itwillbethescarletwitch

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

No More Games

bob floyd x bratty!fem!reader

SmutSmut

A/N: Thank You guys so much for 350 followers!! that’s so surreal to me! Much Love!!

You wore the white sundress on purpose.

Thin straps, no bra, soft fabric clinging to your hips. It wasn’t the kind of dress you wore for comfort—it was the kind you wore when you wanted to be fucked against a door. Or over the hood of a car. Or on your knees with his hand in your hair.

Bob told you not to wear it around his friends.

You did it anyway.

“You trying to make me lose my temper?” he asked on the drive there, voice low, slow.

You just smiled. “No. Just wanted you to look.”

His knuckles went white on the steering wheel.

That was your first warning.

The second was how quiet he got once you arrived. No arm around your waist. No kiss. Just a firm look before he walked toward the dartboard with Coyote.

And that’s when you moved.

Fanboy spotted you first. “Well, damn. Look what the wind blew in.”

You slid onto the barstool like you owned the place. Legs crossed. Smiled slow, sweet, knowing full well what the hell you were doing.

“You boys always this charming, or am I just lucky tonight?”

Hangman was next to bite. “Depends. You single tonight or pretending?”

You raised a brow. “What do you think?”

Fanboy whistled. “She’s dangerous.”

You giggled, high and sharp. Leaned forward just enough for the neckline to shift. Took a sip of someone else’s drink without asking. Let your hand rest on Fanboy’s thigh for half a second too long.

“You should’ve seen the way Bob looked at her earlier,” Hangman said, eyes scanning your legs. “Bet he’s ready to break something.”

“Bet he’d break me,” you said. Soft. Wicked.

Silence.

You said it like it was a joke, but your pulse pounded and your thighs squeezed together. Because you meant it.

And then—

You felt him behind you.

Not a touch. Not a word. Just heat.

You didn’t dare turn around.

Bob’s voice came low. Dangerous. Quiet enough to be for you alone.

“You have five seconds to say goodbye.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t move fast enough.

“Four.”

Hangman blinked. “Everything good, Bob?”

Bob didn’t respond.

Didn’t look at him.

Didn’t need to.

The silence was louder than any answer.

“Three.”

You slid off the stool. Smoothed your dress. Let your eyes finally meet his.

And his look?

Made your knees weak.

A warning. A promise. A sentence.

“Two.”

You gave Fanboy a kiss on the cheek—another sin. Whispered “Wish me luck” as you passed Hangman.

“One.”

He opened the car door for you without a word.

And when you got in, seatbelt clicked, the only sound in the whole world was your breathing and your heartbeat and the sharp, crackling silence of a man who was done being tested.

You’d played your game.

Now it was Bob’s turn.

The door slammed behind you with enough force to rattle the frame.

Bob didn’t speak. Didn’t look at you.

Just slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and gripped the wheel like it was the only thing keeping him from breaking something.

The air was thick with heat. His silence was punishment.

He didn’t have to say a word—you could feel it in every clench of his jaw, every flare of his nostrils, every sharp shift of his knuckles when the leather creaked under his grip.

You sat frozen for the first few minutes.

But then you looked at him.

His sleeves were pushed up, forearms flexed, the low amber light catching on the edge of his throat, his lips still red from where he’d bit down hard to keep himself quiet at the bar. His chest rose slow and tight, like he was fighting a war with himself and barely winning.

And fuck.

He looked so good like this.

Raging. Dangerous. Cold.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively.

You squirmed a little.

Then more.

You tried to be subtle at first—letting one hand fall to your lap, brushing the hem of your dress, fingertips grazing the inside of your thigh.

Bob didn’t move.

But you felt it.

He knew.

And still—you dragged your fingers a little higher.

You were soaked. Dripping. The slick sound so soft it might’ve gone unnoticed—if he wasn’t listening for it.

Your other hand covered your mouth as you slipped two fingers under the waistband of your panties and circled your clit.

“Shit…” you breathed, so quiet, but not quiet enough.

That’s when the car slammed to a stop.

Right in the middle of the empty road.

The tires squealed as he yanked the gear into park.

He turned to you slow, deadly calm. His jaw clenched. Eyes black.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing.”

Your breath caught.

“Bobby, I just—”

“Pull your hand out.”

You froze.

“Now.”

You obeyed. Slowly. Fingers glistening in the dim dashboard glow.

He reached over and grabbed your wrist so fast it made you gasp. He brought your hand up between you, glaring at the mess coating your skin.

“You’re dripping all over my seat and touching yourself like a fuckin’ whore because I look mad?”

He squeezed your wrist tighter.

“You want me to pull this car over and take you in the back seat like some slut at a truck stop?”

You whimpered.

He leaned closer—voice low, shaking.

“You wanna come so bad you’d break my rules for it?”

“Get your fucking hand in your mouth. Clean it.”

Your eyes widened. But you obeyed—slowly sucking your fingers into your mouth, never breaking eye contact.

His nostrils flared.

“When we get home,” he growled, backing away, slamming the car back into drive,

“You’re not walking to that bedroom. You’re crawling.”

“And the belt you’re getting tied with?”

“You’re gonna feel it first.”

You whimpered around your fingers, thighs clenched so tight it hurt.

He didn’t speak another word.

But you knew exactly what was waiting for you.

And this time?

You weren’t sure he’d let you come at all.

The second the car parked, Bob got out without a word.

He didn’t even open your door.

Didn’t need to.

You followed him up the driveway with your heart in your throat and slick already sliding down your thighs.

He unlocked the door, stepped inside, turned back once.

“On your knees.”

You dropped instantly.

“Crawl.”

The hallway never felt longer. Your dress slid higher with every inch forward, your knees scuffing against the hardwood. You could feel his eyes on your ass, hear the belt unlooping from his jeans behind you—slow. Deliberate.

By the time you reached the bedroom, your breath was shaky and your mind was already unraveling.

He followed you in and shut the door behind him. No light. Just the glow from the hallway casting a shadow over his face—sharp jaw, hard eyes, belt coiled in one hand like a weapon.

“Up. On the bed. Face down.”

You climbed on the mattress and dropped forward, cheek against the sheets, heart hammering.

“Arms back.”

You obeyed.

The leather wrapped around your wrists, tugging tight with a single yank. You whimpered, more from anticipation than discomfort.

Then—

CRACK.

His palm landed hard across your ass, the sound vicious in the silence.

You yelped.

“That’s for Fanboy.”

Another slap. Sharp. Just above the thigh.

“That’s for Hangman.”

Then he paused. Voice low.

“And this?”

CRACK.

“This is for touching what’s mine.”

You moaned—loud—cheek pressed to the bed, thighs twitching. Your whole body buzzed.

He leaned over your back, breath hot at your ear.

“You want to come, baby?”

You whimpered. “Yes, sir.”

“Tough.”

He shoved your legs apart. Dragged two fingers through your soaked folds.

“You’re pathetic,” he growled. “Can’t even keep your hands to yourself.”

He pushed in deep—two fingers, slow and curling, hitting every spot that made you scream.

Your hips bucked.

He stopped. Pulled away.

“That’s one.”

You sobbed.

⸻

He stepped back. Undid his belt from your wrists, flipped you onto your back.

“On the floor.”

You dropped to your knees so fast it was muscle memory.

“Open.”

You opened your mouth, wide, obedient.

He slid in slow—watching you gag, watching your jaw stretch, eyes watering.

One hand in your hair. The other under your chin, holding your head still while he fucked your face like he owned it.

“You’re not gonna speak unless you’re gagging on my cock. Got it?”

You moaned around him. He twitched inside your throat.

He didn’t let you breathe. Didn’t pull back fully. Just shallow thrusts, deeper, faster, the wet slap of it echoing in the room.

Tears streamed down your face.

He groaned low.

Then pulled out—right before he finished.

“That’s two.”

You whimpered, spit trailing down your chin. He wiped it off with his thumb.

“Get back on the bed.”

⸻

You stumbled to your feet. Climbed back onto the mattress.

He grabbed your ankles. Spread you open.

Dragged his cock through your folds—soaked, throbbing, untouched.

“You want it?”

You nodded, eyes wide, pleading.

“Beg.”

“Please, Bobby. Please fuck me. I’ll be good. I swear. I need it so bad—”

“Not good enough.”

He slapped your inner thigh.

Then finally—finally—slid in.

Deep. Bare. Slow. Until you were stuffed full, stretched around him, back arching off the sheets.

You gasped.

“You’ll come when I say.”

Then he started to move.

Slow. Deliberate. Dragging every inch out of you until your hands clawed at the sheets and your hips lifted off the bed, chasing every thrust.

But every time you started to build?

He’d stop.

Pull out.

Slap your thigh.

“That’s three.”

By the fourth time you were sobbing.

By the fifth, you couldn’t speak—just cried and whispered his name like a prayer.

You didn’t remember the moment begging stopped being a choice and started becoming instinct.

Your voice had broken somewhere between the fourth and fifth denial—throat raw from moaning, legs trembling from tension. You were soaked, ruined, spread wide on the bed with your knees pushed to your chest, Bob looming over you, still hard, still untouched.

“Please, Bobby,” you sobbed, head thrashing against the pillows. “Please, I need it—need to come, I can’t—I can’t—”

He brushed his fingers down your slick folds—so gentle it made your hips jerk.

“No more games?”

“You gonna behave?”

“You done showing off for other men?”

“Yes! Yes, I swear, I’m yours, only yours—please, I can’t take it anymore—”

He grinned, dark and sharp.

“Good girl.”

Then he slammed into you.

⸻

Your scream punched straight through the air.

He didn’t ease in. Didn’t take his time. He buried himself to the hilt with one rough thrust and started fucking you with brutal, relentless rhythm—hips snapping against your ass, skin slapping loud and filthy.

“You begged for this, sweetheart,” he growled into your ear. “Now take it.”

You were already close—so close it hurt. And the second his thumb hit your clit, you detonated.

First orgasm:

A scream. Back arched. Vision white. Your body shook and clenched around him, soaked the sheets, legs trembling.

But Bob didn’t stop.

“One.”

He counted it out. Didn’t even pause.

Your nails clawed at his arms.

“Too much—please—it’s too much—”

“No, baby,” he rasped. “This is what you wanted.”

His hips never faltered. Each thrust hit deeper than the last. His thumb circled tighter, faster, and your body betrayed you—

Second orgasm:

You cried out again, broken and gasping, thighs twitching so violently you nearly kicked free. He held you down with one hand over your stomach, forcing you to feel all of it.

You sobbed into his shoulder.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Such a good little toy for me. Gonna give me one more.”

“I can’t—I can’t—”

“You can. You fucking will.”

He pulled your legs higher, deeper angle, fucking into you so hard the headboard slammed into the wall with every thrust. His hand came down to your throat—not choking, just holding.

“Come for me, Y/N. Make a mess. Show me you’re sorry.”

Third orgasm:

You shattered with a scream so high and wrecked it barely sounded human—hips lifted off the bed, mouth open in a silent cry, tears pouring down your cheeks.

You were twitching now. Hands clawing for anything to hold. And he was still inside you. Still going.

Your legs gave out. Your voice broke.

“Bobby—too much—too much—please—”

He kissed your temple. Slowed the rhythm—but didn’t stop.

“Shh. Just a little more. You’re gonna take all of it, baby. You wanted to act like a brat? Now you’re gonna be my good girl.”

Your body couldn’t even process the stretch anymore. You were limp under him, broken open, flushed and soaking and trembling with every slow, deep stroke.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Wrecked. Ruined. And still so fuckin’ pretty.”

He pushed in deep one last time, held it.

Groaned.

“Mine.”

He came with a moan that vibrated against your skin—deep inside, filling you until it leaked down your thighs, and finally, finally, he stilled.

The room went quiet except for your heavy, shattered breathing.

You were gone.

Falling apart in his arms, legs still twitching with aftershocks.

You didn’t know how long he held you like that—still buried deep inside, his arms around your waist, chest pressed to your back as your body trembled in his grasp.

Your voice was gone.

Your thighs still twitched. The sheets were soaked beneath you. And every breath came shallow and broken.

You weren’t just overstimulated. You were wrecked. Beautifully ruined. Stripped down to nerves and shivers and the feeling of Bob’s heartbeat against your spine.

“You with me, baby?” he murmured against your temple, voice softer now. A whisper.

You blinked slowly. Barely managed a nod.

“You did so good for me. So fuckin’ good.”

His hand came up to brush your hair out of your face—fingers sticky with sweat, with slick, with everything he’d pulled out of you. But gentle. Reverent.

“Was I too rough?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head. “Perfect,” you croaked.

He smiled—small, warm, and full of love that didn’t need a single word.

Then he slipped out of you slowly, carefully—watching you wince, watching it all spill out of you and down your thighs—and leaned forward to press a kiss to your shoulder.

“I’ve got you.”

⸻

He untied your wrists first, rubbing gentle circles into the skin, checking the marks.

“Look at that,” he whispered. “Wore my belt like a fuckin’ trophy, didn’t you?”

You laughed softly—exhausted, raw.

He gathered you in his arms without another word. Carried you to the bathroom. Set you down on the counter and turned on the water, adjusting the temp like he’d done a thousand times before.

You sat there limp. Boneless. Letting him touch and tend and whisper little things while the tub filled.

“Did so well.”

“So proud of you.”

“You’re mine. Always mine.”

When the tub was ready, he helped you in first, then slid in behind you—settling with you between his legs, your back to his chest, your cheek to his collarbone.

Warm water. Soft hands.

And the feeling of being held.

“That too much for my baby?” he asked, teasing just a little. Voice velvet.

You shook your head, eyes already fluttering shut.

“Not enough.”

He chuckled low. Pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“That’s my girl.”

⸻

When the water cooled, he dried you off with a warm towel. Dressed you in one of his soft old tees. Tucked you into bed with fresh sheets and cool pillows.

You curled into him, legs tangled, breath slow.

“You still mad?” you asked, barely awake.

He kissed your forehead.

“Nah. You made up for it.”

“But you brat again tomorrow?”

“I won’t stop at three.”

You smiled.

“Promise?”

His arms tightened around you.

“Sleep.”

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Don’t Blame Me pt2

Evan Buckley x Fem!Reader

The sound is unreal.

Flat. Piercing. Endless.

The moment the monitor flatlines, Buck forgets how to breathe. The shrill scream of it cuts through him like glass, splintering the last fragile thread holding him together.

“No—no, no, no—SOMEONE HELP!”

He’s on his feet, shoving the chair back so violently it crashes against the wall. Nurses rush in. Alarms blare. The room is suddenly chaos—but Buck is the still point at the center of it. Frozen. Pale. Eyes wide as his whole world slips through trembling fingers.

“She was just moving,” he gasps. “She—her hand moved—I swear to God—”

They’re already pulling him back. Code blue. Hands on chest. Chest compressions. Fast. Hard. Unrelenting.

Buck stumbles into the hallway. Eddie catches him, but it’s like trying to hold back a tidal wave with bare hands.

“No—she can’t—she was just here—I FELT HER—”

The sound of the defibrillator charging coils down the hallway.

“Clear!”

He watches the jolt ripple through her.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

No response.

A nurse closes the curtain halfway. Buck screams.

“I NEED TO SEE HER—LET ME SEE HER—”

His knees hit the linoleum before his brain even realizes he’s falling. His hands cover his face, and his voice shatters beneath them.

The wind outside howls against the ICU windows. It moans like it’s grieving too—rattling the panes, pushing against the glass as if trying to crawl inside and hold him. The rain has started. A slow, cold drizzle that runs down the windows in crooked trails like tears.

Buck doesn’t know how long he stays there.

Long enough for his voice to crack.

Long enough for his fingers to go numb.

Long enough to realize that if she dies, so does he.

“She was just here,” he whispers, forehead against the floor. “She was just here.”

———

There’s no pain here.

No beeping. No blood. No wires.

Just… quiet.

Soft, muted quiet—like the whole world’s holding its breath.

You’re standing in a field, barefoot on damp grass. The air is warm and thick with the scent of wildflowers. Lavender. Honeysuckle. Sunlight cuts through tall trees in golden shards. It should feel peaceful. Beautiful, even.

But your chest aches like something important is missing.

Like you forgot to breathe. Like your heart doesn’t know if it’s supposed to be beating anymore.

The wind shifts, and it’s the kind that lifts your hair and brushes your skin so gently it feels like a memory. The breeze smells like home.

And then—

You hear it.

Footsteps.

Familiar. Light.

You turn.

Your breath catches.

“Mom?” you whisper.

She’s walking toward you with that same soft smile she used to wear when she’d wake you up for school with a kiss on your forehead. Her hair is down. She’s barefoot too. And behind her—

“Dad,” you whisper, a sob cracking in your throat.

He’s smiling too. His arms are open.

You run.

You hit them like a wave, arms wrapping around their waists, your body collapsing into theirs like you’re still five years old. Their hands come up, stroking your hair, cradling your head.

“I missed you,” you choke. “God, I missed you—”

“We know, baby,” your mom murmurs. Her voice is exactly the same. Gentle. Sacred. “We missed you too.”

You pull back just enough to look at them, to memorize the lines of their faces again.

“I thought you were gone.”

“We are,” your dad says, softly. “But you’re not.”

You look around the field again, confused.

“Then where am I?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just gently takes your hand and presses it to your chest.

You feel it.

A thready, slow heartbeat.

Barely there.

“You’re not done fighting,” he says.

Your mom strokes your cheek. Her eyes shine. “He’s waiting for you.”

You flinch.

“Buck—” His name breaks on your lips. “He thinks I’m dead. He was there when I—he heard the monitors—he was right there—”

Tears spill down your face before you realize you’re crying.

“Sweetheart,” your mom whispers, pulling you close again. “He’s breaking. But he hasn’t stopped hoping. Not for a second.”

“I’m scared,” you admit. “I don’t know if I can come back. Everything hurts.”

“You don’t have to be unafraid,” your dad says. “You just have to be willing.”

You grip his hand tighter.

“Do you want to go?” he asks you gently. “Be here—with us?”

The question sits in the air like smoke.

You look between them.

This would be easier. No more pain. No more heartbreak. No more wondering if you’re enough. If you’re too much. If you’ll ever stop falling apart.

But then—

You remember the marsala sauce.

The look on Buck’s face when he begged you to wake up.

The way his voice cracked when he said he was sorry.

And you know.

You’d never forgive yourself if you left him like that.

“I want to stay,” you whisper. “I want to live.”

Your parents smile.

Your mom kisses your forehead.

“Then go, baby.”

“Go back to him,” your dad adds. “He’s waiting.”

———

The flatline doesn’t stop.

It drills into Buck’s skull like a spike — one long, steady note of devastation.

His world narrows into sound:

That alarm.

The hiss of the ventilator disconnecting.

The soft shuffle of the nurse’s footsteps.

And then, silence.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that confirms your worst fear.

“No…” Buck breathes. His knees hit the floor beside her bed. “No, please—please don’t do this…”

The ICU nurse checks again. Calm, composed. Doing her job.

“Time of death?” the attending doctor says softly, eyes on the monitor, his voice muted through the ringing in Buck’s ears.

Buck grabs her hand. “No. No! You don’t get to say that! You don’t get to say that! She just moved — I felt her move! You said she was stable!”

The doctor’s face is soft with sympathy but firm with finality. He looks to the nurse and nods.

And then they leave.

They leave him in the room.

Alone.

With her body still and her hand still cooling in his.

The curtain falls back into place.

Outside, down the hall, Eddie stands, eyes locked on the closed doors. Chim’s sitting, head in hands. Hen hasn’t spoken in twenty minutes. Bobby paces like he’ll wear through the floor.

None of them go in.

Because Buck asked them not to.

He didn’t want anyone to see what he’d become.

⸻

Inside the Room

The wind wails outside. The room is dim, shadows crawling across the floor. Machines buzz faintly.

Buck is still on the floor, forehead pressed to her hand like he could breathe life back into her.

His body shakes. His whole chest convulses.

“I was supposed to come home,” he sobs. “You waited for me… You made dinner for me. You tried, and I couldn’t even text you back.”

His voice is a rasp now — hoarse and shredded, spoken into the dark.

“I was scared,” he whispers. “But not of you. Never of you. I was scared of how much I loved you. Scared I’d lose you if I let you see all the messy shit in my head.”

His thumb strokes over her knuckles.

“But I lost you anyway.”

He presses her hand to his lips, trembling.

“I never said it enough. I didn’t show it enough. I kept thinking there’d be time.”

His breath shudders.

“There was supposed to be more time.”

His voice collapses into a sob, and then another. Deep, aching, guttural. He presses his face into the bed, curls around her hand like a man begging God not to take the only thing keeping him alive.

“I can’t do this without you,” he whispers. “I don’t want to. You hear me? I don’t want to!”

Thunder rolls far off in the distance. The wind picks up. The curtain flutters like breath.

Then—

Something shifts.

Not big. Not loud.

But something.

Buck stills.

Very slowly… he lifts his head.

The monitor that had flatlined — that had drawn the line between life and loss — flickers.

A small sound. Beep.

Then another.

His eyes widen. He scrambles upright, hand flying to her wrist.

“C’mon. C’mon, please…”

The pulse is faint.

But it’s there.

“HEY! NURSE!” Buck bellows, nearly throwing the door open. “SHE’S BACK—SHE’S BACK—SHE HAS A PULSE!”

The nurse rushes in with a code team. The room erupts with motion again, but this time it’s not grief — it’s hope.

They check monitors. Shout orders. Hook her back to the machines.

And Buck is still right there. Hands trembling, tears still falling, eyes locked on her face.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Come back to me. You’re almost here.”

She doesn’t open her eyes yet.

But the pulse grows stronger.

Her chest rises more fully with each breath the ventilator gives her.

And her hand?

That fingers-curled hand in his?

It twitches again.

This time, she doesn’t let go.

⸻

Just outside, in the waiting room—

Eddie looks up from where he’s sitting.

He hears Buck’s voice. Yelling.

But not in pain.

In hope.

Then the door bursts open.

Buck’s standing there, soaked in sweat and tears, breathless.

“She’s back,” he gasps. “She’s back.”

And then he’s on the floor again — but this time, Eddie catches him.

Buck falls into his arms like the weight of the world just slipped off his shoulders.

“She came back,” he chokes. “She came back to me.”

And this time, he lets himself cry.

Not for what he lost.

But for what he almost did.

———

One Week Later

The heart monitor beeps steady and slow.

The sky is a soft silver blue outside the window, the faint hum of early traffic drifting through the glass. Rain falls in a thin mist, clinging to the edge of the city like a secret it hasn’t told yet.

Buck hasn’t moved from the chair beside her bed. Not all night. Not since the monitor stopped flatlining and the room filled with the frantic sound of doctors bringing her back.

He’s barely breathed since.

She hasn’t stirred since they stabilized her again.

But now—

Now something shifts.

Her fingers twitch.

Just barely.

Then again.

Buck shoots up like a live wire, eyes wide. “Nurse—hey! Hey—she’s moving!”

The charge nurse is already at the monitor, eyes flying to the numbers. She glances down. Her voice is calm but clipped. “Get respiratory in here. She’s coming out of it.”

Another twitch. Her brows furrow. Her hand tugs weakly at the sheet.

She’s waking up.

“Y/N?” Buck’s voice is shaking. He stands over her now, leaning close, barely breathing. “Baby, you’re okay. You’re safe.”

Her eyes flutter. Her lashes twitch. A low, muffled sound escapes her throat — tight, gagging.

The nurse is already pulling gloves on. “She’s conscious and fighting the tube. We need to extubate—now.”

“Is she in pain?” Buck chokes.

“She’s panicking. Her body’s waking up faster than we planned for.”

Another breath catches in her throat — shallow, panicked.

You’re awake. Almost fully.

And there’s something in your throat you can’t breathe around. Something cold. Foreign. You gag. Panic coils up like fire. Your chest rises too fast. You try to reach, but your arms are heavy, like lead.

But then—

A hand wraps around yours.

Warm. Steady. Familiar.

“Hey, hey,” Buck’s voice breaks at the edges, cracking with both love and fear. “You’re okay, baby. You’re safe. They’re going to take it out, okay? Just hold on. I’m right here.”

You blink.

His face swims into view — blurry at first, but then crystal sharp.

His eyes are shining, wide with tears. His thumb strokes your knuckles.

“I’m right here,” he whispers again. “Don’t be scared.”

Respiratory therapy arrives, fast and focused. The nurse nods to Buck. “You can stay. Just stay to the side and don’t get in the way.”

He nods, gripping your hand tighter.

You gag again. You want it out.

The respiratory therapist leans in. “Y/N, I know it’s scary, but we’re going to take the tube out now. I need you to cough when I say. Do you understand?”

You blink once.

Then again.

Enough to say yes.

“Good girl,” Buck whispers.

The therapist gets in position. “Okay. On three. One… two… cough—”

You do.

You gag, heave—

And the tube slides out in one long, horrible pull.

You gasp.

Buck’s heart breaks in that moment, watching you struggle for that first clean, clear breath. The tears slip from his eyes and land in the sheets.

You cough, hard, your throat raw and burning. Your eyes flood. A nasal cannula is slipped into place, giving you oxygen. You suck in the air like it’s the first breath of your entire life.

And maybe it is.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Buck soothes, brushing the hair back from your damp forehead. “You’re doing so good. I’m right here.”

You squeeze his hand so tight now. Desperate. Real.

The nurse steps back, eyes checking the vitals. “She’s stable. Off the vent. She’s going to be hoarse for a while, but she’s breathing on her own.”

Buck just nods, forehead against your hand.

You’re exhausted, but your eyes don’t leave his. And his — God, his — they don’t stop watching you like you’re the only star in the sky he’s ever wanted to find his way back to.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispers, lips trembling as he kisses the back of your hand. “I thought you were gone.”

You open your mouth, voice raw.

A croak.

He grabs the water before the nurse can even move. “Here—small sips, okay?”

You take a sip — it burns a little, but the water is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever tasted.

You blink. Tears slipping down your temple now. “You were here?”

“I never left,” Buck breathes. “Not for a second.”

You close your eyes.

The worst part is over.

You’re back.

And he’s here.

———

Your hand is trembling in his. Your throat is scorched raw, but your heart aches louder.

Buck sinks down into the chair, still gripping you like you might disappear again. His free hand presses against his lips for a second, like if he doesn’t hold it there, the emotion will pour out too fast.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so—God, I’m so sorry.”

Your lashes flutter, slow and wet, as you turn your head the tiniest bit toward him.

“I didn’t come home,” he says, voice cracking. “You cooked dinner, you waited for me, and I didn’t show up. I didn’t even tell you I took that shift. And then when you came to the station—when you dropped that food off—I just… I froze. I didn’t stop you.”

You try to speak again. Your voice catches.

“Water,” he murmurs, grabbing the cup again.

You sip. The plastic straw feels foreign, but the water is cool and kind. Your next breath is a little easier.

“Evan,” you rasp, throat like sandpaper.

His name on your tongue makes his head drop, shoulders folding in like you knocked the wind out of him.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you say, barely audible.

“You didn’t scare me,” he says hoarsely. “You wrecked me.”

His eyes find yours again, red and wide.

“I thought you were dead. I thought I’d lost you because I didn’t come home. Because I was too much of a coward to tell you I was scared of being loved that hard.”

Your brows pull together, a tear sliding down your cheek.

He’s already reaching to wipe it away.

“You were trying to fix things,” he says, voice small. “And I made you walk away thinking I didn’t care. That I didn’t love you. And that—that’s the thing that’s been killing me every second since.”

You squeeze his fingers.

“I knew,” you whisper, broken but sure. “I knew you loved me.”

He shakes his head, one tear slipping down his cheek. “I didn’t show it. Not that night. Not the way you deserved.”

You manage another sip of water.

“You were scared,” you say gently. “I was too.”

Buck presses his forehead to the back of your hand again. You can feel his breath shaking.

“I should’ve answered you that morning,” he murmurs. “When you asked if I was still in it with you. I should’ve said yes. Because I am. I always was.”

Your hand finds the side of his face, weak but determined. He leans into it like he’s been waiting his whole life for your touch.

“Then say it now,” you whisper, voice cracking with everything inside you. “Say it like you mean it.”

He lifts his head slowly.

“I’m in this,” Buck says, like a vow. “With you. All the way. No more running. No more hiding. No more shutting you out.”

You nod, tears slipping freely down your cheeks now.

“I thought…” you breathe, “I wouldn’t get to see your face again.”

He shakes his head, cradling your hand against his heart.

“I would’ve traded mine for yours.”

Silence falls for a moment, but it’s not heavy anymore.

It’s full.

Full of the weight of survival. Of love. Of a second chance neither of you are going to waste.

“You came back to me,” Buck whispers.

“I always will,” you rasp.

His thumb brushes the side of your wrist, just over your pulse, and you both feel it — there. Steady. Alive.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Don’t Blame Me

Evan Buckley x fem!reader

The coffee pot hisses lowly in the background, but you don’t move to pour a cup.

Buck’s standing near the kitchen counter in his uniform pants and undershirt, tugging on his boots like he’s trying to outrun the tension hanging in the air. He hasn’t looked at you once since he walked out of the bedroom. Not while brushing his teeth. Not while grabbing his keys. Not even when you greeted him with a hesitant, quiet, “Morning.”

You’re still in your pajamas, arms crossed tight over your chest, holding your breath like it’ll stop you from saying something you’ll regret.

But he’s the one who speaks first.

“I’m gonna be late,” he mutters.

That’s it. That’s all you get.

Not good morning. Not I’m sorry for last night. Just that distant, flat tone you hate. The one he uses when he’s already halfway out the door, emotionally and physically.

“Then be late,” you bite out before you can stop yourself. “Be late and talk to me.”

Buck freezes with his boot half-laced, finally—finally—lifting his eyes to you.

You expect softness. Regret. Anything.

But his gaze is cold. Exhausted.

“I don’t want to fight with you again.”

“Then stop running away from me every time I try to fix this!” you snap.

The words crack like a whip across the quiet morning, and for a second, he doesn’t move. Just stares.

“You said I make everything harder,” he says finally, his voice quieter, but sharper. “Do you remember that? Last night? When you were mad—you said loving me is exhausting.”

Your mouth opens—closes—opens again. The memory rushes back, half-blurred by tears and frustration. You did say that. Not because you meant it, but because you were hurt. Because you were trying to get him to hurt too.

“Buck…” your voice falters. “I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t.”

“You didn’t even try to take it back.”

“I—I was upset. You kept shutting me out—”

“I shut down when I’m overwhelmed!” he explodes, and now the room isn’t quiet anymore.

“I know that!” you yell back. “But you shut me out even when I’m just trying to love you! What do you want from me? You want me to give you space? I do. You want me to show up and be patient? I do that too. But you’re never really here, Buck. You’re never fully with me.”

He turns away like he can’t stand to look at you. And somehow, that hurts more than anything he’s said.

“I have a job,” he mutters.

“And I have a heart!” you fire back. “And you’ve been breaking it piece by piece, every time you act like I’m the enemy just because I want more from you than silence!”

He exhales hard, grabs his shirt, and starts pulling it on. “I can’t do this right now. I’m going to work.”

“So that’s it?” you ask, voice cracking. “You’re gonna walk out like everything’s fine?”

“I didn’t say it was fine,” he says over his shoulder. “I just said I have a shift to cover.”

“Right,” you whisper. “Because running into burning buildings is easier than facing me.”

That one makes him stop.

His jaw flexes. His hands curl into fists at his sides. He turns just enough to look at you—but not close enough to bridge the canyon between you.

“I’ll be back tonight.”

And before you can say anything—before you can tell him you’re sorry, or that you didn’t mean it like that, or please don’t leave like this—the door shuts behind him.

Hard.

And just like that, the morning falls silent again.

But now, it’s worse.

Because that’s the last thing you said to him.

And by tonight… you won’t even know if he’s coming home.

———

The first thing you reach for is the cast iron skillet.

Not because it’s convenient—but because it’s his favorite. You haven’t used it in weeks, and the weight of it in your hands feels heavier than it should. Like it knows this meal has more to carry than just calories.

It’s a little after 7:00 when you start the prep, soft music playing low in the background—some jazz playlist Buck said once reminded him of his mom’s kitchen when he was little. You’re not trying to win him over. You’re trying to reach him. To say with this meal what your mouth failed to this morning.

You’re making chicken marsala, his comfort food. The real kind—not the 20-minute kind with shortcuts and cornstarch and cheap wine. You’re talking browned mushrooms and shallots in butter, reduced marsala with stock, pan-seared chicken cutlets finished in the oven. It takes time. Effort. Intention.

Everything you wish you’d put into the conversation you had with him before he left this morning.

⸻

The chicken is sliced and floured by 7:18.

You take your time with the mushrooms, caramelizing them until they’re deep golden and nutty. You remember the first time you made this for him—he said it tasted better than any restaurant. You laughed, thinking he was exaggerating. Then he kissed your cheek and asked for seconds.

Your eyes sting now as you stir.

You glance at the clock. 7:47.

He has two more hours on shift. He said he’d come home after. You want to believe him.

So you keep cooking like he will.

⸻

By 8:10, the sauce is reducing and the house smells rich and warm. You even took the time to roast baby potatoes with garlic and rosemary and steam green beans the way he likes—still slightly crisp. You set the table for two. His side has the glass of cabernet you know he won’t drink more than two sips of.

You’re wearing one of his old firehouse tees. The one that got too small in the shoulders but he refused to throw out.

And while the chicken rests on a warm plate in the oven, you finally sit down at the counter and let yourself think.

How do I bring it up?

You know he hates conflict. You know he gets overwhelmed fast. You’re not perfect either—you push, you poke, you say things to test if he’ll stay. You don’t want to do that this time.

Maybe I’ll start with: I miss you.

Simple. Honest. Less threatening.

Or maybe: I didn’t mean what I said yesterday.

Because you didn’t. You never meant it. He exhausts you sometimes, yes—but you never meant him. You meant the space between you. The way he shuts down. You just… don’t know how to reach through the wall when it goes up.

The smell of dinner still fills the apartment. Everything’s still warm.

8:57.

You fluff the potatoes with a fork and smile. Almost time.

⸻

9:23.

You open your texts. Nothing. You refresh. Nothing.

You click on his location and see the familiar dot at the station. Still there. Maybe paperwork ran late. Maybe someone needed a minute to talk. You know how it goes.

You pour a glass of wine. Just half.

⸻

9:51.

You go ahead and put his plate in the microwave to keep it warm. Not reheat—just enough so it’s not cold when he walks in. You picture his tired face lighting up when he smells the marsala sauce. You imagine him slipping his arms around your waist from behind, whispering “You made this for me?”

You’ll say yes, and then you’ll apologize first. You’ll say it was a bad morning, and you love him, and you don’t want to keep hurting each other every time things get hard. You’ll say “We’re better than this, right?”

He’ll nod. Kiss your forehead.

It’ll be okay.

⸻

10:37.

You’re pacing now. Your stomach’s tight with something halfway between worry and dread. You check your phone again. Still nothing. You almost call, thumb hovering over his contact—but you stop yourself. You don’t want to seem clingy. He said he was coming home.

He promised.

⸻

11:02.

You call.

Voicemail.

You wait five minutes. Then call again.

Still voicemail.

You open Eddie’s contact. Then Chim’s. You don’t press call, but your thumb hovers. Maybe they’d know. Maybe something’s wrong. Maybe—

Your phone buzzes.

It’s not him.

It’s a  text from one of his coworkers:

“Hey Y/N, thank you for being ok with Buck canceling your dinner date tonight, my baby is sick and we’re taking her to the hospital. I really appreciate both of you.”

Your breath leaves your body like a punch to the ribs.

Third shift.

Third.

That means 9pm to 7am.

And he didn’t tell you.

Not a single word.

⸻

The anger doesn’t hit all at once. It builds—slow and hot, like the marsala sauce did earlier, except now you’re burning from the inside out.

He looked you in the eye and told you he’d come home tonight.

He let you wait. Let you hope. Let you believe that maybe he wanted to fix this too. And the whole time, he knew. He knew he wasn’t coming.

You grab the to-go container from the top shelf of the cabinet—the one he uses when he packs leftovers for shift. You fill it with the marsala. The potatoes. Everything.

You don’t care that it’s after 11.

You don’t care that you’re not wearing shoes yet.

You’re going to the firehouse.

You’re going to look him in the eye and ask him why.

——

The firehouse is alive with the usual noise — radios buzzing, boots clacking, men focused on their shift.

You burst through the door, the cold container of chicken marsala digging into your palm. The food’s cold, just like your patience.

Buck’s sitting at the table with Eddie and Chim, playing cards like it’s some damn party and not a damn job.

You don’t hesitate. You throw the container on the table with a slap loud enough to stop the whole room.

“Are you serious right now?” Your voice is sharp, venom dripping from every word.

They all look up, startled. Buck’s face goes tight — but you don’t care.

“You said you were coming home,” you spit, stepping closer, rage burning in your chest. “You looked me in the eye and said, ‘I’ll be home after shift.’ And then you pick up another goddamn shift and don’t even have the decency to tell me?”

His mouth opens, but you cut him off.

“I waited. Two fucking hours—waiting for you to walk through that door. Waiting for you to show up so I could finally fix this damn fight. And all I get is silence.”

You’re shaking now. The fire’s burning so hot it’s almost painful.

“Do you know what it feels like to cook your favorite meal for an hour and a half, spend every second thinking about how to not start another fight—and then find out you didn’t even come home?”

Buck’s jaw clenches. You see the guilt trying to crawl out, but you don’t give a damn.

Before things can get worse, Bobby steps in between you two.

“Y/N, enough,” he says, calm but firm.

You laugh, bitter and loud. “No, Bobby. I’m done. Done pretending I’m not fucking furious. Done waiting on someone who can’t even text me.”

You turn sharply and walk out, leaving the cold food and the broken silence behind.

The street is nearly empty—just you, the hum of the engine, and the boiling silence inside your chest.

You grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white. Your pulse is still racing from the firehouse. From him. From the way he sat there laughing, like you hadn’t been home, pacing in the kitchen for hours with a full plate of his favorite food going cold on the counter.

A sob claws its way up your throat but dies before it reaches your mouth.

You’re so caught in your spiraling thoughts, you almost miss the headlights screaming toward you from the side.

Almost.

Too fast.

Your head whips to the left—brakes screeching—but it’s too late.

The other car slams into your passenger side at full speed, a T-bone hit with the force of a missile.

Metal screams. Your body jolts violently as the impact rips through you like lightning. The car spins uncontrollably, tires screeching, glass exploding like gunfire.

Time slows down.

Your head whips forward, then back, as the car spins once—

Twice—

Then slams sideways into a tree with bone-crushing force. The passenger side caves inward, the entire right half of the car crushed like paper.

Your head hits the driver-side window with a crack, blood immediately pooling from your temple. The airbag deploys a second too late to save your ribs from the force. Pain sears through your abdomen—blunt trauma, maybe internal bleeding. You can’t tell.

The door won’t open. Your hands won’t move.

You taste copper.

You can’t scream.

The cold rushes in through shattered glass. Somewhere outside, someone’s shouting.

A pair of headlights flicker in the distance. A car screeches to a halt. Someone runs toward you.

“Oh my God! Call 911! Call 911 now!”

Another voice: “She’s still breathing—barely!”

You’re fading fast.

“Miss? Stay with me! Stay awake—hey, look at me. Look at me!”

A stranger presses on your side. It hurts so badly you nearly black out. The pain is unbearable. But you’re too weak to fight it.

Blood coats your seat. Drips down your wrist. Puddles on the floorboard.

Your car is unrecognizable.

And you? You might be dying.

Somewhere close—only three blocks away—sirens are screaming louder and louder.

The 118 is coming.

So is he.

But you don’t know if you’ll still be awake when he gets there.

——

(Station 118)

“Motor vehicle accident—two vehicles involved. One critical. Location—”

Buck hears the dispatcher say the street name and his body freezes.

He knows that road.

He knows who drives that road home from the firehouse.

“Buck,” Bobby says quickly, already picking up on it, “Don’t jump to—”

But Buck is already running. Helmet in hand. Vest half on. Sprinting to the rig like his life depends on it. Because it does.

The rig tears through the streets. It’s barely been three blocks. That’s how close she was. That’s how stupidly close—

Chim is driving. Eddie’s beside him. Hen’s checking gear.

And Buck is staring out the windshield, praying, pleading, bargaining.

Please don’t let it be her car.

Please don’t let it be her.

Please. Please. Please.

They turn the corner—

And he sees it.

Her car. Or what’s left of it.

A mangled, twisted wreck of metal, glass, and blood. The entire passenger side crushed like a soda can against a tree. Her car is barely recognizable—but Buck knows it. He knows the shape, the color, the dent on the rear left bumper from that time she backed into a post.

He jumps out of the rig before it’s even in park.

“Buck!” Bobby yells. “Wait!”

But he’s already running.

And then—he sees her.

Slumped sideways. Blood all over her. Her face pale. Her eyes half-lidded.

“No—NO—”

He drops to his knees by the driver’s side as Chim and Hen rush in.

“I’ve got no access here!” Hen shouts. “We need to cut her out!”

“Vitals are crashing!” Chim yells.

Buck’s voice shreds open as he pounds on the glass.

“Y/N—HEY—HEY, STAY AWAKE, BABY, STAY AWAKE—”

She flinches faintly. A moan. Barely.

He’s never felt fear like this. Not during the ladder collapse. Not during the tsunami. Not during lightning strikes or bomb threats.

This is worse.

This is her.

Bobby grabs him, yanking him back as they start cutting open the door.

“Let them work, Buck!”

“She’s bleeding out—she’s bleeding—”

“She’s alive,” Eddie says hoarsely, eyes locked on her. “But she won’t be for long if you don’t let them do their job.”

The door peels open.

It takes every ounce of strength Buck has not to fall apart when he sees the blood soaked into her seat, the way she gasps when they touch her abdomen, the deep gash on her temple.

She looks at him—just for a second. Eyes glassy. Barely there.

He reaches for her hand.

“Hey… hey, baby, I’m here. I’m right here, okay?”

Her lips move. He leans in. She’s trying to say his name.

Then her eyes roll back.

The monitors scream.

“She’s coding!” Hen yells.

“Go, go, go!” Chim shouts.

They hoist her out on the board, blood dripping to the pavement, and Buck runs after them—bloody hands shaking, lungs heaving, heart breaking wide open.

As the ambulance doors slam shut, Buck is left on the street, on his knees, shaking and sobbing—

Whispering over and over into the dark,

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

The hospital lights are too bright. Too white. Too sterile.

Too clean for how bloody his hands still are.

Buck hasn’t sat down.

Not once.

He’s pacing—back and forth, back and forth—the soles of his boots leaving faint red smudges on the white floor, reminders of how he held her, how her blood soaked into his skin, his sleeves, his soul.

It’s been twenty-two minutes.

Twenty-two minutes since the double doors swung shut behind the gurney.

Twenty-two minutes since she coded in the back of the rig and Hen fought like hell to bring her back.

“She’s got a pulse!” Hen had shouted.

“Go, go, go!” Chim had banged on the ambulance wall.

They’d barely made it.

Now, she’s in the OR.

“Any update?” he asks the nurse at the desk—again.

She looks up. Same look of sympathy. Same rehearsed, practiced tone.

“She’s still in surgery, Mr. Buckley. The doctor will come out as soon as they can.”

He nods, but it’s barely a movement. His jaw clenches. His hands ball into fists at his sides.

He can still see her face.

How pale she was.

The blood in her hair.

The way she looked at him like she was already slipping away.

And all he can think is: I was supposed to come home. I was supposed to eat dinner with her. I was supposed to say sorry.

Not scream at her.

Not make her feel unwanted.

Not send her home in tears.

His stomach twists as the weight of it crashes down on him. He shoves his hand into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out the to-go container.

Her handwriting on top.

“Your favorite. Still warm. I love you.”

He breaks.

Eddie finds him in a chair, head in his hands, the note clutched to his chest. His shoulders shake with every quiet sob.

“She was trying to make things right,” Buck chokes out. “And I—God, I didn’t even give her the chance.”

“Buck,” Eddie says, crouching beside him, voice steady but wrecked, “She’s strong. She’s in there fighting. But you’ve gotta hold it together until she wakes up.”

“If she wakes up.”

Silence.

Then:

“She will.”

Buck sits there, numb and bloodied and broken, staring at the doors like he can will them open.

“Ten more minutes,” he whispers. “I’ll ask again in ten.”

And he will.

Every ten minutes.

Until someone tells him the only thing he wants to hear:

That she made it.

Buck sits hunched over, forearms resting on his knees, fingers twitching against one another like if he stops moving, he’ll come undone.

Eddie sits in the chair next to him, silent, steady, like he always is. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t prod. He just waits.

And eventually, Buck cracks.

“It started over something stupid,” he says, voice rough. “I don’t even remember what. Something about the way I didn’t respond when she asked if I was okay.”

Eddie glances at him, quiet.

“She asked, and I brushed her off. Said I was tired. Said I had a long shift ahead.” Buck lets out a bitter laugh. “She tried to get me to talk about it, and I shut down. Again.”

Eddie’s silence isn’t empty. It’s full of understanding. Full of memories.

“She said it felt like I only let her in halfway. That sometimes I didn’t even try.”

Buck swallows hard. His voice softens.

“And she wasn’t wrong. She never is when it comes to me.”

He wipes his palm across his mouth, shaking his head.

“I snapped at her, man. She was just trying to talk, to understand, and I told her I didn’t want to do this before work. I told her, ‘we’ll talk tonight.’ Like that was enough.”

“She believed you.” Eddie’s voice is low, even.

Buck nods. His eyes are glassy again.

“She asked me if I was still in this with her. If I was still trying. And I just stood there. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t answer her, Eddie.”

Eddie looks over, eyes dark.

“And then I walked out. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like she didn’t mean anything.”

The words sting coming out. Buck flinches at the truth in his own mouth.

“I was already halfway to the firehouse when I felt it. That regret. That voice in my head screaming at me to turn around. But I didn’t.”

“Why?” Eddie asks, gently.

Buck’s voice is barely a whisper.

“Because it was easier to go to work than it was to tell her I was scared.”

He swallows hard.

“Scared that I don’t know how to be loved like that. That I don’t know how to hold something so good without breaking it.”

Eddie leans back, sighs through his nose.

“You think picking up another shift was gonna keep her from seeing that?”

“I think it made it worse,” Buck whispers. “I think she cooked my favorite meal as an apology. I think she wanted to make it right and I didn’t even give her the chance.”

“You didn’t know she’d show up.”

Buck finally looks over.

“I shouldn’t have had to. She always shows up.”

His jaw tightens, grief crawling up his throat.

“And I didn’t.”

Eddie looks away. Doesn’t speak. Because he was there—when she walked into the station, shaking, eyes red-rimmed, voice raised with fury and heartbreak. He saw the way Buck froze, silent and stunned.

He watched her drop the container on the table, the note taped to the lid.

He heard her voice crack when she said, “I waited for you.”

Buck squeezes his eyes shut now.

“She left like I’d torn her in half. And I let her go. I just let her walk away.”

The waiting room door buzzes open in the distance, but no one comes out. Just a nurse crossing through.

Buck leans forward again, elbows on his knees, hands laced together.

“If she dies…” His voice catches. He swallows thickly. “If she doesn’t wake up, that’s the last thing I ever said to her. That silence. That nothing.”

Eddie’s voice is quiet but certain.

“She’s fighting. You have to believe that.”

“I do.” Buck wipes at his face. “But I also know… if she doesn’t make it, it’s not gonna be the accident that kills me.”

Eddie puts a hand on his shoulder, firm. Steady.

“You’ll get to tell her all of this, Buck. You’ll get to say everything you didn’t. Just hold on.”

Buck nods, jaw clenched.

Another ten minutes pass.

He stands again. Walks to the nurse’s desk.

“Any update?” he asks, voice breaking.

This time, the nurse looks back at him, expression softening—

“The doctor’s coming out now.”

The waiting room had never been quieter. Not even when Bobby had been under the knife. Not even when Chim had coded. Not even when Buck had nearly died himself.

Because this time, it wasn’t him on the table.

It was her.

And he couldn’t do a damn thing.

His palms were still sticky with dried blood.

Her blood.

He’d been pacing when the door opened. The air shifted. He felt it before he heard it.

The soft click of shoes on tile. The rustle of a white coat.

Buck turned.

A doctor. Older. Stern, unreadable face. The kind of look that didn’t tell you anything until it told you everything.

“Evan Buckley?”

Buck took one step forward so fast Eddie reached out, as if ready to catch him.

“Yes,” Buck said, voice hoarse. “That’s me. I’m—She’s my—”

He swallowed.

“I’m with her.”

The doctor nodded. “Let’s sit.”

Buck didn’t want to sit.

He wanted answers.

He stood stiff and cold and trembling like a thread pulled too tight.

The doctor didn’t force it. Just exhaled slowly.

“She was brought in with severe abdominal trauma, a major concussion, and internal bleeding. Her spleen was ruptured. There were signs of blunt force trauma to the ribs, a laceration on the liver, and she had lost significant blood volume on the scene.”

Buck could hear himself breathing. Could feel Eddie standing behind him, but he couldn’t look away.

“The impact was… catastrophic. The passenger side of the vehicle wrapped around the tree. She was partially crushed between the door and the seat.”

Buck closed his eyes. His fault. She shouldn’t have been in that car.

“But,” the doctor said, voice softening just a hair, “she’s alive.”

Buck’s eyes snapped open.

“She’s in critical condition. We were able to stabilize her for now. She’s intubated and on a ventilator. Her vitals are holding, but it’s going to be touch and go for the next 24 hours.”

“Is she awake?” Buck rasped.

“No. We placed her in a medically induced coma to let the brain swelling reduce and give her body time to fight.”

Buck swayed where he stood. Eddie’s hand pressed between his shoulder blades.

“You said she’s stable?” Buck asked, and his voice cracked like a boy’s.

“For now,” the doctor repeated carefully. “There’s no guarantee. Her body is in shock. But she’s young. And she’s strong.”

Buck nodded like his neck was made of splintered glass. “Can I see her?”

The doctor hesitated, then nodded. “Only for a few minutes. Let the nurses get her settled in ICU. Then we’ll bring you back.”

Buck breathed out like he hadn’t in hours.

The doctor started to turn away. Buck stopped him.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly. “For saving her.”

The doctor paused, gave him a look he’d remember for the rest of his life.

“She’s the one who saved herself,” he said. “She held on longer than most could have. Might be something worth holding on for.”

Then he walked away.

Buck stood there. Frozen.

“She’s alive,” he whispered. Like maybe if he said it out loud, it would stay true.

“She’s alive,” he said again, and this time he turned to Eddie, who had tears in his eyes too.

“Yeah,” Eddie said, gripping Buck’s arm. “She’s alive.”

But Buck didn’t feel relief. Not yet.

Because she hadn’t opened her eyes.

Because she hadn’t heard him say sorry.

Because she’d still left thinking he didn’t love her.

And that might be the part that killed him first.

The ICU was too quiet.

No sirens. No radios. No alarms.

Just the slow, soft beep… beep… beep of the heart monitor keeping her alive.

Buck stepped into the room and felt the rest of the world drop away.

She looked so small in the bed. Tubes and wires tangled in her arms, tape at her mouth, bruises blooming purple and red across her temple and shoulder. Her skin was pale, almost waxy. The kind of stillness that didn’t belong to someone like her—someone who laughed with her whole chest, someone who kissed him with all her soul.

The nurse gave him a nod, quietly closed the door behind him.

He took one step, then another. His boots felt too loud against the floor.

“I—” Buck started, then stopped.

His throat was too tight.

“I didn’t think it was real,” he said softly, sinking into the chair by her bedside. “I saw the car, and I—I thought you were gone. I thought I lost you.”

His hand hovered near hers for a second before he finally took it. It was cool, limp, fingers slack.

“I’m sorry.” His voice cracked. “God, I’m so sorry.”

His other hand came up, dragging across his face like he could rub the shame out of his skin.

“You were trying to talk to me, and I shut you down. You made dinner—you made my favorite, and I just… I stayed at the station because I didn’t want to face you. Because I was afraid I’d say something that made you walk away.”

He let out a weak, bitter laugh. “And I said nothing. And you still walked out the door.”

His thumb brushed over her knuckles.

“I never wanted you to think I didn’t love you. That you weren’t enough.” His voice trembled. “You’re everything.”

The machines kept beeping. She didn’t stir.

He leaned closer.

“Please wake up. Just… please. I’ll do anything. I’ll say everything I never said. I’ll tell you every day for the rest of your life how sorry I am, how much I love you, how—how I don’t know how to breathe without you.”

His forehead dropped to the edge of the bed, hand still wrapped around hers.

“I didn’t come home, and now you might never come back to me.”

There was silence for a long moment.

Then—

A sound.

Soft. Barely there.

The ventilator hissed. A monitor blipped.

And then—a twitch.

Her fingers.

They moved.

Buck’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “Hey. Hey—are you—?”

But before he could call for the nurse, the heart monitor spiked.

And then,

flatlined.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Peachy

Lewis Pullman x Fem!Reader

The backyard is warm and still — heavy with that kind of thick, slow heat that makes everything feel like it’s moving through honey. A half-empty pack of Solo cups is slumped beside the porch steps. There’s a faint crackle of music drifting from inside the house — some old indie vinyl Lewis put on just after breakfast.

You’re outside in your favorite sundress — loose, soft, floral — one that flutters around your thighs when the breeze hits just right. You’re crouched low over a row of coolers, sleeves of soda and bottled water scattered around you, separating everything into four color-coded bins: juice boxes in the blue one, soda in red, water in green, and the beer tucked away in white — out of reach of curious little hands.

You’re humming to yourself as you work, fingertips dusted with condensation from the ice bags you just cracked open.

You don’t hear Lewis come outside.

You feel him first — a flicker of his shadow on the grass, the familiar sound of his sneakers scraping over the porch planks — and then: two warm hands slide over your hips, a solid body pressing flush behind you.

And then his hips roll against yours.

You gasp — half surprise, half laugh — and instinctively press back into him just a little. He groans into your neck, soft and desperate.

YOU

(teasing, breathy)

Oh? Needy?

LEWIS

So fucking needy I can’t even see straight.

His voice is low, gravel dragged over syrup, and he doesn’t stop grinding against you — slow, deliberate, already so hard it makes your knees go a little soft.

YOU

We’ve got an hour, Lew. Don’t start something we don’t have time to finish.

LEWIS

We do have time. Just ten minutes. Hell — five. I don’t even need to get fully undressed. Just pull this little sundress up and—

His fingers trail down your outer thigh, slow and suggestive. You grab his wrist before it can go any further and glance back over your shoulder with a smirk.

YOU

You’re serious?

He looks at you like you just asked if the sky was blue. His cheeks are flushed, jaw locked tight, and his eyes — dark and wide and wrecked — are shameless.

LEWIS

I’ve been hard since you bent over like that ten minutes ago. This dress is evil. You’re evil. I’m losing my mind out here.

YOU

We’ve got parents and nieces and cousins showing up any second. You really wanna sneak off while your mom’s walking in the front gate?

LEWIS

If it means I get to be inside you? I’ll risk it.

You laugh — an actual giggle — and he groans again, this time full-body, like the sound got pulled from deep in his chest.

YOU

You’re begging.

LEWIS

Damn right I am. Baby, I’m fucking aching. I woke up like this and it hasn’t gone away. I watched you walk around the kitchen barefoot, sipping coffee in that tiny towel, and I’ve been in hell ever since.

You straighten up slightly, still crouched, letting your hips roll back into him just a little — enough to make him hiss through his teeth. He grips your waist tighter, knuckles white.

YOU

You look pretty when you’re desperate.

LEWIS

I look pathetic. And I don’t care. Please, baby.

You finally stand and turn to face him, and he looks like a man on the brink — hair tousled, lips parted, and his hands flexing like he doesn’t know where to put them if they’re not on you.

You trail your fingertips up the front of his tight blue Winchester tee, stopping right over his pounding heart.

YOU

Let me get this straight. You want to sneak into our house, fuck me so fast and hard I can still smile at your mom twenty minutes later, without any of our siblings or nieces catching us?

He nods, quickly. Eager. You tilt your head.

YOU (CONT’D)

Mm… no.

LEWIS

What?

YOU

No. You’re gonna wait.

He actually stumbles back a step like you physically knocked the wind out of him.

LEWIS

You’re joking.

YOU

Not even a little.

LEWIS

You’re gonna make me go back inside. With this.

He gestures wildly toward the very visible outline in his pants, looking like he might actually scream.

YOU

You’ll survive.

You bend back down again — slowly this time — as you reach for another six-pack of soda. The sundress flutters up again and you hear Lewis let out the softest, most strangled groan behind you.

YOU (CONT’D)

Beer cooler’s yours. Don’t forget the ice. And maybe… cool off while you’re at it.

LEWIS

You’re cruel.

YOU

You love it.

You don’t even have to look back to know he’s still standing there, jaw tight, fists clenched, completely wrecked — and the damn cookout hasn’t even started yet.

INT. KITCHEN – LATE AFTERNOON – COOKOUT IN FULL SWING

The kitchen is loud with overlapping conversations — your mom fussing over potato salad, your niece begging for another juice box, and Lewis’s sister pulling cupcakes out of a bakery box with loud praise.

You slip through the crowd with practiced ease, refilling the chip bowl and tossing another batch of forks into a tray. Every time you turn, you feel it:

His eyes.

Lewis watches you from across the kitchen like he’s starving. He’s leaned casually against the fridge, red Solo cup in hand, but there’s nothing casual about the way he’s looking at you — eyes low, mouth slightly open, thumb rubbing the rim of his cup like he’s imagining it’s your skin.

You flash him a sweet smile and then turn to help your cousin with the lemonade.

A beat later, you feel it: his hand. Just a brush of fingers at the small of your back as he walks behind you, so light it could’ve been nothing. But it isn’t. You feel it like a live wire.

LEWIS (LOW, BEHIND YOU)

I’m gonna drag you into the bathroom if you keep looking at me like that.

You glance over your shoulder, smirking.

YOU (SOFT)

You wouldn’t.

LEWIS

Try me.

⸻

EXT. BACKYARD – TWENTY MINUTES LATER – GOLDEN HOUR

The sun’s beginning to sink, casting that buttery light over everything. Paper plates dot the grass, kids shriek as they chase each other with water guns, and the scent of grilled burgers hangs thick in the air.

You’re sitting beside your aunt at the long picnic table, sipping a spiked lemonade. Lewis is on the opposite end, laughing with your dad and tossing something on the grill, but every few minutes, he glances your way.

Not subtle.

You cross your legs slowly under the table and his gaze locks onto your thigh as it slides out from under your sundress.

He blinks.

Then looks away with effort.

Two minutes later, he texts you:

Lewis: I’m gonna lose it.

Lewis: One more look like that and I’m bending you over the laundry room sink.

Lewis: That’s a promise.

You smile down at your phone, then shoot him a reply:

You: Better hope your mom doesn’t need a dish towel while I’m in there, then.

Across the table, he nearly chokes on his lemonade.

⸻

INT. HALLWAY – MOMENTS LATER – INSIDE THE HOUSE

You duck into the house under the excuse of checking the corn in the oven. The kitchen is momentarily empty.

You open the oven, peer inside… and then sense someone behind you.

YOU (SOFTLY)

If that’s my mom, I swear I’m not burning it—

You turn and—

SLAM.

Lewis pins you gently but firmly against the hallway wall between the kitchen and the laundry room, one hand planted beside your head, the other already gripping your waist. His breath is hot against your cheek.

LEWIS (ROUGH WHISPER)

You think this is funny?

YOU (TEASING)

A little. You’ve been hard for like three hours.

LEWIS

And you love it.

You don’t answer.

You just smile.

His lips graze your jawline, the side of your throat, slow and shaky.

LEWIS (CONT’D)

Tell me to stop and I will.

You don’t.

You tilt your head back, breath catching.

His hand dips beneath the hem of your sundress — only a little. Just his fingertips grazing the inside of your thigh.

Then—

FOOTSTEPS.

Voices. Your cousin laughing, someone calling for ketchup.

You both freeze.

YOU (BREATHLESS)

Don’t. Move.

LEWIS (MURMURING INTO YOUR EAR)

Baby, you are killing me.

The voices pass. You swallow hard.

You glance up at him, cheeks flushed, lips parted, your body thrumming.

Then you shift, slip right out of his grasp, straighten your dress, and shoot him a look over your shoulder as you walk back into the kitchen.

YOU

Corn’s done.

He stays frozen in the hallway for a moment, chest rising and falling, hands flexing at his sides.

And then he mutters under his breath:

LEWIS

Un. Fucking. Believable.

EXT. BACKYARD – EVENING – DINNER TIME

The sun is sinking low now, dipping the backyard in soft amber. Everyone’s finally sitting down with paper plates full of grilled food — burgers, corn, pasta salad, chips, charred hot dogs for the kids. Laughter echoes under the string lights, someone’s Bluetooth speaker is playing Fleetwood Mac, and all seems right in the world.

Unless you’re Lewis.

He’s seated at the far end of the long picnic table, trapped between your mom and his dad, trying to nod politely through a conversation about someone’s new patio furniture — but he’s not really there.

Not when you’re sitting directly across from him, licking butter off your fingers like it’s nothing.

You look warm and sun-kissed, cheeks flushed, sundress riding up slightly as you shift in your seat. One knee rests over the other, swaying lazily. You lick the edge of your thumb, catch his eye, and bite into your corn on the cob.

Slowly.

Lewis. Breaks.

He shifts in his seat — again — legs spread wider, as if that’ll somehow help with the very obvious situation in his jeans. He grips his paper plate like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth.

LEWIS

(muttering to himself)

She’s trying to kill me.

YOUR COUSIN (TO LEWIS)

What was that?

LEWIS (QUICKLY)

Nothing! Uh — the, uh — food’s great.

Your eyes glitter as you bite into your burger, deliberately ignoring the look he’s giving you: part hunger, part despair, all pent-up frustration.

He tries to focus on eating. He really does. But every time he looks up, you’re doing something else cruel:

• Reapplying lip balm.

• Sucking the juice from a piece of watermelon.

• Stretching your arms overhead like you don’t know your dress rides up when you do.

You’re a menace. And you know it.

He texts you again, right under the table:

Lewis: You’re actually evil.

Lewis: I can’t do this much longer.

Lewis: I’m gonna say something insane in front of your mom.

Lewis: Stop.

You glance down at your phone, then up at him, and take the slowest sipfrom your lemonade. Tongue against the straw. Legs crossed tighter.

His jaw tightens.

You lean forward across the table a little, arms resting on the edge, and speak sweetly:

YOU

Everything taste okay, babe?

He stares at you like he might combust on the spot.

LEWIS

Delicious.

He looks anything but okay.

You tilt your head, like you’re all innocent.

YOU

You look a little flushed. You alright?

LEWIS

Peachy.

Your dad walks by and claps him on the shoulder, totally oblivious.

DAD

You alright there, Lewis? You look like you’ve been working the grill yourself.

Lewis laughs. It sounds like pain.

LEWIS

Just… uh… hot out here, sir.

You bite back a smile. Take another bite of corn. He watches you like he’s counting the seconds until he can finally have you alone again.

And right now, you’re winning.

EXT. BACKYARD – NIGHTFALL – POST-COOKOUT GLOW

The string lights twinkle overhead now, swaying gently in the breeze. Most of the paper plates are empty, plastic cups half-full and scattered, and the last of the kids are chasing fireflies barefoot through the grass.

You’ve kicked your shoes off. You’re perched on the porch steps, sipping from the same lemonade you’ve been nursing all day. Your sundress is hitched up just a little from sitting, legs bare and stretched out in front of you.

Lewis stands behind you, hands on his hips, scanning the yard like a soldier planning an escape route.

LEWIS (LOW)

Alright. Everyone’s eaten. Everyone’s full. They’re gonna start leaving now, yeah?

You hum noncommittally.

YOU

Might take a little longer. My mom never leaves without wrapping up at least three different types of leftovers. And your aunt’s probably already loading the dishwasher.

LEWIS

No. No no no. I’ve been hard since before the guests got here. I am done. I am reclaiming my girlfriend now.

You turn slightly, resting your chin on your shoulder, all soft eyes and faux-innocence.

YOU

Is that your way of offering to clean?

LEWIS

Yes. Enthusiastically. Furiously. Just — alone. You and me. Inside. Now.

He claps his hands once and raises his voice toward the family chaos around the yard.

LEWIS (LOUDER)

Hey! Everyone! We’ve got clean-up handled — seriously! You guys just enjoy the night. We’re good!

You blink. Bold of him. A few cousins pause mid-conversation. Your mom looks up from where she’s gathering a pile of napkins.

And then?

MOM (MATTER-OF-FACTLY)

You hosted. We clean.

Lewis freezes. His mouth opens, then closes.

LEWIS

What?

YOUR AUNT (WALKING BY WITH TUPPERWARE)

It’s the rule, sweetheart. Host doesn’t lift a finger. Now scoot, where’s your trash bags?

COUSIN (TO YOU)

We’re making a take-home plate

You are okay. You’re perfect. Especially now, as Lewis stands beside you looking like he might cry.

LEWIS (TO HIMSELF)

This is a nightmare. This is my personal hell.

He leans down beside you, murmuring under his breath:

LEWIS (LOW)

They’re multiplying. I swear there’s more of them than before.

YOU (SOFTLY, SMILING)

You look like you’re about to break.

LEWIS

I am about to break. I have never wanted you more in my life and your mom just handed me a Glad bag and told me to double knot it.

YOU

Mm. Sexy.

He stares at you. He is unamused. You are very amused.

LEWIS

You’re evil and I love you but I also might die.

YOU

You’ll survive. Barely.

Your little niece comes racing across the yard and crashes into Lewis’s legs with a sticky hug.

NIECE

Lewyyy!! Can I have one more cookie?

Lewis smiles weakly.

LEWIS

Sure, sweetheart. You can have anything. Literally anything.

As she runs off again, he turns to you — defeated, flushed, teeth clenched.

LEWIS (WHISPERING)

You better hope they leave in the next twenty minutes or I’m throwing you over my shoulder and carrying you upstairs in front of your entire bloodline.

You grin.

YOU

Tempting.

INT. LIVING ROOM – LATE NIGHT – QUIET, FINALLY

The last goodbye drifts through the front door.

Tupperware has been handed out. Hugs exchanged. Your mom and his finally pulled away from each other with promises of brunch next week. The front door clicks shut behind them.

Silence.

You turn the lock slowly.

Behind you, Lewis is still. Watching.

You barely get a breath in before he’s on you.

LEWIS (LOW, ROUGH)

Don’t move.

His voice is wrecked — low, hoarse, trembling with restraint. You turn, and the second your eyes meet his, it’s over.

SMASH.

His mouth crashes into yours like a storm — no teasing, no gentleness left. Hands gripping your waist tight, walking you backward blindly until your back hits the nearest wall. The kiss is filthy — all teeth, tongue, desperation. Like he’s making up for every second he spent sitting politely at a dinner table with a hard-on.

LEWIS (BREATHLESS, BETWEEN KISSES)

You. Fucking. Tortured. Me.

YOU (GASPING, LAUGHING)

You liked it.

He growls, literally growls, and grabs your thighs in both hands. You don’t even get a warning — he lifts you up like nothing, your back against the wall, legs wrapping around his waist as his mouth drags down your jaw to your neck.

LEWIS (WHISPERED, DARK)

I’m not gonna be gentle.

You bite your lip, nodding, breath caught.

YOU (SOFTLY)

Don’t be.

That’s all it takes.

⸻

INT. BEDROOM – MOMENTS LATER – DARK, LIT ONLY BY MOONLIGHT

He stumbles through the door with you in his arms, kicking it shut without ever looking away from you. Clothes are gone in seconds. His shirt hits the floor first. Then your sundress — yanked over your head, left in a heap.

You’re in nothing underneath.

LEWIS (HOARSE WHISPER)

Of course you weren’t wearing anything under that fucking dress. Of course you weren’t.

He kisses down your chest, messy and hot, like he can’t decide where he wants to start — teeth grazing over a nipple, tongue flicking the other, hands gripping your hips like he’s anchoring himself.

He finally pulls back, eyes scanning you from head to toe like he’s been waiting all day to see you like this.

LEWIS (LOW, SERIOUS)

Hands on the headboard.

YOU

Yes, sir.

His eyes flash.

LEWIS

Don’t say that unless you mean it.

YOU (BREATHLESS)

I do.

That’s it. He grabs your wrists and pins them to the headboard himself, kissing you hard as he lines himself up. The first thrust steals your breath — deep, hard, unapologetic. He doesn’t ease in. Doesn’t give you time. And you don’t want him to.

The rhythm is filthy.

Fast, hungry. His fingers dig into your thigh, spreading you open wider, hitting deep with every snap of his hips. You moan his name and he slapsyour thigh — not hard, but enough to make you gasp.

LEWIS (ROUGH, RIGHT AT YOUR EAR)

You think you can tease me all day? Make me sit there hard while you eat corn and smile at me like that?

You nod, breathless, grinning.

YOU (PANTING)

Yeah. And I’d do it again.

LEWIS (DANGEROUSLY CALM)

You’re such a brat.

His hand slips between your legs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles. You arch off the bed, body trembling.

YOU (WHIMPERING)

Lewis, I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—

LEWIS

Then come. Right now. Be loud. I want everyone who drove away tonight to hear how wrecked you are.

You do. Hard. Shaking under him, crying out his name as he fucks you through it, still thrusting, still kissing you like he’s addicted.

He doesn’t stop until he’s gasping your name into your neck, hips stuttering, body shaking.

He collapses on top of you, sweaty, breathless, and still kissing every inch of skin he can reach like he needs to.

The room is quiet now — windows cracked just enough to let in a warm breeze, the faint sound of crickets outside blending with the hum of the ceiling fan.

You’re sprawled on his chest, still catching your breath, your fingers tracing lazy patterns over his skin. Lewis’s arm is wrapped tight around your back, the other hand resting in your hair.

For a moment, there’s peace.

Soft. Golden. Satisfied.

Exactly two minutes of it.

And then —

LEWIS (VOICE LOW, RUMBLY)

Alright.

You blink, eyebrows lifting.

YOU

…Alright?

He shifts under you. Big hands slide down your back. His fingers trail along the curve of your ass — still tender from how hard he gripped you minutes ago.

LEWIS

I need more.

YOU (LAUGHING, MUFFLED AGAINST HIS CHEST)

Already?

LEWIS (DEAD SERIOUS)

Yes. Babe, I’ve been on edge since noon. I’m still not okay.

He flips you effortlessly — body shifting under yours, hands grabbing your thighs, rolling you onto your back so he’s hovering over you again, eyes darker now than they were before.

YOU (PLAYFULLY WHINING)

You said “worth the wait” like five minutes ago.

LEWIS (GROWLING SOFTLY)

That was Round One worth the wait. Now I want the rest.

His mouth crashes into yours again — slower this time, but deeper, hungrier. Less frantic, more claiming. He kisses you like he’s trying to ruin your mouth for anyone else.

His hand slips between your legs without breaking the kiss, and you moan into it — still sensitive, but already pulsing again under his touch.

LEWIS (BREATHLESS, MOUTH ON YOUR NECK)

You’re soaked again already.

YOU (GASPING)

That’s your fault.

LEWIS (WHISPERING INTO YOUR SKIN)

I know. I love it.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, then flips you again, this time face-down — hands on your hips, dragging you toward the edge of the bed.

LEWIS (LOW, CONTROLLED)

Up. On your knees.

You obey instantly — breathless, dizzy, and so ready. You press your forearms into the pillows, arching your back, legs trembling already.

He drags his fingers down your spine — slow, reverent.

LEWIS

Look at this. This is mine.

He slides into you again with one deep, punishing thrust — and you whimper, already stretched and aching, but god, it’s so good.

This round is different — deeper, dirtier. His rhythm is intense, hips slamming into you with the kind of precision that says he knows your body now, every little reaction, every gasp and moan.

You cry out when his palm smacks your ass — again, not too hard, but enough to make you clench around him.

YOU (GASPING)

Fuck—Lewis—

LEWIS (DARK LAUGH)

You made me wait all day. Now you take everything I give you.

He reaches forward, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling just enough to tilt your head back. You moan helplessly into the sheets.

YOU (WHIMPERING)

Lewis, I—oh god—

LEWIS (BREATHLESS)

Say it. Who’s fucking you this good?

YOU (RUINED)

You. You are. Always.

You come with a full-body shake, legs giving out, body clenching around him so tight he curses, stuttering behind you as he follows, coming deep and hard, pressed flush to your back, whispering your name like a prayer.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Behind Closed Doors

Lewis Pullman x Fem!Cruise!Reader

“You look beautiful,” Lewis murmured, hand brushing down the smooth silk of your waist as the photographers screamed your names.

“You just like the slit,” you teased, glancing down at the way your leg peeked out every time you shifted your hips.

He grinned, full teeth. “I like a lot more than that.”

Click. Click. Click.

The flashes caught it all — the way his eyes lingered on your lips, the way you leaned into his side like he was your anchor in the chaos.

“Y/N! Over here!”

“Lewis, give us one with the heart eyes!”

“Power couple of the year! Y/N, blink twice if he’s treating you right!”

You laughed. So did he.

Your hands stayed linked, even while doing solo shots. He blew you a kiss from the edge of the carpet. You caught it and winked.

The press ate it up.

Because of course they did. You were the Cruise-Pullman duo. Clean. Loving. Glowy. Successful. Both nepo babies. Both annoyingly talented. And somehow, still grounded.

The public adored you. Your families were obsessed with each other — Bill and Tom regularly texted each other memes like overexcited uncles. Your mom had a group chat going with Lewis’s sisters. Christmas dinners had been merged for two years now.

No one knew that just hours from now, everything was about to explode.

⸻

INT. THEIR HOUSE – HOURS LATER

Shoes kicked off. Jewelry on the counter. Lipstick smeared by Lewis’s mouth as he pressed you into the kitchen counter, the glass of wine you’d just poured forgotten behind you.

His hand slid up your thigh.

“No cameras now,” he said against your neck.

“Thank God,” you breathed, tugging him closer. “I’ve wanted you all night.”

He lifted you up onto the counter like it was nothing, mouth on your collarbone, fingers teasing the edge of your panties.

“Still pissed we didn’t sneak one in the limo.”

“Oh please,” you laughed. “Tom watches the livestreams. I’m not getting a 3 a.m. text about getting railed in a Bentley.”

He smirked. “You liked it in the SUV last time.”

Your laugh turned into a moan as he pushed your panties aside and finally touched you. You gripped his hair, hips grinding into his hand, breath quickening.

“Want me to film?” he asked, voice low.

You looked down, eyes already glassy. “You think I’m camera-ready?”

“I always think you’re camera-ready.”

His phone was on the counter. Unlocked. Open.

You nodded.

And Lewis grinned, kissed your knee, hit record.

———

The first thing you felt was warmth — bare legs tangled, soft sheets, Lewis’s arm wrapped around your middle. You didn’t even open your eyes yet. You could feel the smile on your face.

Last night had been… perfect.

Premiere glow. Kitchen sex. Filming on the counter. Finishing in the hallway. Two rounds in the shower before bed.

You were sore, happy, stretched out in nothing but his T-shirt, pressed against your boyfriend like he was your entire world.

And then your phone rang.

You groaned into the pillow. Lewis grunted, half-asleep.

Your arm flailed toward the nightstand.

DAD lit up the screen.

You blinked.

And sat up fast.

Lewis stirred beside you. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just—my dad.”

You swiped to answer. “Hey—”

“Y/N, where the fuck is your phone?”

Your blood ran cold.

“I—I’m on it, I just answered—”

“I’ve been calling for twenty minutes,” Tom snapped. “You didn’t check Twitter? Instagram?”

“What’s going on?” Your voice was small. Confused. “Dad, what are you—”

He exhaled hard, like he couldn’t believe he had to say it.

“Your sex tape leaked.”

Silence.

Your pulse dropped out from under you.

“What?” you whispered.

“I didn’t watch it. I couldn’t—I won’t,” he said fast. “But it’s you. And it’s him. It’s real.”

Lewis sat up next to you, instantly alert. “What’s going on?”

Your hand was shaking.

“I’m gonna kill whoever did this,” Tom growled. “Do you understand me?”

You couldn’t breathe.

Lewis took the phone from you, calm but deadly. “Tom. It’s Lewis. We’ll handle it.”

Tom’s voice was steel. “You better. Because the whole fucking world has seen her now.”

⸻

INT. BEDROOM – MINUTES LATER

You dropped the phone on the bed and curled your knees into your chest.

Lewis moved to your side without hesitation, gathering you into his arms, cradling you like glass.

“Hey. Hey, I’ve got you.”

You sobbed once. “Lewis—our videos—they’re online. They’re online.”

“I know, baby. I know.”

He rocked you gently. Kissed your temple. Held the back of your head.

“They’re real,” you choked. “People are watching us like porn.”

His jaw clenched. Eyes darkened.

“We’re gonna sue every last one of them,” he whispered. “Whoever did this? They’re fucking done.”

You nodded against his chest. “We didn’t deserve this.”

“No,” he said firmly. “You didn’t.”

He reached for his phone, already dialing your lawyer, already switching into protective mode. You leaned into him as the room blurred around you — chest hollow, cheeks damp, hands shaking.

⸻

CUT TO: LATER THAT DAY – LIVING ROOM

You sat on the couch in his hoodie. Lewis hadn’t let you out of his sight all morning.

Your publicist was pacing. Her phone buzzed every ten seconds. The world was on fire. Hashtags were trending. Screenshots were circulating. Media outlets were dissecting everything from your moans to the timestamp.

Lewis sat beside you with a hand on your knee.

Still. Present. Furious.

Bill was on the other end of the call now too.

And your dad was pacing on FaceTime.

“I want names,” Tom was saying. “I want IP addresses. I want lawsuits stacked to the ceiling.”

You finally spoke, voice calm but full of fire:

“We’ll write a joint statement. Then we’ll find who did this. And when we do, we’ll destroy them.”

———

The room was still.

No sound but the low hum of the AC.

Your publicist stood just offscreen, arms folded, silent. Lewis’s hand rested gently on your thigh, grounding you. His thumb rubbed a slow, steady circle there — calming, sure.

The ring light was dim. Just enough glow. The phone was positioned exactly how you wanted it: eye-level, still, capturing both of you in frame.

You took a deep breath.

Then you hit record.

Lewis spoke first.

“Hi. I’m Lewis Pullman.”

You followed, steady but clear.

“I’m Y/N Cruise.”

“You probably already know that, considering why you’re here. We’re speaking to you today because something deeply personal, and incredibly private, was taken from us.”

“Stolen,” you added, eyes sharp. “Violated.”

Lewis swallowed. “A series of private videos — between two consenting adults, in a long-term, loving relationship — were hacked from our personal devices and distributed without our knowledge or permission.”

“They were never meant to be public,” you said, voice unwavering. “And I know there’s been a lot of jokes, comments, speculation… but this is serious. This isn’t gossip. This is a crime.”

“We didn’t ask for this,” Lewis added. “And we sure as hell don’t deserve it.”

You leaned forward just slightly, locking eyes with the camera.

“If you’ve seen those videos: you watched something you were never supposed to. That footage wasn’t leaked. It was stolen. And when we find out who did it—”

“—and we will—” Lewis cut in, firm, jaw clenched—

“���we will be pursuing legal action. Period.”

The silence afterward hung heavy. Real.

“We’ve worked hard for our careers. We love our families. We’ve built a life together. And yes—we’re passionate. We’re human. But being public figures doesn’t mean we give up our right to privacy.”

Lewis turned slightly toward you, gaze softening.

“We’re supporting each other through this. And we’re grateful to the fans and friends who’ve respected our space.”

You nodded once.

“To those who haven’t… I hope you learn something from this.”

You reached forward.

Pressed stop.

⸻

Aftermath – Minutes Later

The video uploaded to Instagram, Twitter, TikTok, YouTube — every platform you owned. Your phones blew up within seconds. Verified comments poured in.

Zoe Kravitz: “Beautifully said. Proud of you both.”

Florence Pugh: “I hope whoever leaked it is sued to hell.”

@bestbfpullman: “idk if I wanna cry or bark rn”

The internet didn’t know whether to apologize or explode with thirst.

Lewis turned to you as the comments kept rolling.

“Was that okay?”

You exhaled. “That was perfect.”

Then you leaned into his chest.

And for the first time that day, you let yourself breathe.

———

You tried to hold it in.

You really did.

You sat on the couch, wrapped in Lewis’s hoodie, watching the comments climb into the tens of thousands. The video was going viral in the right way — respect, support, celebrity solidarity.

But it didn’t matter.

Because all you could think about was your dad’s voice that morning.

The way it cracked when he said “I didn’t watch it, but it’s you.”

You hadn’t stopped shaking since.

And then there was a knock.

Not a buzz. Not the press. A soft knock.

Lewis got up and opened the door.

Tom didn’t wait to be invited in.

He stepped into the room, saw you on the couch, and opened his arms without a word.

You didn’t even get up — you ran.

Straight into him.

You collapsed into your father’s chest like you were five years old again and the whole world had just gone dark. He held you tight, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your back like he was physically holding your pieces together.

“I’m sorry,” you sobbed into his shirt. “I’m so sorry—Dad, I didn’t mean—”

“Stop,” he said, voice tight, throat thick. “You don’t apologize. You did nothing wrong.”

“I was stupid—I trusted—”

“You were in your home,” he said. “You were with the man you love. You trusted him. That’s not stupid.”

You shook in his arms, face buried in his chest. His heartbeat was steady. Familiar.

“You’re not ashamed of me?” you whispered, voice cracking.

Tom pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were red.

“I’m angry,” he said. “I’m furious someone hurt you like this. But ashamed?” He shook his head, voice breaking. “Baby, I will never be less than so damn proud of you and everything you’ve ever accomplished.”

Tears fell harder.

Behind you, Lewis stayed still — watching. Giving space. Respecting the moment.

But Tom reached a hand out to him, pulled him in too.

The three of you stood there in the center of the living room — father, daughter, boyfriend — wrapped in grief and fury and love.

And when you looked up at Lewis?

He looked like he’d die before letting it happen again.

———

Another knock.

Three sharp, purposeful raps.

Lewis opened the door without asking.

Bill Pullman stood there, jaw locked, face unreadable.

He wasn’t here for pleasantries. He walked in like a man with a mission.

His eyes scanned the room — landed on you, still wrapped in your dad’s arms. You looked like something had been taken from you. Because it had.

Tom gave him a single nod.

Bill gave one back.

And then he crossed the room, straight to Lewis. No words at first — just a hand to the back of his son’s neck, pulling him in tight.

“I’m proud of you,” Bill said quietly. “For protecting her.”

Lewis didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes said everything. Rage. Guilt. Love. Like he was about to explode under the weight of it.

Bill stepped back and finally turned to you.

His expression softened. Completely.

He opened his arms.

You barely hesitated — melted right into him like he was the second half of your safety net.

“You didn’t deserve this,” he said against your temple. “None of it.”

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

“We’re here now.”

When he pulled back, both your dads were standing in front of you. Like bookends. Like bodyguards.

Lewis stood behind you.

And for a moment — no matter how violated you’d felt, no matter how exposed — you felt safe.

“We’re going to find them,” Tom said. “Whoever leaked it. Whoever posted it. I don’t care if it’s some hacker or someone inside your team. They made a mistake.”

Bill’s voice was colder.

“They messed with the wrong family.”

———

The house didn’t feel like home anymore.

It felt like a war room.

The living room had been transformed — laptops open, folders spread out, legal pads, USB drives, coffee cups everywhere. Lawyers paced. A digital forensics expert was speaking in clipped sentences over speakerphone. Your publicist had a headset in, murmuring to three different people at once.

Your video was still trending #1. You hated that.

Lewis stood near the window, arms crossed, jaw tense. He hadn’t said much since Bill and Tom sat down with the legal team. He was listening, but his eyes kept flicking back to you like he didn’t trust the world not to rip you away again.

And you?

You were on the couch. Silent. Pulled into yourself like a shell. Not crying anymore — there was nothing left. You’d cried it all out in your father’s arms.

You felt hollow.

Then the door opened again. No knock this time. Just a quiet click.

“Danny,” Lewis said, voice breaking for the first time all day.

You looked up.

There he was — hoodie, joggers, sneakers. No cameras. No press. No expectation. Just your best friend.

He closed the door behind him, took one look at you, and crossed the room in three long strides.

You stood before you even realized it.

He opened his arms.

And you walked straight into them.

There were no tears this time. Just the weight of your body leaning into his chest. Just the tight squeeze of his arms around you. Just that quiet moment where someone normal — someone who’d seen you and Lewis eating Chinese food off the floor and shotgunning beers on Halloween — finally walked into this nightmare.

“I’m here,” he murmured, hand rubbing your back. “You don’t have to say anything.”

You nodded into his hoodie.

Lewis stood nearby, eyes full of emotion he couldn’t let out with this many strangers in the house. Danny pulled you in tighter and extended his other arm.

Lewis walked straight into it.

The three of you just stood there for a minute.

Best friends. Found family.

“They’re gonna find the bastard, right?” Danny asked quietly.

“Oh, we’re gonna do more than that,” Lewis said, voice low.

Behind you, the lawyers were already building timelines. IP traces. Filing court orders. Tom was on the phone with a private security firm. Bill was cross-checking passwords and clearance levels from the studio.

You had an army now.

And whoever leaked your private life?

They had no idea what was coming.

———

You slipped away without a word.

Everyone was still in the living room — lawyers debating IP traces, your dad fielding calls, Bill buried in paperwork. Lewis had just stepped into the hall with Danny, discussing something about the publicist’s press strategy.

You wandered into the kitchen barefoot.

The silence there was almost jarring. Just the ticking of the wall clock. The fridge humming softly.

You opened a cabinet and pulled out a glass. Simple. Plain. Familiar.

It caught the light a little.

And suddenly — it hit you.

You were being talked about like a case study. Your body — something to dissect. Your sex life — turned into entertainment.

You used to film those videos laughing. Teasing. Loving Lewis with your whole soul.

Now strangers had screenshots.

They dissected your moans. Quoted them. Cropped your face into gifs.

And the glass in your hand — something so stupid, so normal — suddenly felt like the last thread keeping you from unraveling.

Your hand trembled.

And then you threw it.

Hard.

It shattered against the backsplash, glass exploding across the counter and floor. The sound was sharp. Violent. Final.

You didn’t cry.

You just stared at the jagged mess like it owed you an answer.

⸻

“Y/N—”

Lewis came running in, Danny right behind him.

His eyes swept the room, saw the broken glass, saw your expression — the quiet fury, the breathing that wasn’t quite steady.

He didn’t ask questions.

He just went to you.

His hands were gentle when they touched your arms. “Hey. Look at me.”

You didn’t. Not right away.

“Baby,” he said again, softer. “Look at me.”

You finally met his eyes.

“They took everything,” you whispered.

“No, they didn’t.”

Your voice cracked. “They did. They made me feel ashamed of something I loved. Of us.”

He stepped closer, arms wrapping around your shoulders. “They don’t get that power. We’re not giving it to them.”

“I feel like I don’t belong in my own skin right now.”

“You belong in mine, then,” he said, forehead touching yours. “I’ll hold all of it. Every bit of it. Until it’s safe again.”

You closed your eyes. Breathed him in.

Behind you, Danny didn’t say a word. Just quietly grabbed a broom and a dustpan, started sweeping up the glass like it was second nature. Like it wasn’t even a question.

“I hate them,” you whispered into Lewis’s chest.

“I do too,” he said. “But they don’t win. Not in our house. Not in your heart.”

———

It was barely 8 a.m.

You sat cross-legged on the massive couch, wrapped in the softest blanket you owned, Lewis’s hoodie swallowed around your shoulders. Your coffee was untouched in your hands.

You hadn’t said much.

Neither had he.

But he hadn’t let go of your thigh once.

Footsteps padded down the hallway — Tom, freshly showered, coffee already in hand, looking like he hadn’t slept at all. Bill followed, phone in one hand, glasses on. Both men looked like they were still operating on adrenaline and protective instinct.

The house was quiet, but tight. Like it was holding its breath.

Then the front door knocked — a quick rhythm, purposeful.

Lewis was already up.

It was one of the digital security investigators — a woman with a laptop tucked under one arm and three more in her car. Her face was calm, focused. She came in like she’d done this a hundred times before.

“We have something,” she said without preamble. “The videos weren’t uploaded directly to a platform. They were sent through a rerouted proxy system and disguised through a VPN.”

Lewis looked at her like she was speaking another language.

Tom leaned forward. “So what does that mean?”

She opened the laptop on the dining table, booting it up. “It means someone tried very hard to cover their tracks.”

Bill crossed his arms. “But not hard enough?”

She nodded.

“We traced the initial packet activity to an IP address that pinged close to your neighborhood. Like… really close.”

The silence was instant.

“What do you mean close?” Lewis asked, brow furrowed.

The investigator spun the screen toward all of you.

A map. Your street. And a red pin.

Right around the block.

“The IP activity shows up within your cell tower’s range. Which means someone nearby is either responsible for the upload… or was used as a tether point to make it look like they were. Either way — this wasn’t random.”

Your stomach dropped.

“So they know us?” you asked quietly. “It wasn’t a stranger on the internet?”

“It’s possible,” she said. “Or it could be someone with access. A guest. A neighbor. A delivery… someone who got into your network.”

Lewis’s jaw tightened.

Bill looked toward Tom.

Tom nodded, voice low. “Then we start digging.”

———

“Okay, I brought the good shit,” Danny said, kicking the front door closed with his heel as he reentered the house, balancing two large paper bags and a drink tray. “And before anyone yells at me, yes—there’s dumplings. And I got two extra orders of that unholy spicy sauce Lewis likes.”

He grinned.

And it looked like comfort.

Lewis let out a small breath — something close to relief — and stood up to help. “Dude, you’re a legend.”

“Someone had to feed the war room,” Danny quipped, setting the bags down next to three open laptops, a stack of burner phones, and a notepad titled “Viable Internal Connections.”

You gave him a tired smile. “Thanks, Danny.”

“Always.” His voice was warm. Steady. “How’s the digging going?”

Tom didn’t look up from his call. Bill was flipping through a printout of ISP data. One of the lawyers piped up.

“We’ve narrowed it down to six potential connection points. Mostly names that had legitimate access to the house — publicists, assistants, a set tech from your last shoot, someone from hair and makeup.”

Danny let out a low whistle. “So you’re basically saying it could be anyone.”

“Not quite,” said the IT tech. “We’re cross-referencing timestamps, login trails, and local device access. Some of these suspects are already starting to look less likely.”

“Let me know if you need help digging,” Danny offered, unwrapping a container and sliding it toward you. “I know a guy who used to work security for Universal. Might be able to fast-track some of the IP stuff.”

Lewis sat beside you again, nodding. “Thanks, man. You’ve seriously been—”

“The MVP,” you finished for him.

Danny smiled.

And it reached his eyes.

You took the container he handed you, sipping at the straw of your drink, letting the cold hit the back of your throat. For a moment, everything felt… normal.

Laughter even rippled across the room when Lewis tried a bite of the too-hot dumpling and immediately reached for his water.

The house felt a little slower now.

Not quiet. Not peaceful. But… less chaotic.

Everyone was gathered around the dining table again — laptops open, devices charging, coffee mugs refilled. The investigator from earlier was hunched over her screen, murmuring into a headset. Your lawyer was scribbling something fast and furious on a legal pad. Tom and Bill sat side by side, a wall of silent strategy and protective rage.

And in the middle of it all?

Danny.

Reheating the leftovers he’d brought earlier. Passing out boxes. Sliding drinks across the table without anyone asking. He even wiped the counter down before you could do it yourself.

“I reheated the dumplings,” he said softly, holding the box out to you. “They’ll probably fix your soul.”

You gave him a tired smile, accepting it. “God, I love you.”

He grinned. “I know. Lewis, don’t be jealous.”

Lewis, who was standing just behind you with a hand on your shoulder, gave a half-laugh. “She tells you that because she knows I can’t make dumplings.”

“You can’t make anything,” you added without looking up, but your voice was warm. It was the first time you’d teased all day.

Danny chuckled and passed out more food. “I labeled the boxes so y’all don’t fight. Yes, I remembered the spicy one is yours, Lewis. No, I didn’t try it this time. I like my tongue intact.”

Everyone chuckled, even Bill.

Even Tom.

And for a few minutes, the war room felt less like a battlefield and more like a living room again.

You sat back on the couch with your dumplings in your lap, Lewis’s arm draped behind you, and watched Danny move around the table like it was his house — like he belonged here.

He stopped by your side again, crouching slightly.

“Got you water,” he said quietly. “You’ve barely had any.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, taking it from him.

He met your eyes. “You holding up?”

You nodded. “I’m okay. Better with you here.”

His smile softened. “You’re stronger than you think, Cruise.”

He moved on before you could say anything else, crossing to the other side of the room where one of the techs was trying to connect a backup hard drive. Danny handed her one of the USBs from the pile. “I already labeled the clean ports — just in case you’re checking timestamps.”

She blinked, surprised. “Oh. Thank you. That helps.”

He just nodded and walked off.

Lewis sat down beside you, his palm resting on your thigh. You leaned into him.

“I don’t know what we’d do without him,” you said softly.

Lewis glanced toward Danny.

He was laughing at something Tom had muttered, handing Bill a napkin, casually adjusting a power cord like it wasn’t even a big deal.

“Yeah,” Lewis agreed, eyes still watching him. “Me either.”

———

You were curled against Lewis on the upstairs couch in the den — one of the few places in the house where you could breathe without hearing keyboards click or voices murmur about “legal precedent” and “data encryption.”

Lewis was behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, chin tucked against the curve of your shoulder. His fingers idly traced the hem of your sleeve.

Neither of you had spoken in minutes.

You hadn’t needed to.

There was a dull hum in your head, like everything around you was dipped in cotton. Every so often, someone’s laugh or phone ring would break through the quiet and remind you that the world was still moving — even when yours felt like it wasn’t.

Lewis kissed the back of your neck gently. “You holding up?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “I think I’m numb.”

“You’re still breathing. That’s enough.”

You leaned into him harder.

Downstairs, someone called out about something to do with network traffic. Another voice answered. Laughter again. The sound of someone clinking ice in a glass.

Normal. Too normal.

You closed your eyes.

And then—

“Oh my God.”

A beat.

“OH MY GOD, I GOT IT! I GOT IT!”

Your body jolted like someone had fired a gun downstairs.

Lewis immediately sat up, heart thudding against your spine. You turned your head just as footsteps thundered up the stairs and the young investigator — the woman who hadn’t stopped combing through cloud logs all day — burst into the hallway.

Her voice was breathless. Stunned.

“You guys — you need to come down. Now.”

⸻

By the time you and Lewis reached the bottom step, the entire room was spinning around the laptop on the table.

Tom was leaning over it. Bill’s jaw was locked tight. The legal team all stood back like they couldn’t quite believe what they were seeing.

The investigator looked up at you, eyes wide. “The IP address we flagged? The original upload point? We traced it to a phone.”

You froze. “Whose phone?”

She hesitated. “The device ID was wiped and ghosted, but it left behind fragments — ones that match another backup we were able to decrypt from your iCloud logs.”

Bill narrowed his eyes. “In English?”

“It came from someone who had access to the house, to the Wi-Fi, and to your devices. And… their physical address matches with a secondary signal we pinged from the rerouted source.”

She clicked a final key.

The screen shifted.

And there it was.

Danny’s name. His phone. His house. His address.

A red marker on a digital map.

Two blocks away.

Everything stopped.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“No,” Lewis said first, shaking his head. “No, no, no — that can’t be right.”

Tom turned to the tech. “Check it again.”

“We already did,” she said quietly. “Three times.”

Bill stepped closer to the map. “We trusted that kid.”

“He’s been in this house every goddamn day,” Tom muttered, pacing.

You felt the blood leave your face.

Lewis turned to you, his voice raw. “He was here. Holding you. Comforting you. Sleeping in the guest room when we were sick last winter. He… he hugged my mom at your movie wrap party—”

“I trusted him,” you said aloud, voice cracking.

The room spun.

And then the front door opened.

You heard it before you saw him.

“Guys!” Danny’s voice, light, cheerful. “You will not believe what happened at Starbucks — the barista wrote ‘Mr. Pullman’ on Lewis’s cup, and I was like, sir, please, I’m hotter—”

He walked in, hands full of drink carriers, smiling like nothing had changed.

Until he saw your face.

And Tom’s.

And Bill’s.

And the room of absolute silence.

“…what happened?” he asked, confused. “What’s going on?”

Lewis took two steps forward.

His voice broke. “After everything, man?”

Danny blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“You uploaded our sex tapes.” It wasn’t a question.

Danny’s face didn’t move for a second.

Then he looked at you.

And he smiled.

Not a smirk. Not a grin. Something heartbreakingly sincere.

“I didn’t do it to hurt you,” he said softly. “I did it because… I love you.”

The room erupted.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?!” Lewis exploded, lunging forward before Tom grabbed his arm. “You violated us — you violated her — and you’re gonna stand there and tell her it’s because you love her?!”

“She’s not safe with you,” Danny insisted, now desperate. “You don’t deserve her. You don’t see her the way I do—”

“You leaked private footage,” Bill said, stepping forward like he might knock him out. “Footage with consent, with trust, with intimacy — and you made it public. That’s not love. That’s delusion.”

“She deserved better,” Danny said, voice cracking. “I thought if she saw you for what you were—”

“I see you now,” you said coldly. “I see exactly who you are.”

Danny’s eyes welled up.

You didn’t flinch.

The room was vibrating with fury.

Tom finally pulled out his phone and turned to the security team. “Call the police.”

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Greedy

Joaquin Torres x Fem!Reader x Bob Reynolds

SMUTTYSMUTTYSMUTTYSMUTTY

THIS IS A MARVEL FIC BUT I NEEDED A GIF OF THEM TOGETHER SO IM USING THIS TOP GUN MAVERICK GIF

The music pulsed through the bar like a heartbeat—fast, heavy, low. The kind of bass that lived in your chest. You were already two drinks in, swaying like temptation in heels too high and a dress too tight. Perfect. You wanted attention. Needed it.

And you knew exactly how to get it.

You found Joaquin by the bar, leaning back, beer bottle loose in one hand, black shirt rolled to the elbows. His jaw ticked when he saw you coming.

“Dance with me,” you purred, sliding between his legs like you belonged there—which you did.

He didn’t move.

“I’m enjoying the party,” he said flatly, taking a sip of his drink. His tone was smooth, but you knew that edge—that Joaquin.

You pouted up at him, running a hand up his chest. “We can have our own party.”

He arched a brow. “You being needy already, princesa?”

“Only a little.”

His hand slid down your thigh, firm grip bruising. But that was all. No pull. No follow-through. Just that unreadable smirk as he said, “I don’t reward needy little brats. You want attention? Be good for it.”

You blinked at him. Stunned. Denied.

“Fine,” you snapped, jerking back. “I’ll go to my favorite boyfriend. At least he cares about me and my needs.”

You didn’t wait for his response. You stormed off—barely hiding the grin on your lips.

⸻

You found Bob leaning against a wall by the patio, nursing a whiskey, all golden warmth and soft eyes. Just what you needed.

“Bobbyyy,” you sighed, curling into him like a cat in heat. “Joaquin’s being mean to me again.”

Bob looked down immediately, brows furrowed in concern. “What happened?”

“He said I was being a brat,” you sniffed. “Just because I wanted a little attention. Just because I wanted him to touch me…”

His eyes dropped to your lips. Your neck. Your cleavage.

“…But you care about me, don’t you?” you whispered, pressing your body against his. “You want me.”

Bob swallowed hard. “Of course I do, sweetheart. I always want you.”

“Then let me take care of you.” Your hand slid down, slow and soft, fingers teasing the front of his pants. “Let me suck your cock, Bobby. Please? Just for a minute. Just until you tell me to stop. I’ll be so gentle. You deserve it after the mission…”

Bob was already hard. You felt him throb under your palm.

“I—I hate seeing you like this,” he murmured, brushing your hair back. “You’re so needy, baby…”

“Take me somewhere,” you breathed, kissing the underside of his jaw. “Let me be good for you.”

⸻

You found an empty storage closet, dimly lit and too small, but perfect. The door clicked shut behind you, and you immediately sank to your knees, yanking at his belt with shaky fingers.

“You’re gonna feel so good,” you promised, pupils blown wide. “I missed the way you taste.”

Bob moaned when your fingers brushed his cock. “Sweetheart—fuck—okay, okay…”

You had just unzipped his pants, tugged them halfway down his hips, tongue darting out to tease when—

SLAM.

The door burst open.

Joaquin.

Still calm. Still dressed. Still in control.

You didn’t even get a chance to react before he crossed the room and fisted your hair, yanking you up with a jerk that made you gasp.

“Oh, so this is what we’re doing now?” he growled, dragging your back against his chest. “Getting on your knees for him like a cheap little slut?”

Bob stepped back, wide-eyed, pants half open. “Joaquín—”

“Shut it.” He didn’t even look at him. His eyes were all on you. “And you.”

You glared at him, chest heaving. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you did your fucking job.”

That smile. That fucking cocky, cruel smirk.

He shoved you against the wall with one hand on your throat, the other gripping your hip so tight you’d feel it for days.

“You don’t come unless I say you come,” he whispered, lips grazing your ear. “You don’t even breathe unless I say you can, princesa.”

Bob tried again, “She just—she looks like she needs—”

Joaquin turned his head, slow and deliberate.

“She gets nothing,” he snapped. “Not until she learns.”

You twisted against him, thighs rubbing together.

“Touch your cunt again,” Joaquin growled, “and I’ll leave you dripping and empty all fucking night.”

———

You barely had time to pull your dress down over your thighs before Joaquin yanked the door open again, hand still tangled in your hair. Bob trailed behind, pants zipped but still tented, flushed and silent.

Not a word was exchanged on the ride back to your place. The silence wasn’t peaceful—it was coiled, tight, full of unspoken punishment and desperate heat.

You knew you were in for it.

You wanted to be in for it.

⸻

The moment the door shut behind you, Joaquin shoved you up against it, one palm flat to your chest, the other tugging at your hair just enough to tilt your head back.

His voice was low, dangerous.

“You wanna act like a fucking brat in front of people? Try to make me jealous? Get on your knees for him like you’re some street-corner whore?”

You shivered.

“You are jealous,” you whispered, smiling up at him. “You just hate when he gets my mouth first.”

His grip tightened.

“You want my cock that bad?” he snarled. “Beg. And if I don’t like how you do it, I’ll gag you with Bob’s boxers and let him fuck your throat while you cry.”

Bob shifted behind him, clearly struggling.

“Joaquín—”

“Quiet.” His eyes never left yours. “She wants to be greedy? Let her find out what that really feels like.”

⸻

He dragged you to the bedroom.

Not gently. Not lovingly. Like he owned you. Like you were his problem to correct.

He sat on the edge of the bed, spread his legs, and nodded down.

“Strip. Now. And if you touch yourself, I swear to God…”

Your hands shook as you peeled your dress over your head, revealing your soaked panties. Bob sucked in a breath behind you.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “Sweetheart…”

You stepped out of them slowly, locking eyes with Joaquin as you did.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please, sir. I need—”

He snapped his fingers and pointed to the floor.

“On your knees.”

You dropped instantly.

“Now beg.”

You hesitated.

“Now.”

Your voice broke on the first word.

“Please let me have your cock. Please, I need to feel it. I’ll be good, I swear. I’ll do whatever you want—”

“You said that in the closet,” he cut in. “Didn’t stop you from unzipping Bob’s pants, did it?”

You whimpered.

“Open your mouth.”

You did.

He stood, walked behind you, and slapped your ass so hard your knees jolted forward. You cried out, back arching from the sting.

“That’s one for acting up in public.”

He smacked you again.

“One for that smart little mouth.”

Again.

“One for trying to pit us against each other. What kind of stupid little whore pulls that stunt?”

You were shaking now, face hot, thighs clenched.

He ran a finger through your folds, slow and deliberate, then brought it to your lips.

“Taste how fucking wet you are for being denied. Pathetic.”

You moaned around his fingers, sucking greedily, desperate for any part of him.

Bob finally moved—stepped forward, hands gentle as he helped you to your feet, voice like warm syrup:

“It’s okay, honey. You’re doing so well. You’re so pretty when you listen.”

He kissed your jaw, your shoulder, guiding you onto the bed with such reverence it made you ache.

“You ready for me?” he whispered. “Want me to fill you up?”

“Yes—yes, please, Bobby, I need it—I need you—”

He pushed in slow, thick and perfect, stretching you open until your fingers clawed at the sheets.

“God, you’re tight,” he groaned. “Like you were made for me. That’s it, sweetheart. Just take it. You’re doing so well.”

Joaquin stood at the head of the bed, cock out, thick and flushed.

“Look at you. Getting fucked nice and slow while you stare at the cock that should be choking you. Want it?”

You nodded, whimpering.

“Beg.”

Your voice cracked.

“Please, sir. Please fuck my mouth. I’ll be good, I swear.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

He slid his cock between your lips without warning, one hand in your hair, the other gripping the headboard. You choked a little, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes, but you took it—desperate and eager.

Bob thrust into you slowly, carefully, panting sweet words against your ear:

“So good for us… so beautiful… I’m so proud of you…”

Joaquin had no mercy. He fucked your throat like it was his to ruin.

“You’re nothing but a cock-hungry little brat. You think you’re in control? This is what greedy girls get—stuffed full of cock and used.”

Your moans were garbled around his length, but they didn’t stop.

Neither did the tears.

⸻

You were wrecked—sloppy, dripping, body trembling from too much stimulation, not enough release.

And then—

“Flip her,” Joaquin ordered.

Bob obeyed instantly, pulling out and helping you turn over. You were on your hands and knees now, barely able to hold yourself up.

Bob slid back inside, his cock coated in your slick, hands on your waist.

Joaquin moved behind you, spat between your cheeks, and rubbed it over your tight hole.

“You want both? That’s what this was all for, right?”

You whimpered, nodding rapidly.

“Please. I’ll be good. I promise. I’ll be so good—”

“We’ll see.”

He pushed in slowly, stretching you open, and the moment he bottomed out you screamed—loud, raw, filthy.

They moved together, perfectly timed, filling every inch of you. You were sobbing by the second thrust.

Bob kissed your neck, whispering, “You’re perfect. So perfect. You’re taking us so well, baby.”

Joaquin slapped your ass, deeper, rougher.

“Tight little holes begging to be ruined. You love this. Say it.”

“I—I love it—”

“Say you’re our greedy little fucktoy.”

“I’m—fuck—I’m your greedy little fucktoy—”

⸻

You came so hard it blacked out your vision. They didn’t stop.

They didn’t let up until your body was shaking, twitching, fully spent—used, exactly how you wanted to be.

You were still shaking.

Face down on the mattress, drool on the pillow, your body limp and pulsing. Your thighs twitched with aftershocks, your cunt and ass leaking, red and used.

Bob hovered behind you, hands gentle as ever, voice soft and tender.

“Let’s give her a minute,” he said, brushing your hair back. “She needs water. Maybe some space—”

Joaquin didn’t even look up from where he was stroking his cock lazily.

“No.”

Bob blinked. “She’s barely—”

“She wanted to act like a greedy little whore tonight?” Joaquin said, voice dark and cutting. “She gets used like one.”

Bob hesitated.

“She’s… she’s shaking.”

That’s when Joaquin finally looked at him.

“You don’t join.”

Bob’s brows pinched. “What?”

“You heard me. You’re gonna sit over there, and you’re gonna watch me fuck her. And if I so much as see your hand move to your cock?” He leaned in, kissed your hip possessively. “I’ll make her deny you the same way I deny her.”

Bob went quiet.

His cock was still aching—red, leaking, throbbing. But he backed up, lowered himself into the chair near the edge of the bed. Close enough to see. Far enough to be useless.

You were half-aware, legs trembling as Joaquin flipped you over, laid you on your back.

“Eyes open, princesa,” he whispered, tapping your cheek. “Let him see your face while I fuck you stupid.”

You blinked up at him, lips parted, wrecked and messy and soaked. Bob let out a breath he clearly hadn’t realized he was holding.

Joaquin didn’t start slow.

He shoved into you with one brutal thrust, and your entire body jolted. The sound was obscene—wet and loud and filthy.

Bob let out a quiet, “Fuck…”

Joaquin grinned.

“You watching? See how she takes it now? Loose and dumb and perfect.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Joaquin was punishing—each thrust harder than the last, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise.

Bob shifted in his seat. His thighs spread wider. His hand hovered near his cock—not touching. But close.

His face was flushed. His breathing shallow.

“Look at her tits bounce,” Joaquin muttered, low and cruel. “Look how she moans for me. You wish you were inside her again, don’t you?”

Bob whimpered.

“Don’t touch it,” Joaquin snapped.

Bob’s hand jerked back like he’d been slapped. He clenched his fists instead, thighs twitching, his cock dripping against his stomach.

You were babbling now, incoherent, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Too much—can’t—f-fuck—”

“Yes you can. You wanted this, remember? Be grateful I’m even letting you breathe right now.”

Bob groaned under his breath, palms flat on his thighs, rubbing them—anything to relieve the pressure. His whole body was tense, cock bobbing with every shallow breath.

“Please—” he whispered, eyes locked on your soaked cunt. “Please let me—”

“What did I say?” Joaquin barked. “You don’t get to come.”

And then—

He smirked.

Pulled out of you.

“Ride him.”

You both froze.

Bob blinked. “W-what?”

“Go ahead,” Joaquin said, still holding his slick cock in one hand. “Sit on him. Let him feel how wet you are. Let him get close.”

Bob scrambled onto the bed like a man possessed, laying back against the pillows, cock already twitching, thick and heavy against his abs.

You straddled him, legs weak, body still trembling. He gripped your thighs like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“You sure?” he whispered.

You nodded, sinking down with a shaky gasp. You were still so full from Joaquin. Bob slid in easier than usual, and the stretch was softer—but deeper.

Bob’s head fell back with a choked sound.

“Oh, sweetheart… you feel like heaven.”

You rocked your hips slowly, and his hands found your waist—tight, needy, reverent.

Then he did it.

That thing.

That tell.

He pulled you down against his chest, arms wrapped around your back in a tight bear hug, and started thrusting up into you—fast, desperate, body lifting off the bed with each push.

Joaquin’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

Bob froze. Mid-thrust. Whole body rigid.

You were panting, riding the edge again, so close to falling apart.

“I didn’t say he could finish,” Joaquin said coldly.

And then—yanked you off of him.

You let out a strangled cry, pussy clenching around nothing.

Bob gasped, nearly came from the loss of sensation, his cock twitching wildly, untouched and denied.

“You wanted her so bad?” Joaquin sneered. “Now sit there and watch me take her again.”

Bob was a mess—sweat-drenched, red, panting, his cock angry and leaking.

And you?

You were dragged back onto your knees, shoved forward, and Joaquin entered you again with no warning, fucking you hard enough to bounce you on the mattress.

Bob could see everything—your mouth open in a silent scream, drool stringing from your lips, your pussy swollen and dripping.

He palmed the sheets. Fisted them. Thighs clenched. He didn’t dare touch himself.

He watched.

Helpless.

Hard.

Ruined.

Joaquin’s pace hadn’t slowed.

If anything, it had gotten worse—sharper, deeper, crueler. Every thrust had you sobbing against the mattress, your whole body slick with sweat and spit, your pussy swollen and sore from how long he’d kept you in this state—used, ruined, shaking.

Your voice was barely a whisper now.

“Please… oh my god, please…”

But Joaquin didn’t give a fuck. He gripped your hips harder, thumb digging in so deep it made your spine arch.

“You’re not done,” he snarled. “You want to come so bad, you’re gonna earn it. On your knees.”

He pulled out—your pussy clenching at the sudden loss, dripping down your thighs—and manhandled you upright, pushed you down between his legs on the bed.

“Open your mouth.”

You obeyed, lips glossy, tongue already out like a starved little thing. He grabbed you by the back of the head, cock already smeared with your slick and spit, and shoved himself in deep.

You gagged on impact.

“That’s it,” he growled, rocking into your throat. “Take it. You know this is your favorite.”

It was. You fucking loved this—loved the weight of him on your tongue, the stretch, the way your throat fluttered and burned with each punishing thrust.

He was relentless.

His hips snapped forward, using your mouth like it was his, like it didn’t belong to you anymore. You moaned around him, drool spilling down your chin, tears leaking from your eyes—not from pain, but from bliss.

“Look at her,” Joaquin said, glancing over at Bob. “So fucking happy choking on cock. Aren’t you, baby?”

You blinked up at him, tears trailing down your cheeks, and nodded with his cock still stuffed in your mouth.

He pulled back just long enough to let you gasp a broken breath, then shoved himself in again with a grunt.

“Sloppy little mouth,” he muttered. “Built for this.”

⸻

Bob was dying.

Still sitting at the edge of the bed, cock throbbing against his stomach, eyes wide and wet.

He was trying to be good. Trying to follow Joaquin’s command. But his thighs were clenching. His fists were white-knuckled in the sheets. His hips kept twitching like his body was begging for friction.

And then—

He sniffled.

A real one. Sharp. Fast. Quiet.

Joaquin didn’t miss it.

“You crying, baby boy?”

Bob’s head snapped up, red-faced and miserable.

“N-No—just—” He cut off with a soft whimper, biting his lip. “I can’t—it’s too much—watching her like that, I—fuck—”

Joaquin barked a low laugh.

“Look at you. Cock so hard it’s dripping, eyes full of tears, and you’re still not touching it. That’s cute.”

You pulled off Joaquin’s cock with a wet gasp, drool coating your lips and chin, eyes glassy.

“Can I help him?” you whispered hoarsely. “Please? He’s hurting—he’s—he looks like he’s in pain, Joaquín—”

He grabbed your jaw, hard.

“No. He doesn’t deserve it.”

Bob whimpered again, a tear sliding down his cheek, his cock twitching without a single touch.

“You both wanted this. Now fucking take it.”

⸻

Joaquin laid back.

Spread his legs, thick cock resting heavy against his stomach, glistening with spit.

“Climb on.”

You didn’t hesitate.

Your legs were jelly, your mind was foggy, but you needed it—needed him inside you, needed to be filled again. You crawled onto his lap and sank down on him, moaning as your body melted around the stretch.

Joaquin’s hands gripped your waist, holding you still.

“Ride me.”

You started to move—slowly, hips circling, thighs trembling.

Bob whimpered.

You turned your head to him, saw him sitting there like a wreck—eyes wet, face red, cock flushed purple and leaking like a faucet.

“Touching yourself yet?” Joaquin asked, voice low.

Bob shook his head violently. “No—no, sir.”

“Good.”

You bounced harder now, moaning with each rise and fall, your slick coating Joaquin’s thighs. You were babbling—thank yous, pleads, incoherent praise—completely gone.

And Bob?

Bob cried.

Not loud. Not sobbing. But real tears slipped down his cheeks as he watched you fall apart on Joaquin’s cock, listened to the sound of skin-on-skin, and couldn’t join. Couldn’t help. Couldn’t even relieve himself.

“You see this?” Joaquin growled, pulling your head back by your hair, forcing your eyes to Bob’s.

“This is what happens when you act like a needy little slut in public. You get cock. He gets nothing.”

You came like that.

Hard.

Back arched, scream torn from your throat, legs shaking as Joaquin held you down and fucked up into you mercilessly, milking every twitch, every cry, every single wave of pleasure.

Bob sobbed silently in the chair.

Your body collapsed boneless against Joaquin’s chest, his cock still buried inside you, pulsing from the sheer force of your orgasm. His arms were heavy around you, grounding, his breath warm and steady against your ear.

And then—finally—he came.

A groan ripped from his throat as he gripped your waist hard and slammed into you one last time, thick spurts spilling deep inside your already dripping cunt. You moaned at the stretch, the fullness, the mess.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered against your neck, voice rough. “Took me so fucking good.”

You were gone. Floating. Dripping in every way.

He pulled out with a squelch, slapping your ass once as he stood.

“Don’t move. I’ll get us some water.”

And just like that—he disappeared into the kitchen.

⸻

Bob was still in the chair.

Sweaty. Tear-streaked. Cock angry red and twitching so hard it looked painful. You turned your head slowly to look at him, guilt and affection mixing deep in your chest.

“Bobby…” you whispered.

He let out a breathy whimper. “I—please—Y/N, I can’t take it anymore. It hurts.”

You crawled off the bed—shaky, disobedient, aching—and dropped to your knees between his legs.

“I’m not supposed to—”

“I don’t care,” you whispered. “You deserve it.”

Your mouth wrapped around him in one slick, sudden motion. Bob shouted.

“Oh, f-fuck—baby, fuck—”

You sucked him deep, messy and wet, not even trying to tease. Just pleasure. You’d been ruined, sore, trembling—and still, all you wanted was to take care of him. He sobbed a quiet thank you as your tongue worked him over.

His hands found your hair, trembling.

“Don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—I’m gonna—fuck—”

He grabbed your head with both hands, suddenly forceful, and shoved your mouth all the way down until your nose was flush against his stomach, cock buried to the base. You gagged, throat clenched—

And Bob. Lost it.

“Fucking c-coming—fuck—I’m coming, I’m coming—shit—Y/N—”

He wailed as he came, hips twitching, cock spurting straight down your throat. You swallowed instinctively, tears running down your cheeks again, more from how deep he held you than anything else.

He kept your head there—hands shaking, holding you tight—until his whole body slumped forward, forehead dropping against yours, breath ragged.

“I-I’m sorry—I couldn’t—fuck, I couldn’t stop…”

⸻

And then the door creaked.

Bob’s eyes snapped open.

You both froze.

Joaquin stood in the doorway, holding a glass of water, expression blank.

Dead silent.

His eyes dropped to the sight: your lips red and swollen around Bob’s softening cock, his hands still in your hair, your knees on the floor.

A slow blink.

Then:

“What,” he said, calm and terrifying, “the fuck is this?”

Bob choked.

“I—I didn’t ask her to—she just—”

Joaquin walked forward slowly, each step deliberate.

“I told you not to touch your cock.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t touch myself, I just—she—she sucked me off, I’m sorry—”

Joaquin dropped the glass of water hard on the nightstand.

It didn’t break, but the crack of it echoed.

“And you,” he growled, eyes cutting to you, “knew the fucking rule.”

You were still on your knees, mouth shiny, chest rising and falling. You didn’t deny it. You just looked up at him with wide, glassy eyes.

“He needed it,” you whispered. “I couldn’t watch him cry again…”

Joaquin let out a low, humorless laugh. Then he looked at Bob, who was still red, dazed, lips parted in panic.

“You think that was an orgasm?” he asked coldly. “That was permissionyou never had. You’re gonna learn what it feels like to really come. After I take everything else from you first.”

Bob swallowed, hard.

Joaquin looked at both of you like you were prey now.

“You want to come without permission?”

He stepped closer, grabbed you by the throat, and pulled you up to standing, face-to-face.

“Then you can beg me both on your fucking knees while I decide who gets punished first.”

Joaquin shoved you back against the wall—not roughly, but enough to make your breath catch. His hand stayed wrapped tight around your throat, thumb pressing into the pulse point beneath your jaw.

Bob didn’t even try to move.

“You two made a choice,” Joaquin said, voice low and dangerous. “You wanna come without my say-so? Fine. But you’ll regret it.”

He pointed to the bed.

“Get on your back. Arms above your head.”

You obeyed without hesitation, still tasting Bob on your tongue. Your body was wrecked, but some primal part of you thrived under the threat.

Joaquin pulled the leather cuffs from the drawer—ones he’d used before on both of you—and bound your wrists to the headboard. Firm. Final.

Then he turned to Bob.

“Stand.”

Bob’s legs shook as he got up, eyes wide and damp. He looked like he was still floating in post-orgasm haze, but Joaquin wasn’t going to let him bask in it.

“Hands behind your back.”

Bob did it.

Joaquin circled him like a predator, grabbing the base of Bob’s cock, now sticky and soft but still twitching at his touch.

“You come without permission again,” Joaquin murmured, “I’ll make her edge you with her tongue for hours. You won’t come for days. Understand?”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

He snapped a cock ring in place with terrifying ease.

Bob whimpered.

⸻

Then Joaquin climbed onto the bed.

He straddled your waist, cock hard again—this man didn’t stop—and leaned over until his mouth was at your ear.

“You’ll come when I say. Not before. And you won’t say no, because you asked for this.”

You nodded frantically.

“Yes, sir.”

He moved lower, lined himself up, and slid inside you again—no warning, no prep—and you screamed, body jolting from the sensitivity.

“That’s right,” he grunted, hips grinding deep. “Feel it. Cry if you need to. I’m gonna make you come until you’re fucking ruined.”

⸻

Bob watched.

Still cuffed.

Still aching.

His cock filled back out in minutes, hard and angry against the restraint. He couldn’t come again, but the pressure was already unbearable.

And Joaquin?

He put on a show for him.

Made you moan, whimper, beg. Rubbed your clit with brutal circles until your legs kicked. Slammed into you with fast, punishing thrusts while holding your wrists down and forcing your mouth open for him to spit in.

“Look at him,” Joaquin growled, pulling your head to the side so you could see Bob panting, shaking. “He wants to come again so bad it hurts.”

“Please,” you whimpered. “Can I make him feel good again?”

“No.”

He reached down, gripped your throat again, and fucked you harder.

“You’ll make me feel good. He’s gonna sit there and ache. Just like you will after this.”

You came again—loud, writhing, toes curling, drool slipping from your lips.

Bob sobbed.

Your name fell from his lips like a prayer, voice cracked and helpless.

“Please—please let her touch me—I can’t—fuck, I’ll come in seconds, I’ll do anything—”

Joaquin laughed against your neck, still thrusting.

“Yeah? You want her to touch you that bad?”

Bob nodded frantically.

“Then beg her. Look her in the eyes and beg her not to listen to me.”

Bob met your gaze, wrecked.

“Y/N… baby, please. I—I need you. Just one touch. One suck. You’re so good at it, I’ll be good too—I swear, I’ll be so fucking good for you…”

Joaquin grinned like the devil.

“That’s cute. You still think she gets to choose.”

And then he spat on your face and came inside you again—hot, deep, and final.

You sobbed through the overstimulation, hips twitching, cunt milking him as your brain just short-circuited.

⸻

He pulled out, adjusted his pants like nothing happened, then turned to Bob.

“You? Stay cuffed. No coming. No touching. You move, I’ll edge her in your lap until you pass out from the pain.”

He walked out of the room without another word.

Bob sat there.

Breathing hard.

Crying again.

Cock hard, trapped, tortured.

And you?

You whispered, barely audible:

“I’m sorry…”

But part of you loved it.

Joaquin returned twenty minutes later.

Not sweaty. Not messy. Fully dressed.

Black fitted tee, jeans low on his hips, water bottle in one hand. Calm. Cool. Untouched.

The complete opposite of you and Bob.

You were still spread on the bed, body trembling, thighs sticky with slick and cum. Bob was kneeling on the mattress, still cuffed, still rock hard in that brutal cock ring—face red, jaw clenched, aching.

Joaquin didn’t say a word at first.

Just sat.

Pulled the chair around to the front of the bed.

Sat backwards in it, arms resting on the top rail, legs spread wide as he watched you both with a terrifying kind of casual ease.

Then—finally:

“Get on top of him.”

You blinked, eyes wide. “What…?”

“Ride him,” Joaquin said, voice low and sure. “You’ve both been so desperate to come, now I want to see how well you behave when I call the shots.”

You crawled over to Bob slowly, straddled his lap with shaky legs. He looked up at you like you were a miracle, his cock twitching violently under the ring.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he whispered, eyes glassy. “I missed you…”

“Don’t move,” Joaquin snapped. “She rides you. Not the other way around.”

Bob nodded quickly, swallowing a desperate moan.

You reached between you, lined him up, and sank down—slow, slow, slow. Bob let out a wounded sound, hands curling into fists behind his back.

“Oh my God—”

“Don’t come,” Joaquin said coolly, not even blinking. “If you even twitchlike you’re close, I’ll edge her right off you again.”

You started to move.

Bob was a wreck already—cock trapped in that ring, pulsing so hard it must have hurt, your walls squeezing around him like heaven.

And Joaquin?

He gave orders like it was nothing.

“Circle your hips—yeah. Just like that. Let him feel you milk him, slow and deep.”

“Now lean forward. Let your tits brush his chest. You like that, Bob?”

“Y-Yeah,” Bob gasped. “Feels—fuck—feels so good—”

“Don’t touch her. You don’t get hands yet.”

“Yes, sir—”

You whimpered as you ground down, slow and torturous, Bob’s cock so thick inside you, so full.

“Now rub her clit.”

Bob froze beneath you.

“I—I thought I couldn’t use my hands—”

“You can now. Just your right hand.”

You leaned back a little to give him room, your hands planted on his chest, and Bob brought one trembling hand between your legs.

His fingers found your clit—slick, swollen, throbbing—and started rubbing slow, careful circles, eyes locked on yours.

“That’s it,” Joaquin said. “Just like that. Let her work for that orgasm.”

Your hips moved with it, the friction building fast—your thighs shaking, moans falling from your lips uncontrollably.

Bob was whispering to you, soft and reverent.

“You’re doing so good, baby… so pretty on top of me… come for me, please…”

“Now go faster,” Joaquin commanded, voice still cool, still seated like a king watching his subjects fuck for his amusement.

Bob obeyed.

Your whole body tensed—orgasm cresting hard, so fucking close—

“Stop.”

You screamed, every muscle seizing up as Bob’s fingers yanked away.

He looked like he might cry again, eyes wide and terrified, cock pulsing painfully beneath you.

“You come without my say,” Joaquin warned, “and I’ll edge you both again until the sun comes up.”

You were still on top of Bob, thighs trembling, cunt spasming around his cock with every aftershock of that denied orgasm. Your body tried to chase it, to finish on instinct, but you forced yourself still—because you knew Joaquin meant it.

Bob was the one who nearly broke.

“Please, sir,” he choked, voice trembling. “I—fuck—please let her come. I can’t take it—her pussy’s clenching so hard—I’m gonna—”

“No,” Joaquin said simply. “You don’t come until she does. She doesn’t come until I say.”

He stood slowly, still fully dressed, walking in a slow circle around the bed like a man inspecting his work. You were soaking Bob’s lap, his thighs, the sheets. His chest was slick with sweat, lips parted, face flushed.

And still—his hands stayed behind him. Obedient.

“You look so fucking desperate,” Joaquin murmured. “Both of you.”

He leaned down, grabbed your jaw, made you look at him.

“Do you deserve to come yet?”

You swallowed.

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because I disobeyed.”

“And him?”

You looked down at Bob, who could barely breathe.

“Because he came without permission.”

“Good girl.”

Joaquin pulled your hair back roughly and kissed your cheek, just once.

“Keep riding him.”

You whimpered, already aching, and began to move again—slow, shallow bounces, slick noises echoing through the room as Bob moaned helplessly beneath you.

“Faster,” Joaquin commanded. “Don’t stop until he’s shaking.”

Bob cried out, head thrown back. “Fuck—Y/N—please—too much—”

“Don’t you dare come,” Joaquin snapped. “If you feel close, tell me.”

“Yes, sir—fuck—yes—”

Your pace stuttered. You were right there again, the pleasure curling up your spine, ready to explode. You couldn’t hold it—

“Sir—please—please let me come—”

“Not yet.”

You sobbed—your head dropped to Bob’s shoulder, nails digging into his chest as your pussy spasmed around him.

Bob was groaning like he was in pain, cock twitching violently inside you.

“Sir, I—I’m gonna come—I can’t stop it—”

Joaquin moved fast.

He gripped your waist, pulled you off Bob’s cock just as his hips surged—and Bob screamed, body jolting, orgasm completely ripped away as his cock slapped against his stomach, leaking but untouched.

“NO—fuck—fuck—”

“You don’t get to come until I say,” Joaquin growled. “You’re fucking lucky I don’t make you eat it off the floor.”

You collapsed into Joaquin’s arms, twitching and soaked, and he caught you easily—kissed your temple, rubbed your spine gently.

Bob was shaking.

Eyes wet. Mouth open. The cock ring looked brutal now, straining around his base, angry and purple.

“One more round,” Joaquin said softly, looking down at you. “You take him again. And this time, when you come—I’ll let him come inside you.”

“Th-thank you,” you whispered, voice broken. “Thank you, sir.”

You sank down again, this time leaning forward against Bob’s chest, his arms still bound, his lips whispering how good you felt, how much he missed you, how pretty you were like this.

“Please let her come, sir,” he begged. “Please, I want to feel it—I want to give it to her—”

“Not yet.”

Your eyes rolled back.

You clenched down so hard it made Bob scream.

“She’s close—sir—she’s so close—”

“Now,” Joaquin said.

And you both broke.

You came with a wail, whole body convulsing as Bob let go at the same time—cock jerking inside you as he came so fucking hard it hurt, filling you deep and full.

“Thank you—thank you, sir—thank you—” you both sobbed it like prayer, collapsing into each other, finally spent, finally free.

Joaquin stood there, arms crossed, watching you both with something almost like satisfaction.

You were still in Bob’s arms, trembling, both of you breathless, covered in sweat and slick and tears. Your cunt ached, stuffed and dripping, but all you could feel was the warmth of him—his arms tight around you, his lips pressed to your forehead, whispering over and over:

“You were perfect. So good. My sweet girl…”

Joaquin watched for another long second.

Then—finally—he moved.

The chair scraped back. His boots crossed the room slowly, deliberately. He crouched beside the bed, bringing a soft, damp towel with him.

“C’mere, baby,” he murmured, voice no longer sharp but low and steady. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He helped you off Bob’s lap—gently, careful of your knees and thighs—and eased you down onto the sheets, tugging the covers away so he could wipe between your legs. You hissed at the touch, overstimulated and raw.

“I know, I know,” Joaquin murmured, wiping delicately, his brow furrowed with focus. “You did so well. I got you.”

Bob was sitting up now, arms finally free, rubbing slow circles into your calves as you let Joaquin clean the mess he left inside you.

“You okay?” Bob asked softly, voice still thick with emotion.

You nodded, barely.

“I’m okay.”

Bob kissed your ankle.

“You were incredible.”

Once Joaquin was done, he tossed the towel aside and came to sit at the head of the bed. He opened his arms without speaking—and you went to him instinctively, curling into his chest, legs tangled between his. He cradled the back of your head, thumb stroking the slope of your jaw.

“Proud of you,” he said, low and warm. “You took everything. Even the punishment.”

You felt tears sting behind your eyes—not from pain, but from the release. The tenderness of it all after how rough the night had been.

“I didn’t mean to disobey,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, kissing your temple. “That’s why you get this.”

Bob joined you both, easing in behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you between them.

Now you were cocooned—held completely—Joaquin behind your head, Bob tucked to your front, your body between theirs like something cherished.

No more orders. No more rules. Just warm skin, steady breath, and quiet praise.

“I love you,” Bob whispered into your hair. “I love you so fucking much.”

“Me too,” Joaquin said, brushing your curls from your face. “Even when you’re a brat.”

You giggled, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“I’m sorry I sucked his dick.”

“We’ll talk about that later,” Joaquin said, smirking. “Right now, you rest.”

“You’ll let me sleep?”

“Yeah,” Bob said gently. “We’ll hold you while you do.”

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Coming Home

Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader

a Top Gun x Suits fanfic 

INT. THE HARD DECK – NIGHT

The Navy bar is alive.

The jukebox hums an old country song, the low buzz of conversation blending with the clink of glasses and the occasional shout from a pool game in the corner. Neon lights flicker against surfboards on the walls. There’s sand tracked onto the wooden floors. Warm. Familiar. Chaotic in the best way.

A group of aviators crowds one of the high-top tables — loud, tanned, confident. And right on the edge of them sits LT. ROBERT “BOB” FLOYD — posture polite, drink barely touched, phone in hand. Glasses slightly crooked.

He’s scrolling.

BOB (tired sigh, under breath) Left. Left. Absolutely not. Left.

HANGMAN (JAKE) (grabbing a beer, grinning) You judging Tinder profiles like you’re interviewing for NASA?

BOB (defensive) I’m just… being careful. It’s a jungle out there, man.

PHOENIX (sitting beside him) Careful? Bob, you’ve swiped left on everyone. At this point, the algorithm thinks you're a priest.

COYOTE (chiming in) He's not a priest, he's just emotionally stable — which is apparently a red flag in 2025.

Laughter erupts around the table. Bob smiles, embarrassed but unbothered. He scrolls again.

ON SCREEN: A stream of profiles. Filtered beach selfies. Bios that say “just looking for fun 😏.” A dog photo. Another gym mirror shot.

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.

Then he stops.

The screen lights up with your profile.

Photo One: Laughing mid-bite of pizza.

Photo Two: You, sun-kissed and windswept at a beach, eyes squinting.

Photo Three: Reading on a park bench, unaware of the camera.

Bio: “Not here for games. Just looking for someone real.”

Time freezes a little.

Bob leans in.

BOB (softly) Huh.

PHOENIX (eyebrow raised) Uh-oh. We’ve got a pause.

HANGMAN Let’s see. Show us.

BOB (reading) “Not here for games. Just looking for someone real.” (silence) ...I like that.

COYOTE She’s cute. Chill energy. You swiping right?

Bob hesitates. He’s not the type to get swept up by a picture. But this—this feels different. He lingers a second longer. His thumb hovers.

Then — SWIPE RIGHT.

A small animation plays. “You’ve swiped right. Waiting for a match…”

Bob stares. Hopeful. Quiet.

PHOENIX You only swiped right once tonight?

BOB (nods) Only one that felt... real.

HANGMAN (dramatic) Well, damn. If this works, I’m giving the toast at your wedding.

Bob pockets his phone, cheeks a little red. He sips his drink and forces himself to relax, but every now and then he glances at his phone.

Waiting. Just in case.

———

 INT. MIRAMAR BASE GYM – NEXT MORNING

Weight machines clank. Rhythmic grunts echo across the gym. Bob’s in the corner doing curls, earbuds in, shirt damp with sweat.

Hangman and Coyote are arguing over pull-up form nearby.

Bob’s phone buzzes on the bench beside him.

He picks it up mid-rep, towel slung over his neck. A Tinder notification lights up the screen.

ON SCREEN: "It's a Match! Y/N swiped right on you."

He freezes.

BOB (whispers) Oh my God.

HANGMAN (looks up) What?

BOB SHE SWIPED RIGHT. SHE SWIPED RIGHT.

PHOENIX WHAT?!

All heads turn. Bob’s practically glowing.

COYOTE TEXT HER. IMMEDIATELY.

BOB I—what do I say? What do I even say??

Another notification buzzes.

ON SCREEN: "Y/N sent you a message."

BOB OH MY GOD. SHE TEXTED FIRST.

HANGMAN

(reads over his shoulder) “Did we just become best friends?” … Bro. Marry her.

BOB I think I might.

COYOTE You gonna answer her or just stare at the screen like you’re reading coordinates?

BOB I don’t want to sound lame.

HANGMAN Buddy, you’re in a compression shirt drinking a protein shake that smells like pancake batter. The bar is on the floor. Text her back.

Bob exhales sharply. Starts typing, fingers flying over the screen, still sitting on the bench with gym sweat drying and his heart absolutely racing.

BOB: Only if you like Step Brothers references and good playlists.

A beat.

Message sent.

Phone buzzes again — immediately.

Y/N I like terrible movies, great playlists, and people who text back within 3–5 business minutes.

The guys see his face light up like a damn Christmas tree.

BOB Oh she’s good.

HANGMAN You’re in love already, aren’t you?

Bob doesn’t deny it. Just grins, eyes glued to his phone as he types out the next message.

BOB: You might be my dream girl.

COYOTE And boom, he’s a goner.

———

INT. Y/N’S APARTMENT – NIGHT

You’re curled up in your favorite hoodie, legs tucked under you on the couch. Your wine glass sits on the coffee table. You’re scrolling through your texts when the screen lights up with a FaceTime notification.

ON SCREEN: Incoming FaceTime – “Bob (Tinder Guy 💀)”

You pause. Inhale. Then tap “ACCEPT.”

The screen shifts — and there he is. BOB. Sitting on his bed, propped against a headboard, hair still damp from a shower, white T-shirt slightly wrinkled. His glasses are on, pushed up nervously as he fumbles with his camera angle.

BOB (straightening up) Hi.

YOU (smiling) Hi yourself.

BOB You’re not a voice modulator catfish. That’s a good start.

YOU And you’re not an AI deepfake. Impressive.

They both laugh. The awkwardness starts to melt.

YOU So... FaceTiming a girl from Tinder on a weeknight. Is this your usual protocol?

BOB (laughs, soft shrug) Not usually. But you kind of had good FaceTime energy.

YOU That’s a thing?

BOB I mean… yeah. You can tell a lot from how someone texts. You were funny. Smart. Slightly chaotic.

YOU Slightly?

BOB For now. Jury’s still out.

A beat. You shift, pulling a blanket over your legs.

YOU So... what do you do when you’re not charming strangers on the internet?

BOB I’m in the Navy. Naval aviator, technically.

YOU (eyebrows lifting) Oh. That’s kind of intense.

BOB (chuckling) Sometimes. Mostly it’s early mornings, checklists, flight drills, and getting mocked by guys who think they’re in Top Gun.

YOU (pulling a face) Wait—do people actually do the whole “need for speed” thing?

BOB Some more than others.

YOU Tell me you don’t wear aviators indoors.

BOB Only when I’m being peer-pressured. (pause, playful smile) I’m more of a “nerd with a pilot’s license” type.

YOU (laughs) I can work with that.

A silence settles — not awkward. Just soft. Real.

BOB What about you? What’s your “I swear I’m not intimidating but I kind of am” job?

YOU Paralegal. Law firm downtown. Three years in. I know where all the bodies are buried, which is weirdly reassuring.

BOB Mental note: don’t make you mad.

YOU You say that like you plan on sticking around.

Bob hesitates. Blinks. Then smiles — not cocky. Just honest.

BOB I wouldn’t be FaceTiming you if I didn’t want to.

Your breath catches just slightly. You try to play it off.

YOU Well... I don’t hate this.

BOB Me neither.

There’s a knock outside his room.

BOB (to someone offscreen) One sec—yeah? (pause, muffled voice offscreen) Yeah I’ll be there in a minute.

BOB (back to you) Sorry, roommate’s being dramatic. Something about stealing his socks. Long story.

YOU Tell him I said hi.

BOB I would, but you don’t know him. Yet.

You smile at that — the “yet” lingers.

YOU So... same time tomorrow?

BOB Absolutely.

You hang up first. He just stares at the blank screen for a second, smiling like a boy with a secret.

———

SMALL COASTAL RESTAURANT – NIGHT

The sun has just dipped below the ocean, leaving streaks of pink and violet in the sky. The restaurant patio is cozy — wooden tables, twinkling string lights, and the sound of waves breaking just beyond the dunes.

Bob and Y/N sit at a small corner table. He’s in a light button-up, sleeves rolled. You’re wearing a sundress that flutters in the breeze. There’s a little candle flickering between you, untouched drinks in front of both of you.

YOU Okay, your turn. Last question: if you had to eat one thing for the rest of your life?

BOB (peeking over his glass) Easy. Grilled cheese. But like—the diner kind. Greasy. Perfectly wrong.

YOU Not navy-approved?

BOB Definitely not. But if I die in a jet, I want my last meal to have been a bad-for-me grilled cheese.

You smile. But there’s a flicker in your expression — “die in a jet.” He notices.

BOB (gently) That’s... kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.

You straighten. Not defensive, just listening. Softly alert.

YOU Okay...

BOB (carefully) I know this is still new. Us. Whatever this is becoming. (pause) But I don’t want to let it grow without you knowing what comes with it.

You fold your hands, nod for him to keep going.

BOB I love my job. I love flying. But it’s not exactly... stable. I can be deployed with barely any warning. Sometimes it’s weeks. Sometimes months. And yeah — there’s always a chance I might not come back.

You don’t say anything. Just let it settle.

He watches you. Nervous, honest, trying not to sound dramatic but not sugarcoating it either.

BOB (quiet) I don’t want to lead you into something serious if you’re not sure you can handle that.

You lean back in your chair, looking out toward the ocean. You let the silence breathe for a second. Then you meet his eyes again.

YOU Let me tell you what I am sure of.

His eyebrows lift — listening.

YOU I’m sure I haven’t laughed this much in forever. I’m sure that I check my phone every five minutes to see if you’ve texted. I’m sure that I already memorized the way you say my name.

Bob swallows.

YOU (softer now) And I’m sure that... even if it hurts, I’d rather take the risk of missing you — than risk never getting to have you at all.

Bob exhales, like he’d been holding his breath without realizing it.

BOB You say things like that and expect me not to fall in love with you?

You smile, eyes warm.

YOU I’m saying things like that because I might already be halfway there.

Neither of you moves for a second.

Then he reaches across the table and takes your hand — no words needed. His fingers wrap gently around yours like they’ve always fit there.

The candle flickers. The music plays. And the ocean just keeps breathing behind you.

INT. Y/N’S BEDROOM – LATER THAT NIGHT

You close your door behind you, lean against it, and just smile to yourself in the quiet. That my-life-is-changing kind of smile.

Your phone buzzes.

BOB: Still thinking about you.

You reply instantly.

YOU: I never stopped.

———

MONTH 1

INT. COFFEE SHOP – EARLY MORNING

Your first in-person date. Not dinner. Not drinks. Just coffee and croissants at a café tucked on a quiet street. Bob’s early. So are you.

You spot him before he spots you — sitting at a corner table, fidgeting with the cup sleeve, reading a folded-up map of the coastline like it’s more interesting than it is.

He looks up. Sees you. Smiles like he’s been waiting forever.

BOB

(nervous, sincere)

Hi. I’m really glad you’re here.

⸻

INT. MUSEUM – AFTERNOON

Date three. The aviation wing of a science museum. You expected him to geek out — and he does — but he also listens to every word you say about your favorite exhibits like he’s storing the information for later.

BOB

(pointing)

That one’s a Boeing F/A-18. But I like the way you said “shiny death machine” better.

You grin.

⸻

INT. PHONE SCREEN – LATE NIGHT

FaceTime calls before bed. He’s brushing his teeth. You’re still in makeup. He shows you the flannel sheets on his bed. You tease him about them.

YOU

Are those… moose?

BOB

Listen, they’re festive. Don’t slander my winter bedding.

⸻

MONTH 2

INT. BOB’S APARTMENT – NIGHT

It happens on a quiet night. No build-up, no tension. Just two people who’ve been falling for weeks. You’re in his T-shirt, sitting cross-legged on his couch, fingers brushing the rim of your wine glass.

He leans over. Kisses you once — slow and certain — like a question he already knows the answer to.

INT. BOB’S BEDROOM – CONTINUOUS

His room smells like cedar and detergent. You kiss as he undresses you with gentle hands, warm eyes, and pauses that ask, Are you sure? Is this okay? Do you want me the way I want you?

When he finally sinks into you, it’s like he exhales for the first time in days.

BOB

(barely above a whisper)

God, you feel… you feel like home.

His voice never stops — not dirty, just reverent.

BOB

You’re so soft. So beautiful.

You’re doing so good, sweetheart.

I’ve got you, I’ve got you.

Fingers laced with yours. His forehead pressed to yours as he rocks into you, slow and steady. You’ve never been looked at like this. Not like you’re just sexy — like you’re sacred.

Afterward, you lie chest to chest. He murmurs something into your hair.

BOB

You wreck me, you know that?

You do now.

⸻

A WEEK LATER

EXT. THE HARD DECK – NIGHT

You walk in with him, nerves humming like a second skin. The squad’s already rowdy. Your heels click louder than the jukebox.

BOB

(whispers)

Just hold my hand. It’s not a firing squad.

It kind of feels like one. But Phoenix hugs you. Hangman makes a dumb joke. Coyote clinks your glass.

They tease Bob mercilessly. But you? You survive. Barely.

YOU

(breathing out)

That was… intense.

BOB

(teasing)

You passed initiation. They like you.

YOU

How can you tell?

BOB

Nobody grilled you about Top Gun. That’s real love.

⸻

MONTH 3

INT. NAVAL BASE – LUNCHTIME

You walk across the tarmac in kitten heels, holding a tray of sandwiches, brownies, and napkins labeled with names in your handwriting. Bob watches you like you hung the damn sun.

Cyclone eats two brownies. Maverick compliments your brisket wrap.

Phoenix pulls you aside.

PHOENIX

You’re really doing this, huh?

YOU

What?

PHOENIX

The Bob thing. You’re all in.

YOU

Yeah. I guess I am.

⸻

MONTH 4

INT. PEARSON HARDMAN – CONFERENCE ROOM

Bob shows up unannounced. Shirt tucked in. Flowers in hand. You’re in a pencil skirt with six unread emails and a migraine.

He offers you the coffee he brought. Exactly how you like it.

BOB

It’s probably illegal how good you look yelling at paralegals.

YOU

Don’t flirt with me in front of the interns.

BOB

You love it.

You do.

⸻

MONTH 5

INT. GROCERY STORE – NIGHT

You and Bob argue over which pasta shape is superior. You defend penne like it’s a constitutional right. He mocks bowtie pasta like it owes him money.

You settle on both.

Later, you eat in front of the TV with your feet in his lap and marinara on your cheek.

BOB

(smiling)

Can’t believe I’m gonna marry someone who disrespects fusilli like that.

YOU

(mouth full)

I thought we weren’t talking about marriage yet.

BOB

We’re not. Just saying. Hypothetically.

⸻

MONTH 6

INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT

It’s thunderstorming. You’re wrapped around each other, half asleep. The lightning flashes, and you instinctively reach for him.

He’s already there.

BOB

(softly)

You okay?

YOU

Yeah. Just hate the sound of thunder.

He shifts closer. Kisses the edge of your jaw.

BOB

I’ve got you, baby. Go back to sleep.

———

MONTH 7

EXT. WEDDING VENUE – NIGHT

It’s a warm night. String lights glow over a vineyard, and someone’s playing an acoustic cover of “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” You and Bob are slow dancing, slightly tipsy, his hands warm on your waist.

BOB

(tucking his head against yours)

This your first time as a wedding plus-one?

YOU

Yeah. And my feet hurt.

He grins, pulls you even closer so you’re barely swaying now.

BOB

I’d carry you, but I’m trying to impress the bride’s family.

YOU

Sweetheart, you’re a pilot. They already think you’re cool.

BOB

(quietly)

You think I’m cool?

YOU

I think you’re mine.

A little later, someone tosses the bouquet. It sails high — lands just behind you. Not close enough to catch, but Bob’s eyes find you anyway.

Soft. Steady.

YOU

Don’t even start.

BOB

Didn’t say a word.

But his hand squeezes yours. Just a little.

⸻

MONTH 8

INT. YOUR APARTMENT – NIGHT

It starts small. A text that goes unanswered. A dinner you asked him to come to — a partner at your firm invited you both. Big opportunity. He doesn’t show.

No call. No apology.

You’re in the kitchen when he finally walks through the door, looking like he knows he messed up. He’s still in uniform. Exhausted. You’re still in the dress you wore — arms crossed, heels kicked off.

YOU

Don’t.

BOB

Just let me explain—

YOU

You didn’t even text me, Bob.

BOB

I got caught on base—everything ran long—I didn’t mean—

YOU

You didn’t try. I stood there. Alone. Trying to convince people that you were worth it.

He flinches. That’s the one that lands.

BOB

(quietly)

I am worth it.

YOU

Then act like it.

Silence swells between you. Angry. Heavy. You walk away before it explodes. He doesn’t stop you.

He sleeps on his couch that night.

But in the morning — he’s at your bedroom door. Coffee in one hand. The breakfast sandwich you like in the other.

He doesn’t ask to come in. Just looks at you with that soft, broken gaze.

BOB

I was scared I was letting you get too close.

And then I realized — I already did.

And now I’m more scared of losing you.

You let him in. To the room. To your arms. To your heart.

Again.

⸻

MONTH 9

EXT. NAVAL BASE – SUNSET

It’s a weekend. You show up without warning — with a cooler full of lemonade and a pie you baked at 11 PM the night before.

Bob sees you from across the tarmac and practically jogs over, smiling like you invented oxygen.

BOB

(to the squad)

That’s my girl.

Phoenix raises an eyebrow.

PHOENIX

Oh it’s official-official now?

BOB

(grinning)

Didn’t it already feel that way?

You sit in a folding chair with Bob behind you, arms looped around your waist, head resting on your shoulder as Hangman tells a story about a failed mission involving a jet, a goat, and an unfortunate communications blackout.

You laugh so hard your ribs hurt. Bob presses a kiss to your cheek mid-laugh like it’s instinct.

In that moment, you realize:

This is what safety feels like.

⸻

MONTH 10

INT. PEARSON HARDMAN – LATE NIGHT

You’re in your office, hair pinned back, sleeves rolled, chewing the end of a pen and surrounded by case files.

Bob shows up with takeout and a tired smile. He walks in like he’s done it a thousand times.

YOU

Is this allowed?

BOB

They gonna arrest me for loving a woman with a terrifying caseload?

YOU

Jessica might.

BOB

I’ll flirt my way out of it.

You’re laughing before you even look up.

He sits on the floor, back against the wall, flipping through a deposition.

BOB

(as the deponent)

“I plead the fifth… unless she’s single.”

YOU

You’re insane.

BOB

I’m yours.

You leave your desk and sit beside him on the floor. Lean into him like the weight of the day doesn’t exist when you’re in his arms.

⸻

MONTH 11

EXT. DOWNTOWN HOLIDAY MARKET – EVENING

You’re bundled in matching scarves. Bob is trying not to buy every handmade candle he smells. You’re sipping cider from a paper cup, cheeks flushed.

He keeps sneaking glances at you when you’re not looking.

BOB

(quietly)

You’re magic. You know that?

YOU

I’m cold and hungry and about to spend $30 on gingerbread soap.

BOB

(still staring)

Yeah. Magic.

You buy him socks that say “Nerds Make Better Lovers.”

He makes a show of wearing them the next time he strips in front of you.

BOB

(gesturing proudly)

Tell me these aren’t the sexiest things you’ve ever seen.

YOU

Please take them off immediately.

You don’t mean it.

⸻

MONTH 12

INT. YOUR BEDROOM – MORNING

You wake up in his arms. Sunlight filters through the blinds, painting stripes across his bare chest. His breathing is steady. One arm draped over your waist. His hand curled against your side like a promise.

You shift. He wakes. Smiles instantly.

BOB

Morning, pretty girl.

YOU

Morning, sap.

BOB

One year.

YOU

One whole year of you stealing my blankets.

BOB

One whole year of you stealing my hoodies.

YOU

I don’t regret a second.

BOB

Me neither.

INT. KITCHEN – LATER

You’re making pancakes. He wraps his arms around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.

BOB

Can I give you something?

YOU

Is it edible?

He chuckles. Steps away. Comes back with a wrapped box.

Inside:

A framed photo of you both on the beach, taken by Phoenix. And behind it — a folded page from a notebook.

Your name, written at the top in his neat, anxious handwriting.

Underneath:

“You are the calm after every storm.

You are the reason I breathe softer.

You are the best part of every day.

And I’m in this. For real. For as long as you’ll have me.”

You press the letter to your chest. Look up at him with tears swimming.

YOU

You wrote this?

BOB

Started it six months ago.

Didn’t know when I’d give it to you.

But… today felt right.

You kiss him — long and full and full of gratitude.

The kind of kiss that says:

I’m here. I’m all in. I’m home.

———

INT. COASTAL RESTAURANT – NIGHT

The restaurant is dim and golden, tucked beside the ocean. The kind of place you only go to once in a while — where the candles flicker low and the waiters don’t rush you.

You’re in a soft silk dress, one he’s seen once before, on your fourth date. He remembered. You wore it again just for that reason.

Bob sits across from you in a light grey dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearm, top button undone. His glasses fog slightly every time he looks at you and smiles — which is often.

The waiter brings out dessert. A shared one. You don’t even like tiramisu that much, but Bob loves it and he eats around the cocoa-dusted corners you avoid.

BOB

You know what I was doing one year ago tonight?

YOU

(murmuring)

Avoiding women with gym selfies on Tinder?

BOB

(biting a grin)

And swiping right on a girl who was eating pizza in her first photo.

YOU

I was mid-bite. I looked deranged.

BOB

You looked like everything I didn’t know I needed.

That shuts you up for a second.

So you reach across the table, and he meets your hand halfway.

And when you whisper “I love you” across the flickering candlelight — he doesn’t say it back.

He squeezes your hand and says:

BOB

I already know. And I never take it for granted.

You don’t even wait for the check.

⸻

✦ INT. YOUR BEDROOM – LATER THAT NIGHT ✦

The lights are low. The moon spills silver across the hardwood floor. You’re straddling him on the bed — his hands on your hips, your mouth on his neck. You’re both half-undressed, breathless and too full of history to make this anything casual.

BOB

(softly, into your shoulder)

You make everything in me quiet.

YOU

Quiet?

BOB

Yeah. Like… peaceful. Still.

You kiss him like you want to memorize him.

When he finally presses into you — slow, deep, full — you hold his face in your hands like you’re afraid he might disappear.

BOB

(shaky exhale)

God, baby… I missed you and you were right here.

His praise never stops. Just murmured between kisses and gasps and stuttering thrusts.

BOB

You’re so good.

So soft.

So perfect like this.

Let me take my time with you, please.

He holds eye contact when you come. Doesn’t look away. Just says your name like it’s a prayer.

And when you finally collapse against his chest, warm and hazy and aching in the best way — that’s when he says it.

BOB

(quietly)

You know I leave in four weeks, right?

You sit up, fast — blanket pulled across your chest. Hair a mess. Lips parted. You stare at him like he just broke something precious.

YOU

Oh my god.

(quietly)

I forgot.

BOB

(sitting up behind you, kissing your shoulder)

I didn’t want to remind you tonight.

But I didn’t want to lie to you either.

You turn, crawl into his lap, hold his face.

YOU

How long again?

BOB

Ten months. Maybe a year. Depends on the mission.

YOU

(whispers)

That’s forever.

BOB

It’s not.

(pause)

But it’s gonna feel like it.

You go quiet. He holds you close.

Then:

BOB

Can I show you how much I’m going to miss you?

You nod. Mouth open but no words.

He kisses you deeper this time. Less careful. Still gentle, but needier. The kind of touch that says I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to forget how this feels.

Your back hits the mattress and he’s already between your legs again, whispering in your ear:

BOB

Tell me you’re mine. Just once more.

YOU

I’m yours.

BOB

Say it again. I want to remember how you sound when you say it.

He makes love to you slow. Not just to bring you there — to memorize you. To burn the feel of your thighs around his waist into his memory.

You ask for it. Whisper it against his mouth.

YOU

Little rougher this time.

BOB

You sure?

You guide his hand — place it softly against your throat. His fingers flex like he doesn’t trust himself.

But he holds you. Gentle. Secure. Not squeezing — just claiming.

BOB

You feel so good, baby. So warm.

I’m gonna dream about this for months.

You have no idea what you do to me.

You whimper into his mouth. He groans against your skin.

It’s almost sunrise now. You’re too tired to do anything except want each other. You lie on your side, legs tangled, and he pushes into you like it’s instinct — slow and messy and so damn emotional you feel your chest cave.

There’s no talking this time. Just soft moans. Sighs. The kind of closeness where nothing else matters.

Your fingers in his hair. His hand between your thighs.

His name on your lips like a lullaby.

He’s on top. Again.

Sweaty. Trembling. Nearly crying from how close he feels to you — how much it hurts already knowing he’ll have to say goodbye.

BOB

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

I’ll say it until I’m blue in the face.

You cling to him. Arms around his back. Nails in his skin.

He kisses you through the final wave. Holds you so tight afterward you almost forget what’s coming.

You fall asleep against his chest, his dog tags warm between your breasts. His hand on your waist. His forehead against yours.

The room smells like skin and salt and something sacred.

Neither of you says it out loud.

But you’re both thinking it:

Please come back to me.

———

You fall asleep against his chest, his dog tags warm between your breasts. His hand on your waist. His forehead against yours.

The room smells like skin and salt and something sacred.

Neither of you says it out loud.

But you’re both thinking it:

Please come back to me.

———

EXT. NAVAL BASE – EARLY MORNING

The sun hasn’t even broken the horizon yet. The sky is still deep gray-blue, and the hangar lights cut through the dark like spotlights.

You pull up in his truck — quiet the whole drive. Your fingers haven’t left his hand since you parked.

Outside, the squad’s already gathered. Phoenix is leaning against her car with a thermos. Coyote’s saying something to Payback. Hangman’s pacing — sunglasses on even though it’s barely light out.

When they see you walking up with Bob, they quiet down a little.

No one says it out loud. But this one’s different. A year is different.

INT. HANGAR – MOMENTS LATER

Everyone’s lingering, waiting for the call to load in. You stand beside Bob with your hands shoved into the sleeves of his hoodie, your body half-tucked under his arm.

BOB

(softly, trying to tease)

You could still hide in my duffel bag.

YOU

I’d slow you down.

BOB

Worth it.

He kisses your forehead. Lingers there. Doesn’t move.

PHOENIX

(approaching gently)

I’ll take care of him.

YOU

(teary smile)

He’s the softest one here. You better.

Phoenix pulls you into a hug and whispers something only you hear:

PHOENIX

He talks about you like you hung the stars.

You’re already tearing up.

Coyote hugs you next — full-body, warm, brotherly. No words. Just there.

And then Hangman.

JAKE

(sniffling, holding it together)

You call me if you need anything. Anything at all.

YOU

Jake—

JAKE

(swallowing)

He’s my best friend. You’re his whole world. That means… you’re kinda mine too.

And when he hugs you, he smells like cologne and jet fuel and salty tears. You bury your face in his jacket.

BOB PULLS YOU AWAY LAST.

He takes both your hands. Looks at you like he’s memorizing you.

BOB

No matter where I go, no matter what I’m doing…

If I get five minutes to breathe, I’m thinking about you.

YOU

Promise?

BOB

I’d never lie to you.

(pause)

I’ll write. Every day. I don’t care if it’s a sentence or six pages. You’ll hear from me.

YOU

And I’ll write back.

BOB

You’d better.

You let out a wet laugh. Then a quiet sob.

Then you’re clinging to him. Hard.

He doesn’t pull away. He hugs you so tight it feels like he’s trying to bring you with him.

BOB

(sinking into your ear)

I love you, baby. I love you so much it hurts.

YOU

Please come back to me.

BOB

I’m already counting down.

Over his shoulder, a call comes: time to go.

Bob’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t move.

YOU

Go. You have to.

BOB

(blinking fast)

I don’t want to.

YOU

(softly)

Neither do I.

He kisses you once. Then again. Then again — fast and messy and desperate.

BOB

Last one. One more.

He presses your forehead to his. Takes a breath. Steps back.

He doesn’t look back when he walks away. Not because he doesn’t want to.

Because if he does — he won’t be able to go.

You stay there. Watching. Until the transport doors close.

Until you can’t see his silhouette anymore.

Until your knees go weak and Phoenix catches you, whispering,

PHOENIX

He’ll come back. I swear it.

———

INT. BOB’S QUARTERS – NIGHT (MONTH 1)

The barracks are quiet. Dim. A fan spins overhead. Bob sits on the edge of his cot, writing by flashlight with the world muted around him.

He’s wearing the navy blue workout tee you used to steal.

A folded photo of you is propped against his rucksack: you in his hoodie, holding your cat, mid-laugh.

LETTER (V.O. – BOB)

Hey, sweetheart. It’s only been a few days and I’m already losing it.

The bed’s too cold. I keep waking up and reaching for you.

Don’t worry — I haven’t cried. Yet.

(Okay, maybe once. Shut up.)

Tell me you’re still watching trash TV and drinking your wine.

He folds the letter. Tucks it into an envelope. Kisses the back like he’s done it before.

⸻

INT. YOUR LIVING ROOM – NIGHT (MONTH 1)

You curl up on the couch in your hoodie, wine glass in hand. Purple Hearts plays softly in the background — you’re not watching it. Not really.

His letter is open on your lap. You read it again. And again. You don’t cry until you whisper, “I miss you,” to no one.

You reply on monogrammed stationery Donna gave you when you got promoted.

LETTER (V.O. – YOU)

I’m not drinking wine.

(Pause)

Okay I am. But it’s Pinot and you don’t like that one, so technically I’m not cheating.

Everyone at work says I’m still glowing. I think I’m just emotionally constipated.

Donna caught me crying in the bathroom.

Write back soon. And if you see any birds doing anything weird, I want to know immediately.

⸻

INT. BASE FLIGHTLINE – DAY (MONTH 2)

Heat waves shimmer on the tarmac. Bob walks beside his team, helmet under arm.

Hangman’s at his side, talking about home. Coyote whistles.

Bob doesn’t say much. Just pulls a letter out of his chest pocket during a break, unfolds it like it’s sacred.

Your lipstick mark is still faint on the corner of the page.

He smiles. Just barely.

HANGMAN

(reading over his shoulder)

“She misses your cold toes and your bad scrambled eggs.”

(grins)

That’s love, buddy.

BOB

It’s home.

⸻

INT. PEARSON HARDMAN – DAY (MONTH 3)

You’re hunched over case files. Your desk is a mess of coffee cups, highlighters, and post-its.

Mike strolls in, pauses.

MIKE

You okay?

YOU

Bob’s been gone for eighty-three days.

I’ve read more depositions than God.

And I think my blood type is now cold brew.

MIKE

(joking)

Well if it makes you feel better, you’re still Jessica’s favorite.

YOU

(flatly)

Because I don’t talk back like you do.

A beat. He holds out a wrapped package — small, square.

MIKE

Donna intercepted this at the front desk. Said “you needed a reminder.”

You unwrap it slowly.

It’s a photo frame. Inside: a snapshot of you and Bob at the beach, half-sandy and smiling. On the back, in pen:

“Still counting down. –B”

⸻

INT. BOB’S BUNK – NIGHT (MONTH 5)

He’s reading your letter under the blanket, flashlight in hand.

LETTER (V.O. – YOU)

I wore your hoodie to the office today. Donna said it smells like ‘loyalty and overpriced aftershave.’

I think she misses you too.

BOB

(grinning)

Damn right she does.

He kisses the letter. Again.

⸻

INT. YOUR APARTMENT – NIGHT (MONTH 6)

A thunderstorm rolls in. You’re under a blanket, scrolling through old photos of him. The song “Heather” by Conan Gray plays quietly.

You reply to his last letter at 1:43 AM.

LETTER (V.O. – YOU)

You told me once that the stars looked different up there.

They don’t look different here.

They look lonelier.

Come home soon.

INT. PEARSON HARDMAN – NIGHT (MONTH 8)

You’re working late with Harvey on a huge case. He passes by your glass office and pauses.

HARVEY

You don’t have to keep drowning in work just to keep your mind off him.

YOU

I’m not.

HARVEY

(knew you’d say that)

…You could’ve fooled me.

He drops a bottle of bourbon on your desk.

HARVEY

Call it a temporary cure.

⸻

INT. BASE CAFETERIA – EARLY MORNING (MONTH 9)

Bob’s on a break. Half-asleep. Coffee in hand. He opens your newest letter and just smiles.

LETTER (V.O. – YOU)

Still no ring on my finger.

Still no man in my bed.

Still all yours, Floyd.

He mouths the words back to himself, eyes closing.

⸻

INT. YOUR BEDROOM – NIGHT (MONTH 10)

You write again. Just one word on the page:

Soon?

⸻

INT. BOB’S ROOM – SAME NIGHT

He replies:

Soon.

———

INT. PEARSON HARDMAN – DAY

You’re in your office, typing aggressively. A case is falling apart and Harvey’s been breathing down your neck all morning. You’re tired. You’re wearing Bob’s sweatshirt under your blazer because it still smells like him.

There’s a gentle knock on your already-open door.

DONNA (O.S.)

Y/N.

You look up — and flinch.

Donna’s face is pale. Her heels are clicking too fast. She looks… frazzled.

YOU

(startled)

Donna? What’s wrong?

DONNA

(clipped, flustered)

Jessica and Harvey need to see you in Conference Room Two. Immediately.

YOU

(confused)

Why? What happened?

DONNA

(hushed, eyes wide)

They didn’t say specifics, but it’s bad. Jessica said “costly mistake,” and Harvey looked—Y/N, he looked genuinely angry. Like… I’ve-never-seen-him-like-that angry.

Your mouth goes dry. You stand up too quickly.

YOU

Oh my god. Which case? Was it the Martinez settlement? Did I file the wrong version of the addendum?

DONNA

They didn’t say.

YOU

Donna—!

DONNA

(firm, but low-key terrified)

They said now. They didn’t want to wait. And I don’t know what this is about, but… I would prepare for the worst.

You’re nearly hyperventilating now. You gather your files — all the active ones — hands shaking.

DONNA

(walking beside you)

I’ve never seen Harvey look at anyone like that. And you know Harvey doesn’t scare me.

Your stomach drops.

You rush down the hallway toward Conference Room Two. Your heels echo. Everyone’s looking. Like they know something you don’t.

The conference room is all glass — but the door is wood, solid, closed. You can’t see inside.

INT. CONFERENCE ROOM TWO – MOMENTS LATER

You push in fast, expecting a firing squad. Papers in hand. Breath stuck in your throat.

HARVEY and JESSICA are standing near the head of the table. Serious. Still. Blank-faced.

You drop the files on the table immediately.

YOU

(panicked, rushing)

These are all the cases I’ve been active on — I re-reviewed the discovery on the Parker litigation, the Martinez negotiations, and even the deposition schedules for the Haines claim, and I swear I haven’t touched anything without double confirmation.

If I made a mistake, I swear I’ll fix it, just—

Don’t fire me. Please. I—I haven’t slept. And if I did something that put the firm at risk—

JESSICA

(stern)

What are you talking about?

YOU

(breathless)

Donna said I made a mistake.

There’s a beat.

Jessica starts to laugh. Not a chuckle. A deep, rich, absolutely amused belly laugh.

You blink, stunned.

JESSICA

(wiping a tear)

Oh, Donna. That was evil.

HARVEY

(smirking)

Kid.

You turn toward him.

HARVEY

Look at me.

You do — eyes wide, red-rimmed. He steps aside, slowly.

And that’s when you see him.

BOB.

Full Navy uniform. Holding flowers. Standing at the back of the room like a ghost you’d wished for.

Your body locks. Like your soul needs a second to believe he’s real.

He just smiles.

BOB

Hey, sweetheart.

And you run.

Across the room, into his arms. The files on the table go flying. Donna gasps from the hallway. Harvey claps once.

Bob drops the flowers and catches you mid-leap, arms locking around your waist. You bury your face in his neck and just sob.

YOU

You weren’t supposed to be back until next month!

BOB

Surprise.

(pulling back, smiling through misty eyes)

Had to come home to you.

Harvey and Jessica quietly step out, closing the door behind them.

You don’t let go of him for ten straight minutes.

The door opens. You and Bob step out — still tangled together, cheeks flushed and tear-streaked. He keeps one arm around your waist like letting go would undo him.

Everyone has gathered. Donna, Mike, Rachel, Louis (weirdly weeping), and the rest of the associates.

And they applaud.

Jessica stands at the center, arms folded but a smile pulling at her mouth.

JESSICA

Y/N.

You turn, still breathless.

JESSICA (CONT’D)

I’m giving you the rest of the day off.

And maybe tomorrow too.

YOU

I—what? But I have the Thompson deposition, and the—

RACHEL

(interrupting, warm)

Mike and I already picked it up. We’ve got it covered.

MIKE

(joking)

And frankly, if you came back now, we’d probably kick you out again.

JESSICA

(sincerely)

Go home. You’ve earned it.

And tell your Lieutenant we expect him to stay alive next time.

Everyone laughs — even you, watery and overwhelmed.

Bob kisses your temple. The applause slowly dies down as you two head for the elevator — hands laced, hearts racing, eyes only for each other.

———

INT. YOUR APARTMENT – NIGHT

The door clicks shut. The sound echoes.

You drop your purse. He drops his cap.

And neither of you speaks.

You just look at each other.

Like if you blink, the other will disappear again.

And then—you move at the same time.

He grabs your waist. You grab his collar. The kiss is immediate — hot, desperate, open-mouthed, all teeth and need. He walks you backward, never breaking contact, until your back hits the hallway wall.

YOU

(whispers, breathless)

You’re really here.

BOB

(mouth on your throat)

I never stopped being yours.

His hands are under your blouse, lifting it over your head. Your bra joins it in seconds.

You tug at his uniform — he lets you strip it off piece by piece. Every medal, every button, every layer dropped in a trail behind him. His dog tags dangle between you, swinging softly.

He cups your jaw, kissing you slow now. Reverent.

BOB

Let me show you.

You reach for him. He lifts you.

INT. BEDROOM – SECONDS LATER

He lays you down like you’re sacred. Climbs over you. Presses his forehead to yours.

BOB

I dreamed about this. Every night.

Every single night.

YOU

Then take your time.

He does. He takes his time.

Soft hands, soft mouth. Slow grind of hips. Gentle choking — his hand wraps around your throat just enough to ground you.

He talks. God, he talks.

BOB

I missed the way you sound.

The way you tremble.

The way you hold on like I’m the only one who’s ever touched you right.

Your legs wrap around his waist. He moans into your mouth.

YOU

You are the only one.

It’s vanilla, but it’s soaked in devotion. You’re gasping into his shoulder. He’s whispering your name like prayer. He finishes with his face buried in your neck, your body pulled flush to his.

You don’t move for a long time.

YOU

(barely a whisper)

I didn’t realize how lonely I was until you walked into that room.

He kisses your collarbone, your shoulder, your heart.

BOB

And I’m not leaving again. Not for a long, long time.

You fall asleep skin-to-skin, tangled up in each other, the dog tags resting on your bare chest like proof.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Echoes of the Phoenix 

bob floyd x mutant!fem!reader

lowkey an x-men crossover (she’s literally jean grey but a different name)

requested by @lovelyypythoness

The kitchen smelled like fresh basil, butter, and something else Bob couldn’t name—but whatever it was, it felt like home.

His back rested against the doorway, arms crossed loosely over his chest as he watched Y/N hum quietly to herself, barefoot in an oversized sweatshirt, stirring something in a copper pot. Her hair was up in that slightly messy bun she always twisted in the back of her head when she cooked. It bounced a little every time she danced in place to whatever 80s playlist she had going.

He didn’t say anything yet. Just watched her for a second. He liked this version of her—warm light on her skin, socked feet sliding against the tile, perfectly at ease. She looked like someone who’d never had a bad day in her life. That was the thing about Y/N L/N. She looked untouched by the world.

And yet…

There were moments.

Moments where Bob felt like she was trying not to touch anything too tightly. Or feel anything too deeply.

“You’re staring again,” she said without turning around.

Bob smirked. “Can you blame me?”

She glanced back, one eyebrow arched. “I could. But then I’d be a hypocrite.”

He crossed the room and leaned over her shoulder, brushing his nose softly against her temple. “What’s this?”

“Risotto,” she replied casually. “And I might’ve bribed someone at that little shop downtown for real truffle oil, so if you don’t like it, we’re breaking up.”

He chuckled. “Noted.”

It was easy between them. Always had been. The kind of easy Bob Floyd wasn’t used to. Three months in, and it still caught him off guard—how quickly she’d carved out space in his life. In his chest.

He’d never dated someone like her before. Not just because of the quiet mystery she wore like perfume, or the way she could navigate any conversation and still tell you almost nothing about herself.

It was something else.

Something quiet.

Something… buried.

He couldn’t name it. But he felt it.

Especially when she’d go still for no reason. When she’d shut down conversations about her past with a soft smile and a subject change. When her eyes seemed to flicker with something hot and electric—and just as quickly, it was gone.

But every time he thought to press, she gave him a look. One of those soft, careful looks that said please don’t.

So he didn’t.

Yet.

—

They ate on the balcony, legs tangled under the table, the city lights stretching far below them.

Y/N was laughing at something stupid he said—truly laughing, eyes scrunched and shoulders shaking. Bob was sure the sound could keep stars alive.

But just as suddenly, she stopped. Just for a second. He watched the laughter dim from her eyes like a light going out, replaced by something sharp and calculating. Not panic. But control.

“You good?” he asked gently.

She blinked once. Then smiled like nothing had happened. “Yeah. Sorry. Just… remembered something dumb.”

Bob didn’t believe her. But he didn’t say so.

That was starting to become a pattern.

—

Later, they were curled up on the couch, a blanket over both of them, movie playing quietly in the background.

Bob felt her breathing slow. She was drifting off, curled into his side with her cheek against his chest. And he was drifting, too, fingertips tracing soft circles into her spine.

Until the screen suddenly cut to black.

Bob sat up a little, confused. “What the…”

The TV blinked. Static. Then returned to the menu screen.

Y/N stirred. “Power surge?”

“Maybe,” he said. “Weird though. Weather’s fine.”

She sat up, running a hand through her hair, suddenly wide awake. “Old wiring, probably. Or… I don’t know. My fault for buying a smart TV on a holiday sale. Want me to reboot it?”

He looked at her, not the screen. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said quickly. “Just tired.”

But the tension in her shoulders said otherwise.

—

He kissed her before he left that night. Soft and slow. She kissed him back like she was afraid she wouldn’t get the chance again.

As the door closed behind him, she exhaled hard and leaned against it. Her eyes burned with unshed panic.

She didn’t even realize the wine glass on the counter behind her was cracked until it finally gave out with a delicate tink—and shattered completely.

She didn’t move. Just stared at it. Then whispered to herself:

“Keep it together. Just a little longer.”

———

Bob never really believed in gut feelings.

But lately, his gut had been screaming at him.

He was still thinking about the wine glass. He hadn’t seen it break, but Y/N’s text that night was short, almost too casual.

“Dropped a glass. All good. Don’t worry.”

He hadn’t mentioned it, but something about her tone—like she was trying to convince herself more than him—had stuck.

And this morning? She was quiet again. Not in the sleepy, post-date kind of way. In the guarded, “I’m here but not really” kind of way. He noticed the way she gripped her coffee cup a little too tightly. The way her eyes scanned the café like she was listening for something no one else could hear.

“You okay?” he asked for the second time in ten minutes.

“I’m fine,” she said again, with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

And just like that, her wall was back up.

Bob hated how practiced she was at that. Like she’d been doing it her whole life.

⸻

Later that day, he was walking with Phoenix—Lieutenant Natasha Trace—across base. She was his wingman, his best friend, and the one person with the guts to call him out when something was up.

“You’ve been in your head all day,” she said, adjusting her aviators. “Spill.”

He hesitated. “It’s Y/N.”

Phoenix stopped walking. “What’d she do?”

“Nothing,” Bob said quickly. “That’s the thing. It’s just… weird stuff keeps happening.”

She tilted her head. “Weird how?”

He shrugged, uncomfortable. “Like… I don’t know. She zones out. Rooms go weirdly cold. Lights flicker. Stuff falls over. She always has an excuse, but—”

“But your gut’s telling you she’s lying,” Phoenix finished.

“Not lying,” Bob said quietly. “Just… hiding something.”

Phoenix gave him a look, one he knew too well. “You think she’s cheating?”

“No,” he said immediately, surprising even himself with how certain he was. “I don’t think it’s that.”

“Then what do you think it is?”

Bob opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. But something’s off.”

⸻

That night, they went out to dinner.

Nothing fancy. Just a quiet place tucked away in the corner of the city. Somewhere they could pretend they were normal.

Y/N looked beautiful—black blouse, hair half-up, gold jewelry catching the candlelight. She smiled, she laughed. She ordered for both of them like always.

But Bob kept catching her glancing around. Like she was waiting for something to go wrong.

“You keep looking over your shoulder,” he said gently. “Are you expecting someone?”

Her fork paused mid-air. “No. Just… habit.”

“Bad one,” he murmured.

She didn’t answer.

—

They were halfway through dessert—something chocolatey and rich, the kind of thing Bob always tried to say no to and never could—when the waiter passed a little too close.

It happened fast.

A shoulder bump. A wobble.

And then—splash.

Ice-cold water soaked Y/N’s lap. The entire glass emptied itself across her dress, dripping from the table, pooling onto the floor. It was freezing. Shocking.

“Shit—” Bob reached for a napkin. “Are you okay?”

She jumped up from the booth, hands hovering, unsure of what to do with them. “I’m fine, I—sorry, I just—just need a second.”

The waiter was apologizing profusely, scrambling to mop up the mess, offering towels and murmured regrets. But Y/N wasn’t listening. Her eyes were distant. Her breath shallow.

Bob stood too, worry prickling his chest. “Y/N—”

“I’m okay,” she cut in, too quickly. “Just—give me a second, I’ll be right back.”

She didn’t wait for a response. She grabbed her purse and all but fled toward the exit, heels clacking sharply on the tile floor.

The waiter turned to Bob, still looking mortified. “Sir, we are so sorry. Your entire meal is on the house.”

Bob gave a polite nod, but his eyes were already on the door, heart thudding. Something about the way she left—too fast, too stiff—sent warning bells ringing in his head.

This wasn’t just about a spilled drink.

⸻

He found her outside around the corner of the restaurant. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, chin tucked down. Her wet skirt clung to her legs as the evening breeze cut across her skin. She was shivering, but it wasn’t just from the cold.

“Y/N,” Bob said gently, stepping toward her. “Hey. What just happened?”

She didn’t look at him. “Nothing. I just got water on me. It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” he said. “I’ve seen you laugh off worse. You’re shaking.”

She exhaled sharply. “I’m not shaking.”

“You’re trembling, and I don’t think it’s because of the ice water.”

Still, she didn’t speak. She just stared straight ahead, as if grounding herself against something invisible.

Bob waited a beat. Then: “This isn’t the first time something’s happened and you’ve shut down like this.”

That finally made her look at him—fast, defensive.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not accusing you,” he said quickly. “I’m just… I’m trying to understand you. Because sometimes it feels like you’re holding something back. Like you’re scared of letting me get too close.”

Her mouth opened, then closed again. She didn’t have a retort ready this time.

He took a careful step closer. “If there’s something you’re not telling me, I’m not gonna push. But I don’t want to keep walking blind.”

A pause.

Then her voice came out quiet, a whisper so low he barely heard it.

“There is something.”

Bob’s stomach twisted. “Okay.”

“But you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

She hesitated. Every muscle in her body was pulled tight—like one wrong word would send her flying into pieces.

“I have psionic powers.”

He blinked. “What kind of powers?”

“I can move things. With my mind. I can hear people’s thoughts if I don’t block them out. I can feel too much at once, and sometimes it’s too loud. Sometimes I lose control.”

Bob stared, unsure whether to speak or just let her finish.

“I’ve tried to keep it in check,” she said. “But when I feel too much—when I’m angry, scared, hurt—things start to happen around me. Lights flicker. Objects move. Glass breaks. That’s why I’ve been acting weird. That’s why I leave. I’m not cheating on you—I’m trying to protect you.”

Bob let out a quiet breath. “That’s what you were hiding?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Say I’m crazy,” she snapped. “Go ahead. That’s what everyone says.”

“I’m not saying that,” he replied gently. “I’m saying I’m trying to wrap my head around it.”

“You wanted honesty,” she said. “Now you’ve got it.”

A gust of wind rushed between them—sharp and sudden. Somewhere above, a streetlight flickered.

Bob took a step back and looked at her again—really looked.

The way her hair lifted slightly in the breeze, though the wind had already passed. The way her hands were clenched into fists, but not touching anything—and yet his shoelaces started to slowly untie themselves.

He stared.

Y/N’s expression crumbled. “See? This is what I mean. This is why I didn’t want to tell you—because it’s real, and it’s terrifying.”

Bob was silent. And then he said, very softly:

“I believe you.”

She looked up, stunned.

“I don’t know how this works. I don’t know what it means. But I believe you, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Y/N’s lip trembled.

“I’ve flown next to missiles at Mach 10,” he added. “You think a woman who can throw a vase with her mind is gonna scare me off?”

And that’s when her shoulders finally dropped.

———

The wind had quieted by the time Bob gently reached out and wrapped his fingers around Y/N’s hand.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes. You can stay at my place tonight. I’ll grab you something oversized and comfy.”

Y/N didn’t resist. Her walls were down. Her eyes shimmered, but she nodded once and followed him.

⸻

The drive to his place was quiet—comfortable, despite the knot of emotion still curling in Y/N’s stomach. Bob kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the console, close enough that her fingers grazed his once or twice. Neither said a word.

When they arrived, Bob handed her a clean T-shirt and a pair of joggers that hung off her frame in that perfect, boyish way. She disappeared into the bathroom to change, and when she emerged—damp hair pulled back, his clothes swallowing her—Bob felt his heart trip in his chest.

She looked soft. Fragile, even. But there was something electric beneath her skin, and now he knew what it was.

“Hey,” he said, offering her a warm mug of tea. “Figured you could use something not ice-cold.”

She smiled faintly and sat beside him on the couch.

They didn’t speak for a few seconds. The clock ticked. The storm in her chest hadn’t passed. Bob could feel it—he just didn’t know what direction it would go next.

Finally, he broke the silence. “So… how did you come to have powers like that?”

Y/N glanced down at the mug in her hands.

“I was born with them,” she said quietly. “I’m what they call a mutant. Some of us don’t show signs until we’re older. But me? Mine kicked in young.”

He didn’t interrupt.

She took a slow breath, voice trembling just a little.

“When I was nine, my parents were driving me home from school. I’d had a bad day—some kid was picking on me, saying I was a freak, and I… I got upset. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but the next thing I knew… the car spun out. My dad lost control. I screamed—and then we hit a tree.”

Bob’s stomach sank.

“They didn’t make it. I did.”

She swallowed. Her fingers tightened around the mug.

“A week later, someone showed up—said there was a school for kids like me. A place where I could learn to control it. They tried their best. But even there, they said I was… different. They said what I could do was ‘otherworldly.’” Her voice hardened slightly. “Didn’t exactly make me feel safer. Or less alone.”

Bob reached over and gently brushed his fingers against hers. She didn’t flinch this time.

“For a while,” she continued, “I stayed. I trained. I even started helping people. Back home, people called me a hero.”

There was a pause. The air shifted.

“But then something happened,” she said.

“What?” Bob asked gently.

Her voice dropped. “His name was Peter. Peter Maximoff.”

Bob nodded slowly. “A boyfriend?”

She nodded once. “He was fast. Like, faster-than-sound fast. Could cross a city in seconds. He was reckless. Always thought he could outrun danger.”

A pause.

“I loved him,” she admitted. “God, I loved him.”

Her breath hitched, and she looked down again.

“One night, we got caught in something. A mission gone wrong. I saw it—everything—going sideways. I tried to hold it together, tried to use my powers to stop what was happening, to protect him.”

A tear slid down her cheek.

“But he pushed me out of the way. He thought he could outrun the blast. I begged him not to. And then—he ran anyway.”

Bob stayed still, listening, heart breaking slowly.

“He didn’t make it. And I couldn’t stop it. I tried. I used everything I had, but it wasn’t enough. And after… after, everyone just looked at me like I was the one who killed him.”

Her voice cracked.

“Sometimes I think I did. If I hadn’t lost control, if I hadn’t been there—maybe it would’ve gone differently.”

Bob shook his head. “You didn’t kill him.”

She looked at him, tearful, wide-eyed.

“He killed himself, Y/N. He made the choice. You tried to save him. That’s not the same.”

“But if I lose control with you—if I get overwhelmed—what if something happens again?”

Bob leaned forward, gently placing a hand on her knee.

“I’m not Peter. And you’re not who you were then. You’ve spent your whole life protecting people—from yourself, from the world. But you don’t have to protect me from you.”

She stared at him.

“I know you’re scared,” he said. “But that doesn’t make you dangerous. It makes you human. And it makes you someone worth staying for.”

Her breath hitched.

Then—

CRACK.

The mug in her hands shattered—splitting clean down the middle, spilling tea across her lap. She gasped and jumped back instinctively.

“Oh my god—”

But Bob didn’t flinch.

He simply reached over, took her shaking hands in his, and said, “It’s okay. Let it happen.”

“I—I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.”

He gently wiped the tea from her wrist with his sleeve, then pulled her into his arms.

And for the first time in a long time, she let someone hold her through the chaos.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

The Space Between pt 2 

bob floyd X fem!reader

She didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

The air between them felt thick, like it had been holding its breath for four years and just now realized it couldn’t keep going.

Hi.

That’s what he said.

Just that.

Like he hadn’t taken her whole heart, folded it into his back pocket, and vanished without a trace.

She blinked.

And then—very slowly—stood upright, the book still on the floor.

“…That’s it?”

Her voice didn’t sound like hers. Not quite.

Bob’s eyes flickered, his mouth opened just slightly, like maybe he hadn’t expected to be called out so directly. Or maybe he thought time would’ve made her forget how it felt to be left behind.

“I—” he started, but nothing followed.

She crossed her arms. “Four years,” she said. “You don’t speak to me for four years. Not a letter. Not a call. Not even a goddamn text. And now we’re… here. In a bookstore. And all you have to say to me is hi?”

His face flushed. His shoulders curled slightly inward, like he was trying to make himself smaller.

“I didn’t think you’d want to see me,” he said quietly.

She let out a sharp, breathless laugh. Not because it was funny. Because it was insane.

“You didn’t think I’d want to see you?” she repeated, shaking her head. “Bob, I waited for weeks after graduation. I went to your house. Your mother told me you left for the Navy. You didn’t even say goodbye.”

He winced at that.

Full-body. Like she’d slapped him.

“I wanted to,” he murmured. “I almost did.”

She took a step back. That sentence? It did more damage than he realized.

“You almost said goodbye?”

Silence. The hum of the bookstore around them. Someone laughed near the register. Somewhere distant, a song played faintly through the overhead speakers.

“I was scared,” he said. “I didn’t know how to do it. I thought… maybe it’d be easier if I left clean. That you could move on faster if there wasn’t anything to hold onto.”

Her heart cracked clean down the center, because God, he was still the same boy who thought protecting her meant hurting her first.

“I didn’t want to move on,” she said, her voice breaking before she could stop it. “I didn’t want to forget you.”

And that did it.

Bob stepped back like the floor shifted beneath him. Like he finally felt the weight of what he’d done—not just the silence, but the absence. The years.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Her silence said it for her. Said: That’s not enough. Not yet.

A long beat passed.

“…Are you—” He swallowed, hesitant. “Are you living here now?”

She nodded once. “Just moved in a few weeks ago. Got a job downtown.”

Bob’s brows pulled together. Like he was about to ask something else—where, what, how long, if she was happy—but then thought better of it. Or maybe he knew he didn’t have the right to ask. Not anymore.

They stood there, surrounded by shelves and ghosts.

Then, quietly:

“…Do you want to sit down?” he asked. “Just for a minute. Talk?”

She hesitated.

She should’ve said no.

But her feet didn’t move. Her chest still ached. And something inside her—small, stubborn, unfinished—whispered: You deserve answers.

“…Yeah,” she said. “Okay. One minute.”

———

The apartment was dark when Bob got back. He didn’t bother turning the lights on right away. Just dropped his keys into the bowl by the door and stood there, listening to the quiet.

He walked past the kitchen. Past the hallway photos he never updated. His bedroom still looked the same. Plain. Tidy. Like he never wanted it to feel too lived in.

Like he’d been waiting for something.

The closet was on the far side of the room. Bottom shelf. Far back.

Four shoeboxes.

He dragged them out one by one, setting them on the bed. The lids were scuffed, edges soft from being opened and closed too many times. Some were rubber-banded shut. Others had post-it notes stuck to them, scribbled dates or “don’t forget this part” reminders. One box had a polaroid of the diner taped to the top.

He sat down slowly.

Opened the first box.

The letters were all there. Folded with care. Every envelope addressed with her name.

Baby, I miss you already.

Sweetheart, I saw a dog that looked like yours today and I almost cried in front of five grown men.

Love, do you remember the first time you made me laugh so hard I snorted? I do. You wore that stupid sweatshirt that you hate, and I told you it made you look like a blueberry. You made fun of me for two hours and then kissed me like you meant it.

His hand trembled on the page. He had never been brave enough to mail them.

One letter, from the middle of the pile, was tear-stained and smudged. Dated the day after he arrived at Boot Camp.

I don’t know how to be without you. I don’t know how to breathe without hearing your voice. I didn’t say goodbye. I know. I didn’t know how. I didn’t want you to look at me like that. Like I was already gone. You were everything. You still are. I’m sorry I left you with silence. It was never because I stopped loving you. It’s because I didn’t know how to stop.

His thumb traced the ink, blurred in places by time and maybe tears.

He leaned over the box and let his forehead rest against his arm.

And for the first time in a long time, Robert Floyd cried.

Meanwhile a little aways across town

She slammed the door behind her a little too hard, dropped her bag by the couch, and kicked her shoes off before she even made it halfway down the hall.

Her apartment was warm. Familiar. But it didn’t feel comforting. Not tonight.

She stood in the middle of her kitchen, her hands still shaking from the café. She had held it together the whole drive home. Had stared out the windshield like she wasn’t unraveling from the inside.

But now—

Her legs buckled before she made it to the table. She caught herself on the floor, back against the fridge, and then it hit her.

All of it.

The heartbreak. The anger. The longing. The ache that had gone dormant for years only to be cracked open again with a single “hi.”

She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

Ugly, shaking, guttural sobs that tore through her ribs like glass.

She cried for the letters she never got. For the goodbye that never came. For the memories she had boxed away and the person she still wasn’t sure she could stop loving.

She cried because he still looked at her like she mattered.

She cried because that almost made it worse.

And when the tears wouldn’t stop, she curled up tighter against the fridge and whispered to the quiet:

“I hate that I still love him.”

———

She didn’t want to be at Target. Again.

But she needed dryer sheets, maybe cereal, and—most of all—a minute to pretend that everything inside her wasn’t still unraveling. One week. It had been one week since she’d seen Bob in that bookstore. One week since he’d sat across from her in that little café and told her everything. One week since she’d walked out and left him reaching for a wrist that didn’t want to be held anymore.

And now?

Now she was back in Target with a cart, a hoodie on, and a playlist in one earbud.

She was halfway through browsing mugs she didn’t need when someone stepped into her path.

Blond. Cocky smirk. Aviators perched on his head inside the store.

She pulled out her earbud slowly.

“Hey,” he grinned, southern charm turned up to eleven. “I don’t mean to interrupt your shopping, but my friend over there thinks you’re very attractive.”

She blinked. Looked at him, mildly amused. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Who’s your friend?”

He turned, thumb jerking over his shoulder toward a small group of people hovering by the snack aisle.

She followed the gesture.

And froze.

Because there—hovering just behind the group, hands in his pockets, eyes already locked on her—was Bob Floyd.

Hangman was still talking. Something about his friend being shy. Something about second chances. She didn’t hear a word.

The fury hit like a flash flood.

She let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “You’re kidding.”

Hangman blinked, thrown off. “No, I—”

“Really?” she snapped, stepping around him and storming down the aisle. “This is how you want to do this? You have your friend tell me you want me back? Seriously?”

Bob’s mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

The whole Dagger Squad froze.

“Are we fifteen?” she continued, fire catching in her chest. “You couldn’t even face me after what you did, and now you send your buddy over to flirt for you in the middle of Target?!”

“Y/N…” Bob finally managed, but it was too late.

“You’re ridiculous,” she hissed. “Next time you want to humiliate me, just send an email.”

She turned on her heel and pushed her cart away, jaw clenched, eyes stinging. She didn’t even register the quiet chorus of “Oh shit” and “Jake, what the hell?” behind her. She just walked.

Behind her, Bob looked like the air had been knocked out of him.

Hangman looked… guilty.

“She’s the girl,” Phoenix muttered to Rooster, who looked like he wanted to melt into the tile.

Bob sat down on the edge of a display shelf.

And then he started talking.

About the years. The letters. The things he never said and the words he couldn’t unsay.

Phoenix stood there, listening. Soaking up every detail.

Until she stepped back.

“I’ll be right back,” she said.

⸻

Y/N was waiting for self-checkout to move, chewing the inside of her cheek and trying not to cry in public for the second time in a month.

“Hey,” a voice said softly beside her.

She turned.

Phoenix.

She straightened but didn’t speak.

“I know you probably hate all of us now,” Phoenix said. “And I know this doesn’t fix anything, but he’s not the guy who left.”

Y/N stared at her, unmoved.

Phoenix hesitated. “We’re having a game night. Rooster’s house. Friday night. He’ll be there. So will I. So will a lot of snacks. You don’t have to come. I’d get it if you didn’t. But…”

“But?” Y/N asked, voice dry.

Phoenix smiled faintly. “But if you show up, I don’t think you’ll regret it.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Rooster’s house, huh?”

“Oh—right,” Phoenix laughed, a little flustered. “His name’s not actually Rooster. It’s Bradley. Bradley Bradshaw. Sorry, we all call each other by call signs half the time—navy thing.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Bradley Bradshaw sounds fake.”

“It does,” Phoenix agreed with a chuckle. “But it’s very real. And you don’t know where he lives, obviously, so…” She hesitated, then reached into her tote and pulled out a receipt. Flipping it over, she scribbled an address down with a pen she somehow had on hand.

“Here,” she said, folding it once and holding it out. “Just in case.”

Y/N didn’t take it right away.

Phoenix didn’t push.

But after a long moment, Y/N reached out. Took it. Tucked it into her hoodie pocket wordlessly.

Phoenix smiled again—quieter this time, gentler.

“You don’t have to come,” she repeated, voice softer now. “But I really hope you do.”

And then she turned and walked off, leaving Y/N alone again beneath the fluorescent lights—cart full of groceries, head full of noise, and a receipt in her pocket that felt heavier than anything she’d planned to carry.

———

The energy at game night was off.

Not for everyone—Hangman was loud as ever, Fanboy and Payback were bickering over Uno rules like their lives depended on it, and Rooster had just brought out a fresh tray of wings like it was the Super Bowl.

But Bob hadn’t cracked a smile.

He sat on the arm of the couch, half in, half out of the conversation, picking at the label on his beer bottle. Phoenix kept glancing over at him. She hadn’t said anything yet, but she didn’t need to—he could feel her eyes burning a hole in his temple.

“Hey, what’s your deal tonight?” Rooster asked eventually, tossing Bob a card. “You’re usually the one kicking our asses at Monopoly. I haven’t heard a single passive-aggressive property negotiation from you.”

“I’m good,” Bob said quickly.

Hangman snorted. “He’s been good since Target. Dude’s haunted.”

That got a few looks.

“Target?” Payback asked, brow raised.

“Oh yeah,” Hangman grinned, “our guy saw a girl. Gorgeous. Fiery. Scary.Chewed him out in the middle of the baking aisle. It was awesome.”

“She was not scary,” Bob muttered.

“She was,” Fanboy agreed. “You looked like a toddler caught stealing cookies.”

“She was pissed,” Hangman shrugged. “Rightfully, from what I picked up. Phoenix, you were there. Back me up.”

Phoenix didn’t answer right away.

Because she knew something they didn’t: that girl might show up tonight.

She had no clue if Y/N would actually come, but she hadn’t told anyone except Bob that she even invited her. Quietly. In the middle of that fluorescent-lit Target, where Y/N had been practically vibrating with anger.

And now Bob had been silent all night.

Phoenix opened her mouth to say something—anything—when there was a knock at the door.

Three knocks. A pause. One more.

The knock barely cut through the laughter.

“Pizza,” Hangman called as he strode toward the front door. “I’m starving.”

Bob didn’t even look up. He was halfway through building a house on Boardwalk, trying to ignore how off he felt, how loud everyone else seemed, how quiet he had been since—

Then Hangman opened the door.

And he went silent.

The kind of silence that vacuumed the room empty.

Everyone looked over.

And there she was.

In the doorway.

Y/N.

Her hair slightly curled at the ends, damp from the drizzle outside. Casual jeans. Hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms. Her eyes scanned the room, stopped when they landed on Bob—but didn’t linger.

“Oh,” Hangman said, blinking. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Y/N answered coolly, stepping inside.

Bob stood too fast. His hand bumped the table. Phoenix snapped her head toward the door, eyes wide for half a second before she caught herself.

“Oh—you,” she said. Then, quickly: “Come with me.”

She didn’t wait.

Just walked across the room and gently grabbed Y/N’s arm, tugging her into the kitchen and out of everyone’s line of sight. The second they crossed the threshold, Phoenix spun around.

“Listen,” she said, low and fast, “if you don’t want to be here—if this feels weird or awful or just too much—you can leave. I won’t be mad. No one will. Okay?”

Y/N just stared at her.

Phoenix softened, her expression easing into something like relief. “But I’m really glad you came.”

For the first time since she stepped through the door, Y/N’s guard dropped just a little. She didn’t smile—but her shoulders relaxed by half an inch.

“I don’t know why I did,” she admitted.

“You don’t need a reason,” Phoenix said gently.

Y/N nodded once, slowly. Then:

“Is he gonna say anything?”

Phoenix looked toward the kitchen door, toward the quiet hum of the game in the other room, where Bob still hadn’t moved.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But I think he wants to.”

Y/N hesitated.

Then she pushed off the counter, smoothed her sleeves down, and said:

“Then I’ll wait until he does.”

And with that, she walked back into the living room—like she belonged there.

Bob’s eyes found her immediately.

And this time, she didn’t look away.

The living room buzzed with laughter, neon Uno cards flying across the coffee table as Phoenix leaned against the arm of the couch, sipping her drink. Y/N sat beside her, legs crossed at the ankle, a red Solo cup in one hand, and a practiced, polite smile on her face.

The energy in the room was warm, loud, and fun—but she felt like she was sitting on the edge of it all.

Bob hadn’t said a word to her since she walked in. Not directly, anyway. But she could feel him.

Every time she played a card, every time she smiled at something Phoenix whispered to her, she could feel his gaze brush her cheek, linger on her hands. His presence felt like static electricity—soft, charged, and inescapable.

She reached for a sip of her drink, barely tasting it. Her fingers trembled around the plastic.

The group launched into a new round, arguments breaking out over stacking draw fours, and she suddenly stood up.

“Okay,” she said, firm but steady. Her voice sliced clean through the chatter. Her eyes locked on Bob, who looked like he’d just been hit with a tranquilizer dart. “I’m done. Bob—let’s go.”

Silence. Jake’s mouth parted. Rooster blinked, mid-chew. Bob didn’t move, not right away. But when he did, it was instant—like a string had pulled him upright.

They stepped out onto the porch together, the door clicking shut behind them with the hush of an oncoming storm.

Inside, Phoenix stood up and slipped into the hallway like it was muscle memory. The rest of the group tried—and failed—to look casual as they followed.

“They’re gonna talk,” Phoenix hissed, blocking them with an arm.

“So let us listen,” Jake whispered back.

Rooster made a “shhh!” motion as the group pressed in like a pack of oversized children at the top of a staircase.

Meanwhile, outside:

The air was cooler now, night settling over San Diego like a soft blanket. Streetlights flickered. Cars passed. But Bob couldn’t hear a thing except the pounding in his chest and the familiar sound of Y/N’s breath. She looked like she was ready to fight him, and he deserved it.

But before she could get a word out, he stepped forward.

“No—wait. Let me go first.”

She blinked, startled, but didn’t say anything. Her arms crossed over her chest, protective, but her eyes stayed on him.

“I still love you.”

She inhaled sharply, and he powered through, voice low but steady.

“I’ve loved you since we were fifteen. And when I left without saying goodbye, it wasn’t because I didn’t care. It was because I did. And I was scared. Scared you’d wait around and waste your life on me while I was gone—when I didn’t know who I was yet or if I’d even come back the same person.”

He swallowed hard, eyes glossing.

“I wrote you. Every single day. At boot camp, in training, every time I missed you—and that was all the time. I read every one last week after I saw you again.”

Her eyes were filling now too, but her arms stayed crossed.

“I’m not trying to make excuses,” he said, voice thick. “But I need you to know that I never stopped loving you. I thought maybe seeing you again would help me let go. But it didn’t. It made it worse. It made me sure.”

He stepped closer.

“I want to make this right. I want to prove to you that I’m still the Bob you knew and loved—but I’ve changed in the ways that matter. I’ve grown. And I know what I want now.”

He reached for her hand. She didn’t stop him.

“You’re the woman I want to marry. You’re the one I want to build a home with. A family. It’s always been you. It’ll always be you.”

There was a silence so soft it hurt.

Finally, she looked up at him, eyes glistening in the porch light.

“I want to believe you,” she whispered. “I really do. But I don’t know if I can trust you again.”

Bob nodded slowly, like he expected that. Like it split him open anyway.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to regain your trust,” he said. “I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care if you need time, space, proof. I just—Y/N, you’re it for me. You always have been.”

Inside, Hangman mouthed holy shit.

Phoenix gave him a deadly glare.

Rooster whispered, “I think I’m gonna cry.”

Back outside, Y/N looked at their joined hands, her fingers curling into his slowly, unsure, afraid—but still there.

And for the first time in four years, Bob let out a breath he’d been holding since the day he left her behind.

When Bob opened the front door, it happened in slow motion.

Fanboy—who had been fully leaned against the wood like a human listening device—tumbled forward with a startled “Whoa—!” before landing flat on the floor between Bob and Y/N’s feet.

There was a pause.

And then: “Haha,” Fanboy laughed, totally unconvincing, brushing himself off as the rest of the squad—Rooster, Hangman, Payback, even Coyote—stumbled back in a poorly coordinated mess of limbs and guilt.

Y/N blinked.

Phoenix leaned in from the hallway, arms crossed. “Subtle,” she muttered.

Bob looked like he might literally die of embarrassment. “Are you serious?”

“I slipped,” Fanboy insisted weakly, cheeks pink.

Rooster nodded. “All at once. We all slipped. It was crazy.”

Y/N let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, and Bob looked over at her, eyes full of quiet apology and something like hope. She gave him a tiny shrug.

It was fine.

For now.

⸻

They rejoined the Uno game, and this time Bob didn’t sit there like he was staring at a ghost. He actually played. Not just throwing down cards—he was good. Challenging Jake, groaning when Phoenix stacked draw fours on him, smirking when he got Rooster with a reverse-draw-two combo.

And Y/N?

She sat next to him.

Not too close. Not touching.

But she was there, and Bob glanced at her now and then like he couldn’t quite believe it.

Maybe he couldn’t.

⸻

Eventually, the game night began to wind down. Empty cans of soda, a pizza box with one lonely crust, and a pile of cursed Uno cards marked the evening’s chaos.

“Let me walk you to your car,” Bob said quietly, after she slipped her jacket back on.

Y/N hesitated—just for a second—before nodding.

The cool night air met them again as they stepped outside. The porch light still buzzed overhead.

They walked to her car in easy silence, the kind that stretched and breathed between them now. He stopped at the passenger side and stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets.

“I was wondering…” Bob started, voice rough but softer now. “Can I give them to you?”

She blinked up at him. “Give what to me?”

“The letters,” he said. “The boxes. All of them. I want you to have them.”

Y/N’s chest felt tight again, like it had in the bookstore, in the café, on the porch. But she nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Okay.”

Bob looked like he hadn’t expected her to say yes so quickly. “I—I can drop them off. At your place.”

“That’s fine,” she said, and then pulled her phone out of her pocket and handed it to him. “Here. Put your number in. Just in case.”

His eyebrows lifted just barely, but the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth was unmistakable.

He took the phone like it was made of glass and typed in his number, then passed it back.

“There,” he said.

Y/N locked eyes with him for one long second, heart beating a little too fast.

“I’m glad you told me,” she said softly. “Tonight. About everything.”

Bob nodded. “I’m glad you listened.”

She opened her car door, but before she slid inside, she looked at him again.

“You should get some sleep,” she said. “You’ve got like six Uno rivals now.”

He smiled, the tired kind, the real kind. “You’re the worst one.”

“Damn right I am.”

And then she was gone—driving down the quiet street, his phone number in her contacts and the start of something not quite new… but definitely not old either.

Bob texted just before nine.

on my way

should be there in a few

Y/N replied with a simple:

okay

She hadn’t even bothered to change out of her old sweatshirt, hadn’t brushed her hair since she got home from work. She told herself she didn’t care.

It wasn’t a date. He was just dropping something off.

Four very specific, emotionally loaded, universe-crushing somethings.

Boxes. Of letters.

When the knock came at her apartment door ten minutes later, she hesitated before opening it—but only for a second.

Bob stood there in a hoodie and jeans, hair a little messy like he’d been running his hands through it the whole way over. His arms were full—two cardboard boxes stacked neatly, and two more at his feet.

Her heart actually stuttered.

“Hey,” he said, voice gentle.

“Hi,” she breathed.

“I, uh…” He shifted the boxes in his arms. “Didn’t wanna risk stacking them all. So I figured… two at a time.”

“I can help,” she said quickly, stepping out to grab the bottom two. Their hands almost brushed—almost.

Once they were inside, she locked the door behind them and set the boxes down near the couch.

Bob put his down beside hers, then stood there awkwardly, hands back in his pockets, eyes flicking from her to the boxes and back again.

���They’re… they’re all for you,” he said finally. “I labeled the tops. Dates. Time. Everything. I don’t know if you’ll even wanna read them, but… I needed you to have them. In case you wondered if I ever thought about you.”

Y/N looked at them, heart already tightening.

“I thought about you,” he said again. “Every single day.”

And then, before she could talk herself out of it—before she could think—she leaned in and kissed his cheek.

Just a soft, gentle press of her lips to his face. But Bob looked like she’d knocked the wind out of him.

She pulled back just a little.

“Goodnight, Bobby,” she whispered.

Then she opened the door, waited for him to step out, and closed it behind him without another word.

⸻

She stood in the silence of her apartment for a long moment.

Then turned slowly to the boxes.

Each one was labeled with the neat, familiar scrawl of a boy she once loved—and maybe still did.

Box One: Boot Camp

Box Two: First Station – Letters I Never Sent

Box Three: Second Year – Deployment Guilt & Dreams

Box Four: Last Year – I Should’ve Come Back Sooner

Her chest ached already.

But she dragged the first one over to the couch, sat down cross-legged, and pulled the lid open.

⸻

The first letter was dated June 19th. Two days after graduation.

Dear Y/N,

I saw your face the whole ride to Great Lakes. I kept thinking I’d turn around and tell the driver I made a mistake.

I didn’t want to go. Not really. Not when it meant not seeing you again.

I think I’m a coward for not saying goodbye.

I’m sorry.

• Bob

Tears hit the page before she even finished it.

But she didn’t stop.

She read the next one. And the next. And the next.

He had written about everything—training, meals, the ache in his chest when he saw a diner that reminded him of theirs. The way hearing a Fleetwood Mac song on the radio made him freeze in the middle of a crowded room. How sometimes he’d see her in dreams—laughing, always laughing.

He told her about the first time he passed a written exam and thought she’d be proud of me. He told her how much it hurt not to call her, not to hear her voice, how he’d carry around her picture but couldn’t bring himself to even send a single letter because he was terrified she’d moved on.

Each envelope was like reopening a wound she thought had scarred over.

By the time she opened Box Three, she was crying so hard she had to hold the papers at arm’s length so the ink wouldn’t run.

She didn’t stop.

She didn’t sleep.

It was well past 2 AM when she reached the last envelope in the final box, her sweatshirt soaked at the collar, her hands shaking.

Dear Y/N,

I know I don’t deserve to see you again. I know it’s been too long, and maybe this won’t even reach you.

But if I do see you—if by some miracle our paths cross—I hope you’ll believe me when I say you are still the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

I love you.

Still.

Always.

• Bobby

She clutched that letter to her chest and cried until there was nothing left.

Her heart was pounding as she drove.

Hands tight on the steering wheel, headlights slicing through the dark, her cheeks still wet. She was crying and smiling and almost sobbing again all at once.

She didn’t even realize she was still in her pajamas. Didn’t care.

By the time she pulled up to Bob’s house, she was shaking.

She got out and ran up the porch steps, knocking fast—three, four, fivetimes, knuckles burning as she hit the wood.

“Bob!” she called. “Bob, please open the door—please—”

The porch light flicked on, and a second later, the lock turned.

He opened the door slowly, squinting at the brightness, disheveled, barefoot in sleep pants and a rumpled tee. His hair was messy. Eyes half-lidded and swollen.

“Y/N?” he blinked hard. “Are you okay? What’s wrong? Did something happen—?”

She surged forward and kissed him.

No warning. No words.

Just kissed him.

She kissed him like she was drowning, like she hadn’t tasted oxygen in four years and this—this—was the only thing keeping her alive.

And Bob froze, just for a second. Then melted into it. Hands cradling her jaw, pulling her closer.

When she finally pulled back, she was out of breath, her voice breaking.

“I read them,” she whispered. “All of them.”

His eyes widened.

“I read every single one,” she said. “And it just reminded me how much I can’t do life without you. How much I still love you. And I know I shouldn’t. I know I should be smarter, or stronger, or angrier, but I’m not. I just needed to be here. With you. Right now.”

Bob’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes glossy in the porch light.

Without a word, he stepped back and opened the door wider.

She stepped inside, barefoot on the tile, and turned to face him.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she said softly. “And it doesn’t mean you’ve earned my trust back.”

He nodded, gaze never leaving hers.

“But I needed to come here. Because I didn’t know how else to breathe without you.”

Something in his face cracked, the tiniest tremble in his jaw before he closed the door gently and turned off the porch light.

“Come on,” he whispered. “It’s late. We can talk in the morning.”

⸻

His room hadn’t changed much.

The bookshelf. The pictures on the wall. A stray Dagger Squad sweatshirt tossed on the back of his chair.

She climbed into his bed like it was second nature, like it had never been years.

Bob moved slow, careful, easing in beside her. They lay on their sides, facing each other, eyes open in the dark.

He didn’t try to touch her. Didn’t reach for her. Not until she reached out, fingers finding his under the blanket.

He held her hand like it was a prayer.

And when they finally drifted to sleep, the only sound was her soft breathing—and the quiet promise hanging in the air.

Morning would come.

And with it, everything they still had to say.

Sunlight poured through the curtains, soft and warm, casting long gold stripes across Bob’s room. It was quiet—almost too quiet—except for the occasional chirp of birds outside.

She woke first.

Still curled beneath the blanket, head on his pillow, fingers still loosely tangled in his. Her heart ached—just looking at him. Bob, asleep on his side, soft snores slipping past parted lips, brows relaxed, chest rising steady.

And for a second, she almost let herself believe that nothing had changed. That this was just another Saturday morning after movie night when they were seventeen. That they were still them.

But it had changed.

And they weren’t kids anymore.

Her throat was tight when she gently slid her hand out of his and sat up. She wasn’t trying to sneak out, not really. She just needed a second. A breath.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, rubbing at her eyes. Her cheeks were dry now, but swollen. Puffy from the hours of tears she’d cried reading every letter—all of them.

The ones from his first week away. The ones where he confessed how homesick he was. How much he missed her voice, her laugh, her hand in his. The one where he said the first night he didn’t sleep at all because every time he closed his eyes, he swore he could still smell her shampoo on his hoodie.

The one where he admitted he cried.

The one where he said he was afraid she’d forget him.

The ones where he talked about marrying her.

She’d read all of them. She felt all of them.

And she had no idea what to do with it.

“Y/N?” came Bob’s voice behind her, still heavy with sleep.

She turned, already blinking through fresh tears, and found him sitting up, hair a mess, eyes searching hers with panic.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded. Then shook her head. Then nodded again. “I don’t know.”

Bob sat up straighter. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” she whispered. “I just… I don’t know how to feel, Bob. It’s a lot.”

He nodded slowly. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to hit you all at once.”

“It’s not even just the letters. It’s you. Being around you. I still love you. I never stopped. That’s the problem.” Her voice cracked. “You broke my heart and I still want you.”

Bob swallowed hard. He moved to the edge of the bed but didn’t touch her—just sat close enough for her to feel the warmth of him.

“I would do anything,” he said quietly. “Anything to prove that I can be the man you deserve.”

She looked at him, eyes shining.

“I don’t want promises right now,” she said, “or grand gestures. I just want truth. I want to know that if I let you back into my life… you’re not gonna vanish again without a word.”

“I won’t.” His voice was steady now. “Not this time. If you let me, I’ll show you.”

She was quiet for a long moment. Then whispered, “Okay. One step at a time.”

Bob’s shoulders eased slightly, his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap.

Then she added, softly: “But we’re not just slipping back into old habits. You have to earn this.”

He nodded once. “I will.”

And for the first time in four years, she believed he meant it.

They didn’t kiss that morning.

She let him make her coffee in the kitchen. Quietly, gently. He asked if she wanted cream, and she whispered yes, and when he handed her the mug, their fingers brushed for a second too long. But they didn’t kiss.

They just… sat on his couch, the soft murmur of the news playing in the background, both holding warm mugs and nursing wounds neither of them fully knew how to speak aloud.

One step forward.

She left that morning with a soft “See you,” and Bob didn’t ask for a hug. He just walked her to her car, watched her put her seatbelt on, and whispered a gentle “Drive safe.”

She didn’t look back when she pulled away.

Two steps back.

⸻

A week passed. Then two.

They didn’t text often.

But every now and then, she’d get a message.

Bob:

Just saw a dog that looked exactly like yours. Made me think of you. Hope you’re doing okay.

Or:

Bob:

I found a movie ticket in my wallet from our senior year. “La La Land,” remember? You hated the ending.

She never ignored him.

She didn’t always reply right away. But she replied.

Y/N:

Yeah I still think it should’ve been a musical number where they run away together. No regrets.

One step forward.

⸻

Another week.

It’s a Wednesday. He’s walking near the farmer’s market on base when he sees her.

She’s sitting on a bench in front of a café, sipping from a to-go cup, reading a book with her sunglasses on.

Bob stops.

He thinks about walking past. About not bothering her.

But he doesn’t.

He walks over. Clears his throat. “Hey.”

She looks up. Her lips part—surprise. Then something softer. “Hi.”

“You mind if I sit?”

She hesitates. Then moves her purse from the bench.

One step forward.

⸻

They talk.

About simple things.

Work. Weather. Books. A new movie she saw. A bad joke he tells that makes her roll her eyes but smile anyway.

And when she finishes her coffee and says she has to get going, she doesn’t just leave.

She pauses, looks at him and says, “I didn’t think I’d be okay with seeing you like this. But… this was good.”

Two steps back. Then one step forward.

⸻

Later that night, he texts her.

Bob:

You looked really happy today. I’m glad.

She doesn’t respond right away.

But at 11:12pm, she sends:

Y/N:

I was. That felt normal. Thank you for being patient.

——

It’s quiet, almost too quiet, when he finally says it.

“I know things still feel… fragile. But I was wondering—” Bob’s standing in front of her apartment door, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, voice soft, “—would you maybe want to go out with me? Like… a real date. Not a group thing, not some accidental run-in. Just… you and me.”

She looks at him for a moment. Like really looks at him.

The boy she grew up with is still there — in the slope of his shoulders, in the way his eyes track her face like she’s the center of every axis in his universe — but he’s grown, too. In ways she never thought she’d witness. And somehow, she still wants him just as much as she used to. Maybe more.

She swallows.

“Yeah, Bobby. I’d like that.”

⸻

He picks her up at 6:45 sharp.

When she opens the door, he’s standing there in a button-down shirt — sleeves rolled up, hair a little neater than usual, a nervous kind of energy rolling off him. He offers her a soft smile and a tiny bouquet of yellow daisies.

“These reminded me of you.”

She doesn’t even pretend she’s not swooning.

Dinner is easy — surprisingly easy. Conversation flows. He makes her laugh, and she makes him blush. They share a plate of pasta and split a slice of lemon cake, and she watches the way his fingers linger on the edge of her plate, how he still listens like every word she says is the most important one he’s ever heard.

On the drive home, the city is quiet and golden. The radio plays softly, something acoustic and slow. They don’t talk much — not because it’s awkward, but because they don’t need to. His hand rests on the center console, fingers twitching slightly like he’s debating whether to reach for her.

She notices. She always notices.

When they get to her place, he parks and cuts the engine.

“I had a really nice time,” she says, turning toward him in the passenger seat.

“Me too,” he answers, so softly it almost sounds like a secret. “You look really beautiful tonight.”

She smiles, cheeks warm. “Thank you.”

He walks her up the steps to her door, hands in his pockets again. She turns to face him under the porch light, close enough that she can smell the faint scent of his cologne.

There’s a beat of silence — that kind of electric, heavy pause where both of them know what’s coming.

And then, gently, he leans in.

The kiss is slow, careful, like he’s afraid if he moves too fast, she’ll disappear. Her hands come up to his chest as his settle lightly on her waist, anchoring them both.

When they finally part, she rests her forehead against his.

“Come inside,” she whispers.

His breath catches. “Are you sure?”

She nods once, tugging him by the hand. “Yeah, Bobby. I’m sure.”

The moment the door closed behind them, Bob’s hands found her waist, fingers tracing slow, reverent circles against her skin. His touch was soft but certain, like he was memorizing every curve, every shiver she couldn’t hide.

He looked down at her, eyes dark and steady, and murmured, “You’re so beautiful.” The words were low, sincere, almost a breath against her lips.

She smiled shyly, heart pounding as his hands slid up beneath her shirt, warm palms gliding over her ribs, sending gentle waves of heat through her.

“God, I’ve missed you,” he whispered, voice thick with something raw and honest. His lips brushed the shell of her ear, sending a delicious thrill that made her knees weak.

Bob’s hands moved with reverence, tracing her collarbone before slipping beneath the strap of her dress, fingers tender and careful. His touch was a promise — soft, attentive, like he wanted to make sure she felt cherished with every stroke.

She let out a small, breathy moan, and he paused just to look at her, eyes shining with affection. “You feel so good,” he breathed, lips trailing down her neck, planting delicate kisses that left a slow-burning warmth in their wake.

Their breaths mingled, slow and deep, as his hands explored with gentle urgency. When his fingers found the sensitive skin along her waist, she arched into him, a soft moan slipping free.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, voice husky, “I want to make you feel amazing.”

She smiled against his lips, fingers threading through his hair. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

He smiled back, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then his lips found hers again — soft, demanding, hungry. The kiss deepened, slow and sweet, punctuated by the occasional low moan that vibrated against her mouth.

His hands moved down to her hips, pulling her flush against him, skin warm and real beneath his fingertips. Every touch was gentle but filled with an aching desire that made her heart race.

Bob murmured praises between kisses — how beautiful she was, how much he’d dreamed of this moment, how perfect she felt in his arms. His words wrapped around her like a soft blanket, making her feel safe, desired, loved.

They moved together in a tender dance, every touch and sigh building slowly, savoring the connection that had never truly broken between them.

When the world outside faded to nothing but the heat of their shared breath and whispered words, she knew this was the start of something real — something worth fighting for.

After, they lay tangled together, skin still warm, hearts still racing in the quiet hum of the room. Bob’s arms wrapped around her gently, holding her close like he never wanted to let go.

She nestled into his chest, breathing in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, feeling both comforted and vulnerable all at once.

“I’m willing to give you my trust again,” she said softly, her voice trembling just a little. “But if you so much as change a little bit — if I feel like you’re not the same Bob who was with me before you left… I will leave you. And I won’t care.”

Bob’s hand traced slow circles on her back, his gaze lifting to meet hers with fierce intensity. “You won’t have to worry about that,” he said firmly, voice low but full of promise. “I’m in it till death. No matter what.”

She searched his eyes, finding there the honesty and determination she’d been craving for years.

“Then I guess,” she whispered, a small, hopeful smile touching her lips, “we’re starting fresh.”

Bob pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Always.”

And in that quiet, tender moment, surrounded by the soft glow of the night, they both knew they were ready — to heal, to rebuild, and to try again.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Symbiotic Attraction

Eddie Brock x Fem!Stark!Reader

requested by @hardyshardfangurl

Eddie Brock didn’t know why he was wearing a button-down. He hadn’t ironed anything since 2018. Venom definitely didn’t approve.

“We are not corporate slaves, Eddie. This smells like sadness and dry cleaning.”

“Shut up,” Eddie muttered under his breath, checking his reflection in the polished glass doors of Stark Tower. “This is a real opportunity. She’s offering interviews. We need income that doesn’t come with blood or… slime.”

“Slime is profitable.”

The elevator whooshed him up 87 floors before opening into what looked like a spaceship masquerading as an office.

Y/N Stark was already there. Sitting on the edge of a floating conference table, dark lipstick, eyes sharp, expression unreadable. She was wearing Stark-level elegance and Stark-level sarcasm, and Eddie felt exactly like a guy who wasn’t supposed to be in the room.

“Eddie Brock,” she said, standing and walking toward him, heels echoing with precision. “Disgraced journalist. Amateur boxer. Alien host.”

Eddie gave her a crooked smile. “Wow. You’ve really done your stalking.”

“I do my research,” she replied. “Including on your… passenger.”

She tilted her head, amused. “I want to meet him.”

Eddie blinked. “You—you want to what?”

“Venom,” she said, as if tasting the name. “Come out and say hello.”

Venom’s head slowly emerged from Eddie’s shoulder, grinning.

“HELLO, PRETTY LADY.”

Eddie looked mortified. “Dude—”

Y/N arched a brow. “That’s Ms. Stark to you, teeth-for-brains.”

Venom purred. “SHE IS SPICY. I LIKE HER. CAN I EAT SOMEONE FOR HER?”

“No, you may not,” Eddie snapped.

Y/N turned away, walking toward a digital display wall with blueprints and energy signatures scrolling across it. “Relax. I’m not here to cage you. In fact, I’m offering you a job.”

Eddie stared. “Wait. What?”

“You’re chaotic, unfiltered, and half-alien,” she said. “I need someone to go places I can’t be seen. There’s tech being stolen. Biological weapons. People who think the Stark name died with my father.”

Venom tilted his head. “Are we allowed to bite them?”

Y/N gave a wicked little smile. “Only if I say so.”

Eddie blinked. “…Is this a job interview or a marriage proposal?”

Y/N turned to him, calm as ever. “I don’t mix business and pleasure, Brock.”

Venom: “We would.”

Eddie groaned into his hands. “Oh my god, I hate you so much.”

Y/N handed him a Stark ID badge. “You start Monday.”

———

Eddie Brock didn’t know what he expected from his first day at Stark Industries, but it definitely wasn’t a titanium badge, a biometric scanner that asked for his “preferred tongue,” or a swarm of lab techs sprinting out of the breakroom screaming:

“IT ATE MY LUNCH!”

Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose. “Venom.”

“IT HAD PICKLES. WE LIKE PICKLES.”

“Cool. You couldn’t have asked?”

“WE ARE ABOVE ASKING. WE ARE A GOD.”

“You’re a parasite in a hoodie.”

“PARASITE? RUDE.”

The elevator opened with a soft chime and revealed Y/N Stark in a blood-red suit and combat boots, holding a StarkPad and not looking up.

“You’re late,” she said, breezing past him into the secure lab.

“I was interrogating the morality of lunch theft with a space goo inside my brain.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “And losing, clearly.”

“Yeah, well, he had the high ground. And teeth.”

Inside the lab, dozens of prototypes hovered in display fields—some Stark, some clearly not. Alien alloys. Symbiote-reactive gel. Something pulsing faintly behind reinforced glass that made Venom growl low in Eddie’s throat.

Y/N noticed.

“Good. You feel that. You’re here because I need someone who knows that kind of energy. There’s been a breach in Sector 5. Someone’s using symbiote residue to corrupt biotech.” She paused. “I figured your freeloading roommate might be useful.”

“YOU FLATTER US, SPARKLES.”

“WE LIKE YOUR FIRE. YOU WOULD MAKE AN EXCELLENT HOST.”

Y/N didn’t even flinch. “Tempting. But I already have an alien inside me.”

Eddie blinked. “Wait, what?”

“I meant trauma, Brock.”

“WE REALLY LIKE HER.”

Y/N turned, handing Eddie a holo-slate. “Your mission: infiltrate the auction tomorrow night. Black market biotech. My sources say the stolen Stark tech’s going up for sale. I want you in the room. Venom keeps you alive. I’ll be watching your feed.”

“Do I get backup?”

“You get a suit.”

Eddie raised a brow. “Like… a suit suit? Or, like, an Iron Man kind of deal?”

Y/N smirked. “Try it on and find out.”

She pressed a button and a section of the floor opened to reveal a matte black Stark-tactical suit with deep violet lining—symbiote compatible, according to the glowing specs.

“THIS IS SEXY.”

Eddie looked at Y/N. “Is this flirting or foreplay?”

Y/N leaned in, stopping inches from his face.

“When I flirt,” she said softly, “you’ll need oxygen.”

She turned and walked out like the devil in lipstick, leaving Eddie standing there, suit in hand, pulse thundering.

“WE ARE SO INTO HER.”

Eddie: “Yeah… that might be a problem.”

———

Eddie Brock tugged at the collar of his Stark-issued stealth suit, already regretting everything. It hugged in all the wrong places—and the right ones—and he was sweating bullets under the neon lights of a high-rise auction disguised as a tech startup launch.

Y/N Stark’s voice purred in his comm:

“Quit fidgeting, Brock. You look like you’re about to pass out, not infiltrate an illegal biotech exchange.”

“I’m wearing a suit made of nanotech and bad decisions.”

“WE LIKE IT. IT SMELLS EXPENSIVE.”

“You don’t have a nose.”

“WE DO NOW. THANK YOU, LAVENDER FABRIC SPRAY.”

Eddie stifled a groan as he walked into the crowd. The auction was buried behind layers of fake handshakes and PR smiles, but the backroom was the real show. He flashed the badge Y/N had hacked for him, and a steel door slid open, revealing a sea of wealthy criminals sipping cocktails over stolen tech.

And right there—center stage—a black glass case.

Inside? Stark Tech.

Symbiote-reactive, bio-adaptive processors. Stuff that didn’t belong outside Y/N’s private vault.

Y/N’s voice turned sharp. “That processor’s mine. Get it out before it ends up in a missile or someone’s spinal cord.”

Eddie moved toward the platform.

A figure stepped in front of him. Slick suit. Sleazier grin.

“Don’t recognize you,” the man said. “You from Madripoor?”

“Uh-huh,” Eddie said, lying through his teeth. “Freelance…biotech consultant.”

“Funny. You look like a guy with a criminal record and an alien problem.”

“MAY WE EAT HIM NOW?”

“Shut up,” Eddie hissed under his breath.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “What did you just say?”

“Gas,” Eddie said. “I have… IBS. Real bad.”

“WE COULD VOMIT ON HIM TO SEAL THE LIE.”

Y/N’s laughter came through the earpiece like warm silk. “You are so bad at undercover.”

“I’m not exactly Bond here, Stark!”

The man started reaching for his side holster.

“HE IS REACHING. WE DO NOT LIKE THAT.”

“Yeah, yeah, I see it—”

Before things exploded, Venom burst from Eddie’s back like a pissed-off shadow. A tendril slapped the man’s weapon away and launched him into a wall with a satisfying crunch.

“TARGET NEUTRALIZED. FUN LEVEL: 6 OUT OF 10.”

Screams erupted. Security surged forward.

Eddie turned and ran.

“Exit plan?” he shouted into the comm.

“Window. North hallway. Jump.”

“That’s not a plan, that’s a death wish!”

“WE LOVE JUMPING.”

Venom erupted fully now, wrapping around Eddie and launching them through the hallway. Bullets pinged off the suit as they crashed through the window, glass shattering into the neon night.

They landed hard on a rooftop. Eddie rolled, groaning, as Venom retracted just enough for him to breathe.

Then she was there.

Y/N, standing across the rooftop, wind whipping through her hair, one hand in her coat pocket like this was just a Tuesday night.

“You’re late,” she said again.

Eddie dragged himself upright. “You really like saying that.”

“I really like seeing you sweat.”

“SHE IS FLIRTING AGAIN. DO THE THING.”

“What thing?!”

“KISS HER.”

Eddie turned beet red. “No. Absolutely not.”

Y/N took a step closer, eyes locked on his.

“Tell your plus-one if he keeps making kissy noises in your head, I’ll blast him with a sonic cannon.”

“…WE WILL BEHAVE.”

She smirked.

Then she reached into her coat, pulled out a thermos, and tossed it at him.

“Chamomile. For your nerves,” she said. “You’ve earned it.”

Eddie caught it, dumbfounded.

“You brought me tea?”

“I’m not a monster, Brock.”

He cracked a smile. “You’re something else, Stark.”

Y/N gave him one last look, then turned and walked toward the edge of the roof, disappearing into the dark with nothing but the scent of ozone and confidence.

“WE SHOULD HAVE KISSED HER.”

“I’m working on it, alright?”

———

Eddie was starting to think this whole mission was a bad idea. Not because of the top-secret blacksite, or the bio-mutated symbiotes screaming like sirens in the walls—but because Y/N Stark, standing beside him in all-black tactical gear, had just whispered in his ear:

“Follow my lead. And stop looking like you’re two seconds from spontaneous combustion.”

“I am combusting. You wore eyeliner.”

Y/N gave him a sidelong glance. “Focus, Brock. Or I’ll tell Venom what you really said about pineapple pizza.”

“HE SAID IT WAS DELICIOUS. BETRAYAL.”

Eddie hissed under his breath. “Snitch.”

They were walking through the Lazarus Facility, an offshore lab posing as a hydroelectric research site. Underneath the clean, tech-filled surface was a horror show: mutated proto-symbiotes locked in cryotubes. Tech that looked Stark-made. Screams that didn’t sound human.

Y/N moved with purpose. In this environment, she was untouchable—elegant, lethal, all fire and calculation. She hacked into a secured vault with two fingers and a deadpan look.

“You’re too good at this,” Eddie muttered.

“I built half this security, remember?”

“SHE IS BRILLIANT. LET’S PUT HER IN OUR MOUTH.”

Eddie: “No. Not the time.”

They reached the central chamber—dark, humming, lined with tanks full of twitching things that might’ve once been symbiotes.

Eddie stopped. Venom growled.

“THEY ARE WRONG. IMPURE. THIS IS BLASPHEMY.”

“Y/N,” Eddie said, tension crawling up his spine, “these things are… aware.”

One of the pods cracked.

A creature lunged inside its tank—humanoid, glitching with raw data, its face flickering between different Stark team profiles.

It looked almost like Eddie.

Then it whispered: “Host… not compatible…”

Y/N’s face went pale.

“Someone’s feeding them genetic data. My files. Your scans. They’re building hybrids that learn.”

Then a voice echoed overhead:

“Welcome back, Stark.”

A figure stepped out onto the catwalk. Slim. Smirking. Wearing a prototype symbiote suit with a corrupted arc reactor embedded in the chest.

“You left me behind,” they said. “Now I’m rewriting evolution.”

Y/N’s eyes went cold. “Jackson.”

Jackson Carter. Former Stark intern. Left behind during the Sokovia evacuation. Everyone thought he was dead.

He wasn’t.

He’d been growing. Fusing. Twisting.

Eddie stepped forward.

“You need to shut this down before these things start multiplying.”

Jackson laughed. “It’s too late. The Lazarus strain is self-replicating. Soon there’ll be thousands. And they’ll all obey me.”

“YOU DISGUST US. LET US BITE HIS FACE.”

Jackson launched himself at them—symbiote limbs lashing out. Eddie and Venom merged in one fluid snarl, catching a strike before it could impale Y/N.

The lab erupted in chaos.

Tanks shattered. Creatures shrieked. Y/N fired off pulse blasts while Eddie fought a trio of goo-hybrids crawling on the ceiling.

“LEFT! LEFT! PUNCH THAT ONE’S SPLEEN!”

“I don’t think they have spleens!”

“THEN GUESS! HIT EVERYTHING!”

The chamber was collapsing. Alarms blared. Lightning cracked from an exposed reactor.

Y/N slid beside Eddie, breathing hard. “Blow the core. We end this now.”

He stared at her. “You’ll be caught in the blast—”

“I’ve got a way out. Do you?”

He gritted his teeth. “You better.”

Venom launched them both toward the central reactor. Y/N hacked while Eddie held the creatures off. Sparks rained like fire. One claw came too close��Y/N gasped—

Eddie moved before thinking. Took the hit. Hit the floor hard.

Blood. Pain. Blurred vision.

Y/N screamed something he couldn’t hear.

Then her face hovered over his. She was touching his face, eyes full of panic and fury.

“You idiot,” she whispered. “You jumped in front of me.”

“Yeah,” he said weakly. “Stupid… heroic stuff.”

“WE HATE THIS. TOO MUCH BLEEDING.”

Y/N pressed a patch to his side. “Hold still.”

“Are we gonna die?” Eddie muttered.

“Not tonight.”

She activated the failsafe. The reactor detonated in a white-hot blast of light—

—and the world vanished.

⸻

☁️ Later – Quinjet, En Route to NYC

Eddie blinked awake. Pain in his side. Warm blanket. The scent of antiseptic…and vanilla?

Y/N was sitting beside him, hair messy, bruised but alive.

“You’re awake.”

He tried to smirk. “Wasn’t gonna die before our first kiss.”

She rolled her eyes—but her hand slid over his.

“Don’t push your luck, Brock.”

“KISS. NOW. DO IT. DOOOO—”

Y/N leaned down and kissed him, soft, warm, with just enough pressure to shut Venom up.

It worked.

“…OH. OH. THAT WAS… NICE.”

Eddie blinked. “Are you okay?”

Y/N smiled. “Ask me again when you’re shirtless and conscious.”

He groaned.

“I’m never gonna survive you, am I?”

Y/N kissed his forehead.

“Nope.”

———

“You realize this looks like a date, right?” Eddie muttered as he followed Y/N Stark into the rooftop restaurant overlooking Manhattan.

“It’s not a date,” she replied, gliding through the room like she owned the place—which, technically, she did. “It’s a post-mission debrief. Over overpriced pasta. With wine. And me in a dress.”

She was in a dress. A black satin number that made Eddie’s brain short-circuit. He was in a pressed shirt and jacket he hadn’t worn since his last court summons. Venom had preened in the mirror for fifteen minutes.

“WE LOOK DELICIOUS. THE WAITRESS IS STARING. SHE SMELLS LIKE CUCUMBER SOAP.”

“Stop talking about people’s soap,” Eddie whispered under his breath.

Y/N glanced over her shoulder, amused. “Venom narrating your inner monologue again?”

“He thinks the waitress wants to eat us.”

She slid into their private booth. “She’d have to get in line.”

“WE LIKE HER.”

Eddie sat across from her, trying not to squirm as she handed him the wine menu like this was totally normal and not a giant public Are We Or Aren’t We event.

“Let’s talk Lazarus,” she said, sipping her wine with casual grace. “We neutralized the clones, Jackson’s in containment, and Stark Industries is officially wiping the Lazarus tech off the grid.”

“Great. So why am I here?”

She tilted her head. “Maybe I wanted to see if you can sit through one dinner without punching someone.”

Eddie leaned forward. “You sure this isn’t a date?”

She smirked. “Does it feel like one?”

Pause. Beat.

Too much eye contact. Not enough breathing.

“IT FEELS LIKE SOMETHING. WE HAVE IDEAS.”

The waiter appeared like a ghost, breaking the tension. “Anything to start?”

Y/N barely looked up. “Two Negronis. Truffle gnocchi. Extra bread.”

Eddie blinked. “Did you just order for me?”

“You trust me with global weapons contracts but not carbs?”

Fair.

Dinner arrived. They bantered through the meal—flirting disguised as arguments, compliments buried under sarcasm. Y/N licked sauce off her thumb and Eddie momentarily forgot his own name.

Across the room, someone took a picture.

Eddie stiffened. “We’re being watched.”

Y/N didn’t even look. “Let them. Everyone thinks we hate each other. This’ll confuse the hell out of them.”

“WE SHOULD WAVE. AND THEN LICK HER.”

“No licking!”

She raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

“Not you. Him. Sorry. Symbiote nonsense.”

The photo-taker approached. Guy in a blazer, too confident.

“Y/N Stark?” he asked. “Can I get a photo with you?”

Eddie tried to stay calm, but the guy was lingering. Way too close.

Y/N smiled politely. “I’m off the clock.”

Blazer Guy ignored her tone. “Just a quick one—”

Eddie stood. “She said no.”

The man scoffed. “Who the hell are you?”

“WE ARE PROTECTION. BACK OFF.”

Venom flared out of Eddie’s shoulder just enough to flash teeth. The guy practically tripped over himself backing up.

The restaurant went quiet for half a second.

Y/N sipped her wine like nothing happened. “You couldn’t go one dinner, could you?”

Eddie sat back down, flushed. “He was harassing you.”

She tilted her head, softer now. “And you defended me.”

Beat.

Then she smiled, slow and real. “Maybe it is a date.”

Eddie’s heart stopped.

“KISS HER. ON THE MOUTH. NOW. DO IT.”

Instead, he grinned. “So what happens after this strictly professional dinner?”

Y/N leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “We go back to the Tower. I brief Pepper. You ice your ribs. Then maybe—if you ask nicely—I’ll let you touch my tech vault.”

Eddie blinked. “Is that a metaphor?”

She smirked.

“Guess you’ll find out.”

———

Y/N walked out of the debrief room, her heels quiet against Stark Tower’s polished floors. The lights had dimmed for the night, casting long shadows through the glass corridors. She was bone-tired. Her braid was slipping. Her brain was buzzing with everything Pepper had just grilled her on.

And she definitely wasn’t thinking about Eddie.

Definitely not.

Except—

Except there was a voice from the hallway.

“Hey.”

She turned, and he was there. Half-lit by the corridor glow, still in the button-down from dinner, jacket slung over his shoulder like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Eddie Brock looked like he wanted to say five things and didn’t know how to say any of them.

“Didn’t think you were still here,” she said, calm but curious.

He scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah. I, uh… I was gonna leave.”

“But?”

He looked around. Took a step closer.

“But Venom yelled at me for twenty straight minutes and now I think I’m legally required to talk to you.”

“TELL HER YOU LOVE HER. NOW. DO IT. SPIT IT OUT, YOU USELESS MEAT SACK.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Oh? You and your plus-one had a heart-to-heart?”

“She called it an intervention.”

“YES. BECAUSE YOU ARE PATHETIC. LOOK AT HER. SHE IS SHINY AND POWERFUL. PERFECT FOR NESTING.”

“Nesting?” Y/N echoed, blinking.

Eddie groaned. “Ignore that part.”

There was a pause.

He stepped closer. Not touching, not yet, but just inside that dangerous space where the air between them felt electric.

“I’m not good at this,” Eddie said quietly. “Any of this. The hero stuff. The team stuff. The dinner-that’s-not-a-date-but-definitely-was kind of stuff.”

Her lips twitched. “You’re better at it than you think.”

He looked at her like he was seeing the whole galaxy in one person.

“You scare the hell out of me,” he admitted.

“And yet, here you are.”

“Yeah.” His voice dropped. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re in my head and in my space and somehow Venom likes you more than he likes me, which is insane.”

“BECAUSE SHE IS SUPERIOR. WE WANT HER TO BE OUR QUEEN. MAKE HER PANCAKES. HOLD HER HAND. LICK HER FACE.”

Eddie winced. “Please don’t do any of those things.”

Y/N’s expression softened. “You’re overthinking it.”

“Yeah,” he said, breathless. “But I do that. A lot.”

And then—finally—he closed the gap.

One hand on her waist, the other brushing her cheek like he was still scared she might disappear if he held on too tight.

Y/N didn’t disappear.

She kissed him like she’d been waiting exactly this long for him to snap out of it.

It was slow and searching and everything Eddie had been afraid to want.

“YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.”

Venom’s voice echoed in his head like a triumphant battle cry. Eddie could swear he felt the symbiote purr.

When they pulled back, Y/N rested her forehead against his.

“That was… overdue,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he said. “And also maybe the beginning of a terrible idea.”

Y/N grinned. “The best ones always are.”

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

The Space Between 

bob floyd X fem!reader

THIS STORY IS TAKING PLACE WHEN THEY WERE IN HIGH SCHOOL SO ITS ONLY GONNA GO AS FAR AS KISSING. 

(Freshman Year)

The early fall air was still warm, but hints of October whispered in the shifting light that filtered through the classroom windows. It was just after lunch, the part of the day when everyone was starting to settle in—or daydream about the last bell.

Bob Floyd sat near the back of the room, quiet as usual, notebook open in front of him but untouched. The page stayed mostly blank, save for a few scribbled notes and a nervous little doodle in the corner he hadn’t realized he was making. His eyes kept drifting—again and again—to the girl two rows ahead of him.

He’d seen her in a few of his classes since the start of the year. English, history, now here in biology. Always sitting somewhere in front of him, always with that same gentle focus as she took notes or twirled her pen or pushed her hair behind her ear when it fell too close to her face. It was the little things he noticed first. The way she laughed with her friends, soft and kind. How she raised her hand to answer questions, not to show off, but because she actually cared. She never tried to be the center of attention—and maybe that’s why she felt like one to him.

Bob wasn’t bold. Not in the way people usually meant. He wasn’t the kind of guy who walked into a room and made his presence known. He stayed on the quieter side, letting his thoughts gather before he spoke, watching more than he jumped in. And that wasn’t a bad thing, not really—it’s just who he was. But it meant he’d spent the last month just… looking. Wondering. Hoping for something to give him a reason to talk to her.

Today wasn’t any different. Except something about the light, or the way she laughed just then with the girl beside her, made his chest ache a little. She was beautiful—more than that. She was magnetic in a way that made him forget where he was.

“You’re so obvious it hurts,” Jamie muttered beside him.

Bob blinked, pulled from his daze. “What?”

His best friend leaned back in his chair, smirking. “You keep staring. You’ve been doing it for, like, three weeks.”

“I haven’t—” Bob stopped, because he had. He knew it. “It’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly like that,” Jamie said. “Come on, Halloween’s coming up. She’s definitely going to the party at the Millers’. You want her there, right? Talk to her.”

Bob shook his head. “I don’t even know her. And she probably doesn’t know me.”

“Bob.” Jamie gave him a look. “She’s seen you. People notice when someone looks at them the way you look at her.”

Bob swallowed, a flicker of heat rising to his neck. “I don’t… I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“‘Hey, I’m Bob. I exist.’ Something simple. You just need to say anything.”

Bob didn’t answer. Instead, he glanced toward her again—caught her mid-laugh, eyes bright. His heart skipped. He wasn’t sure what it was about her that made him so nervous. Maybe it was because she already seemed like the kind of person who could ruin him in the most beautiful way.

“She’s… really something,” he said softly, almost to himself.

Jamie sighed, like he’d been waiting for Bob to admit it out loud. “So go let her know.”

But Bob didn’t move. Not yet. He wasn’t ready. He didn’t want to mess it up with something stupid and clumsy. He just wanted a moment—one real, genuine moment—to happen on its own.

⸻

The bell rang, snapping the spell. Students gathered their bags and shuffled out in a blur of laughter and noise. Bob moved slower than most, taking his time, sneaking one last glance at her. She stood, pulling her bag onto her shoulder, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear again. And maybe—just maybe—her eyes flicked toward him.

Just for a second.

And that second was everything.

———

Saturday evenings were Bob’s favorite. Not because anything particularly exciting happened, but because they didn’t require much of him. No school, no plans, no pressure. Just a walk to the little corner store near his neighborhood and maybe a pack of gum or a soda to sip on the way back.

He had just stepped inside—cool air brushing off the back of his neck—when he heard the jingle of the bell behind him and a soft scuffle of paws on linoleum.

“Oh, hey.”

He turned, blinking. For a second, his brain didn’t register what he was seeing. Then it did.

It was her. Her.

She stood just inside the doorway with a leash looped around her wrist and a small golden retriever puppy bouncing at her side. She wore a hoodie two sizes too big, leggings, and sneakers worn at the heel—casual, effortless, and still the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

Bob stared. Not rudely, not intentionally, just… surprised.

“Bob, right?” she asked, smiling gently as she tugged her dog closer.

His heart did something dumb in his chest. “Uh—yeah. Yeah, I’m Bob.”

She smiled wider, clearly amused by his reaction. “I thought so. We have biology together.”

He swallowed, nodding. “We do. And, um… history. And English third period.”

She tilted her head, eyebrows raised, but not in a mocking way. “You noticed?”

Bob wanted to shrink into the tile floor. “I, uh… yeah. I mean, we’re in the same classes, so… it’s kind of hard not to, right?”

“Right,” she said, still smiling. Her dog sat now, tongue lolling, tail wagging like it was thrilled to be part of this moment.

Bob didn’t know what came over him—maybe it was the soft lighting, the surprise of hearing his name from her mouth, or the way her eyes actually met his and didn’t look away—but something made him blurt, “Are you going to the Halloween thing? At the Millers’?”

She blinked, then nodded. “Yeah, I think so. My friends are dragging me there.”

“Oh.” His voice caught. “Cool. I’ll, uh… I’ll probably go too.”

She grinned. “You should. I’d love to see you there.”

That knocked the air out of him.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, before he could second-guess it. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

She started to turn toward the snack aisle, tugging her dog gently. “Well, I’ll see you Monday, probably.”

“Okay,” he breathed, watching her go.

And then, once she was out of earshot, he muttered under his breath:

She knows my name.

———

Monday came slower than usual.

Bob had barely slept the night before, thoughts circling endlessly around three words: I’d love to see you there. Her voice echoed again and again in his head like a scratched record, stuck on a loop he didn’t want to fix. He didn’t even remember what he’d said back to her. Probably something dumb. Definitely something awkward.

By the time third period biology rolled around, he was already sweating through the back of his shirt, and it wasn’t even noon.

He walked in a few minutes early, like always, and took his usual spot—fourth row, second seat from the window. Same desk, same view, same quiet rhythm to his morning.

Until it wasn’t.

He heard the door open again and looked up, expecting nothing.

It was her.

And she was walking toward him.

Not past him. To him.

Bob sat up a little straighter, suddenly very aware of his posture, his backpack, his hands—why do hands always feel weird when you don’t know what to do with them?

She didn’t say anything at first. Just smiled at him, gentle and a little shy, and slid into the seat beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Hey,” she said softly, unpacking her notebook. “This seat taken?”

Bob blinked. “No. I mean—no, it’s not.”

She gave him a quick glance, half amused, then focused on the front of the room. Mr. Kellerman was already shuffling through his papers, oblivious to Bob’s inner chaos.

They didn’t talk during the lesson. Not really. She took notes like she always did, and Bob tried to keep his eyes on the board, but his brain wouldn’t let him forget the inches between their elbows. The sound of her pen clicking. The way her leg bounced softly beneath the desk.

Once, she leaned toward him just a little. Close enough to whisper, “What did he say the vocab quiz was on again?”

Bob’s voice came out lower than usual. “Chapter five. Page 112.”

She smiled. “Thanks.”

That was it. That was the whole exchange.

And yet, when the bell rang and she packed up her things and walked off with her friends, Bob sat frozen at his desk, staring down at his barely-filled notebook with a stupid grin creeping onto his face.

She sat next to me.

———

The Miller’s house had been transformed for Halloween—orange lights strung up along the porch railings, carved pumpkins glowing on the steps, music thumping faintly through the open windows. Teenagers spilled into the front yard and across the lawn, plastic cups in hand, laughter spilling out onto the sidewalk.

Bob stood near the front door, tugging at the collar of his thrifted leather jacket. He wasn’t sure why he let Jamie talk him into this costume. All black everything, white tee, slicked hair he kept trying to flatten down again.

“You look good, bro,” Jamie had said with a shrug. “Classic. Girls love Grease.”

But Bob didn’t want all girls. He just wanted her.

He hadn’t seen her yet. Not inside, not outside. And part of him thought maybe she’d changed her mind. Maybe she wasn’t coming. Maybe “I’d love to see you there” was just something nice people said.

He was halfway through that thought when the crowd near the kitchen shifted—and then he saw her.

And everything inside him stopped.

She was walking in, her friends laughing around her, but Bob barely registered them. Because she was wearing a sleek pair of black leggings, red heels, a tiny leather jacket over a fitted off-shoulder top, and her hair—god, her hair—was curled, voluminous, and perfect. She was Sandy. The final scene Sandy. His Sandy.

And Bob? He was Danny.

She caught sight of him at the same time. Her eyes widened—then softened. A slow smile pulled at her lips as she weaved through the crowd toward him.

“No way,” she laughed as she reached him. “Danny Zuko?”

Bob could barely breathe. “Yeah,” he managed. “I—I didn’t know you were…”

“Sandy?” she finished for him, tugging lightly at her jacket with a grin. “Yeah. My friends thought it’d be funny. I wasn’t expecting to match anyone though.”

Bob blinked at her, face flushed but smiling now. “You look… really great.”

She gave him a quick, playful spin. “Thanks. You clean up pretty nice too.”

A beat passed. Music buzzed low in the background. Someone in the living room shouted. But none of that mattered.

“Do you wanna—” Bob started, voice cracking. He cleared his throat. “Do you wanna hang out? For a bit?”

She nodded. “I’d love to.”

They didn’t call it a date. It wasn’t. Not really. But she stayed by his side for most of the night. They talked. Laughed. Snuck candy from the snack table and rolled their eyes at the couples making out in corners. At one point, someone even yelled, “Grease Lightning over there really pulled it off!”

And Bob? He couldn’t stop smiling.

Because she came.

Because she matched him.

Because for the first time, it felt like the universe had quietly, softly, pushed them together—and neither of them had pushed back.

———

The backyard had emptied a bit as the night wore on, the cold chasing people back inside. But Bob and her hadn’t moved.

They sat on the porch steps, close enough their knees brushed every time one of them shifted. Her heels were off, her curls a little looser now, cheeks pink with leftover laughter and cider warmth.

She looked peaceful, tracing invisible lines in the condensation on her cup, when Bob finally spoke—his voice so soft it almost got lost in the breeze.

“When you saw me at the store,” he said, “and said hi… I didn’t say this before, but I was shocked you knew my name.”

She blinked, glancing at him with a small grin. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I was pretty much convinced you didn’t even know I existed. And then there you were, walking your dog, smiling like we’d talked a hundred times.”

She chuckled, tilting her head. “Well… I always noticed you. You’re quiet, Bob. Not in a bad way. In a… thoughtful way.”

He glanced down, fingers fidgeting in his lap, then let out a breath like he was bracing himself.

“I’ve always thought you were beautiful,” he blurted out.

It hung there—loud and bare and real.

Her eyes widened slightly, lips parting in surprise. Then she smiled. Not teasing or mocking—just soft and warm, like she’d been waiting for that truth.

“I always thought you were pleasant to look at,” she said, nudging his arm with hers. “But I figured you had a girlfriend or something.”

Bob huffed a laugh, cheeks turning bright red. “Only in my imagination. And, uh… it was you.”

She turned to him fully now, eyes wide with delight. “Oh my gosh, Bob.”

He winced. “Yeah, that sounded way less weird in my head.”

“No,” she laughed. “That’s, like… the cutest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Bob dared to meet her eyes, heart racing.

And then she said it—quietly, but without hesitation.

“I wouldn’t mind if you were my boyfriend in real life. Not just imaginations.”

He blinked. “You—what?”

She leaned in, smile blooming like spring. “I like you, Bob.”

Then, gently, she pressed a kiss to his cheek—slow and sweet and devastating in the best way. Her lips lingered for just a second longer than necessary before pulling back.

Bob’s entire body short-circuited. “I—uh—I think I—yeah. Okay. I like you too. A lot.”

She giggled. “Good.”

And they sat there, warm and weightless, with the party still humming in the distance. But neither of them cared. Because this? This felt like the start of something that was only going to grow.

———

(Time Skip to Sophomore Year)

It was one of those slow October afternoons — the kind where time stretched long and warm, like sunlight through a windowpane.

His room smelled faintly like dryer sheets and pencil shavings. A notebook lay cracked open on his desk, half-filled with formulas and chicken-scratch notes, while she lay sprawled across his bed, legs crossed at the ankle, flipping lazily through a worn copy of Seventeen she’d found in her backpack. Her socks were mismatched — one green, one striped — and her hoodie was actually his.

Every so often, he’d glance over at her, like just confirming she was real and actually here and actually still his. She looked so at home, curled on his bed like she’d always belonged there.

Bob tried to focus on chemistry.

Didn’t work.

After a while, he looked up again, twisting in his chair. “My parents get home in like… an hour and a half.”

She looked up from her magazine. “Oh. Guess I should leave soon then.”

And maybe she meant it casually. Maybe she was just being polite. But something in Bob’s chest panicked.

“No,” he said too fast. “I mean—you don’t have to.”

She raised a brow, magazine lowering. “No?”

“I—I want you to meet them,” he said, voice quieter now. “If… if you want to.”

The magazine hit the blanket beside her. She sat up a little straighter, surprise flickering through her expression.

“Really?”

He nodded, looking down at his hands. “Yeah. I mean… we’ve been together a while. And I talk about you. A lot. My mom keeps asking when she’s gonna meet ‘the girl who makes you smile like an idiot at dinner.’”

She laughed, hand flying up to cover her mouth. “No she does not.”

“She does,” Bob grinned, cheeks pink. “So. You don’t have to go. If you don’t want to.”

She watched him for a second, smile tugging at the corners of her lips like she couldn’t fight it even if she tried.

“I’d like to meet them,” she said softly.

Bob’s head shot up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean… if they’re anything like you, I already know I’ll like them.”

He beamed, shy and thrilled and overwhelmed all at once. She crawled across the bed, pressing a kiss to the back of his shoulder, warm and familiar.

Then she murmured, “You really want me to stay?”

He nodded. “I really do.”

So she did.

And when his parents walked through the door an hour and twenty minutes later, she was still sitting on his bed, hair pulled into a loose ponytail, hoodie sleeves hanging past her hands.

And Bob?

Bob was still smiling like an idiot.

——

The smell of garlic bread drifted through the house by the time Bob’s mom called them downstairs. His dad had gotten home ten minutes before, still in his work boots, tossing keys into a dish by the door with a tired but friendly “Hey there, kiddo.”

Bob had squeezed her hand once on the way down. Not for her. For him.

Now she sat at the Floyds’ small kitchen table, where the centerpiece was a ceramic pumpkin that said Bless This Mess in faded paint. The dishes were mismatched, and the garlic bread was slightly burnt on the edges, but Bob’s mom had set everything with care—napkins folded, sweet tea poured, plates steaming with spaghetti.

“So,” Mrs. Floyd said, smiling as she passed over the salad bowl, “how long have you two been seeing each other?”

Bob glanced at her, and they both opened their mouths at the same time.

“Since—”

“October—”

They both laughed, cheeks burning, and Bob ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck.

“A little over a year,” she said, smiling at Bob before turning back to his mom. “Since last Halloween, actually.”

Mrs. Floyd lit up. “Oh, I remember that night. Robert wouldn’t shut up about the girl in the Sandy costume.”

Bob groaned quietly. “Mom.”

“What?” she grinned. “You were smitten. Still are.”

Mr. Floyd chuckled low in his throat, reaching for the bread. “He’s got good taste. Though I think you’ve stolen my hoodie, haven’t you?”

Her eyes widened. “Oh! I—sorry, I can go take it off—”

“Don’t you dare,” Mrs. Floyd said quickly, waving a hand. “If anything, it looks better on you.”

Bob nearly choked on his water.

The conversation moved easily after that—his mom asking about her favorite subjects, her family, if she liked dogs. His dad asked if she watched football and then sheepishly admitted Bob never did, but he did, and she promised to try to learn the rules by Thanksgiving.

She laughed easily. Her voice was bright, kind. And every time Bob glanced at her, it hit him all over again—she was really here. In his house. Laughing with his parents like she’d always belonged at this table.

When she reached under the table and squeezed his hand in the middle of dinner, he almost forgot how to breathe.

After the plates were cleared and the sun had dipped below the trees outside the kitchen window, his mom pulled her aside before she left, arms crossed loosely and a soft smile tugging at her lips.

“You make my boy happy,” she said gently. “I can see it. I hope he makes you happy too.”

She nodded, chest warm. “He does. Every day.”

“Well,” Mrs. Floyd said, glancing toward the stairs where Bob was waiting with her shoes, “don’t be a stranger.”

“I won’t,” she promised.

And that night, when Bob walked her out to the driveway, he said “thank you” so quietly it almost blew away in the wind.

She smiled and kissed him on the lips this time—not shy.

——

The rain started soft—just a whisper against the windowpanes as she and Bob leaned over the dining room table, surrounded by scattered notebook paper, highlighters, and a half-built diorama of a medieval village.

Bob was focused, tongue poking out slightly as he tried to cut a thatched-roof cottage out of brown felt. She, on the other hand, was drawing storm clouds in the margins of their title page.

The light in the dining room was warm and golden, and the smell of lasagna floated in from the kitchen, where Mrs. Floyd was humming softly along with the oldies radio.

“I swear,” she said, tapping her pen against the paper, “if this storm ruins our cardboard castle, I’m gonna throw it into the rain and let it drown.”

Bob chuckled without looking up. “You’re so violent.”

“I’m passionate.”

He smiled, quiet and fond.

A few minutes passed, the only sounds being the radio, their pencils, and the gentle patter of the rain.

Then it changed.

Suddenly, the sky cracked open—thunder crashing loud and sharp like something had torn the clouds in half. Rain began pounding the roof with wild, frantic rhythm. A flash of lightning lit the whole dining room for a split second in silver-blue.

“Whoa,” she muttered, sitting up straighter.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Floyd let out a yelp. “Good Lord! That one was close.”

Another rumble followed, deeper and longer.

Mrs. Floyd peeked into the dining room, wiping her hands on a towel. “Sweetheart, there’s no way I’m letting you walk home in this. Call your momma. I wanna talk to her.”

She pulled out her phone, thumb shaking a little from the thunder still grumbling outside. Her mom answered quickly, voice muffled by the sound of the grocery store overhead speaker.

“Hey, Mom—Mrs. Floyd wants to talk to you.”

She handed the phone over and sat there awkwardly while Bob tried to look like he wasn’t listening. They both failed.

Mrs. Floyd walked out into the hall with the phone, murmuring kindly and firmly. When she came back, she smiled wide.

“Well, she said the storm’s keeping her stuck at the store a while anyway,” Mrs. Floyd said, handing the phone back. “So guess what, darlin’? You’re staying the night.”

“Oh—oh!” she blinked. “I—I can help clean up after dinner, I don’t want to be any trouble—”

“You’re not,” Mrs. Floyd said sweetly, then looked between the two of them with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Now. Bobby… unless you want your girlfriend sleeping on this uncomfortable sofa all night…”

“No! No—she’ll stay with me!” Bob said instantly, louder than necessary, face flaming.

As if summoned by embarrassment, Mr. Floyd appeared in the doorway with a cup of sweet tea in his hand and a raised brow.

“No funny business at night either,” he said, like a warning shot. “You’re too young.”

Bob looked like he wanted to vanish into the floor. “Dad!”

Mrs. Floyd swatted her husband on the arm. “Oh, stop it. You were kissin’ me in your mama’s living room at sixteen.”

Mr. Floyd took a sip of tea and said nothing.

She giggled behind her hand while Bob stared at the table like it might open up and swallow him.

“Dinner’ll be ready in ten,” Mrs. Floyd added, now completely back to normal. “Bobby, clear the table, will you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bob muttered, still red as a fire truck.

⸻

Dinner was cozy and loud—rain hammering the windows, lasagna warm and gooey, Bob’s dad telling stories about embarrassing middle school plays and his mom asking about the upcoming homecoming dance. She helped carry plates to the sink when it was over, insisting on drying them while Mrs. Floyd washed.

“You don’t have to,” Mrs. Floyd said kindly.

“I want to,” she smiled. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

“You’re family,” Mrs. Floyd replied like it was already a fact.

⸻

By the time the table was cleared, and the last bolt of lightning shook the sky, Bob and she had cozied up on his bed, the project set safely on his desk. The lights were dim, a flashlight between them for movie effect, the storm still rolling outside like a lullaby.

They were under the same blanket, her head tucked into the crook of his neck, his arm around her waist. They watched an old black-and-white horror movie on his laptop—something cheesy and full of dramatic screams and rubber masks.

When the monster leapt out, she jumped slightly.

Bob tightened his arm around her, whispering, “I got you.”

And in the flicker of lightning, she looked up at him.

“I know.”

He smiled.

Neither of them said anything else for a while—not even when the credits rolled, or the thunder softened into silence, or the rain grew gentle again.

They just held on.

———

(Time Skip to Junior Year)

The rain started soft—just a whisper against the windowpanes as she and Bob leaned over the dining room table, surrounded by scattered notebook paper, highlighters, and a half-built diorama of a medieval village.

Bob was focused, tongue poking out slightly as he tried to cut a thatched-roof cottage out of brown felt. She, on the other hand, was drawing storm clouds in the margins of their title page.

The light in the dining room was warm and golden, and the smell of lasagna floated in from the kitchen, where Mrs. Floyd was humming softly along with the oldies radio.

“I swear,” she said, tapping her pen against the paper, “if this storm ruins our cardboard castle, I’m gonna throw it into the rain and let it drown.”

Bob chuckled without looking up. “You’re so violent.”

“I’m passionate.”

He smiled, quiet and fond.

A few minutes passed, the only sounds being the radio, their pencils, and the gentle patter of the rain.

Then it changed.

Suddenly, the sky cracked open—thunder crashing loud and sharp like something had torn the clouds in half. Rain began pounding the roof with wild, frantic rhythm. A flash of lightning lit the whole dining room for a split second in silver-blue.

“Whoa,” she muttered, sitting up straighter.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Floyd let out a yelp. “Good Lord! That one was close.”

Another rumble followed, deeper and longer.

Mrs. Floyd peeked into the dining room, wiping her hands on a towel. “Sweetheart, there’s no way I’m letting you walk home in this. Call your momma. I wanna talk to her.”

She pulled out her phone, thumb shaking a little from the thunder still grumbling outside. Her mom answered quickly, voice muffled by the sound of the grocery store overhead speaker.

“Hey, Mom—Mrs. Floyd wants to talk to you.”

She handed the phone over and sat there awkwardly while Bob tried to look like he wasn’t listening. They both failed.

Mrs. Floyd walked out into the hall with the phone, murmuring kindly and firmly. When she came back, she smiled wide.

“Well, she said the storm’s keeping her stuck at the store a while anyway,” Mrs. Floyd said, handing the phone back. “So guess what, darlin’? You’re staying the night.”

“Oh—oh!” she blinked. “I—I can help clean up after dinner, I don’t want to be any trouble—”

“You’re not,” Mrs. Floyd said sweetly, then looked between the two of them with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Now. Bobby… unless you want your girlfriend sleeping on this uncomfortable sofa all night…”

“No! No—she’ll stay with me!” Bob said instantly, louder than necessary, face flaming.

As if summoned by embarrassment, Mr. Floyd appeared in the doorway with a cup of sweet tea in his hand and a raised brow.

“No funny business at night either,” he said, like a warning shot. “You’re too young.”

Bob looked like he wanted to vanish into the floor. “Dad!”

Mrs. Floyd swatted her husband on the arm. “Oh, stop it. You were kissin’ me in your mama’s living room at sixteen.”

Mr. Floyd took a sip of tea and said nothing.

She giggled behind her hand while Bob stared at the table like it might open up and swallow him.

“Dinner’ll be ready in ten,” Mrs. Floyd added, now completely back to normal. “Bobby, clear the table, will you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bob muttered, still red as a fire truck.

⸻

Dinner was cozy and loud—rain hammering the windows, lasagna warm and gooey, Bob’s dad telling stories about embarrassing middle school plays and his mom asking about the upcoming homecoming dance. She helped carry plates to the sink when it was over, insisting on drying them while Mrs. Floyd washed.

“You don’t have to,” Mrs. Floyd said kindly.

“I want to,” she smiled. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

“You’re family,” Mrs. Floyd replied like it was already a fact.

⸻

By the time the table was cleared, and the last bolt of lightning shook the sky, Bob and she had cozied up on his bed, the project set safely on his desk. The lights were dim, a flashlight between them for movie effect, the storm still rolling outside like a lullaby.

They were under the same blanket, her head tucked into the crook of his neck, his arm around her waist. They watched an old black-and-white horror movie on his laptop—something cheesy and full of dramatic screams and rubber masks.

When the monster leapt out, she jumped slightly.

Bob tightened his arm around her, whispering, “I got you.”

And in the flicker of lightning, she looked up at him.

“I know.”

He smiled.

Neither of them said anything else for a while—not even when the credits rolled, or the thunder softened into silence, or the rain grew gentle again.

They just held on.

——

She looked like something out of a dream.

Bob had always thought that, even when she wore oversized sweatshirts and no makeup, even when her hair was a mess and her eyes were puffy from sleep. But tonight—draped in soft champagne satin that shimmered when she walked, tiny rhinestones twinkling at her collarbone like stars—she looked like something the universe had built for the sole purpose of making him speechless.

“You’re staring,” she said when she caught him doing it for the fourth time.

“I know,” he breathed. “I don’t even feel bad about it.”

She laughed, cheeks warming. “You clean up pretty nice too, Floyd.”

He tugged at the tie she helped him fix earlier, cheeks flushing pink. “Only ‘cause you dressed me.”

The gym was glowing—dim lights strung along the walls, disco ball spinning lazily overhead, music pulsing low through the floor. It smelled like too much Axe body spray and cheap punch, but she didn’t care. She had Bob’s hand in hers, his fingers brushing gently against the inside of her wrist like he was still too shy to grab it outright.

Half the night passed in a blur of dancing and giggling and taking goofy photobooth strips that he immediately shoved into his wallet.

And then the music shifted.

Microphone feedback. Murmuring. The announcement.

It was time to crown the king and queen.

“God,” she whispered, nerves buzzing. “Do you think…?”

Bob just shrugged, trying to smile but his hand was tighter in hers now. He didn’t want to say it out loud. Didn’t want to jinx it.

He knew she deserved it. Everyone loved her. She was kind and funny and always went out of her way to help people. Of course people voted for her. Still—he was bracing himself.

“And now, your 2025 Homecoming Queen…”

Drumroll.

Y/N L/N.

The room burst into applause.

She gasped, hand flying to her mouth.

Bob just stood there, heart bursting with pride, awe, love. He’d never clapped harder for anything in his entire life.

She turned to him, stunned. “Bob—”

“Go!” he grinned, nudging her. “Get up there, Your Majesty.”

She laughed, nearly tripping over her own heels as she climbed the steps, cheeks flushed, eyes wide.

They placed the crown on her head. The crowd whistled and hollered.

“And now, your Homecoming King…”

Silence.

Bob’s stomach sank.

Please not—

“Jason Ridge.”

There he was. Coming up from the crowd like a shadow. Taller than Bob, broader too, still smirking that smug, punchable smirk. The guy who tripped Bob in the hallway in ninth grade and called him “four eyes” in front of his crush. The same guy who made fun of Bob for joining AV Club and once asked him if his stutter came with a refund.

The guy who, for reasons Bob never understood, hated him.

Now being crowned next to Bob’s girlfriend.

She was smiling politely, but Bob knew her. He saw the way her hands fidgeted, the tightness in her shoulders when Jason leaned in a little too close for the photo.

One crown. Two people.

He should’ve been up there with her. Wanted to be up there with her—not because of the title, but because he wanted to be the one beside her in her moment. Not the guy who used to throw spitballs at her boyfriend’s head.

When she came down the stairs again—crown slightly askew, bouquet in hand—she scanned the crowd until she saw him.

And Bob smiled for her, just like always.

But it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

⸻

Later, after the dancing and pictures and Jason’s smug little speech, they slipped outside.

The night was cold and quiet. Her heels dangled from one hand, her fingers looped through his with the other. The crown sat crooked in her hair.

He helped straighten it.

“You looked beautiful up there,” he said softly. “You deserved that.”

“I wish you were up there with me,” she murmured, glancing down.

Bob shrugged, trying to play it off, but she tugged his hand tighter.

“He made me uncomfortable,” she whispered. “When they announced his name, I didn’t want to go up.”

“I know,” Bob said. “I saw it on your face.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him, and something in her chest ached.

“You should’ve been my king,” she whispered.

Bob’s breath hitched. “You already made me feel like I am.”

And maybe the moment was still a little bruised.

But when she kissed him beneath the string lights, crown catching the faint glow of the moon, she knew—

He was the only boy she’d ever want on any throne beside her.

———

Senior prom was exactly the dream they’d always talked about.

A rented tux and a dress that shimmered gold under the ballroom lights. Bob had picked her up in his dad’s car—cleaned it out, even vacuumed the backseat, and showed up at her door with a tiny bouquet of yellow roses. She opened the door in her dress, and his jaw dropped so fast he barely remembered to breathe.

He told her she looked like something out of a fairy tale.

She told him he looked like a man she could love forever.

They took pictures under an arch of string lights and danced until her heels came off and his tie was loose around his neck. At one point he kissed her forehead in the middle of the crowd and said, “I’ve never been this happy.”

And she believed him.

Because it was May, and the world felt wide open. Graduation was just two weeks away. She had her bookstore job waiting for her in the summer and plans to take a few community college courses while she figured out what she wanted to do. Bob was saying he’d take a year off before applying anywhere else.

They had time. They had plans. They had each other.

Senior Week came fast after that—third week of May.

A few kids in their class had pooled together and rented a beach house for the week, something cheap but big enough to cram twelve of them in. Parents had signed the forms. They’d been dreaming about it for months.

And it was fun, mostly.

Bonfires. Junk food. Playing cards by candlelight when the power flickered. Waking up tangled in Bob’s hoodie because she got cold and he always slept warm. Nights where they snuck away from the group to talk on the porch, heads resting together in the quiet.

But something was off.

Not all the time. Just in little ways.

Bob was still sweet. Still her Bob. But there were moments she couldn’t quite explain—times he’d get quiet after a long laugh, like he’d remembered something he didn’t want to. Times she’d reach for his hand and he’d take a second too long to respond. He was up early one morning—earlier than usual—and when she woke up and padded into the kitchen, he’d jumped and quickly shoved his phone into his pocket.

She didn’t ask. Didn’t want to pry.

It was probably nothing.

Probably.

“You okay?” she asked once, a few nights in, when they were watching a movie together on the ratty living room couch. He was holding her like always, arm wrapped around her waist, chin tucked on her shoulder.

“Hm?” he murmured.

“You’ve just been kinda… quiet.”

He smiled at that—soft and apologetic.

“I think I’m just a little overwhelmed,” he said. “Everything’s changing so fast.”

She nodded, letting herself believe it. “I get that.”

And she did. She did get it. It was a lot. They were eighteen. The future was right there, ready to start. Of course things felt strange.

So she kissed his cheek and said, “We’re okay, though.”

And Bob kissed her back and said, “Always.”

——

Graduation night felt like magic.

She stood beside Bob in her cap and gown, her diploma in hand, while their families clapped and took blurry pictures and laughed over who cried harder during the ceremony. Bob’s arm was slung around her shoulders the entire time, like always. Her mom kissed her cheek and took twenty more photos than necessary, and Bob’s dad ruffled her hair like she was already part of the family.

They all went out to dinner together—both families squeezed into a big booth at the nicest restaurant in town. Everyone ordered something indulgent, and her little brother spilled lemonade on the menu and Bob helped mop it up with napkins and that stupid, adorable laugh of his.

At the end of the night, he hugged her outside in the parking lot under the buzzing yellow streetlight. Pulled her into his chest. Kissed the top of her head.

“Can you believe we’re done?” she whispered.

He didn’t say anything for a second. Then he said, “No. Not really.”

She tilted her head up, brushing her nose against his. “You okay?”

Bob nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just a little tired.”

“Call me when you get home?”

He kissed her again, this time on the lips. Slow. Sweet. Familiar.

“Always.”

But he didn’t.

⸻

The next day, she waited for his text.

Then the next.

Then the next.

He didn’t show up to the movie night everyone had planned. Didn’t reply to her good morning message. Didn’t like her picture when she posted one of them in their caps and gowns. Didn’t even open her texts.

By day three, she told herself it was just a glitch. Maybe he lost his phone charger. Maybe something came up.

By day five, she stopped making excuses.

By day seven, she got in her car.

⸻

The drive to the Floyd house felt longer than usual. She knew it wasn’t—she’d been there so many times over the past few years she could make the turns with her eyes closed—but her fingers gripped the steering wheel tighter than she meant to.

Something felt off in her chest. Heavy. Hollow.

She pulled up in front of the house and sat in the driveway for a second, staring at the porch she used to sit on with him, curled into his side. The curtains in the front window were drawn.

She knocked on the door.

It took a minute, but then—

“Hi, sweetheart!” Mrs. Floyd answered the door, apron still tied around her waist like she’d been cooking. Her face lit up on instinct… until it didn’t.

“Hi,” she smiled softly, awkward now. “Um… is Bob here? I’ve been trying to reach him for days and he hasn’t responded and I just—”

Mrs. Floyd’s expression shifted completely. The smile faded. Her hand came up to her chest.

“Oh, honey,” she said, voice cracking instantly. “Oh… no one told you?”

Her stomach dropped. “Told me what?”

“He… he enlisted. In the Navy. He left for Boot Camp yesterday morning.”

Silence.

Silence so loud it rang in her ears.

Her lips parted. She tried to say something. Anything.

But nothing came out.

Mrs. Floyd stepped forward gently, hand reaching out, eyes brimming. “He didn’t say goodbye?”

The girl just stared, mouth slightly open, jaw trembling. She shook her head once.

“No,” she whispered. “He didn’t tell me anything.”

“I am so sorry,” Mrs. Floyd said, and now she looked like she might cry too. “He… he didn’t want to make it harder. He said if he saw you, he wouldn’t go. Said it’d break him.”

She flinched. Physically. Like the words hit her in the gut.

“But he went,” she whispered.

“I know,” Mrs. Floyd said, “I know. He thought it’d be easier this way. But he was wrong. I told him he was wrong.”

And maybe that should’ve helped. Maybe she should’ve appreciated the sympathy. But all she felt was cold.

“I have to go,” she said, voice sharp and quiet and wrong.

“Sweetheart—”

“Thank you. I just—I need to go.”

And she left.

Drove home with the radio off, the windows up, the tears in her throat and not on her cheeks because she refused to cry. Not yet. Not while she still had her hands on the wheel and the ghost of his last kiss burning against her mouth.

He left.

He left her.

And she never got to say goodbye.

———

(4 year time skip)

She didn’t think about him much anymore.

Not on purpose, anyway.

Not like she used to.

There was a time when he was everywhere—every corner of her room, every song on the radio, every time someone laughed in a hallway. That first summer after he left felt like drowning in sunlight. Like waking up alone in a dream you swore was real.

But that was four years ago.

And now she was twenty-two.

She had a degree. A salary. A sleek little apartment in San Diego with a reading nook by the window and no trace of him anywhere.

She never dated after him.

Not really.

She went out, sure. Pretended to flirt once or twice, said no when it mattered.

But there was never a second date.

Never a night she didn’t drive home and cry without really understanding why.

It wasn’t that she was waiting for him. She wasn’t naïve.

It was that no one else ever felt like home.

She hadn’t trusted anyone since.

Because how could she?

When the person who knew her best—the boy who kissed her under fireworks and held her hand through every first—left for the Navy without even saying goodbye?

No call.

No letter.

No note.

Just gone.

And she never heard from him again.

She spent months thinking he’d reach out.

He never did.

And eventually, she did what she had to:

She packed her memories into boxes and shoved them onto a mental shelf marked do not open.

It was just supposed to be a quick stop.

She had a job lined up now—one of those rare, real adult jobs that offered insurance and PTO and came with a name badge and coffee that didn’t taste like burnt cardboard. It wasn’t her dream, but it was stable. And it was hers.

She ducked into the little bookstore on a Saturday afternoon to kill some time before dinner. It was cozy inside—creaky floors, warm lighting, the faint scent of cinnamon and dust. She loved places like this. Safe places.

She was standing in the fiction section, one finger tracing the spine of a paperback she half-recognized from a college syllabus, when something thudded against the floor beside her.

A book.

She bent down to pick up the book—

—and stopped short when someone else reached for it, too.

Her hand froze.

Because the hand next to hers was familiar.

Too familiar.

And when she looked up—so did he.

Bob.

Her throat went dry.

He was right there.

Same soft brown eyes. Same crooked mouth. The curve of his nose. His jaw had filled out, his hair was neater now, and he stood taller, but—God. It was him.

He looked stunned.

Like he was looking at a ghost.

And maybe he was.

Her stomach dropped.

Heart climbed into her throat.

Four years. No contact. Not even a goodbye.

And yet, without thinking, without meaning to, she whispered:

“…Bob?”

His lips parted.

Eyes wide.

Then, quietly—like he was still trying to believe it:

“Hi.”

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Car. Now. 

bob floyd x fem!reader

friends to lovers

Warnings: hurt/comfort, angst with a hard smut payoff, grinding, mutual pining, backseat sex, some dom!bob energy, confessions, dirty talk, emotional climax, unprotected sex (wrap it IRL), established tension, messy hair and messier feelings.

The Hard Deck is glowing—low neon lights, sweat and summer in the air, pool cues cracking, people pressed together and laughing too loud. Bob’s laugh is the kind that rumbles low and warm, and it’s been your favorite sound for years.

You’re both a little tipsy, not drunk—just floaty. Elbows brushing. Your back pressed against his chest during that last dance. He even twirled you once. He never twirls. But you laughed, and he looked like he was about to say something—say it, finally—but then—

“Let’s play a game!” Hangman slams a bottle down on the table, eyes lit with mischief. “You know the rules. No lies. One shot for every answer you don’t give.”

You roll your eyes. “This again?”

“This always,” he grins. “Now sit down, sweetheart.”

You settle in across from Bob, who’s already watching you. You give him a wink. He gives you that little almost-smile, the one only you know.

It’s easy. Fun. Until it’s not.

Hangman squints over his drink. “Okay, Bobby-boy. Your turn.”

Bob leans back, lazy, confident. You nudge his knee under the table.

Jake grins, wicked. “I’ve seen you with her.”

He jerks his chin toward you.

“The way you hover, the way you look. So tell me. Are you two a thing?”

The table goes quiet. Even the music feels like it drops out for a second.

Bob doesn’t look at you when he answers.

“No.” He gives a light chuckle. “Never in a million years would we be a thing.”

It hits you like a slap.

You blink, forcing a smile. “Ouch, Bob.”

He finally looks at you. Shrugs. “What?”

You keep smiling, but your voice goes sharp around the edges. “You think I’m too much for you to handle?”

He sips his drink. “Nah. You’re just… not my type. I’d never go after someone like you.”

The words land like bullets. You don’t let it show.

Just laugh. “Good to know.”

You stand. The chair scrapes hard across the floor. You don’t look back as you head for the door.

“Wait—hey—wait.”

Bob’s voice follows you out the door. “Where are you going?”

You whirl on him, eyes blazing. “Home. Away from people who say shit like that.”

“What did I even say?” He throws his hands out. “It was a joke.”

You laugh, bitter. “You think that was funny?”

He frowns. “Why are you so mad?”

You blink. Once. Twice. Your voice comes out cracked:

“Because I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

You shake your head, a breathless laugh tumbling from your lips. “And now I get to live with the memory of you saying, in front of everyone, that I’m not your type. That you’d never go after someone like me.”

“Wait—” Bob steps forward. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean it?” Your voice breaks, loud and raw. “God, Bob. Do you have any idea what it’s been like being next to you all these years? Laughing at your stupid jokes, stealing your fries, sharing your damn bedwhen you have nightmares? You think I do that with just anyone?”

He’s stunned silent.

You sniff, eyes burning. “So yeah. I’m mad. I’m mad because I love you, and you made me feel like I was nothing.”

Bob doesn’t speak.

He just walks up to you, slow and shaking, cups your face in both hands—

—and kisses you like it’s killing him.

It’s clumsy at first—messy, furious. Like he’s trying to erase what he said with the way his mouth moves. You gasp into it, half from the shock and half from the weight of it, all the repressed tension finally boiling over.

His hands are rough when they cup your face, but they tremble slightly. Like he’s scared if he touches you wrong, you’ll disappear.

You fist your fingers in his jacket, yanking him closer. You kiss him like you’re mad at him, like you’re trying to carve the shape of your heartbreak into his ribs.

“Say it again,” you pant against his lips. “Say I’m not your type.”

He growls, mouth on your neck. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

“Because if I told the truth—” He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are glassy. “If I told the truth, I’d lose you.”

You stare. “You almost did anyway.”

He groans like it physically hurts him and pulls you back in, lips crashing into yours again, hands sliding under your shirt, palms hot and rough as they explore familiar territory now suddenly forbidden.

Your jacket’s already off, somewhere on the ground. Bob’s comes next. His hands are on your waist, your ribs, gripping like he needs to feel you to believe this is real.

Then—

“Car,” he rasps. “Now.”

You don’t even make it to the backseat with any kind of grace.

The second the door slams shut behind you, he’s on you again. The dome light glows for a second then fades, and now it’s just the two of you, breathing hard in the dark, surrounded by silence and the salt air.

“Tell me again,” he mutters, pulling your shirt over your head. “Tell me you love me.”

You look up at him, flushed and vulnerable, chest heaving.

“I love you.”

He exhales sharply. “Say it like you mean it.”

You grab his jaw and kiss him again, deep and slow.

“I’ve always loved you, Bob.”

His hands slip under your thighs and he pulls you across the seat onto his lap like it’s nothing. You straddle him, gasping when you feel the hard press of him between your legs through layers of fabric that suddenly feel suffocating.

“Christ, you feel good,” he mutters into your collarbone as he mouths along it, teeth scraping just enough to make you shiver.

You tug at his shirt. “Off. Now.”

He chuckles—low and dangerous—and peels it off.

Bob Floyd is all golden skin and long lines, strong and lean from years of flying, and in this low light, his pupils blown wide, he looks like something feral.

“Always thought about this,” he confesses, one hand sliding down your back to grip your ass. “Every time you stayed over, curled up next to me. You’d wake up, and I’d still feel you in my arms and have to pretend it didn’t wreck me.”

You kiss him again, slower this time. More intentional.

More real.

This isn’t just years of friendship bursting into something physical. This is everything you’ve ever wanted—everything he’s wanted—and finally getting to have it, messy and broken and so right.

The moment you grind down onto him, both of you still in your jeans, Bob lets out a low, broken sound like he’s about to lose his mind.

“God, sweetheart,” he pants, gripping your hips hard. “You’re killin’ me—”

“I want you to lose it,” you whisper against his ear. “I want you to lose it for me.”

You’re still rolling your hips over him when his control snaps.

His mouth crashes into yours again, hot and open and needy. His hands—those perfect pilot hands—are everywhere. Tugging your bra down, thumbing over your nipples until you gasp, popping the button of your jeans with one hand. You do the same to his, both of you fumbling, breathless, frantic.

The second you’re bare—panties pushed to the side, his cock springing free—you sink down on him, both of you groaning in relief.

“Fuck—” Bob’s head hits the seat behind him. “You feel like heaven, baby.”

You’re panting. Hands on his shoulders. Moving. Slow at first, because you want to savor this, then harder when you realize he can take it. Wants it just as bad.

And he talks.

“Oh, you’re so good.”

“You were never too much—never.”

“Want you like this forever, baby, just like this—”

Your nails dig into his back as you ride him, faster, needier, more desperate.

When you start to tighten around him, gasping his name, he catches your face in his hands.

“Eyes on me,” he says, voice wrecked. “Come on, Y/N. Let me see you.”

And when you fall apart in his lap, crying out his name, he wraps his arms around you and loses it too, burying his face in your neck with a deep, guttural groan.

It’s quiet, except for your heartbeat in your ears and Bob’s hand rubbing circles on your bare thigh.

“You really love me?” he asks, voice quiet, raspy.

You kiss the corner of his mouth.

“Always.”

He kisses you again—slower, softer this time. Reverent.

And in that messy little car, tangled in clothes and each other, something inside both of you finally settles.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Unsaid Emily

tfatws!bucky barnes x fem!reader

D.C. – Two Days Before the Mission

Bucky didn’t mean to start a fight.

He just couldn’t stop watching her zip up her tactical suit like it didn’t mean anything.

“It’s a recon run,” she said, tying her boots. “We’re in and out.”

“You always say that,” Bucky muttered.

She paused mid-lace, glancing up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m tired of acting like this isn’t dangerous.”

She scoffed. “It’s always dangerous. That’s the job.”

“No,” he said sharply. “It’s your job. I never asked you to do this.”

She stood up then, arms crossed. “You don’t get to play protector, James. Not with me.”

“I’m not playing anything,” he snapped. “I just don’t want to watch you walk into a mission and never come back.”

“Well maybe next time,” she said, voice low, “don’t fall for someone you don’t believe can take care of themselves.”

The room went quiet.

Bucky swallowed hard. “I don’t need you to be invincible. I need you to be alive.”

Her voice softened—just slightly. “So do I. But you can’t save me from everything, Bucky. You don’t get to choose what I risk.”

He looked at her for a long time.

Then said, quietly: “I hate how you do this. How you make it so easy to care and so impossible to stop.”

She blinked.

But before she could answer, the comm buzzed—mission briefing in 10.

And just like that, she turned and walked out the door.

——

Northern Border, Europe – Mission Day

A routine op. A regular day. That’s what made it worse.

Snow drifted off the trees in soft clouds as Y/N and Bucky moved along the perimeter. Sam’s voice crackled over comms: “You two good over there?”

“We’re solid,” Y/N answered, glancing up at the crumbling building ahead of them. “Looks like an old comms tower.”

Bucky barely glanced at her.

He hadn’t spoken more than five words to her since their fight two nights ago. And she hadn’t tried either.

She was calm, professional, focused — and that killed him more.

They crept through the corridor in silence. She took the lead, scouting. He followed, eyes trained on her like his focus could keep her safe.

It didn’t.

They split at the hallway fork — standard sweep pattern. Two minutes, then regroup.

Y/N turned and gave him a quick nod.

He didn’t nod back.

He wanted to say “Wait.”

He wanted to say “Come back.”

But he said nothing.

And that was the last time he saw her alive.

⸻

1:42 PM

Bucky was halfway through disabling an old security console when the explosion hit.

It shook the ground — a thunderous crack followed by fire and debris slicing through the hall.

“Y/N?!” he shouted into the comm. “Talk to me! Answer me!”

Nothing.

Only static.

He ran — faster than his legs had ever moved — into the smoke-filled hallway. Sam was yelling something behind him, but Bucky didn’t hear it.

All he could see was the collapsed east wing.

And a patch of black tactical gear crushed beneath beams and rubble.

⸻

Later That Day

They pulled her out of the wreckage hours later.

It took three people to confirm the body.

Sam stood in silence. Torres vomited. Bucky… he didn’t move.

He stood there, staring at what was left of her.

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t speak.

He just reached down, hands trembling, and took her necklace from the soot.

He stared at it like maybe — maybe — if he held it long enough, she’d come back.

But she didn’t.

⸻

One Week of Mourning

⸻

Day One

Bucky didn’t leave the room.

Didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. Didn’t move.

He sat on the floor, back against the wall, Y/N’s necklace clenched so tightly in his hand that his knuckles went white.

Sam came in once.

“Bucky…”

No answer.

He was somewhere else — back in the hallway. Back at the fork. Back in the moment he should’ve said something. Should’ve turned around.

⸻

Day Two

He found her sweatshirt in his duffel bag.

Still smelled like her. Lavender and leather.

He curled up in the corner of the bed with it pressed to his face and shook silently for two hours.

Didn’t talk to anyone.

⸻

Day Three

He climbed to the rooftop just before midnight.

The wind cut through him like glass.

He stared up at the moon and whispered, “I didn’t mean it.”

His breath fogged in the cold. His fingers curled tighter around the chain in his palm.

“I should’ve told you I loved you.”

No one heard him.

Except the sky.

⸻

Day Four

Sam found him in the gym, bleeding.

His fists were raw — he’d punched through two punching bags, a concrete pillar, and a mirror.

“Bucky, stop!”

Bucky didn’t even blink. “She died thinking I hated her.”

“No, she didn’t—”

“I never said sorry.”

Sam froze.

Bucky stared down at the floor, chest heaving.

“I never said sorry.”

⸻

Day Five

He started writing.

Pages and pages of words he should’ve said. Crumpled letters. Torn journal entries. Ink-stained hands.

“If I could take us back… If I could just do that…”

“I’d write ‘I love you’ in every empty space.”

“So time couldn’t erase me.”

⸻

Day Six

He stopped talking.

Just sat on the rooftop again. Every night.

Necklace still in his palm. Always clenched.

He whispered to the moon like she could hear him.

“I never let you go.”

“I just… I didn’t know how to hold on.”

⸻

Day Seven

Zemo broke the silence in the common room.

“There’s been another string of deaths. Clean kills. Cold precision.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Bucky looked up, eyes dark.

“They’re Hydra hits,” Zemo said, tossing the file on the table. “Same M.O. Different location.”

And then Sam’s voice, slow and low:

“…Hydra’s back.”

Bucky didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

But his grip on her necklace tightened like a man realizing the ground beneath him had just shifted again.

Because suddenly… he had a reason to get up.

——

Hydra Facility – Somewhere Underground

Seven days since she died.

Three days since the bodies started piling up.

Twelve minutes since they entered the compound.

Zero sound. Zero movement. Too quiet.

“Something’s off,” Sam whispered, scanning the corridor as Redwing hovered above.

“I feel it too,” Bucky muttered. He hadn’t let go of her necklace — it was tucked in his pocket, over his heart, like a shield.

Zemo trailed behind them, silent but watchful. The man had insisted they investigate despite Sam’s warnings.

“This is a trap,” Sam had said. “They’re trying to lure Bucky.”

“Then let them,” Zemo had answered. “The truth is worth it.”

Now, all Bucky felt was ice in his lungs.

They stepped into the main control room, walls covered in dust and frost — untouched, abandoned-looking. But it didn’t feel abandoned.

The lights flickered once.

Then a voice — warped and smooth — crackled through the intercom:

“Welcome back, Soldier.”

Bucky froze.

His fists clenched, breath catching in his throat.

“We’re so glad you came. We have a surprise for you.”

“Cover your ears!” Sam shouted, smashing his elbow into the control panel while Redwing shot upward and exploded the speakers.

But the damage was already done.

Because the wall across from them groaned — a mechanical whirr — and the massive double doors hissed open.

And standing there…

Was her.

⸻

Y/N.

Alive.

But not really.

Stripped of the warmth in her eyes. Her left arm replaced by a sleek black vibranium model, humming with faint blue light. Her suit was black, tactical, no insignia. Her stance — stiff, soldier-like. Controlled.

Her eyes locked on Bucky’s.

And they were empty.

Not confused. Not familiar.

Just empty.

⸻

Bucky’s world cracked in half.

He stepped forward, almost stumbling. “Y/N…?”

Nothing. Not a flinch. No recognition.

He took another step, shaking. “It’s me. It’s Buck. I thought you were—”

His voice cracked.

“God, I thought you were dead.”

Her head tilted slightly, like a machine running diagnostics.

And then, flatly, she spoke:

“Target acquired.”

She moved like lightning.

Metal arm first — crashing into Sam and knocking him into the wall. Redwing went down in pieces.

Bucky couldn’t move at first.

Because it wasn’t just her body that had changed — it was everything. Her soul, her heart, stolen and warped and twisted the way Hydra did best.

The same thing they had done to him.

And now, they did it to her.

⸻

The Fight

It was brutal.

She moved with precision and rage, flipping over consoles, taking bullets to the shoulder like they were paper cuts.

Zemo tried to subdue her with gas — she dodged it.

Sam tried to pin her — she flipped him.

And Bucky… Bucky just stood there.

Watching the love of his life try to kill him.

When she turned to him finally, breathing hard, her metal arm sparking, he barely lifted his hands.

“Y/N. Please,” he begged. “You don’t want to do this.”

But she didn’t pause.

Didn’t blink.

She launched at him.

Fist to his jaw, elbow to his ribs, knee to his side.

And Bucky let her.

He let her hit him until the blood from his lip dripped down his neck.

Until he saw the way her hands shook mid-punch.

Until — just for a second — her eyes flickered.

And he saw it.

Fear.

Buried beneath the programming. Drowning under commands.

“Come back to me,” he choked out. “Fight it. Please, baby. Please.”

She screamed — rage and confusion and agony all tangled together — and raised her arm again.

He caught it mid-swing.

And slammed her to the ground.

One hit. One knockout. Clean. Final.

And it destroyed him.

⸻

Hours Later – Wakandan Transport En Route

Bucky sat in the corner of the jet, her head in his lap, unconscious.

She was strapped down gently, softly — not like a prisoner, but like a patient.

The Dora Milaje were already coordinating the deprogramming.

Bucky stared at her face.

She looked so peaceful now. Like she wasn’t carrying 1000 kills in her hands. Like she wasn’t just trying to kill him.

Like she wasn’t taken from him, broken, and handed back in pieces.

He pressed his forehead to hers, voice trembling.

“I’m gonna bring you home. I swear.”

And then, lower.

Broken.

Whispering:

“If I could take us back… if I could just do that… I’d write ‘I love you’ in every empty space…”

Wakanda – Underground Recovery Wing

Two days after the base.

Y/N woke up screaming.

Thrashing, metal arm flaring with unstable sparks as she tore through the silk sheets and kicked off the restraints.

The walls around her were unfamiliar.

The bed — too soft.

The lights — too warm.

The scent — lavender and cedarwood.

It was all wrong.

She wasn’t supposed to wake up here.

She was supposed to be dead. Or killing.

Not… breathing.

She staggered back, gripping her head, a raw sob ripping from her throat. Her knees hit the ground hard.

Blood. Screams. Hands stained red.

She remembered all of it.

⸻

The door burst open.

The Dora Milaje were in before the second gasp. Calm, poised, trained.

“She’s disoriented—get the arm!” Ayo said.

“No!” Bucky shoved past them.

“She needs to see someone she remembers. Let me try.”

They hesitated.

But they let him through.

⸻

He dropped to his knees in front of her.

She didn’t even look like herself — soaked in sweat, trembling, eyes wide and feral.

Her metal arm twitched against her side, fingers curled like claws.

“Y/N…” he whispered.

Her head jerked up.

Her eyes met his.

She flinched.

“No. No, no, no, no—” She backed away like he was fire. “You can’t see me like this—”

“Hey—hey, it’s okay.” He reached forward slowly, gently, like she was glass. “You’re safe. You’re here. You’re not—”

“I killed people, Bucky.”

Her voice cracked like a dying star.

“I killed so many people. I remember it all. Their faces. Their screams. I—”

She dug her metal fingers into the skin of her own shoulder, like she could rip herself open and make it stop.

“Get it off me— get it OFF—”

“Y/N!” Bucky grabbed her wrists and pulled her close, holding her tight against his chest as she screamed and kicked.

“Look at me,” he said desperately. “LOOK at me!”

Her breath hitched.

He cupped her face, wiping the sweat from her temple with a shaking hand.

“This isn’t your fault.”

Her voice was barely a whisper. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

His heart split open.

“You weren’t supposed to. You were supposed to come back. I was supposed to apologize. I was supposed to tell you I—”

He couldn’t even finish.

She fell into him.

Collapsed.

Sobbing.

⸻

Later, when she finally slept, he sat beside her with her head in his lap.

He ran his fingers over her hair, like she was still fragile and alive and his all at once.

He stared out the window.

At the moon again.

And this time… he said it.

“I love you.”

“I should’ve said it before the mission.”

“I should’ve said it every day.”

“If I could take us back, I’d write it everywhere.”

“I’d tattoo it on the damn walls so time couldn’t erase me.”

He took her hand — both of them, flesh and metal — and brought them to his lips.

“You’re gonna come back to me, piece by piece.”

“And when you do… the words I most regret…”

“Will never be left unsaid again.”

Wakanda – One Week Later

She hadn’t looked him in the eyes since she came back.

She hadn’t called him Bucky.

She hadn’t said anything at all, really — except at night, when the nightmares tore through her lungs like fire, and she’d wake up gasping and clawing at her arm, screaming things she couldn’t remember saying.

And every time, without fail, Bucky was there.

He never said a word when she screamed.

Never flinched when she cried.

Never left.

He’d hold her through it.

Rub her back.

Kiss her hair.

Sometimes hum under his breath — barely audible — just to fill the silence.

But tonight… tonight was different.

Tonight she didn’t wake up screaming.

Tonight she was already awake.

⸻

She sat curled up on the edge of the bed, knees drawn to her chest, metal hand limp beside her.

Bucky stood by the doorway, unsure if he should come in.

Until she spoke:

“…You said it. Didn’t you.”

He froze.

“What?”

She glanced over her shoulder.

“In the base. Before you knocked me out.”

Her voice was quiet. Empty. “You told me to come back to you.”

His throat tightened. “Yeah.”

A long pause.

“I heard it.”

⸻

He moved closer.

Step by step, until he was sitting on the floor at her feet.

“You were gone,” he said, voice cracking. “And I didn’t get to say anything. We’d fought, and… and I let you go into that mission thinking I hated you.”

“I thought you did.”

He looked up at her. “I didn’t. I never did. I was scared.”

She looked down at her hands. “Of what?”

“Of how much I loved you.”

Silence.

“I thought if I lost you, it’d kill me.”

She blinked, hard.

“And then I did lose you. And it didn’t kill me — it just made me wish I was dead.”

⸻

She reached out slowly, like she wasn’t sure if he’d let her.

But he did.

He took her metal hand in his — the one he once thought would only hurt people.

Now it was holding the only thing that had ever made him feel alive.

And then…

She whispered it:

“I loved you too.”

“I still do.”

“I remembered your voice, Bucky. Even when I couldn’t remember mine.”

“That’s what kept me from pulling the trigger.”

“That’s why I missed.”

His chest caved in.

“You remembered me?”

“I never forgot.”

She finally looked him in the eyes.

And this time, they were hers again.

⸻

He pulled her into his lap. Held her like she’d disappear if he blinked.

And then, in the quiet of the Wakandan night, under a silver moon…

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“I never wanted to leave you.”

“You didn’t,” he whispered back.

“You just came home a little later.”

⸻

He kissed her metal shoulder first.

Then her temple.

Then her lips.

Slow. Careful. Like she was something fragile he’d spent a lifetime losing.

And when they pulled apart, she asked:

“…What now?”

He rested his forehead against hers.

“Now we write in every empty space.”

“We take back what they stole.”

“And we never leave another word unsaid.”

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Backseat Driver

bob floyd x fem!reader

warnings: none really

It all happened too fast.

“Missile lock! Missile lock—!”

“I see it—I see it—hang on!”

You yanked the jet hard left, heart thundering, the landscape a blur of white peaks and sky. The Gs pressed down like a fist. Bob’s voice came steady in your headset, but the tension beneath it was unmistakable.

“Flares out—missile’s still tracking!”

“We’re not gonna make it,” you breathed.

“Eject! Now!”

“I got you!”

You pulled the cord.

The world exploded.

⸻

The canopy blasted off. You were flung into the sky, your limbs jerking, screams lost in the deafening roar.

Then—

Silence.

Until the crack of snow as you hit the ground. Hard. Rolling. Skidding. Your vision flickered black.

⸻

When you came to, your body was heavy. Cold. Everything ached.

Your ears were ringing. Snowflakes drifted down around you, soft and silent. But there was smoke. Fire. Metal groaning in the distance.

And then you remembered—

“Bob—”

You ripped the helmet off, vision swimming as you stumbled to your feet.

His parachute was already half-buried in the snow, trailing behind him like a white flag of surrender.

Your jet had gone down just ahead—skidding into a snowdrift, one wing completely sheared off. Flames flickered from the engine.

“BOB!”

You ran.

Boots slipping. Blood in your mouth. Legs screaming. You found him about twenty feet from the wreckage, half-slumped against a rock, goggles shattered, chest rising—barely.

You dropped to your knees beside him.

“Oh God—Bob—Bob, are you—”

“Hey,” he rasped, blinking up at you. “You okay?”

You let out a breath that broke halfway through.

“Am I okay? You’re bleeding, you idiot—!”

You tore off your gloves and pressed your hands to his side. He winced, then hissed a sharp breath through his teeth.

“It’s bad,” he said softly. “Right?”

You couldn’t lie.

You nodded. Just once. Eyes filled with tears.

“Yeah. It’s bad.”

“Figures. First time I fly with you on a snowy mountain op and I get skewered.”

“Don’t joke,” you choked. “Please don’t—”

“You always said I was too soft for this shit,” he whispered, smiling faintly. “Guess you were right.”

You were losing him.

The bleeding wasn’t slowing. His legs were crushed under debris from the jet. There was a huge gash on the side of his stomach—likely from the ejection. Snow was already pink beneath him.

“I’ll get help,” you started to rise.

He gripped your wrist weakly.

“No time.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I need you to stay with me.”

You dropped beside him again, cupping his cheek, brushing blood-matted hair from his face.

“I’m not leaving. I’m right here. Just—just hold on, Bob, okay?”

“I had plans,” he said, voice cracking.

“What?”

“After this mission… I was gonna take you to Tahoe. I booked a cabin. Just us. Fire, snow, the works…”

You were shaking.

“Bob—”

“I even bought that stupid mug you pointed at. ‘World’s Best Backseat Driver.’”

“Stop—please—”

“And the ring,” he added, coughing. “God, I should’ve just asked you before the mission.”

You froze.

“What?”

“I bought a ring,” he whispered. “It’s in my locker. I was gonna ask you. I love you so much.”

You fell apart.

Tears spilled as you leaned in and pressed your forehead to his, noses brushing, breaths coming out in short, shattered gasps.

“I love you too,” you sobbed. “I love you—please don’t die—”

“Promise me you’ll keep flying,” he murmured.

“Bob—no—don’t say that—”

“Promise me.”

“I don’t want to fly without you.”

“Promise me.”

You were crying too hard to speak.

So you nodded.

He let out a shaky breath—like it was a weight he could finally put down.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

His hand slid into yours. His fingers twitched once.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah, Bob—?”

“I’m not ready.”

“Then don’t go. Stay. Please—please just stay—”

“I’m scared,” he confessed.

“I know. I know, baby. I got you. Just keep your eyes on me. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

But he wasn’t.

His eyes were glassy now. The rise of his chest had gone shallow. His blood was everywhere—on your hands, your jacket, soaking into the snow around you like ink in paper.

You screamed for help.

Over and over.

But there was no one to hear you.

⸻

When his breath finally stopped, it was silent.

A kind of silence that didn’t feel real.

You didn’t realize you were still clutching his body until the numbness in your fingers started to burn. You laid your head against his chest, sobbing, shaking, whispering apologies into the empty cold.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m sorry. I should’ve protected you. I should’ve—God, why didn’t I—”

You looked up at the sky.

At the clouds. The endless white. The cruel blue behind it.

“WHY?!”

Your voice cracked through the mountains.

“Why would you let him die? He was good. He was so good—he was mine—!”

Your hands were coated in red.

You were mad at the Navy.

At the mission.

At the world.

At yourself.

You stayed like that—laying beside him in the snow, holding what was left of the future you were supposed to have.

⸻

It took nearly 20 minutes for the team to find you.

When they did, you didn’t move. You didn’t speak.

You were covered in his blood, cradling his body like if you let go, he’d vanish completely.

They didn’t have to ask what happened.

They saw it in your eyes—the devastation, the raw ache, the shattered light.

Bob Floyd was gone.

And he took everything with him.

They got her back to base four hours later.

By then, the snow had long stopped. But she still hadn’t spoken. Not a word. Not even when they tried to get her to drink something. Not even when they brought a blanket. Not even when Phoenix, voice thick with tears, whispered, “It wasn’t your fault.”

She just sat.

Blank-faced. Blood still staining her flight suit. Bob’s blood. Under her fingernails. In her hair. Dried and tacky and dark. It was like she didn’t even notice.

It was like she didn’t exist.

The medics checked her over. No major injuries—just bruises, scratches, cold-burns on her cheeks. But her silence worried them more than anything else.

Eventually, Phoenix took a quiet seat beside her, leaning forward, elbows on her knees.

“You can scream,” she said gently. “You can break something. Hell, I’ll break it with you.”

No answer.

No tears.

Just that haunted, hollow stare.

It was Rooster who finally gave her space.

“Come on,” he murmured to Phoenix. “She needs time.”

⸻

She didn’t go to her room.

She went to the locker room.

The moment the door shut behind her, it was like the weight of the world collapsed all over again.

Her boots dragged across the floor as she moved toward his locker.

Bob Floyd.

That stupid little name tag, taped to the front of the door with his dumb handwriting. He always said the Navy’s labels were too impersonal.

She reached up. Hand trembling.

And opened it.

It smelled like him—clean, warm, safe. Like fresh paper and coffee and the faintest bit of engine oil. His spare uniform was neatly folded. His notebook tucked against the shelf. And there, in the back corner, almost hidden beneath a towel—

A small black velvet box.

Her breath hitched.

She picked it up, fingers numb. Slowly, as if it might vanish, she opened it.

And there it was.

The ring.

Not just a ring. The ring. Rose gold. Oval stone. Engraving on the inside so small it could only be read with tears blurring your eyes:

“Always your backseat driver.”

She sank to her knees.

The box hit the floor with a soft thud.

She clutched the ring like it might restart his heart. Like maybe if she put it on, he’d walk through the locker room door, smile that stupid shy smile, and say something awkward like, “Guess you found it.”

She slid it onto her finger.

And sobbed.

Raw, ugly, body-breaking sobs. The kind that didn’t come from her throat—they came from somewhere deeper. Somewhere older. From every I love you she didn’t get to say. From every future she saw in his eyes. From every second of those last ten minutes.

⸻

When she finally forced herself into the showers, the water was scalding. She didn’t flinch. She just scrubbed until her skin turned pink and raw, until the blood was gone and only the ring remained.

But she didn’t throw her flight suit out.

Didn’t let the medics take it. Didn’t even put it in a laundry bag.

She folded it herself.

Every article of clothing she wore that day—her gloves, her undershirt, her socks still soaked with melted snow and his blood—she folded and placed gently into a small duffle bag. A duffle that she hugged to her chest like it might still be warm from him. She sat there, cross-legged on the floor of the locker room, clinging to it.

She wouldn’t wash it. Wouldn’t let anyone else touch it.

It was the last real piece of him she had.

Proof that he bled. That he was.

That she didn’t make it all up.

⸻

She walked barefoot back to his locker and sat down again. Her hair still dripping. The ring still on her finger. The bag still in her arms.

And she didn’t move.

⸻

One by one, the team found her there.

Phoenix sat beside her first, her back against the lockers, eyes red.

Rooster came next. Then Payback. Then Fanboy.

None of them spoke.

They didn’t have to.

They just sat in a semi-circle, the silence thick with everything they couldn’t fix.

The grief was a living thing in the room.

But she never spoke.

Never cried again.

Never looked away from that open locker.

And on her finger—gleaming against trembling skin—the ring stayed. Like a promise. Like a wound.

Like a love story that ended far, far too soon.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Propuesta Indecente

Joaquin Torres x Fem!Reader

SMUTSMUTSMUTSMUT

The bass vibrated under your feet like a living pulse, the rooftop deck alive with glittering bodies and flashing lights. You scanned the crowd, heart racing before your eyes locked with Joaquin’s — dark, sharp, full of promise.

He moved toward you with a slow, deliberate confidence, fingers brushing your waist as he drew you close.

“¿Quieres bailar, mami?” His voice was low and husky, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your breath hitched, hips pressing into his as the music swelled.

He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear. “Tonight, mi reina, I’m going to make you forget everyone else.”

Grinding to the beat, your bodies synced, heat spreading through your veins. His hand slid down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your hip before pulling you tighter.

You matched his movements, teasing with every sway, every brush of your body against his.

A slow smile spread across his lips. “You like this, preciosa?”

You bit your bottom lip, eyes locking with his. “I like what you do to me, Papi.”

His breath hitched at the pet name, the way you said it—half teasing, half pleading.

“Dame eso, mami.” His hand slid beneath your dress, fingers exploring, staking claim.

The world around you blurred. The party, the people, the music — none of it mattered except the heat between you two.

“Let’s get somewhere quieter,” he murmured. “I want to show you exactly how much you’re mine.”

Without waiting for a reply, he tugged you toward the elevators, a wicked grin curling his lips as he whispered, “This is only the beginning, mi vida.”

——

The elevator doors slid shut behind you, sealing you in a glass box suspended between floors — just the two of you, the hum of the machinery the only soundtrack.

Joaquin’s fingers curled around your wrist, pulling you flush against him. His breath hit your neck, warm and heavy.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

You pressed your body harder against his, lips grazing the shell of his ear. “Show me.”

His hands slid to your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft curve beneath your dress as he leaned in, lips ghosting along your jaw.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer until his mouth captured yours — slow, demanding, tasting every inch.

The elevator jolted as it moved, but neither of you cared.

Your breath hitched when his hand slipped under your dress, tracing fire along your thigh, inching higher.

“Papi,” you whispered, voice thick with need.

He groaned against your lips. “Mami…”

The elevator dinged, doors sliding open, but Joaquin’s lips never left yours as he swept you into the corridor, eyes blazing with hunger.

“This is just the beginning,” he promised, voice low. “Wait until we get to the kitchen.”

——

The sleek kitchen was deserted, bathed in the soft glow of recessed lighting and the city lights spilling through floor-to-ceiling windows. The distant bass of the party upstairs was a muted pulse, a reminder of how close danger lurked.

Joaquin wasted no time. He pressed you against the cold marble counter, fingers tracing the curve of your spine beneath your dress.

“Tell me, mami,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Do you want to come right here? Right now?”

You swallowed hard, the thrill of being so exposed, so close to being caught, setting your nerves aflame.

“Yes,” you breathed, arching into his touch.

His hands slid beneath your dress, fingers exploring the heat of your skin as he teased and stroked, slow and deliberate.

You tugged at his belt, needing more — needing him.

He groaned low, slipping his fingers deeper as you shivered under his touch.

Then, without warning, you sank to your knees, lips closing around him with reverence and hunger. His name slipped from your mouth in a ragged gasp, and he bucked against your mouth, already lost in the delicious torment you gave him.

“Fuck, mami,” he cursed, voice thick with need. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You smiled up at him, eyes dark and playful. “That’s the point, papi.”

The cool marble pressed against your thighs as you knelt before him, lips and tongue worshipping every inch of Joaquin. His fingers tangled in your hair, steadying you, while his hips twitched with each desperate stroke you gave.

“Fuck, mami,” he groaned, voice thick. “You’re driving me crazy.”

You looked up at him, eyes dark and hungry, whispering, “Make me come later, papi. Right now, I want you.”

His breath hitched as you took more, hands roaming your curves, teasing you through the thin fabric of your dress.

When he pulled you up, spinning you around until your back pressed to the cool counter, his mouth captured yours with fierce urgency.

His hands roamed your body, fingers slipping beneath your dress to stroke you, teasing that spot that made you shiver.

“Tonight, mi reina, I’m going to ruin you,” he promised, voice low and rough.

——

 Joaquín’s mouth lingered on yours, dark and demanding, as he lifted you off the counter and carried you effortlessly toward the living room. The soft glow from the city lights painted shadows on his face, highlighting the hunger burning in his eyes.

He settled you onto the plush couch, fingers trailing along your bare thigh before slipping beneath the hem of your dress. His touch was electric, sending shivers racing down your spine.

Joaquín’s hands didn’t waste a second, his fingers trailing from your exposed thigh up beneath the fabric of your dress. The sensation was electric, making your skin flush and your breath hitch.

He leaned in close, lips grazing your jawline, his voice a low murmur that sent shivers down your spine. “Tell me, mami, how badly do you want me right now?”

You bit your bottom lip, the mix of anticipation and heat burning in your chest. “More than you can imagine, papi.”

His grin was wicked, eyes darkening with hunger. His hands roamed with purpose — tracing the curve of your hip, sliding beneath your dress to cup your ass, pulling you closer until your bodies pressed together. The warmth of him was intoxicating.

Joaquín’s mouth found your neck, teeth grazing softly before he sucked a dark, bruising mark onto your skin. You gasped, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him deeper into your space.

“Así me gusta,” he whispered. “You’re mine tonight, mi reina.”

Your hands roamed over his broad shoulders, nails digging in lightly as his lips trailed lower, kissing a path down your collarbone and across your chest. His touch was both fierce and gentle, setting you ablaze with every breath and brush of skin.

You arched into him, your hips grinding against his hand as he teased you mercilessly. The world outside faded into nothing but the sound of your ragged breaths and the slick, urgent rhythm of his fingers.

“Papi…” you breathed, voice trembling. “Please, don’t stop.”

He chuckled low, voice thick with lust. “Only getting started, mami.”

With a firm grip, he pulled you fully onto his lap, pressing you flush against him. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, your body on fire as he captured your mouth again in a fierce, demanding kiss.

Every touch, every whispered pet name—mami, mi reina, preciosa—was a promise of what was yet to come. The night was young, and neither of you were ready to let go.

Joaquín’s hands were everywhere — one palm pressed flat against your back, holding you steady, while the other explored your curves with expert precision. You could feel the hard press of him beneath your dress, every inch begging for more.

Your breath hitched as his mouth left a trail of heated kisses from your jaw down to your collarbone. His teeth nipped gently, eliciting a shiver you couldn’t hide.

“Te voy a hacer sentir cosas, mami,” he murmured against your skin. “Cosas que nunca has sentido.”

You bit your lip, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him back to claim his mouth in a fierce kiss. His tongue slid inside, matching your hunger stroke for stroke.

His hands tightened on your waist, grinding you into him as your hips rolled with his movements, the friction between you both electrifying.

“Papi…” you gasped, voice thick with need. “I want you so bad.”

He groaned, low and guttural, fingers dipping beneath your panties to stroke your most sensitive spots, sending waves of pleasure pulsing through you.

“Dime que eres mía,” he demanded, voice rough as he kissed down your neck again.

“Soy tuya,” you breathed, meeting his gaze, heat flaring between you.

His hand slipped lower, teasing, then curling inside you, making your breath stutter. You arched into him, hands clutching his broad shoulders for support.

“Así,” he whispered, “Just like that. You’re going to make me lose control.”

The couch creaked beneath you both as his hips ground harder, matching the rhythm of his fingers inside you. Every touch, every whispered pet name — mami, preciosa, mi reina — only drove you wilder.

You tangled your legs tighter around him, desperate for more as the tension built to a fever pitch.

“Papi, please,” you begged, voice trembling. “I’m so close.”

With a growl, he captured your mouth again, the taste of him intoxicating as he whispered, “Come for me, mami. Let me hear you.”

Your world shattered into sparks of pleasure as your body clenched around him, waves crashing through you again and again.

He didn’t slow, pushing you higher as he chased his own release, the sound of his groans filling the room as he finally spilled over the edge.

They collapsed together, breaths ragged, bodies slick with sweat, hearts pounding in unison.

Your limbs felt like molten fire, your body still trembling from the orgasm he pulled from you with nothing but his fingers and filthy words. But you weren’t done. Not even close.

Joaquín was still hard—aching, thick, straining behind his zipper. You could feel him twitching against your thigh as he shifted beneath you.

You dragged your fingers through his hair, tugging gently. “You gonna keep teasing me, or are you finally gonna fuck me?”

His gaze darkened instantly. Dangerous. Devoted. Desperate.

“Get on the floor,” he growled, his voice deep and rasping. “Hands and knees. Now.”

You didn’t even hesitate.

You slid off the couch, knees meeting the polished wood as he stood, eyes locked on you like you were prey. He shoved his pants down, groaning when his cock sprang free, thick and flushed and dripping.

You looked back at him with a smirk over your shoulder, arching your back slowly just to hear him curse under his breath.

“Fuck,” he hissed, kneeling behind you. “You’re already so wet for me.”

He didn’t rush. He gripped your hips with both hands, guiding you back until the blunt head of him nudged your entrance. Then—slowly, teasingly—he pushed inside.

Your mouth fell open in a silent gasp.

He was thick. Deep. Stretching you in the most perfect, obscene way. You could feel every inch as he sank into you inch by inch, until his hips met your ass and you were full—finally full of him.

He stayed there, just breathing hard behind you, hands tight on your waist.

“Joaquín,” you whined, rocking back against him. “Fuck me, papi.”

That broke him.

He pulled out halfway, then slammed back in hard enough to knock a moan out of your throat. And again. And again.

The sound of skin slapping filled the room. Your palms braced flat on the floor as he pounded into you from behind, each thrust harder, deeper, more punishing than the last.

“Ese es mi chica,” he groaned, his hand sliding up your spine. “Taking me so good. Tan jodidamente perfecta.”

You met every thrust with one of your own, crying out as the pleasure twisted tighter and tighter inside you.

His hand slid around your throat, not squeezing—just holding. Anchoring.

“Mía,” he growled. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasped. “Papi—I’m yours.”

——

Your cheek pressed to the floor, the cool hardwood no match for the heat rolling off your skin. He fucked you like a man starved — hard, fast, filthy — each thrust driving the breath from your lungs, each drag of his cock hitting deeper than the last.

His fingers dug into your hips, holding you steady as you clawed at the floor for something to grip, moaning shamelessly as the sound of skin-on-skin echoed through the room.

“Look at you,” he rasped, leaning over you, his chest brushing your back. “Taking all of me, begging for more. You like being fucked like this, huh? Face down, ass up, dripping all over my cock?”

You moaned, arching your back harder, pushing back against him. “Yes—fuck, yes. Don’t stop, papi.”

That hand on your throat came back, a little firmer this time, just enough to make your head spin while his other snaked around your body, finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles.

“I wanna feel you come again,” he growled. “Wanna feel this pussy squeeze the fuck outta me.”

Your eyes rolled back, body jerking as pleasure spiked — his cock deep inside you, his fingers working you mercilessly, his grip tightening at your throat in that perfect balance of control and hunger.

“I’m—fuck, I’m coming—” you cried out, voice raw.

He didn’t stop. He slammed into you harder, chasing your orgasm with his own. Your body convulsed around him, toes curling, vision going white-hot as you shattered all over his cock, screaming his name.

“Goddamn,” he groaned, voice guttural as he followed you over the edge, burying himself deep and spilling inside with a low, desperate grunt.

He didn’t pull out right away. His forehead rested against your back as you both panted on the floor, your bodies still twitching from aftershocks.

Then his hand slid over your ass, giving it a sharp slap that made you gasp.

“Don’t get comfortable, mami,” he murmured darkly. “We’re not done.”

Joaquín pulled out slow, letting every inch of you feel the drag as he slipped free, your body shivering from overstimulation, thighs sticky with both of you. But he wasn’t finished—not even close.

He gripped your waist and helped you to your feet, only to lift you into his arms like you weighed nothing. You giggled breathlessly against his shoulder, still dizzy from the last orgasm.

“You’re insatiable,” you panted.

He grinned against your throat. “Y tú eres adictiva.”

He carried you down the hall, past the dim glow of the common area, until you reached the sleek glass-walled office off the corner. The lights from the city cast long shadows through the room—and there it was.

Tony’s ridiculous, custom-built, twelve-thousand-dollar desk.

Joaquín set you down on the edge and kissed you deep, tongue slick and possessive, hands sliding between your legs again as you leaned back onto your elbows, legs spread for him.

He looked down at the mess between your thighs and groaned. “Fuck… look at this pussy. Still wet, still twitching. You ready for another round, preciosa?”

“Come take it,” you dared, voice hoarse, smirking. “Unless you’re too tired.”

His eyes flared. “Oh, you wanna be a smartass?”

He flipped you over so fast you barely had time to react—palms flat on the smooth surface, ass in the air. You felt him line up behind you again, his cock dragging through your slick folds.

And then he slammed into you.

The sound was obscene—skin smacking against skin, desk creaking beneath the force of it.

“Papi!” you gasped, nails scraping across the polished wood. “You’re gonna break it—”

“Let me worry about the desk,” he growled, fucking into you harder. “You just worry about coming on this cock again.”

His hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back just enough for his lips to brush your ear.

“Say my name, mami.”

“Joaquín—fuck—Joaquín, you feel so fucking good—”

“That’s right,” he hissed, breath hot against your cheek. “This pussy’s mine tonight. No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to hear you cry like this.”

He reached around, fingers finding your clit again, circling it as he thrust even harder, angling himself deeper. You cried out, legs shaking as that familiar pressure built again—sharp and hot and too much.

“I—I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” he growled. “One more, baby. Give it to me.”

You shattered around him again, sobbing out his name as your body convulsed, pussy clenching so tight it dragged him over the edge right after. He spilled inside you again with a groan, hips jerking as he rode out every wave.

This time, neither of you spoke for a long moment. Just breathing. Shaking. Fucked-out.

Then Joaquín leaned down and kissed your shoulder, whispering:

“…think there’s enough time to ruin that couch again before we shower?”

The desk was left in shambles—stained, creaking, an obvious crime scene of pleasure—but you didn’t even stop to catch your breath. You pulled Joaquín by the wrist back into the living space, both of you flushed, panting, half-dressed, bodies slick with sweat.

You shoved him down onto the couch with a grin that could’ve killed him.

“Sit back,” you purred, straddling him. “Let me ruin you this time.”

His head fell back against the cushions as you reached between you, wrapped your hand around him, and guided him right back inside you in one smooth, slick slide. He groaned—loud and hoarse—his hands flying to your hips on instinct.

“You’re so tight,” he gasped. “Still?”

You leaned down close, lips brushing his as you whispered, “You should’ve fucked it loose by now, Papi. Maybe you’re just not doing it hard enough.”

His growl vibrated against your throat—but you were already riding him, hard and fast, bouncing in his lap like you needed to break him apart with nothing but your body.

His hands grabbed your ass, your thighs, but you were in charge now. One of your hands wrapped around his throat, light pressure just enough to make his eyes roll back.

He choked on a moan, grinning even as he gasped, “You tryna kill me, mami?”

“You love it,” you growled, grinding your hips down with more force, more hunger. “Look at you, so pussy drunk already.”

And then—God help him—you opened your mouth.

“Spit in it.”

He blinked, breath catching.

“You want that?” he rasped, pupils blown wide.

“Do it, Joaquín.”

His eyes locked with yours, and he spit—slow, dirty, right onto your waiting tongue.

You swallowed it with a moan and laughed when he cursed under his breath like he was going to lose his mind.

“You’re gonna make me fucking come,” he warned, already trembling.

“Not yet,” you hissed, grabbing his jaw, fingers hooking inside his mouth, dragging his bottom lip down in a filthy, possessive gesture. “Not ‘til I say.”

You fucked him harder, using him, letting his cock hit deep, filthy angles inside you that made your vision spark.

And then—one palm slipped between your thighs. A slap. Quick, sharp, right to your soaked center.

You cried out, body jolting, clenching around him in surprise.

“Like that?” he panted.

“Again.”

Smack.

Your back arched violently, your nails digging into his chest as you rode harder, chasing another high that felt just beyond reach. The sound of your skin slapping against his filled the room, drowned only by the wet, breathless moans you couldn’t hold back.

“You’re my nasty little girl,” he groaned. “Fucking own me, mami.”

And you did.

You choked him again—light, loving, filthy—watching his eyes flutter as your pace picked up. Both of you right there, right at the edge, your bodies a slick mess of overstimulation and desperate need.

When he started to beg, you finally gave in.

“Now,” you gasped. “Come with me. Now.”

And you shattered. Together. His hands bruising your hips as he came inside you again, your body convulsing with one last orgasm that shook you to your soul.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you shaking, breathless, clinging to each other like you didn’t know where you ended and he began.

Neither of you said a word.

Still panting, still trembling from round two—or was it three?—you tugged him by the wrist straight into the bathroom, stepping under the hot stream like your body knew what it needed before your brain did.

You didn’t even look back.

The second the water hit your skin, steam rising around you, he followed—fully naked, flushed, and still hard, already pressing up behind you.

“You trying to kill me?” he murmured, breath hot against your shoulder as his arms wrapped around your waist.

“No,” you said, reaching behind to stroke him once, slow and firm. “Trying to drain you dry.”

He groaned—deep and hoarse—grinding into your palm like it hurt to hold back.

You turned around slowly, water trailing between your bodies, and looked at him—really looked. Hair soaked, jaw tight, lips kiss-bruised. His eyes roamed you like he couldn’t decide where to start.

And then his mouth was on yours.

Slippery. Starving.

He kissed you like it was still the first time, like you hadn’t just ridden him raw on the couch, like you hadn’t screamed his name already. Tongue deep, hands groping your ass, pressing you against the slick tile until your back arched into him.

You broke the kiss with a gasp, head tipping back. “You gonna fuck me again?”

His grip tightened.

“Right here, against this wall. You want it?”

You nodded.

He bent just enough to hook your leg up around his hip, lining himself up without hesitation—and slammed inside.

You both groaned—loud, desperate, echoing in the steam.

“Fuck,” you cried out, fingers clawing at his back. “Still so full.”

“Still so tight,” he hissed, moving inside you slow at first, then faster—rough, punishing, deep. “How are you still this wet?”

You gave a breathless laugh, eyes fluttering shut. “Because you haven’t stopped fucking me.”

He grinned, licking the water off your throat as he thrust into you harder. “Good. I don’t plan to.”

Your wet bodies slapped together, each movement messier than the last. He wrapped both arms around your thighs, lifting you fully off the floor so he could fuck you harder, deeper—your back flat to the wall, your moans echoing off the tile like a song he was desperate to memorize.

“You feel that?” he panted, forehead pressed to yours.

“Yes—yes, I feel everything—”

“Good,” he growled. “I want you sore tomorrow. I want you remembering this every time you shift in your seat.”

You whimpered, nails raking down his back.

He slammed into you once—twice—and then suddenly dropped to his knees, letting your legs slide off his shoulders as he kissed his way down your stomach.

“What are you doing?” you gasped.

He grinned up at you.

“Finishing what I started.”

And then his mouth was on you again—filthy, tongue lapping between your thighs while water streamed down his back. You cried out, one leg lifted over his shoulder, fingers tangled in his wet hair as he devoured you.

Moaning into your pussy like it tasted better every time.

Like he’d never get enough.

His tongue had barely left your clit before you grabbed him by the jaw and hauled him up.

“Get on the floor,” you growled, voice shredded and dripping with lust. “Now.”

Joaquín blinked, stunned for half a second—then smirked. “Yes, mami.”

He sank down onto the slick tile, leaning back on his elbows, legs sprawled, cock flushed and thick between his thighs. You straddled him before he could say another word, water cascading down your bodies, steam rising in waves.

“You said you wanted me sore,” you panted, grinding your soaked pussy along his length, not letting him inside yet. “Then take it.”

And then you slammed down onto him in one brutal thrust.

He choked on a gasp, head tipping back against the wall. “Shit—”

“Oh, don’t go quiet now,” you purred, circling your hips with slow, punishing control. “You said you could handle it.”

His hands gripped your thighs, trembling. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

“Good.”

You rode him hard—slick, wet, unforgiving—your ass smacking against his thighs, water splashing beneath you, moans echoing off the glass. Your nails dragged down his chest as your pace built to something wild, frantic. Unhinged.

His hands came up to your hips, trying to slow you—but you slapped them away.

“Don’t you dare,” you hissed, fingers gripping the base of his throat. “You take every fucking stroke.”

His hips bucked. “Mami—”

“I said,” you gasped, grinding deep, “take it.”

You felt him twitch inside you—felt his abs contract beneath your thighs.

“Look at you,” you whispered, cupping his jaw, riding him faster now, sloppier. “So good for me. So full. You gonna come again, Papi?”

He whimpered—whimpered. You’d broken him.

“I can’t—fuck, I’m close—”

“Give it to me,” you growled, riding him like he belonged to you. “Come for me. Let me feel that cock pulse while I’m milking it.”

He came with a shout, whole body arching off the tile, cock throbbing deep inside you. You kept going, grinding through it until you tipped over too—screaming his name, walls clenching around him in the wettest, filthiest orgasm of the night.

You collapsed on top of him, both of you trembling, panting into each other’s mouths, your bodies still moving—slow now, dragging every last pulse out of each other.

After a minute, he managed to speak.

“Marry me.”

You barked out a laugh, dazed. “Shut up.”

“Deadass. You just tamed me.”

You grinned, forehead pressed to his.

“Good. Now get up so I can rinse off and fuck you again properly on that bed.”

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Top Gun Headcannons 

characters: Rooster, Hangman, Bob & Maverick

summary: the readers first time / first time with him

BRADLEY “ROOSTER” BRADSHAW

You’ve done everything except this. But tonight, you stop being scared of how big he is… and let him ruin you sweetly.

⸻

You don’t even make it to the bed.

It starts on the couch — heavy kisses, impatient hands, your thighs open and him slotted between them like it’s the only place he belongs. You’ve been here before. Heated makeouts. His hand down your shorts. His mouth between your legs. He knows how to make you fall apart — has done it many times now — but this?

This is different.

He’s hard against you, straining in his jeans, and when you grind your hips up to meet him, you feel it: thick, hot, insistent. And you finally say it.

“I want you.”

Rooster stills. Eyes searching yours. His voice is low and careful.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve never—”

“Not with anyone like you.”

A long pause.

Then he nods. Quiet. Reverent. And starts undressing you like he’s never seen anything so beautiful.

When you’re bare beneath him, his shirt comes off too. Then his pants. And when he slides his boxers down and you see him for the first time?

Your breath catches.

“Bradley…”

“I know,” he murmurs, stroking a hand up your thigh. “We’ll take it slow.”

He’s already reaching for the drawer, pulling out a condom — but he takes his time. Rolls it on with a deep breath and comes back to you with that look in his eyes. The one that makes you feel wanted. Not just for this, but for everything.

He kneels between your legs, one arm braced beside your head, and when he lines himself up, his voice drops.

“You’re gonna feel so full, baby. I promise I’ll stop if you want me to.”

You nod, already breathless. He kisses your forehead. Then your lips. And then…

He pushes in.

Slow. Thick. Unbearably deep.

Just the tip and you’re already gasping, clutching his shoulders like you need something to hold onto. Rooster groans, barely moving, eyes lockedon yours.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Just… you’re really… big.”

“I know,” he says, and leans down to kiss your neck. “You’re takin’ it so good, though.”

He doesn’t rush. Inches in with agonizing care, letting your body adjust, letting you feel every single stretch, every little tremble as he works his way deeper. You dig your nails into his back and whimper.

“Bradley— it’s a lot.”

“I know, baby. Just breathe. You’re doin’ perfect.”

And when he finally bottoms out — hips pressed against yours, chest to chest, both of you sweating and panting like you’ve run a marathon — he doesn’t move. Not yet. He just stays there, letting you feel it.

“That’s all of me,” he whispers, kissing your cheek. “You took it. God, you’re perfect.”

You blink up at him, overwhelmed. You’ve never felt anything like this. So full. So close. So loved. And when he starts to move, slow and careful and full of reverence, your eyes flutter shut.

“Let go for me,” he says. “Let me take care of you.”

And you do.

You fall apart on him with a soft cry, and he groans against your skin as you clench around him. He praises you the whole time. Tells you how good you feel, how perfect you are, how proud he is that you trusted him.

And when it’s over — when you’re trembling and sensitive and tucked under the blanket in his arms — he presses a kiss to your temple and holds you tight.

“Told you you’d take it. And now you’re mine.”

JAKE “HANGMAN” SERESIN

He’s thick. He’s smug. And he’s been dying to get inside you for way too long.

⸻

You knew this was coming.

Weeks of teasing. Weeks of late-night texts, hands grazing yours at the bar, kisses that stopped just short of going too far. Jake had been patient — well, as patient as Hangman could be — but tonight?

You gave him the look.

And he devoured you.

⸻

He’s all hands and mouth at first, dragging your shirt over your head with a hungry groan, biting softly at your collarbone as he lays you down on the bed. His knee slots between your thighs, and his voice is low and cocky:

“You finally ready for me, darlin’?”

“I think so.”

“Think?” he grins, nipping at your jaw. “You better be real sure.”

And then you feel it.

Pressed against your hip. Thick. Heavy. Hard.

You freeze a little — breath hitching — and Jake immediately notices. Of course he does.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“You’re just… you’re bigger than I thought.”

“Mm.” He grins like the devil. “That a compliment or a warning?”

You flush. He kisses your shoulder, slows down.

“Hey. You don’t have to do this.”

“No,” you say quickly. “I want to. I just— I’ve never… taken someone your size.”

“Shit,” he mutters. And for the first time since you met him, Jake Seresin looks genuinely floored.

⸻

He softens.

He kisses you sweetly now. Less teasing, more reverence. He slides your panties down and whispers how pretty you are, how good you smell, how long he’s wanted this. Wanted you.

When he finally rolls the condom on, he strokes himself once and lets out a shaky breath.

“You let me know the second it’s too much, alright?”

“Okay.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Then he lines himself up. Presses in.

⸻

And oh. my. God.

The stretch is instant. Your fingers claw at the sheets, breath caught in your throat as his tip slips inside — just barely — and you swear you feel everything. Every ridge, every pulse, every inch like he’s built to ruin you.

“Fuck, sugar,” he groans, already breathless. “You’re squeezin’ me like a vice.”

“You’re big,” you gasp. “Jake—”

“I know. I know. Just relax. You’re doin’ so damn good.”

He takes his time. One hand gripping your thigh, the other cradling your face like you’re breakable. He kisses you through every inch. When he finally bottoms out, he’s panting into your mouth.

“Jesus Christ… you feel like heaven.”

“You’re… all the way in?”

“Yeah, baby,” he grins, forehead pressed to yours. “Every. Fucking. Inch.”

⸻

He moves slow at first. Deep, dragging thrusts that have your eyes rolling back and your nails sinking into his shoulders. But it doesn’t take long for that Hangman confidence to come back. That smirk. That wicked glint.

“Didn’t think you’d take me so well,” he groans, hips snapping harder.

“You like being full, don’t you?”

“Bet you’ll be thinkin’ about this every time you sit down tomorrow.”

And then he wrecks you. Not rough — just overwhelming. Stretched to the edge, overwhelmed by praise and pressure and the sound of his voice in your ear.

You come so hard you forget your name.

⸻

After?

Jake doesn’t move. Just stays inside you, hands rubbing soft circles on your waist, breathing hard as he presses soft kisses to your cheek.

“You okay?”

“More than okay.”

“Good.” He grins. “Told you I’d make it worth the wait.”

ROBERT “BOB” FLOYD

You’ve never done this before. And he’s never wanted anyone more.

⸻

You’d told him early on.

That you’d never done it before. That you’d waited — not for some big romantic reason, but just… hadn’t felt safe enough. Seen enough. Loved enough.

Until Bob.

And when you whispered that secret to him one night, curled against his chest, he just nodded. Kissed your temple. Whispered,

“Whenever you’re ready. I’ll take care of you.”

⸻

Now? You’re ready.

And he treats it like it matters. Like it means something.

Because to Bob? It does.

⸻

He lights the candles. Puts on a playlist. Keeps the lights low and the touches soft. He lays you down in the center of the bed like you’re something to worship, and kisses every inch of your body before ever even thinking about slipping inside.

“You’re sure?” he asks softly, thumb brushing your cheek.

“Yes,” you whisper. “I want you.”

“Okay,” he nods, swallowing hard. “Okay, baby.”

⸻

He undresses slow. Like he doesn’t want to scare you.

His body is lean but strong — and when he slides off his boxers, your breath catches. You weren’t expecting it to be… that much.

He sees your face. Stops immediately.

“Too much?”

“No— I just… you’re bigger than I thought.”

His voice goes gentle. “I’ll go slow. You tell me when to stop.”

⸻

He warms you up first. Kisses down your stomach. Presses his mouth between your legs until you’re shaking, gasping, nearly crying from how gentle and thorough he is. Only when your thighs are trembling and your hand’s in his hair does he finally reach for the condom.

⸻

And then… he’s above you. Between your legs. Holding himself there, eyes locked to yours.

“Deep breath, baby,” he whispers. “We’ll take it one inch at a time.”

And when he pushes in?

You feel it.

All of it.

Even just the tip makes you gasp — a soft whimper slipping past your lips as your fingers tighten on his arms.

“Too much?”

“No. Just— slow. Please.”

And he does. Inch by inch. Kissing you the whole time. Whispering things like:

“You’re doin’ so good.”

“So tight, sweetheart… I can feel your heartbeat.”

“You’re makin’ me lose my mind.”

⸻

When he’s fully inside, your body’s trembling. You’ve never felt so full, so stretched, so utterly claimed — and Bob doesn’t even move yet. He just holds you, lets you adjust, forehead pressed to yours.

“You okay?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“Tell me if anything hurts.”

“No… it feels good. You feel good.”

And when he finally starts to move?

It’s like floating.

Soft, deep thrusts. His hand on your waist. His lips on your throat. He’s whispering your name like a prayer. Telling you how perfect you are. How good you feel. How long he’s waited for this.

“I’m not gonna last long, baby. Not when you’re like this.”

“It’s okay. I want you to.”

You both fall apart together. Shaking. Shattered. Held so tight you don’t know where he ends and you begin.

⸻

After?

He doesn’t let go. Not even for a second.

Wraps the blanket around you. Holds you to his chest. Kisses your forehead over and over.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

“No,” he murmurs, arms tightening around you. “Thank you. For trusting me.”

PETE “MAVERICK” MITCHELL

You’ve never had him. Not like this. And once you do… nothing else compares.

⸻

You’re already breathless by the time he lays you down.

The lights are off, but the lamp beside the bed glows low and gold. Everything feels warm — his hands, his breath, his voice.

And when he kisses you?

It’s slow. Intentional. The kind of kiss that owns you. The kind that warnsyou this is going to be different. Not sweet. Not rushed.

Earned.

“You’re sure you’re ready?” he murmurs against your neck.

“Yes, Daddy,” you whisper.

He smiles. “Good girl.”

⸻

He undresses you slowly. Carefully. Like he’s unwrapping something fragile.

You’ve been naked with him before. Touched. Teased. Had his hands and mouth between your thighs until you sobbed. But this?

This is the first time he’s going to be inside you.

He slides his belt off with one hand and tosses it on the chair. You watch his pants drop, eyes going wide when you see him — long, thick, commanding. Your thighs instinctively press together.

He notices.

“It’s alright, baby. I’ve got you,” he says softly, moving over you again. “Just relax. Breathe.”

⸻

He doesn’t rush.

One hand cups your jaw while the other guides himself to your entrance. And when he pushes in — slow, steady, unshakably in control — your breath catches.

The stretch. The pressure. The overwhelming fullness.

“That’s it,” he whispers, lips brushing your temple. “Nice and slow.”

“Daddy—”

“I know, sweetheart. I know. You’re doin’ so good for me.”

He stills once he’s fully inside, and you feel it. All of him. Every inch. Every throb. Your hands claw at his back, your body trembling from the fullness.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“You’re takin’ me so well. Just like I knew you would.”

⸻

He moves in deep, slow thrusts — rhythmic, like flying formation — and every time his hips press into yours, you fall apart just a little more. He whispers praise into your ear between each breathless moan:

“So tight around me, baby.”

“This your first time takin’ someone like me?”

“Bet no one’s ever touched you like this. Fucked you like this. Loved you like this.”

You come with his hand over your mouth and your body arching into his. He doesn’t stop. He keeps going, deep and measured, riding you through the aftershocks with that same calm intensity.

You’ve never felt anything like it.

⸻

When it’s over, you’re tucked under his chest — legs still shaking, voice wrecked — and he brushes your hair back gently, lips to your forehead.

“You’re mine now, sweetheart.”

“Always were.”

BONUS!!! ALL FOUR OF THEM AT ONCE 😝

The room is silent when you take off your shirt.

All four of them — Rooster leaning against the doorframe, Hangman lounging at the edge of the bed, Bob sitting nervously in the armchair, Maverick standing with his arms crossed by the dresser — stop breathing at the same time.

You’re wearing nothing but your panties now. Chest bare. Eyes soft.

“Are you all gonna keep staring,” you murmur, “or are you gonna come touch me?”

That’s all it takes.

⸻

Rooster is the first to reach you.

Big hands, warm mouth. He kisses you slow and deep, tugging you into his chest like he’s waited years. His tongue curls against yours with a quiet groan and when you whimper into his mouth, he breaks the kiss and mutters:

“You sure you can handle this, baby?”

“Try me.”

⸻

Hangman is cocky but patient.

He strips slowly, eyes never leaving your body. The second Rooster pulls back, Jake slips in behind you, presses his mouth to your neck, and cups your chest like he owns it.

“Mm. Soft as I imagined.”

“You imagined this a lot, didn’t you?”

“Darlin’,” he whispers, voice thick, “you have no idea.”

⸻

Then there’s Bob.

Quiet, flushed, watching like he’s not sure he deserves this. You reach for him and he crosses the room in a heartbeat. His hands are gentle but desperate, stroking your thighs, kissing your shoulder.

“You okay, baby?”

“I want you, Bobby,” you whisper. “All of you.”

His breath catches.

⸻

Maverick hasn’t moved.

Not until you look at him. Hold his gaze.

“You gonna join us, Daddy?”

His jaw flexes.

And then he’s in front of you, tugging you into his arms, tilting your chin up.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for, sweetheart.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then lie back,” he murmurs, voice sharp and low. “Let us take care of you.”

You lie in the center, naked now, heart pounding. The lights are low. The sheets soft.

They surround you like they’ve trained for this.

Rooster kisses down your stomach.

Bob brushes your hair back and whispers encouragement.

Hangman holds your legs open like it’s his right.

Maverick watches it all with quiet control — kneeling beside your head, stroking your jaw with one strong thumb.

“She’s shaking already,” Jake smirks.

“It’s a lot,” Bob murmurs. “She’s doing so good.”

“Let her breathe,” Rooster says, kissing your inner thigh.

“She can take it,” Maverick cuts in, voice gravel and command. “Can’t you, baby?”

You nod.

“Use your words.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

⸻

🫦 WHO KISSES YOU FIRST?

Bob.

Of course it’s Bob.

He’s soft and reverent, kissing you like it’s his last chance. His hand cradles your face while Rooster mouths at your chest, while Jake trails fingers down your stomach, while Maverick murmurs praise into your ear.

“Look at you,” Mav whispers. “Taking four men like you’re made for it.”

“She was,” Rooster growls. “She was made for us.”

It’s overwhelming — in the best way.

Bob’s fingers stroke between your legs. Rooster’s mouth marks your collarbone. Jake’s hand wraps around your ankle, kissing the inside of your knee with a smirk. Maverick… watches it all.

Corrects them when they move too fast.

Keeps you calm.

Keeps you present.

“That’s it, baby. Let them take care of you.”

“You’re doing so good for us.”

“You want more?”

“Say it.”

You do. You sob it.

And they give it.

It’s Rooster’s mouth that tips you over.

His tongue is slow and deep, fingers curling inside you, while Bob holds your hand and Maverick whispers, “Good girl. That’s it, sweetheart. Come for us.”

And you do.

You shatter.

But they don’t stop.

Not until you’ve come three time more, voice hoarse, chest heaving, fingers clinging to whoever you can reach.

Jake leans over you after, licking his lips, smirking like he’s won a bet.

“I wanna make her cry next.”

🥹 AFTERCARE 🥹

Bob wraps you in a blanket first.

Rooster pulls you into his chest.

Jake wipes your thighs with a towel and actually kisses your knee like it’s sacred.

Maverick brushes your hair off your sweaty forehead and kisses your temple like a promise.

“You’re ours now, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

“Every piece of you.”

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Haunted

bob floyd x fem!reader

part 2 to meant to be yours 

⚠️ TW: DARK CONTENT — Please read with care.

This fic contains stalking, kidnapping, psychological manipulation, chloroform use, physical struggle, captivity, and obsessive behavior.

Themes include non-consensual restraint, emotional trauma, and disturbing content.

This is a dark romance thriller. Not a healthy relationship.

Reader discretion is advised.

The first thing she feels is the cold.

Concrete beneath her. Damp. Hard. Her head lolls to the side, throbbing. Her mouth won’t open. Something sticky stretches across her lips, tight, suffocating. Her limbs won’t move — not freely.

Her eyelids flutter.

It takes effort — too much effort — just to peel them open.

Dark. The room is dim, the air stale. There’s no window. No light source but the single flickering bulb swinging overhead, like it’s being toyed with. Like it knows she’s awake now.

Her eyes adjust slowly.

She’s in a basement. Cement walls. Cracked floor. Mold in the corners. It smells like dust and rot and rusted metal. Her wrists are tied behind her. Rope burns into her skin where she must’ve fought in her sleep. Her ankles are bound, too. She’s slumped awkwardly against a concrete pillar in the middle of the room.

There’s something on her mouth.

Duct tape.

And then — a sound. Breathing.

She freezes.

Her vision sharpens in jerks, patches, like a broken slideshow. Her heart pounds violently in her chest, slamming against her ribs.

And there he is.

Sitting on the floor in front of her, legs crossed like a child, spine straight, hands folded neatly in his lap.

Bob.

Not the Bob she knew. Not the gentle, soft-spoken man who brought her tea when she was sick. This version is hollow-eyed and vibrating, his skin too tight on his bones, the smile too wide, too still.

“There she is,” he says softly, reverently. “I was starting to think you weren’t gonna wake up.”

He shifts forward on his knees. Crawls. Stops right in front of her.

“I didn’t mean to use so much,” he murmurs. “With the cloth. I just—I had to get you here, baby. I had to.”

He brushes a piece of hair from her forehead with the back of his hand, like he’s petting her. Her body jerks away instinctively, but the rope holds firm.

“No, no, it’s okay,” he coos. “I know you’re scared. I know it’s… disorienting. But it’s gonna be okay now. You’re safe. I fixed everything.”

Her breath quickens. Tears sting at her eyes, rising fast.

“I know it was getting bad back there. All those people trying to tell you what to do. The cops. Maverick. The Navy. Like they knew what was best for you.”

He laughs — a quiet, bitter sound that dies too fast.

“They never loved you like I do.”

He gets closer. Too close. His knees touch hers. His hands settle gently on her thighs like they belong there.

“You don’t have to be scared of me. Not anymore. That other life — the one where you locked me out, where you turned everyone against me — that’s over.”

She shakes her head violently. Muffled cries behind the tape.

“I know you’re upset. I knew you would be. But you’ll see. Once the noise clears, once we’re alone long enough, you’ll remember.”

He leans in, presses his forehead to hers. His eyes close.

“I still remember what your skin felt like the first night I kissed you. The way you sighed into me, like I was oxygen. Don’t you remember that?”

She whimpers.

“I loved you so hard it broke me,” he whispers. “And you threw it away like I was some… mistake.”

He pulls back suddenly, his expression snapping — from gentle to sharp in a blink.

“You humiliated me.”

His voice echoes off the walls.

“You went to them. You betrayed me.”

His hand slams against the concrete beside her head. The bulb overhead swings harder.

“I lost everything. Do you even care what you did to me?”

Her body shakes. Her lungs ache. She can’t speak. Can’t scream. Can only cry — soft and strangled behind the tape.

Then, just as quickly as the rage flared, it vanishes.

He sinks back again. The smile returns, cracked and artificial.

“But it’s okay. I forgive you.”

He wipes a tear from her cheek. Like a lover. Like a priest.

“Because now we get to start over. Just us. No more cameras. No more cops. No more lies.”

He gestures vaguely behind her, to the locked stairwell. Heavy door. Steel bar. A padlock.

“No one’s coming. You’re mine now, the way it was always meant to be.”

He tilts his head, studying her tear-streaked face.

“I’m gonna take that tape off soon. But only if you promise not to scream. I don’t want to hurt you again.”

He grins, like it’s a joke. Like what he did wasn’t already unspeakable.

“And baby… if you try to run, I’ll have to tie you tighter. And I really don’t want to do that. So let’s be good, okay?”

Her body goes rigid as he lifts the edge of the tape slowly, tenderly — as if he were peeling off a bandage.

“Let’s be good,” he murmurs again. “For me.”

———

The duct tape peels off with a slow, agonizing rip. It burns her skin — pulls at it — leaves behind a slick of tears, spit, and sweat.

Her lips part immediately, desperate for air. Her jaw aches. Her breath hitches, chest rising too fast, too shallow. But she doesn’t scream.

She wants to. God, she wants to.

But the look in his eyes keeps her silent.

Not because she trusts him — she doesn’t. Not because she’s calm — she’s not.

But because she’s smart.

Because screaming in a place like this — wherever this is — won’t bring anyone. And he already warned her what would happen if she tried to run.

“See?” he whispers, cradling her face in both hands. “That’s my good girl. Knew you’d remember.”

She flinches, but he doesn’t care. He strokes her cheek like she’s a pet, a possession.

“I was worried at first. You were out for a long time. You scared me, baby. But now you’re here. Really here.”

He leans back, crosses his legs again like he’s settling in for a bedtime story.

“I found this place months ago. It’s not much to look at, but it’s got everything we need. No neighbors. No traffic. Nobody’s gonna hear a thing out here. Not unless I want them to.”

She glances around — slow, discreet, memorizing what she can. The corners of the room are shadowed, but she can make out a rusty utility sink, a pile of folded blankets in one corner, a table near the back wall with a crate full of things she can’t see clearly from this distance.

His things.

His tools.

“I had to do this. You know that, right?” he says. “You were slipping away from me. Acting like I was some kind of monster.”

Her mouth is dry, voice barely a whisper. “You are.”

His expression doesn’t falter.

He just smiles wider. Unshaken. “No, baby. I’m yours. That’s all I ever wanted to be.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls something out — a scrunchie. Herscrunchie. The blue one she lost weeks ago. He holds it delicately between his fingers like it’s a religious relic.

“I kept this. I know it’s stupid, but… it still smells like you.”

Her skin crawls. Her stomach turns.

He moves closer again — slow, reverent — and slips the scrunchie onto her wrist like a bracelet. Over the rope.

“There. Now you’ve got a piece of me. Just like I’ve got you.”

She forces herself to speak, trying to keep her voice even. “You need help, Bob. You’re sick.”

His jaw twitches. For a second, just a second, the softness drops.

“I’m not sick,” he says flatly. “I’m in love. And you used to love me, too. Don’t lie.”

She opens her mouth, but his hand flies up — not to hit, but to hush. Two fingers to her lips.

“Shhh. Don’t ruin it.”

He breathes in deeply through his nose like he’s calming himself. Like he’s trying to stay the nice version — the sweet one.

“I’ve got food upstairs. Some canned stuff. Water. I even brought your favorite lotion from your bathroom.” His voice brightens, childlike, proud. “The one with the vanilla smell.”

She doesn’t speak. She can’t.

“And in a few days, when you’re calm, we can go for walks. Not far. Just around the woods. But only if you behave. If you scream, or try to run…” His eyes flick to the rope, then back to her face. “I won’t be so nice next time.”

He stands suddenly, brushing off his jeans.

“You need rest. You’ve been through a lot.”

She glares up at him. “Untie me.”

He smiles. “Not yet. Not until I know I can trust you.”

He walks over to the table in the corner. She watches every movement, hyper-aware. He picks something up — a Polaroid camera.

He holds it up.

“I wanna remember this. The moment we started over.”

The flash goes off before she can turn her face.

Click.

The photo slides out, and he shakes it gently.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs.

He tucks it into his shirt pocket like a keepsake.

“I’ll be back soon. Don’t go anywhere.”

He laughs at his own joke, walks to the locked door, and disappears behind it with the click of a heavy padlock.

And then, finally, she sobs.

Because now she knows — no one’s coming.

———

The light above her flickers—buzzing, dim, sterile.

She’s still tied to the cement pillar, legs bound tight with coarse rope that’s started to burn raw against her skin. Her arms, at least, are free now. They tingle with returned circulation, heavy and aching as they settle in her lap. She hasn’t spoken. Not since she woke up.

A tray sits in front of her on the floor. Real food. A plate of chicken, rice, green beans. A metal fork. A bottle of water. Even a folded napkin, like this was some kind of picnic.

Bob sits cross-legged just a few feet away, his own plate balanced in his lap as he chews slowly. Calmly. Like this is normal. Like this is theirs.

He watches her as he eats, eyes soft, almost dreamy.

“I made your favorite,” he says finally, licking sauce from his thumb. “You always liked when I cooked for you. Remember that one night—chili, cornbread, a shitty movie on Netflix? You said I made you feel safe.”

He smiles like it’s a warm memory. She stares at the food. Doesn’t touch it.

A minute passes. Then another.

He sets his fork down with a quiet clink.

“You’re not eating.”

She doesn’t respond. Her throat is dry, lips cracked. Her hands twitch, just slightly, but still she doesn’t move.

“You think it’s poisoned?” His voice lilts up, teasing. Then flattens. “It’s not.”

She looks away.

His tone sharpens, just a little. “I said—it’s not.”

She flinches.

Bob watches her closely. His jaw tenses. He picks up his fork again and eats another bite, slower this time, like he’s performing for her. Like he needs her to understand that everything he’s done—this kidnapping, this basement, this madness—it’s all coming from a place of love.

“You’ve been through a lot,” he murmurs between bites. “I know. I scared you. I hate that I had to do it like this, but you left me no choice. You tried to run. You betrayed me.”

He shrugs, sets his empty plate aside.

“But it’s okay now. We’re back together. That’s what matters.”

Still, she doesn’t eat.

Bob stands.

Her body stiffens as he walks across the basement to an old red toolbox near the wall. He crouches, flips it open, and begins rifling through it slowly—deliberately.

Metal clangs.

When he turns around, there’s a knife in his hand.

Rusty. Dull. The kind of blade that wasn’t made for precision but for fear.

Her eyes widen.

He approaches again, quiet and unhurried. The blade dangles loosely at his side.

“I’m gonna ask you again,” he says softly, crouching beside her. “Eat.”

She stares at the food, hands trembling now.

“Eat, sweetheart.” His voice is sing-song. “Don’t make me ask again.”

Her lip quivers. She reaches for the fork.

He watches—still crouched, still holding the knife.

She stabs a bite of the chicken. Brings it to her mouth.

Chews.

Swallows.

It’s good.

She hates that it’s good.

Bob exhales like he’s relieved. Like this proves something.

“See?” he whispers, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Tastes just like home.”

She doesn’t answer. Just keeps eating, slow and cautious, every movement watched.

Bob finally sets the knife down beside him and picks up his empty plate.

“You eat,” he says gently. “I’ll clean up.”

And just like that, he hums a little tune and walks off to rinse his dish in the corner sink—like none of this is wrong.

Like she’s not a hostage.

Like they’re just… living together again.

And she eats. Because she’s starving. Because she’s scared. Because something inside her—something fragile and cracked—doesn’t know what’s real anymore.

——

The air is damp. Cold.

The only light flickers from a single overhead bulb, casting a sickly yellow hue over the cement floor. Y/N is still tied to the pillar — arms bound behind her back again, legs curled awkwardly to the side, her body stiff from being in the same position for too long.

Footsteps echo down the concrete stairs.

Bob appears at the bottom of them with a towel slung over his shoulder and something folded in his hands. A pair of leggings. One of her old T-shirts. Familiar. From her closet.

He’s calm. Smiling.

“You’re awake,” he says like it’s a good morning. “That’s good. That’s real good.”

He walks over, crouches in front of her, and gently brushes a strand of hair away from her face. His touch makes her flinch, but he doesn’t stop.

“You must feel gross, huh? I figured. That’s why I brought this.”

He sets the towel and clothes aside and pulls a little plastic bin closer. Inside — a bottle of soap, a rag, a cheap razor, a travel-sized shampoo. He lays them out one by one like it’s a spa treatment.

“You need to be clean,” he murmurs. “I don’t like seeing you like this. Not when you’re mine.”

Her mouth stays shut. Eyes tracking his every move.

Bob stands, walks behind her, and begins untying her legs. Her ankles are swollen from the rope. He touches them softly.

“Shhh,” he says. “Don’t move yet. I’m gonna help you.”

He grabs the bucket from the corner. She hadn’t even noticed it before. It’s filled with warm water—steam still rising. He dips the rag in, wrings it out, then crouches again.

“You’re gonna wash yourself,” he says gently. “I’ll be right here.”

He unties her arms next. Her shoulders ache from the tension, and she nearly collapses forward. Bob catches her and steadies her against the pillar like he’s comforting her.

“You try to run,” he adds softly, “I’ll break your leg. You know I will. But I don’t think you’re gonna try, are you?”

His tone is so tender it almost sounds loving.

Y/N shakes her head, eyes wide. No, she’s not going to try.

He kisses her forehead.

“Good girl.”

Bob takes a step back and sits against the opposite wall, folding his arms as he watches.

“Go on,” he says. “I want to see you clean. Like you’re supposed to be.”

Her hands tremble as she picks up the rag. The water is too hot but she doesn’t complain. She dips it again and starts with her arms, wiping away grime, dried sweat, the ache of captivity. Her eyes burn with humiliation.

Bob watches. Smiling. Calm.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. “You always were. But now? You’re really starting to look like mine again.”

She keeps washing. Quiet. Terrified.

When she’s done, she sets the rag aside and reaches for the towel. Her hands barely work, but she dries herself in silence, then slowly pulls on the clean clothes.

Bob sighs softly, like it’s the best thing he’s seen in years.

“That’s better. You feel better, don’t you?”

She doesn’t answer. Just nods once.

Bob walks over and crouches in front of her again. He gently re-ties her legs with the same rope, but looser this time. Almost lazily. Like he trusts her.

“You did real good,” he whispers. “I’m proud of you.”

Then he strokes her hair once, stands, and walks back toward the stairs.

“Get some rest. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

He doesn’t say what that means.

But the lights go out again.

And the dark feels colder than before.

———

The silence is thick.

There’s no telling how long it’s been since she last slept. Or what time it is. The only light comes from a dying flashlight in the corner, casting faint, trembling shadows against the walls.

Y/N’s back is pressed to the cement pillar again, legs re-bound, arms behind her. The clean clothes cling to her skin with cold sweat. Her head hangs forward, heavy with exhaustion.

She fights to keep her eyes open. Her whole body aches. But she’s starting to drift. The tension, the fear, the sheer mental overload—it’s finally pulling her under.

She doesn’t even hear him come down the stairs.

Not until a voice—soft, too soft—breaks through the haze.

“I couldn’t sleep either.”

Her eyes snap open.

Bob’s standing just a few feet away now, barefoot, dressed in joggers and an old Navy T-shirt. He looks almost normal in the dim light—until he kneels down beside her and lays out a pillow and blanket like this is just some sleepover.

“You’ve been real good,” he says gently. “You deserve to sleep with someone next to you. So you feel safe.”

She doesn’t say anything. Her jaw is locked shut, throat tight.

Bob moves behind her, gently shifting her body. She’s too weak to resist.

Then he lowers himself to the floor—right next to her—and wraps the blanket around them both.

His chest presses to her back. One arm snakes around her middle, holding her close. She’s trapped in the warmth of him, the weight of him, even with her arms pinned behind the pillar. His breath fans over the back of her neck.

“There,” he whispers. “That’s better, isn’t it? Just like it used to be.”

Her breathing hitches.

It was never like this. Never.

But Bob’s already nuzzling into her shoulder, sighing like he’s home.

“I know you’re scared. But you don’t have to be,” he murmurs. “Not with me. Not when I love you this much.”

She can feel his heartbeat against her spine.

Steady. Unshaken. Not normal.

“I watch you sleep all the time,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s nicer when I get to feel you next to me. When I know you’re safe.”

He presses a kiss to her shoulder. Then another. Lingering.

She squeezes her eyes shut. Forces her body still. Pretends to sleep.

Bob exhales deeply, content.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I’ll still be here in the morning.”

And he is.

Even long after the flashlight dies.

——

The dim light from a small lamp flickers. Y/N’s arms are free today—but only her arms. Her legs are still bound, stretched in front of her like dead weight. The bruises on her wrists are healing badly, scabbed over in angry shades of red and purple.

She sits slouched against the pillar, staring blankly ahead. Her hair is dirty. Her eyes are hollow.

A new sound breaks the quiet: the creak of the basement door.

Bob descends the stairs slowly. In his hands—something familiar.

A worn leather-bound journal.

Her journal.

She stiffens.

He sits down across from her, legs crossed like a child again, flipping through the pages slowly. Reverently.

“I used to wonder what you thought about when I wasn’t around,” he says softly. “Now I know.”

She doesn’t speak.

He turns a page, trailing a finger along her handwriting. His voice warms like a match catching fire.

“This one’s from January. You wrote this the day after our first trip to Coronado.” He grins faintly. “‘I think I’m falling for him. Slowly. But surely.’” He looks up, eyes bright. “You meant me.”

Tears well in her eyes. She shakes her head silently.

Bob leans forward, smile starting to stretch too wide. Too pleased.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed. You loved me before you even realized it. I could feel it. The way you looked at me. The way you let me in.”

He flips again. Finds another page. His tone turns dreamy, like he’s reading poetry.

“‘I feel like he sees me. The real me. Like he wants to protect me.’” He laughs quietly. “And I do. I always have.”

She finally speaks—soft and trembling.

“Bob… that was before. Before everything.”

His smile falters. Just a twitch.

He stands suddenly, pacing the room with the diary still in hand.

“No. No, it’s still true. You don’t stop loving someone just because you’re scared. That’s not real. That’s panic. That’s conditioning.”

He stops, turns back toward her.

“You’re just confused because the world told you this”—he gestures to the basement—“is wrong. But what do they know about us?”

She looks at him, heart pounding.

“You drugged me. Tied me up. You kidnapped me, Bob.”

He walks toward her slowly, crouching down in front of her again.

“But you’re still here. You haven’t tried to run. You haven’t screamed. You eat the food I bring you. You let me sleep beside you. You let me read this.” He holds up the diary again, as if it’s a love letter, not a record of her life.

“You wouldn’t do any of that if you didn’t still care.”

Her mouth parts in disbelief, throat dry. “I don’t have a choice.”

Bob’s expression softens like she just told him something sweet. He strokes a strand of hair from her cheek.

“There’s always a choice, sweetheart. And you’re still choosing me.”

He kisses her forehead. She flinches, but doesn’t move away.

And that’s enough for him.

Bob sets the journal carefully beside her like an offering.

Then walks back to the stairs.

“I’ll let you read through it again tonight. Remind yourself of how good it used to be.”

The basement door creaks shut behind him.

And she breaks into silent tears.

Because she knows what’s coming next.

——

The meal sits untouched.

Bob sets a tray down in front of her like he has every day for weeks—careful arrangement, her favorite comfort food, a bottle of water with the label peeled off just the way she used to do.

She glares at it. Glares at him.

He sits across from her again, expectant. Hopeful.

“You have to eat, sweetheart.”

But this time… something inside her snaps.

Her arms are free—he’s trusted her with that much. And she uses them.

In one sudden motion, she grabs the plate and hurls it at him.

It smashes against his shoulder and shatters against the wall behind him. Ceramic shards fly. A piece of it grazes his neck, slicing the skin.

Bob stumbles back, stunned.

Then slowly—slowly—he straightens.

“Okay,” he says, almost calmly. “Okay. I get it. You’re angry. You’re scared.”

He moves toward her with hands up in surrender.

But she lunges. As far as the restraints on her legs will let her. Her nails scratch down his face—deep—leaving red, angry lines across his cheek.

He grabs her wrists in shock.

She kicks him square in the thigh, and he curses under his breath, stumbling back hard into the concrete wall.

Panting. Staring at her.

And for the first time… he doesn’t try to fix it.

He just nods once, his face stone cold.

“You’re choosing this,” he says darkly. “Remember that.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t scream.

He just leaves.

No plate replacement. No goodbye. No lock click this time—just the door swinging closed behind him.

She shivers on the concrete.

No light. No food. No Bob.

No sounds upstairs. No footsteps. No presence.

Just an echoing, hollow silence so loud it feels like punishment itself.

Days pass like that. Or maybe it’s just hours that feel like days.

He doesn’t speak to her.

Doesn’t visit.

She tries to scream once. But there’s no answer.

She tries to sleep. But her stomach twists, growling. Her throat aches. Her arms shake.

And somewhere on the second or third day—when she’s nearly delirious—she hears it.

The creak of the door.

And then nothing.

And then…

A quiet plate, sliding across the floor to her.

He doesn’t look at her.

He just says softly:

“You ready to be good again?”

And she breaks.

She nods.

Tears spill silently down her cheeks as she nods, nods again.

And finally eats.

———

She’s still tied to the cold cement pillar, the rough rope biting into her skin, legs still bound tight. The faint light from a flickering bulb overhead throws jagged shadows on the walls. Her muscles ache, every movement stiff and slow.

Bob sits cross-legged in front of her, the tray with their food set carefully beside him. His eyes never leave her face.

Without warning, he reaches forward, brushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead. His fingers are gentle—too gentle—sending a shiver down her spine she can’t control. She freezes, heart pounding, unsure if she should flinch or stay still.

“Shh. It’s okay,” he murmurs, voice low but urgent. “You’re safe here with me.”

His hand lingers, brushing again, tracing a slow path from her temple down to her cheek. She flinches just slightly, eyes wide but silent.

He leans closer, tilting her chin with a fingertip until her gaze meets his.

“I’m not going to hurt you… not if you’re good,” he says, the psychotic warmth in his tone twisting the meaning like a knife. “You belong to me. You always have.”

His palm presses lightly against her jaw, thumb tracing tiny circles as if soothing a frightened child.

She wants to pull away but can’t—his grip tightens just enough to stop her. Her breath catches, a mix of fear and something darker twisting inside her chest.

“Look at me,” he demands softly, and when she blinks, he leans in and brushes his lips against her forehead—a kiss, but not quite tender. More like a claim.

Her body tenses, a storm of emotions crashing inside her. She wants to scream, to shove him away, but her throat is dry and trapped beneath the weight of his gaze.

He smiles then—half-sweet, half-mad—and settles back, fingers still resting lightly on her skin.

“You’ll learn to like this,” he says quietly. “We’re going to be together. Forever.”

The room closes in around her, the rope, the silence, the faint scent of his cologne all pressing down.

And despite the terror, despite the captivity, a small part of her mind whispers that maybe, somehow, he means it.

——

She’s still tied up—legs bound, arms just recently freed, wrists raw from the rope’s coarse bite. Her eyes dart around the dim basement, exhaustion and fear weighing heavy behind her lashes.

Bob sits on the cold floor a few feet away, calm and collected, his voice low but insistent.

“Say it,” he commands softly.

She doesn’t respond, only blinks, trying to make sense of the madness swirling around her.

“Say it,” he repeats, stepping closer. “Say it loud enough so I can hear it.”

Her voice barely a whisper, trembling and raw: “I’m yours.”

He nods slowly, a twisted smile curving his lips. “Again.”

“I’m yours,” she forces out, more confident but still uneven.

“Good girl,” he croons, eyes gleaming. “Now mean it.”

Her throat tightens, but she forces the words: “I belong to you.”

He leans in, brushing her hair back as if she were fragile china.

“That’s right. You’re mine. No one else matters.”

She shudders, a mix of disgust and a creeping, confusing warmth stirring inside her.

“Say it like you mean it,” Bob insists, voice dropping to a near whisper, fingers tracing her cheek.

“I’m yours. I’m yours. I’m yours,” she repeats, each time more automatic, like a mantra beaten into her mind.

He grins wider, eyes wild yet pleased.

“That’s my girl.”

The basement feels colder, darker, but with each forced phrase, her will feels thinner, slipping further away into the fog of his control.

———

She’s still tied up—legs bound, arms just recently freed, wrists raw from the rope’s coarse bite. Her eyes dart around the dim basement, exhaustion and fear weighing heavy behind her lashes.

Bob sits on the cold floor a few feet away, calm and collected, his voice low but insistent.

“Say it,” he commands softly.

She doesn’t respond, only blinks, trying to make sense of the madness swirling around her.

“Say it,” he repeats, stepping closer. “Say it loud enough so I can hear it.”

Her voice barely a whisper, trembling and raw: “I’m yours.”

He nods slowly, a twisted smile curving his lips. “Again.”

“I’m yours,” she forces out, more confident but still uneven.

“Good girl,” he croons, eyes gleaming. “Now mean it.”

Her throat tightens, but she forces the words: “I belong to you.”

He leans in, brushing her hair back as if she were fragile china.

“That’s right. You’re mine. No one else matters.”

She shudders, a mix of disgust and a creeping, confusing warmth stirring inside her.

“Say it like you mean it,” Bob insists, voice dropping to a near whisper, fingers tracing her cheek.

“I’m yours. I’m yours. I’m yours,” she repeats, each time more automatic, like a mantra beaten into her mind.

He grins wider, eyes wild yet pleased.

“That’s my girl.”

The basement feels colder, darker, but with each forced phrase, her will feels thinner, slipping further away into the fog of his control.

———

She’s still tied up—legs bound, arms just freed but wrists sore and trembling. The dim basement air is thick, heavy with tension and something unspoken.

Bob sits a little too close, watching her with those wild, desperate eyes.

“Say it,” he demands softly.

She swallows hard, voice barely a whisper, “I’m yours.”

He nods, satisfied, but his smile flickers when she suddenly looks up, eyes shining with something fragile.

“Can… can I have a kiss?” she breathes out, almost afraid of her own words.

Bob’s grin twists, hunger and tenderness colliding. “You want a kiss?”

Her heart stutters. “Yes.”

He leans in, slow and deliberate, brushing his lips against hers—too much and not enough all at once. His hand cups her face, thumb stroking gently, but there’s a sharpness behind the softness that makes her stomach twist.

Pulling back just a little, he murmurs, “You’re mine. Always.”

The room feels smaller now, tighter. She closes her eyes, wanting to believe him, wanting something real to hold onto.

But the moment breaks as he shifts back, eyes darkening.

“Say it again. I want to hear you mean it.”

Her voice cracks, repeating the mantra like a broken record: “I’m yours. I’m yours.”

Another pause, then a whisper, “Can… can I have something to eat? I’m… hungry.”

He reaches over and places a small bowl by her side, watching her carefully.

“Eat,” he commands softly.

She picks at the food nervously, eyes never leaving his face. The hunger gnaws, but fear wins over.

Bob’s smile returns, sad and fierce.

“You’re doing good. You’re learning.”

———

The silence is strange tonight.

The ropes are gone.

She blinks slowly, rubbing her wrists, the skin raw but free. Her legs are wobbly, unused to standing. She feels weightless, unreal.

Bob stands at the bottom of the stairs, watching her with a look that borders reverence.

“I’m not gonna stop you,” he says, voice calm, low. “If you want to go… go.”

She stares at him.

He gestures toward the door at the top of the steps — the same one she used to scream at, kick at, pray would open.

“It’s unlocked,” he says. “You can leave. Right now.”

No restraints. No threats. Just her and the door and the breathless space between them.

She doesn’t move.

Bob’s voice softens further. “I won’t follow you. I won’t drag you back. You have a choice now.”

The words settle in the stale air.

She looks at the door. Then at him.

Her legs ache to run. Her body knows it should. But she stays frozen in place, pulse thudding in her ears.

“You’re free,” he whispers, stepping aside. “If that’s what you really want.”

A long silence.

Her mouth opens, closes. She steps forward—half a step. Her eyes drift up the stairs, to the door, the faint outline of freedom waiting on the other side.

Then she turns back to him.

He watches her closely. Waiting.

And when she crosses the floor and walks straight into his arms, something in him breaks. And heals. All at once.

She buries her face in his chest.

“I don’t want to be alone out there,” she whispers.

His arms wrap around her slowly. Possessively.

“You won’t be,” he murmurs into her hair. “You’ll never be alone again.”

He kisses her temple with a kind of worship, the door still open behind them.

But she doesn’t look back.

And she doesn’t leave.