farrikdanked

[farrikdanked]

It’s been egregiously hot where I’ve been and I don’t think this made it any better

Adore Me

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

Summary: When the air conditioner of the Watchtower breaks during peak summertime, Bob finds an odd solution to your overheating problem.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluff yall. Bob and Reader are in an established friends with benefits relationship (that has hints of something more), Bob is a problem solver lol.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up yall), Temperature Play, Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Nipple Play, Dirty Talk, Bob is a bit freaky in this, but it’s a great change up, Spit Kink (kind of…An interesting take on it lol) Bob is totally a super soft dom in here to be completely honest and he’s an absolute tease, Aftercare (cause it’s essential and we love aftercare scenes!)

Authors Note: It is disgustingly hot where I live at the moment and I got this idea when I was writing something else and thought ‘Jesus Christ this is perfect’ and EUREKA 💡 it’s been made and created. And it’s so fitting cause today is supposed to be one of the hottest days of the year where I live and I’ve been sweating it up, so CHEERS TO THAT! Enjoy the read yall ❤️❤️

Word Count: 9,364

You felt like you were choking on the air you were breathing. It clung to your lungs like steam in a sauna, heavy and thick, each inhale a sluggish, labored thing that coated the inside of your throat with undeniable heat. The Watchtower had become a pressure cooker–walls sweating, tempers rising, body’s slowly melting into puddles of collective misery.

The central air system had sputtered its final breath two days ago, and since then, the compound had been thrown into environmental purgatory. Val, of course, couldn’t be bothered.

“You’ve been trained in worse conditions? So there’s a little bit of heat…” She said over the comms, dismissing the situation with a lazy flick of her tongue, “Adapt. Hydrate. Be resourceful. You guys are a bunch of trained professionals. Jesus.”

Bucky had tried to find a solution by rush-ordering industrial-grade fans for everyone’s room. It was a notable effort, but ultimately it turned futile–the machines just churned around warm air like oversized hairdryers, only adding to the misery. Everyone had begun to crack in their own unhinged little ways soon after.

Walker had abandoned his bedroom entirely, calling it a hotbox of death–because it was facing the sun head on–and was now taking refuge on the cool concrete floor of the weapons bay, curled up beside an icebox and using a half-eaten bag of frozen peas as his pillow. Nobody knew if he was the one who ate the peas, and truly no one wanted to ask.

Alexei had opted to walk around shirtless, unapologetically drenched, swearing in Russian every time his back stuck to the leather chairs of the common room. You hadn’t seen cotton touch his torso in thirty-six hours.

Ava had tried to stick her head in the freezer at least three times–silent, dead-eyed, standing with the door propped open like a statue. She once murmured, “There’s no use…Not even the freezer can cool me down,” Before slamming the door shut and stomping away angrily.

Yelena didn’t even pretend to tough it out. She booked a hotel in the city with central air and an infinity pool and sent a group text that read: Temporarily unavailable. Followed by a photo of her in a robe, flipping everyone off.

You, on the other hand, were stuck in the sweltering hellhole that used to be the Watchtower. Unfortunately, you had responsibilities. Paperwork, of all godforsaken things–an Everest-sized pile of clearance reports, post-op evaluations, requisition forms, and incident debriefs that needed to be reviewed and signed off yesterday. As you worked through it though you were convinced the paper pile was actively multiplying every time you blinked.

You had stripped down to bare undergarments midway through the first day of this whole ordeal–tank tops and boy shorts, cycling through a mix of fabrics and colours, and faded cotton that clung to your skin within minutes of putting it on. A real outfit felt like a joke at this point. The way your thighs stuck to chairs, the way your bra would turn into a soaked band of torture across your ribs–it was all unbearable. So you stopped pretending, cause everyone had seen you in much less–unfortunately. A little skin in the name of not dying seemed fair game.

You’d made camp in the common room, spread out across the wooden floor: limbs splayed, eyes half-lidded, lips dry, surrounded by open folders and half-filled forms. Your pen was stuck between your fingers, and your knees were damp from the humidity clinging to the floorboards. You used half-complete reports as manual fans, your wrist flicking back and forth in a tired desperate rhythm.

Under the dim overhead lights your skin was shimmering. Sweat collected in the hollow of your throat, slicked down your back in slow, miserable trails, and glistened across your chest in a sheen that was just enough to be maddening.

Especially to Bob.

Bob wasn’t bothered by the heat–not one bit. In fact, he seemed to be thriving in it. While the rest of the compound staggered around like melting wax figures, Bob was walking proof that some unholy fusion of celestial physiology and boyish stubbornness could, against all logic, turn a heatwave into a personal spa retreat. His body already ran hot, warmer than any humans should be, so the shift in temperature just…Matched him. Balanced him. He was in his element. You’d caught him once humming as he refilled your water bottle and didn’t even look winded. It had taken every ounce of your willpower not to throw a folder at him out of sheer spite.

But as much as Bob was coasting through the inferno like a Sun God in July, there was one thing the heat did make difficult, and that was you.

More specifically: being around you without physically attaching himself to every available inch of your skin. And that was a problem. Because all you wanted was to peel your limbs off your own body and shove your head in the freezer next to Ava’s.

The first night the central air had gasped its last breath, you had trudged into your room in a haze of exhaustion and heat delirium. Your tank top was soaked, your shorts were riding up in ways that made you irrationally furious, and your entire back felt like it had been slow-roasted on a rack. All you wanted was to collapse onto your bed, cool yourself down on your fresh pillow, and not die.

Bob had followed in behind you a few minutes later. Barefoot, shirtless in his boxer shorts, and radiating heat like a bonfire. You had barely flattened yourself on the mattress before you felt the bed dip and a very warm, very clingy arm wrap around your middle.

“Bob–no. No. You’re a human space heater. I am going to combust.” He had blinked down at you like you had kicked him, lip tugging downward, but he didn’t retreat. His eyes shimmered slightly.

”Just–Just my arm. I won’t move around and make it hotter! I pr-promise! How about my leg? Just a little le-leg.” You tried to slither out from his trap, but he was persistent, curling his body around you like a cat trying to fit into a shoebox, “You know I ca-can’t sleep without cuddling you…Please.” He begged.

In the end, you had given up just enough to let him have his victory–an arm draped over your waist, a thigh tucked between your sweaty ones. His skin was boiling, his breath stuck to your neck, and you were sweating so much your sheets were damp. But he sighed with such softness and content, like that moment of closeness was everything he needed. And even though you mumbled curses and threatened to sleep on the floor next time, you didn’t push him off.

Now, he was watching you from his usual perch in the common room, planted in one of the worn armchairs, looking relaxed, comfortable-and absolutely lovesick in shorts and a t-shirt.

Every movement made your tank top shift and stick in new ways. A bead of sweat curved down your chest, catching the attention of Bob’s traitorous eyes before he jerked his gaze away, returning it to the book in front of him, like he hadn’t been staring.

You weren’t even trying to be provocative. You were just trying not to pass out. But the heat had made you soft-limbed, loose-spined, and languid. It made you sigh out loud and stretch like a cat, chasing relief. And every time you did, Bob’s eyes trailed after you like he was tethered. He swallowed thickly when you adjusted your posture again, thigh flexing, tank top riding up a bit more, your sweat-dampened back arching ever so slightly as you reached for another form.

You didn’t look at him when you spoke, but your voice was low and teasing. “Your eyes are gonna burn holes in me if you keep staring like that.”

Bob stiffened in his chair, legs snapping closer together. “I–uh. Wasn’t–” You snorted softly, not buying it for a second.

“You forget how I can feel when you’re looking at me.” You said, still not looking up from your papers, “Your gaze is like a goddamn laser. Feels like I’ve got sunburn from the inside out.” You could hear the hesitation in his breath, the soft rustle of fabric as he fidgeted in his seat, gathering the courage to speak. And then–

“Well…Ev-even though you’re melting…” He started, voice cracking like a sun-baked sidewalk, “I still th-think you’re… pretty.” You paused, pen hovering above a requisition form like you were about to stab a signature into it, then slowly tilted your head up. Your eyes locked onto him from across the room, narrowing ever so slightly.

“Bob,” You warned, a soft edge to your voice. “You know I’m a softie for compliments and your face…”

His lips twitched into a nervous smile, hopeful–but you cut him off.

“…But I swear to God, I think I would kill you if you even attempted to take my clothes off to have sex with me right now.” Bob’s lashes fluttered rapidly and he swallowed hard, the book lowering to his lap slightly.

”I-I was just s-saying you looked p-pretty…” He mumbled, face turning scarlet. You squinted, pointing your pen at him accusingly.

”Yes. And then it escalates. It always escalates.” Bob’s mouth opened like he wanted to object, but you were already rolling, “You say I look pretty, then it’s something about how good I look in the outfit I’m wearing–which is barely even an outfit, mind you–then you get all sentimental and say something sappy like ‘I’m so lucky to have a friend like you’ and ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you’ and blah, blah, blah–I’m not falling for it.” Bob looked like a man trying to explain himself at a trial with no legal counsel.

”I–I didn’t–this time, I wasn’t gonna–“ You lifted a brow, and he wilted a little further into his armchair, “Okay…I might’ve said something sappy later…Maybe.” You snorted and went back to fanning yourself with a requisition form.

”Exactly.”

“But–“ He tried, hands wringing in his lap, “You do look really go-good right now. Even with the sweat…And the uh…Paper stuck to your thigh.” He added. You glanced down and sighed, peeling a requisition form off your leg and flinging it to the side. Bob let out a small laugh at the sight, before lowering his voice.

”I really wasn’t trying to escalate. I know you’d kill me if I even–tried. I’d pr-probably turn into the sun the second I touched you.”

“You would,” You replied firmly, wiping a drop of sweat from your collarbone, “I’d light you up like a match.” There was a pause, then he hummed.

”…It’d still be wo–worth it.” You looked up again, slowly. Bob looked sheepish, guilty, and totally sincere.

“You’re lucky I’m too exhausted to throw something at you.” Bob smiled a little wider now, cautiously hopeful.

”Could I at least get a hug?” You groaned.

”No…”

”A sweaty hug?” He corrected, as you dragged your hands down your face, shaking your head. He stood anyway, walking over with slow, careful steps. You felt his shadow fall over you, tall and soft at the edges, and when you peeked up, he was grinning down at you–dimples and all.

”I’ll just hover then,” He said, crouching next to you and pressing a gentle kiss to your temple, tasting a bead of sweat on his lips, before settling down beside your paper fortress, legs stretching out beside yours.

You let out a soft laugh through your nose–quiet, breathy, the kind of sound that would’ve floated past someone else entirely. But not Bob. Never Bob. He absorbed everything you did like a sponge pressed to water–hyper aware, quietly observant, and always aching in the silence between moments. No matter what you were doing, he always made it feel like he was watching an artist paint their biggest masterpiece.

You could’ve been cleaning blood off your boots, half–catatonic from fatigue, or wearing yesterday’s tank top turned inside out, it didn’t matter to him. He looked at you like he was witnessing a miracle, and it was never just lust that filled his eyes, never only want–it was that stunned, adoring kind of interest that made you feel like the world quieted when you moved.

Even now, in this godforsaken heat, when your skin felt slick and your hair clung to the back of your neck, he sat beside you like he was somewhere sacred. His shoulder barely grazed yours, but you could feel it–the press of his attention, the steady warmth of his presence folding over you like a second sun.

And despite your endless complaints, despite telling him time and time again that you were overheating and one more inch of skin contact might kill you, you were glad he hadn’t listened. Not fully. Because the truth was–you liked that he didn’t give you space. Not really. You liked the orbit of him. The magnetism. The strange, constant gravity that pulled him to you no matter the setting.

Ever since the two of you started hooking up though, that tether had only grown stronger. It didn’t matter if you were in bed or on opposite ends of the training floor–your bodies reached for each other instinctively. Your minds always seemed to be aware of one another in a way that felt cellular.

And though you were actively trying not to spontaneously combust under the heat dome that was the Watchtower, though you’d explicitly told him not to try anything, you still craved him. The pull of his voice, the shape of his breath, the way he sat beside you like you were something holy that made him forget himself.

But until something–anything–cooled you down enough not to literally die during sex, you had to suppress it.

You kept working, even as the sweat made your pen slippery in your grip. Even as your thighs stuck to the hardwood and your spine ached from the sticky angle of your slouch. You scribbled notes into the margins of reports for Val–“Slight concussion, extreme belligerence. Unsure if it was the wound.” All the while, you felt Bob watching you.

Now that he was close, it was worse. His gaze was warm. Not burning. Not greedy. But hot–like you’d stepped into late afternoon sunlight and knew it was going to follow you until dusk. He watched the way your collarbone caught the light, the slow trail of sweat that disappeared beneath the line of your tank top, the rise and fall of your chest like a tide he wanted to wade into.

He could smell you now, too. Your body wash–the mix of basil, blueberry, and lemon–had softened and bloomed in the heat, curling around you like a halo of late-summer air. You smelled like a drink he wanted to taste, a memory he wanted to bottle and keep forever. It made his throat feel thick. It made something ancient and hungry stir in him.

You swiped a hand across your forehead again, let out a huff, signed another sheet–and that’s when you felt his gaze sharpen.

”Bob,” You said dryly, not even glancing at him “Keep your eyes to yours–“

”There’s ic-ice in the freezer,” He interrupted, voice cracking slightly like it was tripping on the edge of his desire. You paused, turning your head toward him with a squint.

”Yeah? And why are you bringing that up so randomly?” His eyes widened at bit, then he flushed, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck–a tell that he was nervous.

”Maybe I want to…Cool you do–down?” Your eyes narrowed, the corner of your mouth twitching up in slow suspicion.

“Yeah? And how would you do that?” He hesitated–just for a moment–and then leaned in ever so slightly, his voice low, uncertain, trembling with barely-leashed tenderness.

”Why don’t you let me sh-show you?” God, the way he said it–it wasn’t a line. It wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t even seductive in the traditional sense. It was something softer than that. Sweeter. Gentler.

It was Bob wanting to worship, not possess. To soothe, not seduce. It was in the way his voice cracked around the word show, like he meant something more than just a practical gesture. Like he wanted to lay you down and press ice to every patch of you that felt too hot, not to make you moan, but to make you breathe again.

Like cooling you down would be an honor.

He wasn’t talking about sex. Not entirely at least. He was talking about the intimacy of care. The small, slow rituals that said I see you, I know you, I’ll take care of this part too.

You felt it in your spine–the way the suggestion settled, the weight of the moment bending inward like a candle flame curling toward its own wax. You turned your head slowly to look at him and found him already watching you with that same melted-lovely stare. Eyes wide. Lips parted. Hope curling behind his lashes.

He looked like he was waiting for permission to make the heat bearable. Waiting to touch you only if it meant relief.

Your throat worked once, then you set your pen down.

“…Alright then, Bob,” You murmured, tilting your head. “Show me.” Bob shot to his feet like a firework, the shift from softness to sudden motion making you laugh a bit. He offered you both hands, palms open, eyes bright with some boyish spark you hadn’t seen since before the heatwave hit.

“C’mon,” He urged, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips like he was already proud of whatever plan had rooted itself in his head. You glanced down at his hands, then back up at him.

”You’re not gonna do it here?” He shook his head quickly, his light brown, sun-kissed strands of hair flopping slightly.

”Tr-Trust me,” He said with a nervous unmistakable glimmer in his eye, “You want to do it in a be-bedroom.” Your stomach flipped. Not because it sounded dirty–though your traitorous mind was already sprinting toward some variation of shirtless–Bob dripping ice water down your spine–but because of the tone, and the way he said it. So sure. So gentle. So full of barely concealed affection. Your skin prickled from anticipation. He helped you up from the floor with ease, and turned, starting for the hallway.

You followed closely behind, your legs stiff and heavy from too much time on the floor. He stopped at the kitchen, and you caught the distinct sound of the freezer opening, the crinkle of plastic, the quiet clatter of something.

Curious, you poked your head around the corner–only to find Bob standing in front of the counter, brow furrowed in focus, tearing open a large bag of ice with his teeth and pouring generous handfuls into a wide stainless steel mixing bowl. The ice chimed and cracked as it landed, a sound almost obscene in the still, overheated silence of the Watchtower.

Your eyebrows rose.

Bob caught your expression immediately and looked sheepish, shrugging one shoulder at you.

”The mo-more the merrier,” He commented, lifting the bowl like a trophy. You huffed a laugh, low and incredulous.

”This is either going to be really sweet or very dumb,” You muttered, shaking your head as he approached.

”It’ll definitely be both.” He replied, not missing a beat.

He took your hand in his free one, fingers warm and steady even as he balanced the cold weight of the bowl in the other. His thumb slid along your knuckles as he led you back down the hallway, his touch grounding despite the faint sheen of sweat that coated you, it only took a few steps until you finally reached your room.

It was hot there. Thick, slow, swampy heat. The kind that stuck to the corners of the ceiling and refused to move. The blackout drapes you’d thrown up were trying their best, but the sun still managed to bleed in around the edges–gold streaks slicing through the air like knives. The only saving grace was the cracked window above your headboard, which at night had allowed the barest hint of a breeze to creep in. It didn’t help much–but it was something at least.

Your room was a lived-in kind of mess. A fan sat on your desk, humming uselessly. There were two half-drunk bottles of water near your nightstand, a crumpled hoodie discarded on the floor, and the sheets were tangled from restless nights. Still, it smelled like you. That same clean, citrus-sweet scent that clung to your skin. Bob inhaled it without even thinking.

He moved with purpose now, stepping around you to the bed, placing the bowl of ice on your side table before grabbing the nearest towel from your hamper–fresh, fluffy, cream-colored. He spread it over the foot of your bed carefully, smoothing out the creases like he was setting a picnic for something sacred.

“Okay,” He said, crouching slightly and patting the towel with one hand, “You sit th–there. And I’ll sit behind you.”

His voice was soft. Intentional. No teasing now–just quiet care threading every syllable. And it did something to you. Something that reached down into the heat-numbed center of your chest and gave it a gentle squeeze.

You obeyed without a word, stepping forward and sitting on the edge of the bed, the towel rough and cool beneath your thighs. You could hear the clink of ice behind you, the shifting of his body as the mattress shifted under his weight. And then, slowly, the warmth of him pressed close behind–legs on either side of yours, his knees bent so he could sit just barely higher, his breath ghosting near the back of your ear.

”Ready?” You nodded–immediately, instinctively–before the word even had time to form in your mouth.

The air was still thick and stifling, but the anticipation split through it like a thunderclap. You heard the soft rustle of movement behind you–the dip of Bob’s arm into the bowl, the telltale clink of shifting ice. A pause. A breath. And then–

Cold.

Your spine arched in reflex as the first piece of ice touched your upper back, the sensation so stark against your overheated skin that you gasped. The cube dragged in a slow, deliberate line between your shoulder blades, leaving a shivering trail in its wake. Your breath hitched.

Bob’s free hand came to rest against your waist–not forceful, not possessive, but anchoring. His palm was hot, fingers splayed across your damp skin like he needed the contact just to stay grounded.

He was slow with it.

The ice danced across your skin, trailing up and then outward over the curve of your right shoulder blade. And then the left. The path was meticulous, methodical, melting little rivers that trickled down the curve of your back until they disappeared into the band of your tank top.

You shuddered–eyes fluttering shut–just as you felt his breath behind you, warm and steady, before his lips grazed your skin.

Bob leaned in.

And then he licked the droplets off your back.

Your entire body jolted like it had been kissed by lightning. His tongue was hot, a perfect, obscene contrast to the cold that came before it. He followed the rivulets the ice had left behind, slow and deliberate, his mouth brushing against your skin with almost unbearable care. You could feel his breath between licks, the air stirring goosebumps in its wake.

“Jesus, Bob…” You whispered, voice already shaky, barely above a breath.

He didn’t respond. He just kept going.

He trailed the ice once more–lower this time, letting the cold slip just beneath the band of your tank top before dragging it back up in a long, trembling sweep. Then came his mouth again. His lips. His tongue. You felt his teeth graze your shoulder–not biting, just there, like he couldn’t help but taste the saltiness of your skin.

Every time he kissed the water from your spine, it felt like he was drinking in something sacred.

You leaned forward slightly, head bowing as your hands clutched at the towel beneath you. Your breathing was shallow, pulse thrumming behind your ears. Bob’s hand on your waist squeezed just once, steadying you.

And then his voice, soft and low and trembling with something barely restrained, broke the silence against the shell of your ear.

“Take off your sh-shirt.”

It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t even a request.

It was a prayer. A plea.

Like he couldn’t bear the barrier between you a second longer. Like he needed more of you, not just for heat or for want, but for relief. For whatever spell that had overtaken both of you in the dense summer silence of your bedroom.

Your fingers moved before your mind caught up. You gripped the hem of your soaked tank top and–slowly, shakily–peeled it upward. It clung to your skin in stubborn patches, lifting in jerks until it passed over your head, leaving you bare from the waist up. Damp. Glowing. Breathing hard.

Bob’s breath stuttered.

You could feel his eyes on your back–devouring, worshiping, stunned silent. You started to turn your head over your shoulder, to ask what he was thinking–but you didn’t get the chance.

Because the next thing you felt was the ice again–this time sliding down your spine unburdened by cloth. And then his mouth. Hot. Open. Worshipful. He let out a soft moan against your skin, the sound low and trembling like it had clawed its way up from somewhere deep. His breath was hot, reverent. “Tastes s–so good…” he whispered, the words pressed into your spine like a confession–fragile and feral all at once.

You felt the faint scrape of his teeth next, dragging along the sensitive ridge of your lower shoulder blade, making your back arch into him involuntarily. His hand–still splayed wide on your waist–tightened once, then slipped away with purpose. A soft clink sounded beside you. Another piece of ice.

And then–

Cold.

This time, not against your back, but your chest.

You gasped–body jolting forward, spine bowing–as the ice skimmed the swell of your breast. The contrast was devastating. Your skin was already buzzing from the heat and his mouth, but the sudden bite of chill stole your breath.

Bob’s lips chased the line of melting droplets down your spine, tongue trailing them like he was memorizing every bead. Every curve. Every shiver.

And then the second piece of ice–still in his other hand–dragged across your chest in slow, deliberate passes. He brought it lower, tracing under the curve of your breast, then–so slowly it almost broke you–up toward your nipple.

Your mouth fell open. A moan spilled out before you could stop it.

“Bob…H–Holy fuck, Bob.”

You felt the corners of his lips lift where they pressed to your back–smirking. Smug and innocent like he hadn’t just unraveled you with frozen water and heat.

“Wh–What?” He asked, faux-innocent, his voice thick and trembling with barely restrained want.

He circled your nipple with the ice–quick, swirling passes that sent lightning through your chest. Then, without warning, he moved to the other, just as devastating.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, half a prayer, half a curse.

Your body leaned back instinctively, seeking him. The moment your spine met his chest, you felt it–all of him. His warmth. The racing thrum of his heart. The hardness pressed beneath his shorts. The quiet tremble in his hands as he reached around you again.

His mouth hovered near your ear.

“Can I…” His voice was barely audible now, so close it vibrated in your bones. “Can I lick the droplets off?”

“Yes,” You breathed, without hesitation. “Yes…”

You felt him smile against your temple. Not greedy. Not cocky. Just grateful. Devoted.

He slipped off the bed slowly, deliberately. His palms ran down your thighs as he sank, and then he was there–on his knees in front of you, golden in the streaks of sun that leaked through the curtain’s edge. His eyes were glassy, wide with awe, his curls damp from sweat, sticking to his forehead. He looked like he was looking at a fever dream.

He reached for the bowl of ice beside him and set it gently on the floor, then looked back up at you with a question in his eyes. You nodded once, breathless.

Bob guided you forward with careful hands, his fingers feather-light beneath your arms as he encouraged you to lean down toward him, your chest close to his lips.

And then–

His mouth latched onto your nipple.

His tongue was warm and needy, lapping at the cold water like it was something holy. You cried out–soft and broken–as he sucked gently, pulling the chill into his mouth and swallowing your heat like he needed it.

At the same time, his hand reached into the bowl and lifted another piece of ice. He guided it slowly to your other breast, circling the nipple with glacial focus, letting it bead and drip while his mouth worked the other in steady, wet rhythm.

Your fingers tangled in his hair.

He moaned softly at that, tongue pressing flatter now, lips tighter, like he couldn’t help himself.

And when you looked down at him, flushed and kneeling between your legs, worshipping you with his mouth and melting ice, you swore you’d never been touched more sweetly in your life.

He pulled off your nipple with a soft, wet pop, licking it one last time, tongue circling tenderly before he released it. His lips grazed the curve of your breast in a gentle kiss, trailing heat in their wake. Then he shifted–slow, purposeful–toward the other, where the ice had melted into a glossy sheen over your skin. He didn’t rush. He paused to admire you, blue eyes glazed with something more than lust–adoration, worship, the kind of awe that made your chest cave in. He was drunk on the taste of your skin, and all he wanted was more.

His mouth sealed around your other nipple with a desperate hunger softened by devotion. His tongue moved languidly, drinking the cold from your body and replacing it with his heat, like he needed to balance you out. As his lips worked, he moved the piece of ice in his hand–down your ribcage, trailing it along the edge of your ribs with devastating slowness.

You gasped when it passed the under-side of your breast, the chill biting in contrast to the molten heat of his mouth, then lower, across the dip of your stomach, inching toward the space just above your navel. You flinched as it reached the sensitive skin right above the waistband of your boyshorts, and he groaned low in his throat in response–like your every twitch was a prayer answered.

Your hands tugged gently at his hair, not to pull him away but to feel something tethered, something grounding, because your entire body was floating–adrift in heat and cold and sensation.

He pulled away from your breast with a breathless sigh, mouth shiny and pink, and leaned in to chase the wet path down your stomach. You watched his tongue trace the same line the ice had carved, warm and wet, mouth open and panting against your navel as he moved lower and lower. Every kiss was a blessing. Every lick, a declaration.

And then he stopped at the waistband.

His nose brushed it gently. His breath was a humid puff across your lower belly. He looked up at you through damp lashes, cheeks flushed, curls curling slightly with sweat, his tongue running absently over his lower lip before he tilted his head–so soft, so careful.

“Can I take these off?” He asked, voice low and quiet, almost bashful despite everything. You nodded immediately, breath hitching.

”Y–Yeah.” He helped you stand with that same steady grace, his thumb sliding along the elastic at your hips, eyes never leaving yours–not even for a second. Then he slowly tugged them down. The fabric peeled from your thighs with a sticky reluctance, damp with sweat and tension and heat. He bent as he went, lowering himself with each inch until he was on his knees again, breath ghosting across your inner thighs.

Your hands trembled as he sat you down at the edge of the bed once more, steadying you with one hand on your hip, the other bracing your thigh. You watched as he pulled your legs gently over his shoulders, a smile coming up on his lips.

Bob’s breath hitched the moment he saw you–already glistening, already soaked, slick with heat and want and sweat. He stared like he couldn’t quite believe you were real, like he’d stumbled into something mythic, something divine. And then, without breaking eye contact, he reached for the bowl.

The ice clinked gently as he dipped his fingers in, searching by feel. When he pulled one out, the cube was already slick in his grip, catching the dim light like crystal. He held it there for a second–then looked up at you.

“C–Can I put this on you?” He asked softly, voice breathless with awe.

You nodded without a pause, lips parted, heart thudding somewhere in your throat. “Yes… do it.”

He smiled.

And then he moved–slow, reverent, a priest in the presence of a miracle.

He brought the ice to your center, resting it just above your clit, and immediately–you felt it. A single drop fell.

You gasped.

The cold dragged across your head, contrasting so violently with the flushed wetness of your core that your hips jerked. Another drop slid between your folds, trailing downward like a teasing finger. Your whole body shivered–and that’s when Bob leaned in.

He licked the first droplet as it passed your clit.

And then he lost himself.

His mouth met you with heat so sharp it made your knees lock around his shoulders. His tongue licked up the length of your folds, slow at first, but with increasing urgency. The chill of the ice was still there–he never removed it, just held it against you, letting it drip while he worshipped you with his mouth.

You moaned–a high, breathless, broken thing–and your fingers dove into his hair, yanking just enough to feel him groan into you. It was obscene.

The ice kept dripping. His mouth kept moving. And the contrast was too much. Cold sliding into hot. Wet meeting wetter. His tongue was everywhere–flicking, flattening, curling against your clit, lapping up the melting droplets like he needed them to survive. Every moan that rumbled from his chest vibrated into you. He wasn’t holding back. He was devouring you.

Feral. Controlled. Utterly consumed.

You tried to speak–tried to tell him how fucking good it felt–but all that came out were broken syllables and a whispered, “Oh my God… Bob, please–”

He answered by moaning into your core, low and guttural, dragging the flat of his tongue up from your entrance to your clit in one long, devastating pass. The ice cube shifted slightly, grazing your skin, making you cry out as your body jolted again.

And then–he slipped two fingers inside you.

You nearly sobbed.

They pushed in slow but deep, curling instantly. He knew exactly where to touch you, exactly how to fuck you with his hand while his mouth never stopped moving. His lips sealed around your clit, tongue swirling, licking away each cold droplet before it even had the chance to fully fall.

“Fuck–Bob–don’t stop, don’t you dare–” You whimpered, legs trembling.

He didn’t.

His fingers thrust harder. His tongue licked deeper. And when you rocked your hips forward–desperate for more–he groaned again, rutting subtly against the bed, lost in the taste of you.

The heat in your belly cracked wide open.

You felt the wave before it hit–felt your thighs tightening, your walls fluttering around his fingers, your back arching towards him.

“Fuck!” You cried, one hand gripping the edge of the sheets, the other twisted tight in his curls. Your orgasm ripped through you like wildfire, your whole body locking up before it collapsed into tremors, your thighs clamped tight around his neck, shaking. He held you through it. Tongue still moving. Fingers slowing just enough to prolong it, to guide you down from the cliff as gently as he’d brought you there.

When your body finally eased, when the waves started to ebb and your limbs stopped trembling, he pulled back–slowly, reluctantly.

His face was soaked.

Completely, reverently drenched. His lips were swollen, his cheeks glistened with your slick, your sweat, and faint trails of melting ice. His eyes were glazed with something carnal, but soft–softer than anything should be after what he just did to you.

He looked like he’d just returned from the edge of something sacred.

He exhaled, licking his lips slowly, pulling his fingers out gently before looking up at you like you’d just changed the orbit of his universe.

“…You ta–taste like fucking salvation,” He whispered, hoarse. Your thighs were trembling, your chest rising in ragged, shuddering breaths, your lips parting in the aftermath of the orgasm he had just wrung from you with nothing but his mouth, fingers, and a melting piece of ice. His tongue darted out again, slowly, to taste the last bead of wetness from your inner thigh.

Then, he lifted his hand–the one still holding the ice cube. It had shrunk to half its size now, slick and trembling between his fingertips. He raised it with the same care you might offer a relic, brushing it over your clit, before pulling it away completely.

”I wa-want you to open your mouth.” He instructed gently. You listened to him without hesitation. Bob brought the ice to his own lips, slipping it into his mouth. His cheeks hollowed as he chewed it slowly, the cold cracking and popping between his teeth. You watched every second like it was a ritual–like he was about to give you something sacred. And he was.

He slid your legs gently from his shoulders and rose to his full height, towering over you in the low, golden light. His face glowed with sweat and flushed a light red, as he cups your cheeks with his hands–fingertips damp, warm, trembling with care–and leaned in until his lips hovered just above yours.

Then–he parted his lips and let the water drip into your mouth.

You moaned at the first taste.

It wasn’t just water. It wasn’t just ice. It was you. Your taste lingered in it–your slick, your arousal, your salt and sweetness and heat. It tasted like shared sin. Like everything Bob had just taken from you with his mouth and was now giving back in liquid communion.

You swallowed slowly, lips brushing his, breath mingling.

And then—he kissed you.

Hard.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was intimate, filthy in how much love was packed between teeth and tongue. His lips crashed against yours, his mouth open, slick, tasting of melted ice and you and him. His tongue slid against yours, greedy and slow, like he was still trying to share the taste of you back and forth between your mouths.

You whimpered, hands flying to the waistband of his shorts, tugging at the tie. It loosened easily in your grip, and his hips jerked forward with a soft, broken sound.

Bob panted into your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re go–gonna get hot again…”

You shook your head, smiling through the haze of pleasure still coiling in your belly. Your voice dropped to a sultry whisper, lips brushing his as you said, “Not if my legs are on your shoulders and you’re fucking me with my hips on the edge of the bed.” His entire body shuddered. His throat bobbed in a tight, desperate swallow. He didn’t even respond. Just–moved.

His shirt was off in seconds, ripped over his head and tossed somewhere you didn’t care about. You moaned at the sight.

You always moaned at the sight.

His chest was flushed and glowing, the heat making every line of him more vivid–shoulders broad, chest rising fast, his skin glistening with sweat and want. And then–his shorts dropped. He stepped out of them like he was shedding a burden. His cock sprang free, hard and leaking, twitching at the air between you. He was painfully ready, his tip flushed, veins prominent along the shaft, his body trembling with restraint he no longer seemed interested in holding.

And still–he looked at you like you were a miracle.

He kissed you again before you could speak, devouring your mouth with a groan, hands gripping your hips with reverent, aching need.

Bob pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead still resting against yours, his chest rising and falling with ragged urgency. His blue eyes flicked over your face, searching, drinking you in like you might vanish if he blinked. You could feel the tremble in his thighs, the barely-restrained hunger in the way his grip tightened on your hips.

Then–gently–he guided you backward.

Your body yielded beneath his touch, melting into the mattress as your back met the damp sheets. The towel beneath you was bunched and wrinkled now, forgotten. All that mattered was him. The way he looked at you like you were something sacred, and the reverent hush that settled over the room as he bent to his knees on the bed, positioning himself above you.

He slid one arm beneath your thigh, guiding your hips down the bed ever so slightly, adjusting your body with the same care one might use to arrange something fragile–something precious. His touch was patient, but deliberate, until your hips were at the edge of the mattress and your legs could rise, slow and trembling, to rest over his shoulders.

The moment your calves draped across his skin, he paused. His breath hitched. You watched the awe flash across his face as he looked down at you–completely bare, flushed, and glistening with sweat. Your fingers reached for his hand, and he found yours instantly, weaving his fingers through yours, palms pressing tight like a lifeline.

Then–

He pressed his cock against your entrance.

The head of him was thick and hot, sliding slowly through your slick folds, smearing himself in the mess he had coaxed from you with ice and mouth and praise. He nudged your entrance gently, gliding in just enough to make your breath catch. Your lashes fluttered. His hips paused, trembling with restraint.

And then–he pushed.

You both moaned–broken and breathless–as he sank into you inch by inch. The stretch was slow, deliberate, perfect. His cock filled you in a way that made your whole body seize with need, the stretch burning just enough to make you tremble. He pressed forward until he was fully seated inside you–his hips flush with yours, his body rigid above you, the head of him brushing so deep you swore you saw stars.

Your hand tightened in his. His head dropped slightly, lips parting with a shaky groan.

“F-fuck…You feel so good…” He whispered, his voice hoarse, eyes screwed shut in overwhelmed bliss. Then, after a breathless second, he leaned down and kissed your calf–softly, reverently–before he started to move.

The first thrust was slow. Gentle. A pull and press that made your hips rock into his instinctively. He dragged his cock almost all the way out before easing back in, groaning at the way your walls clung to him.

You gasped, back arching. “Bob…”

He began a rhythm. Measured. Loving. Each thrust slow and deep, dragging against every aching spot inside you until your thighs were trembling and your core was fluttering with need. The sounds were obscene–wet, slick, breathless. Every push of his hips made you gasp. Every roll of your body made him moan.

“Feel so perfect,” He panted, his free hand sliding to your waist to anchor you. “So warm…So fucking tight…Fuck–”

He picked up the pace just slightly, hips rocking harder now, deeper. Your body jolted with each motion, the slap of skin against skin echoing beneath the hum of the useless fan in the corner.

Your walls began to pulse around him. You whimpered, breath shattering.

“I’m–I’m close…”

That was all it took for him to unravel a little more.

He let go of your hand and leaned down, bringing his weight forward until your knees were nearly touching your chest, his chest flush with yours, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss so hungry it knocked the breath out of you. He moaned into your mouth as he thrust harder, deeper, every drag of his cock stealing another cry from your throat.

Your legs tightened around his shoulders. His thrusts grew rougher, more desperate.

“I’m go–gonna finish so deep inside you,” He groaned into your mouth, voice low and trembling. “I’m gonna fill you up so fuckin’ deep–you’re ne–never going to get rid of me.” Your entire body convulsed.

The orgasm hit like a wave, hot and endless. Your mouth fell open in a soundless cry as your back arched off the bed and your walls clamped down around him, milking his cock with fluttering, pulsing waves of pure pleasure.

“Fuck–fuck fuck fuck–” Bob gasped, his rhythm faltering. And then–with one final, deep thrust–he came.

He buried himself to the hilt, cock twitching inside you as he spilled into you in thick, hot waves. You gasped as you felt it–his cum filling you, warm and devastating, the heat of it flooding your already over-sensitized body. His cock pulsed with every spurt, deep inside, pressed right against your cervix. Your hands clutched his back, fingers digging into his shoulders as you gasped in pure, broken pleasure.

You could feel it.

The way it filled you. Coated you. Seeped so deep it felt like you were glowing from the inside out.

Bob moaned against your mouth, his hips stuttering once, twice, as he gave you the last of it, trembling. He stayed like that, buried in you, his forehead pressed to yours, your legs still locked over his shoulders.

The room was quiet but for the panting–your breaths, tangled and uneven, and his, rasping against your skin like wind through trees. Your hands slowly began tracing soft, lazy circles along his shoulders, fingertips dragging through the sweat and heat still clinging to his flushed skin. You could feel the way he was still trembling–just a little–from the aftershocks. Every breath he took made his chest rise against yours, pressed so tightly together it was hard to tell where your heartbeat ended and his began.

And then–he laughed.

Quiet and disbelieving. Almost dazed.

You tilted your head, blinking up at him. “What?”

Bob shook his head, curls sticking adorably to his damp forehead, a flushed, crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were half-lidded but glowing.

“You ju–just have so much control over me…” He murmured, voice still breathless. “And I lo–love it so much.”

Your lips curled in a slow, sultry smirk. You kissed him–soft and sensual, dragging your mouth across his like you had all the time in the world. You felt him melt into it, sighing, his hips still pressed to yours, his body heavy with contentment and heat.

Then–slowly–you slipped your legs down from his shoulders. The stretch burned instantly, a ripple of dull ache shooting through your inner thighs. You let out a soft groan, your face twitching at the sting.

Bob pulled back, eyebrows immediately knitting in concern. “You okay?”

You nodded, exhaling through the slight discomfort. “Yeah. Just…a little sore from the position. I may be flexible during missions, but when I have the weight of you pressing into me like that…” You gave him a pointed, teasing look. “It’s a different story.”

He flushed at the implication, letting out a shy little laugh before you reached up and brushed a strand of damp hair from his forehead. Your fingers lingered on his cheek, tracing the curve of it with a tenderness that made his lashes flutter.

Bob leaned into your palm instinctively, eyes slipping shut. Then he cracked a smile again, eyes twinkling with something mischievous.

“Y’know wh–what would be great?” He asked softly, voice low and hopeful.

You hummed. “What?”

He leaned forward until his nose brushed yours, his voice a conspiratorial whisper:

“A shower with you… Pr-Preferably a warm one. So neither of us are miserable.”

You huffed a laugh through your nose, shaking your head as affection welled up in your chest. “Sounds good…” You whispered. “Can you carry me to the bathroom?”

His brows raised like you’d just told him the sun rose for him. “Of co–course,” he said with no hesitation, already shifting. “Only you deserve the five star treatment.”

You let out a soft laugh as he gently pulled out, the stretch and warmth making you sigh, his cum slipping and pooling between your thighs with a hot, sticky glide. He moved carefully, placing a kiss on your collarbone before sliding his arms between your back and the mattress.

You yelped lightly as he scooped you up in one smooth motion–like you weighed nothing at all. His strength was effortless, infused with the serum but wrapped in the gentleness that was uniquely Bob. He held you against his chest like you were precious cargo, one hand tucked under your knees, the other cradling your back.

You looped your arms around his neck, resting your chin on his shoulder, your lips finding the warm skin there in a soft kiss. He smiled at the contact, turning his head to nuzzle your temple as he carried you toward the bathroom.

With one foot, he kicked the door open, stepping over discarded clothes and damp towels without missing a beat. The bathroom light flicked on, flooding the space with soft golden glow. You heard the quiet thud of the door shutting behind him and the click of the lock.

The air inside was warm already–trapped heat lingering from earlier, but not unbearable. You felt it shift as Bob moved toward the shower and set you gently on the counter’s edge, making sure you were stable before reaching for the faucet.

The pipes groaned as the water sputtered to life. Within seconds, warm steam began curling in lazy tendrils from behind the frosted glass.

Bob turned back to you with a smile, silhouetted in the hazy light, and asked softly, “Sh-shampoo or no shampoo?”

You grinned, eyes heavy, heart full.

“Shampoo,” You murmured. “Might as well go for the full spa package.”

He chuckled, Bob turned back from the shelf with your preferred shampoo already in hand, fingers slick from the steam curling up around you both. He stepped into the shower first, testing the water with his wrist, then held a hand out for you to follow. You took it wordlessly, skin still flushed and legs still weak, letting him guide you under the cascade of warmth.

The water streamed down your back in lazy waves, soothing the tension from your spine as Bob gently eased your head back beneath the spray. His touch was careful, reverent. Once your hair was wet enough, he tipped the bottle, squeezing a dollop into his palm, and then set to work.

His fingers threaded through your scalp like he was touching something sacred, slow and deliberate, working the shampoo in with gentle pressure. He never scratched too hard, never rushed. It was more massage than anything–his knuckles dragging lazy circles, thumbs brushing along your hairline, his eyes locked onto you the whole time like you were the most important thing he’d ever been trusted to care for.

Just before he let you rinse, he leaned in again–lips pressing to your collarbone in a kiss so soft it barely registered, just heat and breath and affection. And then his voice, low and warm and dripping with adoration, spilled over you like another layer of steam.

“You’re incredible…So fucking beautiful. Yo-You know that, right? So smart…So strong, and you let me–let me to–touch you like this, hold you like this. God, I’m so lucky. You taste like the sun. You feel like home. You make everything good again…”

You huffed a soft breath, overwhelmed and flustered, tilting your head just slightly to rinse the lather away. Bob’s hands helped guide the water down, careful not to splash you in the face. When you blinked through the droplets, still breathless from how he spoke like worship poured from his chest, you couldn’t help but murmur:

“You’re always so soft after sex.”

Bob stilled behind you for a moment, as if processing it. Then he leaned forward, voice tinged with surprise and a faint, teasing pout. “Am I no-not soft any other times?”

You laughed, turning in the warm spray to face him, droplets beading along his flushed collarbones. “You’re soft other times, Bob. But you’re way more soft after sex. Like…Melted marshmallow soft.”

He grinned, cheeks going red as he ducked his head slightly, the water slicking his hair to his forehead. “Well…We are releasing bo-bonding hormones, so…” He said with a small shrug, “How could I not want to be attached to you and be so–soft with you?”

You stepped closer, chest brushing his. Your lips met his in a warm, lingering kiss, water slipping between you as your hands smoothed up his arms. “You’re right…”

What followed was a slow, shared ritual of care. Bob washed your body in sections, treating each limb like it deserved a love letter. He murmured praise against your shoulder, your belly, the back of your knee. His hands glided with reverence, touching as if your skin might flake away like ash if he wasn’t gentle. And when it was your turn, you returned the care—rubbing slow circles into his broad back, tracing over his chest, lathering his curls with the same tenderness he’d shown you.

“You smell like sunshine and sin,” he whispered as you rinsed him off. “Like citrus and heaven. Like something I’m not supposed to touch, but I get to anyway.”

You giggled softly, pressing your lips to his neck. “You’re insufferable.”

“You love it,” He breathed, eyes glowing.

You were just about to pull him into another kiss–foreheads close, smiles sticky sweet–when a shout rang out through the compound, muffled by walls but unmistakably furious:

“WHO TOUCHED MY BAG OF ICE!?”

You both froze.

Then, slowly, your gazes turned toward each other–eyes wide, lips twitching.

“…Oh no,” You whispered.

Bob’s eyes went round with guilt. “I-I’ll buy her another one–”

“She’s gonna kill us,” You said flatly.

And then the both of you burst out laughing, muffling the sound in each other’s shoulders as the water kept streaming, and the heat of the Watchtower still pressed in around you–but somehow, in that tiny sanctuary of steam and love and whispered giggles, you barely felt it anymore.

[farrikdanked]

Jesus fucking Christ this was phenomenal

𝐬𝐮𝐧 𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐧𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5,067

𝐀𝐎𝟑

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: when she went missing, disappeared without a trace, it was almost like a deep seated black hole found it's way into rhetts chest, as he recalls all his time spent with her admist trying to find answers, the deep seated energy of the cursed lands they live on come apart to make way for lovers to find each other again.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: blood, car crash, supernatual elements, death.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: here it is, may or may not have felt my heart break just a little bit, but i really hope you've all enjoyed this series as much as i have. there's a lot here that's been left unanswered, because i wanted it to reflect a very real part of grief and loss. all i can say, is i hope you've enjoyed reading a house in nebraska series.

47 hours, it had been 47 hours since he’d last slept.

the wounds in his face had grown to their worst extent, the bruises across his face and their dark coloring only amplified but the lack of sleep, leaving his eyes sunken and his mind woozy.

his encounter with the shadow in his hallway, the images he’d been shown, he had not been able to stop thinking about them for even a split second.

each time he’d tried to close his eyes all he could see was that image of being held under water, hands around his neck brushing against his skin as his screams only produced bubbles.

it seemed that whatever force had chosen to show him this vision was insistent, desperate.

The only time he’d left the house, he’d been met with a series of stares and odd looks, the wounds and bruises on his face being more than enough of an attractor, but the troubled look on his face and reddened eyes from lack of sleep was more than enough. He could only ignore the way he was stared at, keep his head down and avoid any and all conversation for the time being.

Part of him could already feel the way the town was beginning to isolate him, word travelled quick, and he had no doubt within him that the fight he’d been the center of only a few nights ago had already made it’s way to the ears of every member of this community, painting him as unstable, presently not helped by his demanour.

When he’d stopped to fill his truck up, even there he felt the looks, the staring.

Going inside to pay, the woman at the counter seemed nervous to even hold eye contact with him, her fearful response to him only able to pull a small huff from his lips as he filed through the bills in his wallet in order to pay for his gas.

Throwing them against the counter, he watched the woman place it into the register and gather up his change, his busted lip doing nothing to hide the frown on his face as she held out the change for him.

Just as his hand reached out, the woman, seemingly desperate to avoid their hands touching in the slightest, allowed the coins to drop out of her own hand and drop onto the floor.

Whether it was purposeful or not, rhett decided he didn’t want to waste any more time, reaching down to pick up the coins bit by bit, letting out a soft grunt from the still tender muscles and bruises over his body being strained.

Even over the sound of his own head thrumming, he’d heard the gasp clear as day, soft and yet sharp, his head flew back up quickly to look at the woman, standing up at he saw her gaze to be aimed towards his chest, his hand coming up to feel for anything, looking down to try and see what had shocked her.

His blood ran cold as his fingers grazed over the cool metal of the cross necklace that had fallen from under his shirt.

Looking back up at the woman, the pair of them seemed to have a moment of complete silence exchanged between them, her eyes staying trained on his as if he might strike any second.

The seconds felt like eternity as they stood across from one another, only ending when rhett quickly turned and left, tucking the cross back into his shirt and going for his truck.

maybe that was why despite everything he’d been taught about the dangers of driving while sleep deprived, he was drving either way, his hand gripping the leather steering wheel with the look of a man who knew exactly what he was looking for, even if he himself had no clue what he was after.

the roads were dark now, no full moon in the sky to light his way this time, he could only see what was a few meters ahead of him with the yellowed head lights.

-

her feet were placed on the dashboard, eyes shut as she allowed the wind from the open window to brush across her face, some small escape from the july heat that was glaring down on the small town below.

his own eyes were trained in the road, silence overtaking the pair as they travelled, neither of them knew where they were heading, just that a drive had seemed to be what they needed; maybe they could find some peaceful stretch of field hidden from view, lay on the grass and watch the clouds.

as much as he shouldn’t take his eyes off the road, he couldn’t help himself but look upon her, the picture of an angel being kissed by the sunlight sitting right here in his dingy messy truck.

he didn’t deserve that.

the way he’d lived his life thus far hadn’t constituted being so blessed with her, he hadn’t held himself in a way that was deserving of such a beautiful creature sat beside him.

“eyes on the road angel.”

even with her eyes shut, somehow she’d known he was staring, her nickname for him used affectionately yet still carrying a warning tone.

he could only let out a smile and keep driving, turning his attention back to the road.

sometimes he’d have sworn she had eyes on the back of her head, the way she always seemed so aware of her surroundings, like she saw with more than just her eyes.

he was convinced that she was gonna outlive him purely based on that alone, like she was protected.

“what’d you tell him this time?”

his question caused the smile to fade from her face, her eyes opening for the first time in awhile since they’d started their drive.

she hadn’t answered at first, kept her eyes trained on the distance as she considered her next words, almost as if she was bothered by the question.

“he won’t even notice i’m gone, he’s working in that damn shed all day today.”

his brows furrowed at her answer, not wanting to face the risk of her father going looking for her, but he allowed her the favor of not digging further, trusting that she knew her father well enough.

even then, her eyes stayed open, her face carrying an unease to it until they’d finally arrived in the field of their choice.

a sea of yellowed grass stood before them, soft to the touch almost like a bed, easy and comfortable enough for them to settle onto and lay in each others arms, talking about whatever came to mind as they stared up at the sky, admiring the tops of the tree lines sneaking into the view.

“i don’t wanna die here.”

her words had taken him aback, his head lifting from its spot to look over at her, their hands touching as they laid there.

“huh?” his response showed his confusion, rising to his elbows as he allowed himself to turn on his side and look at her properly.

“what dya’ mean?”

“one day we’re gonna pack our things and leave.” she stated matter a factly, her eyes never leaving the sky until she finally rolled onto her side, her head remaining on the grass as she reached across the run a soft hand over his stubble.

“we could do it. just grab what we can and run.”

the lack of smile on her face told him she was completely serious, that her heart was set and nothing in this universe, including him, could change her mind.

his silence breathed anxiety across her face, her brows upturning and he stared back at her, waiting for the moment he dismissed her and called her nuts for thinking she was gonna get out of here.

instead, he leaned his face into her hand, shutting his eyes and breathing in the scent of her perfume before nodding his head.

“i guess i don’t have a choice but to go with you.”

his words brought a wide smile to her face, her excitement responding only causing her to launch forward and capture his lips, overjoyed at the silent pact they had made, the promise to each other that they’d run together.

run.

-

it was barely above a whisper, and yet when he’d heard it, the sharp hiss of that word from the back seat of his truck, he’d hardly had time to regain control as he let out a yell and turned quickly to see the empty back seat.

he’d fucking heard it; even if it was a whisper he’d known it was her voice, hissed out with a sense of urgency.

the wheels screeched, fighting back against his quick steering as he felt himself lurch to the side, his truck veering to the side quicker than he could control, his startled turn leading straight towards a tree in the side of the road.

unable to regain control quick enough, he’d watched his lights flash against the tree line, split seconds passing before his hands came up to his face, bracing himself for impact.

the last thing he heard, the sound of glass shattering and the crash of metal against bark.

the last thing he saw, the image in his rear view mirror.

as his exhaustion came back with a fiery vengeance, as well as the shock of his truck crashing into a tree, he could only fight back against the urge to pass out for so long.

yet as his eyes grew heavy, the pain beginning to go numb, he could see the image of something passing near his truck, his head lifting for a few mere seconds to see what was now standing a few meters away.

a pair of glowing eyes, staring across at him from the other side of the road.

Somehow even in his state, he knew it was the same pair of eyes, the same ones that had nearly caused him to crash only three days ago, now looking at the wreck with an overwhelming sense of satisfaction.

His chest burned with anger, his skin growing hot, so much so he was surprised that the blood over his face hadn’t begun to boil.

Summoning the strength from his anger, he managed to wrench the seatbelt off of him, the door swinging open, it felt like slow motion, the pain his his body screaming and begging for him to stop, yet he continued, practically falling out of the drivers seat and onto the dirt.

The coyote hardly seemed phased by his movements, just as last time, it stayed perfectly still and unmoving, staring him down with unblinking eyes, those same eyes that seemed to observe with the intelligence of something inhuman.

Crawling across the dirt, he found himself getting closer and closer to the animal, reaching his bloodied hand out towards it, only to find himself finally succumbing to the exhaustion he’d been fighting against for the past two days. Head hitting the dirt ground with a dull thump.

-

When he’d opened his eyes, he was no longer laying in the dirt, instead he had found himself standing alone in a field of yellowed grass, his vision limited apart from the moonlight.

It had taken him a moment, but he’d quickly recognised this place as the field they’d promised each other that they would run away together, even down to the flattened area of grass at his feet where they’d been laying, as if it was only that same day.

He felt stuck, unable to move from the spot he was standing, like his feet were being buried in the grass, like roughspun rope holding him in place with absolutely no means of escape.

Everywhere he looked there was only the dark tree line, a circle entrapping him. His mind was spinning as he turned, his heart beginning to race.

The sounds were quiet as first, cutting through the booming silence, the only bit of noise in this entire place, no rustle of trees or soft wind, only those sounds like a wounded animal, growing louder and louder until they began to melt into the sounds of human screams.

His head ached, the sound coming across as similar to nails on a chalkboard, blood curdling screeches against his brain making him kneel over and try to place his hands over his ears for any relief from the sounds that felt like they were now coming in all different directions, a chorus of the same scream all coming at him from every direction.

As quick as it had started, the screams let up almost instantly, dead still silence once again taking over the hellscape he found himself in.

Opening his eyes, he took his hands off of his ears and tried to look out into the darkness for any sign of what it was that was making the sounds before, only to find nothing but forest staring back at him.

In the corner of his eyes, he could see only small whispers of movement, a flash of white against the darkened treeline surrounding him, seemingly coming from any and all direction, only to disappear as soon as she looked directly at it.

He could feel the panic finally beginning to set in, his head whipping in any direction it could, desperately trying to lay eye’s upon whatever it was running against the treeline, taunting him silently.

His chest rose and fell heavily, his panting beginning to be the only sound that could be heard, no echo or brush of leaves against one another, just his ramming heartbeat and panting, his own head beginning to feel dizzied, his eyes growing heavy as his sight grew blurred.

Almost as if it was instantaneous, his head stopped looking around, his eye’s landing on a sight that seemingly ripped the dizziness from him, everything in that moment seeming to grow to a cracking standstill.

Only a few meters directly in front of him, there she stood, her white church dress flowing despite the absence of any wind, her back turned to him, only being graced with the sight of her hair against her back.

He’d tried to call out her name, yet the words were stuck in his throat, almost as if there was some other force keeping him from trying to call for her, imprisoning his own voice in his chest.

His instinct caused him to fight against whatever it was keeping him stood there, summoning what he could of his strength to finally pull himself to her, to grab her arm and run away out of this hellscape.

As his desperation grew, his mouth opened, a silent scream leaving his throat, veins developing on his temple from how hard he was trying to scream for her, tears beginning to well up in his eye’s as she stood only meters away from him, unable to hear him.

Finally, as if whatever force was keeping him stood still had finished having its fun with him, almost instantaneously he felt himself free’d from the confines of the ground below him, sending him flying forward onto the ground, gripping the thick grass instantly and trying to pull himself back up.

Looking up and ahead, where she had once stood only meters away, she was now stood in front of him, her eyes staring down at him with a look of helplessles.

Unlike whatever it was that had manifested in his apartment, she wasn’t drenched in water, now, here she was in front of him, just as beautiful as the last time he’d seen her, her skin practically glowing, her eyes still carrying that same look of mystery that they always had.

Here she was now in front of him, as if she’d never left him in the first place.

Even if neither was able to speak, Rhett still found himself able to at leasy reach forward and place his hand against her cheek, his rough hand coming across her skin only to feel as if he was touching a cloud, so soft and almost transparent as if she was made of smoke. Her eyes grew sadder as his hands barely brushed against her skin, her brows furrowing in the same that they always had, making him feel as if she knew more than he was ever capable of knowing, that her knowledge of this world seemed to greatly outweigh his own, a wisdom he could never hope to compare to, only matched up with a great sadness.

As he look back at her, his own brows furrowed, a pained look on his face, unable to express it in words; her hands coming up to ghost touches of her fingers against his cheeks, only able to find himself shutting his eyes and relishing the feeling he’d been craving for so long, the feeling of her heavenly touch against his skin.

He could only relish the feeling, feel his heart immediately calmed by her touch, only appreciate it for as long as it might last, allowing her to tell him she loved him in the only way she was able to.

Just as it had been so many other countless times, when his eyes finally reopened, he was no longer in that darkened field, now finding himself staring up at the night sky, the smell of his crashed turck accompanied by the now present sound of wind against leaves, the soft chirping of animals in the distance, sound returning to his ears as he lay against the dirt road he had passed out on, how long ago, he had no clue.

His body ached each time he moved, only able to let out a grunt as he slowly rose to his feet, blood already gathered around his nose, new injuries added onto the ones he’d previously incurred.

Staring at the dirt ground in front of him, his eyes glared into the spot where the coyote had once stood, tracks of small paw prints showing him where the animal had headed, a trail which seemed to call out to him, daring him to follow.

Only able to muster up what small bit of rationality he could, he held a hand against his aching rib, slowly beginning to follow the trail of coyote tracks presented to him, something deep in his stomach making it seem like this was the only reasonable course of action to take from there.

-

The woods hadn’t always been the most romantic place in the world, but there was only so many places the pair of them were able to sneak around without being seen, a small town of gossiping wives was a recipe for disaster anyhow.

At least here, as the sun reached through the cracks in the tree’s and down upon them, they had their only little slice of heaven here, alone and safe from the prying eyes of everybody else around them.

His lips molded against her’s in a way that suggested they had been shaped just for one another, his hands against her waist in a silent promise of safety, holding her softly against a tree as he continued to steal kisses from her, the soft giggles that sounded like bells sounding out as he moved his soft kisses to her cheek and forehead, unable to stop peppering his lips against the skin of her face.

Bringing her hands up to push him away softly, she could only smile up at him, her eyes seemingly pouring with a look of love and admiration, looking up at him as if he were blessing come to life and stood in front of her.

“I love you Rhett Abbot.”

Her words took him aback only for a second, her hand coming to rest on his cheek and run her thumb softly against his rough skin, her words only seemed to summon a deep warmth within his chest, a feeling of utter euphoria.

“You can say things like that to me, dandelion..”

His response made her head tilt, her brows furrowing only for Rhett to lean in and steal another kiss, his hands resting on her cheeks as he shut his eyes, letting his lips mold over her own all over again, pressing his body against her own.

Pulling away, he let his forehead rest against her’s, smiling deeply and keeping his eyes closed in order for him to appreciate the moment of serenity they were entrapped in.

“Now i’m never gonna let you go.”

His promise brought a smile to her face, letting her eyes remain closed as she inhaled his scent, the smell of woodfire’s on his flannel button down, the taste of bourbon on his lips, he was like her own personal aphrodisiac.

A mutual promise to one another, a vow of love and protection, stronger than any silver band or blessings read out by a priest, a unbreakable bond now shared between the two of them, never to be severed so long as they still breathed air.

-

The forest wasn’t filled in with sun anymore, it was almost completely dark, save for the moonlight shining in through the cracks in the tree’s, illuminating just enough for him to still follow to seemingly neverending coyote tracks before him.

Each step he took seemed to bring pain searing across his body, the sharp prain against his rips now presenting him with the feeling of a hot wetness against his hand, a feeling which he chose to ignore, some other part of him, desperation screaming out to him to continue following the tracks in front of him.

He had not idea what he was looking for, no clue what he hoped to find when he finally finished following the paw prints against the dirt ground, he could only continue, fight through the pain as he persevered.

It seemed that the further and further into the forest he became, he could only feel as overwhelming sense of fear beginning to take over, fear that didn’t feel like his own, like an imprint of emotions had been left behind, like the smell of smoke that never seems to be able to washed out.

Something terrible had happened on the ground where he was standing and he could practically feel it emanating from the ground below his feet.

Only continuing on, he wouldn’t allow himself to be distracted by whatever was seemingly trying to distract him, the eyes that he could feel watching him, the way he could have sworn he could hear his footsteps echoing around him, until they seemingly began to turn into footsteps of their own, like he was being followed.

He continued until his entire shirt had begun to be soaked with his own blood, the pain beginning to feel more like a dull numbness, to the point he hardly even recalled what had caused the open wound in the first place, a piece of metal from his truck? Maybe glass? He could hardly remember.

The coyote tracks seemed never ending, as if the animal had gone on for hours, it now felt like hours that he’d been trailing the damned thing, trying so desperately when he didn’t even know what he was being led to.

As much as he’d recalled her warnings about the animal, it now seemed like the only reasonable thing to do, at this point he would have done anything just to know what happened, even if he could never hold her in his arms again.

When the tracks finally came to a halt, it felt almost purposeful, the clearing in the sea of tree’s presenting moss covered rocks and a body of water that he could have sworn seemed familiar to him, and yet his brain couldn’t comprehend where.

Stumbling further into the clearing he’d seemingly been led to, he could see movement out of the corner of his eye, only able to whip his head around, laying eyes on the very same animal he’d been following this entire time.

Now seemingly perched on one of the many moss covered rocks littered around him, it stared down at him with those same eyes that had glared across at him so many times now.

Silence overtook the pair of them, seemingly just staring each other down, yet no where near in a way that told him the animal felt threatened by his presence, if anything, it was the other way around. “What do you want huh?” his words were croaked, his injury now making itself more known than ever, sending shockwaves of pain all across his body each time he moved, his hand resting against it, his body beginning to crouch slightly.

No answer, of course there wouldn’t be, it was an animal, why would it answer him.

And yet, he couldn’t help but feel like it was trying to tell him something, waiting for something to click in his own mind.

“What the fuck do you want!”

His scream echoed throughout the tree’s travelling across the forest, the coyote seemingly having no reaction, only allowing it’s gaze to travel away from Rhett’s own, seeming to catch something a few meters away, closer to the body of water.

The dread he’d been feeling since he stepped foot in the forest, the pit of fear deep in his stomach that had seemed to never go away, the source was there before him, his heart feeling as if it was beginning to shatter, heat travelling across his entire body as he could make out what it was.

“Oh jesus christ.” his voice broke, wobbling out of his throat as his lip trembled, silently he begged for it not to be what he throught it was, tears welling up in his eyes already.

“Please god no..” his prayers were useless, his words going unheard on deaf ears as he began to step towards the shape poking out of the water, a glimpse of white fabric, the sight of dark hair clinging to skin.

The closer he became, he couldn’t help the bile rising from his stomach, only able to keel over and let the contents of his almost empty stomach empty onto the ground, the dread causing such an adverse physical reaction he almost felt like he was dying.

Just as nearly came to stand right above where she was lying upon the grass, he felt his own body give way, the wound in his side seeming to finally claim what little of his strength he had left, only leaving him bleeding into the moss below.

Digging his fingers into the ground, he continued to her, crawling and dragging his body closer and closer, ignoring the way he could feel his own body beginning to give out at any moment.

His muscles burned, his head spun, yet he continued, finally coming to lay beside where she laid as well.

Even if she had been missing for nearly two months, she still seemed pristine, as if nature had barely taken ahold of her; by some odd force that he had little hope of understanding, she hadn’t changed in the slightest. Her hair was still wet, her eyes staring up at the night sky as if she was still making shapes out of the stars like she’d always used to, the red marks in the shape of hands on her throat seemingly the only stain across her skin, looking like a china doll made of the most priceless material on earth.

His heart ached in a way he’d never felt before, as if this was comparable to finding out she’d even gone missing in the first place, this was worse than the physical pain his body was going through, this was as if someone was ripping part of his very soul away.

Pure and utter turmoil, his throat only able to let out deep and guttural sobs as he placed a hand across her cheek like he had always used to, swearing that she still felt warm, like she’d been doing nothing except laying here waiting for him.

“I-I’m here now dandelion.”

He tried to comfort her, just as if she’d only scraped her knee and wasn’t laying dead before him.

“Its okay, you’re safe now.” his voice broke, taking her hand in his and bringing her knuckles to his lips to kiss her skin softly.

He let himself roll onto his back softly, keeping her hand interlocked tightly in his own, letting his eyes roll up to look at the stars above them, the pair of them now laying there staring up at the constellations that they’d have previously spent so long looking up at on those summer july nights.

“Lets just rest here for a moment.”

His voice was hardly above a whisper, the wound in his side ripping the last inkling of his voice away from him, his bloodloss making his skin white, his eyes hollowed.

Somehow, despite the pain in his heart, there was some small part of him that began to feel relief, even as his consciousness began to slip away from him, he gripped her hand tightly, feeling at least the smallest bit of satisfaction knowing that they were together again.

The forest had always seemed determined to bring her back to him, just like he’d promised so long ago, she was never going to be away from him for long, they’d vowed that to each other, that very same unbreakable promise, made in that very same forest.

-

Its so quiet here.

Nothing but the sound of peace, soft winds and the sound of grass swishing against itself.

The sun always shines on their skin, keeps them warm as they lay together, an eternity of peace, far from anything that could ever hurt them.

All they do all day is lay in each others arm’s and whisper prayers of devotion to one another, day and night, when the sun goes down and the moon takes its place.

Nobody ever found them; just as she’d disappeared so did he, his truck being the last evidence of his existence on this planet, the wreck on the side of the dirt road.

No missing poster ever went up for him, just as her’s were eventually taken down.

Here they’re protected from the prying eyes of all the others that would have judged them, here they only have each other.

And that’s closer to heaven than most people ever find in their life.

-

taglist: @peachyrue-777 . @definitelykyles .

[farrikdanked]

thanks to hangman || bob floyd

includes: smut 18+, fem! reader, abs riding, doggy style, mating press(?) but not really, praise.

+

sometimes, you really wanted to shove a sock down hangman’s throat just so he could shut the fuck up for once.

you had enough of him bullying your poor wso. robert floyd was a ray of sunshine—how jake managed to terrorize him day and night had you beat. he always shot bob down, making sleazy comments about his appearance or his nerdiness. he’d claim it was all in good fun, but you couldn’t tolerate his behavior anymore.

of course, sweet bob never complained. he took hangman’s torment all with an easy stride and an adorable smile; the right corner of his lips curling up in a way that was just so bob. even when jake made a particularly demeaning comment about bob’s sex life—the joke honing in on the lack thereof—bob just pursed his lips together and gave a nod. however, he did have his moments when he’d sass back at hangman—phoenix’s influence, no doubt—but still, you wanted hangman to eat his words.

so you came up with a plan.

you always had a thing for bob, you won’t deny it. but you figured he was the type to have a wife and 2 kids back in lemoore that he just never spoke about, according to rooster’s teasing, at least. so you never asked, never made a move—partially too scared to find out if it was true.

until now.

you knocked three times on the door of his quarters, which just so happened to be right next door to hangman…how convenient.

bob opened his door and you didn’t miss the way his eyes slightly widened behind those glasses. “oh, uh…hi?” he greeted, clearly confused by your unannounced visit. you don’t blame him.

“hi, bob. mind if i come in?” you asked nicely with a smile.

he eyebrows arched up slightly but he found himself opening the door wider to let you in, “no, c’mon in…” he said, albeit his tone was hesitant.

you thanked him and stepped inside. your eyes swept around the humble-sized room. the room’s setup was identical to yours and everyone else’s, but you admired the subtle ways bob tried to fill in the sterile cracks with pieces of home—from posters to picture frames, and even a crocheted throw pillow that you assumed either his mom and grandmother made for him.

“did you want to talk about my performance today or…?” bob tentatively asked as he closed the door behind you.

your gaze landed on a framed photo of bob and a small child. shit, that certainly ruins things. maybe you shouldn’t go through with this pla—

“my niece,” he mentioned when he noticed your drawn attention to the image.

you let out a mental sigh of relief.

“she’s cute,” you said truthfully. “got any kids of your own?” you needed to ask.

bob’s bespectacled eyes widened at that before quickly shaking his head, “oh, no no. no kids, no wife, n-nothing like that.”

you nodded, more to yourself than to him.

you took a step back from the picture frame and faced him, “i didn’t come in here to discuss your performance in flight today, bob.” you told him.

you saw the way his eyebrows knitted together in a small furrow. fuck, that shouldn’t have gotten you clenching on nothing, but it did.

“then why—“

you cut him off by pressing your lips to his, your hands snaking up to hold the back of his neck. bob’s entire body froze for a moment, and before he could get the chance to reciprocate, you pulled away just enough to murmur against his pink lips:

“stop me if you don’t want this.”

bob sucked in a breath, “i want this.”

you bit down on a smile before leaning in to kiss him again. this time, he reacted and actually kissed back. you let out a surprised moan when he quickly swiped his tongue along the seam of your lips, greedily intruding his tongue to tangle with yours.

it wasn’t long before you found yourself tumbling backwards onto his bed. his strong arms caged you between the mattress and himself, you stared up at him in awe. his dog tags hung low and you were so tempted to just pull him by the chain, but before you could, bob was lifting his old naval academy tshirt off and tossing it somewhere in the room.

your jaw dropped. hidden underneath layers and layers of military issued flight suits and raggedy cotton tees was the relic of a roman fighter’s torso. those washboard abs—kept perfectly tucked away from the eyes of your squad; concealed and covered so masterfully—it pierced like an act of betrayal, tasted like beach salt on the days he’d worn a tshirt during your team building football games.

“i want to ride your abs.” the words left your eager lips before you had the time to regret them; it shocked you, the unabashed need in your tone.

bob blinked down at you before he smiled that damned smile, right corner of his lips tugging upwards. “yeah, pretty?”

you moaned at the pet name, your core, once again, clenching around nothing. you liked being called pretty by bob, it felt fitting, like him calling you by anything else was wrong.

he picked you up easily and moved you to straddle his torso. his hands found purchase on your hips, his nimble fingers working quickly to lift your shirt up; his eyes silently asking for your permission.

you helped him take your shirt off, throwing it to join his discarded tshirt on the floor. bob let out a groan at the sight of your bare chest, you mentally patted yourself on the back for choosing to go without a bra.

“been hiding these from me?” he asked as he reached up to squeeze your tits, his thumbs making quick work of rolling your nipples.

you let out a sinful sounding whimper, leaning into his touch. “only fair…you’ve been hiding these from me,” you replied, punctuating your words with a experimental rut against his abs. the friction from your bottoms only made it feel better.

bob grunted, “take ‘em off,” his command was weak when his voice faltered with desperate need, but you found it all the more arousing.

you tugged your pants down and kicked them off, another garment appending to the floor. you rubbed against his abs again, this time the feeling was much more intense, the thin material of your panties being the only barrier between you and him.

bob let out a curse, “you’re wet, i can feel it.” he said, and he wasn’t wrong. you’ve soaked through the cotton of your underwear, shamelessly dragging yourself over his abs in repetitive motions.

his hands met the plush of your ass and helped you move over him, “need you to cum at least once before i bury myself inside you.”

and they say romance is dead.

with his guide, you ground your heat against him. your pussy weeping through the slick fabric of your underwear, so much so that bob lifted your hips up to tear them off and away to the growing collection of clothes by the foot of his bed.

when your skin first made contact with the cool surface of his abs, you thought you touched heaven. you let out the whiniest moan you ever heard yourself make before losing yourself in the throes of your pleasure, wantonly rubbing your core along the ridges of his well-defined ab muscles.

“shit, if i knew you could sound like that, i would’ve gone shirtless a long time ago,” bob commented as he watched you climb up the edge of ecstasy.

your hands laid flat on his pecs as you kept working yourself on him, borderline humping his abs as you grew closer to your peak, your volume only getting higher.

“look so perfect, look like you belong there, just grinding on my abs.” he spoke as he stared at the remarkable scene in front of him. “like it was made for you to sit on.”

his words were getting to you, making your cunt drool all over his lower abdomen, slick finding home in the valleys between his muscles. you tossed your head back, “ah! bob!”

“i bet you’re getting close, huh?”

you nodded frantically. “uhuh, gonna cum for you.”

he smiled, “i’d like nothing more than that, pretty.”

and you were a goner. one loud cry of his name later and you were panting, collapsing onto his chest. you could feel the obvious puddle you had left on his abs, not realizing you came so hard and released so much. bob didn’t seem to mind, though. he simply rubbed your back gently as you tried to catch your breath.

“how’re you feeling?” he murmured softly.

“like i want you inside me,” you answered.

bob let out a small chuckle, “insatiable, aren’t you?”

you shook your head as you lifted yourself up with wobbly arms, “no, i just know what i want.”

and who was he to deny you of that?

bob maneuvered your limp body, pressing your face down on the mattress and hiking your ass up for him. you wanted to object—reason with him that you wanted to see his face, but the moment he slipped his thick cock into your welcoming heat, any words of protest died on your tongue.

“fuck, you’re sucking me in,” he muttered roughly.

you could only whine into the sheets as he bottomed out inside of you. his grip on your hair loosened a bit and you managed to shift your head to catch a glimpse of him. he looked absolutely delectable. if he wasn’t busy stuffing his cock inside you, you might’ve begged him to fuck your throat just so you could see that pretty face of his.

your eyes rolled to the back of your skull with the way he was thrusting into you, his pace deliciously rough enough to excite you but frustratingly gradual enough to make you needy. what a tease.

“should’ve came to me sooner, princess. would’ve treated this pretty pussy so good if you only asked,” bob breathed out. you didn’t know he could speak so filthily; you felt yourself grow wetter.

you moaned, “didn’t know you—ah!—wanted me,” you squeaked out.

he let out a groan, his eyebrows furrowing together from where you could see. “you kidding me? i dreamed of this; dreamed of you clenching ‘round me and crying my name.”

and you did just that.

he let out a string of curses.

“oh, princess, i’m gonna cum.” he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

you lifted your head up from his bed, “wanna see you, please,” you pleaded.

he flipped you over in no time, pushing you down on your back and holding your legs up against your chest, his dick slipping back into you like it was returning home.

you could finally see his face, notice the way he tugged his bottom lip between his teeth, the bead of sweat running down the vein on his forehead, and the shakiness of his fogged up glasses as it slipped down the bridge of his beautiful nose.

he met your heated gaze and that was his fatal mistake. you let out a gasp, feeling the warmth of his cum fill you up. a shiver went down your spine.

“fuck, sorry! ‘m so sorry, i didn’t mean to—you just look so fucking hot,” bob rushed to say as he pistoned into you so fervently to ride out his high.

you didn’t know you could get off from just his babbling and relentless thrusts. with a cry that ripped through your lungs, you came around his cock, your vision blacked out momentarily as you felt yourself ascend to the peaks of your pleasure.

bob slumped against you, being mindful not to crush you under his weight. you both panted as you tried to come down from your highs. you reached up and took his glasses off his face, allowing him to nuzzle into the crook of your neck and leave an array of delicate kisses along your damp skin.

“did that feel good for you?” he asked so tenderly against your neck.

you could only nod, words would only fail you.

you couldn’t wait to see the look on hangman’s face tomorrow during the morning debrief. you’re confident he won’t be making another snarky remark about bob’s game now that the sound of your voice screaming his name is probably engraved in his head.

written by vivianfiles

[farrikdanked]

Not the fucking toast!

POURING MY LOVE ONTO YOU - Robert Reynolds

pairing: Bob x assistant!Reader

Summary: Rainy days are when you and Bob find yourselves together the most. But what happens when one of those times is when Bob realizes he's madly in love with you?

Warnings: fluff, heavy yearning, friends to lovers, bob being oblivious to your feelings, makeout sesh, intimate moments, implied smut, bucky being bucky

w/c: 1,5k

The rain pittered gently on the windows of your dimmed room, echoing in the silence of peacefulness that was you sitting in bed, eyes focused on your phone before rubbing them with a slight urgency to stay awake. The calming tip-tap was lulling you ever so gently to a realm between unconsciousness and consciousness, only urged by the loud buzzing that came from the bright shining light in your hands.

Yelena: mission went fine, well, fine enough that we only left with maybe one knife wound

Walker: you sure that was one?

Giggling at the interaction, you found yourself questioning where your other half was- Bob. Only required to gather intel, you and Bob had been partners in not being on the field, but being left alone in the tower with just the two of you. It wasn't unlikely that you came across the days where everyone else had left, as missions called accordingly. You didn't mind it these days. The ones where you had found yourself crawling over to the living room where Bob had taken comfort on the beanbag chair in the corner, or the days he'd find himself stumbling into your room asking what you were up to.

Sometimes it'd be board games, sometimes weird youtube videos that'd have him asking "Why are they doing that though? How much stuff are they buying- my god!" that makes him walk out to the kitchen in a rage induced, snack craving mood. Every time you laugh at his silly antics. Other times organizing each others closets and finding an embarrassing pajama top that definitely doesn't fit anymore.

But sometimes you miss him. The loneliness will creep in when you realize how much he's away, and suddenly your footsteps are the only ones being heard through the huge tower.

When he's called out on a whim for a day of interviews with the crew, rather it be galas or simply sitting in a sad, boring room crowded by people behind the scenes and bombarded with questions about his personal life. Bob would rather be anywhere but there- having you curled up beside him when the tower gets too cold late at night, watching a silly romance or an overdone action movie with hot chocolate in your hand and feeding him whatever chips the two of you had picked out hours before. He wanted to be with you.

So on the calm days the two of you had, you always made the most of your time together.

Looking down at your phone again,

Bucky: would you two let us get through one day without arguing like elementary schoolers?

Walker: don't act like you didn't scream cucumber before yelena sneezed

Ava: didn't you say avocado or some shit?

Walker: I 100% said cucumber

Ava: sure.

Snorting, your head immediately snapped up at the sound of a knock at your door, yelling "Come in!" delightfully. Squinting your eyes to focus them through the shadow at your doorway, Bob closes the door behind him, approaching you on your bed. Snuggled into one of his regular crewnecks, a light blue that's stretched and frayed at the edges from so much use land in your vision, sporting him a smile at his entrance.

"Hey" you mutter softly, looking back up at his eyes to find his glued to yours, ears slightly peaked and red at the top.

"Hi- u-uh just wondering what you were up to y'know- got uh, got bored by myself.." fumbling with his hands, he stands in spot, waiting for your permission to invite him into your space.

"C'mon" patting the other side of your bed, welcoming him into your soft sheets that smell otherworldly- or otherwise like you. His skin tingles as he plops down to your side, almost touching you but not quite, for his sanity and for your comfortability. Not realizing, you move over without a problem, your touch lighting him ablaze as your skin to skin. All of a sudden Bob can sense everything- the way your heart races just a little, the warmth radiating off of you although he's running way hotter. The light, hardly-lasting scent of your shampoo still stuck to your hair after lying in bed all evening.

Bob can't distract himself anymore. You bother him in the best ways, and he can't even explain it to himself. His heart threatening to skip more beats than it can handle, overheating himself to the point he actually has to take off his crewneck- It's overwhelming.

He thinks of Yelena and how she'd nudge him with her elbow whenever you entered the kitchen with your hair lazily brushed, and clothes rushed on, opening the cabinets to find a bag of chocolate hiding deep in there. You wouldn't hide your cravings from the team, but Bob wanted to hide himself at times like these, scared his heart would combust if he eyed your cute, disheveled form down any longer. Yelena whispered in his ear, "you're staring" making him jump.

He thinks of the time he saw Bucky eyeing him in his peripherals as you knelt to retrieve bandages from the med kit you had beside you, pulling it gently over an open wound he had gotten from a mission. Only finding out about it when he first came back, you were furious. Ushering him to the couch, urging him to sit down. You couldn't see it, but Bucky sure could- the hairs on his arm were raised, hair clinging to his forehead yet no sweat was dripping down his face. His ears giving way to the rosy tint that stuck with him whenever you lingered. After you were done, you patted him down for anything else as he froze in place, awestruck from the way you had made him feel so safe, but more so from the way you had cared. Almost too much.

The most recent was Walker- training him on stamina and reflexes. But when you walked in the room, he felt himself light up from the inside. The question was, was that a good thing, or a bad thing?- and sentry had made it obvious. A surge of wanting to show off through quick moves had buzzed through his every muscle, only catching himself to be pinned down afterward by the blonde because he had been distracted for too long.

"Bob",

"Bob!"

"H-huh?" looking over to Walker, only a sly grin plastered across his face. With a little pressure, Walker had put his pointer figure to Bobs chest, making the man look down.

"You like her don't you? 'nd your feeling it righhhhht here." Tapping the spot repeatedly, almost like he was making sure Bob got the message like he didn't know it himself.

He quickly scurried back from Walker, replacing his finger with his own hands as he took deep breaths to distract himself from being found out.

"N-no?" instead of a statement, came out like a question, and Walker only snickered as he went to walk out of the training room.

"You should hear hers, man- gets pretty loud when pretty boy walks in the room"

Leaving Bob alone, absolutely stunned in place, he started to question what exactly had he been missing that Walker had been seeing.

His gaze was on you for too long- he knew that. But at some point he started to stop caring as you scrolled mindlessly through different apps, laughing at stupid cat videos, or pointing out an interest of yours. You had almost forgotten about Bob's presence because he was so comfortable and calming to be around. Yawning, you stretched yourself out, in the process splaying your hands over his waist, intertwining yourself with him. You turned to look up at him, making eye contact.

"Bob-"

"Can I kiss you?"

Only left wide eyed, you stared at him in disbelief, stunned but not unwelcomed.

"yes" fumbling out of your mouth immediately "of course"

Cupping your cheeks ever so lightly with his hands, he leaned in slowly. It wasn't hungry, nor was it filled with the weight of desire- it felt like worship. At first hesitant, it felt like his love was slowly pouring into your soul every time he deepened it, warm, tongue dipping slightly into your mouth as he held you tighter, grounding. Through a flurry of strong emotions and new sensations, you let out a gasp at the intrusion. He let go, looking at you with blown-out eyes that stared into yours like they were the stars hung in the sky.

"was that- you okay?" He muttered, unsure and awkward, a shy smile contrasting his tone of voice.

"More than okay. Amazing- fuck" pulling him in again unexpectedly, he leaned into your touch, hands rounding his neck and pulling him closer towards you. Grazing every open area of his skin with your fingertips, he let the two of you separate naturally from the kiss to lead careful nips down your jaw to your neck, little yelps eliciting from you without meaning to as he bit your earlobe. Staring back at you, Bob gripped your hips with weight, "S-shit- y'gotta do that- please you gotta make that sound again"

Before Bob was able to do anything about it, you feel a buzz from your phone grasping your attention. Pulling away from Bob for the slightest second, your hands still tangled in his hair while seeing if it was important, only to be found with a direct message from Bucky.

Bucky: you don't happen to know what caused the power to go out for a second, do you? Fucked up my toast, thanks

[farrikdanked]

GO YELENA GO

TALK SOME SENSE INTO HIM

Almost Loved - II

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: Four months of dates, gave Y/N hope that she found the one after hopeless years, Bob looks in love, treats beautiful. There's one step that looks like it's coming. Until Bob breaks it off with her. Encountering each other a year and an half later. What happened ?

Word count: 5,9k

Warning: Bulimia, eating-disorder, eat-shaming (?), drug addiction

--

Y/N lay still in bed, wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Her limbs felt heavy, as if her body had stayed up crying even though her eyes hadn’t shed a single tear. Beside her, Serena stirred with a soft groan, arm flopping across the covers.

“Ugh,” Serena mumbled. “Why does sangria feel like betrayal in the morning?”

Y/N gave a faint smile, a ghost of amusement that never made it to her eyes. “You had three glasses.”

“Four.” Serena blinked slowly, sitting up. Her messy bun hung sideways like it had lost the will to live. “Because someone decided to trauma dump at midnight and ruin my detox week.”

Y/N winced, half laughing. “Sorry.”

Serena paused. Looked at her.

“Hey…” she said more softly. “I’m kidding. Kinda. But also… not really.” She leaned against the headboard, pulling her knees up. “We need to talk about yesterday.”

Y/N groaned and rolled onto her side, burying her face in the pillow. “No, we don’t.”

“Y/N.”

“Serena.”

“I swear to God, if you ‘I’m fine’ me—”

“I am fine.”

Serena stared at her for a long, long second. Then she got up, padded barefoot into the kitchen, and returned with two mugs of too-hot coffee, handing one silently to Y/N. She didn’t speak until she’d sipped enough to burn the roof of her mouth.

“You saw him, Y/N,” she said finally. “Bob. At the grocery store. After a year and a half. And you ran. That doesn’t scream fine to me.”

Y/N exhaled hard through her nose, fingers tightening around the mug.

Serena waited.

“I didn’t run,” Y/N said quietly. “I… retreated. Gracefully.”

“You dropped your basket, almost tripped over a display, and disappeared like a cartoon ghost.”

Y/N laughed, but it broke too fast, cracking in her throat. She looked away, blinking fast at the ceiling.

Serena’s voice softened. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No,” Y/N said immediately. Then, after a second: “Not really. I mean—what is there to say? He was there. He looked… I don’t know. Healthy? Taller? More real than I remembered. I was flirting with someone else, and then boom, he’s just… there. Looking like himself. Like nothing ever happened.”

Serena’s face darkened slightly. “He disappeared on you, Y/N. He ghosted you. No text. No call. Just vanished like some cliché bad boy in a Lifetime movie.”

Y/N gave a dry smile. “Yeah. And I still felt like I was the one who did something wrong.”

She took another sip of coffee, hands trembling faintly now. “You know what’s stupid? I laughed last night thinking about how we met. That party. Him running back to ask for my number after we said goodbye. It was so… stupid and adorable. He was nervous. I remember thinking he was going to trip over his own shoes just to get back to me.”

Serena was quiet.

Y/N looked down into her mug. “I used to love him so much. Not the kind of love you talk about at brunch. The kind you… whisper to yourself at 3 a.m. when everything’s quiet. I think I still do. A little.”

Serena reached over and rested a hand on her arm. “Y/N…”

“No, it’s okay.” Y/N shook her head, trying to smile, though her chin wobbled. “It’s fine. Really. It’s been over a year. I just—I thought I was over it. And then I saw him, and it felt like my lungs stopped working. Like no time had passed at all.”

She pressed her thumb hard into the seam of the mug, as if grounding herself there.

Serena’s voice was gentle. “Do you still want him to explain? Or do you just want to move on?”

Y/N looked away for a long time. Her voice came barely above a whisper.

“I think I just want to not feel like this anymore.”

Silence filled the space between them, thick and heavy.

“I hate that he still gets to live in my head rent-free,” Y/N continued. “I hate that I saw him and my first instinct was to run because I knew my legs would give out if I stayed. I hate that I still care about what he thinks of me. If I look different. If I still laugh the same.”

She stared at the wall like she was trying to burn through it. “I wish he’d just stayed gone. Because now I know what he looks like happy. And I wasn’t there.”

Serena didn’t have any words. She just moved closer and wrapped her arms around her best friend, letting Y/N bury her face into her shoulder, finally letting a tear fall that she didn’t try to wipe away.

It rolled down quietly and disappeared into the soft cotton of Serena’s t-shirt.

"Come have some breakfast, that body ain't going to keep iself looking good with no food." Serena pulled her out of the bed taking her to the kitchen.

“Okay, but you do remember you have a date tonight, right?”

Serena’s voice came out halfway between a warning and a challenge as she stood at the kitchen counter, buttering toast like it was an Olympic sport. Y/N, still in her oversized hoodie and mismatched socks, sat at the table nursing her second cup of coffee like it owed her emotional stability.

Y/N blinked. “Date?”

Serena turned around slowly, dramatically, her face unreadable. “Don’t do this.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re doing the thing,” Serena said, pointing the butter knife like a wand. “The thing where you completely forget you agreed to a dinner with Toby and now you’re pretending like it wasn’t real.”

Y/N groaned, dragging her palms down her face. “God. I forgot. I mean—I didn’t forget forget. I just… emotionally forgot.”

“Emotionally forgot,” Serena repeated. “That’s new. I’ll add it to the glossary of avoidance tactics.”

Y/N shot her a look. “He’s too perfect, Serena.”

“That’s literally the point, babe.”

“No, but like… perfect perfect. He has a 401K. And indoor plants that aren’t dead. And he folds his laundry.”

Serena sat down across from her, raising a brow. “Are you about to spiral because a man uses fabric softener?”

Y/N slumped dramatically, laying her head on the table. “I can’t do this. I’m not ready to be someone's grown-up girlfriend. I’m still emotionally on the floor of a party in 2022, eating Cheetos and telling people Bob had ‘potential.’”

Serena snorted. “Okay, that was actually 2024, but go off.”

Y/N groaned louder into the table.

“I’m serious, Y/N,” Serena said, reaching to gently tap her arm. “Toby is kind. He’s funny. He’s not running some underground science project in a secret lab. And he’s very into you. He told me he already picked the wine he’s going to order tonight.”

Y/N peeked up, forehead creased. “He picked wine? Is he… okay?”

Serena laughed. “I told you, he’s a tech guy. Everything is pre-programmed.”

Y/N sighed and sat back up, hugging the coffee mug again. “It’s just… not fair.”

“What isn’t?”

“That I’m going on this date with a guy who’s doing everything right, and I’m still stuck thinking about the guy who did everything wrong.”

The air shifted. Serena’s smirk faded into something softer, more protective.

“I keep comparing them,” Y/N admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Not just Toby, but like… every guy I meet. No one makes me feel like Bob did. Like the first time I saw him across that bar. Like that stupid run back to get my number.”

She laughed bitterly. “You remember that? He looked like a lost Golden Retriever in a denim jacket.”

“He was a lost Golden Retriever,” Serena said, fondness and exasperation in equal parts. “But yeah, I remember. He ran into a chair and still managed to flirt.”

Y/N shook her head, tears stinging but not falling. “And now I’m supposed to just… meet someone new. Pretend I’m fine. Put on makeup and smile and act like I didn’t see the ghost of my ex-lover next to the ravioli display at the grocery store.”

Serena gave her the gentlest eye-roll known to mankind. “You make everything sound like a French tragedy. Y/N, you’re not cheating on Bob by going on a date. You’re trying to move on. And please, for the love of God, let this man kiss you if it goes well.”

Y/N blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Serena took a bite of toast. “Toby has been thirsting for you since the charity mixer. You think he asked me for your number because he needed help debugging code?”

Y/N grimaced. “I don’t know, Serena. It just feels weird. I haven’t done… that… with anyone since Bob.”

Serena softened again. “I know, babe. And I’m not saying jump into bed with someone to prove something. I just don’t want you to stay frozen in place. You deserve to feel something again. Even if it’s awkward flirting and mediocre tiramisu.”

Y/N groaned again, burying her face in her hands. “This is gonna suck.”

“It won’t,” Serena said. “He picked a really nice place. There’s a candle chandelier. The pasta portions are disrespectfully small. It’s very datey.”

“Great,” Y/N mumbled. “Tiny carbs and forced chemistry.”

Serena leaned over and kissed her on the top of the head. “Fake it till you make it. Or at least until dessert.”

Y/N let out a weak laugh, staring into her coffee cup as if it held answers.

“Okay but, real talk,” Serena said, swirling the last of her orange juice. “I never got it.”

Y/N raised a brow, still slumped over her coffee like it was her life support. “Got what?”

“You. Him.” Serena gestured vaguely, as if the name “Bob” was some cursed entity she didn’t dare say too loud. “I mean, yeah, he was sweet. Kind of like an emotionally constipated lumberjack with a tragic backstory. But I never understood how you got so hooked.”

Y/N blinked at her, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Serena said slowly, picking at the crust of her toast like she was trying to avoid a landmine, “You’re you. You’re like… color and noise and sparkles. And he was like if a cardigan came to life and forgot how to smile.”

Y/N burst out laughing, snorting into her coffee. “Oh my God, Serena.”

“I’m serious!” Serena grinned, leaning forward. “He was always hovering like he was scared to touch anything. All broody and apologetic, like he broke a vase just by existing.”

Y/N tilted her head back, laughing hard now. “You’re so mean.”

“I’m not!” Serena insisted, trying not to laugh herself. “He was sweet. Like, sweet-sweet. But you—Y/N, you fell hard. I just never knew why.”

Y/N sighed, her smile fading into something softer, almost guilty. She wrapped her hands around the warm mug like it might keep her grounded. “Because he didn’t treat me like I was made of barbed wire.”

Serena blinked, taken off guard.

“Everyone before him either wanted to fix me,” Y/N continued, voice quieter now, “or they wanted to… own the mess. Wear it like a badge. Like, ‘Look at me, dating the hot disaster.’ But Bob…” She trailed off, smile turning wistful. “Bob saw me crying in a parking lot the second time we met and just… sat with me. Didn’t ask me what was wrong. Didn’t push. Just sat there.”

Serena didn’t say anything, letting her speak.

“He treated me like real good,” Y/N whispered. “Like he couldn’t believe I was even looking at him. And maybe that made it easier to believe I was good.”

The silence that followed was soft, a rare peace between the laughter and sarcasm that usually filled their mornings.

Then Serena tilted her head, brow raised. “Okay… but also. Be honest. Was it just the sex?”

Y/N choked on her coffee so hard she slapped her chest like it owed her an apology. “SERENA!”

“I knew it,” Serena declared, triumphant. “I knew there was a ‘he ruins me emotionally but also rearranges my organs’ layer to this!”

“Oh my God, shut up—”

“No, you shut up,” Serena laughed, pointing at her. “I lived with you during that era. I heard the playlists. I heard the walls. I had to sleep with a pillow over my head on Thursdays.”

Y/N covered her face in horror. “Please let me die.”

“No, no. I want you to live in the truth,” Serena said dramatically. “Because if you’re gonna be emotionally haunted by a man, he better at least have made your spine see stars.”

Y/N groaned. “Okay, yes, he was—he was great. Incredible. Like… criminally intuitive. It was like he had some kind of sixth sense for what would make me melt. I don’t know if it was a power or just talent, but—”

“—this is a man who barely talked for 3 hours when we all went to brunch to meet him and you’re telling me he used powers to give you the holy spirit in bed,” Serena deadpanned.

Y/N howled. “You’re the worst person alive.”

“I’m sorry, but I needed to know what I was fighting against here,” Serena said. “If I’m gonna help you emotionally detach, I have to understand what kind of… voodoo wand he was packing.”

“STOP!” Y/N shouted, beet red. “I can’t talk about this anymore or I’m going to text him.”

Serena raised both hands. “No texting the ex-superboyfriend. That way lies chaos.”

“I’m just saying,” Y/N muttered, cheeks still burning, “Toby’s gonna have to perform miracles to get me to forget that.”

Serena leaned back with a satisfied grin. “Then let’s pray Toby brings holy water and a decent jawline to dinner.”

Y/N buried her head in her arms again. “I hate you.”

“You love me. I make your trauma digestible.”

--

Y/N had tried. She really had.

She'd showered twice that afternoon, changed outfits four times, and let Serena give her a pep talk while doing her makeup. Serena had picked out the dress — a dark green slip that hugged her waist and left her shoulders bare — and had styled her hair while they both tried not to mention the ghost in the room. Or rather, the ghost in the Watchtower.

“You’re hot,” Serena had reminded her, squeezing her shoulders in the mirror. “You’re funny. You’re too good to be crying about some emotionally-unstable superhuman who ghosted you.”

And Y/N had nodded. Smiled. Said she was fine.

Now, seated across from Toby in the golden glow of a candlelit restaurant, she was doing her best to act fine.

The place was upscale — softly lit chandeliers, jazz murmuring from overhead speakers, white linen napkins and wine glasses that caught the light like crystal. It was all very… composed. Expensive. Controlled.

Toby looked the part too. Crisp white shirt, blazer, a silver watch that glinted every time he raised his wine glass. He was charming in the kind of way that came from practice — not sleazy, just… polished. Pre-approved. Like someone who had a laminated checklist of first-date behaviors and was determined to hit them all.

He'd picked a bold red wine, one of the best on the menu, and ordered it without blinking at the price. She tried to laugh at his jokes. She tried to smile when he told stories about his job in software development, about conferences and deadlines and venture capitalists she couldn’t quite bring herself to care about. But her laugh came a half-second late. Her smile felt pasted on. Her body sat rigid, her eyes flickering to the shadows between flickering candles as if expecting someone else to appear there.

And underneath it all, she was starving.

She hadn’t eaten all day. Not really. Just a piece of toast in the morning and coffee. She didn’t even realize how empty she felt until the food came — hand-rolled pasta in a rich cream sauce, soft warm bread, olives swimming in oil and herbs. Her stomach had practically sung.

She tried to eat slowly at first, like the women at the surrounding tables — careful bites, delicate gestures — but after the second glass of wine and a little more comfort, she let go just enough to enjoy herself. She dipped bread in the sauce, let the flavors melt in her mouth, even licked a little off her fork, trying to soothe something that wasn’t just physical hunger.

Toby was in the middle of explaining his favorite vacation spot in Capri when he paused, watching her with an amused smile.

“You’re really going at it, huh?” he said, laughing.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, still smiling. “It’s just cute. You’re not exactly shy with your food.”

Her fork hovered in the air.

“I mean, I like a girl who eats,” he added quickly, clearly trying to make it a compliment. “But, you know, moderation is sexy too. Leave a little mystery.”

Y/N froze.

Her heart didn’t shatter — not like glass. It contracted. Twisted in on itself.

She looked down at her plate — half-finished, sauce smeared. She suddenly saw her bite marks in the bread. The little drop of wine on her napkin. Her shoulders tensed.

“Oh,” she said quietly, placing her fork down.

Toby didn’t notice her change. Or maybe he did and didn’t care.

“I mean, if we’re being honest,” he said with a chuckle, “you’re already gorgeous. But if you just trimmed a little, like, this much—” He held his fingers an inch apart. “You’d be lethal, you know what I mean?”

Y/N felt her throat tighten. The wine in her glass was suddenly sour.

He kept talking, unaware, laughing again at his own brilliance. Something about keto. Or intermittent fasting. Something someone on TikTok told him once. His words blurred into background noise, like a TV left on in another room.

She nodded slowly, though she wasn’t listening anymore. She wasn’t even in the restaurant.

She was somewhere else. Somewhere safer.

She was in a small, quiet diner at 2 a.m., with Bob across from her in a threadbare hoodie, his hair a mess. They’d ordered pancakes and eggs because it was the only place still open after their fourth date — after she told him about the worst parts of her past. And Bob, instead of recoiling or turning awkward, had reached across the table with a kind of cautious reverence and said, “You’ve survived so much.”

And then he asked if he could steal a fry.

She remembered the way his eyes had lit up when she laughed, like he’d just heard the sound for the first time.

Y/N swallowed hard.

“I’m not feeling well,” she said suddenly, her voice distant. “I think I need to go home.”

Toby blinked, mid-sentence. “Wait—what? We haven’t even gotten dessert—”

“I know, I just…” She stood, already pulling her bag over her shoulder, trying not to cry. “Thank you. For dinner.”

He said something as she walked away — maybe asked if he said something wrong, maybe tried to smooth it over with another compliment. She didn’t hear it. She was already outside, into the humid night air, her heels clicking against the sidewalk like thunderclaps in her ears.

She didn’t cry right away. Not until she got home. Not until she stepped out of her dress in the silence of her bedroom and stared at herself in the mirror, cheeks flushed from wine and humiliation.

Moderation is sexy too. Trim a little. Leave a little mystery.

She let out a breath like it hurt. Her reflection blurred.

“I miss you,” she whispered.

--

Tampa, Florida - Four dates in

The diner was almost empty, save for the low hum of the refrigerator behind the counter and the crackling of an old jukebox playing something faint and bluesy. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the air smelled of syrup and burnt coffee. Outside, the world was sleeping. But inside, it was just the two of them — Y/N and Bob — tucked into a red leather booth with a plate of pancakes between them and a quiet that felt strangely sacred.

Y/N was curled slightly forward, stirring her coffee with a shaky spoon, her eyes flickering between the sugar packets and Bob’s steady gaze. He had noticed her hesitation when the food arrived — how she’d only pushed a few eggs around her plate, how she’d looked at the pancakes like they were made of glass.

“You okay?” he had asked, softly, not pushing. Just noticing.

She took a breath. It rattled slightly in her chest. Her lips trembled with the beginning of words she didn’t know if she could say out loud.

“You know I used to like… not eat,” she murmured finally, not looking at him. “I mean—I did. But only sometimes. And when I did, I’d… make myself sick after.”

Bob’s smile faded. His posture shifted, leaning in just slightly, his brows furrowing with quiet concern. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t flinch.

She exhaled slowly, her fingers trembling around the spoon.

“It started when I was seventeen. My mom had this way of always commenting on what I ate. Or didn’t eat. It wasn’t even mean, just... little things, you know? Like, ‘Are you really going to finish that?’ or ‘That dress looked better before dinner.’ I didn’t even realize how much it got into my head.”

She laughed once — dry and humorless.

“By the time I was in college, I had it down to a routine. I could pretend I was fine in public. Smile, drink a smoothie, skip meals, throw up in clean bathrooms with scented candles, so there's no suspicion. You’d be amazed at how good you can get at pretending.”

Bob stayed silent, his eyes gentle but focused entirely on her. He wasn’t afraid of her truth. He wasn’t shrinking away.

“I haven’t told many people,” she said, her voice lower now. “I’ve been trying to get better. For a couple years now. But eating around people still makes me anxious. I overthink every bite. I wonder if they’re watching. Judging. Even if they’re not.”

She looked up at him then, as if bracing herself for the change. For the shift in his eyes. For the sudden distance.

But Bob didn’t move. Not away from her.

Instead, he picked up his fork and cut a piece of pancake from the middle of the plate, loaded it with syrup, and shoved the entire thing in his mouth in one go. A huge bite.

Y/N blinked.

Bob chewed exaggeratedly, bulging his cheeks out like a chipmunk before swallowing and letting out a dramatic sigh. “God, that’s good,” he groaned, smacking his lips. “I mean, life-changing. Like... Michelin star stuff.”

Y/N stared at him, confused — then let out a startled laugh. He grinned, syrup at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m just saying,” he continued, casually reaching for another bite, “you could eat this entire plate by yourself and I would still think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. And I’d help you eat it. Happily.”

Her laugh wavered, turning into something wetter. Something deeper. Her eyes stung.

“You don’t have to say that,” she whispered, trying to keep her composure.

“I’m not saying it to be nice,” Bob said, his voice softening again. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”

He looked down at her hands — still gripping the coffee cup — then gently placed his own over them.

“I know I’m not perfect. I’ve got... my own monsters. Big ones. But if you ever feel like they’re too loud,” he said, voice just above a whisper, “you can tell me. Even if you don’t want me to fix it. Even if you just need someone to listen.”

Y/N didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her throat was too tight.

“And if you ever feel like eating three stacks of pancakes in front of me,” he added, the teasing lilt returning to his voice, “I promise you — I will never, ever judge you. Even if you unhinge your jaw like a snake. You’ll still be the prettiest person in the room.”

She giggled, half through a sniffle. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grinned. “I’m serious. You could gain thirty pounds and I’d still carry you everywhere.”

“Sure,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You say that now.”

“I mean it,” Bob insisted, puffing his chest. “I’m like super strong, remember? I could lift you if you were made of cement and regret. You think a little ice cream weight’s gonna scare me?”

Y/N finally let out a real laugh, leaning back against the booth. Her face still damp, her eyes still red — but something had lightened in her chest. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time: safe. Seen.

Weird really. How a battle has been inside of her for years and a boy this chaotic had already made her feel so good about it.

It had to be real love.

--

Bob's pov

Bob sat on the end of his bed, elbows braced on his thighs, staring down at his hands. His knuckles were raw again. The skin peeled at the edges where he’d been picking at them without realizing. Nervous habit. The kind Y/N used to catch and gently stop.

He felt her everywhere, even now. Like she was stitched into the seams of his life.

Another knock.

Yelena didn’t wait for a response—never did. She slipped inside like a breeze of sarcasm and intuition.

“I brought tea,” she said, holding up a steaming mug. “Because you look like the tragic ghost of a dead poet.”

Bob blinked at her. “I’m not really in the mood.”

“Don’t care.” She shoved the mug into his hands and sat across from him. “Talk.”

He hesitated. She didn’t blink.

“Who is she?” she asked, softer now. “The one Walker said has you all… scrambled.”

Bob exhaled, deep and cracked, like the breath had been trapped under a mountain.

“Y/N,” he said. “Her name’s Y/N.”

He paused. The name tasted like sunlight and ash.

“We met at a club in Florida. One of those places where everything smells like too much perfume and spilled rum. She was with her friends—girls’ night. I was tagging along with some guys I barely knew. I was already spiraling then. Small stuff, pills mostly. Not that anyone could tell.”

He swallowed hard.

“She was radiant,” he continued. “Black dress, laughing at something her friend said at the bar. I kept staring like an idiot. She caught me, smiled, and waved. That wave... It felt like a lifeline.”

Yelena tilted her head, listening.

“I eventually walked up to her, nervous as hell. I wasn’t good at talking to people then. Especially not women like her. But she didn’t make me feel like a creep or a loser. She smiled like she saw something in me that was good. And that terrified me.”

His voice dropped, quiet and hoarse.

“She gave me her number. We texted the next day. And I remember being more excited about her reply than I’d been about anything in years.”

Bob sat back, eyes clouded, as memories poured like a slow leak from his chest.

“She was… warm,” he said. “The kind of person who’d talk to the barista like they were an old friend. Who would bake banana bread on random Tuesdays and always burned the edges but insisted it was better that way.”

Yelena smirked faintly.

“She talked a lot, especially in the mornings. I liked that. She had this way of waking up and instantly being in full story mode—telling me her dreams, or what she wanted to do that weekend, or what new podcast she was obsessed with. It was chaotic, but it was… home.”

He looked away. Pain flickered in his jaw.

“And I was high for most of it.”

Yelena’s smile faded.

“She never knew,” Bob said. “I kept it together just enough. Told her I was anxious. That I had insomnia. I was good at hiding the tremors and the dips in energy. I always wore long sleeves. Told her I didn’t like the cold.”

He laughed bitterly.

“I was a walking lie.”

“But did you love her?” Yelena asked.

Bob’s eyes snapped to hers.

“I still love her,” he said, voice cracking. “That’s the worst part.”

He stood up, pacing now, restless with the memory.

“She used to make pancakes on Saturdays. Bad pancakes. Burnt, lumpy ones. And I ate every bite because she looked so proud. We’d spend entire Sundays just lying in bed, her feet always cold, shoved between my thighs while she played music and asked me about my favorite songs.”

His chest heaved, eyes rimmed red.

��She asked me once if I was happy. Just out of the blue. She was brushing her teeth. I said yes. But I wasn’t. Because every day I spent with her made the guilt worse. She thought she had this decent guy. And I was using behind her back.”

He paused.

“Once, she brought me soup when I was dope sick. I told her I had the flu. She held my hand while I threw up and kept saying I was the strongest person she knew. And all I could think was, if she knew the truth, she’d leave me right now.”

Yelena said nothing, letting the silence stretch.

“I kept trying to get clean,” he added. “Not for me—for her. But the more I tried, the more I hated myself when I failed. The last few months, I got mixed up with a really bad crowd. Dealers. Violence. She had no idea. She thought I was working longer hours.”

He clenched his fists.

“And then one night, I overdosed.”

The room fell still.

“I didn’t tell her. She didn’t even know I was in the hospital. I just… blocked her. Told her I didn’t want her anymore. And then I disappeared.”

Yelena exhaled slowly. “And now she’s back in your life.”

“Not really,” he said, eyes hollow. “I saw her at the store. She saw me, and she ran. And I can’t even blame her.”

Yelena stood and walked over, her voice gentler than he’d ever heard.

“You think she wouldn’t have stayed if she knew?”

“I know she would’ve tried,” Bob whispered. “But I would’ve dragged her down with me. And I couldn’t do that. Even if it meant losing the only good thing I ever had.”

A long silence passed.

“Do you want her back?” she asked.

Bob didn’t answer right away. He just stared out the window at the stars.

“I want to be the man she thought I was,” he said. “That’s all.”

Yelena stood by the window now, arms crossed, watching the dark skyline of the city through the reinforced Watchtower glass. The silence between them had thickened like fog, dense with things unsaid.

“You ever think this isn’t just a coincidence?” she asked quietly.

Bob didn’t move from where he sat. “What?”

“Seeing her again. After all this time. Not in Florida. Not in a memory. But here. New city. New life. You — sober. Her — still breathing the same air as you.”

He flinched.

Yelena turned to face him, voice more insistent now. “You don’t think that maybe… maybe the universe is handing you one of those cheesy second chances people pray for?”

Bob scoffed, bitter and tired. “She ran when she saw me, Yelena.”

“People run when they’re scared.”

“She’s scared of me.”

Yelena moved closer, unfazed by the rawness in his voice. “Or scared of what you meant to her. People don’t run unless there’s something still burning in their chest.”

Bob looked up at her, eyes glassy.

“You don’t get it,” he said, each word grinding out of him. “She didn’t leave me. I left her. She believed I was good. Kind. Worth something. And I ripped that illusion from her the moment I disappeared without explanation. She doesn’t owe me a single second of her time. And she definitely doesn’t owe me forgiveness.”

Yelena sighed, sitting beside him.

“Maybe not,” she admitted. “But you owe yourself the chance to try.”

He was quiet again. Still. His whole body felt like it was made of stone.

“I used to fantasize about running into her one day,” he murmured. “In the early months of rehab. When the cravings hit so hard I wanted to claw my skin off. When I thought about using again just so I could feel human for five minutes.”

His hands shook slightly in his lap. He didn’t hide it.

“I’d imagine her seeing me all clean, apologizing, holding her hand, telling her everything. And she’d look at me the way she used to. Like I was worth it.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, voice cracking.

“But that’s not how it happened.”

Yelena watched him quietly.

“I saw her face when she recognized me. It wasn’t joy. It was pain. Like seeing a ghost she’d buried and hoped never to see again.”

“Maybe she was just shocked,” Yelena said gently. “She probably thought you were dead.”

Bob flinched again.

“Maybe I was,” he whispered. “And maybe the version of me she loved still is.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, fingers pulling at the fabric of his jeans.

“I’m not hiding anymore. I’m sober. And it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But that doesn’t erase what I did. She spent months — years — not knowing why I left. Thinking it was her. Or worse, thinking she wasn’t enough. And the truth is, she was too much — too good, too bright, too patient.”

He shook his head slowly, eyes cast downward.

“I don’t deserve her. Not after the hell I put her through. Not when I let her love a lie.”

Yelena was quiet for a moment. Then, carefully, she said, “But you’re not lying anymore.”

Bob looked up at her, expression hollow.

“Doesn’t matter. Truth or not… some things don’t get to be fixed.”

He stood, walking slowly to the window where she had stood before. He leaned a hand against the cool glass, staring at the city lights below. Somewhere out there, Y/N was breathing. Existing. Living a life that no longer had room for him.

“I saw her with Walker,” he said, his voice barely audible. “And maybe that’s good. Maybe she’ll get the life she wanted, she looks like she moved on just fine.”

Yelena stood behind him, her voice softer now. “Is that what you really want? Walker had a wholw family drama going on...I wouldn't say that's exactly a great option.”

Bob didn’t turn around.

“I want her to be okay,” he said. “Even if it kills me.”

A beat of silence passed. And then —

“But you miss her.”

He nodded. “Every damn day.”

The ache inside him pulsed like a bruise that never faded. He thought of her laugh, her late-night texts, the warmth of her skin under his fingers, the stupid inside jokes, the scent of her coconut shampoo, the way she danced barefoot in his apartment while brushing her teeth. He remembered it all in excruciating detail.

And he remembered the silence she was met with when he vanished.

He thought of all the versions of himself he tried to be — the lover, the liar, the addict, the coward — and how none of them were enough to hold onto her.

“I had the whole world in my hands,” Bob said, his voice breaking. “And I dropped it.”

Yelena stepped forward, placing a hand gently on his shoulder.

“Then maybe it’s time to pick something up again,” she whispered. “Even if it’s just the truth.”

But Bob said nothing.

Because in his heart — beneath the layers of sobriety, regret, and bone-deep yearning — he still believed that redemption was something meant for someone else.

[farrikdanked]

hey! get back here you fucking seagull speaking coward! i will hunt you down and smack you (with a kiss)!

Almost Loved

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: Four months of dates, gave Y/N hope that she found the one after hopeless years, Bob looks in love, treats beautiful. There's one step that looks like it's coming. Until Bob breaks it off with her. Encountering each other a year and an half later. What happened ?

Word count: 6,5k

--

The grocery store was mostly quiet—late afternoon sunlight filtering through the large glass windows, casting soft golden streaks across the polished floor tiles. Y/N pushed her small basket along the aisle, her phone held in her other hand, thumb scrolling through a lasagna recipe that Serena had insisted would “change her life.”

It was girls’ night.

Their tradition, sacred in its own way, made up of wine, old movies, and food that took too long to make but always felt like home. Tonight, lasagna was on the menu. It was her turn to host, and she wanted to get everything just right. Maybe too right. Maybe part of her was overcompensating. She’d been doing that a lot lately.

She squinted up at the higher shelves. The tomato sauce she wanted—San Marzano, the expensive one Serena swore by—was two rows too high. She shifted onto her toes, stretching her arm out, her fingers just grazing the label, before letting out a quiet sigh of frustration.

“Of course,” she muttered, taking a step back and scanning the aisle for help.

That’s when she saw him. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a sharp jaw and neatly kept beard, the man at the end of the aisle looked like he belonged on the cover of some men’s adventure magazine. He wore a dark sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, revealing strong arms and a small tattoo near his wrist. His cart was half-full—red wine, two frozen pizzas, a bunch of bananas, and a bottle of olive oil.

Y/N bit her lip. Just ask.

“Hey,” she called gently, waving her hand. “Sorry—could you maybe help me with something?”

He looked up instantly, offering a smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Sure.”

She pointed up at the shelf. “That tomato sauce… unless you’re tall and also secretly Spiderman, I might need a hand.”

He chuckled, stepping forward and easily grabbing the jar with one hand, holding it out to her like it weighed nothing. “This one?”

“Exactly.” She took it, her fingers brushing his. “Thank you, mystery grocery aisle hero.”

“John,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Not as impressive as Spider-Man, but I do try.”

“Y/N,” she replied, unable to stop the small smile curling her lips.

Their eyes lingered on each other just a moment too long—an unspoken curiosity hanging between them. A spark, tentative but real. John glanced down at her basket.

“Making lasagna?” he asked.

She nodded. “Girls’ night. Wine, pasta, and probably too much gossip.”

He laughed again. “Sounds better than my plan—just grabbing stuff for a hangout with friends. It’s my turn to cook and by cook I mean… order takeout before they show up.”

Y/N smirked, “That’s still a noble skill.”

There was something warm in his tone. Easy. Not forced. It had been so long since she’d felt this light while talking to someone. And for a brief second, she forgot about the ache that lived behind her ribs anytime she interacted with a man. Like Serena said, great man appear out of nowhere.

“John! Dude, I found the protein powder Yelena’s been obsessing over. It was hiding behind—”

The voice cut off mid-sentence.

Y/N turned, instinctively.

The world stopped.

There he was.

Bob.

His hair was longer now, messy and falling into his eyes, and he had a faint beard, the kind that made him look older… worn. Like time had passed, and he’d felt every second of it. He wore a simple hoodie, sleeves pushed up, hands calloused. But it was his face—his expression—that broke her.

Frozen.

His mouth opened slightly like he wanted to say something, anything. His blue eyes widened, a storm of shock. He stared like he couldn’t believe she was real.

Neither could she.

Y/N stood perfectly still. Her heart pounded so loud she thought it might burst out of her chest. The weight of the tomato sauce jar grew unbearable in her hand.

He was here. He was here?

And he hadn’t told anyone about her. Not even the people he called “friends.” Not even the man standing next to her, John, who looked between them, completely confused.

“Bob?” she whispered, barely audible. Her voice cracked. “You—”

He took a step forward, like he might say something.

She ran.

She didn’t think. She couldn’t. The tears were already forming before she reached the next aisle. Her basket fell from her hand and hit the floor with a thud, the sauce rolling out and spinning to a stop.

Her chest heaved.

She leaned against a shelf near the cereal boxes, trembling, covering her mouth with her hand as a sob escaped.

He had been gone. He had blocked her. Vanished like she never mattered.

And now… he was here. Talking about groceries. Laughing. Living.

She wiped her eyes furiously and forced herself to walk out of the store, not even caring that she had nothing in her hands. She just needed to get away. Far away.

Back in the aisle, John frowned.

“Dude,” he muttered, turning to Bob. “What was that? She ran off like you shot her.”

Bob didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on the direction Y/N had disappeared, his mouth slightly parted, like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

“Was that your ex or something?”

Still no answer.

John stared at him, then let out a low whistle. “She was gorgeous. And funny. Jesus, I was gonna ask her out. You just cost me a date, man.”

Bob flinched, the words hitting harder than they should have.

“I didn’t know she’d be here,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t say anything about her,” John added, grabbing a bag of chips and tossing it into his cart. “I mean, I get it, but… you looked like you saw a ghost.”

Bob swallowed hard. His chest felt tight.

She had been right there. Just a few feet away. Smiling. Laughing.

And then she’d looked at him like he’d stabbed her in the chest.

He had. Maybe not with a blade, but with silence. With abandonment.

He remembered the coffee shop. The way her lip trembled when she smiled. The messages he never responded to. The way he erased himself from her world, thinking he was doing the right thing. Saving her from himself.

But seeing her again… it shattered something in him. All the excuses fell apart.

He had hurt her.

--

The lasagna sat in the middle of the table, bubbling slightly at the corners, steam rising in curls that filled the small kitchen with the scent of garlic, tomato, and regret. Serena poured a generous glass of red wine into Y/N’s glass before filling her own, sliding the bottle away without a word. The atmosphere in the room was warm—candles flickering on the windowsill, Billie Holiday playing softly in the background—but the tension sitting between the two women was impossible to ignore.

Y/N hadn’t touched her food.

Serena had only taken a few bites, watching her friend with quiet concern.

“So,” Serena finally said, her voice gentle, careful. “Do you wanna tell me why you’ve been staring at your wine like it just insulted your mother?”

Y/N let out a soft, humorless laugh. “It’s so stupid. The whole thing. I feel like an idiot.”

“You’re not,” Serena replied instantly, setting her fork down. “But you’re going to tell me what happened, or I swear I’ll drag it out of you with force.”

Y/N exhaled, bracing herself. Then she began.

“I was at the store,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Getting the last of the ingredients. The stupid tomato sauce, remember the one you swore by?”

Serena nodded slowly.

“I couldn’t reach it,” Y/N continued, twisting her napkin in her hands. “So I asked this guy to help me. He was cute. Really cute. Like, rom-com cute. Beard, kind eyes, flirty but not in a gross way. I haven’t really done that in a while. Not like that.”

Serena tilted her head, encouraging. “So far, this sounds amazing.”

Y/N’s mouth trembled.

“Then… he showed up.”

Serena’s face dropped. “Who?”

Y/N didn’t even have to say the name.

Bob.

She could see the change in Serena’s eyes immediately. The softness vanished, replaced by a hard edge—fury restrained behind tight lips.

Y/N looked down at her lap. “He just—walked into the aisle. Laughing. Talking to that guy, John. Apparently they’re friends. He was holding some protein powder like it was the most normal fucking thing in the world.”

Serena blinked, slow and disbelieving. “You’re telling me he just… appeared? Like a damn ghost?”

Y/N nodded. “After a year and a half. After disappearing without a word. No text. No call. Not even a ‘go to hell.’ Just gone.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and she pressed her lips together hard to keep from crying.

“I looked at him, Serena,” she said, shaking her head. “And I—I froze. I couldn’t breathe. And the worst part is… my heart still reacted. It still did that stupid flutter thing like I was nineteen and he was everything.”

Serena was silent for a beat. Then she pushed her plate aside and reached across the table to grab Y/N’s hand.

“Fuck him,” she said quietly but firmly. “You hear me? Fuck. Him.”

Y/N let out a strangled laugh, then immediately wiped at her eyes.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know, but it’s like… I’ve spent so long trying to glue myself back together. I buried him, Serena. I buried everything we had. I made peace with it—at least I thought I did. And then today, for a second, it felt like nothing had changed. Like I was right back in that place again, where every little part of me wanted him.”

Her voice cracked again. “It sucks. It sucks so bad. I wanted to like this new guy. I was about to give him my number, I think. And then—boom. Bob. Like the universe just couldn’t let me move on.”

Serena’s eyes burned with protective anger.

“He doesn’t deserve space in your heart, Y/N,” she said, fierce and gentle all at once. “You gave him everything. And he threw it away without even saying goodbye. You think I don’t remember the way you cried for weeks? The way you couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t even look at his name without breaking?”

Y/N covered her mouth, the tears threatening again.

Serena’s voice softened. “You’re not stupid for still feeling something. That’s what heartbreak is. You loved him. You let him see parts of you no one else ever did.”

Y/N sniffled. “And I think a part of me still does. Still loves him. Isn’t that pathetic?”

“No,” Serena said instantly. “That’s human. But you don’t owe him your hope. He left. He didn’t fight. He didn’t stay.”

Y/N finally took a sip of her wine, the burn grounding her a little.

“I keep wondering if he missed me,” she admitted. “If he ever thought about me. If he lied awake at night regretting what he did.”

Serena looked at her with soft eyes. “Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. But if he loved you, he never should’ve left like that. Love doesn’t disappear. People do. Cowards do.”

Y/N was quiet for a long time, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass.

“I still think about the way he looked at me,” she whispered. “Back then. Like I was the only thing in the world he saw. I don’t think I’ll ever feel that again.”

Serena leaned closer. “You will. You will when it’s real. When it’s with someone who doesn’t just look at you like that—but chooses you every single day. Someone who doesn’t vanish when things get hard.”

Y/N finally broke. A sob slipped from her lips, and Serena was out of her chair and wrapping her arms around her in an instant. Y/N clung to her best friend like she was a lifeline, letting the tears fall freely now, the pain she’d bottled up for so long spilling out into the soft candlelit air.

“I thought I was over him,” she cried.

“I know,” Serena murmured. “I know, babe. But healing isn’t linear. You’re doing your best. You’re allowed to break sometimes.”

Y/N nodded against her shoulder, her voice muffled.

“And I still think he was the love of my life.”

Serena pulled back slightly, brushing her hair from her face.

“Then one day, maybe the universe will send you a new one. One who stays.”

--

Bob's pov

Bob stood in the kitchen, the light above the stove casting long shadows across the walls as he leaned over the counter, knuckles white from how hard he was gripping the edge. The plastic grocery bags sat forgotten near the door.

He hadn’t spoken since coming home. Not to John. Not to anyone.

John had kept going on in the car, half-laughing about how he was this close to getting her number, teasing Bob for “spooking” her like some weird jealous ex.

Bob hadn’t said a word. What the hell could he have said?

He couldn’t tell John that the girl he was casually flirting with in aisle seven was the woman who had once been everything. That she used to fall asleep on Bob’s chest to the sound of his heartbeat. That she used to kiss the inside of his wrist like it was sacred. That she had known the worst of him—all of him—and stayed, until he made the decision to leave her behind like a fucking coward.

And now, there she was, alive and radiant and standing in the middle of the store like a goddamn punch to the throat. Smiling. Laughing at John’s stupid joke. Looking at him like she used to look at Bob.

God, he couldn’t breathe.

He sank down onto one of the kitchen chairs, resting his elbows on the table and burying his face in his hands. His beard scratched against his palms, but he barely registered it. His mind was a thousand miles away—no, a year and a half away—trapped in the memories he tried so fucking hard to forget.

Y/N in his bed, tangled in sheets and laughter.

Y/N at the beach, sunlight dancing in her hair as she splashed water at him, yelling that he was “so annoying” but smiling like he held her whole heart.

He exhaled shakily and looked around the dim apartment. It was sterile. Empty. Like him. No trace of her voice, her warmth, her chaos. Just silence and shadows.

He had left her because he thought it would protect her. Sometimes he thinks that maybe he was supposed to be alone, because he deserved it.

He had found her, the greatest woman he had ever seen and feel, he wants to blame life, but he knew it was him. If he didn't turn into an addict, if he had dropped the meth and put it away, if he hadn't overdosed that night. Would she still be here?

Because every time he looked at her, he saw the eventual breaking point. He saw her watching him unravel. He felt the guilt of knowing she deserved someone normal—someone who didn’t wake up in cold sweats, someone whose mind wasn’t a minefield, someone who didn’t need to fight himself just to stay.

So he did what he thought was merciful.

He vanished.

No goodbye. No explanation. Just... nothing.

But today proved something he hadn’t let himself believe until now: He never stopped loving her. He never could.

And she looked so... beautiful. That was the hardest part. Not just in the superficial way. But in the way she carried herself. She was still her. Still his Y/N in every tiny detail—the way her hands moved, the way her eyes narrowed when she focused on something, the way she stuck her tongue slightly out when she read off her phone.

And she had asked John for help.

It was such a small thing. Just a jar on a high shelf. But it gutted him.

Because he used to be the one she asked for help. She used to call his name. Now she called out to someone else, someone taller, someone easier, someone available. And she smiled at him. Flirted. Laughed in that way that used to be just for Bob.

He dragged his hands down his face and stared blankly at the wall across from him. His chest felt hollow. His throat burned.

John had said, “Dude, you totally cockblocked me. She was gorgeous. She liked me. And then you showed up looking like you’d seen a ghost, and she just... ran off. What was that about?”

Bob hadn’t answered.

Because the answer was: She was the ghost.

The ghost of the life he could’ve had. The love he threw away. The hope he killed with his own two hands.

And she had looked at him for a moment—just a second—like she’d seen something terrible. Her face had crumpled. Her eyes, god, those eyes had filled with so much pain. She hadn’t said his name. She hadn’t screamed. She just turned and ran.

And he let her go.

Again.

He let her slip away, just like the first time. Not because he didn’t care. But because he did. Because the pain on her face was confirmation that he had ruined her. That he had no right to chase her down the aisle and ask for another chance. He was the wound. He was the reason she didn’t trust anymore.

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and let the tears finally come—silent, shattering, and long overdue.

What would he even say if he saw her again? “I’m sorry”? That wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. He had left her alone in the middle of loving him. He had broken the only real thing he ever had.

And still, his heart ached for her like a drumbeat.

Even now.

Even after all this time.

He whispered her name into the silence like a prayer. Like maybe, if he said it soft enough, the universe would take pity on him and give him one more chance.

But the silence answered back.

And Bob knew, in the deepest, most brutal part of him, that some mistakes were too big to come back from.

--

Tampa, Florida - 2 years ago

The music was too loud. Bob had never liked parties—too many people, too many conversations he couldn’t quite follow, too many reminders of how deeply out of place he always felt. He stood near the edge of the bar, his beer sweating in his hand, watching the neon lights stutter and dance across the crowd like artificial stars.

He wasn’t even sure why he came.

John had dragged him out. Said he needed to “get out of his head” for a night, meet people, be normal. Bob had wanted to argue that he wasn’t normal—never would be—but instead he let himself be swept into the mess of music, alcohol, and strangers. Maybe just for a few hours, he could pretend.

And then… he saw her.

She stood near the bar on the other side, radiant in a dress that made the rest of the room fade into gray. He didn’t know what color it was—he couldn’t remember what color it was—but he remembered the way it moved when she did, like it was made of light. Her hair shimmered under the LED haze, and her eyes—God, her eyes. Bright, alive, soft but untouchable.

She was laughing, one arm looped through her friend’s, the kind of laugh that came from someone who had fought to enjoy herself tonight. He could tell. Something about the way she moved, the way her smile slipped too quickly sometimes before she caught it again—like joy was something she was still learning how to hold without fear it might vanish.

Bob’s breath caught.

He was staring.

He knew it.

He couldn’t stop.

The longer he looked, the more something strange started happening. The noise in the room dulled. The ache in his head—the one that never fully went away—quieted. It wasn’t that she was the most beautiful woman in the room, though she was, it was that she seemed real in a way nothing else did. Grounded. Human. Safe.

He didn’t realize how long he had been watching until her friend—dark-haired, sharp-eyed—caught him. She elbowed Y/N playfully and nodded toward Bob. And then Y/N turned her head.

Their eyes met.

Blue locked on hers.

Time did that strange thing it sometimes did when your heart lurches forward before your body can follow. Bob’s stomach twisted—not in panic, not in fear, but in something rawer, deeper. She saw him. And when her lips curled into a soft, curious smile, something in him cracked wide open.

She raised her hand in a little wave, not flirty, not coy—just... kind.

Bob flushed, eyes flicking away immediately like a schoolboy caught sneaking a glance. He heard John chuckle beside him, teasing something about “just go talk to her, man,” but Bob couldn’t move. He wanted to. More than he’d wanted anything in a long, long time.

But he wasn’t the kind of man you walk up to at parties.

He wasn’t safe.

And still—he looked back.

Just in time to see her slipping back onto the dance floor with her friends, disappearing into the movement of hips and laughter, head tilted toward the ceiling like she was finally giving herself permission to let go.

But every few moments, she turned.

Just slightly. Just enough to check if he was still watching. And he was.

Every goddamn second.

Waiting for the courage to find his feet.

Bob’s fingers tightened around his beer bottle until his knuckles ached, condensation dripping like nervous sweat down the glass. He watched her—the way her body swayed to the beat, her hair catching the lights, the soft curve of her smile as she laughed at something her friend whispered in her ear.

He should move.

He needed to move.

But his body didn’t listen at first. His feet were cement, his thoughts a blur of don’t be weird, don’t screw this up, she’s out of your league. Every instinct honed by years of hiding, of pulling away, of staying silent whispered for him to just let her be a pretty moment he’d remember from the sidelines. A passing, golden thing. Nothing more.

But then—

She looked over her shoulder again.

Just a second. Just a glance.

But her eyes met his, and something shifted on that one glance among so many, and that was what did it.

Bob set his drink down with a shaky hand and rolled his shoulders back like a man preparing for battle—not against her, but against the thousand ghosts inside him whispering that he wasn’t enough. That he never would be. He took a breath and let it burn.

Then he stepped forward.

Each step through the crowd was slow, deliberate. The music pulsed like a heartbeat in his ears—louder, heavier the closer he got. The sea of people parted just enough for him to see her again. She was swaying gently, eyes half-closed as she mouthed the words to the chorus of the song. Her friends danced around her, wild and laughing, but she was like calm in the eye of the storm.

She hadn’t seen him yet.

That was okay. He needed a second. Just one more.

He stopped a few feet away, not sure how to cut through the music, the noise, the sheer impossibility of her. She felt untouchable. And yet... something about her made him feel seen in a way he hadn’t in years. Maybe ever.

Then she turned.

Mid-spin, hips still moving with the music, she caught sight of him standing there—still, awkward, unsure but trying. And her lips parted slightly. Surprised. Delighted.

“Hey,” she mouthed.

And God help him, he smiled.

“Hi,” he said aloud, hoping she could hear it, even if the song swallowed the sound whole.

She stepped closer. Her friends were still dancing, unaware or maybe just gracious enough to let her be. The flashing lights painted her in blue and purple and gold as she stopped just in front of him, close enough that he could smell the hint of vanilla and citrus on her skin.

“You were watching me,” she teased gently, voice loud enough to cut through the song.

Bob flushed, his mouth parting to apologize, but she raised a hand and laughed—soft, real.

“I didn’t mind,” she added.

That broke the spell.

“I—yeah. I was,” he said, voice low, scratchy with nerves. “You just… you looked like the only real thing in this place.”

She tilted her head, curiosity flickering behind her lashes.

“That’s a hell of a line.”

“It’s not a line,” he said quickly. “I’m… I’m not good at lines.”

She laughed again. “Good.”

They stood there for a moment—just watching each other, drinking the other in. And Bob felt something unfamiliar rise in his chest. Not desire. Not lust. Something softer. More dangerous.

Want. He wanted to know her.

“I’m Bob,” he offered, holding out a slightly trembling hand.

“Y/N,” she said, taking it.

Her hand was warm. Smaller than his, but her grip was sure. Confident. The touch lingered just a second longer than it needed to, like neither of them really wanted to let go.

“I was gonna ask if you wanted to dance,” he said. “But I’m not great at that either.”

She smiled again—wider this time, brighter.

“Lucky for you, I’m not picky.”

He chuckled under his breath, finally, truly easing into her presence. “That’s… that’s very kind of you.”

She stepped closer, just enough that their arms brushed. “Come on. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

He let her lead him into the thrumming heat of the dance floor. He moved awkwardly at first, stiff and unsure, but she was patient, warm, gently teasing him out of his shell with every movement. Her fingers found his—tentative, featherlight—and when he didn’t pull away, she smiled.

That was the moment.

The one that cracked his heart open just enough for something to bloom.

For the first time in so long, he wasn’t thinking about what he’d done, or what he was afraid of. He wasn’t thinking about what came after, or what he wasn’t allowed to want. He was just there.

With her.

And when their bodies found a rhythm, and their laughter mingled in the dark, he knew—he knew—he would never forget this night.

No matter what came next.

Because Y/N? Y/N felt like the beginning of something real. Something terrifying. Something beautiful. Something he wasn’t sure he deserved…

After the dance, the air between them had shifted.

Bob didn’t know how long they had moved like that — clumsy at first, then warm, fluid, almost like they’d known each other for years instead of minutes. The music had faded into the background eventually, a dull thrum under the sound of her laugh, the flash of her smile. She’d teased him gently for stepping on her toes twice, but he’d caught the glint in her eyes — she didn’t mind. She liked that he was trying.

When the night wound down and her friends began gathering their things, shoes in hand and jackets tossed over shoulders, Bob had lingered beside her, not quite ready to say goodbye. She didn’t seem ready either.

They stepped out together into the night — the air cooler, calmer, away from the bass and heat of the bar. Her heels dangled from her fingers as they walked side by side, arms brushing occasionally, and Bob didn’t speak for a while. Neither did she. There was something comforting about the quiet that had settled between them, like they were tuning into each other in a way words couldn’t capture.

When she suddenly looked up at the dark sky and said, “Wanna see the ocean?” he didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” he said, simply.

They walked.

The city fell away gradually as they made their way toward the beach. Lights grew dimmer, buildings gave way to quiet streets, and eventually, to the vast open breath of the sea. The sand was cold beneath their feet, soft and wet in places where the tide had crept too far in. They both stood at the edge of the water for a long moment, watching the dark waves roll and sigh beneath the early stretch of dawn.

The sky was just beginning to change — from black to charcoal, hints of lavender and pale pink kissing the horizon.

Bob glanced at her in the dim light.

She was hugging her arms around herself, not in discomfort but as if holding something close — the moment, maybe. Her hair danced gently in the breeze. She looked peaceful. More beautiful than she had under any neon light or club spotlight.

He couldn’t stop himself from speaking.

“You look like you belong here.”

She turned to him, startled but not upset. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Just… something about you. Quiet, but impossible to ignore. Like the ocean.”

She laughed softly at that — not mockingly, but surprised. “That’s the most poetic thing anyone’s said to me in a long time.”

He flushed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry. That sounded better in my head.”

“No,” she said, voice softer now. “Don’t apologize.”

She motioned toward a patch of sand a little further up the beach, where a flat, half-buried piece of driftwood made a decent seat. They sat side by side, the way people do when they don’t quite know each other but don’t feel like strangers anymore either. Shoulders almost touching. Feet buried in the cold sand.

Bob’s hands were resting on his knees, fidgeting lightly with the edge of his sleeve. She was watching the horizon, letting the silence stretch again — not uncomfortable, just there.

And then she spoke.

“Do you ever feel like you’ve lived a thousand lives but never really started one?”

The question hit him like a breath held too long.

He looked at her slowly, trying to read the shape of what she meant in the lines of her face.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “Yeah, I do.”

She didn’t ask for more.

Neither did he.

That was the beginning of something fragile — a moment of mutual recognition, of wounds that didn’t need explaining. They sat there until the sun bled gold across the water, until the tide inched closer and forced them to scoot back, laughing under their breath. They talked a little — about music, old movies, places they’d always wanted to go. Nothing too deep, but nothing meaningless either.

At one point, she told him her favorite sound in the world was waves crashing when the rest of the world was quiet.

Bob told her his was laughter — her laughter, he almost said, but he bit it back and just smiled.

She leaned her head on his shoulder for a few minutes toward the end, eyes closed. Not romantically, not possessively — just tired and trusting. The kind of gesture that said I feel safe with you, even if I don’t know why yet.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stayed still, steady, holding the moment like it was something sacred.

Eventually, her phone buzzed. Her friends were ready to leave. She lifted her head slowly and looked at him with a sleepy smile.

“I should go,” she said, brushing sand from her dress.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Me too.”

But neither of them stood right away.

“Tonight was… unexpected,” she said, glancing at him.

“In a good way?” he asked.

She nodded. “In the best way.”

Bob’s heart clenched — gently, painfully.

He walked her back to the edge of the city where her friends waited.

But she turned back once before stepping into the waiting car, brushing her hair behind her ear, and smiled like she knew this wasn’t the end.

“Bye, Bob.”

“Bye, Y/N.”

And she was gone.

But Bob stood there for a long while, watching the tail lights fade down the street, feeling the weight of the night settle deep in his chest.

Bob stood under the faint glow of the streetlamp, watching the car carrying her disappear around the corner, taillights blinking like tiny red stars fading into the dark.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the kind of smile that made his cheeks ache a little, like his face wasn’t used to joy stretching that far.

He took a deep breath.

Then another.

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, he actually felt good. The kind of good that didn’t come in a bottle or from pretending. This was real. The kind of good you wanted to hold onto with both hands.

So he turned on his heel, ready to head home, already replaying everything in his mind like it was a dream he was afraid to wake up from. Her laugh. The feel of her head on his shoulder. That perfect moment on the sand.

And then— Halfway down the street— His eyes went wide.

“Oh shit,” he muttered aloud.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

“I didn’t get her number.”

The words hit him like a slap. He spun around in place, staring at the empty stretch of road where her ride had vanished, and then pressed both hands into his hair, dragging his fingers down his face.

“Bob, you idiot!” he groaned.

A seagull screeched overhead as if mocking him, and Bob flipped it off on instinct. “Not helping, man!”

Panic started creeping in.

What if she thought he didn’t want her number? What if she was sitting in that car, slowly realizing that he hadn’t asked, and was now thinking he was just being nice with no intention of seeing her again? What if she was already telling her friends, “Well, it was nice, but I guess that’s all it was”?

“No, no, no,” Bob muttered, starting to jog—then full-on sprint—in the direction the car had gone. His shoes slapped loudly against the pavement, his breath puffing visibly in the cold dawn air.

He didn’t even have a plan. He just knew he had to try.

“Y/N!” he called out breathlessly, hoping maybe the car hadn’t made it too far. “Wait—damn it—Y/N!!”

He reached the main road just in time to see a car idling by the curb, her and her friends still climbing out—apparently one of the girls had forgotten her clutch inside the bar and they’d circled back.

Thank. God.

Bob skidded to a stop, chest heaving, hair sticking to his forehead. He must’ve looked like a lunatic, red in the face and out of breath, but she turned at the sound of his sneakers scraping pavement and her eyes lit up.

“Bob?” she asked, stepping away from the car. “Did something happen?”

He nodded, trying to speak but gasping like a fish.

“Did you forget something?” she asked with a smile, cocking her head.

He opened his mouth. Raised one finger. Gulped another lungful of air.

Then:

“I—forgot to ask for your number,” he wheezed.

She blinked. Then covered her mouth to hide a laugh.

Bob groaned. “I know, I know. I got all caught up in the whole mystical beach walk under the stars thing and then you smiled at me and I—I just—my brain stopped working.”

She was laughing now, hand over her heart. “You ran all the way back just for that?”

“I panicked,” he admitted. “I literally shouted at a seagull.”

That made her bend over laughing.

Bob grinned, red-faced, but proud. “So… any chance you’ll save me from dying of regret and give me your number?”

She pulled her phone from her bag and held it out to him. “Hand it over, seagull whisperer.”

He nearly fumbled pulling his phone from his pocket, fingers clumsy, but managed to pass it to her. She typed in her number with a grin and saved it under her name—then paused.

“I’m adding a little seagull emoji next to my name so you remember.”

Bob laughed, genuinely, head tilted back. “I’m never gonna live this down, huh?”

“Nope,” she said, popping the p. “But it’s cute. Endearing, even.”

He took his phone back and stared at her name glowing on the screen, feeling a little like he’d just been handed the moon.

“Thanks for running back,” she said, stepping closer. “Most guys would’ve just let it go.”

He met her eyes. “I didn’t want to risk not seeing you again.”

The humor in her smile softened into something warmer. Quieter.

“Good,” she said. “Because I didn’t want this to be the end, either.”

Then she leaned in and kissed his cheek, quick but warm. Bob’s heart practically punched a hole through his ribs.

“Now go home before you pass out,” she teased, heading back toward her friends.

“Right,” he said, dazed. “Sleep. Smart.”

She looked back one more time, gave him a wink, and got into the car.

And Bob stood there, in the middle of the street at dawn, with the number of the girl who’d danced with him, laughed with him, walked the shore with him… and kissed him.

He looked down at his phone again, still smiling.

Best. Panic attack. Ever.

--

In the Watchtower, Bob turned onto his side, pressing a hand to his chest. His fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, gripping something invisible. That hollow ache was still there — had never really left.

He’d run because he was afraid. Of what she made him feel. Of how clean he had to be to deserve her. Of how deep he was already falling. He knew he’d ruin her, and he couldn’t live with that possibility. So he chose the coward’s road.

But that didn’t mean he’d ever forgotten her.

Not for a second.

He remembered the way she’d always tug his sleeve when she was about to say something vulnerable. The way she smelled after the beach. How she whispered “Shut up” when he made her laugh too hard in bed.

He remembered what it felt like to fall asleep beside her and believe — even for a minute — that he was someone good.

In her home, Y/N turned again, facing the window.

“God,” she whispered into the darkness. “You wrecked me.”

And in orbit above, Bob whispered, “I never stopped loving you.”

They both stared at the night in silence.

Different beds. Different lifes. Same ache.

Reliving the same memory. Same heartbreak. Same question echoing like a curse between two broken hearts who once promised each other more.

"How did this end like this?"

[farrikdanked]

This deserves more love holy fuck

please please me

Word count: 3.9k

Summary: you persuade Calvin to spend a little less time at the lab and a lot more time with you.

Warnings: 18+ no minors, smut, masturbation (m), oral (f receiving), brief thoughts of somnophilia, praise kink, brief mentions of breeding kink (but no really because it’s mostly just taking about cum and creampies lol), pet names (sweetheart, honey, little wife), no use of y/n, fem reader, a little fluffy ending!

A/N: this took me an embarrassingly long time to write so I hope you enjoy, and please don’t forget to comment and reblog🫶

Calvin Evans was an incredibly dedicated chemist. He seemed to care more for his work than anything else in the world.

Late nights were almost always spent in his lab when he could be sure his scientific process would not be disturbed, more importantly there would be no Donatti banging on his door asking when his latest experiment would be done.

His commitment to his work is what many (even those who weren’t particularly fond of Evans) would list as one of his greatest strengths.

Not you though.

Definitely not you.

You didn’t want to be misunderstood, you were truly proud of Calvin and his work. He was a brilliant man who deserved every bit of praise he got. You would accompany him to every award ceremony and never grow tired of hearing speech upon speech about what a wonder he was in the scientific community.

But you were getting very tired of spending most nights in your home alone.

Every night for the past month at 1:35am on the dot, you would be awoken by the feeling of the right side of the bed sinking to the weight of his lanky body. He would apologize profusely for waking you so late, and proceed to move to the couch in the living room.

In the beginning you hoped you could at least have a brief moment of alone time with Calvin in your shared morning before he went off to work. But of course he had already left for his early row by the time you opened your eyes.

Even weekends weren’t sacred anymore since moving some of his lab equipment to his home office. Calvin would leave his office when you alerted him dinner was ready, you two would stick to light small talk ( “How’s your research going?” “This is delicious” “Anything interesting in the news lately?” “Have you heard about what happened to Mrs.Jones down the road?”) Cavin would eat quickly, finishing before you were even halfway through your food, thank you for the meal and quickly peck your cheek before going right back to his office.

Like any sane person you were growing impatient with your husbands never ending busy schedule. A woman has needs just like any man does and Calvin should know that very well by now.

Much of your early relationship was spent exploring all the ways you could please each other. After all, Calvin was a scientist and he would reason the best way to find out was to experiment. That meant hours wrapped up in your white sheets, christening every surface of his home, trying things you never would have even fantasized of doing in your wildest dreams.

You missed that time desperately now and you had a plan to get it back.

–

Calvin was never good at picking up on social cues. Luckily most people thought he was simply pulling their leg when he took a joke or a sarcastic comment seriously. But he knew something had changed with you the moment he stepped into your shared home that Friday night.

He still made sure to close the door with extra caution so as not to wake you, even though he ended up almost constantly waking you when he slunk into bed anyway. Going through his usual routine of removing his sweat soaked running clothes, grabbing a pair of clean pajamas, and jumping into the bathroom for a quick shower.

After thoroughly removing the feeling of grime from his skin he makes his way towards your bedroom rubbing his tired eyes. He knows he has only himself to blame for his recent exhaustion but he’s never been great at putting anything before his work, and that includes sleep.

As he expects there you are sleeping sweetly, your left hand resting gently under your face. No matter how many times he sees you sleep he knows he will never get bored of it.

Calvin was quickly pulled out of his state of adoration when he realized something was off with the usual picture he was used to coming home to. You were sleeping on your stomach with your leg sticking out from the duvet. And Calvin may be downright lousy at picking up social cues but he always noticed a change in his surroundings.

You most certainly never had to worry about Calvin failing to notice a change in your style or a new haircut because he was the first to comment on it. “This new dress looks lovely on you.” he’d say while kissing the exposed bit of your shoulder.

In all the years he had known you, you never once slept on your stomach (it was a deeply inconvenient position for cuddling according to you), and you definitely never let your limbs hang off the bed (some old superstitious fear you had as a child that stuck with you into adulthood).

He decided to investigate further, even if it turned out to just be him reading too much into it.

Striding over to your side of the bed he looked for anything else that might be out of place. Your breathing was normal, the book on your bedside table was laying in the same place you put it all other nights, and your nightly glass of water sat empty. He was about to scold himself for being overdramatic when his eyes caught the lack of fabric on your shoulders.

Maybe you purchased a new sleeveless nightgown, Calvin tried to reason with himself. Maybe it was just a particularly low neckline or perhaps the fabric matched your skin tone so well he just wasn’t seeing it, after all the room was dark. Yes, that was possible.

Of course he couldn’t leave it at that - oh why didn’t he leave it at that and go right to bed? “You’re being ridiculous,” he scolded himself like a child in a whisper. “Just take a quick look, there’s no harm.”

Carefully he reached for where the blanket met your exposed back, making sure not to graze your skin, as much as he wanted to.

Sure enough there it was, you, completely exposed to him. The sides of your breasts pushing out against the mattress and your round ass on full display. “Shit…” the words fell out of Calvins mouth before he could stop them. He felt like a stupid teenager getting his first glance at a nude woman all over again.

Thoughts of temptation filled his mind. What would happen if he did touch you? If his hands slipped down towards the space between your thighs. Would you wake suddenly furious that he would ever wake you from your peaceful sleep? What about encouraging him to join you and take off his towel?

Of course he wouldn’t ever be sure of the real answer as Calvin could not bring himself to touch you while unconscious. It would be downright ungentlemanly.

He shook his head to clear his mind of the thoughts.

Calvin was lifting the edge of the duvet to cover you back up when you began to move. Panic filled him as he froze completely, fearing what you would think if you caught him ogling you in your sleep. Luckily enough for him your eyes did not open, but something unexpected did come out of your mouth.

At first Calvin thought he was hearing things, maybe the exhaustion of all these long nights in the lab were finally getting to him. Although that was a strong possibility in his mind there was no doubt the noises he was hearing were coming from you. Noises he was all too familiar with. Soft, breathy, moans.

This was not a sound Calvin knew you could make in your sleep. So similar to the sounds you let out when he was on top of that if he closed his eyes he would swear that’s where he was. While being swept up by his own imagination he nearly missed the words you spoke. “Mmph…Calvin…”

That was the straw that broke the camel's back. He could no longer ignore the growing bulge under the towel wrapped around his waist. Dropping the blanket back over you, he rushed back to the bathroom.

Leaning against the sink Calvin ripped the towel from around him, freeing his hard cock. Bringing his right hand up to his mouth he spit a glob of saliva into the center of his palm. Wasting no time at all he reached down and grasped the base of his throbbing length causing a gasp to escape him. “Fuck,” He moaned, his voice trembing with arousal. Calvin couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this desperate for a release.

Reminiscing about the last time he had gotten you all to himself Calvin began working his hand over his cock. The way you bit your bottom lip when you were close to orgasm, how soft your ass felt in his hands, or how you begged him so sweetly to cum inside of you. “Oh honey,” he groaned with teeth clenched. The more he thought about you the closer he got to the edge.

Keeping his arm still Calvin started bucking his hips forward, fucking his fist while picturing you on your knees below him. Your big doe eyes looking up at him with an innocent glint was his weakness. How was someone even able to look so naive with a cock between their lips? “That’s it, God you're so good to me,” he could no longer hold back.

Picking up his pace Calvins mind went blank, only the sensation of his impending orgasm could be felt. A jumbled mix of curses sprung from his lips as he watched the cum shoot from the tip of his cock onto his fist.

Calvin remained silent in the bathroom, the only sound to be heard was the heavy panting noise of him trying to catch his breath. After a few beats he decided it would be best to clean up the mess he had made, put his pajamas on and get out of there as soon as possible. God forbid you wake up for a late night bathroom trip and see him like this.

Walking back out to the living room he began to wonder how loud he had been, did he wake you with his erratic moans? Choosing to take a quick peak and make sure he hadn’t embarrassed himself further he gracefully nudged your bedroom door open a sliver. Clearly the universe was looking out for old Calvin because there you lay, sleeping soundly.

Letting out a breath of relief Calvin moved back out towards his bed tonight – the couch.

If only Calvin had stayed watching you a little longer he would have seen the sly smirk spreading across your lips.

Everything goes according to plan.

–

The sun peeked through the blinds, shining directly onto his eyelids when he woke in the morning. He had been too distracted last night to set his usual 6am alarm but he welcomed the extra rest. Honestly after the night he had Calvin was surprised he slept at all.

Figuring there was no time to waste if he still wanted to go on his morning row, Calvin sat upright on the couch, wiping the sleep from his eyes. While rubbing his eyes Calvins nose picked up an array of once familiar scents: eggs, toast, bacon, and…was that pancakes? It had been so long since you last cooked breakfast for him –again Calvin knew that was completely his fault.

Cavin was starting to forget what your warm meals tasted like, becoming accustomed to eating the cold leftovers whenever he returned home. Perhaps he could skip the row, just this one time…

Strolling towards the kitchen with a smile on his face Calvin nearly tripped himself when he caught sight of you. Standing as he expected in front of the stove top, humming along to whatever song was playing in your head while carefully flipping pancakes. What he did not expect was the lingerie you were wearing while doing it. He’d obviously lost track of time while eyeing you as you noticed him, slack jaw and all.

You fully turned towards him with a smile, “Good morning sleepyhead.”

–

How you wish you had a camera near you now. The look on Calvins face was priceless. You had never seen him so stunned before, and that includes the first time you agreed to go on a date with him.

“M-morning,” he stuttered, clearly trying (and failing) to fix his uncouth expression.

His gaze wandered across the outfit before him. A light pink set, silk top decorated with a delicate bow in the center of the chest, short ruffled bloomers, completed with a transparent tulle robe.

You turned back towards the stove. “Did you sleep well? I missed you last night. It’s always so lonely in bed without you,” you said, exaggerating the sadness in your voice.

That seemed to snap Calvin back to his normal self, “I’m sorry honey, you know I just worry about waking you up,” the genuine concern in his voice almost made you feel bad for playing it up so much…almost.

“Well you woke me up anyway, so why didn’t you just join me, hm?” You had a feeling you could see the panic on his face without even looking back.

A hitch in his breathing and a sudden step towards you let you know you were spot on. “When exactly did I wake you?” he questioned.

“Oh you know, when you were playing with your cock in the bathroom,” you stated it simply like you were telling him something he already knew. “I have to say I was very disappointed you didn’t invite me Calvin, you know I hate to think of all the cum you wasted without me there to clean it up.” You shut the burner on the stove off, moving the final pancake off the side with the rest.

Finished with the task at hand you looked back at Calvin. No longer the anxious face you were anticipating, no this was a look you recognized instantly, arousal.

Calvin licked his lips, “You dirty little minx,” wrapping his hands around your waist he swiftly pulled you towards him. His hot breath fanning across your face, “You planned all this out didn’t you?”

Batting your lashes at him you whipped out your best virginal response, “I have no idea what you could possibly be accusing me of Dr.Evans.”

He tilted his head to the side, “Are you sure about that?” His hands were now grazing further down your back causing an involuntary shiver to run over you. “So you didn’t sleep naked last night hoping it would drive me crazy? How about moaning in your ‘sleep’ expecting me to get hard?”

You shook your head at every accusation. Watching Calvin grow more impatient with your antics was only egging you on.

He let out a huff, “No? Not even wearing this skimpy thing to cook breakfast in?”

“How do you know this isn’t what I usually cook breakfast in? It’s not like you’re ever around when I do it anyway.” The facade you had put on dropped quickly.

It was clear a lightbulb went off in Calvins head, “Is that what this is about? Have I been neglecting my pretty little wife's needs?” He moved his head into the crook of your neck, his nose pressed against your pulse.

Now it was your turn to stutter, “M-maybe…” Your eyes closed at the feeling of him being so close to you.

His lips moved to graze your neck, making his words jumbled, “Well I think I know just how to apologize for it.”

You were about to ask how when suddenly Calvins lips crashed onto yours, pushing every coherent thought from your mind. Caught off guard you forget to move your lips with his. He pulled away briefly to let out a hoarse whisper, “Kiss me,” The command was so gentle it seemed almost like a question.

You could never deny him of what he wanted. Moving back into the kiss you meet him with equal lust, like you both had been deprived of touch for years. God you missed this, the soft groans passing by your lips as your tongues melted against each other. You noticed a growing hardness pressed to your upper thigh. “Getting excited over a little kiss Calvin?” you teased. Your forehead rested against his, nudging his nose with yours.

“Can you blame me? I mean look at you,” Calvins right hand moved up from its place on your back, undoing the tie in the middle of your robe. You shook it from off your shoulders, letting it fall on the kitchen floor. Calvin took a step back to get a better look at you, making you whine at the loss of contact. “So perfect for me,” he said, like there wasn’t a single doubt in his mind that it was true.

“What are you doing?” You asked as he sunk slowly onto his knees.

His hands pulled at the back of your thighs, squeezing the soft skin. “I’m thanking my beautiful wife for putting up with me.”

Your eyes rolled at his dramatics. “Cavin I d-” the words ripped from you before they were even out as his lips moved to the inner part of your thigh. Dragging the delicate skin of his lips across you, your eyelids fluttered shut once more. “I should have known you would need me to take care of you,” he admitted.

The petals of his lips roaming higher up your thighs he shifted you so that your legs were flush against his torso. “Don’t you sweetheart, you need me to take care of you?” Although his tone was clearly mocking it still made you feel warm inside.

“Mhm, I do I do, please,” you nodded dumbly.

His smile pressed against your skin, “How cruel of me to ever leave my sweet wife and her needy pussy all alone.” Calvins right hand reached up to the center of your bloomers, thumb grazing over your clit.

“F-uck,” you gasped, dropping your hands to grip the base of Calvin's hair.

“You’re worse off than I thought you were,” he joked. Wasting no more time teasing you Calvin lowered your bloomers, pulling them with his teeth. Your eyes sprung open to watch him work.

Biting his lower lip Calvin admired the wetness dripping from you. “Miss me?”

“Yes, God Calvin Please,” you begged looking down at him with desperation flowing from you.

His eyes met your, “You don't need to beg for me anymore honey, I’m home now.” keeping eye contact with you Calvin kissed your aching clit. Gradually escalating from sweet pecks to open mouth licks you could feel your knees lock below you. Calvin shifted your left leg over his shoulder to drown himself inside your cunt, licking from your clit to your opening.

Moans falling from your lips before you even knew what you were saying, “Yes, fuck you’re so good Calvin,” you swore he always looked his best under you, even if your eyes were having trouble focusing at the moment.

Your praise was the only kind that Calvin cared about you recalled him telling you, and now that was obvious to you. Your words clearly have an effect on his performance. Encouraging him to lick and suck your clit with vigor. His moans vibrate your core pushing you further towards the edge of your impending orgasm.

Withdrawing his face from your pulsating cunt, Calvin lays his face on your thigh. Hastily replacing his tongue with his fingers and continuing the same motions. Seemingly mesmerized by his own actions Calvin stares at your pussy while speaking to you, “Yeah? You like when I pay attention to you?” His words came out wobbly like he was the one being pleasured.

Using all the strength you could muster you tried to really look at him like this. Face flush red leading down to his neck, your slick covering most of his chin, that one vein popping out of his temple. Never before Calvin have you seen a man look so determined to please.

“Mhm Yes, God Calvin, I love it when you pay attention to me,” you groaned.

“Good because I’ll be doing a lot more of it now.” going back in for another taste, he is like a man possessed. Calvin has always been an attentive man, inside and outside the bedroom and it was clear he was trying to prove something to you at this moment.

“Fuck I’m so close Calvin,” you warned.

He broke away from your pussy for a second time, “Yeah, you gonna come all over my face honey?”

You could no longer keep your eyes open, squeezing them shut tight. You wanted to say something- anything in response but the words failed you, opting to nod your head quickly.

“Do it sweetheart, come for me, please,” he coaxed, playing with your clit at the same steady pace he had been previously.

That was all it took for you to come, nearly collapsing into Calvin's arms. He held you upright as your orgasm overtook you. His praise continued as you came down from your high, “You're such a good little wife for me, that’s it honey, come just like that.”

After a few moments calming your breathing you decided to be brave and attempt to move on your own. You joined Calvin down on the floor, sitting in his lap. Letting out a sigh as you came back to your senses, “Fuck me.”

“I would but I'm afraid I may have gotten a little overly excited,” Calvin laughed. You took notice of what he was referring to, a large wet patch on the crotch of his pants.

“Well I’m glad that took care of itself because I don’t know I would have had any energy to help you with it, you drained me.” You jested, but really you weren’t sure your brain was working properly enough to think, let alone suck Calvin off.

The both of you sat in a peaceful moment of silence after that, fixing the others' wrecked appearance. You realized that these were the moments you missed most when Calvin left, simply basking in each other's presence - even if nothing extraordinarily romantic was happening.

“You know when you want me to spend more time with you all you have to do is ask, right?” he broke the silence while brushing your hair behind your ear.

“You know it would be a lot easier to ask you if you weren’t constantly away working or rowing, right?” you asked with the same cadence as him.

That made him giggle, “Fair point, I promise not to let my neurotic ways keep me away from you ever again.” You planted a quick peck in his lips at that, delighted to hear him say it. “In the meantime is there anything else I can do to make it up to you?”

You pretended to be deep in thought about his question, furrowing your brows together and tapping your pointer finger on your chin. “How about sitting down and eating the breakfast I’ve worked so hard on with me?”

Calvin moved from underneath you, causing a frown to appear on your face. He stood up and reached a hand down, inviting you to grab it and pull yourself up. “You don’t have to ask me twice,” he smiled, pulling up two chairs to the dining table.

[farrikdanked]

i can do a lot with 15 minutes • b.r.

pairing: bob reynolds x thunderbolt f!reader

synopsis: bob's karmic punishment—a week of blue balls—comes to an end.

content: nsfw, 18+ minors dni, switch!bob (ish), horny bob, semi-public sex, fingering, briefest mention of knifeplay, unprotected piv, slight plot

notes: she's hereeeee!! i'm losing sleep for this one. pls forgive any typos. loosely (like so very loosely) inspired by 15 minutes by sabrina carpenter. i hope u guys like this one, i was v unsure about it

word count: 6k

read part one here!

can be read as part of the seasons universe!

masterlist

this blog contains 18+ content, minors dni!

bob is in pain. real, physical pain. 

his skin feels too tight for his body, heat flaring at the base of his spine with each brush of fabric on his skin. even his softest pyjamas feel like sandpaper. 

the whole time you’re gone—a whopping four days—bob vows to refrain from touching himself. it’s borderline torture, but he figures it’s only fair—if you didn’t get any relief, then he shouldn’t either. 

and while his heart is in it, his mind and body are far from being on board. 

bob spends his days hiding in his room. the team assume he’s just wallowing because you’re gone and he’s a lovesick puppy, but really he just can’t stop how hard he gets when he closes his eyes and sees flashes of how you’d begged him so sweetly the last time you’d been in his arms. 

usually it’s the other way around. you’re the one that leaves him pleading for more more more. it’s intoxicating—the thought that he wasn’t the only one affected by the days gone by without touching each other. that you needed him bad enough to cry. 

bob’s a worrier—always has been. but this time around he’s juggling his anxiety for your safety and the growing concern that he might actually explode if this goes on any longer. 

by the fourth day, bob is miles past horny. he counts his blessings prematurely, because really, he’s in the eye of the storm. he’s already got everything planned, ready to throw you over his shoulder and carry you to his room where he’ll finish what he started. 

the morning you’re due to return, bob wakes with a sense of calm. there’s a suspicious absence of the buzzing under his skin he’s grown accustomed to, and his clothes aren’t sticking to him with sweat. 

he feels good enough to venture into the kitchen, show his face and have a normal conversation like normal people do. he would have, too, but the second he steps into the room, he finds the tower abuzz with catering, interior decor, a live band—the whole nine yards. 

yelena just barely dodges someone carrying a heavy silver tray, making a face as she passes bob standing dumbfounded at the counter. 

it hits him then. the gala. 

the meeting with valentina comes rushing back, and he vaguely hears her voice pinging around in his head. his first official appearance, she’d said. 

bob had been so busy battling his carnal desires that he’d forgotten he technically has… a job. 

he flounders there, smack dab in the middle of the kitchen that’s filling up equipment and cutlery at an alarming rate. it starts to make his skin crawl, the sheer number of people coming in and out of what’s essentially his home. 

so he turns, snagging a banana on his way out. resigns himself to eating in his room, and maybe he’ll text the group chat later for lunch if he feels good. but then something else hits him halfway down the hall and it takes all of him to keep his knees from buckling. 

the gala starts this evening. you get back tonight. 

zero crossover. he’ll be at the fundraiser when you return. no time to get you alone, like he’d planned so meticulously. the image of you, still in your gear, crying out from under him as he pistons his cock into you withers and dies in his mind. he chokes back a dejected groan, leaning onto the gunmetal grey walls like he’s absorbing a hit.

it’s almost instinctual, the way bob immediately starts conjuring up excuses he could use to get out of attending the stupid gala, or even just to make a fashionably (severely) late appearance. whatever will give him enough time to give you the welcome home you deserve–the one he’s been waiting so patiently for. 

he wonders how he should broach the subject with valentina. a thought occurs fleetingly—his stomach rolls with a bit of shame as he debates whether he should play up the sentry persona—firm, sure and just this side of a god complex, or lean heavier into the pitiful, kicked-puppy front. 

inside, he feels the latter, but when he thinks of what’s on the line—the stakes at hand, he’s fumbling with his phone, pressed to his ear without a second thought. he clears his throat seconds before she picks up, already huffing about whether this could’ve been an email. 

bob enters what feels like a flow state, letting the words spill out as they come to mind. he thinks he’s putting on a solid performance—his voice only wavers once as he explains logically, why it would make sense for him to show up late. it speaks volumes to how badly he needs this–needs you, because he’s volunteering to have even more attention, more eyes on him just for an hour with you alone. 

valentina is silent while he says his piece, quiet while he points out that the sentry’s official debut to the public should be striking and making a strategically delayed appearance would do just that. his eyes roll at calling the upper echelon and slimy politicians—the ‘public’. he’s glad she can’t see him over the phone.

there’s a beat of silence, just a breath before the woman on the other end of the line clicks her tongue.

“you will arrive at the agreed upon time, robert. and don’t even think about being ‘strategically late’ or whatever you called it, or else your little girlfriend’s getting ‘strategically’ stuck on an off-grid recon task in alaska next.”

bob’s breath catches. a flash of anger cracks in his chest, and his ribs ache when it feels like there are hands prying his ribs from the inside, trying to claw their way out. he doesn’t need a mirror to know his eyes aren’t blue anymore.

“but i am loving this energy—exactly what we want to see tonight!” valentina ends the call, and bob has to take drawn-out, grounding breaths just to quell the pressure pushing at the edges of his mind. as if he didn’t have enough problems—now he has to contend with the sentry’s bruised ego too. 

bob spends the rest of the day in a mood. by evening, it’s everyone’s problem.

bucky manages to coax bob into john’s room about an hour before the event starts. bob is grumpy the whole time, grumbling about how he doesn’t think he needs a glam squad. 

bob sees alexe first, dress shirt undone and open down the front. the super soldier is perched on john’s desk, fiddling with his neon red speaker, filling the room with russian hip hop that rattles the furniture. bob winces as the pounding in his head syncs in time with the palpitating beat. 

their tuxes are laid out in sleek, black bags and john is meticulously shaving in the ensuite, greeting bob’s frown with a “sup, bob?”

“any of you know how to tie a bow tie?” bucky asks as he slicks his hair back with gel in the full length mirror. the room is silent with a resounding no. 

“figured.”

he meets bob’s eyes in the reflection just as he shrugs, plopping onto the bed with a deep sigh. his hair falls into his eyes, and he wonders if maybe he should ask bucky for that hair gel. 

“why’re you pouting, bob?” 

bob’s frame tenses more than he already is, and his face falls into a comically blank expression. “‘m not pouting,” bob mutters, eyes glued to the ceiling. his cheeks grow a little hot as he actively refrains from jutting out his lower lip.

john pokes his upper body out from the bathroom, half of his chin still covered in shaving cream as he smirks. “yeah, he’s brooding. that’s basically pouting for men.”  

“you guys suck.”

alexei slaps his knee, “pah! this is an easy fix.”

bucky blinks, fingers tugging at his tie. “fix for what?”

“bob needs his woman,” alexei declares, nodding at bob like bob will agree in front of everyone, that the reason he’s so irritable is because he hasn’t had sex in over a week. 

bob’s embarrassed, in fact, that alexei had been able to sniff it out so easily. “guys, can we please not talk about this?” 

“it is completely natural thing,” alexei’s voice booms, and walker nods exaggeratedly from where he’s standing. even bucky shrugs when bob looks to him desperately for him, because he agrees and also because he wants to see where alexei is going with this. 

“we are all adults, hm? there is no shame to admit it, bob. the touch of a lover—nothing like it!”

bob hopes everything he’s felt for the past four days will finally catch up and take him out, because this might just kill him.

his cheeks are blazing hot as the heels of his palms press into his eyes in exasperation. “that’s not–”

“so you’re saying bob almost bit my head off today for using her mug, all because he needs to get laid?” john cackles, eloquent as ever. the blond ducks back into the bathroom, still chuckling to himself when bob glares, jaw clenched tight.

“what’s the big deal, anyway? she’s back today, isn’t she?” bucky asks, hands on his hips as he stares down bob’s unkempt, frazzled appearance—his sweatshirt is inside-out.

bob trips over his words, running through various attempts to express why exactly he’s so high-strung. “yeah, but– it’s not just… i had a plan and everything and then–” 

when he realises he’s about to reveal to three super soldiers that he’s pissy because his plans to ruin you the second you got home fell through, his mouth snaps shut. he blinks rapidly, mind racing to find a plausible excuse.

“i just miss her… a lot.” bob settles lamely.

“well, you’ve made it this long. what’s another three, four hours?” bucky offers an understanding hum, reluctantly directing his attention to alexei after glancing at his watch. “now let me help you dumbasses with your ties.”

john walks out of the bathroom, clean-shaven, skin pink and eyes glimmering with what bob knows is the precursor to a jab that’ll make bob cringe.

and like the universe decides to grant him one favour, bob’s phone rings. all eyes land on the picture of your sleeping face lighting up his screen. 

there’s a split second where the three super soldiers exchange looks, as if to see who’s going to go first in teasing him. bob isn’t one to waste time, and he’s darting out into the hall before anyone can say anything. 

bob speedwalks to his room, answering on the third ring. “hi,” he breathes into the air, heart stuttering with the fact that he’s about to hear your voice, melodic and soft, filling him with warmth that he’s been chasing after by listening to your old voice notes. 

“hi, baby,” you croon, and if he closes his eyes, bob can pretend you’re right there, can smell your perfume curling around him. just the sound of those two words leaving your lips is enough to make him shudder, the full weight of everything he’s felt rushing back to him tenfold.

“m– i miss you,” bob’s voice cracks as he tries his damndest not to whimper over the phone. 

“oh, sweet boy, i miss you too. how’ve you been doing?” 

bob can picture the sympathetic pout on your lips, brows drawn together. you’d reach out and brush your fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp. his stomach swoops, and his eyes have to fly open before his imagination carries him away. 

“it’s been… hard,” bob bites through his teeth, laughing a little at his own pun, even through the way he is actually starting to swell in his sweats. your giggle bubbles over the line, and bob’s lips quirk at the sound. 

“i’m sure,” you hum. bob hears shuffling on your end, muffled footsteps leading away from the overlapping voices in the background. your voice lowers into a hushed, curious lilt, “have you… have you touched yourself?” 

bob inhales sharply, a shiver rolling down his spine. he can feel the blood rushing south—goes a little light-headed as a result. he shakes his head in response, forgetting you can’t see him.

“no,” bob grunts, keeping his fist balled at his side as the other white-knuckles his phone, “have you?”

you’re quiet for a second. the rumbling of an engine echoes in place of your answer. bob feels his heart pounding in his chest, until the sound of your breath leaving in a deep exhale reaches him.

“no,” you murmur quietly. bob can picture it, your lip caught between your teeth.

“when are you back?” bob doesn’t even care how needy he sounds anymore. he thinks he gets a pass to whine as much as he wants, just this once. 

“soon. jet’s landing within the hour, but i’ll need some time to clean up before i get to the gala.”

bob groans out loud, scrubbing a hand over his face. this is genuine torture, how you’re so close but so far. you’ll be in the same building, some floors up, in the shower with your skin glistening and wet– 

“think you can hold on just a little longer for me?” your teasing voice breaks him out of his lustful stupor. bob doubts he can, suspecting that you think him a stronger man than he is. his cock already strains against its confines—all from hearing your voice again. just this sliver of you is enough to break down every single brick he’s put in place the past week, sealing away his near feral desire. 

and now you’re essentially asking him to behave until the very fancy, very sophisticated gala is over. 

“i… wait– how are you on the phone right now? aren’t you supposed to be on, like, airplane mode?” 

his cheeks warm when you laugh, full and bright, straight into his ear. “bob, i’m on a multi-million dollar jet built for battle. i think it can handle a phone call.”

bob chuckles sheepishly. with anyone else, maybe he would’ve been embarrassed, because he probably should've known that. but it’s you–what can he say if he gets a little stupid around his girlfriend?

“besides, even if i wasn’t, i’d still risk it for you,” you tell him softly. a faraway call of your name rings through the line, and he hears you sigh, “hey, i gotta go now. but i’ll be there, okay?”

“okay,” bob says on a deep exhale, steeling himself with your reassurance that this hell won’t last that much longer, “i love you.”

“I love you, too, baby.” the line clicks off and bob is left to the silence of his empty room with a big problem he has no means to fix.

•

there’s a rumbling in the air. distantly, bob thinks it’s going to rain. but one cursory glance out the floor to ceiling windows tells him the skies are clear.

it’s coming from inside of him.

bob barely makes it into the first hour of the fundraiser before he’s on his last legs. he can hardly ignore the thrumming in his chest, reverberating in his bones. heat prickles at the back of his neck and he’s starting to feel sweat bead at his hairline—not a good look for the occasion.

an even worse look would be the hard-on he has tucked awkwardly into his waistband. try as he might, that phone call was a catalyst and no amount of confusing his brain could distract from the way he throbbed insistently against his navel. 

in short, bob is very uncomfortable.

the gala is lavish in every way that is foreign to bob. it makes him antsy, all those beady, shark-like eyes trained on him as he steps into the penthouse with the team. the instructions were for bob—the sentry—to take the front, but he makes it as far as down the steps before yelena knowingly ushers him behind her and ava. 

they make the rounds, as required. everyone is all too happy to let mel and her intern do the talking. bob is all strained smiles and fidgeting fingers, faraway in his head, counting down the minutes. 

when valentina announces that they’re free to mingle until further notice, bob moves like smoke, ignoring the confused calls of his name from the team. he disappears into the throng, weaving through floor-length gowns and black tuxes in a beeline to the bathroom.

bob bursts through the door with a strained grunt. he locks it with a trembling hand, the other undoing the clasp of his dress pants and pulling his boxers down. the top of his underwear is starting to dampen. his cock springs free, the head flushed and drooling pre-cum. the cool air that meets his feverish skin walks the line of painful—makes him hiss through his teeth. 

it’s quick and efficient, the way he cleans himself up. he’s no stranger to it with how he’s been perpetually hard for a week. bob can barely keep himself quiet with each pass of the paper towels down the length of him, and it takes nearly everything he has to not grip himself in hand and put an end to this. he’s not above jerking one out in a bathroom.

but then your face ghosts across his mind. remembers how you’d admitted quietly that you’d been good too, holding everything back for him. 

paper towels land haphazardly in the trash bin, and he tucks himself back into his pants with a muffled groan. as he washes his hands, he dares a look in the mirror and blows out a breath at how wrecked he looks. cheeks red, pupils blown and irises iridescent. 

“stop,” bob whispers to his reflection, stern but a little weary, like he’s scolding a child who’s just about to throw a tantrum. his eyes flicker once more, bright and piercing, before they dim slowly—the sentry retreating with a warning.

the muscle in his jaw ticks, as he steels himself to go back out. he can do this, he thinks. he’s been through worse, it’s all in his head, it’s just physical—all things to take his mind somewhere different. he even tries screaming cucumber in his head, to no avail. 

bob lingers at the edges of the party, checking his phone just to give his hands something to do. he finds the text you’d sent, telling him you were back. another updating him that you’d just started getting ready, and two more asking his advice on which pair of heels to wear.

he feels a little bad for his late reply, but he sends his vote anyway. his mind works just a little too slow to realise you’re probably already here, slipping in quietly while he’d been hiding in the bathroom. 

and then his eyes land on you—more so the bare expanse of your back, but he’d recognize you anywhere. you’re only a few steps away, talking to an older couple with polite nods of your head, totally unaware that you have a man (your man) glued to the floor just a few feet away. 

he should move. stop staring from the shadows like a creep. but you’re in a golden dress, a not-so-subtle claim both to and from the golden guardian. the fabric hugs your figure, catching the light with every move, and you’re damn near glowing—a beacon that calls to him. 

the rumbling in his chest returns, and this time bob lets it slide—it’s justified.

you shift, turning just enough for bob to catch the high slit on the number, revealing the holster you still have strapped snug around your upper thigh. he thinks he whimpers out loud, this time. he’s glad for the music and the cover of darkness, but it’s enough to kick him into motion.

his steps are heavy, moving like a man on a mission. people move out of his path without question, and any other day maybe he’d have given that more thought, but he’s zeroed in on you. tunnel-visioned on the slope of your spine, the divots he’s mapped with his mouth. 

he makes it over to you just as you excuse yourself from the couple. the cordial smile on your face freezes when you feel a warm hand settle dangerously low on your back, blazing hot and firm. bob can see the split-second where you recognise his skin on yours, his cologne and the firm chest pressed behind you. 

you whirl to meet his eyes, rouge lips spreading into a giddy grin. his fingers, greedy, slip under the seam of your dress.

“bob,” you say breathily, eyes alight with relief and adoration with how you’re finally face-to-face with your boyfriend. with how you’ve turned towards him now, his eyes can roam appreciatively over your dress. they catch at the deep plunge, and the generous cleavage offered by the halter neckline. bob finds himself fighting a losing battle at not blatantly staring at your tits in front of all these people.

you have half the mind to tell him where your eyes are, but you’re just a little busy admiring how fucking bob looks like this. the deep brown waves that always hang in his eyes are slicked back tonight, curling loosely at the nape of his neck. there’s a light layer of stubble around his jaw, just enough to get away with it, but the shadow it adds makes you lick your lips. 

and the tux—god, the tux.

it fits like a glove. the jacket sleeves pull tight around his biceps, and you can see the strong lines of muscle where his dress pants hug his thighs. golden cufflinks glint under the warm lights as his hand comes up to scrape over his jaw. you could swoon.

bob hums your name, voice low and hungry. your skin burns with the intensity in his eyes. the air around you is charged, but no one around seems to notice. 

you’re holding your breath, waiting for anything—any reason to get your hands on him. 

but it turns out you don’t need one, because he’s leading you back the way he came with his arm wrapped around your waist. it’s a little bit of a territorial display, you tell him, but he reasons that anyone with eyes can see you in his colour and connect the dots. 

you don’t even make it to the bathroom. the second he gets you in a secluded enough corner, there’s no precursor. just a beat where you’re both locked on each other, pulled into orbit. your chests rise in sync, falling just as hard. 

he’s on you before you can get to him first. a big hand curls around the back of your neck, keeping you still as he licks at your bottom lip. your mouth open with no resistance, sucking his tongue in your mouth while his hand wastes no time in slipping under the slit in your dress. 

his fingers snag on the holster, the handle of the sheathed dagger, and he pulls back just enough to say, “you- you planning on using this?”

your eyes narrow, head tilting with a smile as you shoot back, “do you want me to?”

bob visibly shudders, but opts to just kiss you again, knowing you’re already planning five different ways to use that information. 

it’s messy and desperate, more swapping spit than real kissing. you cling onto his lapels when his calloused fingers tease the seam between your thigh and your ass. 

“bob, i can’t- need you now,” you sigh into his mouth, lips downturned with how badly you want it. 

bob nods against your lips, one more slide of his tongue on yours before he pulls back. “i know, baby. c’mon.”

he takes your hand in his, leading you the rest of the way to the bathroom he’d been in just minutes ago. thanks his lucky stars that it’s unlocked as he ushers you inside. 

you’re pressed up to the door as soon as the lock clicks. it’s loud, the only other sounds being your laboured breaths and the muffled bass of the music from the other side of the door. 

then bob is kissing you again, and the wet smacking of your lips sends a brush of heat to your core. makes you a little shy, with how bob is moaning into your mouth. 

his hands have a mind of their own as they ruck up the hem of your dress, parted at the slit. he nudges your thighs apart with his own, the fabric scratching at the soft skin of your inner thighs. 

bob cups your pussy over your thong, feels the heat radiating off of your center and groans loud into your hair. he rubs at you over the lace, thumb pressing firm into where he knows your clit is. 

you whimper into the air, hand flying to his shoulder when your hips buck against your will. “bob,” you cry, chasing his touch. you want to feel his fingers on you, in you. not how he is now, driving you crazy with his thumb over your covered nub. 

he nods, more to himself. his hand obediently slides under the band of your underwear, tracking a familiar path to where you’re soaked. 

“holy shit,” bob gasps, eyes wide, sliding his fingers through the slick he finds waiting for him, “you’re so fucking wet, honey.”

“fuck, i know,” you whimper, head tossed back as he coats his fingers in your arousal. “‘m ovulating.”

bob’s mind goes white. he feels like he’s looked straight at the sun, blinded with how fucking bad he wants you. the revelation sends him to heaven for a second, and when you moan his name, twitching beneath his touch, he knows he’s there to stay. 

“fuck,” bob grunts under his breath, sliding two fingers into you. feels your walls clamp down hard, the same time you gasp at the thickness of his digits inside you. 

“god, i fucking missed this,” is all he says before he goes a little quiet, so in his head and dead-set on finishing what he started that he forgets he’s basically in public. 

but that’s all well and good, because you’re way gone too. already babbling praise, unable to muffle the whines escaping your red lips while he strokes inside you. 

“oh, bob, feels so good,” you breathe into the crook of his neck as he curls his fingers, reaching deep into that spot that makes you gush. when your head falls back, knocking on the steel door, your eyes trail hungrily over his face, hardened with focus.

“you’re so handsome, bob. needed you so bad, need you to– to make me cum,” your fingers tug at the hair at the nape of his neck. he groans at the sharp pull, pumping his fingers into you harder. your eyes roll back, mouth falling open when his thumb swirls over your clit, sticky with your juices. 

“let me have it,” bob pleads, capturing your mouth with his. “c’mon, pretty girl, give it to me. please– let me feel it– that’s what you were waiting for, right?”

it’s so fucking dirty, but you’re cumming on his fingers, pressed up against a bathroom door. bob has to slap a hand over your mouth when you do, because you nearly scream at how tight everything seizes up. your first after a week, and it makes your knees buckle. 

he drags it out for you, marvels at the way you soak his hand while his other holds you upright, easy and tight on your hip. 

you pant against his lips, and he seems happy to share your breath as you come down, especially when you’re knocking his wet hand away to fumble with his zipper. 

it’s downright holy, the relief he feels when your fingers wrap around him. all is right in the world, back on its axis. 

you draw him out of his boxers, tucking the waistband under his heavy balls. his cock is an angry crimson, slick and sticky all down the sides with how much he’s been leaking ever since your call. 

“oh my god,” you murmur when his cock twitches in your grasp, spitting out pearly beads of pre-cum. your thumb slides over his tip, collecting what you can before you bring it to your lips, humming at the familiar taste. 

bob groans loud and needy, his abdomen clenching in uncontrollable bursts.

“poor baby,” your palm twists around his cockhead, “that looks like it hurts.”

“fuck- it does!” bob grits out, eyes squeezed shut as he focuses on not blowing his load all over your pretty dress. “you gotta stop doing that, ‘cause the only place i’m gonna cum is inside you.”

you release him with a smile, slipping out from under his arms caging you in. you hop onto the sink, wriggling out of your ruined underwear. 

and like the universe’s last attempt at leaving bob with blue balls, he remembers the speech you’re lined up for. it cuts through his needy haze like a knife, and he even tears up a little when he says, “shit, baby, we can’t. don’t you need to be on stage soon?”

only, it comes out weak and pathetic, and you both know he’s going to be inside you within the next minute.  

bob watches, salivating at the sight of you kicking your panties off your heel, and when you spread your thighs for him, offering yourself up, he needs no further invitation. 

“in fifteen minutes actually,” you sigh as bob steps between your legs, jacket tossed to the side. he leaves dangerous kisses down your throat. you won’t be able to cover anything up and he knows that. 

“don’t worry, sweet boy,” you smile, cheeky as you draw him in, “we can work with that.” 

bob’s hypnotised, one strong hand anchoring at your waist while the other lines himself up. he kisses you once before he pushes in, eyes trained intently on you, wanting to see every minuscule twitch of your reaction. 

he loves the face you make every time he makes that first slide home. your eyebrows furrow, raised in surprise as your lips fall open. he likes watching your lashes flutter as you try to keep your eyes open, inevitably rolling back when he sheathes himself fully. 

usually it would take more sweet nothings murmured into your ear and his fingers at your clit to fit all of him inside. but this time you’re so slick and ready that he manages to slip inside in one thrust. 

the sound you make is halfway between a squeal and a gasp. “bob-!” you sound genuinely shocked, like you’ve forgotten just how it feels to have him so full and thick inside of you. 

your nails claw at his shirt when he starts drawing his hips back in shallow thrusts. “god, you’re so fuckin’ tight,” bob’s voice cracks at the feeling of your slick walls sucking him back in. 

“you’re so perfect,” he whimpers with his forehead pressed to yours, “so fucking beautiful like this.” he can’t believe this is real. maybe he’s hallucinating, or he’s living through a really vivid daydream. 

you’re here, legs hooked around his hips, heels digging into his ass as he ruts into you. barely dragging his full length out before he’s slamming back in. 

he fucks you hard on the bathroom counter, your tits bouncing in that dress that steals his breath. he paws at the glittering fabric, pulling it aside to release your tits. lowers his chin and sucks a nipple into his mouth, all while his hands pull your hips down to meet his thrusts. 

the sticky sounds make you blush, if the way bob’s wet tongue swirling around your peaked nipple doesn’t do it first. a constant plap! plap! plap! where his balls slap against your ass. 

his cock pulses inside you, and you know he’s close when he starts drooling against your neck. 

“thought about this every day,” bob admits, slurred and breathless. “thought i was going crazy. dreamed about you every night, honey.”

you’re egging him on with your pretty moans, thighs clenching at his hips when his pace picks up, pistoning against the spot that makes you keen. 

“dreamed of you too, bob,” you whisper, lips brushing the shell of his ear. you watch goosebumps disappear down his crisp white collar. “woke up soaking every morning, wished you were there to take care of me.”

bob moans wantonly against your neck, “fuck, i– yeah, baby, gonna take care ‘f you, okay? y’don’t have to worry about anything.”

you nod, feeling that telltale heat building in your tummy. his rambling makes your head go fuzzy, and you’re launched into the countdown for what you know is going to be a devastating orgasm. 

“i’ll fuck you properly when this is over. just cum for me now, yeah?”

so you do, because he said so. 

you go stock still, mouth caught on a silent scream when it hits. for a moment, you feel like you’re floating, like right before the big drop on a roller coaster. 

and then you plummet back into your body, trembling as your walls spasm. bob talks you through it, whimpering into your neck as his end approaches while yours drags on. 

“thaaat’s it, good girl. soak my cock just like that,” he hums, sucking the skin between your shoulder and your neck between his teeth when he cums, dragged over the edge from your release. 

it muffles the shout crawling up his throat, and he nearly chokes from how hard it hits him. he spurts thick, heavy ropes of cum inside you, moans all broken and ruined. 

you moan contentedly at the warm sensation of being filled up. the wait was worth it for this moment alone. 

you think he’s done, but he just keeps cumming. he’s crying, for real this time, fat tears rolling down his cheeks as the overstimulation takes over. but his balls are still drawn right and he whines like he’s not the one still pushing his twitching cock into your puffy hole. 

when he finally pulls out, you have to act quick so his cum doesn’t get on your dress. bob wipes most of what’s leaking out with a paper towel, kissing you soft and gentle the whole time. 

he retrieves your discarded panties, pulling them up your legs carefully. and then he pays where he’s starting to seep into the barely-there lace. 

“keep… keep me there, until we get home,” he says. it’s almost a question and it almost sounds shy, but one look at his blown pupils tells you it’s an instruction. his voice is so deep and wrecked that it makes your stomach flip, and you realise you’re starting to forget your lines for the speech valentina had drilled everyone into remembering.  

an insistent knock breaks you both out of it. 

yelena, on the other side of the door, calling for you to “get the fuck out, it’s go time.” 

bob wonders how exactly she’d known where to find you—he doesn’t know you told her resolutely, before you even left for the mission that you were going to fuck him in that bathroom, regardless of how he’d dragged you in there first. 

the door swings open to reveal yelena, standing there in her suit. eyes narrowed knowingly as her sharp eyes dart between your shiteating grin, the blotches along your shoulder and bob’s hair—once carefully slicked back, now tousled and wild. 

on the walk to the stage, yelena has to brief you on your lines while bob trails behind, looking the picture of someone who just got fucked hard. he realises belatedly, satisfaction curling in his belly, that you’d worn the heels he liked. 

[farrikdanked]

just a matter of time • b.r.

pairing: bob reynolds x thunderbolt f!reader

synopsis: bob's karmic punishment—a week of blue balls

content: nsfw, 18+ minors dni, switch!bob (ish), handjob, fingering, plot

notes: if i had a penny for every time i wrote about bob getting cockblocked,,, loosely inspired by 15 minutes by sabrina carpenter heeheee part 2 will be out hopefully within the week! got loads going on but rest assured the lewis pullman brainrot is still alive and well. bob reynolds my bbgirl forever <3

word count: 3.5k

can be read as part of the seasons universe!

masterlist

this blog contains 18+ content, minors dni!

being with bob felt like watching a storm cloud approaching. 

it started with everyone moving into the watchtower—living together, learning the way each other moved. 

bob had walked through the doors with only a duffel bag and the clothes on his back, and picked the room next to yours—the smallest out of all the others available. just like that, he became your new neighbour. he’d offered up a housewarming gift—a succulent he had picked up at a flea market with yelena. (it still sits on your window sill—makes his cheeks heat when he remembers just how nervous he’d been to give it to you that day.)

the feelings had snuck up on you—by the time you’d noticed, it was too late. all you could do was brace yourself for the onslaught of yearning you knew you were in for.

fleeting smiles in the hall bled into shy conversation on the way to breakfast, and then you were inviting him to run errands with you—any excuse to get him some fresh air and to feel the tentative brushes of his pinky against yours as you walked side by side. 

kissing him had been the rumbling of an approaching storm.

it happened almost a year after you’d first met in that vault. rainy october, huddled under an umbrella he held over your heads. the rain pelting on the pavement roared in your ears, almost drowning out how’d murmured to hold onto his arm so you didn’t get rained on. 

the same man in scrubs who’d made you snort with laughter when he called john walker an asshole within five minutes of meeting him. now, you’re gazing up at his pink-tipped ears and nose as you take his arm— sidling close enough to smell the cologne he’d picked out, a woodsy scent that clung to all his clothes (and yours, recently).

it was only when you came to a slow under scaffolding, deciding to wait out the worst of the downpour that you noticed how half of half of his hoodie had gotten drenched from tilting the umbrella to cover more of you. 

bob maneuvered you so you were nice and dry while he gave you a onceover. scanning head to toe, completely uncaring that his grey hoodie had turned dark and heavy from the rain. 

you’d kissed him then, the first of many—soft and shy and spilling over with unspoken affection. your lips muffled his gasp, shocked still as the umbrella hung limp at his side. only took a couple seconds for his brain to kick in, and then he was pulling you close with a hand on your jaw.

after almost a month of slow, tentative kisses—like he still wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you that way—you’d invited him into your bed. it had been a little clumsy at the start. trembling hands warmed by your heated skin,giggling in the dim light—his strong frame shuddering above you as your nails dug into his shoulder blades. 

a lightning strike—the opening of pandora’s box.

you quickly discover that bob is two steps away from being utterly insatiable. when you tell him you suspect his almost non-existent refractory period is the result of the sentry serum, bob shuts it down. definitively states it’s all because of you. 

once it clicks in his head that you’re his and he’s allowed to touch you—it’s game over. he shows you time and time again (often in quick succession) just what you do to him. 

once with your legs slung over his shoulders. another with his chest plastered to your back as he rutted into you on all fours. on your back again, but this time with your knees pressed to your chest. 

more than once you’ve migrated from his bed to yours next door, simply because you’d been too exhausted to change the sheets. late nights spent in a tangle of loose limbs and wandering mouths, hushed whispers and exploring hands make way for the absolute wildfire that comes in the day. 

all it takes is you walking into the room, eyes lighting up when you flash that sweet smile reserved for him and him only. he’ll be rocking a semi before you even make it to his side. when he has to fumble a half-assed excuse to dart out of the room like it’s on fire, all eyes turn to you questioningly. 

you’ll shrug like you’re just as confused, but you’re already waiting for your phone to light up with the text he’ll send, begging you to come to his room and take care of him. 

“‘s your fault,” he whines into your hair when you do—maneuvering him against the wall as your hand slips down the front of his sweats, palming at his pulsing cock. “you— you can’t look at me like that, and expect me to… to not—ah, fuck—”

it’s a little mean—the tight, harsh tugs and how you huff about being dragged away from your friends just because he needed you to get him off. 

but it only makes him throb harder in your palm, warm and slick from the pre-cum spilling over your fingers. he whimpers, open and wanting against your mouth, warm breath hitching when your thumb swipes over his tip. 

he finishes in record time, with a prayer and your name on his tongue. you kiss him sweetly as he comes down from it, but he’s lightheaded so it’s more of him panting against your mouth. 

 if he’d known then that it would be his last orgasm for the next week, then maybe he would’ve tried to hold on longer—insist on being inside you, where you could keep the memory of him for days. 

but hindsight is a power even the sentry lacks. 

instead, bob just watches in a daze as you lick up the mess trickling down your fingers and forearm, slipping back outside with a wink. 

what comes next is a hectic few days in the watchtower. 

alexei, john and yelena return from an away-mission, bringing back with them a restless, wound-tight energy. it fills the silence that had settled over the tower—squabbling, barely muffled through the walls and clambering pots in the kitchen at unholy hours. 

with five roommates between you, it’s hard to find a moment alone with bob. he’d just ducked his head to meet your lips in a kiss when you’re being dragged away by bucky who’s raving about what you won’t believe sam just said.

bob doesn’t think much of it. he figures he’ll get you alone again soon enough, though he started missing you the second your touch left him. he can already feel his ears burning, fingers tingling as they flex at his sides, thinking of exactly what he could do to you once he has you in his arms again. 

but it gets to be a problem when it’s two days later and bob has barely had time to kiss you, let alone have his way with you in the way that’s been relentlessly plaguing his mind. 

you’re here, but not really. bob catches fleeting glimpses of you, suited up and non-stop pounding back coffees. each time you run into your wall of a boyfriend, you’ll reach up on your tiptoes, pecking his lips before you slip off to where you’re needed. 

bob would argue that he is where you’re needed, evidenced by how even that brief brush of skin gets him light-headed and warm.

his restraint starts to fray on the fourth day of what bob has started to call his karmic punishment. three nights in a row you’ve slipped into bed with leaded limbs—knocked out completely within seconds. 

his heart had clenched tight in his chest, watching you sleep, curled loosely into his side. the memory of you stretched so thin all throughout the day with barely a moment to breathe made him frown, tucking the sheets tighter around your chin. 

but at the end of the day, he’s just glad you’re in bed beside him and not in some safehouse in the middle of nowhere. here, he can brush your hair out of your face, refill your water bottle on your bedside table and make sure the thermostat is set just cold enough for you to sleep through the night. 

he resorts to breathing through the ache between his legs, fingers curled into the sheets as he wills his mind to think of anything other than your steady breathing fanning over his bare chest and his arm that’s hugged between the plush of your tits. bob barely sleeps a wink that night.

his luck runs out the next day.

the team is gathered in a conference room where valentina and mel give the rundown on some gala at the end of the week.

“fundraising, or something,” is what bob would say if asked. as if valentina needed more funds. he’s barely listening, even though he ought to, given it’ll be his first official appearance with the team.

instead, bob fixes a glare at valentina, jaw clenched as the woman ends the meeting with yet another task assigned to you—something about how your exact skillset was essential to the objective and it simply couldn’t be done without you. 

your eyes roll, lips twitching with how you hold back a swear or two. begrudgingly, you accept the datapad. bob’s eyes narrow at the dismissing scoff valentina gives when you grumble about how you need a vacation. 

if the team notices bob’s growing attitude, they don’t bring it up—yet. only because it’s more entertaining to watch him fail miserably at schooling his expressions towards valentina—he absolutely holds it against her for keeping you from him. 

four days. that’s how long you’d be gone for. four days compounded with the three that have already gone by, without you—your touch, your warmth, the soft rasp of your voice and your smile when your sleepy gaze lands on him first thing in the morning. 

bob feels something in him crack, clean in two, when he realises he’ll have to go an entire week without getting to be close to you—the longest it’s been, since you first let him touch you. the old bob would barely have batted an eye—he’d gone much, much longer with only his hand for reprieve.

but everything is different now. he has you, and the knowledge of what heaven feels like from when you open up around him. he replays the memory of how soft your skin feels on his, the sound of your breath hitching when he slides home to that haven between your thighs. doesn’t quite know how to function when he’s deprived of it.

his mind is static, filing into the hallway with the rest of the team. it feels like he’s underwater, movements slow as his mind zeroes in on the hell that he can only imagine the next four days will be.

but that would sound a little dramatic to anyone else, so he agrees to hang out with yelena and ava for the afternoon. you’ll be tied up with the mission briefing for the next couple hours, so maybe he can use that time to calm the rapid thrumming in his chest and the gnawing feeling in his gut, like he’s running out of time (he is). 

by the time he gets back from lunch, you’re finishing up in the conference room. he lingers in the doorway, hands fidgeting with his sleeves as he watches.

you’re deep in conversation with the extraction team you’ll be leading. you look so capable—gaze sharp and scanning the hologram map, voice low and assertive as you give your team final instructions. 

he has to fight the urge to squirm as heat stirs in his belly. he’s losing it, he thinks. he’s looking at his girlfriend’s hand as it swipes through the hologram and picturing that same hand wrapped around his length, unintentionally giving himself a horny case of deja vu.

when you spot him leaning on the doorframe, your eyes spark bright. he’s so tall, standing there, he blocks out the entire doorway. his arms are crossed over his chest, and it makes the fabric of his sweater pull tight around his shoulders and biceps. 

too busy ogling your giant of a boyfriend, it takes you a second to realise he’s somewhere in his head—you can tell from how his eyes have gone a little unfocused. 

almost immediately, you’re dismissing the crew and bounding over to him. 

bob snaps out of his reverie when your sneakers squeak against the floor. he gingerly moves aside to let the crew file out, eyes averted and cheeks flushing when their curious gazes linger on him as they pass. 

when the last of the extraction team have disappeared around the corner, you drag bob by the hand, straight back into the conference room. you settle on top of the oversized desk in the center, swinging your legs over the edge. bob thinks you’re the poster image of temptation like this (especially in your sweater and jeans).

“i missed you,” you murmur, hooking a finger in his collar. he follows, obedient with hardly a thought left in his mind—focus tunneling on how you spread your legs to make room for him to step closer. 

“mmhm,” bob hums, distracted as he braces a hand on the desk, beside your hip. he’s bent at the waist, caught in your orbit. you watch as his eyes flicker between your lips and eyes, and back down again. bob’s tongue swipes over his lips as he breathes loud and hard in the silence of the empty conference room.

“missed you more,” he says—you can feel the way his mouth forms the words from how close he’s gotten. you can smell the remnants of the spearmint gum he likes and the cologne he wears so often that’ll only ever remind you of him. 

“i want you,” your fingers curl into the hem of his sweater, eyes wide and wanting, “so bad. don’t want to wait anymore—”

and what kind of man would bob be, if he made you wait a second longer? he presses his lips to yours, and it’s not soft or gentle how you’ve come to know them. 

bob kisses you hard, working your mouth open with his tongue as his hands come up to your waist to hold you in place. 

a singular thought rings like an alarm in his head—his pretty little girlfriend needs him. a code red, in his book. 

he swallows your gasp when thumbs dig urgently into your hipbones, dragging you to the edge of the table so he can grind his denim-clad hardness against you. 

“ah, bob—don’t tease! we gotta be quick—”  you moan, mewling wantonly when his mouth latches on where your pulse jumps under the thin skin. bob groans at the salt of your skin, the familiar taste of you that he’s been burning for. 

bob hums under his breath, a short sound of disagreement as he shakes his head with his lips still on your neck. 

“y’know the rules,” he sighs, “gotta get you ready first.”

the thought of not having your big, strong boyfriend with the pretty, blue eyes inside you right now makes you whine petulantly, clawing at his shoulders as you buck openly against him. 

“but—” whatever protest dies on your lips when calloused fingers wander down your front, slipping under the waistband of your jeans. he’s quick with it, moving with a familiarity only someone who’s spent hours mapping every inch of your body would possess. 

“don’t be—” he starts,  breaking off with a quiet laugh when you huff impatiently a breathy sound that you feel hot against your skin, “don’t be a brat. i’ll give you what you need.”

his name leaves your lips in a cracked whine when he parts your folds, spreading the arousal already leaking out of you. 

“bob— baby, please, want you in me now— ‘m ready, i swear,” you pant as the pads of his fingers circle firm over your pulsing clit. 

it feels fucking amazing, that’s an undeniable fact, but you’re clenching around nothing, unbearably empty and, “it hurts,” you pout, blinking pitifully up at him— playing it up a little, only because nine times out of ten, it gets bob to crack. 

but this seems to be the one time. 

bob tuts softly, and your bottom lip jutted out is sucked between his, “it’ll hurt more if i don’t prep you first, sweet girl. don’t want you achin’ on your mission.” 

and if that isn’t the sweetest thing you’ve heard—makes the burning emptiness in your core subside a little. 

“‘s’okay,” he murmurs, barely parting from your lips as he nods, more to himself. his eyes have gone dark, lids heavy as he looks down at your heaving chest. the sight of your fly popped open and stretched around his hand makes him groan aloud. 

“i’ll take care’a you, just let me touch you, okay? please. just want— want to feel you like this. you’re so wet for me, sweet girl,” a finger eases into you then. your hand flies up a little late to muffle the squeal that escapes when bob pumps another one in with barely any warning. 

he wastes no time, wrist moving with urgency, as much as he can with your pants still bunched around your thighs. 

you’re writhing atop the desk, arching your back into his solid chest, desperate to feel more of him. pawing at him as you whimper through each drag of his fingers along your clenching walls. 

you’re so wet you can hear it, and the filthiness spurs both of you on. not even ten minutes ago, you’d been ordering around a team like second nature and now you’re fucking yourself back on bob’s fingers. 

bob watches with a smile when your head tips back, crying out like it would’ve killed you to keep it in. 

“you’re close, yeah, baby? can feel you squeezing me,” bob hums into your hair, head tilted so he can see both your sweaty, blissed-out face and how his fingers move under your panties.

you nod, moaning pathetically as that coil just tightens and tightens. it’s right there, and you’re just about to tell him those exact words when the intercom is crackling to life. 

you practically jump out of bob’s arms and your own skin—you hadn’t even known there was an intercom in the conference room. 

you’re panting, jaw agape as you catch sight of bob’s glistening fingers. he’s frozen in place, like he’s trying to process how just a second ago he had you on the precipice and now you’re pulling up your leggings like your life's on the line. 

“hey, you fuckin’ horndogs, there are cameras in here,” comes john’s tinny voice. you and bob both groan, yours in embarrassment and bob’s in annoyance at how, of course, he’d be the one to cockblock without even being in the room. 

blue eyes narrow when he looks up, spotting the offending camera. 

“get out of there before you scar some poor janitor for life,” john cackles, ear-splittingly loud and obnoxious. “your jet leaves in like half an hour, by the way.”

there’s a mellow chime when john cuts the line, and you’re left standing there, nearly shaking from how tightly wound bob got you with his fingers alone. he stands, stock-still, wet hand twitching at his side. 

“we— we can go back to my room,” you offer weakly, hand already wrapping around his wrist, “we’ve got enough time—”

but bob shakes his head, eyes soft, “you have to get ready for the mission.”

“no,” you nearly whimper, fingers tightening. his free hand comes up to your cheek, thumb stroking soothingly under your eye. 

“please, bob, just make me cum? i can’t— i won’t be able to think straight out there!”

bob just about dies inside, because how is he supposed to say no when his girl is begging for him to make her cum? 

it surprises both of you when he shakes his head again, firmer this time. “‘m sorry, baby. but you know you need time to get yourself right before heading out.”

and you nearly roll your eyes, because he’s right. of course he is—he knows you better than you know yourself. 

he does the thinking for you when you’re like this. he knows you need your grounding routine before a mission more than you need this orgasm—no matter how much you whine and plead. 

bob presses a kiss to your temple when your shoulders sag, unable to stop the pout forming on your face. your eyes are narrowed, but you’re tugging at his wrist, dragging it up to your mouth and sucking his digits clean. 

bob groans, lashes fluttering at the sight. he tells you knowingly, albeit a little breathless, “nice try.”

your eye twitches as you release him with a ‘pop’, dropping his hand unceremoniously and turning for the door. 

he follows closely, walking a little funny as he tries to adjust himself without getting caught on surveillance. 

bob kisses you goodbye when you’re all suited up and still a little grumpy. you kiss him back, deep and slow like you’re trying to make him remember it—remember you. 

you leave him with a parting gift—the raging hard-on and heavy balls that he refuses to empty unless it’s in you. 

the arduous four more days without you begins.

[farrikdanked]

I’m— broken

I need him

No Angels

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Rhett have been friends for almost your entire lives and you’ve had a crush on him ever since you could remember. You’ve never made a move out of respect for the friendship, but when Maria–an old crush of Rhett’s–comes back into town, you can’t help but get a little jealous of how much he swoons for her.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Angst, and Fluff, We got the childhood best friends trope, and I frickin love it! Reader is super jealous but really tries to be happy for Rhett.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Rhett is a bit dominant in here, Dirty Talk, He talks you through it, Oral Sex (Fem! Receiving), Rough Sex, He puts his hand on your throat…But like…Not to choke? I guess. A little bit of overstimulation, Heavy Makeout, Some Grinding

Author’s Note: I got this request a while back and honestly I was writing it and hated the way it went, then I had this huge eureka moment and literally put my whole chest into this damn thing lol. Thank you anon, I’m sorry for keeping you waiting! But I hope it meets your expectations. (I made it on time y’all sorry for the delay!)

Word Count: 18,010

The lights above the ring hummed with electricity, casting long, bright white beams over the dirt-packed arena like they were trying to mimic daylight–but it was well past sundown. The night air had settled cool against your skin, clinging to the sweat on your collarbones and the thin cotton of your oil-stained tank top–the same one you had been wearing when Rhett burst into your garage hours earlier, all breathless and grinning, saying, “You comin’ or what?”

You didn’t even notice him at first. Your arms were elbow-deep in the hood of your father’s busted-up ‘82 Chevy, sleeves rolled past your shoulders, knuckles stained black with grease. The old truck had been sitting in the barn lot for years, more rust than a frame, but it had history, and you couldn’t bring yourself to give up on it. You had been trying to get the engine to crank for weeks now, working after hours between shifts and moonlight with stubborn hands, and a soft heart.

Rhett had found you with a pair of pliers clenched between your teeth, and your hair stuck to the back of your neck. You were in the middle of coaxing a frayed wire into a cleaner splice when he had said it again.

”Y/N! You comin’ or what?!” You nearly dropped the pliers into the engine block that time around, and your eyes immediately shot up to him.

”Jesus Christ, Rhett,” You muttered around the tool in your mouth, straightening up just enough that your back cracked, “You ever heard of knocking? You’ve got hands do you not?” Rhett leaned his shoulder against the frame of the open garage door, arms crossed, boots scuffed and dusty. The golden evening light caught the curve of his jaw, lighting up the honeyed brown wisps of hair curling out from under his ballcap, the one he wore when he wasn’t wearing his normal cowboy hat. He grinned like he had all the time in the world.

”Yeah, I got hands.” He said, holding them up and wiggling his fingers, “But I need ‘em for the circuit tonight, can’t go wasting tiring ‘em up by knockin’ on your door.” You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly gave you a headache. With a sigh, you pulled the pliers from your mouth and tossed them onto the stainless steel tool table beside you, the clink echoing off the walls of the garage. The wire you’d been working with curled like a question mark in the air.

“God forbid your precious hands do somethin’ useful.” He let out a huffed laugh, smirking, like that little jab of yours was exactly what he had come there for. You reached for the damp rag that always lived folded beside your socket set, rubbing your hands down with practiced efficiency. Grease smeared into the creases of your fingers, under your nails, and you could already hear your father warning you–again–about keeping motor oil off your face. You scrubbed harder.

“Can you give me five minutes to change, at least?” You asked, gesturing vaguely at yourself. “I look like I crawled out of a junkyard.” Rhett checked the time on his phone like it was life or death, kissing his teeth.

“No can do. It’s gonna take us ‘bout two hours to get down there, and I gotta check in early. No time.” You looked down at yourself–at the tank top clinging to your skin, streaked with oil and sweat; your low-rise jeans that had a hole in the knee; boots dusted in gravel, grime and oil. You knew your hair certainly didn’t look good, especially with the sweat that pooled on the back of your neck, so you tried to plead again.

”C’mon, Rhett,” You groaned, “At least lemme–“

”Nuh-uh,” He interrupted smoothly, already pushing off the doorframe, “You look fine.” He said it so matter-of-factly it hit you like a sucker punch to the gut. His tone was easy, and offhanded, but his eyes flicked over you once–head to toe, like he was checking the welds on a fence post–and lingered a second too long on your bare shoulders before flicking away again. You felt your skin heat up despite the cool air from your fan blowing onto you.

Then he tossed you his keys without ceremony, and you barely caught them in time.

”Now. Get your butt in the truck, I need my good luck charm.” You stood there for a second, holding his keys like they were heavier than they had any right to be, watching Rhett backpedal across the gravel with that cocky grin stretching his mouth. The nerve of him–waltzing in, dragging you out in grease-stained clothes, and telling you that you looked fine like it didn’t mean something.

Like it didn’t knock something loose in your chest.

You tucked the rag into your back pocket with a sigh and followed him out into the golden spill of sunset that painted the drive, the gravel crunching beneath your boots. Rhett was already climbing into the passenger side, settling into the spot he always took when he was with you. He never once offered to drive–not because he didn’t want to, but because he liked how you drove his truck. He liked watching you lean one hand out the window, tapping the side with your fingers in time with the radio, he had said you made it run smoother somehow.

You climbed in behind the wheel, the door creaking shut with that familiar metallic groan as you shoved the key into the ignition. The engine rumbled to life beneath your hands like it had been waiting on your touch.

“You just always have to pull that good luck charm shit with me,” You muttered, fingers flicking the air vents toward Rhett like that would somehow cool your irritation, “If it wasn’t for the fact your dad would have my head on a stake if I didn’t show up, I wouldn’t be coming.” Rhett didn’t even flinch, he just smiled wider, teeth flashing under the brim of his cap.

”You’d show up anyways, even if there wasn’t that loomin’ threat.”

”Yeah?” You shot back, shifting into reverse, “And why’s that?”

“Cause you always do, that’s just how you are.” You let the truck ease back down the gravel drive, headlights cutting twin beams through the soft haze of kicked-up dust. Rhett reached out to roll down his window, letting his arm dangle outside, fingers tapping lazily against the side of the door like he had no care in the world.

“You still act like it’s a choice,” You grumbled, glancing sideways at him as you turned onto the main road, “You ever consider the possibility that I just don’t like you makin’ stupid decisions alone?”

“You’re not just here to babysit me, darlin’,” He said, voice soft and sure, like it wasn’t even a question. “You’re here ‘cause you belong there.”

That had shut you up pretty quickly.

He didn’t say it with any kind of weight. Didn’t lean into it or give it too much gravity. Just said it like it was a fact of life–like gravity or dust or the way your names had always sounded right in the same sentence.

Rhett had called you his good luck charm since you were barely tall enough to see over the top rail at his first junior circuit. He’d botched the ride and landed square on his ass, the wind knocked clear out of him–but when he stumbled to his feet and saw your worried face at the edge of the ring, he lit up like he’d just won the whole damn event.

From then on, he’d refused to ride without you.

It didn’t matter what his father said. Didn’t matter how many times Royal Abbott tried to reason, bribe, or flat-out yell Rhett into submission—if you couldn’t be there, neither could he.

Royal had tried everything over the years. Bargained with prize money, lectured about reputation, brought up every missed opportunity, every unclaimed buckle, every point lost in the rankings. And every time, Rhett just shrugged, chewed his toothpick a little harder, and said, “Ain’t worth it without her.”

Royal had even gone to your father once, showed up at the house red-faced and muttering under his breath, looking for backup. He’d stomped up the porch steps, knocked hard enough to rattle the screen, and said, “You need to talk some damn sense into your daughter. She’s holdin’ Rhett back.”

Your father didn’t even look up from the paper in his lap. Just flipped a page and said, “It’s outta my hands, Royal. She’s his lucky rabbit’s foot, not mine. You’re the one who raised a superstitious kid.”

That had been the end of it.

Well–besides the occasional muttered complaint, the exasperated way Royal folded his arms and scowled at you from across the arena like you were the one who’d crawled inside Rhett’s brain and rewired the whole damn thing. But you knew he didn’t really mean it. Not deep down–cause just like Rhett, he too had a soft spot for you.

Your father and Royal had been friends since high school–thick as thieves, the kind of troublemakers who grew up and never quite grew out of it. There were more stories than you could count about the two of them sneaking out of study hall, crashing their bikes into fences, and getting into brawls over rodeo scores. Royal may have grumbled and huffed and barked, but he knew what this was.

He knew what you were to Rhett.

And that’s how you found yourself at the circuit tonight, in the worst possible outfit you could be in for a night that turned chilly. You leaned against the rail with your arms folded, listening to the announcer listing off names you didn’t recognize and sponsors you didn’t care about.

One rider across the way was adjusting the strap on his glove with his teeth, spitting into the dirt before swinging a leg over the gate. He was broad-shouldered and too young to have that many calluses on his palms. His boots also looked too new, and you could tell he was nervous just by the way he puffed out his chest.

“He’s overcompensatin’ with all that noise,” Rhett’s voice came from your left, low and familiar, warm despite the cold air, “Looks like he spit shined his boots and bought the buckle from a pawn shop.” You turned your head just enough to see him steadying beside you, close enough that your elbows almost brushed. He had one glove on already and was working his other hand through the second–leather creaking around his knuckles as he tugged it tight, mouth set in that concentrated little frown he only ever wore when he was minutes from getting on a bull. You hummed at him.

”You say that as if you weren’t the same way your first time.” He scoffs.

”I don’t think I was that bad.” You didn’t reply, you just smirked, and shook your head, turning your attention back to the rail. But your eyes didn’t stay on the ring long. Not when he was standing that close.

Rhett had always been easy to be around–easier than most. He didn’t demand attention, didn’t fill the silence with noise unless he felt like it needed to be broken. And somehow he always made you feel like the most important person in the room without ever saying it outright. Your gaze drifted down his arms, the way the veins ran like fault lines beneath his skin, pulsing beneath the leather. The gentle scrape of stubble along his jaw. The way his shirt clung to the dip between his shoulder blades.

You knew how to look without letting it show. How to admire the little things from afar, memorizing them only to recall later in the quiet moments of your own space, when it was just you and the memory of him.

You’d gotten good at control.

“You okay?” He asked suddenly, glancing at you from under the brim of his dusty brown Stetson. His voice had shifted–still soft, but lower now. Quieter. You raised your eyebrows.

”Why wouldn’t I be?” You replied, he shrugged a little, pulling the strap of his glove tight.

”Been quiet since we pulled in…”

“I’ve been tired since we pulled in,” You said, deflecting with a tilt of your chin, “You yanked me straight outta the garage before I could give myself a cold shower to wake myself up.” He smiled at that, eyes crinkling at the corners like he didn’t buy your excuse but was willing to let you keep it.

“Well,” Rhett drawled, shifting his weight and giving you a side glance, “Thank you for joinin’ me all marinated in oil and tired. Really sets the mood.”You rolled your eyes, lips twitching as you looked away

“Yeah, well, you’re lucky I didn’t bring a wrench to throw at you while you’re on that big bull.” He chuckled under his breath, his gaze tracking the arena before flicking back to you.

”Gonna go sit with my family?” You let out a long sigh, eyes squinting at the stands like you were preparing for battle, seeing the Abbott’s were already together talking among themselves.

”Course…Always the best seat in the house. Front row for your brother talkin’ my ear off about his side hustles, and your dad telling me how the whole thing’s rigged against you, while Cecilia tries to ask whether or not I’m moving shops anytime soon.” Rhett huffed a laugh, shaking his head.

“Always happy to know you love bein’ up there with them.” His tone was thick with sarcasm, but his smirk was soft. Familiar. Like he was picturing it already–your boots kicked up on the railing beside Royal, his dad grumbling into a foam cup while you offered him your popcorn. You both shared a quiet chuckle, the kind that slipped out easily, like short breaths in cold air.

In the moment of silence, your hand slipped into your back pocket without thinking–it was instinct more than anything. You dug around until your fingers curled around the thin chain, the cool metal warmed by your skin. Rhett didn’t look at you, because he didn’t have to. He knew the moment you turned fully toward him that you were pulling out the necklace. His shoulders straightened slightly at the sight of it.

A thin gold chain, delicate as thread, with the charm your mother had worn nearly every day before she passed–the small, oval locket with a dent on one side. It was a gift that your father had given her when they were first going out, and now it was yours. But in moments like this–when the dust was thick in the air, when the circuit lights buzzed overhead and danger sat heavy in your chest–it was his.

Rhett always took it the same way: quiet, gentle, and like it meant something more than just luck and protection.

Because it did.

Your mother had loved Rhett like he was her own. She fed him when Royal was late picking him up, scolded him when he scraped his knees, kissed the crown of his head when he showed up on your porch with dirt on his boots and his heart on his sleeve. When she passed, he didn’t say much. But you remembered him standing at the far end of the church, knuckles white around his hat, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack.

He didn’t cry. He never had to because you had done enough of that for the both of you.

You placed the necklace in his palm gently, brushing your fingers along the inside of his wrist. A quiet exchange. A tradition that had started the first time he made it onto the adult circuit–when you pressed it into his hand before the gate opened and said, “She’s got you.”

And it stuck and became something neither of you ever had to explain.

“Think she’s watchin’?” Rhett murmured, voice rasped low as he curled the chain into his fist.

Your answer came easy. “Always.” He nodded, jaw ticking as he thumbed the charm once for good measure before tucking it into his shirt–over his heart, where it belonged. He gave it a soft pat, like he was anchoring her there. Like maybe she’d feel it, wherever she was.

“I dunno if she’d like that you’re still lettin’ me do this,” He muttered after a beat, offering a crooked little half-smile. “Ridin’, I mean.”

You scoffed lightly. “She wouldn’t like it,” You admitted, “But you know she’d still be yellin’ the loudest when they called your score.”He smiled at that, shoulders easing just a little. Like the weight of her was something warm instead of heavy.

“She always liked you better than me,” You teased gently, trying to keep your voice light even as emotion caught in your throat. “Pretty sure she would’ve traded me for you if she had the option.”

Rhett looked over at you then, really looked, and something in his expression softened so fully it made your stomach twist. “Don’t think you believe that for a second,” He mumbled quietly.

And you didn’t.

But it was easier than saying what you really meant–that you’d give anything to hear your mother talk about Rhett again. To hear her tell him to be careful. To bring him a sandwich while he leaned against the side of the truck, and to kiss your forehead and say, “You take care of him out there, alright?”

Because she’d known about your true feelings for him. She always knew.

“You better not get yourself broken tonight,” You warned, trying to talk the emotion out of your voice, attempting to shake it out, “I’m not scrubbin’ your blood outta your jeans again.”

Rhett laughed under his breath, the sound low and warm. “I’ll try not to, but I admire the fact you did it so well the last time…” He gave you a soft pat on the side of your arm, the leather of his glove cool against your skin. “Don’t worry too much though. I’ve got you, and I’ve got her. That’s a two-for-one deal even the devil can’t mess with.” You didn’t smile this time–but your eyes stayed on him, memorizing the curve of his mouth, the tilt of his hat, the line of his shoulders.

“Be safe,” You said, and it was quieter than anything you’d spoken all night.

Rhett nodded. Touched the charm through his shirt once more. And then he turned and walked toward the chute, back straight, shoulders squared, steps steady.

You watched him go.

And just as he disappeared behind the gate, swallowed up by the noise and the crowd–

You heard a voice you hadn’t heard in five years.

“I’ll be damned,” The voice called out behind you, thick with familiarity and a smile you could already picture even before you turned, “Didn’t think you’d still be hanging around here.”

Your entire body went still–like a switch had been thrown on, and your nerves froze under your skin. It wasn’t just the voice. It was the cadence. The tilt in the vowels. The lilt of amusement laced with old memories and summer sweat.

Maria Olivares.

You didn’t turn right away. You just stared straight ahead at the chute where Rhett had disappeared, your heart dropping like it had been cut loose from a string. The last time you’d heard her voice, it had been filtered through the cracked speakers of the high school PA system during her senior farewell speech–warm, confident, grateful for her small-town upbringing, even as she looked forward to city lights and bigger things.

She hadn’t come back. Not once in five years. Not for holidays. Not for spring break. Not even to visit old friends. Everyone figured she’d traded Wabang for somewhere with sidewalks and skylines.

And yet here she was.

You turned slowly, dragging your eyes up from the toes of a pair of spotless white sneakers, to a pair of high waisted black jeans that fit right, and a hoodie, jean jacket combo that looked warm and cozy. Her dark brown–almost black–hair was still long, and shiny, catching the circuit lights in ribbons as it spilled over her shoulders. There was not a wave out of place. She looked good, and that was always the worst part for you.

”Hey stranger,” She smiled, stepping toward you, her hands in her jacket pockets like this was just another Friday night and you were the one that vanished, “Didn’t expect to see a familiar face here when I rolled in.” You blinked, pulse throbbing somewhere behind your teeth. You could feel every streak of sweat dried into your collarbone. The grease under your fingernails. The smudge of oil you’d missed above your brow. The faded tank top clinging to your ribs.

“Maria,” You managed to say, trying to force something that resembled a smile on your face. It didn’t quite reach your eyes, “Didn’t know you were back in town…It’s been a long time.” She nodded.

”Five years.” She said softly, like she was trying the words on for size, as if she hadn’t known exactly how long it had been. There was a brief pause, heavy with memories you didn’t ask to revisit.

Then, with a little huff of breath, she gave a rueful smile glancing toward the arena.

”I got burnt out from college…Thought I’d come back to Wabang to try and get my life back together…” Her gaze flicked sideways, and then back to you, “And I heard around town that Rhett was riding tonight, so I thought I’d stop by to catch up and maybe say hi.” You felt your stomach twist up into knots.

You tried to keep your face neutral, tried not to flinch at the mention of his name on her lips, because Maria had always been nice to you and treated you well. She had never acted above you, even when she could’ve. She was sweet, and effortless, and the kind of girl that seemed built for being admired. People talked about her like she was a firework: bright, exciting, and temporary…And Rhett…Well…

Rhett had always looked at her like she belonged in the Louvre.

You remembered it so clearly–him leaning back on the bleachers during lunch period, eating a sandwich, baseball cap tilted low as he watched her laugh by the vending machines. He used to elbow you in the side and mutter something like “God she’s just…Look at her, would ya?” Or “If I asked her out and she said no, I think I’d have to walk into traffic.”

And you’d laugh. Pretend it didn’t bother you, and you’d joke back and say “You’d have to start a new life in the city or somethin’.”

Because what else could you do?

You were…You. The grease-monkey. The tomboy. The one who spit-shined carburetors instead of joining social clubs. The one who could drink the boys under the table, throw a punch better than half of them, and still knew the sound of Rhett’s laugh like the back of your hand. You were his best friend. His good luck charm. His midnight mechanic and his porch-sitting, star-watching, shit-talking ride or die. But you were never the girl.

Not in the way Maria had been–even though they didn’t date.

So when Maria left for college, it was like someone let the air out of Rhett’s chest. He didn’t say much–just got real quiet for a few weeks. Stayed out late, rode harder, drank more. Then one night, sitting on your porch with his head tilted back and his boots up on the railing, he let out a sigh and said, “Guess that’s that, huh?”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You just passed him the bottle and leaned your shoulder into his like you always did.

And little by little, he put himself back together. He didn’t talk about her anymore. Stopped bringing her name up at all. And a part of you–one you never said out loud–had hoped maybe he was finally looking at someone else now. That maybe he’d finally see you.

But now, she was here.

In the flesh. Smiling, radiant, all polished edges and big city warmth. And she’d said his name like she had every right to, like she’d never left a hole in him when she packed up and vanished.

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her words settle somewhere heavy between your ribs.

“Thought I’d stop by to catch up and maybe say hi.”

You hated how those words clawed at the inside of your chest.

”Yeah,” You mumbled, voice tighter than you wanted it to be, “I’m sure Rhett will be glad to see you…It’s been a while.” Maria’s smile didn’t falter, not even for a second.

”We should go out for drinks after,” She suggested, casual and bright like this wasn’t a slow-motion car crash happening in front of you, “Maybe you two can come find me? I’ll stick around.” You swallowed hard enough that you felt it echo in the back of your throat like a gulp of warm soda going down the wrong way.

“Sure,” You managed to agree, forcing your lips up even more, “Sounds like a plan.” It came out flat. A little too fast. But she either didn’t notice or was too polite to mention it. She just glanced behind her, motioning toward a small group of people standing a few yards off, gathered near the funnel cake stand.

“I’m gonna head back to my friends,” She informed, “But I’ll see you after the circuit!” You nodded stiffly.

”Yeah, see you.” And with that, she turned, her sneakers scuffing quietly in the dirt as she made her way back to her group—hair bouncing lightly with each step, laughter already ringing in the air as one of her friends greeted her with an inside joke you didn’t get.

You didn’t watch her long. You couldn’t.

Instead, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and turned your gaze toward the bleachers, willing your legs to move. One step at a time. Your shoulders rolled once, then twice—like shaking off a weight. But the tension didn’t budge, not really. It stayed coiled up in your spine like something waiting to snap.

You stomped up the bleacher steps, boots loud against the metal, and found them all right where you expected: Amy munching on kettle corn, Perry fiddling with a foam cup of coffee, Royal with his arms crossed and a resting scowl, and Cecilia offering you a tight smile like she already knew you needed one.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Cecilia greeted first, scooting to make space. “We were wonderin’ when you’d show.”

“Hey,” you said, voice still low as you nodded to each of them.

Royal shifted over with a grunt, making room beside him, and Perry tipped his head back toward you in a silent greeting.

You sank down between the two of them with a heavy breath, letting the cool of the evening air wrap around your sweat-damp skin. Amy reached over and tapped your boot with hers.

“You smell like axle grease,” She said flatly.

You smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Amy grinned back, and you leaned forward to prop your arms on your knees.

Royal glanced your way. “How’s your dad doin’ these days?”

You rubbed the back of your neck, grateful for the shift in subject. “Busy as usual,” You replied. “The shop’s been crazy for both of us, so I haven’t really been able to talk to him. Our faces are always under or inside cars.”

Royal chuckled low in his chest. “Well, a mechanic’s job is never finished until the last car is completely fixed.”

You snorted. “We’d be open till the end of time if we lived by your rules.”

That got a laugh out of Perry too, who clapped you on the shoulder. “Ain’t that the truth.” His eyes wandered casually over the crowd before something caught his attention. His chewing slowed, the foam cup crinkling slightly in his grip as he leaned in a fraction and nudged your arm with the back of his knuckle.

“Hey…” He muttered under his breath, keeping his voice low, “Is that who I think it is?”

You didn’t need to follow his gaze. You already knew. Still, your eyes drifted to the right, past the funnel cake stand and toward the little group of people laughing in the warm glow of the overhead string lights.

Maria was standing right in the middle, her smile shining like she’d never left, like she hadn’t cracked something in your chest just minutes ago.

“Yep,” You replied, the word flat and dry on your tongue.

Perry let out a soft whistle, eyebrows climbing. “Did Rhett see her?”

You shook your head slowly, thumb brushing your bottom lip as you glanced back toward the chutes. “Not yet… But I’m gonna have to be the one that breaks the news to him. As usual.”

Perry tilted his head, his expression shifting into something halfway between sympathy and disbelief. “She say why she’s here?”

”She said she got burnt out from college, now she’s back in town until further notice basically. She said she wants to go out for drinks after the circuit,” You explained. There was a beat of silence. Then Perry huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

“Man… That’s gonna be pure torture for you, huh?” You flicked your gaze toward him, jaw tight.

He knew. Perry was one of the only people who did. You’d sworn him to secrecy years ago—right around the time you drank too much whiskey behind the barn one summer night and finally admitted it. He hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t teased. Just looked at you with those steady eyes and said, “Yeah…That tracks.”

And despite his reputation for being a smartass, Perry had never breathed a word of it to anyone.

“I could come with you guys,” he offered now, voice quieter. “Even out the numbers.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “You’re talkin’ like we’re goin’ to war.”

Perry shrugged one shoulder. “Aren’t you?”

You shook your head with a sigh and muttered, “I’m sure I’ll manage just fine.”

“Hey,” Perry said, raising his hands defensively. “Don’t say I didn’t offer. And don’t come cryin’ when you end up sittin’ between them, third-wheelin’ your own heartbreak.”

Before you could respond—before the knot in your chest could turn sharper—the PA system crackled back to life, cutting through the thick air.

“Next up, ladies and gentlemen—we got Rhett Abbott comin’ up in the chute!”

Your whole body snapped to attention, your eyes instinctively finding the chute where he stood, framed in gold and dust and determination. He was climbing the rails now, one hand on the edge of the gate, the other adjusting the brim of his Stetson. His back was broad beneath the weight of his vest, the number pinned crookedly to the fabric like it always was because he never let anyone else do it. Always asked you.

He didn’t look toward the stands. Not yet. His focus was on the bull–pure, burning concentration.

But your chest was a live wire.

Because he didn’t know she was here.

And when he saw her–when he looked up and caught sight of Maria’s soft smile and city-polished glow standing in the crowd–you didn’t know what it would do to him.

But you knew exactly what it would do to you.

Perry leaned back, a shadow in his expression. “Buckle up,” he said, almost like a warning. “Here we go.”

And all you could do was hold your breath…And wait.

————————

The crowd had started to thin, the night slipping gently into its last stretch–boots shuffling through kicked-up dirt, families gathering up folding chairs and foam cups, laughter tapering off into low murmurs beneath the buzz of the circuit lights. The arena was quieter now, calmer. A few riders lingered by the chutes, stripping off gear, comparing scores, cracking open lukewarm beers from coolers tucked behind the rails.

Rhett was still standing near the gate, dust clinging to the bottom hem of his jeans, his shirt sticking to the sweat that had dried down his spine. His hair was damp under his hat, eyes scanning the space like he was still riding the high of the eight-second count.

You moved down the bleachers slowly, like each step took effort, the cool night air brushing against the back of your neck, the gravel biting into the soles of your boots.

He saw you coming, and his face lit up in that familiar way it always did–soft around the edges, glowing just under the skin. Without a word, Rhett reached into the chest pocket of his shirt and pulled out the thin gold chain, the charm glinting faintly beneath the floodlights. He held it out gently, curled between his fingers like something sacred.

“Guess you two really did help tonight,” He commented with a crooked smile, placing the necklace in your open palm. “Probably one of my best performances.” You looked down at the charm as it settled into your skin, feeling the warmth of him still clinging to the metal. You managed a smile, small and tired.

“Yeah…You looked good out there.”

But it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

And Rhett noticed. His brow furrowed immediately, eyes narrowing with that uncanny instinct he always had for your moods.

“Somethin’ wrong?” He asked, pointing gently between his own eyebrows. “You’ve got that little crease here–means you’re thinkin’ too hard.” You tried to shrug it off, eyes dropping to the necklace as your fingers curled around it. But the weight in your chest didn’t move. You hesitated. Then you exhaled slowly.

“…Maria’s back.” You felt the moment he registered the name like a jolt–like it lit something under his skin. Rhett straightened a little, his whole posture shifting, just slightly. Perking up. Perking toward her.

“Really?” He said, his voice brightening in a way that made your stomach churn. “Where is she?”

You nodded toward the far end of the arena without lifting your gaze. “She told me to come find her after…Said she wants to go out for some drinks.”

There was a brief pause before he smiled, teeth flashing in the glow of the overhead lights. “Well that’ll be great! Would love to catch up with her.”

You nodded once. “Yeah. I thought so.”

Your voice was low. Measured. Your lips pressed into a thin, practiced smile–the kind you’d perfected over the years, the one you used when something stung but you didn’t want anyone to see it bleed.

Rhett didn’t catch it. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t know what to do with it.

You tucked the necklace into your back pocket, the chain coiling softly in your grip like a secret.

————————

The hum of the arena faded behind you as the three of you made your way down the gravel path toward the bar just off the main strip–The Rusty Spur, glowing amber beneath a flickering neon sign shaped like a bull skull. You’d been here a hundred times. After circuits, after slow nights, after heartbreaks that you never let show. It was familiar ground.

But tonight, it didn’t feel like home.

Rhett held the door open with one boot, gesturing Maria inside with a crooked grin, and you followed silently, your fingers still brushing the edge of your back pocket like the necklace might anchor you if you kept touching it.

The bar was low-lit and humming with half-empty pitchers and slow drawls. Music crackled low from the jukebox–old country, something about losing and loving in the same breath. You barely noticed. You were too busy clocking how close Maria stood beside Rhett. How she reached for his arm when she laughed at something he said. How his body naturally leaned toward hers, like it remembered the rhythm of it even if his heart didn’t quite know why.

You took the booth in the far corner. Your usual spot. Rhett slid in beside you, and Maria took the other side. It should’ve felt balanced. It didn’t.

Someone took drink orders–probably Rhett, but your ears were ringing too hard to catch the words. You muttered something about whiskey, and a moment later, a sweating glass was placed in front of you.

Maria was talking. Rhett was laughing. You were sitting in your grease-stained tank top, sweating in your spot, barely blinking as the two of them picked up where they left off–like no time had passed at all.

“Oh my god, do you remember that time at the bonfire?” Maria said, grinning, her knuckles brushing Rhett’s arm as she leaned forward. “When Perry and Jacob tried to jump the creek in that rust-bucket four-wheeler and we all thought they were gonna die?”

Rhett chuckled, elbow resting on the table, eyes crinkling. “Yeah, I think Perry still swears he cleared it by three feet.”

“He didn’t,” You muttered, voice low, more to your glass than to them. “He cracked the axle and limped it home with a broken taillight.”

Maria paused, then offered you a smile. “God, you’ve always had a better memory than all of us.” You gave her a small nod and took a slow sip, the whiskey burning just enough to keep you tethered to the moment. Rhett turned toward you briefly, nudging your boot with his under the table like a reflex.

“That was the same night you duct-taped the handlebars back on, right? Got the damn thing running again in fifteen minutes?”

“Thirteen,” You murmured, lips quirking just slightly.

“Course it was.” He grinned, bumping your shoulder lightly with his. But then Maria asked another question–something about Denver; a story you hadn’t been there for–and Rhett’s attention shifted back before you could respond.

You stared at the condensation on your glass.

Their conversation rolled on, easy and familiar in a way that twisted something in your chest. Not cruel. Not exclusive. But you couldn’t help but feel like a guest at your own table.

They laughed about old teachers. About some kid who used to bring his goat to show-and-tell. About a trip to a fair you barely remembered because you’d spent most of it alone, fixing a blown tire while they wandered off for cotton candy.

Every now and then, one of them would glance toward you. Ask a soft “Remember that?” or toss you a half-smile. And you would nod. You would smile back. You would pretend.

But it felt like watching them through a window.

At one point, Maria reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her nails painted a glossy wine red that caught the light. Rhett’s gaze lingered a second too long. You saw it. You always saw it.

You drained your glass.

The table blurred a little around the edges as you blinked slowly, pressing your fingertips to your temple.

“You alright?” Rhett asked quietly, finally noticing the way your shoulders had gone still. His voice was soft, too soft, like it might undo you if you let it. You didn’t look at him, you just gave the smallest nod.

”Yeah, guess the lack of sleep is catching up to me.” Maria stood then, smoothing out the front of her jacket. “I’m gonna head to the bar–get another round.” She motioned between the two of you. “You guys want anything?”

Rhett looked toward you. You shook your head. “I’m good.”

”I’ll take one more beer, I have a feelin’ I’ll have to drive this one home tonight.” He commented motioning to you. Maria smirked.

”Got a preference?” She asked, and Rhett shook his head, a boyish grin appearing on his lips.

”Nah, whatever they’ve got I’ll take.” Then Maria disappeared into the crowd, and the booth fell quiet. You sat back, arms crossed loosely, your eyes fixed on the edge of the table. Rhett shifted beside you, his leg brushing yours.

”You sure you’re alright?” You’re actin’ really weird…” Rhett shifted a little closer, the leather of the booth creaking under his weight as his knee knocked gently against yours again. You didn’t flinch. Couldn’t. Not with him this close. Not when the heat from his body was bleeding into your side and curling around your skin like something unspoken.

And then you caught it–that scent.

Faint, but unmistakable. A soft, masculine heat rising off his collar, sunk into the fabric of his shirt. It was that cologne he always wore for circuits–something low and woodsy, edged with spice, like cedar and cracked pepper and the memory of summer sweat. The kind of scent that lingered even after he was gone, that clung to his flannel when you borrowed it, that sank into your lungs and made your stomach tighten without warning. You’d never asked what it was. You didn’t need to. You knew it like you knew the sound of your name when he said it quiet.

And it always made you a little dizzy.

You blinked once, twice, trying to keep your face steady as your gaze finally flicked toward him.

“I said I’m fine, Rhett,” You murmured, a little firmer this time. “Just exhausted.” But he didn’t back off. Not completely.

His brows drew in slightly as he studied you, mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a frown. Those blue eyes–always a little too clear, always a little too honest—swept over your face like he was reading it in a language he used to speak fluently but hadn’t practiced in years. He looked at your cheeks. Your jaw. Your eyes. He tilted his head just a fraction, lips parting like he was about to say something and then thinking better of it.

And then, finally, he nodded–slow, thoughtful.

“Alright…” He started, voice quieter now, more careful. “After this round, I’ll take you home.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even an offer. It was something softer than that. A promise tucked inside a sentence.

You opened your mouth to argue–to say you could take care of yourself, to brush it off like always–but before you could get the words out, Maria returned. She set a glass of water in front of you, and took one beer for herself and handed the other to Rhett, her fingers brushing against his. You watched him glance up with that familiar, easy smile.

“Appreciate it,” He said, nodding.

Maria slid back into her seat, eyes flicking between the two of you for half a second before she leaned in again, chin resting on one hand, and launched straight back into whatever story she’d started before–something about a concert she went to in Austin, a rooftop party of sorts.

You listened with one ear, the other still tuned to the quiet place inside your chest that was trying not to crack open.

You nursed your glass of water. You forced a smile.

And all the while, you felt Rhett’s leg still pressed against yours beneath the table, warm and unmoving.

As if some part of him still remembered you were there. Even if the rest had already started drifting.

Rhett nursed the last of his beer with an absent sort of slowness, fingers rolling the base of the bottle in tight little circles against the table like he was working something out in his head. Maria was still talking, still smiling–her voice soft and syrupy in the warm barlight–but his eyes flicked toward the clock above the jukebox.

And when his bottle hit the table with a soft thunk, you already knew what was coming.

“Well,” Rhett drawled, wiping his hands on his jeans and pushing up from the booth, “We oughta get goin’. Gonna be a long drive back to Wabang.”

Maria sat up a little straighter, her smile faltering just slightly. “Oh–are you headed out already?”

He nodded, casting a brief glance your way. “Yeah, gettin’ late. You need a ride back or…?”

She shook her head quickly, waving a hand. “No, no, I’m good. I’m stayin’ with some friends out here for another day or two. Figured I’d ease my way back into town life.”

Rhett grinned, all teeth and comfort. “Well, I’ll definitely call you.”

Maria bit her bottom lip–barely–but you saw it. Like punctuation on a sentence that didn’t need saying. “I’d really like that.”

Then her gaze shifted toward you, warm and easy. “We should all do this again sometime, eh?”

You gave her a nod. Tight. Quick. Polite. “Yeah. Definitely.”

She smiled one last time and turned away to rejoin her friends at the bar.

Rhett didn’t say much as you both made your way outside–boots crunching gravel, the cool night air curling around your ankles like smoke. The neon sign buzzed overhead, painting the parking lot in pale, flickering yellow.

You reached into your back pocket without a word, dug out his keys, and tossed them over. He caught them easily, looking at you like he wanted to say something, but you were already climbing into the passenger seat. The door slammed shut harder than it needed to, the echo of it biting into the quiet.

You leaned against the door, body turned away from him, cheek resting against the cool window as you stared out into the night.

Rhett slid into the driver’s seat, settling in with a soft exhale as he buckled in and adjusted the rearview mirror. He started the engine–it rumbled to life with the low growl of something familiar, something that usually made you feel steady.

Tonight though…It just made you feel even more tired.

“Hopefully you can catch some sleep while I’m drivin’,” He said, his voice low, maybe even a little hopeful.

“Yeah…” The word left your mouth flat and dull, dry as dust. Rhett turned to glance at you, the concern already knitting into his brow. But you were already reaching into the backseat, fingers curling around the flannel that always lived there–the dark blue one he sometimes wore when he was cold and you always stole when you wanted to feel his warmth. You tugged it over you, and didn’t glance his way for the rest of the ride, fading off into a sleepy haze.

————————

The shop smelled like motor oil, burnt rubber, and heat-soaked metal–the scent of long hours and too many worn-out engines trying to hold on. The radio murmured low in the corner, old country drifting from the busted speaker, the static crackling between verses like background noise to your every exhale.

It was just past noon, but the heat had already settled in for the day. The big bay doors were rolled open, sunlight spilling across the concrete in sharp streaks, cutting through the floating dust like gold through smoke. You were bent over the open hood of a ‘97 Ford Ranger, your shoulders glinting with sweat, black tank top sticking to your back in places where the fabric met skin. The sleeves of your navy jumpsuit were tied around your waist, the whole thing cinched low on your hips and streaked with oil from earlier jobs.

Rhett was sitting on the workbench a few feet away, his boots propped on the lower shelf, stool tilted back dangerously as he rocked on two legs like it didn’t matter if he tipped over. His ballcap was pulled low, his light brown hair curling out from the back, his jaw working absently around a toothpick as he talked–still talking–about her.

“…I mean, I dunno,” He was saying, shifting his weight again, “She called me last night after dinner just to talk–like real late too, almost midnight. We didn’t talk about much, just…Stuff. Nothin’ important. But it was nice, y’know?” He tapped his fingers against his thigh, voice casual, but his brows were slightly furrowed like the whole thing was keeping him awake.

You hummed a soft acknowledgment, eyes trained on the belt tensioner you were adjusting. The socket wrench in your hand clicked steadily with each turn, your knuckles smudged with grease, fingernails stained half-permanently. Sweat beaded on your lower back and slipped beneath the waistband of your suit.

“Anyway,” Rhett continued, “She said she might swing by the circuit again this weekend. Wants to grab coffee first. Think that means somethin’?” His voice dipped into something hopeful. “I mean, she doesn’t have to make the first move, but…It’s been weeks and I still can’t tell if she’s just bein’ polite or if she’s actually–y’know–interested.”

You blew out a slow breath through your nose, kept your eyes on the pulley system as you tugged the belt back into place. “Dunno, Rhett. She’s hard to read.”

He paused, like he was expecting more. When you didn’t add anything, he scratched at his jaw and pushed the stool back down flat.

“You ever notice how she touches my arm a lot when she laughs?” He asked, tone casual, but a little eager. “Like, not in a weird way, just kinda light. She’s always been touchy though. That don’t mean much, does it?”

“Not always,” You mumbled, wrench clacking again. “Could just be her way.”

Rhett leaned forward, elbows on his knees now. His gaze was drifting, not really focused on the cabinets or the tools. Not even on the truck. It was on you. On the way your tank top rode up just a little when you reached for a tool. The way your back muscles shifted beneath sun-warmed skin. How your hair clung to the nape of your neck in sticky curls. He took a sip from the bottle of Gatorade he’d barely touched, then swallowed slowly.

“You always been good at figurin’ people out,” He said after a beat, softer. “You’d tell me if I was readin’ into it too much, right?”

“Sure,” You replied, brushing a hand across your forehead, leaving a streak of dirt there without realizing. You stood up straighter to stretch your spine, a soft crack echoing as your hands went to your lower back. Rhett’s eyes flicked down your side–followed the way the tied sleeves of your jumpsuit tugged the tank top tight across your waist, the glint of your exposed hip where your shirt had ridden up slightly. He quickly looked away, rubbed the back of his neck.

“I just keep thinkin’ about how she left, y’know?” He muttered, almost to himself. “And now she’s back and it’s like nothin’ happened. Like we can just…Pick up where we left off.”

You finally glanced over your shoulder at him, one brow arched. “Did you leave anything to pick up?”

Rhett opened his mouth. Shut it and thought for a second, “No. I mean, not really. Not out loud. But I always thought…” He shook his head, letting the words trail off like a loose wire. “I dunno what I thought. I guess I just missed her.”

Your lips pressed together into a flat line, but you didn’t say anything. Not at first.

“I get it,” You finally muttered, wiping your hands on a rag. “She’s easy to miss.”

Rhett tilted his head slightly at the tone, like he was hearing something he wasn’t meant to catch. “You don’t like her much, do you?”

You paused, grip tightening just a little on the wrench.

“I don’t not like her,” You said slowly, choosing each word carefully. “She’s…Fine. Y’know how I am with people…” He squinted at you, suspicion tugging at his features like a loose thread. But then his eyes dropped again–to your neck, your collarbone, the bare line of your shoulder as you leaned over the engine again. He chewed the inside of his cheek.

“Was thinkin’ of askin’ her to come to the Fourth of July thing next week,” He said, casual but deliberate, watching for your reaction. “Figured it’d be nice to have her meet everyone again…Y’know, properly.” You didn’t flinch. You didn’t roll your eyes. You didn’t say anything cruel. But your fingers curled around your wrench tighter than before, the metal biting into your palm.

“Sure,” You said with a hollow shrug. “Bring whoever you want, I’m sure everyone would love to see her.”

Rhett watched you for a moment longer, unreadable.

“You ever gonna tell me what’s really goin’ on in that head of yours?” He asked, almost teasing, but his voice dropped just a little at the end.

You didn’t look at him. Just reached back into the engine block.

“Nothin’ is going on up here, I’m just payin’ attention to this customer's car.” Rhett knew better than to believe that.

He’d seen it with his own eyes–felt it in the air, even if you were too proud or too stubborn to admit it. You used to meet his gaze across a room and hold it, unbothered, cocky even, like you knew exactly what kind of effect you had on him. But now? Every time Maria’s name came up, you flinched just a little, like you were bracing for a hit. And whenever the three of you were in the same space–which was rare because you made it rare–you got quiet. Distant. You’d hover near the edge of the group, arms crossed, mouth pressed flat, eyes focused on anything but them.

And he remembered.

He remembered asking if you wanted to come out with him and Maria after that first weekend she rolled back into town. It had been a simple question, low-stakes. Just a casual invite.

But you didn’t even think about it–you just said, “Can’t. I’m busy.”

Didn’t even ask what night.

You’d turned him down so fast it had made his head spin. And after that, whenever he mentioned Maria, you got this far-off look like your mind had slipped into neutral. Like you weren’t even there anymore.

He shifted on the stool now, elbow digging into his knee, watching the way you moved with quiet precision–like you were using the engine block to avoid him. Like if you focused hard enough on the bolts and belts, you could keep the rest of the world from touching you.

Sometimes he wished he could read minds.

Not for anything big or cosmic–just so he could finally know what the hell went on behind your eyes when you looked at him.

What you thought when Maria’s name came up.

What you thought when he said she might come to the Fourth of July thing.

What you thought about him, period.

Did you think he was being desperate? Clingy? Chasing someone who didn’t deserve to be chased? Or did you just not care anymore?

“You sure nothin’s goin’ on in that head?” He asked again, a little quieter this time.

Still no answer. Just the soft click of your tools.

Rhett let out a slow breath, set his Gatorade bottle on the bench beside him with a soft thunk. He looked at the concrete floor, then back at you.

“Y’know, sometimes it feels like you’re playin’ wingman,” He said after a beat. “Only you’re not rootin’ for me to win.”

You froze for just half a second–barely enough for anyone else to notice–but Rhett caught it.

He always did.

Then you straightened up again, slow and careful, wiping the back of your neck with the same rag you’d used on your hands.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He shrugged, but it was tight. Guarded.

“Means you show up, sure. But you don’t really wanna be there. You say you’re happy for me, but I can tell you’re not. You act like you’re helpin’ but you keep your distance. It’s like…you’re close enough to see it all, but never close enough to be part of it.” Your jaw tensed, lips parting just slightly like you wanted to fire back something sharp–but nothing came. So Rhett leaned forward again, resting his forearms on his thighs.

“Do you want me to stop talkin’ about her?” He asked gently. “Just say the word, and I will. I swear I will.” Your eyes finally met his–steady, unreadable. And for a moment, he thought you might actually tell him. That you might finally crack open whatever it was you were hiding behind grease-streaked skin and bitten-off words.

But instead you said:

”I don’t care Rhett, you can talk about her till the cows come home.” And you turned back to the engine.

————————

The fireworks had already started by the time you sank into the corner of the worn-out couch, your dad’s recliner creaking as he shifted beside you. The TV was low, tuned to some classic western neither of you were really watching. Outside, through the screen door, you could hear the faint distant pop of celebratory explosions, followed by a round of cheers from somewhere down the road. The air was thick with summer—warm and buzzing with mosquitoes, smoke from backyard grills clinging to everything like memory.

You hadn’t told Rhett you weren’t coming.

You’d texted Perry earlier–just a short message, simple and vague.

“Can’t make it tonight. Not feelin’ great. Tell Rhett sorry.”

He sent back a thumbs-up emoji and nothing else, which was honestly a mercy. Your dad glanced over from where he was leafing through the town paper, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He didn’t look at you right away when he spoke.

“Didn’t you have plans tonight with the Abbotts?” He asked, casual but pointed. “Royal told me they were havin’ a Fourth of July party.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just shifted in your seat and tugged the throw blanket higher over your lap, even though it was too hot for it. Your voice came out low.

“Yeah. Just not feelin’ well.” That made him look up. He tilted his chin slightly, peering at you over the tops of his glasses.

“All of a sudden? You were fine at work today…Could’ve sworn you were elbows-deep in someone’s transmission this afternoon.” You shrugged, eyes fixed on the soft glow of the television.

“Guess it hit me late.”

He didn’t push at first. Just turned a page in his paper with a slow rustle, let the silence stretch like taffy. You thought maybe he’d drop it. But then–

“This ain’t about Maria comin’ back now, is it?” You groaned, throwing your head back against the cushion.

“Why does everything have to come back to her all the damn time? Can’t I just not feel good?” Your dad raised his brows like you’d just proved his point.

“Well,” He said slowly, “That answers my question.” You shot him a look, but it lacked heat.

“Are you jealous that she’s gettin’ Rhett’s attention?” He asked plainly, like he was asking about the weather. “I mean–I ain’t judgin’. You’ve always liked that boy, ever since y’all were knee-high and runnin’ around this place like wild dogs.”

“I have not,” You muttered, crossing your arms tighter over your chest.

“Sure you haven’t,” He teased, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And I suppose I imagined the way you used to light up like a damn Christmas tree whenever he’d show up on that beat-up four-wheeler.” You opened your mouth, then closed it, teeth pressing into your bottom lip. He leaned back in his chair and sighed, looking over at you again–not teasing now, just fatherly. Tired, maybe.

“Look, I know it ain’t easy. Watchin’ someone you care about look the other way. But if you want something different…You gotta say something different. Boy’s not a mind reader.”

“I know that,” You replied softly, after a long beat. Your throat felt tight. “I just…It’s not that simple.”

“Never is,” He agreed, settling back with a soft grunt. “But you keep sittin’ on your hands, and someone else is gonna take the spot you won’t claim.” You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really.

Because across town, Rhett was probably smiling at her the way he used to smile at you. Probably handing her a cold drink, nudging her shoulder when she laughed, leaning in a little too close like it was second nature. You could picture it too well. That easy charm. That golden light. The kind of warmth he didn’t even know he carried.

And maybe, just maybe, it used to be yours.

But not tonight.

Tonight, you were just a ghost in a room you used to stand in, watching from the quiet side of town as the fireworks bloomed without you.

You stayed curled on the couch beside your dad for another hour or so, the two of you watching the rest of the Western he had put on in a silent that wasn’t uncomfortable–but felt heavier than usual.

Every now and then, he’d make a quiet comment about the film or chuckle under his breath, and you’d hum in response, but your mind had long drifted elsewhere. You couldn’t stop picturing it: Rhett laughing under the glow of string lights, standing too close to Maria, that loose and familiar posture he used when he felt wanted. When he felt seen.

Eventually, the credits rolled, the TV dimmed, and the old western faded into static hum. You stretched slowly, working the tension from your shoulders before pushing to your feet.

“I’m gonna head out,” You said quietly, brushing your hand down the side of your sweatpants. “Gotta wash off the day.”Your dad didn’t look up from his recliner, but he nodded once, the paper still resting in his lap.

“Alright, kid. Tell the ghosts I said hi.”

You snorted softly. “Yeah, I’ll light ‘em a candle.” You stepped toward the front door and reached for the handle–then paused. Rain.

The sound hit your ears before you even saw it–soft, steady, the kind of slow summer drizzle that snuck up on you after sundown. You opened the door and stood in the frame for a second, watching the raindrops dance in the yellow glow of the porch light. The gravel was soaked already, puddles forming in the grooves where the driveway dipped, and the path to the loft looked like a slick, muddy mess.

“Well, shit,” You muttered, eyeing the way your breath curled in the humid air. “Rarely rains on the Fourth.”

Your dad made a noise behind you–somewhere between a grunt and a dry chuckle. “This is what happens when you decide not to celebrate it,” he called out, flipping another page in the paper. “The weather takes it personal.”

You huffed a laugh and grabbed your old black windbreaker from the coat rack, shrugging it over your shoulders. “Guess I’ll just have to make it up to the weather next year.” With that, you slipped out onto the porch, tugged the hood up, and jogged down the steps.

The mud squelched under your boots immediately, sucking at the soles with every step, but you kept going, ducking your chin down against the rain. Your loft stood about forty yards behind the house, nestled at the edge of the property where the grass met the tree line. The walk was familiar, even in the dark, and your feet followed the worn path instinctively–even if the occasional puddle slowed you down.

The rain soaked through your jeans by the time you made it to the porch. You slipped your key into the door and turned it, heart settling as the lock clicked open.

The smell hit you first–warm wood and lavender, the faint trace of engine oil clinging to the boots by the door. You stepped inside and shut the door behind you with a soft thud, shaking yourself off like a dog and dragging your hood down with a sigh.

The lights were low–just the ones above the kitchen sink and the little Edison bulb lamp you always left on beside the couch. You didn’t bother turning on the overheads. The place felt better dim.

The loft was everything you needed and nothing you didn’t.

It was open-concept, all one floor, no walls to separate everything–just beams and slanted ceilings, wood-paneled walls stained a soft, honeyed brown that caught the light like something out of a dream. Your father had built it himself for your eighteenth birthday, saying, “Every girl needs a place she can disappear to. Somewhere that’s hers.” He’d smacked the blueprints on the dining table with a grin and said he didn’t want to know who was coming or going, didn’t want to hear anything about late nights or early mornings. He just wanted you to have space. Independence. Freedom.

You had cried when he showed you the key.

The place was cozy–homey in a way that didn’t require explanation. The kitchen sat along the far wall, rustic cabinets painted sage green, an old farmhouse sink surrounded by chipped enamel counters, your mug collection hanging from hooks above the stove. To the right was your sleeping space–a big, soft bed piled with mismatched quilts and pillows, tucked beneath the loft’s only window. Books were stacked on the floor beside it like a makeshift nightstand, with a cracked old alarm clock resting on top.

The living area bled right into everything else: a wide brown leather couch which you had thrifted with Rhett at a decent price, a low coffee table you’d made from an old pallet, and your record player setup on a shelf near the armchair where you kept your journals. The only thing separating the zones was a long, faded rug with a southwestern pattern that anchored everything in place.

Boots were kicked off by the door. Your dad’s old denim jacket hung on the hook by the kitchen, next to the keys Rhett had left behind last winter and never came back for.

You took your time peeling off your soaked clothes, leaving your windbreaker to hang dry by the door. You padded barefoot across the wood floors to the kitchen, flicking the kettle on without thinking, craving something warm. Outside, the rain picked up a little, tapping softly against the windows like a quiet apology, before changing into a baggy t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts.

You leaned your hip against the counter, watching the steam curl from the spout, and let yourself breathe.

The kettle hissed softly behind you, steam whispering up into the warm air of the loft, curling like smoke from a slow-burning fuse. You were still leaning against the counter when you heard it.

Tires.

Crunching gravel.

Slow. Deliberate.

You straightened, eyebrows furrowing. You hadn’t heard anyone pull into the main driveway. The rain was still falling, steady and soft, a silver curtain beyond the windows–but the headlights cut through it in sudden streaks. Wide. Familiar. High off the ground.

A truck.

Your eyes narrowed as the engine cut. The lights went dark. A moment later: Three sharp knocks.

Not rushed. Not panicked. Just firm. Like whoever was outside knew they had every right to be here.

You let out a slow, tired sigh, and turned off the kettle.

“Perry,” You muttered under your breath, pushing off the counter. “Dumbass probably thinks I’m curled up cryin’ into a bottle.”

You crossed the floor barefoot, pulling your oversized tee down lower on your thighs as you passed the couch. The rain hadn’t let up–it was still falling hard enough that you could hear it pinging against the porch roof, a low murmur just under your breath. You reached for the handle, pulled open the door–and stopped dead.

It wasn’t Perry.

It was Rhett.

Soaked to the damn bone.

His shirt clung to his chest, heavy and half-translucent, his flannel abandoned somewhere along the way. His jeans were soaked through, dripping onto the porch. His hat hung limp in one hand, curls plastered to his forehead. Water streamed from his jaw, his shoulders, his eyelashes.

And his expression…He looked furious.

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, boots thudding onto the hardwood as he slammed the door behind him. His chest rose and fell hard, breath sharp in his nose. And when he looked at you–it wasn’t his usual warmth.

It was a supernova.

Frustrated. Scalding. Desperate.

“What the hell is goin’ on with you? Hmm?” he snapped.

You blinked at him, stunned. The loft felt suddenly too small, too quiet except for the rain beating against the roof. Rhett kicked off his boots without breaking eye contact, his wet jacket hitting the floor with a heavy slap.

“Wow,” You started, raising your eyebrows. “No, ‘hi, Y/N, how are you?’ Not even a ‘how’s your night goin’?’”

But he didn’t bite.

He just stared at you–blue eyes sharp, tense, unreadable.

“Right now ain’t the time for games.” His voice was lower now, but no less intense. “What the hell is goin’ on with you?”

You froze in place.

“First you don’t wanna come out with me anymore,” he continued, stepping closer, water still dripping from his sleeves. “Then you start pullin’ away like I did somethin’ wrong, and now you ditch the Fourth of July party and say you’re fuckin’ sick?” His voice cracked faintly on the last word. Not in anger. In something closer to hurt.

“Tell me what the fuck is goin’ on.”

You couldn’t answer. Not immediately.

You just stared, mouth dry, trying to find footing in the storm that had followed him inside. He tossed his wet hat off to the side, ran a hand through his dripping hair, like the mess of it might let him breathe. It didn’t.

You swallowed.

“I…” You cleared your throat, tried again. “Let me go grab you a towel, alright? You’re soaked, and you’re gonna–”

You moved to brush past him–but his hand came out gently. Just enough to stop you.

He caught your wrist.

Not hard. Not angry.

Just… steady.

Warm fingers curled loosely around your skin, grounding you.

“I don’t need a towel right now.” His voice was quieter now. Less heat, more gravity. “What I need–” He met your gaze fully, voice low and razor-sharp with feeling“–is for you to tell me the truth.”

And for the first time all night, you realized–he wasn’t mad because he didn’t care. He was mad because he did. Because he had been confused. Lost. Hurt. Because something had shifted between you, and you’d never let him see it.

And now he was here–dripping, shaking, looking at you like you were the one thing he couldn’t figure out how to fix.

The air inside the loft had thickened–saturated with rain and tension, heavy with every word you hadn’t said and every moment that had gone sideways between you.

Rhett’s hand still circled your wrist, warm and unrelenting, grounding you in place like he was afraid you might bolt. You could feel his pulse through his fingertips–fast and strong, matching the thunder of your own heart. His eyes locked to yours, demanding something, anything, while water pooled beneath him on the floor.

Then his voice cut through the quiet, low and sharp:

“Is this whole thing about me and Maria?”

Your chest cinched tight. Your jaw tensed automatically–every muscle bracing like your body knew how dangerous the truth might be. You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared at him, and in that silence…Your face dropped. Just barely. The kind of shift only someone who knew you like the back of his hand could notice.

Rhett saw it.

And something in his face snapped–not in rage, but in clarity.

He stepped closer. Just one step. Enough to make the air crackle.

“Look at me in the eyes, Y/N,” He said, voice firm now–stern in a way that made your stomach twist, the dominance in his tone curling heat into your spine. “And tell me that isn’t what this is fuckin’ about.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was a command.

You tried to hold it together. To keep your eyes from betraying you. But he was right there, soaking wet and burning with something you hadn’t seen in him in years. And when you finally looked up at him, really looked…Everything cracked.

Your breath caught. Your throat tightened. The words didn’t come.

They couldn’t.

Because how the hell were you supposed to lie with him looking at you like that? Like your silence was the final piece of a puzzle that had been driving him insane.

“I knew it,” He said softly–more to himself than to you. “Christ.” He raked a hand through his wet hair again, exhaling hard. “All this time, you’ve been walkin’ around pretendin’ you don’t care… Pretendin’ it doesn’t fuckin’ matter.”

You yanked your wrist free–not violently, just enough to take a step back. “What was I supposed to do, Rhett?” Your voice cracked open like a dam. “Watch you chase after the one girl I could never compete with and just smile about it?”

He stared at you–stunned, but not surprised. Like some part of him had known this truth existed, buried deep beneath the grease-stained tank tops and quiet sacrifices.

“She left,” You snapped. “She left and you broke for a while and I helped put you back together piece by piece. I sat on that goddamn porch with you night after night while you pretended you didn’t care she was gone. And I was there when you started laughing again. When you started living again.”

Your voice was rising now–shaking, furious and breaking apart all at once.

“And then she shows up, all pretty and polished and fuckin’ effortless, and you just light up like nothing ever happened. Like I wasn’t even there.”

Rhett’s mouth parted slightly, but you didn’t stop.

“I’ve been right here, Rhett,” You whispered, stepping forward now. “All this time. Loving you so quietly it damn near killed me.”

And there it was.

Out in the open.

The words you’d never dared say. Hanging between you like smoke in a thunderstorm.

Rhett didn’t move at first. His chest rose and fell, slow and ragged. Water still dripped from his jaw, but he didn’t wipe it away. His eyes were locked to yours, blue and searing.

“I didn’t know,” He shot back, voice low. Raw. “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “You didn’t want to know.”

“No,” He said, stepping toward you again, shaking his head. “No, that ain’t fair. Don’t you put that on me. I looked for signs, Y/N. I did. But you–you shut me out. Every damn time I tried to get close, you’d change the subject or pretend it was nothin’.” Your footsteps echoed in the silence between you, the sound of your breath sharp in your throat as you turned to face him fully–eyes blazing, rain still dripping off the ends of his curls and onto the floor like the storm had followed him inside.

“I didn’t avoid any conversations with you,” you snapped, voice raw and loud in the warm wood space. “You never thought to say anything! You think I’m just supposed to read your fuckin’ mind?!”

Rhett’s jaw clenched, teeth flashing as he stepped forward again, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “And why does it have to be up to me to say anything?! I didn’t know this was a one-sided friendship. Last time I checked, there was two of us in this!”

That did it. You surged toward him with fire in your chest, your pointer finger jabbing hard into the middle of his chest–right against the damp fabric that clung to him, warm and heavy over his heart.

“Because you’re the one who kept chasing Maria all through high school, Rhett! You never gave me a chance!” The words landed hard, thick with years of held-back ache. “You were so wrapped up in her smiles and her perfect little skirts and how she looked in the goddamn sunshine, and you never once looked at me!”

And then–before you could step back–his hand caught your wrist again.

But this time?

This time it wasn’t to stop you.

It was to make you listen.

He held your arm firm, water trailing down the slope of his forearm, his eyes locked to yours like the rest of the world had disappeared.

“And why do you think I went after Maria in the first place, huh?” He bit out, chest heaving. “You weren’t that fucking easy to read, sweetheart. You hid your feelings real damn well. So how else was I supposed to move on from somethin’ I thought I’d never have?”

You froze.

Every word struck like thunder in your gut.

Your mouth parted. Your heart tripped.

He’d said it with such certainty. Like it had always been true. Like it had been sitting under the surface of every glance, every late-night porch talk, every ride home in his truck when the silence said more than either of you dared.

“Does everything make sense to you now?” he asked, voice low and scorching.

And it did.

You stood there in the hush of your little loft, the rain pounding like a drumline on the roof, and everything finally clicked into place.

And before you could think, before you could breathe, before your heart could scream for you to slow down–

You launched forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft.

It was heat and breath and years of longing breaking open all at once. His mouth met yours with a desperate groan, his hand leaving your wrist to grab your waist, yanking you into him like he needed to feel every inch of you, like just touching wasn’t enough. You could taste the rain on his lips, the bitter edge of frustration still lingering in the way he kissed you–hungry, fierce, like he was starved for this.

Your fingers curled into the wet fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as you gasped against his mouth. The warmth of his chest bled into yours, soaked cotton clinging to skin as he spun the both of you until your back hit the wall beside the door.

“God, you don’t even know,” Rhett growled against your mouth, his nose brushing yours as he leaned in again, kissing you deeper, rougher. “You don’t even fuckin’ know how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

His hands ran down your sides, settling heavy and possessive on your hips, thumbs digging into the waistband of your shorts as he pressed into you, chest to chest, thigh slipping between your legs like he had every right to be there. You moaned softly, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he leaned in harder, kissing you like he was trying to make up for every year he didn’t.

And all you could think was: finally.

Finally, he was holding you like he meant it. Kissing you like he wasn’t afraid anymore. Like the truth had broken loose and there was nothing left to hide behind.

You gasped as his hand slipped under your shirt, warm and rough against your rain-chilled skin, dragging a trail up your ribcage. Your body arched into him instinctively, your legs going weak under the weight of it all.

“Tell me you want this,” He murmured against your jaw, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me I’m not the only one who’s been goin’ crazy.”

You grabbed him by the collar and pulled him right back to you.

“Just…Shut the fuck up and kiss me again.” You whispered, your voice ragged, nearly breaking, while your mouth was already bruised and hungry. Rhett’s breath hitched, and then he laughed—low, hoarse, and a little cocky. That boyish, infuriating smirk of his twitched at the corner of his lips as his forehead pressed to yours. His hand still clutched your waist, anchoring you like he’d drown without it.

“Well, hell,” he drawled, voice thick with heat and years of wanting, “You sound a little desperate, sweetheart.”

“Rhett,” you warned, already chasing after his mouth again.

But he kissed you before you could even threaten him further—kissed you like he was starved, like the sound of your voice made his restraint unravel. His hands slid back under your shirt, dragging up your ribs and then lower again, palms rough and reverent all at once. He gripped the back of your thighs, strong and certain, and then—

You yelped softly as he lifted you off the ground.

Your legs wrapped tight around his waist on instinct, like they’d done it a hundred times before, and your arms flew around his neck—one hand diving into his soaked curls, the other cradling his jaw like you needed to make sure he was real. His lips never left yours as he staggered forward, blindly navigating the loft until your back hit the bed in a messy sprawl.

You bounced once against the soft quilts, dazed.

Then Rhett was above you, peeling off his drenched shirt in one fluid motion, flinging it somewhere across the room with a wet slap. He stood over you for a moment, his chest rising and falling, water still dripping from the line of his collarbone, his abs heaving with every breath. His jeans clung to his hips, soaked dark and hanging low, every muscle in his body cast in golden light from the lamp on the nightstand.

You had seen him shirtless before. Plenty of times.

But not like this.

Not with your lips swollen from his kiss. Not with your thighs still tingling where his hands had gripped them. Not with your body burning for him in every place you had tried to forget existed.

He caught the look in your eyes—hungry, reverent, awestruck—and his smirk faded into something darker. Something heady.

He crawled onto the bed without saying a word, muscles shifting as he moved between your knees, spreading them apart with his palms like he had every right to. His fingers dug into your bare thighs, holding you open as he settled his hips against yours, weight pressing down with purpose.

Your breath hitched. Your hands slid up his chest–feeling the heat, the muscle, the scar near his ribs you knew by heart–and you kissed him again like you were trying to make up for every single day you hadn’t.

This one was feral.

Messy and frantic and clumsy in the best way. Tongues sliding, teeth grazing, mouths parting on gasps and moans as your hands moved like you couldn’t decide where to touch first. His fingers slipped beneath your shirt again, dragging the fabric up your sides and pushing until it bunched around your ribs.

You barely noticed. Too busy tangling yourself in him.

His hands found your hips again–then your jaw–then your ass. He was everywhere at once, and you couldn’t stop moaning into his mouth, couldn’t stop arching up to meet every roll of his body against yours. His jeans were soaked, and yours were barely on, and the heat between you was enough to dry everything that had been soaked by the storm.

It was the kind of kiss you didn’t come back from.

The kind that set fire to memory, that branded your ribs from the inside out.

You were breathing so hard you couldn’t tell where your lungs ended and his began, couldn’t remember a time before this–before his tongue was in your mouth and his hips were grinding against your core like he’d been waiting his whole damn life to do it.

And maybe he had.

“Fuck,” Rhett panted, his forehead pressed to yours again, voice thick with disbelief and hunger as his thumb stroked just beneath the edge of your shirt, “You got any idea what you do to me, do you?”

You barely had time to answer.

Because he kissed you again like you were oxygen and he’d been drowning all these years.

You moaned into the kiss, your body arching instinctively against his as your hand slid up his chest–not to push him away, but just to slow him, to breathe, to feel. Your palm pressed flat against the warmth of his skin, just above his heart, and Rhett stilled.

He pulled back enough to look at you, eyes dark but gentle, the storm in his chest quieting just a little.

“You okay?” He asked softly, thumb still brushing your waist.

You let out a breathless laugh, your fingers curling lightly into his damp curls. “Yeah,” You whispered, voice shaking with heat and adrenaline. “I just wanna take my shirt off.”

Rhett blinked, and then leaned back slightly, palms splayed beside your hips on the bed. “Yeah?” He asked, husky and reverent, giving you space.

You sat up on your elbows just enough to pull the oversized tee over your head in one quick motion, your breath catching as the cool air of the loft met your flushed skin. The fabric hit the floor with a quiet thud, and then you were left in nothing but your sleep shorts–bare from the waist up, your chest rising and falling with every ragged inhale.

Rhett didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stared.

“Jesus Christ…” He muttered, eyes locked to your chest like he couldn’t decide if he should worship you or fall to his knees. “Holy crap.”

You let out another quiet laugh, flustered but aching, warmth blooming in your cheeks. “You okay there, cowboy?”

His eyes snapped up to yours. And then he leaned in again like he’d just remembered he could. Like the sight of you had lit something under his ribs.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” He breathed against your mouth before kissing you again, slower this time, reverent. His lips moved down your jaw, then your throat, then lower–pressing heat into every inch of skin like he was branding you with it.

You gasped as his mouth trailed to your collarbone, lips brushing, teeth grazing the dip there before he murmured, “You’re so fuckin’ pretty, you know that?”

Your hands found his hair again, tangling in the damp curls, anchoring him as he kissed his way down the slope of your chest. He paused at the top of your breast, glancing up with heat in his eyes, waiting–making sure.

You nodded.

That was all he needed.

His mouth closed over your breast, warm and wet and full of want, and you cried out softly as he sucked, his tongue flicking over your nipple until it peaked beneath his touch. His hand came up to cradle the weight of the other, thumb circling slow and steady as he dragged his mouth from one to the other, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a few soft marks in his wake.

You were already trembling. His mouth stayed latched to your breast, tongue dragging slowly over the sensitive peak, lips sucking just hard enough to make your back arch off the bed. And he didn’t look away–not once. His eyes burned into yours, half-lidded and dark with want, jaw working like he was savoring every fucking second. Every twitch. Every breathless sound you made.

And then he ground his hips into you–slow and deep, the press of his soaked jeans meeting the heat between your thighs in a rhythm that made your whole body jolt. You gasped, your thighs clenching around his waist instinctively, the friction too good and too much all at once.

“Fuck, Rhett—” you breathed, your fingers flying to his shoulders, nails dragging down his skin without thinking. You didn’t even realize how hard you were clutching him until he moaned.

Loud.

Right against your nipple.

The vibration of it sent a shock straight through your core, your breath catching as he pulled off with a wet pop, a string of spit connecting his mouth to your skin before it snapped and fell away.

His lips were pink and swollen. His chest was heaving. His hands still held your hips like they belonged to him.

And then—he licked his lips. Smirked a little. That cocky, heartbreaker smirk that always used to get him out of trouble when you were kids, only now it looked feral. Possessive. Dirty.

He dipped his head to the other side of your chest and gave the second nipple the same worship he’d given the first—slow, wet, reverent, his tongue flicking and swirling and teasing until your legs were trembling around his hips.

You could feel him growing harder with every second, the denim of his jeans rough against your thin sleep shorts, but neither of you moved to get rid of anything yet. You were too busy drowning in this.

In him.

His mouth. His heat. The way he held you like he’d been starving for this since the beginning of time.

He sucked harder, his teeth grazing the swollen bud just enough to make you whimper, and then he pulled off that one too–again, with a lewd, wet sound that left another line of spit trailing down your skin. His voice was rough as gravel when he finally spoke, eyes still locked to yours, lips slick and panting.

“I just wanna keep tasting you,” He rasped, his hands stroking up your sides like he needed to memorize you with his palms. “I wanna taste every fuckin’ inch of you. Wanna see what you’ve been hidin’ under all those smart-ass jokes and mechanic suits.” Your chest stuttered with a broken laugh, your nails still dug into his shoulders, dragging light lines down his back that made him shudder. His hips rolled into you again, more desperate this time, like he couldn’t help it, like the thought of you beneath him in nothing but your shorts was driving him insane.

“Go on then,” You whispered, voice wrecked and teasing and vulnerable all at once. “See for yourself.”

He growled low in his throat, and kissed you like it was a promise. Like he was going to do exactly that.

Rhett pulled back slowly, his breath ragged, his pupils blown wide as his gaze dragged down the length of your body like a man about to sink his teeth into something he wasn’t sure he deserved. His hands slid down your thighs–slow and warm, worshipful–and hooked just beneath the waistband of your shorts.

“You sure?” He asked, voice low and rough, throat tight with restraint even as his eyes burned with hunger.

You nodded.

That was all he needed.

He tugged the sleep shorts down your hips, inch by inch, until they peeled away from your skin like a secret being revealed. His eyes never left you–not even when the cotton slipped past your knees and off the edge of the bed. And when he saw what you weren’t wearing beneath?

His breath caught.

“Fuck me,” He groaned, so low it was almost a growl, his fingers tightening around your thighs. “You were just walkin’ around like this?” His voice dropped darker, hotter. “No fuckin’ underwear? Just wet and waitin’ under those shorts, huh?” You bit your bottom lip, heart hammering, skin blazing under his stare.

Rhett sat back on his knees between your legs, pushing them apart with both hands—broad palms sliding under your thighs to lift and spread you just a little more, until your heels dug into the mattress and you were completely, utterly bare for him.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just stared like he was being given a miracle he hadn’t earned.

“Jesus, baby…” He whispered, voice gone reverent. “You’re fuckin’ drippin’–look at you.” His tongue darted out across his bottom lip, his breath shaky. “Bet you taste so goddamn sweet.”

You whimpered at the praise, back arching involuntarily as his grip on your thighs tightened. One hand slid down to grip behind your knee, pushing it gently up and open, his thumb stroking the soft skin there like he was trying to soothe your trembling.

Then–without warning–he dove in.

His mouth hit you like a man starved, tongue flattening and dragging up the length of your soaked heat with a groan that shook through your whole body. You gasped–hips jerking up off the mattress, but he was ready. His hands flew to your hips, pinning you down hard into the sheets.

“Just stay still…Lemme take care of you hmm?” Your fingers flew to his hair, gripping tight as his mouth slowly sealed around your clit. Rhett sucked hard–just once–and then started working you with his tongue like he’d been waiting his whole life to make you fall apart on his face. Long, slow licks. Then fast, eager circles. He switched between the two like he was chasing every sound you made, every gasp, every twitch of your thighs like it was a map.

“God–Rhett–” Your voice hitched, your hips trying to grind against his mouth again, your thighs trembling under his hold. He pressed them back down firmly, groaning against you.

“I said stay still,” He growled, so rough and low it vibrated straight through your core. You whined, writhing under the weight of his mouth, your thighs beginning to tremble.

His tongue flicked your clit again, fast, and then he pressed in deeper–his nose brushing your mound, his tongue fucking into you slow and deep, like he was drinking you down.

Your thighs clamped around his ears, but he just groaned–louder–and pressed in harder, his arms locking around your hips, holding you open for him like you were something holy.

You couldn’t stop moaning–couldn’t breathe around the pleasure curling tight in your gut. Your hands were still tangled in his hair, tugging, pushing, desperate and greedy as your hips rocked against his mouth without thinking.

Then he growled, pulling his mouth back just enough to speak–and the sight of him, lips shiny and jaw slick with your arousal, was filthy.

“I said stay still,” He rasped, grabbing your hips and pressing them back into the mattress with just enough force to make you cry out. You whimpered–your body shuddering at the dominance in his tone, the possessive heat of it—and nodded.

“Words, sweetheart,” He said, licking a slow stripe up your core. “I wanna hear it.”

“Yes,” You gasped. “Yes, Rhett–fuck–I’ll stay still–please, just–please don’t stop.”

He smirked into your core.

“Didn’t plan on it.”

And then he buried his face in you again–harder this time–his mouth moving like he was trying to tear the climax from your body with his tongue alone. His grip on your hips was iron, keeping you right where he wanted you, no escape, no mercy.

You came with a loud, shattering cry, your whole body jerking against the bed as pleasure tore through you like lightning, your thighs trembling against his shoulders.

Rhett didn’t stop.

Not through your first wave, or the second.

He kept licking, savoring you, sucking gently, coaxing every last tremble from your hips until you were shaking and soaked and boneless beneath him, your fingers still tangled in his hair like you didn’t know how to let go.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was glossed with you, his jaw shining, his eyes wild and dark and full of need.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ tasted,” He whispered, breathless, licking his lips as he hovered above you again.

And then he kissed you.

Messy. Deep. Dirty. Tongue sliding against yours, lips slick with your own arousal, like he wanted you to taste yourself on him.

You moaned into his mouth, and that sound lit him up from the inside. He pulled back just enough to let you breathe, his lips still glistening, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run flat-out for miles. You watched the way his tongue darted out across his bottom lip, savoring the taste of you one last time like he couldn’t help himself. Then his eyes flicked up to meet yours–warm, slightly sheepish–and his voice dropped, rough with apology but still trembling from the high.

“Sorry ‘bout bein’ a little rough…” He murmured, thumb tracing your hipbone. “I… I couldn’t really control myself once I got a bit of a taste. Sorry.”

You blinked at him, breathless, your cheeks flushed from everything he’d just wrung out of you. And then you laughed—a soft, low sound, all wrecked and wrecking. You reached up to brush the damp curls from his forehead, still tangled in the storm.

“It’s okay…” You whispered, lips twitching into a lazy smile. “It was pretty hot. Not gonna lie.”

That made him laugh—quiet and stunned, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. His dimples showed through his scruff, and it lit him up from the inside out, that boyish grin making a brief return before it got swallowed by something deeper. He leaned in and kissed you again—slower now, lingering, lips brushing yours like he was memorizing the taste of your relief, your want, your voice wrapped around the words I need you.

And then he paused.

Just enough to pull back again, gaze searching yours, soft and careful.

“…You still okay?” he asked, voice quiet now. “Do you…Wanna stop here?”

Your heart clenched at the way he asked it–like it physically hurt him to offer the out, but he’d take it in a second if you needed it.

You shook your head immediately, voice low and steady.

“No,” you breathed. “No, I want to feel you. I need you more than ever right now.”

Rhett froze like he hadn’t expected that. His breath caught, visibly, audibly–and then his face flushed, blooming red across his cheekbones and down his throat. He blinked at you like you’d just shattered him with a single sentence.

“I’ll do anything you fuckin’ want,” he said hoarsely. “Anything.”

He leaned back onto his knees, hands sliding down your thighs once more as he slowly stood on his knees between them. You watched with wide eyes, breath caught behind your ribs, as his hands went to the waistband of his boxers. His fingers hooked into the elastic, and he hesitated–just for a second–like he needed to be sure one last time.

Then he pushed them down.

The fabric peeled away, soaked and clinging, and your mouth went dry.

Your breath hitched as your gaze dropped–then stalled.

Because Jesus Christ.

He was thick. Long. Heavy even before he touched himself–his cock flushed red, the head already leaking and shining in the low light of the loft. It hung low between his hips, resting briefly against his thigh before springing forward slightly, and your whole body reacted before your brain could catch up.

Your mouth actually watered.

You shifted on the bed, thighs spreading wider like your body already knew what it wanted, what it was about to take. The stretch… God, you could already feel it–imagine it–him splitting you open slow, his hips rocking forward while you clawed at his back. You wanted to feel him press in inch by inch until you were full–until you couldn’t think straight. You wanted all of it.

Rhett saw the look on your face–the hunger, the awe, the way your chest heaved and your lips parted–and his blush deepened, but his cock twitched in response, proud and aching.

He leaned down again, bracing one hand beside your head as he hovered over you, breath hot and voice trembling.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” He whispered, eyes locked to yours. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You reached down, wrapped your fingers around the base of him, and watched as his jaw clenched tight, a guttural sound ripping from his throat.

“Don’t worry,” You whispered, He exhaled ragged against your cheek as you guided him closer, your fingers wrapped around the base of him–slow, sure, trembling just slightly. Rhett’s breath hitched again as the thick head of his cock pressed against your entrance, heat meeting heat, slick and swollen and pulsing with need. He braced a forearm beside your head, the other curling around your hand on him, intertwining your fingers like he needed to anchor himself.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” He whispered, voice hoarse, reverent. “You’re so fuckin’ wet–gonna slide in like you were made for me…”

You whimpered–because he was right.

Then, with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, he started to push in.

The stretch was immediate–hot and deep and toe-curling. Your lips parted on a breathless gasp, your head tipping back as your body opened for him inch by inch. Rhett groaned low in his throat, jaw clenched, eyes locked on where he was disappearing into you.

“Fuck–goddamn,” He hissed, gripping your hand tighter. “Tight little thing, huh? Grippin’ me like you never wanna let go…”

You moaned, your legs wrapping around his hips instinctively as he pushed deeper. His cock stretched you wide, the pressure sharp and perfect all at once, your body pulsing around him in greedy aftershocks. He paused halfway in, resting his forehead against yours, sweat and rainwater dripping down his temple.

“You okay?” He murmured, his voice shaky but tender.

You nodded, chest rising fast. “Don’t stop,” You breathed. “Please. Keep goin’. I need all of you.”

That broke him.

Rhett let out a ragged sound–half groan, half whimper–and pushed in deeper. You felt every inch of him drag against your walls, slow and thick, until finally, finally, his hips met yours, your bodies flush and trembling with the sheer weight of it.

He was fully inside.

You both stilled for a moment–just breathing, savoring it. You could feel him throbbing deep inside you, every twitch of him making your insides flutter. Rhett’s hand squeezed yours like a lifeline, and he brought it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles before resting it on the mattress between you.

“Goddamn,” He whispered, voice barely there. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

You laughed, breathless and ruined, eyes glassy with heat and disbelief. “You sound like you’re about to cry, cowboy.”

He let out a half-choked chuckle, his hips giving an experimental roll. You both moaned at the same time, your bodies clutching together again like magnets. Rhett looked down at you, completely wrecked–his hair dripping, cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide with awe.

“Fuck—you’re so beautiful,” he murmured, shifting his weight back slightly.

He let go of your hand only long enough to bring the other up to your throat—just resting it there, fingers spread gently, reverently. His thumb stroked along the underside of your jaw, so tender it made your heart lurch.

”You are too,” You whispered, lips brushing his. “Every fuckin’ inch of you.”

His hips rocked again, deeper this time, and you arched into him with a soft cry, your nails digging into his shoulders. He kissed you hard, his hand at your throat grounding you, guiding you.

“That’s it,” He panted, voice rough. “Take me, baby. You’re takin’ me so damn well.”

“You’re fillin’ me so good,” You moaned, hips rising to meet every thrust. “I can feel you so deep–fuck, I swear I can feel you in my fuckin’ soul, Rhett.”

He let out a strangled noise–somewhere between a growl and a whimper–and his rhythm stuttered for just a second.

“You can’t say shit like that,” He gasped, laughing through it, completely undone. “You tryin’ to make me lose my damn mind?”

You grinned breathlessly, kissing him again, still giggling softly against his mouth as he started moving again–deeper, slower, more confident now.

And with every thrust, every filthy word, every moan tangled between you–it felt less like something you were giving and more like something you were reclaiming.

His rhythm stuttered again–once, then twice–like he was losing the reins. Like everything he’d been holding back was breaking loose all at once.

You could feel it in the way his hips began to roll faster, less controlled, more chaotic. His thrusts hit deeper, harder, the slick sounds of your bodies crashing together filling the space like a drumbeat under the rain.

“Rhett,” You gasped, voice high and trembling, your fingers clawing at his back now, digging in like you needed to anchor yourself before you flew apart again. “Fuck–you’re gonna make me come again–”

That did it.

His mouth crushed yours in a frantic kiss, all tongue and teeth and heat. He bit down on your bottom lip–firm but careful, pulling it between his teeth like he couldn’t help himself. You moaned into his mouth, loud and wrecked, and he swallowed it whole like he wanted to keep it forever.

“Good,” he growled against your lips, voice tight and broken. “Want you to. Wanna feel you come on me again–need it, baby, I need it–fuck–I’m close too–“

You could barely think. His hips were slamming into yours now, rough and desperate, each thrust so deep it sent sparks exploding behind your eyes. Your legs wrapped tighter around him, your back arching off the bed as his hand slid under your thigh, lifting it higher to get even deeper.

The room was filled with the sounds of skin meeting skin, the creak of the bed frame, the relentless rain outside–and your moans. Loud. Wild. Unfiltered.

“Oh my god–Rhett–Rhett–I’m–”

Your climax hit like a lightning strike.

You cried out–loud and raw–your whole body locking around him, legs trembling, hands clutching at his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. Your pussy pulsed around him, gripping him tight, dragging him over the edge with you.

And he broke.

With a strangled groan, Rhett buried himself as deep as he could go and came hard–his whole body jerking against yours as he spilled inside you. His arms locked around you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he moaned low and desperate, his breath ragged and hot against your skin.

“Fuck, fuck–Jesus–” He gasped, whimpering softly as the pleasure rocked through him, his body trembling with the force of it. He gave one last shallow thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and then went still–completely spent, panting hard into the crook of your neck.

You both just laid there for a second. Breathing. Shaking. Floating.

The rain hadn’t stopped outside, but it felt quieter now, like even the storm was giving you a minute to collect yourselves.

Rhett eventually lifted his head, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes dazed and still wide with the aftershock. His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking gently across your cheek.

“You okay?” He asked softly, voice hoarse.

You nodded, breathless. “More than okay,” You whispered, your fingers pushing a strand of hair off his forehead. “I think you broke my brain a little.”

He laughed–weak and stunned and fucking glowing.

“Yeah?” He murmured, leaning in to kiss your nose. “Well…You wrecked me. So. We’re even.”

You both chuckled, quiet and wrecked and tangled up in each other. His weight was still resting on top of you, warm and solid and perfect, and you didn’t want him to move.

He kissed you again–soft this time, slow and sweet. Just once.

Then he pulled back slightly to look down at you, his eyes filled with something tender. Something quiet and wide and full of meaning.

“I swear to God, I’ve never felt anything like that,” He whispered. “Not ever. You ruined me, darlin’. In the best fuckin’ way.”

And somehow, that felt more intimate than anything else.

[farrikdanked]

*Edna Mode voice* GORGEOUS DARLING

Business

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

Summary: After a night on the town with your old field ops team, you return to the Watchtower in hopes of making a drunken confession to Bob that will change your friendship forever.

Warnings: Fluff, and Some Angst, Reader and Bob are friends and aren’t dating, Mentions of heavy drinking, reader drinks until they are very drunk/tipsy (it is described), Drunken Confessions (and the embarrassment that comes with it afterwards lol), Mentions of throwing up/Hangovers, Reader is kind of hard on themselves regarding love, Bob takes care of the reader while she is in this drunken stupor and he kind of secretly loves every second of it? We are finally attacking the good old Drunken Confession Trope y’all and I frickin love it!!!!

Author’s Note: Y’all I frickin adore a good old love confession trope, like holy crappppp. This was a request from ‘Book anon’, amazing request, thank you a lot for it, I absolutely loved writing it for ya <3. Hope it’s what you’re lookin for! Also…It’s Rhett Abbott Friday…Y’know what that means…Double updates :p

Word Count: 8,137

The bar was absolute chaos.

It pulsed like a living thing–thick with music, sweaty bodies, and the pungent scent of spilled beer and a cocktail of various colognes mixing together, sharp and heady in the humid air. It clung to your skin, warm and damp, tasting like salt and gin and smoke from the overworked fryer in the back kitchen.

There was a faint haze that clouded the enclosed space from people sharing vapes and sneaking off to the alleyway to have a quick cigarette–but this was all normal for a Friday night at a downtown bar. Normal for a place like this, where you didn’t come to relax, you came to drown something.

The ceiling fans spun lazily overhead, which did nothing to help the heat, it just pushed the warm air in spirals. The walls were exposed brick, cracked in places, and plastered with old concert posters and handwritten signs advertising ‘$6 shots if you tip well’ and ‘No Vaping Inside (We See You)’. Every surface glistened faintly with condensation or sweat or both, and the wood beneath your elbows was sticky with spilled drinks and the ghosts of a thousand stories.

Somewhere to your left, the jukebox warbled the opening chords to a song that had no business being that loud, and someone shouted in recognition, fists raised. Glass clinked, a cheer erupted near the dartboard, and the bartender didn’t look up once–just kept pouring with the efficiency of a soldier who had seen war in shot glass form.

You and your old team took up four stools near the far end of the bar–just close enough to the speakers that conversation came in shouts and fragments, but far enough that you could pretend the chaos wasn’t swallowing you whole. The bar was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, but around your little carved-out corner, it still felt like them–back when your life was smaller, rougher around the edges, but easier to understand.

Benji, always the loudest and boldest, lifted his beer with exaggerated ceremony, nearly tipping it as he stood one foot on the stool’s lower rung. His cheeks were already flushed, the sleeves of his worn flannel pushed up past his elbows, one of them singed at the cuff from a mission he still refused to talk about. His knuckles were always bruised, and there was a faded tattoo peeking from under his collar that said ‘Viva La Prague’–something that he regretted getting when he woke up the next morning.

“Cheers to Y/N!” He bellowed, beer sloshing over his knuckles. “For finding time in her very demanding, top-secret, super glamorous Avenger-adjacent schedule to come slum it with us mortals for one night.” Calla let out a sharp laugh and clinked her whiskey glass against his. Her laugh was sharp like broken glass but warm beneath it–always had been. She still wore the same dog tags under her tank top, still had that scar across her forearm from the rooftop extraction in Marrakesh. She had this permanent smudge of black eyeliner beneath her eyes like she never fully washed off the field, even now.

“Damn right,” She said. “You realize you’re sitting next to someone who’s brushed shoulders with some of the most dangerous people on this planet?”

“And still somehow manages to answer my texts,” Rye added dryly, raising his own glass with a faint smirk. He was the quiet one, always had been. Broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed, more thoughtful than most gave him credit for. You used to joke that his blood ran cold–until the night he’d broken protocol to drag Benji out of a firefight with nothing but a cracked riot shield and a broken rib. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, it landed.

You flushed at the array of comments, ducking your head with a half-laugh, fingers curling loosely around the rim of your mint mojito. The ice had melted, watered the drink down to something limp and barely sweet–just the faint herbal bitterness of wilted mint and cheap rum. You sipped it anyway. It gave your hands something to do. Something to hold onto in the midst of all this.

“Please, guys,” You started with a tight laugh, trying to wave it all off. “You always make a big deal out of this stuff when it’s really not.”

Calla scoffed, swirling the ice in her glass. “Sure. You’ve got a god on your team. And the Winter So–”

“Bucky Barnes,” You interrupted quickly, not looking up from your drink when you corrected her. She smirked over the rim of her glass.

“Alright…Bucky Barnes. My apologies. Didn’t realize it was so formal.” You sighed and took another sip of your wilted mojito.

“We’re also still in a fight for the rights to the name, technically. So I’m not an Avenger. I’m a Thunderbolt.” Rye gave a low grunt and brushed that off with a lazy wave of his hand.

“Please. You guys saved New York City from that big shadow guy. Don’t tell me you’re not on the same level as them.” You groaned, hand lifting to your temple.

“That big shadow guy is the alter ego of the god you’re referring to,” You muttered, rubbing the thin skin on the side of your head with a sigh, “Just saying…And on top of that he’s out of commission so…Technically we’re down a god.” Calla tilted her head.

”Well that must mess up the team dynamic.” She replied, letting out a huff of a laugh. You didn’t answer–not right away at least. You just stared into the half-melted swirl of your drink and felt something subtle crack open beneath your ribs.

Because from the minute they brought up The Void, or Sentry…Your mind went back to him again…

Bob.

You had done everything you could tonight to keep your thought off of him. You came here to be loud, to get drunk, and to surround yourself with the memory of who you were before he started slipping under your skin like golden light through fractured glass.

But now that his name tiptoed through the caverns of your mind, it was impossible to ignore the ache. That slow-burning, bone-deep, stomach turning pull that never left–because he never left. Because he was always there, buried within the little things that littered your life.

Like the way he’d appear in the observation deck above the training floor when you were running combat drills. You’d feel it first, that prickle at the back of your neck that you got when you knew his eyes were on you. That hush just beneath the noise. When you’d glance up mid-round, panting and flushed, there he would be. Leaning with his forearms braced against the railing, light brown hair tousled, and sleeves pushed up, with his eyes locked on you with the softest kind of focus.

When your eyes would meet his, he’d smile–small and startled, like he hadn’t expected to be caught, and then came the little wave. That dumb little half-wave of his. Fingers lifting slowly, shy and gentle, like he was suddenly shy about the fact he was watching you as if you were under a microscope.

You’d raise your hand in return, trying not to blush, and he’d disappear a minute later–quiet as he came–leaving behind the weight of his presence like the last warmth from a sunbeam that had already moved on.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That he probably watched everyone. That he must have waved at someone else like that, and visited them when they were training too. But still…The moment never left you.

Then sometimes you’d catch him in the kitchen before dawn, getting breakfast ready for you before a whole morning of briefings.

It didn’t matter how early you got up, how quiet you were when you crept into the kitchen, or how late the last mission had run. He was already there. Pajama pants hanging low on his hips, t-shirt wrinkled and inside-out, hair sticking up like he’d rolled out of bed ten minutes ago–because he had. Just for this.

He never said much. Just hummed quietly under his breath, something tuneless and soft, his mug of tea steaming beside the stove as he stirred eggs in a pan like the world wasn’t sitting on his shoulders. There was always a banana sliced with precise, practiced symmetry. Always a small bowl of whatever fruit hadn’t gone soft in the fridge. Always coffee waiting–and not just brewed, but made right. The exact way you liked it.

He never asked how you took it. He just…Knew.

At first you thought it was a coincidence. Then a fluke. Then you thought it was something he specifically did just for you because he was trying to tell you something he couldn’t say with words.

But then you noticed the post-it notes. Little squares of yellow stuck to the fridge door, each one penned in Bob’s unmistakably neat handwriting–slightly slanted, soft around the corners like he hesitated before each letter. A dozen gentle reminders. A dozen invisible kindnesses.

“Leftovers in the container–help yourself :)”

“Made a plain omelette for you Bucky! Check the top shelf!”

”Yelena! I picked up your favourite fruit snacks!”

And you realized…He remembered everyone.

He remembered how Yelena peeled her oranges in one spiral and hated blueberry yogurt. He remembered Bucky’s low tolerance for spice and how he liked his food seasoned well but not with crazy amounts of experimental ingredients. He remembered how Walker took his coffee too sweet and how you once mentioned you liked banana slices with cinnamon–once–and they had shown up on your plate the very next morning. He even remembered specific details about Alexei’s odd meal plan and attempted multiple times to get it right for him.

He was kind to everyone.

Consistent. Gentle. Attentive.

And not just with you.

And that realization sat in your stomach like a stone.

Cold and sinking.

Because all those moments you’d hoarded like firelight–his quiet glances, his shy smiles, his soft waves from the upper deck–they weren’t yours. They weren’t special. You’d just made them feel that way. You had done that. You’d built a shrine to him in your heart based on borrowed things.

And God, did it hurt to realize that.

The ache in your chest twisted, sharp and punishing, because you’d let yourself believe. You’d let yourself hope.

You wanted a sign. Just one. Something undeniable. Something that said:

I see you the way you see me.

But it never came, Instead, you had small waves, and breakfast, and polite, crushing kindness.

He haunted you in the gentlest ways imaginable.

And it killed you every single time.

You inhaled sharply through your nose and blinked hard, forcing your eyes back to the present, back to the bar where Calla was laughing at something Benji said and Rye had his glass tipped back like he was trying to disappear into it. The room swam in noise–booming bass, clinking glass, a woman’s voice singing a chorus in a key she couldn’t quite reach. It all blurred around the edges.

And maybe that was what you needed tonight.

To blur the reality you were facing a bit.

You slapped your palm lightly on the bar, catching the bartender’s eye with practiced ease.

“Shots,” You called out over the music, voice a little too bright, a little too loud. “Four of ‘em. Tequila, preferably please.” Benji whooped. Calla raised her brows. Rye didn’t say a word, but his smirk deepened.

And you smiled. You smiled like it didn’t hurt. Like your heart hadn’t just folded in on itself. Like you weren’t standing knee-deep in the quiet ruins of all the little almosts that Bob had given you without ever meaning to.

You would drink until your body was louder than your thoughts.

You would drink until your head buzzed louder than the ache in your chest.

Until the weight of his quiet love for everyone drowned out the way you had foolishly wanted it to be just for you.

So when the bartender slid the shots across the bar, you didn’t hesitate.

You knocked the first one back with shaking fingers.

Bitter. Clean. Empty.

And you welcomed the burn.

——————————

The city blurred past the window of your Uber, a smear of neon and streetlamp gold, glowing through the raindrops that had started falling sometime after shot number three. Your head lolled slightly against the window, eyes half-lidded, the hum of the tires and your own pulse making everything feel distant–like you were underwater. Or watching your life from outside your body.

By the time the car pulled up in front of the Watchtower–a steel-and-glass monolith that sliced through the dark sky of New York City–you were barely holding onto the thread of consciousness that guided your limbs.

You fumbled with the handle before the driver even came to a full stop, murmured something that was half “thanks” and half “sorry,” and stepped out into the night on legs that didn’t quite feel like yours.

The heels were a mistake. You knew it the moment your ankle gave a soft warning twist on the slick pavement.

You wobbled, caught yourself against the doorframe of the Uber with a slurred curse, and gritted your teeth as you leaned heavily against the side of the building. The clutch in your hands was trembling. Or maybe that was just you. It took three full tries before you got your fingers to actually grip the zipper and tug it open.

Keys. Where the hell were your keys?

You muttered softly to yourself–nothing coherent, just a trail of “come on, come on, come on���s”–until finally your fingers brushed cold metal and closed around it.

You fumbled the key into the reader by the glass security panel. The red light blinked once.

Then again.

Then turned green with a chirp.

“Ha,” You breathed victoriously, stumbling inside, your shoulder knocking against the side of the lobby door as it whooshed shut behind you. The interior lighting was dim and moody, the kind of atmospheric glow designed to look expensive and feel exclusive. Everything in here was marble or glass or brass-accented. Everything screamed quiet money and polished silence.

You certainly did not match that aesthetic, not tonight at least.

Not in your tiny black slip dress, silk clinging to your damp skin like it was reluctant to let go. The hem was hitting high on your thighs, dangerously close to riding up with every step. The plunging neckline had been a power move at the bar–now it just felt…Exposed. The thin straps had slid halfway down your shoulders, and the delicate silver jewelry at your throat glittered faintly under the chandelier lighting–dainty hoops, a little pendant, the layered rings on your fingers clinking faintly against your clutch.

Your heels clicked unevenly against the sleek tile floor, your mascara slightly smudged beneath one eye, lips tinged pink and glossy, though the edges were wearing off. Your hair had frizzed a bit from the humidity, and it was dampened from where sweat and summer air had kissed it. You looked like you barely survived the night.

You stumbled forward, half-dragged by the momentum of your own steps, your shoulder grazing the edge of the marble wall as you made your way toward the elevator tucked at the far end of the lobby. The walls glittered faintly with embedded flecks of quartz, cool and luxurious against the chaos clinging to you like perfume and poor decisions.

You hit the call button with more force than necessary, nearly stabbing it with your thumb. The ring around it lit up in a soft gold halo, and somewhere behind the mirrored doors, gears began to churn.

You closed your eyes and tipped your head back against the cold marble, breathing through your nose. Big mistake.

The room swayed.

Your stomach rolled.

You squeezed your eyes shut tighter.

“Fuck.” You mumbled.

That sickly wave of nausea was curling up your throat now, hot and bitter like it had been distilled straight from regret and tequila. The inside of your skull throbbed, slow and heavy, like the hangover had decided to arrive early and was already unpacking its bags behind your eyes.

The elevator chimed softly.

You pushed off the wall and stumbled in just as the doors slid open, nearly tripping on the threshold as your heel caught on the groove. Your hand slapped against the mirrored wall for balance.

Cool air kissed your bare skin as you stepped into the softly lit interior that reflected your image back at you tenfold. It was quiet thankfully, and you hoped that it would ease the sickly feeling that was brewing beneath the surface.

You exhaled a long, shaky breath.

Then, with a small whimper of relief, you bent to unstrap your heels, one hand bracing on the brass railing that ran along the mirrored back wall. You kicked the shoes off with a graceless thud, the straps tangling around each other as they landed in the corner like discarded evidence of the night you were trying to outrun.

Your bare feet met the cool tile floor, and you sighed as if that alone had peeled away a layer of your exhaustion. It didn’t, really. But it helped enough.

The panel of glowing buttons waited silently beside you. You squinted at it, already swaying as your fingers hovered in hesitation.

You pressed 64.

Then 73.

Then 87, your eyes blinking slowly with a look of concentration like you were solving a puzzle only you understood.

The elevator didn’t move.

“Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath, dragging a hand down your face.

Then, finally, you reached out and pressed 80.

Home.

The right floor.

The correct button glowed back at you, steady and sure, as the elevator gave a soft mechanical sigh and began to rise.

You leaned back against the mirrored wall, shoulders slumping, one hand pressed flat to your stomach as if you could calm the roiling sea inside you by sheer will. The light above your head flickered slightly with each passing floor. The city outside blurred behind the glass wall of the elevator shaft, nothing more than distant, glowing geometry.

Your reflection caught your eye on the polished surface behind you.

You looked…Like a mess.

Not in the beautiful, tragic way either. In the real way. In the mascara-smudged, lipstick-faded, emotionally-gutted way. Your dress clung to your sides, one strap threatening to fall again. Your fingers were still curled loosely around your clutch, your knuckles tight with tension even though you hadn’t realized you were gripping it that hard.

Your eyes–God, your eyes. They looked glassy, like you had put eyedrops in them and they didn’t absorb properly.

You pressed your forehead to the cool mirror, the glass fogging faintly from your breath. You didn’t want to cry. You didn’t have the energy to cry.

So you didn’t.

You just stood there, barefoot and quiet, while the elevator climbed.

And with every passing floor, it felt like you were being carried closer and closer towards the part of yourself you had tried so desperately to drown tonight.

Up.

Up.

Up.

The elevator gave a soft ding as it arrived at the 80th floor, and the doors slid open with a whisper, spilling warm light and the faint scent of something buttery into the space around you.

You stumbled forward like gravity had suddenly tripled, one hand still braced against the mirrored wall until your foot hit the edge of the elevator threshold. Your clutch slipped from your fingers and hit the floor with a muffled thunk, but you didn’t stop to pick it up.

The living space that unfolded in front of you was dim but alive in the quiet, familiar way that only the Watchtower could be at night. The common room stretched out in soft pools of warm yellow light, lamps scattered strategically along the shelves and corners, casting long shadows over the leather couches and polished floorboards. A movie played on low volume from the TV, some old sci-fi flick that was mostly just flickering blue light across the far wall. Someone had left a blanket thrown over the back of the couch, and the faintest scent of popcorn clung to the air–microwaved, and slightly burnt.

The floor under your bare feet was cool and smooth, and the air here was different–cleaner, quieter. It should have sobered you a bit but it didn’t. If anything, the stillness made the emotional noise inside you ring louder.

You wandered forward like a ghost through the room, mumbling a little laugh to yourself as you navigated around the edge of the coffee table and nearly tripped over the corner of a throw pillow. You caught yourself on the arm of the couch, a breathy giggle escaping your lips.

”O-Oh boy…” Came a soft, familiar voice from the left, and you froze like someone had turned a spotlight onto you, “Someone’s d-drunk.” Your head jerked up, eyes wide, and you found Bob standing just beyond the breakfast bar, halfway between the common room and the kitchen.

He looked soft in the low light, like the moment had rounded all his unintentional edges. He was barefoot in flannel sleep pants and a worn navy blue cotton t-shirt, sleeves loose on his biceps, with the collar slightly stretched from multiple washes. His light brown crown of hair was brushed back like he had ran his hands through it to get it that way–it looked neater than normal. He was holding a glass of water, while leaning on his free hand that rested on the counter beside him, and his deep blue eyes glowed faintly, just enough to reflect the soft lamplight that surrounded him.

Your eyes softened the second they landed on him.

Like the sight of Bob in the soft kitchen glow had physically reached inside your chest and flipped the switch that held you together.

“…Bob…” you breathed, barely a whisper, the syllable thick with alcohol and emotion. His name left your lips like a prayer or a spell–like something that lived under your tongue, always waiting to escape.

You stumbled toward him, your steps loose and unsteady, arms swaying slightly as if you couldn’t quite feel your own limbs. He moved the moment your weight pitched too far forward–quick but gentle, setting the glass down and reaching for you.

His arm caught you right before your knees could give, wrapping firmly around your waist as you let out a tiny gasp, hands clinging to the soft fabric of his shirt.

“Woah–got you,” He murmured, voice quiet and careful, like he was speaking to something fragile. His other hand steadied your arm, helping you straighten just enough to stop swaying.

Your eyes drifted up to his face again. Those soft, blinking lashes. That faint glow in his gaze. The concern furrowed across his brow.

“…Bob,” You whispered again, like saying his name might hold your world together

“Y-yes, yes…” He gave a tiny, sheepish smile. “It’s Bob.” His voice carried that gentle stutter, the same one that made your heart ache even harder when it came wrapped in kindness. “Y-you really are drunk, huh? I-I thought you said you were only going to h-have one drink tonight…” He leaned in slightly, breathing in slowly, his nose crinkling at the smell. “Your b-breath smells like you downed a whole bottle of…Tequila? V-vodka?” You tilted your head back in slow motion, neck jelly-soft, eyes glassy as you stared at the ceiling like it might stop the room from spinning.

“I had…A little more than that…” You slurred, the words tumbling out through a hazy grin as you leaned your cheek lazily against his chest. The warmth of him beneath your skin felt grounding–dangerously so. Bob let out a breath, quiet but pointed, and looked at you with the kind of expression that made your heart twist: equal parts amusement and gentle worry.

“Y-yeah, I think a little would be an u-understatement,” He said, voice soft as his fingers shifted carefully at your waist, steadying you again, before picking up his glass of water and offering it to you.

”H-Here…You need this more than I d-do.” You stared at the glass of water in his hand but didn’t take it. Just leaned forward a little, lips parting to put the rim of the glass between them. Your eyes didn’t leave his–not even for a second.

Bob went stiff as a board.

“…O-Okay,” he breathed, blinking rapidly as he adjusted his grip. “I-I guess we’re doing this then…”

He tilted the glass gently, his other arm still holding you steady at the waist, and you drank–loudly. The slurp echoed in the quiet room like a firecracker in a chapel. Your eyes remained fixed on his while you did it.

Bob made a soft, choked noise in the back of his throat.

Then he laughed. Nervously. Tight.

“Y/N,” He mumbled, trying to keep his voice light, but it cracked a little, “S-stop l-looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” You asked, lips still against the rim, your voice playful and fuzzy with alcohol.

He shook his head slightly, exhaling through his nose with that familiar pinched look he got when he was trying not to say something he shouldn’t.

“L-like you’re gonna jump me or something…”

Your giggle came instantly–high and breathless. “W-why? Is it making you blush?”

“I-it’s not–” His voice pitched up, caught between flustered and mortified. “N-no! I just–It just looks…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Because you were still staring at him.

At his mouth. His eyes. The soft dip of his collarbone beneath the worn shirt fabric. The gentle flex in his arm where he held the glass. The way he steadied you with one broad palm against your lower back like it was second nature. Like holding you up was something he’d always be willing to do, whether you noticed it or not.

And that was the problem.

Because your brain was no longer operating with logic. The part of you that normally weighed consequences and considered timing had packed up and left sometime between shot two and shot four. All that was left behind was this awful, soft, unfiltered version of you–the one that looked at Bob like he was a deity.

“…Can I tell you a secret?” You asked, tipping your chin so your face was close–close enough that you could see the way his breath caught in his throat. Bob blinked at you. His mouth opened, hesitated.

Then: “I-I’m gonna assume you’ll tell me e-even if I say no, so…Go ahead.”

You reached up, slow and heavy with exhaustion and feeling, and placed your hand flat against his chest, right over his heart.

It was warm beneath your palm, beating away with a hard and steady rhythm.

You looked up at him, eyes glassy, lip trembling with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, and said:

“I’m so…So in love with you.”

The words hung there between you.

Soft. Heavy. Unstoppable.

Bob froze.

His lips parted. His brows lifted. His eyes went wide, and for a moment, the whole room felt like it had been dipped in stillness.

“And you have no idea…” You added with a soft, broken giggle, blinking hard as your vision began to shimmer. “None. Like…Zero. Zip.”

His throat bobbed in a swallow. His hand didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at you, as if any sudden shift might cause you to shatter right in front of him.

“Y-You’re s-super drunk,” He said gently, like he was trying to give you an out, an excuse, “Y-you don’t even know what you’re saying right now…”

But you did. You knew exactly what you were saying. You just didn’t have the filter left to keep it in. You shook your head, slow and heavy, your hand still pressed to his chest.

“I know you don’t love me back,” You murmured, voice cracking on the words, “But I just don’t understand why you don’t…” Your eyes welled. You blinked, but the tears didn’t care. They spilled anyway, hot and unwelcome, trembling down your cheeks with no grace at all.

Bob’s face twisted–not in discomfort, but something closer to heartbreak. He set the glass of water down with a soft clink and a sigh.

“L-Let’s get you to bed,” He said, almost too softly. “Y-you have to sleep this off before you say anything else…”

“I’m fine…” You mumbled, but your knees were already giving out again. Bob caught you–easily, without hesitation–his arms scooping under your legs and behind your back as he lifted you like you weighed nothing.

“C’mon,” He whispered, his voice close to your ear now. “I’ll bring you t-to your room…”

You said something incoherent against his chest, your head lolling. The world tilted, then began to fade as the comfort of being in his arms won the battle against everything else.

You passed out somewhere between the hallway and your door.

———————

You woke to the soft hush of morning light slipping through sheer white curtains–just enough to tint the room in a pale, silvery glow. The air felt still, like it didn’t want to disturb you. And for a second, everything was quiet.

Then the pounding in your head started.

You groaned softly, burying your face into the nearest pillow–warm, faintly smelling like linen and something else. Clean soap. Sunlight. A hint of coffee and cedar and… Bob. You froze, nose still pressed to the pillowcase.

This…Wasn’t your room.

You cracked one eye open, letting your vision adjust slowly to the warm light bleeding into the space. The room wasn’t large, but it was lived-in in a way that felt rare in the Watchtower. Not sterile or pre-designed–personal. Lined neatly across the window sill were tiny cactuses in mismatched ceramic pots, each a different shape and size. One had a little pink flower blooming from the top. You blinked at them slowly, as if expecting them to vanish once the dream faded. But they didn’t. They stayed.

There was a navy throw blanket folded at the foot of the bed, textured and heavy-knit. The comforter tucked around you was cloud-soft, pulled neatly to your collarbone, and smelled faintly of detergent and something…Familiar. Like fabric that had been line-dried in sun and wind. You wriggled slightly, groggy, blinking the haze from your lashes–and that’s when you felt it.

Something pressed lightly against your back.

Not a person. No weight or breath or heat–just soft resistance. You shifted again and rolled your head to the side, squinting down to find a long, narrow body pillow pressed up against you. Positioned carefully. Like it had been put there with purpose. To keep you from rolling onto your back. You were slowly starting to piece together that something must’ve happened last night.

You pushed yourself upright slowly, fingers dragging across your cheek. The room spun a little, tilting like it was on a boat, and you winced at the sensation. Your mouth was dry. Your stomach ached with emptiness and leftover nausea. You swallowed hard, blinked a few more times–and then glanced down at yourself.

You weren’t in your dress anymore.

You were in a soft, oversized cotton tee–light gray, threadbare at the hem, with sleeves that hung down past your elbows. You pinched the fabric and brought it closer to your face. It smelled like him. Like sleep and clean skin and the warm edge of something you couldn’t name without your heart stuttering in your chest.

You looked to the bedside table and found a small glass of water waiting for you. The condensation fogged gently on the inside of the glass. Next to it, a bright blue electrolyte packet lay unopened beside a sleeve of dry crackers–still in the plastic. And beneath them…

A sticky note.

“For when you wake up.”

His handwriting was unmistakable–neat, soft-cornered, careful. Your throat tightened as you stared at the little smiley face he’d drawn after the message. It felt like something private. Like a gift left at the edge of a dream you barely remembered having.

You reached for the glass with trembling fingers, lifting it slowly to your mouth to take a long drawn out sip, grateful for the cool taste against your dry tongue.

The door creaked softly on its hinges.

You turned your head, still groggy, expecting maybe a knock–some warning–but instead, Bob slipped quietly into the room with a laundry basket tucked against his hip. His hair was tied up in a small, slightly messy knot to keep it out of his face, a few strands still falling across his brow. He’d changed since last night. Now he wore a deep forest green sweater that was just a little too big on him, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, and a pair of soft gray sweatpants that pooled slightly at the ankles.

His socks didn’t match.

You stared at him for a second too long–there was something about the way the soft light caught on his face, the curve of his jaw, the loose comfort of his frame that made your stomach twist.

Then his eyes landed on yours.

He froze for just a second before his expression melted into something warm and careful.

“O-oh,” He said, voice low and a little shy. “You’re up.” His smile, small and genuine, tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth. He set the basket gently on the floor by the dresser, fingers brushing his knee as he straightened again. You rubbed at one of your eyes with the back of your hand, the oversized sleeve slipping down your arm.

Your voice came out rough with sleep.

“…What happened last night?” Bob let out a quiet sigh, raking a hand through the wisps of hair that had fallen loose. He didn’t look annoyed. He didn’t even look all that flustered. Just…Tired. Gentle.

“W-well…” He started carefully, shifting his weight a little. “I’m assuming you d-don’t remember much, ‘cause I brought you to your room and… As I was putting you o-on your bed you threw up all over your duvet…”

You groaned instantly, a soft and mortified sound, setting the glass back down on the nightstand so you could bury your face into your hands.

“Oh my God.”

Bob’s voice was soothing, almost amused. “A-and so I had to change you b-because it got on your dress, and I, um…Put you in my bed.”

He motioned toward the room with a tilt of his head, voice still soft.

“I s-slept on the couch.”

You peeked through your fingers, eyes wide and already heating with embarrassment.

“I–you–oh God, Bob.”

“I washed your sheets and stuff,” He added quickly, pointing down to the laundry basket near his feet. “T-they’re clean. I-I used the good detergent, the one that has the stain remover in it…T-They’re good as new.” Your hands slid down your face, palms dragging slowly as you stared at him in horror, remembering that you were wearing his shirt.

”And you changed me?” You questioned, your brows pulling together.

”Y-Yeah? I mean…You had vomit on your dress, and I-I wasn’t going to leave you on the floor of your bedroom…B-But I also didn’t want to get vomit on m-my sheets so…” You dropped your head back against the pillow, groaning louder this time as you brought your arm across your eyes. “I-If it makes you feel any better I-I didn’t see much, I had the lights off and my eyes closed p-pretty much.” You couldn’t help it–you let out a small, pained laugh behind your forearm.

“God, that makes it so much better,” You muttered sarcastically, your voice reverberating through your arm. You heard a quiet shuffle–soft socks brushing across the floor, fabric shifting–and then the distinct dip of the mattress beside you.

It was subtle, the weight of him settling, careful not to shift you too much.

“S-So I’m assuming you don’t w-want to hear what you said to me l-last night either then?” Bob’s voice was quiet–gentle, almost like he was giving you a way out if you wanted it. But it trembled at the edges. You froze in your spot, as your arm dropped from your eyes.

He was sitting beside you with his legs crossed at the ankles, sweater bunched a little around his hip, hair still loosely tied but not it was truly falling out of the knot completely. His brows were pulled together in that way they always were when he was bracing himself for something.

“…What did I say?” You asked, barely above a whisper.

Your voice cracked halfway through, stretched thin with dread. You already knew. Somewhere in the back of your brain–behind the fog of tequila and the undeniable ache–you knew exactly what you’d done.

Bob didn’t answer right away.

He let out a breath through his nose and reached up, fingers tugging the hair tie loose. His hair spilled out with a slow tumble, strands falling across his face before he swept them back with one hand and began fidgeting with the elastic between his fingers.

“Y-You told me you’re in love with me,” He said finally, voice low and uncertain–softer than you expected. He gave a faint, shaky little laugh at the end, like he was still trying to convince himself it had really happened, “Said i-it was a secret, actually…” Your blood ran hot in your veins. Not from the warmth of the blanket, not from the sunlight–but from the kind of shame that makes your throat tighten like it’s trying to hold in everything that’s already spilled.

Bob kept fiddling with the tie, eyes fixed on his hands.

”A-And then…You told me that you know I d-don’t love you back, and you…Y-You said you didn’t understand why.” The silence that followed was devastating, as you let the moment–that sentence in itself–stretch and breathe. You could hear him picking at the fabric that surrounded the hair tie, not wanting to make eye contact with you, knowing that you would probably recoil into yourself if he did.

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The words were there–lodged just behind your teeth, crowding your throat–but they all fought for space at once. A breath left your lips instead. Just a small one. Shaky. Barely a sound.

Bob kept his eyes on the elastic band in his fingers, stretching it between his knuckles. Pulling. Twisting. Letting it snap softly back into place like it helped him stay focused.

Then, he said it–quietly, gently, and without accusation, “Y-You don’t have to explain yourself…I know you were d-drunk, and…It doesn’t have to mean anything…I-I just–“ He hesitated, his voice cracking faintly around the edges, “I thought you should know that you told m-me. I didn’t want to pretend like you didn’t s-say it.” His profile was soft in the morning light, jaw faintly stubbled, hair falling messily around his temple. But it was the expression on his face that held you in place–something pulled tight beneath the surface, something raw. Not pity. Not awkwardness. No, it looked almost like…

Disappointment.

A quiet kind, the kind he wasn’t even aware he was showing.

Your pulse quickened.

Your fingers curled in the fabric of the blanket as you slowly sat up, the shift of weight creaking faintly beneath you. You swallowed hard, tasting the nerves on your tongue like they might choke you.

“…It did mean something,” You whispered, almost like you were afraid saying it out loud would break the spell–or him.

Bob’s fingers froze around the hair tie.

His eyes flicked to you instantly. Wide. Searching. He didn’t speak at first, just watched you, his chest rising slowly with each breath like he was trying not to exhale too hard and blow everything away.

“W-Why do you think I don’t love you back?” He asked. Your heart stopped and stuttered in your chest.

You looked down, unable to hold that gaze for long. Your voice came out uneven, quiet.

“…Because you’ve never…”

You hesitated. Licked your lips and tried again.

“Because you’ve never said anything to me about it. Ever. And everything you do for me–”

You swallowed.

“It’s what you do for everyone else. You remember things for them. You cook for them. You leave notes for them. You watch their training too, don’t you?” Your voice got smaller, softer. “There are no concrete signs, Bob. Not ones I can trust. And I didn’t want to impose…I didn’t want to make something out of things that weren’t meant for me.”

Silence.

A beat passed.

Then two.

And when you finally glanced up through your lashes to meet his gaze again, you found him looking at you like you’d just said something he didn’t know how to answer. Not because he didn’t want to–but because something in your words had hurt him, more than you expected.

His voice was quieter than ever when he spoke again, “And what if it was meant for you?” You blinked slowly, taken aback by his hidden admission. Your lips parted to say something but nothing came.

Bob’s fingers loosened around the hair tie, and he dropped it on the bed beside him without a sound. His hands now sat quietly in his lap, thumb brushing the inside of his palm before he began picking at the dry skin there.

”What if…I did all those things b-because I felt different when I was doing them for y-you?” Bob turned toward you slowly–deliberately–until his whole body faced yours, knees brushing against the edge of the blanket you still had tucked around you.

His hands remained in his lap, fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to fidget again. But his eyes… his eyes didn’t move from yours. They held steady. Gentle. Glowing faintly with something fragile and unspoken, like a lantern shielding its flame against the wind.

“I d-do those things for everyone, y-you’re right,” he said, voice soft and trembling–but certain, too, like each word had been sitting on his tongue for months. “I-I take care of people. It’s how I… show I care. Because I’m not always good at s-saying the things I want to.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t dare. You were too afraid that the moment might fracture if you breathed wrong.

Bob swallowed, his eyes never leaving yours. “But when I do those things for you…” His voice dipped lower. “It is different.”

You blinked slowly, breath caught in your throat.

“I watch y-you train because I want to see you be strong,” He continued, his voice gaining weight, trembling with emotion even as he tried to keep it steady. “Because it’s the only time I-I get to admire you without getting caught. And sometimes I want to feel like I’m supporting you, even if it’s just…Just b-being there.”

Your stomach twisted, curling tighter and tighter with each quiet admission.

“I get up early to make breakfast for everyone, s-sure,” He said, his mouth curling faintly at the corners like he was almost shy about it. “But when I’m m-making yours? I’m not thinking about calories or b-balance or what’s healthy. I’m thinking about you.” His hand lifted, hovering in the space between you like it might touch you–but didn’t. Not yet. “I’m thinking about whether your eyes will go wide when you s-see what I made. Or if you’ll laugh and roll your eyes b-because I cut the banana slices too thin. I think about what you’ll say. I think about if maybe…Y-You’ll know that I made it with all the care in the world…”

Your breath hitched in your chest.

“I leave notes for the others because I-I want them to feel looked after,” He said softly. “But yours? I write them slowly. I-I sit there with the pen in my hand and w-wonder if I should sign my name with a smiley face or not. I wonder if it’ll m-make you smile if I write something dumb or sweet, and I-I wonder if you’ll read it twice.” You stared at him, stunned, lips parted. The weight of his words pressed into your ribcage like a tidal swell, heavy and full of warmth, of longing, of something you hadn’t dared to name before now.

“B-but if you’ve been waiting for a concrete s-sign…”

He trailed off softly, like the rest of the sentence was afraid to come out. And then he moved–slowly, gently, like he was approaching something sacred. His hand lifted from his lap with an almost reverent caution, like he didn’t want to startle you, like you might vanish if he rushed this moment.

You felt it before it landed.

The warmth of his palm hovered for a heartbeat near your cheek–close enough that your skin prickled with anticipation, with want, with fear–and then he touched you. His fingers trembled ever so slightly, calloused but tender as they curled to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing delicately across the high point of your cheekbone.

Your breath hitched–caught and held like a secret between you.

His gaze was steady now. Deep. Quietly ablaze.

“I-It’s this,” He whispered, before leaning in, without hesitation. Just quiet, deliberate affection–like this was something he had pictured in a hundred different dreams but never dared to reach for while awake because he thought he couldn’t execute it as well. He moved close enough that his forehead nearly brushed yours, his breath warm and sweet between you, tinged faintly with mint and something soft like cinnamon–probably from his morning tea. His fingers shifted slightly at your jaw, tilting you just enough, guiding without pressure, coaxing without assumption.

Then he kissed you.

Just the faintest pressure of his lips brushing yours, the kind of kiss that barely registered as physical. It felt like something else entirely–like a promise passed from his mouth to yours. His other hand came up slowly to frame your face, fingertips pressing slightly into your hairline, as he deepened the kiss with such mindfulness it made your whole body shiver.

He kissed you like he was learning you, like he’d waited long enough that now every second had to be savored. And when he pulled back for just a breath–just to look at you, his eyes wide and dark and brimming with emotion–you were already chasing the kiss back.

And this time, when his mouth returned to yours, he took your bottom lip between his.

It was deliberate, careful, and full of devotion.

His lips were plush and warm, and then gently–so gently–he sucked on it, slow and sweet, like he was trying to taste all the years he’d spent not saying what he felt. A quiet sound left your throat, something between a gasp and a sigh, your fingers clutching the edge of the blanket like it might anchor you to the moment.

His thumb was still brushing your cheek in soothing arcs, even as his mouth lingered, coaxing yours open with nothing but affection. Not hunger. Not need.

Just love.

There was no question in the way he kissed you.

No doubt.

He kissed you like this was the answer to every secret you’d both ever buried. Like it had always been building toward this.

When he finally–reluctantly–pulled back, his forehead came to rest against yours, his breath mingling with yours in soft, trembling puffs. His hands stayed cupped to your face, thumbs still caressing your skin like he couldn’t stop touching you now that he’d started.

You barely opened your eyes, afraid to break the spell, but when you did… There he was. Glowing faintly in the morning light, cheeks flushed, lashes low over sea-blue eyes that brimmed with something so open it made your chest ache.

“I love you too.” He said.

[farrikdanked]

God I love scary boyfriend privilege

Good Grief

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

Summary: Bob is spellbound when he watches you train. It’s his favourite part of the day, and it’s his way of getting to know you. This is how the two of you grow a bond that is practically inseparable, and extremely protective.

Warnings: Hints of Angst and Fluff, Mentions of Violence (because of the training), Reader purposely puts themself in danger to coax out Sentry (this is to test a theory), Accidental Training ‘Injury’, Reader is Enhanced (super strength pretty much)

Author’s Note: I liked this request and the idea, and I kind of ran with it a bit and spiced it up at the end! So I’m glad I could write a nice little blurb for it! Thank you for the request! :)

P.S. I may or may not miss a day this week to upload something for a different Lewis Character….I won’t say who…But some people might know who it is for lol 🤓, or we might get a double update day! Who knows. Just thought I’d put that out there though.

Word Count: 6,163

The training bay was silent except for the soft slap of bare feet on mat and the distant hum of ventilation through the compound walls. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting long shadows that pooled at the edges of the room. The space smelled faintly of sweat and vinyl, clean but lived-in, the kind of place where discipline lived in every corner.

Half a dozen padded dummies stood propped in a wide arc across the center of the mat. Each one anchored with care, their placement intentional–neither random nor symmetrical. You’d paced the bay in slow circles earlier that morning, nodding to yourself before gesturing for Bob to help shift one a few inches to the left, another slightly forward. He followed your directions without question, even if he didn’t quite understand the pattern you saw.

He stood beside you, palms resting awkwardly against the top of the shoulders of one dummy, eyes flicking between them.

“Yo-You sure you don’t want to go one at a ti-time?” He asked, his voice soft but edged with concern.

He didn’t mean to doubt you–he never did–but this setup was different. Not just reps. Not just sparring. It looked like a battlefield mapped from memory, and you were the only one who knew how to walk it.

You turned your head, meeting his gaze with a knowing smile. “Trust me.”

And he did.

You stepped away from him, shedding the lightweight black zip-up that clung damply to your arms from your warmup. Underneath, you wore a ribbed charcoal-grey sports bra, cropped snug against your chest, the hem riding high enough to show every breath you took. Your training shorts were low on your hips–matte black, skin-tight, with thick waistband support and slits up the sides for flexibility. Scuffed tape wrapped around your knuckles and a faint sheen of sweat already coated your skin, catching on your collarbone, and the dip of your stomach.

Bob was doomed from the start.

He took his usual place–cross-legged at the edge of the mat, your water bottle already in his hands–and watched.

And then you began.

A sharp inhale, a roll of your shoulder, and the first strike landed–clean and fast, a side kick directly to the gut of the closest dummy. You barely touched down before twisting, rolling into a shoulder drop and springing up again in a tight coil of movement. Your limbs snapped into each new angle like memories were guiding you. Like your body had done this a thousand times in another life.

Bob’s grip tightened on your water bottle.

You had told him once–over take out cartons on the roof of the Watchtower–that you were a gymnast before any of this. Before the field ops program. Before the blacksite conditioning and chemical rewrites. Before they molded your hands into weapons and trained you to end lives instead of chasing crappy medals that meant nothing.

That past still lived inside you though, and every single movement was proof of that.

The way you twisted midair and landed softly on the ball of your feet. The perfect, calculated bend of your back as you rebounded into a cartwheel, launching into a split aerial that folded into a kick. It was impossibly smooth–violent and beautiful all at once.

Bob could feel Sentry stirring the way a storm stirs just beyond the clouds. A pressure in the center of his chest. A weight behind his eyes.

“God she is beautiful…” Sentry whispered.

Bob exhaled shakily.

He had never seen anyone move like you before, and he was obsessed with it. He wished that he was able to see you on the field, to watch you take down actual threats, but ever since he voided the majority of New York's population, they had him sitting out until he could fully control himself. So this–this was all he had. And still, he couldn’t imagine anything more intoxicating than what he was watching now.

Your punches echoed through the room like cracks of thunder. Each one landing with calculated force, a precise explosion of movement that rolled through your shoulders, down your spine, and out through your fists. Bob could feel the vibrations in the air.

He sat perfectly still, barely breathing, with your water bottle gripped between his palms, the plastic creaking faintly under his thumbs. Steam hadn’t started yet, but it would, and he could feel it building under his skin.

You didn’t look tired, but there was a sheen of sweat forming now–glowing against the line of your throat, collecting at your lower back, glistening on your collarbones with every twist–but you didn’t breathe heavily, and your pace didn’t falter. If anything you moved faster, like the rhythm inside you had finally caught up to the shape of the room.

Bob’s eyes followed you like a man possessed.

You twisted, and ducked, and rolled seamlessly into a sweeping leg kick that took one dummy down with a harsh crack. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t hesitate. You flipped up onto your hands and spun into a tight, two-point kick, knocking a second dummy halfway backward before landing clean, knees bent, palms open.

It wasn’t training anymore. It was a ritual. It was instinct. A muscle-deep, cellular kind of memory, more ancient than tactics and more intimate than breath.

Bob could feel his throat tighten.

Your fists snapped with brutal precision, thighs flexing with each powerful step. And your eyes–glistening with anticipation–were locked on the next target with such focus that it felt like gravity bent towards you.

You landed on one hand, and kicked upward with explosive strength, sending a dummy rocking on its base.

Then–you pivoted low, gathered your weight and launched.

A scream of momentum–nothing verbal, just kinetic energy in its purest form.

Your shoulder slammed forward, with one final strike, and the last dummy flew.

Launching across the room, skidding off the mat with a plastic-laced screech before it smashed into the far wall–loud enough to echo with a thunderous boom.

Silence followed.

Thick. Charged. Unmoving.

You straightened slowly in the center of the mat, chest still rising in a quiet rhythm, arms loose at your sides. A fine mist of sweat clung to your stomach and thighs. You tilted your head just slightly, watching the dummy slump on the other side of the bay with a smirk on your face.

Bob stared at it as well, not blinking, nor breathing.

“Oh to be a dummy…I’d let her launch me across a room.” Sentry whispered, “I’d kneel at her feet, just to feel her shadow pass over me.”

The water bottle in Bob’s hands began to hiss.

Not audibly, it was just a faint pressure, a heat coiling inward, steam threatening to rise. The plastic beneath his fingers had begun to soften, warping faintly where the heat of his palms pushed in. But he didn’t even notice, because his senses weren’t registering anything except you.

You were still on the mat, framed in the center of his vision like some living storm–shoulders rising and falling in slow rhythm, now a towel slung lazily around your neck, with its ends brushing the curve of your chest as you dragged it across the glistening lines of your collarbone.

You looked like power incarnate. Like something divine caught in a human frame. And Bob? Bob was drowning in you.

You ran the towel down your stomach, catching the sweat that shimmered on your skin like dew on glass. You weren’t even looking at him yet, but he still flinched when you finally turned and strode toward him with that same slow, dangerous confidence you carried on the mat.

“How was that?” You asked casually, voice still slightly breathless. “Good form?”

Bob blinked.

Then blinked again.

And the world snapped back into sound with a pop.

Literally.

The lid of the water bottle burst off with a sharp crack, steam hissing faintly from the top as the pressure released, shooting the cap somewhere behind him. It clattered to the floor and rolled in a lazy half circle before spinning to a stop.

“Oh…Oh Je-Jesus.” He breathed, glaring down at the now-lidless bottle in his hand. You laughed–a puff of amusement–as you stepped towards him, holding out your hand.

“I’ll take that from you now,” You said. Bob’s eyes widened still fixated on the warped bottle in his hands.

”I-I could get you a new one…Th-This one is basically boiled.” You shrugged, stepping even closer, your shadow now brushing over his lap like a tide coming in.

“Water is water,” You commented with a lazy smile, “I don’t mind.” He swallowed hard, the sound thick in his throat. Every nerve in his body was screaming at him to not hand you this half-melted, Sentry-steamed, probably-dangerous bottle of lava–but your fingers brushed his anyway, curling lightly around the neck of it.

Bob relented, blushing furiously as he let go.

You brought it to your lips without hesitation. The plastic crinkled under your grip as you tilted it back and drank–really drank–head tipped slightly, throat working, the rise and fall of your chest steady despite the heat. The soft sound of water hitting your mouth was too much, and Bob had to look away–eyes darting to the dummy you launched, to the vent above the door, anywhere but at the way your lips wrapped around the bottle’s edge.

You drained it in a few long gulps.

Then–with a snap of finality–you crushed the softened plastic in one hand and passed it back to him, like it was a token from a battle won.

A droplet clung to your bottom lip, and you licked it off slowly. Like it meant nothing. Like you had no idea what you were doing to him.

“Tell Sentry thanks for the impromptu tea,” You murmured, voice all syrup and smoke. Then you slung the towel back around your neck and turned away, already walking toward the locker room. “I’m gonna go shower off. Meet you on the roof?” Bob couldn’t look at you.

Not when his entire face felt like it was glowing. Not when Sentry was humming in his veins like molten sunlight.

He nodded, eyes on the mat. “Y-Yeah. I’ll–I’ll be there.”

—————————

The roof was quiet except for the soft rustle of wind and the distant city stirring far below.

Bob stood near the ledge, forearms braced loosely against the cool concrete, the weight of his body leaned into it like he needed the grounding. His hair was still damp from a quick rinse, curls pushed back by a hand that kept running through them nervously. The sun hadn’t fully crested the skyline yet, but the horizon was blooming in soft bands of color–mauve to gold to the faintest hint of fire. The sky looked half-awake, as if the day hadn’t decided yet whether to stretch or sleep in.

Behind him, the rooftop door gave a soft clunk as it opened.

You stepped out into the cool air wearing a hoodie that hung a little too long at the sleeves and a pair of loose sweatpants rolled once at the waist. Your socked feet were shoved into slip-ons, and your hair–still damp from your shower was clipped back, the ends brushing against your collar.

You were a completely different version of the woman who had just launched a dummy across the mat, and somehow, to Bob, you were even more dangerous this way.

He heard your footsteps before he saw you. You weren’t trying to be quiet–you never did up here–but there was something about the way you moved that always gave him pause. Even when you weren’t fighting, even when you were soft and warm and dressed in clothes he’d seen you nap in, you moved like a threat. Like someone who could shatter him without ever raising a hand.

He turned when you stopped beside him.

You held out one of the two containers tucked under your arm–clear plastic, condensation fogging the inside, layers of oats, berries, protein powder, almond butter, and a mess of chia seeds and yogurt.

“Added extra almond butter for you,” You said casually, like you hadn’t just left him speechless fifteen minutes ago in the training bay, “I’ve seen you eating it by the spoonful.” Bob smirked, and took the bowl from you with a soft, stuttered thanks, fingers brushing yours for the briefest second.

You leaned against the ledge beside him, shoulder nearly brushing his as you opened your own container and sat it down on the concrete ledge. For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. The wind tugged at the strings of your hoodie, and your eyes stayed on the skyline.

It had started as a fluke, months ago. You had finished training early, Bob had offered to bring you a smoothie he’d prepped the night before, and you both ended up watching the sun rise in silence, chewing half-thawed berries in tired satisfaction. But the ritual had stuck. And now…This was just what you did.

Watch the city wake up. Together. Every time you trained early.

Bob peeled the lid off his breakfast bowl and picked up the spoon you’d shoved into the side.

“Th-this is my favorite one,” He said softly, glancing sideways at you, attempting to break the silence. You didn’t look away from the skyline when you responded.

”I know…You’ve told me.” That made his cheeks pink again. But he didn’t look away this time.

You were quiet for a moment. Chewing. Thinking.

Then, just barely loud enough to hear:

”I got a…Curious question for you.” Bob gulped softly, the sound nearly lost to the wind curling off the rooftop. His spoon paused midair, a dollop of almond butter sliding off into the bowl. He glanced at you, cautious but attentive, like someone approaching a line they didn’t know they were ready to cross.

“A-Alright…” He said carefully, the word sticking to the back of his throat.

You didn’t meet his eyes.

Instead, you scooped a spoonful of frozen berries from your container, crunching down slowly as the chill settled into your jaw. Your lips pressed together in quiet concentration, almost like you were tasting your words before saying them out loud.

“If Sentry is in there…” You said around the fruit, eyes still on the horizon, “Why haven’t I met him?” Bob’s eyebrows rose, and he blinked at you like you’d reached across the space between your shoulders and tapped directly on his soul.

”I do-don’t know,” He replied quietly, “Why do you ask?” You finally looked at him.

Not with challenge, not with anything harsh–just honest curiosity, softened by morning light and the glint of something deeper.

“I kind of want to see him, that’s all,” You said with a shrug. “Sometimes I can feel that he’s there, behind your eyes…” You gestured loosely to the general space around his face, your hand lifting just enough to draw a vague halo around his features. “But I just haven’t seen him. And I’m curious. That’s all.” You looked down into your bowl for a second, then added, “Yelena mentioned he talks differently too, so I want to see what all the fuss is about.”

Bob choked on a breath.

Not dramatically, not loud–but just enough for his shoulders to twitch and the tips of his ears to go scarlet.

“Y-Yeah, well…He–He kind of only comes out in ex-extreme cases…” Bob glanced away again, fidgeting with the edge of the plastic lid. “I’ve been able to get a little bit of co-control over him these past few months but…I-It’s not like switching a light on…Not yet at least.”

“Extreme cases?” You echoed, your tone gentle but laced with curiosity. You swirled your spoon around the half-melted oats in your bowl, watching the almond butter spiral through the yogurt like a lazy storm. “What do you mean by that?” Bob cleared his throat. He adjusted his stance slightly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“I–uh–I-if anyone I care ab-about is in danger…” He explained, voice tight, eyes fixed somewhere just past the edge of the roof. “Th-that typically triggers him.”

You turned your head slowly to look at him.

Anyone I care about.

The air seemed to pause for a moment. Not in a dramatic, thunderstruck way—but in that quiet, split-second beat where something subtle shifts. Where the wind changes direction.

“Really?” You said, just barely above a whisper. Bob nodded, slow and honest.

You bit your bottom lip.

Then you looked away–at the skyline, at the bowl in your hand–and cleared your throat softly. “Huh.”

Bob glanced over, unsure what that huh meant. He opened his mouth to ask, but before he could speak, you placed your container down on the ledge beside you with a faint plastic clack, and then–you pushed yourself up onto the ledge.

Bob froze.

His breath caught like you’d pulled a pin from a grenade.

You didn’t do anything wild–not yet–you just perched there, casual as ever, one leg dangling off the edge of the rooftop and the other folded beneath you. The city stretched wide below your feet, vast and golden and humming with distant morning traffic. But Bob only saw you.

And your eyes–when they turned to meet his–were gleaming with something dangerous.

Playful. Calculating.

“I wonder,” You said slowly, tilting your head, “How close to the edge I’d have to lean before he decided to show.”

Bob’s eyes widened. “Wh–what? N-no, no, don’t–don’t you dare–”

You grinned.

“You just said it yourself…Extreme cases of danger.” Bob stepped closer immediately, alarm blooming in his chest, his breakfast long forgotten.

“P-please get down. Th-that’s not funny.” But you just arched an eyebrow, the wind tugging at the hem of your hoodie.

“I’m not gonna fall. I’ve done this a hundred times.” Bob’s pulse was a living thing in his throat.

He watched–helpless, breath caught, fingers twitching–as you stood.

One slow, deliberate motion. A shift in your hips, a plant of your foot. Then the other followed. Smooth. Balanced. Effortless.

You rose from the ledge like it was solid ground, and there wasn’t a ninety-story drop waiting just inches behind your heels. His entire body went tight.

“Oh Jesus Christ.”

“P-Please,” Bob choked, one foot already shifting forward as if sheer will might anchor you back. “Please don’t–just–get down, okay? I–I’m serious–”

But you weren’t listening. Or maybe you were–and that was worse. Because your gaze was steady. Calm. Amused. The wind tugged strands of hair into your face, and you didn’t even blink.

“Bob…I used to be a gymnast. I’m fine.”

Your foot shifted ever so slightly on the ledge—only an inch, maybe less—but the wind caught just right, and your body flinched. Just a twitch. A minor, involuntary jerk of balance.

And that was all it took.

One blink.

And then–

He was there.

A rush of gold.

A flash of heat.

Your breath hadn’t even finished catching before arms like tempered steel wrapped around your middle, yanking you from the ledge so fast your feet barely had time to register air. The skyline spun, the wind cracked, and then–you were grounded again.

Back pressed to a broad, heaving chest. Hands banded across your ribcage, fingers splayed like molten iron beneath your hoodie. You burst into laughter–a sharp, bubbling giggle that sounded almost wrong in contrast to the divine tension crackling through the air now.

The grip on your waist didn’t ease.

It tightened.

And when you tilted your chin back to look behind you–just slightly, just enough–you saw them.

Gold….His eyes that burned like sunlight through glass, pupils sharp as stars. Sentry.

“Hi,” You said cheerfully, still grinning, breathless from your own stunt.

”No,” Sentry replied, voice rich and low, echoing like thunder rippling through marble, “No ‘hi’…You almost fell off the roof.” It wasn’t a reprimand exactly…But he took the kind of tone that was reserved for things that were precious, vulnerable, and untouchable. His voice vibrated against your spine like something too old and too vast to be fully human.

You glanced down at the way his arms were locked around you–solid and certain, pressed against the soft fabric of your hoodie, heat blooming where his skin met yours.

“I won’t climb back up…I just did that to bring you out, you can let go.” His grip didn’t ease right away. You could feel the tension humming in his limbs. Like holding you was the only thing anchoring the storm.

“Can’t believe you did this deliberately.” He stated, words molten. You smirked at his comment.

”I knew you cared about me.” You teased, then there was a beat of silence. Not empty, not cold–but charged. Like lightning was being held back by sheer force of will.

And then Sentry groaned softly, tipping his head forward, forehead nearly brushing your shoulder

“You’re absolutely ridiculous,” He murmured, his breath warm against your neck. You swore you felt the heat of a small sun in that exhale.

“I think my plan worked perfectly actually,” You replied, twisting in his grip slowly until you were facing him. He let you go gradually–arms loosening, like letting go was something he didn’t quite want to do. You stood in front of him now, keeping your eyes locked on his.

“You’ve been watching me,” You added, softer now. “So I thought I’d introduce myself.”

Sentry stared at you, golden gaze intense, unreadable.

“And how do you know I’ve been watching you?” You shrugged.

”The room kind of gets super hot whenever I’m around you,” You trailed off, playfully, and then added, “And the boiled and semi-melted water bottle during my training this morning really confirmed my suspicions.” Sentry’s gaze lingered on you for a long moment–longer than most people could withstand without blinking, without looking away, without shrinking under the weight of something celestial sizing them up.

But you didn’t shrink.

You just stared right back, lit by the bleeding edge of sunrise, hoodie sleeves bunching slightly as your arms crossed beneath your chest

He inhaled deeply through his nose.

The kind of breath that stirred the wind around you. Like he was tasting the moment.

Then–

“Well…” He exhaled slowly, gold eyes narrowing faintly, heat rolling off his skin like he hadn’t quite put the sun back in its cage, “We like watching you train, so…” A slight smirk, nearly imperceptible, “Sue me for melting the water bottle.”

You laughed, head tilting, teeth catching your bottom lip for a second before you let it go. “Oh, you do?” You echoed, all exaggerated with mock surprise. “Wow. I didn’t know that.”

He said nothing.

So you stepped a bit closer, toe to toe now, looking at him, chasing eye contact.

“Anything else you want to tell me?”

The question hung in the air between you like a dare. A thread. A fuse.

Sentry’s jaw tensed.

Then slowly–very slowly–he bit the inside of his cheek and glanced away, gaze drifting out toward the edge of the city as though it might offer him a safer answer than the truth.

“Not that I know of.”

Smooth. Measured. Deceptively calm.

And a lie.

You could feel it ripple through him like static.

Your eyes narrowed just slightly, catching the minute shift in his expression. The way his mouth twitched like there was something sitting right behind his teeth that he didn’t trust himself to say.

But he wouldn’t betray Bob. Not even a little. Not even now, not when his hands still remembered the shape of your waist and the weight of your pulse thudding wildly against his palms.

You let the silence stretch, the smirk pulling at your lips again.

“Liar,” You muttered, voice low. Not accusing. Not even disappointed. Just certain.

His eyes flicked back to yours–sharper now, searching.

And for one breathless second, you swore the skyline bent around the shape of his frame. Like the sun tilted its arc to catch the side of his face, painting him in a soft gleam of fire and gold.

“Maybe,” He murmured finally, voice like molten glass. “But I’m not the one you want to hear it from.”

Your stomach fluttered.

Not because you didn’t know what he meant.

But because you did.

And for once…You didn’t push.

Instead, you stepped back, just enough to give him space. Just enough to keep the tension intact.

————————

You stood at the center of the mat again, barefoot, hands wrapped, shoulder blades flexing beneath a sleeveless compression top. You were rolling your neck in lazy circles as you waited for your new sparring partners to get their shit together.

“Jesus, how many wraps does it take you to tie your boots, Walker?”

John scoffed without looking up, still crouched in the corner tightening the laces on his combat shoes. “Some of us don’t train barefoot like monks on a mountaintop.”

“That’s because you’d trip over your own ego,” You muttered under your breath.

“C’mon now,” Bucky called from across the mat, stretching his arms behind his back, black long-sleeve rolled to his elbows. “Play nice, kids. I’m not pulling any punches today.”

From his spot on the edge of the mat, Bob looked up quickly at that–eyes flicking between the three of you, concern flickering across his face like a warning light. He was already perched where he’d always sat during your solo drills, long legs folded under him, with your water bottle in hand–now reusable and stainless steel–watching quietly like you were the only thing in the world that moved in color.

Walker clocked it immediately.

His head turned toward Bob with a crooked grin, already half-laced boots squeaking faintly as he stood. “Does he always sit there like that?” He asked, nodding toward Bob. “Watching you like it’s a one-woman stage play?”

You didn’t even blink.

“He always does,” you replied smoothly, turning your wrist in a light circle to loosen your shoulder. “Is this a new thing you’re just realizing?”

Bob flushed–brilliant red blooming beneath the collar of his navy crew neck–but said nothing, just curled his fingers more tightly around the water bottle.

Walker smirked. “What–you need an emotional support human to pummel some dummies?”

You turned toward him fully then, one brow raised, lips already twitching. “I’m glad you’re calling yourself a dummy so I don’t have to.” Bucky let out a laugh from his spot near the wall, shaking his head.

“Alright, alright–enough with the bickering. Let’s go for another round, huh?” He rolled his shoulder and stepped toward you, that slow, loose gait of someone who’d seen more fights than birthdays. You nodded once, tightening the wraps on your wrists.

“Let’s.” You muttered.

Bob settled deeper into his spot at the edge of the mat, posture stiff but eyes locked on you. Sentry stirred beneath his skin again–he could feel it like pressure in his spine, heat behind his ribs. Watching you get ready, watching you glow with motion and discipline, was like watching a match hovering over gasoline.

And then you moved.

You and Bucky danced the way soldiers did–tight and calculated, strike and recover, quick feints that turned into fast contact. He wasn’t going easy on you, and you wouldn’t have let him if he tried. Walker hung back at first, arms crossed, smirking, tossing in the occasional jibe about your stance or form.

Until you spun low and landed a solid elbow to Bucky’s ribs. He let out a grunt, rubbing the area with the flat of his hand.

“Had my guard down,” he muttered, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth said otherwise.

You cocked your head. “You always do.”

Walker snorted. “Alright, let me get in on this now.”

You cleared your throat, barely disguising your amusement. “Don’t be shocked when you get humiliated.”

“Big words for someone who’s at a one man disadvantage.” He said, cracking his neck as he stepped forward onto the mat.

You rolled your shoulders. “Yeah? Let’s see what you’ll be saying when you’re on your ass.” From the sidelines, Bob’s grip on the water bottle tightened.

It started slow–Walker lunged, you ducked, Bucky feinted–and then all at once, it shifted.

The three of you moved like an orbit, tight and reactive. A storm of limbs and instinct.

Walker threw strength. Bucky threw precision. You threw heat.

And Bob? He watched like he was studying scripture.

Your body was in constant motion–every movement timed perfectly, every dodge low and tight, using Bucky’s stance to redirect Walker’s force, using Walker’s height against him to launch yourself higher. You pivoted with a fluid snap, stepping off Bucky’s knee to catch Walker’s shoulder with your heel, spinning out of reach before either of them could tag you.

You were alive in a way that made the room bend around you.

Bob had stopped blinking. His heart beat like a war drum behind his ribs, the kind of rhythm that only came when Sentry hovered near the surface, watching through his eyes like a god hungry for movement.

You slid under a punch, twisted Walker’s momentum to force a stumble, and kicked Bucky’s thigh hard enough to send him back a pace. The two men glanced at each other then—silent communication—and came at you together.

You grinned like you were being handed a gift.

Your foot landed on Bucky’s shoulder and you pushed off, flipping neatly in the air, body tightening mid-rotation. Your leg caught Walker’s bicep and you twisted, but his center of gravity adjusted quick–too quick–and suddenly–

Your body slammed into the mat.

Hard.

The noise cracked through the air.

Bob surged to his feet.

You wheezed–chest collapsing, eyes wide, lips parted but no air catching–and for one sickening second, you didn’t move.

And that was all it took.

The heat slammed into the room like a detonated sun.

Sentry burst through Bob like goldfire ripping seams in his skin. One moment it was Bob’s widened eyes and open mouth–

And the next?

The mat shook under the force of Sentry’s arrival.

He was halfway across the floor before anyone could react, a golden blur slicing through the fluorescent haze. The floor steamed faintly beneath his bare feet. His fists were already clenched, molten lines of fury pulsing under his skin like veins lit with solar flares.

He didn’t think. He moved.

Straight toward Walker.

“Hey!” Walker shouted, palms already lifted as he stumbled back a step. “Jesus Christ–It’s not like I meant to do it!”

Sentry was drowned in the roar of protection and wrath, his eyes wild, glowing like twin cores of a star gone supernova. His mouth opened, teeth bared like something celestial barely contained in a human shape.

“You hurt her.” The voice wasn’t loud–it was deep. Like stone cracking under pressure. Like a threat too old to need volume.

Bucky stepped in without hesitation.

“Whoa–hey! Hey, easy! Stand down!” His voice was sharp but not panicked, hands up in a calm brace, body angled between Walker and the god.

Sentry didn’t listen.

Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Just stood there, vibrating with heat, jaw locked, eyes fixed on Walker like he was calculating exactly how many bones to break.

On the floor behind them, you coughed–one harsh, painful breath, then another. You rolled onto your side slowly, eyes blinking hard against the light, one hand braced on the mat as you forced yourself upright.

“Sentry–” You wheezed, chest still hitching, still attempting to catch your breath.

His head snapped toward you. Immediately.

“I’m fine.” You said, firmer this time. You winced as you sat up straighter, hand pressed against your ribs. “Don’t…Don’t worry. I’ve had worse happen. Calm down.” Sentry’s eyes flicked from you…To Walker…Then back to you.

His chest rose and fell once. Sharp. Controlled.

And then–like a pressure valve easing open–he exhaled. The heat softened just enough that Bucky didn’t feel like he was standing in front of a furnace. His fists slowly loosened at his sides, muscles still taut, but held.

Sentry turned fully toward you, and for the first time since appearing, his voice shifted–just barely.

Lower. Softer. Still fire-wrapped, but laced with something else.

“He slammed you.”

You gave a weak smile through your breath, “We’re…We’re sparring, accidents happen, you don’t have to…Scare the crap out of Walker.” Sentry’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer.

“Yeah, no need to scare the crap outta me,” Walker echoed, huffing a laugh like he was trying to keep things casual even though his heartbeat was still visibly pounding in his neck. He ran a hand through his hair, eyes flicking between the three of you. “And also–when the fuck did Sentry suddenly come back?” He asked, motioning to him.

“He’s been coming back for a while.” You blinked at Walker, still cradling your ribs lightly, and shrugged.

“You’re the one that triggered him by hurting me, moron.” Walker’s mouth opened in disbelief.

“Me?!”

“You slammed me,” You clarified, not unkindly, but with a smirk twitching at the edge of your lips. “Like…full-body slammed me.”

“You jumped on me!”

“You adjusted your center too fast–”

“Guys,” Bucky said mildly, hands raised, “No more arguing please.” Walker, still shaken, jabbed a finger toward Sentry, who was still standing like a stone beside you, radiating enough heat to keep the entire bay at a slow simmer. His golden gaze hadn’t left you once.

“I’m just saying,” Walker said, eyes narrowed, “You make it sound like we should’ve known. Like this was a thing. I’m still caught up in the fact that we haven’t seen him appear in almost a year, and now suddenly he’s back up and running—no warning, no update, just–” He gestured to Sentry’s still-glowing hands. “–bam, golden demigod about to fry my ass.”

“That’s not fair,” Bucky said, his voice quiet, but laced with warning.

Walker rolled his eyes. “I’m not saying it’s bad, I’m saying it’s insane.”

You leaned your head back, letting out a slow breath. Sentry’s hand moved–just barely–hovering again near your spine like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to touch you. You shifted to sit up straighter, letting your shoulder brush his forearm gently.

“It’s not like Bob can snap his fingers and summon him,” You said, keeping your tone level. “Sentry shows up when he wants to. Or when Bob needs him.”

“Which is usually when someone’s in danger,” Bucky added, folding his arms and glancing at Walker meaningfully. “Someone Bob—or Sentry—cares about.”

Walker stared at that. Then looked at you. Then back at Sentry.

The dots were not subtle.

Sentry still hadn’t said anything. He didn’t need to. His silence was heavy. Watchful. The sun pressed into a man’s body.

You reached out and gave his wrist a light touch, enough to feel the heat still thrumming beneath his skin. “It’s alright,” you murmured, barely loud enough for anyone else to hear. “I can breathe now.”

Sentry blinked slowly. Then–almost imperceptibly–nodded.

The heat around him dropped by a few degrees.

Not gone.

Just…Tempered.

Walker, still trying to reconcile what had just happened, ran a hand over his face. “Look, I didn’t mean to–if I’d known he was even still awake in there, I wouldn’t’ve–”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” You interrupted, waving him off, wincing a little at the motion. “You’re just an idiot. But that’s not new.”

That earned the tiniest snort from Bucky.

Sentry, finally, tilted his head just slightly. “You’re in pain.”

You turned to look at him.

The golden light in his eyes had softened–just a touch. It was still otherworldly. Still ancient. But there was concern there. Sharp and clear.

“I’m sore,” You corrected. “Not dying.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“Come on,” Bucky said, stepping forward, placing a steady hand on Walker’s shoulder as he glanced between the rest of you. “Training’s over. Let’s all cool off before someone actually does get launched through a wall.”

Walker muttered something under his breath and turned toward the exit.

Bucky lingered a moment longer, looking at you. “You alright?”

You nodded. “Just bruised, but I should be fine.” Bucky’s gaze slid over to Sentry.

”Should I be worried he’s gonna explode if you ever truly get hurt?” You smirked faintly.

”Let’s hope we never have to find out the answer to that question…”

[farrikdanked]

wait, you write for all thunderbolts?! then id' love to see your take on what bucky, john, and bob's reactions would be if the reader opened her door and she's just wearing some lingerie

Prompt: Bucky, John, and Bob's reaction to seeing you in lingerie

Warning: NSFW Below the Cut 18+ MINORS DNI

Bucky: Navigating the hallways had become a second nature to him. He didn't even have to look where he was going to know the route to your room. He was set to train with your this morning, but your notable absence was a cause for concern. He waited a few extra minutes before ultimately deciding to look for you.

He wasn't mad that you didn't show up, just more concerned at this point. He walked straight up to your door and knocked three times, patiently waiting for you to open the door for him.

"Just wanted to check on you since you didn't show up for training. I just thought—" Bucky began. The door opened so quickly there was very little time for recovery.

You're in a sultry, vintage-inspired crimson set. The bra is delicate lace, unlined but structured, with scalloped edges and thin satin straps. The matching garter belt sits high on your waist with black stockings clipped in, giving it that 1940s pin-up flair he’d absolutely lose his mind over. A sheer red robe, slipping off your shoulders, hints at even more underneath.

He didn’t say anything at first—just stared for a heartbeat longer than necessary, lips parting slightly. He thinks about how good you'd look if your lips were red too.

“You always answer the door like that?” Bucky's lips curved into a mischievous smile.

You send him a smirk. “Only for special guests.”

His eyebrow rose just enough to betray the shift under his cool exterior. He raised a hand to casually lean against the doorway.

"Lucky me," Bucky's husky voice breaths.

You laugh softly and move to shut the door, but he quickly stopped you by putting his hand out.

“Wait.” You pause for him. He looks you up and down once more. "You coming to training or not?"

"Yes, I just overslept my alarm." You explain to him. "Give me two minutes."

"Nice outfit by the way," Bucky teases. You roll your eyes playfully before closing the door in his face.

John: Making his way through the hallways, John was carrying a tablet which showcased the latest mission intel. He scrolled through aimlessly, reading some important pieces of information. He had one destination in mind, which was your room because you were being paired together for this mission.

He was already dressed in his suit and he carried his still-bent shield in the other hand. He stopped at your door and knocked with a lazy fist; his eyes still glued to the screen.

"Wheels up in five," John announced loudly through the door. "It'll be a couple hours before we reach—"

The door opened a lot quicker than he anticipated. When John lifted his head to look at you, his words instantly died on his lips and his brows shot up in surprise.

You're wearing a midnight blue set made from sheer mesh and crushed velvet. The bra dips low in a deep V, with soft velvet cups and crisscross straps above the chest that frame your collarbones. The garters are a matching velvet, hugging your thighs perfectly.

"Phoenix," John finished. His eyes shamelessly rack down your body as if he's drinking it all in. "Holy shit—"

"What?" You look at him innocently.

“If I had known you answered the door like that, I’d have knocked sooner.” John takes one look at you in that rich, royal blue and lets out a low chuckle. It's seductive without even trying — teasing without being delicate.

He leans a shoulder on the doorframe and crosses his arms like he’s ready to stay a while. He's clearly enjoying himself.

“You’re loving this way too much.” You observe with a small shake of your head.

“I mean, I’m a patriot." John shrugs. He sends a flirtatious wink. "I support the troops. Especially when the uniform’s that good.”

"John," you warn him, but he loves when you say his name like that. "You done now?”

"One sec," John holds up a finger to stop you. His eyes drag down the length of your body one last time, trying to commit everything to memory. "Okay. You coming on the mission dressed like that?”

"No," you smile.

John clicks his tongue and turns away defeated. "Too bad."

Bob: It was late in the morning, but Bob had tasked himself with knocking on doors to wake the others up and inform them that Valentina was expecting them downstairs in ten minutes for an 'all team meeting'. He nervously knocks on your door, trying to sound casual but already internally spiraling.

"Hey...uh—" Bob calls through the door, leaning dangerously close. "Valentina said there’s a meeting in ten. We’re all supposed to—”

The door swung open before he finishes. What stands in front of him is the last thing he expected to see, especially this early. It's you wearing some very beautiful lingerie right in front of him.

You're wearing something soft, romantic — a delicate ivory lace set with gold-threaded embroidery that catches the light when you move. A light beige silk robe is draped over your shoulders and the color compliments your skin in a way that makes you look sunlight.

He sees you, stammers a bit, and can’t decide if he should look away or keep memorizing every detail. His eyes go wide. His mouth moves but no sound comes out. Then, all of the sudden, it's like his brain catches up to him.

He squeezes his eyes shut tightly and puts his hand over them for good measure. His face turned all pink too.

"Bob?" You ask.

"Listen—" Bob tries, but his voice cracks in betrayal. "I'm not looking. I was looking. I’m not now.”

“You were definitely looking.” You tell him, slightly amused even if he can't see it on your face.

"It’s okay—" Bob attempts to excuse himself. "Y’know what? I’m just gonna—"

He spins on his heel and tries to walk away too fast, bumping into the doorframe. You wince at the contact, but he keeps walking down the hallway blindly nevertheless.

“Meeting! Ten minutes! Bye!” Bob called over his shoulder, still slightly traumatizes and blushing harder than ever.

"You could at least tell me if I look good," you yelled teasingly.

Bob answers back in the distance. “YOU LOOK GREAT!”

[farrikdanked]

million dollar man masterlist

a series detailing the life of a silver haired cowboy and his sweet little darlin'

million dollar man: the story of how rhett and little darlin’ met. rhett sees how dire her living situation is, and offers to take her back to his ranch in wyoming to live with him. she agrees, and their love story begins. partway through the story, there is a time jump, and we see them in the midst of a happy, healthy marriage together.

soul as sweet as blood red jam: this story happens in between the beginning and end of the original million dollar man story. set six months after rhett brought little darlin’ to live with him, it details the first time they sleep together, and what that experience was like for them.

i love that man like nobody can: set three years after rhett and darlin’ meet. they are happily married at this point. this part touches on rhett facing someone from his past, and it shows darlin’s character development from a timid, shy person to someone who is more confident in themselves, thanks to the security that rhett has provided her. it also explores new developments in their intimate life, such as the first time darlin’ calls him daddy.

[farrikdanked]

This and “The Plan” are an absolute weakness for me! Amazing job! I love stupid and lovesick Bob!

short skirt weather ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: you and bob are obviously into each other, but he's hesitant to make a move claiming you're too young for him, until a whole lot of miscommunication—jealousy, tension, the works—and a training accident lands you in hospital...

notes: the lew spiral is still spiralling and i almost struggled writing this because i love him so much??? anyways, it's heaps of fun, has all the tension, jealousy, angst, fluff, and of course... lots of horny thoughts! please let me know what you think!!! (p.s. shout out to the critical role nerds for the callsign, iykyk)

warnings: swearing, miscommunication, reference to a slight age gap (but it isn't specified and it's also described as 'barely there'), teasing, short skirts (sorry bob), jealousy, switching pov (kind of), plane crash, very minor description of injury, and horniness so 18+ ONLY MDNI! (let me know if i missed anything)

word count: 18022 (i have no chill whatsoever)

your callsign is vex

Bob Floyd never thought of himself as someone who took particular interest in the weather—unless it had to do with flying, of course. But on the ground? He couldn’t care less. Or, he shouldn’t. 

Especially not when it comes to what the weather makes people wear. How is that any of his business? It shouldn’t matter how hot it is outside or how that directly affects the amount of material someone’s wearing. It really shouldn’t. 

But it does. And not just with anyone. No—this has everything to do with you. 

You, in that damn sundress and those ridiculous cowboy boots that shouldn’t be giving Bob a semi in the middle of the goddamn bar. 

And yet, there you are in all your glory. Legs on display, that flowy little skirt just barely covering the curve of your ass. And fuck if it isn’t making it impossible for Bob to keep his eyes from wandering. 

“God damn,” Jake says, his southern drawl thick as his green eyes lock onto you—or more specifically, your ass. “Do you think she knows?” 

Bob blinks, brows pulling together as he turns toward Jake, trying—and failing, miserably—not to sound annoyed that he’s checking you out. “Know what?” 

“What a girl like that does to guys like us,” Jake replies easily. 

Reuben chuckles and takes a slow sip of his beer. “Oh, she knows. She definitely knows.” 

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Could you creeps stop looking at her like she’s something to eat? It’s gross. She’s our friend. Our teammate.” 

Jake opens his mouth, lips already curled into his usual smirk, but Natasha puts a hand up to stop him. 

“And she’s barely younger than us, so don’t say anything weird about her age.” 

Jake rolls his eyes and lifts his beer. “Wasn’t gonna…” 

There’s a beat of silence as Bob lets his eyes drift back to you, drinking in the way you’re leaning against the bar. Elbow propped, hip cocked, one boot crossed over the other, and your head tipped just slightly as you talk to the dark-haired stranger beside you. 

“Wait,” Mickey leans forward, squinting—very unsubtly—across the bar. “Is that her date?” 

Natasha nods. “Think so. Looks like the guy she showed me.” 

Bob’s head snaps toward her, dark blue eyes wide. “She’s on a date?” 

Mickey giggles. Reuben snorts. Even Bradley has to hide a laugh behind his beer. 

“Alright,” Jake says, slapping a hand on the table in mock outrage. “Who didn’t tell Bob?” 

Natasha shoots him a flat look before turning back to Bob. “Didn’t you hear us talking about it at lunch? She met some guy on Hinge or something.” 

“Said she was gonna go home with him and let him keep her up all night,” Jake adds with a wicked grin. “Y’know, since we’re starting night rides next week—figured she’d get used to staying up late.” 

“I was intentionally leaving that part out,” Nat says, glaring at Jake. “But thanks for clearing it all up, Bagman.” 

Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.” 

Bob’s jaw twitches. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, but he can’t relax—not with that guy’s hand on your hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric like he has some right to touch you. Like you belong to him. 

Which you don’t. You don’t belong to anyone. 

At least, that’s what Bob has to keep telling himself. 

“Easy, Floyd,” Bradley mutters beside him. “You keep staring like that, the poor guy’s gonna catch fire.” 

Bob doesn’t respond. He can’t. His voice is gone, breath caught somewhere in his throat. He’s too focused on your smile—how it flickers, just a little off. Not quite like the one you wear with them. With him. 

It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care whether or not you’re giving that stranger the same bright smile or soft laugh you always give him. Because it’s none of his business. 

Who you date and what you do—none of it is his business. You’re allowed to wear tiny dresses, flirt with strangers, and laugh at guys who think they’re clever. 

It shouldn’t matter. 

But it does. 

God, it fucking matters—way more than it should. 

Because for the first time in weeks, you’re not looking at him. You’re looking at... that guy. 

And even though he tells himself—repeatedly, a thousand times a day—not to enjoy being the centre of your attention... he does. 

He lives for it. 

“You know,” Reuben says slowly, lips curled into the tiniest smirk, “this wouldn’t even be happening if you’d sack up and—” 

“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.” 

“What?” He raises both hands in mock innocence. “All I’m trying to say is, if he likes her that much, he should just ask her out. She’s clearly into him. We all know it.” 

Bob’s eyes flick between you and Reuben, his brows furrowed slightly as his thoughts tug in opposite directions. On one hand, yeah, Reuben’s logic makes perfect sense. Bob’s not blind—he sees the way you look at him. The way your face lights up when you talk to him, the quiet smile you wear just for him, the blush you try to hide when he says something low and teasing. 

But on the other hand? He just can’t do it. You’re young—too young. And he’s... well, he’s not old, but he’s older. It’s not a huge age gap, not really, but that paired with how drop-dead gorgeous you are? It’s enough to make him feel like a— 

“Nothin’ wrong with being a cradle-snatcher,” Jake chimes in, eyes sparkling as he lifts his beer. 

Bradley chuckles quietly. “Jesus, Hangman. You’re on fire tonight.” 

“Why thank you, Rooster,” Jake replies smoothly. 

Natasha rolls her eyes and downs the rest of her beer in one long swig, looking thoroughly done with all of them. 

The conversation shifts then—to next week’s night ops training—but Bob barely hears it. The pounding of his pulse is too loud, drowning everything out. And he can’t stop watching you. 

The way your hands move when you talk, how your dress sways as you shift your weight, the gentle curve of your smile. Even over the music and chatter, he swears he can hear your laughter—if he strains. 

And it kills him. Because he’s not the one making you laugh tonight. 

- 

“Wanna get out of here?” Ryan asks, his voice low in your ear, breath warm against your neck. 

But not in a sexy way. Not in the way that sends goosebumps down your arms or makes your skin prickle with anticipation. It just makes you feel warm—too warm—in the packed, overheated bar. 

Honestly, for the last forty-five minutes, while Ryan has been telling you all about his super interesting job—he's a carpenter, it’s not that interesting—you’ve been seriously considering hopping behind the bar to help Penny and Jimmy. 

“It’s barely nine,” you say, forcing a polite smile as you tilt your head. 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’ve got to be at work by six tomorrow morning, so I figured if we ducked out now, we could... you know, mess around a bit before bed.” 

The way he says it nearly makes you laugh. He sounds like a teenager trying to sneak in some action before curfew. 

“Look,” you sigh, laying a hand on his knee, “this has been fun, but I’m just not your girl. And honestly? I was kinda hoping this would distract me from someone else, but... you’re not him. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault—this one’s on me. But, uh... good luck!” 

He looks completely flabbergasted. Like the blank stare you’ve worn for most of the evening—or the way your gaze kept drifting across the bar toward someone else—wasn’t a hint. God, he might be even dumber than you thought. 

You slip off the barstool with a clipped smile, wishing you looked more sincere, but your body is already moving toward where you really want to be—where your squad is. 

Where Bob is. 

You’re just about to head for the booth when your eye catches on Penny—and the very large crowd waiting to be served. 

“Damn it,” you sigh, pivoting sharply and hurrying around the bar. 

You slip through the swinging wooden doors behind the bar and fall in beside Penny, listening closely to the man ordering drinks—his voice raised over the music and chatter. Without hesitation, you start grabbing clean glasses, catching Penny off guard as you begin pouring pints of golden beer. 

“Sorry,” you say with a soft laugh. “I saw the crowd and couldn’t just let you suffer.” 

She rolls her eyes but smiles. “I’d tell you to scram if you weren’t so gorgeous—and a literal lifesaver.” 

You give her a cheeky wink before lining up the beers on a tray for the man. Penny swipes his card, and he’s gone in half the time. Then the next patron steps up, and you keep working smoothly, moving effortlessly behind the bar and easing the pressure. 

Eventually, the line dies down, and Penny takes full advantage of your presence by sending Jimmy out back for more stock. You stay behind the bar while she ducks off to collect empties, keeping yourself busy wiping benches, refilling lime wedges, and unloading the freshly washed glasses. 

You’re so focused on scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on the bar top that you don’t notice someone approach—someone you usually have a hard time not noticing. 

“You don’t work here,” Bob says, voice light, lips twitching at the corners. 

You glance up, your heart immediately jumping into overdrive. “I could,” you say, straightening. “Maybe I should quit the Navy. Bartending might be my true calling.” 

He chuckles. “You’re one of the best fighter pilots in the country, and you think slinging drinks is your destiny?” 

You shrug, leaning forward casually—knowing exactly what you’re doing. His eyes flick down to your chest for a split second before snapping back up, fast enough to pretend it didn’t happen. 

“Hey, don’t knock it. This job is harder than it looks.” 

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he says softly, watching with quiet intensity as you pour him a pint of cherry soda—without him even needing to ask. 

You slide it over with a small smile. “What do you think? I’m a pretty good bartender, huh?” 

His cheeks tint pink, the flush dusting across his nose. “Yeah. I think you make a very pretty bartender.” 

You smirk. “Was that a compliment, Lieutenant?” 

He rolls his eyes and drops a crumpled ten onto the bar like it might save him from saying more. 

You shake your head. “Don’t worry, it’s on the house.” 

“You sure you’ve got that kind of authority?” he teases. 

“Penny said our drinks are free tonight,” you reply, smug. “Payment for being an excellent bartender.” 

“And for filling the tip jar faster than I’ve ever seen,” Penny chimes in as she reappears, arms full of empty glasses. 

Your cheeks heat as Bob’s gaze flicks toward the overflowing jar. 

“Wow,” he chuckles softly. 

You flick your hair dramatically and bat your lashes. “Perks of being a pretty bartender, I guess.” 

Then you turn around and bend over to grab something from the fridge—very aware of the effect—and sure enough, Bob promptly chokes on his soda. He coughs, his whole face turning red as he pounds a fist against his chest. 

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, “more like consequences of a skirt that short.” 

You snap upright, brows lifting and eyes gleaming with amusement. “Bob Floyd, did you just comment on the length of my skirt?” 

He blinks fast. “No.” 

You tilt your head, fighting a grin. “You sure? Because the colour in your cheeks looks a little guilty to me.” 

He straightens up, his usual walls clicking into place like armour. “Didn’t say anything.” 

You roll your eyes and plant both hands on the bar, leaning forward just enough to make him squirm. “Bob, I’m not a baby. And I’m not some virginal schoolgirl, either. You’re not going to hell just for flirting with me.” You pause, letting your gaze hold his. “Hell, if you did it more often, I might take you to heaven.” 

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and you see the want flicker in his eyes—just before he reins it back in. 

“But if the age gap is that big of a deal to you—which, for the record, is barely anything—then maybe stop looking at me like you’re picturing me naked.” Your voice drops. “Mixed signals can really confuse a girl.” 

You hear the softest laugh from Penny, but your eyes stay locked on Bob’s—daring him to look down again, to do something other than walk away. 

He clears his throat. “Thanks for the drink.” 

Then he turns and walks away, heading straight back to the booth where all your friends are—acting like they haven’t been watching, but you know better. They’re all too nosy for their own good. 

You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.” 

Penny laughs again, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Fighter pilots, actually. They’re a very special breed of difficult.” 

“Hey,” you giggle. “I am a fighter pilot.” 

She nods, smirking. “And there’s not a doubt in my mind how difficult you’re makin’ life for that boy right now.” 

You press your lips together and give her a flat look—because yeah… she’s not wrong. 

After all, why else bring a guy to the bar you knew your friends would be at—you knew he would be at? Why wear a dress this short? And why spend half the night with your eyes locked on him, just wishing he’d walk over and interrupt your lousy date? 

- 

Graveyard shift. Bat hours. Vampire runs. Ghost hops. Night rides. 

Whatever you want to call it—the squad hates night ops. 

It’s dark, it’s eerie, and your NVGs fog up if you so much as breathe wrong. Fatigue hits harder, the skeleton crew slows everything down, and visibility is shot—so you’re flying blind, trusting your radar and your WSO to keep you alive. 

“You know what’s great about night ops?” Mickey says, head tipped back in his chair. “Nothing. Not the dark, not the sleep deprivation, not the existential dread at two a.m. while staring into the black void wondering if your wingman ghosted you or just changed frequency.” 

You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee. 

“It’s night one, Fanboy,” Natasha mutters beside you. “We still have four weeks of this. Are you going to complain the whole time?” 

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.” 

“Did Mav piss Cyclone off or something?” Reuben asks. 

You shake your head. “Nah. He heard there might be a mission coming up with night flying. Figured we should get ahead of it.” 

“Or he just hates us,” Javy sighs, eyes half-shut. 

Natasha snorts. “Did you sleep at all today, Coyote?” 

“Nope,” he grumbles, shifting a glare toward Jake. “Someone had his whale noises up too loud and bit my head off when I told him to turn it down.” 

Jake shoots him a look. “They help me sleep. If you’ve got a problem, buy some earplugs.” 

“Damn,” you mutter. “Glad you’re not my wingman tonight, Coyote.” 

He shifts his glare your way and flips you off lazily before letting his eyes shut completely. 

“So, Vex,” Jake says, twisting in his seat toward you, “never did hear how that date went the other night.” 

You arch a brow. “Oh, so now I have to report back on all my dates?” 

Jake’s lips twitch, his gaze flicking toward Bob. “Dates? As in plural? Just how many are we talking here?” 

“That’s none of your business,” you reply, taking another sip of coffee. 

There’s a brief pause, and his eyes narrow—seeing through you a little too easily. “The date tanked?” 

Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side. 

“Yes,” you mutter. “It sucked. He was boring. And no, I didn’t get laid. So yes, I’m in a less-than-favourable mood.” 

Jake’s smirk turns wicked. “Sweetheart, if getting laid is what you need, you only have to ask.” 

Your brows shoot up. “That so?” 

He nods. 

You turn to Javy, who’s about one breath away from snoring. “Coyote.” 

His eyes snap open. “Huh?” 

“Want to fuck me?” 

He startles—eyes wide, mouth dropping open. “I—uh, what?” 

Laughter rumbles through the room—everyone giggling softly at poor, confused Javy. 

Well... almost everyone. 

Bob isn’t laughing. In fact, he’s not even smiling, or looking your way. His eyes are glued to his phone—even though you can see the screen is blank. 

Which means he’s definitely listening. 

You shift in your chair and give Natasha a sidelong smirk. Her brow furrows slightly—a silent question about what you’re up to—but she nods anyway, signalling that she’ll follow your lead no matter where it goes. 

“Does anyone know if Cyclone’s single?” you ask, voice light and dripping with faux innocence. 

Mickey’s eyes go wide. “Admiral Simpson?” 

You nod, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. He’s hot.” 

“Agreed,” Natasha says—and from the way her mouth curves, she’s not just playing along. She definitely agrees. 

“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks. 

Javy frowns, still half-asleep but clearly paying attention now. “Nah, I think they divorced.” 

“So,” you say slowly, “what I’m hearing is... he’s single?” 

Bradley’s gaze flicks to Bob—just for a second—before settling back on you, reading you like a damn open book. “Bit old for you, isn’t he, Vex?” 

You shrug with a smile. “Not at all. I like older men. More experience.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way Bob shifts in his seat—just slightly, but it’s enough. He’s not looking at you, but the tips of his ears have turned pink, and his jaw is locked tight as he keeps his eyes on his phone. Still blank. 

“I swear he’s still married,” Mickey says, clearly trying to get this train back on the rails. 

“Yeah,” Reuben adds. “Didn’t they do couples counselling?” 

“They did,” Maverick says, breezing into the room like the punchline to your joke. “Didn’t stick. So yes, he’s single.” He pauses in front of you, green eyes sparkling with amusement. “But I’m not sure how he feels about dating subordinates. Want me to find out?” 

You match his smirk with one of your own, sitting up a little straighter as you meet his gaze. “How generous of you, Captain. That would be great.” 

He chuckles, shaking his head as he moves to the front of the room and sets a stack of papers down on the desk. “Alright, aviators,” he says. “Welcome to night ops.” 

After an hour-long briefing and way too many questions about why you’re all stuck on night training, Maverick orders everyone to get ready for the first hop. You’re on deck with Jake, Natasha, and, of course... Bob. 

The four of you ride in silence across the flight line, packed into one of the motorised carts as Maverick drives you from the squadron building to the hangar. There’s a low buzz of anticipation in the air, but no one says much. It’s late, and everyone is focusing on their own little preflight rituals. 

Once you reach the hangar, the ground crew directs you toward the night ops staging area where your NVGs and gear are laid out. You’ve done enough of these late-night flights to know the drill, so you join the others in wordlessly collecting your kit and starting to suit up. 

By the time you make it out onto the tarmac, your jets are already prepped and the crew chiefs are finishing up their walk-arounds. You head over to your jet, nodding to the plane captain before starting your own pre-flight check—walking the length of the fuselage, scanning for anything off, running a practiced eye over control surfaces, landing gear, intakes. It’s second nature by now, but you don’t cut corners. Especially not in the dark. 

Once you’re satisfied, you turn to face the runway and pull your helmet on, checking the vision through your NVGs. It’s blurry—just enough to make you squint. The image is skewed, the edges fuzzy, crawling inward like shadows that shouldn’t be there. 

You mutter something sharp under your breath, reaching up to adjust the settings yourself when— 

“Don’t move.” The voice is low. Steady. Too close. 

You freeze instinctively as Bob steps in—right into your space, like you’re the only two souls on the glowing stretch of tarmac. His gloved hand finds the side of your helmet, fingers sliding into place with steady control. It should feel clinical—routine—but it doesn’t. It burns. Even through the goddamn helmet. 

“I can fix it,” he murmurs, eyes on your goggles, not your face. “Tilt your chin up.” 

You obey—barely—and he leans in, his body almost touching to yours. One hand on your cheek-plate now, the other carefully turning the tiny focus dial above your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and shallow, and it sends a pulse through your ribs that you’re trying desperately not to show. 

“Didn't this happen last time?” he asks, the corner of his lips twitching. “You jam the strap too tight.” 

“I like it snug,” you mutter, not trusting your voice with anything flirtier. Not when he’s this close. 

Bob hums, low in his throat. “Of course you do.” 

Your heart stutters. 

He adjusts something with a flick of his thumb—the pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful. Like he's memorising the shape of you under the gear. Your jaw flexes. 

“You always get this close when you’re adjusting gear?” you ask, pretending the heat in your voice is a joke and not a plea. 

Bob stills for a beat. Just one. 

Then—very softly—he whispers, “Only yours.” 

You swear your knees nearly give. 

But before you can breathe or speak or lean the half-inch forward that would start something you probably shouldn’t want this badly, Bob finishes the final adjustment and lets his hands fall. Slowly. Like it costs him something. 

“There,” he says, voice low but distant now. “Better?” 

You blink behind the goggles. “Yeah. Clear.” 

He lingers for half a second more—just enough to feel like maybe he wants to say something else—then turns and walks back toward the others without another word. 

You don’t move. You can’t. You’re just standing there in the dark, goggles perfectly focused, heart pounding like you’re about to hit Mach 1. 

It takes an embarrassingly long minute for you to remember how to function. To stop thinking about how close he’d just been—how you could smell him, feel his heat, and how, if you’d tipped your chin up and stretched just a little… you might’ve been able to kiss him. 

But then you hear Maverick shouting across the tarmac, calling for a final rundown before wheels-up. 

You shake your head, yank your helmet off, and join the others for a quick debrief before splitting up again and climbing into your jets. You settle in, strap your helmet back on, check your now perfectly focused NVGs, and run your usual internal systems check. 

Then—after the green light from ground crew—you’re in the sky. Squinting through your goggles, seeing the world saturated in green and grey, and wondering why the fuck no one has invented a better form of night vision yet. 

“Remind me again why we’re stuck on the graveyard shift,” Jake says, voice dry. “Because as much as I love flying blind through pitch-black nothingness, I’d really rather be in bed right now.” 

“You’re not blind, Hangman,” Maverick replies. “We’ve got one of the best WSOs in the world with us.” 

“Oh, good,” Jake says sarcastically. “My life’s in the hands of Phoenix’s baby on board.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’d rather have my life in Bob’s hands than yours, Bagman.” 

His chuckle crackles through the radio. “Yeah, I know where you’d like to have Bob’s hands. And it’s not holding your life.” 

Heat rushes to your cheeks, making the cockpit suddenly feel way too hot—your flight suit practically suffocating. 

“Hangman,” Maverick warns. “Be professional.” 

Jake scoffs. “Oh, so those two can eye-fuck each other all night long, but I can’t say the obvious out loud?” 

There’s a pause—a beat where you wonder if he’s finally pushed it too far—but then Maverick’s laughter cuts through. 

“Yes. Because they do it quietly.” 

Your eyes go wide and you almost—almost—fumble a right bank. “Mav!” 

More laughter crackles through the radio, Natasha now joining in. You’re just about to tell them all to stick it when the mood shifts, and the laughter stops. 

“Vex, check your two,” Maverick says, voice sharp and low. “Something’s throwing heat.” 

“Negative,” Bob cuts in. “Let me scan it first.” 

You hesitate, holding formation, but frustration flares under your skin. Did Bob really just override a direct order? 

“Confirming IR spike,” Bob says after a beat. “Something’s cooking down there, but it doesn’t match any known signature.” 

You glance down at the blur on your MFD. “I’ll break off, check it out.” 

“Wait. Don’t.” Bob’s voice is low but tense, edged with something more than caution. 

“Why?” you snap, anger prickling your chest. 

“I... I don’t like it,” he says. “It’s not worth the risk.” 

You grit your teeth and break off anyway, flying low and steady toward the suspicious heat signature. 

“I’m going to check it out, Mav,” you say, voice tight. “Hangman, got my six?” 

“Copy,” Jake replies. 

You bank left, staying quiet as you approach the stretch of uninhabited grassland. Your HUD flickers with the steady IR pulse—a dull orange glow against the dark terrain. Too concentrated for a campfire. Too controlled for a random burn. It’s creeping north—methodical. 

You drop lower when you spot flashing lights—fire crews moving with purpose, reflective gear flickering like stars in the NVG haze. This isn’t an accident. It’s a controlled burn. 

“Mav, why is there a fire in a training zone?” you ask. “Shouldn’t that be logged?” 

“It’s just brush management?” Maverick asks, sounding almost relieved. 

“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can. 

“Copy. I’ll flag it with air traffic—looks like someone forgot to tell the rest of us.” 

You and Jake return to formation without issue. 

“Lucky it wasn’t Bigfoot, huh Bob?” Jake says, his smug grin practically audible. “Might’ve leapt right onto Vex’s jet and dragged her into the woods.” 

There’s no response, just the soft static of the open channel. 

Then Natasha mutters, “Don’t be a dick, Hangman. He was being cautious.” 

“Well, I’m sure she appreciates the concern,” Jake says. “But she’s not made of glass.” He waits for a retort—gets none—and chuckles. “And if she’d died out there, I would’ve avenged her. Dramatically.” 

“Hangman,” Maverick sighs. “That’s enough. Bob’s got better eyes than the rest of us tonight. Maybe don’t piss him off.” 

Still, nothing from Bob. You even crane your neck, catching sight of his and Natasha's jet—nothing but a shadow at your five o’clock. Like you could somehow see him in the cockpit, tensing his jaw or rolling his eyes at Jake’s jabs. 

Frustration simmers in your chest. You know he was just being cautious—or protective—but this is your job. He doesn’t get to tell you what you can and can’t do, especially when it’s a direct order from your CO. Even if you were dating, you wouldn’t let him boss you around—well, not outside of the bedroom, anyway. He can care. He can worry. But making it sound like you’re incapable? That’s what he just did. And it makes your skin crawl. 

The rest of the flight passes without incident, but the comms stay unusually quiet—even Jake gives up his teasing—and you’re still pissed by the time you’re back on the ground. 

You move through the post-flight motions with a frown on your face and your jaw locked tight. First, the ground crew helps you out of the jet and you do a quick walk-around. Then you ditch your night gear, knock out a maintenance report, and sit through a short debrief with Maverick before jumping in the cart back to the ready room. 

By the time you walk in, the others are already gone. You’re not sure if you were too caught up in your own grumpiness to notice them pass you on the way over, but you don’t bother asking. You’re still too busy being pissed. 

In fact, you’re so busy scowling at the coffee machine as it splutters out an espresso shot you know is going to taste like dirt that you don’t notice someone step up beside you. 

“I’m sorry,” Bob says, voice soft. “About what happened up there.” 

You jump—just slightly—then twist to face him, arms crossed tight over your chest. He's standing just a few feet away—helmet gone, flight suit half unzipped with the collar tugged open just enough to make your stomach flip. 

“I didn’t mean to undermine you.” 

“Sure felt like it,” you mutter. 

“I know.” His eyes finally lift to meet yours—midnight blue, heavy with regret and something else that makes your breath catch. “That’s why I’m apologising.” 

You turn back to the coffee machine, hoping the clatter and gurgle of the old machine will cover the sudden pounding of your heart. “Look, I get you were trying to be cautious, but Mav gave me a directive. You don’t get to override that just because your gut didn’t like it.” 

“I wasn’t thinking about you as a teammate back there,” he says quietly. “I was thinking—” 

“That I’m a little kid?” you snap, spinning to face him again. “Because whatever issue you have with my age, I need you to remember that I got here the same way you did. I worked my ass off to be the pilot I am today, and I don’t need someone second-guessing me just because they’re a little older. Especially when I know what I’m capable of.” 

His frown deepens. “No, it—it’s not that at all. I just—I didn’t see what it was, it was dark, and when you went low...” He drags a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?” 

You blink, startled by the raw edge in his voice. 

“If anything had gone wrong, it would’ve been my fault,” he says, softer now. “I’m the WSO. I should’ve seen it first.” 

“Bob,” you whisper, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. You can feel the heat radiating off him now. “If I ever end up in a bad spot, that’s on me. I trust you to have my back, always—but it’s my responsibility when I make a call. And I broke off because I knew you’d be there. You and Phoenix, Mav, Hangman... I knew I had the best team in the sky behind me.” 

His jaw clenches as his gaze drifts over your face, like he’s trying to memorise every inch. 

Then he moves closer—close enough for one of the clips on his suit to catch yours—and reaches out. His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suit’s hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch. 

“You’re not just my teammate,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. I—” 

“I don’t believe it,” a familiar voice cuts through the room. “The famous Dagger Squad stuck on the graveyard shift? What’d you do, lose another bet?” 

Bob startles, stepping quickly away from you with bright red cheeks, unnecessarily adjusting his glasses. 

You turn toward the door, ready to rip into whoever just decided to interrupt the closest you’ve ever gotten to Bob... when you realize who it is. It’s Trevor—an old friend from flight school and one of the newer instructors on NAS. You’ve been meaning to catch up with him, but being in an elite squadron doesn’t leave you much time for a social life. 

“Damn,” you say with a playful smile, “who let you in the building?” 

He steps fully into the room, wearing his signature shit-eating grin. “Vex,” he says, voice full of mock disbelief. “You’re still here? I figured Maverick would’ve canned your reckless ass by now.” 

Jake swivels in his chair to look at you. “So you’re a renowned little chaos gremlin? Good to know.” 

You roll your eyes and step toward your friend. “Guys, this is Trevor—or Grinder—I’ve known him since flight school. He gave me my callsign, actually.” 

Trevor snorts. “Technically, Admiral Prescott gave you your callsign. What exactly was it he said again? That you’re a living, breathing vexation who’s going to be the sole reason for his retirement?” 

Jake and Natasha giggle from across the room, and Trevor grins proudly. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “Want to tell my squad how you got yours?” 

He tips his head, brows raised. “Maybe I should get to know them first.” 

Then his eyes flick toward Jake—grinning, handsome, utterly clueless Jake. Yep. That’s the real reason Trevor decided to drop by your squadron building tonight, because he knew Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin would be here. The very pilot he’s had a crush on for more months than you care to remember. He’s been bugging you for ages to introduce them, even though you told him—repeatedly—that you’re not sure Jake swings that way. He wasn’t deterred though; he said he’s happy to figure it out and see if he can negotiate if not. You just rolled your eyes. 

“So, Grinder,” Natasha says, “what do you do?” 

Trevor’s face lights up and he quickly launches into a long-winded explanation of his new role as a flight instructor. He walks toward her as he talks, inching closer to where Jake is seated not far from Natasha. 

You turn back to Bob, clearing your throat. “Sorry about him. He’s... a lot. But you were saying...?” 

He shakes his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. “Nothing. It’s fine.” 

You frown. “It didn’t sound like nothing.” You take a slow step forward. “Didn’t feel like... nothing.” 

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, his eyes snapping up as he forces a tight smile. “We can talk later. Really, it’s fine.” 

You hesitate, wanting to push but knowing it’s no use now—those walls are well and truly back in place. 

“Okay,” you say, nodding once. “Later.” 

- 

Unfortunately, later never comes. 

You want to talk to him toward the end of the shift, but you’re both so exhausted after the first night that you can’t find the energy to push him for answers. So you let it go and head home. 

The next night, you’re on opposite hops, which means you don’t see him until the debrief in the early morning—when, once again, everyone is too wiped out to talk and just wants to wrap up and get home. 

The rest of the week slips by the same way. Every little thing keeps getting in the way of you and Bob actually talking. Even Thursday night, after a routine hop, when you’re both finally in the ready room and the moment couldn’t be more perfect—Trevor bursts in again, and Bob shuts down. 

When you finally leave base on Friday morning—glaring at the well-rested day-shifters on your way out like it’s their fault you’re dead inside—you make a promise to yourself. You’re going to talk to him this weekend. It doesn’t matter when or how or if you have to fake an emergency just to get five uninterrupted minutes. You’re going to do it. Because whatever weird, half-finished thing is hanging between you and Bob has been living rent-free in your head all week—and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate. 

“You sure you don’t mind?” Trevor asks, even though he’s already at your door with a duffel bag and a pillow. 

You roll your eyes. “Why would I mind?” 

He shrugs as he steps into your apartment. “I don’t know. Maybe you were planning to invite that gorgeous little blue-eyed lieutenant over.” He throws a cheeky wink over his shoulder. “You know, the one with the glasses. I’ve seen the way you look at him and—oof—does the man know what he’s in for? I mean, he looks at you just the same but—actually, come to think of it… why haven’t you screwed his brains out yet?” 

You shut your eyes and let out a deep sigh. When you open them again, Trevor is already sprawled across your three-seater couch like he owns the place. 

“First of all, he’s not little—you’re just freakishly tall—and secondly…” You step slowly toward the lounge, shoulders sagging in defeat. “He’s too good.” 

Trevor frowns. “Too good? Like… too good for you or—?” 

“That. And he’s respectful,” you say, flopping onto the end of the couch. “He’s got this thing about our age gap. It’s not a big one, but it’s… there, I guess. Maybe it’s also because we’re in the same squad.” 

Trevor watches you, eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable. 

“Wow,” he mutters. 

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He shrugs. “Just never took you for a quitter.” 

You rear back, incredulous. “A quitter?” 

“Yeah,” he says, tone cool and baiting as he casually searches for the TV remote. “I mean, if I was in love with a guy—which, you’re clearly in love with him—I wouldn’t stop until he had a restraining order against me.” 

You snort. “Yeah? Well, I like my job and my squad, so—” 

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “My God, Vex. Don’t take everything so literally. The man’s in love with you too. Just fucking go for it before your whole squad murders both of you for being whiny dumbasses.” 

He finds the remote and flicks the TV on, giving you a very pointed look—brows raised—before settling in and scrolling through streaming apps. 

And God, you hate to admit it, but maybe he’s right. Maybe instead of teasing Bob, you just need to go for it. Cut through the hesitation, stop him from overthinking, and make the damn decision for him. 

“Fine,” you say, standing up with purpose. “I’m going out tonight, by the way.” 

“Good,” he replies, not even glancing your way. “Just keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.” 

“Trev!” 

He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.” 

You roll your eyes, cheeks burning, and storm off toward your room. 

Tonight, the squad has decided to go bowling. Everyone wanted to shake things up from the usual at The Hard Deck, and the only thing you could all agree on was bowling. 

Even though you hate the gross bowling shoes that have been worn in by a hundred other people—and the sticky holes on the balls after grubby little kids have been shoving their nasty fingers in them. 

But when Bob mentioned that he’s actually pretty good at bowling… well, how could you protest? 

Plus, it’s still short skirt weather—Bob’s favourite, as you’ve come to notice—and bowling in a tiny skirt feels like a fun, flirty little risk you’re more than willing to take. 

All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis? Bob doesn’t stand a chance. 

At 7PM, Natasha picks you up, shooting a very pointed look at the flowy little sundress you’re wearing under your denim jacket. But she doesn’t say a word. 

The drive to the bowling alley isn’t far, and soon you’re walking inside with Mickey and Reuben—who arrived around the same time. Jake, Bradley, Javy, and Bob are already there. They’ve got a lane, swapped into their shoes, and Jake is busy squeezing creative versions of everyone’s callsigns into the limited-character name slot. 

“Can’t you just be ‘Roster’?” he asks Bradley. 

Bradley frowns. “Can’t I just be Brad?” 

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “No way. You’re not a Brad. Just put Roo.” 

Jake’s face lights up like he just solved the mystery of why the sky is blue. “Good one, Phoenix. Thanks.” 

“What am I?” she asks. 

“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan. 

Natasha blinks. “Phone? As in P-H-O-N-E?” 

“Yep,” Bradley chuckles. 

“What the fuck, Bagman?” She steps up to the little tablet where he’s typing the names. “Move. You’re an idiot.” 

You stifle a laugh and turn to Mickey and Reuben. “Want to get shoes?” 

They both nod, and you head toward the main counter—though not without catching the way Bob’s eyes drop to your legs, his throat working on a swallow as you walk away. 

You grab your shoes and rejoin the group, flopping down beside Bob just close enough to make him squirm. Then you lean forward, swapping your Converse for the white, red, and blue striped Velcro bowling shoes. 

When you’re done, you stand up and put one foot out. “These shoes are hot. Might have to steal them.” 

“You know what,” Jake says with a smirk, “I think you’re just gorgeous enough to make ‘em work. What do you think, Bobby?” 

You glance down at the man sitting beside you. The poor guy who’s basically eye-level—thanks to these ridiculously low seats—with your ass. The man whose glasses are just a little foggy by the bridge of his nose as he breathes a bit faster than usual. His cheeks are pink, lips parted, and his eyes are so wide—and so blatantly glued to your short, short skirt—that you can barely keep from laughing. 

“Bob?” you ask, voice full of faux innocence. 

He clears his throat, blue eyes flicking up to your face. “Y-Yeah. It’s a nice dress.” 

There’s a beat—everyone turns to Bob—and then they all burst out laughing. Mickey curls over, Reuben tips his head back, Jake’s face twists up, and Natasha has to hold on to Bradley’s shoulder to keep from falling over. 

Bob blinks, brow furrowed, looking back at you as the red in his cheeks deepens. “He wasn’t—we weren’t talking about the dress… were we?” 

You shake your head, biting back a smile. And with the way he’s looking at you—wide-eyed, breathless, full of heat—you feel a spark of boldness rise up in your chest. 

You reach out, pinch his chin between your fingers, and tilt his face up toward you. Then you lean in, slow and teasing, until there’s barely an inch of air between you—your voice a soft whisper just for him. 

“Don’t worry, Bobby,” you murmur. “I wore this dress just for you.” 

Then you straighten up with a wicked smile, leaving him speechless, blushing, and absolutely wrecked. 

You resist the urge to look back—even with all the teasing going on behind you—as you browse the rack of bowling balls. You pick one, mostly for its colour rather than its weight, and carry it over to the ball return where the others have already placed theirs. 

“We ready?” Natasha asks, finally tapping ‘finish’ on the tablet. 

The names pop up on the screen above the lane: Roo, Hngmn, Pback, Fboy, Nix, Bob, and Vex. 

“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.” 

Bradley steps forward, grabs a ball, and promptly sends it flying into the gutter. That’s all it takes. One terrible bowl and the trash talk ignites—like gasoline on an open flame. 

“Jesus, Rooster,” Reuben says. “My nephew could bowl better than that blindfolded—and he’s six, man.” 

“Yeah, dude,” Mickey laughs, “you sure you should be flying jets with that kind of coordination?” 

Bradley flips them off before picking up the ball again, dialling in his focus and managing to knock over seven pins on his second try. 

“Alright, losers,” Jake says, swaggering up to the ball return. “Time to watch how a real man bowls.” 

Unfortunately for everyone, Jake is obnoxiously good at bowling and casually lands a spare without breaking a sweat. But then Reuben steps up and nails a strike, which earns him an impressive amount of booing. 

“What can I say?” he grins as he drops back into his seat. “I’m just too good.” 

Next up is Mickey, who insists he has a ‘signature move that never fails’. He then immediately wipes himself out and lands on his ass as the ball rolls tragically slow down the lane. It takes everyone a solid few minutes to recover from laughing. 

Natasha follows, and—with terrifying precision—manages to hit a spare, knocking down a seven-ten split like it’s nothing. 

“Alright, Baby,” Jake says, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “You ready to show us what you got?” 

Bob rolls his eyes and shrugs off Jake’s hand, the corner of his mouth twitching as he stands and heads for the ball return. You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but the jeans hugging his ass are outrageously distracting, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to look at the pins instead of his backside. 

By the time you finally manage to drag your eyes down the lane, the pins are already gone—swept clean away as Bob turns around with just the faintest hint of a smug grin. 

“Fuck,” Reuben mutters. “Bob can bowl.” 

“Oh, damn,” Mickey giggles. “Going after that is gonna suck.” 

You shoot him a look as you push out of your seat. “Thanks, Mick.” 

Bob doesn’t sit down right away—he steps over to the ball return, picks up your ball, and hands it to you with a soft smile. 

You take it, intentionally placing half a hand over his. “Thanks.” 

He nods once, then retreats to where the rest of the squad are waiting. 

“Need a little guidance, Vex?” Jake drawls, voice low and smug. “I give excellent hands-on instruction.” 

You roll your eyes, sliding your fingers into the holes. “I think I’d rather roll a gutter ball than have you breathing down my neck, Bagman. But thanks for the offer.” 

There's a chorus of oohs behind you as you turn back toward the lane. You step forward, swing the ball back, and—thunk—release it way too late. You’re honestly surprised it doesn’t leave a dent in the floor. It wobbles down the lane before veering off and sinking into the gutter just before the pins. 

“Damn,” you sigh, turning around with a sheepish grin. “I’m going to score lower than Rooster.” 

There are a few murmured insults about your lack of bowling skill, but you barely hear them. Bob catches your eye, his lips parted like he’s about to say something—offer to help maybe—but then he just... doesn’t. 

You watch him sink back in his seat as you pick up your ball and turn to the lane—this time with a bit more intention. 

Bending lower than strictly necessary, you wiggle your fingers into the ball’s grip and line up your shot with exaggerated focus. The hem of your dress shifts just enough to tease the tops of your thighs, and you don’t have to look to know Bob’s watching. You can feel it—the weight of his stare, the sudden shift in the air like gravity is a pressing down just little harder. 

You swing the ball back and release with a cleaner motion this time. It rolls straight—miraculously—and clips five pins on the right. Not bad. Not great. But right now, you're more interested in the reaction behind you. 

When you turn, Bob’s gaze jerks up like he’s been caught red-handed. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and he looks absolutely wrecked—like someone just knocked the wind out of him with a feather. 

Jake whistles low. “Pretty sure what I just witnessed is actually a crime in several states.” 

Reuben leans forward, eyes on Bob. “Oh, no. I think Bob is broken.” 

Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.” 

Bob blinks hard, still dazed, and mumbles something under his breath. The rest of the squad continue laughing quietly, their eyes flicking between you and the flustered lieutenant—who is now very interested in the floor.  

You smile to yourself as you walk back, fighting the urge to smirk too hard as you drop into the seat beside him. 

“You know,” Bradley says as he steps up to the ball return, “if I’d known this game was about showing as much ass as possible, I would’ve worn my shortest skirt.” 

You roll your eyes and lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Please. You would've blinded everyone—and that’s probably the only way you'd have a shot at winning.” 

The squad bursts out laughing again while Bradley shoots you an unimpressed glare. Then he grabs his ball, turns toward the lane, and kicks off the next round. 

You stay quietly pressed to Bob’s side while the others take their turns. And honestly? You don’t care if the game ever continues. With his jean-clad thigh snug against your bare one, you could stay right here all night. 

And Bob doesn’t seem eager to move either. He stays close, legs aligned, knees brushing, arm grazing yours—his warmth wrapped around you like your favourite blanket. 

You’re seconds away from resting your head on his shoulder when Mickey pipes up, announcing that it’s Bob’s turn. He shifts slowly, giving you a soft smile as he stands and walks toward the ball return. 

This time, instead of watching his ass, your eyes track his hands. 

You’ve always had a thing for hands—especially Bob’s. They’re just... really nice hands. Big and steady, with long fingers that look like they could touch you in ways that would rewrite your entire understanding of pleasure. You’ve imagined those hands everywhere—ghosting over your skin, gripping your thighs, digging bruises into your hips, clawing down your back. 

You’ve thought about them more than what could ever be considered healthy. You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion. 

And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes? 

Well, fuck. There’s nothing PG about this game—not when your brain is spiralling into fantasies about all the downright filthy ways that Bob Floyd could ruin you. 

“Hey,” Javy nudges your shoulder, knocking you out of your Bob-induced daydream. “It’s your turn, dude.” 

You blink, shaking your head and hoping your blush isn’t as obvious as it feels as you push out of your chair and walk up toward where Bob is. 

“Do you—uh, do you want some help?” he asks, holding your bowling ball in his hands. 

You fight the grin threatening to break across your face, nodding. “Sure.” 

“Hey!” Jake calls from behind you. “I offered first.” 

Reuben snorts. “Yeah, but she doesn’t want to bone you, does she?” 

Both you and Bob ignore them. You take the ball from his hand and move up to the lane, slipping your fingers into the holes and holding it at your chest. 

“Okay, coach,” you say with a small smirk. “Tell me what to do.” 

“Alright, here,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he reaches out and gently takes your wrists. 

His touch is light, reverent, and it makes your breath catch. He adjusts your hands around the ball, slow and precise, like he’s memorising the shape of you. How warm you are. The way you respond so eagerly to his touch. 

“Fingers like this,” he murmurs. “You want a solid grip. Not too tight.” 

Your heart stutters. His hands are big—warm and rough in the best way—and they settle over yours like they were made to. When he steps closer to correct your stance, his chest brushes your back, and you feel everything. The press of him. The tension in his thighs. The tremble in his exhale. 

“Now,” he says, gently guiding your arm, “swing back like this—smooth, steady…” 

You try to follow, but it’s hard to focus when his hands slide down to your hips, positioning them with the lightest squeeze. You swear he groans under his breath—just barely audible, like he’s suffering. 

“That’s… yeah. Perfect.” 

He freezes. 

You don’t move. Neither does he. His hands are still on your hips, his breath coming faster now, his body just slightly more rigid. 

And then you feel it. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

You shift your hips—just a fraction—and he instantly jerks back like he’s been electrocuted. 

“Shit—uh, yeah, you—you got it. You’ll do great,” he stammers, voice suddenly strangled and two octaves higher. “I—uh—I’ve got to—bathroom. Real quick.” 

You turn just in time to see him rush off, pink in the ears, tripping slightly over a chair leg. 

“Was it something I said?” you call after him sweetly. 

Jake cackles from the bench. “Nah, I think you just short-circuited the poor guy.” 

Natasha leans forward, watching Bob disappear down the hallway. “Oh no,” she says with a grin. “I think Bob is completely falling apart at this point.” 

You grin, still tingling from where his hands touched you, as you turn back toward the lane. You roll the ball and, somehow, end up getting a spare—despite your brain being completely stuck on Bob... and what exactly had made him bolt so fast. 

Bradley gets up for his turn as you move dazedly back to your seat, mind hazy with thoughts of how Bob had felt pressed against you. 

“God, you’re so gone,” Natasha says with a soft laugh. 

You roll your eyes, but the dopey smile refuses to budge. 

“It’s a shame he’s too stupid to do anything about it,” Jake mutters. 

Natasha shoots him a look. “He’s not stupid. He’s cautious.” 

Reuben chuckles. “Yeah, well, if tonight’s anything to go by, Bobby might be throwing caution to the wind pretty soon.” 

You sigh as you sink into one of the low seats. “Not tonight, unfortunately.” 

They all look at you, confused. 

“Trevor’s staying at my place,” you explain simply. 

The group gasps—everyone but Natasha staring at you in disbelief. 

You frown. “What?” 

“I thought—” Mickey glances around like someone else might back him up. “I thought you only liked Bob.” 

You and Natasha—the only two in this group with any emotional intelligence, apparently—exchange a look. 

“She’s not into Trevor,” Nat says dryly. “And he’s definitely not into her.” 

“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.” 

“Like, very gay,” Natasha says. “Like, into Hangman gay.” 

Jake’s head snaps toward her. “Excuse me?” 

“Ohhh,” Mickey sighs. “That makes so much sense.” 

Reuben laughs. “Is that why he’s been stopping by every couple nights?” 

You laugh too, nodding. “Yeah. He’s been stuck on nights since getting stationed here, and he’s been bugging me to introduce him to Hangman. Thought it was fate when he found out our squad got moved to nights too.” 

“Excuse me,” Jake repeats. “What exactly makes a man extra gay for being into me?” 

The whole group breaks out laughing—Bradley included as he returns from taking his turn. 

“You’re just... pretty,” Javy says with a shrug. 

“So?” Jake throws up his hands. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It’s a compliment, dude,” Reuben says. “Just take it.” 

Jake huffs, but the rest of the group turns back to you. 

“So, why is he staying at your place?” Mickey asks. 

“Yeah,” Bradley adds, “and why can’t you bring someone home? It’s your place.” 

“His plumbing at the barracks is all messed up, so I offered him my couch,” you explain, before looking at Bradley. “And I could bring someone home, but I’m pretty sure he’d make it weird. Plus, I’m not exactly a fan of… being quiet.” 

Jake tips his head back with a dramatic groan. “God, why is it always the quiet nerds who get the hot freaky girls?” 

You giggle and pat his knee. “Oh, Hangman. You’re delusional if you think Floyd isn’t a freak too.” 

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Why does this feel like you’re talking about my brother?” 

“She’s right, though,” Mickey says, thoughtful. “Bob’s got something about him.” 

The rest of the squad nods, unspoken agreement passing between them while Jake’s eyes flick around in horrified disbelief. 

“What’d I miss?” Bob asks, suddenly reappearing at the edge of the group. 

Everyone falls silent. 

“Hangman’s stalling,” Natasha says coolly, “because he realised he’s going to lose.” 

Jake narrows his eyes at her as he stands. “You’re going down, Trace. This next one’s a strike.” 

He stalks off toward the ball return, and the game resumes. 

Thankfully, Bob doesn’t question the odd look Mickey gives him as he sits down beside you. Only this time, he keeps his distance—at least an inch between your bodies, careful not to let even the fabric of his shirt brush your arm. He doesn’t look at you, either. His gaze stays locked on the lane, watching each turn with intense focus. And he definitely doesn’t offer any more hands-on guidance for the rest of the night— though the blush on his cheeks stays stubbornly in place. 

After two games of bowling, a round of hot dogs, and more shit-talking than could possibly be quantified, everyone decides to call it a night. It isn’t even that late, but with your wrecked sleep schedules, you’re all starting to feel a little loopy. 

You swap back into your own shoes, return the bowling pair, duck into the bathroom, and head for the door. Everyone but Bob is already outside, but like the gentleman he is, he’s still inside—waiting by the claw machine with his nose buried in his phone. 

“Hey, superstar,” you say as you approach. “How’s it feel to be the best bowler in the squad?” 

He glances up with a soft smile. “One of the best,” he corrects. “I only won the first game.” 

You smirk, confidence flooding your gut. “Was it first-game luck or my skirt that threw you off during the second?” 

His face flushes bright red, eyes going wide like he’s just been caught in a lie. “I—uh, no, I just—” 

You roll your eyes playfully. “I was joking, Bob. Calm down.” 

He presses his lips together and nods, eyes flicking down to your bare legs for the briefest second before returning to your face. 

You nod toward the doors. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the others get suspicious.” 

He nods and gestures for you to lead the way—so you do, swinging your hips just a little extra. 

He hesitates for a beat, and you can feel his gaze sear into the exposed skin of your legs before he doubles his steps to catch up and walk beside you. 

“I was wondering,” you say quickly, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. “Did you—um,” you clear your throat, “want to hang out tomorrow night?” 

He glances at you, blue eyes swimming with something you can’t quite place. 

“Just us,” you clarify, voice dropping. “Kind of like… a date?” 

There’s a pause. An awkward pause. 

The hairs on the back of your neck rise and your stomach twists. 

“Um,” he drops his gaze to the ground, brows knitting. “I—I can’t tomorrow. I’ve got—I mean, I haven’t done laundry like… all week with the shift change, and I really need to catch up before Monday.” 

Heat floods your face, embarrassment settling heavy and sour in your gut. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, still staring at the floor. 

You dip your chin and blink hard, swallowing the burn rising behind your eyes. “No problem,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Hope you have fun doing laundry.” 

Then you double your pace and slip out the doors, not bothering to hold it open. You cross the parking lot quickly, making a beeline for Natasha’s car without so much as a glance toward the others. You yank the passenger door open, slide in, and slam it shut. 

- Bob - 

“What’d you do?” Natasha asks, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. 

Bob takes a slow breath as he drags his eyes up to meet her glare. “Nothing,” he mutters. 

“Yeah?” She arches a brow. “So, Vex will say the same thing when I ask her?” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Probably not, Phoenix. But you know what? I don’t really feel like explaining myself to you right now, so please—just drop it.” 

She rolls her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides, keys jingling in one hand. “I really thought you were one of the good ones, Floyd. I’m a little disappointed.” 

Then she turns and mumbles goodbye to the rest of the squad—who are all watching with wide eyes—before walking to her car and climbing into the driver’s seat. 

Bob can still feel your glare through the windshield, even if the dark night doesn’t let him see you clearly inside the car. 

As soon as Natasha peels out of the lot, Bob feels the shift—the boys’ eyes snap toward him. 

“So,” Jake says, brows raised, “what did you do?” 

Bob exhales and leans back against his car, arms crossing over his chest. “She asked me out,” he says quietly, “and I told her no… because I have laundry to do.” 

There’s a collective intake of breath. The atmosphere sharpens with something unspoken but easily understood: Bob fucked up—bad. 

“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in. 

Bradley lets out a low chuckle. “Holy shit, Floyd. That was dumb.” 

“I know,” Bob huffs. 

He’s not sure why he couldn’t tell Natasha but has no issue telling the others. Maybe because Natasha was about to get in a car with you and hear the story anyway—so why bother? Or maybe it’s because he’s a little afraid of Nat. And he knows, deep down, that he messed up. He just didn’t feel like getting chewed out by his sharp-tongued pilot tonight. 

“Why the hell wouldn’t you say yes?” Jake frowns. “She’s so into you—it’s almost a joke. And she’s gorgeous. Who cares about the age gap?” 

Bob’s eyes snap toward him, brow furrowed. “You’re the one who always has something to say about it. You literally call me a cradle-snatcher, like… once a week.” 

Jake rolls his eyes. “Because it’s fun to get a rise out of you. I don’t actually mean it.” 

“Yeah, dude,” Javy adds. “If we thought it was wrong, we’d say something. We make fun of you both because it’s obvious you’re obsessed with each other.” 

“Honestly,” Mickey pipes up, “I thought you two were already dating and just keeping it from us.” 

Bob buries his face in his hands, the heat in his cheeks burning against his palms. “For fuck’s sake.” 

“Oh, wow,” Reuben mutters. “Bob just swore.” 

Bradley drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Maybe you should call her. Or—I don’t know—go see her tomorrow. Apologise. You don’t have to date her, but if that’s how you feel, you need to be clear. Don’t lead her on. And you definitely owe her an apology for that shitty laundry excuse.” 

Bob nods slowly, letting his hands drop. “Yeah. I know.” 

Mickey chuckles, pulling his keys from his pocket. “Good luck, dude.” 

They all say their goodbyes and head for their cars, leaving Bob still leaning against the side of his own, a far-off look in his eyes and guilt twisting in his chest. 

He barely sleeps that night. 

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the profile of your face after he said no—the way your eyes glossed over, your jaw clenched, and your lips pressed into a thin, unshakable line. The memory cuts through him like a blade. 

He hates the thought of hurting you. But more than that, he hates himself—because he knows he did. He knows you cried, whether it happened in the car or the moment you got home. Either way, the result is the same—he made you cry. And that thought alone makes him feel sick. 

Before the sun even rises, he’s out of bed. Sleep abandoned, guilt gnawing at his insides, he laces up his shoes and goes for a run—trying to outrun the tight knot in his chest. He knows he’ll have to sleep later and stay up again tonight, thanks to another stretch of night shifts. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is talking to you. This morning. If you’ll even let him. 

After his run, sweat still cooling on his skin, he finally works up the nerve to text you: ‘Hey, sorry about last night. Are you free this morning?’ 

An hour passes. Nothing. 

And he knows you’re ignoring him—because you’ve reacted to a couple of messages in the group chat. You’re awake. You’re just not answering him. And honestly, he doesn’t blame you. 

By ten o’clock, he can’t stand it anymore. 

The ache in his chest is unbearable. His head is pounding. The guilt in his stomach is curling tighter with every passing second. But it’s not just guilt. It’s not just the regret of hurting a friend’s feelings. 

It’s worse—because it’s you. 

You’re his favourite person in the whole damn world. He can admit that now. You make him laugh. You make him feel like himself. And as much as he’s tried not to need you… he does. Desperately. 

The age gap isn’t the real problem—it never was. Maybe it’s just an excuse, something to hide behind because deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves you. But that’s not good enough anymore. He has to fix this. Even if you never forgive him, even if things can’t go back to how they were—he has to try. 

Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that he’s in love with you. 

And God, he hopes he can say it out loud—because it might be the only thing that can save him now. 

Before Bob even knows exactly how he’s going to say everything that’s been spinning through his head, he’s already outside your apartment building. He knows where it is because he helped you move in after the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit at North Island. 

He still thinks about that day, too. About the exercise tights you wore—how they clung to your ass like a second skin. About the loose tee you eventually peeled off because you were overheating, leaving you in nothing but a sports bra. And when you finally took a break, beer in hand on your new balcony, he watched you cool down… and watched your nipples pebble beneath the Lycra fabric. 

Bob felt like a total creep that day, but that hasn’t stopped him from—repeatedly—getting off to the memory of you on that balcony. Cheeks pink, lips wet with beer, eyes so wide and innocent, even though he’s pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing to him… 

He shakes his head and forces his feet to move—into the building, into the elevator, and up to your floor. The hallway feels both way too long and not nearly long enough as he approaches your door. Then, with a deep breath, he raises his hand and knocks three times. 

His heart is caught in his throat, hammering like it’s trying to escape. He’s felt pressure in the cockpit, but nothing like this. This is worse than pulling 8 Gs. 

The door swings open, and he opens his mouth to immediately beg you to hear him out—but… it’s not you. 

“Bob,” Trevor says with a sleepy grin and a wicked glint in his eye. “What a surprise to see you here.” 

His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are half-lidded. He looks like he either just woke up… or just got done doing something naked and personal with someone else. Which might explain why he’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a crooked pair of boxers that—at least in Bob’s opinion—aren’t leaving much to the imagination. 

“I—uh, Trevor?” 

Trevor nods, brow furrowing slightly. “The one and only. You good, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

Bob wishes it were a ghost. Because what he’s seeing right now is ten times more horrifying than anything spooky or undead. 

He clears his throat. “Y-Yeah, I’m good. I just—um, I was going to ask Vex if—” 

“Who is it?” you call groggily from deeper inside the apartment, your voice thick with sleep. 

Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!” 

“What?” 

He nudges the door open a little wider, revealing you in nothing but an oversized U.S. Navy tee. Your hair is mussed, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are narrowed—definitely not surprised. Just… pissed. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask, arms crossed tight against your chest. 

Bob stares, wide-eyed. You’re not shocked. You’re not flustered. You're still mad. How could you still be mad at him now? 

“I—uh, well—” He shakes his head and steps back, his stomach swirling nauseously. “Nothing. It’s fine. Just—forget it. You two have fun.” 

Then he turns on his heel and practically jogs down the hall, mashing the elevator button hard enough to hurt. He can hear your voice behind him, Trevor’s too, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to care. He just wants to get the hell out of here before he goddamn cries over the fact that the woman he loves just jumped into bed with the next guy right after he turned her down. 

Does he have any right to be this angry? Probably not. But still—why couldn’t you see it from his point of view? Why couldn’t you understand he was just… hesitant? That he needed some time to wrap his head around it? 

But no. You couldn’t be patient. You couldn’t wait. 

Because maybe you’re not as into him as everyone keeps saying. Maybe you never were. 

God, he should’ve known. He should have known it was too good to be true. Why would someone like you want someone like him? And why would you waste your time waiting—when you could have just about any man you wanted? 

- You - 

“What was that about?” Trevor asks, his head still half-stuck out the door like Bob might suddenly come back. 

You drop onto the couch, shoving aside the blanket Trevor had been using. “Don’t know,” you mutter. “Maybe he was thinking about apologising for being a jerk, but then decided to just keep being one.” 

Trevor turns to you with a puzzled frown. “What?” 

“You heard me.” 

He shuts the door and walks slowly toward to the lounge. “Yeah, but I didn’t understand you. What’s with the attitude?” 

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I asked him out last night.” 

Trevor gasps—loudly. 

“But he said no.” 

He rears back, brows drawn. “What? Why?” 

“Because he has laundry to do.” 

Trevor’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. “No.” 

“Yup,” you mutter, sinking deeper into the cushions. “That’s what the attitude is for.” 

He nods slowly, still staring. “Right… but then why did he show up here?” 

You shrug. “Maybe to apologise. Or maybe he was going to let me down for good. Tell me to stop flirting with him, or whatever.” 

Trevor frowns again, his eyes glazing over like he's lost in thought. 

You nudge his knee with your foot. “What’s that look for?” 

“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the curiosity stays fixed on his face. 

“Trevor…” 

He exhales a short breath. “I mean—do you think he thought… you and I…? You know?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “He knows I’m gay, right?” 

You snort. “Yes, Grinder. Bob Floyd, along with all of North Island, is very aware that you’re gay. I was literally talking about it with the squad last night.” 

He nods. “Good. ‘Cause if he didn’t, me opening the door shirtless and you in that ridiculously oversized tee might’ve looked real bad.” 

You barely hear him as he continues to rant about men and miscommunication. Instead, you flick on the TV, letting the background noise of old cartoon reruns wash over you while the memory of last night replays on loop. 

You let yourself feel it—let your chest ache with it—and hope it’s enough to kill off this stupid crush once and for all. 

But deep down, you know the truth. 

Whatever this is, it stopped being just a crush a while ago. 

And you’re starting to fear that maybe—just maybe—you’ve accidentally fallen in love with Bob Floyd. 

You spend the rest of the day sulking on the couch like it’s your full-time job, while Trevor obliterates your kitchen trying to make homemade macarons to ‘cheer you up.’ Normally, you’d be in there with him, correcting his technique and keeping the apartment from burning down, but not today. Today, you’re tired and heartbroken. 

The two of you stay up late trying to adjust to the coming week of night shifts, but by two a.m. you’re passed out on the lounge… and promptly woken at four by Trevor’s snoring. That’s when you give up, throw on your shoes, and go for a run—hoping to burn through enough energy to sleep through the day before shift. 

Trevor is gone by the time your alarm goes off at eight p.m., giving you an hour to tidy the apartment before showering and heading off to base. You stopped living on base when the Dagger Squad was made permanent at North Island, same as most of the others. It’s nice not having to share bathrooms or constantly wonder whether you’re going to get all your socks back from the laundry room. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss running into your friends all the time—running into Bob. 

The sky is dark and the base is quiet as you park your car and make your way to the squadron building. Your stomach twists nervously at the thought of seeing not just Bob, but your whole squad. You know they’d all know by now—that you asked Bob out and he shut you down. 

Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if Maverick knew. 

“Hey,” Natasha says, meeting you by the stairs before you enter the briefing room. 

You give her a tight smile. 

“Feeling any better?” 

You shake your head, lips still pulled into a watery smile as you push the door open. 

Bob is already in his usual seat—because of course he is—but he doesn’t look up when you walk in. He doesn’t give you that soft smile he usually does whenever he sees you. 

Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the lid of his travel mug, jaw tight as he flicks the little tab open and closed. 

Natasha gives you a sidelong glance, her brows drawn curiously. She knows what happened—you told her—but you haven’t yet filled her in on the part where he showed up at your apartment and then left in a hurry. 

You shake your head, giving her a silent look that says you’ll fill her in later. Then you turn and make your way to the back of the room, sinking into one of the furthest possible chairs from where Bob is seated. 

It isn’t long before Maverick walks in and starts the briefing. He rambles on about a possible mission on the horizon, which means upcoming hops and drills are going to be more purpose-driven. He wants to work closely with the WSOs, having them and their pilots fly point to spot anything the night might hide from the F/A-18E drivers. 

You’re not particularly bothered by that, because after tonight, the rest of your hops are scheduled with Reuben and Mickey. Which means you only have to deal with Bob for one night. Just one. You only have to pretend to listen to him for one night. Then you get almost a full week’s reprieve. 

“Alright,” Maverick says, shutting his notebook. “Phoenix, Bob, Hangman, Vex—you’re on deck. The rest of you, head to the ready room.” 

Everyone shuffles out, the group splitting down the corridor as half of you head outside and the other half veer toward the ready room. 

You let Natasha and Bob take the lead, half-listening to Jake whine about how much he hates NVGs and how night shifts ruin his gym schedule. 

Then the cart ride is silent—tension so thick that even Maverick doesn’t bother breaking it. 

Once at the hangar, you start gearing up and going through the motions—chatting with ground crew, checking your jet, adjusting your equipment, running internals. You wait until it’s your turn to be taxied out, then climb into the cockpit and try to settle your nerves. 

You take a deep breath and call on every ounce of focus and maturity you have just to stop yourself from shutting off comms. You might be pissed right now, but this is your job. The job you worked way too hard for to let some ridiculously gorgeous lieutenant break your heart badly enough to get you grounded. 

Tonight, the sky is clear but moonless—the darkness heavier than usual. You check your instruments twice—three times—and remind yourself it’s just another hop. You’ve done this a thousand times before. 

But still, your hands stay tight on the controls. 

You fly in relative radio silence for the first twenty minutes, squinting through slightly misaligned NVGs. You’d fiddled with them on the ground until you gave up and told yourself your vision was good enough. It’s quieter than usual, and you’re not sure if that’s because no one has anything to say—or because the night feels eerily still. 

Natasha and Bob are flying point, with you and Jake in the second element. Maverick is out here too, but only observing—watching closely as you run a low-level, terrain-following route meant to simulate a high-risk strike. 

You’ve done this kind of thing a hundred times, even at night. But something about this hop feels off. Or maybe it’s just you, flying like you’ve got something to prove—to yourself, or to someone else. You haven’t decided yet. 

Then Bob’s voice crackles through the comms, steady and low. “Vex, you’re a little wide on your spacing.” 

You don’t answer, but you adjust—barely. 

“Maintain visual, Vex,” Natasha adds, voice firm. “Don’t ride solo tonight.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek and flick your radio toggle. “Copy.” 

You fall back into formation as the terrain-following manoeuvres begin—tight dips, sweeping curves, a mock run on radar targets ahead. You lock in, gripping the stick, head tipped forward, forcing your focus to drown out the simmering frustration. 

It’s not an easy run, but you’ve done it before. You know the tricky spots, and you’re watching out for your team, flying just a little closer than what’s usually comfortable. You’d be flying almost perfectly—if it weren’t for Bob’s corrections crackling through the radio. His voice in your ear every few minutes, low and steady. Commanding. It’s making your skin crawl and your pulse race. 

You know you’re better than this. You’ve trained to handle the worst. To stay sharp pulling 10 Gs, to keep cool weaving through canyons at Mach 2. And yet somehow, Bob Floyd’s maddeningly smooth voice telling you and Jake how not to crash is what’s making you consider pulling the damn ejection handle. 

“Vex, you’ve got a ridge coming up,” Bob says, his tone sharper now, more urgent. “Drop throttle. Adjust heading five degrees right.” 

You hesitate. Your altimeter says you’re good, and your gut says you’re fine. You think—no, you know—you can hold it. 

“Vex—” he tries again. 

“I’ve got it,” you snap, breathless as you press on, trying to hold your line. 

Jake cuts in with something sharp, but you don’t catch it—because suddenly the warning tone in your headset screams. 

Your heart lurches. 

Terrain. Too close. Too fast. 

“Pull up! Pull up!” Bob’s voice slices through the comms. “Vex, you’re too low!” 

You grit your teeth, trying to correct, trying to climb—but it’s too dark, too fast. Everything is a blur. 

“Vex, listen to me—pull up!” His voice cracks. “You’re going to hit—”��

“Eject!” Maverick shouts, raw panic in his tone. “Vex, eject now!” 

“I can save it,” you mutter, voice strained. “I can—" 

Then you see it. A flash of jagged terrain through the cockpit glass—a dark silhouette where there should be sky. And in that split second, the truth hits you like a punch to the chest. 

You’re not going to make it. 

Your hand flies to the ejection handle, pulling it hard. 

The canopy blasts away with a deafening crack, wind slamming into you like a freight train. The violent jolt of the seat launches you skyward, your body wrenched into the dark as the jet disappears in a blur of motion below. 

Then—freefall. 

The sky spins. The world tilts. The parachute deploys with a brutal yank that rattles your spine. 

But you’re too low. Far too low. 

You don’t even have time to brace. 

You hit the ground hard—a bone-snapping impact that knocks every breath from your lungs. The force slams through your leg with a sickening pop. 

White-hot pain detonates through you. 

Your vision flashes. Your stomach turns. You can’t even scream. 

And then… everything goes still. 

Muted. 

Quiet. 

Like the world took a breath—and left you behind. 

- 

You wake to the steady beep of a monitor. Your eyelids are heavy, your mouth is dry, and there’s pain everywhere. It’s not as excruciating as it had been right before you blacked out, but it’s there—dull and throbbing, a bitter reminder of what had happened when you ejected from your jet. 

It feels like it was only seconds ago, but you know better than that. You’re not that out of it. 

The sharp sting of antiseptic hits your nose. There are low murmurs nearby, the shuffle of feet across tile, and the distant sounds of other beeping machines. Even before you manage to open your eyes, you know—you’re in a hospital. 

The white and blue walls are almost blinding, but after a few sticky blinks, your vision finally sharpens. You roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, searching for moisture. 

You try—and fail—to sit up. Your body is too heavy against the crunchy hospital pillows, and your right leg is pinned down even more by a thick black-and-white brace. 

“Ow,” you mutter, voice hoarse and barely audible. 

There’s a sudden gasp beside you, then a quick shuffle of movement. 

A warm hand wraps around yours as dark blue eyes swim into focus above you, wide and full of concern—rimmed red, with deep purple shadows underneath. 

“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough before he clears his throat, like he's trying to swallow down something heavier. 

“Bob,” you whisper, lips cracking as they stretch into a soft smile. 

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. His face is pale, exhaustion carved into every line, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorise it. Or maybe—trying to recognise it. Because whatever softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours… then lets go. 

He stands straight, jaw clenched, and turns to the wall to press the nurse call button. 

You frown, but before you can speak—if you even could with how dry your mouth is—a nurse rushes in. 

“Oh, you’re awake!” she says brightly, green eyes lighting up as she stops beside the bed. “How are you feeling?” 

You clear your throat. “Thirsty.” 

She nods and quickly wheels the little table over, pouring water from the pitcher into a small plastic cup. She then hands it to you before using the bed remote to ease you into a more upright position. 

“Thanks,” you rasp after a few sips, your voice clearer now. 

The nurse smiles softly, her eyes flicking between you and Bob. “He didn’t leave your side. Not for a second.” 

You turn to look at him, but all traces of warmth are gone. He looks almost angry, his gaze fixed straight ahead—not at you or the nurse, but at the wall. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and his hands are clearly balled into fists in his pockets. 

He’s still in his flight suit, which means he’s been with you since the second search and rescue found you. 

“I’ll give you two a minute,” the nurse says. “I’m just going to grab the doctor, alright?” 

You nod, not even looking at her, and she shuffles out of the room, swinging the door half shut on her way. 

Bob’s eyes flick to you. “Are you in pain?” 

You shift slightly, the dull throb in your leg pulsing back to life. “Yeah,” you wince. “A little. But it’s bearable.” 

He doesn’t move. His whole body is tense, only his eyes locked on you—sharp and unrelenting. 

“You have a hairline fracture in your femur,” he says. 

You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg. 

“You’re lucky it wasn’t a full break,” he adds. “You’d have been grounded for at least six months—or longer. Probably would’ve had to requalify, if you even got cleared again.” 

You swallow hard. He’s angry—really angry. The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s torn between wrapping you in his arms or walking out the door and never looking back. 

“You didn’t listen,” he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. “You were supposed to listen to me, and you didn’t. I—I told you just last week that if something happened, it would be my fault.” 

Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision. “This isn’t your—” 

“No,” he snaps. “It’s not. This is your fault. Because you were reckless, and cocky, and too caught up in your own shit to listen to a perfectly sound call from your WSO.” 

You blink, warm tears slipping down your cheek. “Bob, I—” 

“Don’t,” he says, voice low and raw. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t look at me like I’m the only person you want to see right now.” He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve been here for two days. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead. You went down so fast, you—you—” 

The door swings open and a middle-aged woman with white-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun steps in. “Lieutenants,” she greets briskly. “Sorry to interrupt, but there are a few things we need to go over.” 

Bob straightens immediately. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be leaving now.” 

Her brows knit together, but she doesn’t stop him as he turns and walks out. 

His footsteps are heavy. Forced. Like it’s taking everything he’s got to walk away and not look back. 

After a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and a long debrief with the flight surgeon, you're finally discharged. You can’t drive—of course—so they pack you into a general escort car with your leg still in the brace and a pair of crutches tossed in beside you. Fantastic. 

Once you’re home, you collapse into bed and immediately pass out. But it’s not exactly restful. Your brain won’t shut off—won’t stop replaying the way Bob looked at you, the anger in his voice, the exhaustion written all over his face. How he never left your side. How he still hasn’t responded to your text thanking him for staying. Or the one where you apologised for not listening to him in the air. 

You want to talk to him. Need to talk to him. Because you're not planning on staying grounded forever, and when you’re back on your feet, you’re not transferring out. The Dagger Squad isn’t just a group of friends—they’re your family. Bob included. In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously. Even though there are definitely some things you’d like to do to him that would make a family dinner wildly uncomfortable. 

But first, he has to reply. He has to acknowledge that you exist. 

When you wake again, it’s dark, and your phone is lit up with a flood of messages from the team. You take your time replying to each one, then hobble into the bathroom, ditch the brace, and take the hottest, longest shower your body can tolerate. 

The next few hours are spent on the couch, anxiously watching the clock until Natasha finally texts you to say they’ve been dismissed. Which means Bob is off. Which means he has no excuse. 

But still—nothing. You call. He doesn’t answer. Then Natasha texts again to let you know she watched him decline it. 

Great. Another win. 

Two whole days pass, and still no word. 

You’re supposed to be on bed rest for two weeks before the flight surgeon clears you for light duties, but you’re going stir-crazy. With the squad on night shifts and your circadian rhythm completely fucked, you haven’t spoken to anyone but Trevor—once, over the phone—in forty-eight hours. Unless you count text messages, which you don’t. 

All you want is to talk to Bob. Ask him why the hell he came to your house that day. Why he was so pissed at you that night. And why he thinks it’s okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened. 

At this point, you don’t even care if he professes his undying love for you—though you’d strongly prefer it—you just want an explanation. You want to know what you did to hurt him so badly, and how to make it right. Because more than anything, you need him. And if friendship is the only version of him you’re allowed to have... then you’ll take it. 

Even if it kills you. 

By the third day… or night—you’re not even sure anymore—you decide to take matters into your own hands. 

Your alarm blares at four a.m., an hour before you know the squad will be dismissed, and you wriggle out of bed and into a loose pair of sweatpants before securing your brace over the top. Then you tug on your stupidly oversized U.S. Navy shirt, grab your crutches, and hobble out the door. 

You know where Bob lives—in the least creepy way possible—because you all moved out of the barracks around the same time, and you helped each other move. So, you call an Uber, hauling your injured self into the back seat with grim determination and only a small amount of whining. 

It’s barely a ten-minute drive, which gives you about half an hour to crutch your way up the fire stairs—because of course the elevator requires a swipe card—to his apartment. 

You know it’s ridiculous. You could’ve just waited in the lobby. But you don’t want to give him the chance to run away—again, in the least creepy way possible. The plan is to corner him at his apartment door, and maybe guilt-trip him a little with how much effort it took just for you to get there. At the very least, he’d have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card… and maybe you could ‘accidentally’ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then he’d be stuck with you. 

Jesus. Thirty-six hours alone and you’re already in full-blown serial killer mode. 

It takes twenty minutes to reach his floor, with plenty of breaks along the way, but eventually, you make it. You hobble down the hallway and lean against his door, dropping your head back with a soft thunk. 

Not even a minute later, Natasha texts you to say they’ve been dismissed—because of course you filled her in on your plan. 

And then you wait. With a racing pulse, a throbbing leg, and about a thousand thoughts spiralling through your brain. You wait. 

At one point, a neighbour emerges from a nearby door, startling you. They give you a deeply dubious look before slipping into the elevator, and you make a mental note to tell Bob that they might warn him about a crazy, broken-legged woman lurking outside his apartment. 

Your breathing picks up as the minutes pass—faster and faster until it feels impossible to catch. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out just waiting for him. But then—ding. 

The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out. 

Seeing him for the first time in three days shouldn’t feel like a religious experience—but it fucking does. God, he looks good. Even sleep-deprived, rumpled, and sporting messy helmet hair, he’s a walking wet dream in a flight suit deliberately designed for your destruction. 

“Hey,” you say quietly, not wanting to startle him. 

He jumps anyway—just a little. His feet still, eyes widening behind his glasses, brows pulling together. 

“What are you doing here?” 

You push off the door, steadying yourself on your crutches. “Good to see you too,” you say dryly. “I’ve been alright. A little lonely, borderline insane. My leg’s killing me after a thousand stairs. But hey—you look... tired. How’s the squad?” 

He studies you for a moment. His frown softens, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches. 

“I am tired,” he says. “The squad’s fine. Also tired.” 

You nod. “Cool. So... everyone’s tired.” 

He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking toward you, closing the distance. 

“That all you came to talk about?” he asks. 

You roll your eyes and shuffle aside. “What do you think?” 

He sighs. “I think I’m not going straight to bed anymore.” 

The door swings inward and he steps through, holding it open for you—wide as possible. 

“That would be correct,” you say, flashing a grin as you hobble inside. 

He shuts the door behind you and slides the chain lock into place. 

You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches aren’t exactly graceful—and you haven’t had much practice. You make your way past the kitchen toward the small living room, where a plush cream sofa waits with perfectly fluffed pillows and a decorative throw draped neatly over the back. You’re just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow. 

“Here,” he says softly, his other hand reaching to take the crutches from you. 

He’s so close you can feel his warmth. You catch his scent—clean linen, a hint of jet fuel, and something subtle and spicy that’s so unmistakably him. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, eyes locked on his lips. 

He helps ease you down slowly onto the couch before straightening and setting your crutches aside, leaning them against the wall beside the TV cabinet. 

“Let me just get changed,” he says, already turning toward his bedroom without a second glance. 

He’s gone less than a minute. When he returns, he’s wearing dark blue joggers and a white sleep shirt worn so thin it’s almost translucent. 

“Water?” he asks, detouring into the kitchen. 

You shake your head. “I’m good—but thanks.” 

He’s stalling. You know it. But you can be patient. 

He pours himself a glass, drains it, then pours another before finally making his way back into the living room. He sits at the very end of the chaise lounge—about as far from you as possible. 

“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?” 

You nod, adjusting your posture even though you're already stiff with nerves. 

“Look,” you begin, eyes dropping to your lap. “I know why you’re mad about the accident—I get it. It was stupid. I was reckless. I deserve to be in this stupid brace. I shouldn’t have ignored you, and I shouldn’t have let personal shit bleed into work. I’m sorry.” 

You glance up, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t move. He just blinks. 

Still, you press on. “If I could go back, I would. If there was anything I could do to make it up to you—or the squad—I’d do it. But we’re here now, I feel like shit, and the accident is on my record. I’m just glad none of you, or Mav, are in trouble because of me.” 

He’s still silent, but you can see it now—his eyes keep flicking down to your shirt, his frown darkening each time. 

“What I don’t get,” you say, your voice tightening, “is why you were already mad that night. Why you came to my apartment that morning but ran off without—” 

“That’s irrelevant,” he cuts in, voice low—lethal. 

You frown. “What do you mean irrelevant? The whole reason I was in a bad mood that night is because you rejected me and then acted like I did something wrong.” 

His eyes widen. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? That what you’re saying?” 

“No,” you snap. “Of course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine. I was the idiot who asked you out, the idiot who got mad when you said no, and the idiot who let it affect her at work. I’m not blaming you. I just want to understand.” 

He takes an infuriatingly calm sip of water, gaze still fixed on your torso. 

“You want to know why I said no when you asked me out?” 

You shake your head. “I know why you said no.” 

His brow creases. “You do?” 

You sigh, eyes falling to your fingers as they toy with the hem of your shirt. “Because you don’t like me. That’s it. And I need to accept that. I shouldn’t have pushed it, or forced myself on you, and—” 

He scoffs—sharp and dry—cutting you off. “You’re joking, right?” 

You look up, blinking slowly. “Um… no. Not really.” 

His laugh is sharp—bitter and cracked—so not Bob. 

“You think I don’t like you?” he says, voice rising—unsteady now. “Are you insane?” 

He stands suddenly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from flying apart. 

“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” His eyes are wild when they meet yours. “And yeah, I said no when you asked me out, but that wasn’t because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. But I was scared.” 

He paces now, voice building like the pressure in a cockpit. 

“It wasn’t about your age—that was just a dumb excuse. It was you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re so sharp. You walk into a room and everything shifts. And I kept thinking, how the hell does someone like you want someone like me?” 

His voice cracks, and he stops pacing, facing you full on. “So yeah. I panicked. I said no. And the second you walked away, I regretted it. I hated myself for it. And that morning—I came to tell you. I was ready to throw it all on the table.” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “But then he answered the door. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. And you—” 

He gestures at you, helpless. His eyes—dark blue and burning—shine with the storm he’s been holding back. 

“You just stood there. In his shirt. Like you hadn’t just ripped my heart out and stepped over it. Like I was nothing. Like I’d missed my shot and you’d already moved on.” His voice dips—raw now. “And now? You’re here. In the same goddamn shirt.” 

He laughs again, broken this time. 

“And I know I had no right to be angry. I know it. But Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to look at the woman you love knowing you’re the one who ruined it? Who let her go?” 

He’s panting now, standing between the couch and the coffee table with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. Just looking at you. Waiting. 

You swallow hard, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling. Your pulse is racing, pounding in your ears like a war drum. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break bone. You can’t breathe. You can barely think. There’s only one word echoing in your head. 

“Love?” you whisper. 

He rubs his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath. 

“Yes. Love.” His arms drop to his sides as he meets your eyes again. “I love you.” 

Your heart lurches into your throat. 

“But that doesn’t change anything,” he adds quickly, dropping onto the couch—closer this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “I don’t expect it to change anything. I let you down, and you moved on. You had every right to. I should never have been angry about it—and for that, I’m sorry. Just…” He sighs again. “Just give me some time, okay? Just let me—” 

“Trevor’s gay,” you blurt, louder than you mean to. 

He blinks. “What?” 

“Gay,” you repeat. “He’s gay. Like, so incredibly gay he’s into Hangman.” 

Bob’s lips part, a soft breath slipping out. 

You lean forward, brows drawn tight. “His callsign is Grinder. I mean, yes—partly because he’s a hard worker—but mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. But—Bob, I thought you knew—” You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.” 

The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence. 

The air between you crackles—so thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down. 

“Hangman?” he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly. 

You nod. “Hangman.” 

He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. “So, you didn’t—” 

“No,” you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. “Is that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy who’d fuck me?” 

He cringes—actually cringes. “That’s just how it looked, I—” 

“So you assumed?” you cut in, voice sharp. “You didn’t even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though you’re the one who rejected me?” 

You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, something—but you can't. Not with your stupid leg. 

“I know I had no right,” he mutters. 

“Damn straight you didn’t,” you bite out. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, I’m looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. I’m in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fucking—” 

His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips. 

It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall. 

His hands are in your hair, on your jaw, trembling as they try to hold you steady while his lips crash into yours with blistering need. It’s hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing he’s carried igniting in a single breathless second. 

You gasp, shocked by the force of it—your lips parting, letting him in. 

And then it’s chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos. 

His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if he’s trying to memorise you with his fingertips and palms. Your hands claw into his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, dragging him closer, gasping into his mouth like you’re both trying to breathe each other in. 

You feel like you’re on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half. 

There’s a sharp pain in your leg from how hard you’re leaning in, but you don’t care. You’d burn your whole body just to keep this going. 

Because he kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hunger—because you’ve wanted this forever. Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. 

“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.” 

You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. “I’m not leaving.” 

“Good,” he murmurs, then kisses you again—soft, lingering. 

His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail down the line of your jaw to your neck. Your skin ignites beneath every brush of his mouth, like your whole body is wired to spark beneath his touch. 

Your stomach flips like you’ve been dropped from a height. Your thoughts dissolve into haze. Limbs weightless, breath shallow. All you can feel is the hot press of his lips and the growing ache in your stupid leg. 

“Bob,” you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. “Bob, m—my leg.” 

He jolts back like he’s touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space he’s no longer filling. 

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps. 

You shake your head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m okay.” 

He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes your chest tighten. His glasses are askew, his cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet. His eyes are wild and wide, pupils blown so far they swallow the blue. 

Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. “So... whose shirt is that?” 

You blink, then glance down. “Oh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.” 

He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. “It looks good on you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “but I think I prefer the short skirts.” 

Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. “Bob Floyd,” you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, “did you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?” 

He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. “Only when the skirts are on you.” 

“That so?” Your lips curl into a slow smirk. “Well, unfortunately, I think this—” you tap the brace on your leg “—means short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.” 

He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yours—burning now. There’s a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something you’ve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clench—if it weren’t for your stupid goddamn injury. 

Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, “What about sex?” 

The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening. 

“Can you be gentle?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. 

“I can try,” he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire. 

Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You don’t care how sore your leg might be—you want him. All of him. Finally. 

So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, “Then what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?”

END.

[farrikdanked]

four eyes. | BF x Reader

PAIRINGS: Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader

SYNOPSIS: asking bob to make a mess of himself on your face while you wear his glasses? absolutely.

WORD COUNT: 1.8k

WARNINGS: ahem, SMUT, established relationship, profanity, oral (m!receiving), deepthroating, facial, handjob, cum eating, dirty talk, begging, slightly sub!reader, praise, aftercare and such sweet affection from bobby, not proofread and mdni!!, reader is a minx, brief mention of term ‘slut’, size kink, awkward sweetheart w a big dick!bob,

A/N: this is the most filthiest shit I’ve ever written and if you like this ur crazy… *reblogs, comments and likes the post*

“What are you up to?” he drawls, watching carefully as you crawl over his naked midriff and through the sea of bedsheets. Post-sex endorphins were through the roof right now for Bob, a wave of happy tiredness sweeping over the pilot.

You huff, hand outstretched as you reach for Bob's glasses perched on the bedside table.

“I wanna try these on” you say to him, balancing yourself as you try to grab the frames. Bob chuckles, a hand coming to rub your ass lovingly.

You bit your lip to fight the feeling of a grin spreading on your face, the feeling of Bob's soft hands tickling you as you playfully pushed him away, all the while he simply beams at you.

The hand supporting yourself on his hard chest slips, causing you to collapse on top of your boyfriend, your naked breasts brushing over his cock and sending a shiver down his spine.

A firm hand comes to still yourself. “Careful” he says softly, hands warm.

Bob looks over, grabbing the glasses just as you were about to pick them up, and holding them out of your reach. You protest, trying to get ahold of the frames you loved so much. Bob puts them on, allowing himself to properly see his girl.

“You don’t wanna wear these, they don’t look good on anyone. Including me.” he mumbles, adjusting you on top of him.

But you're quick to swipe them off his face, ignoring Bob's laughs when you put the glasses on yourself and straddle his hips. “I like them, they’re cute,” you tell him.

“Well what d’ya know?” Bob utters softly to himself when he sees you, gazing up at his girl wearing the steel rimmed aviators and looking absolutely breathtaking.

“Hi there, four eyes” he chuckles, finding it odd saying a phrase he’s been nicknamed all his childhood. Hell, even Seresin has no problem calling him that to this day.

Bob smiles, strong but soft hands coming to rest on your hips as you sat dangerously close to where his happy trail leads to. Your brows furrowed as you viewed the world through his lenses.

“Jesus, Bob, you really are blind!” You uttered, looking down at the blurry man seated against the bedpost.

Bob’s become busy at the moment, pressing pecks to your hardended nipples. He simply nods, pretending he’s listening.

“You should go to the eye doctor, honey”

Bob peaks through, giving you a look. “That’s where I got them”

“Hm.”

The room is silent, a soft glow of the afternoon sunlight peeking through the white shutters. You feel the corners of Bob’s lips curling into a smile against your skin, a silent worship to your body.

“You’re so soft.” he murmurs.

“Honey,” you call to your boyfriend.

“Hm?” Bob replies absentmindedly, still brushing his face along your chest, hugging you closer.

You tug on his brown locks, pulling his head from your body and looking down at him.

“I wanna try something.” you grinned, a mischievous glint in your eyes mixed with a bottle of excitement. You quickly press a kiss to his lips.

Bob watches as you pull from his grasp, lips forming a small frown from the loss of contact as you shuffled down the bed so you were now kneeling on the floor by the edge.

Bob looks over at you quizzically, wondering what you were up to before you beckon towards him, ushering him to sit at the edge of the bed.

“Come sit, Robert” you directed, calling him by his birth name to get his attention.

His soft cock limps near his thighs as he adjusts himself, sitting before you in all his naked glory, hair tousled by your hands and a pink blush ghosting his cheeks. His hand comes up to play with your hair, tucking a loose strand behind your ear. You look up in seriousness and confess.

“I want you to cum on these glasses”

Bob stops all motion, hand still tucked behind your ear. The room falls silent.

“What?”

You ignore the bafflement of your crimson cheeked boyfriend, bending down to lick a long stripe up his veiny shaft. A loud moan and harsh tug against your scalp brings you to take him further, almost triggering your gag reflexes. It all happens so fast. Bob mutters incoherently from the sudden gesture, both of you going slightly insane when your nose presses against his pubic bone as tears form near your eyes.

“Baby, hold on a moment, Jesus fuck!”

You’re worried you’re going to make a mess on the floor from the way your slick almost drips from your pussy.

You’ve been thinking of this fantasy for a while if you were to be honest. Bob pulls you back, gasping for air as a proud feeling settles in your chest. It’s not everyday you hear Bob cuss like that.

He’s panting hard, watching as a bit of saliva is smeared on your lips, eyes glossy. Bob sighs in exasperation as you decide to stroke his cock with your hands.

“You gotta let me speak-“

“Please, Bobby” you beg, pressing kisses to the pink tip and relishing in the way you feel him harden in your hand. A loud groan escapes Bob's throat, feeling sensitive despite having had sex the whole afternoon with you.

“I want you to cum while I have your glasses on” you told him, kitten licks getting the best of your boyfriend. “Like in those pornos” you mumble softly, your shy giggles driving Bob insane.

“Nobody says pornos anymore” he mumbles telling you, swallowing hard when you tug on his cock tighter for not responding.

Bob clears his throat. “You, um, want me to give you a facial?” He asks softly, holding onto your hand that's stroking his cock.

You nod eagerly.

“A-Are you sure?” He says, worried that taking him like this is gonna wear you out. In all honesty, the boy can’t help but grow hard at the thought of cumming all over your innocent face, big eyes covered by his glasses milked by his seed.

You nod, excitement and horniness flowing through your body.

“Please, honey, I want you to see me painted” you sighed, thumb brushing over the thick tip, smearing precum over the slit.

Bob thinks he’s gonna cum just from this angle, but he needs you so badly he tries to regain composure. He bends down to kiss you, tasting himself on your lips and letting your face be held in his soft touch. “Let me know if it's too much baby” he addresses in concern, the tears on your cheeks worrying him.

You sniffle, nodding your head to assure him. “Want you so bad, Bobby, let me suck you”

Your last few words are incoherent from the way you let Bob’s big cock stuff your throat, making you gag but desperately hold on. Bob lets go, both hands coming to balance himself on the edge, one gripping the bed sheets.

The sensation is fucking marvellous. You feel so full, loving the way the stretch of your mouth and untouched ache of your pussy turn you cockdrunk on Bob Floyd’s dick.

You look up, desperate to see how he's taking you, wanting to see the expression of him getting the daylights sucked out of him.

Lieutenant Bob ruts his hips pathetically, trying so hard not to make a mess of your mouth and hurt you. His head is pulled back, groans falling from his soft lips as he praises you so good.

“That’s it baby, doing so well for me” he sighs, now two large hands coming to push you a little further, a groan falling from his lips as you take him fully now.

“God, I love you!” he cries out loud, an instinctive response coming from your boyfriend as he caresses your hair, tucking a strand behind your ear. You smile, aviator lenses reflecting the light as your lips are wrapped securely around his dick.

”So pretty, such a pretty girl” he says under his breath, admiring the way your tits bounce along with every stroke on his cock. You gasp, pulling away as you let your fist do the rest.

“I love you too, Bobby” you gasped, looking up to find Bob staring at you intensely, with such a fierce gaze of love, sensuality, and pure awe.

”H-How,” he begins, starting to feel a familiar feeling settle inside him. “How did I get so lucky with you?” He admits, wanting nothing more but to see his cum painting his glasses you’re wearing. He thinks he might just let you have them. Being able to see is overrated anyways.

“I think I’m gonna cum, baby” he lets out, watching as your eyes get eager, adjusting your sore knees so you can get the perfect angle.

“Please baby, give it to me” you begged, pussy so sensitive you have to make sure you hold yourself up enough so the cold wooden floors don’t brush against your folds.

Watching you rub his dick like that, mouth open and face ready is an image Bob will have ingrained in his mind forever, a hot spurt of milky liquid shooting onto your lips as Bob finally gives you what you wanted.

Incoherent mumbles fill the sweaty bedroom, letting one hand cup his balls as the other makes sure to smear the warm fluid all over your lips, glasses starting to get foggy.

“Fucking hell” Bob cries out, spilling your name from his lips like a sacred mantra.

You hum, a wave of both happiness and satisfaction washing over you as you sit in front of Bob’s glory.

You let the man come down from his high, tasting salt and your boyfriend in your mouth. Before you can even clean yourself up, Bob is ripping off the dirtied glasses framing your face, and grabbing you towards him for a passionate kiss. The action makes you dizzy, your red, sore knees almost buckling under.

It’s only a while after when he pulls away, grabbing for a box of tissues near the nightstand and pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I’m sorry for the mess” he replies shyly, the image of this tall, naked, handsome, and yet totally awkward giant taking care of you making it all worthwhile.

“It’s okay” you reply, voice hoarse. You couldn’t help but feel happy, even if you didn’t cum (Bob would see to it later of course).

You feel him use the tissues to wipe your chin, face, and tits, or really, what was leftover after you sucked it all up like a slut.

“You’re crazy sometimes, you know that?” Bob mumbles, shaking his head as he smiles at you, his soft touch so rewarding.

You laugh, latching your arms around his neck and letting him hoist you up so easily. His semi-hard cock limps against your stomach, both of you standing up and lips pressing together in another soft kiss.

”Thank you for the most mind blowing head of my life.” He jokes.

”Thanks for the facial” you gleam, sucking your fingers with a pop that makes Bob weak, falling back down on the mattress and taking you with him so you’re straddling him again.

Bob reaches for the glasses, getting a tissue so he could wipe them before an idea pops in your head and you stop him.

You put on the glasses again. He looks up.

“Bobby, where’s the Polaroid camera?”

[farrikdanked]

pairing: robert reynolds x reader cw: smut, bob has sensory issues, afab reader, faint talks and mentions of mental health, very faint non-con aspects, oral (female receiving) vaginal fingering, nipple play, humping, dry humping.

after consuming the serum, bob became extremely hypersensitive and aware of things—so much so that even the faintest kind of touch could send his whole nervous system reeling.

he didn’t snap, didn’t yell, didn’t push you away in frustration. never. he would just murmur softly—almost apologetically—that he “couldn’t be touched right now.”

there was always a pause before he said it. like he was trying not to disappoint you. like he was ashamed of the way his body betrayed him.

the sensitivity extended to the mundane—fabric on his skin, loud ambient noises, even too many lights in a room. sometimes, in the tower, he’d forgo wearing a shirt entirely, just letting his skin breathe. his golden skin, speckled with sweat and goosebumps, would gleam under the artificial lights, flushed in pinks and reds where the air felt too cold. more often than not, he’d pace barefoot in nothing but drawstring pants, arms crossed over his chest like a barrier, avoiding eye contact with anyone who passed by in the halls. it earned him glances. side comments.

especially from walker, who never quite understood that bob’s vulnerability wasn’t weakness—it was survival.

you caught one of those glares once—when you’d been walking down the hallway beside bob, your hand ghosting near the small of his back but not quite touching him. john’s voice, muttered low, just enough to catch your ear:

“isn’t he a little delicate for a guy who can tear satellites out the sky?”

which, naturally, meant john wanted you to use his tower card for a little shopping spree. you told yourself it was reparations. he slept like a boulder, so slipping the card from his wallet was easy enough, and by the end of the afternoon, you were $1,500 deep in a blur of textures and fabrics, cotton shirts so soft they felt like clouds under your fingertips, corduroy pants that didn’t snag against his skin, jeans carefully vetted so they didn’t “feel weird,” sweatshirts knit from the kind of threads that wouldn’t spark his nerves alight. 

you didn’t tell bob how much you spent. not for lack of him trying. he always asked to see the receipt—voice so careful, so earnestly sweet, like he was hoping it didn’t trouble you too much. but you just kissed his forehead and told him to focus on how good it all felt.

clothing was easy. sex was harder.

because bob was always easy to overstimulate. that part wasn’t the serum. that part was just… bob.

now, sometimes—when his body couldn’t regulate anything, when his chest felt like it was cracking open from the inside out—you could barely blow air across the flushed head of his cock before he was gasping, crying out, arching up into the empty space like the very air was too much. milky-white cum painting his abs, tears streaking down his cheeks as he gasped—“holy—fuck!—shit,” or “please—’m sorry i am—i’m so sorry—!”

and god help him, the one time you’d tried to sink down onto him during one of those episodes, he’d cum in you twice before you’d even managed to bottom out. his face had crumpled, eyes screwed shut, bottom lip bitten raw as he choked out little whimpers. you’d barely been able to move without hurting him, the hypersensitivity turning pleasure into something agonizing. 

and when you finally slid off of what little you’d taken, it was messy—cum leaking out of you, dripping down his shaft, and pooling hot between your thighs. his body trembled under yours, head thrown back against the pillow, adam’s apple bobbing with every sharp swallow. he whimpered, voice wrecked, saying he wanted you to keep it inside—like it meant something. like it mattered. he’d made this broken little sound, throat bobbing as he begged you to leave it in, trembling hands trying to push it back inside you with his fingers.

“i need it—i… jus’ wanna keep it there, please—”

you’d figured out workarounds since then. bob was desperate to give you pleasure, to feel useful in that way, to prove to himself he wasn’t a burden. his fingers would tremble as he pushed them inside you, skin prickling with sparks like every nerve ending had a live wire attached. his tongue — too hot, too greedy — left him shaking after, the taste of you almost too much, something primal unspooling inside him until his hands clenched the sheets like he was drowning.

just like now.

he was between your thighs, eyes glassy, lips slick and flushed, the muscles in his jaw tight as his tongue worked in slow, heavy drags. every time he swallowed, you could feel it — the tremor that ran through his body, like the flavor of you was too much, like it short-circuited the careful defenses his body tried to maintain. he was too vocal. he always was. little choked-off whimpers and desperate sounds spilling out between licks.

you’d warned him earlier—told him he didn’t have to. but he wanted to. he always wanted to.

eventually, you had to take him by the roots of his brunette hair and pull him back, gently. not because it hurt—but because it was too much. for him.

he didn’t even gasp for air. didn’t complain. just blinked up at you, pupils blown so wide his eyes looked almost black in the low light, tongue peeking out to taste your arousal off his lips.

“was i… not good?” he asked, voice soft, cracked, like it physically hurt to even suggest he might not have pleased you.

you sighed, brushing damp hair off his forehead. “it’s too much for you. i can’t tell if you’re okay when you look like you’re about to pass out.”

his brows pulled together, lips twitching like he wanted to argue, to tell you it didn’t matter, that he wanted this — needed it. “i wanna make you feel good. it’s fine, i swear—”

he reached for you, to part your thighs again, and you tugged his hair a little harder in warning. he froze.

“lay down, bob. let’s sleep.”

“don’t do this… please,” he whispered, voice breaking in the middle like a little boy told he couldn’t have something shiny in the store window.

you didn’t have to say another word. he sighed, defeated, crawling up the bed, big body moving slow like every muscle ached. you pulled back the comforter and let him slip beneath it, sheets freshly washed, and you could feel his eyes boring into your back like a heat lamp as you turned off the lamp. you knew he was pouting. you could practically hear it in the tight huff of his breath, in the way he curled up closer behind you but didn’t touch.

this could wait until morning.

except it didn’t.

four hours later, sleep a heavy fog in your skull, you felt a hand shaking you. gentle. careful. but persistent. you cracked an eye open to see bob’s face in the moonlight, curls mussed, pupils still wide and dark as he bit his lip.

you shifted, instantly aware of the slick between your thighs, panties pushed halfway down, skin damp and sticky like you’d been worked over while you slept. bob’s fingers glistened faintly in the low light.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered, voice so low it barely stirred the air. “i… i knew you still needed me. you’re wet, look—”

“bob,” you groaned, hand dragging down your face. “it’s too much for you to even finger me, baby. i can take care of myself.”

he made a choked sound, eyes glossy. “i don’t want you to.” it was a whine, petulant and achingly sincere, like the idea of you touching yourself was betrayal.

he moved, laying back flat, curls spilling over the pillow, pink lips slick, and you couldn’t tell if it was from your slick or his own spit. he patted his thighs, coaxing.

you sighed, sliding over to straddle him, body curling down against his chest. it wasn’t new. bob liked the weight of you. said it grounded him. you kicked your panties the rest of the way off as his arms wound around your waist, holding you tight.

it stayed like that a while. long enough you thought he might fall asleep. until his hand ghosted down, fingers dipping to your cunt, finding you still wet, the contact making you jolt.

he looked up at you like he was working out a math problem, then without a word, tugged his own shirt up, exposing the pale pink of his nipples, flushed and damp with sweat. you swallowed, arousal stirring.

he was beautiful like this—golden even in the moonlight, carved like myth, the kind of man gods were modeled after. you told him that once, and he’d given you that shy smile he always did—boyish, bashful, like it embarrassed him to be seen.

and then, all at once, his hands found your hips—gripping them with a strength you forgot he had. big palms wrapping around your flesh, fingers splaying across the softness of your sides like he was trying to memorize the shape of you by feel alone. he lifted you with barely any effort, drawing you up his body until your clit nestled into the firm dip between his abs. a sudden swell of heat flushed through your core as your skin met the slick warmth of his stomach—his skin clammy, trembling, and sticky with a sheen of sweat that caught the light from the half-open window.

the contact made you gasp.

it wasn’t just friction. it was everything.

that perfect, ridged line between his abdominal muscles pressed hot and smooth right where you needed it, and your cunt responded instinctively—throbbing, aching, wetness renewing in a slow, sticky seep that soaked between your folds and onto the tight muscle of his stomach.

bob’s breath hitched beneath you. you felt it.

his whole body went tense again—legs rigid beneath the sheet, shoulders straining against the pillows—but he didn’t stop you. if anything, his grip on your hips tightened, almost needy, thumbs stroking up and down like he was soothing himself even as he guided you forward.

“jus’ want you to feel good,” he whispered again, voice half-gone, eyes wide and blue and wet beneath the mess of dark curls.

you rocked your hips gently—just once, just to test how much he could take—and his head thumped back to the pillow like gravity had stolen his spine.

his breath broke out in a ragged whimper.

that little movement had smeared your slick along the soft trail of hair beneath his navel, and the effect it had on him was immediate—his cock twitched where it lay heavy in his boxers, untouched and already leaking from the tip, precum surely pooling messily against the fabric.

“you’re—fuck,” bob stammered, brows scrunching like the world was ending. “you’re dripping on me.”

he said it like he couldn’t believe it. like the heat of your cunt against his stomach was some kind of religious punishment.

you rolled your hips again, slower this time, dragging your clit along the taut groove of muscle running diagonally across his belly. the sensation sent a low, needy ache spiraling down your spine, and bob felt it—he gasped, one hand flying to grip the pillow beside his head while the other stayed anchored to your waist, grounding himself with the warmth of your skin.

“i can’t—i can’t even move or i’ll—” his voice cracked with shame and lust all tangled up in the same breath. “but you can… you can keep going. want you to. need you to.”

“just like this?” you asked softly, dragging yourself over him again—longer this time, letting your clit grind into the top of his abs with a rhythm that was more deliberate, more dangerous.

bob nodded frantically, curls bouncing against the pillow. his lips parted but no real words came out—just these sounds, these desperate little ahh—hhuh noises, like his whole body was unraveling under you.

his thighs twitched. his hands flexed.

you looked down and saw the trail of slick glistening across his stomach—shining in the moonlight like something holy. it smeared across the center of his chest now too, where you’d balanced your hands earlier. his whole body looked like it had been marked by you. like you’d been anointed onto him.

“you’re doing so good,” you whispered, and bob’s breath stuttered out of his lungs like it shattered something in him. “so good for me, baby…”

“don’t stop—don’t stop, please—i can take it,” he said, but it was a lie. a beautiful, reckless lie. his voice cracked on every syllable. his abs trembled beneath your cunt, muscles seizing and jerking in overstimulated flinches with every grind of your hips.

and still, he held you there. still, he kept pulling you forward with the tips of his fingers, even as tears started to well in the corners of his eyes again.

you leaned down—kissed the corner of his mouth, then the flushed apple of his cheek—and his head turned instinctively to follow you, mouth brushing against your jaw with a needy little sound. his cock lay untouched between you, neglected and twitching

the more you moved, the wetter everything became—your arousal slicking his stomach, pooling along the contours of his abs, hot and glistening in the moonlight. his skin beneath you grew slippery, sticky with your need, and every tiny roll of your hips only made it worse—only made it better. every pass of your clit over that shallow dip in his midsection sent jolts ricocheting up your spine, and the more friction you fed yourself, the more you lost the ability to form full thoughts. you could feel it building fast—too fast. not from penetration, not from anything more than pressure and heat and the sound of him.

and bob—god, bob—he was trembling now. the muscles of his arms, his thighs, even his neck—everything was twitching, caught in a crosswire of overstimulation and restraint. he couldn’t even hide it. broken, messy whines kept slipping from his mouth, each one spilling out in the same staggered rhythm as your hips. he was trying so hard to stay still beneath you, to let you ride it out the way your body so clearly needed, but it was killing him.

then there was his cock—helplessly twitching, swollen and soaked. so much precum had spilled out of him, it’d long since leaked through the thin white cotton. you didn’t even have to touch it—you could see the blushing pink of his tip pressing against the wet fabric, throbbing.

“‘m—cumming,” you managed to gasp out—voice cracking, more of a sob than a warning. you were shaking, bracing one hand against his chest, and immediately bob’s hands flew to your hips, grabbing on tight.

he didn’t ease you through it—he pushed. rocked you harder, faster, more desperate than he had any right to be. like it was his orgasm you were having. like he could feel it inside his own body. bob’s hands fly back to your waist like instinct. like his body was made to respond to yours. his fingers press deep into your flesh as he starts rocking you—violently, desperately—dragging your soaked cunt forward and back across the slick plane of his stomach, chasing your orgasm like it’s his own. like if he works hard enough, fast enough, good enough, he can feel it through you. with you.

“come on,” he begged under his breath, head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut. “come on—please—wanna feel it—give it to me—”

his voice broke on the last syllable.

and through the heat and the overwhelming wave crashing through you, you reached down—your fingers shaking—and dragged them through the mess coating his abs. your slick clung to the ridges of his muscles, warm and thick and yours, and you brought it straight up to his chest.

he didn’t even flinch.

you thumbed the arousal over one nipple, then the other, and bob jerked beneath you—hips spasming, mouth falling open in a wet, stuttering moan. his hands tightened at your waist like he didn’t know if he wanted to pull you closer or throw you off—but he didn’t do either. he just endured it. just let himself fall apart under you.

the sounds he made—god. soft, desperate whimpers spilling over into tears, gasping little hitching breaths every time your fingers circled one pink, flushed bud, your wetness smearing across his chest like it belonged there.

“does that feel good?” you whispered, barely able to speak as your own orgasm ran hot through your bloodstream. your body pulsed over him, your thighs trembling, your clit pressed so tightly to his skin you were practically convulsing. “you like it when i rub it into you, baby?”

he nodded, head lolling against the pillow as his breath stuttered out of him. “fuck, yes—yes—i love it, please don’t stop,” he moaned, eyes fluttering open just to find your face. he was glassy-eyed, like he’d cry if you even breathed the wrong way.

your fingers pinched one of his nipples, just lightly, and his entire body shook.

the mess between you was obscene now—your slick streaking across his abs, his chest, the faint trail of his cum still leaking through the fabric of his boxers and sticking to your thighs. you could feel it—hot and slick—when you rolled your hips forward just a little more, just enough to grind back down against that perfect dip in his body that made you twitch.

“feels like i’m gonna—gonna—” he gasped out, voice strangled, hips bucking uselessly beneath you. he was rutting against nothing, no friction, no stimulation to his cock at all except the wet cling of his ruined underwear and your body grinding above him. he looked frantic. like his brain was short-circuiting just from watching you unravel.

you leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, your noses touching. your breath mingled. you could smell yourself on him, taste it in the air, and that only made your stomach clench tighter.

“you wanna cum too?” you asked, low and coaxing, the softest ache curling around your voice. 

“i—i c-can’t—” he stammered, his voice breaking so completely you felt it vibrate against your lips. “didn’t even touch me—didn’t touch—and i’m—”

you felt it then—the sudden twitch of his thighs beneath you, the way his body jerked. he came. without ever being touched. just from the scent of you, the warmth of you, the taste still lingering on his lips and your slick soaking into his skin.

the sound he made was unlike anything you’d ever heard—half-sob, half-praise, trembling with so much feeling it made your chest hurt.

you rocked against him once more, gently, as he spilled himself into his underwear, the front of the fabric darkening even more, clinging lewdly to the outline of his cock. your cunt was still throbbing, still pulsing against his belly, but now you felt that soft little aftershock ripple up your spine. it made your fingers tremble where they still rested on his chest, your hand smearing another stripe of wetness over his nipple. he twitched again. whimpered again.

your orgasm crashes over you so hard it nearly knocks the wind from your lungs. you grind harder—shaking, crying out—as your clit pulses against his stomach. you feel your own slick gush again, dripping down over his abs, down his sides, pooling beneath you. and still—still—he’s dragging you through it, milking every second of your orgasm like it’s a shared act of devotion. like it hurts him not to give you more.

you collapse forward, arms trembling as you brace yourself against his chest, mouth falling open, forehead brushing against the hollow of his throat. he’s so warm. and he smells like salt and sweat and the faintest trace of his body wash—the kind you bought for him, the one that doesn’t make his skin itch.

bob’s heart is pounding beneath your cheek. you can feel it slamming into your ear like it’s trying to escape his chest. his breathing is short and erratic, the skin of his abs flexing under your hips with every aftershock he suffers just from the stimulation of you—not even being touched.

his arms fold around you, trembling but firm. protective. possessive.

you shift just slightly, and your slickened pussy brushes the very top of his briefs where his cock is still twitching visibly beneath the soaked fabric.

bob lets out a sound—half moan, half sob. “i’m gonna—fuck, i think i—please don’t move—!” his voice ringing from overstimulaton.

you freeze immediately.

you pressed a soft kiss to his nipple, an breathlessly giggle out a faint apology.

“wanna feel you all the time,” he mumbled, still dazed, his voice sleepier now, like he was crashing from the high. “you make me feel full. even when i’m empty.”

that made your chest squeeze. that sentence. the truth in it.

and for once, the tower was quiet.

no lights. no noise. just the faint moonlight casting long, gentle shadows against the wall. the echo of breathing that slowly began to steady. the heartbeat under your ear.

you stayed there for a long while, sticky and raw and satisfied—your bodies cooling down together, your minds settling into something quiet. bob’s fingers twitched at your back, still reflexively trying to keep you close.

eventually, he whispered again.

“i like when you leave your mess on me.”

you smiled, your lips brushing his skin.

“i know.”