authorchariot

[authorchariot]

> ENTRY: ROUTINE_PROCEDURE

RATING: explicit

CATEGORY: top gun: maverick (2022)

PAIRING: bob floyd x reader

EST. READING TIME: 15m 58s

INDEX TAGS: established relationship, handjobs, medical procedures, not beta read, oral sex, pov second person

ACCESS MATERIAL ON AO3 OR BELOW

The waiting room smells like disinfectant and stale coffee. Bob sits in one of the hard plastic chairs, clipboard balanced on one knee. He's already measured his pulse twice — elevated but not dangerously so — and checked the time on his watch four times in about as many minutes. Annual medicals always tie his stomach in knots.

Not because he expects anything to be wrong. He's in good shape. Better than most. Doesn't smoke, barely drinks, follows every checklist and regulation to the letter. He just...hates the idea of being studied. Scrutinised. Measured and prodded like a machine with parts that could fail at any moment.

He'd rather be doing literally anything else. Bob exhales slowly and looks down at the form.

SECTION 1: PERSONAL INFORMATION Name: Floyd, Robert D. Call Sign: Bob ID: 770909349 DOB: 06/26/1993 Branch: US Navy Rank: Lieutenant Unit: Dagger Squadron

He moves on, the scratching of his pen the only sound in the otherwise silent room. Across from him, another aviator in a rumpled khaki flight suit is flipping through a magazine, foot tapping out an irregular rhythm. The nurse behind the desk is focused on a computer screen, headset perched over one ear. Bob's jaw tenses as he moves to the next section.

SECTION 2: FAMILY MEDICAL HISTORY (Mark all that apply.) Heart Disease: Mother (Y) Hypertension: Father (Y) Diabetes: N Stroke: N Cancer: Paternal Grandfather (Y, colon) Mental Illness: Maternal Uncle (Y, bipolar disorder) Other: Asthma (Mother)

His eyes flick further down the page to the mental illness section, chewing the inside of his cheek. It's not something he talks about. But he doesn't lie on forms. Ever. Still, there's a little to go before he gets there.

SECTION 3: MEDICAL HISTORY – YOURSELF Chronic Illness: N Allergies: N Surgeries: Appendectomy (2011) Past Hospitalisations: N Fractures: Right wrist (2018, off-duty accident, healed) Medications: Ibuprofen occasionally, multivitamins Vision Correction: Yes (glasses) History of fainting, seizures or blackouts: N Other: Asthma

He pauses again. Debates adding the time he passed out at age fourteen from heat exhaustion during a Boy Scouts survival hike. It hadn't happened again. Still, he scribbles it in the margin, just in case. He knows how thorough flight surgeons can be.

Now, the mental health section; this is the part that always gets him because it's not a numbers thing. It's not something that can really be tested because everyone's normal is different, so it's never objective. He takes a slow breath and reads the questions carefully.

SECTION 4: MENTAL HEALTH Have you ever been diagnosed with anxiety, depression or other mental health conditions? N Have you experienced prolonged feelings of sadness, hopelessness or anger in the last year? Y – brief period post-deployment, resolved without treatment

He writes it small. Neatly. Honest. He doesn't think it was clinical; just a hard couple of weeks after the last deployment. Too much noise inside his head. Trouble sleeping. Missing home. Missing people.

Have you ever received counselling or therapy? N Do you currently feel emotionally supported in your personal life? Y

Bob feels his heart twist slightly at that one. He thinks about his squad, his team; Phoenix's constant dry humour, Rooster's ridiculous playlists, Mav checking in even when he doesn't have to.

And then he thinks about you. The way you always seem to know when he needs a quiet night or a slow morning. The way your hand fits into his like it was designed for it. The late-night texts. The long, lazy drives home. The slow kisses on the porch at night. You might not have made it public yet but he adores you through and through. And you adore him right back. Sometimes that's the only thing to keep him afloat but it's a damn fine reason to make sure he gets home safe.

Yes. He writes it in firmer pen strokes this time.

SECTION 5: SUBSTANCE USE Tobacco Use: N Alcohol Use: Occasional (1-2 drinks/month) Drug Use (Prescription): Ibuprofen, as needed Drug Use (Non-Prescription): N

"Almost done." Bob murmurs to himself, tapping the end of his pen against the clipboard. He hates these questions; not because he has anything to hide but because the very act of asking makes it feel like they're looking for cracks. Like if he just scribbles in the wrong box, they'll ground him. He adjusts his glasses and checks the last box:

SECTION 6: PHYSICAL STATS Height: 6'0" Weight: 198 lbs

Finally, he signs his full name at the bottom of the form.

Signature: Robert Dean Floyd

He closes the clipboard with a quiet snap and lets out a breath he didn't realise he was holding. The forms are done.

Now comes the exam. Blood pressure. Bloodwork. More questions. The whole routine.

He pops the collar of his uniform, suddenly feeling warm. He's getting a little sweaty. It's probably the needles; those Goddamn needles. He hates those Goddamn, motherf—

A chime sounds and his head darts up to check the screen on the wall. Lt. R Floyd to Exam Room 12.

He nods to himself as he stands up and smooths down his shirt. "Room 12. Got it." He mumbles to himself as he steps into the corridor, the clipboard tucked under his arm.

It's been pretty routine today; a load of annuals and the occasional check-in with existing cases. You don't mind it; it's been easy, if not a little boring. All of that goes out of your window when you open up your next case.

Name: Lt. Floyd, Robert D. Call Sign: Bob ID: 770909349

You pause for a moment before your lips quirk up into a small smile. He'd been worrying about his annual physical; he'd told you as such this morning. At least, now you can make sure he gets the easiest, most comfortable check-up of his life.

There's a tentative knock on the door and you stand, straightening your scrubs before opening the door. Your smile only widens as you set your sights on Bob, his eyes wide behind his thick glasses, lips parted slightly.

"Hello, stranger." You say softly as he steps into your office and closes the door behind him. You make sure to lock the door before he leans down to kiss you; just a sweet brush of his mouth against yours.

"Hey." He whispers against your lips before pulling back to look at you. He always liked the look of you in your scrubs; sweaty, tired, smelling of disinfectant and iodine. You reach out to take the clipboard form under his arm before you turn on your heel and sit back down at your desk.

"Fancy seeing you here." You tease and he chuckles, stepping over to sit in the chair beside your desk, bright afternoon light filtering in through the half-closed blinds. Flipping through the forms, you compare the information to the stats from last year. "Everything seems fine... Put on a little weight though." You shoot him a little grin.

"Hey!" He laughs softly. "I only gained like a few pounds over the whole year." He leans forward slightly in his chair. "Besides, you like having something to hold onto at night, don't you?"

"You know I do. Plus, it's probably my fault; all that barbecue chicken and pecan pie I did for your birthday." You draw your attention back to the forms as he nods fondly.

"You know I can't say no to your cooking." He relents and you set the forms to one side before turning your attention fully to him.

"Okay, let's get this show on the road." You pull over the blood pressure machine and he lifts the sleeve of his shirt for you. A breath catches slightly in your throat as you try not to focus too much on his bicep. For a guy so quiet and unassuming, his body is absolutely, sinfully perfect. But he thankfully brings you back down to earth.

"How's your day been so far?" He asks as you slide the cuff up his arm, unable to stop yourself from giving his bicep an appreciative squeeze before securing the cuff.

"It's been fine. The usual; people popping in and out. You?" You lightly hold his wrist.

"Ah. Same old, same old." He replies with a shrug. "Did some training exercises with the squad. Nothing too big." You press the button on the machine and the cuff starts to inflate. "By the way..." You draw your attention back up to his face. "I was thinking we could go out tonight. Just the two of us."

"Oh, yeah? Red Robin or Outback Steakhouse?" You ask and he grins, looking down at where your thumb brushes against the inside of his wrist.

"Outback." He says without hesitation. "I'm craving a steak and some cheese fries." The machine beeps and the cuff deflates. "And maybe some dessert afterwards." You check the machine, satisfied with the blood pressure, though his BPM is a little high. Not amazingly so but just enough for you to know your effect on him. It makes you smile; how his heart literally flutters when you're in the same room.

"Cheesecake?" You ask and he nods as you pull off the cuff, setting the machine back in its place on your desk.

Back to business. Checking the forms on your computer again, you go on with the exam. "How's your vision been?"

"Perfect." You can tell he's just a little distracted by how your scrubs hug your curves.

"Any migraines?" You ask. He can get them sometimes; mainly stress.

"Nope." You type that into the form.

"Good. And how's your hearing? Any tinnitus? Balance issues?" You ask and he shakes his head with a frown.

"All good." That goes in the form.

"That's what we like to hear. "How's your asthma been? Did you pick up your new inhaler?" And he nods, tugging a small, blue-capped inhaler from the pocket of his uniform pants.

"Yes, ma'am. Picked it up yesterday." He assures you, looking very pleased with himself. You let him have the little things. Honestly, you just like to watch that proud, little smile light up his face.

"No attacks recently?" He shakes his head again as he pockets his inhaler.

"Nope, haven't had one in months." You type that down.

"Any RSI? Chronic Pain?" You ask and he thinks for a moment before shifting in his seat.

"No chronic pain but...my shoulder's been bothering me." Your brows knit and you stand, moving to his side and placing your hands on his shoulder before pressing firmly. He groans slightly, head tilting as you press into a particularly tense spot. "Right there. Been really stiff lately." You work your thumbs into the muscle there.

"Might've pulled a muscle. But keep an eye on it, okay?" You tell him and he nods. Leaning down, you press a kiss to your temple before sitting back down at your desk. "Okay..." You pull over the steel trolley, syringes and tubes already prepared on a cardboard kidney dish. You hear him swallow hard as you pull on a pair of latex gloves, pick up the rubber tourniquet and secure it around his bicep.

"You know I hate needles..." He murmurs softly and you nod understandingly.

"I know, honey. I swear it'll only take a second." With two fingers, you tap the inside of his elbow. "Lucky for you, you have nice, big veins." You tell him and he lets out a breathy, nervous chuckle. He flexes his hand slightly as you swipe an alcohol wipe across the join of his elbow. Prepping the needle, you pull off the cap. "Look away now." Bob turns his head obediently, staring at the posters on the wall, the colourful pens in a mug on your desk, anything to distract himself. "Just a little pinch..." The needle slides easily into his arm but he still sucks in a breath between gritted teeth as he grabs the armrest. He fills one vial and then another as you unbuckle the tourniquet, letting the blood flow more freely. "And there we go." You press a cotton pad to the entry point and pull out the needle. "Can you hold that there for me?" He nods and obeys, letting out a shaky breath as you label the tubes and discard the needle.

When you turn back to look at him, he's a little pale and you stroke his hair. "Alright, honey. You're doing great. I know you were worried about this today." He leans into your touch, eyes fluttering closed behind his glasses.

"Yeah, I hate these things." His breathing slowly levels out as you cut off a length of medical tape and place it over the cotton pad to keep it there.

"I hope I'm making it easier." You tell him and he nods, managing a small, sweet smile. "Are you nice and hydrated?" Pulling away, you open a drawer of the steel trolley.

"No, probably not." He admits. "I'm not great at remembering to drink enough water." He sits up a little straighter as you place a sample cup on the corner of the desk.

"Well, I need you to fill this up for me." His eyes widen as they flick between your face and the cup on the desk. Swallowing hard again, his cheeks flush an adorable shade of pink.

"Do I need to...pee in that?" He asks and you nod.

"Mhm. Need some help?" He shakes his head quickly, pulling a laugh from you, especially as his face turns an even deeper shade of red.

"No, no! I think I can manage." He takes the cup from the desk and stands, heading for the privacy screen in the corner.

Once he's behind the screen, you hear him unscrew the cup and fumble with his belt and zipper. In the meantime, you open the web browser on your computer and start to reply to some emails. There's a constant barrage on them so you might as well catch up on them, especially if the typing sounds ease Bob's nerves a little bit. There's the familiar sound of fluid hitting plastic and you hear him let out a shaky sigh before pulling a tissue from a box on the counter. "I'm— I'm done." He says quietly.

"Okay. Just put the cap on and come back out." You tell him and he gets to it.

His hands are a little shaky as he walks back over to your desk, the cup feeling unusually heavy in his hand. He sets it down gently on your desk, avoiding eye contact initially. You squint before holding up the cup to the light, staring at the contents for a moment. "Mmm... You really are dehydrated." You place the sample on the trolley with the blood vials, getting up to grab him a cup of water from the filter in the corner of the office. "Here." He takes the water with a small, grateful smile and you kiss his hair before pulling off your gloves and checking the form on your computer. "And you're all up to date on your injections so now we're on to the really fun stuff." Once he's drained the cup, he tosses it into the trash bin by your desk, placing his hand over yours, looking curious.

"'Really fun stuff'?" He echoes and you nod, giving him a smile.

"How's your sex drive? Any concerns?" You ask him bluntly and he looks away for a moment.

"It's...good." He manages, shifting slightly in his seat. You turn back to your computer, typing into the form.

"I'd say it's more than good, personally." You murmur, just loud enough for him to hear.

"You think?" Your eyes flick to his face, your thumb rubbing over his knuckles.

"Mhm. I know from experience that you have nothing to worry about in that department." You assure him and his breath hitches slightly. Now he's blushing for a whole other reason; probably remembering how many times you've sung his praises in bed, at 2 am.

"Babe..." His voice is a little hoarse, his eyes dropping to your lips unconsciously.

"Unzip your pants; I need to check your balls." You tell him and he lets out a strained laugh, standing slowly. This is a part of the physical that he always gets a little worried about but, this time round, it's less worry and more excitement. He unbuckles his belt again as your eyes rake over his body; the way his shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, tapering down to his narrow hips.

He looks away, slowly pushing down his pants and underwear together. Unsurprisingly, he's already half-hard and thickening rapidly. You shoot him a knowing look but he makes a point to keep his eyes fixed on the poster promoting cervical scans on the wall opposite, willing his erection to go away.

All of that goes out the window as you reach up to gently cup his sac. He sucks in a sharp breath, hands balling into fists at his sides, as his cock gives an involuntary throb. But you're still trying to do your job, carefully squeezing his balls one by one, checking for any lumps or irregularities. Still, his erection is thickening further and further and he's trying his best to think thoughts that'll make it pass quicker. "You're doing great, honey." You tell him, tilting your head up to smile at him encouragingly. But that only makes it worse; the praise and seeing you smile so sweetly and those damn fingers running along the underside of his sac...

Finally, you pull away to type out the outcome of the exam; no irregularities. Slowly, you turn back to face him, your eyes flicking between his erection and his face. You lift a hand, stroking the underside of his cock with your knuckles. He shivers. "You know... I haven't taken my break yet today." He's completely hard now.

"Babe..." You move your hands to squeeze his thighs through his tight, uniform pants.

"And it seems cruel to just leave you like this." You bite your lip coyly and he lets out a low groan, his hips involuntarily pushing forward slightly, desperate for more contact. "have you got anywhere to be?"

"N-No..." He admits, quickly shaking his head. "Not for another...hour at least." He's practically begging you with his eyes, his glasses falling slightly down the bridge of his nose.

"Then maybe I should...check your sperm count." You tease, leaning down slightly to drag your tongue over the slit, where precum has already started beading. He tenses, long fingers tangling into your hair as he bites back a relieved yet needy groan.

There's absolutely nothing wrong with Bob's sex drive and it's easy to attest to that when he spends the next hour fucking you over your desk before grabbing you a sandwich from the cafeteria and pressing a shy, little kiss to your lips in thanks. You give him a clean bill of health and send him on his way. He'll be back in the air before you know it but then it'll be a nice steak dinner at Outback Steakhouse and then God knows how many hours in bed.

TAGLIST: @ingoldthewizard @judeval @mashton_bunny @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @starwarskawaii

[authorchariot]

> ENTRY: ITS_ALWAYS_THE_QUIET_ONES

RATING: explicit

CATEGORY: top gun: maverick (2022)

PAIRING: bob floyd x afab!reader (mc's call sign is 'pez'.)

EST. READING TIME: 37m 0s

INDEX TAGS: (not actually) unrequited love, cock-warming, friends to lovers, love confessions, masturbation, not beta read, oral sex, pov second person, size difference, size kink, vaginal sex

ACCESS MATERIAL ON AO3 OR BELOW

The Hard Deck is louder than it's been in weeks. Rooster and Hangman are fighting over the jukebox. Payback's halfway into a dramatic retelling of the mission to a captivated circle of admirers, punctuated with exaggerated hand gestures and Maverick's quiet chuckling. Fanboy's mixing questionable liquors together like he's auditioning for a bartending job no one asked for. It's celebration in full swing. The mission's done. Everyone's alive. Everyone made it home.

And Bob — quiet, dependable, sweet, baby-faced Bob Floyd — is drunk.

He doesn't look it at first. But you can see it in the tilt of his shoulders, the soft pink in his cheeks, the vague squint he gives the bottles behind the counter like he's trying to read through a fog.

You spot it from across the room. You've been watching him on and off all night. Not in a creepy way— At least, you hope not. Just in a way that's...careful. Curious. Quiet. Like you always are with Bob. Because if you let yourself feel it too hard — the pull, the fondness, the way he talks with his hands when he's excited — you might never stop.

You've had a drink; just the one. You're a designated driver tonight. That and watching Bob lose his balance trying to sit on a barstool has very effectively sobered you up. You finish your water, nod to Phoenix and move across the bar like the world isn't tilting just a little because he's looking at you now.

Why?

Because you've had a thing for Bob Floyd since the first day you saw him fiddling with the collar of his flight suit, too quiet for the room but, damn, if he didn't hold his own in the air. Because he always remembers how you like your coffee. Because he asked how your dog was doing after his surgery, even two weeks later. Because he makes you feel seen.

"Hey." You say gently, sliding into the space next to him. "You good?" He blinks at you. Then his face lights up; not like a flash but a slow dawn that warms everything it touches.

"Pez." He says, soft and too fond for how casual he tries to sound. "You're here." You smile.

"Been here the whole time, Bob." He looks at his drink like it's betrayed him.

"Oh. Yeah. Right."

You glance him over. His collar is a little crooked and his glasses are ever-so-slightly askew. His usually neat hair is slightly mussed and there's a half-moon mark on his palm where he's been gripping his glass too hard. He's not swaying. But he's definitely drifting. You rest a hand lightly on the edge of the bar.

"How many have you had?" He frowns.

"Three. No— Wait. Hangman said the one he gave me didn't count 'cause it was pink."

"That doesn't sound right." Bob leans closer and squints at you.

"You smell like mint."

"That'd be the gum I've been chewing instead of drinking." You reply, amused. "Come on. Let's get you out of here." He straightens. Sort of.

"I'm fine."

"You're adorable." You correct. "But also definitely tipsy and I'd rather you didn't fall asleep like last time."

"I didn't fall asleep, I—"

"You nodded off against the jukebox for twenty-three minutes." He considers this.

"It was playing Fleetwood Mac." You arch a brow.

"That's your excuse?" He almost looks offended.

"I like Fleetwood Mac." He mumbles. You can't help it; you laugh. And, across the bar, the other Dagger Squad pilots exhale in collective relief like finally. It goes unnoticed by you.

You help Bob off his stool, a drink forgotten in his hand, and he goes to steady himself on the edge of the bar but misjudges the distance. In trying to recover, the remnants of his last beer spill all over his uniform shirt, making it cling to him like a second skin.

"Woah!" You grab onto his shoulders. "You okay?" He stumbles slightly as he tries to catch himself, hands reflexively reaching out to hold onto your arms for support. His cheeks turn a bright shade of pink as he feels the cold beer seeping into his shirt, looking down at the mess with embarrassment.

"Sorry..." He murmurs and you haul him upright.

"Don't apologise." You glance across to see Phoenix chuckling and shaking her head. "I think I need to take you home though." He laughs nervously, pushes his hair out of his eyes and tries to straighten his glasses.

"Yeah... Yeah, that might be a good idea." He leans against you for support as you start helping him to the door. You yell over your shoulder that you're taking him home, wishing the rest of them a good night. Some of the Dagger Squad murmur something you don't quite hear as you reach the door, pushing it open and stepping out into the cool sea breeze.

He takes a deep breath, trying to clear his head, as you help him out to the parking lot. You open the passenger-side door for him and he near-collapses onto the car seat. "Thanks for doing this." He says softly, looking up at you with those sweet, grateful eyes. You watch him fumble with his hands as he tries to buckle himself in.

"Stop being so damn polite." You smile, shutting the door and rounding the hood to get in the driver's seat.

The drive to his is short but pleasant. Well, if it wasn't for the scent of beer slowly sinking into his shirt and your car seat. The windows are rolled down and you can feel the wind on your face. Neither of you talk but it's a nice silence, like the two of you are just content in each other's company. You like it that way. Like you don't have to fill the silence to be comfortable; you can just co-exist.

You like the relationship you have with Bob; it's easy and natural. You just feel...at home with him, like you don't have to pretend to be social or talkative. But there's always that warmth that buzzes just below the surface when he catches your eye or when he smiles. Or when he laughs. Or when he fiddles with his glasses. Or when he does literally anything.

Safe to say, you like him a whole lot; pretty much since you were brought on board for the Dagger Squad.

But you don't want to say anything because what if it makes things weird between you? What if he's not into it and everything just gets awkward? What if you accidentally gush about how gorgeous he looks in his uniform and he thinks you're an absolute creep for admiring the way his shirt stretches across his broad shoulders and the way his pants hug his ass perfectly? He probably already knows and just pretends not to for exactly the same reasons. He probably knows and has also made up his mind that you're not really the one for him. He would've said something by now if he was into you but he hasn't so he probably isn't. It's not something you like thinking about.

Finally, you pull up to his house and park outside. You get out, open his door and stand there, just in case he needs the support again.

"I'm fine. I'm good." He starts to protest before immediately losing his balance and grabbing onto your arm. "Actually..." Rolling your eyes, you hang onto him and close the door.

"C'mon, let's get you inside, mister." He leans against you as you walk up to his house. He's so warm and he smells good, despite the spilt beer. He's wearing that aftershave his mom got him for Christmas again. It's citrusy and sweet but still masculine and fresh. He smells amazing.

When you haul him up the short flight of stairs and reach the front door, he digs his hand into his pocket and struggles to get his keys out for a moment. He must try to insert the key into the lock a good three times, each time stabbing the door just shy of the lock.

"Can't seem to..." He mumbles and you gently place your hand over his, guiding the key into the lock with a satisfying click, turning it and opening the door.

"There we go." You smile warmly and he stares at you for a moment, swallowing hard, before grabbing onto the door frame and stepping inside.

Once inside, you turn the light on and close the door behind you. He kicks off his shoes and pats down his chest. His uniform shirt is still clinging to him, now sticky from the spilt beer. His nose crinkles as you unlace your shoes and place them on the rack.

"Gotta shower..." He slurs softly. By the time you stand up to look at him, he's already halfway done unbuttoning his shirt. Your eyes flick down over the angles of his collarbone and, before you can look further, you avert your eyes.

"Okay, which way's the bathroom?" You ask a little too quickly.

"Upstairs, first door on the left." He points vaguely towards the stairs before continuing to unbutton his shirt, shrugging it off and pulling off his undershirt. He's always so conservative with his clothes; never wearing anything too revealing. Hell, even at the beach, he wears a shirt when the rest of the squad is more than happy to run around half-naked. You look back from the stairs to find him shirtless and it's almost impossible to look away.

God, he's gorgeous, almost to the point where it's at odds with his sweet, boyish smile. Strong shoulders, perfect biceps, broad chest, narrow hips; he could be carved out of granite and you wouldn't even be able to tell the difference— You shake the thought from your head before it can take root.

He tosses his shirt on the floor and yawns. "You don't have to wait for me or anything." He says and you bring yourself back to the present, your eyes flicking back up to his face. You just pray, in his inebriated state, that he didn't just catch you eyeballing his bare chest.

"No, I don't need to go to the bathroom, Bob. I'm taking you up because I don't trust you on the stairs." You tell him and he protests weakly but you help him up anyway.

When you reach the bathroom, he leans against the sink for support and you have to look away as you notice the veins in his arms and hands become more pronounced from the pressure. Maybe that one drink you had was a little stronger than you thought. God, what would those fingers feel like in your mouth? Or in your— "You gonna be okay in the shower?" You ask him and he runs a hand through his hair.

"Mhm. I'm not that drunk." He assures you. "You can go watch TV or something." He reaches down to unbuckle his belt and you pin your gaze to the floor.

"I-I'll stand outside the door just in case, alright?" You manage and he gives you that wonderful, lopsided smile that makes the tips of your fingers tingle.

"Alright." He reaches down for his belt and you almost slam the door shut, stepping back to lean against the opposite wall. You let out a slow exhale. You're heart's going a mile a minute.

Distraction. You need a distraction; something — anything — to get your mind off what it would feel like to have your lips on his or your tongue on his neck or your hands on his chest... Heat pools in the pit of your stomach; a desperate, deep-seated ache. You pull out your phone and start flicking through your socials, trying to find something else to focus on but it's no use.

You hear the shower hiss to life and you can't help but think about what he'd look like if you poked your head in for just a moment; shiny from the water, dripping with soap suds and wreathed in steam. Goddamn... But you couldn't breach his privacy, betray his trust, like that, especially while he's drunk and vulnerable. Even thinking about it feels like a betrayal but you can't get the thought out of your head and the aching between your legs only grows stronger.

Maybe you should've let someone else bring him home.

Eventually, the shower turns off and the bathroom door opens, letting out a cloud of steam as Bob steps out, a towel wrapped around his waist as he uses another to dry his hair. His skin gleams in the low light of the hallway, flushed pink from the hot water, damp hair falling in front of his face. He's being unknowingly, impossibly cruel.

"Better?" You manage, somewhat breathless.

"Yeah. So much better." Thankfully, he doesn't seem capable of noticing your — very obvious — attraction to him right now. He positions his glasses back on the bridge of his nose as you push off the wall and onto your feet, your own knees slightly weak.

"C'mon, let's get you to bed, yeah?"

"You don't have to baby me, Pez. I'm sobering up now." He responds softly but lets you guide him anyway, his hand dwarfing your own. He's still a little unsteady on his feet as you reach his bedroom.

You stand by the door, leaning against the doorframe, looking over his bedroom. There are certificates lining the walls and pictures of him and his parents at birthdays and holidays. It makes your chest feel tight. He walks over to the dresser and pulls open a drawer, rifling through to pick out a pair of loose sweatpants. As he pulls out a pair, the towel comes undone from around his waist and pools on the floor. Your eyes go wide and you jerk your head away but not before getting a perfect view of his round, peachy ass. This is cruel and unusual punishment but you're too weak to complain.

Once he's pulled on the sweatpants and slid into bed, his hair still damp against the pillow, he takes off his glasses, folds them up and places them on the nightstand before looking at you as you linger in the doorway, looking awkward and out-of-place. "C'mon." He mumbles sleepily. "It's late and you're tired too." He weakly pulls back the covers on the other side of the bed; a silent invitation. One you want to jump at. But you can't.

He's drunk and not thinking straight and you don't trust yourself. Not that you'd touch him; never that. But you're devastatingly wet and you already know you need to take care of that and you can't do it next to him. To take your mind off that thought, you grab a glass and fill it with water from the bathroom sink before placing it on the nightstand.

"I'll sleep downstairs. Just yell if you need anything, okay?" You tell him and he nods, a flicker of disappointment flashing across his face.

"Okay... Thanks for taking care of me." A smile curves at your lips as you brush a couple of damp locks out of his face. It brings you some modicum of relief, just that little bit of tender skin-to-skin contact.

"No problem." You sigh longingly, almost ruefully. "Night, Bob." You turn on your heel to leave the room and he catches your wrist with a hand, making you stop in your tracks.

"Hey, could you stay?" He asks, voice small. You turn back to look at him over your shoulder. "Just until I fall asleep?" Your heart melts in your chest as you turn back toward him.

"Sure." You sit on the edge of the bed, holding his hand and brushing your thumb over his knuckles. He looks up at you, eyes lidded with exhaustion. His fingers tighten around yours slightly and you feel your pulse racing.

Finally, his fingers loosen on yours as his eyes drop shut. You let out a soft sigh, releasing his hand and rising from the bed. You watch him for a moment, considering, before leaning down to brush a kiss to his forehead. "Sleep tight, Bobby."

You turn off all the lights and head back downstairs. You set up a little bed for yourself on the couch and slip out of your uniform, laying back against the couch cushions in your t-shirt and underwear.

After a moment, you find your hand drifting down between your thighs, pressing your fingertips against the gusset of your panties. It's absolutely sodden. You sigh in defeat, sling one leg over the back of the sofa and push the gusset of your panties to one side, sliding your fingers inside yourself with a sigh, pressing your thumb to the hood of your clit and working in slow circles. With your free hand, you grab a pillow and press it over your mouth to muffle the soft moans that fall from your lips despite knowing that Bob is probably dead to the world right now.

You finish yourself off quickly; imagining it's his fingers buried inside you, his tongue drawing slow, languid circles around your clit. The only sound is the buzzing of the fridge in the kitchen and the soft whines you try to drown out behind the pillow pressed against your face.

As soon as you're done, you pull your underwear back on properly and collapse onto your side, huddling into the blankets, cheeks flaming with heat. You're a mess for him but he can't know that, even if the rest of the Dagger Squad does.

Finally, the sun rises and you pack up the blankets and pillows you'd used before pulling on your pants from the day before. You yawn and stretch before heading into the kitchen to turn on the coffee pot. Your stomach rumbles. After all, you haven't eaten since before the party last night.

Looking up, you check the clock above the fridge. About 10 am. Not too bad.

While rummaging around for the creamer, you stumble across a carton of eggs and a packet of bacon about to go out of date. Pulling them out, you grab a skillet from a nearby rack and set out to make some breakfast.

Upstairs, Bob rubs the sleep from his eyes and replaces his glasses, the glass of water from the night before thoroughly drained throughout the night. He pulls back the covers, swings his legs over the side and pulls on a t-shirt before heading to the bathroom. When he comes back out, he pads down the stairs, drawn toward the scent of bacon and eggs wafting from the kitchen.

You hum to yourself as you flip the bacon over, the eggs growing crispy around the edges but the centre staying soft and jammy. You notice Bob leaning against the doorframe out of the corner of your eye, staying quiet as he watches you work. It's domestic, comforting and you find yourself wishing you could do this for him every morning. Finally, you turn to face him and he smiles warmly. Thankfully, he doesn't seem hungover.

"Morning." He says softly, voice a little lower and scratchier from sleep.

"Morning. How'd you sleep?"

"Like a brick." He responds with a small smile, pushing away from the doorframe and walking further into the small kitchen. His voice drops to a more serious tone "Thanks for taking care of me last night. And for making breakfast." He pauses by the counter, looking at you appreciatively. "You didn't have to do all this."

"I know." You reply simply. He pauses before he quickly looks away, grabbing some plates and cutlery from the cupboards and drawers.

"Need any help?" He asks gruffly, setting the plates next to the stove.

"No, I'm nearly finished here." You turn off the heat and plate up the bacon and eggs before setting the empty skillet on the cool side of the stove. "Order up."

You carry the plates over to the small table in the corner of the kitchen. Bob digs in eagerly, making appreciative noises between bites. The food is simple but perfect; exactly what he needs after shifting a good amount of alcohol the night prior. You set a couple of mugs down on the table and pour the coffee before sitting down to tuck into your own breakfast, humming in satisfaction.

You eat in relative silence, stealing glances at each other over the rims of your coffee cups and between forkfuls of bacon and eggs. The morning light filtering through the window casts a warm glow over his features. He looks peaceful — content, even — sitting across from you, like this is something you do on the regular. You wish it was regular. You want these quiet mornings with him; sharing coffee in comforting silence, surrounded by the scent of fried eggs, the silence only broken by the soft chirping of birds outside.

"Thanks." He says again. "For everything."

"Really, it's fine." You laugh softly, clearing your plate and setting it to one side with your cutlery. He does the same, leaning back in his chair and taking a long sip of coffee.

"Y'know, you're really good at this." He murmurs, the words half-muffled by his coffee cup. "Taking care of people, I mean."

"I try my best. Especially when I know it's someone who deserves it." You reply easily as if it's just common knowledge. Perhaps you said too much but it's early and the atmosphere is cloying; peaceful and almost romantic as it is. He stares at you for a moment before taking another sip of his coffee and sliding his plate under yours, putting his cutlery on top. "Bobby, you're a really good guy." You say, staring down into your coffee.

"You think so?" He asks and you nod. There's a pause before he clears his throat. "Would you— Can I— Can I tell you something?" You nod again, lifting your gaze to meet his as he mutters something under his breath. "Okay..." He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. "I think you're amazing. And not just because of how you were on the mission or taking care of me last night or making breakfast..." He sets his coffee cup down, hands tapping restlessly on the side of the table. "I just think you're amazing. Just...as a person." You just stare at him for a moment before heat creeps along your cheeks and you smile widely.

"I think you're amazing too." He relaxes slightly, scrubbing a hand along his face, as you get up to take the dishes to the sink. When you cross the kitchen again, he's worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

"So... Hypothetically..." He starts, not daring to look up at you as he picks at a loose thread on his t-shirt. "If a guy hypothetically really liked you — like really, really liked you — what would he need to do?" You turn around to lean against the table, looking pensive.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "If he wanted to be with you, like, properly. Not just friends or whatever... What would he need to do to make you notice him? To make you...want him?" He asks, voice wavering slightly. There's a flutter in your chest as you stiffen slightly. Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Don't fumble this—

"Well, he'd have to be smart and kind and compassionate and have a good sense of humour." You press your lips into a thin line as you think. "He'd have to be...a little awkward and be kind of bad at dancing but great at literally everything else." You pause and he moves forward slightly.

"And...what else?" He asks and you turn your head to look at him. He looks so open and vulnerable but not in the way he was last night. This is open and honest and completely aware. Suddenly, it dawns on you; he wants this just as much as you do.

"He'd have to be a WSO, he'd have to wear the dorkiest glasses I've ever seen in my life and...he'd have to be called Bob Floyd." His breath catches. "And if he wanted me to notice him, to want him, he'd just have to be himself and I'd be all his." He just stares at you owlishly as if he's finally come to the same realisation that you did just a few seconds before. You reach out to brush a couple of stray hairs out of his face. When he doesn't pull away you turn to face him fully before leaning down to press your lips to his in a gentle kiss.

The second you kiss him, he's done. Finished. Over. His heart is completely yours and he never wants it back. Your lips are soft and warm, just like your smile, and he parts his lips slightly, inviting you to deepen the kiss. You take it; slowly inching your tongue into his mouth and tasting the bitterness of the coffee, moaning softly. God. You can't make that sound. His brain short-circuits. That one small, needy sound from you against his mouth has blood rushing south and he stands up, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you closer.

He lifts you onto the dining table and you loop your arms around his neck, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "Bobby..."

"Shh..." He whispers against your mouth, warm hands roaming your body, touching you like he's dreamed of doing a million times. He pulls back just long enough to take off his glasses and set them aside. Then he's kissing you again, deeper this time. It takes you by surprise. You never thought he could be this...passionate. You always figured, if you ever got this far, you'd be coaxing it out of him, bit by bit, encouraging him with little kisses and your fingers in his hair.

Instead, his hands are firm on your waist, tugging up your shirt just a little to feel the warmth and softness of your skin, as he kisses you like it's all he's ever wanted to do. It steals the breath from your lungs and it has confessions falling from your lips between deep, hungry kisses.

"You don't know...what last night...did to me..." You murmur breathlessly against his mouth and he groans, hands sliding under your shirt.

"Tell me." He's pushing your shirt up further and further, exposing more and more of your body to the golden sunlight gliding in through the open blinds.

"When you took off your shirt and...when you cam out of the shower and... And I saw so much of you... And I wanted all of it..." You manage. He's panting hard and you swear you can hear his heart hammering against his ribs.

"You wanted me?" He asks and you nod, running your hand down the centre of his chest, feeling the quick rise and fall of his breath.

"Mhmm... Once you fell asleep I had to... Had to come downstairs and...take care of myself..." You admit, heat rushing up your neck to spread across your cheeks. He stops for a moment before tugging your shirt off completely and sliding a hand into your hair, kissing you fiercely. You mirror the movement, clinging to him, as you kiss him back with a familiar hunger that roots itself between your legs.

He's losing his mind, control slipping. He steps between your legs, pressing closer, and you can feel him through his sweatpants. He feels perfect; pressing against your thigh desperately. "Bobby..." You move to whisper in his ear. "I need my mouth on you."

"Jesus." It comes out as a soft hiss. "You want to..."

"Please."

You— You don't have to..." He breathes but he's already reaching for the tie of his sweatpants. He wants you to. He wants you to want to.

You push him back gently so you can push off the table, guiding him back into his chair.

"I know I don't have to." You kneel on the worn linoleum between his feet, rubbing your hands along his thighs. He's straining desperately against the front of his sweatpants. "I want to." You tug at the tie of his sweatpants before curling your fingers into the waistband and tugging them down. He lifts his hips and you pull them down and off but, when you sit back to look at him—

Holy Mother of God.

"Wh-What...?" You just stare at him owlishly because, God, if that isn't the biggest cock you've ever seen in your life. Thick, throbbing, leaking... And you thought his body was slightly at odds with the personality of sweet, shy, wallflower Bob Floyd but this? This takes the cake.

"You never told me you had a..." You trail off, reaching up, struggling to wrap your fingers around the girth of the thing. It twitches, precum beading at the slit at even the slightest touch and rolling down the shaft.

"A what?" He asks hoarsely. He looks self-conscious but he has no reason to be. Your mouth waters as you feel him pulsing against your palm.

"Just...big..." Words fail you. His cheeks heat up and he swallows hard.

"You like it?" He asks tentatively and you nod slowly before rising higher on your knees.

"God, yes." No more words. You need to taste him.

You run the flat of your tongue from root to tip and a sharp intake of breath stutters in his throat.

"Ohh, my God..." His hands instinctively grab onto your hair but he doesn't pull, just resting there, as you lick along the underside of his shaft. When you reach the top, you swirl your tongue languidly around the head before taking it into your mouth. "Sh-Shit..." His head falls back against the chair with a soft thud.

He can't believe this is happening. He's jerked off a hundred times to the thought of you doing this but the reality is so much better; you, knelt between his legs, in his kitchen, sucking him off like you were born to do it.

You take more of him into your mouth, tentatively testing how much you can take. He groans lowly at the sensation of your tongue sliding along the underside, watching you with lidded eyes as his thick cock disappears between your lips. You press your head down until you feel the tip touch the back of your throat and you gag slightly before pulling away. You're panting, lips wet with saliva, and just watching you sends a shiver down his spine, toes curling against the lino. "Do that again... Please..." It's almost a beg and you can't deny him or yourself.

You lean back in, sliding down until it hits the back of your throat. Now you know how far you can take him, you cover the rest of his shaft with your hand, easing the slide with more spit as you work him over. His fingers tighten slightly in your hair, only to keep him tethered to the moment. He can feel every inch being worshipped by your greedy mouth and talented hands and his hips start to thrust upward involuntarily. "God, just like that..."

You fall into a steady rhythm, peering up at him through your lashes, and you feel another spurt of pre hit your tongue as he meets your gaze, completely mesmerised. It's almost embarrassingly clear how much you love having him in your mouth; his cock hot and thick and pulsing on your tongue. The wet sounds of your mouth and the sight of his cock sliding between your lips are driving him wild and he can feel that familiar feeling deep in his core. He gives your hair a gentle tug. "Hey..." You pull away, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

"Mhm?"

"I'm...getting real close." He warns you, his voice strained with effort. "If you don't want me to...finish in your mouth, you should probably stop now." Still, his hips are flexing, desperately trying to fuck your hand. You take a moment to decide before flicking your tongue over the head and his hands fly to curl around the seat of his chair, nails digging into the wood. "God...! I mean it... I'm...really close..." He gives you one last warning.

"Do it." You tell him, dragging your tongue along the cleft at the underside of the head, still stroking along his shaft, your fingers slick and shining with a mix of precum and saliva.

That's all it takes.

With a deep groan that rumbles from deep in his diaphragm, he cums hard, his hips jerking uncontrollably as his eyes roll. You lean back to watch with satisfaction as thick shots of white spurt from his cock, making your hand slicker as you stroke him through his climax. "That's it, Bobby." You encourage him softly as he unloads onto your hands and his stomach. He's panting heavily, his body shaking, as the last few shots of cum ooze down his shaft. Your gentle praise and the feeling of your spit-slick hand only intensify the pleasure.

When he opens his eyes, he sees your face pressed against his inner thigh as you gently squeeze the base of his cock, gazing up at him adoringly. He runs a shaky hand through your hair, still trying to blink away the white spots dancing in front of his eyes. "That was... Holy shit... I..." You smile and press a kiss to his hipbone, nuzzling his thigh, as he tries to find words in the jumbled mess of his orgasm-addled brain. "You... Bedroom... Yes, bedroom." He manages breathily and you nod, getting up from the floor and letting him tug on his sweatpants again before you eagerly pull him upstairs.

On the way up to his bedroom, you pull off your jeans and underwear before collapsing onto his bed with an excited giggle. Bob quickly joins you; pulling off his shirt and stained sweatpants, his body hovering over yours. You bite your lip, running your hands appreciatively over his body as you sit up slightly to kiss him, finding warm, firm muscle under your palms. He deepens the kiss, parting your lips with his tongue and exploring your mouth hungrily. But, before he can get too lost in the moment, he pulls back, heavy breaths making his chest heave.

"Wait—"

"Mhm...?" He looks sheepish.

"I don't do this often so I— I-I don't really have condoms?" Your heart melts. "Do you still want me to..."

"I still want you to." You glance down to find him already hard again, running a fingertip down his abdomen and watching his cock throb eagerly. "I trust you to pull out." You tell him and he nods quickly.

"I'll pull out." He tells you, kissing you again before leaning back on his toes. "I promise, I'll pull out."

Large hands find your thighs, lifting them until your toes touch the headboard, essentially folding you in half and leaving you completely exposed to him. "God, you're so perfect..." He whispers under his breath, holding you in place as he lines himself up, his cock sliding deliciously against your aching, swollen pussy. "Look at me. Look at me." He urges and you lay your head back against the pillows as he slowly pushes in. He feels absolutely massive but it's not painful; just this pleasant, warm ache that seeps through your body as you stretch around him. You grab onto his biceps for support as his fingers wrap around your ankles, holding your legs up. You're so tight around him, it's almost unbearable. He can feel every swell and curve of your inner walls squeezing around him. Your brows knit as he sinks in deeper, your fingers squeezing his arms.

"B-Bobby!"

"God, it's so good..." His eyes drift shut as he tosses his head back, starting to move slowly, deliberately rocking his hips against yours. The position is just perfect; hitting all the right spots all at once with every deep, purposeful stroke.

Strong fingers dig into your ankles as he slowly starts to pick up the pace. "You like this?" He asks, sweat beading on his brow as he looks down at you. You open your mouth to speak but all that comes out is a breathless whine. "Fuck, you're so tight..." He huffs through his nose as he targets that sweet spot inside you over and over, drawing these adorable, breathy whimpers from you. Your back arches, hands moving to claw at his broad shoulders.

"Please... Feel good... Feels so fucking good..." You pant out and he nods, his hips snapping forward. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room as he pounds into you, rutting against you desperately.

"I... I didn't know you'd be into..." He murmurs.

"Wh-What...?" "I didn't know you'd...like my... My dick so much..." He leans down, spreading your legs a little wider, as he kisses along your neck. His skin is warm and damp with sweat as he presses against you., his breath hot on your skin. You grin lopsidedly as tears of pleasure prick the corners of your eyes.

"I-I like them big..." You manage and that draws a low, near-animalistic sound from him as he drives into you with renewed vigour. The headboard bangs against the wall with each thrust.

"You like them big..." He repeats and you nod, whining as he hammers your sweet spot with pinpoint accuracy.

"Mmhmmm... I didn't...think you'd be so...big... O-Ohhh... It's so fucking good, Bobby..." You manage and he wraps your legs around his waist, coiling his arms under the small of your back, hugging you against him. His thrusts turn shallow but stay deep, your bodies pushed together from shoulder to hip. You hook your arms over his shoulders, nails raking red lines up his back.

Who would've thought that Bob Floyd — sweet, kind, nerdy, adorable Bobby Floyd — would fuck like an animal? You never expected it but, Christ, does it feel right.

You nuzzle his hair, breathing in the scent of him; yesterday's aftershave lingering on his skin, sweat breaking out all across his body. "Love having you like this..." You murmur in his ear and he nods.

"Mhmm... I love it too..." His thrusts grow slower but no less deep; each movement designed to draw out the pleasure, make it last. He stretches you out and fills you up perfectly, holding you through all of it, eagerly soaking up every moan, plea and whimper you give him. He's rubbing up against the deepest part of you now, the crown of his cock sliding perfectly against the swell of your cervix.

"B-Bobby... You can't...cum inside... You'll...knock me up..." You remind him and his arms tighten around you but he doesn't stop.

"I know... I'll pull out, promise..." But, even as he says it, he feels the heat mounting and he desperately wants to finish inside you. His hips keep rolling against yours in a deep, steady rhythm. You drag your nails across his shoulder blades, your body clenching down around him, throbbing around him rhythmically because, deep down, you'd love if he could cum inside you, leave his mark. But you can't take that risk.

He gives you a few more slow deep thrusts before pulling back to look at you. His hair is plastered to his forehead, face flushed. "Gonna pull out now, okay?" He pants out and you nod as he pulls out just in time, sandwiching his cock into the crook of your thigh and grinding against it until he cums, decorating your body with slick, white ribbons that ooze across your skin. You run your fingers through his hair as his orgasm hits, his arms clenching around you, hanging onto you for dear life.

Finally, his body goes slack. He's panting heavily, tilting his head up to claim your lips again in a soft, slow, lazy kiss. He rolls over onto his back, pulling you with him so you're lying on top of him. He's still semi-hard against your thigh but he's given you all he can for now so you sit up and sink back down onto him before curling up on top of him, enjoying the feeling of having his huge, softening cock nestled inside you. He lets out a low groan, gathering you up in his arms, fingers drawing idle patterns along the small of your back. "Gonna keep it in?" He asks softly and you look up at him.

"Is that okay?"

"More than okay." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "Makes me feel close to you... Comfortable?" You nod and rub your nose against his.

"Mhm. You?"

"Perfect."

A soft silence settles over the room, almost jarring after the slamming and slapping and moaning from just a few moments ago. But you aren't complaining.

You card your fingers through his sweat-damp hair, pushing it away from his face.

"You wanna talk about what just happened?" You laugh softly before sobering. "And where we go from here?"

"Mhm." He hums thoughtfully. "You mean like the 'was this a one-time thing' talk? Or the 'do you regret it' talk?" His thumbs rub the small of your back soothingly.

"Both." He takes a breath and you feel his chest rise beneath you.

"It wasn't just a one-time thing for me." He says softly, his eyes searching yours. "I don't do this kind of thing lightly, y'know? I wanted you and I still want you. But, if you're not on the same page, that okay too. We can still just be...friends, if you want." God, he's too sweet for his own good sometimes.

"And you don't regret it?"

"God, no." He answers, arms tightening around you possessively. "Best sex of my life. No regrets here." He lifts a hand to play with your hair nervously. "Can I be honest?" You nod and he sighs heavily. "I think about you a lot. More than I should. Like you're in my head, under my skin. And I... I want to do this again. With you. Only you." He swallows hard, finally meeting your eyes again. "So where does that leave us?"

"Like friends with benefits or...?" You trail off and he makes a noncommittal sound.

"I mean, we could do that." He says slowly. "But, if I'm being completely honest, I don't want it to be just that? Friends with benefits implies casual and what we just did? It didn't feel casual to me." You cup his face and run your thumb along his cheekbone. "I like you. A lot." He turns his head to press a kiss to your palm. "But if that scares you off, I understand." Without a word, you lean forward, licking your way into his mouth, kissing him slow and lazy. When you break apart, you're both breathless.

"Honey, I've been wanting to ask you out for months. I just didn't know where to start." You admit and his eyes widen.

"Really?" A huge grin spreads across his face. "Why didn't you?" He laughs softly, pressing another quick kiss to your lips. You find yourself laughing with him.

"According to the rest of the squad, I've been dropping hints left, right and centre and not even subtle ones at that!"

"In my defence, I thought you were just being friendly." He replies and you laugh softly against his lips. "So... Can we date? Please say yes."

"I'd like that a lot."

"Thank God." His arms squeeze tight around you. "Should I take you out properly sometime? Coffee, dinner, all that stuff?" He traces your bottom lip with his thumb.

"It'd be nice, yeah." You reply and he gives you that sweet, beaming, boyish grin.

"Then it's a date. How about tomorrow night? We can grab some dinner and maybe catch a movie if you're up for it?" You nod and ruffle his hair lightly.

"That sounds perfect. But first..." You roll your hips against his, a gentle reminder that he's been inside you for the better half of ten minutes. "Can we do that again?" He wets his lips and rolls you back over onto your back, leaning down to press kisses to your neck.

"Mhm. As many times as you want."

Bob's call sign may be just 'Bob' but, in your head, it's 'Tripod'. Sweet, shy Bobby 'Tripod' Floyd.

TAGLIST: @ingoldthewizard @judeval @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @starwarskawaii

[authorchariot]

> ENTRY: FIAT_LUX_FIAT_SANGUIS

RATING: mature

CATEGORY: the line (2023)

PAIRING: todd stevens x ftm!reader

EST. READING TIME: 36m 29s

INDEX TAGS: assault, blood and violence, cigarettes, fraternities and sororities, general toxic masculinity, hate crimes, hazing, heavy drinking, homophobia, hurt/comfort, mentions of vomiting, not beta read, pov second person, public humiliation, references to drugs, slurs, trans character, trans male character, transphobia

ACCESS MATERIAL ON AO3 OR BELOW

You aren't supposed to be here. Not really. At least that's how it feels sometimes.

Sumpter University always felt like something meant for them; for the kids whose last names hang from buildings and show up in glossy alumni brochures. The kids with summer homes and old money and internships they didn't even apply for. The ones who drive sleek cars and never check their bank balance, who treat tuition like a toll on the way to their daddy's law firm. You're not one of them.

You're just you; smart, stubborn and damn lucky. The scholarship helped. Your good grades helped. Your application essay about resilience and working three jobs in high school probably helped too. But mostly, it was your parents. Who cried when your acceptance letter came and insisted they could take out the loan to cover what aid didn't and hugged you too tightly when you boarded the Greyhound with secondhand luggage and three crisp button-downs.

They call once a week; your mom always pretending not to cry, your dad asking if the dorm's too cold, if the other guys treat you right. They ask about classes, about professors and you lie sometimes; say it's all going great, say you're fitting in just fine. The truth is; you're holding your head above water. And barely that.

Your life at Sumpter is measured in small, quiet rituals.

You wake up early; before your roommate, who still thinks 9 am lectures are a cosmic punishment. You brew black coffee in the shared dorm kitchen and then throw on your shirt in the bathroom. You head to class, sit near the front and take notes like your life depends on it.

When you're not in lectures, you work. The coffee shop down the street hired you during orientation week. It's clean, locally owned and far enough from campus that most frat guys don't wander in unless they're desperate or hungover. You like it. You can vanish behind the counter, sling drinks and listen to playlists over the steam of milk. It doesn't make much but it covers your books and the random expenses no scholarship accounts for; laundry, cough medicine, notebooks you burn through like firewood. The job doesn't pay much but it pays for things not included by the grant; phone bills, T shots, stationary.

You also study. A lot. The library is where you go when the dorm is too loud. You tuck yourself into a second-floor window seat with your laptop and flashcards and let the quiet soak in. You like being invisible. It feels safe.

You don't see the point in applying to a fraternity. You're not a legacy. You don't drink. You've never been good with crowds. They've started posting signs; bold fliers about rush week and mixers and off-campus retreats that sound more like retreats from responsibility. You pass them on the quad and don't look twice. That world isn't for people like you.

You don't know that someone's watching.

He sees you at work first.

You don't notice him; why would you? He's just another tall, confident pretty boy with a jawline carved like a statue's, dark hair swept back and a suit that probably cost more than both your parents' salaries put together.

But he notices you.

You're behind the bar, working the espresso machine, steam rising in clouds around your face. You're not smiling but you're focused; calm and efficient, brow furrowed slightly, headphones dangling from your collar. You hand a drink off to a girl in a tennis skirt and duck your head to avoid her thanks, already back to rinsing pitchers before she even turns away.

There's something about that. About your stillness. About the quiet intensity you carry, like someone who's trying not to take up space but can't help radiating something honest. It intrigues him. He watches the way you finish your shift and sit in the corner afterwards with a textbook and a half-empty mug, biting your lip while you underline notes with colour-coded pens.

He watches you the next week too. And the next.

Eventually, he asks around. Not openly, of course. Quietly. Strategically. A name passed to a friend. A nudge to the registrar's office through a connection. A glance at your class schedule. Nothing that would look like interest. Nothing that would look like attention.

He learns that you're a freshman. No affiliations. No family money. Smart; very. Works part-time. Top scores in your courses already. The kind of guy people overlook because he's not loud, not shiny. But the kind of guy who tells the truth, who tries his best, who lasts.

He wonders if you've even heard of his fraternity. He wonders what you'd look like out of that uniform of hoodies and jeans; dressed in something finer, darker, more dangerous. Lit by firelight instead of fluorescents. Staring up at him across a marble floor, music vibrating through your chest.

Maybe it's time someone showed you what Sumpter really is.

You're in the library again, sifting through heavy textbooks, armed with your arsenal of brightly-coloured stationery from Walmart. It's the little things that keep you happy; pastel highlighters, erasers in amusing shapes and lazy, lo-fi tunes on your headphones. You don't ask for much. You never have done.

There's not much to really study just yet but you're getting organised; making sure everything is labelled, colour-coded and filed away in its rightful place. You're in your own, little world; quiet, content, yourself.

There's the muffled sounds of shoes on the thick carpet. People don't tend to venture into this part of the library all that much but it's not new so you don't look up. The footsteps stop and you assume the person must've taken what they needed and headed back to their table.

It isn't until you hear someone clearing their throat that you lift your head, your eyes snapping to the man standing a couple of feet away, leaning against a bookshelf. He's at least six-foot, slicked-back hair, piercing blue eyes, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to the elbow, exposing strong forearms. He looks to be a mature student; maybe twenty-eight? Possibly even pushing thirty?

You start slightly, partially from the interruption and partially because the man standing barely a couple of feet away looks like he could be carved out of fine marble and displayed in Galleria dell'Accademia di Firenze.

"Hey." His voice is low, smokey, cutting through the music still drifting in through your headphones before you pull them off.

"Hi!" You immediately lower your voice, reminding yourself that you're still in a library. "Umm... What can I do for you?" You don't know him. Maybe you've seen him once in passing but his presence has you on edge for a reason you can't quite put your finger on.

He smiles slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners. There seems to be this energy to him; something that commands respect, something that speaks to something inside you, something that probably has something to do with your father but you don't want to unpack right this instant.

"Nothing. Just taking a break from studying." He pushes off the shelf to sit in the chair across from you. "Mind if I join you?"

"Uhh... Yeah, sure." You reach over to move some of your books out of the way as he sits down. He's graceful but holding this coiled tension, like a wolf stalking a startled hare. He settles into the chair, just watching you, as you try to bring some kind of order to the chaos you've spread out across the table. You can smell him from across the table and that's definitely not a bad thing. Hyacinth, cedarwood, amber; from an expensive brand, no doubt.

"What're you studying?" He asks suddenly and you stare up at him owlishly. Is he genuinely interested or is this some joke? It wouldn't be out of character for one of the SU nepo babies to pick on one of the few poors on campus. They probably think of it as community service. Still, what's the saying? Never look a gift horse in the mouth? That's what brought down the Trojans, wasn't it?

"Psychology." You reply with a stiff smile. "It's not been too bad so far." He nods, brow furrowing slightly.

"You like it?" He continues, his tone gentle, encouraging even.

"Yeah."

"Good." He settles down further in his seat, seemingly having no intention of leaving. His eyes keep you pinned and you find yourself wriggling under his gaze.

"So — umm... — did you...want something?" You ask cautiously and his smile widens. It's kind enough but you get a feeling he knows something that you don't. You don't like it.

"Just wanted to check if you were settled in okay." You don't want to ask how he knew you were a freshman. It's probably obvious; wide-eyed, nervous, nose buried in textbooks, taking pleasure in your fucking cherry blossom-pink and seafoam-teal highlighters you got before arriving. You try to play it cool.

"Oh, yeah. Tough being away from home but all freshmen get that, I guess." You laugh softly but he doesn't reciprocate, just studying you from across the table.

"True." He agrees, lips still quirked into that little smile. "You signed up to any clubs yet? Frats?" He asks and you shake your head, trying to subtly tuck away your stationery.

"Uhh... No? I'm not really big on parties or anything." You tell him honestly as if he couldn't read you like an open book. Because you absolutely seem the type to be out drinking every other night, right?

"Right." He murmurs. A long silence settles over you as you feel cold sweat prickle the back of your neck.

"A-Are you in a frat?" You decide to ask.

"Mhm." He replies smoothly, a hint of pride in his voice. "Kappa Nu Alpha; oldest fraternity on campus." God, of course. He's one of the top nepo babies. Doesn't stop him from being undeniably gorgeous, though...

"Wow. How long have you been there?"

"Since I was a junior. It's been a big part of my college experience." He pauses for a moment. "We're pretty selective about who we let in." Then why is he talking to you of all people?

"What kind of stuff do you guys do?" If it was literally anyone else, you'd be making your excuses and leaving but there's something about him that glues you to the spot and forces you to listen and forces you to like it.

"Community service, charity events, academic support for our members. And, yeah, we throw some parties too." He admits with a small chuckle. "But it's more than that; it's a brotherhood."

"Cool. Sounds fun. Supportive." You say and he leans forward, expression turning slightly more serious.

"Mhm. We look out for each other. Speaking of which, you seem like you'd fit right in." His voice is low, conspiratorial, you feel it rumble through the table, where your hands are collected rather meekly in front of you. Your eyes widen before you look away, fiddling with the zipper on your pencil case.

"Oh... I don't think so." You reply, trying your best to sound polite. That draws a soft chuckle from him.

"Why not?" He presses gently.

"I'm just...quiet and not really all that fun at parties and... Y'know, the usual stuff." You explain and he waves a hand dismissively.

"Quiet's underrated. And who says you have to be the life of the party? We have plenty of brothers who are more than capable of that." He leans forward, resting his elbow on the table. "No, what we value most is loyalty and character." As heat rushes to your cheeks, you look away, desperate to find some excuse, something to drag you out of this.

"B-But surely applications are all closed, right?"

"No." He says easily. "If you wanted to apply, the deadline's the end of this week." If he was doing this just for laughs, surely he wouldn't be pressing you so hard on this, right? Surely he would've had his fun by now... You nod slowly.

"Do you...really think I'd fit in?" You ask hesitantly.

"Absolutely." He says without hesitation, almost too quickly. You don't know how to read this guy and it's throwing you off. "You seem genuine and down-to-earth. Those are qualities we value a lot more than someone who can just throw back shots all night." He leans back, giving you a reassuring smile. Something seems terribly off about this but... God, he's charming and pretty and he's actually talking to you like a person, unlike a lot of the students you've come across in your limited time here.

"Okay..."

"If you want, I can send the application link right now." He pulls out his phone. "Just think about it, okay? No pressure."

"Won't I need to talk with the president? Just to see if I'd even have a chance of getting green-lit?" You ask, unconsciously reaching for your phone.

"You're talking to him." He replies easily, thumbs flying across his phone screen until your phone buzzes with a notification from the university intranet.

Oh, Jesus... So not just an uncharacteristically pretty nepo baby. Not just a top nepo baby. But the president of the top nepo babies, who just so happens to be the most flawless man you've ever seen in your life. This just gets worse and worse, especially as his gaze and his voice get you hotter and hotter under the collar.

Your face goes bright red, heat flushing from the base of your neck to the tips of your ears and he laughs softly, genuinely. It's a nice, warm sound and your toes curl in your worn-out Converse as you suppress a shiver. "Just think it over, yeah?" He stands fluidly, passing a hand through his hair and straightening his shirt before adjusting his watch.

"Yeah, okay..." You manage though your throat feels tight.

"Good, I'll see you around campus." He says warmly before striding away.

As soon as he's out of sight, you let out a huge sigh, collapsing onto the desk, your head in your hands. The last few minutes felt like you just fought in the hundred-year war, your heart thumping against your ribcage like you just ran a marathon. You have to get back to your dorm. You have a lot to think about and a lot to process.

The end of the week comes and finally, in a moment of weakness and curiosity, you fill out the form and send it back over. As soon as you send it, you feel a rock settle in the pit of your stomach. You may have just made the best or worst decision of your life. Only time will tell which.

About a week later you're turning up to the first formal meeting. It's a retreat to one of the existing brothers' family estates, the kind of place where they should probably have a butler wipe the poverty off you before you step inside.

You stand on the ground floor with the rest of the hopefuls as the existing members judge you from the balconies on the floor above. You feel terribly out of place. The other hopefuls are dressed in jeans, t-shirts shirts and sneakers but they still feel miles above you in your best; which just so happens to be a dress shirt and pants you got at the thrift store before you moved away. It's clear to everyone that you're not on the same level as the rest of them, even the other hopefuls, and you find yourself trying to shrink away from the intense scrutiny of the many looking down on you. Welcome to the lion's den.

Todd Stevens — a name that popped up when you went to read up about the fraternity — seems right at home, stood on a balcony on the upper floor, addressing the room. A pressed, blue button-down stretches across his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tucked into black slacks that seem practically made to fit his slim waist and strong thighs. Looking up at him like this is intimidating, yes, but not unwelcome.

His eyes sweep across the group below him, lingering on each face for a moment before moving on until landing on you. He pauses slightly, for just a beat too long, before leaning back to start his speech.

"Welcome, prospects." His voice echoes in the large room; easily, naturally, as if he was born to do this. "You're here because you want to be part of something bigger than yourselves, something that will shape your future. Let me be blunt." His eyes are sharp and assessing. "Not every one of you will make it through the pledge process. We have gold standards, here, at KNA because we reflect on the college and on one another." You swallow hard. "We're looking for leaders; men who can handle pressure, make tough decisions and uphold our values. We think you might have what it takes, you have potential." He leans forward, large hands finding the wrought-iron railing in front of him, fingers flexing. You shuffle nervously on your feet.

His voice drops lower. "Let me make one thing clear; loyalty is everything in this house. To the brotherhood, to the legacy and to me." You look down at the floor anxiously as you hear some of the existing brothers snickering amongst each other. "Tonight marks the beginning of your journey." His voice raises slightly to cut through the murmurs. "Some of you will be tested in ways you never imagined. But remember this; if you're here today, we saw something in you."

You spend the rest of the weekend on the sidelines of conversations and hanging onto walls at parties. You're made the butt of plenty of jokes and it soon becomes apparent that what Todd said about you fitting right in couldn't have been further from the truth.

During the parties, you're encouraged to grope hookers and bump lines with some of the pledges but you turn them down sheepishly, only to be ridiculed further. You spend more time roaming the vast grounds of the estate than with the guys at the house; watching football and getting high. All the while, you feel eyes on your back, judging, assessing. The only respite you get is in the bathroom, where you get dressed every morning. You need to keep that under lock and key. God knows what these assholes would do if they opened up that Pandora's box.

You were right. This was never a place for you and you made a terrible mistake submitting that form. But you made a promise and you'll be damned if you're about to give up because of 'boys being boys'. You've seen worse. Much worse.

You have to prove to yourself that you can make it through this.

And, for some bizarre reason, you want to prove it to Todd. He extended this olive branch to you. Whether that was out of genuine hope, pity or some twisted sense of humour, you won't know, but his words echo in your head; 'you have potential'.

So you'll show these rich, daddy's boy pricks what a real working-class man can handle.

Well. That's if you make it past the first round of votes.

The night for voting arrives and you and the other hopefuls are taken to the living room. They drink and watch baseball and shoot pool but you're just sat in the corner, watching them, and wondering what the brothers are saying about you and the other prospects in the secretive, soundproof den.

In the den, only lit by the bright light of the projector on the coffee table, the existing brothers laugh and drink and toke up as Todd takes them through a slideshow of the hopefuls.

When the slide containing your photo appears on-screen and Todd announces your name, a hush falls over the crowd before a groan resounds through the room.

"Kid's a joke." One of them sighs, taking a long pull of his beer.

"He kills the vibe, man."

"He's such a pussy."

"I think he might be gay. I don't wanna live with a faggot." Todd keeps his expression neutral as he glances around, watching the other brothers nodding in agreement, their faces twisted in disdain.

"Yeah, what if he tries to, like, blow you in your sleep or something?" One comments as another one elbows the other in the ribs. They make jokes and sling slurs around, teasing each other.

"Okay but he kinda looks like a girl so like... I dunno."

"Yeah, put a bag on his head and get him fucked up. Maybe then he'd be half-decent company." One snickers.

"Looked him up. His dad is, like, a founder of this shitty, small-time IT company and his mom is retired. Ain't that a load of shit?"

"What made this kid think he'd even have a chance?"

"Like what? Are we running a day-care now?"

"Or a homeless shelter?" The room erupts in laughter as they grow more rowdy, laughing and throwing half-empty beer cans at the projection of your face on the wall, staring back at them, wide-eyed yet exhausted. Todd finally clears his throat, commanding the room's attention. He waits for the laughter and jeering to die down before speaking.

"Guys, I think we might be missing something here." He pauses. "You all know how tough it is to deal with the Dean sometimes, right? He's always breathing down our necks about rules and regulations. Now, this guy?" He jerks his head toward the projection. "He might be exactly what we need; clean background, no diciplinaries. He could be our 'good boy' face when we need to talk to the higher ups."

"Shit. So a good, little bitch to wheel out when shit hits the fan?" One of the brothers asks.

"I mean, he'll be quiet, at least. Won't throw parties without invites. Won't get caught pissing in the quad."

"But will he cover for us?" One asks seriously and the room grows quiet again.

"He's loyal. Just needs someone to hold his hand." He scans the room, meeting each brother's gaze firmly. "We give him a chance, show him what it means to be part of KNA. Hell, he might even be a decent guy if we get to know him. But..." His voice drops dangerously low. "If he messes up or screws us over, we pin it on him and then kick his ass to the curb." The brothers seem to like the idea of having a scapegoat. After all, no one would care if some poor, no-name, little bitch got kicked out of Sumpter.

Todd steeples his fingers. "But, until then, we keep him in. He'll follow the rules, keep his nose clean and be our golden boy when we need him to be, got it?" The brothers nod in agreement, their initial hostility replaced with cautious acceptance.

They have their reasons for keeping you but, for now, you're safe.

Over the next week or so, you take part in the initiations on campus, playing their stupid games and falling victim to their stupid pranks. They shave your head. You get a couple of bruises and scrapes in the annual KNA pledge versus brothers capture the football game. You give your pledge. You face every stage of the initiation with stoic endurance but the tension only grows more and more palpable as hazing night approaches.

Once again, there's a retreat to one of the brothers' family estates for the hazing. You stand with the other pledges, in front of the other brothers. You have a black eye, the bruise already turning a sickly shade of yellowish-green. Todd stands before your group, his expression stern and unyielding.

"Alright, listen up." He commands, his voice echoing through the grand hall of the estate. The other brothers stand behind him, their faces equally serious. "You all know why we're here tonight." You swallow hard. This is the last hurdle. You've come this far. "This is where we find out if you're truly KNA material." His eyes, almost black in the dim light, linger on you for a moment but show not an ounce of favouritism. "You've taken your beatings, swallowed your pride...but tonight's different." He pauses, running a hand along his clean-shaven jaw. "Tonight, you face your final test. It won't be easy and it won't be pretty. But it's all part of tradition."

Todd folds his arms across his chest. "You have two choices. One; you go through tonight, take whatever we throw at you and come out the other side as a true brother of KNA." He flicks his eyes across the pledges. "Two; you walk out now. No one'll hold it against you...but you won't be a brother. You'll be nothing. You will have squandered the potential we saw in you." You see the brothers shift impatiently behind him. "Well?" The room remains silent save for the ticking of a grand clock in the corner. He smiles proudly. "Good. Now, Collins prepared a keg for you to empty within the next..." He checks his watch. "Hour. I'd drink as much as you can, boys. The more you drink, the less it'll hurt. Go."

You're herded into a small study, a large 7.75-gallon keg sitting on the floor. The pledges instantly start guzzling down beer and you join them as the brothers leave to prepare everything they need for the proper hazing, the fraternity-branded paddle making its grand entrance in the harsh, fluorescent lights of the garage.

You drink cup after cup, desperately trying to keep up with the other pledges to drain the keg before the hour chimes. You feel ill and the room spins but you push through it, working on the sheer motivation that you need to show these assholes that you can do this. You remember the way they look at you, the way they talk about you, push you around, and it only strengthens your resolve. You down drink after drink after drink.

You will do this.

Finally, the hour chimes and every single one of the pledges is trashed, including you.

The brothers come back in and the first pledge has a pillowcase pulled over his head before he's yanked to his feet and pulled out of the study, the door locked behind them. God know what awaits you beyond that door but it can't be good.

A growing sense of dread drills into you, a pit forming in your stomach, as the pledges are led out, one by one. It seems like they're saving you for last, enjoying watching you squirm whenever they come in to get another one of the group, bagging their head and then dragging them out of the room.

Eventually, there's just you. Two of the brothers barge into the study, pull a pillowcase over your head and yank you from your seat. Your hands curl by your sides tightly as they lead you through the house, spinning you several times and laughing at your disoriented attempts to keep your balance. Anxiety grows in your chest as they manhandle you, pulling you forward until you stumble into the garage. It's clear the brothers are still in high spirits from the hazing as you hear their laughs and cheers from under the pillowcase.

Finally, the pillowcase is ripped off your head and you instinctively hold your hands up in front of your face to shield your eyes from the blinding light shining directly on you in the dark garage. When the spots in your vision clear, you find yourself surrounded by the KNA brothers, all grinning wickedly, high off the adrenaline of their previous victims. Todd steps forward, tapping the paddle against his palm.

"Well, alright. You made it this far, sunshine." He announces. Despite the nauseating nervousness eating away at you, the pride in his voice has your chest swelling slightly. You made it this far and you took it like a champ. Just one more step.

"First, though." One brother chuckles lowly. "We need to strip him down."

Your heart stops in your chest, your ribs tightening around your lungs. Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no—

You barely have time to turn around to bolt for the door before the garage is filled with laughter, the brothers rushing you, hands outstretched. You manage to make it to the door only to find it locked and, by the time the realisation hits you, they're on you like a pack of wild dogs. The world tilts on its axis as they drag you to the floor. You try to curl in on yourself, smacking away their hands, but they only grow bolder, jeering and whooping as you cry out.

"No, please!" Your voice is lost as they mock you, dragging you back under the harsh spotlight. Rough hands tear at your clothes as they ignore your protests and pleas. Cold sweat prickles at your skin as tears well in your eyes. You flush in embarrassment, hands trembling as you try to pull away. They hoot and yell, joking about how feminine your figure is, about how weak you are, as you fight fruitlessly against them. They pull off your shoes and socks, tossing them against the wall. Your shirt comes off with a sickening riiiiiiiip before it's thrown to the floor in a crumpled ball. Huge hands, more like bear paws, unbuckle your belt before dragging your pants down along with your boxers, your drunken state making it impossible to fight back effectively.

Finally, they stand. The garage is silent save for the soft sniffles as you curl up on the floor, sweat and tears leaving damp spots on the concrete. You try to hide but you know it's useless. You hope this is just a nightmare but you know it isn't. This wasn't the worst part for the other pledges but it seems this has broken you. The humiliation, the shock, the fear, it makes your body tremble as you hide your face.

The bright light of the spotlight leaves nothing untouched. Silvery scars glisten under the harsh light, moulded to the shape of your chest, jutting up in the middle before circling your nipples. Between your legs, there's no cock where there should be one, just a thatch of wiry hair, and, nestled between them, the pure, irrefutable fact that this was never a place for you, that you never had a place in their ranks and you were kidding yourself when you told yourself you could carve a space for yourself here, despite who you are and where you came from. They see you now, small, shivering, naked, afraid. No one speaks and a deafening silence falls over the garage as the brothers stare from your body to one another and then back down.

Finally, one of the brothers steps closer, a scowl curling at his lips. You hear heavy footsteps behind you. This was supposed to be fun. They didn't want you here in the first place and you had the gall to bring this to their doorstep. They should've gone against Todd and kicked you to the curb when they had the chance. But no.

"Fuck you." A voice snarls, low and dangerous. "Think you can just walk in here and ruin everything for us, huh, tranny-faggot?" A sharp kick drives into your lower back and you arch instinctively, letting out a pained yelp.

"You're not welcome here, fucker." There's another hard kick to your stomach and you cough, whimpering, as more of them join in.

The garage erupts into a frenzy of violence and more and more of them decide to get in on the fun, punching and kicking your helpless, naked body. The blows rain down on you, each one sending pain lancing through your legs, stomach, ribs and head. Blood spatters across the floor and they cheer as you're nose and mouth drip crimson onto the concrete.

"Die, you piece of shit!" One of them spits on you as insults and cruel laughter echo around the space. Your body contorts as you try to get away but they hold you down, landing hit after hit. A particularly hard kick to your stomach has you wounded and gagging, emptying the contents of your stomach — predominantly beer — onto the concrete. They cheer but don't relent. There's a sickening crunch in your chest but it doesn't make any difference.

Something clatters to the floor before some of the men are shoved away from you, the instigator torn away from your body and onto the floor.

"ENOUGH!" The yell pierces the air and the other brothers pause, stunned into silence by Todd's sudden intervention. Given the chance, you weakly drag yourself across the floor, trying to get away, leaving a trail of sweat, blood and tears in your wake. You manage to huddle up in a corner, your body throbbing, chest aching but still heaving from the adrenaline. "What the fuck is wrong with you? This isn't what we do!" The one he threw to the floor staggers to his feet and points at you, his face red with anger.

"Why do you care? It's not even a real man!" He spits on the ground in the direction of where you're curled up. "If anything, you should be leading this shit, Todd! It disrespected you. Is this what we are now? Some retarded, pussy-whipped gay bar for freaks and fags?"

"Shut your fucking mouth!" He yells back. You hang your head and lift a hand to your face, leaving a trail of red as you try to wipe your nose and mouth. "He went through all the same shit the rest of the pledges did, right?" The brothers seem to lose steam now, nodding slowly, though none of them seem convinced. "Then he deserves the same fucking respect." You draw in a wet, shaky breath and pain stabs through the left side of your chest. His voice softens slightly. "Anyone have a problem with that, they can say it to my Goddamn face."

Silence falls over the garage like a thick blanket. None of the brothers look at you, their faces twisted with disgust and...possibly guilt? Though that may be hopeful.

Finally, Todd turns toward your broken figure huddled in the corner, deep bruises blooming across your skin, blood dripping from your nose and mouth, seeping onto the floor. Anxiety clenches painfully around your chest again and he holds up his hands. "Hey, hey, easy..." He approaches slowly. "You alright?" He crouches down beside you. You open your mouth to speak but no words come out, only a choked gasp as a sharp pain slices into your side again. You're struggling to breathe. It hurts.

His eyes widen. "Shit." He mutters, voice filled with concern. He quickly turns to his brothers. "Someone call 911!" He turns back to you, hands hovering over your body uncertainly. The injuries only seem worse up close; deep violet bruises spreading across your ribs, stomach and thighs, cuts and scrapes scattered across your body from where you were thrashing against the concrete.

When none of his brothers move, Todd pulls out his phone and dials. Thankfully, they pick up quickly. Your vision is swimming, tunnelling. Every inch of your body, inside and out, feels like it's bleeding. Words sound so distant as Todd tries to keep his voice calm. "I... I need an ambulance? This guy... Uhh... He's beat up pretty bad. He's not breathing right." It's true; your breaths are fast, wet and wheezy but still you try to curl up, trying to hide away. Maybe they can at least let you die in peace.

You're struggling to keep your eyes open, the pain and shock threatening to overwhelm you. Todd gently shakes your shoulder, trying to keep you awake. "Hey, hey, look at me." He watches your eyelids flutter weakly, trying to obey. "That's it. Keep your eyes open for me, sunshine." He takes off his shirt, leaving red smears on his undershirt, and drapes it over you. "You'll be okay."

You don't know how long it is between him dialling for an ambulance and one arriving but he leaves your side to open the garage doors, flashing lights casting harsh shadows across the floor and walls.

Paramedics rush in with a stretcher, faces set as they take in your condition. None of the brothers have moved since Todd stepped in, staring, wide-eyed, at the EMTs. One kneels beside you, checking you over, as another talks to Todd. You don't hear much of the conversation, especially not as they move you onto the stretcher and cover you up with a blanket, leaving the bloodied shirt discarded on the floor.

They take you out to the ambulance and load you into the back. You barely register Todd trying to step forward but being stopped before he can reach you. The EMTs pile into the ambulance, slam the doors shut and flick on the sirens before driving away, leaving Todd and his brothers at the scene of the crime.

The house is eerily silent as the ambulance sirens fade into the distance. Todd stands there, hands clenched into fits by his sides. He turns on his heel, expression cold and furious.

"Someone explain to me how this happened." No one speaks, all of them averting their gaze only to see more evidence of their cruelty. One of them swallows hard, looking at the spatters of blood on the concrete. Another winces as he sees the pool of regurgitated beer. Another looks at Todd's shirt on the floor, stained with blood and sweat. No one speaks.

Todd suddenly turns and storms out of the garage, his brothers following reluctantly behind him. He bursts into the lounge, snatching the pillowcases off the initiate's heads without a word. They're afraid. They heard the screams. They heard the sirens. He turns to his brothers. "Get them dressed and drive them back to campus." Though stunned by the whole event, they soon nod and start ushering their new brothers away.

Todd stands alone in the suddenly empty living room, hands shaking with rage and something else; guilt. His mind races through the events of the night; the blindfolds, the tearing of cloth, the savagery, the sounds of your shallow, wheezing breaths. It echoes, bouncing around the space.

With shaking hands, he reaches for his blazer, tossed carelessly over an armchair earlier in the night. A fresh pack of cigarettes calls out to him and he tears into it desperately, slipping one between his lips and lighting it as gravel crunches under tyres outside. He takes a shaky breath but the nicotine doesn't help as he leans heavily on the back of the armchair.

He watched you go through every trial they threw at you without question, without complaint. You were the best of them and yet he let this happen, stood stock-still while those he called 'brother' pummelled you down. He feels sick to his stomach. Takes another drag of his cigarette.

This was never what he planned for, never what he wanted. Maybe he should've just left you alone.

A few days — and packets of cigarettes — later, Todd finds himself at the hospital. He didn't even mean to but he was pulled here. He's unsure if it's guilt or worry but he lingers at the door to the main entrance, watching them open and close. He stubs out his cigarette, steels his nerves and heads inside.

It's quiet and sterile. He strides up to the desk and asks the nurse for your room number. She looks at him pointedly before giving him the information and sending him on his way.

He walks through the hallways, heart pounding in his chest. It all looks the same. It's all a blur of clean white walls and laminate floors. You're out of the ICU, at least, he supposes but that doesn't grant him any relief.

Finally, he stands outside your door, hearing the faint beep of a heart monitor. He places his hand on the door. Hesitates a second. Moves his feet to walk back in the direction he came. Then slowly pushes the door open, needing to face the reality of what he dragged you into.

You lay in bed, hooked up to a heart monitor and an IV. Your chest is bare, a tube lodged in your chest cavity. Your breathing is steady but the full extent of the beating is now apparent. Your skin is a mottled, black and purple mess of bruises, bleeding into one another. A gash in your lip has healed over somewhat but the lip itself remains swollen and sore. The tube in your chest makes his stomach turn.

Your eyes meeting his snap him back to the current moment and he steps inside quietly.

"Hi." You say, your voice barely a whisper, small and soft. Vulnerable. It breaks something inside him.

"Hey." He steps closer but not too close. He doesn't want to scare you or hurt you more than he already has. Finally, he settles into the armchair beside your bed, keeping his hands squarely on his knees.

"So...I take it I'm not...welcome in the frat then?" You laugh weakly.

"Don't. Don't joke about that." He says flatly. "None of us should've— We went too far." He looks down at his hands, seeing blood under his fingernails; your blood. "They're... They're all sorry." He lies. He knows they're probably back to normal now. He's likely the only one who can't stop thinking about you lying in this hospital bed. "I'm sorry." He adds genuinely. "I didn't— Jesus, I didn't mean to force you into this. I didn't know they'd— That we'd..." He trails off, not knowing how to finish that sentence. He didn't think his brothers were capable of this level of violence. "I'd...understand if you didn't want to come back. I wouldn't blame you, not in the slightest, but..." He slowly reaches out, sliding his hand into your own. It's so small compared to his; small and fragile. You squeeze slightly and his breath hitches. "But you've more than earned your place." You pause and he runs his thumb gently over your knuckles.

"I'll come back. If that's okay."

"Of course." He says quickly. Too quickly. He wants you in the house with him s he can watch over you, protect you. "You're part of the family now. You're one of us. Fuck, you deserve to be there more than all of us put together." You smile slightly, leaning your head back to meet his gaze.

"Todd?"

"Yeah?" He leans closer, brushing hair away from your face carefully.

"Why did you come up to me in the first place? I'm guessing you don't personally walk up to all the prospects, right?" You ask and he pauses, his hand lingering near your face.

"Because you stood out. You didn't kiss ass or try too hard... But that's not the only reason." He says, trying to gather all the words he needs. His voice drops to almost a whisper. "I wanted you there."

"Why?"

"Because you seemed like someone worth having around." He tells you quietly, his thumb brushing your cheek.

"Do you still think that?" You ask cautiously and he smiles.

"No. Now I know that." You flush sweetly though it's difficult to tell under all the bruises. "You come back and I'll take care of you, okay, sunshine? Anybody touches you again and I'll tear their Goddamn head off, understand?"

"Yeah." He heaves a heavy sigh, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

"You won't have to worry about a thing."

TAGLIST: @ingoldthewizard @judeval @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @starwarskawaii

[authorchariot]

I'm here to feed Jordan Nation (us, essentially)

Gimme a little drabble with Jordan. I don't care what, just make it filthy.

(Or, if you'd prefer a ready-made fic idea, sitting on Jordan's face while it's all busted and broken. Because that was super fucking hot)

CORRESPONDENCE: i've been kinda ill recently so i'm gonna give you (and the other anon who asked for jordan smut) a snippet of the jordan chapter i have for kinktober

> ENTRY: TUMBLR_SPECIAL_006

TITLE: gloss & grind (teaser)

RATING: explicit

CATEGORY: skincare (2024)

PAIRING: jordan weaver x reader

EST. READING TIME: 2m 17s

INDEX TAGS: cock and ball worship, dirty talk, dom/sub, established relationship, pov second person, not beta read, spit kink

"Get over here. On your knees." He snaps and you're over in an instant, kneeling in front of him, watching the sweat drip down the dip of his hipbone. Running a hand through your hair, he presses his hips forward just a little and you can smell the musk of his skin, heat radiating off his body. "You like when I'm all sweaty, don't you, baby? Your little, slutty brain gets all turned on, huh?" Absolutely.

You feel his fingers curl lightly into your hair, his hand a steady presence on the back of your head, as he pushes his hips forward, letting you rub your face against his clothed erection. God, he smells so good and you can feel him, twitching against your cheek, as you nuzzle his cock and balls through his speedos, whining desperately. You love being underneath him like this, peering up at him along those acres of slick, tanned muscles.

He groans, cock twitching harder against your face. "Fuck… You love that, don't you, little cock-slut?" Strong fingers curl tighter into your hair, tugging you closer as he grinds against your face. Your eyes roll as he presses your face against the crook of his thigh, breathing in the thick, heady musk there. "Little pervert…" He murmurs appreciatively. "You want my dick, huh? Want me to unload my balls all over that pretty, little face of yours?"

His hand moves from the back of your head to your jaw, his thumb pressing against your lower lip. You let it slide into your mouth, sucking eagerly, as you hum around it. "Fuck, those perfect, cock-sucking lips…" He pulls his thumb free with a wet pop, tracing the pad across your lips, making them glisten.

"Please, sir." You pant out.

"Please what?" His hand returns to the back of your head, tugging your hair until you look up at him, your focus drawn away from his cock. "Tell me what you want."

"Please fuck my face." You manage and he grins, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his speedos to pull them down, freeing his thick, heavy cock, already hard as it bounces in front of your face, leaking. He wraps a hand around the base and slaps it lightly across your cheek.

"Open up." You let your jaw drop open, obediently tilting your head so he can spit in your mouth. He does before rubbing the head of his cock against your lips. "That's a good, little cock-sucker." He praises before pushing forward, your lips wrapping around the head. Fuck, he tastes so good, dripping in your mouth, hot flesh sliding deeper as you hollow your cheeks, licking and sucking eagerly. He feeds more into your mouth, stroking your hair away from your face. "Mmm… That's it. Suck that fat cock."

taglist: @ingoldthewizard @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @starwarskawaii

[authorchariot]

Bob Floyd, who is OBSESSED with reader's cherry coke lip gloss (it tastes like Haribo coke bottles). Suggestive, but mostly cute fluff. Lotsa kissing Bobby. Please, dear Chariot 🙏

> ENTRY: TUMBLR_SPECIAL_005

TITLE: sweet on you

RATING: teen+

CATEGORY: top gun: maverick (2022)

PAIRING: bob floyd x reader

EST. READING TIME: 3m 32s

INDEX TAGS: established relationship, pov second person, not beta read

Bob doesn't just like your lip gloss. He's obsessed.

The first time you wore it, it was just something you grabbed at the drugstore because the AC in the car was drying you out a little. Cherry-coke flavour. Smelled sweet. Looked cute. But when Bob kissed you outside The Hard Deck that night, you swear you felt the earth tilt slightly. He pulled back after the kiss, blinked at you owlishly from behind his glasses, then went in again.

"Okay…" He mumbled between kisses. "What…is that?" You blinked right back at him, breathless.

"What's what?"

"This." His thumb brushed your lower lip, eyes laser-focused on the glossy sheen. "That taste. It's like— You know those Haribo cola bottles? That…but sexy." You laughed, tugging him closer by his shirt collar.

"It's literally just lip gloss, Bobby."

From then on, it becomes a thing.

He's subtle about it at first; his gaze lingering a little longer on your lips as he flushes slightly. But when you catch him in the mirror once, staring at your mouth while you put it on, he doesn't even try to pretend anymore.

"You need a moment?" You tease.

"More like several." He replies, voice a little too sincere. "You got a second?"

Date nights become an exercise in restraint. For you, not him. Bob's a menace. A sweet, gentlemanly menace with soft hands and sweet, ocean-blue eyes, but a menace nonetheless.

He kisses you when you're trying to order dinner. Kisses you when you're halfway through your milkshake. Kisses you in the car, parked outside your place, like he can't go a second longer without one more taste. It's almost like he's started to associate the scent of cherry-coke. It's not even just the lip gloss anymore; it's a hint of your overall, comforting scent, the slightest taste of you left on his lips when he pulls away, sweet and tangy.

"I swear." You say, giggling as he presses kiss number eight (or nine?) to your lips. "You're gonna get addicted to this stuff."

"Mhmm." He mumbles, dragging his mouth along your jaw and then along your neck. "Bury me in a vat of it."

Eventually, the team starts to notice. Phoenix catches on first.

"He really can't get enough of you, huh?" She says, cocking an eyebrow. "Is he addicted to you or to your candy-flavoured cosmetics?" You just smile.

"Can't it be both?" Bob walks past right then, licking his lips and looking like he's won the lottery, grinning from ear to ear, that familiar, pinkish hue high on his cheekbones.

"Oh, my God." Hangman mutters, stopping by you and Phoenix as Bob straightens his glasses and adjusts his flight-suit. "I think you've got him hooked on that stuff."

One night, post-movie, post-popcorn, post-hand-holding-in-the-dark, he corners you on the porch with that look in his eyes; lidded, hazy, hungry. You've just reapplied the gloss — fresh and shiny and perfect — and Bob looks like he's about to blow his load then and there.

"I don't even know if I'm kissing you anymore…" He groans, backing you gently against the door. "Or if you've just…Pavlov's dogged me." You smirk, arms around his neck, pulling him down against you until his arms curl around the small of your back. His lips are slow and greedy. Every press of his mouth to yours is needy; not frantic but intentional, like he's memorising the way you taste, the way you sound when you moan against his open mouth.

He pulls back, flushed and breathing hard. "You're never allowed to switch brands. I'll protest. Formally." You giggle, completely drunk on him. "I have needs, you know." He whispers, trailing kisses down your neck.

Later, in bed, you find the tube in your bag and hold it up between your fingers, studying the label in the low light of the bedside lamp. "You know, there's a matching body butter." You tell him coyly. Bob's eyes go wide as he sets his glasses on the nightstand.

"Are you kidding me?" You nod slowly.

"And a perfume." He practically shudders.

"You're trying to kill me, right?"

"No." You murmur, leaning in, brushing your lips over his, fingers threading into his hair. "Just keeping you coming back." His hands tighten at your waist, pulling you on top of him.

"I was never gonna leave anyway. Lip gloss or not, you've got me hook, line and sinker."

taglist: @ingoldthewizard @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @starwarskawaii

[authorchariot]

> ENTRY: FELIZ_DÍA_PAPÁ_JAKE

RATING: explicit

CATEGORY: moon knight (2022)

PAIRING: jake lockley x ftm!reader

EST. READING TIME: 14m 4s

INDEX TAGS: car sex, cum swallowing, daddy kink, dom/sub, dry humping, established relationship, not beta read, pov second person, praise kink, roleplay, squirting, trans character, trans male character, vaginal sex

ACCESS MATERIAL ON AO3 OR BELOW

NOTE: happy father's day! don't ask me why jake is always my go-to for daddy kink stuff… also i don't care if you don't like pasta, you're eating it in this fic 😤😤 (translations for jake's spanish can be found in the end notes/at the bottom)

The air outside the restaurant is thick with early summer heat and the scent of basil as the sun sets. The speakers play a soft, jazzy tune through the dining room, mingling with the clatter of cutlery and the hum of evening conversation. Jake's beside you, hands in his pockets, flat-cap perched on his head and wearing the faintest, most mischievous smirk you've ever seen.

"Y'know." He mutters out of the corner of his mouth, accent curling like cigarette smoke. "This is probably the dumbest scheme we've come up with. And that's saying something." You bump his arm gently.

"Don't chicken out on me now, Papí." Jake snorts.

"You keep callin' me that and I'm gonna forget we're just doin' this for a discount."

"But you do look the part." You say, glancing up at him with mock admiration. "Grey in your hair. Permanent scowl. Vaguely disappointed in me. It's perfect." He tugs the brim of his cap lower to hide the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"Keep talkin' and I'll ground you." You laugh and it's warm and light between you, the sort of thing you haven't felt enough of lately. Not with how often Jake disappears; sometimes for days, sometimes into himself. But today, he's here. And more than that; he agreed to this dumb little plan without you even having to beg. Not that begging is beneath you when it comes to him.

Father's Day at Lupo e Vino, one of the fancier restaurants tucked along the riverfront, comes with a gimmick this year; half-off for anyone bringing in their dad. It was meant as a joke at first, a playful threat you lobbed across the flat after seeing the flyer, holding it up like a kid with a dare.

We should go. You be the dad, I'll be the grateful son who wants to become an artist or something. Jake raised an eyebrow. Then, unexpectedly, said; sure, let's do it. You know you'd never get away with this if it was Marc and Steven would absolutely be too flustered to go through with it.

But now you're here, heart fluttering slightly at the absurdity of it, and how easy it is to fall into this kind of game with him.

Jake hasn't even had to change for the occasion; still wearing his shirt, tie and driver's jacket. He looks plenty like someone's father. Yours, for tonight. He shaved too. Not completely, just enough to leave a touch of grey at his temples and jaw. It's...really hot. Almost unnervingly so.

I've earned these lines. He'd said. Should at least put 'em to good use.

The hostess stands just inside the entrance, impeccably dressed and radiating quiet judgment, but you square your shoulders anyway and tug gently at Jake's arm. He grumbles something unintelligible in Spanish and lets you lead him.

"Smile, Papí. You're taking me out for a nice meal." You shoot him a cheeky grin, both approaching the host stand and Jake clears his throat.

"Table for two." He says, slipping effortlessly into a slightly more formal version of his usual tone. "Celebrating Father's Day." The host gives you both a quick once-over, eyes darting between your face and Jake's. You can see the question forming, teetering at the edge of his expression then vanishing. He nods, polite but brisk, and jots something down in his ledger.

"Of course, sir. Right this way." Jake glances sideways at you as you follow.

The waiter gestures toward a booth by the window and Jake ushers you in first like a true gentleman. As he settles in opposite you, removing his cap and tucking it into his pocket, his hand finds yours beneath the table. No games, now. No jokes. Just him. His thumb brushes across your knuckles, slow and deliberate.

Looking around the restaurant, you see tables with older men and younger men and women, talking animatedly. There's a couple regular tables — business dinners, anniversaries and the like — but most people seem to be here for Father's Day and there's something oddly...forbidden about being here with your boyfriend who, in all fairness, is old enough to be your father.

You've always teased him for it but now, looking across the table, you realise you quite like this dynamic, your smaller hand in his rough, calloused one. The is something nurturing about the way he treats you sometimes, something paternal, and calling him Papí almost feels natural. And you...kind of like it.

Trying your best to keep this realisation to yourself, you bite your lip and fidget in your seat, but you're an open book to Jake; he knows all your tells. And it's quite clear to him that you're getting just a little hot and bothered. A knowing smirk curls at his lips as he leans back in the booth, spreading his legs and letting his foot brush yours under the table.

"Compórtate.¹" He whispers firmly and you nod, pressing your thighs together and staring blankly at the menu.

"Yes, Papí." You manage.

"Good boy." You have to suppress a shiver that runs down your spine at that.

When a waiter comes to take your order, Jake releases your hand and takes it upon himself to order for the both of you; ordering himself a steak — rare, just how he likes it — some wine and your favourite pasta dish. Something settles, warm, in your belly. He remembers your favourites. And he's being so damn dominant about the whole thing. The waiter leaves, takes the menus and Jake turns his attention back to you, his knee brushing yours under the table. He can see the flush rising on your cheeks.

He leans forward, voice low and teasing. "Angelito², you know better than to get worked up in public like this. Just sit there and look pretty for me, okay?"

The waiter brings and pours the wine and you sip yours gingerly. Jake watches over the rim of his glass, swallowing hard, as he remembers how you tend to be at home; needy and all over him. Right now, you're being so polite and look kind of unsure of yourself, as if you're trying to decide whether or not it's bad that you're enjoying this whole charade.

"Thanks for bringing me out tonight, Papí." You murmur and he smiles, chest swelling with affection and something a little deeper, something that flares and lingers in the pit of his stomach.

"De nada, bebé.³" He purrs softly before taking another sip of wine, your eyes glued to the table, trying not to look at the 5 o'clock shadow across his face, the silver streaks in his hair or the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows.

Setting his glass down, he reaches across the table to gently tilt your head up, your eyes meeting his. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip possessively and you press a subtle kiss to the pad of it. He releases you as he notices the waiter bringing across the food, leaning back in his seat to adjust himself under the tablecloth.

With a steaming plate of pasta in front of you and a freshly seared steak for your Papí, you're just thankful to have your focus elsewhere. You stab at it with your fork before bringing it to your lips. It's insanely good. Honestly, it better be for the price, even after the discount.

Across from you, Jake cuts into his steak — a perfect rare — and pops a chunk into his mouth. "How's yours treating you?" He asks and you nod.

"Really, really good." You take a couple more mouthfuls. God, it's good. Good enough to almost forget you're undeniably getting turned on from calling your boyfriend Papí.

Jake seems distracted though, watching your lips wrap around the fork, watching your throat work as you demolish your plate of pasta. If you were focused on anything apart from the cheesy, gluten-filled goodness filling your mouth, you'd notice he's absolutely thinking about having your mouth on him. The fact that you're in public is only making it worse; the idea of being so close to you but not being able to touch you properly is driving him crazy. "How's your steak, Papí?" You ask and he hums, the sound almost a growl.

"Perfect." He states.

"Can I try a little?" You mean it innocuously but, as soon as you meet his eye, you see the hunger waiting there; the kind of hunger that can't be sated with just food.

"You want some of my steak, bebé?" He husks before cutting a piece and lifting it toward your lips with his fork. Tentatively, you lean forward and part your lips, your cheeks flushing deeper as he slides the fork into your mouth. Pulling away, you savour how the meat practically melts in your mouth, rich and juicy. He curses under his breath before taking a long sip of his wine.

You're starting to make peace with it now; finding this whole situation intimate and very, very arousing.

"Thank you, Papí."

"You're welcome, bebé." His voice is slightly rougher than before. You know that tone of voice and it makes your hair stand on end.

You finish your meals and, when the waiter comes back to collect the plates and offer dessert options, the both of you ask for the bill just a bit too quickly. You can't wait to get out of here. You can barely hold it in anymore; the little touches under the table, the way his smouldering gaze hasn't left you.

Once the bill comes, he dumps a wad of bills on the table along with a generous tip before clearing his throat. "Ready to go?" You nod quickly.

His hand is warm but firm on the small of your back as he urges you out the door of the restaurant. You barely notice the hostess calling after you.

"Happy Father's Day!"

You make your way back to the parking lot and, as soon as he checks the coast is clear, Jake wraps an arm around your waist and presses you against the side of his cab. He leans into you, pressing his face into the crook of your neck and breathing you in.

"Mhmm... Happy fucking Father's Day..." He mutters, hands tight on your hips. He's manhandling you, rough hands roaming your body, and you can't complain, especially not when you feel just how hard he is. You let out the softest moan and his hands grab at your backside, gripping tight, as he trails hungry kisses along your neck.

"Papí..." You sigh, soft and breathy.

"Say it again." You do, just for him, and his fingers inch under your shirt. "Bebé..."

You have to think quick before he bends you over and fucks you then and there. Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, you unlock the cab and slide into the backseat. The tinted windows should give you enough cover. The bouncing of the car will be a dead giveaway but, at this point, you can't find it in you to care.

He follows quickly, pulling the door closed, and you crawl into his lap, pressing up against him. His hands find your hips again as you straddle him, a low groan rumbling in his throat as you grind against him. He kisses you roughly, tongue pushing insistently into your mouth, as one of his hands climbs higher to snarl into your hair. You're humping against him desperately, trying to get some friction, and he's just as eager, his erection pressing impatiently against his zipper.

"Please, Papí... Can't hold it anymore..." You huff against his lips and he claims your mouth again, muffling your pleas. He knows he can't let you cum like this, not dry humping him in the back of his cab.

You tug at the hem of your sweater, pulling it off, the scars under your pecs silvery in the light that peeks through the tinted windows. He can't resist anymore.

With another muffled curse, Jake flips you over, pinning you to the leather seat, hands moving quick to unbutton your pants. He pulls them off as you toe off your shoes, his hands finding their way between your thighs, feeling how wet you are in your boxer-shorts. Those get pulled off too so you're left, sprawled across the backseat, in nothing but your socks. Your clit is swollen and throbbing against it's hood, slick glistening along your inner thighs in the low light. He fumbles with his belt, shoving down his dress-pants and boxers, rubbing the head of his cock against your clit.

"This what you want?" He husks and you nod.

"Yes, please, Papí."

Without another word, he slides himself home, groaning as he fills you to the brim. You try to find purchase, hands grabbing at the leather tightly, as he starts with a quick pace, pounding into you with deep, punishing thrusts. You finally find your fingers curled into the back of his jacket, holding on for dear life, as you pant and whine against his shoulder. The windows are steaming up fast and he's rutting into you like an animal, completely consumed with lust. The cab bounces, filled with the obscene sons of skin on skin, your desperate moans and the wet sound of his cock dragging in and out of you. "Th-Thank you, Papí... Love your cock... Feels good..."

"Keep talking." He demands through gritted teeth, trying to hold back. Neither of you are going to last long; the build-up has been such that you could hardly stop yourself from touching yourself in the middle of the Goddamn restaurant so it's no surprise you're nearly cumming already. "Tell me how much you love my cock, bebé." You glance down, watching him lay into you, hard and fast.

"Feels so good... Fits perfect..." Your toes curl and you have to bite back a yelp as he hits just the right spot. Your back arches off the seat and you whine as he grabs your wrists, collecting them in a hand and pinning them to the leather. "H-Hahh...! Papí!" He seals his lips over yours, swallowing your moans, as he free hand hitches your thigh up over his hip, opening you up for even deeper thrusts.

"Shhh, angelito." He huffs against your lips. "No más ruido.⁴" You bite your lip, trying to keep quiet, despite the squeaking of the suspension being a clear giveaway. "Good boy." The praise sends another rush of heat straight through you. You're almost there. So close. So close...

"P-Papí... Please... Please let me cum..." You beg as you bear down on him. His hand moves from your thigh to rub against the hood of your swollen clit, stroking in quick circles, careful not to give direct contact and overstimulate you.

"Fuck... Cum for me, bebé. Quietly." And that's all you need.

You cum hard, squirting around his cock, your clit throbbing under his fingertips. Your eyes brim with tears as you sink your teeth into your lower lip, trying desperately to keep quiet as he fucks you through your orgasm. It's quick and messy, your slick dripping onto his dress-pants, a little more spurting out with every long, deep stroke that follows.

When overstimulation sets in and you're whimpering against his chest, he pulls himself free. "On your knees, angelito." You slide bonelessly off the seat as he collapses back against the leather, legs spread, chest heaving. He's soaked with your slick, wrapping his fingers around the base of his cock, stroking quickly, as you gaze up at him, lips bitten raw and eyes lidded. You rest your head against his inner thigh, your breath coming hot and fast as it fans over his fingers, moving furiously along his shaft.

"Is this dessert, Papí?" You joke weakly and he chuckles.

"Something like that." He murmurs breathily. "Open." Obediently, you let your jaw drop open as he picks up the pace, angling his cock at your open mouth. He loves seeing you like this; spaced out, submissive, eager. "Good boy, bebé." He praises, voice thick with lust. "Ready?"

"Mhmm."

He growls low in his throat as thick ropes of white paint your lips and tongue. You try to catch every drop, licking your lips hungrily. It pools on the floor of your mouth, welling around your tongue, and he doesn't stop until he's drained his balls into your open mouth, huffing through his nose and cursing, muttering breathlessly about how good you look, how you're such a good boy for your Papí. Finally, you close your mouth and swallow, humming softly as it settles in your belly.

You kiss and lick at his slit, tasting yourself on his skin, and he hisses at the contact, pulling you up into his lap and resting your head on his chest. He's sweaty and the windows of the cab are completely steamed up now, condensation rolling down the panes.

"You did so good, bebé." He sighs, slowly coming down from the high.

"Thank you... Happy Father's Day, Papí..." You manage and he smiles, pressing a kiss to your hair, one to your temple and then another to your lips.

"Thanks, angelito. Papí loves you." He says softly, running his hands soothingly along your bare back.

"Love you too, Papí."

translations: ¹ behave yourself. ² little angel. ³ you're welcome, baby. ⁴ no more noise.

taglist: @ingoldthewizard @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @starwarskawaii

[authorchariot]

smut clingy bob reynolds please 🥺

CORRESPONDENCE: huuuuuu 🥺🥺

> ENTRY: TUMBLR_SPECIAL_004

TITLE: yours, always

RATING: explicit

CATEGORY: thunderbolts* (2025)

PAIRING: bob reynolds x afab!reader

EST. READING TIME: 4m 51s

INDEX TAGS: creampie, established relationship, not beta read, pov second person, vaginal sex

He's already touching you before you've fully stepped into the bedroom; large, warm hands at your waist like he needs you anchored to him.

"Don't go anywhere." He murmurs into your hair, voice low, desperate. "Please."

"I'm right here." But that isn't enough, not tonight. His grip tightens just a little, fingers curling against your hips possessively.

"Say it again."

"I'm not going anywhere, Bob." You tell him, clearer this time, one hand sliding into his hair. "I promise."

It's the only cue he needs.

He kisses you like he's trying to melt into you; like if he doesn't get skin-to-skin, he might just breakdown completely. He pulls you in, backs you toward the bed, mouths open and wet, breathing each other in. He's warm all over. Barefoot, in a worn t-shirt and boxers. Tonight, he's just Bob. Not the Sentry. Not the Void. Just Bob. Your Bob.; the one who bruises easy when it comes to love.

"Want you." He murmurs, like it hurts. "So bad. All the time. Don't know what to do with it." You cup his face, guide him onto the mattress with you, and he follows. He's over you in a heartbeat; kissing your chest through your shirt, gripping your thighs, touching like he's already mourning every second that slips by. "Take it off." He mutters against your stomach, tugging at the neck of your shirt with his teeth. "Wanna see you. Need to— Need to feel you. Please."

Your clothes are shrugged off as fast as you can and his follow shortly after. Once his skin meets yours, every part of it is slow, not because he's teasing but because he's savouring. You're the only thing that keeps him grounded and present and human.

"You always let me be soft with you." He says, kissing your shoulder, your wrist, your stomach, the inside of your knee. "Everyone expects me to be some… But you actually treat me like a person, like a man."

"You are a man, honey." You breathe, hand in his hair, hips arching into him. "And not just any man; you're my man. Just remember that, okay?" He shivers and groans, fitting his hips between your thighs, nestling close, wrapping his arms tight around you, feeling the weight of you, the warmth.

"Fuck… Love you so much. So, so much. Hurts sometimes." He pushes inside you with a kind of reverence, shifting to hold your hands above your head, fingers laced into your own. God, he feels amazing; stretching but not to the point of pain. Just a nice, comfortable burn, where the friction is just right. He sets a slow rhythm, deep and steady, pressing his forehead to yours with every dip of his hips, lips barely brushing your mouth, breath hot on your face. "You're so perfect." He whispers. "You're so good to me. Don't deserve you."

"You do, honey." You whisper back, almost a gasp. "You do. God, you deserve the world." His breathing stutters. He clings to you harder, shifts his angle just right so that every grind hits you just right. His brows knit slightly, your words and the closeness of your body doing more than the drag of his cock inside you.

"Don't leave. Please." He says, voice cracking, hips never stopping. "Not allowed to." There's a brief flash of gold in his eyes, you nearly miss it. But you don't. You see it. See him. His fingers tighten around your own before he eases up, releasing you to plant his hands either side of your head. "Can't lose you."

"You won't." You promise, over and over, fingers curling around his biceps. "You won't, honey, I'm here. I'm here and I always will be." It unravels him.

His pace falters for a second before he doubles down, rutting into you desperately, and he starts praising you with every breath, whispering it into your neck as his hands burn tracks along your skin.

"God, you're so perfect… Dealing with all my… My bullshit… Feels like home… You're my whole world… Can't let you go… Not ever…"

You're close too. So close… And he knows it. He knows the signs; the trembling in your knees, the curling of your toes, the rolling of your eyes. He slips a hand between you, rubs gentle circles with his thumb in tandem with those deep, deep thrusts. It's like he's trying to crawl inside you skin. He wants to be with you always; holding your hand, kissing your skin, protecting you at all times.

His breath stutters, catching for a moment in his throat. "Cum with me." He pants out, voice thick and trembling, sweat beading across his brow. "Please."

You do. You can't help yourself. You clench down around him, fingers finding purchase at the angles of his shoulder blades, wrapped in each other, your body shivering beneath his as you come apart under his hands, around his cock, with his name on your lips. He follows right after, groaning your name, collapsing against you in a tangle of limbs and breath and heat. He stays inside you, soft and warm and safe.

You stay like that a long while; bodies tangled, skin damp, his arms curled tightly around you like he still thinks you might vanish. "I don't say it enough." He whispers against your shoulder. "That you mean everything." You turn your head and kiss the crown of his head.

"You say it like this." You murmur, carding your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. "That's enough for me." And he sighs; relieved, loved, peaceful.

When he falls asleep on your chest, all you can do is hold him through it. Through the aftershocks of being god and man and something in between. You wouldn't leave him. You could never do that, especially not when he looks so sweet, snuggled up against you, holding onto you like his life depends on it. You love him. So you'll stay right where you are.

taglist: @ingoldthewizard @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @starwarskawaii

[authorchariot]

Thank you for your service🫡🧎‍♀️🧎🧎‍♂️🏆🎖🏅🥇

CORRESPONDENCE:

[authorchariot]

hii can i request sentry x reader? he acts like a god and ends up pissing the reader off. he totally treats the reader like they're beneath him or something in front of the thunderbolts. hours later, he starts feeling guilty and shows up to apologize by wearing a spongebob t-shirt (even though he still kinda acts cool) thank you!!!

CORRESPONDENCE: this is incredibly specific but i'm digging it. also i don't think i nailed the bob-still-acting-cool-when-he-goes-to-apologise part but i hope you like it all the same!

> ENTRY: TUMBLR_SPECIAL_003

TITLE: divine comedy

RATING: general

CATEGORY: thunderbolts* (2025)

PAIRING: bob reynolds x reader

EST. READING TIME: 4m 28s

INDEX TAGS: established relationship, not beta read, pov second person

The mission briefing had barely started before Bob decided he was divine again. He can get like this when he forgets his medication for a few days. Then the lows hit and you're left picking up the pieces. You just wish he listened to the damn alarms he set on his phone.

He stood with his arms folded behind his back, golden hair practically glowing under the overhead lights, posture ramrod straight like a statue. He'd already interrupted Walker twice. He'd corrected Bucky's intel map. And now, with the most dazzlingly condescending tone, he was talking over you.

"No offence…" He said, flashing that perfect smile. "But I don't expect someone with your skillset to understand the tactical nuance of this. You do emotional support, right? And snacks." The room fell deathly quiet. Bucky muttered something under his breath and shoved a hand through his hair. You sat very, very still.

You didn't say anything. Not right away. You know he can't exactly help it when he gets like this. But that doesn't mean you have to like it either.

You just stared at Bob as if trying to see through him; past the bravado, the god complex that had wrapped itself around him. He didn't notice. Or didn't care.

Val really did a number on him.

You got up, calm as anything, tucked your file under your arm and left the room without another word.

It takes him three hours to feel it.

The high comes down hard. Not a crash — yet — but a slow, creeping guilt. His own words bounce around in his head, dinging off the walls like a pinball machine. Snacks? Emotional support? Like you were some group mascot?

The silence from your room leaves a stinging chill at the base of his spine. Even Yelena had stopped bothering trying to talk him down, deciding to wait out the wave of egotistical bullshit.

It's not intentional. It's barely even Bob.

It's just this false sense of bravado he gets sometimes. Seeing the Sentry wouldn't even be that bad if Bob just learned he didn't have to constantly keep blowing smoke up his own ass, trying to impress people, trying to pretend he's important. He doesn't seem to understand that he is important, just the way he is, even without all the omnipotent crap.

He stands in front of the mirror in the bathroom, trying to get a grip. His reflection stares back; tired, uncertain. Not godlike. Not really.

He mutters to himself. Something about humility. Something about not being a total dick to the people who support him most. He's coming down a little now and he knows he has to catch the crash before it starts and the first port of call is to apologise to you.

You hear a knock. It's late. You're in your pyjamas, reruns playing low on your tablet. You expect Bucky. Maybe Yelena with tea. You open the door.

Bob stands there, rather gingerly, in a Spongebob Squarepants t-shirt and matching sleep-shorts. They're a little too short for him, pyjamas he brought from home, so probably a mite too small for him. The shirt says I'M READY! in large bubble lettering, stretched tight across his broad chest, the hem rising a little over his stomach. You stare at him.

"… Bob." He looks down at himself then back up at you sheepishly. This is him trying to make amends and you know it. You fold your arms, leaning back against the doorframe. "You humiliated me in front of the entire team."

"I know." His voice softens, loses some of that echo it gets when he's floating too close to the sun. "It felt…good to be powerful. So I ran my mouth. And I hurt you. And I'm sorry." You sigh heavily, eyes flicking over the skin-tight shirt again. It's distracting, despite the ridiculous print on it.

"It might feel good at the time but you hurt people when you pretend to be above them and everything they work towards." You pinch the bridge of your nose frustratedly. "When you get like that, you act like the world revolves around you." He runs a hand through his hair.

"Only when you're standing in the middle of it."

That catches you. You squint at him.

"That line was either really sweet or complete BS."

"I know." He says, grinning lopsided now, cheeks slightly flushed, the first real smile of the day. "Fifty-fifty shot."

There's a pause. A quiet between you. "I miss you." He adds, rubbing the back of his neck. "Not just tonight. Just, when I get like that, I don't see things clearly. Like I forget how much you do for me and… And how lucky I am to have you." You sigh, the tenderness in his tone eating away at your stern exterior.

"You can't keep acting like a god and expecting me to play the devoted follower, hon."

"I don't want a follower." He steps closer. "I want a partner. And I want you." You let that settle.

Then, dryly; "And the SpongeBob pyjamas?" He lifts the hem just slightly, just the edge of his v-line peeking over the waistband of the shorts.

"Thought they might make you smile."

"You're a dumbass." You state before stepping aside and opening the door a little wider. "Come on." You say with a resigned — yet playful — huff. "But you're singing the Goofy Goober song and keeping your ego in your pants, got it?" He holds up both hands in surrender.

"Got it."

taglist: @ingoldthewizard @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @starwarskawaii

[authorchariot]

you're my favourite author 💐

CORRESPONDENCE: thank u so much, nonny!! 🥹💕🌼💛✨

[authorchariot]

hi! may i request rhett abbott x reader where rhett’s super unclear with the reader? like some days he’s all about reader, but other days he goes back to maria. the reader finally decides to move on, and that’s when rhett realizes he messed up big time.

CORRESPONDENCE: ooohh i love this!!

> ENTRY: TUMBLR_SPECIAL_002

TITLE: straddling the line

RATING: general

CATEGORY: outer range (2022)

PAIRING: rhett abbott x reader

EST. READING TIME: 5m 46s

INDEX TAGS: established relationship, not beta read, pov second person

You find yourself standing by the barn when you see him; Rhett Abbott. Ruggedly, frustratingly, stupidly handsome Rhett Abbott. His silhouette is sharp against the sun, jaw shadowed with stubble, hat pushed low over his eyes.

He's definitely gotten better looking with age but there's still that boyish rebellion in him, the one you fell in love with even when you used to help him and his father feed the horses, when you were both much younger.

He smiles when he sees you; slow, familiar, like no time has passed at all. Like he didn't disappear for two weeks only to turn back up with Maria's perfume on his collar and an apology lodged somewhere in his throat. You were never an item, per se. But you didn't have to like it. And you didn't; not one bit.

You nod, polite. Neutral. You're good at that now. He approaches, boots scuffing on the gravel.

"Didn't think I'd catch you out here this early." You shrug.

"Didn't think you'd be back at all." That catches him. His expression stumbles. He opens his mouth like he might say something real, something useful, but instead he just rubs the back of his neck and looks out across the yard.

"Maria's gone." He says after a beat, like that should mean something to you. Like that should be enough for you to come crawling back.

But you don't ask where to. You don't ask why. You just stare at the dust cloud drifting past the fence line.

"What does that mean, Rhett?"

He doesn't answer. He never does, not really. Not when it actually fucking matters.

It had started soft between you; sweet, tentative, like walking barefoot across warm grass in the midst of the Wyoming summer heat. You were never one to rush and he was trying. At first. You shared long talks on tailgates, beers on the porch, kisses that were hesitant and full of promise. And it felt like something real.

Until the push and pull began.

He'd vanish sometimes. Drift. You'd find out through town gossip that he'd been seen with Maria again; leaning too close in a bar booth, riding in his truck with the windows down and music blaring.

Then he'd come back to you with eyes full of ache and hands too gentle for someone who didn't know what he wanted.

"I'm sorry." He'd murmur, pressing his forehead to yours. "It's just…complicated." You wanted to believe him. You did. Every time. Until your heart started to bruise in ways that didn't heal between kisses and his touches began to feel less like blessings and more like torment.

So you stopped waiting.

You didn't tell him. You didn't owe him that. You owed him nothing. Jack shit.

You just started pulling yourself together, piece by piece; washed the scent of his soap from your sweaters, stopped checking your phone at midnight, stopped holding space for someone who never showed up with both feet.

And, when a sweet, quiet man from town — Samuel, with his steady hands and clear intentions — asked you to dinner, you said yes. Not out of revenge. Not even out of spite.

Just because it felt like the first time in a long while that someone wanted you. All of you.

When Rhett saw you at the diner that night, laughing with this new guy over slices of blueberry pie and soda, his world seemed to lurch sideways.

He stood just inside the door for a moment too long, jaw tight, brow furrowed, hands clenched at his sides. You saw him. Of course you did. You always do.

But this time, you didn't wave him over. You just smile at Samuel, asked about his sister's baby and let Rhett Abbott walk past without following him with your eyes. It ruined him.

That night, just past midnight, you heard his truck outside your place. You almost didn't open the door. But you did; barefoot, tired, bracing yourself.

He's stood there, soaked in guilt and moonlight, hat in his hands, worrying the brim between calloused fingers.

"I messed up." He said, before you can speak. You leant against the doorframe, heart steady for the first time in a long while.

"Mhm." He shifted, searching your face.

"Kept thinking I had more time, that I could figure it out. But I only ever felt sure when I was with you. I was just too damn stupid to hold onto it." You crossed your arms.

"You can't keep coming back just because I feel safe. That's not the same as love, Rhett." His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes averted before they darted back to your face.

"I do love you."

"I needed to hear that when I was crying myself to sleep, wondering why I wasn't enough." You told him, quiet but firm. "Now? I need clarity, stability." He stepped closer, boots heavy on the worn planks of the porch.

"Don't say it's too late." You look at him, really look. At the boy you once adored, at the man who couldn't decide. At the pain and the tenderness and the mess of it all. And then you shook your head.

"I'm not saying it's too late, Rhett." You said. "I'm saying, if you want me, you don't get to step on and off anymore. You show up. With both feet." Then you closed the door. Let him decide what he's made of.

"What does that mean, Rhett?" You ask and he takes a long breath.

Maria's gone.

You suppose you can't blame him entirely; Maria plays with him too, like it's high-school all over again, teasing and confusing him like he was something to be toyed with, not a man who would move mountains for the ones he holds dear.

You sigh, looking down at your boots before back at him, squinting against the sun. "You know I can't spend the rest of my life waiting for—"

In an instant, he closes the space between you, arms wrapped tight around you, lips pressed to yours like he has something to prove. It takes you by surprise but, once again, you find yourself melting in his arms, like butter left in the sunshine. You curl your arms around his neck, threading your fingers into his hair. Large, gloved hands move to the small of your back, pressing you against him possessively.

When he finally pulls away to catch his breath, you feel the warmth of the sun on your skin, the heat of his body against your own as he crowds you against the side of the barn. You gaze up at him, lips parted, chest heaving. "I'm not letting you take me just because Maria's gone and I'm second best." You murmur quietly and he shakes his head. "I'm not being your silver medal."

"You're not." He tucks his face against the side of your neck and you feel the rasp of his stubble against your skin. "You're not. I'm sorry." You pause, thinking, your hands curling into the back of his shirt. "This time… This time, I'm staying."

And he is. Because you aren't letting him go this time.

taglist: @ingoldthewizard @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @starwarskawaii

[authorchariot]

> ENTRY: KINGS_AND_BEASTS

RATING: mature

CATEGORY: robin hood (2010)

EST. READING TIME: 20m 16s

INDEX TAGS: blood and gore, mythical beings and creatures, not beta read, pov third person

ACCESS MATERIAL ON AO3 OR BELOW

NOTES: i don't really know what pairing this would classify as? maybe an oc? but it's not really an oc because there's no background or character development for the big doggo/werewolf/forest guardian thing? also, if you've seen beowulf, you might be able to draw some comparisons between beowulf and john and grendel's mother and the big doggo. both beowulf and john strike agreements with powerful supernatural beings in return for protection and both bone said supernatural being. i don't know. in the middle of planning it, i just thought it was cool comparison. anyway i hope you enjoy this weird, little thing i wrote. also also, did i run out of steam while writing this? of course, i did. i might come back and finish it at some point but, for now, i'm leaving it as it is.

The forest stands like a cathedral of green and shadow, vast and solemn, her canopy woven thick with age. She is the heart of the land near the Thames estuary, her roots entangled with the bones of generations; sheltering, feeding and healing those who dwell within her reach. The people come to her for timber, for mushrooms and mosses, for game and sweet herbs; and the forest, in her way, provides. But she is no tame thing. No mere orchard or pasture, no neat and placid grove.

For as long as men remember, and longer still if the whispers of crones be believed, she has been haunted. Not by spirit nor shade but by something else; some mighty beast, a creature of tooth and claw, of such size and malice. They say it was already ancient when the Romans left Britain. They say it has the cunning of a man and the appetite of a wolf and that its breath reeks of blood and old graves.

Most say nothing at all, fearful eyes cast to the ground.

In time, the tales have grown soft and round with retelling. Children dare one another to touch the tree line and flee. Farmers whisper that their neighbour's boy, who vanished one spring, must have taken a ferry east for work or choked on unripe berries. Life must continue and, if men do not return, then better a tale of folly than the quiet truth that the forest takes those who dare venture into its shadows.

But now, in these bitter years under King John, the legend reaches the wrong ears.

The king — restless, suspicious, ever hungry for power and praise — hears of the beast not as a myth but as a challenge. He, who has no true war to fight and no brother to betray, seizes upon the tale like a dog with a bone. If there be a beast, he shall slay it. If there be none, then the slaying of panic will do just as well.

He sends his first hunters, gruff men with bows and grim humour, and they return scoffing, drunk on the ease of their search. "A fox's shadow," they say. "Or a stag mistaken in the dark." The second party returns bruised and sullen, disheartened. The third limps home wide-eyed and bloodied, with one less man than they set out.

Then no one returns.

One by one, the parties vanish; no songs, no horns, no cries. Only the hush of green leaves in the cool breeze and, now and then, a scream in the dead hours of night.

Until this morn.

The candlelight flickers as the door to the King's chamber creaks open and a servant enters, white as chalk. The king stirs beneath thick covers, the stink of wine on his breath, one eye opening like a snake's.

"Sire." The servant says, his voice hoarse with dread. "They have been found."

"Who?" John yawns, rolling onto one elbow, dark curls falling in front of his eyes. It is barely dawn and the sky is still heavy with stars.

"The last party. South of the Wytham trees. Just shy of the tree-line. We... We dare not fetch what's left, my king."

A silence settles in the room like damp.

The king sits upright now, face stony, fingers clenched tight upon the sheets. For all his temper and vanity, there is steel beneath the silks. He was not born a coward, though he has grown into one by degrees. But now his pride stirs. Not out of duty, nor love of his people — he has little of either — but because the forest dares to mock him. Because whatever lies beneath that green canopy thinks itself beyond his reach.

"So be it." He says, rising. "Ready my armour."

"Sire?" The servant blinks, incredulous. John swings his legs from the bed, bare feet kissing the cold stone.

"I shall lead the next charge myself. I would see this beast. I would hear it die by my hand."

"My king, forgive me, but—"

"I said ready my armour." The king snaps. "And send word to the townsfolk. If any man, any hunter, would prove his loyalty to king and country, let him meet me by the forest's edge at dawn. We ride for the greenwood."

And so it begins.

Beneath the bruised, near-dawn sky, as the sun struggles to rise beyond a horizon choked with mist, the forest waits; silent, ancient, vast.

She has tasted blood before and she will taste it again.

The fur cloak feels heavy upon John's shoulders as he makes his way to the very edge of the forest. She looms, dense and shrouded in foreboding. It is a grizzly sight, as his servant had informed him. Yet nothing could prepare him for the scene itself; a cacophony of such gore that he must look away in fear of losing his nerve and, indeed, last night's supper.

Bent swords and pierced armour are cast haphazardly upon the earth. Bones are scattered like pebbles in the tall grass. Torn, bloodied limbs are hung, like ripe fruit, from the boughs of nearby oaks. Crimson stains the leaves of small shrubs that straddle the border of the forest and the neighbouring town. Whomever — or whatever — did this intended it as a message. This was no mere slaughter; this was a warning.

Disgust wars with fear and anger within the king. Such blatant disregard for his rule. Beast or no, such disrespect would not be tolerated in his land.

Slowly, men begin to gather at the site, all averting their gaze from the sight of the massacre. They arrive on horseback, with what little they have; hoes and kitchen knives. They are a measly bunch but the king has since lost all of his royal hunters and must rely on the bravery of those who show their faces. He must rally them.

On his steed, he turns to the small group gathered before the tree line.

"The beast has claimed more victims." He announces. "My hunters, fathers and sons of your people, have been found...brutally killed." The men look to one another, wide-eyed, some shudder with fear. "You have shown your bravery by coming to my aid. Now, we must track and kill this monster or else face my displeasure." He pauses, steeling his nerves. "Let us ride out then." He turns his steed and starts for the forest. Upon crossing the border of shadow, he finds himself alone, turning back to see his party still standing shy of the tree line. His patience wears thin as he observes their reluctance. "By the saints, are you children or men? Follow me or I shall have you flogged for cowardice on our return!"

The party rides through the shadowy woodland and John pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders. The thick canopy of leaves blots out the morning sunlight, bathing the area in dim green and brown hues. Every snap of a branch or whisper through the trees makes his hair stand on end and his fingers twitch on the hilt of his sword. The men whisper behind him; stories of some great wolf, black as night, with red, glowing eyes and claws like knives, that stalks these grounds. Such a thing could never exist. Could it?

Hours pass and the light grows ever dim. The forest; she is dense and labyrinthine, brimming with untouched bounty. Raspberry bushes thrive, heavy with fruit. Broad oaks, perfect for timber, tower high above them. Streams of crystal, clear water burble beside fox-holes, beneath branches laden with nests. She is breathing and alive with the creatures that live here though this is no serene painting to hang in the winding halls of his castle. This place... Men have been torn asunder. Women have been cut down. Children have disappeared without a trace. This place, this wood, she is a harbinger of death.

As dusk begins to fall, the party happens upon a clearing. But this is no place to rest and regroup. This is a gravesite. Corpses lay across the earth; stomachs torn open, organs strewn across the grass, to be feasted upon by rats, foxes and crows. Whatever beast roams these grounds does not discriminate. Some of the men turn their heads and some search the site for lost loved ones, although the features of most bodies have long since rotted or been chewed away. John swallows thickly, his heart pounding against his ribs.

Suddenly, a scream. A man has been taken from his horse without a trace, his steed darting through the trees in search of escape. The remaining party freezes, eyes wide with terror.

"Where did he go?" One whispers.

"I didn't see anything." Another whispers through shaky breaths.

A low growl echoes through the trees as the breeze grows stronger, biting at the king's cheeks; a warning.

John's breath catches in his throat as the sound echoes through the forest, seemingly coming from all directions at once. He grips the reins of his steed and turns from the grim scene in the clearing.

"Stay together." He hisses. "And, for God's sake, keep your wits about you." He starts in another direction and the part follows behind him, their pace faster than before. Most men are pale, shaking. This is a cursed place; the tall oaks fed on the blood of trespassers, its animal inhabitants nourished by the gizzards of those who would dare venture onto these hallowed grounds.

Another man is picked off, the crunching of bones weaving through the branches as an arm falls to the earth, still twitching. Then a voice, low and gravelly, as if coming from the deepest pits, from the recesses of badger setts and the burrows of wild hare.

"Leave this place. Or suffer the consequence."

A cold sweat breaks out across the king's brow. This beast is not just dangerous; it is intelligent and cunning. He turns to his party, head swivelling on his neck as he searches for the direction from whence they came.

"Fall back!"

The men turn on their steeds, horses floundering before galloping in any direction. The forest has swallowed them and now she will only release them if they flee fast enough.

The group separates, leaving the king to fend for himself. He grits his teeth and sets his jaw, picking a direction and bolting through the trees. There is something at his back, hot breath on the back of his neck, claws inching for his back. His hands are trembling as they hold the reins, fingers curled tight around the leather. He spurs his steed forward but it is too late; the beast is upon him.

A huge, black shadow appears suddenly in his path. His horse rears up, tossing him from his saddle before fleeing. He hits the ground hard, the wind knocked out of him, his sheathed sword landing just out of reach. The shadow looms over him, as tall as a horse, cloaked in pitch-black fur. A great wolf with eyes like glowing, red-hot coals and claws like scythes. He tries to move but finds himself paralysed with fear.

The creature pads closer, blood dripping from its maw. Huge paws plant either side of him as hot breath fogs in the cool, dusky air. The coppery tang of blood fills his nostrils along with something else, something wild and untamed. He squeezes his eyes shut and makes his peace, praying to God for a quick and merciful death.

The beast hums, almost thoughtful.

"Is this a royal I see? A king?" It growls and John stiffens, eyes flying open in shock. Inwardly, he bristles at the implication that this creature knows his status, or that of his crown, that it recognises him as royalty, even in this moment of utter vulnerability. "I smell blue blood in your veins, blue like mould. Like rot and sin." The beast opens its jaw and clamps its teeth around his helmet, pulling it free before tossing it onto the grass. "Your subjects pillage this land of its wild crop and prey upon its creatures. Your soldiers hunt my head. None have asked permission to enter this sacred domain. What say you in your defence, outsider?"

The king's mind races as he attempts to formulate a response. He knows the accusations are true; his men have taken what they wanted from these woods and the creatures within were often hunted without mercy. Yet pride and royal entitlement surge within him.

"I am king." He insists but it seems that was the wrong answer as the beast above him snarls.

"Here, you are nothing but a blue-blooded cur." It bows its head only to sink its fangs into his armour as if it were warm butter. It is torn from his body and cast aside. The humiliation stings more than the physical shock. Yet, despite the fear gripping his heart, a spark of defiance ignites within the young king.

"You dare speak thusly to your king?" He demands though his body quivers in fear.

"You are no king of mine." The beast replies, tearing away chainmail with its teeth until John is left in nothing but his robes, damp and clammy with cold sweat, clinging to him like a second skin. "I have survived generations of your so-called monarchy."

Beneath the silvery moonlight, the king lies vulnerable before the ancient creature. Shaking hands instinctively move to cover his chest, fingers trembling against the fine fabric. The beast's words echo in his mind; generations of his ancestors failed to conquer this land or its fearsome guardian. "You hold no power here." For the first time in his life, John feels truly insignificant; a mere mortal before this huge, looming force of nature, the voice of the forest itself. "Still, you may be of use to me."

"And...what use would I be to you?" He asks.

"You hold power in your kingdom. You can decree that your subjects not enter this protected realm. They are nothing but a blight on the face of this haven, leaving nothing but tree stumps and arrowheads in their wake." The beast replies and the king swallows in a dry throat. He could issue a royal decree prohibiting his subjects from entering this forbidden land. It would mean preserving this untouched wilderness and the creatures living within it. Still, pride bubbles within him like an unholy spring of acid.

"And what do I receive in return?" He dares to ask.

"I will spare your life." The creature tells him simply. An incredulous, bitter laugh escapes him, echoing in the darkness.

"Spare my life? Sm I meant to be thankful for that? You forget, monster, I am worth more than my mere life. I am the bloody king!"

A thunderous bark interrupts him, shaking him to his core. It makes the very trees tremble and birds flee from their perches.

"Here, you are worth nothing!" The creature opens its huge mouth again, digging its teeth into the fine fabric of his robes and tearing them from his body. A mere man at the feet of a great, black hellhound; he is left bare in the moonlight, dark curls stuck to his brow, pulse fluttering in his soft, vulnerable throat. His hands involuntarily cover his nakedness though the act feels futile against such raw power.

"You— You dare strip me of my dignity—"

"If you do not agree to my terms, your lost dignity will be the least of your troubles." The great beast tells him as he meets its eyes. He sees no mercy there, only primal hunger and ancient anger.

"And...what happens if I refuse?" His voice is softer now, more timid, fearful.

"I urge you not to ask questions to which you already know the answer."

His pride wars with survival instinct, the cold air biting his exposed skin bringing him harshly back to reality. For once in his life, there is no throne to shield him, no guards to protect him, no crown to cower behind.

"You would kill me." It is not a question.

"To protect this land and its inhabitants, I must." And the king nods slowly, understanding the creature's logic. It is not acting out of malice but duty to its territory.

"Then I have no choice." His voice is a whisper, barely audible over the sound of wind rushing through the branches of the ancient oaks. "I will decree that no man shall enter your forest. It will be protected by royal law."

The beast seems satisfied by that response and retreats far enough for John to stand. He rises to his feet, his naked form trembling slightly in the cool night air. He feels utterly humiliated, stripped of every royal privilege, yet strangely alive. The creature's presence has awakened something within him. "I... I must return to my castle."

"We have more to discuss." The creature states.

"More?" He laughs, though no humour is heard in his tone, only bitterness. "You nearly kill me, strip me bare then demand more discussion? What kind of monster are you?" Yet, despite his words, there is no real anger. He has seen true monsters in his court; this beast is honest, at least. He schools his expression. "What else?" The great, black wolf settles on its side and John's eyes dart to his sword before back to the creature before him.

"We may strike a further deal." It rumbles, licking its chops clean of blood.

"What kind of deal?" He asks cautiously, rubbing his bare arms for warmth.

"Your subjects require food from this land, correct? Timber and healing herbs."

"Indeed, they do. This forest provides much of what sustains my kingdom." He pauses and meets the creature's eyes. They have cooled to a dim amber rather than the fiery red when they first met. "You would allow us to take what we need?"

"Though none of your people should step foot on this sanctified earth, we could come to an arrangement." It suggests.

"An arrangement?" He repeats, pacing, mind racing. "You would provide what my people need without them ever setting foot in this woodland? In exchange for what? What do you ask in return?" He stops, turning to the beast, eyes alight with suspicion and intrigue. The creature turns its head and huffs through its nose.

"As a guardian of this place, I am bound by honour to maintain its safety." It states before letting out a great sigh. "Yet...I grow lonely." John's heart skips a beat at the great, black wolf's admission. It strikes him how similar they are; both rulers bound by duty yet yearning for connection beyond their solitary stations. "You see, once a year, I go into rut. My mind is clouded and I rage in frustration. Yet, as I am the last of my kind, I cannot sate these needs." Understanding dawns on the young king like a shower of winter rain. The beast's loneliness is not only emotional but physical as well.

"So...you need someone. During that time." He tries carefully, almost gently. He runs a hand through his unruly, dark curls, suddenly very aware of his naked form. "And you are offering me...that role?" It nods slowly. John feels a strange flutter in his chest; apprehension and something else he cannot name. "And what of the rest of the year?"

"I would ensure your people see the bounty of this land without needing to lift a finger."

"No hunting nor gathering..." He murmurs thoughtfully. "Just provided with everything they need." He realises this creature is not only offering a solution to his kingdom's needs but a peaceful coexistence bordering on utopia. He could be the greatest, most celebrated king of all time... He looks back toward the creature, studying its powerful body, shrouded in ink-black fur.

"All I require in return is your presence for a few nights during the spring months." He takes a breath, cold air stinging in his throat as the weight of his decision presses down upon him. He understands the gravity of what is being asked and what is being offered.

"And, if I agree, will my people be safe from harm? Will they be able to live freely and without fear?" He asks cautiously.

"So long as they do not intrude upon this sacred ground, they shall be safe and provided for." The beast assures him.

"And these nights... Will they be gentle? Or will you take ma like an animal?"

"I would strive to make them enjoyable for you." It replies.

"Enjoyable." He echoes softly. "So not simply brute force. You would...care for my pleasure as well?"

"Indeed."

"God help me..." The king mutters to himself, his mind already made up. He reaches out hesitantly. "I agree to your terms. My kingdom will have your protection and bounty and, in return... I will give you a few nights of my body each spring." The great beast raises its head, allowing the king's palm to graze its fur, silky-soft and black as pitch as it passes through his fingers.

"A wise decision." It says and John lets out a shaky exhale.

"When do these nights begin precisely?" He asks.

"Perhaps tonight? If you are willing." It replies, rising to its feet before lowering slightly. "Come. I should take you back to my den. You shall be more comfortable there." The king hesitates for a moment then climbs onto the black wolf's broad back. He wraps his arms around its neck as it rises fully and begins to dart swiftly through the trees towards its den.

It is completely dark when the two arrive at the beast's den. It is built into the side of a huge, ancient oak tree beside a bubbling spring, decorated with soft moss, beeswax candles and the occasional fur. The scent of damp earth and wildflowers permeates the air. It is strangely home-like for a creature so feared.

"Here." The beast says and John dismounts carefully, his legs feeling weak from the ride and the anticipation building inside him. He turns on his heel to face the great, black wolf, his bare frame illuminated in the silvery moonlight, standing alone in this oddly intimate space.

"Now what?" He asks tentatively and a quiet chuckle rumbles through the creature.

"Now? I must transform. After all, I would be too large for you as I am."

"Transform?" The king repeats.

"Yes. Please, make yourself comfortable. I shall return shortly." And John nods slowly, watching as the beast turns and disappears into a nearby thicket. Curious, he moves deeper into the den, exploring the soft furnishings and enjoying the gentle glow of the candles. He settles into a pile of soft furs, the sound of flowing water soothing his nerves.

Suddenly, low growls and groans of pain rise from the thicket. The forest echoes with the snapping and shifting of bones, the scent of blood in the air. John freezes, listening intently. The sounds grow louder, more intense, and he feels the very ground beneath him tremble. There is a sharp crack and a gasp, followed by a final pained grunt.

A man rises from behind the thicket; tall, muscular, naked, soaked in blood and patches of deep-black fur. He strides toward the spring and kneels beside it, washing away the evidence of his transformation. Scars line his broad shoulders, shimmering in the moonlight. The king watches, transfixed.

Once clean, the man turns to face him. The beast — now, man — is still larger than him but not as drastically so. "I assume this form is more palatable?"

"God, yes." The king breathes, eyes widening as he takes in the man's body; tall, stocky, broad-shouldered. The man joins him on the furs.

"Is this comfortable?" He asks. John nods and reclines, running his fingers over the soft furs and moss beneath him. He has never felt anything so comfortable in his life. The palace beds are packed with straw, the pillows stuffed with feathers, but this feels like heaven. Or perhaps he is simply relishing the company of his newfound companion.

"You sleep here?" He asks curiously.

"Indeed. The furs are not harvested, you understand. They are provided to be by inhabitants of this land who pass, gifting their pelts to me, their guardian, after a long life." The man explains.

"And they trust you with their final gifts..." He reaches out, gently taking the man's hand in his own, finding it rough and calloused. "You must be very lonely here, with only the dead for company." The man moves closer, nuzzling under the king's jaw, breath hot on his skin.

"That is why I require your presence." Kisses rain down on John's neck and collarbone as his body flushes with warmth, despite the cool chill of the night air. "Have you laid with a man before?" And the king shakes his head. "Then I shall be gentle with you."

taglist: @ingoldthewizard @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @starwarskawaii

[authorchariot]

I just found the best treasure ever!!! Omg i really really love your work. I would like to give you a little advice to use # ___ x reader cause I want everyone to see this masterpiece omgggg

CORRESPONDENCE: thank you so much!! i'm glad you enjoyed my stuff 💛✨ and thanks for the advice, bestie. i'll have to start doing that /gen

[authorchariot]

> ENTRY: A_MERCY_NOT_MEANT_FOR_HIM

RATING: explicit

CATEGORY: bad times at the el royale (2018)

PAIRING: miles miller x nun!reader

EST. READING TIME: 30m 30s

INDEX TAGS: drug addiction, hurt/comfort, love confessions, nipple play, not beta read, oral sex, pov second person, religious imagery and symbolism, strangers to lovers, vaginal fingering, voyeurism

ACCESS MATERIAL ON AO3 OR BELOW

The clouds roll in, thick and low, across, a bruised purple-grey that swallows the remaining sunlight whole. Rain starts as a gentle patter against the windshield, then grows into a steady percussion, slashing sideways under the press of the wind. You tighten your grip on the steering wheel, eyes narrowed, wipers squeaking in rhythm.

Your new assignment lies still hours away; another convent, another mission. Another place to serve. But the storm is unrelenting and the gaslight is glowing orange on the dash, insistent.

That's when you see it.

A neon sign flickers through the curtain of rain; The El Royale. Half the bulbs are out but it's unmistakable; red, gold and humming softly against the approaching dark. The complex rises like a mirage out of the trees, straddling the Nevada-California border with a kind of stubborn defiance, caught in a time that's long since passed.

You pull into the parking lot, the gravel crunching beneath the tires, headlights casting long beams over puddles and cracked pavement. The rain hasn't let up; it drums loud on the roof of the car, drowns out the world beyond it. You sigh and grab your bag, pulling your habit tight around your shoulders before stepping out into the wet.

The wind immediately grabs hold of your skirts, tugging and whipping at the fabric like it's trying to peel you apart. You clutch your things and make for the door of the lobby, your boots splashing through puddles, veil slicked to the side of your face.

The lobby doors groan open as you step inside and, just like that, the noise outside dies. The storm becomes a muffled echo behind glass and wood and velvet. The air smells of cedar polish, dust and old cigarette smoke. Everything is dim and red and strange, like stepping into a half-lucid dream.

Behind the desk, a young man in a semi-rumpled uniform looks up, startled by the sudden sound of the door. His eyes widen the moment he sees you; dripping, windblown, your habit clinging to your frame like a second skin. There's a moment of pure, suspended silence as he takes you in and you do the same; taking in his creased shirt and the hair messily pushed over to the right side. You offer him a polite, almost apologetic smile before approaching, descending the short flight of stairs before walking up to the front desk. The man behind straightens, trying to return your smile but failing.

"Good evening, Sister." He says softly. His voice is slightly higher but it suits his boyish countenance, as do the sweet, ocean-blue eyes that gaze back at you. "Are you looking for a room for the night?"

"Yes, please."

"Here?" He replies, almost incredulous. It seems like a silly question. After all, why would you be here if not to find a place to lay your head for the night? You laugh softly.

"I should hope so." It's not mocking in anyway and he seems thankful of that, a shy smile quirking the corners of his thin lips.

"This just... This isn't the kind of place for..."

"For what?"

"For people like you." His eyes flick down to your habit and the crucifix hanging around your neck, dripping with rain-water. "N-No offence, Sister." It doesn't seem like he sees many people, skittish as he is.

"None taken..." You glance down to the name badge resting, somewhat askew, on the left breast of his blazer. "Miles. But I'm in dire need of a rest." He nods.

"Well, we do have a few rooms available." He admits reluctantly.

"Thank you. Is it busy tonight?" And he hesitates.

"It's quiet tonight." As you suspect it is many nights. The place is like a ghost town. "You'd be our only guest right now, Sister."

"Well, lucky me." You reply with a warm smile. Something about his nervous demeanour is quite charming.

"Would you prefer one of our regular rooms or something more...private?" He catches himself, quickly adding; "I mean, appropriate for..." He gestures vaguely to your damp habit.

"Whatever is most convenient, Miles, if you would."

"One of our regular rooms then." He decides, pulling out the ledger and flipping it open before laying it in front of you. "Please sign in." You nod and pluck up a pen, easily scrawling your name into the ledger, as he fetches a key for one of the Nevada rooms.

Sliding the key across the counter, his fingers brush yours, only the slightest touch though it seems to throw him slightly as his next words come out somewhat breathless. "Room four."

"How much do I owe you?"

"Eight dollars." You nod and pull out your purse, placing the fee on the reception desk. He takes the money, careful not to touch your fingers again, and places the bills into the register. "Breakfast is included."

"Wonderful. What time should I come for breakfast?" You ask, putting away your purse.

"Whenever you'd like, Sister. The dining room opens at 7am but, if you're hungry earlier, I could bring something to your room if you just let me know." His cheeks turn a soft shade of pink at the suggestion, sweet and shy. You mirror his bashfulness, heat rising to the apples of your cheeks.

"You're very kind, Miles." You tell him and he flushes a little deeper, looking away.

"It's nothing, Sister. Just doing my job." He pauses. "Is there anything else I can do for you before you retire for the night?"

"I don't think so."

"Alright then. If you need anything during the night, just ring the front desk, alright?" You smile and nod, tucking your purse under your arm.

"I will. Thank you. Goodnight, Miles."

"Goodnight, Sister." He watches as you turn and walk toward the door. Once you disappear, he turns the ledger around, admiring the slight slant of your handwriting and reciting to the syllables of your name in his head; a name that suits you, a name that has a strange, calming effect on his ever-frayed nerves. He likes you, that much is abundantly clear.

The night goes on, rain pelting the windows and punctuating every moment. Miles tries to go about his duties; dusting the surfaces and taking inventory but, as soon as he allows himself to think, his mind drifts to that solitary door at the end of the hall, behind the front desk.

No, he couldn't. He shouldn't. Not to you. Not to a nun.

But you were so sweet to him. And he can't stop thinking about the way your habit clung to you, the silver crucifix hanging from your neck, the soft touch of your hand on his, your skin warm despite the cold rain outside.

It's been so very long since someone was so kind to him, especially one as lovely as yourself, one that seemed to be every bit the angel he always envisioned himself marrying. Before he was draughted, that is. Kind and polite and pious. He always wanted to marry a woman like you, one his parents would approve of, if only they were still around.

Around 8pm, he shamefully gives into temptation, slipping behind the reception desk and into the dark corridor beyond.

The surveillance corridor is eerily quiet as he makes his way toward the viewing window into room four. His heart pounds in his chest, guilt and excitement warring within him as he peers through the one-way mirror.

He doesn't really know what he expected — you see all sorts at the El Royale, after all — but you're simply sitting by the desk, calmly reading a book. It's serene; comforting, even. Almost domestic.

He turns on the microphones, listening to the sound of crisp pages turning under your fingers, the sound of soft breaths, your fingertip lightly grazing the page as your eyes follow the lines of printed text.

He knows he shouldn't be watching, shouldn't be looking in on such a scene. Though you remain fully clothed and completely at peace, it feels sinful to be watching you without your knowledge, intruding. You're like an angel and he is an interloper, baring witness to something so profoundly tranquil. He feels privileged, in a way. Blessed to gaze upon you in such a calm, still moment.

You stay like that for some time before you gently close your book and set it to one side, standing and reaching for the hem of your veil. His eyes widen as you pull it off along with your bandeau, revealing your hair; neatly tied up in a bun. He swallows thickly. Even seeing this much of you has heat rising to his cheeks, especially as you begin humming to yourself. It's something he recognises, something he may have heard on the radio once, in a drug-filled haze. He, once again, is reminded that he shouldn't be here, shouldn't be intruding on your privacy, yet the soothing melody both soothes him and makes his chest ache with a longing he doesn't quite understand.

You remove your coif and guimpe, laying them delicately on the vanity in front of the mirror. It uncovers the smooth line of your neck; soft, unmarked and painfully tempting. He realises he's never seen a nun without her full habit before. He supposes he never expected them to have such graceful figures.

Kneeling to untie your shoes, you place them aside and remove your crucifix before reaching for the buttons of your habit. His eyes widen as panic rises in his chest. No, he shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be watching this. You should be alone, as you believe yourself to be. He wasn't asked to watch you so he isn't even doing this out of duty, as he so often does. He's doing this for his own 'enjoyment', if he can even call it that. This is private and sacred and he should, at least, look away... But, alas, his feet remained glued to the spot, his eyes tracing the lines of your figure as you unbutton your habit.

The buttons come undone, one by one, and the habit falls open, revealing a simple, white shift underneath. The angles of your collarbone peak up from the neckline, accented by a small, silver cross as the hollow of your throat, and he can see the curves of your breasts, the slope of your waist, the line of your hips...

You hang up your habit, still humming to yourself, and Miles feels heat spread through his body as he watches you. The sight of you in your simple undergarments is so innocent and pure yet also incredibly feminine and alluring. You reach back to unhook your bra, slipping it down your arms and pulling it away. His breath hitches in his throat as a tightness roots itself between his thighs. You tuck your bra back into your case before straightening again. His mouth goes dry as his eyes trace the outline of your nippled, visible through the thin fabric of your slip. This is wrong, he knows that much, but he can't help himself.

You bend at the waist, sliding your hands up your thighs, the hem of your shift collecting at your wrists. You hook your fingers into the hem of your underwear and pull them down. He doesn't get a full look, that would be too much, but the mere thought of that has another spike of heat lancing through his abdomen, especially as you pull your panties down the smooth, creamy flesh of your thighs, tucking them into your case.

Finally, you let your hair out of it's bun. Your hair is styled in a way that's simple yet undeniably beautiful, falling around your shoulders in loose waves, after been tied up all day.

You turn off the overhead light and kneel beside the bed, the watery lamplight illuminating your frame as you rest your elbows on the edge of the bed, clasping your hands together and letting your eyes drift closed. Your posture is so prayerful, so perfect.

"Father, once again, thank you for yet another beautiful day. Thank you for keeping me safe during this arduous journey. I hope to serve you, as always, with hope, compassion and love." You recite and Miles feels that deep ache again in his chest. Your words are pure, filled with devotion and light; a stark contract to the darkness and depravity he lives in, spying on guests and self-medicating to numb the pain. He feels unworthy.

Your brow furrows slightly and he finds himself curious to hear your next words. "And, Lord, if I may ask a favour..." He holds his breath. "I met a man today. He was helpful and kind and...very charming." You laugh softly to yourself. "I sensed sadness in him, fear. I pray you may help him find peace, Father." His heart stops in his chest. The man you met today was him; sad, scared Miles Miller. Even from behind the one-way mirror, he feels seen in a way no-one else has ever been able to grasp.

And still you continue. "Protect him as he sleeps, Father, as you protect me. Amen."

Then you stand, fetch your book from the desk, pull back the covers and slide into bed, tucking yourself into bed and going beck to reading once more.

Miles stands in the dark surveillance corridor; heart racing, palms damp, pants tight. He feels the need to apologise, to confess everything; the spying, the drugs, the killing. It overwhelms him suddenly and completely. He turns off the microphones and turns to leave, hands shaking by his sides.

He knows what he has to do.

Miles finds himself outside of room four. He feels like a monster, a criminal who invaded your privacy and took advantage of the vulnerable nature of the hotel room. But, despite all that, he needs to speak to you, to look into your eyes and confess it all. It weighs heavy on his soul and he feels that you can bring him the relief he so desperately needs, absolve him of his many, many crimes.

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what he's about to do. He raises his hand and knocks.

"Just a moment!" You call and he can hear faint rustling before there's the sound of the chain sliding across the door. You open the door and the chain stops you from opening it fully. You've draped a robe around your shoulders, covering the slip and all the wonderful freckled skin it revealed. "Miles? Are you alright?"

Something inside him breaks. Even after all he's done, even after invading your privacy, he sees only kindness and concern in your eyes and it destroys him.

"I'm not." He admits, his voice thick with emotion, a lump forming in his throat. "Could I come in for a moment? Please, Sister." Your brows knit but you nod, closing the door and taking off the chain before opening the door fully.

"Of course. Come in."

He steps inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. The sight of you in your robe and slip is almost too much for him to handle; innocent, pure and completely unaware of the darkness he carries inside him. He turns to face you, hands shaking slightly, as you sit on the edge of the bed. "What's wrong?"

He stands there for a long moment, staring at the carpet, as he tries to find the words. When he finally raises his head again, his eyes are brimming with tears, blue eyes shimmering in the low light.

"I've done horrible things." He manages, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Is it weighing heavily on you? Would you like to confess, Miles?" You ask, your face a beacon of light and purity amongst the grime of his life.

"Yes." He chokes out, running a shaky hand through his hair. "Yes, I need to confess." You smile warmly and pat the space beside you on the bed.

"Come and sit with me."

He hesitates for a moment before moving slowly, walking over and sitting beside you. The warmth of your body and the simple scent of your soap fill his senses. He needs to get it out; to purge his sins in front of you, he needs someone to know and something about you calls out to him.

You reach over and take his hands in yours, trailing your thumbs along his palm. "Take your time." You tell him. He looks down at your small, delicate hand in his, feeling unworthy of your touch, your kindness.

"I stole and I— I killed people." He begins, his voice barely audible, and he shudders, squeezing his eyes shut as a tear drops down his cheek. "Vietnam." He continues, voice cracking. "I killed people. Too many." He takes a shuddering breath, holding back the sobs that threaten to burst through.

"Oh, Miles..." You breathe but he shakes his head, more tears falling, leaving hot tracks down his face.

"That's not all. There's so much. I'm a... A junkie." His fingers wrap around your own tightly, knuckles paling, as he holds onto you like a lifeline. "I started using to... To cope. Now I-I can't stop." And he fractures, drawing in heaving, wet breaths through harsh sobs. "I-I'm an addict and a thief and a murderer and..." You let him cry, you don't interrupt, letting him pour out the emotions he's kept pressed down for so long.

Raising a hand to his face, you cradle his jaw, wiping his tears with your thumb. It hurts. It hurts to see a man like this, so broken and desperate for redemption. You pull him into your arms, rubbing his back. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in as he clings to you like a drowning man. The warmth and comfort of your embrace is overwhelming and, for the first time in years, he feels seen. He feels safe.

"You carry so much pain with you." You sigh as his tears soak into your robe, his fingers curling into the back desperately. Hearing those words, so understanding and gentle, shake him to his core. He kisses your neck, a gesture of sheer gratitude.

"I'm so tired..." He mumbles, the words half-muffled against your skin. You press a kiss to his temple.

"You must be exhausted, carrying such a heavy weight on your shoulders." He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against your own, trying to take deep breaths. You close your eyes and card your fingers through his hair. "Holy Father, Miles has confided in me. His heart and soul are heavy with pain and regret. I should like to ask for forgiveness for him."

Another sob bursts from him and he clings onto you once more, hiding his face in the crook of your neck, as he listens to your prayer. "I ask that you please forgive his transgressions. You see he is a caring man, a loving man, a good man. May you please forgive him and fill him with light and love and peace." He breaks down completely, sobs wracking his body as he holds onto you, as if loosening his grip might make you slip through his fingers.

He feels something shift inside him, the weight lifting from inside him. It's not complete absolution but it's a start; an opening for healing.

Once his cries fade into soft whimpers and sniffles, you kiss his temple again. "How do you feel?" He lifts his head, looking at you with red, watery eyes. He feels...lighter. The weight on his chest has eased somewhat and, for the first time in years, he doesn't feel like he's drowning in his own guilt and shame.

"Better." He whispers hoarsely. You smile and kiss his forehead, your lips pulled into a small, sympathetic smile.

"Good. I'm glad I could help." And you are. Because he deserves it.

There's a long silence before he reaches out, his hand trembling as he cups your cheek. He's never allowed himself to be this vulnerable with anyone, not even God, but in this moment, he feels a connection to you that's almost sacred.

"Would you— Would you mind if I..."

"What?"

"If I stay with you tonight?" He doesn't want to be alone, not after everything he's just poured out, not when he now knows just how healing your presence is for him. He wants — no, needs — to be near you, to feel your warmth surrounding him, like a protective shield.

"You realise this isn't how confessional usually goes, right?" You ask with a soft chuckle and a weak, watery laugh escapes him at your gentle teasing.

"I know." His eyes search your face, hopeful, pleading. "Please? Just let me stay with you?"

"Alright." You stand and take off your robe, sliding under the covers and pulling back the other side for him. "Make yourself comfortable." He hesitates before slowly standing, reaching up to begin removing his uniform. You open your book again to continue reading, giving him some privacy as he takes his time undressing, folding his clothes neatly and placing them on the chair near the desk, before slipping under the covers in just his undershirt and boxers.

Once he's settled, you place your book to one side and lay down, opening your arms for him to curl against your side and rest his head. "Come here. It must've been so long since someone held you." He freezes for a moment before slowly scooting closer. You're right; he can't remember the last time someone held him like this. When he was a child, maybe? He gingerly rests his head on your chest, throwing one arm over your stomach, under the sheets. You stroke his hair soothingly, pressing a kiss there, and a small, contented sigh leaves him as he settles against you, finding himself nuzzling into your warmth. His fingers curl into the fabric of your slip. He feels safe here, protected in a way he hasn't felt in years. In the low light, you spot the track-marks on his inner elbow, new and old. You hold onto him tighter. "You must feel so lost."

"I'm so tired of feeling like this." He whispers and you kiss his head again.

"I see you. And I hear you." You reassure him and his breath catches, fresh tears stinging his eyes. "And I'm here."

"I'm scared." He admits, voice trembling.

"What're you scared of?"

"That I'll never be good enough. That I'll always be like this. That I'll end up alone." You let the admission hang, heavy, in the air for a moment before you gently tilt his head to look at you.

"Miles, you carry pain with you, yes. But you also carry so much good; you're approachable and kind and compassionate and willing to help. No-one is beyond saving." His eyes dart across your face, desperate for the truth in your words. He sees sincerity there, genuine belief in him. It's more than anyone has ever given him, more than he's ever given himself, and you give it to him willingly, blindly. Another tear rolls down his cheek as he reaches up to, tentative fingers brushing against your lips. You wrap your fingers around his wrist, pressing gentle kisses to his fingertips. "No-one is too far from His light to reach them." He melts into your embrace, bottom lip quivering. He nuzzles his face against your chest, breathing you in. You just make him feel so cherished and wanted and loved.

You press kisses to the crown of his head. "It's alright. You're not alone anymore." He's never felt so vulnerable, so exposed, and yet so utterly safe. He buries his face between your breasts, hands roaming your back for purchase.

"I need you..."

"It's okay. I'm here." You reassure him.

"No, I need you." He repeats, his voice shaky and desperate. "I need someone to hold me, to tell me I'm worth something. I need someone to love me despite what I've done." He lifts his head, eyes red and puffy, face flushed. You smile, smoothing his hair away from his face.

"I love you. And He loves you." You tell him and he just looks at you, his expression a mix of desperation and longing. He sees the purity in your eyes, the genuine love and compassion for a stranger who turned up on your doorstep, who you invited into this sacred space filled with light and comfort. You've transformed his world in the little time you've been here and he never wants you to leave. "What?"

"Marry me." He blurts out suddenly. He's begging for something more primal, something human. He wants to feel wanted, needed, loved. He needs to feel like he belongs somewhere, with someone. "Please."

"Miles." You press your lips to his forehead. "We met about three hours ago." You remind him and a laugh bubbles up in his chest, a sad, bitter sound.

"I know. But I've never felt this way. Not about anyone." He pauses, blue eyes wide and wet. "You're my redemption."

"Your redemption..." You echo, running your knuckles along his cheek. He hums, nuzzling into your touch like a stray puppy finally finding an owner.

"Like maybe God sent you to love someone like me."

"You really think?"

"Yes." His voice is soft though filled with conviction. "I think...you're my salvation, an angel sent to save me." He bites his lip, averting his gaze for just a moment, before his eyes flick back to you. "I'd do anything."

You pause to think.

He needs this, needs you. He's so lost and scared and alone. He looks at you like you pulled the stars from the sky and placed him in his hands, a gift from on high. An angel sent to save him. How could such a sweet thing think himself so damned as to need such guidance? It sends pains through your chest to see him suffer and, though you only just met, you feel as if you've known him years and you feel his pain as though it were your own; deep, wounding, consuming.

Finally, you lean in, brushing your lips against his in a chaste, gentle kiss.

"'Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.'" You whisper against his lips and he lets out a shuddering breath. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes and you feel the undeniable evidence of his need against your thigh, stiff and aching. You kiss him again, feeling it throb against you, beneath the covers. You know you want this. On paper, it would be a sin but, under the circumstances, it feels like a blessing, to hold him and heal him and forgive him in such a way that he forgets all else, that his past transgressions are nothing but a distant memory.

You decide to be honest with him. "I've not...had sex in a few years now." You admit and he nods.

"I haven't either." And, yes, he's been celibate since the war, guilt and trauma making intimacy impossible until now. And now he wants this so badly, wants to make love to his redemption. "Can I touch you?" And you nod.

He starts tentatively, his hands shaking as he traces your features; your neck, your collarbone. It's gentle, almost reverent, like you're some precious treasure he still doesn't believe is real. His hand drifts under the covers to the hem of your slip, seeking permission to continue. "Is this okay?" His calloused fingers are gentle on your thigh, careful. You nod again. He pulls the hem up slowly, exposing more and more of your legs until the fabric rides up to your hips. He pauses there, looking up at you for confirmation before he gently spreads your legs, settling between them, pushing away the covers. He slides the slip up your body; revealing your stomach, your ribs and your breasts before finally pulling it off you, leaving you naked beneath him. You're so small and delicate compared to him, your skin flushed across the shoulders and cheeks, your nippled tight and pink. You peer up at him bashfully.

Miles has seen so many things in his life but nothing like this, nothing so pure and beautiful. He leans down to brush his lips along the curve of your throat, his voice a soft whisper against your skin. "You're so perfect." His hands cup your breasts gently, thumbs brushing over your nipples, making your breath catch and your back arch.

"Miles..." And a soft groan leaves him at the sound of his name on your lips. His thumbs circle your nipples slowly, feeling them stiffen further, before taking one into his mouth. You bite your lip to stifle a moan, carding your fingers through his hair. "Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool..." He pauses, looking up at you. In this moment, with your pure body beneath him and those holy words on your lips, he feels truly forgiven. His touch is worshipful as he moves to the other breast, circling your nipple with his tongue before taking it into his mouth and suckling gently. Then he trails kisses down your stomach, his heart pounding in his chest. "F-For we are God's masterpiece..." Scripture falls from your lips like a divine song, making him feel like the most blessed man alive.

"You're an angel." He whispers, voice thick with emotion and desire.

"Miles, what're you..."

He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he spreads your legs and buries his face between them, kissing and licking in slow, reverent strokes. He's never done this before out of love or want; only out of duty or the promise of payment. Your fingers find their way into his hair, nails raking lightly against his scalp, and it feels like Heaven itself giving him permission. "I love you, Lord, my strength. The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer..." Hearing the Bible verses while he pleasures you makes him feel like he's making love to a saint.

He pushes your legs back farther as he falls into a rhythm. Your soft mewls and holy words push him higher and higher, making him worship your body like an altar. You gaze down to watch him work and he looks back up at you with adoring eyes. Two fingers slide inside you as his tongue circles the bud above before sucking gently, lovingly. "O-Ohh...! I am my beloved's and his desire is... Is for me..." His own arousal is painful now, pressed against the mattress through his boxers, but he wants nothing more than to bring you pleasure.

He curls his fingers inside you, blindly searching for the perfect spot inside you that makes you cry out. He finds it and you whine and whimper, your body flush with desperate, primal need. "Miles, I—" He silences you with his lips, kissing you deeply, as his fingers slide and stroke, his thumb circling the hood of your bud and rubbing firmly. He's never been so aroused in his life. He needs to be inside you more than he needs his next breath.

You whimper against his mouth as you crest the peak, coiling your arms around his shoulders and kissing him back clumsily as you hips buck against the bed. He groans into your open mouth as you clench around his fingers. He's never felt so close to Heaven as he does in this moment, pleasing the woman he's come to love like she's his religion.

You're trembling as you start to come down from the high, pressing kisses to his neck as you hold him to you. "You are altogether...b-beautiful, my darling; there is no flaw in you..." He pulls back to look at you. Your cheeks are flushed pink, your lips red and swollen from his kisses. You quote Song of Solomon like you're making love, like it's the dirtiest thing you've ever said.

Your fingers toy with the collar of his undershirt. "Miles..."

"What?" He's so desperate for you. He's never wanted anyone like he wants you right now. He's never felt so alive as he does with you.

"Let me see you."

He lets out a soft, shaky breath as he pulls off his undershirt, dropping it somewhere off the edge of the bed. Once he's shirtless, you run your hands along his bare chest, your fingers tracing every curve and contour you find. "My beloved is like a gazelle or a young stag..." You murmur and he shivers at your touch. His hands come up to cover yours, pressing them against his chest, over his heart. Gently, you trail your fingertips down his chest, then his stomach, finishing at the waistband of his boxers. You peer up at him and he swallows hard. He knows what you're asking without words needing to be spoken aloud. He helps guide your hand lower until it rests where he aches most desperately.

"I'm sorry." He whispers. "I shouldn't..." Still, he wriggles out of his boxers, leaving the both of you naked and eager. He's ashamed of his body, of the scars and the track-marks. He feels unworthy of your gaze, of your touch. "I'm— I'm sorry..."

"Don't be sorry." Without another word, you cup his cheek and gently lower his body down against your own, admiring and loving him for all that he is. "His cheeks are like beds of spice yielding perfume. His lips are like lilies dripping with myrrh. His arms are rods of gold set with topaz, his body is polished ivory, decorated with lapis. Don't be sorry, Miles." He feels a lump form in his throat again, burying his face between your breasts as he presses himself against you, hiking your legs wider. "O-Ohh..." Your soft sigh... It's too much.

"I can't. I'm not...worthy." He mumbles against your skin.

"Then let me."

With a slow, controlled movement, you lie him back and straddle his hips, your hair mussed and your eyes lidded. He looks up at you with wide eyes, his heart pounding in his chest. He's never seen anything like this, anything more wonderful. He reaches up to touch you; your face, your hair, your breasts...

"You're an angel." He says again and you smile.

"Miles, if we do this, will you forgive yourself?" You ask him and he sucks in a breath, eyes welling with tears again.

"Yes... Yes, I'll try." He manages, tears threatening to spill. "I'll try to be worthy." You nod and push his hair away from his face.

"Then let me absolve you, sweet one."

You lift your hips and slowly sink down onto him, letting him fill you, enveloping him in tight, wet heat. Miles lets out a cry, eyes rolling slightly. The feeling is overwhelming, better than anything he's ever imagined. His hands fly to your hips, holding you in place as he breaks completely, sobs shaking his body.

"Forgive me..." He chokes out as you start to rock your hips.

"Miles, you're forgiven. As far as the East is from the West, so far has He removed our transgressions from us..." You sigh, feeling him buck up against you, trying to reign in the instinct screaming at him to make this hard and fast. He wants to savour this with you.

"So far has He removed our transgressions..." He repeats, tears rolling down his cheeks as he feels himself being washed clean by your touch. You kiss his forehead, then his nose, his closed eyelids, his cheeks and finally his lips.

"It's alright." He starts to move with you, completely lost in the sensation of being inside you and being loved by you. It makes his chest swell with warmth and affection.

"I love you... Love you... Please..." He pants out against your lips. He's never felt this before; pure love and acceptance. Large, warm hands roam your body reverently as if touching a saint. He's in Heaven as you make love to him, your slow movements driving him wild with desire and love. His fingers trace your lips before he pulls you down against him, holding onto you like the only anchor in a storm. He doesn't last long — the lack of touch and physical intimacy won't lest him — but it doesn't matter.

He stiffens, fingers digging into your hips, as he comes undone inside of you. He sobs and wraps his arms around you, tears soaking into your skin as he clutches you close, drawing in wet, shaky breaths. He whispers one more thing as he passes into the fuzzy haze of afterglow, the words half-muffled as he murmurs them against your skin. "Thank you..." You just smile and hold him close, pulling the covers up to build a shield around him, a space where only the two of you exist, where he's safe and protected from the world.

"Like an apple tree among the trees of the forest is my beloved among the young men. I delight to sit in his shade and his fruit is sweet to my taste." You whisper in his ear and he lets out a little chuckle as he nuzzles under your jaw.

He's safe here. He's...happy. He hasn't felt that in so long.

But now he's here and he feels blessed, at peace.

taglist: @ingoldthewizard @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @starwarskawaii

[authorchariot]

Hey, you wanted a request, here's a request: Bob Floyd. Peach whipped cream. Do with it what you will. (You know who this is, but I am not outing myself in public like this🤣)

CORRESPONDENCE: thank you thank you 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

> ENTRY: TUMBLR_SPECIAL_001

TITLE: just desserts

RATING: teen+

CATEGORY: top gun: maverick (2022)

PAIRING: bob floyd x reader

EST. READING TIME: 3m 48s

INDEX TAGS: established relationship, food play, pov second person, not beta read

You just got home from doing the early-morning grocery run, Target-specifically. You had to pick up some bread, some toilet rolls, some milk; the usual fare.

Getting in, you place the bags on the counter and start putting the items all in their respective places; milk in the fridge, bread in the bread-bin and such. Finally, you reach into the last grocery bag and pull out a cool can of peach-flavoured whipped cream. It was on offer so you decided to give it a shot for a couple bucks.

Bob should still be in bed at this hour but you check around quickly before uncapping it. You give the can a quick shake before placing the nozzle in your mouth and pulling the trigger. After a brief hiss, sweet, tangy, fluffy cream fills your mouth. The peach flavour isn't completely natural but it still tastes delicious, melting on your tongue. You let out a pleased hum.

Behind you, Bob sleepily rubs his eyes before sliding on his glasses, dressed in his boxers and a t-shirt. Watching you savour the sweet treat, he swallows hard, unconsciously adjusting himself as you lick a little off your lips.

You feel eyes on your back and turn on your heel to face him with a smile.

"Morning, Lieutenant." You notice his eyes flick between your lips and the uncapped can of whipped cream in your hand. "You want some?" He nods slowly.

"Yeah." His voice is a little huskier than usual but you chalk it up to him just waking up. He closes the distance between you.

"Peach-flavoured. It was discounted." You tell him and he smiles, that smile he reserves only for you; soft, sweet, intimate.

"You know peach is one of my favourites." His breath is warm on your lips and you lift the nozzle to his mouth.

"Open up." He opens his mouth obediently, letting you squirt a little of the sweet cream onto his tongue. It draws a soft moan from him, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. When he opens them, they're dark and lidded and he deftly snatches the can from your hand. "Hey!" He laughs, holding it out of reach.

"My turn." He squirts a little onto the tip of his finger before bringing it to your lips. Peering up at him, you drag your tongue over his fingertip before sucking it into your mouth and his breath catches. He pulls his finger away slowly before leaning down to seal his lips over yours, savouring both the taste of the whipped cream and your chapstick. Automatically, your arms wrap around his broad shoulders and you sigh as he walks you backward to press you against the kitchen counter. He deepens the kiss, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose, as his free hand moves to your hip.

Pulling back to catch his breath, his eyes trace along the curve of your neck down to your bare collarbone. Lifting the can, he squeezes the trigger and squirts a little onto the hollow of your throat. "Hold still." His voice is a rough murmur as he dips his head down to lick the cream from your skin, his tongue warm and wet against your neck. He follows that with kisses that trail along your neck, his free hand gliding up your waist.

"Bobby..." You tangle your fingers into his hair, still a little mussed from sleep. That only spurs him on, pressing himself against your thigh as he squirts a little more just shy of the collar of your t-shirt.

"You taste too good with this stuff." He licks it away, slipping his free hand up your shirt before tugging it off completely. He gets to his knees and squeezes a little more onto your stomach, his tongue darting out to drag across your skin before he leaves a path of kisses down to the waistband of your shorts.

"Honey..."

"Yeah? You don't like it?" His voice is soft, playful, but it carries a hint of concern. A smile spreads across your face as you brush his hair away from his eyes.

"I didn't say that." You clarify and he grins, leaving more kisses down your belly. "We can't do this in the kitchen, though." When he looks up at you, his face his flushed a sweet pink, his eyes dark and hungry.

"Okay." Slowly, he gets to his feet and presses his lips to yours. He's very obviously hard now, the tent in his boxers pressing against your thigh shamelessly. "Bedroom?" He mumbles against your lips and you use this lull in concentration to snatch the can from his hand.

"I'll race you."

"You're on."

taglist: @ingoldthewizard @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @starwarskawaii

[authorchariot]

ACCESSING FILE: [NSFW_PERSONALITY_PROFILE]

ENTERING RECORD…

aftercare: how do they treat their partner after intimacy?

so many cuddles and little kisses. he's so clingy. he might also need reassurance that he did a good job because his self-esteem is down the drain and he needs you to reassure him that he was good enough. other than that, it might be time for a tall glass of milk, maybe a snack and then a nap

head pats. head pats and giving you little praises (if you deserve it) then another round. mister perfect doesn't take no breaks and he won't let you slack off until he's running on fumes. might take a few days

aftercare? what's that? lol

body part: their favourite part of their partner's body?

your hands. he likes absently playing with them when you're out in public or holding on tight when you're in the bedroom

your ass. absolutely your ass; squeezing it, slapping it, kissing it. sentry is an ass man; confirmed

your eyes, particularly when you realise he's about to deliver a punishment or something of the like. he likes the power

control: do they prefer to dominate, submit or switch?

bobby is not really in the right headspace to be doing anything dom/sub-related. as stated previously, i think this man needs a lot of cuddles, a slow blowjob and then lots of cheek kisses and he'll be having a wonderful time

dom, specifically a very cocky, teasing dom. he will tie you up and tell you to beg and then give you praise. edit: if he feels safe enough with you, he could be a very good slut puppy 🐶🐶

a mean dom (cred. libby). he's going to spit in your mouth, face-fuck you and then berate you/laugh because you look like shit

dirty talk: how vocal are they? do they enjoy talking dirty?

he tries. god, he tries so hard. but he never has the conviction behind the words and he usually just ends up a flushed, stuttery mess. he likes when you do it though. in terms of being vocal, he whines a lot

yes, yes, yes. he has the confidence to say the dirtiest stuff imaginable. especially if it gets you off as well, he will say some absolutely filthy, reprehensible shit without hesitation

yes but in a mean way. very degrading with lots of backhanded compliments; which is great, if you like that kind of thing

experience: how experienced are they?

none of them have a lot of experience but they all deal with it in different ways. in my head, the last time bob got laid was probably before the sentry project (i don't know how long the period is between those two points in bobby lore), when he was dealing with his drug addiction. i feel like he probably slept around a bit at that point, maybe got a few stds that had to get checked out

fantasy: what's their ultimate fantasy?

bobby wants to be claimed and marked up good. but it more the symbolism of that that excites him. it's feeling like he was worthy enough to be chosen by you, being cherished enough to claim and, especially if you mark him in visible places, that you like him enough to show the world that he's valuable enough to belong to someone. it's less about being below someone and more about feeling safe and worthy in that environment

anything that makes him feel powerful; rough sex, spanking, choking, biting, face-fucking, tying you up and edging you, shoving you up against a mirror so he can watch while he's fucking you, being called a god during the act, etc. literally anything where he can establish dominance. he's a narcissist and he fully plays into it but he loves praise and gratitude from his sub

he wants a pet, a personal fuck toy; using your holes whenever and wherever he wants, without shame and without question. lots of degradation, face-slapping and probably spit kink just to be extra nasty

grip: how physical do they get? handsy, rough or gentle?

very handsy and clingy. he prefers holding your hands while you guys are at it but he'll also take spooning you from behind or something similar. if you're getting intimate with bobby, he always needs something to ground him in the moment

handsy and usually in a rougher way. he likes choking and hair-pulling specifically but he has the capacity to be gentle once he's completely rundown, if you're still conscious (or alive) that is

not completely certain about everything to do with void but i feel like he's more detached in this department unless he feels like his hold on you is in jeopardy and he tends to be pretty confident that he's possessed you; body, mind and soul

hair: groomed, natural or styled a certain way?

bob doesn't really care as long as it isn't getting in the way of anything so he'll keep it natural for the most part

sentry prefers to go the whole 9 yards; having his taint and between his cheeks professionally waxed and having the hair at the base of his cock manicured, making sure to leave just the lightest happy trail down his abdomen

void could not care less honestly. you'll take him as you find him

intimacy: are they more emotionally or physically driven?

very emotionally driven. intimacy is more about being present with you and the both of you enjoying the time together which is why he clings to you and constantly checks if you're feeling okay during the act

more physically driven but he's not completely immune to emotion. it just has to be with a very special person where he lets his guard down and lets that part of him show

again, more physically driven but this leads well into the next section

jealousy: how do they handle competition or flirtation?

bob tends to kind of curl in on himself and put himself down, telling himself that you deserve better than him. even though you always come back, there's always that fear that this time you won't because you've finally realised what a shitty guy he is. of course, when you come back he's so so thankful but he still needs that reassurance

he doesn't take kindly to people thinking they can take his partner. with sentry, he puts most of the blame on the person hitting on you. he'll try and schmooze them first (have a bit of a dick-measuring competition) but if they're still going after you, he will just threaten them. god forbid they touch you....

again, he doesn't take kindly to it but this time he just gets really possessive and touchy-feely. you're his, not anyone else's, and he won't let you forget it. that being said, if someone touches you, he will just poof them

kinks: what are their top kinks?

he's not really much into kinks but he likes little symbols of affection, whether that be; hickeys, scratches, creampies (rare) and praise. he loves to be reminded that he's doing well and that you love him

breeding kink, dirty talk, dom/sub, facials, multiple rounds, pet names, praise kink (giving and receiving), spanking, etc

begging from you, degradation, marking you, spit kink, etc

location: favourite place(s) to get intimate?

bedroom, for sure. it's quiet, private, comfortable and safe. some might argue a little boring but like.... don't bully him maybe? he's a soft boy. if you won't take him at this safe stage, you don't deserve him at his experimental stage 😤😤

he loves putting on a show so maybe on a balcony or against a window in the watchtower where, if people just looked up, you could see what he was doing to you

quiet, dark corners, whether that be in the bedroom or in the back of a truck after a mission or down some corridor in the venue of a charity event. if he wants it, he'll get it, wherever you are

moans: are they loud, quiet or somewhere in between?

loud. we know how loud he is when he's just trying to stop himself from sneezing. can you imagine how loud he is when he's about to cum??

loud and kind of animalistic, grunting and groaning as he ruts into you oomph

quiet breathing down the back of your neck and whispers against your ear

nudes: do they send or receive? how do they feel about it?

nonononono he does not have the confidence for that just yet. maybe as he gets to be more comfortable, later in the relationship, but for now nudes and sexting just kind of send him into a bit of a tizzy. if you send him nudes though? he's absolutely going to need like 10 mins alone in his room/the bathroom so he can take care of himself

will absolutely send nudes. expect ones when he wakes up with morning wood or when he's getting ready and he's checking himself out in the mirror. i mean, he's able to just look in the mirror and see how sexy he is. why not share with the less fortunate, right?

no, if he's horny, he's hunting you down. get that digital shit out of here

oral: do they enjoy giving or receiving more?

bob's nervous about both giving and receiving due to his lack of experience but he gets really excited when he receives oral because it's just so nice to be cared for! but he'll take time learning how to give oral as well because he does get satisfaction from hearing you moan and praise him as he does it

prefers receiving but he will give, if you've been good

definitely receives more but he enjoys teasing and edging you if you really beg for his mouth on you

pace: do they go fast and rough, slow and sensual or mix it up?

prefers slow and caring sex but occasionally gets himself worked up and is in need of a quick grind

varied. it can be slow and deep or fast and rough, it really depends what kind of mood he's in

slow but deep and punishing. he wants to take his time and make sure you know who you belong to

quickies: are they into quick encounters or do they take their time?

he prefers to take his time but, as above, that's not always what he needs. that being said, if he just needs to cum, he'll usually go take a shower or bust one out real quick in the bedroom on his own. if he's with you, he prefers to savour it

absolutely. if you're down for a quickie, he'll find the closest semi-private spot and just go to town

no, it tends to be long encounters. they can be hours that feel like days of just torment but every time it's worth it

risk: how adventurous are they?

he'll slowly start to open up to new things; maybe toss in a vibrator or a pair of handcuffs and slowly up the ante. it'll take a while to find the things he likes but, once he's open to it, he loves experimenting with you

he'll do anything that strikes his fancy but he makes sure you're into it as well. if it's a hard no, he'll steer clear because, at the end of the day, if you're not enjoying it as well, it's not worth the time. if you're dating, he respects you and respects your choices

i mean, fucking the void is like an eldritch horror-like experience anyway. what more do you really want?

stamina: how long can they last? do they go multiple rounds?

maybe a round or two? he gets pretty easily overwhelmed

he can go for literal days. you'll probably pass out before he's fully drained his balls so don't expect to keep up with him

it's difficult to tell when one round ends and the next begins. it feels like it goes on forever

teasing: are they good at teasing or do they break easily?

as mentioned in dirty talk, bobby isn't very good with things like this as he usually gets himself wound up just thinking about it before he actually says anything

sentry absolutely teases. he loves getting you on your knees and giving you orders not to touch yourself or touch him

teasing is his forte. he won't give you want until you're crying and begging for it. and even then he might still say no just to see you whine and beg more

unsafe: how serious are they about safe sex?

bobby prefers having it raw but he obviously respects if you ask him to wear a condom. he usually asks first and, if you prefer him to wrap it beforehand, he'll have a stash on his nightstand and will just do it automatically. when it comes to this, he's all about your safety and comfort level

prefers to go in raw. he's clean in terms of stds and, if you're afab, you should be thankful if he knocks you up (he's actually kind of hoping for it) because he's carrying some ✨stellar✨ genes

raw. every time. i'm honestly still debating whether or not you could get pregnant from the void....

volume: how much do they cum?

the regular amount; maybe about a teaspoon or so?

half a cup to a cup. this man's body (and his balls) are on a whole different level

similar to sentry but, again, i feel like i'd need to develop a whole new biology for the void to fully answer this

wildcard: a random nsfw fact about them

bobby is absolutely down for anal. when you first start sleeping together, he might not have actually done anal play with another person before but the thought gets him really excited and he's absolutely fingered himself before

has a little bit of a breeding kink and gets super turned on when he sees his massive load dripping out of you, secretly praying that it'll take. he won't open up about it until a long time into the relationship but he really likes the thought of becoming a parent; succeeding where is own parents failed

goes into a bit of a frenzy if he's feeling like you might be slipping through his fingers. if you're starting to question your love for him or if you've been seen talking to other people, he starts to get nervous ergo aggressive and this can lead to really long, passionate sessions where he insists on possessing you or it can trigger bob to come back out and he just really needs you to hold him and tell him everything's okay

x-rated: do they watch/read porn?

yes but it tends to be the amateur stuff because it feels more real to him. he has a list of channels on his phone of his preferred creators, usually ones who are married or are in long-term relationships so they have real chemistry

he prefers to make and watch his own porn. he likes knowing that other people are getting off to it and it means he can get new angles and watch them as many times as he wants. and you too can now subscribe to the sentry's onlyfans for only $9.99 a month!

no, why bother when you're sat right next to him or if you're in the next room? if you're away then that's trickier but he prefers to dig through the laundry hamper and smell your underwear to get off or something of the like

yearning: how often do they crave intimacy? are they always in the mood?

he's always craving intimacy but it doesn't have to be sexual. even if it's just holding hands or cuddling, he usually likes to be close and have some kind of physical connection to you. even if you're away, he might insist on wearing a sweater of yours just to keep you close

yes, constantly horny but he can push it down if he really has to 😒😒

again more like bob but in more of a possessive way. he likes having some form of contact, whether that be his fingers around your wrist or his hand on the back of your neck. just something to remind him that you're his

zzz: how do they act after intimacy? do they cuddle, sleep or leave?

lots of snuggles, lots of kisses and falling asleep in a comfortable tangle of limbs. he usually gets super sleepy after sex

he'll make sure you're okay, might curl up with you for a bit, especially if he's got you really fucked out

he will just straight up leave. you usually get bob afterward, apologising if void said anything or did anything that was out of pocket while he was out

taglist: @ingoldthewizard @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @starwarskawaii

[authorchariot]

> ENTRY: WITHIN_REACH

RATING: mature

CATEGORY: thunderbolts* (2025)

PAIRING: bob reynolds x reader

EST. READING TIME: 12m 50s

INDEX TAGS: established relationship, hurt/comfort, implied/referenced rape/non-con, implied/referenced self-harm, not beta read, past drug addiction, past rape/non-con, pov second person

ACCESS MATERIAL ON AO3 OR BELOW

The afternoon light filters in through the high windows of the Watchtower; soft, slanted and golden. Dust motes drift in the air and everything feels too quiet, like the world is waiting for something. Bob sits on the edge of the bed, hands curled into loose fists between his knees. His frame is tense despite the casual softness of the grey sweatpants and faded t-shirt he wears. The stainless steel ring in his palm feels warm and heavy. Science and psionics woven together with expert precision. A failsafe, a promise.

It's worked. It was honestly a miracle that he stumbled across Hank McCoy in his quest for relief. He's tested it; the ring. Hank first, like dipping a toe into water, blue fur slipping through his fingers. Then Alexei, with his warm, crooked grin. Then Yelena; quick to call him an idiot, quicker still to hug him like he deserved it. And it held. No flickers of someone else's pain. No crash of memory, not his nor theirs. Just the feeling of muscle, of warmth, of human contact without the curse of knowing.

But now that it's you — you who he's been with for over a year, the one who knows the small, fractured corners of him and still chooses to stay — now it's real. And it's terrifying.

His fingers twitch and he lifts a hand to look at the ring in his palm again, brows drawn tight in thought. His breath shudders. He's tried to rationalise it all morning. He's safe now. You're safe. The ring works. But anxiety is never rational. It's a creature of memory and he knows too well how it lingers, crawling under the skin and nesting in all the empty parts of a person.

He thinks of your face; how it lit up when Hank gave the final go-ahead. The way your eyes shimmered, wide with disbelief and a hope so tender it hurt to see. He thinks of your voice trembling when you asked him if maybe — maybe — you could finally hold his hand. How he saw you fight your own panic at the very idea of touch, his touch. He hasn't stopped thinking about it since.

It's not like you two haven't wanted each other. In that way. The tension has always been there. There were nights the air between you was so thick with longing he thought he'd choke on it. You'd sleep in separate beds, afraid of brushing skin. He knew the moment your breathing changed. Knew you were awake, just like he was. He didn't touch you then, though he ached to. He still aches.

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his jaw tight. He presses his thumb against the ring, his blunt, bitten thumbnail catching on the texture; a feature Hank had insisted on adding as a reminder, to ground him. He can feel his pulse in his fingers, steady but fast, like a knock on a closed door. His mind flits back to Hank's words; Trauma doesn't vanish just because the tools are in place. This will take grace. Patience.

Bob's not sure how much grace he has left. He just wants to be close to you. But he's scared of hurting you. Of what happens if it doesn't work. Of what happens if it does. If he touches you and everything floods in anyway — your memories, your scars — he's not sure he can bear seeing your pain without warning. He's not sure you can bear seeing it again. Or maybe worse; maybe nothing happens. No trauma, no telepathy, no ghostly flashes of pain and you both still freeze. Still panic. Still can't get past the invisible wall between you.

He shuts his eyes, tilts his head back, exhales slowly. The air in his room tastes dry, dusty. The quiet is starting to feel oppressive. And still, underneath all of it, the wanting burns. He wants to know what your palm feels like pressed to his. Wants to know what your breath sounds like when it's warm on his neck, not separated by cloth or space or fear. He wants to fall apart in your arms. Wants to feel you do the same. Wants closeness, not just in words or loyalty or quiet understanding, but in touch. And it's been so long. So very, very long.

Bob drags a hand down his face. His skin feels hot. He's not crying but the weight in his chest has that same flavour. Longing and frustration mingled with fear so potent it's nearly suffocating him. He glances toward the door. It's not about sex, not really. It's about closeness. The kind you've both been starving for but too afraid to reach. The kind that might finally heal something neither of you have dared name. He breathes in. And stands. He's tired of waiting.

You're currently out on a mission but you're supposed to be arriving home tonight. Bob gets to work, striding into the kitchen with determination. When he gets there, it's almost as if he's forgotten why he came in. He rests his hands on the cool marble of the counter, already overwhelmed. He's never been good at cooking — he always has the local pizza place on speed-dial — but he's watched enough movies to know that cooking a meal is one of the most romantic things a person can do for their partner. Well, so long as it isn't a complete disaster, which he prays this won't be.

He turns toward the pantry, staring blankly at the fresh fruit, vegetables and herbs he finds there. Finally, he blindly grabs a selection of vegetables and seasonings and sets them on the countertop. He doesn't know what he's going to make but he is going to do this and, even if it sets everything on fire, he will make dinner for when you get home.

About an hour later, you're catching the elevator up to the penthouse after a long mission. Deep breaths. You sigh as you look down at the bouquet in your hands. It's a nice gesture. Well, you thought it was when you ordered the arrangement at 3am this morning. You flip open the small card that comes with it, detailing the meaning of each type of flower you selected;

Camellias (White): Pure admiration. Chrysanthemums (Red): Enduring love. Yarrows (Pink): Vulnerability. Heliotropes: Devotion. Peach Blossoms: New beginnings.

It feels very sappy and old-fashioned but, hopefully, also romantic. Putting on a brave face, you straighten your back and tuck the bouquet behind your back as the elevator doors slide open.

When you step in, there's a slight mist of smoke in the air along with the scent of burnt onions as well as tomato sauce and basil. Your eyes drift across to the room, where you find Bob, in a very messy kitchen; clothes covered in spatters of ragu, hands shoved into some charred oven gloves. He spins on his heel, eyes widening when he sees you.

"Uhh... Hey." He murmurs and you smile warmly as you wander up to the marble kitchen island.

"Hey." It's kind of adorable how you both had the same idea of doing something for one another and seemingly neither of you have any idea what you're doing. "Oh! These are for you." You pull the bouquet out from behind your back. His eyes dart down to the flowers and then back to you, his cheeks flushing slightly. Gently, he takes them from your hands and you feel the singed fabric of the oven gloves against your fingers.

"For me?" He looks back down at the arrangement with a bashful smile. "They're...really pretty." Your smile widens slightly as you look over his shoulder at the stove, where a pot of pasta bubbles away.

"I didn't know you were planning a surprise too." He gently places the bouquet on a part of the kitchen island that isn't covered in onion peels or empty pasta packets, taking off the oven gloves and running a hand through his messy hair.

"Well, I figured it was about time we did something nice together. I mean, with everything that's been going on..." You nod slowly in agreement. It's clear he's put a lot of effort into doing this for you and your chest feels warm at the thought.

"It means a lot." You murmur and he seems to relax at that, safe in the knowledge that the food may not be good but at least you know it's coming from a good place. "Do you wanna dish out while I go and get changed real quick?"

"Yeah, sure." With another small smile, you turn to head to the bedroom.

When you return to the main part of the penthouse, showered and wearing a clean set of pyjamas. The t-shirt you're wearing for pyjamas leaves your forearms and part of your upper arms completely visible, your scars out in the open. Usually, you'd bandage them up as to not make people uncomfortable but, to Bob, it seems that seeing your scars is a sign of trust, a sign of affection.

Bob is just setting the plates down on the long dining table, the bouquet you got him stood in some water, in one of Bucky's protein shaker cups. You head to the fridge, glancing at what offerings there are for drinks.

"Wine? Beer? Soda?" You call over your shoulder.

"Um... Wine, maybe?" He sounds unsure. He's not a big drinker — you know that much — but it's clear he wants to make this as romantic and cinematic as possible. You nod and grab a bottle from the rack, opening it and pouring a little into two wine glasses. With the wine glasses in hand, you pad over to the dining table and settle down, the sun just about cresting the city skyline.

The pasta is burnt, the plates are messy and the expensive bouquet you got him is placed in a shaker cup but it's so very...him. He doesn't know what he's doing and neither do you. The whole affair just screams I want to do something nice and I'm trying my best and it makes something ache, deep in your chest.

With a look of silent agreement, you both tuck in. It's very salty and there's crispy shards of burnt onions that stick to the roof of your mouth but, overall, it's not bad. At least, your fear of getting food poisoning seems to be less of an issue.

"I didn't know you cooked." You say, your eyes flicking to his, and he laughs quietly.

"I don't. But I figured it was worth a shot and it gave me something to do while you were out." He replies.

Beneath the table, your leg accidentally brushes his through the fabric of your sweatpants and you lean into the touch. His breath catches slightly at the subtle contact, a shiver running down his spine. He tries to keep it together but his hand trembles as he brings his wine glass to his lips. You clear your throat.

"So, I guess, we both had the same idea; we wanna...give it a go tonight?" You ask, probing gently, and he nods.

"Yeah... If you're sure." He corrects himself, meeting your gaze with hopeful eyes, that deep, ocean blue. "I mean, I don't wanna rush anything or make you uncomfortable."

"Are you wearing it?" He stares at you blankly for a moment before remembering.

"Oh! Yeah, wait." He rummages in his pocket and pulls it out; a simple, stainless steel band. He slips it onto his finger, swallowing thickly. "There we go..."

"Wanna give it a try?" You place your hand on the table, palm facing up. Your fingers twitch as he hesitantly moves his hand closer to yours. Hope and anxiety swells in your chest, blood rushing in your ears. You draw in a sharp breath, feeling your heart thumping against your ribcage, until—

His fingers brush over your own, gently tracing the lines on your palm, before covering your hand entirely with his own, larger one. The moment your skin touches, you feel a rush of warmth and relief. His hand is smooth and slightly clammy with nerves. He was right; he really does run hot.

"Is this okay?" He asks and you nod, moving to thread your fingers into his, your breath coming heavier at the mere implication of this one point of skin-to-skin contact.

"Y-Yeah, it's perfect." He caresses your thumb with his own, watching as goosebumps raise along your arms.

"Can I ask something stupid?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we stay like this for a bit?" He asks quietly, his cheeks flushing. You just nod and smile, giving his hand a slight squeeze.

"Mhm."

As you eat, chatting and laughing, you keep your hand clasped with Bob's, almost as if they've been riveted together. It's nice. It feels normal, for lack of a better word.

You drink your wine and fall into familiar conversations about movies and the latest missions, all the while growing increasingly closer together. He subtly shifts his chair to match. Your proximity is driving him up the wall, in the best way possible. He loves seeing you so relaxed and happy.

As you both finish eating, he finds himself absentmindedly playing with your fingers.

"Bob, when was the last time you...y'know...slept with someone?" You ask gently and he pauses for a moment, running a hand through his hair and laughing nervously.

"It's... It's been a while." He admits, tracing small circles on the back of your hand.

"When you say 'a while'...?"

"A few years." He replies, watching his fingertips dance along your skin. "What about you?"

"Same, honestly."

"Yeah? Is it something you miss? Being close to someone, in that way?" He asks and you wriggle slightly in your seat, pursing your lips.

"I don't know. You've seen my past, what happened... I guess, I've never really 'slept with anyone'? I've only ever been...like, used." You murmur, your eyes dropping you your hands, your thumb lightly dragging across Bob's knuckles. He nods solemnly. You're right; he's seen that part of you, seen what 'intimacy' meant to you for so very, very long, seen what happened in that room... Always some kind of coercion; something pleading or threatening. He takes a deep breath before breaking the silence.

"I've not been with anyone since I was hooked on...stuff, y'know?" And you nod slowly.

"So neither of us have really had a good go of it, huh?" You joke humourlessly and he nods, looking at you curiously.

"So have you ever wanted to be with someone? Like, actually wanted it?" His question makes you pause and smile.

"At the risk of sounding really sappy; not until I met you." He feels his heart stop for a moment and he looks at you — really looks at you — taking in your gentle smile and the way your smaller hand fits perfectly in his. The room suddenly feels warmer, charged with intimacy, especially as you lift his hand to your face, your lips brushing along his knuckles, soft and warm on his skin. The touch sends electric shocks down his arm and straight between his thighs. Sucking in a breath to steady himself, he leans over the corner of the table so his forehead can rest against yours. Your eyes fall closed as you feel the warmth of his breath on your face, taking in the scent of his closeness. He wants to kiss you. God, he wants it desperately. But he also knows that this moment is so fragile and he doesn't want to rush. He decides to ask instead of just assuming.

"Can I kiss you?" He asks and your breath catches.

"Yes, please."

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