you shifted in your seat, crossed your legs slowly, and looked right at him.

You were as he remembered you. You were older, sure, but there was something different now — sharper, more assured. Your eyes held that quiet defiance, like someone who had walked through fire and dared it to do worse. Perhaps you did and that made it worse, more dangerous. It’s true that he could still glimpse the same girl underneath. You, who used to ask him dangerous questions after Bible study and had become the reason he’s lost sleep more than once, now looked like you knew exactly what you were doing. 

His grip on the pulpit tightened.

The sermon poured out of him like muscle memory, but the message twisted in his throat. Every word about redemption felt heavier with you in the room. He wasn’t just talking to the congregation anymore. He was talking to you. For you. Maybe against you.

He didn’t know if he was trying to save your soul or beg you to tempt his.

The message tonight was about redemption. About returning home and being welcomed despite the dirt on your shoes. About prodigal sons and open arms. His voice was steady, calm, but you could see something under the surface. It twisted every time he glanced in your direction.

You didn’t look away. This time you were the one daring him. Whether it was to preach to you or undress you with scripture, you were unsure.

But God help you, you kind of liked it.

The goal was to slip out unnoticed.

You try to stick to this by standing up the second the service ended. You weren’t interested in post-sermon socializing or lingering near the punch table for someone to corner you with a prayer request. You were halfway to the door when you heard it—

"Hey." 

That voice. Low. Familiar.

You turned and there Owen stood just behind you. This time, no pulpit, no microphone. No longer a boy, but now a man. Just a man, much taller than you remembered and too close for comfort.

"Didn’t expect to see you here," he said, eyes flicking briefly to the hem of your dress before bouncing back up to your face. Seemingly reminding himself that he had just broken his own rule about not letting his gaze linger.

You raised a brow. "I could say the same. Done with Peru?"

"Came back for the revival. Temporary," he added quickly, like it needed clarifying. "They asked. I felt called."

You hummed, unconvinced. "Well. You were very…convincing."

His mouth twitched, a half-smile fighting to surface.

"You always were good at making people feel like the sermon was just for them."

This time, his smile faltered. "It wasn’t just a performance. I meant every word."

You looked at him for a beat too long. "I’m sure you did."

Thick silence took over. The tension that lingered was the kind that used to exist in Sunday school rooms after someone asked if Jesus ever got horny.

You exhaled through your nose and made to leave. “I should go.”

He stepped lightly into your path. Not aggressive. Just…there. "Walk you to your car?"

You hesitated. He noticed.

"I’m.. not trying to trap you," he said gently. "Just talk. I promise. Catch up. Unless you’d rather not."

You shouldn’t. Everything in you said not to, but curiosity was a powerful thing.

"Okay," you said, nodding toward the parking lot. "If you’re up for the risk."

Owen didn’t speak at first. He kept his hands in his pockets, matching your pace as cicadas screamed from the trees. You walked forward, head held high, knowing people watched but not caring at the same time. He admired the liberation you displayed. 

The church doors glowed faintly behind both of you.

 "You look good," he said eventually. "Happy. Strong."

You glanced sideways. "Is that a surprise?"

"No," he answered too quickly. Then, more quietly: "Maybe a little."

You gave a dry laugh. "Because the church always said anyone would spiral the second they left. They thought I’d be one of them. I think some people were disappointed when I didn’t."

He looked pained by that. Genuinely. You didn’t spiral. You flourished. Somehow the jealousy he felt knowing you did stings more than if you'd fallen.

"It’s not like that." he responds carefully.

"Isn’t it?"

He couldn’t answer, couldn’t deceive you even if he tried. He just walked beside you, the weight of the unspoken falling in step.

A beat passed. Then he said, "I used to think you were dangerous."

You arched a brow at the admittance. "Used to?"

“Maybe I was right. Maybe you are. Wouldn’t have thrived in the wild out there if you weren’t.”

You huffed, not quite sure what to make of his comment.

Owen stopped walking for half a second then let out a breath like a prayer he shouldn’t have said out loud. "Honestly, I don’t know what I think anymore."

Now that made you smile just a little. It wasn’t sweet, but rather satisfied. "Good. I’d hate to be predictable."

When you reached your car, you paused and he did too.

The tension that swelled there was hot and charged. You could feel it crackling between your elbow and his, between the questions neither of you asked.

"You’re still as sharp as ever," he said.

You leaned on the door. "And you’re still playing with fire."

Owen smiled again, ruefully this time. "I think the fire found me first." 

And God help him, it felt like he might want to burn.

There were no kisses or touches. But a promise passed between you in that humid silence. Or maybe it was a challenge. Either way, the moment excited him. Far beyond anything he ever felt. He was exhilarated.

Then you got in the car. And as you pulled away, you saw him still standing there.

Watching you like a man already wrestling the consequences of temptation.

It was a restless night for you.

The memory of the church with its sticky pews and dry hymns comes back every time you close your eyes. Owen’s eyes flicking to your legs and then away again like it burned him. 

You had to keep telling yourself it wasn’t a big deal. Men look. But then him walking beside you pops up. And you have to give yourself another excuse. It’s just a walk. A nostalgic and polite walk.

You laid awake with one arm flung over your eyes, cursing the way his voice clung to your skin. You could still hear it. I used to think you were dangerous.

You could say the same for him.

You ran into him again the next afternoon. This time at the freezer aisle of the tiny corner grocery store. You were standing in front of the frozen fruit, deciding whether overpriced raspberries were worth it, when he appeared beside you, as if summoned by the unconscious, in a casual green shirt.

“Didn’t expect to see you again,” you said.

“Didn’t expect to find you debating on berries,” he replied with a crooked smile.

There was a beat. Then another.

You reached for the frozen mango and tossed it into your basket. He watched you.

“You live nearby?” you asked casually.

“My parents’ place. For now.”

You nodded. “Figures.”

He hesitated, shifting his weight. "Do you—um—still have the same number?"

You arched a brow. “That would imply you had it first as a reference.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. I didn’t. That was dumb.”

You held his gaze. Then, you slowly reached out your hand, palm face up. He pulled out his phone and carefully placed it in your hand.

You typed your number in and handed it back without a word. You both stepped away before either of you could say something stupid.

“Hey,” he finally said, just before turning down the next aisle. “Don’t worry. I won’t use it for prayer chain emails.”

“Relieved,” you replied, tossing him a look over your shoulder. “I’d block you on principle.”

He smiled but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

That night, Owen sat on the edge of his borrowed bed, staring at your name on his phone.

He hadn’t meant to ask for your number. Never even planned it. But the words just came out when you were there..

You should delete it, he thought. This isn’t why you’re here.

But he couldn’t. Even when his thumb hovered over the delete, he didn’t press. He just kept staring and remembering the way your fingers brushed his when you handed over the phone, a lingering moment.

He told himself he just wanted to check in. Nothing inappropriate nor that couldn’t be explained.

Still, his thumb hovered over the keyboard for a long time before he typed:

OWEN TAYLOR: Hope you get those raspberries next time.

When your reply came, it was quick.

YOU: Not sweet enough for the price.

He smiled, shoulders relaxing. Okay. That was safe. That was normal.

Then, before he could think better of it:

OWEN TAYLOR: Shame. Always thought you were sweet enough to cover everything else.

He hit send before he can even think about it. It took about a full five seconds for him to immediately regret it.

Too much. Dial it back.

But before he can wallow, you responded.

YOU: How would you even know?

OWEN TAYLOR: I think I know a lot more than I should.

He closed his eyes. Why did you say that?

You were curled up in bed when your phone lit up again.

YOU: Thought I was the dangerous one.

OWEN TAYLOR: Maybe you bring it out of me.

You stared at that message for a long time. The air in your room felt hotter than before.

Then, a pause.

OWEN TAYLOR: It was nice seeing you again tonight.

YOU: Was it?

Three dots. A pause. More dots.

OWEN TAYLOR: I don’t mind getting used to it.

You swallowed hard.

YOU: Might cross a few lines to do so.

No reply.

You curled into your sheets, heart racing.

Then, finally:

OWEN TAYLOR: Can’t pretend I’m not ready to.

The next time you saw Owen was the day after. It was in the parking lot of a diner just off Main Street. You were leaving with a to-go bag and an iced coffee, squinting into the afternoon sun, when you nearly bumped into him by the curb.

He looked as startled as you felt.

"Two days in a row," you said, shielding your eyes with your hand. "You stalking me, Taylor?"

He smiled, but his posture was tense. Like he wasn’t sure if he should stay or run.

"Pure coincidence," he said. Then: "Unless divine intervention still counts."

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth twitched despite yourself.

"You just get lunch?" he asked, nodding to the bag.

"Something like that. Want a fry?"

His eyes widened slightly. "I’m good."

You held one out anyway. He took it cautiously, like it might burn.

"So," you said slowly, watching him chew. "You always this quiet or was I texting someone else last night?"

He swallowed hard.

"I’m just… trying to be careful."

"With me?"

"With myself."

You pressed your lips tightly and nodded. That, at least, felt honest.

He glanced around, then looked back at you. "You have plans tonight?"

The quiet bravery in the question surprised and intrigued you.

"No."

He looked almost relieved. "I was thinking maybe… you’d want to talk. For real. No sermons. No grocery aisles. Just us."

Your heart did something slow and strange.

"Where?"

He shrugged. "Anywhere but the church."

You finally smiled. "Pick me up at 8."

At 8:03, Owen’s car pulled up outside your mom’s house. You slid into the passenger seat in a sleeveless sundress and sneakers, hair up, nerves simmering low in your belly.

He looked over once and then looked away too fast. His eyes had caught on your legs for half a second too long. Too short, he thought. Too exposed. Too much. Just like you.

But he said nothing. Just turned the keys and backed out.

The car ride was quiet at first. Windows down. The summer air was warm against your arms. He drove aimlessly, like he just wanted to move. Your hands feeling the air, eyes closed. 

He kept his eyes on the road, but his mind was full of you. The way you crossed your legs. The slope of your neck. He has to keep telling himself that you’re not doing anything wrong, but he’s not sure he can keep saying the same for himself. He gripped the steering wheel tighter.

You shifted in your seat, adjusting your skirt, and something inked caught his eye. It was just visible beneath the hem, high on your upper thigh. A scale and a tail. Then another small movement that revealed it to be a snake.

Delicate, coiled, black and fine-lined. He blinked. Looked away, then looked again. "Is that—"

"A tattoo?" you finished for him, glancing down at your leg. "Yeah. Surprised?"

He gave a short, breathy laugh. "Of a snake? That’s... biblical."

You smirked. "Thought it was fitting."

His eyes lingered a second longer than they should have. "You always knew how to make a point."

"And you always knew how to pretend you weren’t listening."

He looked back at the road, but the image burned in his mind. Of course she’d mark herself with a serpent. Of course it would be her.

He wasn’t sure if he was more fascinated or terrified. 

Finally, Owen decides to pull up by the lake. The silence was overwhelming. His eyes glanced at you. Then to the front. You didn’t look as tense as he did and that he envied. 

"You know," you said eventually, "this doesn’t have to be so hard."

"This definitely doesn't feel easy." 

You tilted your head. "Why not?"

"Because everything about this feels like a test."

You looked out the window, chewing on your lip. You were supposed to be leaving soon. That had always been the plan. Three days, maybe four. Just long enough to be polite, not long enough to get tangled up in something messy… or someone.

And yet here you were. Sitting in Owen Taylor’s car with his jaw tense and his eyes flicking to you like he couldn’t help it.

This is a bad idea, you told yourself. But the thrum in your chest told a different story.

You let the silence stretch until the road curved around a grove of trees and the sky turned dusky pink.

"Maybe not everything has to be earned through suffering," you said.

He allowed himself to look at you longer, the tension between you braided tighter than ever.

He didn’t kiss you. But in that breathless quiet, you both stopped pretending you didn’t want to.

Taglist: @shantellorraine @slvt4her @anxious-alto @irlbaristaoc

[ae-aeitch]

ESP type shit

calvin evans ⤿ lessons in chemistry ( 1x01 )

i have nothing appropriate to say

[ae-aeitch]

sure, wreck my emotions why don’t you?

| Second Chance |

Pairings: Bob Reynolds x female!wife!reader

Summary: Bob Reynolds comes home broken—and now he has to earn his place in the family he almost lost.

Warnings: Substance abuse (meth/alcohol),Angst & yelling, Mentions of relapse/recovery, Parenting struggles, fluffy ending

Authors note: requested by @horrormovielover2000

The warmth of your daughter’s small body is tucked against your side, her cheek pressed to your arm as she watches the pages of the storybook flutter with each turn. You’re halfway through The Paper Bag Princess, and her lashes are already getting heavy.

“Then the dragon flew around the world… twice…” you say softly, dragging your voice like honey across the words, “…and was so tired, he couldn’t even move.”

Your daughter giggles, muffled and sleepy. “He flew too much,” she says, fingers brushing her tiny unicorn plushie.

“Mhm,” you hum, smiling despite the quiet ache in your chest. “That’s why you shouldn’t show off when you’re tired.”

You’re trying. Really trying. Holding onto the rituals—bedtime stories, warm baths, tucking her in just right—as if they’ll keep the world from crashing in.

Your phone buzzes silently on the nightstand. You glance at it. No messages. No missed calls. Not even a read receipt.

Where the hell are you, Bob?

You told yourself you wouldn’t care. Not anymore. But caring is like breathing with him—you can’t stop, no matter how much it hurts.

“I want Daddy to finish the story tomorrow,” your daughter mumbles, eyes fluttering shut.

You hesitate, brushing hair back from her face. “He’ll try, baby.”

“Okay…” she sighs. “Mommy?”

“Yeah, love?”

“Are dragons real?”

You pause. “Only the kind we carry in our hearts.”

That seems to satisfy her. You keep reading until her breathing slows, her hand slipping from your arm. The book hangs loosely in your lap. The room is warm and quiet. For a moment, just a moment, it feels like you’re safe here.

And then—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

You jump so hard the book falls. Your heart slams into your throat. The pounding is aggressive, loud, demanding. Someone’s at the door—no, slamming at it. Your daughter shoots up in bed. “Daddy!” she squeals, awake instantly.

“Wait—wait, baby, no—” but she’s already out of bed, bare feet pattering down the hallway.

You scramble after her. “Sweetheart, slow down—!”

She reaches the front door before you do, fumbling with the handle, too short to open it completely. You get there just as it swings wide.

And there he is.

Bob.

No—what’s left of him.

His blonde hair is a mess, matted with sweat. His eyes are wide and glassy, like someone who hasn’t slept in days. The stench hits you first—alcohol, piss, something sharper and acrid clinging to his clothes. “Hi babyyyy,” he drawls, voice thick and slow like molasses. “Didja miss your old man?”

Your daughter giggles, throws herself at him without hesitation. He lifts her, almost stumbles back from the weight. She clings to his neck like nothing’s wrong.

You stand there, frozen. Your stomach twists.

“Bob,” you say sharply, but not loud. Not yet. “Put her down.”

“Aww, come on,” he slurs. “She missed me. Didn’tcha, honeybee?”

Your daughter beams. “You smell weird, Daddy.”

He barks a laugh, wobbly and too loud. “That’s just… bein’ a man, baby.”

Your heart drops into your stomach.

“Put. Her. Down.”

He finally does, sort of dropping her onto her feet. She stumbles, giggles, doesn’t notice your white-knuckled grip on the doorframe. Bob sways. His eyes meet yours. And for one fleeting second, something clear flickers behind them—recognition, maybe shame—but it’s gone as fast as it came.

“Hey, baby,” he grins at you. “Miss me?”

You don’t answer.

You just stare at him, your mouth dry, your hands shaking, your daughter beside you tugging his hand and asking if he brought her a present.

And the smell. God, the smell—like whiskey and sweat and something chemical and burnt, crawling on his skin. The man in front of you is not the hero. Not the husband. Not even close.

Just the storm you’ve been waiting for.

Bob stumbles over the threshold like a man who’s forgotten what home means.

His boots leave muddy prints across the wood floor. His jacket slips from one shoulder, crumpling at his side like a discarded thought. You say nothing as he makes his way in—wobbly, slow, humming some half-forgotten tune under his breath.

Your daughter is stuck to his hip, chattering happily about her day. “We made dragons at school today, Daddy! And Mommy read the dragon story! It was sooo funny.” She’s beaming, absolutely glowing, like her daddy hasn’t just shown up looking like a man pulled from a wreckage.

Bob nods, eyes too wide. “Dragons, huh? S’a good story. I ever tell you ‘bout the time I fought one?”

She gasps. “Noooo. You really did?”

“Oh yeah,” he grins, staggering toward the living room. “Biggest thing you ever saw. Breath like fire, teeth like knives. Mean son of a bitch.” He leans down, whispering theatrically, “But I kicked his ass.”

She squeals with laughter.

You’re still by the front door. Frozen.

Watching.

Counting.

One bottle of whiskey. A crushed cigarette. Meth. Definitely meth. You can see it in the twitch of his fingers. The way his jaw keeps locking and unlocking. His eyes aren’t just red; they’re wrong. Dilated. Staring through you.

It hits you again, how he can be so full of love and still dangerous like this. Your daughter clutches his leg. “Tell me more, Daddy.”

You finally speak, throat raw. “Sweetheart, it’s bedtime.”

“Aw, come on,” Bob groans, flopping onto the couch. “Let her stay up. Story time with Dad. It’s a special occasion.”

You move fast, crossing the room and crouching beside her. “No, baby. It’s late, and Daddy needs to rest.”

“But—”

“Now,” you say, more firmly, smoothing her hair. “Go pick another book. I’ll be right there.”

She hesitates, clearly torn. But she nods, pouting as she heads back toward her room. You don’t relax until she’s out of sight.

Then you stand.

And face him.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you whisper.

He laughs, as if you told a joke. “Babe, chill. I’m home, aren’t I?”

“You’re high.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re high, Bob.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Just a little. Needed to take the edge off.”

“The edge off what?” you hiss. “You vanished for three days. You missed her parent-teacher meeting. You said you’d help with her reading log. You said you were getting better. And now you come in here reeking like a goddamn meth lab and want to play bedtime hero?”

He flinches. But then that grin returns—ugly now, cracked at the edges.

“I was working.”

“Bullshit.”

“Saving people, baby. That’s what I do.”

“No. Not tonight. Tonight you got high and drank yourself stupid and wandered home like a stray dog.”

He sways to his feet, stumbling slightly. “Don’t talk to me like I’m some junkie.”

“What would you call this?”

He gestures wildly, arms spread. “This? This is me surviving, okay? You think I can sleep with what’s in my head? You think I can just tuck in at nine like everything’s fine when there’s a void in there scratching behind my eyes?”

You go still.

His chest heaves. The room is too quiet now.

There it is again.

The thing no one likes to name.

The Void.

The god inside him. Or the monster. Or both. You don’t know anymore. You just know that when Bob says he’s using to keep it quiet, it means he’s slipping further away from all of you.

“I didn’t ask to be this,” he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. “I didn’t ask for any of it.”

Your voice is quieter now. Dangerous. “But you asked to be a father. You asked to be a husband. You chose this family. And every time you walk through that door like this, you tell me we were a mistake.”

He looks like you slapped him.

For one second—just one—he looks like Bob again. The real one. The one who held your hand in the hospital and whispered that he’d protect this baby with his life. The one who rocked your daughter to sleep on his chest, and cried when she said “Dada” for the first time.

Then he blinks. And he’s gone again.

A shadow of himself.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he mumbles, grabbing a bottle from the kitchen counter—half-empty tequila from a week ago.

You move fast.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

He lifts the bottle anyway.

You yank it from his hand and slam it down into the sink so hard it shatters.

The sound explodes in the room. Glass everywhere.

Bob stares. Stunned. “Jesus, what the hell?”

“I will not let you drink yourself into the ground in front of our daughter.”

“She didn’t see shit.”

“She sees everything, Bob! Every damn time you stumble in here like this, she looks at me and asks if you’re okay. She draws pictures of dragons with black eyes, and calls them ‘Daddy monsters.’ I am begging you to understand what you’re doing to her.”

He doesn’t move.

He just breathes.

Heavy.

You realize your hands are shaking. You push past him and grab a broom. Start sweeping.

Because you need to do something.

You need the sound. The motion. The distraction.

Bob sinks back onto the couch like all the air’s been taken out of him. “I’m not a monster,” he whispers.

You don’t look at him.

“I never said you were.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, rubbing his face. “She loves me.”

“She worships you. And that’s the problem. She thinks this is normal.”

You glance down the hallway, heart aching.

“She still waits at the door every night.”

He says nothing.

“I’m pregnant, Bob.”

The words come out without planning.

He freezes.

Looks up.

“What?”

You finally meet his eyes.

“I was gonna tell you when you were clean. When you were… you. But it’s been weeks, and I don’t even know if I’ll get that version of you again.”

A long silence.

Then—he laughs.

Not out of joy.

It’s hollow. Disbelieving. A little broken.

“You’re kidding.”

You shake your head.

He rubs a hand over his face again, blinking hard. “A baby. Another baby. God.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“I’m not—” He stands suddenly, pacing now. “I’m just—it’s a lot, okay? I’m not even keeping it together as-is and now you’re telling me there’s another kid coming?”

You stare at him.

“Do you want us, Bob? Do you even want to be a part of this family?”

He turns slowly, eyes red.

“I don’t know how to be what you need.”

“I’m not asking for perfect,” you say, voice breaking. “I’m asking for present.”

You leave the room before he can answer.

Back down the hallway. Into your daughter’s room, where she’s already curled up with her second book of the night, waiting patiently.

“Mommy,” she whispers, “is Daddy staying home now?”

You press your lips together.

Tuck her in gently.

And lie.

“Yeah, baby. He’s staying.”

Your daughter falls asleep quickly, thumb curled near her mouth, the dragon story still open beside her on the bed. Her little chest rises and falls, steady, safe—for now.

You stay there a few moments longer than necessary. Just watching her.

Trying to breathe through the ache in your chest.

Trying to remember the version of Bob she deserves.

The one who used to fall asleep on the nursery floor because she wouldn’t let go of his pinky. The one who took her to the park and convinced her he was the strongest man alive because he lifted her with one arm. The one who used to whisper, “I’ll always come back,” like a promise carved in gold.

But now—

Now he comes back empty.

Reeking of pain and piss and substances you can’t even name anymore.

You close her bedroom door softly behind you.

The light in the hallway flickers—needs replacing. Just like everything else. The kitchen clock stopped last week. The front door sticks when it rains. You haven’t fixed the broken nightlight she asked for because every time you get close to doing something normal, you’re reminded that nothing about this life is.

Bob is still in the living room.

Sitting on the floor now.

He’s not moving. Just staring at the shattered glass in the sink. Like it’s some divine message he can’t decipher.

His hands are limp in his lap.

His eyes are red-rimmed and glassy. He’s not crying. But it’s worse somehow. He looks quiet. The kind of quiet that comes after too many storms, when the ship’s already sinking.

You speak first.

“Do you even remember what day it is?”

He flinches, looks up.

“…Tuesday?”

“It’s Friday, Bob.”

He blinks. You don’t think he even believes you.

You walk past him and pick up his jacket—drenched in sweat, smoke, something chemical. You hold it between two fingers like it’s radioactive.

“Is this meth, or did you find something new?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” you snap, tossing the jacket toward the laundry basket and wiping your hands on your thighs. “Help me understand, Bob, because I’m out here every day trying to raise your daughter and keep this house from falling apart while you disappear and come home looking like a fucking ghost.”

He doesn’t answer.

“You promised,” you whisper.

“I know,” he finally growls. “I fucking know. You think I like this?”

“I don’t know what you like anymore,” you shoot back, your voice cracking. “You said you were getting clean. You swore. You looked me in the eye and said it was over.”

“I meant it.”

You scoff, bitter. “So what changed?”

He’s quiet for a long moment.

Then, in a voice so raw it scrapes the air: “I did.”

You want to scream. Cry. Run. Anything but this.

“Don’t give me that tragic hero bullshit,” you snap, pacing now. “You had help. You had us. We were there. Every time. I sat with you through every crash. Every mood swing. Every nightmare. And you still chose the high.”

His face twists.

“I didn’t choose this,” he snaps, standing. “You think I wake up and want to burn everything down? You think I look at her and feel nothing?”

You stop.

Let the silence settle between you.

He drags a shaky hand through his hair. “I love her. I love you. But this thing in me—it’s loud. And when I don’t quiet it, it eats me alive.”

You’re crying now.

Tears hot and fast and silent.

“Then let it eat you, Bob. Not us. Not her.”

His expression cracks.

For a second, he steps forward, like he’s going to reach for you. But he stops himself. Just stares.

“You’re pregnant,” he says again, softer now. Like it just hit him.

You nod, wiping your cheeks.

“How far along?”

“Seven weeks.”

A beat.

“Is it mine?”

That breaks you.

It slices through your chest like a blade.

You laugh. One sharp, humorless breath. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

He grimaces. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean it, I know. Just like you didn’t mean to disappear. Or relapse. Or scare the shit out of our daughter tonight. But you did. And I’m the one who has to patch it all up every single time.”

Bob slumps back down onto the couch. Puts his head in his hands.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“Start by apologizing.”

He looks up.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For tonight. For everything.”

You nod slowly. “And then what?”

He doesn’t answer.

You kneel in front of him.

“I need you to hear this, and really hear me, Bob. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t raise two kids in a house where love feels like walking through landmines.”

He’s trembling now. You don’t think he realizes it.

“I want the man who brought home flowers just because I said I missed spring. I want the man who cried when she was born and held her like she was made of stars. Not this…” you trail off, gesturing at him. “Not this ruin.”

He blinks hard.

Looks at you.

And then—he shatters.

Breaks open.

The tears come fast and brutal. He folds in on himself, sobbing like it’s the first time he’s let it out. He clutches your wrist, not to hurt, just to hold.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps. “I’m so fucking sorry, I didn’t mean to—I don’t know why I can’t stop—”

You wrap your arms around him, even though it hurts.

Even though you know this moment won’t fix anything.

Because this is still Bob.

Even if he’s buried under the weight of everything he’s become.

“I know,” you whisper, holding him as tightly as you can. “But something has to change. Or this ends here.”

His fingers dig into your back.

Like he knows you mean it this time.

Like he’s terrified you really will walk.

And the worst part is—

So are you.

The house is quiet when you wake up.

Your daughter is curled up against you on the couch, one arm thrown over your belly like she’s guarding something. You kiss her forehead and gently shift her off your lap, your lower back aching from a night of sleeping half upright.

You can smell him before you hear him.

Cigarettes. Cheap beer. Sweat.

You stiffen.

Bob’s in the kitchen. He’s sitting at the table with his head in his hands like he’s the one who needs comforting. There’s a trail of dirt and god-knows-what from his boots to the back door, and the sink’s still full of glass shards from last night’s meltdown.

You don’t speak right away. You just stand there, watching him.

He doesn’t look up.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you ask softly. Not because you’re trying to be calm—but because if you raise your voice, you’ll scream.

“I live here,” he mumbles, still not looking at you.

“Do you?”

He finally lifts his head.

His eyes are bloodshot. His face is pale. You’re not sure how long it’s been since he slept, but it sure as hell wasn’t last night.

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely.

You almost laugh. It’s not funny, but it’s so familiar—the way he always defaults to sorry when he’s got nothing else left to say.

You move to the sink and start picking out the bigger shards of glass from the mess he made. Carefully. Wordlessly.

He watches.

“Let me help.”

“You’ve helped enough,” you say coldly.

That shuts him up.

When you finally turn to face him, you’re exhausted in every possible way. Your body hurts, your heart hurts, your soul hurts.

“I meant it,” he says after a beat. “What I said last night. I want to be better.”

You stare at him. “You were high, Bob. You said a lot of things.”

“I meant them.”

“Even the part where you asked if the baby was yours?”

His face falls.

You shake your head. “You don’t get to play the hero after that.”

He stands slowly. “I was out of my mind. I didn’t know what I was saying.”

“You haven’t known what you were saying for months.”

Silence.

You press your palms into the counter. Your voice comes quieter now, shakier. “She woke up this morning asking where her dragon drawing went. You scared the hell out of her last night. Again.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing. “I know. I fucked up.”

You laugh bitterly. “Fucked up doesn’t even begin to cover it, Bob.”

He looks at you like he wants to fall apart again. But you’re not giving him that out this time. Not another emotional collapse for you to clean up.

“Do you want to be a father?” you ask, blunt.

He stiffens. “Of course I do.”

“Then act like it. Because this version of you? He’s not a dad. He’s a fucking disaster.”

He flinches.

Good.

“Go get help,” you say. “Real help.”

He nods immediately. “I will. I want to.”

You narrow your eyes. “Do you? Or do you just want me to think you will so I won’t throw you out?”

“I mean it this time.”

“You said that the last time.”

His shoulders fall.

And for a moment, he looks small.

“You want a gold star for showing up at rock bottom?” you ask, shaking your head. “No. You want this family? You fight for it. Because I’m done dragging you to the finish line.”

He nods again, slower this time. “I’ll go. Tomorrow. I’ll find a place. I just need—”

“No,” you cut in. “Today. Before you change your mind. Before you convince yourself this wasn’t that bad. Pack a bag. Get out. And don’t come back until you’re clean.”

He swallows hard. “Will you wait for me?”

You don’t answer at first.

You look past him, toward the hallway. Where your daughter still sleeps. Where the nursery’s half-painted. Where the version of your life that you wanted is falling apart at the seams.

“I’ll do what’s best for the kids,” you say. “But waiting for you? No. I’ve done enough of that.”

You leave the kitchen before he can say anything else.

You don’t want more promises.

You want proof.

That night, he’s gone.

Just like that.

No grand goodbye. No dramatic tears. Just a packed duffel bag, an apology muttered in the doorway, and the weight of your daughter’s drawing tucked into his jacket.

You don’t cry.

You don’t feel relieved, either.

Just… empty.

Like this was always coming, and now that it’s here, you’re too numb to mourn it.

You lay in bed with your daughter curled beside you and a hand on your stomach, wondering what kind of father this baby will have.

And whether it’s better to hope for his return—

—or to pray he never comes back.

Two weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since Bob left.

The house is quieter, but not in the peaceful way. It’s the kind of quiet that gets under your skin, presses against your chest. Like the whole place is holding its breath, waiting for the next storm.

You’ve stopped expecting to find his boots by the door. You’ve stopped waiting for his voice in the hallway. But the ache hasn’t dulled—not really. It just settled in a different place. Lower. Heavier.

You’re tired. All the time.

And not just from the pregnancy.

There’s something about carrying a child and holding a whole family together at the same time that feels impossible.

But you do it.

You get up.

You feed your daughter.

You fold tiny onesies and pack a hospital bag, just in case.

And when she asks why Daddy’s not home, you smile and say, “He’s on a trip, baby. He’s working really hard to come back better.”

You don’t say what kind of work.

You don’t say that some nights, you cry into his old hoodie and hope to God this baby never knows the version of Bob you had to survive.

He texts once.

Day 9.

I’m in. It’s hard. I miss you both so much. I swear I’m doing it right this time.

You stare at the message for a full ten minutes.

Then you lock your phone and leave it unanswered.

One morning, you wake up and realize you haven’t said his name out loud in days.

That feels like progress.

But then you find your daughter in the hallway with her backpack on.

“Where are you going?” you ask, heart skipping.

“To go find Daddy.”

Your breath catches.

She looks up at you, so hopeful, so sure.

“I drew him a new dragon,” she says softly. “The old one was too scary.”

You kneel in front of her, stomach twisting.

“Sweetheart, you can’t go find Daddy. He’s still… away.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s learning how to be safe. How to be the kind of daddy you deserve.”

Her face crumples. “But what if he forgets about us?”

Your heart breaks clean in half.

You pull her into your arms and whisper, “He won’t. I won’t let him.”

That night, you write him a letter.

You don’t send it.

You don’t even plan to.

But you need to say the things you can’t say with your voice yet:

*I’m angry. You should know that. I don’t believe you yet. You’ve said you’d change before. You said it while high. You said it while bleeding. You said it while looking our daughter in the eye. You lied every time.

But I still want you to try.

Not for me. Not for us.

For her. For this baby.

Because if you come back the same man who left, I won’t let you through the door again.

I mean that.*

You fold it.

Tuck it into the bottom drawer of the dresser.

And you leave it there like a secret waiting to rot.

Week three.

The nausea is back.

You blame stress. Not just from Bob, but from everything. Doctor visits. Finances. Being the only parent at story time in the library. Carrying a child while carrying this much emotional weight—it’s no wonder your body is starting to fight back.

You sit in the bathtub that night, lights off, candles flickering, trying to breathe through the tension building in your ribs. The house feels lonelier than ever.

And that’s when the phone rings.

Not Bob.

The clinic.

“Just a routine check-in,” the nurse says gently. “He asked us to let you know he’s still clean. Still on track.”

You nearly drop the phone.

“He did?” you ask, voice brittle.

“Yes, ma’am. He’s working hard. Every day. He said he’d understand if you didn’t want to hear from him directly. But he wanted you to know he’s still trying.”

Your throat tightens.

You thank her.

You hang up.

And for the first time in weeks, you let yourself cry—not from anger, but from something closer to grief. Or maybe even hope.

But you still don’t text him back.

Not yet.

Day 26.

You go into early labor.

It’s a false alarm, but it scares the hell out of you.

You’re in the hospital for nine hours. Hooked up to monitors. Breathing through contractions that fade, then return, then fade again. Your daughter’s with your sister. You’re alone in a cold room with fluorescent lights and too many questions.

And you don’t call Bob.

Not because you don’t want to.

But because you don’t trust him yet—not even with this.

When the doctor finally tells you it’s Braxton Hicks, you exhale so hard it feels like your lungs collapse.

Back home, you sit in the nursery and rub your belly.

“I got us,” you whisper. “Even if he doesn’t.”

Day 30.

Bob writes a letter.

This time, he doesn’t send it.

But you’ll read it soon.

And when you do, it will hurt like hell.

Because he’ll finally admit the full truth.

The stuff he never said. The things you didn’t even know. The darkest parts he buried under the booze and the high. And for the first time… you’ll understand why he left before you could push him out.

But that’s still coming.

Right now?

You’re just trying to breathe.

Bob’s POV

There’s no mirror in the bathroom. You guess that’s intentional. Too many guys in here already hate what they see. No need to make it worse.

You splash cold water on your face. Your hands are shaking again — not like the first few days, but enough to remind you that the chemicals aren’t out of your bones yet. Not really. Not even after three weeks.

You’ve been clean for 26 days.

Feels like a lie to say it out loud. Like you’re just borrowing someone else’s life until yours gets good enough to take back.

You stare at the tiled wall and whisper, “Stay clean today.”

Not forever. Not even tomorrow.

Just today.

That’s all you’ve got.

Group therapy is at 9 a.m. sharp.

You hate it.

Everyone talks like they’re starring in some sad movie, and you can’t tell if it’s real or rehearsed.

But today, a guy named Jeremy talks about how he lost his daughter.

Not to death — to the system. Foster care. She was three.

He cries when he says her name.

And for the first time since you checked in, you want to cry, too.

Not for Jeremy.

For yourself.

For your daughter.

For the baby you haven’t even met yet.

Because you know what it’s like to wreck something beautiful with your own hands.

And you’re so fucking scared it’s too late to put any of it back together.

That night, you write a letter.

You don’t plan to send it.

But it’s the only way to say what needs saying.

I don’t know how to be the man you married.

I don’t know how to be a good father.

I only know how to survive things. And then destroy them.

I wish I could blame it on the drugs. Or the alcohol. Or my dad. But I think I was broken before any of that. I think I was born with a hole in me that never filled.

Until you.

Until her.

Until this new baby.

And the second I got scared I’d lose it, I torched it.

Because if I burn it myself, at least I’m not surprised when it’s gone.

That’s the kind of man I am.

The kind who’d rather blow up a house than admit he’s terrified of being inside it.

I remember the way you looked at me that night I came home high.

Like I was a stranger.

Like I was already dead.

And I think part of me was.

But I’m trying.

Every goddamn day, I’m trying.

I’ve been clean almost a month. I go to therapy. I talk about the way my hands shake when I think about holding our baby. I write down the names of the people I hurt. I say I’m sorry even when no one’s listening.

And I’m writing this not because I want forgiveness.

But because I need you to know — I remember.

I remember your voice reading bedtime stories.

I remember her little dragon drawing taped to the fridge.

I remember the sound of your laugh in the kitchen at 2 a.m.

I remember it all.

And it’s killing me to be away from it.

But I’ll stay away as long as it takes.

Until you don’t flinch when you hear my name.

Until our daughter stops waiting by the window.

Until I know I can walk through the door without making everything worse.

I don’t expect anything.

Not even another chance.

But I swear on my life, if I ever do come home…

It’ll be as a man you can trust.

Not a perfect man.

Just one who won’t leave you to carry all of this alone.

You fold the paper slowly.

You don’t sign it.

If she ever reads it, she’ll know it’s from you.

Day 30.

You hear someone in the hallway scream into a pillow. They’re shaking. Withdrawal still kicking the shit out of them.

You remember when you were that guy.

Sweating through the sheets.

Throwing up bile.

Hallucinating voices in the walls.

You almost left that first night.

But you stayed.

Because of her.

Because of the baby.

Because of the tiny hands that used to tug on your hoodie and say, “Daddy, watch me.” You don’t know if she ever will again. But that’s not why you’re staying clean now. You’re doing it because you should’ve done it a long time ago.

Later that day, a counselor named Rae pulls you aside.

She’s kind. Firm. A little too good at reading you. She sits across from you in a quiet room and says, “Tell me about your wife.”

You hesitate. “We’re not married anymore.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

You shrug. “I think I burned that bridge.”

“People survive fire.”

“Not if you leave them in it.”

She leans back. “Do you want to be with her?”

You nod before you can stop yourself.

“Then you better figure out why you blew everything up.”

That night, you lie awake and think about the sound of your daughter’s laugh.

The one that hiccups in the middle.

Like your laugh.

Like your mother’s.

You remember your mom crying in the bathroom when your dad came home angry.

You remember the beer bottles lined up like trophies on the counter.

You remember the screaming. The smashing.

And the silence that followed.

And now?

Now you’ve got your own version of that memory playing out in someone else’s house.

And you swear — swear — you’re going to break the pattern.

Or die trying.

Day 33.

You pick up your pen.

You start a new letter.

This time, you’re going to send it.

Not to win her back.

Just to let her know:

You’re not gone.

You’re fighting.

And this time — you’re not running.

Your POV

It comes in the mail on a Wednesday.

You almost miss it.

You’re balancing groceries on your hip, your daughter tugging at your hand, when you see the envelope. No return address. Just your name — in handwriting you haven’t seen in a long time. The letters are a little shaky. Like he had to hold the pen too tight to keep from falling apart.

You know it’s him.

Even before you open it.

You press it to your chest for a second. Just to feel something.

Then you hide it in the drawer under the kitchen sink.

Because if you read it too fast, you might break.

And you’ve got too much to do to shatter today.

You wait until your daughter is asleep.

Her little arms wrapped around her stuffed lion, dragon drawings covering the wall like wallpaper. You smooth her hair. Kiss her forehead. Whisper I love you like it’s a prayer and a promise.

Then you go downstairs.

Turn off the lights.

And open the letter.

I told myself I wouldn’t write.

That if I really respected your space, I’d stay quiet. Let you breathe. Let you heal.

But I miss you.

I miss her.

I miss the baby I haven’t even met yet.

And I know missing you isn’t enough.

I know I don’t deserve anything from you.

But I’m still here. Still clean. Thirty-three days.

I go to group. I cry like hell. I talk about things I never wanted to say out loud.

Like the night I came home and scared you both.

I remember it.

I remember your eyes when I opened that door — full of fear, and fire, and heartbreak. And how our daughter ran to me like I hadn’t been gone inside my own head for months.

I hated myself in that moment.

Not because I got caught. But because I finally saw what I’d done to the people who loved me.

I’m not asking you to forgive me.

I don’t want a clean slate.

I want to earn every second of your trust.

Even if it takes years.

Even if it means you never love me again.

Because what matters now is her. And the baby.

They deserve a father who doesn’t flinch when it gets hard. Who doesn’t reach for a bottle or a needle when the silence gets loud.

They deserve someone better than who I’ve been.

So I’m trying.

Not to win you back. But to become the kind of man who never needed to be forgiven in the first place.

If you let me in again someday — I’ll be ready.

But if you don’t? I’ll still be better.

Because you taught me how.

And I’ll never stop being grateful.

You cry.

Not in the movie way — not graceful or quiet.

You cry like it’s leaving you.

Like every moment of holding it together finally cracked open and spilled out in messy sobs.

You grip the letter so tight it crinkles in your fists.

Then you fold it.

Tuck it under your pillow.

And just… breathe.

The next morning, you call your sister.

You ask her if she can watch your daughter that afternoon.

You don’t tell her why.

You just need a few hours.

Alone.

To think.

To feel.

To figure out what the hell you’re supposed to do with the version of Bob who finally seems like he’s trying.

You sit on the porch with a cup of tea that goes cold.

Your hands drift to your stomach.

The baby kicks.

Not hard — just a nudge. Like a reminder.

You think about the way Bob used to talk to the bump before he got bad.

“Hi baby,” he’d whisper, “this is your daddy. I promise, I’m gonna get it right.”

And back then, you believed him.

Now?

Now you want to believe again.

But wanting isn’t enough.

You write your own letter.

Just a few lines.

No promises.

Just honesty.

I got your letter.

It hurt. But it also helped.

I don’t know what the future looks like. I don’t know if I can trust you yet.

But I’m glad you’re trying.

And I’m proud of you for staying.

Keep going.

Our daughter still draws you dragons.

And I still sleep on your side of the bed.

You seal it.

Mail it the next day.

And for the first time in over a month, you feel a little lighter.

Later that night, your daughter asks,

“Mommy, is Daddy still learning how to be safe?”

You pause.

Then you smile, soft and true.

“Yeah, baby. He is.”

“Can we send him a picture of my dragons?”

You nod.

“Yeah. I think he’d love that.”

The dragon drawing arrives in the mail with a letter taped to it in your daughter’s handwriting — big, looping, backward letters. You help her spell most of the words, but she insists on writing “I love you sooooooooooo much” all by herself.

You don’t think twice about sending it.

Not anymore.

Bob’s letters haven’t stopped.

One every week.

No begging. No pressure. Just steady check-ins. Tiny pieces of him — raw and cleaned up.

You keep them in a shoebox under your bed.

Sometimes you reread them when you can’t sleep. Especially the one where he says he watches the sunrise every morning and thinks about how it used to hit your kitchen floor.

You hadn’t even realized he noticed things like that.

One Sunday afternoon, your phone buzzes.

An unknown number.

Your heart jumps. You answer.

“Hey,” he says softly.

His voice is deeper. Slower. Like he’s scared you might hang up.

You don’t.

You just… breathe.

“Hi.”

“Um,” he clears his throat. “They let me have a phone. Only one call today. I wanted it to be you.”

There’s a pause. You hear birds behind him. Maybe he’s outside. Maybe he’s walking in circles with a knot in his stomach, same as you.

“She sent me dragons,” he says, his voice cracking. “I didn’t cry. But I wanted to.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your chest.

“She misses you.”

“I miss her. You. All of it.”

Another pause.

“You look okay?” he asks gently. “I mean—safe? Resting? Eating enough?”

“I’m okay.”

He nods. “Good.”

And then, softly, “I’ll let you go. I just needed to hear your voice.”

You cry after.

Not because he said anything romantic.

But because he didn’t.

Because he respected your space.

Because he just wanted to hear you.

And suddenly, it hits you — how starved you were for the version of him who actually sees you.

A week later, your daughter gets a FaceTime call.

It’s him.

She shrieks when she sees his face, running to the screen, clutching her dragon plushie like a lifeline.

“Daddy!”

His face lights up in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“Hi, baby girl,” he whispers. “Look at you. You’ve gotten so big.”

She spins in a circle, holding her shirt up to show him the baby bump on you.

“She kicks Mommy a lot! But not me. She likes me better.”

You laugh softly off-screen. “She’s not kicking anyone. Yet.”

Bob’s eyes flick up to you just for a second.

You see everything in them.

Guilt. Love. Ache.

Gratitude.

He doesn’t say anything else about you. He just lets your daughter talk.

Lets her show him her dragon drawings, her new pink sneakers, the little scar she got falling off the couch.

He listens.

He smiles.

And when she tells him she loves him, his voice breaks when he answers.

“I love you more, baby girl. Always.”

That night, you get another letter.

You didn’t have to let me call.

You didn’t have to hold the phone so she could show me her sneakers. Or wave at me before you hung up.

But you did.

And I swear to God, I won’t forget it.

I know I still haven’t earned your trust.

But I’m building something. Every day.

A version of me who isn’t dangerous. Who doesn’t disappear.

I know now that sobriety isn’t a cure.

It’s just the start.

But you gave me that start. And I’m not wasting it.

Thank you for letting her see me.

Even if I’m not home yet, you made me feel like I’m not completely gone.

You cry.

Again.

But this time it’s quiet.

A little softer.

Another week passes.

The FaceTime calls become regular — just on Sundays.

Not long. Never longer than 20 minutes. He talks mostly to your daughter. You sit in the corner of the frame, quietly observing, nodding when she asks you something. Sometimes he glances at you like he wants to say more — but never pushes it.

He’s waiting.

And you notice things.

He looks… clearer.

His eyes don’t dart around like they’re chasing invisible demons. His voice is steadier. And there’s this calm to him now, something you haven’t seen in years — maybe ever.

It terrifies you.

Because if he’s really changing…

You might have to open the door again.

One afternoon, you finally ask:

“Are you scared to come home?”

He blinks at you through the screen.

“Yes,” he says. And then, “But not for me. For you. And them. Because I don’t want to be a tornado that touches down just to wreck things.”

You stare at him.

That’s what you were waiting to hear.

Not promises.

Not grand speeches.

Just awareness.

You nod.

“I’ll let you know when it’s time.”

He nods back.

“Okay.”

And somehow, it feels like a peace treaty.

Not the end.

Not the beginning.

Just a truce.

You go to sleep that night with your hand on your belly.

The baby kicks again.

And this time?

You smile.

Because for the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel like something you’re surviving.

It feels like something you might actually live through.

You go into nesting mode.

Not the Pinterest kind — no cozy blankets or baby showers or color-coded drawers.

It’s more like scrubbing the kitchen floor at midnight because you can’t sleep.

Folding the baby’s onesies three times over.

Holding your breath every time the doorbell rings.

Your daughter is beside herself.

“Is Daddy coming home before the baby comes?”

You pause.

You don’t want to lie.

But you don’t want to promise something you can’t control.

So you say, “Maybe.”

And she hugs your belly, like she’s shielding both of you.

“He’s trying,” she whispers.

You nod.

Yeah. He is.

You start writing Bob more.

Short texts at first.

Pictures of your daughter. Updates from the OB. A photo of the baby’s empty crib with the caption: “Getting ready. Still not sure for what.”

He never pushes.

Never asks “when can I come back?”

He just replies with care.

“Tell the baby I’m already proud of her.”

“How’s your back? Need me to Venmo you for a massage?”

“The crib looks perfect. You did that. All of it.”

You don’t realize how much you missed having someone to check in — even in the smallest ways.

On a rainy Friday afternoon, your daughter draws a picture of all four of you.

Stick figures. You’re smiling. So is she. There’s a baby with sparkles on her head. And then there’s Bob. Holding flowers. She holds it up to your belly.

“This is for the baby. So she knows who we are.”

You almost cry.

Because that little drawing? It feels like hope.

Like she’s already forgiven him.

Like she never stopped loving him.

And maybe — maybe that means you don’t have to pretend to hate him anymore either.

Later that night, you call him.

Not a FaceTime.

Just voice.

He picks up on the second ring.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you echo. “Are you still… going to group? Still sober?”

“Seventy-one days,” he says, almost breathless.

You nod, even though he can’t see you.

“I’m proud of you,” you whisper.

Then you hear him crying.

Not loud.

Just quiet breaths, like he doesn’t want you to hear it.

“I don’t want to miss her birth,” he says.

You close your eyes.

You don’t want him to either.

But you also don’t know if you’re ready to let him back in that deep.

So you say the only thing that feels right:

“If you keep doing the work — really doing it — we can talk about that. Soon.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll keep going.”

That night you pull the shoebox of letters from under your bed and start reading them again.

All of them.

Start to finish.

You see the change in his words.

The difference between the early ones — full of regret and begging — and the recent ones — calm, quiet, full of real effort.

He’s not perfect.

You don’t expect him to be.

But he’s trying.

And maybe that’s worth something.

Two days later, you call him again.

This time, your voice is steadier.

“I’ve been thinking,” you say.

“About what?”

“If it happens fast… the birth, I mean. If I go into labor early, or something happens— I want you close. Not in the house. But maybe… maybe nearby.”

Silence.

Then: “Okay. Yeah. Yes. Anything. I’ll book a place today.”

You exhale.

“You can come over Sunday. Just for an hour. So she can see you in person. I’ll stay nearby. But it’s her time. Not ours.”

He swallows hard.

“Thank you.”

Sunday comes and the weather’s warm.

You dress your daughter in her favorite dragon shirt and braid her hair just the way she likes it.

She’s bouncing around the living room when there’s a knock on the door.

You freeze.

For a second, you’re back in that night — the slam of the door, the smell of alcohol, the panic.

But then you hear his voice through the door, calm and clear.

“It’s me. Just me.”

You open it.

And there he is.

Clean-shaven. Eyes tired but kind. Holding a small bouquet of flowers — daisies, your daughter’s favorite.

She screams and tackles him.

He kneels to catch her, burying his face in her hair.

“Hi, baby girl.”

She’s crying.

He’s crying.

You’re crying.

It’s not perfect.

It’s not fixed.

But it’s real.

And for now, that’s enough.

They sit on the floor playing with her dragon plushies while you sit quietly on the couch, sipping tea and watching.

He doesn’t try to talk to you.

He knows this moment isn’t about you two.

It’s about her.

And when she finally gets tired and curls up in his lap, eyes fluttering closed, he looks up at you — and mouths, Thank you.

You nod.

Just once.

Because even if you haven’t said it out loud yet…

Maybe, just maybe, you’re getting close to letting him come home.

You wake up at 3:27 a.m. with a sharp, wet pop and a gasp.

It takes a second to register.

Then the pain hits.

Hard.

Low.

Real.

You barely have time to grab your phone before another wave crashes over you. You double over, gripping the bedframe, trying to breathe through it.

Your daughter is asleep down the hall.

The hospital bag is packed.

Your heart is pounding.

You pick up your phone and do something you didn’t think you’d do — not like this, not this fast.

You call Bob.

He picks up on the second ring, voice thick with sleep.

“Y/N?”

“It’s happening,” you say, your voice tight and high and full of fear. “The baby’s coming. It’s early.”

He’s instantly awake.

“Where are you? Are you okay?”

“I need to get to the hospital, but I can’t wake her up and leave her here alone—”

“I’m on my way. Five minutes. Don’t do it alone. I’ve got you.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you.

You sit on the edge of the bed, holding your belly, rocking slightly.

And for the first time since the test turned positive, you aren’t scared to have him by your side.

Four minutes later, there’s a knock at the door.

Gentle. Steady.

You open it and he’s already reaching for your hospital bag, his free hand bracing your back when you double over again.

“Breathe, babe,” he murmurs, “I’ve got you.”

And you do.

You believe him.

Your daughter stirs on the couch just as you’re getting ready to leave.

Bob kneels beside her.

“Hey, baby girl. Daddy’s here. Mommy’s gonna go have the baby now, okay? I’m gonna stay with you.”

She blinks blearily. “You promise?”

He kisses her forehead.

“I promise.”

She nods, then looks at you. “Be brave, Mommy.”

You almost cry.

Labor is a blur.

But he’s there.

Every contraction. Every scream. Every breath.

He holds your hand, wipes your forehead, tells you you’re doing so, so good. There’s panic in his eyes — fear, even — but he never leaves. Not once.

And when the doctor says, “She’s here,”

you both fall silent.

And then the baby cries.

And so do you.

And so does he.

He cuts the cord with shaking hands.

They place her on your chest — this tiny, perfect, pink thing — and for a second, the world stops.

Everything else falls away.

Just you, her, and the man beside you who’s looking at the two of you like you’re everything he thought he’d never deserve again.

Later, when the nurses take the baby for her first bath, he helps you sit up in bed, adjusting your pillows and brushing your sweaty hair out of your face.

You stare at him.

“You stayed.”

He meets your eyes.

“I wasn’t going to miss this. Not again. Not ever.”

You swallow hard. “You didn’t have to—”

He shakes his head. “No. But I wanted to. I needed to.”

Silence.

Then softly:

“You can come home. If you still want to.”

His eyes widen.

“Are you sure?”

You nod.

“You’ve earned it.”

He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, careful, reverent, like he’s afraid to break the moment.

“I’m not perfect,” he whispers. “But I’ll keep showing up.”

You nod again. “That’s all I ask.”

Two days later, he carries you and the baby through the front door.

Your daughter runs to you, screaming with joy.

And just like that… your little family isn’t broken anymore.

It’s just starting over.

From scratch.

With love.

With choice.

That night, Bob makes dinner while your daughter plays with her dragons and you feed the baby on the couch.

He keeps glancing over at you — soft eyes, hands still moving — like he can’t believe he’s really here.

Like he’s terrified to blink in case it disappears.

When the baby falls asleep on your chest, he sits beside you, resting a hand on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth.

You don’t say anything.

You just lean into him.

And for the first time in forever?

It feels like home again.

It’s a quiet morning.

Your newborn is asleep on your chest. Your daughter’s building a fort out of couch cushions and glitter glue. And Bob? Bob’s in the kitchen, wearing a baby-pink apron with “#1 DILF” in cursive and burning pancakes because he keeps staring at you like he still can’t believe he got this life back.

And then the doorbell rings.

Bob freezes.

You glance at him.

He sighs, mutters, “I forgot,” and walks toward the door like a man headed to war.

Because he is.

The Thunderbolts have arrived

Yelena is the first one inside — sunglasses, combat boots, and a bag of overpriced vegan baby snacks.

“I don’t like babies,” she announces. “But yours is tolerable.”

Ghost (Ava) slips in silently behind her, already kneeling by your daughter’s dragon fort with curious eyes.

Bucky comes in last, holding a plush wolf toy and looking like he definitely didn’t ask to be here but secretly wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

Red Guardian is outside arguing with a neighbor about driveway etiquette.

Bob sighs again. “Be gentle,” he mumbles to you as he opens the door fully.

And the chaos begins.

The baby stays asleep for five whole minutes — a record — until Red Guardian accidentally knocks over a lamp while performing a dramatic monologue about Soviet diaper efficiency.

“She must grow strong! Like Russian baby! Built from frozen milk and shame!”

Yelena rolls her eyes and steals a waffle off your plate.

Bob tries to referee.

It’s a mess.

But it’s a good one.

Yelena sits beside you, sipping cold coffee like it’s vodka.

“So. You let him back in.”

You glance toward Bob, who’s letting your daughter paint his nails in glittery pink while he bottle-feeds the baby in his lap.

“Yeah,” you say. “I did.”

She studies you.

Then nods once.

“Good,” she says. “If he screws it up again, I’ll shoot him in the knee.”

You laugh.

Bob looks up like he heard that but knows better than to argue. Bucky eventually ends up on the floor, holding your daughter upside down like a sack of potatoes while she screams with delight.

He looks up at you.

“She’s fearless.”

“She gets it from her dad.”

He raises an eyebrow at Bob. “…Are we sure?”

You grin. “He got there.”

Bucky shrugs. “Good. Everyone deserves a second chance. Even walking hydrogen bombs.” Bob mouths thank you across the room. Bucky just nods.

Later, when the team finally starts winding down — Ghost curled up with the baby in her lap, Red Guardian asleep in your recliner, and Yelena pretending not to be emotionally attached to your daughter’s new nickname for her (“Auntie Knife”) — you and Bob steal a moment on the back porch.

The house glows warm behind you. Your family — all kinds of family — is inside. Bob leans into you, arms around your waist.”They still think I’m unstable,” he murmurs.

“You are unstable.”

He laughs quietly. “But you kept me.”

You press a kiss to his collarbone. “I didn’t keep you. You earned it. And you’re still earning it.”

He nods. “I’m okay with that.”

Before the team leaves, your daughter insists on taking a picture of all of you — Thunderbolts and all — squeezed into the living room like the world’s weirdest sitcom cast.

Red Guardian flexes. Yelena wears a fake scowl. Bucky holds the baby with terrifying tenderness.

Bob stands behind you, arms wrapped around your shoulders, a hand resting gently on your belly. (Because surprise — you might be pregnant again, and yeah, this time you’re happy about it.)

The flash goes off.

The photo is chaotic.

Blurry, loud, off-center.

But it’s perfect.

That night, once the kids are asleep and the house is quiet again, Bob climbs into bed beside you.

His hands are calloused but careful as he rubs your back.

“You ever think about what this looked like… before?”

You nod. “Yeah. But I like what it looks like now better.”

He brushes a kiss to your shoulder.

“You make it better.”

You turn to face him, resting your forehead against his.

“So do you, Bob Reynolds. Even with glitter in your beard.”

He chuckles. “I’m a reformed man. A glittery, diaper-changing, emotionally vulnerable ex-superweapon.”

You grin.

“God, I love you.”

He holds you tighter.

“I love you more.”

[ae-aeitch]

lewis in starling girl did something to my brain chemistry

After Hours | Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x fem!Reader

Summary: Clean shaven. That was how you knew Bob. But while you were away on a mission, he'd decided to change up his look. Who knew just a little facial hair was enough to shine a new light on the man and drive you absolutely insane?

Contents: SMUT, porn with some plot, fem!reader, No Y/N, thunderbolts!reader, Bob is taller than reader, reader has hair long enough to get in your face, matchmakers Ava and Yelena, shower sex, Oral (f receiving), Penetrative sex (p in v), slight overstimulation, unsafe sex (wrap it before you tap it!!), creampie. If I missed any warnings please let me know!

WC: 4.4K

18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Masterlist

A/N: As I've made very clear and made it everybody's problem, I'm currently going fucking insane over Lewis Pullman. Watched The Starling Girl, was not okay afterwards, wrote this. Bon Appétit.

Clean shaven, undetectable facial hair. That was how you knew Bob. You weren’t even sure he was able to grow any facial hair, until you’d spotted him in the bathroom one morning. Shaving was part of his morning routine. For a long time, he’d just preferred the look and feel.

Until last week. 

You’d been overseas for a mission, nothing unusual. You returned, debriefed and made your way back to the tower, just like you’d done many times before. Not everybody was at the tower, but then again, it was once in a blue moon everybody was there at the same time. It was just Ava, Yelena, Bob and you for today, it seemed. 

You took off your shoes, placing them on the rack next to the elevator. The sound of your heavy bag dropping to the floor caught the attention of the room’s occupants. Such dangerous people, yet they hadn’t heard the elevator? You met each of their eyes, giving them a tired but warm smile. Your smile faltered ever so slightly, eyebrows raising, at the sight of Bob. He looked different. 

He was wearing a black t-shirt. Short sleeves, you noted. Not something he wore often. He preferred to wear longer sleeves to cover some of the scarring on the inside of his elbows, understandably so. That was in the past. The shirt looked good on him. Very good. 

It was not the main attraction, though. He had stubble. More than a five o’clock shadow, but not a full beard. Probably a few days of growth, at most. But dear lord did it change his whole look. Bob noticed the extra attention you were paying him, insecurely rubbing his hand over the stubble and turning his attention back to the TV, away from you. 

“Hey guys…” you finally spoke. You tore your eyes off the back of Bob’s head, meeting Yelena’s amused gaze. “What’s going on?” 

“We were just watching a movie, you’re welcome to join, if you want,” Ava invited. 

“I’m just gonna go put my stuff in my room and change and then I’ll join you,” you agreed. Bob casually put his arm on the back of the couch, leaning back, and your eyes snapped to the exposed skin of his biceps. You knew he had some muscle on him, so why did you feel like a sinner seeing a woman’s ankles in the 1800’s? 

You grabbed your bag off the floor and hastily made your way to your room. God, what had gotten into you? Sure, Bob was very sweet. Why had your mouth gone dry at the sight of him, today of all days? 

You unpacked your bag, throwing the dirty clothes in the laundry hamper. You grabbed a change of comfy clothes and changed into them, finally being able to unwind after a week away. You already felt more relaxed just by being back in the tower. It had really become your home over these last few months on this new team. 

You walked into the kitchen to grab some snacks and a drink. Damn it. The one thing Walker and you had in common was your favourite brand of chips. Did he really have to put them on the tippy toppest of shelves? You were convinced he only put them there so you wouldn’t be able to reach them. Bastard. 

“Need a hand?” Startled, you whipped around. Bob was closer than his voice had sounded. He was already reaching over you for the chips. You were now faced with his chest and the new stubble on his chin. He put a hand on your waist to steady you. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he chuckled. He put the chips on the counter, grabbing a bag of M&M’s for himself. You took a deep breath to steady yourself as he moved away to the fridge. You followed his movements, frozen against the counter. 

“Thirsty?” He asked, holding up a bottle of soda. 

“Huh?” You blinked. You are a grown woman. Why are you getting distracted by him like this? 

“You want a drink?” He had grabbed a glass for himself, offering one to you, too. 

“Oh, yes, please. Thanks.” He poured two glasses to the brim. 

“How was the mission?” He asked. You grabbed the snacks and the both of you walked back into the living room, putting your stuff on the coffee table. 

“It was good. Quite uneventful, really. No wonder they sent me to go alone,” you shrugged. Surveillance for a full week without any real action. Boring. 

“Well, at least you didn’t get hurt,” Bob smiled. You returned it and sat down next to him on the couch, on the free spot between him and Yelena. If anybody were to hold you at gunpoint and ask what movie they’d been watching that night, they might as well shoot you. Your eyes were on the TV, but your mind and peripheral were preoccupied with the man to your right. 

You knew Yelena noticed. Ava too, probably. At this point, you didn’t care. You were enthralled. He looked so different. It had only been a week. Had someone dosed you with an aphrodisiac on the plane back or something? Because it sure felt like it. 

He absentmindedly ran a hand through his hair and pushed it out of his face, and just like that, you were done for. The nonchalant action was so hot, it wasn’t fair. You were starting to get angry with yourself, but also with him. Stupid Bob. Stupid beard. Stupid heart that won’t stop beating at a thousand BPM. 

“What did that bag of crisps ever do to you?” Ava asked, interrupting the silence. You looked down at your hands. You were grabbing the bag as if it had killed your family and owed you money. You had eaten one, maybe two hands of the stuff before your cravings had dwindled. Or shifted, more like. You were definitely craving something– someone else now. 

“Sorry,” you chuckled, releasing the bag and deciding to just put it on the table. “Probably still a bit tense from the mission.” 

“Hmmmm, right. I thought you said it was uneventful?” Yelena questioned. 

“Uhu,” your voice went up an octave, betraying your lie. Bob gave you a curious look. You refused to return it, scared what you might do if you made direct eye contact right now. 

Before you knew it, the credits rolled over the screen. Ava cleared the table and took everything to the kitchen, leaving you alone with Yelena and Bob. Yelena turned to you. 

“So, what do you think of Bob’s new look? Quite dashing, no?” She proposed. Smug little– You were so going to get her back for this one day. You slowly turned your eyes to Bob, who was patiently, though anxiously, awaiting your answer. 

“It uh– Looks good. Different,” you replied, scared to give yourself away. 

“Different? Is that a good thing? Or…” Bob’s face had fallen, though only a little. He was masking the insecurity, but you saw it either way. 

“No, no– I mean– Yes, it’s a good thing. Good different. Looks good,” you choked before he could feel any worse about it. 

“I’m not too sure about it, yet. Think I might shave it tonight.” 

“NO. I mean. Why don’t you give it a little longer? It’s only been what, a week? Just test it out for a while,” you laughed awkwardly. 

“Hmmm, I don’t know…” Bob pushed a hand through his hair again. It was getting long. You closed your eyes and turned back to Yelena. Anything to spare yourself this torture. Yelena was barely containing her laughter. If Bob had any clue as to what was happening, which was unlikely– the man was as dense as lead– he didn’t show it. 

“Well, I think it looks great. Makes him look a little more rugged. Don’t you agree?” You were going to kill Yelena Belova. It would be difficult. You would make it slow, torturous. 

“Yup! Definitely more rugged. Hey, where has Ava walked off to?” You changed the subject. Speaking of the devil, she walked back in with a cup of steaming tea. 

“I’m gonna go shower. I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but please don’t kill each other while I’m gone,” Bob joked. So he had noticed Yelena was pestering you. He got up off the couch and walked down the hallway towards the bedrooms. 

The second Bob turned the corner out of sight, you jumped Yelena, reaching for her throat. “I’m gonna fucking kill you,” you threatened. She wrangled your arms away from her throat and laughed loudly. 

“I think you have more important matters to concern yourself with,” Ava interjected. You stopped wrestling Yelena into the couch, though you kept your grip on her wrists tight. 

“Like what?” You asked Ava. Yelena took that opportunity to flip you around. You groaned as your back hit the couch.

“Well, first of all, I think we all know you’re underneath the wrong person right now,” Ava laughed. Yelena laughed too, having finally rendered you powerless. Damn Russian spies. 

“But I’m pretty sure a shower means a shave, too. There might still be time to stop him, if you hurry,” she shrugged, sipping her tea. 

“God, was I really that obvious?” You gave up. Yelena released your wrists, and you got up, brushing your hair out of your face. 

“I think if it had been any more obvious we’d have to call a plumber over to investigate a leak,” Yelena said, catching her breath. Your jaw dropped at her words. 

“What? It’s true. I mean we knew you were into Bob, but the heart eyes you gave him when you walked in? Astronomical.” 

“What do you mean ‘we knew you were into Bob’?” You put quotation marks around it. The thought had hardly even crossed your mind before tonight. Both women laughed as if you’d made the funniest joke imaginable. 

“What do you mean ‘What do you mean’? You’ve been drooling over him ever since–” Ava was going to spill, but Yelena held her hand up, stopped her. 

“You’re saying you weren’t into Bob before tonight?” 

“I mean, he’s cute. But… I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it, I guess.” 

“But we’ve been trying to–” Ava was once again cut off by Yelena. 

“The beard is all it took? That was all he had to do?” Her voice held a tone of disbelief. 

“The t-shirt helps, too…” you admitted sheepishly. It was only then that it registered what Ava had said. “FUCK, you’re right. He can’t go shave now!” Your eyes shot towards the hallway he’d disappeared into, before meeting Ava’s. 

“Well what are you waiting for? By all means, go stop him.” she gestured towards the hallway. 

“Go stop him?? I can’t just waltz into the bathroom and say ‘Hey, don’t shave because then I can’t imagine what your stubble will feel like between my thighs while you’re eating me out.’ I have no–” The amused shock on their faces spoke for them. You closed your eyes and turned around, where Bob stood with his jaw slack. 

“We’re out of towels…” was all he said. He quickly walked into the laundry room, grabbed towels and hurried back to the bathroom. You turned to Ava and Yelena, unsure of what to do. 

“Well he knows, now. What’s stopping you? Go climb him like a tree! Show him some of those wrestling moves you showed me just now, while you’re at it,” Yelena shoved you off the couch. 

“You guys are horrible and I hate you very much,” you grumbled, getting off the floor. 

“Yeah, yeah. You can thank us later,” Yelena got up and used all her weight to push you towards the hallway. You stumbled over your feet and dragged them to Bob’s door. You hesitated before knocking lightly. You held your breath as you heard him shuffling around before opening the door. 

Bob Reynolds stood before you with only a towel hanging dangerously low on his hips. In all the months you’d lived at the tower, you had yet to see him without a shirt. That in combination with the new facial hair? Murderous. Lethal. 

He was about to speak but was cut off as you decided to throw everything to all hell and just push into his room, place your hands on his face and pull him in for a kiss. He quickly recovered, putting an arm around you and using the other to quickly slam and lock the door behind you. The tenacity with which he kissed you was addicting. 

He finally pulled away to breathe. “If I’d known you liked it that much–” he started, interrupting himself with a soft moan as you kissed up his jawline. “I’d have grown it out months ago.” 

“Shut up,” you said breathlessly. You ran your fingers through his hair and pulled him against your lips once more. You gripped his locks tightly. His stubble felt rough against your face. He toyed with the hem of your shirt, unsure whether to take it off. You helped him take it off, making quick work of throwing it in a random corner. Your sweatpants followed, leaving you only in your bra and underwear. 

“I should–” Bob spoke between kisses. “–at least go turn the shower off.” It had been on all this time, steaming up the bathroom and in turn his bedroom. 

“We can shower together, if you want,” you suggested, fingering the edge of the towel still tightly wrapped around him. 

“Yeah– Yeah I pick that option,” he smiled, leading you into the bathroom and shutting the door. You took off your bra and shimmied your panties down your legs, kicking them into the corner. The towel around his waist was gone. You put a hand on his abdomen, softly passing over his abs down to his hard cock. 

“All for me?” You whispered. 

“Yeah, you painted quite the picture back there. Something something, me eating you out?” He cradled the back of your head and brought you in for a soft, sensual kiss. You lazily stroked him, getting a feel for his length. You didn’t know what you’d expected. He was big. 

He pushed you into the shower, soaking you with water. He brushed your hair away from your face, slicking it back so it wouldn’t get in the way as it got wet. His own hair fell in front of his eyes. He slicked it back once more before trailing kisses down to your chin. Your hands came up to his chest, steadying yourself. You leaned against the cold, wet tile of the shower when he kissed your neck hungrily. 

He mouthed at your body, quickly sinking to his knees. The water hit him so beautifully. He gently rubbed his chin against your thighs, teasing you. The stubble tickled, sending goosebumps up your spine. He moved on to the other thigh, holding both of them in his hands. He peppered kisses all the way up your legs, making sure to leave a trail of tingles behind wherever his beard had made contact with your skin. 

You were growing impatient, but he took his time. Your breathing was rapid, and he hadn’t even done anything yet. He tenderly pulled at your legs. “Open them for me, baby,” he sounded as breathless as you felt. You obliged, making room for him to nestle himself fully between your thighs. The higher he worked with his mouth, the more sensitive you became. He leaned his cheek against your thigh and gazed up. It was a hungry, depraved look. You ran your fingers through his hair again, silently begging him closer to where you needed him most. 

“Gorgeous,” he whispered, and placed a soft peck on your inner thigh. He was so close, yet he kept kissing around where you wanted him. He didn’t break eye contact when he finally placed the smallest of kisses on your pussy. You’d never seen him so confident as in that very moment, on his knees between your legs. He brought his face closer and started sucking your clit. Your knees felt weak at the sensation. The added coarseness of his beard was the perfect combination of soft and rough. 

Your head hit the wall harshly as you threw it back, a loud moan echoing from your lips. He made out with your cunt as if he was a man starving. Your grip on his hair tightened when he experimentally added a finger into the mix, circling your entrance. 

“Fuck, Bob,” you moaned, wishing he’d just put it inside. You bucked against his face, seeking more friction. His beard was going to leave a rash if you kept this up. Somehow, you didn’t care. 

A deep moan rumbled from his mouth against your clit. The sensation was so good, your other hand reached down to tug him closer against it. He chuckled, another sound that had no right feeling that good when being made against your skin. 

He pushed the finger inside, slowly working you open. Not that you needed it, at that point. You were soaked, and not just from the shower. The things this man did to you. Within no time he added a second finger, scissoring you open. 

Heat built in your core as you quickly got closer and closer to the edge. You no longer had any control of the soft noises escaping your lips or your fingers tightening in his hair. Your toes curled and you squeezed your eyes shut. He added another finger, then. 

You peeled your eyes open, enthralled by just him. He was humping the air absentmindedly at the same rhythm his fingers were working inside of you, desperate to be touched. He couldn’t touch himself though, one hand preoccupied holding you up, the other curling its fingers inside of you. He was dedicated to getting you to come in his mouth, and he was succeeding fast. 

He circled his tongue around your clit just right. A high pitched keen left you as he curled his fingers against your G-spot repeatedly. You could feel your legs starting to tremble. His grip on your thigh tightened, determined to keep you standing. You ground against his tongue, breathing erratically. 

“Shit, Bob. I’m gonna come,” you warned. He kept going, sucking and licking until you snapped. 

“Come for me,” he groaned. “Come on my mouth.” 

Your vision went blind for a second as you came, riding out your high on his fingers. 

“Fuck!” You moaned, uncaring of who’d overhear. 

Bob kept sucking, kept thrusting his fingers against that perfect spot. You hissed and tugged at his hair, trying to get him to get up. He didn’t relent. 

“Taste so good,” he groaned. “So wet.” 

He took his fingers out, leaving you feeling empty. You were glad for the break, but his lips worked overtime. A newfound passion arose inside him to get you to come again now that he had a hand wrapped around his cock. He stroked idly, more focussed on your pleasure than his own. 

“I– I can’t. Fuck,” you whined. Your body was on fire, the hot water pouring down on you not helping your case. How the man hadn’t drowned yet, whether from your pussy or the shower, was beyond you. 

“Yes you can,” he grumbled. “For me?” It sounded so innocent. His pupils were blown wide as he sought eye contact, pleading you to come again. It was building up quickly. You hadn’t even caught your breath from your previous orgasm. Just as you were about to tip over the edge again, he stopped abruptly, standing up. 

A frustrated sob escaped your lips, but it was cut off by a desperate kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue. 

“Want you to come on my cock,” he mumbled. You nodded quickly, taking him in your hand and stroking him. He put his hands around your waist and lifted you up like you were a feather. God, that super strength was a turn-on. He pushed you against the wall of the shower and lined himself up. He didn’t waste any time, pushing himself to the hilt. 

He moaned loudly in your ear as he bottomed out. It was the sexiest sound you’d ever heard. 

“F-fuck. So tight– God,” he couldn’t complete a sentence as he began rhythmically pounding inside. You held onto him for dear life. You were still so, so close. He kissed you hard, like this was his only chance. You leaned your head against the wall, lips sputtering as the water hit your face. 

“Bob,” you moaned. He sucked harshly at the bottom of your jaw. His hips snapped harshly, the sound of skin against skin vulgarly echoing through the bathroom. You tightened your legs around his waist, trying to get him to go deeper. 

“Waited so long for this,” he gushed. “Wanted you so bad.” 

“Yeah?” you replied breathlessly. He was mesmerized by the way your tits bounced with every thrust. 

“Mmhmm. Didn’t think you wanted me,” he admitted, peppering more desperate kisses on your neck. 

“I do. Shit,” you whined. “So much.” 

“Fuck, baby. Come on my cock. Come for me, please,” he pleaded, hips speeding up. 

Your nails scratched at his back, no doubt leaving red trails behind. You dug into his shoulders, gripping them tightly. The muscles underneath your fingers were sturdy. 

You came again with a loud wail of his name. You put your hands on his face, tugging him against your mouth and kissing him deeply. You couldn’t stop kissing him. Couldn’t stop feeling that delicious stubble against your chin. It scratched your palms as you caressed his face. 

His hips stuttered against yours. You could only hope the sound of the shower drowned out the sound of his balls slapping against your cunt with every harsh thrust. 

“Cum inside me,” you begged. “Please, need it.” 

“Fuck, are you sure?” Bob asked, ever the gentleman. 

“Please, Bob.” That sent him over the edge, shooting his spend inside of you. 

“Shit,” he whimpered. His palm made contact with the tiles beside your head, cracking on impact. Neither of you seemed to care at that moment. Your eyes sought his, and you found them glowing. He held you tight as he rode out his orgasm, lazily pumping inside of you as the water washed away your sweat. 

He held you against him, still holding you up against the wall. He let his head fall against your shoulder as he caught his breath. Both of you gasped lightly when he finally pulled out, cum dripping to the floor of the shower, immediately washing down the drain. 

He gently put you back down, careful to not let you slip. Your legs felt weak. You wrapped your arms around his neck to keep yourself up. You tugged him down, craning your neck so you could steal another kiss. 

You kissed softly for a while, before deciding you’d wasted enough water. He took his 2-in-1 shampoo and squirted some on his hands. He put some in your hair, softly massaging your scalp. You held your arms around his waist as he worked the shampoo through your hair. 

“We’re going out tomorrow and buying you some actual proper products. Who still uses 2-in-1 shampoo?” You scoffed. He laughed and agreed. 

“Okay, boss.” You smiled up at him as you let the water wash away the suds. You took some of the shampoo and returned the favour, washing his hair. He had a dumb smile on his lips the entire time, looking down at you lovingly. 

The same process repeated with his body wash. It wasn’t anything special, but you loved the scent. It smelled like him. He roamed your body with his hands, massaging your shoulders as he went. He spent some extra time fondling your chest. You still hadn’t fully recovered from the heated session just now, yet you could feel the fire starting again. 

“Hmmm,” you moaned. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.” You washed down his abdomen, and already found him hard again. 

“Superhuman stamina, remember?” Bob grinned. 

“Amazing,” you sighed. You gave him a few experimental tugs, and he hissed, gently slapping your hand away. 

“Doesn’t mean I’m not sensitive.” 

You finished up in the shower and realized there was only the one towel to dry the both of you. You made do and walked into Bob’s room. 

He lent you a pair of boxers and a t-shirt. “I didn’t know you owned several short sleeved t-shirts,” you joked. 

“I don’t wear them very often,” he laughed, putting on some sweatpants and a sweater. He looked like his cozy self again, if you didn’t count the stubble. The very very sexy stubble. 

“Well, I like you in them. You should wear them more often. Really highlights your biceps.” You flexed yours as a joke. He rolled up the sleeves of his sweater and mirrored your pose. 

“God, if you do that we’re never going to make our way out of your bedroom,” you groaned. 

“Good. Then I’ll never have to shave again.” Bob wrapped an arm around your waist and placed a kiss on the top of your head. 

“Please never shave again. It’s so hot. Like. So hot.” 

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” 

“Asshole,” you slapped his chest. 

You walked out to the living room together, ready to face the music. Ava and Yelena were still where you’d left them, on the couch. At the sight of you, both grinned. 

“About time, loverboy,” Ava commented. 

“Remind me to never buy a razor again,” Bob said as he plopped down on the couch. 

“I’m gonna personally shave your face in your sleep if this is gonna be a recurring thing. My poor, poor ears.” Yelena groaned. You threw a pillow at her face, which she caught, of course. 

“I’ll kill you for real if you do, Belova,” you threatened. 

“I’d love to see you try.” 

You were about to jump her again, but Bob pulled you against his side. You melted into his hold. You could get used to this. 

[ae-aeitch]

me giggling over men who adore their wives

love you, miss you, mean it (ii)

*part two of the original!*

**read part one here!**

pairing: bob floyd x f!kazansky reader

word count: 3.6k

summary: during his time back at topgun, bob finds a found family within the daggers. now that the special detachment mission is over, the daggers are being recognized for their success, and all of their families are gathered around them. when rooster recognizes an esteemed guest arrive with shiny new wedding bands, bets are on who the admiral's daughter is married to.

based on this ask! (thanks for the best ideas frank <3)

warnings: mentions of injury and hospitals, a small section of angst, dagger family love, phoenix being my fav ever, angst followed by more bubble gum fluff.

-

Years later, after a long engagement and an intimate backyard wedding, flight school and master's programs, TOPGUN (the first time,) and a handful of deployments and moves, Bob and Y/N Floyd now lived in a cottage-style home not far from the beaches of North Island. Well, they did for the past few months, since Bob got his call back to TOPGUN. Y/N didn't mind, she knew what she was signing up for when she married a Navy man, she only missed Bob now more than ever. She occupied her time by walking their dog, visiting her Dad who lived only a ten minute drive away, and rewatching her favorite TV show while she waited for Bob to come home at night. This mission had been different from the others, not that Bob nor her Dad could tell her much, the details had been fairly secretive. Y/N only knew that Bob left early in the morning, almost always before the sun, pushing his glasses up his nose and kissing her forehead. He'd return home after the sun had set, reeking of jet fuel and sweat. He'd be exhausted and dirty, but he'd make sure to take his sleeping wife from the couch to their shared bed before going to shower the day off of him. He'd be gone by the time she woke every morning, but there was always a post-it on her coffee mug in his scratchy handwriting:

Love you, miss you, mean it.

Y/N knew about his new teammates, the cocky Hangman, the kind and charming Rooster, the pranking, jokester duo of Payback and Fanboy, the smooth talking Coyote, and of course the infamous Maverick, who she knew better as Uncle Mav. Maverick had been in and out of her house throughout her whole life, which Bob was somewhat shocked and also unsurprised to know. She knew every time he was about to go into the air, accompanied by his new partner, Phoenix, who he talked about most of all. Y/N would hear her phone ding with a message, checking it quickly to see Bob's name flash across the screen.

In the air with Phoe, love you, miss you, mean it. x

The phrase that had started as an inside joke had slowly become a term of love that she looked forward to every day. It gave her something to look forward to, a sign that he was okay, that at least for a brief moment in time, he was okay.

After a week or so into his new training, Y/N began to notice some differences in her husband. He was still mostly himself-quiet but talkative in her presence, talking about his day with an upbeat attitude, but any mention of their present mission would send the corners of his smile downward a bit. Y/N didn't fully understand why, but with the amount of talented pilots and WSO's on this mission, she knew it was a dangerous one.

Several days later, Y/N woke up feeling...out of place. She had woken earlier than normal, considering how late she had stayed up waiting for Bob to get home. She felt uneasy, but blamed it on her lack of sleep. She continued her routine like normal-coffee, breakfast, walking the dog, starting the laundry-but every time she started a new task her mind began to wander. She knew she was likely overreacting, her mind playing tricks on her. When she came in from her walk, she immediately checked her phone, her thoughts taking over. She breathed a sigh of relief, there were no terrible messages or missed calls, only random notifications from her installed apps. Y/N still feels shaky for reasons she can't explain, so she reaches for the one person she always calls when she feels this way. It rings for a few seconds before the call picks up and her father's voice fills her ears.

"Hey, pumpkin! What's going on?"

Y/N sighs, biting her lip.

"Hey, Dad, sorry to bother you at work, I just, I've got a bad feeling I can't shake...I-I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Hey, hey, none of that. Nothing's wrong with you," her father's voice was calm and comforting. "Remember what we do when you have thoughts like this?"

Y/N was about to respond when her phone beeped with another incoming phone call from an unidentified number. Y/N's eyebrows furrowed, she recognized the local area code.

"Dad, let me call you back, I'm getting a call."

Her father signed off quickly, and Y/N's heart hammered as she answered the other number.

"Hello?"

"Hi, is this Y/N Floyd?"

"Um, yes, this is she. May I ask who's calling?"

"Mrs. Floyd, this is the Naval Medical Center of San Diego. You've been listed as the emergency contact of Lt. Robert Floyd-"

Y/N's ears seemed to flood with water, unable to hear anything the nurse on the other line was saying as she sank onto the nearby chair, forcing her brain to tune into the words coming through the speaker.

"He is in stable condition, he is alert with no serious injuries. We would just like to keep him overnight for further observation."

"O-Okay, um, thank you. Am I allowed to see him?"

"Of course, he's in room 431, just visit the desk before to get a visitor's pass."

"Thank you."

Y/N hung up the phone and collapsed against the back of the sofa, her chest heavy and eyes overwhelming with tears. Her phone beeps, reminding her that her father was still on hold. She takes a deep breath, wiping away her flurry of tears before pressing the button and rising form the couch, in search of her keys.

"Hey, everything alright?" Her dad's soft voice entered her ears.

"Uh, no, no," She couldn't keep her resolve, her tough facade faltering quickly. She knew that Bob was fine, that he hadn't been hurt, but the phone call had terrified her. "Bobby and his partner had to emergency eject, he's at the hospital. I-the nurse said he was fine, but it scared the shit out of me, Dad."

She pulled her keys from the bowl by the door, all but racing towards her car as her father tried to calm her, reassuring her everything was fine.

-

Bob leans back against the pillow on the hospital bed, his few scratches and cuts already bandaged. Phoenix had been the same, the dark haired pilot now sitting in a chair next to her backseater's bedside.

"My wife is gonna kill me," Bob's quiet voice finally broke the silence, his eyes toward the ceiling.

Phoenix wasn't an idiot-she knew that her partner had a wife. Bob was quiet, private, especially with the other members of the squad, but Phoenix was incredibly observant. She noted the gold band on the chain around his neck under his flight suit, and the Polaroid picture of him and a girl tucked into his chest he glanced at from time to time. She'd never press him to talk about it, but she noticed.

"Doubt it," came her reply. "She's probably freaking out though. Not a common occurrence that your loved ones have to eject a fighter jet."

Bob's eyebrows raised, "When your father is the Commander of the US Pacific Fleet, you get used to it."

Phoenix's eyes widened, her jaw dropping. "Holy shit, Floyd! You married an Admiral's daughter?! Iceman's daughter, no less! I never would have thought that. Innocent little Bob, with an Admiral's daughter."

Bob chuckles lightly, sitting up with a slight groan. Footsteps sounded behind them, Y/N appearing before both of them. She had been crying, Bob noted quickly, her clothes disheveled as if she had simply ran out of the house.

"Baby," Bob's voice came, Y/N saying nothing as she approached him, doing nothing but wrapping her arms around his torso, her head tucked into the crook of his neck. She nearly cried at his familiar touch, his familiar smell-jet fuel, sweat, the lingering scent of his cologne. Any other time, she would've pushed him off lightly, telling him he needed a shower, but now, she wouldn't have cared if he smelled like rotting food. Bob's muscular arms held her tight, kissing the top of her head.

"Robert Floyd, you scared the living shit out of me. Never do that again."

He knew his wife's words were in jest, she had been shaken by the news of his ejection, but was thankful he was okay. The couple broke apart, Y/N's hands pushing Bob's hair that had fallen in his face, his hands on either side of her hips. Y/N turned to the girl in the chair, her face clouding over with embarrassment.

"I am so sorry, I completely barged in without even speaking. You must be Phoenix. I've heard so much about you, it's so great to meet you. I'm Y/N."

Phoenix smiles, "Natasha, it’s great to meet you too. Although I can’t say the same, Bob here keeps all intel about you on pretty tight lock. Don’t blame him though, the others would probably give him hell for snagging an Admiral’s daughter.”

Y/N blushes but laughs heartedly at Phoenix’s jab, the two quickly falling into a conversation with one another. Bob sits back and watches, his thumb rubbing his wife’s diamond ring and wedding band where their hands intertwined. As he watched the two women bond, he began to think of the rest of his found family. He wanted to introduce Y/N to the other Daggers, for his favorite people to finally all know one another.

-

The perfect opportunity presented itself in the form of the Daggers’ recognition ceremony after their successful mission. All of the Daggers and their respective families would be present, and of course, Ice would be there as well, as long as numerous other Navy personnel.

Under the summer sun of North Island, each of the Daggers sported their dress whites, their families in chairs in the crowd. Bob sat next to Phoenix, the pair exchanging knowing glances when people they knew arrived, or when certain family members arrived in a sort of over-the-top fashion. Phoenix had nudged him harshly with her elbow when Y/N arrived, dazzling in her sundress, sunglasses over her eyes as her arm was interlaced with her father’s.

“Since when was Ice Spice married?” Rooster’s voice sounded amongst the small crowd the Daggers had formed. “I swear I saw rings on her left hand. I mean I haven’t actually seen her since we were like sixteen, but I didn’t know she got married.”

“Ice Spice? The hell are you talking about, Bradshaw?” Hangman’s southern accent responded, eyes squinting as he looked into the crowd. “You mean Admiral Kazansky’s daughter? ‘Ice Spice’ where’d that come from?”

“It was her nickname, we grew up around the same people, most of the kids nicknames were extensions of their Dad’s call signs. Baby Goose,” he gestured to himself. “Ice Spice.” He gestured to Y/N. “I didn’t even know she had a boyfriend though, God I’m out of the loop.”

Bob couldn’t help but grin to himself, almost glad he’d not told anyone other than Phoenix, whose brown eyes were piercing the side of his head, as if to say ‘are you gonna say something?!’

“She’s gotta be married to someone here, though, right?” Coyote’s voice sounded. “Not like she’s coming to all her Dad’s events for shits and giggles. My money’s on someone higher up, some other Admiral or something.”

Fanboy scoffs, “Who? Cyclone?” His voice is laced with sarcasm.

“No fucking way,” came Payback’s reply. “She’s way too good looking for someone like him. Way too young too, he’s ancient next to her.”

All Dagger eyes were locked on Y/N from across the pavilion, her smile wide as she spoke with another Admiral’s wife Bob couldn’t quite remember the name of.

“I’m gonna go with Javy’s theory. Nobody under Ice would be man enough to try to date his daughter. I’m a cocky son of a bitch, but one look from Iceman makes sweat roll down my back.” Hangman’s response was honest.

“He’s not so bad,” Bradley spoke. “But you’re not wrong, he’s one hell of an intimidating man. You’d have to have balls of steel to approach him about dating his daughter, especially if you’re under him.”

Bob smirked, remembering just how nervous he had been on Tom Kazansky’s front door at seventeen years old.

“What about you two? Where are you placing your bets?” Mickey looked over at Bob and Natasha.

Phoenix’s smile widens into a sly grin, the one she gets when she proves Rooster wrong, or gets one over on Hangman in the air.

“Girl like her-gorgeous, high-ranking father, everyone seems to love her. My guess is on someone you’d never expect, someone out of left field.”

Hangman nods, contemplating. “What about you Baby on Board?”

Bob’s eyes widen beneath his glasses as he scrambles for a thought. He looks over at his wingman, Phoenix giving him a look that undoubtably means to play along with it.

“Uh, I gotta go with Nat’s theory.”

“Course you do,” Coyote jokes. “So $100 on the bets, winning team take all?”

The Daggers agree unanimously, Phoenix’s grin almost slimy with satisfaction.

“Floyd,” a slap on Bob’s shoulder jolts him into sitting straight before turning to look at where the voice came from. “Good to see you, man. Haven’t seen you and the missus around much lately.”

“Admiral Jones, good to see you,” Bob shakes the older man’s hand with a firm grip. “They’ve been keeping me busy. I think we’re coming to the barbecue Sunday, you and Mrs. Jones enjoy Boston? How were the grandkids?”

The Daggers watch intently as the most reserved member of their group chats animatedly with an Admiral that they’d only seen in passing, Phoenix stifling a chuckle at the secret only she seems to know. The Admiral walks away after a moment, and Bob turns back to the group, who all look at him as if waiting for an explanation.

“Neighbor,” came Bob’s short reply.

“Missus?” Rooster’s voice speaks, his whiskey colored eyes shooting down to Bob’s hands, his wedding band glimmering in the sun. “I’ve never seen you with that.”

“Oh, no, probably not,” Bob starts. “Wear it on my dog tags when we’re in the air.”

“Bob’s married, and we’re all bachelors? Never saw that coming.” Hangman’s voice pipes up.

“It’s always the quiet ones,” Payback’s retort is the last chuckle as the ceremony begins.

Admiral Kazansky opens the ceremony, introducing Maverick and the other members respectively, honoring them and finishing out the ceremony as quickly as professional. As the service ends, the Daggers distribute but keep close quarters, looking to see who the Kazansky girl ends up running to. Meanwhile, Phoenix watches as Bob interacts with nearly every member of high-ranking in attendance. He goes from bumbling, awkward Bob, to some other version of himself that makes dad jokes and has a firm handshake.

“Well Phoe,” Rooster speaks as he sits down in the chair next to her. “The only person I’ve seen her hug is Mav, and I know it’s not him. Should I just ask her myself?”

Phoenix face breaks out into a full blown smile as she watches Y/N make a quick sprint through the crowd of Navy uniforms to get to her husband, her arms thrown around his neck as her smile could blind.

“Won’t be necessary, Roo. I think the mystery has been solved, and I’m about to be $300 richer.”

Rooster’s eyes cut to his childhood friend embracing his teammate, Bob’s hands resting respectively on her waist, his blue eyes locked on his wife.

“Holy shit. Bob? And Ice Spice? Jesus-you-“ he turns to face Natasha. “You knew!”

“They’re high school sweethearts. Got married right after he finished the Academy, been together ever since. Live in one of those cute cottage houses by Penny’s, got a Corgi named Solo. Frequent guests at most Navy personnel barbecues, birthdays, weddings-it was Bob’s story, didn’t seem right for me to tell.”

Rooster sighs, standing to tell Coyote who stood talking with his sister. Javy’s eyes widen, looking over at the couple who is now talking to another Admiral and his wife, Y/N’s laugh fading into the crowd of voices. Javy nudges Jake talking beside him, Jake’s cocky grin fading as Mickey and Rueben have both already noticed. Their looks of shock fade momentarily as Bob pulls Y/N towards their direction, a smile plastered onto his face. Y/N’s smile is bright, her arm intertwined with her husbands, her pastel purple dress blowing in the sea breeze.

“Floyd! Got somethin’ you’d like to tell us?” Hangman’s shit-eating grin faced Bob.

Bob let’s out a chuckle. “Y/N, meet the one and only Hangman.”

Y/N smiles, nodding, “Pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant Seresin.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Hangman gives Bob a wink as Bob flips him off in response.

“Ignore him, baby.” Bob’s voice is full of good-natured humor, used to the teasing. “The tall one is Coyote, next to him is Payback, Fanboy, of course you know Phoe, and R-“

“Bradley Bradshaw,” his wife’s voice speaks. “How long has it been?”

She approaches Rooster with her arms wide open, Bradley reciprocating her hug.

“Too long, Ice Spice. How’d a nice girl like you end up with our Bob here?”

Y/N’s eyes furrow, her smile never faltering. “Um, when Dad and I moved, Bobby and I went to the same high school, been together ever since, high school sweethearts.” Her eyes sparkled as they met Bob’s sapphire ones, her arm going back around his arm. “What can I say? He’s a charmer.”

The Daggers hovered for nearly an hour, all taking turns swapping stories with Bob and his wife, getting to know one another. They mostly told stories to embarrass Bob, jabbing at him and his ‘balls of steel’ for not only dating, but marrying an Admiral’s daughter. Commending him on his royal stupidity for hiding his wife from them, all commenting that she was infinitely cooler than Bob himself. Bob took them all in stride, giving Y/N a kiss to her head before Phoenix began chatting with his wife. Standing in the center of the big group of people he considered family, his wife on his arm, charming them all, his heart swelled in his chest, warmness blooming, the same warmth he had felt when he spent time in the Kazansky house-true familial love, understanding someone without having to say a word.

As the Daggers split off one by one, leaving only Bob and Y/N, he pulled her close, hand on her waist, the setting sun and light breeze a picturesque backdrop for their night.

“Hey, Floyd?” His wife’s sweet voice reached his ears.

“Yeah, Floyd?” He chuckled back, pulling her in closer, leaving a kiss on her temple.

“We should have a celebration of your successful mission. A real one, not a formal one like this. We could invite everyone, all the Daggers, and their families. We haven't had Nat around at the house yet, and Dad would love it, would give him and Uncle Mav more time to conjure up how to terrorize the Navy even further.”

Bob nods, “I like that idea. Sounds good, I’ll text the group, see what weekend works best." His voice turns serious. "Thank you, baby, you’ve always been my biggest supporter, feel like I don’t tell you that enough.”

His wife is quiet for a moment, her focus on her shoes walking on the ground. She looks up at him, her expression serious.

“I’m proud to call you my husband. Always have been, but just thought I should remind you. And as much as I’ve missed you through this special training, it’s nice to see you have other people who take care of you, appreciate you like I do.” She’s quiet before she starts again. “All that to say, love you, missed you, mean it.”

Bob laughs loudly into the air, stopping to pull his wife into a proper kiss, one a tad more inappropriate than the chaste ones he’d given her after the ceremony. The two finally break after a need for air arises, their pupils blown wide as they stare at one another.

“How long do you think we have until your Dad notices we’re not at his place for dinner?” Bob’s voice is deeper, sultry.

“Long enough,” his wife replies. Bob smiles and picks her up into his arms bridal style, her laughter boisterous as he races her back to his trusty pick-up truck parked close by, his chest so full of love for her he simply can’t contain his wide grin filling his face.

As he starts the truck and peels out of the parking lot, he looks over at his wife, her curled hair blowing in the wind from the rolled down window, her pastel purple dress highlighting her best features. He’s hit with a wave of nostalgia, a younger version of his wife in this same truck-her hair a bit longer, her eyes still wide with new love, a purple corsage on the same hand where a wedding band now sits.

“What?” She giggles, noticing his stare on her as they’re stopped at a red light.

“You’re beautiful.” She blushes pink, just like she had at the bottom of her childhood home’s staircase, the night Bobby had uttered those words through a shaking voice.

He thinks of seventeen-year-old Bobby, the version of himself who had said those words for the first time, more in love with Y/N now than he was then. If only seventeen-year-old Bobby could see him now, maybe he wouldn’t have been shaking with nerves, sweating through his rented tux. Bob smiles to himself as Y/N leans to turn the radio up, a folk song they both love.

He shakes his head, maybe it’s best his younger version didn’t know the outcome. The nerves were good, healthy. Even shaking, stammering teenage Bobby had more nerve than he thought. After all, he was there to pick up an Admiral’s daughter.

-

[ae-aeitch]

I’m actively actually losing my mind over Lewis Pullman someone HELP