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callsign-reign · 23 hours ago

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NY FAVORITE SHOW IS ON!!!

My Person : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Reader

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds/Sentry x Thunderbolts!Reader

Summary: Neither you nor Bob ever dared to fully cross the line of friendship or more, walking it like a tightrope instead. All it takes is one undercover mission for that tightrope to snap.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY MDNI, SMUT (unprotected p in v, dirty talk, praise, might be a slight hint of a breeding kink in there, slight bit of superpower usage), porn with a LOT of plot, fluff, friends to lovers, lots of pining, sort of a fake marriage trope, one bed trope, language, some mental health talk, female reader, alcohol consumption, some Agents of SHIELD spoilers actually, Thunderbolts spoilers obviously

Word Count: 16,400 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here A/N: special thanks to @briseisgone for checking my French in this!!!!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

"W-Wait...you want to send Bob and me on an undercover mission?"

Valentina let out an aggravated sigh, the same one she typically gave her rag-tag team of new Avengers. She stood at the head of the conference room table, perfectly manicured hand, as always, tapping incessantly on the glass tabletop. The look in her eyes displayed boredom, maybe even a hint of exasperation, as she looked directly at you.

“God–am I speaking Russian? Have I been spending too much time around the mall Santa over here?” her hand gestured out in the direction of Alexei. When no one spoke up, she continued. “Yes, Viper, I’m sending you and the man-child on this mission.”

“An undercover mission, that’s the part you’re glossing over that I-I really don’t think you should be,” you tried to reason with the woman, but she simply held her hand in the air to stop you.

“It’s the fastest mission of your life, Viper, it’s a single day: get in, get the information, get out. And if I remember correctly–well if Mel read the paperwork correctly–it was you that signed off on Robert’s combat forms and said he was fieldwork and combat ready,”

Well, she wasn’t wrong. That was your signature on those papers, signing off to approve Bob Reynolds for actual combat with the team on missions. You had been the one to hand-train him yourself for months on end, three hours a day in the training center, helping him to understand that his powers were a part of him and that he didn’t need to play the part of “The Sentry” to use them.

Hand-to-hand combat and the power of a thousand exploding suns were vastly different from undercover field work, though.

“Valentina, you’re missing the part where you’re sending them on an undercover mission,” Yelena chimed in, leaning her elbows forward on the table next to you as she voiced your own concerns out loud. “He’s combat cleared, we’ve taken him on small missions here and there-”

“He was very helpful with the gang problem last month!” Alexei cut in with a boisterous laugh. “They were such funny little men, looked like they were fake Russians. He made quick work of them, even if he apologized when he sent that one flying across the room-”

“The point is, undercover work is different,” it was Bucky who cut in this time, sitting directly across from you and Yelena, looking around at the group before his gaze cut back to Valentina. “Undercover work takes a certain level of care. It’s a lot of quick thinking in fast-paced environments, and it requires the ability to remain calm and adapt to anything that could happen. I just…I don’t think Bob is cut out for that kind of work yet.”

You hated agreeing with your team, but they were right. Bob brought a value to this team that sometimes couldn’t be accurately quantified, and you didn’t like talking down on him in any sort of way. He was valuable, he was helpful…he was your best friend, but he just wasn’t cut out for undercover work, at least not right now.

Valentina took one look around the room, scoffing with a mutter of “unbelievable” under her breath. With a snap of her fingers, Mel was by her side in a second to pass her a manila folder, shooting the rest of you an apologetic look as she stepped away. Valentina flicked the folder open, gaze rising to settle on you.

“Oh, look what we have here: SHIELD Special Agent 19, codename Viper,” the deep sigh you let out was inevitable as Valentina paced the front of the conference room, reading straight from your file. “A liaison for the original Avengers, looks like you did some work with Yelena’s sister. Let’s see, notable missions–ah! Project TAHITI, Project Deathlok, a mission to Puerto Rico that ended in the deaths of three HYDRA leaders. Need I list off more?”

You mumbled something under your breath about how much you loved this “walk down memory lane” that drew a short chuckle out of Yelena, before Valentina continued to read through the file.

“Over 37 different undercover missions spanning the likes of Berlin, São Paulo, Mumbai, and even Osaka: all successful, by the way. There’s even a review section about your superb skills with an FN SCAR-H, MGC M-16, and your favorite, the Nemesis Arms Vanquish. Oh, and your lethal little twin daggers, all coupled with this glowing review about how you were one of the best agents to ever step foot in SHIELD,” Valentina flipped the manila folder closed, tossing it onto the table with pursed lips. “Let’s not forget that all of that? Yeah, it’s all personally signed off by Nick Fury.”

“I love reading time with Valentina, it’s so fun,” Walker huffed out a bitter laugh, leaning back in his chair with arms folded behind his head. “Can you read my file next? I’m dying to relive my short few weeks as Captain America.”

As much as Walker could be a dick at times, his humor in moments like these was much appreciated. Except to Valentina, who only shot him another glare.

“My word is final. I have one of SHIELD’s best special agents on my team, and I’m using her. And yeah, you’re taking Robert with you,” with a snap of her fingers once more, Mel passed her another manila folder that was slid in your direction. You had barely stopped it under your hand before Val had slid the large pair of expensive sunglasses on top of her head over her face, shooting a fake grin around the room. “Now, I have a meeting with the Senator, followed by a stint on a beach in Fiji. I trust you all can handle this: try not to call!”

The sound of her heels clicking against the linoleum floor echoed through the room, before the large conference door swung shut with a heavy click.

Silence hung in the air between the team for a moment before all hell broke loose.

“He’s just not cut out for a mission like this. I’m sorry, I have to say it,”

“Bobby apologized to that gang member last month when he threw him across a room. We want to send this guy undercover?”

“Ah, but he is The Sentry! He is most equipped to protect our stabby-stabby friend, Miss Viper,”

With another sigh, you flipped the manila folder in front of you over. With a quick skim down the page, you got the gist of the mission: HYDRA, possibly regrowing, attempting to get their hands on Adamantium.

Just the word HYDRA had a pang of hurt hitting you straight in the chest. Great. Just great.

“We can argue as much as we want, but we aren’t the ones assigned to a mission with him,” your ears perked up at Yelena’s voice, turning your head to look at her. She was already looking toward you. “Do you think he can handle this?”

“Personally? I’m terrified that undercover work is going to be a lot on him. He’s gotten more comfortable with letting his Sentry powers show at times and with hand-to-hand, but undercover is different,” you explained, treading carefully around what you said. “It’s taken months for him to feel comfortable on his medication, especially after Dr. Kim changed his dosage at least four times. Undercover work…it’s intense, I don’t want him to get overwhelmed.”

Ava leaned forward on the table, drawing your attention to her.

“Viper, while it’s a valid concern…Valentina hasn’t left us with much of a choice,”

You sighed, flipping the manila folder closed once again.

“No. No, she didn’t,”

You didn’t speak another word, and the team took it as the official end of the meeting. All but Yelena, who stayed behind even as the conference room doors shut again. She sat quietly for a moment before speaking.

“So…you’re totally not nervous about being alone with Bob, right?”

“Why would I be?” you questioned, and Yelena just looked at you expectantly. “Oh god–Lena, don’t start this again–”

“The heart eyes you two give each other make me sick,” she faked throwing up, laughing as she dodged the kick you sent toward her chair while shaking your head, trying to rid yourself of the heat crawling into your skin. “Always looking at one another, he’s always stumbling over his words–more than usual–around you, always being so touchy touchy together, and so on and so forth with the cuteness overload day in and day out.”

She took the manila folder from your hands, skimming over the mission details as you scoffed in her direction.

“So we spend a lot of time together, so we can be a little touchy, what’s wrong with that? Friends are like that all the time!”

“Um, except Bob is notoriously not touchy with anyone, given the whole interconnected shame room incident,” Yelena simply stared at you, blinking multiple times in succession. You stared back, before she simply threw the manila folder down with a sigh. “Fine, fine, don’t listen to me and solve the glaringly obvious romantic–and slightly sexual–tension, wallow in it for all I care. I wish you luck in Paris, of all places, ignoring that.”

The mission weighed heavily on your mind later that night. Yelena’s thoughts lingered, too, in the back of your head.

The tower’s kitchen was quiet, except for the playlist currently playing out of your phone’s speaker from where it sat plugged in on the counter. The sun had already set, and the team was all off on their own set schedules.

Walker was finally making a supervised visit with his estranged wife and child, like you’d been hounding him to do for months. Ava had said something about catching a movie at the theater down the road, while Alexei had roped Yelena into ‘father-daughter bonding’ at a Broadway show (you were sure they’d be home soon and Alexei would somehow get them kicked out). Bucky had simply retired to his room, leaving you to your own thoughts in the kitchen.

Two pots were boiling on the stove. You had just added the spaghetti sauce into one and half of the box of noodles into another, humming under your breath as some song that Tony used to play around this very tower played off your phone.

“S-Smells good,”

You jumped slightly, heart rate spiking, before you turned. The sight of Bob leaning against the kitchen doorway, clad in a white t-shirt and one of his many pairs of grey sweatpants, had your guard back down in a second. With a quick stir of the noodles, you pointed the now-soaked utensil in Bob’s direction with a grin.

“Haven’t you been warned not to sneak up on dangerous agents anymore? After the last time Yelena almost stabbed you?”

The blush coating his cheeks at the simple mention of the incident had you laughing, nodding your head toward him to beckon him over. He crossed the room without hesitation, feet shuffling across the cold floor until he was leaning on the counter next to the stove.

“Well…you’re different. I-I hope you wouldn’t try to stab me,”

“On purpose? No. Scare me like that again? Maybe,” you added the rest of the box of noodles to the boiling water without having to ask, not missing the tiny quirk of his lips as you did.

Without having to ask, he took another large spoon from the utensil holder, lazily stirring around the sauce in the pot next to him. You shot him a grateful smile, keeping your eyes on the noodles in your own pot.

“Homemade garlic bread?” Bob questioned, gesturing down to the lit oven below you both. You could see his smile stretch just the tiniest bit wider. “You know I-I love your homemade garlic bread.”

“I know, that’s why I made it,” you teased him, bumping your hip lightly against his own as he let out a short laugh. “I figured you would come crawling out of your room eventually and get hungry tonight.”

The kitchen went quiet for another moment. Bob backed out of the way, letting you open the oven to a rush of warm air and check on the bread.

He took your spoon from you without having to be asked, stirring the noodles and the sauce as you crossed the kitchen to the fridge. With a wine glass and a normal tall glass placed before you, you poured him a cup of water before pouring yourself a generous amount of sangria from your favorite bottle in the fridge–it still had a sticky note on the side to tell Ava to keep her hands off of it.

“I had a dream last night. B-But…I think it was more like a memory,”

Bob’s sudden comment had you pausing, placing the wine bottle back down on the counter carefully, and turning. His back was to you, still focused on the stovetop, but even you could see the tension suddenly riddled throughout his body, in the subtle flex of his arms.

“What was it?”

“New York, the…the incident,” he struggled to explain that day, but you knew what he was talking about. “D-Do you remember what you said to me that day? When you…pulled me out of there?”

Of course you did. You remembered the shame room incident like it was yesterday. Reliving the day you thought you lost your mentor, the crumbling of SHIELD, the comforting hand of your mentor on your shoulder when you learned the man you thought you loved and trusted had really been-

You remembered Bob. Jumping into those shame rooms to find him, to break through every wall until you found Yelena, and until you both found Bob. Wrapping him in your arms after fighting tooth and nail across the room until you got to him, holding him as he cried.

I’ve got you. I’m not leaving, not now, not ever. You don’t have to carry it alone; I’ll carry it with you.

With both glasses in hand, you placed them on the island counter. You placed two plates beside them before you rejoined Bob’s side. He handed you back your own utensil without a word, and you took it, fingers just barely brushing his. You could see those little bumps rise on his skin where you touched him, and it brought a soft smile to your face.

“That I wasn’t leaving, that I’d carry your burdens with you,” you spared him a glance from the corner of your eyes, and he was already looking at you. “It was a memory, Bob. That’s what I told you, and I meant it.”

God, when you said you would carry his burdens with him, did you mean it. Every therapy session Valentina had ordered for him, you were at his side–at his request, of course. He refused to sit through the first few without you, and after that, he was just too used to you being around for them.

Those therapy sessions turned into late-night conversations on the couch when his insomnia took over. Walks around Central Park in the middle of the day. Visits to his favorite local bookstore to find something new to read.

It was hard not to become someone’s person when you spent every moment with them.

“Okay, good. Would be kind of awkward if it was just a dream,” you sputtered out a short laugh, leaning into his side with another small nudge to his hip. “You know, t-the same goes for you, right? That I’m here, that uh…that I have your back. Especially if we’re, you know, on missions or something…”

In the middle of stirring your pot, you hung your head with an audible sigh.

“Let me guess, Yelena told you about the mission we’re assigned?” he gave you a small nod. “I promise I was going to tell you, probably after dinner, after I had time to fully think about the logistics of it all.”

Bob took the pot off the stove as you switched it off, swinging it over to the sink and helping you empty the contents into the strainer, the excess water rushing off down the drain.

“She wanted to warn me, given that it’s undercover and all,” Bob explained, putting the empty pot back on one of the burners that was cooled off as you shook the rest of the water from the strainer. “I just…I want you to know that I-I can do this. That I won’t let you down o-or make it worse.”

Bob’s negative self-talk always caught your attention. Even when it wasn’t as glaringly obvious, when it was just hidden in his little comments, you always picked up on it. He seemed to know you did, already looking at you when you turned to give him a knowing look.

“Bob-”

“Yeah, I know, ‘replacing my negative thoughts with positive thoughts will lead to positive results’ or whatever it is Dr. Kim keeps telling me,” Bob tore the spoon stirring the sauce out of the pot and waved it around, flinging little bits of sauce everywhere. You couldn’t help your laughter as some of it splattered across his face, but he paid no attention to it. “I-I know undercover work is different from the little work that I-I have done, but I can do it, especially if it’s with you. I know I can.”

There was a beat of silence before you reached forward, fingers just barely grazing along his skin to wipe the little bit of spaghetti sauce from his cheeks. It was noticeable, the little way that Bob leaned into your touch, the only touch on the team that he actively allowed and didn’t shy away from all the time.

One strand of that dark brown hair fell in front of his eyes as he leaned into you, and you didn’t hesitate to swipe it back. Those striking blue eyes never looked away from you, and you found yourself lost in those ocean-like eyes and the softness they held. They were beautiful…Bob was beautiful, inside and out, and you had always known it. That flutter of your heart and that warm feeling that pooled in your stomach all but screamed it at you.

“I just worry that it could overwhelm you, bring up negative memories, that’s all. But I trust you. So, if you say you can do it, then I believe you. As long as you promise me that you’ll tell me the second something doesn’t feel right, if you feel overwhelmed.”

Bob’s smile quirked just slightly into that slightly smug little smirk you’d seen just a few times before, mainly when he managed to make a dig at Walker that always set the super soldier off. He held his hand up, pinky outstretched, and you laughed wholeheartedly before wrapping your own around his.

“I promise I’ll tell you,”

“Good. Do we need a secret code word if it comes up?” you teased.

“I mean…’cucumber’ works for many moments,”

You both laughed, pinkies still intertwined.

“Cucumber it is,”

❤︎

“The mission basics are simple: it’s been confirmed that remnants of HYDRA are still scattered across the globe, and they’re trying to regroup and gain momentum again. Somewhere in that rebuild, they’re trying to get their hands on Adamantium, that metal harvested from that Celestial body in the ocean. Intel suggests their plan is to get it from a French arms dealer by the name of Damien Jacquemin. His company runs out of the United States; it’s based somewhere in Texas, but he conducts his personal business as far from his company as he can. Not a guy we want to tussle with, Stark knew him well back in his heyday of weapons manufacturing,”

Valentina’s team had recreated the old SHIELD and Avengers quinjets fairly accurately, with their own additions. The cockpit was separated from the rest of the jet to offer more privacy, a more spacious backend area than what you were used to in the past. A large conference table sat in the middle of the room, big enough to seat your team of seven around. Bob was sitting at that conference table now, flicking through the holopad you’d set in front of him, while you paced the open space behind him as you spoke.

“He’s hosting a one-day conference of sorts in Paris, but it’s a ruse to distract him from meeting with his potential HYDRA clients. This conference will consist of high-profile arms dealers and investors from around the globe,” you leaned down over Bob’s shoulder, flicking the holopad to the next screen. “He’s rented out this entire little hotel for the conference. It’s a boutique hotel, only 25 rooms, so the guest list is small and the conference room is small, meaning this is going to be an intimate event. It’s at least got nice views of the Eiffel Tower, so at least we have a view.”

“Okay…” Bob breathed out the word, sitting up straighter in his chair as he turned around to face you. You couldn’t help but smile at those eyes that were as wide as a deer’s in headlights, his hand tugging at the collar of the white button-down he was donning, tucked into his black pants. “S-So what are we doing?”

“We are guests of the conference, much like all the others in attendance. This conference is only a day long, so we have a short timeframe to work with to get this information,” you crossed the room over to the expensive designer purse waiting for you, digging out the fake passport and license for each of you, and passing Bob’s over to him. “These are our identities. If you can’t remember, just let me do most of the talking. Our job is to avoid as much direct contact with Mr. Jacquemin as we can, as he is the most likely to sniff us out as undercover. We are to determine which guests are the HYDRA agents in disguise, and be close enough to determine if a sale of Adamantium is happening and where it will happen, so we can alert our team. All while…not getting caught, of course.”

Bob examined the passport and license in his hand, and you could see the tiny shake in them. It brought a frown to your face as he turned it to you, smiling just a bit.

“M-My name is Mr. Aidan Gray?” you laughed lightly, seeing Bob look between you and that terrible photo of him with his hair slicked back for the fake ID.

“For this weekend? Yes,” you flashed him your own ID and license, before stalking back over to your purse to put them away where they’d stay safe. “You’re the extremely wealthy son of a former American arms dealer, Russell Gray, who did work with Stark Industries back in the day. Now, you own Gray Enterprises. I’m your loving and adoring wife, Mrs. Eloise Gray.”

“W-Wait, we’re…we’re married for this?”

You paused, cheeks heating up as you remembered that little, yet big, detail of the mission. Turning on your heel, Bob was now standing from his seat, eyes blown wide again and cheeks flushed the deepest shade of red you had ever seen on him.

“W-Well, statistically, these missions go smoother when marriage is used as a cover,” you stumbled a bit, trying to find the right words to explain a decision of the mission that had been entirely your call. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable with this-”

“No! No y-you didn’t,”

Something hung in the quiet space between you both just then, something you had been avoiding for months. You avoided it in every therapy session when Bob took your hand in his, in every late-night talk on the common room couch while rain pattered against the tower windows until you fell asleep with your head on his shoulder, and in every look and gentle touch you exchanged.

The brush of hands, Bob’s hand always brushing against your lower back when he moved past you, the times when he’d wake up after you in the morning and wrap himself around you from behind in the kitchen in greeting, never fully understanding his actions so early in the morning with sleep still in his eyes. All moments that fluttered your heart in ways you tried to ignore.

“We just have to play it up at the conference, is all,” you reassured him, hands gliding down the sides of your dress as if brushing off non-existent dust.

Bob’s eyes were still blown wide, but he couldn’t help but let laughter flow from him, still slightly breathy. You quirked your head, smiling nonetheless at his actions, shoving that stupid heat pooling within you away.

“I-It’s just funny…Walker always jokes that we act like a married couple. Now he’s, like, k-kind of right,”

Okay, maybe Yelena had a point. There was a glaringly obvious rope of romantic tension that was hanging between you and Bob. It was a feeling you were aware of, that you tried to ignore for many reasons, but in moments like this it was more prevalent and obvious than usual.

That softness in his eyes, reserved just for you. It conveyed trust, complete and total trust, something Bob didn’t feel with many people. You were one of the lucky ones, if not the only lucky one.

The red light by the door to the cockpit blinked twice, illuminating the room: the signal that you would be landing. A secure location just outside of Paris, where an arranged car would pick you both up and transport you to your hotel.

“Well, you know how Walker can be. Always joking,” you did your best to laugh, even if it was slightly strained. An awkward smile crossed his lips before you walked past him, giving him a quick pat on the arm. “Get ready, we’re landing in a moment.”

The landing went off without a hitch, the sleek, black car awaiting you with Valentina’s personnel picking you up without an incident.

The drive into Paris city limits took an hour, a quiet hour. There was some channel playing through the car, a revolving slate of French songs. But neither you nor Bob spoke.

You watched him instead, as the sun set throughout the drive and the city lights lit up. The way the yellow of the lights reflected through the car windows, painting Bob in their soft light. The way the yellow reflected off the blue of his eyes, reminding you of the gold that shimmered through them when the Sentry serum took hold.

That tiny smile on his face, those wide eyes as he took in every street, every building, every group of people lining the street. It took a lot to stop the flutter of your heart at the sight.

“Bienvenue à Paris, Monsieur et Madame Gray! Nous attendions votre arrivée, veuillez me suivre,” the young man waiting in the lobby of your hotel greeted you enthusiastically, accent heavy, the second you and Bob stepped through the doors. Bob’s hand was wrapped in yours, and the second you were greeted in a language he couldn’t understand with fake names, you felt his grip tighten. You gave him what you hoped was a comforting squeeze back, giving the greeter a kind smile as you fell into step beside him, your bags taken by the bellhop at Bob’s other side. “Souhaitez-vous être accompagné jusqu'à votre chambre?”

“Non, mais merci de votre offre,” you responded in kind, the language rolling off your tongue with a practiced ease. You could see Bob’s head shoot up to look at you from the corner of your eye as you waved the greeter’s offer to escort you both to your room off. “Mon mari et moi avons eu un long vol, nous voulons juste nous reposer.”

“Bonne nuit, Madame,”

The keycard to your room was passed to you with another kind smile from the man. Bob stepped into the elevator first, pulling you along with him, before the bellhop placed your bags in the room with you and pressed the fifth floor button for you both. He bid you both another goodnight before the doors shut, leaving the two of you alone once more.

“Y-You speak French?”

There was a smirk on your face as you glanced at Bob, who looked astonished and impressed by what he had just seen.

“And Spanish, they were both taught to us during my SHIELD special training,”

“I liked the way you spoke it,” Bob’s voice dropped just slightly lower, slightly softer. “It…it was pretty.”

Heat was crawling through your skin as you slipped your hand from his, wiping it along your dress with a nervous laugh.

“W-Well, like they say…it is the language of love, and whatnot. Elegant and…all that,”

Silence fell between you both again as the elevator doors swung open on your floor. The room, 512, was just barely down the hallway, opening with a single flick of the keycard. Bob went to take a step forward, but you placed a hand on his chest, pulling him back and stepping into the room first, pulling the concealed gun from your thigh holster with a practiced ease as you did.

“First step of undercover, Bob: always assume you’re one step behind so that you never walk in blind,”

The hotel room was small: a tiny door that led to the bathroom to the right of the main door, a king-sized bed spread out along the entire wall with just enough space for the dresser, and floor-to-ceiling windows that opened up onto the skinny balcony.

A quick sweep of the room and the typical spots confirmed that it wasn’t bugged and that no one besides housekeeping had stepped foot in there within the last few hours, so you gave Bob a nod to enter the room as you slotted your gun back into its holster.

“N-Never been in a hotel this nice,” Bob muttered as he entered the room, looking around the room with a look in his eyes that you could only compare to childlike glee. He took a seat on the edge of the bed, letting out a sigh as he fell back against the quilt and practically sank into it. “Or a city so pretty.”

You smiled to yourself, moving to lock the door to the room. Reaching into your purse, you slid a small, circular device onto the door, one that would alert you if there was any unauthorized breach of the door. You reentered the main room, placing a similar device beside the window to the balcony, this one scrambling outside interference with the room so that anything said within your four walls would stay private information.

“You went to Malaysia, I’ve been there. It’s a beautiful country,”

“I went there to score drugs, I-I wasn’t staying in five-star hotels like this one,”

Bob sat up on the bed as he spoke, looking over to you. You leaned against the wall by the window, arms folded over your chest as you watched him, laughing lightly at his comment.

“Alright, you got me there, Reynolds. Fair point,”

Silence hung for a second before Bob finally looked around the room, glancing down to the bed under his fingertips before looking up at you with wide eyes once again.

“Um…t-there’s only one bed?”

“Oh…”

Yeah, oh. That thought hadn’t exactly crossed your mind when Valentina’s team sent you the booking for the room, or when you did the initial sweep of the room moments ago.

Okay, this wasn’t a problem. There were plenty of pillows, and you could easily make up a place to sleep on the floor. This also wasn’t your first rodeo with an undercover mission; you had done plenty in the past and made do with a lot less to work with. Sleeping in a bathtub wasn’t the most uncomfortable thing in the world, depending on the size of it-

“We could…we could share?”

That comment snapped you out of your thoughts. Bob looked at your sheepishly, his hands wringing together in a way you’d come to know well, but there was a spark of something in his eyes. Something that looked a lot like hope.

Your teeth gnawed at your bottom lip, the thought flickering through your head, before you gave him a hesitant nod.

“As long as you’re okay with it,”

“W-We fall asleep sitting on the couch together all the time. This is the same thing, just…horizontal,”

Bob may have hated his social awkwardness, but you were thankful for it. Especially in moments like this, where it broke tension so effortlessly. A laugh sputtered from your lips as you quickly covered it with your hand, and a tiny grin stretched across Bob’s face at the sound.

“Well, how can I argue with logic like that? Let me just…get changed,”

You spent too long in the bathroom, and you knew it. You had changed ten minutes ago into your sleep shorts and oversized t-shirt that you had stolen from Bucky weeks ago after he’d stained one of yours during a Walker and Ava-initiated food battle in the middle of dinner over a pointless argument.

The ten minutes since changing had been spent staring into the mirror in the pristine bathroom, trying to ground yourself.

Bob was right, you had essentially slept with each other multiple times before. This time, though, was different. Yeah, as Bob so expertly put it, you were horizontal this time, but you were in a bed and alone in Paris, not on a couch in the middle of the tower common room where any of your early riser teammates could walk in unannounced. It was such a mundane thing, sleeping next to someone, when you thought about it, but a much more intimate thing for Bob to feel comfortable enough to let you do with him.

He trusted you, completely. You tried to remind yourself of that when your mind drifted to how much or how little clothing he possibly wore to bed, or the fact that his body naturally functioned like a furnace because of the serum running through his veins. Or the impure fantasies that flicked through your head late at night when you were alone in your room in the tower, imagining how his lean and taut muscles and soft skin would feel under the touch of your wandering hand.

Bob was already tucked into one side of the bed by the time you finally entered the room. Just the bedside lamp remained on, bathing the room in a tiny bit of a yellow glow. You didn’t look at him directly as you shut the curtains to the balcony, but you could see the hint of bare skin peaking just above the covers from where he lay.

Without a word, you crawled in beside him, tucking yourself in with your head resting on the soft pillow on your side. You turned on your side, gaze trailing over the side of his face and his jawline, before Bob turned to face you too.

Nothing was said for a moment. You could faintly smell that body soap that Bob used, that hint of rosemary and sage invading your senses. His feet were moving back and forth under the covers, as if fidgeting when his hands couldn’t, and his body heat was prevalent in the sheets and in the air between you.

“S-Sorry,” he mumbled out, glancing down just barely at his own torso as you tried to keep your eyes trained on his face. “I run hot–you know that–and if I uh, if I wear shirts to bed I usually sweat r-right through them.”

“It’s okay,” was all you could manage to reply.

“I’ve never done this before,” Bob spoke again, vulnerability laced in his tone. “Never…slept in a bed with someone.”

You shifted, pulling your pillow down further as you tucked your hands under it.

“Never? Not even with a girlfriend?”

“Well, there was a girl…once,” Bob seemed to hesitate for a moment, but you didn’t push him. He’d come close to telling this story once before, about this girl, in therapy, but always stopped himself short. “I-I was younger, it was sometime after I dropped out of high school. Things were good, but she…she didn’t realize I was an addict. Once she knew, that was it. S-So, no, no bed sharing for me.”

“Well, I’m glad the first time you’re sharing a bed with someone, it’s with your wife,” the comment lightened the mood almost immediately, a genuine laugh tumbling from Bob’s lips. Your own pulled into a smile at the sight, seeing the tension that had been strewn throughout his features at the memory of this girl dissipating almost immediately. “It’s been a while since I’ve shared a bed with anyone, too. A long time.”

“How long?”

“Years. Way before Thanos, that’s for sure,” you chuckled to yourself. Bob watched you intently, hanging on your every word. “He was a SHIELD agent, too, a few years older than me. We were here in Paris…haven’t been back here since.”

You knew the melancholy was clear in your tone, memories flickering back to you in pieces. Bob shifted just slightly on the bed, his body moving just slightly closer to yours.

“What, uh, what happened to him?”

“He turned out to be HYDRA. My mentor killed him, so don’t worry, he’s a distant memory now. Became a full-time liaison for the Avengers after that all went down,”

“W-Well…it all worked out, didn’t it?” there was a hint of a sheepish smile on Bob’s face. “I…don’t think I would’ve met you if you didn’t work with them.”

Bob Reynolds didn’t make it easy. Whether the comment was meant to be flirty or just sweet in general, it had your stomach twisting in knots and heat flaring in your cheeks.

“Yeah…I guess everything works out for a reason,” you turned away from him then, back to him, as you flicked the bedside lamp out, plunging the room into darkness. “Goodnight, Bob,”

“G-Goodnight,”

The silence in the dark had only lasted for a few minutes. You hadn’t shut your eyes once, simply staring at the curtains covering the window in front of you, listening to the sound of Bob’s breathing fill the room. Any ounce of sleep that your body needed had evaded you suddenly, your body and mind wide awake.

“Can…can I ask you a favor?”

“Always,”

The bed sheets ruffled for a moment as Bob moved himself around.

“When I sleep, I tend to…I-I usually hold something. Like, my pillow. Do you–you can say no–but do you think-”

“Come here,”

You said it without hesitation, before you even fully realized what you agreed to. You didn’t need to think about it, though, because Bob Reynolds could ask you anything, and you weren’t sure you could ever really tell him no.

The sheets shuffled around again, before that warmth radiating from his skin was more prevalent than it was before. Gently, as if you were some wounded little animal he was scared to spook, Bob’s arm slowly slid around your waist from behind. His hand lay against your stomach, splayed out on top of the fabric, before his body molded to the back of yours.

One shaky breath left your lips the second his body was fully molded to the shape of your own. His other arm slid under the pillow beneath your head, and you could feel the heat from it on the other side of the pillowcase. Bob’s fingers twitched back and forth, as if hesitating, his warm breath ghosting over the back of your neck. In this close proximity, the sage scent in his bodywash was stronger, a hint of his minty toothpaste wafting through the air along with it.

Neither of you moved for a moment before you finally sank back into him, letting yourself embrace the feeling of being wrapped in his arms for the first time. Bob let out another shaky breath, his arm tightening around you the second you relaxed, as if realizing that you weren’t going to run away from his touch. Suddenly, tiredness finally found you again, your body being lulled into sleep.

“Goodnight,” he whispered, breath ghosting over the shell of your ear.

“Goodnight, Bob,”

As sleep finally overtook you, Yelena’s words floated through your mind once again.

❤︎

The dress Valentina’s team had picked was simple: a deep navy blue satin, floor-length, and column fit to hug you just right but provide enough mobility in case of a fight. The halter neckline tied around the back of your neck, the zipper up the back of the dress stopping right at your lower back, exposing the expanse of your spine in the cool air of the hotel room. A comfortable pair of black heels, ones easy enough to discard if, once again, a fight ensued. A single slit up the side of the dress, stopping right at the middle of your right thigh to barely hide the holster strapped to your upper thigh with your knives.

Simple, elegant, and befitting of a woman supposedly married to a rich and powerful weapons manufacturer.

“H-Here, let me help,”

Not a single muscle in your body moved as Bob stepped into view behind you, fingers taking firm hold of the dress’s zipper to conform it to your body.

Your eyes watched him in the floor-length mirror behind you, dressed up in a way you had never seen him before. His suit was a deep, rich brown color, with a matching jacket and dress pants with just a slightly darker shade of brown shoes on his feet. Bob’s hair was slicked back, held behind his ears with the pomade packed for him. It was strange, seeing him like this, but not unwelcome. It gave you the chance to fully see his face, no longer shrouded by stray strands of hair.

The zipper hooked into place at the top of your dress, Bob’s fingertips just lightly ghosting over your spine as a shiver ran straight through your bones and showed in the bumps along your skin. You turned on your heel, reaching out without a word to adjust the crinkled white button-up beneath his jacket so it lay flat. With the collar in place, you let your hand rest on his chest for just a moment, touch light, as you looked up at him. Bob’s eyes hadn’t left yours, nervousness written clear across his face, before you pulled your hand away to retrieve your clutch across the room.

“Alright, Mr. and Mrs. Gray need to have their stories straight,” you cleared your throat, explaining to him as you dug through your clutch, crossing the room back to his side. “In case we’re questioned on how we met, fell i-in love, that type of thing.”

Bob was silent for a moment as you continued to rummage through your clutch. As the silence stretched, you glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Bob, did you hear me-”

“Maybe…m-maybe we met in a bookstore. I saw you, but y-you were just too pretty to talk to. Then you came up to me, I was reading my favorite book, and you quoted it. And…the rest w-was history,”

Something about those words hit you like a hurricane, and suddenly, you were back in that Vault all those months ago.

“W-What exactly are you doing?”

“Rerouting power away from their security systems so they can’t get the drop on us,” Bob hummed in response to your comment, going quiet, but him being quiet worried you more than him talking. “Just stay behind me when the fight comes, okay? Because we’re going to have to fight our way out of here, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I can help, though! At least, I-I want to,” there was enthusiasm in his words for a moment, before that negative self-talk worked itself back in. “The medical trial was supposed to make me better, so I don’t know, I-I feel like I could help.”

The wires were finally rerouted, the little blinking green light indicating power to their security system flashing red. Your dagger was placed back in its loop on your belt, the electrical box slammed shut, before you looked back at Bob with raised eyebrows.

“I thought you didn’t remember much about this trial?”

“I don’t, just that it was for people who wanted to make something of themselves, to be better. To do good,” your gaze dropped to his hands, partially obscured by the long sleeves of his hospital uniform, as his fingers twisted together. “I don’t know, I-I just feel like I did something…bad, if that makes sense?”

“We all have, that’s why we’re in this vault,”

“This feels different,” he gave a short laugh. “I-I’ve always had these episodes since I was a kid. There’s a…there’s a high, then there’s a big low, and then my memory just goes blank. This time, it feels like I-I did something bad. I don’t know, it just feels like every time I try to move forward and do something good, the past comes back to haunt me.”

There was a tug in your chest at the comment, like recognition in your soul for the way he hurt, for the pain he carried.

“And so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,” you shrugged a little at your own response, a splash of red coating your neck and cheeks. “Sorry, you just reminded me of this quote from a book I love about the past haunting you-”

“The Great Gatsby,” Bob’s smile was just a tad bit brighter now, and it tugged on your heart in a different way. “Y-Yeah, I know it. It’s my favorite book.”

“Mine too,” you offered him softly, with a smile of your own, before the lights flickered for just a moment before popping back on, indicating that Yelena’s plan had failed.

His own fake story for your fake relationship had traces of that first conversation you’d really had with him strewn throughout it. You couldn’t help the way your heart fluttered at the thought.

Suddenly, your head was back in bed this morning, just hours before. Wrapped in his arms as if it were the most usual thing in the world, his heat wrapping around you and shielding you from the cold of the room. The way his arms tightened around you the second you tried to leave the bed, his subconscious holding tighter to you even in the quiet of the morning.

The moments you had sat on the balcony, freshly showered in a bathrobe, enjoying a plate of fresh croissants and coffee. One hand flicked through the screen of your holopad, tapped into the security system of the hotel just down the street, monitoring the setup of the conference. But your eyes drifted back to Bob every now and then. The way the quilt rested around his hips, his slightly tanned skin and taut muscles visible in the smattering of sunlight that streamed through the window and painted his body in shades of gold.

“How’d we get engaged?” you found yourself asking after a moment, shaking yourself out of your head. Bob let out a soft laugh, hands wringing together in front of him.

“If I worked up the courage, ever…a picnic, by the beach. M-Maybe the sun setting in the background, little sandwiches, some music. I-I’d…I’d tell you that…you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. Inside and out,”

If he’d meant it, if it had been a real marriage proposal, you would probably have said yes right in that moment without another thought.

Bob watched as you slipped your hand from your clutch, tucking it under your arm, before taking his left hand in yours. Your palm opened, two gold bands glinting in the overhead light.

“Sorry to rain on your engagement parade, but we’re in a time crunch. Looks like we have to skip straight to the ring ceremony,”

His shaky hand lay in yours as you slipped the ring onto his finger, a new kind of tension charging the air between you both. Bob took your hand next, and you could feel your chest tighten and your stomach flip a thousand different ways as his shaky hands slipped your own ring onto your left hand.

It all felt so right, so natural. But there was no time to dwell on it, as the mission was truly about to begin.

The streets of Paris in the late afternoon near your hotel weren’t overcrowded, but still busy. Bob had taken your hand from his arm, wrapping it in his own as he squeezed it firmly, but gently, twice. It was the same squeeze he would always give you in the middle of his therapy sessions when a moment felt like too much.

The rented hotel was just two streets away, and the wall of bodyguards standing outside was a clear sign that you were in the right place. You gave Bob’s hand a light squeeze back, leaning over so that your lips just barely brushed his ear.

“Tonight, you aren’t Bob Reynolds. You’re Aiden Gray, a wealthy CEO, someone people respect. They don’t look down on you, they respect you, because you are powerful and you are important. I’ll be right here the whole time, I won’t leave your side. You can do this, I believe in you,”

Bob didn’t get to respond before you were standing before the front door of the hotel. The looming presence of the bodyguards waited until you pulled out the ornately decorated slip of paper from your clutch, flashing them your invitation with Damien Jacquemin’s personal signature. They looked at one another, nodded, and parted to let you and Bob enter.

The hotel’s ground floor was spacious, yet still small. Shades of blue, beige, and deeper browns coated the room from head to toe, matching perfectly with the deep brown wooden floors and the beige columns around the room. The ornate lights hanging from the ceiling glowed in a warm white, bathing the room in soft light. There were maybe fifty guests littering the room, leaning against walls or cocktail tables, or even sitting in plush chairs and couches, already locked into conversations.

“That man over there is Herman Schultz, a known associate of Adrian Toomes that got released from custody during the blip,” you whispered into Bob’s ear once more, gesturing with a single flick of your finger toward a tall man across the room, laughing with a group of women. You tugged him slightly, pointing in another direction at a table where a group sat. “Over there? That’s the head of Cybertek Corporation, they’re speaking with a distant cousin of Aldrich Killian, trying to restart his defunct company, A.I.M.”

“S-So a lot of really important and powerful people,” Bob mumbled back. You squeezed his hand once, bringing his nervous gaze to you, and shot him a teasing smile.

“Darling, you have the power of a thousand exploding suns. You could take them all out with a single look,”

Whether it was the pet name or the compliment, something about what you had said made Bob almost preen under your words. He straightened just slightly, shoulders squared back, an air with a hint of confidence filling the space around him.

“Where’s the host for the evening?”

Damien Jacquemin wasn’t hard to spot. He had a way of commanding a room with charm and poise, leaving no one any wiser to the fact that he was three steps away from stabbing you in the back to get what he wanted at all times. He towered above most people in the room, even Bob, his salt-and-pepper hair sticking out like a marker for him. He laughed at something the young men around him said, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as a flash of the Rolex on his wrist glinted in the light.

“He’ll be giving a speech soon, followed by some other key presenters he has lined up. Keep your eyes peeled for our potential targets,” you muttered just low enough for Bob to hear, hand still grasping his as you found your way to a table seated on the edge of the room as Mr. Jacquemin moved toward the makeshift stage and podium, giving you both a vantage point of the entire room. “They’ll stick out: clothing not up to par with the rest of the crowd, shifty body language, maybe even an identifying mark.”

The clink of a glass across the room had those in attendance seating themselves, attention brought to the charming French man standing behind the podium, a wide smile shining over his guests, who clapped for him. Bob clapped along while you took the chance to survey the room as Mr. Jacquemin began his speech to welcome everyone into the conference.

As the speech droned on, as other speakers stood to address the crowd, your eyes continued to scan the room. If your HYDRA agents were hiding in here, they were blending in well among the sea of expensive suits, high-end perfume, and designer dresses.

The seat across the table from you and Bob was pulled out suddenly, a younger man in what you recognized as a Dior suit taking his place across from you both. He didn’t turn to listen to the speeches, though; his gaze stayed locked on you–hungry, like a predator watching his prey. You squirmed slightly in your seat as the man’s tongue dipped out to run over his bottom lip-

A warm hand placed itself on your bare thigh, uncovered by the high slit running up your dress. A shot of heat bloomed under the already warm touch, while a contrasting shiver shot straight down your spine. Your gaze flickered to Bob, heat pooling within your abdomen at the look stretched across his face.

Gone was that softness he always wore, or that slight blush that always sat in the apples of his cheek. His gaze had hardened, eyes narrowed, and jaw clenched as he fixed his sights on the man across the table. It was enough to force the man to look away, but Bob’s hand didn’t leave your leg. His fingers drifted further in, digging into the flesh of your inner thigh as he practically pulled you flush to his side. Still, then, his hand never left, his thumb drawing circles into your skin as heat bloomed under every inch of his touch, stroking the fire that was now blazing in your abdomen.

“Table by the front door. Two guys, they look off,”

His voice had dropped slightly. It was more gruff, akin to the way it sounded when he groaned and dragged himself from the hotel room bed early in the morning hours ago. Still Bob, still the man you adored, but with an edge to it–harder, almost protective. As if you were something that belonged to him, something for his eyes only, and the man sitting across from you had set him off. It had you swallowing the lump you hadn’t realized had even formed and following his directions to the table near the door, suddenly remembering the mission you were currently here to complete.

Bob was right. Young men, maybe their late twenties, seated at a table closest to the front door where bodyguards still stood on guard. They wore suits, but even from here you could see the wrinkles in the fabric, the knock-off watch on the wrist of one of them. One’s eyes shifted around the room every few seconds, never staying in one place too long. The other watched the podium, eyes shifting down to the table every other moment, his body shifting in his seat to readjust as if he couldn’t get quite comfortable.

“Good eye, think those are our guys,” you tucked your chin onto Bob’s shoulder with a grin on your lips, making it seem to the room as if you were simply speaking in hushed tones with your husband, while you whispered the praise back to him. The corners of his lips quirked at your praise, his hand giving your thigh yet another squeeze, before he settled back to ‘listen’ to the speeches at the podium. You tried to get a peek at his eyes, but he’d turned his head from you.

Those speeches droned on for two hours. A collection of talks on the importance of ever-evolving weapons in the current state of the world, fear-mongering over politics to push the need for enchanted weaponry, and more bullshit that had you wondering in your seat how Tony Stark used to attend conferences such as this.

Those speeches were hard to focus on when your mind was zeroed in on Bob Reynolds' hand that wouldn’t leave your thigh. The feelings that you had buried deep beneath your platonic feelings for your best friend had existed for a long time, but you never pushed them. Bob never seemed to be someone who would push boundaries such as this, too afraid to cross any lines with you. But this mission, this room full of important people, seemed to go straight to his head and fill him with a confidence that you had never truly seen him wear before, at least not to the extent that he’d willingly leave his hand splayed across your bare thigh for two hours drawing circles into your skin.

Part of you didn’t want him to let go, the other part of you was begging him to move his hand. The middle of a mission was the worst time for a coil of heat that you weren’t able to satisfy to be building in your core. Even when your meals were served, speeches continuing on at the podium, Bob hadn’t removed his hand once.

“I must say, I was not aware of Gray Enterprises. It seems you hold a good portion of the weapons market across the United States now. Tell me, did Stark Industries ending their weapons division help boost your market value?”

Champagne glasses had been thrust into your hands, though Bob had kindly refused his. A German arms dealer and his wife, Kaleb Hettinger and Rosalina Hettinger, had quickly crossed the room and pulled you both into a discussion the second that the speeches had wrapped up, dying to learn more about two of the few Americans littering the room.

“Well, my husband’s late father, I’m sure, was excited when the late Mr. Stark shut down his weapons division,” you gave a simple laugh, resting a hand on Bob’s chest. You could feel his own nervous laughter run through him, one of his hands curling around your waist to rest on your hip hesitantly, a stark contrast to how easily that same hand had gripped your thigh minutes ago. “Given the events of the last few years, including during the blip, we’ve found it most profitable to focus on enhanced weaponry.”

“Lord knows we need it,” Rosaline laughed, German accent thick, shaking her head at a thought of her own. “We all know those…New Avengers, I think they’re calling them, won’t be of much help. But besides that, I love seeing a powerful couple in our world! Tell me, how did you two meet?”

You went to speak, but Bob beat you to it, squeezing your hip just slightly.

“W-We were teenagers. I saw her in a bookstore, but…she was too pretty to talk to. She came up t-to me, quoted my favorite book…” Bob’s gaze turned to you, and you glanced up at him. “I-It was love at first sight.”

Something about those words twisted around your heart: the sincerity of it. The soft look in his eyes, the tiny smile coupled with that hint of truth in your first meeting…it felt real. His words felt real, like it was Bob saying it to you, not Aiden Gray saying it to his adoring wife.

“Oh, mein Schatz! Look at them! That’s true love if I’ve ever seen it,”

Rosaline’s voice cut through the air again. Heat bloomed across Bob’s face, and you felt it on your own, gazes averting from one another almost immediately. Kaleb let out a hearty laugh, giving his wife a kiss on the cheek.

“Truly, it is wonderful to see a man love his wife like I love my own. I have a lot of respect for a man like you, Mr. Gray, who continues to shower the woman he loves in affection,”

There it was again, that straightening of Bob’s posture, the tightening of his hand at the comment, as if the words had gone straight to his head again.

“She deserves nothing but the best, and only I’m capable of offering it to her,” that usual stutter in his words was gone, replaced by an air of confidence as he turned his head, his lips ghosting over your temple in a gentle yet firm kiss. You tried not to falter under the notion, giving the pair in front of you the strongest smile you could, even as your stomach flipped upside down.

Your potential HYDRA agents caught your eye once more, moving across the expanse of the room just behind the Germans standing in front of you.

“Oh, Mr. Gray, I think you would be very interested in this new design my company has been working on. It’s an addition that can be added onto solar panels–well, it makes more sense if I show you. I brought the blueprints, they’re just over here at our table if you would like to see?”

Bob’s head turned to look at you, catching sight of your gaze following those two men across the room. You turned back to him, giving him a short nod. He hesitated for a moment before nodding back to you, letting his arm slip from your hips as he followed the Hettingers back to their table just a few feet away.

It was like being able to breathe again, the second Bob was gone, even if you missed the feel of his arm sitting around your waist as if it had been molded to sit there. This wasn’t the time for hidden feelings; you were in the middle of a mission.

You moved across the room elegantly, casually leaning yourself against one of the beige columns on the edge of the room, passing smiles to those who passed by you. The suspected agents stood just on the other side of the column you were leaning against, speaking in hushed whispers. With a sip of your champagne, you strained to overhear their conversation.

“He won’t sell it to us here,”

“It makes sense, too many people. He give you anything else?”

“One of his assistants will send me the location soon. He didn’t want to risk sending it himself in the middle of the conference,”

A smirk spread across your lips as you took another sip of your champagne, a single word running through your mind: gotcha. Sometimes, they made it all too easy, especially HYDRA agents. So lazy.

“Regardez ce que nous avons ici. A beautiful woman, all alone,”

A chill ran through your blood at that French accent, your head whipping around. Damien Jacquemin stood at your side in all his glory, perfectly pressed and tailored suit. He stood way too close, the hint of alcohol wafting off his breath and invading your senses.

“Mr. Jacquemin, a pleasure to finally meet you,” you put on the lightest, airiest, most polite tone that you could while trying not to grit your teeth. This was the exact man you didn’t want to be alone with. In the interest of maintaining your cover, you held your hand out in his direction to clink your glass to his.

Damien didn’t waste a second, whisking your champagne glass from your hand and setting both of your glasses on the tray of a server walking past. His hand enveloped yours: skin cool, nothing like the warmth of Bob’s. His lips pressed to your knuckles, eyes never leaving yours: his gaze didn’t hold the warmth that Bob’s did when he looked at you, his lips didn’t leave a trail of tingling through your skin like Bob’s did.

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Gray. S'il vous plaît, come and spare me a single dance,”

There wasn’t any place to argue with the man as he whisked you off into the middle of the hotel lobby without another word. Soft music played from the live string quartet the French arms dealer had hired for the evening, and couples here and there had cleared the middle of the lobby to fashion a makeshift dance floor.

Mr. Jacquemin pulled you in, a huff leaving your lips as your front was pressed to his. One of his hands splayed across your lower back, pressing you closer, while the other held your left hand up beside you both dancing you softly around the floor in circles.

The hand didn’t feel like Bob’s; it didn’t engulf your hand like his did, his thumb didn’t draw little circles into your skin. The hand on your lower back was firm, almost controlling; it wasn’t comforting like Bob’s touch. Even pressed to his chest, you couldn’t feel the inhuman warmth that Bob radiated, and it left you feeling cold without it.

You never knew just how much you craved that closeness with Bob, how much you craved his touch, until you’d felt it in the way you had only ever dreamed of feeling it. You had masked these feelings for months in the guise of platonicness, when in reality, you were as much his person as he was yours.

You didn’t want to be in this dance if it wasn’t with Bob.

“A beautiful ring you have, ma chérie,” his gaze was settled on the simple gold band on your ring finger, poking and prodigy at it with his own index finger as you both spun. “Very…simple, though, isn’t it? I expect more from a man such as Mr. Gray, though maybe his personality and taste matches the rest of him…painfully drab.”

The comment made you bristle in his hold. It didn’t feel like a jab at the fictitious character of Mr. Aiden Gray, it felt like a jab at Bob Your grip on the man’s forearm tightened, nails digging into the fabric.

“Well, I didn’t choose my husband based on the gifts he gives me,” you grit your teeth, forcing a smile as you shot the comment at him. “He may not buy me the flashiest of jewelry, but he’s worth more than anyone in this room in heart alone.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Gray, I’m sure he is. It’s hard to quantify you and your husband’s net worth, and the worth of your company, when there’s simply…not much to search about you online…”

In all your years of undercover missions, you’d never failed on. Your alibis, your identities for the missions, had always been airtight and remained intact. But Damien Jacquemin had found a crack somewhere; he’d found a missing piece in the concoction of Gray Enterprises, and he knew who you were. Your cover was blown. It felt as if your heart was going to stop: if your cover was blown, then so was Bob’s. Bob, who you had allowed to leave your side, who you couldn’t find from where you stood on the makeshift dancefloor-

“...I’m not surprised I didn’t find much, though. Your father-in-law seemed to do a good job of moving his dealings under the table and to the black market in the years following the collapse of Stark Industries' weapons sector. I’m, frankly, quite impressed by how you and your husband have managed to operate so under the radar. I’m quite interested in the idea of a partnership.”

It took every ounce of strength you had not to let out a relieved breath: he didn’t know. Your cover wasn’t blown. You were safe, Bob was safe, and that was all that mattered. You let out a slight laugh, brushing a strand of air behind your ear before resting your hand on the Frenchman’s shoulder again. He was none the wiser to the minuscule, circular device that you slipped under the collar of his suit jacket in the moment.

“Partnerships can be discussed, but with my husband, of course,” you managed to speak. “As long as your company isn’t engaging in any… under-the-table deals with unfavorable organizations, I’m sure a partnership can be on the table.”

He laughed, accent thick, as his breath brushed your ear and he whispered.

“Where is the fun in that, darling?”

Someone cleared their voice from directly behind you, a hand catching the forearm of Damien Jacquemin where you had been holding it before. That familiar bodywash scent invaded your senses in an instant: rosemary and sage.

“I believe it’s my turn to dance with my wife,”

Bob’s voice almost growled on the final word: wife. It had that cord of heat coiling up even further in your stomach. You could visibly see the wince in Mr. Jacquemin’s face as Bob’s hand on his forearm squeezed tighter and tighter every second, no doubt leaving indents in his skin as the veins running down the back of Bob’s hand almost throbbed.

The Frechman’s hands were off you within a moment, a tight-lipped smile sent your way, before he whisked himself back off through the room. It was like the little moment on the dance floor had never happened, a smile lighting up his face as he was whisked off into another conversation with investors.

Bob’s hand suddenly had a tight hold of your hip, spinning you around until your chests were pressed together, your body molded into his. You relaxed into that familiar grip, into the warmth it provided, your head placing itself on his chest. Bob took up the same position Damien had held moments before, one hand on the small of your back and the other lifting your left arm into the air, dancing softly back and forth with you. His grip tightened over so slightly, the firm grip around your waist hugging you to him in a way that was just the slightest bit uncomfortable.

“I’m okay, Bob, you don’t have to hold me so tight-”

“He shouldn’t have been touching you,”

His words were so final, so precise. His tone was laced with a hint of anger, that same gruffness from earlier present again. It had you furrowing your eyebrows, glancing around the room as his grip tightened ever so slightly again.

“He didn’t hurt me, I promise, I’m okay-”

“He shouldn’t have been touching you because you’re my wife,” he snapped back. “He thinks he’s above me? You’re my wife, he should respect me.”

Respect. That word shot up a wave of red flags in your head, as well as the flicker of the overhead lights of the room that sent a murmur through the conference crowd.

You racked your brain for memories of every therapy session of Bob’s you’d been with him on, trying to find that missing puzzle piece. His depression, his anxiety…his delusions of grandeur. Suddenly, it made sense when you’d heard him talk like this before, where you’d heard this overconfident tone before: just once, in The Watchtower months ago.

You can call me The Sentry.

You pulled your head from his chest, craning your neck back to look at him. Bob’s eyes were already looking down at you, as if waiting for you to look at him, and that’s when you saw it: that sparkle of gold in the blue of his eyes.

His eyes didn’t leave you as you hand left his, curling around the back of his neck as you moved back and forth across the makeshift dance floor, holding his gaze.

“You should be respected…but because you’re Bob,” you kept your voice soft, just loud enough for him to hear among the murmurings and music in the room. “Bob Reynolds deserved to be respected.”

“I’m not-”

“You are. You’re my Bob,” the smile you gave him was as soft and full of affection as it could be. “My Bob, who always asks me to read his favorite book because he says he likes hearing the sound of my voice. My Bob, who likes it when the rain hits the windows of the tower late at night. My Bob, who doesn’t even realize the way he hugs me so early in the morning when he’s fresh out of bed. My Bob? I respect him. My person…my favorite person.”

It wasn’t instantaneous; it took a few moments of simply holding him, but that gold slowly faded from Bob’s eyes. His features softened, his lips pulled into a slight frown, and then those blue eyes were frantically glancing around the room. You watched as the Adam’s apple of his throat bobbed, before his eyes found yours again: frantic, nervous.

“...cucumber?”

You let out a short laugh, and nodded, taking his hands in your own and leading him through the crowds as quickly as you could. There was an unguarded door behind the concierge desk leading into a backroom, L-shaped hallway for employees. You quickly shut the door behind both of you.

Bob leaned against the wall, running his hands through his hair so many times that the gel no longer held it down, letting those soft brown strands fall in front of his face again. He tugged incessantly at the collar of his button-down, his frantic gaze catching yours.

“I-I can’t believe I just did…any of that. God–I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t ruin the mission, did I?”

You let out a soft chuckle, taking another step toward him to stand directly in front of him.

“I overheard our guys; they made a deal with Jacquemin for the sale and are waiting on details. Also, planted a tracker in his suit while he was dancing with me, so we’ve got just about everything we need to nail them. So, no, you didn’t ruin the mission,”

“O-Okay, good, good,” his Adam’s apple bobbed again, his breath coming out in short pants. “Is it really hot in here for you? I-I feel like I can’t breathe, like my chest is going to explode, a-and like everything just…hurts.”

“Bob, honey, I think you’re having a panic attack,”

“How do I stop having a-a panic attack?”

A single thought flickered through your head for a moment as you watched him, watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he almost clawed at his throat in a desperate plea for air. And before you could stop yourself, to think about your thought, you stepped forward.

Your hands cradled his cheeks, and you kissed him.

Bob’s lips almost trembled beneath yours with the first press, his entire body freezing up under that simple movement. Then, after just a moment of holding yourself in place, they moved. Slow, hesitant, but they moved.

You could taste the small remnants of the punch Bob had opted to drink in place of champagne on his lips. His lips parted just barely, letting your head tilt slightly to the side to let your mouth move firmly against him, pouring every ounce of feeling into the kiss that you could manage. You’d dreamt of this moment in secret for so long, and now that it was here, that coil of heat within you was seconds from bursting, and your own chest was the one tightening.

Bob’s hands found your hips, settling there–hesitant but firm, holding you close. His lips pushed back against yours finally, the pieces of hair broken free of the gel brushing against the skin of your cheek. The need for air rushed into your lungs as you reluctantly pulled away with a soft smack of your lips, leaving one another, almost breathless pants filling the air.

Bob Reynolds looked wrecked, more out of breath than he had been before. Those eyes you loved so dearly were blown wide, the blue almost sparkingly in the light. His lips were still parted, but slightly upturned on the side in what you could only assume was wonder.

“I-”

“You were having a panic attack,” you spoke quickly, voice like a whisper. “I saw it in a tv show once, that holding your breath stops a panic attack. And that…kissing can make you hold your breath.”

“...uh huh,”

“Did it work?”

“Um…not sure. I-I might be about to have a panic attack over something else,”

Laughter bubbled out of your lips at that, Bob’s smile growing, before you were frozen in place. Voices, down the hall and around the L bend of the hallway, getting closer. Bob went to speak again before you placed a finger to his lips, focusing to try and hear down the echoey hallway.

“Coordinates, time, and place. Should make this an easy sale,”

“Yeah, as long as we don’t forget the money,”

Back straightening out, remembering you were on a mission, you reached into the front pocket of Bob’s pants and tugged your clutch from it. Digging through, you pulled out a rectangular device that looked like a normal cellphone, tucking your clutch under your arm and taking Bob’s hand in your own.

You pulled the two of you to a stop right at the corner of the bed, waiting a moment, before swinging you both around. The pair of you crashed directly into your targets, cell phones and items in your hands crashing to the floor.

“Hey-!”

“Oh god, I’m so sorry, gentlemen!” you put on an overly fake voice, crouching down to the ground before either of them could. You grabbed your device, moving it discreetly over the top of both of the men’s cellphones, before gathering everything and rising back to your feet. The men basically snatched their phones back from your arms as you let out an overexaggerated giggle. “My husband and I weren’t watching where we were going! We were looking for the elevators, hoping to head upstairs and find a…private room.”

Both of the men muttered something in disgust, shoving past you and Bob without another word. You turned, watching them leave through the door you and Bob had come through with a triumphant grin, while Bob just watched you in confusion.

“Old Stark tech,” you flashed him the device in your hand. “I just swiped all the data off their phones without them even knowing it. Now, we know everything about this Adamantium sale.”

It was Bob’s turn to laugh, cocking his head at you with a grin.

“Have I mentioned that y-you’re kind of amazing?”

You grinned, and you pulled him back into another kiss without a word.

Sweeter, but still tender, laced with every bit of adoration and affection you held for him in your soul, that made the moment all the more intimate. Bob only hesitated for half a second this time before he pressed back into you with just as much force, his fingertips barely gracing the edges of your arms. You pulled back almost immediately, then, your brain finally caught up with your actions.

Well, you didn’t have any excuse for kissing him that time.

“Um…” you licked your lips, heat rising in your cheeks. “We…we should head back. Let the team know we got everything-”

“Right! Yeah, yeah, r-right, we should…do that. Finish the mission, and all that…”

The walk back under the cover of night was quiet. Those same soft yellow lights cast that same glow you’d seen before over Bob’s face, and your heart tugged in your chest at the sight.

But neither of you spoke. Not on the walk down the quiet streets. Not in the elevator. Not even when you entered the room together.

You could feel his eyes, watching you, burning a hole into your back as you secured the room. The silent alarm on the door, the device on the wall by the closed balcony window. They watched you still as you uploaded all of your information into the holopad, settled on top of your suitcase, transferring your information directly back to New York, knowing Yelena would likely receive the information in moments and alert Valentina of your successful mission.

Not a word was exchanged as you entered the bathroom like you had the night before, changing into a similar pair of sleep shorts. Discarded on the bathroom floor, though, was one of Bob’s white t-shirts, one he had slipped into early on that morning. You slipped it on without a second thought, wrapping yourself in the scent of that bodywash, before slipping back into the room.

Bob had already turned off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. You slipped into your side of the bed without a word, your backs facing one another as you lay there under the covers in the dark, the only sound being the ticking of the analog clock on the wall across from the bed.

“When you kissed me,” Bob finally spoke, voice just loud enough to be heard in the quiet of the room. “It…it was to stop the panic attack, right?”

You paused for a moment, then spoke, “Yes,”

The sheets shuffled, and you could feel the shift as his body turned, facing your back now.

“W-What…what about the second kiss?”

There was a brief moment of hesitation before you turned, too. You faced him now, mere inches away, looking into those blue eyes you adored.

“That one…was because I wanted to,”

Bob didn’t waste a second before leaning in, like your words had reassured him that he didn’t have to hesitate. Your lips welcomed the press of his, your body inviting the feel of his hand gripping at your waist–nothing hard, nothing too firm, but just present, grounding. His lips were as warm as the rest of his body, and they trembled just slightly as they moved just barely against your own, as if still unsure how to do this. So, you did it for him, hand wrapping around his neck and into his hair to thread through the strands, molding your body to his as you kissed him with every inch of passion you had been holding back for months.

Even as your mouths moved together, there was still a softness in their movements, no matter the growing passion. Even when they moved faster, when a broken moan slipped out of Bob’s mouth and a whine left your own when his hand tugged your hip even closer, it was still soft. Passionate but adoring, pouring every ounce of care into each movement as if to remind the other that this wasn’t just a moment of fun, this was the culmination of months of secret wanting, months of pining and hidden feelings buried underneath platonic words and affirmations.

You shifted just slightly, and a hint of confidence flowed through Bob. He used that moment to move, pressing your back flush against the bed as he hovered above you, his lips never breaking from yours for a second. Your legs fell open for him, inviting him into your space, and he took it without question.

As if it pained him, he tore his lips from yours, trailing them down your jaw and to your neck as he buried himself into the space. His kisses there were gentle, loving, but still burning with heat and passion. He kissed right above your pulse point, able to feel the fervent beat of your heart, and he groaned again into your skin.

“I-I think about you, like this, a lot,” he whispered into your skin. Bob’s arms were braced on either side of you, while one of yours placed itself on his bare chest, drawing shapes into the heated and flushed skin. “I’ve always thought of you like this. The prettiest girl, m-my best friend…my person. The one person who makes that darkness a little lighter. God, I…I love you.”

There it was. Those four little words that tore your heart open, that cracked open the cage that held every hidden desire of your heart locked up for months.

You pulled his face from your shoulder, fingers gently swiping at the silent tears that swept down his cheeks. You pulled him in this time, angling your lips against him, sighing into his mouth as you pushed every ounce of love in your body into him. He sighed back, practically putty in your hands, the weight of his body falling against you.

“I love you too,” you whispered against his lips like a promise. “I’ve always loved you. My best friend…my person.”

He didn’t get to speak before you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling every inch of his body against yours. A broken moan was choked out of his throat, breath ghosting your lips as his kiss swallowed the moan that left your own throat. Pressed against you now, you could feel it: thick, bigger than anything you’d ever had, and throbbing with heat and need.

With your words, with a confirmation of your love, Bob’s kiss grew more confident. Drowning you in every ounce of love, his hands roamed over every inch of you that they possibly could. Your neck, exploring the bare skin of your abdomen and leaving a trail of heat in every stroke of his fingers. You tugged the shirt over your head without another thought, leaving you bare to the world as you fell back against the pillows once more. You tried to tug Bob back to your lips, but he paused, eyes transfixed on your body, roaming every inch of it.

“Beautiful…” he whispered. His fingers traced lines from your abdomen to your ribs, leaving goosebumps in their wake. They traced right around the swell of your breasts, before he leaned in closer. “So beautiful.”

A cry of pure pleasure left your lips the second Bob’s curled around your nipple, teeth just barely grazing and tugging ever so gently. A heavy pant left your lips as your fingers curled into his hair, tugging ever so gently on his slightly dampened hair strands. The heat grew in the room, radiating off his body, and you could see the thin, sheer layer of sweat that coated his skin. His lips moved against your breast, tongue flicking out over the sensitive bud he was wrapped around as your hands tightened just barely in his hair, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

“Sorry,” he whispered again as his mouth popped off your breast, a thin string of saliva connecting him to the place he’d lavished in love. He placed a gentle kiss on your sternum, hands gliding down your sides. “Got eager. I-It’s been a while since I’ve…done this.”

“In all seriousness? I couldn’t tell,” he laughed, crawling back up your body till his face hovered over yours. Your hand left his hair, trailing down until it cupped his cheek, and he turned to press a kiss to your palm. “We don’t have to do anything-”

“I want to,” he was quick to answer with a shake of his head. “I-I’ve never wanted someone more. You’re all I want. Lying together on the couch, those trips through the city, sleeping next to you…I-I just want you. I just want to feel you. I want to be yours.”

His lips met yours again, the second his last word died on his lips. He peppered kiss after kiss to your lips, never lingering long enough, and you couldn’t help the breathless giggle you let out.

“I want to feel you, too,”

Your confession lingered in the quiet of the room. It was visible, the way Bob’s pupils seemed to dilate at those words alone. With one hand, he unhooked your legs from his waist, sliding back down the bed and taking the quilt along with him, bearing your bare chest to the cold air.

You watched with hooded eyes as his fingers trailed over the edge of your sleep shorts, barely dipping past the waistband. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your right thigh, and then your left, before leaning forward to press one right above the waistband of your shorts. Then, he tugged, just barely. They gave way without a second of hesitation, slipping down over your hips and over your thighs without hesitation. You just barely caught the soft whisper of “fuck” that fell from Bob’s mouth when you laid bare before him, panties forgotten in the haste of dressing for sleep.

Those shorts were discarded somewhere across the room, finding the small heap that your shirt was in, and Bob just observed for a moment. You watched the way his eyes trailed up your legs, to your hips, and back down again. His hands did the same, starting from your knees and splaying out over your hips, before going back down to your thighs. He pushed gently, and you followed, spreading your thighs before him. Your breath caught, choking back a moan as he leaned forward, pressing a kiss directly to your core, before trailing the kisses back up your abdomen.

“I love you,” he whispered with every kiss. “I love you.”

You leaned up, forcing Bob to sit up, before pulling him into another kiss, catching his bottom lip just barely between your teeth.

“I love you, too,” you murmured against his lips, before your hands trailed down his chest to the waistband of his boxers, and his breath hitched.

It was like throwing him into overdrive, reminding him of where he was. Bob tugged those boxers off in a tangle of limbs, stumbling slightly on top of the sheets. You laughed, smile giddy, as you fell back against the pillows, just watching the man before you as he rid himself of his boxers and threw them across the room. Your eyes trailed down, seeing his throbbing length for the first time, and that heat that flushed through your body screamed for his skin to be pressed against yours.

A thick cord of tension hung in the air as Bob kneeled over you, bracing himself around your head. His nose brushed yours, breath fanning over your skin. You didn’t hesitate to wrap your arms back around his waist, tugging him toward you, as the heat of his bare length pressed against the heat of your bare core, a breathless moan falling from each of your lips in unison.

Bob rolled his hips forward just barely, throbbing cock dragging along the length of your core and ghosting over your clit as a shot of pleasure shot through every nerve on your body. Your hands found the back of Bob’s head, tangling in his hair once more and tugging him down into a kiss–messy, hot, and slick with saliva.

His hips rolled again, and you rolled back, his tip catching just barely against your opening before gliding through your lips once more.

“A-Are you sure?” Bob muttered into your lips. You nodded, kissing him once more.

“So sure,” you muttered back, hand tugging in his hair as your other trailed down his shoulder, his back, over his hips, before finally holding his heated and flushed length in your own hand. “Please, Bob–I need you–please.”

He nodded, catching your lips in another kiss, as you guided his cock down, catching the head against your opening.

You held it there, before Bob pushed ever so slightly.

Moans in unison fell from both of your lips once again as every inch of his heated, flushed, throbbing cock made its way into your walls, stretching you apart in a mix of part pain and pleasure. Your breath caught in your throat at every inch that pushed into your body, your name falling from Bob’s lips with every drag of your heated walls against him. Your teeth caught his bottom lip again the moment that his hips stuttered, pressing firmly against your hips, as every inch of him sat inside of you, buried within you to the hilt.

The lights of the entire room flickered on for a moment, glowing bright, before turning off once again. Your gaze trailed over them, as did Bob's, before you locked eyes once again.

“W-Well…” he choked out, a tiny laugh bubbling over. “That’s new.”

You laughed with him, arms wrapping around his neck to tug him down to you in yet another kiss, before you ground your hips up into his. A broken moan fell past his lips before he moved.

He set the pace, slow and sensual at first, dragging himself almost all the way out before pushing himself the entire way back in. Each time he settled deep within you, filling you out in every manner of the word, a choked moan spilled from your lips as you dragged them against his time and time again, nails scraping against his scalp.

Bob’s eyes met yours, dazed and glassy, filled with passion and every ounce of love he felt for you. Love, a look you’d seen in his eyes so many times when you looked at him, a look you’d ignored for so long. But there was no time to focus on it, not with every snap of his hips against yours, not with the feeling within your gut of fullness, and not with every ripple of pleasure that coursed through you with the feel of his heated skin molded to yours.

“You feel so good–oh god–so good,” he choked out against your lips. Your hands left his hair, trailing down his arms, but he took advantage of that. His hands caught yours, tugging your hands up above your head and holding them there, gripping you just tightly enough that you could feel the superhuman strength within him holding you down. “So, so, so good–Jesus–so perfect. So beautiful–my girl. Tell me, tell me that–my girl–tell me you’re my girl.”

“Y-Yours,” you stuttered out over every snap of his hips against yours, every slight scrape of his pubic hair against the sensitive bud of your core.

That simple word spurred him: yours. All his, always his. His hips snapped faster, harder, his lips trailing off of yours as he buried his face into your neck, teeth scraping just slightly over your skin as another moan broke through.

Desperation filled every snap of his hips against yours, your name falling from his lips like it was the only word he knew, like it was the only word he wanted to know. His ragged breathing, ghosting over your skin in hot waves. Your skin felt like it was on fire, burning beneath his touch, heat and want and need coiling with every throbbing drag of him against your walls–squelching and wet.

“I can’t-” Bob barely managed to cry against your skin, hips somehow driving into you faster than they had before, the pace in which his hips met yours and the superhuman force sure to bruise your skin, to leave you aching in the best way. “I can’t–please–I can’t hold it. You’re too good, you feel too good.”

“It’s okay,” you shook your head, one of his hands leaving yours to grip onto the wooden headboard behind you. “It’s okay–God, you feel so good–it’s okay, Bob, let go-”

CRACK. SNAP.

You could hear it, loud and clear: the splintering of the wooden headboard. It took every ounce of your strength, rolling your head back to fully see the damage behind you. Bob’s hand was white knuckling the splinted wood, having dragged down through half the headboard, leaving splintered wooden pieces decorating the pillows above your head as his hips pistoned into you at a superhuman pace, one you were barely sure you could handle.

God, you didn’t think there was anything Bob could do to make him hotter in your eyes. Apparently, splintering an entire headboard out of sheer passion and need was something that could.

“I can’t–oh God–I can’t-”

One. Two. Three. His hips drove into you just three more times before that sat flush against your hips, pressing himself as deeply into you as humanly possible before he let go. A rush of warmth filled you, every drop of him filling you, gushing warmth through you, and your own floodgates flew open.

Your hands were freed from his hold, wrists sore from where he dug into them, wrapping around his neck, curling into his hair, and cradling him to you as you trembled and gushed in his hold. Your walls fluttered around him with every wave of pleasure, with every twitch of his cock still sitting within your walls, and his shaky breath ghosted over your skin.

The comedown was quiet, your shaky breaths the only sound filling the air. Bob collapsed on you fully, his heated and sweat-covered skin lying on top of yours. You welcomed the feeling, fingers carding through the sweat dripping strands of his hair, taking in the scent of the air: sex, mainly, with hints of your perfume and that damn bodywash of his laced in between.

Bob raised his head finally, a blissful smile on his lips as he looked down at you. He tried to move his hips back, to pull away, but your legs locked around him with a whine, holding him in place against you.

“Not yet,” you managed to breathe out, shaking your head with a giddy little smile of your own. “Too sensitive, and…I just want to feel you.”

“Okay,” Bob didn’t put up a single fight, his hand coming up to push the strands of hair that stuck to your face away. His eyes trailed, finally, to the destruction behind you, and they shot wide. “Oh–Jesus Christ, d-did I do that?”

“You did, but don’t worry, it was hot,” you both laughed at your comment, noses brushing in the quiet, intimate moment. “Don’t worry, Valentina bought the room. It’s her problem.”

“True…hey, d-do you think cucumber could be used as a safe word too?”

Laughter sputtered out of your mouth, lips brushing his, and Bob laughed with you. All you could do was look at him, heart bursting open with a love that you had kept quiet for so long, and pull him into another soft kiss.

37 successful undercover missions became 38 that night, but this one had been your biggest success. It gave you Bob, in ways you had only ever dreamed of having him…it gave you your person.

#READ SOON

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callsign-reign · 1 day ago

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tiktok hot vs tumblr hot is so funny to me. go on tiktok and it’s thirst traps of action poses, abs, smug one-liners, etc then come to tumblr and it’s the same character also engaged in combat but losing.

they are beat down, covered in their own blood, looking absolutely pathetic and the tags will be full of sentences imbued with such depravity that one can only ponder original sin

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callsign-reign · 1 day ago

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Banquet

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Bull Rider!Fem!Reader

Summary: You’ve been in the circuit scene for as long as you can remember but when you move to Wabang and become the newbie, you’ve got a lot to prove especially to your top competitor, Rhett Abbott.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angst, Enemies to Lovers (✨competition edition✨), Drug Use By Reader (Painkillers), Alcohol Use, Mentions of Bruising and Injuries, Mentions of Blood, Swearing, Violence? (Cause Bull Riding is BROOOTAL), There is a very brief moment of sexual harassment,

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Rough Sex, Fingering, Oral Sex (female and male receiving) Scratching, Spitting, Riding, Some Body Worship/Praise Kink, Dirty Talk, Semi-Public Sex, Handjob, Breast Play.

Author’s Note: I gotta thank the Reddit page r/bullriding because holy crap I got to know so much about the world of Bull Riding and honestly the stories there and the videos were so cool to watch. I wanted to make this as accurate as possible so being able to get the insider info without having to go crazy over it was great! Anyways! Happy RAF my friends <3 I hope y’all enjoy this new instalment :D (sorry for the late-ish update, I got caught up watching Oasis content lol)

Word Count: 15,057

Bull riding was your whole life.

Ever since you were a kid, you’d roamed the edge of the arena, with boots caked in red dirt, and kettle corn dust sticking to your sun-chapped fingers. Summers in South Dakota were ruthless–long, dry, and blistering–but you didn’t care. You followed your father from town to town like a shadow, sitting on metal bleachers that burned your thighs through your jeans, watching the bulls kick up dust beneath riders twice your size. You were too young to understand the full weight of the danger, but even then, you felt it: the thrill, the rhythm, the unspoken poetry in those brutal eight seconds.

The circuits became your church, your home, and your obsession.

So when you were finally old enough to ride, you had told your father.

”I wanna get on,” Your jaw was set and your arms were crossed over your chest, with dust still streaked across your neck from tying down flanks that morning, “I know the risks…I’ve seen them all before, I ain’t stupid. I just want to try it out.” Your father had paused his gardening work, looking up at you through the afternoon sun. He didn’t raise his voice, nor did he argue right away, but the silence said enough to you. You could see it in the way he looked at you, staring like he was trying to memorize the version of you before the bruises, before the fractures, before the eight-second freefalls and the way the dirt would cling to the inevitable blood that you would spill.

He tried to talk you out of it. Not because he didn’t think you were tough enough–but because he knew exactly how strong willed you’d have to be. He said circuit life was a man’s world, and that a girl like you wouldn’t get special treatment. He also made it clear that there was a huge possibility that they wouldn’t accept you unless you networked a little more.

“You ain’t gonna get no softness out there, Y/N.” He told you, shaking his head. But you didn’t want softness. You wanted the chance to feel the adrenaline in your veins when that gate opened, the thrill of the buck, the excitement of the ride. You didn’t care about privileges or treatment.

So for six months, you worked the scene like your life depended on it–because in a way, it did.

You shook every hand, remembered every name, stayed late after events to help load chutes or sweep stalls. You offered help before anyone had to ask, learned how each rider liked their gear handled, how they marked their bullsheets, how they taped their wrists. You weren’t just a familiar face who stood around and chatted–you became useful. Dependable.

You mucked out trailers in the rain, held gates open in the cold, said yes to every odd job, every chore, every coffee run or feed delivery. Not because you had to, but because you were already playing the long game. You made yourself unforgettable, not by talking loud, but by showing up.

Some of the guys tried teasing you, and thought you were a buckle bunny at first. But then you started helping out on ranches. Fixing busted fencing. Brushing down bulls after transport. Tightening cinches with quiet confidence and a grip strong enough to make them blink in shock.

They stopped calling you ‘sweetheart’ after that.

And one night around a bonfire after a county fair, one of them tossed you a beer and said, “You ever think about ridin’ for real?” And you had smiled, already half a step ahead.

”More than you know.”

By the time you finally got your father to agree–begrudging, tight-lipped, but no longer saying no–your name was already circulating. You had enough people in your corner to vouch for your grit, enough calluses to prove you weren’t just playing cowgirl. So when you showed up to the local circuit, people nodded. They weren’t surprised in the slightest.

Bull Riding School was the next step. Mandatory. Grueling. Brutal. You showed up with your mouth shut and your sleeves rolled, ready to work. The instructors were hard-asses. They didn’t go easy on you–not because they didn’t believe in you, but because they did.

And you made it real clear, real quick, that you weren’t there to flirt or flinch or back down.

You were there to ride.

You didn’t talk unless spoken to, didn’t boast or exaggerate. You studied backlogs of competitions late into the night while the others passed beers and shot the shit. You memorized flanks, muscle tics, buck patterns. You knew the names of the bulls before your instructors even called them out.

By the third week, the trainers started making comments.

“She’s got hands like glue,” One said, shaking his head as you dismounted cleanly from a particularly mean brindle. “Like she knows where he’s gonna twist before he even does.”

You weren’t flashy, but you were relentless. You moved like a shadow in the chute–still, quiet, composed. And the second the gate flung open, you came alive.

They called it uncanny. The way you moved with the bulls, not against them. The way you didn’t panic when they whipped left or snapped back hard–you just adjusted your core and made sure you loosened up before gripping tighter onto the ropes

While other people your age were buried in textbooks or prepping for scholarships, you were strapping on gear that weighed as much as a grown man and launching yourself onto a creature bred for violence. You broke bones, popped joints, hit the dirt so hard once you saw stars–but you always got back up. Even when it hurt…Especially when it hurt.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t complain.

You learned to bite your tongue until the pain passed.

And that was what made people respect you.

When you joined the circuit for real, you weren’t a novelty anymore.

You were competition.

You didn’t win every ride, but you damn sure made them earn their wins. You placed. Then placed again. And before long, you weren’t just holding your own–you were climbing the ranks. Fast. Too fast for some.

You could hear the murmurs after a ride: She’s got something to prove. She’s only here because she’s a girl and people are curious. Let her fall once good and she’ll quit.

But you didn’t.

You got back in the chute every single time.

And when you started stacking belt buckles like poker chips–hard-won, sweat-soaked, blood-dented buckles–those same people started getting real quiet.

The crowds knew your name. The girls in the stands screamed when you showed up because you were seen as somewhat of an inspiration. Parents pointed at you from the bleachers and whispered to their daughters. Even the old-timers nodded when you passed.

Then just as you were truly gaining momentum…Wabang came out of nowhere.

A place with quieter skies, meaner bulls, and a circuit that didn’t give a damn about what you’d earned back in South Dakota.

You didn’t plan to leave, but when your father called you out to the porch on one late September evening–face tight, jaw ticking–you knew something was wrong. His words were careful. Simple.

”Your grandmother’s real sick…I gotta go to Wabang to take care of her. You know how Uncle Darren doesn’t do much for her…” You had sat on one of the rocking chairs nursing a beer in one hand, and popping one of your painkillers into your mouth with the other, washing it down with the stale ale. He offered you an out, he said you could stay behind to keep riding, to keep chasing the gold. But you shook your head before he even finished the sentence.

”I’m sure I can chase the gold somewhere else…” You said firmly, “I’m not going to let you go alone.” So you packed up all your gear and left behind the only place that had ever felt like home. It gutted you to leave the circuit. To hug your riding buddies goodbye with red eyes and raw knuckles, to strip your name off the draw sheets and hand your spot to some scrawny new kid who’d never tasted blood on the back of a bull before. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t the plan.

But sometimes, family called louder than ambition.

Still, your people didn’t let you go empty-handed. They made calls. Pulled strings. Sent emails and texts and a few firm recommendations that reached all the way across the plains to Wyoming’s Wabang Regional Circuit. The committee over there ran a tight ship, rougher than what you were used to. Leaner, grittier, less forgiving.

But they agreed to let you ride conditionally of course.

They didn’t care about your buckles. Your stats. Your glowing praise from South Dakota. As far as they were concerned, you were just another newbie trying to find footing on their dirt. Another out-of-town wildcard who needed to earn their keep.

It didn’t matter. You’d done it once. You could do it again.

What mattered was that you were back in the chute. Back in the dirt. Back where you belonged.

But Wabang wasn’t South Dakota.

The crowds were colder, the eyes on you sharper. Here, the circuit wasn’t just a family–it was a hierarchy. Tight-knit and territorial. Every rider knew every rider, and outsiders weren’t welcomed so much as tolerated.

You walked into the bullpen the first weekend with your duffel slung over your shoulder, the late sun slicing through the slats in the walls like firelight. Your boots were caked in three states’ worth of arena dirt, your jeans stiff from overuse, your plaid shirt rolled up to the elbows. You didn’t smile much. Not when every eye in the pen dragged over you like they were looking at a misprint.

You heard the whispers–that’s her? The South Dakota rider? Heard she’s good, but–

But.

There was always a but when it came to you.

The arena owner–a wiry older man with creased skin and a nicotine rasp–had greeted you just outside the gates and gave you the rundown. Quick, clipped. Professional.

“Locker room’s through there,” He’d said, nodding toward the left hallway. “Ain’t separate for men and women. You got a problem with that?” You shook your head.

”No, sir.” And he huffed.

”Didn’t think so.” You followed him past the arena doors, down the concrete corridor where the walls were stained with age and old sponsorship stickers peeled at the corners. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and from down the hall, you could hear the sounds of boots stomping, a bull snorting in the pen, and someone laughing too loud.

The door to the locker room creaked when it opened.

And there he was.

Rhett Abbott.

He stood at the far end of the locker room like he’d been carved straight from the land that raised him–rugged, quiet, and hard-edged from the inside out. His long-sleeved blue plaid shirt was tucked neatly into the waistband of his dark, dust-scuffed jeans. The shirt clung to his broad frame in all the right places, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the veins in his forearms, the rough brush of stubble trailing along his jaw. His calloused hands worked slow, steady as he buckled his Kevlar vest into place across his chest–like he had all the time in the world.

And maybe he did.

Because Rhett Abbott didn’t rush for anyone.

He had a reputation even in South Dakota–your old circuit buddies had whispered his name like a warning and a dare. He wasn’t just a rider. He was the kind of man bulls remembered. The kind of man who didn’t blink when hooves cracked skulls and jaws snapped like rope. A cowboy with a haunted look in his eye and the kind of quiet that made everyone else shut the hell up when he entered a room.

And those eyes?

God, those eyes.

Clear and piercing blue, like glacial water that could cut right through you. They were striking even from a distance, but up close–when they landed on you, just then—it felt like standing on a fault line, like something was about to shift.

“Abbott,” The arena owner barked, voice gravel-thick. “This here’s Y/N. The South Dakota transfer.” Rhett didn’t say a word, nor did he offer a hand or a smile or even a blink. He just stared at you, expression unreadable, fingers flexing once against the buckle of his vest as he locked the strap into place. His gaze swept over you like he was measuring the threat–boots to chin, eyes narrowing faintly as if he’d already made his judgment and didn’t think much of what he saw.

You returned the stare without flinching.

”Nice to meet you,” You said evenly, offering the barest nod. There was tension in his silence. Heavy, taut, deliberate. The kind of tension that didn’t crack–it coiled.

His eyes stayed on yours.

Unmoving.

Daring.

And then, finally, his voice slid out low and rough as gravel. “We’ll see.”

“Well,” the owner grunted, already halfway through the door, “I gotta get back to my work. You can go on and get ready–the rest of the riders’ll be here in due time. Abbott’ll show you the draw sheet when you’re done gettin’ situated.”

You nodded politely. “Thank you, sir.”

He waved a hand, more dust than grace in the gesture. “Don’t thank me yet.”

Then he was gone, the door thudding shut behind him with a hollow slam that left the locker room humming with silence again–thick, loaded silence.

Rhett hadn’t moved.

Still stood like a statue in denim and dust, arms crossed loosely over his chest now, mouth drawn in a line that was neither welcoming nor dismissive. Just waiting.

Watching.

You dropped your duffel onto the bench with a solid thud and crouched to unzip it, not sparing him a glance. Your fingers moved with practiced rhythm–pulling out your vest, the dark navy one from bull riding school, faded along the edges but sturdy as hell. A gift from your instructors. You slid it onto your lap like armor.

Gloves. Mouthguard. Wrist wraps.

And then–rattle.

The familiar click of plastic against plastic.

You didn’t look up, but you felt the subtle shift of the room. A sound like that didn’t go unnoticed.

Rhett’s head tilted. Just a little. You caught it out of the corner of your eye. His brow lifted, and his lips tugged–just slightly–into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but damn sure wasn’t neutral.

“Painkillers already?” He said, tone even, drawl low. “Ain’t even touched the dirt yet.”

You looked up at him slowly, popping the cap off the bottle like you were opening a soda, and held his gaze as you shook one into your palm. “Old injuries, been doing this for a long time.” He hummed, like that told him everything and nothing all at once.

“Or maybe,” He added, pushing off the wall with the lazy grace of someone who didn’t do anything unless he wanted to, “You’re just prepping for the fall.” You tossed the pill back and dry-swallowed it. Hard. Deliberate. Wiped your mouth with the back of your hand.

“You spend as much time worrying about your own rides,” You started, rising to your feet and fixing him with a look that dared him to push again, “Or are you already obsessed with mine?” His jaw flexed. His boots shifted.

Then he walked forward.

Not quick. Not aggressive. Just enough to close the space between you until you had to tilt your chin slightly to hold your ground.

“I watch for threats,” He said, voice barely above a whisper. “Keeps me sharp.”

”Oh…So I’m a threat to you?” That grin finally came–slow, crooked, lopsided and infuriatingly handsome, but he didn’t answer. You scoffed and shook your head, reaching down to pick up your wrist straps.

”Don’t worry, Abbott,” You said coolly, wrapping one hand with slow, steady precision. “I’m not here to take your spot. You can still sign belt buckles after the event if you want.”

“That so?” He muttered, circling around to the opposite bench but never taking his eyes off you. “Funny. You talk a lot for someone who ain’t made the draw yet.”

“You talk a lot for someone who’s clearly rattled.” His eyes narrowed at you, brimming with interest–with curiosity that was sharpened by the bite of his ego. He sat down on the bench opposite you, watching as you slipped on your vest and tightened the buckles with efficient, practiced pulls.

“You ride clean,” He said suddenly.

You glanced at him, startled by the shift in tone.

Still guarded, still competitive–but honest.

“You got clips out there,” He continued. “I’ve seen ‘em. Brindle out in Sioux Falls. Big bastard. You held like your boots were nailed to his sides.”

You paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “Didn’t think you did your homework.”

“I don’t.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “But new blood gets attention. Especially when it’s making noise before it even gets a number on the board.” The words should’ve felt like a compliment. But from Rhett Abbott, they sounded like a warning. You stood slowly, mouthguard in hand.

“Well,” You started, stepping past him, close enough that you brushed against him, “Hope you’ve been watching real close, Abbott.”

”Why’s that?” You glanced at him over your shoulder, a smirk playing at your lips.

”Cause maybe it gave you some pointers on how to get your spot back after I embarrass you tonight by dethroning you.” Rhett let out a low, surprised laugh–rough and full of gravel, like it hadn’t been used in a while. The sound bounced off the concrete walls and wrapped itself around your spine, warm and taunting. He leaned back slightly on the bench, his eyes cutting toward you with that same infuriating smirk, like he was already carving out space for your loss in his mind.

“That massive ego ain’t gonna get you anywhere here,” He drawled, shaking his head. “But good luck tryin’, sweetheart. You’ll need it.” You turned fully toward him, sliding your mouthguard into your back pocket, your brow lifting in mock thought.

“That the same line you feed every rookie before they kick your ass in the rankings? Or just the ones you’re scared of?” His gaze didn’t waver. Not even a little.

“Oh, I ain’t scared,” He said, slow and low, voice syrup-thick. “Just curious how many seconds you’ll last before you’re face-first in the dirt wonderin’ what the hell you got yourself into.”

“I’ll last more than eight,” You said flatly. “And I won’t be the one wonderin’.”

That made something in his jaw tick again–interest, challenge, something a little darker. He stood up then, rising to his full height, the bench creaking behind him, the air tightening between your bodies like it was caught in a vise.

He stepped forward. Just enough.

Not touching.

But near enough that you could smell the saddle soap on his vest, the sweat in the cotton of his shirt, the faintest trace of tobacco on his breath. His eyes flicked down to your chestplate, then back to your face.

”You may ride good,” He started, “But this place? It’ll chew you up if you walk in thinkin’ you’re the queen of the goddamn circuit.” You stared up at him, unflinching.

“I guess I’ll give it something to chew on then.” The silence between you burned after that. It wasn’t flirtation. It was something hotter. Something rawer. The buzz of two predators circling, tension strung tight between challenge and curiosity. Respect wasn’t given, not in Wabang–and not by Rhett Abbott. You’d have to rip it out of him like a tooth.

But God, it was gonna be fun trying.

He looked at you a second longer–searching, maybe–and then exhaled through his nose, slow and begrudging.

“Draw sheet’s taped outside the office door,” He muttered, stepping around you. “You’re sixth.” You turned just as he opened the door, watching the set of his shoulders, the confident, ground-eating stride, the twitch in his jaw like he wanted to say more but wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.

He stopped in the doorway just before leaving, glancing back at you over his shoulder.

“Oh,” He added casually. “Your bull? Leviathan. Mean son of a bitch. Most riders can’t last five.”

You grinned.

“Guess I’ll make it six.”

And then he was gone.

——————————

The air was crisp and dry, and the spotlights above the Wabang Regional Arena cut through the dark like white fire–searing over dirt churned from the night’s earlier rides. The stands were packed, voices rising in waves of excitement and tension, spilling beer and adrenaline as the announcer hyped the next event into the echoing mic.

“Next up…Randy Ellis ridin’ Deadbolt!”

The name crackled over the speakers as Randy adjusted his vest and hoisted himself over the chute. The crowd whooped, the clang of metal gates and the low growl of a restless bull filling the air. You didn’t watch. You were already headed toward your own chute–toward the pen holding Leviathan.

Your boots hit the dirt heavy. Intentional. You kept your shoulders squared, your expression unreadable, and your black Cattleman’s hat low over your brow. Your vest was secured, your wrists were wrapped, and your gloves were tight. All that was left was the ride.

As you approached your chute, the men flanking the rails turned at the sound of your steps. One of them–a lanky guy with wind-chapped cheeks and a whistle tucked into the front pocket of his flannel–cocked his head at you.

“You’re Y/N?”

You climbed up the railings like you’d done a hundred times before. Balanced, steady, sure. “Yep,” You replied, tossing a glance toward the snorting mass of muscle in the pen. “Is this Leviathan?”

The bull was massive.

Easily upwards of 2,500 pounds, built like a damn freight train, with dark brindle hide that shimmered with sweat under the lights. His eyes rolled white in his skull, and his hooves stomped restlessly against the planks, muscles twitching with every taut, coiled breath. His horns curved like a devil’s crown, one chipped from a previous fight. You could feel his energy from here–bubbling, hateful, wild.

One of the gate guys blinked. “Yeah,” He said, slowly. “But…You’re new. Ain’t no way they gave you a bull ranked an eight.” He glanced at the others, then back at you, brows knotting. “That’s just cruel.”

You shrugged, brushing sweat from your brow with the back of your glove. “I’m experienced,” you said evenly, eyes locked on Leviathan. “I can handle him.”

The guy let out a short, disbelieving whistle, shaking his head. “You got brass ones, I’ll give you that.”

You didn’t reply. Just climbed over the railing with practiced ease, slipping your mouthguard from your back pocket and biting it down between your teeth. The noise of the crowd faded as soon as you lowered yourself onto the bull’s back.

Leviathan snapped against the metal of the chute, sides heaving, rope already pulled taut beneath him. But your movements were quick–clean. You swung your leg over, settled low, tucked your knees in close, and adjusted the rope across your gloved hand. You shifted gently, loosening your core, feeling the way he moved beneath you like a living earthquake.

“You’re signin’ your own death wish, little lady,” one of the handlers muttered behind you.

You didn’t flinch. Just sucked in a breath and spoke around your mouthguard.

“Then I better make it worth it.”

You closed your eyes for a heartbeat. Focused. Centered.

This wasn’t South Dakota. This wasn’t some hometown draw with familiar bulls and family watching from the bleachers. This was Wabang.

And Wabang didn’t want you to win. They wanted you to bleed.

“Chute five, y’all. Leviathan with the newbie–Y/N L/N!”

The roar from the crowd was uncertain–half eager, half waiting for a crash.

You leaned forward, tightened your grip, and with your free hand, gave the nod.

The gate flung open.

And hell broke loose.

Leviathan launched like a bullet from a gun, his back legs kicking skyward as his front hooves jackknifed into the dirt. The momentum cracked through your spine like a whip, but you held tight, low and steady, moving with him–not against. You could barely hear the crowd through the static in your ears, the pounding of blood, the scream of instinct, the echo of your name in the chaos.

One second.

Two.

He twisted hard right, then back left. You shifted your weight, rolled your hips.

Three.

He jerked his head down and tried to slam his ass into the chute gate. You didn’t bite your tongue–you gritted it.

Four.

Your shoulder popped. You didn’t care.

Five.

His back legs buckled mid-air, an old trick to jolt riders. Your thighs held firm.

Six.

You could hear him grunting, feel the breath rip through his nostrils.

Seven.

He spun in a tight circle, then kicked forward with all his fury–

Eight.

The buzzer sounded.

And you didn’t fall.

You launched yourself off clean, hitting the dirt and rolling, boots scrambling as you came to your feet, mouthguard clenched between your teeth and chest heaving.

The crowd exploded.

The noise hit you like a wave–some cheering, some shocked. Some standing with beers half-raised, jaws open like they didn’t quite believe what they’d seen.

You stood there in the center of the ring for just a second, sweat dripping down your back, dust sticking to your cheeks, pain flaring in your ribs where you knew something pulled. But you smiled through your damn mouth guard anyway.

Up in the catwalks, framed by metal rails and sharp arena light, Rhett Abbott looked like a storm that hadn’t broken yet. Eyes burning cold, fingers tight around the neck of his beer, unmoving except for the way his jaw ticked. Like something was eating him alive from the inside out.

And if you didn’t know better, you’d have called it jealousy.

But you tore your gaze away before he could see you linger.

Instead, you gave a short, theatrical bow toward the crowd—sweat-slick and battered and glowing like you’d been baptized in dirt. You waved once, sharp and dismissive, then turned and headed for the exit, boots dragging a wake of red dust behind you.

You spat into the gravel as soon as you cleared the tunnel, blood-tinged saliva hitting the ground with a soft pat.

Your body ached like hell. Your ribs throbbed. But your heart was singing.

You slipped your mouth guard into your vest pocket and muttered under your breath with a grin curling against your cheek.

“Must be havin’ a lucky night–”

“Lucky,” Rhett grumbled, suddenly there, voice rough and tight.

You froze mid-step, turning your head slowly. He was leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting for you. Shoulders drawn, expression sharp, his hat pulled low over his brow—but not low enough to hide the scowl in his eyes.

He looked at you like you were a splinter lodged in his palm.

Unwanted. But too deep to pull out.

“Well damn,” you said, cocking your head as you took him in. “Abbott. You come all this way just to ride my belt, or you here to choke out a ‘congrats’?”

His lip curled faintly. “Didn’t realize there was anything worth congratulatin’. You stayed on. Big deal.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Eight seconds on Leviathan’s back says otherwise.”

He stepped forward. Slow, deliberate. The kind of step that said he wasn’t gonna shoot back–not yet–but if he did, it’d hurt.

“You think one ride makes you a name around here?”

“No,” You shot back, crossing your arms over your chest, “But it sure as hell makes you look over your shoulder.”

That hit.

His eyes flicked, just once, like a muscle had twitched without permission. He bit back whatever smart-ass line was about to come out, jaw flexing hard enough to crack stone.

“You’re cocky as hell, you know that?”

You smirked, “You’re actin’ like a man who’s got something to lose Abbott.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why’re you down here, all worked up about my ride?” He took another step forward. Close enough now that you could see the sweat at his temples. The way his chest rose and fell like he’d run to catch you. Close enough to smell the dust and heat still clinging to him like a second skin.

“You had one good ride. Don’t let those South Dakota buckles weigh your head down.” Your smirked.

”Face it, Abbott–you hate that I proved you wrong.” His nostrils flared.

“You’re not gonna last,” He said.

“I already did.”

“Yeah, just tonight you did.”

“That’s all it takes, right?” You stepped into his space now, voice like velvet over broken glass. “One night. One ride. And suddenly the golden boy’s out here growlin’ in the dark, tryin’ to convince himself he’s still top dog.”

“You’re not competition,” He snapped.

“Then why are you so pressed, sweetheart?”

That shut him up for just a second.

Then he laughed. A bitter, breathless sound, like it scraped its way out of his chest against his will. He turned his face slightly like he couldn’t stand to look at you straight on, shaking his head with a crooked, vicious smile.

“You got fire,” He admitted. “But fire burns out fast when you don’t know how to control it.”

“Maybe,” You said, stepping even closer–your boots nearly toe to toe with his. “Or maybe it burns hotter when someone keeps throwin’ fuel on it.”

Your eyes locked. No blinking. No breathing. Just heat. Hot enough to taste.

And then–

A voice echoed from the arena tunnel behind you both: “Abbott, you’re up in two!” He didn’t move. Didn’t look away. But something in his gaze shifted–tightened. Like he’d remembered where he was, who he was supposed to be, and the fact that you weren’t supposed to be under his skin.

You tilted your head slowly. “You should get ready.”

“I am ready.”

“Right.” You let your voice drag, taunting. “Don’t trip over that pride on your way in.”

He stepped back with a sharp inhale, that wild smirk tugging again at the corner of his mouth. “Enjoy your little moment, South Dakota. Next ride, you’ll be eatin’ dirt.”

You grinned. “If it’s dirt from your spot in the rankings, I’ll savor it.”

He turned with a shake of his head, muttering something under his breath as he stalked back toward the chutes.

You didn’t ask what it was. You didn’t need to.

Because if Rhett Abbott hated you now? That meant you were exactly where you needed to be.

The concession stand was tucked under a flickering floodlight, the cooler humming behind a bored teenager chewing a hard piece of gum, her lips smacking loudly. You ordered a Coke, voice scratchy from dust and exertion, and twisted the cap off with your teeth as you walked away, the soda cold enough to sting your throat. You needed the caffeine more than the sugar. Your whole body was buzzing, but not in a good way–not anymore. The adrenaline was gone, and pain was blooming in its absence.

You didn’t go back to the locker room for your pills, not yet at least, you needed to wait a bit longer before your next dose, so you would just have to grin and bear it. The bleachers groaned as you climbed them, weaving past shouting fans and wide-eyed kids still holding bags of cotton candy. You kept your head down, your hat low, until you found an open spot on the edge of the aluminum seating–close enough to the arena for a decent view, far enough from the cluster of families not to be bothered.

You sat slowly.

Carefully.

And still your tailbone felt like you slammed it into the cold metal, a sharp crack of pain erupting through you as your jaw clenched. You winced hard, hissing through your teeth as you took a quick sip of soda to mask it. The bruises would set in tomorrow. Your ribs were already throbbing with every inhale. You shifted your weight to your hip, keeping one hand wrapped around your Coke and the other braced behind you on the bench.

It was worth it.

Every goddamn second of it.

The announcer’s voice echoed through the arena again, sharp and loud as the next name rang out like a gunshot.

“Rhett Abbott ridin’ Ironjaw! Let’s see what the local legend’s got tonight, folks!”

You tipped your head just enough to get a clear view of the chutes—and there he was.

Rhett stood in the narrow alley behind the pen, vest snug over his broad chest, his shoulders flexing as he adjusted the rope across Ironjaw’s flank. The bull was pissed already, hooves scraping against the dirt floor, muscles rippling beneath slick hide. Rhett didn’t flinch.

You narrowed your eyes.

Every movement he made was precise, economical. Like he knew the bull before he even got on it. The way he patted Ironjaw’s side with a flat, firm palm, the way he crouched to check his wrap, the way his jaw clenched as he rolled his wrist and tested the slack—calm. Controlled. No wasted motion. No hesitation.

You hated that it was impressive.

Because it was.

But that didn’t mean he was better than you.

Not yet.

He climbed onto the railing with that same unbothered grace, like he’d been born in a chute. Then he eased onto Ironjaw’s back, slow and steady, settling into the saddle as if it were a goddamn rocking chair.

Your Coke bottle creaked in your hand as your grip tightened.

You wanted to see how he moved when the gate opened. You wanted to see if he could ride clean like you had–or if he just talked like he could.

The chute boss gave him a nod. Rhett shifted, gloved hand gripping the rope, legs tightening around the bull’s broad back. The noise in the crowd swelled–chants, shouts, someone whistling from the far end of the stands.

Then–

The gate flew open.

Ironjaw launched into the arena like a shot.

The crowd screamed.

And you sat there, still as stone, watching every goddamn second.

He moved like he wasn’t separate from the bull. Not fighting the chaos–riding it. Every buck met with counterweight. Every twist matched with a subtle shift of his hips, a sharp adjustment in his core.

You realized it before anyone else did.

Right there in the middle of Ironjaw’s third spin, Rhett’s center of gravity shifted just a fraction too far forward–just enough to throw his balance off when the bull twisted the other way. He tried to correct it, tightening his core like a seasoned pro, but it was too late. His grip held, but his seat was gone.

And then–

Wham.

Ironjaw bucked hard, and Rhett’s body was flung sideways, spine bowing mid-air like a cracked whip before he slammed shoulder-first into the dirt. The arena let out a collective, resounding:

“OHHHH–“ A mix of awe and sympathy. The kind of sound people made when someone landed just wrong.

You winced instinctively at the sound of impact, the grit of your teeth matched by the fizz of your Coke bottle between your lips. Your ribs ached in solidarity. But even through the sympathy, a smug little grin curled at the corner of your mouth. Because there it was. The moment. The crack in the golden boy’s armor.

Rhett groaned as he rolled onto his knees, planted one gloved hand in the dirt, and pushed himself up, slow and stiff. The bull had already been wrangled and was halfway down the pen when he stood upright, brushing red dust off his vest like it personally offended him.

His jaw was clenched, hard. His chest rose and fell like he was chewing on the failure, trying to swallow it whole.

You took another long sip of Coke, watching from the bleachers as he yanked off his glove and slapped it against his thigh hard enough to make a few spectators flinch. His hat was tilted low, covering his face, but not low enough to hide the embarrassment in his posture.

The announcer tried to save him a little–

“Tough break for Abbott tonight, folks. That bull’s meaner than sin and twice as smart! Four seconds! Let’s hear it for the local legend anyway!” A few people clapped, loyal to his name.

But you didn’t.

You just sat there like a queen on her throne, bruised but proud, your Coke bottle sweating against your thigh.

Four seconds.

You’d doubled it.

And that’s all that mattered.

He walked back toward the tunnel, muttering something to one of the gate guys, and you didn’t miss the twitch in his jaw when he glanced up toward the stands.

He saw you.

Saw you smirking.

Saw the satisfaction radiating off you like perfume.

And it hit him–

You’d won.

Not the event. Not the night.

But the first real punch of this fight?

That belonged to you.

The tension between you two had been all bark and no bite until now–but now? Now it was personal. Now he had a reason to glare at you across the chutes. Now he’d ride harder. Sharper. Meaner. Because you were the threat.

Not the bulls.

You.

You rose slowly from the bench, your back aching like hell, but the adrenaline and spite kept you upright. The crowd buzzed as you made your way down the steps again, slipping through the crush of spectators still high on beer and dust.

By the time you reached the rear corridor, Rhett was stalking toward the locker rooms with his helmet swinging at his side and a scowl cut deep into his face. You didn’t slow down–you matched his pace stride for stride, the echo of your boots following his.

“You alright?” You asked, feigning innocence. “Looked like Ironjaw gave you a little love tap there.”

He didn’t stop walking, nor did he look at you. But he did answer. Through gritted teeth.

“Don’t push it.”

You grinned. “Just asking. You know…’Cause you looked real good for those four seconds.” That stopped him. Dead in his tracks. He turned to face you, eyes narrowed and jaw tight, the muscles in his neck tense as a bowstring.

“You think this is a game?”

You blinked slowly. “I think it’s a competition. Or were you expecting I’d kiss your bruises after?”

“You got lucky,” He muttered. “That’s all.” You tilted your head at him.

”Maybe you oughta start prayin’ for some of it for yourself.” For a second, neither of you moved. The hallway pulsed with tension–the low hum of the floodlights, the smell of blood and sweat and dirt hanging between you. His chest was still rising and falling fast, vest creaking with each breath. He was pissed, and not at the bull. At you.

And you loved it.

“You got no idea what you’re messin’ with,” He growled. You stepped in closer, close enough to see the flecks of arena dirt clinging to his stubble, to smell the blood on his breath where he must’ve bitten his cheek on impact. You smirked up at him, lips curling slow and sharp, a predator in worn denim.

“You’re gettin’ so frustrated, Abbott,” You teased,, voice honey-slick and dangerous. “You scared a girl’s gonna swipe up all your titles?” That flicker behind his eyes–it flared. Blue fire, all storm surge and pride, rising too fast to catch. His mouth opened like he had something smart to throw back, something smug to spit–but all that came out was a low, bitter scoff, hot and cracked like dry wood snapping under a boot.

“I can’t wait,” He hissed, stepping close enough for his shadow to cut across your boots, “to see you get whipped from a fuckin’ bull. Face-first in the dirt. ’Cause now?” His voice dropped. Rough. Mean. Real. “You’re just askin’ for it.”

You held his stare without blinking, pulse thumping in your ears. His breath was ragged. His teeth clenched.

You smiled–slow, and lethal. Like you already knew something he didn’t.

“That’s wishful thinkin’.” You stepped past him, letting your shoulder brush his with deliberate weight, soft enough to sting.

“See you next week, Abbott.”And you didn’t look back. Not when your boots echoed down the corridor. Not when he stood there, fuming, jaw ticking, watching you go like you were a ghost he couldn’t exorcise. Not when the silence behind you vibrated with swallowed curses and bruised pride.

——————————

The next few weeks turned into a battleground.

Not just in the chutes, but everywhere.

You and Rhett were at each other’s throats like it was a second job. He was the constant thorn in your side, and you were the splinter under his nail he couldn’t dig out. Tension followed you like smoke–thick, choking, and just a spark away from catching fire.

In the arena, the rivalry was brutal. You both took every draw like it was personal. Every gate swing, every eight seconds, every dismount had teeth. He’d ride clean, and you’d ride cleaner. You’d land high scores, and he’d storm out with a jaw like cracked stone and ride harder the next week. The scoreboard became a battlefield of inches, bruises, and grit. Your names started climbing neck-and-neck.

And outside the arena? The war didn’t stop.

The more social you got with the rest of the circuit crew, the more you ended up circling the same watering holes, the same post-ride hangouts, the same campfire gatherings that Rhett haunted like a shadow. You didn’t mean to wedge yourself into his world–but it happened all the same.

It was hard to make friends outside the rodeo. So you took what you could get.

After weekend rides, the crew always ended up at The Handsome Gambler–a half-dive, half-cowboy shrine of a bar tucked off a dirt road that hadn’t seen a real renovation since the early 2000s. The beer was always cold, the jukebox barely worked, and the pool table leaned a little to the left–but it was home for a lot of them.

And, eventually, it became home for you too.

You’d walk in, bruised and sweat-slick, toss your gloves on the bar and sink into the booth with a hiss of pain, a Coke or whiskey sour clutched in one hand while the guys grilled you about your South Dakota days.

“How many buckles we talkin’?” One of the younger riders asked, eyes wide and eager like you were a damn legend in the flesh.

You smirked, biting into the rim of your glass. “Twenty-two. All clean. No DQs.”

That got a few low whistles. A head shake. Someone muttered “Christ…” under their breath. One of the older circuit boys tapped his knuckles on the table like he was impressed.

And Rhett?

Rhett would be posted up at the bar, standing off to the side like a damn ghost with blue eyes and a bottle of Shiner in his hand. Most nights, he kept close to his older brother, Perry–who, unlike Rhett, was friendly as hell and had no problem throwing you a smile.

“Hell of a ride today,” Perry had told you once, clinking his beer bottle against your Coke as you limped past him with your vest slung over your shoulder. “Leviathan again, right?”

You nodded. “Round two.”

He gave a low laugh. “Bet that pissed Rhett off real good.” And it had. You knew it did. You felt it.

The longer the weeks stretched, the more it became a game of watching Rhett try to pretend he wasn’t watching you.

He’d stare across the bar whenever you laughed too loud, especially if it was at something another rider said. He’d roll his eyes when your name got brought up in ride recaps. You caught him jawing to his buddy Dusty once–something low and sharp, just after you sank an eight-second ride that had the whole stands buzzing.

You’d walk past him at the bar and his gaze would slice through you like a knife through warm hide. Every once in a while, he’d mutter something just loud enough for you to catch:

“Don’t get too comfy, South Dakota.”

To which you’d fire back over your shoulder, without missing a beat:

“Keep practicing fallin’, Wabang.”

The crew lived for it.

They took bets on your tension–whether it’d end in a fistfight or a hookup first.

You weren’t sure yourself at this point, and you didn’t know which one you wanted. Sometimes you guys got so close it seemed like you were going to either kiss or throw hands. But the longer you stayed in Wabang, the more something in the air crackled between you two. Not just hatred. Not just competition. It was something hotter. Heavier. Like whatever fire you lit under Rhett’s skin had started burning in reverse–turning inside out and sparking something neither of you were quite ready to name.

————————

The locker room door slammed shut behind you.

You weren’t limping–but you weren’t walking straight either. Your shoulder had taken a pretty bad hit, or maybe it was your ribs. It was hard to tell considering your entire side felt like it had been steamrolled by a freight train. It had been a while since you’d been thrown off a bulls back, but this certainly was a grim reminder of how bad it was to be thrown face first into a pile of dirt.

Slowly, you made your way to the sink and spat into the white porcelain, pink-stained foam swirled down the drain and you grimaced. Of course it wasn’t the first time you coughed up blood after a bad throw, and it wouldn’t be your last. It was a normal occurrence.

But when the door creaked again behind you, you didn’t have to look to know who it was, and his voice was confirmation of your assumptions.

”…You alright?” You didn’t answer right away, you just wiped the corner of your mouth with the sleeve of your flannel, licking the blood that stained your lips. You saw him step closer to you in the mirror, a look of concern on his face.

”I’m all good,” You said flatly, “Just a bit of blood, it’s a normal occurrence.” His brows ticked up, the faintest flicker of disbelief crossing his face.

“Really?” You met his gaze through the mirror, eyes tired but unyielding, and gave a short, sharp nod.

“Yeah. Really.” Rhett didn’t say anything for a beat, just studied your reflection like he was still trying to figure you out. Like every answer you gave him only led to more damn questions. But he didn’t press.

You turned away, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps, your hand grazing your ribs as you moved toward your duffel bag. The locker room echoed faintly with the hum of the overhead lights and the distant clang of boots from the arena tunnel. You crouched just enough to unzip your bag, wincing as you reached inside and pulled out the orange-capped bottle.

You shook a single pill into your palm, popped it into your mouth, and dry-swallowed it like you’d done a hundred times before. No grimace. No hesitation. Just another part of the routine.

Then, without looking up, you held the bottle toward Rhett.

“Want one?” You asked casually. “It’s just a stronger version of Tylenol, nothing serious or addicting or anything…” He let out a soft breath–half huff, half chuckle–as he shook his head.

“I’ve got stronger. Thanks for the offer though.” You nodded once and tossed the bottle back into your bag, zipping it shut with a slow pull. Your fingers lingered on the worn canvas for a second, the tension between you and Rhett thick in the silence.

“You still goin’ out with the crew tonight?” He asked suddenly.

You glanced up, a brow arched, like it was a stupid question. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Rhett shrugged, all feigned nonchalance, but his eyes betrayed him–there was something quieter behind them. Something unreadable.

“Thought I’d ask, that’s all.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stood there for a moment, watching him. He’d leaned back against the lockers now, arms crossed loosely over his chest, shoulders still dusted with dirt, the bruise forming high on his cheekbone blooming like a storm cloud. But he wasn’t looking at you anymore. His eyes had drifted down to the scuffed tile beneath his boots, like he didn’t want you to catch him thinking too hard about something.

You tilted your head, voice quieter this time. “You plannin’ on bein’ there?”

He hesitated–just for a breath. Then: “Yeah. Think so.”

You gave a small nod, pulling your flannel tighter around your ribs. “Good. Maybe I’ll buy you a drink.” You smirked faintly. “Y’know…As a consolation prize.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, narrowing slightly. “I don’t need a damn consolation prize.”

You stepped closer, lips quirking. “No? Then maybe I’ll let you buy me one. Since you didn’t eat dirt tonight.”He rolled his eyes but didn’t stop you when you brushed past him on your way to the door. Didn’t say a word as your shoulder bumped lightly against his chest. But just as you reached for the handle, his voice followed you. Low. Rough. Barely above a whisper.

“…Don’t ride hurt tomorrow.”

You paused, and turned your head just enough to meet his gaze over your shoulder.

“I always ride hurt,” You reply softly. “That’s the job.”

Then you opened the door, and left him there, still watching.

—————————

The Handsome Gambler smelled like stale beer, sweat, and a little too much aftershave. The jukebox was hiccuping through a George Strait song it had played three times already, and the floorboards creaked every time a boot shifted the wrong way. You walked in bruised but upright, your body already stiffening with the ache that was sure to bloom worse by morning. The adrenaline was gone now, leaving only a dull throb along your ribs and a hot sting behind your shoulder blade. It hurt to breathe deep, but you didn’t flinch. Not here. Not now.

You were still wearing the same flannel you’d had on since the draw sheet dropped hours ago. It clung damp to your back, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, a dark stain of dust and old blood smudged near the seam on your right arm. Your collar was crooked, your hair an absolute mess beneath your black Cattleman’s hat, but none of it mattered. You walked like you were untouched. Untouchable. A shadow of dirt and fire threading through the crowd.

A few of the boys waved you over from the far booth–beer bottles raised, one of them already gesturing for shots like this was a victory lap. You nodded back, lazy and half-cocked, but didn’t join them just yet. Instead, you made your way to the bar.

Rhett was propped against the far end of the counter. Long frame stretched just enough to make the stool creak, one boot hooked under the rail while the other was planted steady on the ground. His shirt clung to him in places from the ride, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows like he always wore them, showing off those rough forearms like he didn’t even know the effect they had. Or maybe he did.

He didn’t look at you completely, but you knew he had seen you walk in. You felt it. The weight of his gaze crawling up your side like a whisper–slow and deliberate, but not indulgent. Just…Watchful. As if he were cataloguing bruises. Measuring pain. Waiting to see if you’d limp or stride.

You didn’t limp.

You stepped right up to the counter, two seats down from him, and flagged the bartender with two fingers.

“Whiskey and Coke please,” You ordered, voice scratchy from dust and too many half-swallowed yells. “Tall.”

You needed the burn. Something to dull the coming storm in your bones. Something to keep your spine straight while the ache made camp beneath your ribs. You let your hand rest on the edge of the bar, the other pressed lightly to your side where the bruises were blooming ugly and deep.

That’s when you felt it.

A hand. Sliding low along the waistband of your jeans. Fingers curling in too close.

“–Saw you at the circuit,” A voice said behind you. Older. Greasy. Familiar with bad decisions and cheaper whiskey. “You ride like an absolute professional.” You stiffened. His palm skimmed just enough to raise your hackles. “I wonder,” He continued, voice warm with sleaze, “If that skill gets transferred to the bedroom.”

Your jaw clenched so hard your teeth ached. You shifted your weight slightly, not enough to cause a scene but enough to plant your heel where it needed to be in case you wanted to drive it through his instep.

“Were you ever taught about keepin’ your hands to yourself?” You asked, voice flat. Cold.

He laughed. A low, ugly sound, like gravel caught in the back of his throat. You could smell him now–cheap tobacco, sour sweat, something sharp like tequila gone warm.

“C’mon now, sugar,” He drawled. “Don’t get all uptight on me…I’m just trying to make conversation.” You turned then, slow and dangerous, the heat in your eyes enough to make a lesser man wither. Your lips parted to deliver something sharp enough to cut bone–

But another voice cut through first. Low. Lethal.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you…”

It was Rhett, still seated. Still holding his beer. But his gaze was hard enough to freeze fire. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t need to.

“Pretty sure there’ll be blood on the floor, and it’s most definitely not gonna be hers. Or mine.” The guy paused, shifting his weight just slightly. You felt the air change–less sure now. Less cocky. But still stupid. He looked over his shoulder, eyes flicking toward Rhett.

“What’re you, her belt bunny? She’s a grown woman. She can speak for herself.” Rhett’s lips curled around the mouth of his bottle, slow and deliberate. He took a sip–unbothered. Then he stood. One smooth movement. Tall. Broad. Dangerous in a way that didn’t need yelling or fists. Just presence.

Rhett’s boots scraped against the floor as he rose, slow and deliberate. He didn’t move fast, didn’t need to–just stepped off the stool like he had all the time in the world, beer bottle still in hand, eyes pinned to the man like a loaded gun with the safety off.

You clocked the change in his posture instantly–shoulders tight, jaw locked, fire flickering just behind those glacial blue eyes.

He was coming toward you.

But before he could get more than two steps in, you held out a hand, palm open.

“Rhett,” You said sharply. Calm. Even. “Take it easy. Sit back down.”

He froze. One foot still half-lifted like he��d been about to lunge. His jaw clenched visibly, his nostrils flaring as he stared at you like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to listen–or if he even could.

You didn’t give him the chance to argue, you just turned slowly back to the man.

He was still standing too close, that dumb, sleazy grin barely faltering under the weight of what he thought was bravado. Your drink still hadn’t come yet, and you could feel the ache in your side starting to curl deeper under your ribs. But this? This you had energy for.

Your hand shot out.

Not to slap him. Not to shove.

You grabbed his wrist.

And squeezed.

Hard.

You didn’t say anything at first–just watched his smirk start to falter as the pressure settled in. You flexed your fingers, tightening until you felt bone shift slightly under your grip. His eyes widened.

“Y’know how much grip strength you need to stay on a 2,500-pound bull?” You murmured, voice soft as molasses and sharp as a thorn. “Now imagine I use that same strength…on your wrist. Hmm? Sound good to you?”

His face paled. His arm twitched beneath your hold.

“Okay okay,” He blurted, voice cracking just slightly. “I’m sorry–shit, I’m sorry.”

You held him there for a second longer, just long enough for it to sink in, then let go with a little shove that sent him rocking back on his heels.

You smiled. Wide. Mocking.

“You should be.” Then you jerked your chin toward the other end of the bar.

“Now go back to your friends, creep.”

He opened his mouth like he might say something else–but thought better of it. Instead, he muttered a sullen, “Jeez,” and slunk away with his pride limping behind him, disappearing into the crowd without so much as a backward glance.

The bartender slid your whiskey and Coke toward you just as the moment ended. You grabbed it almost immediately, and took a long sip without flinching, exhaling slowly as the burn spread through your chest.

“Put her drinks on my tab.”

Your hand paused halfway to your mouth, the glass cool against your fingers.

You glance sideways.

Rhett was still leaning against the counter, one elbow hooked over the edge, a bottle of Shiner raised to his lips. He took a slow sip, then licked the foam from the corner of his mouth with the kind of casual grace that shouldn’t look nearly as good as it does.

“You don’t need to do that, Abbott,” You said, turning toward him just enough for your shoulder to brush the bar.

He shrugged, bottle tapping lightly against the wood. “Decided to take you up on the offer of buying you a drink… Problem?”

You swallowed hard and the whiskey burned less than the look in his eyes.

“No problem at all…” You murmured, straightening your spine and taking another slow sip of your own drink to keep your hands busy.

There’s a beat of silence. Not uncomfortable. Not yet. Just thick.

Then–

“Mind if I sit beside you?”

Your eyebrows lift–surprised, amused, maybe even a little curious.

You glance at the empty stool next to you, then back at him.

“Go right ahead.”

Rhett slides off his stool and takes the seat beside you. His denim brushes your thigh when he settles. He’s warm. Smells like leather, dust, and the faintest hint of beer. His vest creaks faintly when he leans back, legs spread just enough to take up too much room without even trying. You tilt your head toward him, lips quirking.

“You tryin’ to coddle up to me now? Just ‘cause you witnessed me eat shit in front of a crowd?” He gave you a look. Steady. That sharp-edged Rhett Abbott stare that always comes with a side of condescension and a slow drag of those glacial eyes across your face.

“No,” He said simply. “I’m welcoming you to the club.”

You blink. “The club?”

“The Wabang Club,” He muttered, tapping the neck of his bottle on the bar once. “First time you got thrown here.”

He pauses, just long enough to make you look at him.

“No more raging ego now.”

You scoff. “That so?”

“That’s so,” He replied, turning his head slightly toward you. His knee shifts beneath the bar, bumping yours–intentional, but barely.

You hum into your next sip. “Doesn’t mean we’re not still competitive.”

“No,” He agreed, smirking faintly, “but I’d say we’re on the same level now.”

“Uh huh,” You said, tongue clicking against your teeth as you lean in just slightly. “You still think I’m gunnin’ for your title, Abbott?”

He turns, and for the first time all night, he really looks at you.

“Think?” He pressed lowly, voice like a lazy threat. “I know you are.”

The whiskey hits your bloodstream with a heat that has nothing to do with liquor and everything to do with the way his voice drips across the syllables. You glance at his hands–battered and rough, thumb idly brushing the condensation on his bottle. He smells like sweat, grit, and something you can’t name but want more of. You wonder if his hands would feel like rope burn or salvation on your skin.

You lean just a touch closer, eyes still on his mouth.

“Maybe I just like givin’ you a hard time.”

His lips twitch. “You do that real well.”

You tap a finger against your glass. “Think you can handle more of it?”

His jaw ticked. His gaze dropped once–quick and dirty–to your lips, then back up again. The smirk turns into something darker.

“You keep flirtin’ like that,” He muttered,, “And we’re gonna stop pretendin’ we hate each other.”

You tilt your head, a smile playing at your mouth. “What if I like to pretend?”

He leaned in–closer now, voice brushing your skin.

“Then maybe it’s time you found out how much better the real thing feels.”

The words hit low. Between your ribs. Between your thighs.

The music fades behind you, the bar buzzing soft with other conversations, the rest of the world dropping out until it’s just you and Rhett. You finish your whiskey in one long swallow and set the glass down slowly. You glanced over at him again, glass empty in your hand, breath tight in your chest–and you didn’t know what the hell washed over you. Maybe it was the whiskey, warm and heady in your veins. Maybe it was the throb of your bruises making everything feel sharper, more real. Or maybe it was the way Rhett was looking at you now–jaw tight, lips parted just slightly, blue eyes dragging over your face like he was trying to memorize it. Whatever the reason, you said it before you could second-guess yourself:

“…Is your truck parked out back?” Rhett’s eyebrows ticked up, just a little. His grip around the neck of his bottle tightened.

“…Yeah,” He replied slowly, voice rough around the edges. “It’s out back.” You pressed your tongue against the inside of your cheek. Then, licking your bottom lip slowly, you lifted your chin.

“Is it parked somewhere…Hidden?” That made him let out a soft huff of a laugh. Quiet and dark.

“You want me to show you?” You nodded once. He watched you for a beat, jaw flexing. Then he set his bottle down and flagged the bartender, slipping some cash across the wood.

“Keep the change.”

You didn’t say a word as he turned and walked toward the back exit, and you followed a step behind–both of you moving like you’d been building to this for weeks.

Because maybe you had.

The back door creaked as Rhett pushed it open, the night spilling in around your boots–cooler air, the scent of grass, the faint hum of cicadas vibrating somewhere out in the dark.

He led you across the gravel lot without looking back.

And there it was.

His truck.

Parked beneath a clutch of trees, mostly swallowed by shadows–perfectly isolated. Like he’d known all damn day you’d end up back there with him. The windows were fogged just from the day’s heat. The bed was empty. The cab was dark.

Rhett stopped beside it, boots scuffing against gravel, and turned to you.

He tipped his hat back slightly, the faintest curl playing at his mouth.

“So,” He said slowly, “Did you ask me all those questions just to see my truck?” You smirked, stepping into his space with your chin tilted up, your voice dripping with challenge and need. “Or…” He murmured, eyes dragging down your body, “Did you wanna test the shocks?” You glanced at the truck. Then back at him.

And smiled.

“I think we can give the shocks a run for their money.” You paused, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, your voice dropping to something sultry and honest “…I’ve always wanted to sleep with a fellow bull rider.” That did it. His jaw twitched. He didn’t lunge Didn’t rush.

He just grabbed the edge of your flannel, pulled you in slow and rough, and kissed you like it had already been decided. Like he’d been thinking about this since the day you walked into the Wabang locker room with your vest slung over your shoulder and that fuck-you smirk on your face. He tipped your hat back with a curl of his fingers, slow and deliberate, eyes flicking between your lips and your eyes like he couldn’t decide which he wanted to get drunk on first. Then he reached up and did the same to his own–tipping the brim of his hat back just enough to reveal more of that stubborn brow, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the dust-smudged trail of stubble that shadowed his jaw. And then his hand was on your cheek.

Big. Calloused. Warm.

It didn’t fit the rest of him–the rough words, the sharp jabs, the bruised pride that bled through every look he’d ever given you in the ring. But his hand…It cupped your face like he gave a damn. Like you weren’t just some rival he couldn’t shake, but something worth holding onto.

Then he kissed you.

Not hard. Not fast. But deep.

Gentle, at first. Like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth before he ruined it. Like he was trying to taste the part of you that hadn’t yet been touched by blood and bruises. You breathed in sharply through your nose, spine stiffening–not because it was bad. Because it was too good. Because Rhett Abbott wasn’t supposed to kiss like this. Wasn’t supposed to melt against you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he blinked too long.

But then You slid your hand up the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the collar, dragging him closer like you were starving and he was the only thing on the menu. And just like that, the kiss changed.

Heat surged between you in a crackling burst, the slow burn of it combusting into something greedy. His other hand fisted the side of your flannel, dragging your body hard against his as your back slammed gently against the cool metal of the truck’s passenger door. The jolt of it made you gasp into his mouth, and he took advantage of it–slipping his tongue between your lips with a groan low in his throat, all heat and rough intent.

You barely registered your hat falling off. Didn’t care. All you could feel was the hard line of his thigh between your legs, the pressure of his hips pinning you in place, the maddening scrape of his stubble as he kissed you like he wanted to wear your mouth for the rest of the goddamn night.

Your hands clawed at his shirt, bunching the fabric at his chest, trying to haul him even closer. But he was already there–pressed flush to you, his body molded to yours like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space.

He kissed you like he hated you.

Like you were the thorn in his side and the only thing that made him feel alive.

His hand moved from your cheek to your jaw, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip before he nipped at it with his teeth–soft, then sharp, like he wanted to leave a mark. And you responded with a muffled curse, your fingers diving into the back of his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth.

“Fuck,” He muttered against your mouth, breath hot and ragged. “You don’t fight fair.”

You grinned, even as you gasped. “Neither do you.”

“Good,” He growled, pressing harder into you. “Then we’re even.”

His hand slid down, past your ribs–over bruises he’d noticed but hadn’t commented on–until it landed on your waist. And then lower. Gripping your ass through your jeans and dragging you up slightly, grinding you against the seam of his thigh like he wanted you squirming. Like he wanted you begging.

You arched into him, your lips parting on a breathless moan as the friction sparked lightning between your legs. Your head fell back against the truck door with a thud, and he didn’t waste a second–ducking down to kiss along your throat, biting the skin just hard enough to make your breath stutter.

“You think this is what everyone was bettin’ on?” You rasped, your voice gritty with lust. “That we’d end up fuckin’ in the parking lot instead of throwin’ punches?”

He laughed against your collarbone–rough and amused, like gravel sliding down a slope.

“Pretty sure nobody bet we’d make it past a punch.” His mouth trailed down to your shoulder, kissing the curve there through your shirt like he was already trying to undo you. “But I’ve been thinkin’ about this for weeks.”

You gripped his jaw, forcing him to look at you again.

“Then stop talkin’ and show me what you’ve been thinkin’.”

“Gladly,” Rhett growled, voice rough with promise as he fished his keys from his pocket and popped the lock. The soft mechanical click barely registered over the pulse thrumming in your ears.

He opened the passenger door and held it like a gentleman might–if that gentleman had just kissed you like he planned to wreck you and every thought you’d ever had. You climbed up into the cab without hesitation, grateful as hell to find that the front seat was a bench. No console, no separation. Just space to spread your legs.

The second you slid in, Rhett slammed the door shut behind you, the echo like a warning shot. The keys hit the dashboard with a sharp clatter as he settled in beside you, his body heat already wrapping around you like smoke.

You didn’t wait. Your fingers found the buttons of your flannel and worked them open, fast and reckless, each pop of fabric louder than the breath you were sucking through your teeth. Beside you, Rhett was shrugging out of his plaid in one fluid motion, the sleeves peeling off his forearms, the collar catching in his hair.

“You on birth control?” He asked, his voice low and firm as he whipped the shirt into the backseat.

You nodded, hands already sliding your shirt off your shoulders. “’Course I am.”

His mouth quirked in a smirk, eyes sharp even in the darkness. “Most recent STD test?”

“Clean,” You said without missing a beat, tossing your flannel aside. “You?” Rhett grunted, reaching down to yank his undershirt over his head in one quick pull. The fabric stretched tight across his chest before it gave, revealing smooth muscle, scarred skin, and a line of dust still clinging to the hollow beneath his collarbone. You caught the bull rider tattoo on his chest, and smirked at it–talk about dedication.

“Clean as a whistle, sweetheart,” He said, voice a rumble. You shoved your flannel off the rest of the way and let it fall to the floor, revealing your black bra beneath. The cotton clung to your ribs, sweat-darkened and stretched over the bruises that marbled your skin like art.

Rhett’s gaze dragged down your body like a hand.

“Jesus Christ,” He muttered, breath catching. “You look so fucking good.” He surged forward, one hand bracing the back of your neck while the other slid around your waist, fingers splaying over bruises he didn’t shy away from. His mouth crashed into yours again, hotter this time–less curious, more carnal. His lips dragged over yours in a filthy rhythm, all teeth and hunger and grit. Your moan was muffled by the way he took your bottom lip between his teeth, biting just enough to make you gasp before he soothed the sting with his tongue.

His chest pressed against yours, bare skin meeting sweat-slicked heat. You could feel every inch of him–hard lines, warm flesh, the swell of his thighs spreading wider as he settled between your legs. His calloused fingers ran up your sides, ghosting along the edge of your bra, fingertips brushing your ribs so gently it made your core ache. You dragged your nailed down his back just hard enough to leave a mark, and he hissed, teeth gnashing as he locked into your mouth.

He tasted like Shiner, dust, and danger.

Your hands gripped the waistband of his jeans, tugging him closer until his hips were pressing flush against the heat between your thighs. He groaned–low and broken–his forehead pressing to yours.

“You want this?” He asked, voice barely more than a growl, his hands cradling your thighs now. “’Cause if I start, I’m not stoppin’ ‘til you’re beggin’ me to.” You nodde, breathless, and drunk off his voice and the whiskey you had.

“Then start, Rhett.” He didn’t wait any longer. He shoved your bra up with both hands, fingers hooking beneath the band and dragging it until your breasts spilled into the open air. His mouth followed immediately–hot and reverent. He sucked one nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it while his thumb toyed with the other, switching sides as you arched against him. The ache between your legs was molten now, and the need for him pooled low and fast in your stomach. Rhett groaned against your breast as he lightly bit down on your nipple, just enough to make you arch with a gasp, your back pressing into the cracked leather seat. His tongue soothed over the sting with a slow, deliberate swirl before he shifted and gave your other breast the same treatment–bite, suck, soothe. A rhythm that made your thighs clench instinctively around his hips.

“You got the prettiest fuckin’breasts I’ve ever seen,” He muttered against your skin, voice reverent and ragged. “Swear to God.” His hands framed your ribs, fingers splayed like he couldn’t hold enough of you at once. You reached for his belt, your hands shaking with urgency, and he lifted his head just enough to watch you work. Your fingers brushed over the buckle, then popped it free. You heard the clink of metal before you undid the button of his jeans and slid the zipper down with aching slowness. Rhett’s breath hitched–his hips twitching forward like your touch knocked the air out of him.

“Shit,” He hissed, dragging his mouth from your chest with a groan. “You keep doin’ that and I’m gonna finish in my fuckin’ jeans.” He shoved them off in one fluid, frustrated motion, yanking them down his thighs along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, flushed and hard, veins prominent and glistening with pre-cum. You only had a second to admire him before he was leaning forward again, mouth at your ear.

“Your turn,” he rasped, hands already moving to the waistband of your jeans. “Lift your hips for me, sweetheart.” You obeyed without hesitation. He stripped them down fast—jeans and underwear dragged in one heated motion down your thighs, past your knees, all the way to your boots.

“Christ,” he muttered when he saw you, spreading your thighs with both hands, his thumbs brushing over the crease where your legs met your core. “You’re already soaked.”

You bit your lip, eyes heavy-lidded. “I’ve been soaked since you kissed me.” That made him groan low, head tipping forward until his breath hit your inner thigh.

“Lean back against the door,” he said, voice low and commanding now. “I wanna taste you.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You shifted, twisting just enough to brace your shoulder against the cool metal, your legs falling open even wider. The truck’s cab was tight, warm, filled with the scent of sweat and sex and desire, but all you could think about was him–between your thighs, breathing like a man about to lose his goddamn mind.

Rhett didn’t hesitate.

He buried his face between your legs like he’d been starving for it. His tongue licked a hot stripe up your slit before his mouth closed over your clit, sucking it into the heat of it with a groan that vibrated through your entire body. Your hand shot into his hair—fingers twisting in the thick, sweat-damp curls at the base of his skull.

“F-fuck–” You gasped, your head thudding softly against the window. His hands wrapped around your thighs, holding you open, anchoring you to the seat like he wasn’t gonna let you squirm away no matter how hard you tried.

He worked at your core like he was memorizing it. His tongue circled your clit, flicked it, flattened against it. He moaned against you like he was drunk on the taste, the sound low and wrecked, sending sparks racing up your spine.

“You taste so goddamn good,” He breathed between licks, voice muffled by your heat, “Could do this forever.” Then he slid his fingers to where his mouth was, sliding one thick digit into you, slow and deep, curling just right. Your hips bucked. You sobbed out his name. And Rhett? He just chuckled against your clit, cocky and wrecked all at once.

“You’re fuckin’ soaked for me,” he groaned, pushing in a second finger, thrusting them in rhythm with the strokes of his tongue. “Goddamn…You’re squeezin’ me so tight already, darlin’. You this desperate for my cock too?” You cried out, back arching. The truck creaked beneath you, the windows fogging more with every pant, every moan, every slick, filthy sound echoing in the tiny cab.

Rhett’s tongue never stopped. He alternated between slow, broad strokes and sharp, focused flicks, always listening to your body, adjusting when your grip in his hair tightened, when your thighs trembled. His fingers pumped harder, faster, curling with every thrust, pressing deep into that perfect spot until you were gasping, moaning, begging.

“Please, Rhett. Don’t stop–fuck, don’t stop–” He doubled down. His mouth sucked your clit like he owned it. His fingers fucked you deep and good, until all you could do was scream for him, thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm slammed through you like a lightning strike.

You came with your hands tangled in his hair and his name breaking on your tongue, your body quaking with release. And Rhett? He groaned like it was his orgasm too–lips never leaving you, licking through every wave, every twitch, every sobbed breath until you were panting and shaking and damn near boneless in the seat.

Rhett was still crouched between your thighs, his breath hot and ragged, his chin wet with the aftermath of your orgasm. He looked like a man possessed–wide-eyed, jaw flexing, pink tongue flicking out to swipe the taste of you from his bottom lip. You could barely speak, your chest rising and falling like you were still trying to find gravity again.

He ran his hand down the outside of your thigh, fingers trembling slightly from the restraint it took to not climb on top of you right then and there. His voice came low, rough, utterly wrecked.

“How was that?”

You let out a breathless, trembling laugh–more of a sound than a word, your hand rising to brush sweaty hair from your face.

“Jesus Christ,” You whispered, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, “I haven’t been to church in a while…But I think I saw God when you were down there.” He smirked, leaning in again, one hand braced on the seat beside your hip. You sat up slowly, your body still humming with aftershocks, and reached for his face with both hands. You dragged him up toward you until your mouths met again, and this time, you kissed him like you needed to taste what he’d done to you. Like the only way to ground yourself was to lick yourself off his tongue.

You moaned into him–low and breathy–as your hand drifted between your bodies, fingers trailing down his bare stomach until they curled around the hot, thick length of him. He gasped, startled, his hips twitching forward into your palm.

“Fuck–” He hissed, the word nearly broken in your mouth.

You stroked him slow at first. Deliberate. Your thumb ran over the bead of pre-cum slicking his tip, spreading it down his shaft as you pumped him lazily. The veins throbbed under your palm. He was thick. Hot. Heavy in your hand. And he was falling apart fast.

He groaned into your mouth, pulling back just slightly to pant, his forehead pressed to yours. One of his hands came up to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking along your jaw as his other hand braced against the door behind you.

“You’re filthy,” He breathed, voice catching as you twisted your wrist. “You gonna spit in my mouth next, sweetheart?”

You smirked, your breath mingling with his.

“You want that?”

He nodded once. Short. Desperate.

“Yeah.”

“Ask for it, then.”

His voice dropped to a rasp. “Spit in my fuckin’ mouth.”

You leaned back slightly, cradling his jaw in your free hand, and parted your lips slowly. A thin string of spit slid from your mouth to his, catching the light as it dropped onto his tongue. His eyes didn’t close–he watched you do it. And when your saliva hit his tongue, he let out the filthiest moan you’d ever heard, eyes fluttering shut for just a second.

Then he surged forward, pulling you into another kiss–wet, dirty, deep. He licked into you like he couldn’t stand for a single drop to go to waste. His tongue slid against yours, his hands gripping your thighs again as if he didn’t trust himself not to pin you down and fuck you right there.

You pulled away, panting. Your lips were slick, his face flushed. He looked completely undone.

So you slid down.

Not far. Just enough to shift your weight to your knees on the truck bench, tilting your body until your mouth hovered just above his flushed, leaking cock. You held his eyes the whole way down.

His breath caught.

“Wait–what’re you–”

But you already had him in your hand again, your tongue darting out to lick a slow stripe along the underside of his shaft. He groaned–loud and rough–one hand flying to your hair, the other bracing against the seatback behind him.

“Fuck,” he moaned as you took him in–slow, steady, inch by inch until your lips wrapped around his tip and your tongue swirled against the head. You sucked gently, letting your saliva mix with his pre-cum as you worked him deeper into your throat.

He lost it.

“Jesus Christ, you’re–fuck– unreal,” he gasped, his head falling back against the headrest. His hips twitched up into your mouth, and you hummed around him in approval, the vibration making him curse again.

You bobbed your head slowly, hand wrapped tightly around the base of his cock, stroking what you couldn’t take. His thighs trembled beneath you, and his grip on your hair tightened with every ragged breath he took.

“Gonna–shit–gonna cum if you keep that up,” he panted, his voice strangled.

And just when his voice cracked–“I’m close, Y/N, I’m–”

You stopped.

You pulled off him with a pop of suction, lips swollen, chin wet, eyes dark with sin.

He looked like you’d just punched him in the chest.

“What the fuck?” He gasped, blinking at you with genuine disbelief, his cock twitching in your hand. You let out a soft, slow laugh as you wiped your lips with the back of your hand and climbed up into his lap like you’d planned it that way from the start.

“You look real upset, Abbott,” You murmured, dragging your hands up his bare chest as you straddled him. His cock pressed hot and hard against your inner thigh, wet from your mouth, throbbing with need.

He didn’t say anything–just grabbed your waist in both hands like he needed to steady himself, like he couldn’t believe the way you moved on top of him. His palms dragged over your ribs, thumbs grazing your bruises before settling low on your hips, kneading the flesh with enough pressure to make you gasp.

“You gonna tap out already?” You teased, voice all sugar and sin. “Or you still got a little fight left in you?”

He let out a low growl, jaw tight, his eyes dragging over your face like you were a goddamn vision.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” He muttered. You grinned, leaning in just close enough to brush your lips over his–barely a kiss, more like a dare.

“I can’t miss out on the possibility of showin’ you my riding skills now, can I?” That earned you a wicked smile, crooked and sharp, slow as sin. His grip on your hips tightened as he tilted his head back to look up at you, blue eyes flicking over your face, your bare chest, the way your thighs bracketed him like he already belonged between them.

“Gonna be more than eight seconds, sweetheart,” He rasped, breath fanning against your collarbone. “Think you can handle it?” You hummed, your hand sliding between your bodies, curling around his cock again as you guided the tip to your slick heat. You dragged him through your folds, letting him feel just how soaked you were for him before pausing at your entrance.

“I think I can manage just fine,” You whispered, voice syrup-thick. “Might even beat my personal record.”

And then you sank down on him–slow, tight, inch by inch. Rhett’s head thumped back against the headrest with a guttural moan, hands gripping your hips like he was trying not to lose his mind. You took him deep, your walls fluttering around him as you bottomed out, a ragged breath escaping your lips as your head fell forward.

“Fuck, you’re big,” You gasped, thighs trembling. “Feels like you’re fuckin’ splitting me open.”

His hands slid up your waist, over your ribs, one of them curling around the side of your neck–just firm enough to make your breath catch.

“You feel like heaven,” He muttered against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Tightest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever felt–God–you were made for me.” You rolled your hips slow at first, just enough to get a rhythm. Your breasts bounced with every motion, sweat already gathering at the small of your back, the sound of skin against skin echoing filthy in the cab. The windows fogged up even more, the air thick with heat and tension and the wet slap of your bodies coming together.

Rhett let out a harsh exhale, eyes locked on where you were joined.

“Look at you ridin’ me,” He growled, his thumb brushing your jaw, his other hand dragging down to slap your ass, hard. “Just like you were born to fuckin’ do it.”

You rode him harder, faster, grinding your hips down with each bounce, your fingers digging into his shoulders for leverage. The truck creaked with every thrust, the shocks protesting under the rhythm of your bodies.

“You like watchin’ me take it, huh?” You panted, voice ragged. “Like the view from down there, Abbott?” His grin split wide.

“Yeah, I fuckin’ do,” He rasped. “You look so good like this. Full of me. Drippin’ down your thighs. Fuckin’ me like you’re tryin’ to break me.”

His hips bucked up to meet your thrusts, and suddenly he wasn’t letting you lead anymore–he was matching your rhythm, slamming into you from below, his hands gripping your ass tight enough to bruise.

The shift sent you crying out, your hand flying to his chest, nails scraping across his pecs.

“God, Rhett–”

“That’s it, sweetheart,” He panted, one hand rising to grip the back of your neck again, rougher now, possessive. “You gonna cum like this? Ridin’ my cock in my truck? Is that what you needed all along?” You nodded, gasping, your whole body starting to unravel. He reached between you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles as he kept fucking up into you, faster, deeper.

“C’mon,” He whispered, his breath hot against your ear, “Cum for me. Wanna feel you squeeze my cock, wanna watch you fall apart.” You did. You came with a broken sob, your whole body seizing as your orgasm crashed over you like a bull out the gate. Your walls clamped around him, squeezing so tight his rhythm stuttered, his groan splitting the air as he chased his own release.

And then he was cumming too–deep inside you, with a loud, helpless curse, his cock twitching against your walls, coating them in his warmth.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck-take it all, Y/N, take all of it–Jesus–” You both collapsed into each other, slick and shaking and gasping for air. His arms wrapped around you tight, his lips dragging lazily over your neck as you slumped against his chest. The cab was silent except for the sound of your breathing, the creak of the seat as you shifted, and the faint hum of cicadas outside. After a long moment, Rhett let out a soft, stunned laugh.

“Well,” He said, voice hoarse, “That’s one way to settle a rivalry.”

You smirked against his collarbone, your body still trembling.

“Should’ve done that from the beginning. Could’ve saved us the trouble.” He lets out a small laugh and kisses your shoulder.

“It wouldn’t have been the same without the intense build up.” He comments, and you sigh and reply.

”I can’t help but…Agree with you there.”

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callsign-reign · 2 days ago

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Lewis Pullman as Sentry behind the scenes of thunderbolts* !!

Bob fans are getting fed today 🙂‍↕️

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callsign-reign · 2 days ago

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I come back to life every time I see dark hair Sentry

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callsign-reign · 2 days ago

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bts of sentry in the suit!! Lewis makes the wig work idk

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callsign-reign · 2 days ago

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more Lewis as Bob/Robert Reynolds Behind the Scenes (got lots in my tag)

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callsign-reign · 2 days ago

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trans bears are literally stronger than any US marine

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callsign-reign · 2 days ago

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I wanted to make a whole fic based on this, but it turns out it's extremely long to make so enjoy just this, I didn't want to waste the time I put into this to end up not posting it at all lol :)

@majestic-jazmin @eternallymaroon @sillymilly17 @yyiikes @snazzynacho

@harebrained-0 @daisydark @baruque-ya

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callsign-reign · 2 days ago

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Self Control

Pairing: Pervish?Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: After a laundry mixup Bob finds himself in a sticky situation.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, References to Past Drug Use (and worrying about relapse because Bob is acting off, it’s very brief), Friends to Lovers? Reader and Bob sometimes do laundry together (integral to the story lol), That Emotional Longing Hits

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up please), Fingering, Handjob, Oral Sex (female and male receiving), Bob Fantasizes about the reader, Bob is an accidental underwear stealer (and ends up using said underwear for the aforementioned fantasies…But not in the way you think.), Masturbation, Face Sitting, Grinding. Yearning Bob?, Edging kind of.

Author’s Note: This started out as a cute domestic fluff laundry day thing…And then it spiraled into chaos and I rewrote it to this and…Uh…Well…Yeah. This was definitely fun to write! Hope y’all enjoy :)

Word Count: 9,169

Bob didn’t mean to end up with your underwear in his laundry pile.

But somehow, in the chaos of t-shirts, sweaters, hoodies, the occasional undergarments and socks, it must’ve gotten tangled up in the fray–caught on a sleeve or clinging to a hoodie fresh from the dryer, still warm and clinging with static.

You and Bob had been doing laundry together since you moved into the compound. It wasn’t some grand arrangement, just something that started one afternoon when you both showed up with half-full hampers and a shrug of mutual understanding. It made sense–neither of you produced a ton of laundry, and instead of fighting for the machine on rotation days, you just started tossing your stuff in together. Whites, colors, delicates–sorted after the fact with casual efficiency.

It worked. Mostly. There was the one time a bright red sock bled all over your white workout gear, leaving you with a pastel pink sports bra and Bob with a sheepish apology and an offer to replace it. But that was months ago, and nothing that catastrophic had happened since.

So when Bob was folding one of his navy sweaters on the edge of his bed and your underwear–a soft, pale blue lace piece–slipped from the sleeve and floated gently to the floor like a feather, he wasn’t shocked, or surprised…Not really at least.

But he did freeze in his spot.

He stared at the fabric for a long moment, the sweater long forgotten in his lap. The cotton and lace rested on the hardwood floor and it looked much heavier for what it was. Because he recognized them instantly.

He’d seen them once before–peeking out from above the waistband of your gray sweatpants one early morning in the kitchen, when your shirt had ridden up as you reached for the coffee filters on the top shelf. The lace had caught his eye, delicate and out of place against the plainness of your sleepwear. It was a tiny sliver of you he hadn’t meant to see but couldn’t unsee once he had.

And now they were here in his room, calling out to him from the floor. His mouth went dry as he bent to pick them up, fingertips brushing the lace–soft, fine, and whisper-light as it tickled his skin. The sweater in his lap slipped off his knees and landed with a muted thud, but he barely noticed.

The delicate blue lace fluttered against his palm, cool and almost weightless, but it may as well have been an open flame. Bob swallowed hard. His eyes traced the pattern–those tiny embroidered flowers, the scalloped edging, the faint shimmer of elastic thread winding through the weave. The intricate detail of it was so intimate and so utterly you that it made his chest tighten. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly as his grip on the lace faltered for a second–just long enough for the material to flutter in his palm again, taunting him. His eyes burned from not blinking, his lungs held hostage by the slow creeping heat that began to coil low in his belly.

He shouldn’t have been picturing you in them…But he was.

The underwear, soft and sheer, hugging your hips in a way that made his jaw clench, accentuating the curve of your ass, leaving the barest sliver of mystery–just enough to drive him absolutely insane. He could see it too clearly now. You standing in front of him in nothing but that lace and a look that bordered on smug. Your bottom lip caught between your teeth, chewing the flesh softly like you always did when you were nervous or thinking too hard…Or when you were teasing…

And god, the idea of your fingers hooking into the waistband, sliding beneath the fabric with slow, knowing touches, tracing the delicate edge along your own skin…Maybe lifting the hem slightly, like you were offering yourself to him, or you were just showing off…Maybe–

He hissed out a breath through his teeth and dropped the underwear onto the bed like it burned him.

”Oh god,” He whispered, the words dragging out of him like gravel. He pressed the heel of his palms against his eyes, trying to force the image out of his head, but it was too late. The damage was done. His cock stirred in his sweatpants, a slow, aching hardening that he could neither ignore nor justify–not when it was born from something so unintentional and innocent…Or at least it had been innocent.

But now it felt like a betrayal. He was picturing you in such compromising positions that his self-control was hanging by a thread. The lace was haunting him now–taunting him with softness and sin, curled on the edge of his bed like it knew what it was doing. His breathing was shallow. He could feel the heat pressing low in his abdomen, tight and demanding, throbbing beneath the waistband of his sweats. He glanced down at himself, and looked at the underwear again, feeling his hand drifting towards the hardness–craving relief.

And then–

Knock Knock Knock

“Bob?” Your voice filtered through the door, casual, close, and completely unaware. He shot up from the bed like he had been electrocuted, heart slamming into his ribs.

”Shit–“ He hissed under his breath, nearly stumbling over the discarded sweater as he scrambled to grab the lace from the mattress.

You were right there. Right on the other side of the door. And he was standing in his room, half-hard, now holding your underwear, basically caught red handed even though he hadn’t done anything.

Without thinking, he yanked open the drawer of his nightstand and shoved the lace inside, slamming it shut with a soft thud. His fingers lingered on the handle, like it might rattle open and spill the truth onto the floor. He could’ve handed them back, he should’ve handed them back, but instead, he panicked.

“Ye-Yeah?” He called out, voice cracking embarrassingly high before he cleared his throat and forced it to come out deeper, steadier, “Yeah?”

“We’re ordering takeout!” You replied, ��Come give your order!” His mind whirled. Food. Orders. Takeout.

He adjusted himself through his sweatpants quickly, trying to shift his erection into a less obvious position. It wasn’t helping that your voice was still floating through the air like warmed honey, layered with unintentional sweetness and familiarity. He squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath through his nose, and forced the image of you in that lace down–way, way down.

“Okay!” He said, forcing cheer into his voice, “Be out in a minute! Just…Ju–Just changing!” He added.

”Alright,” You responded lightly. “Don’t keep us waiting.” You teased in a sing-song voice, which almost made him moan out loud. Bob rubbed his hands down his face, scrubbing over his jaw until it ached.

“Get a hold of yourself, Bob. Get a fucking gr–grip.” His voice was a low rasp, breath catching in the middle like he couldn’t even convince himself. He looked down–eyes dragging to the tent in his sweatpants, the hard line still pressing persistently against the cotton like it was begging him to give in. He adjusted himself again with a hiss of breath, making sure it wasn’t too obvious before dragging a hand through his already messed up hair and stepping out into the hallway.

Dinner was a blur.

He sat beside you at the little kitchen table, half-listening to the others talk over one another, too aware of every tiny movement you made. Your arm brushed his as you leaned forward to grab your drink, a few water droplets falling onto your shirt. You laughed a bit at one of Alexei’s off handed jokes and tapped your bare foot against the floor just inches from his own. You were in one of your old college t-shirts–the one that had a stretched out neckline that revealed the smooth plane of your collarbone.

Bob could barely eat with such close proximity, and he couldn’t look at you too long because he would end up picturing the lace again–how soft it felt in his hand, how delicate it was. How easy it was to picture them on you, or falling off you. He poked around his plate in a daze, trying his best to keep up with the conversations going on around him but his brain was on autopilot, filled with the nastiest thoughts he had conjured up in a long time.

You had noticed how he didn’t eat, it was easy to spot, even though he tried to hide it by wrapping up his plate and putting it into the fridge muttering an excuse of him eating the rest later. While you were cleaning the dishes you turned to him and asked, “Are you alright?” He looked like a deer in headlights, his blue eyes wide and shimmering, his jaw clenching at the question.

”Ye–Yeah, of course I am…Do I not seem alright?” You shrugged.

”You didn’t eat. Usually you have the appetite of a rabid animal.” His face heated up at that comment as he grabbed a damp plate from the dish rack, drying it off with his cloth, “And when you’re…Not feeling good you typically don’t eat.” You added in a hushed tone. He gulped, turning away from you.

”I’m alright. Trust me…You’d know if I wasn’t.” You hummed, and gave him a small okay, even though you were still concerned about his current state. The thought of him possibly relapsing crossed your mind, but you immediately pushed the idea out of your mind, because he wasn’t sneaky enough to get away with something like that, or at least you hoped he wasn’t. You trusted him enough that he would come to you if he ever had the thought of turning back to pills, and you felt ashamed for even thinking he was, but you were still concerned at the small sign that something was off.

By the time Bob got back to his room, he felt like his entire body was on fire. He tore off his clothes and took the coldest shower known to man, yet he still felt like his blood was boiling beneath his skin. He had thrown himself down on his bed, spreading himself out on top of the covers in only a pair of shorts. Beads of sweat clung to his chest, the muscle in his thighs tensing up and clenching. He took a few deep breaths, trying his best to keep his mind blank and wiped.

The moonlight cut across the room in fractured silver, spilling in from the half-cracked blinds, casting long spotlight-like shadows across the floor. His thoughts trailed off to the drawer, and he could’ve sworn he was going to explode. He tried turning over. Tried to ignore it. But the temptation was right there. Inches away.

“Just do it you little perv. She won’t know anything about it.” The Void hissed. Bob reached up and wiped some of the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

”But I’ll know…” He whispered into the abyss of the room.

“So? You’ve already crossed the line by fantasizing about her. Might as well finish the job.” He spat back. Bob nibbled on his bottom lip, his eyes glancing over at the nightstand again, before letting out a broken curse, and reaching for the drawer.

It slid open with the faintest scrape, and he paused, his eyes locking onto the pale blue lace curled up like a secret in the corner. They practically glowed in the moonlight, and the soft fabric looked ethereal now–delicate and silken. The tiny embroidered flowers caught the light like they had been stitched from starlight. His fingers hovered for a moment…Then curled around them gently, bringing the underwear out slowly, like they might disintegrate in his palm.

Bob leaned back against the pillows, staring at the lace in his hand–how dainty it looked, how personal. His thumb traced the scalloped edge, watching the way the elastic caught the light. They were so you it made his stomach twist. So soft. So intimate. So unthinkably forbidden. He took in a shaky breath, before sliding his other hand beneath his waistband pushing it down slightly, fingers curling around the thick, aching heat of his erection.

He hissed through his teeth. The relief was immediate–sweet and sharp, his whole body jerking slightly from the first touch. His head dropped back onto the pillow as he began to stroke himself, slow at first, letting the sensation build while he gripped your lace underwear against his chest, cooling his heated skin. Bob’s breath shuddered as he wrapped his fingers tighter around the base of his cock, the ache rolling through him in thick, pulsing waves.

He let his eyes flutter shut, and he pictured you in the darkness behind his eyes straddling his waist in nothing but that same pale blue lace, the hem riding high as you rolled your hips down against him. Bob groaned aloud, soft and guttural, imagining the warmth of you grinding down over him, the thin barrier doing nothing to hide how wet you were. In his mind, your hands braced on his thighs, fingers digging in, nails biting into flesh for leverage as you rocked yourself over him with unhurried need–showing yourself off to him.

He could see it so clearly–your head tipped back, chest heaving, lips parted just enough for a whisper of his name to fall out, all soft and wrecked. His hips bucked into his fist, a harsh hiss dragging between his teeth.

He balled the lace tighter in his hand, dragging it up toward his face with shaking fingers, needing the feel of it against his skin–against the stubble on his jaw. The soft fabric kissed his cheek as he pressed it there, inhaling deeply.

Laundry sheets.

Fabric softener.

And beneath all of that–faint, ghost-like warmth. The phantom memory of your skin. It made him feel insane.

“Fuck,” He groaned, voice raw, as he stroked himself faster now, hips rising off the bed.

He pictured you perched over his face, thighs trembling on either side of his head, lace still clinging to your hips as you slowly lowered yourself down onto his mouth. His tongue dragging over the soaked fabric, the taste of you bleeding through, his hands gripping your ass, holding you there while you rode the pressure of his mouth.The lace brushing against his cheekbones, his nose, tickling his skin while he sucked and licked and moaned into you. His mind spiraled as the pleasure built, fast and brutal now.

Your voice echoed in his head. Desperate. Breathless.

“Don’t stop, Bob…Please don’t stop.”

He whimpered as his orgasm surged up from deep in his core, everything tightening, his muscles locking as he arched off the mattress. Just before he came, he stuffed the lace into his mouth, biting down hard as the pleasure ripped through him in thick, pulsing waves.

Cum spilled over his knuckles, hot and messy, streaking across his stomach as he worked himself through it, the lace muffling the strangled moans that would’ve echoed too loud in the stillness of the compound. His whole body shook with the release and for a moment everything blurred together–the moonlight, the heat, the breath that rattled in his chest.

Then it was pure silence, just his soft wheezing echoing through the room, the faint creak of the bed springs, and the wet slick of his hand pulling away. He reached up with his clean hand, easing the lace out of his mouth slowly, the fabric damp where his teeth had clamped down. He stared at it, and felt the guilt and shame blooming somewhere deep in his stomach. Shame trailing after the pleasure like a tide going out, leaving him raw and aching.

His eyes drifted closed for a second as he laid the underwear down gently beside him, before reaching over for a tissue and wiping his hand off, tucking himself back into his shorts, letting out a long sigh.

“Well that was just pathetic.” The Void whispered

———————

It had been a few days since your quiet check-in while doing the dishes together. Days since Bob had nodded and told you he was fine and that he would tell you if he wasn’t. But you could tell something was off.

He’d become…Jumpy. And not in the normal, anxious–Bob kind of way you were used to. This was different. Tense and wound tight. He avoided eye contact with you when usually he would hold it. Laughed too loud when he used to chuckle under his breath, almost like he forced it out of himself. Doors that were usually left open between you were suddenly shut and locked. And when you knocked? You would hear rapid shuffling and panicked movement, as if he was hiding something quickly.

At first, you let it slide, but then the noises in the night started.

You’d wake sometime at around 2:30 in the morning, like clockwork. And from your room, you could hear him moving, pacing. Sometimes you would hear his mattress creaking, like he was shifting restlessly on the covers, never fully settling.

He definitely wasn’t getting enough sleep, and he certainly wasn’t eating properly…And the last time that happened…

Your chest clenched as the thought curled like smoke through your lungs: what if he had relapsed?

The idea made you ill. You didn’t want to believe it. Bob had fought so hard, and he had come so far. But you knew something was going on, and if he wasn’t going to tell you what it was, you were going to have to find it out for yourself–even if it meant crossing a line.

You just didn’t expect the opportunity to come so soon.

”Hey, Bob!” Walker called down the hall late that afternoon, “Need some of that extra super Sentry strength to help haul the groceries up from the parking garage. There’s a lot of boxes.” Bob appeared from his room moments later, navy sweatpants hanging low on his hips showing off his waist, as he tugged a shirt on.

”Coming.” He mumbled. You waited, perfectly still, until the echo of his footsteps disappeared completely. Then you slipped into his room.

His space was always immaculate.

The soft click of the door behind you was swallowed by the stillness of his bedroom, the air faintly tinged with cedarwood and clean linen. His bed was made—neatly. Sheets tucked in tight, comforter folded down with military precision. A dark navy throw blanket lay folded at the end, square and untouched.

Everything had a place. The floor was spotless. A pair of slippers sat aligned beneath the bedframe, parallel, like they’d never been used.

His desk was the only spot with any real sign of life. And even then, it was the kind of lived-in that screamed care and intention. The surface was arranged with crisp order: a few pens, a worn leather notebook, and—stacked neatly along the edge—dozens of CDs.

You blinked, surprised.

Old-school jewel cases. Labeled in his handwriting. Some were scratched. Others polished like keepsakes. Fleetwood Mac. Miles Davis. Nirvana. You ran your fingers across the stack, a soft smile tugging at your lips. He’d mentioned once that music helped quiet his mind. He must’ve started collecting since moving into the compound.

You reached for the desk drawer.

Stationery. Lined journals. A few half-filled notebooks, their margins scrawled with little doodles, mission notes, lists of music to look up. Everything was clean. Normal.

The second drawer opened with a soft pull.

Photos.

Printed, physical ones. A few of the team together after missions, muddy and bruised but smiling. One of Yelena flipping the bird at the camera. Another of Ava mid-eye-roll. There were newspaper clippings too–crumpled articles about Thunderbolt missions, some good press, some bad. Your name was featured in a few headlines. He’d circled them in blue ink.

Your heart twisted.

You shouldn’t have found this. It was sweet. Too sweet. A little drawer of memories, lovingly tucked away. And it only made your guilt worse. You were snooping. You were in his space, crossing every boundary you said you never would.

But still…Your feet moved you toward the nightstand beside his bed. If there were pills…This is where they’d be. Within reach. Easy to grab in the middle of the night when he needed a fix.

You sucked in a breath, and pushed down the guilt that began to bubble in your stomach.

You were doing this for Bob, you reminded yourself, curling your fingers around the metal knob and pulling.

Inside, you found–

A book.

You blinked. Relief hit you first, brief and shallow. No pills. No bottles.

Just his current read—Sonic Life, the memoir by Thurston Moore. A thick paperback with the spine already bent in half, a few dog-eared corners marking passages he must’ve liked. You recognized it. He mentioned it during breakfast a few weeks ago—talked about sound, distortion, noise theory, memory and music. You’d made a joke about it being “a very Bob book.”

You almost smiled, but then you saw what was underneath.

Beneath the memoir, crumpled beneath it like it had been hidden like a dirty little secret, was a pair of your underwear. Pale blue lace, nearly torn at the waistband-delicate elastic threads pulled and fraying in places like it had been…Torn at. Twisted. Used. Scrunched up in a way that didn’t suggest accident or coincidence.

Time seemed to stop for a second, like the air had been sucked out of the room. You weren’t breathing…Then it all started to make sense. The sudden shift in his energy. The way his hands trembled slightly when they passed you the salt at dinner. The way his room had been locked every night since the talk at the sink. The restless pacing. The flushed cheeks. The way he couldn’t look at you without swallowing hard.

He was fantasizing about you.

And he didn’t do it once, nor did he do it in passing or with some distant, impersonal curiosity.

He was doing it repeatedly.

And he was guilty about it too. The tension in his shoulders, the stammer in his voice, the quiet withdrawal like he was trying to keep something from rotting through his skin–it all gave it away. Like he was carrying a sin he didn’t know how to confess.

You felt your lips twitch up into a smile at the thought. It wasn’t cruel or mocking or judgemental. You were curious…Maybe even a little impressed.

Because this? This was Bob.

Mr. Polite. Mr. Gentle. Mr. “Let me carry that for you.” You reached for the lace and brought it up to your line of sight, turning the fabric over between your fingers.

The waistband was stretched out, frayed at the edges. One of the delicate scalloped hems had been tugged so hard it had nearly ripped from the mesh. And the center? Wrinkled, creased, marked faintly like it had been…Clenched. Bitten into maybe.

Your stomach fluttered. You weren’t sure what to feel. Shock still hummed in your limbs, but something warmer was pooling low in your belly, buzzing behind your ribs. He’d wanted you. Desperately. Enough to hold onto something so intimate and private and ruin it in secret, and Bob of all people had done it.

And there was a wild, secret power in that realization.

You were so distracted by the thoughts and questions racing through your mind–so caught in the strange, heavy thrill of holding your ruined underwear in Bob’s room, piecing it all together–that you didn’t hear the elevator ding.

Didn’t hear the soft stomp of boots in the hallway.

Didn’t register the quiet thud of a grocery bag against the wall or the familiar murmur of Bob’s voice trailing behind Walker’s until it was too late.

By the time the front door opened and his steps carried him into the corridor, you were still standing beside his bed.

The drawer was open. The underwear was in your hands, and when the door to his room creaked open, everything fell silent.

Bob froze in the doorway like he’d been shot. His eyes locked on you instantly, and then they dropped to your hands. To the lace clutched between your fingers.

To the thing he thought he’d hidden so well.

Panic hit his face like a tidal wave–his mouth falling open, blood draining from his cheeks, posture going stiff like he’d been yanked into another dimension altogether.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

For a moment, the tension in the room felt like a blade suspended in mid-air–sharp, motionless, waiting for gravity to choose who it would fall on.

Then, quietly, Bob stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. The click of the latch was barely audible, but it echoed through your chest like a gunshot.

He stood there–shoulders hunched slightly, like bracing for a hit–before he opened his mouth.

“I–I know what it looks like…” He began, his voice rough and thin with fear. “I wasn’t gonna–I didn’t–”

His eyes flicked to the underwear in your hand again.

And he stopped.

Dead silent.

Because he knew.

There was no way out of this. No casual backpedal. No awkward chuckle and muttered apology. Not when you were holding the evidence–creased and stretched, soft blue lace fraying at the edges, ruined by hands that had clearly used it.

You watched him carefully, your voice quiet but firm.

“What were you going to do with it, Bob?”

He opened his mouth like he had something rehearsed–some pitiful excuse that might paint this in a softer light–but he faltered. His throat bobbed. His jaw clenched.

“…I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” He said quickly, voice cracking. “I’m not lying…I just…I didn’t plan it. It showed up in the laundry pile and I sh–should’ve given it back, I know that, but I just…I couldn’t.” You held the ruined lace up a little higher into his field of vision, watching the way his eyes flicked to it like it had some kind of hold over him. Your voice dropped–low, teasing, laced with something darker and richer than before.

“Tell me what you did to make them look like this, Bob.”

His lips parted. No sound came out. His throat moved in a thick swallow, his eyes wide–glass-blue and shimmering like he was about to cry or combust. Maybe both. The shame in his expression was so raw, so exposed, that for a moment you almost pitied him. But then his gaze dropped back to the lace in your hand, and something flickered in it–guilt, yes. But want too. Deep. Unfiltered. Starving.

His voice came out thin and shaking, breath hitching around every word.

”I–I held them in my hand as I was touching myself…” He whispered, ashamed, “I pictured you in th–them. What you would do…To me. I…I shoved them into my mouth to muffle my moans and…And well…I ki–kind of wrecked them.” Your cheeks were flushed now, not from embarrassment—but from heat.

The admission had sucker-punched something low in your belly. You’d expected a denial, maybe a stammered lie, something soft and pitiful like, “I just didn’t want to lose it.” But not this. Not the image of Bob–sweet, gentle Bob–shaking and alone in his bed, desperate and mouthing into the lace you’d worn, his cock in one hand, your underwear in the other, wrecking himself to the thought of you.

It was filthy. Reverent. Completely unhinged. And it made something primal stir in you.

You smirked, breath catching as you watched him.

Bob looked like he was going to pass out.

He wouldn’t meet your gaze. His face was flushed to the roots of his hair, his jaw clenched so tight it trembled. You took a slow step toward him, and then another, watching the way his shoulders hunched like he was bracing for impact. He turned his face away, breathing shallow, chest rising and falling in uneven waves.

“Look at me, Bob,” You said softly.

He didn’t.

“Look at me,” You repeated, a little firmer this time.

His eyes squeezed shut. You watched the twitch of his jaw. He finally cracked them open–but only to look down at the floor, not at you.

“Wh–Why were you snooping?” He asked suddenly, his voice small and hollow. “You…You wouldn’t have found them if you hadn’t…” You raised your free hand, cutting him off before he could spiral further.

“I thought you relapsed,” You said gently but honestly. “You weren’t eating. You were being all weird around me. And I kept hearing you pacing around at night like you weren’t sleeping. You were acting off.” You motioned to the lace in your other hand with a soft lift of your brow. “But now it all makes sense.” You could practically hear his heart drop. Because you’d been right–he couldn’t argue with that. He had been avoiding you. He had been awake. He had been off.

Because he’d been spiraling. Not from a relapse…But from desire.

From wanting you so badly it frayed the edges of his sanity.

He didn’t say anything, and in the silence, you took another step toward him. You were close enough now to see the fine tremble in his hands. The way his chest stuttered with every breath like he was holding in a scream.

“Is that why you locked the door every night?” You murmured. “So I wouldn’t walk in on you with these in your mouth?” He nodded. Quickly. Too quickly. Like the movement wasn’t even a choice–just a reaction, shame and need colliding all at once, short-circuiting the nervous system of the man who had spent nights wrecking himself in silence while your name broke in his throat. You reached up, slow and deliberate, and cupped his jaw in your palm.

His skin burned under your touch–hot and tight from the tension roiling beneath the surface. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. But he did tense, jaw locking under your fingers like he was bracing for impact.

”Please look at me, Bob.” Your voice had dropped again. Not harsh–never harsh–but steady. Intimate. Loaded with the kind of authority he had no idea how to resist.

His eyes lifted slowly. Hesitantly.

And when they met yours–wide, glassy, stormed with guilt and arousal and fear–you kept your hand right there. Holding him in place. Tethering him.

“Use your words,” You whispered. “Tell me what you imagined.”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. Just his breath. Shaky. Shallow. His lashes fluttered and his brow knit like he was in pain.

“Y/N…” He croaked, voice splintering at the edges. “I d–don’t think that’s a good idea.”

You tilted your head slightly, thumb brushing his jawline.

“I think it’s exactly what you need,” You murmured. “You’ve been spiraling for days trying to bury this. Let it out.”

You leaned in–close enough now that your breath mingled with his. That heat you felt earlier, the primal kind, pulsed low in your belly. He smelled like sweat and cedar and guilt. He looked like he was about to crumble.

And that made you want him more.

“I want to hear it,” You whispered, coaxing him. “Tell me.”

Bob swallowed–loudly. Audibly. Like the truth was a physical thing in his throat, sharp and jagged and stuck.

His hand twitched at his side. He closed his eyes. Then opened them again, slower this time. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

“I imagined you in them,” He breathed. “With nothing else on…” His throat bobbed again, as he continued “You rode me with them on…And you grinded against my face…You used me to get off…And you were so…So we–wet.”

Your breath hit his lips, and Bob’s eyes fluttered shut–just for a second–as though it physically hurt to be this close to you. His tongue darted out, instinctively, catching the trace of moisture you left behind like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.

And then you whispered it, sultry and soft enough to short-circuit whatever fragile defenses he had left:

“Yeah? Is that all?”

His eyes snapped open. He looked wrecked–lips parted, pupils blown wide, sweat clinging to his hairline even though the room wasn’t warm.

He nodded.

“I could only see yo–you like that…” He admitted, the words fragile and tight in his throat. “I—I didn’t want to think about anyone else. Just…you.”

You bit your bottom lip, dragging the soft skin between your teeth slowly, your voice a breathy murmur laced with something between disbelief and desire.

“You should’ve told me…”

Bob’s jaw clenched at that. His whole posture shifted, arms rigid at his sides, as if part of him wanted to run and the other part wanted to kneel.

“It…It’s too embarrassing to tell you this stuff,” He said thickly, voice cracking at the edges. “You’re my…my friend.”

You exhaled softly, thumb stroking once beneath the sharp edge of his cheekbone.

“Please,” You said gently, the word hanging between you like an invitation. “I think we’re far past that stage.” Bob’s breathing grew more uneven, his throat working around the tension that refused to loosen. You leaned closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear now, and whispered low enough to make his spine straighten:

“Because I want to fulfill those dirty little fantasies you had about me…”

You pulled back just enough to see his face.

His eyes–those beautiful, storm-struck eyes–searched yours with so much stunned vulnerability it made your chest ache. He looked like he didn’t know if he was about to wake up or fall to pieces right there at your feet.

“You…Wh–what?” He whispered, like the sentence was a foreign language. You didn’t answer at first. Instead, you reached down slowly–deliberately–to the waistband of your sweatpants, fingers curling beneath the soft cotton.

His breath audibly stuttered.

“I want to fulfill your fantasies,” You repeated, softer this time, like a secret meant only for him. You pushed the sweatpants down your legs, steady and sure, the fabric pooling at your ankles before you stepped out of them.

And Bob’s gaze dropped instantly to your underwear.

The black lace hugged your hips like a whispered promise–dark, sheer, wicked in contrast to the soft blue he had held in his hands for the past couple of nights. They were different in tone, in color, in feel, but the sight of them hit him just as hard. Maybe harder.

He stared like he was dying of thirst and you’d just offered him water.

His hands twitched at his sides, trembling slightly, like he didn’t know where they belonged–if he even had permission to move.

You watched him carefully. Saw the way he was holding himself back, teetering between restraint and desperation.

So you leaned in again, and whispered:

“You can touch me, Bob.”

That was all it took.

His hands lifted–slow, almost afraid–as if you might vanish if he moved too fast. His fingertips hovered over your hips for a moment, not quite making contact, his eyes flicking up to yours in silent question.

You nodded once. Gave him that tiny breath of permission.

And then he touched you.

Not roughly. Not greedily. But like he didn’t believe you were real. His hands found your waist first, warm and shaking, his thumbs brushing the lace where it dipped over the bone. He exhaled like it hurt.

”…Jesus, you’re so–“ He cut himself off, shaking his head like he couldn’t even begin to put his thoughts into words. Bob’s wrists. He twitched like you’d shocked him, but didn’t resist. Didn’t even blink as you guided his trembling hand down–slowly, steadily–until his palm brushed over the front of your underwear, and then you pressed yourself into his touch.

He felt it then. The heat. The slick. The unmistakable wetness that had already soaked into the lace.

Bob let out a ragged breath, his lips parting in a soft, strangled sound like he couldn’t believe what his hand was touching.

“Oh my god…” He whispered, barely audible. His eyes dropped to where his fingers were now cupping you, reverently, the lace warm and damp beneath his touch. His thumb flexed unconsciously, pressing slightly into the fabric, dragging just enough to feel the shape of you beneath the mesh.

You sighed, soft and slow, eyes fluttering at the contact.

Then you leaned in and kissed him.

It was nothing like you imagined it would be.

It was gentle. Breathless. Desperate, but careful.

He gasped softly against your lips–like you’d startled him, or like he couldn’t believe this was really happening. But he kissed you back almost instantly, mouth warm and pliant, his free hand finding your waist, tugging you just a fraction closer like he needed to feel all of you at once.

And then–his hand moved.

Still cupping you through the lace, his fingers began to stroke. Shaky. Uncertain. But so, so eager. He rubbed softly, the pressure tentative but building with each sweep, each slow pass of his fingertips over the soaked fabric.

Your lips parted with a soft sigh, and he took it as an invitation–his mouth pressing forward a bit harder, the kiss deepening, his tongue brushing yours just once before you pulled back.

You stared at him.

His pupils were enormous. His lips were kiss-swollen. His chest was rising in shallow, stuttering breaths.

And your voice–when it came–was a low, deliberate command that went straight to the erection that was forming in his sweatpants:

”Go lie on the bed.” He blinked, like he wasn’t sure he heard you right. Like his brain hadn’t caught up with the situation. But when you raised your brows, slowly, and nodded toward the mattress.

He moved without hesitation–like he was under your command, like the mattress had become holy ground.

Bob stretched out onto his back, the navy throw blanket rumpling beneath him, crown of soft light brown hair fanning across the pillow like a halo. He stared over at you–wide-eyed, wrecked, and trembling. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, sweat still clinging to the hollow of his throat from earlier. His cock throbbed beneath the worn cotton of his sweatpants, a heavy, unrelenting presence between his thighs.

You sighed softly, your fingers tugging the hem of your shirt, drawing it up and over your head with slow finality. The air was cool on your skin, and Bob’s breath hitched audibly when he saw your bra–black lace, delicate and bold, a perfect match for the underwear still damp against your core. You made no move to take it off. He didn’t deserve all of you yet. Not until he begged for it.

Instead, you moved toward him, crawling onto the bed, one knee sinking into the mattress beside his hip. The other swung over, straddling him fully. You hovered over his lap, your thighs bracketing him with intention. He looked like he might forget how to breathe.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just let the weight of the moment thicken between you–your body above his, your skin flushed, the black lace clinging to every curve, and the heat radiating off of both of you in waves.

Then, softly:

“Is this okay?”

Bob nodded so fast it nearly looked painful. “Y–Yes,” He rasped, hands coming up instinctively to rest on your hips, tentative but reverent, like he thought you might still vanish if he wasn’t careful. “Please, yes…” His fingers sank into the lace, palms cupping the sides of your ass, massaging the fabric as if it were a prayer. You rolled your hips once–slow, deliberate–and the sound that came from him was something between a gasp and a broken moan, the lace rubbing against your clit gently.

You ground against him again, your lace dragging over the thick, aching line of his cock through his sweatpants, and Bob bucked beneath you–the pressure causing you to shiver. His hands tightened, clutching you like he needed the anchor. His head tipped back against the pillow, lips parting, a string of breathless curses spilling out.

“Fuck…Oh god, Y/N.” You grinned, rolling your hips again, slower this time. Teasing. Your slick soaked into the lace, darkening the front of his sweatpants, and you could feel the twitch of him beneath you, thick and throbbing, desperate for friction. He writhed, moaned, his thighs tensing under yours. His eyes fluttered half shut, lashes fanned across flushed cheeks, his jaw clenched so tightly it trembled.

“Shit…Please. Please don’t st–stop, please–“ He gasped. You kept going, dragging yourself over him again and again, steady, sensual, watching every reaction ripple across his body like waves. His hips jerked, chasing every movement, and he groaned, high and rough in his throat, so fucking pretty beneath you—needy and overwhelmed, like he didn’t know what to do with the pleasure.

But then…You stopped.

You stilled your hips completely and leaned forward, placing your palms on his chest, feeling the frantic thud of his heart. Bob let out a strangled, desperate gasp beneath you–like you’d just ripped the oxygen from his lungs. His hands twitched on your hips, trying not to beg. Trying so hard to hold onto the last frayed thread of self-control.

“Please…” he breathed, voice shattered, raw with hunger. “Please, I–I can’t…Y/N, I need….Fuck–”

You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“What do you need, Bob?”

He whimpered. His hands gripped tighter, pulling your hips down flush against his cock like he needed you to feel how hard he was. His voice cracked in his throat as he pleaded:

“Get on my face…I ne–need you on my face… Please, Y/N. Please.” He sounded like he was losing his mind. Like he’d die if he didn’t taste you. His voice was breathless, trembling, and soaked in desperation.

You smiled–slow and dangerous–as you leaned forward just enough to whisper against his lips, “Let me help you take your sweatpants off first.”

Bob nodded immediately, like he would’ve agreed to anything you asked him. Anything. He lifted his hips with a quiet, breathless sound as you slid your hands beneath the waistband, dragging the fabric down slowly, watching the way his cock strained against the cotton briefs beneath as you took those down as well. He was already leaking–already flushed deep and hard, twitching with every shift of your weight above him.

You let the sweatpants and boxers fall to the floor, and just as you were about to climb back over him, Bob reached behind his neck and tugged his shirt off.

You stilled.

His body was long and lean, but solid–battle-worn. Muscled in a way that was quiet, capable. Not flashy, not carved from marble, but real. Lived-in. There were faint scars trailing along his ribs, one curling beneath his left pectoral, another nicked across his hip. Your fingers reached instinctively, gently tracing the one beneath his chest.

Bob flinched slightly–more at the intimacy than the contact–and his eyes darted to yours. You shook your head softly, thumb brushing the curve of the mark.

“You’re so handsome, Bob,” You whispered. He swallowed hard. His lips parted like he wanted to say something–but nothing came out. Just a choked breath. You leaned in, dragging your lips over his jaw, then down to his throat, kissing softly just above his racing pulse. When you pulled back again, you met his eyes, hovering above him.

“I want to do something to you at the same time,” You said quietly. “Is that okay?”

His breath hitched. “…Okay.” You gave him one more look–checking for hesitation, for doubt–but all you found was desperation. That wide-eyed ache he carried in his chest, begging for a release that went deeper than touch.

You shifted on the bed, slowly turning yourself around so your knees were planted on either side of his head, your core hovering over his mouth, lace clinging to your heat. From beneath you, Bob groaned–low and wrecked–his hands already reaching to brace your thighs. His fingers gripped gently, spreading you open for him with shaking reverence as you settled your weight on his chest.

He stared.

Your black lace panties were soaked–soaked through, pressed against your folds, glistening in the low light. He let out the softest, filthiest whimper you’d ever heard, like the sight alone was enough to break him.

And then his tongue pressed up against the center of the lace.

You gasped, your hips jerking forward at the sudden warmth of it–soft and thick, dragging a long, deliberate stripe up your slit, the soaked fabric allowing your taste to bleed right through.

“F–Fuck, Bob,” You whispered, head dropping low over his hips, your hand already reaching for his cock. He twitched in your palm, hot and heavy, and when you leaned down to swirl your tongue over the leaking head, Bob moaned against your core like a man possessed. He licked you through the lace again, and again, breathing hot and heavy into the damp fabric as you began to stroke him in slow, firm motions. He was already trembling.

“God…You taste so fucking good through this,” He murmured, voice slurred, drunk on it. His fingers slipped beneath the waistband, finally pushing the lace aside to bare you to him–wet and flushed and aching.

And then his mouth was on you.

No teasing. No hesitating.

He dove in like a man starved.

His tongue flattened against your entrance, then dragged upward in a filthy, unrelenting stripe that ended in a desperate suck over your clit. You moaned around his cock, and Bob bucked into your mouth with a choked gasp.

“Oh…Fuck–Y/N.”

You hummed low, lips wrapping around his head again, taking him deeper. He moaned into you in response, the vibrations spilling pleasure into your core like honey. His mouth was everywhere–kissing, sucking, tongue swirling over your clit like he was mapping you. His fingers joined the mix a moment later–two thick digits sliding up your slick folds, circling your entrance, then easing inside you with a low groan against your cunt.

“Jesus,” He breathed, fingers curling just right, “You’re–fuck, you’re so–soaking. I can feel you all over my face…” You whimpered as his tongue returned to your clit, flicking and sucking in slow, focused patterns while his fingers pumped in and out of you, curling deep, finding that sweet spot over and over again.

“Is this–shit–is this what you imagined?” You gasped, voice shaking as your hips began to roll into his face, grinding down on his mouth.

Bob nodded, groaning into your core, licking faster now. “Better,” He panted between strokes, “So much better. You’re…Fuck…You’re perfect. You taste like he–heaven. Let me make you come, please–I need to feel you come on my tongue.”

You clenched around his fingers at that, crying out into the base of his cock, your hips rocking harder, faster, grinding yourself against his lips, his tongue, his jaw. The slick sounds of his fingers pushing in and out of you were drowned out only by his whimpers and moans–desperate, messy, hungry.

Your thighs were shaking.

He was making you unravel.

And he knew it.

“Let go,” Bob rasped. “Pl–Please, Y/N. I want it. I need it. Come for me.”

You moaned, louder this time, your entire body trembling as the pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter, your movements turning frantic, grinding down over his mouth, his nose, chasing that release with everything you had.

Bob’s fingers never stopped. His mouth never left you.

And when you came–hips jerking, moaning his name with a stuttering cry–he moaned with you, sucking your clit through the high, licking you messily as you shook above him.

You collapsed forward with a breathless gasp, your head resting on his thigh, your hand still gripping the base of his cock, now throbbing and wet with precum.

Bob was panting beneath you, lips swollen, chin slick with your arousal.

And all he said–soft and reverent, as he kissed the inside of your trembling thigh:

“God…That…That was so mu–much better than I imagined.” You were both still catching your breath, skin flushed, muscles trembling in the aftermath of your orgasm. Bob’s face was soaked with your slick, lips parted and glistening, his hair mussed from your thighs. You leaned forward, your breath still stuttering, and kissed the inside of his thigh–softly, reverently. A tender press of lips that made his entire body shudder beneath you.

“Fuck, Bob…” You whispered against his skin, your voice ragged, “I need to feel you inside me right now.” Bob let out a strangled sound that was somewhere between a moan and a plea. You looked over your shoulder and met his gaze–completely ruined, pupils blown wide, lashes damp, cheeks flushed and lips still swollen from where he’d just worshipped you.

“You tasted so good,” You murmured, brushing your fingers along the base of his cock, “I can’t even imagine how good you feel.”

His hands slid up your thighs, gripping your hips like he needed to ground himself in your body.

“Please,” He rasped, the word leaving his lips like a prayer. “Please, I need you.”

You shifted slowly, your legs shaky as you turned around to face him again. He sat up the second you moved–like his body couldn’t take the separation for even a second longer. You climbed into his lap, and Bob adjusted, scooting forward on the bed until he was seated at the edge, feet planted, thighs spread wide with you tucked in his arms.

His hands cradled you, one firm on your back, the other curling under your ass as if he was afraid you might disappear. You kissed him–soft and deep, lips plush, mouths open and slick, and he moaned into it like he was falling apart all over again. When you reached between your bodies and brushed the head of his cock against your soaked underwear, Bob gasped into your mouth.

You pulled your lace underwear to the side, the fabric clinging wetly to your thigh as you guided him to your entrance. His hands flexed on your hips as he tried to stay still, the tension in his thighs so tight you could feel it in every inch of his body.

You held his jaw in one hand, forcing him to look into your eyes.

“Watch me,” You whispered, voice thick and low. “I want you to see how you ruin me.”

And then–achingly slowly–you sank down onto him.

His eyes flew wide, lips parted in silent awe. A broken, keening moan tore from his throat the moment he felt you start to take him, tight and wet and fluttering around him as you eased him in inch by inch.

“F–fuck,” He gasped, his forehead falling against yours, voice shaking. “You’re–God, you’re so fucking warm.”

You whimpered softly, nails digging into his shoulders as your walls stretched around him, the pressure delicious, dizzying.

“You fill me so perfectly,” You whispered. “It’s like you were made for this. For me.”

Bob’s breath stuttered. His hands roamed–one splaying across your lower back, the other trembling as he cupped your breast through your bra. His thumb grazed your nipple, and you shivered as you sank all the way down, bottoming out with a soft cry.

You sat still for a moment, just feeling him inside you. His cock throbbed, buried to the hilt, twitching with every pulse of your walls. Bob’s head lolled back, eyes fluttering shut, mouth parted.

“You’re squeezing me so tight,” He groaned. “I’m not gonna last–I can’t…fuck, you feel like heaven.”

You began to roll your hips–slow, sensual, unhurried. Bob’s eyes snapped open, and for the briefest moment, they flashed.

Gold.

Not a full takeover. Not Sentry bursting forward. Just a flicker. A gleam of light behind the blue. Like the god inside him was watching. Feeling.

Your breath caught.

Bob seemed to feel it too–he blinked, dazed, and looked up at you like he’d just tasted something divine.

“I saw that,” You whispered. His mouth opened, but he didn’t speak. Just stared at you, wrecked and reverent.

“…Is he watching?” You asked, breathless, grinding against him.

Bob swallowed. His lips brushed your collarbone as he whispered, “He’s always wa–watching. But this–” his hand smoothed down your spine, “–This is mine.”

You moaned, tilting your head back as your hips moved faster, slick thighs slapping against his.

“Say it again,” You demanded.

“This is mine,” Bob growled, breath hot against your throat. “You’re mine. You feel so good around me, I can’t–fuck–I’ve wanted this for so long.” You clung to his shoulders as you rode him, sweat slicking your skin, your rhythm getting more desperate.

“Cum inside me,” You gasped, forehead pressed to his. “I want to feel you fill me. Please, Bob…” Bob let out a sob of a moan, his grip tightening.

“Gonna fuckin’ cum,” He gasped, “Gonna fill you up–wanna see it dripping out of you when I pull out–Jesus, I’m gonna–” You kissed him hard, swallowing the cry that tore from his throat as he came. He jerked beneath you, his cock pulsing deep inside, thick and hot as he spilled into you. Your own climax tore through you a second later, your body arching against him as you moaned into his mouth.

You stayed like that–clinging to each other, gasping, trembling–as the aftershocks rolled through your bodies. Eventually, you collapsed forward, both of you falling back into the bed. His arms wrapped around you, and your legs tangled with his. Sweat cooled against your skin. His cum was still leaking from you, thick and warm between your thighs, but you didn’t care. You only buried your face in his neck and let yourself breathe him in.

He kissed your temple. Whispered your name.

And the gold in his eyes was gone.

But the heat it left behind burned just as bright.

”You…You can keep those underwear…I…I want you to have them.” You whispered. He lets out a small laugh.

”I’ll have them as a keepsake…Because I–I don’t think I’ll need to fantasize anymore…Especially now that we’ve both had the real thing.” You smirk.

“I…Completely agree with that…I already want more.” He hummed.

“Give me a few minutes and I’m sure I’ll be able to satisfy that craving.”

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callsign-reign · 2 days ago

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Lewis Pullman as Sentry Thunderbolts* 2025 | dir. Jake Schreier

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callsign-reign · 2 days ago

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All-powerful. Invincible. Stronger than all of the Avengers rolled into one. And soon to be known as Earth's mightiest hero. THUNDERBOLTS* 2025 | dir. Jake Schreier

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callsign-reign · 2 days ago

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yawn | bob reynolds x reader

Word Count 6,400 Read on AO3 Warnings/Notes 18+ MDNI, AFAB!Reader. Slice of life, thunderstorms, cuddling, accidental superpower usage, lazy sex, just a lot of fluff, really. This was my sleepy version of a character study that managed to evolve itself into a proper oneshot. Synopsis As the storm rages on, you wrap yourselves in each other.

A white flash lights up the room. Lightning crackles in its footsteps, seeking vengeance for giving you a whole winter away from its blinding wrath. Thunder shakes the ground, the bed seeming to momentarily buzz around you.

The bottle of melatonin on the bedside table is beginning to look like a better and better option by the minute. If you hadn't psyched yourself into a mind over matter agenda and tried to go without them, then maybe you would be sound asleep right now, wrapped up in a blissful, vivid dream.

But no. The clock reads 1:39 AM, and here you are rolling over for the umpteenth time, letting your eyes scan across the dark silhouettes of your bedroom decor, mind running rampant with thoughts of monsters and mythical cryptids.

The pile of clothes in the corner is actually a stranger who has broken in and is waiting till the moment you look away to attack. That light reflecting off your mirror is the eyes of a monster never once witnessed by human eyes. Lightning flickers. The figure standing in the hallway is a trained assassin sent to—

"Holy—!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" The dark silhouette jumps, raising its palms to the ceiling. "I'm sorry!"

"Jesus Christ, Robert!" Somehow, you've wound up with your back pressed against the headboard, heart caught in your throat. How long has he been standing there? Why did you not hear him come in?

"I'll...I'm sorry. I'll leave," his figure shrinks deeper into the hall, one hesitant foot after the other.

"No," it comes out sharper than you intended, bordering something embarrassingly desperate. "Don't. Come back here."

Like a fish, Bob reels back in, slowly creeping through the threshold. The room lights up once more, two, three, four, five flashes one after the other. It's there and gone in a matter of seconds, but you've already caught sight of the dark circles lingering beneath his eyes, messy hair poking in every which way.

Sliding back down into the bed, you peel back the sheets, arms wide open for him. His feet quicken, audibly padding across the hardwood floor, and then he's falling into you. No grace or effort to be slow about it, too eager to wedge himself into you, tucking his head under your chin.

Your fingers comb through his hair, dragging your nails against his scalp. "Do you want to talk about it?"

His head shakes, squirming a little bit closer. A vicious boom sends something crashing down in the hallway. Bob grumbles. One of his legs slots between yours, coiling an arm around your waist, as if to try and meld himself into you.

"I tried to call," he's so close that his voice vibrates up your neck. "I promise I did."

"Don't apologize for that," you pause, just long enough to press a kiss to his forehead. Instantaneously, his lips find your collar, always keen on returning them. "Just...say something before you start looming in my doorway like a damn ghost."

"Sorry," his mouth breaks away from you with a giggle. "I didn't realize you were awake until you jumped."

Lightning strikes something outside the window. An ear-splitting crack tears through the room.

Bob jumps.

Frankly, so do you. And maybe that's why he started squeezing you tighter, because that's exactly what you're doing, too, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and squirming the slightest bit closer. As if that will save you in the event lightning chooses your bed as its next, unfortunate target.

Morning arrives in the form of raindrops pattering against the window. Gloomy hues of gray serve as their backdrop, thick clouds masking the sunlight so seamlessly that you can't tell what time it is. It could be early morning, or the afternoon could be coming to a close; it all looks the same.

You've rolled over at some point and time, but Bob's arm still rests around you, his forehead nestled into your shoulder. He's so warm, damn near drawing you back into bed before you've clambered out of it, but the overwhelming desire for something to drink triumphs above all else.

It was a picture frame that fell off the wall last night. Face down on the living room floor, in a pile of shattered glass that a future version of you will have to clean up.

That future version of you arrives within the next few minutes. You can only stare at it for so long before you're inclined to clean it up while the kettle boils. If you don't do it now, then you won't do it until either the end of the day or when Bob inevitably steps on it and cuts his foot wide open.

You still don't know what time it is. Your phone sits on the counter, right where you left it, the little notification light blinking like a ticking time bomb, ready to explode if it receives one more text.

And frankly, that's why you don't want to pick it up.

A scratchy chin settles onto your shoulder, familiar arms once again coiling around you. "You left me."

"Only for a few minutes," you hum. It's like leaning into your own sentient blanket, one that squeezes you a little bit tighter and tilts his head to press a kiss into your cheek.

A shrill whistle dissolves the moment before you've had a chance to soak it in, the boiling water squealing with rage until you pour it into a tacky little mug. Hot chocolate mix rises to the surface, stubbornly refusing to mix until you stir it with the spoon.

"What did Yelena ever do with the rest of these?" You still don't understand what possessed her to buy that giant, hundred-dollar mystery box at the thrift store. Something something, 'you never know what you'll find!' only for her to cut the tape and unveil a museum of many, many ugly mugs.

It's hard even to remember them all. Tacky vacation souvenirs, bad jokes. Some had odd, novelty shapes, others changed colors at different temperatures, a few belonged to movies and TV shows that you've never heard of. There was even one from a 2007 art class hidden in there, a rough but valiant attempt at creating a cat.

"Kept some for the kitchen, stashed the rest in Bucky's briefcase," Bob's laughter breaks through his yawn. "We crammed so many in there that we could hardly get it closed." He doesn't say anything, but you can feel his eyes follow your hand into the bag of mini marshmallows, watching as you drop a handful of them into the hot chocolate.

"Is Bucky aware of this?" Lifting a marshmallow to your shoulder.

"Not yet," his lips brush your fingertips, and the spongy little treat is gone. You offer another. It suffers the same fate.

You fully intend to step out of his arms for a moment; you're only heading toward the fridge, but Bob waddles along with you as if he's been permanently bound to you. Two ice cubes are all you're after, the final, necessary touch to keep him from burning his mouth again.

For all intents and purposes, he should know this is for him; he only takes his hot chocolate one way. And yet his eyes go round when you offer it to him.

"For me?" As if the 'I heart Bob' cup could be for anyone else.

"Yes, for you," lifting it a little bit higher, insistent.

You're convinced that the mug shrinks the moment he takes it from you. There's no other explanation for it, the damn thing is microscopic in his oversized hand, a thick, bulging vein sprawling up the back of it and into his forearm.

...you've got to quit staring.

"Have you taken your medicine yet?" It's the first question that pops into mind. You should have asked this anyway.

He shakes his head, lifting the mug to his mouth. One sip is all it takes for the melted marshmallow to coat his upper lip. A twinge of gold colors the inside of his iris when he finds what he likes, there and gone in the blink of an eye.

Two pill organizers sit right next to the marshmallows, decorated with stickers and faces drawn in Sharpie, courtesy of a long, drawn-out power outage that lasted longer than your phone batteries could. The pale green one is his, emptier than you remember it being and definitely in need of a trip back to his apartment for a refill, but there's enough for today.

"Three in the morning?" You think it was three. There are three in here, but his prescriptions are constantly changing, still trying to find the perfect concoction of medications that will work for him.

"Two. I'm taking the green one at night now," his sleepy, lopsided grin is blinding. "Taking it during the day makes it feel like there's a tiny little man in my head who tasers my brain every few seconds."

The gears in your head start turning, working to conjure a mental image of that evil little man he speaks of.

Bob's grin drops into something meek. "That...doesn't make much sense, does it?"

With a hum, you drop the two pills into his empty palm, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "It was a great analogy." You just need a moment to process what he's said.

Heading back to bed is tempting, but the potential hot chocolate spill risk is what ultimately lures the two of you into the living room, curled into the corner of the couch like a pair of otters floating aimlessly in the sea. Except your sea is composed of all the blankets Bob can get his hands on, topped off with a dalmatian plushie who, conveniently, is also named Bob.

Rain still patters against the windows, with tiny little 'tap tap tap's that merge into a lullaby of sorts, drawing your eyes to a close against their will. Bob isn't doing much better, his head settles onto your shoulder mere seconds after you hear his mug settle onto the coffee table. Half empty.

Always half empty.

Give it some time, and he'll mosey back to it, wrinkling his nose when he finds that his hot chocolate has had the utmost audacity to go cold on him. He'll pop it into the microwave and stand there, watching it spin around on the glass tray until four seconds are left on the timer, take it out, chug the rest, and then delicately place his mug into the back left corner of the sink.

"I can hear you thinking," he murmurs. Outside, lightning cackles, as if to agree wth him.

"I thought you weren't using your superpowers?" It's the same deflection every time.

But he lets you get away with it, too kind and too sleepy to press you on what is going through your mind right now. Instead, he nuzzles further into you, hiking a leg over your hip. "Is being able to read someone's face supposed to be a superpower?"

"If it is, then it's definitely in your arsenal," like a moth to a flame, your hand wanders into his hair, already beginning to toy with a curl.

"Millions of dollars and decades of research," a yawn wracks through him. "All to create a guy with the magical ability to know when his partner is thinking really hard about something."

And now you're yawning, too. "It's a scientific miracle."

The pitter-patter of the rain is what whisks you away once more. The soft rumble of thunder and distant, howling wind blends into a comforting white noise, only interrupted by the slightly louder purr of Bob's snoring. You no longer know where you begin and Bob ends; you've simply melted into a puddle, the cocoon of blankets is the only thing to keep you from spilling out and onto the floor below.

But a cozy nap doesn't prevent a storm from rolling in, and for the umpteenth time, your eyes open to the sound of lightning, striking something nearby. It's darker now, the living room cast into dark hues of gray and black, broken apart by the occasional blitz of light from outside. Your phone buzzes on the counter, either a phone call or an emergency alert, neither of which is worth picking it up.

What's the point of a cellphone when the only person worth talking to is blinking up at you with sleepy blue eyes?

"I'm gonna take a shower," you announce, after a long moment. Might as well get one in, just in case a power outage revokes the luxury of hot water.

Bob blinks, visibly processing what you've just said to him. A moment passes, and then, a thought comes to him. "Can I come?"

You nod, but nothing happens. You're not moving. He's not moving. Time has either stopped and let your consciousness reap the terror of being trapped in a frozen body, or you really just don't want to move.

When your feet finally hit the floor, you're not sure, but at some point, you find yourself being greeted by a steady stream of warm water that nearly melts you on the spot. Like your shadow, Bob follows close behind, and you've never been more thankful to be blessed with this walk-in shower, because frankly, you don't think this would work if you were squeezing into a tub together.

Not with those broad shoulders, that is. Composed of thick muscle that flex and collect tiny rivers that flow down the freckled expanse of his back, past the three circular scars along his spine. Experiment souvenirs. They're not very big, you can perfectly fit your fingertips into them like buttons, but in comparison to the sheer size of his body, they might as well be microscopic.

"Watcha looking at?" He's peeking over his shoulder, eyes sparkling.

You've been caught.

...might as well commit to it.

"Nothing," coy as can be, you grab a handful of his ass.

His mouth pops open, the tips of his ears twinging with pink, then red. But as quickly as the shock sprang onto his handsome face, it melts into something bashful, suddenly unable to meet your gaze anymore. The only thing that doesn't change is the soap bubbling in his hair, slowly but surely making its way down the back of his neck.

He turns toward you, tilting his head back into the steady stream of water. There's only so much the water alone can do, and you're sure that he fully intends to do it himself, but you find yourself reaching for the shower wand, bringing it closer to help you and your one remaining hand to wash the soap from his hair.

"'s nice," he hums, his hands settling on your hips. "Are you washing all of me?"

"Washing you and myself?" Feigning shock.

"Well, I can help with that," he blindly reaches out, first stealing away your wash cloth, and then feeling about for your body wash.

...you wonder if he knows that he's floating the damn bottle toward himself. Surely if he knew, he wouldn't still be patting around, looking for the shape until—

It lands in his hand.

Yeah, he doesn't have a clue. He's so preoccupied with getting soap on your chest that he can't possibly be thinking of anything else, rubbing it into your skin in loose, lazy circles. For something so simplistic, it's shockingly difficult. Your arms keep bumping into his, he's trying to get a part of your back, but pulling you forward only ends in you accidentally spraying him in the face.

"Hey!" Bob squeals, as if he didn't directly cause this by himself.

"Your fault!" Dodging an attack to the chin from the soapy cloth.

Your wet hand futilely smacks him in the chest. He gets you on the belly. You tilt the wand to spray water at the nape of his neck. A glob of soap gets you in the cheek, you can only gather it so fast, but he already knows your game plan, dodging before you can get it on his nose. And then—

There are lips on yours. Soft and fleeting, there and gone within milliseconds, appearing again on your cheek, the bridge of your nose, and your forehead. You can't possibly keep up with them; Bob has gotten in two more attacks in the time it takes for you to retaliate.

"Bo!" Yelping, pawing at his chin. No dice. Nothing is getting between him and his vicious attack. "Damnit, Sentry!"

"Don't 'Sentry' me!" His giggle is so loud that it echoes, ringing incessantly in your ears, so damn distracting that you fall victim to his finishing move. A proper kiss. It hits you so hard, so easily that you nearly fall backward with it, only held up by his big, steady hands.

This is what you've been missing.

Every shred of tension melts from your body, washing away, swirling down the drain, and into the abyss. You're nothing but a limp mess in his arms, collapsing into his chest, helpless to do anything but chase the sweetness of his lips, molding against you so wonderfully that it borders on unfair.

He steps forward, and your back finds the bathroom tile. Cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the warm body that closes the gap between you. Hands nudge at your thighs, pressing into the fat of them until you get the hint and jump. His hips slot between your legs with such ease that it nearly causes you to short-circuit.

Kissing Robert Reynolds, frankly, is an otherworldly experience that ought to bring out the sun and banish every dark cloud from the sky. Perfection exists, and it's this. The delicate way that his kiss draws you into him, lips tangled in a dance that you're far from mastering, taking the wrong steps, yet somehow managing to avoid stepping on the other's feet.

Your hand rises to his jaw, feeling the subtle flex of the muscle there, far too innocent for how he grabs a handful of your ass. Payback, you suppose.

"Robert," you don't mean to sound so desperate, you really don't, but it's too late, you're mewling like a cat in heat.

"Bedroom?"

"Uhuh."

You're either developing a memory loss problem, or Bob is tapping into another unknown super power, because you don't remember what happens from there. One moment you're up against the wall, the next, you're being greeted by the familiar comfort of the bed, curving perfectly to your frame.

Bob's forearms brace themselves on either side of your head, caging you in as his warm body slots against yours once more. You haven't the slightest clue how much time has passed. Don't really care, either. It's hard to give a damn about anything when the tip of Bob's nose traces along the side of your cheek, guiding himself back to your mouth.

The storm protests with a vicious cackle, the bedside lamp flickering with a wordless threat to plunge you into permanent darkness. Wind squeals around the corners of the apartment, shrieking a threat that you don't care to listen to. The whole building could collapse for all you care, so long as this doesn't end.

Bob's hips tilt forward, his heavy cock rubbing against the inside of your thigh, "this is still okay?"

"I would have told you if it wasn't," and if that's not convincing enough, your legs wrap around his waist, clinging to him like it's the only thing you know how to do.

And oh, does he let you. If anything, he's ushering himself closer, his firm belly flattening against yours, erasing every bit of space that dares put itself between you. One of his hands are cradling your face, and your fingers are in his wet hair, and—

The kiss breaks with a mutual gasp.

Again, he rocks his hips forward, thick cock slipping between your folds and rubbing against your clit. How you didn't feel him lazily rutting between your legs, you have no idea, but you are so not complaining.

"I've missed this," he blurts, speaking against your lips.

It takes a moment to find your voice, one of the many controls lost to the mindboggling distraction that is him grinding into you. "It's been like a week," and it sounds like it's been a week since you've had anything to drink, too.

"A week too long," Bob nips at your bottom lip. You don't respond. He nips again, whining at you like an expectant puppy, eager for something you can't deny him any longer. Lips part. Tongues meet in an instant.

It's a losing battle before the fight has even started; he's already licking into your mouth, swallowing the whine he draws out of you. So unfair. You didn't even stand a chance, helpless to do anything but follow his lead. On their own, your hips twitch, and pleasure shatters the kiss once more.

In its place, appear kisses on your cheek, trailing along the side of your jaw, and to your neck. They linger in the space behind your ear, gently sucking on the skin there, enough for you to feel the pressure of it, but never bruising. If someone were to catch sight of a hickey on you, he might spontaneously combust.

"Robert," you don't know why you're whispering his name, lifting from your tongue like a sacred prayer.

He hums, peering up at you through his lashes, working his way down the side of your neck. One kiss after the other, his wet tongue leaving a faint trail in his wake. There's nothing you can do but cling to his shoulders, fighting to stay still as he kisses along your chest.

"Tickle?" He knows the answer to that question, grinning like a cat who got the cream.

A breath strangles out of you. "No."

"You're squirming," and he's got the audacity to laugh while he says it, like he's not also reaching to cup your breast, swiping his thumb over a soft nipple.

You've got no response to that, quietly watching him lean in and swirl his tongue around it. The warmth of his mouth is more than welcome, drawing your back up off the bed, chasing his touch, but...there's something else that you want a whole lot more.

Your hand darts to the bedside table, where the lube rests on the nearest corner. The tips of your fingers brush against the plastic tube, gaining traction, only for it to scoot beyond your reach entirely.

The bottle jumps into your hand. Suddenly sentient.

Bob stiffens. "Oops."

"I thought you weren't using your powers?" You're trying to sound serious about it, but you lose this battle, too, your own laughter causing you to struggle to even open the cap.

"I didn't mean to, I—!" The color drains from his face by the second, shocked as can be. "I wished it would go to you and it just...did!" He sits up, looking at his hands as if he thinks the Void is already taking over.

But he remains unchanged, just like any other time that he's subconsciously done this, whether he's realized it or not. Leaving you ample time to pour a generous amount of lubriant into your palm, so much that it nearly spills through your fingers as you reach down and wrap your hand around his flushed, pink cock.

"Ah—!"

Aside from his hair, this is the darkest part of his body, cock head flushed a deep crimson that contrasts so beautifully against the rest of him. Precum spills, swiftly collected by your thumb, spreading it and the lube across his length in one, practiced motion. You know you're doing it right when he tries to chase your retreating hand.

A pout etches itself onto his face, "mean."

"Would you rather stick to just a handjob?" It's a genuine question laced into your best, teasing tone.

"No, no, no," Bob is already on top of you again, before you can begin to take your playful suggestion seriously. "I'm just...being..." His brow furrows, something self-deprecating visibly forming in his head.

"Being cute?" You fill in the blank before he can, reaching to squish his cheek with your clean hand.

There he goes. Smiling at you like the world's sweetest fool, borderline shy about returning to the task at hand, guiding himself between your legs. The wet tip of his cock dips between your folds, brushing past your clit, and then—

Familiar pressure greets you. It's all you can do to keep from impatiently pushing yourself onto him, hanging onto what little self-control you have left while he takes his time, slowly pushing in like it's the first all over again. But this time, he slips in much, much easier.

Lord, have mercy, you've already forgotten about the sheer width of him. You should have known from the start that those doe eyes were compensating for something, but how the hell could you have predicted...

You shouldn't have looked.

Now you can't tear your eyes away.

There's something mesmerizing about the sight of Bob's cock gradually disappearing inside of you, your pussy visibly stretching to accommodate him and his obnoxious girth. Bob follows your line of sight, hips stuttering when he finds what has your attention.

"I can feel you clenching, baby," he mutters, breaking you from your hypnosis.

Yeah, that might be why he's moving so slowly. But just because you're telling your body to relax, doesn't mean it's going to mindlessly obey. Not this part of you, at least, stubbornly clamping down around his fat cock like you're trying to catch him in some kind of obscene chokehold.

Fingertips trail up your sides. Featherlight kisses work their way up your chest and into your neck, tickling. You're giggling before you know what's going on, pawing at his hands as he all but lays his weight on top of you.

Heat races up your belly, the side of his cock rubbing against sensitive nerves. Oh, and the stretch of him aches, but you can't...you can't focus on anything other than how full you feel. It's all that you can think about, how he sinks into you bit by bit, gradually opening you up around him.

A fragile gasp breaks through the air; he's bottomed out.

"Bo..." You don't know why you're using that silly little nickname, mindlessly speaking everything that comes to mind.

Bob's nose nuzzles into your temple. "Are you okay?"

"More than okay," you breathe.

Thunder booms, and you're sure that the lightning is putting on her greatest show yet, but she doesn't have an ounce of your attention. No, that's all reserved for this.

Experimental, Robert begins to move.

Slow. Not in any rush to pull out of you, once again taking his time as he gradually pushes himself back in. It's easier this time, a wet little noise punctuating the meet of your bodies. There's nothing heated about it; you've got no reason for it to be. It's just you and your ridiculously superpowered boyfriend, taking all of the time in the world.

"There," sparkles light up behind your eyes. "Oh my god, right there."

Shit, how is he already rubbing into those nerves? Usually, it takes him a minute to find them, but today—

"Right there?" Only Robert Reynolds can manage to sound so innocent when he's fucking you, like a damn earnest puppy looking for his treat. But he's doing exactly what you've asked of him, and if you had a treat, you'd give it to him.

Your arms loop around his shoulders, pulling him even closer, noses bumping. Gold laces his irises, washing over their usual blue, there and gone with a simple blink of his eye, but you know what you saw.

"I love you," he mewls, and you can practically see the hearts in his eyes.

Mouths collide like two galaxies, stars and planets exploding behind your eyelids like fireworks. A once-in-a-lifetime showing, and you've got front row tickets. The universe itself ceases to exist. There is nothing else, only you and Bob Reynolds himself, tangled so deeply that eternity herself can never hope to unravel you.

"I love you, too," you can't hear yourself over the incessant thump of your heart, loud in your ears, as if it doesn't have a designated place to be.

But you wouldn't be shocked if Bob's fat cock was so big that it entirely rearranged you, because that's certainly what it feels like. There's no other word for it, other than full. Stretched to your limit, your cunt struggling to even flutter around him as he sinks into you.

That so-called little noise of your bodies meeting is growing louder. Fuck, its so unfair, he's so big that he hits everything and you're absolutely soaked. The very sound of it is far too obscene for the moment, so loud that the neighbors can probably hear your pussy practically weeping around his damn cock.

Bob's hand tucks beneath your thigh, pushing it up to your belly, opening you even more and—

"Oh my god!" You wail. He's hitting it. Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh. "Fuck, Robert—!"

He sucks in a sharp breath of air, his head almost tipping back at the sensation of you clenching around him. The rhythm he so carefully built is dissolving by the second, and frankly, so are you, unraveling like a loose thread.

"Keep squeezing my cock like that, shit," Bob's groaning, irises flickering with gold, just like the lightning in the window. "Your pussy feels so good."

What's louder, the raging wind or the two of you panting, like dogs in the hot sun? You don't have the answer. You're too busy focusing on pressing your fingertips to your swollen clit, massaging it in a tune that definitely does not match the sway of Robert's body.

But it doesn't matter. The heat is already coiling in your lower belly, burning into your thighs and winding you impossibly tighter around Bob's length. Your back is trying to rise up off the bed again, and your hand has somehow gotten in his hair, and he's kissing you again.

"I'm gonna cum," he blurts. Ragged.

Your lips are moving. Nothing comes out. All you can do is nod.

"Please cum on my cock," Bob all but collapses into you. Whispering into your ear. Begging. Pleading. "Please, can we come together? Please? Oh my god, please."

A noise blurts out of you. Close. You're so close. Hanging onto him for dear life, his blunt tip keeps kissing that spot over and over and over and

"Oh my god, cum for me please, please—!" Bob cries out. The final snap of his hips shoves you up the bed, pulsing with an orgasm so intense that you can feel him twitch with it, and...you're cumming with him.

It washes through you in one big wave, beginning with a delicate twitch down in your toes, rolling up into your thighs, up your belly, and following your spine, swirling in your head. The world itself is a distant memory. All you can comprehend is the pleasure of cumming around him, fuel poured into an already raging fire.

Reality flowers in the form of cool air, rushing in from the vent like a medic, here to valiantly chase away the beads of sweat that have collected on your skin. But nothing is quite as warm and grounding as the big, burning body on top of yours. Robert, with his messy hair and pink cheeks, snuggled on you like you're his personal pillow.

"Hi," he chirps, with a yawn.

"Hi," you're yawning too, now. Must be contagious.

He does, ultimately, roll off of you at some point, though you're not sure how much time passes before that happens. The sheets are beyond saving; the valiant efforts of a wash cloth can't remedy this, only the washing machine and its humble sidekick, the dryer, can save the day now. You've practically slept the day away, you should have energy to get up and deal with it, but...

Bob's arms are distracting.

So are his hands, for that matter, absently wandering up and down your skin, going as far as he can comfortably reach. In return, you trace the hard lines of his belly, following the grooves of his abdomen like a maze, with his veins functioning as a shortcut to his chest and lower belly, stopping just shy of his soft, oversensitive length.

But then, he freezes.

"Bo?" Did the air conditioning cause him to turn into ice?

"I forgot to feed the cats," he says it in such a way that it sounds like he's committed a federal crime. Which, as far as the kitties themselves are concerned, may be valid.

"The stray cats who live outside of the Avengers building?" You know which ones he's talking about. The small but humble colony of kitties who fuss at local reporters while they're on the air, determined to get their side of the story on television.

You're beginning to suspect that the silver tabby is nothing but a gossip. She has crashed at least five news networks by now.

"They're not strays, they're official employees." There's no way he isn't making this up on the spot, just to get a laugh out of you.

And it works. You're giggling about it even when you're standing in the living room, trying to squeeze your shoes on without untying them first. Official employees. Representatives of the company. Paid interns. Soon enough, the New Avengers will be fully feline run.

"What made you start feeding these guys, anyhow?" You ask, watching him lift the forgotten mug to his mouth.

His nose wrinkles. The hot chocolate has once again dared to become cold. "I accidentally dropped a box of leftovers and watched three of them run out to steal everything that spilled out."

The story continues as he walks away, heading for the kitchen. "They still looked hungry, but I couldn't, you know, feed them a half-eaten burger and some fries, so I went and got them their own kibble." Three beeps. The microwave begins to hum. "Now I can't stop, because they expect it from me."

You don't need to see what happens next. The microwave stops, chased by a moment of silence. The water runs, and then, the cup audibly settles inside the sink. Back left corner.

Night has already fallen on the outside world, washing the city in hues of black and blue, broken apart by headlights and stubborn, LED signs that all clamour for your attention. They don't know that their competition is Robert Reynolds, world's most distracting man, who uses his thumb to rub circles into the back of your hand.

A small swarm of felines resides in the alleyway outside of the tower, adorable, screaming balls of damp fur and rage. Most of them are friendly, trotting at Bob's heels and meandering between your feet, but others dart further down the sidewalk or dodge behind a dumpster, looking for any good spot to hide from your prying eyes.

Bob only leaves you for a moment, returning with plastic bowls and a bag of cat food that he nearly spills on top of a particularly bold, orange cat. Why wait for the bowl to be filled when you can shove your head right into the stream of kibble?

The final bowl is placed, and...

Silence. No more meowing or endless screaming, only the soft crunches of tiny jaws chowing down on dinner.

The orange cat, despite being first to his bowl, moves on to the next as soon as he's run out. There is a reason why he's beginning to look closer to a bowling ball than a feline, the fuzzy glutton. His deadly sin runs another cat off from the bowl, a calico who is content to rub herself against your leg, rather than fight over a meal.

"Oh," Bob has wandered away from you, standing over by the dumpster now. "Oh!"

"What?" You squint, but you can't see what he's picking up.

Whatever it is, he's using both hands to cradle it under his chin, a precious little thing that he's found. "It's a baby!"

You can't see it until he's right in front of you. A tiny, bite-sized ball of fluff, marked with even tinier stripes, another tabby, this time in the smallest form possible. Its mouth opens with a faint, but mighty "mew!"

And then promptly bites Bob's finger. Ferocious.

Oh god.

Oh god, there are big, expectant eyes looking at you now. He's already pouting; you know what he's about to ask, and he knows what your reply is. He can't keep it in the tower; the chances of someone leaving a door open and it getting out onto the streets are astronomical.

But that little kitten is another mouth to feed. A very expensive, tiny mouth at that. There's no way that little bitty thing can eat hard food, its eyes aren't even open! And the cost of buying kitten formula? In this city?

Lightning silently flickers, casting a strange, monstrous shadow.

...

It's last night all over again. The ongoing storm. A creepy, unexpected sight created by a momentary burst of light. Robert and his pleading eyes, with his new kitten tucked against his neck, if not identical to how he fit himself beneath your chin.

The last-ditch effort begins, scanning each and every cat, looking for a recently pregnant momma who might have left her baby unattended for a meal. No kittens, no dice. The closest thing to pregnant is that damn orange one.

"Do you think we can—"

"Yes."

There's something else you plan to say, something about custody rights and who is feeding it and when, but the thought dies before it gets to your mouth. You can feel something...

Oh. Now, why did you go and wear the gray sweats? They're already showing off every rain drop they've absorbed, and now...

"Come on," you're taking Bob by the arm, careful not to jostle the tiny thing from his hand as you pull him along. "We're finding a bathroom, and then we're off to the pet store."

He tilts his head. "Why the bathroom?"

Now that you've felt it, you can't unfeel it. Why must there be consequences to your actions? "Because I've got your cum running down my leg."

"Oh!" He squeaks. Then, lowering his voice. "Well, I can help...with that...?" Bold, until he loses momentum mid-sentence.

"Not with a child in your hands, you're not."

The kitten mews. It's starting to sound like Bob already.

717 notes · View notes

callsign-reign · 2 days ago

Text

worst way ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: being secretly fake-married to your sweet best friend, bob floyd, is almost perfect... until tensions rise, the secret is out, and you both struggle to keep your feelings (and your hands) to yourself

notes: this fic took my soul... there's a piece of my soul in this??? so y'all better enjoy! no, but seriously, i can't wait to hear what you think! i giggled like an idiot when i came up with the idea, and throughout the entire writing process... so please, please let me know what you think! (also, i want to hear y'all chanting perv!bob from across the pacific ocean)

warnings: swearing, alcohol, fake marriage (is that a warning?), italics, seemingly unrequited love (but not really), tiny bit of angst, bob is a perv (i'm not sorry), reader is also kind of a perv (don't fight it), bob’s HUGE dick, and SMUT (male and female masturbation, heavy making out, female oral receiving, a bit of dirty talk, unprotected p in v, rough-ish sex, lots of praise) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 22467

Bob Floyd is an incredible husband.

He’s sweet, attentive, and always knows exactly what to say to make you smile. He fills up your car before the gas gets too low—and checks your tires, too. He leaves sticky notes around the house with cute messages and gentle reminders. He goes with you to any appointment that makes you nervous—including the goddamn gyno. He knows your coffee order and wakes up early every Sunday to make you breakfast.

He’s perfect. Literally. You couldn’t build a better husband in a lab, because Bob knows how to be an amazing husband better than anyone else on Earth.

You almost feel bad for taking him away from his would-be soulmate. For marrying him out of convenience—for benefits over love. Not that you don’t love Bob Floyd—you do. Just… more like a best friend. A platonic soulmate. Someone you can rely on.

You’ve known Bob since he was fresh out of flight school. You met him during his first assignment as a WSO to one of the strike fighter squadrons at Lemoore, back when you were still a civilian contractor in a lowly admin role with the digital systems department.

For nearly two weeks, you went back and forth with him, troubleshooting and raising tickets with IT every time you found a new bug or glitch in the digital flight-planning or weapons-targeting software. He wasn’t shy, just quiet—and very sweet. He made sure you got recognised for all your work, and straight-up refused to deal with anyone else on the systems support team.

Work discussions turned into coffee runs, which eventually became quiet moments amid the chaos of military life. You quickly became good friends, confiding in each other things you wouldn’t dare tell anyone else. You came to care for Bob more than you probably should have, and it wasn’t long before you started thinking of him as your best friend.

Assignments came and went. He moved, you moved—but you always stayed in touch. Bob looked out for you in a way no one else ever did, even when he was halfway across the world. Eventually, you ended up back on the same base again—him crashing on your couch because he hated the barracks.

You were burning out at the time. Your contractor status was fragile. Insurance was expensive. But you couldn’t even think about moving back home. One night, you were crying, spilling your guts to Bob, stressed out of your mind, when he said it—the two words that changed your life.

Marry me.

You said no at first, because of course you did. But after a long conversation and a few more tears… you agreed. Because it made sense. You trusted him—more than anything—and if he was okay with it, how could you not be?

You promised that if he ever met someone he truly loved, you’d bow out and let him be happy. But every time you said it, he’d just shrug and say he is happy. That you make him happy. And that he’s just glad to be able to look after you. To know you’re safe and cared for, that you don’t have to worry about losing your job, or affording healthcare, or having somewhere to live.

He just wants to be there for you—in every way he can. Including the benefits of a military marriage.

So, now you’re here. On North Island. Because Bob’s special detachment just got commissioned as a permanent unit—which obviously means his wife would be moving to be with him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Bob asks, dark blue eyes wide behind his glasses. “I feel bad.”

“Bobby, come on,” you sigh, propping a hand on your hip. “I’m a very capable woman. A few boxes aren’t going to break my back.”

“I can call in sick?” he offers.

You stare at him, deadpan. “Do not call in sick. Get your butt to work. I’m fine.”

The new apartment is littered with moving boxes and half-assembled furniture. You’ve been here for two days already, but there’s still so much to unpack. Most of it’s yours. Bob barely brought anything from the barracks, but everything you hauled from Lemoore? Definitely not minimal.

“It’s my shit anyway,” you say, walking him toward the door. “My responsibility to unpack.”

He sighs as he steps into the corridor, turning back with a look you know too well. The one that says he’d set the sky on fire just to keep you warm.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you say, exasperated. “Now go, or you’ll be late.”

He hesitates—brows drawn, boots still planted.

“Bob Floyd, go to work.” You lean in, hand on his shoulder, and press a kiss to his cheek. “Now.”

His face flushes, lips twitching into a smile. “Fine. I’m going.”

You watch him head down the hall toward the lift, cheeks still pink as he presses the button and waits.

“Don’t lift anything heavy,” he calls, just as the elevator doors slide open.

“I won’t,” you call back. “Leaving all the heavy stuff for you, my love.”

He smiles softly, nods once, and steps into the lift.

You roll your eyes and step back inside, shutting the door behind you. Then you lean back against it, staring out at the mess of boxes and half-built furniture.

You’ve got the husband-and-wife act down pat after just over a year of marriage—although, at this point, most of it doesn’t feel like an act at all. Just genuine affection. Because you do love Bob. More than anything. And you don’t know what you did to deserve a best friend this goddamn sweet—all you know is that you’re beyond grateful for him.

You linger there a moment longer, facing off with the chaos of cardboard and scattered tools. Then you take a deep breath, push off the door, and start tearing open boxes.

You spend the entire day in the apartment—unpacking, sorting, putting things away. You leave most of the furniture alone. Not because you can’t build it, but because you know Bob would be mad if you did. He considers it his job every time you move, and honestly? You don’t mind. The fewer blisters you get from over-twisting stripped screws, the better.

By six p.m., your limbs are aching, your head is throbbing, and your stomach’s growling so loud you're almost positive the neighbours can hear it. You still haven’t gone grocery shopping, which means the only things you’ve had all day are a coffee Bob made for you and a protein bar he picked up yesterday when he filled your car up.

You dig your phone out from under a pile of packing paper and shoot Bob a quick text to let him know you’re heading to the store. Then you pull on a hoodie—or Bob’s hoodie, technically—and head out the door.

The grocery store is only ten minutes away and easy to find. You park, grab a trolley, and start weaving through the aisles. Normally, you’d have some sort of list—scribbled on a scrap of paper or texted from Bob—but today, you’re winging it. On an empty stomach. Great.

You’re only in the second aisle, gazing at the Pop-Tarts and wondering which flavour Bob would be the least disappointed in when—

“Excuse me.”

You whip toward the voice, eyes wide. “Crap. Sorry, am I in your way?”

It’s a man—mid-thirties, probably—with pretty green eyes and a wide smile. He’s gorgeous in that obnoxious way that makes girls swoon—and yeah, he definitely knows it.

“No, no,” he says, raising a hand. “I just—I have to ask. Do you always look this good in a grocery store? Because now I have to pretend I didn’t almost walk into a cereal display.”

You snort softly. “Wow. Good one.”

He lifts his brows. “Did it work?”

You consider it for a moment, tilting your head and leaning a hip against the trolley. “Hm. No. Not really.”

“Damn it,” he chuckles. “I’ve been trying to think of something to say for the last two aisles that wouldn’t make you immediately reject me.”

You laugh softly, giving him a quick—but deliberate—once-over before meeting his gaze.

“It’s not the line,” you say. “It’s the uniform. I don’t date military, sorry.”

He frowns. “But I’m not wearing—”

“Dog tags,” you cut in, eyes dropping to the silver chain peeking out from his shirt.

“Shit,” he says, laughing. “You’re good.”

“It wasn’t that hard.”

“Really?” He steps aside to let someone pass, bracing one hand on the shelf beside you. “What else gave me away?”

Your eyes flick down to his feet. “Boots.” Then his wrist. “Watch.” Then up. “Haircut.”

He raises his brows. “Impressive.”

“And your posture,” you add, gaze drifting across his broad chest. “It’s too straight. Too perfect.”

His eyes narrow playfully. “Did you just call me perfect?”

You roll your eyes. “I called your posture perfect, pretty boy. Now if you’ll excuse—”

“So you think I’m pretty?” he interrupts, still not moving.

“You know you’re pretty. You don’t need my validation.”

He shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “Alright. What’s it going to take for you to get out of my way?”

“A number,” he replies, too quick.

You give him a flat look. “Okay. One. Now move.”

He smirks. “Clever. But not the number I’m looking for.”

“Then keep looking,” you say, gripping the trolley and stepping back. “Because I don’t date military. Trust me—it won’t end well.”

Then you quickly steer around him before he can stop you, pushing the trolley down the aisle.

“Won’t end well for you or me?” he calls after you.

You glance over your shoulder. “Really want to find out?”

“Can I at least get a name?”

You stop at the end of the aisle, turning back with a small smirk. “See you around, pretty boy.”

“Oh, you will!” he shouts, loud enough to earn a few puzzled glances from other customers.

You laugh quietly to yourself as you turn your trolley into the next aisle. You catch glimpses of the man again as you shop, but you keep your focus on the task at hand—filling the cart with things you know Bob likes, and whatever you can throw together into a few easy meals.

Still, you’re a little disappointed. Because that guy was hot, and he seemed like he could be a bit of fun. But you and Bob have one very strict rule: no military.

You’re allowed to mess around with other people—because you’re both human, and you still have needs—as long as it’s casual and doesn’t put the arrangement in jeopardy.

Hence, no military.

It’s just too risky. Not that you ever really see the same person twice—because even that feels like a gamble—but especially not someone you might bump into at work. You’re still a civilian contractor, and if you hook up with someone and they recognise you on base? God, the whole thing could blow up.

So you keep your hookups brief, occasional, and with people who have zero ties to the military. It’s just easier that way. Safer.

Just as you reach the checkouts, your phone buzzes with a text from Bob:

‘I’m home. Let me know when you are so I can come help.’

You smile and reply with a string of nonsense emojis. Then you pay, haul the groceries to the car, and head home.

Bob is already in the garage when you pull in—because of course he is. He’s leaning against the wall, looking unfairly adorable in a pair of sweats and an old U.S. Navy hoodie, hair still damp from a shower.

“Evening, Lieutenant,” you say with a grin.

He steps up to the car, smiling softly. “How was your day?”

“Productive,” you reply, popping the boot open. “Couldn’t you tell?”

He chuckles. “Oh, you mean ground zero upstairs?”

You nod. “Yep. That’s my organised chaos. Just you wait—by tomorrow afternoon, everything’s going to be perfectly put away.”

He shakes his head, amused, and leans into the boot, loading as many bags as he can into each hand. When he straightens up, there are only two bags left—and it’s infuriating how easily he handles the weight of four bags per hand, like it’s nothing.

“Show off,” you mutter, grabbing the last two.

You head upstairs in comfortable quiet, neither of you feeling the need to fill the silence just for the sake of it. That’s something you’ve always loved about Bob—being around him feels effortless. He doesn’t expect anything from you. Doesn’t ask for more than you can give.

You could sit beside him for hours and not say a word, and it would still feel like love—not real love, obviously, just the safe, platonic kind. The kind that doesn't get complicated.

You’ve done things in front of him that would make other men blush. Cried with your mouth full. Passed out snoring on his shoulder during a movie. Gotten so drunk once that he had to wash your hair while you sat slumped in the tub, head in your hands. You’d been wearing your underwear, obviously, but Bob? He hadn’t even looked. Hadn’t dared. Just held the shower head and worked the shampoo into your hair like he was defusing a bomb. Gentle. Respectful. Sweet as ever.

That’s the thing about Bob—he’s never once crossed a line. Never even hinted at it. You’ve been fake-married for over a year, shared hotels and couches and drunk stories and everything in between, and he’s never tried anything. Never looked at you like that. You don’t think he’s even thought about it.

Which is honestly kind of a miracle.

Any other man might’ve used this arrangement as an excuse to test the waters. A ‘harmless’ kiss. A comment. A suggestion. But not Bob. Bob’s too good for that. Too decent. He’s respectful to a fault. The kind of guy who would take a bullet for you but apologise if he got blood on your shirt.

It’s why you love him so much. Not in a romantic way—just... as a person. As a partner. A friend. You trust him more than anyone. You’d trust him with your life, your secrets, your worst moments. And you know, without a doubt, that he would never do anything to jeopardise what you have.

Honestly, if more men were like Bob Floyd, the world would be a better place.

“I met a guy at the store,” you say, pausing halfway to putting the milk away.

“Oh?” Bob replies, not looking up as he carefully arranges the eggs into the little plastic holder.

“Yeah, but he was military.”

“Damn,” he mutters, glancing up briefly. “North Island’s small. You’ll probably have to look further north for anyone not Navy.”

You nod, leaning a hip against the kitchen counter. “I figured. But he was hot.”

Bob lets out a soft chuckle. “Really?”

“Yeah. Bit cocky, but that can be fun sometimes,” you say, turning to unpack another bag. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just bugging ‘cause it’s been a while.”

He hums in agreement, quietly focused as he lines the little spice jars up—in alphabetical order, of course—on the rack like it’s a puzzle that might save his life.

You sigh, dramatic and long, as you drop a few bundles of fruit onto the bench. “Would it really be that bad?”

He glances at you, brow furrowed. “What?”

“A military hookup.”

His eyes go wide. “Yes. That would be bad. Very, very bad. North Island is small. And my squad? We’re kind of... well-known.”

“I’m not though,” you counter with a shrug. “I haven’t started my new role yet, but my desk is probably buried in the bowels of some overcrowded office. Who says I’d ever even run into you? Or anyone else?”

Bob shakes his head, firm. “Still too risky.”

“Ugh,” you groan, throwing your hands up. “Fine. But if my vibrator blows up from overuse, I’m blaming you for cockblocking me.”

He chuckles again, cheeks flushing pink as he turns away to continue putting away the dry ingredients. He doesn’t reply—but he doesn’t have to. You both know the conversation is over.

And you know he’s right. It is too risky.

Your marriage might be a secret for now—from his squad and from his CO—but once you start your new role, you’ll have to declare it. And then you’ll have to be even more careful. Not just about what you say.

But who you do, too.

- Bob -

After dinner and an hour on the lounge—scrolling through your phones, only half-watching the Nat Geo doc on sperm whales that Bob put on—you sit up and yawn.

“Okay,” you say, pushing off the couch. “I’m going to bed.”

Bob nods, looking up at you with a soft smile. “No worries. Goodnight.”

“See you tomorrow, handsome,” you call over your shoulder as you walk toward the main bedroom.

Bob doesn’t mind giving you the bigger bedroom. He knows you like having an ensuite, plus you’ve always had more stuff than him. So every time you’ve moved, he’s happily taken whatever spare or second bedroom is left.

He waits on the couch a little while longer, until he’s sure he can no longer hear you moving around. Then he quietly turns off the TV and pads into his bathroom. He brushes his teeth, removes his glasses, and steps into the bedroom across the hall from yours, where his mattress is still lying on the floor—he hasn’t gotten around to building the bedframe yet.

He’s about to switch off the light when he hears it. That soft, familiar hum—barely audible, but impossible to mistake.

Bob Floyd knows that sound.

The sound of your vibrator, buzzing through the walls like a siren song.

He groans low in his throat, flicks off the light, then drops to his knees at the edge of the mattress. He falls forward, burying his face in the pillows, and lets out a long, quiet sigh.

He doesn’t move. Not at first. Just waits—face pressed into the cotton, heart pounding, cock already swelling thick and hot against the mattress.

Because he knows what’s coming. He always does.

Like a fucking creep, like a goddamn pervert, Bob knows exactly what happens next. And he lies there—unmoving, desperate, strung tight—just listening.

It starts small. The shift of sheets. A soft sigh. The subtle creak of your bedframe as you get comfortable.

Then the hum kicks in. Louder now. Higher. The toy you keep tucked in the top drawer of your nightstand—the one he’s heard more times than he’ll ever admit.

He knows that sound like the back of his hand. Not from seeing it—God, he wishes—but from too many nights lying in the dark, counting every soft rise in pitch, every subtle shift in tempo like it’s a fucking metronome set to ruin him.

Then your breathing shifts—sharp, shallow, soft. It’s quiet enough to pass for nothing at all. Quiet enough that you probably think no one can hear.

But Bob hears everything.

He bites into the pillow, hips slowly rolling down, the friction of the mattress nowhere near enough but still better than nothing. He grinds again… and again, slow and heavy, like he can’t stop himself—and really, he can’t.

Because he can hear you. All of you. The way you sigh, that breathy little whimper as you press the toy closer. He imagines your thighs parting, your back arching, your free hand curling into the sheets.

He groans into his pillow, hips pressing forward again—slow and deliberate—pressure dragging against his length while he pictures you wrapped around it. It’s not relief, not even close—but it’s something. It’s the only thing he has.

And he knows he shouldn’t. God, he knows. This is fucked up. You’re ten feet away, touching yourself, slowly coming apart with no idea he’s lying here, rutting helplessly against his mattress like a goddamn teenager.

But he can’t help it. He’s never been able to help it when it comes to you.

Not when he can hear you biting back a moan, shifting your hips under the covers. And then—fuck—that tiny little gasp. The one that always gives you away. That last, wrecked sound you make when you come.

He’s memorised it. Just like everything else about you.

And the second it hits his ears, he knows it’s over—and he falls apart too.

His body locks up, muscles tight, grinding hard into the mattress as his orgasm rips through him—hot, heavy, and overwhelming. He chokes on your name, burying it deep into the pillow like a secret he’ll never tell as he spills into his boxers.

It’s not graceful. It’s not pretty. It’s desperate. Messy. Shameful.

And when it’s over, he just lies there—panting, trembling, sticky and spent.

Shame curls in his stomach, guilt gnawing at the edges of his hazy thoughts. Thoughts of you, in your room, flushed and glowing with that post-orgasmic haze.

He hates himself almost instantly.

But this is who he is. This is what he does. Not just since living together or being fake-married—no, Bob has been getting off with your name on his lips for years.

Because the truth is—Bob Floyd is completely, helplessly, stupidly in love with you.

God, he wishes he wasn’t. Or better yet, he wishes he’d had the guts to ask you out all those years ago when he first met you at Lemoore. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He was too chickenshit. And now? Now he’s trapped in a fantasy you think is fake—wearing the ring, playing the role, losing his fucking mind.

And he’s the idiot who signed up for it. Who offered it.

All he’s ever wanted was to make sure you’re happy. Safe. Cared for. And if he couldn’t tell you the truth—couldn’t admit that he’s in love with you—then being your fake husband felt like the next best thing.

Even though it’s killing him. Slowly. And ruining all his boxers.

Because living with you, pretending to be married to you, is the hardest thing Bob has ever done—literally and figuratively.

He likes to think he’s good at hiding it. Hiding how he really feels.

But it’s getting more and more difficult every day, and—

Fuck. He’s stupid. He left his goddamn bedroom door wide open.

You could’ve walked out at any moment—you still could. To grab a drink. Check the front door. Or even adjust the thermostat. And the worst part? This isn’t even the first time he’s forgotten to shut it.

Just like it probably won’t be the last. Because no matter how many times he promises himself he’ll stop getting off to the sounds of you touching yourself, he always lets those breathless little noises unravel him.

Every damn time.

After a few minutes of wallowing in self-pity—and sticky underwear—Bob rolls off his mattress, grabs a clean pair of boxers, and heads into the bathroom. He cleans himself up in the dark, avoiding the lights—and his own reflection—before slipping back into his room and falling into bed.

Sleep finds him quickly, despite the guilt lingering like static under his skin, and before he knows it, the sharp ring of his alarm is dragging him upright again. He groans quietly and moves through the motions the same way he does every morning.

First, he makes a fresh pot of coffee. Then he showers, does his hair, changes into his flight suit, and heads back to the kitchen.

Your door is still shut by the time he’s lacing up his boots. He can’t hear the shower running or the muffled sound of videos playing on your phone, so he figures you’re letting yourself sleep in.

He fills his travel cup with fresh coffee before finding your favourite mug in the sink, giving it a quick rinse, and setting it beside the pot. Then he digs through his work bag for that little pad of yellow Post-it notes and scribbles out a message:

Good luck today. Remember, the boxes are more afraid of you than you are of them. ♡

He sticks it to the side of your mug, checks his pockets for keys and ID, then slips out the door—making sure to shut it quietly—smiling to himself like a loser at the thought of the text you’ll send him when you find the note.

He knows it’s ridiculous. He knows he shouldn’t indulge himself. But acting like a real husband is what keeps Bob from going completely insane. Kind of.

Leaving you notes, bringing you flowers, doing all the little domestic things a good spouse might do for their significant other—that’s what makes Bob happy. And he knows it makes you happy too. So he’s not going to stop. Not until you tell him to. Not until you stop saving all his little Post-it notes in that journal you think he doesn’t know about. The one you keep in the top drawer of your dresser, hidden beneath your lingerie.

And how does he know that?

Well—spouses do each other’s laundry. It’s completely innocent. He has absolutely no hidden agenda when it comes to offering to do your laundry. It’s not like he’s ever gotten off into a pair of your panties before.

That would be insane. Perverted, even.

Bob wouldn’t do that. No way.

“Hello?” Natasha waves a hand in front of Bob’s face. “Are you even listening?”

He blinks, vision slowly refocusing on the brunette standing in front of him. He’s not sure when she walked into the briefing room—or when she even started talking. All he knows is that, before he started daydreaming about your lingerie drawer, he was the only one in the room.

He clears his throat. “Sorry. Distracted. What were you saying?”

She folds her arms and glances around, as if checking to see if anyone else can hear what she’s about to say. “How’d the move go?”

Bob straightens a little, subtly shifting in his seat to check the room. Javy and Reuben have arrived and are seated at the back, talking about the flight schedule for the day.

He turns back to Natasha and nods. “Good. She’s still unpacking. Won’t start on base until next week.”

“You should tell Mav,” she says, sinking into the seat beside him. “You’re going to have to declare the relationship. It’ll be better coming from you. At least then you can ask him not to tell the others.”

Natasha knows about you—of course—not because Bob told her, but because she saw his ring hanging beside his dog tags during PT one time. She also spotted the polaroid he keeps of you tucked behind the threat matrix card on his kneeboard, and she put two and two together.

He hadn’t hesitated to tell her it wasn’t a traditional marriage—because he knew Natasha would understand. What he didn’t expect was for her to immediately clock that he’s in love with you. Or the way she sighed and shook her head when he told her that you didn’t feel the same and asked her to keep her mouth shut.

He knows she wants to meet you, too. He’d even say she’s dying to. But that can’t happen yet. Not until you’re properly settled on North Island and his CO knows about the relationship. Then Bob will think about telling the rest of the squad.

Or maybe he’ll just invite Natasha over for dinner and forget the rest of them entirely. Because you’re his secret—his favourite secret—and something about letting that out makes him feel nauseous.

“Good morning, aviators!” Maverick calls as he walks into the room. “Nice to see that most of you care about being here early.”

He drops his folders on the desk before powering up the digital display and pulling out his tablet.

Natasha nudges Bob in the side and tips her head toward Mav. Bob hesitates, glancing over his shoulder to see that Mickey has joined Reuben and Javy at the back, but neither Bradley nor Jake are here yet. They’re not late—but they’re cutting it close. Which means Mav won’t start right away.

Which means Bob has the perfect opportunity to speak to his CO about you.

Natasha elbows him again, harder this time, her eyes wide with warning.

“Okay,” Bob mutters, pushing up from his chair. “I’m going.”

He walks slowly up to where Maverick is scowling at his tablet, tapping the screen harder than necessary.

Bob clears his throat. “Mav. Can I talk to you for a sec?”

Maverick glances up, brow furrowing. “Of course. Everything okay?”

“Yeah—uh, yes sir,” Bob replies, dropping his voice low. “I just wanted to mention something before it comes up.”

“Okay…?” Maverick says slowly. “Is this private? Do we need to leave the room, or—”

“No, it’s okay,” Bob says, pushing his glasses higher up his nose. “I mean, it is private, but before the others get here—um.” He clears his throat again. “My wife just moved here. She’s a civilian contractor, and she’s going to be working on base.”

Maverick’s brows shoot up, but his voice stays low. “Wife?”

Bob nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Wow. Okay.”

“I’d just appreciate if you could keep it quiet,” Bob adds. “We’re not really—”

“Don’t worry.” Maverick drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “I get it. The squad doesn’t need to know. This is your life, your secret. Your wife.”

God, Bob loves hearing that. His wife.

“Just file the paperwork with HR, and let me know if there are any issues,” Maverick says, letting his hand drop. “If anyone questions it or gives you a hard time, send them to me. I’m not against a—um… convenient arrangement. So I’ll vouch for you, alright?”

Bob’s cheeks flush. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”

Maverick nods, and Bob takes the dismissal. He turns back toward the room and is relieved to find the others still deep in conversation at the back. Only Natasha is watching him, her eyes sparkling and lips curled into a knowing smirk.

“What’d he say?” she asks as he drops into his seat.

Bob shrugs. “Not much. He understood the situation.”

“Oh?” Natasha raises a brow. “So he’s all over the fake-wife-who-you’re-secretly-obsessed-with thing?”

Bob shoots her a sidelong glare. “Shut up.”

She snorts quietly to herself but doesn’t say another word—just turns her gaze toward the digital display where Maverick is bringing up their latest sim stats.

Eventually, Jake strides into the room, with Bradley not far behind. They drop into their usual seats, and Maverick launches into the day’s briefing—something about sim times, and how they need to be tighter. Bob tries to pay attention, but his focus is shot. He stares at the screen, nodding at the right moments, jotting down a few notes here and there, but his mind is miles away.

With you. Wondering what you’re doing. Whether the unpacking is going okay. If you’ve seen his note yet. If you’ve texted him.

He’s usually better than this—better at compartmentalising, staying locked in—but something about today feels different. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re finally here. In North Island. In the apartment. In his everyday life, not just in his daydreams and text messages.

He keeps thinking about last night. The way your shirt had ridden up while you reached to shove a box into the top cupboard above the fridge. The warm stretch of bare skin, the way your hips swayed without you even realising. Or the soft little moan you let out when you bit into your chocolate bar after dinner—like it physically hurt to taste something that good. Or the way your lips wrapped around it, slow and indulgent. He shouldn't be thinking about that. But he is.

Mostly, though, he can’t stop hearing you.

That breathy, broken little sound you made in the dark. The one that slipped through the walls when you thought no one could hear. When you were touching yourself. Coming apart. And he was ten feet away, grinding against his mattress, pretending it was you.

God. What is wrong with him?

He drags a hand across his jaw and tries to focus, but it’s useless. It’s like something inside of him cracked open during the special detachment—like the distance rewired him. Like missing you for so long left something raw and exposed, and now that you’re here, in his orbit again, he can’t think about anything else.

You’re everywhere. In his apartment. In his bed—in a way. In his skin.

And no matter how hard he tries to shake it off, you're still there. Taking up every thought, every breath, every beat of his heart. More than ever. And God, he’s not sure how to deal with it anymore.

“Not hungry, Floyd?” Javy asks, pausing at the door with a small frown.

Bob blinks, quickly glancing around the now-empty briefing room—except for Javy. “Is it lunch?”

Javy chuckles. “Yeah, man. Where have you been?”

Bob takes a deep breath and pushes out of his chair, gathering his things before following his very sceptical squadmate out into the corridor.

By the time he reaches the mess hall, everyone has already grabbed lunch and settled around the usual table. Bradley and Reuben are deep in an argument about something Maverick apparently critiqued during their sim flight last week—not that Bob has any idea what it actually was—and Natasha is explaining to Mickey, for some reason, that possums do not, in fact, lay eggs. Why? No clue.

“Okay, everyone shut up,” Jake says, dropping his tray with a dramatic thud. “I have an announcement.”

The squad falls quiet—all eyes on him, brows raised, mouths shut.

“Thank you.” Jake grins. “I just wanted to let you all know that I—Jake Seresin—met the love of my life last night.”

Natasha frowns. “Are you talking about Penny’s new bartender? Because she literally told you to choke.”

“Nope,” Jake replies, unfazed. “Different woman. Grocery store. Breakfast food aisle. She was buying Pop-Tarts but looking at me like I was the tart.”

Reuben snorts. “That checks out.”

“So what happened?” Bradley asks, a smirk lifting one corner of his mouth. “Did you talk to her?”

“Yep,” Jake nods. “It was magical. She was so hot, and funny too. The chemistry was insane.”

“Did you get her number?” Mickey asks.

Jake sighs. “Well, no, but—”

Bob frowns, leaning in. “What was her name?”

“Didn’t get that either.”

Bradley chuckles. “Hold on. So she’s the love of your life, but you don’t even know her name?”

“We had a connection beyond this plane of existence,” Jake insists, eyes narrowed. “I’m telling you. It was spiritual.”

“Is there anything you did find out about her?” Javy asks, clearly trying not to laugh.

Jake shrugs. “Well, she clocked me for military pretty quick, and said she doesn’t date military.”

Bob’s stomach drops. Panic creeps up the back of his neck, making the little hairs stand on end and his flight suit feel uncomfortably hot.

“She wasn’t wearing a ring, was she?” Reuben asks, grinning.

“Nope,” Jake says. “I checked. Not making that mistake a third time.”

Bob exhales quietly, relief washing over him. He remembers—very clearly—seeing your wedding ring on your finger last night. He always notices when you're wearing it. He fucking loves seeing it on you.

“Alright, Romeo,” Natasha says. “How exactly do you plan to find this mystery woman again if you don’t know anything about her?”

“I trust the universe,” Jake says, leaning back with smug confidence. “I’ll see her again. Soon. It’s destiny.”

Javy claps a hand on his shoulder. “Okay, destiny. You might want to stop talking before someone calls medical and gets you checked for a head injury.”

Jake just rolls his eyes and picks up his burger, eyeing the beef patty like it might be radioactive before finally taking a bite.

There are a few minutes of quiet while everyone starts eating their lunch. Bradley grumbles about how he should’ve picked the burger instead of the sloppy joe, and Javy mutters something to Natasha about trading his vanilla pudding for her chocolate one.

Then Reuben pipes up, loud and clear across the table. “So, Floyd… saw you whispering something real secretive to Mav this morning. What was that about?”

Bob stiffens, nearly choking on his sip of water. “What? Oh, nothing. Just… work stuff.”

“Oh yeah?” Reuben grins. “Looked like top-secret classified info. You trying to get reassigned?”

“Probably just checking if he could skip night duty next week,” Natasha says dryly, without even looking up from her pudding. “Someone’s got laundry to fold and throw pillows to rearrange.”

Bob’s eyes go wide. “I’m not—there’s no—” he splutters, flushing red as he waves a hand in mild panic. “It was literally just… paperwork.”

Javy raises a brow. “Paperwork that makes you blush like that?”

Bradley frowns, leaning forward to look at Natasha. “What are you talking about throw pillows?”

She glances up, eyes wide and brows raised—the picture of innocence. “Hm? Oh, nothing.”

Bob sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Can we just drop it?”

“Ooh,” Mickey pipes up. “Maybe Bob has a secret love child we don’t know about.”

Reuben leans in, eyes gleaming. “Blink twice if it was about alimony.”

Bob lifts his head with a flat stare. “Do I look like I have time for children?”

“Secret love child…” Jake says slowly—thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’d believe it.”

“If Bob had a kid, don’t you think we’d know?” Bradley says, flicking a green bean across the table at Reuben.

“Exactly,” Natasha grins. “If Bob had any secrets, we’d know. Right, Bob?”

If looks could kill—or at least maim—Natasha would already be halfway to medical by now.

“Right,” Bob mutters, jaw tight.

“And if anyone had a secret love child,” she adds, gaze drifting across the table, “it’d be Hangman.”

Jake scoffs. “Why me?”

Mickey snorts. “Because you have the most sex, hands down.”

“Speak for yourself, dude,” Reuben mutters.

“Yeah,” Bradley smirks. “Seresin strikes out more than the rest of us combined.”

“Well, yeah,” Mickey chuckles. “But only because he flirts with way more women than the rest of us.”

“Again,” Natasha chimes in, “speak for yourself, Fanboy.”

There’s a chorus of oohs interlaced with laughter as Mickey rolls his eyes, cheeks going just the softest shade of pink—but Reuben notices. The teasing quickly shifts to Mickey, leaving Bob staring down at his lunch with his pulse pounding in his ears.

The next half hour passes in a blur while Bob does his absolute best not to think about you—which means, of course, you’re all he can think about. And then just as everyone starts rising from their seats, his phone buzzes with a burst of rapid-fire texts stamped with your contact name.

‘The boxes are winning. If I don’t make it, tell my husband he was too good for this world.’

‘Oh, and he’s not allowed to move on for AT LEAST two weeks.’

‘P.S. your wife says thanks for the coffee. Might reward you later with some expertly folded laundry.’

Bob’s heart lurches into his throat while all the blood in his body reroutes south. He types out a quick reply: ‘What laundry?’

“You coming, Floyd?” Natasha asks, standing on the opposite side of the table with a frown.

Bob looks up, dazed. “I—uh, yeah. I’m coming—I mean, you go. I’ll catch up.”

“Okay...” she mutters, eyeing him suspiciously as she turns to follow the others toward the tray return.

His phone pings again, lighting up with another text from you: ‘Found a pile on the floor in the bathroom and assumed it was dirty? Promise there was no creepy sniffing, and I definitely didn’t notice anything about your boxers!’

Bob lets out a strangled noise, drops his phone onto the table with a clatter, and buries his face in his hands.

Right now, he wouldn’t mind if the ground opened up and swallowed him whole. Or if a rogue fighter jet spiralled off course and obliterated the mess hall. Or if a black hole cracked open beneath his chair and sucked all of North Island into oblivion.

Except for you, of course. He’d want you to be safe.

But aside from that, he’d gladly disappear right now. Some inexplicable catastrophe would do just fine—anything to keep him from going home and facing the woman who just washed his crusty boxers. Boxers that were only crusty because of her, anyway.

And—

Oh, God. Why is he getting hard?

It doesn’t make any sense. One dumb joke about laundry and boxers and suddenly his body is acting like you sent nudes. He’s not even thinking about you like that—not really—and yet here he is, halfway to a full-blown erection in the middle of the mess hall with zero warning and absolutely no control. What the hell is wrong with him?

He shifts in his seat, eyes wide and pulse thundering in his ears as his flight suit starts pulling taut in places it absolutely should not.

If he doesn’t get moving, he’ll be late—and Maverick will ream him for it. But he can’t exactly stand up with a raging hard-on in the middle of the goddamn mess hall.

With another strangled groan, Bob white-knuckles his lunch tray and holds it right in front of him as he shoves back his chair and stands. He beelines for the tray return, drops his tray without making eye contact with a single soul, and turns sharply toward the exit.

Once he’s out the door, he yanks down the zipper of his flight suit and adjusts himself as quickly and discreetly as humanly possible.

Mercifully, there’s no one within ten feet of him—but just ahead, where the squad is walking back toward the squadron building, Bob spots Reuben glancing over his shoulder. Brows drawn. Eyes wide. Curiosity written all over his face.

And now Bob wants to die.

Great. What a fantastic Tuesday he is having.

By the time Maverick dismisses the squad at the end of the day, Bob can’t get out fast enough. He barely mumbles a goodbye before practically running out the door and across base.

He flicks you a quick text to say he’s on his way, then jumps in his car. But instead of heading straight home, he makes a stop at the little florist he passes every morning and afternoon—the one he’s been wanting to visit for months. He’s been thinking about it since you agreed to move here, picking up flowers on his way home from work like some hopeless suburban husband. It’s dumb. Ridiculous, even. But he can’t help himself. He started doing it the first week you moved in after the ‘wedding’ and now it’s a ritual. A compulsion.

He grabs a bunch of blood-red roses—because he’s romantic like that—and drives the rest of the way home, parking beside your car in the underground garage. His palms are sweating by the time he’s in the lift, and his heart won’t slow down. He feels twitchy. Wired. Like his whole body has been buzzing with anticipation since he last saw you—which, tragically, was only twenty-four hours ago.

“I’m home,” he calls as he pushes open the door, trying not to sound breathless.

The apartment already looks better than it did this morning. Fewer boxes now. The bookshelf is upright and full. The dining table is properly assembled—chairs and all. There’s a knife block, a roll of paper towel, and a candle on the kitchen bench. And right in the middle of the island—an empty glass vase. Almost like you knew.

“Bobby,” you call, ducking your head out of your bedroom door at the end of the short hallway. “Just showered. I’ll be out in a sec.”

His breath catches at the sight of you clutching a towel to your chest, damp skin glowing, droplets racing down your collarbones and disappearing between the curves of your breasts. Your hair’s wet. Your legs are bare. And for one unbearable, glorious moment, Bob forgets what language is.

His cock twitches.

“No worries,” he mutters, voice hoarse and a little too high.

You’re already gone before he even finishes speaking, but you don’t fully close the door—and his pulse kicks hard against his ribs. Because fuck, you’re naked in there.

He drops his bag like it’s on fire, kicks off his boots, and sets the flowers on the counter without even looking. Then he starts down the hall toward his room, right across from yours. His head is bowed like he’s deep in thought, but his eyes flick to that sliver of open door.

And God—he sees you.

Just a glimpse. Just enough. A stretch of skin. The slope of your back. And then you turn slightly toward the bed and—fuck. Your tits. Just there. Bare. Bouncing softly with your movement.

He lets out a strangled sound and walks face-first into his closed bedroom door with a loud thunk.

“Shit,” he hisses, clutching his forehead and praying to every saint he can think of.

Your door swings open and you step out, now holding a sweatshirt to your chest. “You okay?”

Bob can’t even look at you, his cheeks burning. “Yeah—yeah, I’m fine. Wasn’t, uh… wasn’t looking. Just tired. Mav really pushed us hard. Long day.”

“Mm,” you hum, clearly amused. “Well, Lieutenant, maybe wait until you’re in bed before you close your eyes?”

He half-laughs, half-chokes, and gives you a quick salute. “Noted. Bed first.”

Then he shoves his door open, stumbles inside, and shuts it behind him in one fast motion. He leans back against it, eyes squeezed shut, hands trembling.

His cock is hard. Painfully, unreasonably hard. Pressed tight against his flight suit with nowhere to go.

God, did you notice?

He’s pretty sure you didn’t. Otherwise, you’d be freaked out. Right?

With a deep breath, he drags the zipper of his suit down and wriggles out of it. He kicks it off his feet and leaves it crumpled on the floor before turning to face the door. Then he braces one hand against the wood while the other slips beneath the waistband of his briefs. He pushes them down slowly, deliberately, letting his hard length spring free, skin slick with the heat of anticipation.

His breath catches, shaky and uneven, as he wraps his fingers around himself. He drags slow, torturous strokes up and down, eyes squeezed shut, clinging to the vivid, forbidden image of you—wet, vulnerable, just beyond that goddamn door.

Each stroke draws a ragged gasp, the heat building low in his belly until it’s almost unbearable. His hips start to lift, chasing the mounting pressure, fingers tightening instinctively.

He imagines your voice—soft, breathy—whispering something filthy in his ear, something that would have him leaking on the spot if he dared to imagine it too loud.

His skin prickles, pulse pounding in his ears. The world shrinks until there’s nothing but his hand, the hard length in it, and this door separating you from him.

He fights to steady his frantic breath as white-hot pressure builds at the base of his cock. And just as that delicious snap of heat tears through his body—

“Hey, did you want the blue Gatorade or can I take it?” you call out.

His whole body locks up, release spilling in hot, sticky ropes against the door.

Fuck.

“A-All good,” he croaks. “You have it.”

He slumps forward, forearm pressing against the wood as his head drops with a soft thud. His dick twitches in his hand, still half-hard, still leaking.

God, this has to stop. He can’t just jerk off every time he sees so much as your shoulder.

Though, what he saw before was much more than that. But he was creeping—looking for it, trying to catch a glimpse. No, this all has to stop. Not just the wanking, but the perving too. Jesus Christ, it has to stop before you find out. Or worse—catch him.

The thought makes his spine tingle—but... not in an entirely unpleasant way.

Great. Now he’s turned on by the idea of you catching him in the act.

Maybe he needs therapy. Or maybe he should be the one getting checked for a head injury—not Jake and his grocery store destiny.

After stripping off his underwear—using them to wipe down the door, because he’s disgusting—and pulling on a pair of sweats, Bob finally steps out of his room. His cheeks are still hot, his pulse still hammering, but at this point, that’s just baseline when it comes to being around you.

“You don’t have to keep getting me flowers,” you say, smiling softly as you arrange the bouquet in the vase like you’ve done it a hundred times.

He shrugs. “Just being a good husband.”

And trying to make up for jerking off to you like a goddamn lunatic.

“Well,” you slide the vase into the middle of the kitchen island, “they’re gorgeous. Thank you.”

He gives you a small nod, lips twitching like he might smile—but then he notices what you’re wearing, and it dies immediately.

“Going out?” he asks, keeping his tone light.

“Yep,” you reply brightly. “I’ve got a date.”

His stomach drops.

“Okay, not a date,” you amend quickly. “Just a hookup. Strictly sex. But I didn’t feel like I could show up in my sweats, you know?”

Bob thinks you look stupid hot in your sweats. But right now you’re in a pair of jeans that cling to your ass and a shirt he’s pretty sure he’s never seen before, and his brain is starting to melt again.

“Hence, the nice clothes,” you add, gesturing to yourself. “I shouldn’t be late. Probably won’t even eat. So… save me some dinner?”

Bob frowns. “What dinner?”

You roll your eyes, sliding one arm into your jacket. “Whatever you decide to make. Because you’re an amazing cook. And I know you’re going to make something, because you cook every weeknight except Fridays.”

“What if I don’t feel like cooking tonight?” he mutters, feeling petulant and jealous and very much trying not to show it.

You smirk. “Okay, grumpy. Then order me some extra takeout.”

He doesn’t answer—just nods once and turns to the fridge, opening the door like whatever’s inside is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“I’ve got my location on,” you say, stopping at the front door to slip your shoes on. “Just in case the guy’s a psychopath.”

Bob glances over his shoulder. “Should I be worried?”

“Nah,” you shrug. “He’s an accountant. Boring as hell. No military ties. Didn’t even know North Island was a Navy base—thought it was Air Force.”

Bob’s eyes narrow. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” you say with a laugh. “He’s up in La Jolla. I guess when you’re wealthy enough, you don’t have to worry about anything outside your little bubble.”

Bob shuts the fridge and turns to face you, frown deepening. “La Jolla’s nearly an hour away.”

“I know,” you say. “But no military, remember? Means I have to travel. And Bob, I know you don’t want to hear this—but I need sex. I’m dying. I’m falling apart. My vibrator can only do so much, but I need a real di—”

“Okay,” he cuts in quickly, eyes wide. “That’s… enough. Just go. Be safe.”

He steps up against the kitchen island, grateful that the counter is hiding his growing hard-on. Again.

You flash him a grin and pull the door open. “If I’m not back by eleven, call the cops and avenge me dramatically.” Then you step out into the corridor, waving. “Love you! Bye!”

“Love you too,” Bob mutters.

The second the door clicks shut, he collapses forward, forehead hitting the cool marble benchtop with a groan loud enough that you might’ve heard it on your way to the elevator.

Bob spends the evening doing everything he can not to be a creep. He cooks dinner, sets aside a container for you, and watches a documentary called Inside The Vatican—hoping some religious guilt might fix him.

It doesn’t.

After washing the dishes—and spending a concerning amount of time scrubbing your mug—Bob paces the apartment, trying desperately to think of anything besides jerking off. Then his eyes land on his mattress still lying on the floor, and he decides maybe building his bed will take up enough time.

Again, it doesn’t.

Once he hauls the mattress into the frame, he spends the next twenty minutes carefully rearranging the furniture in his room. Then he sits on the edge of the bed, phone in hand and stalks your location like a man possessed—willing it to move, craving nothing more than to see you heading home. But after ten minutes of nothing, he gives up.

So he decides to wash his bedsheets. He strips the mattress, hauls the bedding to the small laundry room beside his bathroom, and shoves it all into the washing machine. Once the cycle starts, he checks the dryer—and immediately regrets it.

Your bedding is crumpled up inside, still a little warm and smelling so strongly of you it makes his head spin.

He tries—he really does—to pull it out and just dump it at the foot of your unmade bed. But no. He can’t leave it like that. He has to make it. It’s what you would do for him. Because you’re not just housemates—you’re friends, you’re a good fake husband and wife. Making your bed is just a kind, domestic gesture.

That’s all.

With a deep breath, he starts unravelling your bedding. He finds the fitted sheet and drapes it over the mattress, stepping carefully around the bed to tuck it in and smooth it out. His hands move mechanically, trying to focus on the task, willing himself to keep it together.

Even though the scent of you in here is like a drug—sharp and heady, flooding his senses and making his sweatpants feel tighter by the second. But it’s fine. He’s got this. He’s in complete control.

Once the fitted sheet is on, he picks up your duvet and throws it over the mattress before smoothing it down. Then he finds the two pillowcases, picks your pillows up off the floor, and starts shoving them in.

He’s almost done—and almost proud of himself—as he drops one of the pillows at the top of the bed, closest to the side he’s on. Then he grabs the other one, leans forward to place it on the far side, and—

His cock brushes the pillow.

Just barely, but it’s enough. Enough to make heat pool at the base of his spine, to turn half-hard into fully, painfully hard in a heartbeat.

His breath catches. His fingers twitch. He tries to pull back—he means to—but his body betrays him. His hips roll forward, dragging his length against your pillow in the most delicious, dangerous way.

He groans. Loudly. And grinds down again—harder, deeper. His cock drags thick and aching against the pillow, trapped beneath the soft cotton and the cling of his sweatpants. The smell of you is everywhere—on the fabric, in his lungs, in his mouth—and it’s driving him fucking insane.

He leans forward, spreads his legs, and humps the pillow like a dog in heat. Quiet, desperate thrusts. Every inch of his skin burning. His lips part on a shaky gasp as he picks up a rhythm—slow at first, then faster, rougher.

His hands fist your duvet. The mattress creaks softly beneath him.

He grinds harder, angling his hips until the pressure hits just right, chasing friction, chasing the fantasy. You, writhing under him. You, moaning into the mattress. You, letting him rut against your thigh like a pathetic, needy animal.

His cock pulses hard against the pillow. He’s panting now, forehead damp, face twisted in agony as he thrusts deep into the softness over and over and over—

And then he’s coming. Sharp and hot and shameful, grinding through it like he never wants it to stop. His sweatpants absorb most of the mess, but some of it seeps through onto your pillow, warmth soaking into the cotton.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he mutters, scrambling upright.

He snatches the pillow off the bed and yanks the cover off. There’s only a small stain on the pillow itself, barely the size of a dime. He’ll just flip it.

He grabs the other pillow, strips its case, and bolts to the laundry, shoving both into the washer with his half-finished load. Then he makes a beeline for the linen cupboard and exhales hard when he spots a similarly coloured pair of pillowcases.

Ignoring the mess in his sweats, he returns to your room and quickly finishes making your bed with the fresh covers—flipping the soiled pillow face down—before fleeing the scene and shutting the door behind him like it might somehow seal in his shame.

He needs help. He needs therapy. He might even need religion.

At this point, he’ll take whatever divine intervention he can get, because clearly he can’t be trusted not to hump your goddamn pillow like some desperate, fucked-up freak with zero self-control.

What the hell is wrong with him? You’re his friend. His roommate. His fake wife. Not his personal fantasy to jerk off to in every room of the apartment.

But no matter how many times he tells himself to stop, no matter how disgusted he feels afterward, it’s like his body won’t listen.

It’s not just lust—it’s deeper than that. Obsessive. Addictive. He’s terrified you’re going to catch him one day and never look at him the same again. And that’s what really scares him. Not the guilt, or the shame, or even the twisted desire.

It’s the thought of losing you. Because as much as he wishes he could compartmentalise the feelings from the hormones, it’s all tangled up now. He needs you like air—like water.

Romantic or not, sexual or not—he just needs you.

So he has to stop. He has to figure out how to act normal before he fucks this whole thing up beyond repair.

After a cold shower—self-imposed punishment—and making his own bed, Bob flops onto the couch and hits play on a documentary about sea otters. Then he checks the time on his phone—and your location. Again.

He tells himself it’s just to make sure you’re safe, but his heart still leaps when he sees you’re already halfway home.

He tries to focus on the otters—really tries—but his eyes keep darting to the front door like you might materialise out of thin air. Which is stupid, because he knows exactly how far away you are. He’s watching your little blue dot crawl toward him on his phone screen like a stalker.

Thirty painstaking minutes later, the dot pulses directly over his own. Right on top of him.

He holds his breath. And when the lock finally clicks, he forces his gaze back to the TV screen—doing his best impression of someone who is totally, one hundred percent emotionally invested in a family of sea otters and not, in any way, pathetically desperate to see you walk through the door.

“I’m back,” you mutter, shoving the door open a little harder than necessary.

Bob frowns, eyes narrowing at your expression. You’ve come home from hookups before, and he knows what you look like when they’ve gone fine, or good, or even great—he hates that the most. But this? This isn’t any of those.

“Hey,” he says cautiously. “You alright?”

You scowl as you shrug out of your jacket, tossing it toward the dining table along with your keys. Then you kick off your boots and leave them lying haphazardly by the door.

“No,” you snap. “I’m not alright. That was the worst experience of my life.”

Bob’s eyes widen—and it takes everything in him not to smile. He shifts on the couch, making more room for you, and grabs the remote to pause the TV.

“What happened?”

You stomp over and drop down beside him, groaning as you fall onto your side into the throw pillows.

“He opened the door shirtless,” you start, already exasperated, “which would’ve been fine if he wasn’t holding a protein shake—and if the first thing out of his mouth wasn’t, ‘Sup, babe.’”

Bob’s brows shoot up, but he manages to not to laugh.

“Then he led me straight to his room, which reeked of feet and Axe body spray. He dropped his fucking sweats, laid down on the bed, pointed at his half-hard dick, and said—” you hold up finger quotes, “—‘The weapon awaits.’”

Bob snorts and immediately slaps a hand over his mouth.

You sit up and glare at him. “Don’t.”

He shakes his head. “Didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it.”

“Thinking what?” he asks, all wide eyes and faux innocence.

You give him a flat look. “That I deserve it.”

He shrugs, fighting a grin. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“No, but you’re thinking it,” you mutter, settling back into the couch with your arms folded.

He chuckles softly. “Maybe a little.”

“Ugh,” you sigh, tipping your head back. “I just wanted to get laid, not be traumatised.”

Bob snorts. “Maybe don’t trust what people say on dating apps. Or drive almost an hour to hook up with a guy you’ve known less than a day.”

“I needed sex, Robert,” you say with a sidelong glance. “What else was I supposed to do?”

His heart kicks against his ribs. He wants to say me. You were supposed to do me. Your best friend. Your fake husband. The guy with a perfectly functional—and admittedly impressive—dick that is quite literally always hard for you.

He opens his mouth to reply—to say something he’ll almost definitely regret—

But you cut in first.

“He couldn’t even find my clit. I had to literally direct him—like a fucking traffic controller.” You curl your legs up beside you, muttering, “I faked it just to get out of there.”

Bob’s mouth goes dry. “Faked it?”

You nod, eyes still fixed on the frozen TV screen. “Yup.”

There’s a beat—long enough for Bob to imagine every possible thing he could say next.

But then you sigh—loudly. “I just want someone who listens. Is that really so much to ask?” You glance over at him, brows drawn. “I’m not expecting some expert sex god. Just… someone who pays attention. Enough to figure out what actually feels good.”

Bob lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah. Imagine that. Someone who listens. Really pays attention. Makes sure you finish.” He shifts awkwardly, glancing down to check that the bulge in his pants isn’t obvious. “Multiple times, even.”

“God,” you sigh. “Men like that must be a myth.”

He clenches his jaw, biting back every smartass thing echoing in his head. Now isn’t the time to make you feel worse. And it probably isn’t the time to admit that he’s been secretly in love with you for years.

Although, Bob’s not sure when the time for that would ever come.

Right now, you just need a friend. Someone to complain to. Someone to remind you that it’s not you—it’s men. They suck.

“Well,” you say, swinging your legs off the couch and pushing up. “At least I’ve got my vibrator to make up for that shitty experience.”

Bob nearly chokes.

“I’m heading to bed,” you add.

“No worries,” he mutters, giving you a tight smile. “Goodnight.”

“G’night Bobby,” you murmur, soft and sleepy, flashing him a small smile before turning away.

And God—if that isn’t a shot straight to the heart. A kill shot, to be specific.

Because you’re so warm. So sweet. And you love him so much—just not like that. He wishes it were enough. But more than anything, he wishes he could show you what you mean to him—because words wouldn’t even come close.

And fuck, he really wishes you weren’t about to lay your head on a pillow stained with his cum.

- You -

By Wednesday afternoon, just about everything is unpacked. There’s a stack of broken-down boxes by the front door, a few rubbish bags full of packing paper, and one very exhausted woman lying on the living room floor—you.

It’s only three p.m., which means Bob won’t be home for a few more hours, but after three straight days in this apartment alone, you’re starting to feel like you’re losing your mind. Sure, you’ve seen Bob in the evenings—and there was that pathetic hookup last night—but aside from that, it’s been nothing but boxes and furniture and cleaning.

You don’t necessarily need human interaction. You just need a break. A change of scenery. A coffee, maybe.

With a deep breath, you push off the floor and grab your jacket from the rack beside the door—the one you just finished assembling. You slide your arms in, slip your shoes on, and head out.

You’re not overly familiar with North Island, but you’re pretty sure you saw a nice-looking café a few blocks over. And you don’t mind a walk.

You try to take in your surroundings as you go, but it’s hard not to check out every fit man you pass. Because God, you are horny. So horny that even two rounds with your vibrator last night did nothing to loosen the knot burning low in your stomach. You need dick. Real dick. Good dick. Something hard and decently sized, attached to a reasonably attractive man who knows how to use it—someone who can fuck you stupid so you stop eyeing every guy like he’s a walking, talking slab of prime beef.

God. You don't want to admit it, but even Bob was looking good last night. With his flushed cheeks, soft messy curls, and those big blue eyes behind his adorable glasses. You were five seconds away from dragging him into your room and letting him ruin your freshly washed sheets—ones you’ll have to remember to thank him for getting out of the dryer and making your bed with. Sweet man that he is.

But Bob is too nice for you to ask something like that of him. You don’t doubt he’d be decent—probably even good. There’s something about him that tells you he’s not quite as vanilla as people think. But he’s your best friend. You can’t risk ruining a friendship and a perfectly good fake marriage just because you’re desperate to come.

Not that you think Bob would fall in love with you or anything. God, no. Bob doesn’t see you like that. You just know that arrangements like that get messy, and you love him too much to risk it.

So for now, you’ll just have to keep looking for some decent dick—something to sate the white-hot need burning behind your hipbones.

“No way.”

Your thoughts scatter like a flock of birds, reality seeping back in as you blink toward the source of the mildly familiar voice.

“Oh,” you laugh softly, cheeks already burning. “It’s you.”

The green-eyed man from the grocery store grins—and it’s so bright, so wide, you almost want to slide your sunglasses further up your nose.

“It’s you,” he echoes, just a little breathless.

That’s when you notice what he’s wearing—a tight tank, gym shorts, running shoes. His tan skin glistens with sweat, chest rising and falling too fast. He’s on a run—or at least he was.

You lift a brow. “Shouldn’t you be at work? You know, protecting and serving?”

He shrugs, bracing a hand on each hip. “My CO dismissed my squad early. Thought I’d get some PT in off-base.”

“Isn’t this whole island a base?”

He chuckles. “Technically, yeah. But I meant outside the hangar. With the ocean breeze, warm sun—” his gaze flicks down, then back up, “—pretty girls.”

You roll your eyes. “Right. Because there weren’t enough of those at the grocery store?”

You don’t wait for a comeback—you just flash him a small smirk and keep walking, gaze locked on the café at the end of the block.

“Hey, wait a second,” he says, easily falling into step beside you. “You can’t just disappear again. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Monday night. I need to know your name.”

“Since Monday?” you glance at him, brows raised. “Wow, is this your longest relationship, then?”

He snorts but stays at your side—clearly undeterred. “Why do you assume I’m a player?”

“Seriously?” You give him a flat look. “Look at you.”

He grins. “And?”

You huff a laugh. “God, you’re a piece of work.”

“But I’m worth it.”

“I doubt that.”

“Come on,” he sighs. “Just give me a shot.”

You stop walking and turn to face him, arms folding tight across your chest. “Look. You’re hot—and you know it—but you’re also military. I have a strict rule, okay? Besides, I’m—” you pause, pulse quickening, “I’m not looking.”

He frowns. “What does that even mean?”

You glance down at your hand and instantly regret not wearing your ring today. Because as hot as this guy is—not exactly your type, but undeniably attractive—you just can’t do military. Bob would kill you.

And what better way to scare someone off than with a wedding band? But no—you left it in your car. Like always. You only wear it when you need to, and usually ditch it when there’s a chance you might run into someone worth boning. Like at the grocery store the other day. Or now—even though that was clearly a mistake.

You clear your throat. “It means thanks but no thanks. Now leave before I do something stupid.”

He grins. “What if I want you to do something stupid?”

“You don’t even know what stupid thing I’m talking about.”

He shrugs. “I’m hoping it’s something along the lines of kissing me—or worse.”

You roll your eyes again. “It’s definitely worse.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but the shrill ring of his phone cuts in. He yanks the zipper on his pocket, pulls it out, and frowns at the screen.

“You should get that,” you say, nodding to the phone.

He looks up. “Wait, just—”

“See you later, pretty boy.”

You flash him one final smirk and turn on your heel, heading back the way you came—determined not to give him one more second to wear you down. You can just have coffee at home.

And honestly, at this point, he’s kind of annoying. Too persistent. Too cocky. There’s something about him that feels like one giant neon warning sign—aside from the military thing. Something deeper. Weirder. Something that feels... dangerous. And not in a fun way.

You take the first corner you reach, then the next, hoping that if you wind your way home along a complicated enough route, he won’t be able to follow you. Not that you think he would. You’re pretty sure he’s just a cocky boy—not a full-blown stalker.

It doesn’t take long to reach your apartment block, and you’re definitely feeling a hell of a lot better than when you left—coffee or not. Sometimes it really is enough to get some fresh air. Go for a walk. Touch grass. Remind yourself the world isn’t made entirely of cardboard boxes and bubble wrap.

You ride the elevator up to your floor and walk the hall, chewing your bottom lip as you wonder what to make for dinner. Bob usually cooks, but every now and then, you like to return the favour—not that it’s ever quite as good.

You slide your key into the lock, turn the handle, and—

Freeze.

A choked moan breaks through the quiet apartment. Low, needy—completely unfiltered.

What the fuck?

You ease the door open, step inside, and shut it quietly behind you. Bob’s boots are by the door, his duffel bag dropped beside the dining table, and there’s a bottle of wine on the kitchen island.

He’s home early.

Another groan curls through the air, thick and strained, and your breath catches.

You should make a sound. Slam the door. Jingle your keys. Do literally anything except stand here like a frozen creep. But you can’t. Because your pulse is racing, your mouth is dry, and that ache low in your belly is pulsing hot.

Then you hear it—soft and unmistakable—a whimper, followed by a choked, “Mmmf—fuck.”

Oh God. That’s Bob.

You swallow hard and step forward quietly. The closer you get to his bedroom, the louder it gets. Deep, unsteady breaths. The slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. A low gasp, a soft curse. The tiniest creak of bedsprings beneath a body working for release.

And holy shit, you're already wet—your panties soaked and sticking to you, no match for how goddamn horny you are.

You stop in the hallway, standing halfway between your bedroom door and his. The right thing would be to duck into your room, slam the door, and pretend you didn’t hear a thing.

But it’s too late. You’re too far gone. Too turned on. Your pulse is pounding, your legs feel like jelly, and you can’t pull yourself away.

Like a fucking creep, like a goddamn pervert, you lean forward and peer through the narrow crack in his door.

And stop breathing.

Bob is sprawled across his bed, one leg bent, the other stretched out. His shirt is bunched up around his ribs, sweatpants shoved low on his hips—just low enough for his hand to move.

And fuck, is it moving.

His knuckles are tight, forearm flexing, sinew rippling beneath skin. His chest rises and falls with every shallow breath, and his head is tipped back against the pillow, damp tendrils of hair sticking to his forehead.

His lips are parted. Brow furrowed. Glasses pushed halfway up his forehead like he forgot they were there.

You can see the muscles in his stomach twitch every time his hand drags up the length of his cock—thick, flushed, glistening with slick—and then back down again. Controlled. Focused. Like he’s thinking about something—someone—very specific.

He lets out a groan. Soft. Broken. And fuck, it’s... almost your name? No. No, it couldn't be. It's not. You're just imagining things. You’re horny and delirious.

And a total perv right now, but you just can’t find the will to move.

You watch as he bites down on his bottom lip, hips lifting from the mattress like he’s chasing something just out of reach.

Without thinking, you slide a hand between your thighs and press two fingers against your clit. The pressure sparks a jolt of pleasure up your spine, forcing you to bite back a whimper.

This is wrong. So wrong. You’ve never even thought about Bob like this, let alone seen him. Well—okay, maybe you’ve almost thought about it once or twice over the years, but you’ve always been able to stop yourself. Because this is Bob. Your best friend. Your sweet, kind, too-good-for-this-world best friend who—

“Sh-Shit—hnng, oh—fuck.”

—who looks so fucking hot right now.

You watch his hand speed up—just a little. Grip tighter now. Surer. He’s close, you can tell. You can see it in the way his thighs start to tense, the way his hips jerk up more urgently into his fist, how his breath starts to catch and stutter like he’s barely holding on.

You press harder against your clit, your wet panties sliding as you move your fingers in slow, torturous circles.

His back arches slightly. His other hand fists in the sheets beside him, the tendons in his arm straining. The room is filled with wet sounds and shaky breathing and the quiet thud of the headboard tapping rhythmically against the wall.

Then his mouth drops open. His brows pull tight.

You draw a shaky breath—almost silent, but not quite. Not that he could hear it over the sound of his own ragged gasps.

A long, wrecked sound slips out of him—deep in his chest, low and guttural. “F-fuck—”

Your fingers stop moving, and you just watch. Captivated. Hungry. Mouth watering at the sight you shouldn’t be seeing.

He strokes himself faster, chasing the edge, working right up to it with almost painful precision. His eyes squeeze shut, a flush rising over his chest, his cheeks, the tips of his ears.

And then he’s coming. Hard. Head thrown back, neck arched, stomach flexing so tight you can see every line of muscle. His whole body locks up—frozen in pleasure—then shudders as thick ropes spill over his knuckles, striping his hand, his abs, the hem of his shirt.

His hips twitch as he rides it out, groaning softly as aftershocks ripple through him. He slows his strokes, pumping himself through every last wave until he’s spent and breathing heavy, chest rising and falling like he’s just run ten miles.

For a moment, he just lies there—limp and boneless. One hand still curled loosely around the base of his cock, the other pressed flat to his chest like he’s grounding himself. Sweat shines on his skin. His curls are damp. His glasses are crooked.

He looks ruined. And completely, stupidly beautiful.

He’s still Bob Floyd—your best friend, housemate, fake husband. But now he’s something else too. Something you can’t unsee, can’t stop wanting. And it’s making your head spin.

You watch his eyes flutter open—and bolt. You slip into your room and ease the door shut, praying he doesn't hear the soft click behind you. Your breathing is ragged, your pulse is pounding, and you’re clenching around nothing.

God. You need something. Now.

You stumble toward the bed, stripping off your pants as you go, and drop onto the edge of the mattress. Then you yank open your nightstand drawer and reach all the way to the back—for the one toy you only use when you're desperate.

Thick silicone. Eight inches. Subtle ridges and a realistically moulded head.

Normally, it feels big in your hands. But after seeing Bob? Not even close. You’d always suspected he was packing—years of damp swim trunks and clingy grey sweatpants made it hard not to—but nothing could’ve prepared you for the reality.

Because he’s big. Cross-your-heart and have-paramedics-on-standby kind of big.

And God, you want it.

With a pitiful whimper, you collapse back onto your pillows, knees falling open. You're breathing hard, eyes squeezed shut, the image of Bob—sweaty, panting, coming hard over his own stomach—burned behind your eyelids.

You drop the toy between your thighs and glide it through your slick. You’ve never been this wet in your life—you’re sure of it. You tease your entrance, chest heaving, every nerve pulled tight—then drag it over your clit—

And moan. Loud. Raw. Desperate.

But you don’t stop. Not even as your face flushes hot with embarrassment. Not when the ache between your hips is too sharp, too deep to ignore.

You push the tip in, slowly at first, and let out a trembling gasp. It’s not him—not even close—but your body doesn’t care. Not when you’re this wet. Not when your head is full of the sound of his voice, his breath, the way he groaned like he was falling apart.

You slide it in deeper. Your hips twitch. Your fingers tremble on the base.

Your mind paints the picture so clearly it might as well be real—Bob above you, thick and flushed, eyes dark behind his glasses. He’d be gentle at first, probably ask if you were sure, if you were okay. You’d tell him to stop being sweet, and then he’d ruin you.

You fuck yourself harder.

The stretch, the angle, the slick slide of it—it’s good. Better than good. But it’s not enough. You want weight. You want heat. You want Bob’s hands on your hips, his mouth at your ear, telling you you’re doing so well.

You twist your wrist and angle the toy up, hitting just the right spot—and stars explode behind your eyes.

“F-fuck—”

Your orgasm hits like a freight train. Sharp and sudden. Your back arches off the bed, toes curling, walls fluttering tight around silicone. Your free hand fists the sheets. Your mouth drops open, and a broken sob of a moan punches out of you as you come.

It rolls through you in waves. Shudders. A full-body collapse.

You lie there for a few minutes—panting, legs still twitching, the toy slipping free as your muscles go limp. Your sheets are damp beneath you. Your chest is slick with sweat. And your brain is buzzing with images of Bob—ones you’ve never even considered until now.

Well, shit. That’s new.

With a heavy breath, you sit upright and grab the sticky toy. Guilt and panic twist in your stomach as you pad toward the ensuite—all the heat of the moment fading fast.

You need a shower—a long one. With scalding hot water. And maybe a lobotomy.

After cleaning yourself up, stripping your bed, and changing into pyjamas—it’s still early, but there’s no way in hell you’re leaving the apartment again—you finally emerge from your room.

Somewhere between washing your hair and scrubbing the shame from your skin, you decided that pretending nothing happened is the best way to go. Because technically, nothing did. You both masturbate. You’re both adults. Sexually active ones. There’s no evidence that says you were or weren’t thinking about each other.

Well—you know Bob wasn’t. He thought he was home alone.

Bob would never do something as perverted as what you just did.

But he doesn’t need to know about it. So if you act normal, then there’s no reason for him to suspect anything. Right?

“Hey,” you call lightly as you step into the kitchen.

Bob glances up from whatever he’s slicing with practiced ease. His cheeks are tinged pink, eyes slightly wide, and there’s the faintest trace of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. But otherwise, he looks… composed. Relaxed.

Well. He would, after a release like that.

“Hey,” he replies, voice even. “Didn’t hear you come home.”

Your cheeks flare with heat, but you wave it off. “Yeah, I ran straight into the shower. Went for a run and got a bit sweaty.”

He raises a brow, clearly amused. You don’t run. And you both know it.

"Right," he mutters, eyes dropping back to the chopping board.

You clear your throat and square your shoulders, determined not to let this be awkward.

“You were home early,” you say, leaning a hip against the kitchen island.

He nods. “Yeah. Maverick let us go early.”

“Oh, that was nice of him.”

Your eyes drift to the ingredients spread across the counter—chicken breasts, halved baby potatoes, fresh rosemary, a bowl of mixed greens. It’s one of his go-to dinners, the kind he could make blindfolded with one hand and still have it taste incredible.

And in the middle of it all, a bottle of wine.

“I was going to offer to cook tonight,” you say, reaching for the bottle. “Did you bring this home?”

He glances up again. “Yeah. Thought you’d like it.”

You run your eyes over the label, nodding. “Looks good. Want some?”

He nods once, without looking up, as you turn to grab two glasses from the cupboard above the bench. Then you uncork the bottle, let it breathe for a moment, and pour two generous glasses—sliding one across to him.

“Thanks,” he says, taking a sip.

The kitchen feels smaller all of a sudden. The usual easy rhythm between you is strained, like you’re both circling something neither of you wants to name.

Quiet tension stretches between you, filled only by the low hum of the fridge and the soft scrape of Bob’s knife. He doesn’t look up again, and you don’t dare look at him for too long. Instead, you swirl your wine and take slow, nervous sips until the alcohol starts to hum in your blood—and you decide to sit down.

“I’m going to put a movie on,” you say suddenly, already turning toward the living room. “Any requests?”

“I don’t mind,” he mutters. “Maybe something with action.” Then he drops his voice, low and half to himself—like he’s talking to the chicken. “And no sex scenes.”

You choke on your wine, nearly tripping over nothing on your way to the lounge.

You don’t respond. You can’t. What are you supposed to say to that?

So you just drop onto the couch, set your glass on the coffee table, and start scrolling through streaming apps—skipping anything with even a hint of romance.

You barely speak to Bob for the next twenty-four hours—and you’re pretty sure it’s the longest you’ve ever gone without properly talking to him.

It’s not that you’re avoiding him. Okay, maybe you’re avoiding him a little. But seriously, can you be blamed? You just saw your best friend’s huge dick—in action—and then proceeded to come so fast it was honestly kind of embarrassing. And now every time you blink, there he is again—sweaty, panting, flushed, wrecked. Fucking his own fist with your name almost on his tongue.

Or at least, that’s what you like to imagine he was saying.

But the worst part is the sudden, devastating realisation that Bob is hot. Not just cute. Not just objectively attractive. But actual, soul-shattering, knee-weakening, unfairly hot.

When the hell did that happen?

Maybe you’ve known it all along. Maybe you’ve just been ignoring it. Denying it.

Because you’ve always known he’s good-looking. He’s tall and broad and has that stupidly nice face with kind eyes and a soft mouth he never quite knows what to do with. But you’d written him off early. Filed him under safe. Untouchable. Your best friend. Your fake husband. Too good, too sweet. Not for you.

But now you’ve seen him. And it’s like the filter is gone. Like you’ve stepped on a landmine you didn’t even know existed and now your brain has been blown open by the truth.

Bob Floyd is possibly the hottest man on planet Earth.

He’s hot in a soft, devastating way. Hot in a slow-burn, bedroom-eyes, makes-you-feel-safe-then-fucks-you-stupid kind of way. The kind of hot that sneaks up on you. That lives under your skin. That ruins everything.

And now he’s just... existing. In your shared apartment. Doing normal things. Breathing. And you’re in a constant state of barely holding it together.

God, you’re an idiot. You need to sort yourself out—immediately—before Bob realises what a creep you’re being and everything blows up.

But first… you have to tell your contract manager that you’re married.

You’re awake before Bob’s alarm on Friday morning, but you don’t get out of bed. You just lie there in the quiet, listening to him move around, waiting until you hear the front door close behind him before throwing back the covers. Then you shower, make your bed, do your hair, and change into your clothes for the day.

The smell of fresh coffee hits you the second you open your door. And sure enough, beside the pot—with a little yellow Post-it stuck to it—is your favourite mug, freshly washed. Just like every other morning.

Made extra coffee. There’s banana bread in the fridge. See you tonight, Mrs. Floyd. ♡

Your heart kicks hard and heat swells through your chest. Everything feels different now. Heavier. Like you’ve stepped into some alternate version of your life where every little habit, every small kindness, means more than it used to.

Like you’ve been half-asleep this whole time and only just woken up to the fact that your dorky, sweet, thoughtful fake husband is also... kind of perfect.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re starting to feel different.

Your phone pings, startling you out of your spiralling thoughts. You swallow the lump in your throat and quickly check it—a text from your contract manager asking when you’ll be on base today.

Shit. You probably should have told Bob last night that you’d be visiting base. But instead, you hid in your room pretending to be exhausted because you didn’t trust yourself to sit next to him without doing something weird.

You type out a quick reply to let your manager know you’ll be there around midday. Then you tuck your phone away, peel the little note off your mug, and pour an exceptionally large cup of coffee—because that ought to help your nerves. Right?

After coffee, banana bread, half a movie you barely register, and another coffee, you decide to go for a walk. Because you’re still thinking about Bob, and you still can’t figure out exactly what it is you’re feeling.

You do the same loop you did two days ago—same turns, same streets, same houses—before returning home with zero recollection of it because all you can think about is Bob. He’s everywhere—in your head, under your skin, stuck between your ribs.

You try to distract yourself by cleaning the already spotless apartment, but it’s no use. So by eleven a.m., you grab your wallet and keys and head out the door. Maybe you can go for a walk and get your bearings on base before meeting up with your manager. And maybe you’ll try to ogle a few other military men so you stop thinking about the one who sleeps across the hall from you.

At this point, you’ll try anything.

You go through all the usual checks when you get to base—signing in at the front office, getting your visitor’s pass, a quick vehicle inspection. Then once you’re cleared, someone calls your manager to let them know you’ve arrived, and the clerk hands you a little printed map, pointing out the best place to park for your building.

Jeannie, your contract manager, is glad you’re early—which is good. That means less time alone to spiral.

You find the building easily, and soon enough you’re sitting in a small conference room going over the details of your commencement next week.

“So,” Jeannie says, shuffling her papers into a neat pile, “you mentioned there was something you needed to flag before you start?”

You nod. “Yes—um, sorry if I should’ve mentioned this earlier, but I’m married.”

Her brows lift, as if to say and?

“My husband is an aviator,” you add. “Here. On base.”

“Oh,” she nods. “Right. That’s fine. Ideally, we’d have had it declared earlier, but it’s not a big deal. Since you don’t technically work together, and you're a civilian contractor, there’s no concern about rank. I’ll just get HR to send over the paperwork. You’ll both need to sign, as well as his Commanding Officer. It’d be best to get it squared away before Monday—do you know who his CO is?”

You feel heat crawl up the back of your neck.

“Maverick,” you reply quickly—without thinking. “Oh—sorry, I mean—”

“It’s alright,” Jeannie says, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I know who Maverick is.”

You nod, pressing your lips together while she pulls out her phone and makes the call. As she speaks to whoever’s on the other end, you quickly pull out your own phone and type a text to Bob.

‘Hey, really hoping you see this before I find you. I’m on base. Need you and Maverick to sign something. Please check your phone!’

Now you’ve done it. Not only are you on base without giving Bob a heads-up, but you’re about to have him formally acknowledge your fake marriage. A marriage his squadron doesn’t even know about.

Fuck.

“Perfect,” Jeannie says, setting her phone down. “We’ll have the forms in five. I’ll get you to read them over, then we’ll have someone escort you to Captain Mitchell’s squadron building.”

You give her a tight smile. “Thanks, Jeannie.”

She returns the smile and stands up, gathering her papers. “I’ll be back in a minute. Sit tight.”

You nod, trying not to throw up the banana bread and coffee.

“Oh,” she says, stopping halfway out the door, eyes sparkling. “A naval aviator—well done. Maverick’s squad... they’re kind of legendary.”

You laugh softly, breath catching. “Thanks. He’s—um—he’s the best.”

Then she’s gone. Out into the office, leaving you to sit and stew, staring at your phone, praying Bob texts back before you have to show up at his squadron building and ask him to declare your top-secret fake marriage in front of all his legendary colleagues.

The next fifteen minutes are a blur. An HR rep shows up, talks you through the paperwork, and asks for all the details of your marriage—when, where, how—before a junior officer knocks on the door and announces he’s ready to escort you to the Dagger Squadron’s building.

You grip the papers with shaky hands as you follow the officer through the building and out to a cart waiting by the curb. He doesn’t talk—thank God—just drives carefully across base while you sit beside him, looking like a seasick idiot on dry land.

When the cart rolls to a stop, he glances over at you. “Here we are, ma’am.”

You swallow hard. “Thanks. Do you—uh, do you come in, or...?”

“No, ma’am,” he replies. “Captain Mitchell was radioed about your visit. You’re cleared to go in.”

You nod once, breath coming in unsteady gasps as you force your feet to move. Force yourself out of the cart. Across the concrete. Toward the front entrance.

You steel your nerves and step into the building, immediately hit by the cool blast of air. Bob always whinges about how hot the flight suits get, so it makes sense that they’d keep the buildings icy.

There’s no chatter, no footsteps—just the low hum of ducted aircon and the faint rustle of paper. You follow the hallway toward the only open door in sight and quietly poke your head around the corner.

At the front of the room stands a dark-haired man in a flight suit, flicking through a little notebook. He glances up almost immediately, green eyes pinning you in place.

“Sorry,” you mutter, “I didn’t mean to interrupt—I’m looking for—”

“Floyd,” he says with a grin—a very charming grin. “Or Mrs. Floyd, should I say?”

Oh. This is Maverick.

You step into the room and straighten instinctively. “Yes, sir.”

He chuckles. “Don’t bother with the formalities. I’m Maverick. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

He crosses the room with an outstretched hand, and you shake it with tight smile.

“Your manager called ahead, said you’d be stopping by,” he says, gesturing toward the front row of chairs. “Not sure Bob knows, though. He didn’t mention anything. They’re all at lunch right now, but I could—”

“Actually,” you cut in, settling into the seat beside him, “Bob doesn’t know I’m here. I forgot to tell him I was coming, and I honestly didn’t think I’d be delivering the papers myself.”

Maverick’s brows shoot up. “Oh. So he doesn’t—?”

“Nope.”

“Alright then.” He scrubs a hand along his jaw. “Why don’t we say you’re from HR, updating his records? Think he’ll catch on?”

You nod. “Works for me.”

He grins again, and you hand over the papers, pointing out the sections needing his signature. He doesn't ask questions—just nods and signs, methodical and quiet.

Once you’ve gathered the papers back into order, he leans back in his chair and just looks at you—like you’re easier to read than a children’s book being held wide open.

“So, how’d you and Bob meet?”

“Through work,” you reply, keeping your tone even. “He was first stationed at Lemoore, where I was in systems support. We got along well, and one thing led to another… now we’re here.”

Maverick nods thoughtfully, eyes gleaming. “Been a few years then?”

“Yep.”

“And how long have you been in love?”

Your heart jumps and you glance up, blinking. “Uh… well, since we started dating, I guess.”

You’re pretty sure Bob said that Maverick knew the marriage wasn’t entirely legitimate.

Maverick lifts a brow. “Dating?”

You nod, but it’s not convincing.

He tilts his head. “I didn’t think you two dated. From what I gathered, the marriage is—”

“No way.”

Your stomach drops. Your skin prickles. The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

That voice is familiar. Sickeningly familiar.

“It’s you.”

You turn your head slowly, dread pooling in your gut.

And there he is. The guy from the grocery store—sun-kissed and smug, all lazy confidence in his flight suit as he leans one shoulder against the doorframe. A group of aviators lingers behind him, peering into the room with furrowed brows and curious eyes.

Your stomach lurches.

“I knew it was fate,” he says with a grin.

“What’s fate?” one of the others pipes up.

“Move your ass, Bagman,” a woman’s voice snaps.

Bagman?

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Your face is on fire. You can feel it—hot and prickling, crawling down your neck and up behind your ears. You try to speak, to move—to do anything—but your body has entered fight-or-flight mode and apparently chosen freeze.

Maverick glances between you, brow raised. “You two know each other?”

The guy—Bagman, apparently—just chuckles. “Yeah, we’ve run into each other a few times.”

“Hangman, move,” says a tall, moustached man, shoving his squadmate aside.

Oh no... Hangman?

You know Hangman. Bob’s told you about Hangman.

Cocky Hangman and his reckless flying.

Womaniser Hangman with his endless string of conquests.

Pain-in-the-ass Hangman—who just so happens to be a member of the Dagger Squadron. Bob’s squad.

Holy fuck. How could you have screwed up this badly?

“Hangman?” you echo, your voice cracking.

He nods, green eyes gleaming as he steps aside to let the rest of the squad through.

The moustached man—Rooster, you recognise—frowns at you, curiosity carved into every line of his face. A woman follows close behind, scowling at Hangman—you’re guessing she’s Phoenix. Then two tall men step in, both looking confused, followed by a shorter one bringing up the rear.

And then—

Bob.

He steps through the doorway—

And freezes.

His eyes go wide. His whole body locks up like he’s been hit with a tranquiliser dart. The colour drains from his face so fast it’s a miracle he’s still upright.

The silence is deafening.

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Nothing comes out.

Maverick slowly leans back in his chair. “Well, this just got interesting.”

Hangman clasps his hands behind his back like he’s about to give a formal speech, stepping toward you with an oblivious smirk stretched across his face.

“Phoenix and gentleman,” he starts, “I would like to introduce you all to my future wife.”

Maverick chokes beside you.

“A mere five days ago, I first laid eyes on this stunning woman in the grocery store. There I was, minding my own business, and boom—she appears. Like a hot, pissed-off angel, scowling at me because I interrupted her Pop-Tart selection process. And right then and there, I knew this was the woman of my dreams.”

“You say that about every woman,” Phoenix mutters, rolling her eyes.

Rooster smirks. “He hasn't said it about another woman since Monday, though.”

“Exactly,” Hangman says. “Ask Coyote. This is the one. I felt it in my loins.”

“You’re disgusting,” Phoenix sighs.

The tallest one tilts his head. “Wait, wait, wait. Are we talking about the same woman you said was stalking you?”

“She wasn’t stalking me,” Hangman says quickly. “That was a joke.”

Phoenix scoffs. “It wasn’t funny.”

“Everything I say is funny.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I’m a delight, and I’ll have you know—”

“Hangman,” Coyote cuts in, raising a brow. “Maybe... shut up for once?”

You’re still frozen in your chair, eyes locked on Bob—who hasn’t moved a single muscle since he walked in. You’re pretty sure he hasn’t blinked. You might not have either.

Your cheeks are burning. You can feel them. But Bob—Bob is going scarlet.

It starts in his ears, then spreads rapidly down his neck and across his cheeks. He looks like a man being slow-roasted from the inside out. His fists are clenched at his sides, shoulders stiff beneath his flight suit—and when Hangman shoots you another wink and starts to open his mouth again—you’re genuinely worried he might blow his carotid.

He looks furious. Downright murderous.

At first, you thought it might be at you.

But... his dark blue eyes are locked on Hangman.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” Hangman says, stepping even closer as his eyes drag over you without a hint of shame, “are you free for dinner, or do you prefer a brunch-with-champagne kind of thing? Because I’ll happily rearrange my entire schedule just to watch you eat a strawberry.”

You glance sideways—just in time to catch the tick in Bob’s jaw. His gaze hasn’t moved. His whole face is red now, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast, his hands curled into fists like he’s physically restraining himself.

And something about it—about him—pulls tight in your chest.

Because he looks... wrecked. Quietly, furiously wrecked.

Not embarrassed. Not confused. Not oh-God-my-squad-found-out. But furious. At Hangman. For flirting with you.

Your stomach swoops.

And suddenly, you can’t breathe.

Because Bob Floyd is jealous.

The same Bob who brings you coffee every morning. Who washes your favourite mug. Who brings you roses and wine after work, just because. Who smiled so sweetly the day he suggested this marriage, like it was the easiest thing in the world to do for you. The same Bob who hasn’t blinked since Hangman called you the woman of his dreams.

A small voice whispers in your head—he loves you.

And for a second, you almost believe it.

Your heart thuds loud in your ears. Your mouth goes dry. You want to look away, to break the spell, but you can’t. Not when the truth is burning so bright between you it feels like the rest of the room has fallen away.

He loves you.

“Listen,” you say, voice shaky as you stand up, “Hangman, I—”

“Call me Jake, darlin’,” he cuts in, smooth as ever with that Southern drawl. “I never did get your name, though. Wanna finally tell me what it is?”

There’s a pause—a brief silence. A collective held breath as the room waits for you to respond.

You swallow hard and step forward.

“Floyd,” you say, voice firm. “My name’s Floyd.”

Hangman’s smirk drops. His brows pull tight, confusion flickering behind his green eyes.

There’s a gasp. A chuckle.

“Holy shit,” Phoenix mutters.

But none of it matters.

Because the look on Bob’s face is enough to make your heart stop.

His eyes are wide and locked on you like he misheard—like he can’t quite believe what he heard. His lips part. His shoulders relax. He visibly exhales—only for his breath to catch on the way back in. His gaze darts to Hangman, just briefly, then snaps straight back to you. He closes his mouth, swallows hard, and unclenches his fists.

He looks… nervous. Unsure. Like he wants to be relieved by what you just said, but doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know what happens next.

But you do.

In three quick strides, you’re standing in front of him. You glance up, breath shaky, heart pounding. Your fingers curl into the collar of his flight suit—and you pull him down.

His mouth crashes into yours, hard and hungry, and the world falls out from under you. His hands hover for half a second, like he doesn’t believe this is real—then they grip your hips, hard. Fingers digging in. Burning through the denim.

The kiss isn’t soft. It isn’t sweet. It’s desperate. Messy. All heat and drool and pent-up longing—like months, years, of tension finally snapping loose in a single, earth-shattering moment.

You gasp against him and he groans into your mouth, hands sliding up to your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

Someone whistles. Someone else mutters Jesus Christ. But none of it registers.

You’re already gone.

Lost in the feel of him—his mouth, his hands, the warm solid weight of him pressed tight to yours. Your hands slip into his hair, tugging just enough to drag another sound from his throat. He kisses you harder. Like he’s starving. Like he’s making up for every second he didn’t.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.

Bob’s eyes are dazed. Wide. A little wild.

“Wait,” one of the other men says—the shorter one, “Bob’s married?”

The taller one chuckles. “Bob bagged a baddie.”

“A baddie?” Maverick echoes, voice laced with confusion.

“My future wife is... Bob’s wife?” Hangman says slowly.

His friend—Coyote—snorts. “That’s not your future wife, man. That’s the mother of Bob’s children in T-minus nine months from tonight.”

Your cheeks burn impossibly hot as you carefully untangle your limbs from Bob’s. He looks absolutely wrecked—but in a good way now. In a way that makes you want to beg Maverick to let him leave early. With you. So you can take him home and wreck him just a little more.

Maverick clears his throat. “Well. Now that that’s all cleared up... Bob, you need to sign some paperwork to formally disclose your relationship.”

Bob gives you a soft, dopey smile before heading over to where Maverick is. The loss of his heat leaves you feeling cold—almost empty—but you don’t have time to dwell on it because the rest of the squad immediately closes in.

“I’m Fanboy,” the shortest one says with a brilliant grin.

You smile and nod, still too dazed to speak.

“Payback,” the taller one says.

Then Phoenix steps forward. “You probably already know who I am.”

You laugh softly, nodding again.

“Coyote,” the guy behind her chimes in.

“She was almost Mrs. Hangman,” Jake mutters, still sulking behind the group. “What could’ve been…”

Coyote elbows him. “She literally never agreed to that.”

“Details,” he sighs wistfully.

Rooster slings an arm over your shoulder, leaning in a little. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll move on tomorrow night.” Then he flashes you a smirk. “I’m Rooster, by the way.”

You blink up at him, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. “These are your callsigns, right?”

Phoenix nods, opening her mouth to reply when—

“Okay, that’s enough,” Bob says, cutting through the group and grabbing your hand. “She has to go now.”

“Aw, no,” Fanboy whines. “I want to get to know Mrs. Floyd.”

“Too bad,” Bob mutters, pulling you toward the door.

You give them all a little smile, waving over your shoulder. “Bye. It was nice to meet you all.”

There’s a chorus of byes and teasing words, but above the noise you hear Phoenix shout, “Thank you for embarrassing Hangman!”

You snort as Bob leads you into the hall, stopping a few feet from the door.

“I can’t be long,” he says, a little breathless. “So we can talk at home—yeah?”

Your stomach twists—half-giddy, half-anxious.

You nod. “Yeah. At home. Get back to work.”

He nods, eyes flicking between yours and your lips. There’s a taut second of silence—nothing but the sound of your shaky, shallow breaths as you stare at each other.

Then—

“Fuck,” he mutters, leaning in and kissing you again.

And God, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this—his mouth on yours. Soft but sure. Sweet but possessive. Like he’s claiming you, gently and completely. It’s nothing like you’ve ever felt before. And you don’t want to feel anyone else’s. You’d happily spend the rest of your life doing nothing but kissing Bob Floyd.

He pulls away too quickly, and you lean after him a little—desperate for more.

He chuckles, soft and low. “I’ll see you at home.”

You swallow and nod. “Okay. See you at home.”

Then he’s gone—and you’re left standing in the corridor of the squadron building, listening to his team tease him while your head spins, your heart hammers, and that ache between your legs pulses with every breath.

You don’t remember the walk back to the car. Don’t remember the drive home or climbing the stairs or unlocking the front door. It’s all a blur—just background noise to the steady thrum of want under your skin.

Because now that you’ve had a taste of him—of his mouth, his hands, the sound he made when he kissed you like it hurt—there’s no coming back from it.

You feel wrung out. Strung tight. One spark away from coming undone entirely.

Bob Floyd kissed you like he meant it. Like he needed it. Like he’d been dying to.

And now you can’t stop picturing it—his mouth trailing lower. His hands under your clothes. The way he’d sound when he groans your name against your skin. You wonder what his fingers feel like when he’s not trying to be polite. When he’s not holding back. When he’s desperate.

God, you want him desperate.

You want to see what happens when all that quiet control snaps.

You want him panting and flushed, cursing under his breath as he pushes into you—slow at first, then rough, then reckless. You want to hear him fall apart. You want to make him.

You want to pull his flight suit down and wrap your legs around his waist and feel him groan into your mouth as you whisper filthy things for only him to hear.

You want to know if he’s loud. If he talks. If he begs.

You want to be sore tomorrow.

You want him sweaty and wild and undone.

You want him to love you too. Soft and quiet. In the domestic, steady way he already does.

But first—you want him to ruin you.

Thoroughly. Desperately. Completely.

After pacing the apartment for a good thirty minutes, you start busying yourself by preparing dinner—because it’s the only thing you can think to do. You decide to make spaghetti and meatballs, from scratch. Which means a good few hours of kneading dough, cutting pasta, rolling meatballs—not thinking about anything else—and simmering sauce.

At six p.m., you get a text from Bob letting you know that he’s on his way home—and you panic. You jump in the shower, scrub yourself from head to toe, and change into the laciest pair of panties you own. No bra. Just one of Bob’s old sweatshirts and a pair of loose lounge shorts.

Then you’re back in the kitchen, stirring the sauce, making sure it doesn’t boil, and pouring yourself a nip of whiskey. Or two. For the nerves.

You set the table with matching plates, cloth napkins, two tall candles, and your vase of roses in the centre. The sun spills through the far window, bathing the whole open-plan living area in a warm orange glow, and then—

You hear the lock click. And it feels like a powerline just snapped.

You face the door, standing between the kitchen and the dining area, hands curled at your sides and heart hammering in your chest.

He steps inside—and your breath catches.

He’s so beautiful. And you feel stupid for not noticing it sooner.

Tonight, there are no flowers. No wine. Just Bob—in his flight suit—cheeks pink, eyes dark, something unreadable simmering behind them.

“Hey,” you say, a little unsteady. “Hungry?”

He takes a deep breath, eyes flicking toward the table, then back to you.

“Starving,” he mumbles, dropping his bag to the floor.

You swallow hard. “I know you said we’d talk about today, so I thought I’d set the table and—”

“Talking’ll take too much time,” he says, voice soft, just a little rough. “I think I just better show you.”

Before you can speak—before you can even breathe—he’s moving.

Three long strides. One hand sliding into your hair, the other curling around your waist, and his mouth is on yours.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a claim. Hot and desperate and all teeth and tongue, like he’s been starving for you and finally gave in. You can taste the whiskey you drank earlier on his tongue, and wonder if he does too, the way his mouth groans softly against yours.

He kisses you like a man undone. Not rushed—but hungry. Like he’s trying to get closer than your skin will allow.

Your hands fist in the front of his flight suit, dragging him in until there’s no space left between you. His lips part yours with ease, tongue sliding against yours with a low sound in his throat that sends heat pooling between your legs.

His grip tightens at your waist. You gasp against his mouth and he swallows it, angling your face back, pressing closer—until the edge of the table digs into your hips.

“You taste like whiskey,” he breathes, voice hoarse, lips brushing yours.

You nod faintly. “Took a shot… before.”

He huffs a half-laugh, his nose nudging yours. “Why?”

“Nervous,” you murmur, cheeks burning.

He lets out a broken little groan, then kisses you again, harder this time—deeper. His fingers dig into your waist, anchoring you like he needs the grounding. You gasp into his mouth, gripping the front of his flight suit like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, as he crowds in, the edge of the table biting into your hips.

His breath shudders. His forehead rests against yours for the briefest second before he says, low and wrecked, “I want you in the worst way.”

Your stomach flips violently. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his flight suit, grounding yourself in him—in this.

He kisses you again—slower now, but just as deep. His hands are everywhere, mapping your curves like he’s learning them, like he wants to memorise the exact feel of you under his palms. The tension is humming in the air, sparking down your spine, and when his hands slide beneath the hem of your sweatshirt to knead at the bare skin of your waist, your whole body jolts.

Then his lips trail down—jaw, throat, collarbone—and you whimper, tilting your head to give him more. But he pauses, mouth hovering over your neck, eyes flicking to the table behind you.

“Do you wanna put away anything that’ll break?” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin.

You look at him—his swollen lips, his flushed cheeks, the raw need burning in his eyes—and shake your head.

“No,” you whisper. “I don’t care.”

That’s all he needs.

He crashes into you again, mouth hot and hungry, pushing you back until your hands scramble for balance on the table’s edge. One of the cloth napkins slips to the floor. The candles rattle. The vase of roses wobbles precariously—but neither of you cares.

Because nothing else matters now.

His hands skim down your sides, then grip tight just below your ass. He leans in and kisses your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—lips dragging over skin like he can’t get enough—before he murmurs, rough and breathless, “Up.”

You barely nod before he lifts you, strong arms sliding beneath your thighs to boost you onto the table like you weigh nothing. You scoot back instinctively, the wood cool under your skin, and his hands follow—pressing your knees apart as he steps between them, eyes burning.

“You have no idea, do you?” he says, voice low and awed. “How long I’ve wanted this. How long I’ve wanted you.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s no time. He’s already kissing you again, deeper this time, messier, until you’re dizzy from it—until a wine glass tips behind you and crashes to the floor.

You flinch. He doesn’t.

“Leave it,” he mutters, lips brushing yours.

Then he drops to his knees.

Your breath catches as his hands glide down your bare legs. He looks up at you like he’s about to pray—and maybe he is. Then one hand trails back up your thigh, slow and reverent, until his fingers hook beneath your panties and shorts and ease them down—so gently it feels like a sin.

“Been thinkin’ about this for years,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Thought about it the second I first saw you.”

His hands urge your legs wider.

And then his mouth is on you.

You gasp, eyes fluttering shut, head tipping back as heat blooms low and fast. He’s slow at first—teasing, licking—then deeper, hungrier. Like he’s starving. Like he’s waited forever for this moment. He moans against you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted—and it sends a jolt straight through your core.

He murmurs sweet, filthy things between licks—how good you taste, how soft you are, how bad he wants you to fall apart just for him. His glasses sit crooked on his nose, fogged at the edges, barely hanging on as he stares up at you with those wide, hungry eyes. His cheeks are slick with your arousal, his mouth wet and shining with it—and God, it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

“You’re so wet,” he groans, voice muffled and wrecked. “Can’t believe this is mine. You’re mine, aren’t you?”

And something about the way he says it makes your chest ache. It’s not just the heat or the moment—he needs to hear it. Needs to know that you’re his. That you belong to him.

Your fingers sink into his hair, trembling. “Yes.”

“Say it again,” he breathes.

“Yours,” you gasp, legs shaking.

“That’s right,” he says, mouth back on you, tongue pressing firm and flat. “That’s my girl.”

Your back arches. Your fingers tighten in his hair, nails scraping just a little, and he groans—low and wrecked—like he loves it. Like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him alive.

He keeps licking, firm and slow, then fast and relentless. A rhythm just for you. His tongue circles your clit, flicks it, presses flat and purposeful, then sucks softly—just enough to make your hips jerk. Your thighs tremble around his shoulders, your whole body coiling tighter and tighter, every nerve strung like wire.

“Bob—” you gasp, hips tilting forward, chasing more, needing more.

His hands curl under your thighs, anchoring you, holding you open like you’re precious—like he’s worshipping. His mouth never stops. He sucks, licks, flicks, groans, whispers your name like a prayer between filthy praises. And it’s too much. It’s not enough.

The pressure builds like fire in your belly. Your legs start to shake. You feel it spike—sharp and blinding.

You’re right there—right at the edge—and then he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, just hard enough.

White-hot pleasure rips through you. Your body jerks, a strangled cry catching in your throat as you come apart against his mouth—shuddering, gasping, twitching, every muscle tightening then breaking.

And he doesn’t stop.

He licks you through it, slow and steady, his tongue gentle now but insistent, teasing more from you even as your whole body trembles. You’re whimpering, breathless and wrung out, your body slack and oversensitive—but not sated. Not even close.

“Bob,” you whisper, voice ragged. “Baby.”

Your hands reach for him, tugging at the collar of his flight suit, urging him up. He rises slowly, eyes never leaving yours—flushed and panting, his face slick with your arousal. His glasses are fogged and crooked, and you slide them gently from his nose, setting them aside before cupping his flushed cheeks.

He looks wrecked. Worshipful. Dark eyes devouring you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted.

“You still want—” he starts, voice hoarse.

“I need you,” you breathe, cutting him off. “Now.”

That’s all it takes. His hands fly to his zipper, clumsy and urgent as he peels himself out of the flight suit—shoulders, chest, hips—until he’s stepping out of it completely. His undershirt goes next, flung aside without a thought.

You pull your sweatshirt over your head and toss it away. Nothing underneath. Nothing between you.

He stares.

For a moment, he just drinks you in, chest heaving, eyes glazed with disbelief and hunger. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice low and reverent. “You’re so—fuck—”

You don’t give him time to finish. You reach for him, pull him closer. He steps between your thighs, still in his briefs, and his mouth finds your breasts—soft, wet kisses and open-mouthed licks, tongue flicking over one nipple before sucking it into his mouth.

Your head drops back with a soft cry, fingers tangling in his hair again as heat coils sharp and fast inside you. His cock grinds against your soaked core, separated only by thin cotton, and you feel the sheer size of him even through the fabric.

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Take them off.”

But your hands are already moving—slipping between you, tugging at the band of his briefs. You shove them down, and he helps, kicking them away—and then he’s bare, hot, and hard and impossibly thick.

Your breath stutters.

Your fingers wrap around him, shaky and reverent—and you can’t even close them all the way. Your mouth goes dry. Your whole body tightens.

“Oh my god, Bob,” you whisper.

He leans in close, forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice raw and tender. “But you can take it. I know you can. You’re so fucking ready for me, sweetheart.”

And you are—dripping onto the table, slick and aching and pulsing with want. You shift your hips, lining him up, desperate to feel him. Every inch of your body is on fire, begging for the stretch, the pressure, the fullness.

He reaches down, one hand on your thigh, the other guiding himself to your entrance—and his tip just barely nudges against you, slick and hot.

Your breath hitches.

Your eyes meet his—wide, pleading.

“Please,” you whisper. “I need you.”

He groans—deep and guttural—and begins to push in.

You gasp as the tip breaches you—hot and thick and already stretching you more than you thought possible.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper, clinging to his shoulders. “You’re so big—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, breath shuddering. “We’ll go slow.”

And he does—inch by agonising inch, letting you adjust. Letting your body yield to him.

Your nails dig into his back as you breathe through it, chest rising and falling with every trembling inhale. The stretch burns, pressure building low and tight, but it’s good. It’s so good. Too good.

He’s panting against your neck, forehead pressed to your skin. “So tight, baby,” he groans. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

He pauses, buried only halfway, chest heaving. You can feel him throbbing inside you, feel every twitch, every inch still waiting to sink deeper.

“Can I keep going?” he asks, voice wrecked.

You nod quickly—too quickly. “Please, Bobby. Need all of you.”

He kisses you—slow and deep—and presses in again.

You moan into his mouth, high and breathless, clenching around him as he sinks deeper, deeper still, the fullness dizzying. Your thighs tremble around his waist. Your whole body shudders.

“Almost there,” he whispers. “Just a little more. You’re taking me so fucking well.”

And finally—finally—his hips press flush to yours.

You both freeze.

The air between you stills, hot and heavy. You can feel your pulse in your throat. Between your legs. Everywhere. He’s completely inside of you—thick and deep and overwhelming—and you’ve never felt so full in your life.

You cling to him, fingers digging into his arms, heart pounding out of control.

And then it hits you.

The feeling. The weight of it. The way your body holds him like it was always meant to. The way your chest aches with something so fierce and raw it knocks the breath from your lungs.

“I love you,” you whisper—it slips out like a secret you’ve kept too long. “Oh my god, I love you.”

He goes still—completely still.

Your chest tightens. For one agonising second, you think maybe you’ve ruined it.

But then—

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him the whole damn world.

“I love you so fucking much,” he breathes.

And then his hips draw back—and snap forward, hard.

You both cry out.

Your head drops back. His name spills from your lips in a broken moan. It’s too much and not enough all at once—him, everywhere, holding you, filling you, claiming you in the deepest, most perfect way.

His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Like he needs to anchor himself inside you. And all you can do is hold on—eyes wide, chest split open, heart bared—because this? This is everything.

He is everything.

Your gasp tears through the air the second he thrusts in again, a raw, desperate sound as your back arches and your nails drag across his shoulders. The stretch is relentless, searing, addictive. You’ve never felt anything like it—so full, so deep, like he’s carved out space inside you and claimed it all for himself.

“Jesus,” he groans, head falling to your shoulder. “You feel—fuck—you feel unreal.”

The table jerks under you as he pulls back, just an inch, then sinks in again. Slow. Measured. But it still punches the breath from your lungs. You can feel every inch of him, every thick pulse of his cock dragging against your walls, and it’s almost too much. Almost.

But you don’t want almost. You want all of him. Ruin and worship. Love and filth.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Bob, please—don’t stop.”

His mouth finds your throat, your jaw, your lips—kissing like a man gone feral. Like he needs you to breathe. One hand fists in your hair, the other gripping your thigh, pushing it up, opening you wider. The next thrust is harder. The table rattles. A plate clatters to the floor.

“Gonna break the fucking table,” he mutters into your skin, almost in awe, like he can’t believe this is real. His voice is wrecked—low and ragged—completely undone.

“Let it break,” you choke out. “Just don’t you dare stop.”

He growls—growls—and his pace picks up. The sound of skin on skin is loud, messy, perfect. His pelvis slaps yours, the rhythm brutal and sweet all at once. Your slick coats him, soaking the tops of your thighs, dripping onto the damn table, and still—it’s not enough. You want more. You want everything.

“Touch me,” you beg, voice breaking. “Bob, I—please—”

His hand drops between your bodies instantly, fingers finding your clit like he was born knowing where to touch you. He rubs tight, filthy circles, and your vision whites out. Your head falls back. A loud moan rips from your chest.

“That’s it,” he pants, watching your face like he’s memorising it. “Come on. Let me feel you. Let me have it.”

The table shudders with every thrust. Something else crashes to the floor, but you barely register it over the thunder of your own heartbeat and the filthy, perfect sounds of him fucking you.

His cock drags deep, perfect pressure against every spot inside you. And that heat—God, that unbearable, beautiful heat—builds fast. Sharp and coiled, like lightning in your spine.

“Close,” you gasp. “I’m—I’m so close—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, kissing the edge of your mouth, then your cheek, then your temple. “Always got you.”

He’s getting close. You can feel it—his rhythm falters, his breathing shatters. And then his arms wrap tight around you, strong and shaking, and he murmurs into your hair, “Lay back for me, baby—just like that, I’ve got you.”

He eases you down against the table—one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your thigh. The wood is cool against your spine, but his body follows, hot and heavy and trembling as he slides back in, deeper than before. A new angle. A devastating one.

Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as he bottoms out—so deep it feels like he’s pressing inside your stomach. And then you feel it—his hand trailing down to your lower belly, palm flattening gently just above your pelvis.

“Feel that?” he rasps. “That’s me, baby. Right here.”

You nod frantically, eyes glassy. “Bob—fuck—please—don’t stop—”

“I’m not stopping,” he swears, voice low and cracked. “Not until I feel you fall apart around me. Not until I know you’re mine.”

Your body arches, legs trembling, hips chasing his thrusts. His cock hits that spot over and over again, rubbing just right, the pressure building like a storm. His fingers return to your clit—slick and practiced—and that’s all it takes.

The vase topples.

Water spills across the table, soaking the cloth, flooding under your shoulders—but you hardly notice. All you can feel is him. All you can hear is your name on his lips, the slap of skin, the scrape of the table legs against the tile.

“Come with me,” he grits, forehead against yours. “Right now. Let go for me—come on—”

The coil inside you snaps. Your second orgasm tears through you like a live wire, white-hot and all-consuming. You cry out—shaking, clenching, blinded by heat. And a heartbeat later, he follows—spilling inside you with a hoarse, broken moan, his hips stuttering, his whole body seizing with it.

The stove beeps. There’s a pop. Then a low whoosh.

Flames flicker—and the smoke alarm blares.

You both freeze—panting, sweating, still locked together—then slowly dissolve into breathless, messy laughter. He doesn’t move. Just leans in, presses a kiss to your damp forehead, and murmurs against your skin, “I love you.” Then another, softer kiss to your lips. “So much.”

He pulls out—slow, careful—and helps you sit up. You glance over at the little fire crackling in the pot on the stove, eyes going wide.

“Shit,” you breathe, still dazed. “We—We should fix that.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, like it physically pains him to let you go. “Yeah, we should.”

Stark naked, skin slick with sweat, and cum still dribbling down your sore thighs, you hurry into the kitchen. Bob is right behind you, sliding his glasses back on as he grabs a dish towel and tosses it in the sink. You try not to stare—try not to drink in the sight of him standing there like some Michelangelo sculpture come to life—but it’s useless. The way the light catches his bare skin, the way his muscles flex as he soaks the towel until it’s nothing but a dripping rag—it’s impossible not to look.

When he turns, cheeks pink, lips glossy, eyes glazed—he smirks. Bob Floyd actually smirks.

“What are you looking at?” he asks, voice rough and teasing.

You bite your lip, drop your gaze, then drag it back up, slow and deliberate. “Just my hot as fuck husband.”

His blush deepens, and it makes you giggle. That man just fucked you so good your knees are shaking, but this—a compliment—makes him blush?

“Watch out,” he murmurs, wringing out the towel.

You step aside as he lifts the pot lid and smothers the flames. Then he checks the oven, flicks off the stove, and turns back to you, smoke alarm still blaring overhead like it’s part of your own personal soundtrack.

“I’m sorry,” you say, even as a grin tugs at your lips. “Want to get takeout?”

He shakes his head. “I think I’d rather have something else.”

Before you can blink—or even breathe—his hands are on you, sliding under your thighs and lifting you effortlessly until you’re perched on the cold kitchen counter. The marble bites into your skin, but you don’t care. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, your slick core pressing to the heat of his stomach. Your bodies flush together, skin igniting where you touch.

You card your fingers through his damp hair, eyes locking on his behind smudged glasses. “I have to tell you something,” you admit, butterflies swirling fiercely in your stomach.

His brows pull together. “What is it?”

You swallow. “I—um, I saw you the other day. When you thought you were home alone... jerking off.”

His frown fades, but his face stays carefully blank—too blank. Not scandalised. Not surprised. Just watching you.

Then he nods. “I thought so.”

You blink. “You’re not creeped out?”

“No,” he says simply, shaking his head.

“Even though I made myself cum after watching you?”

His laugh is soft, low. His breath ghosts across your skin as he ducks his head, hiding his smile in the curve of your shoulder. “I’m not creeped out.”

His lips brush your neck. “There are things I want to tell you too,” he murmurs, then leans back, eyes piercing. “But first…” His hands tighten on your hips. “Let’s see how much love we can make.”

Then he’s on you again—lips, tongue, teeth, hands—everywhere. He kisses like he’s starving, touches like he’s claiming. And though you’re aching to hear what he has to say, to dig into all that’s just erupted between you… right now, none of that matters.

Because Bob Floyd—your best friend, your fake husband, your everything—is about to ruin you all over again.

And you’re going to let him. Happily. Absolutely. Again. And again. And again.

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