#damn i miss my soaps

[wdymidekn]

Ghost is unimpressed😤✋🏻😾😾

[lastoneout]

Like I know we all love making ADHD seem cool but like, don't forget it's actually a disability? My ADHD is bad enough I've nearly been evicted for forgetting to mail the rent check to the property manager, I've forgotten to pay the utility bills and had my water or power get turned off or had to pay fines bcs I missed a credit card payment. Once I was supposed to cat sit for a friend and I lost the house key she gave me but didn't realize until she was already out of town, and she had to call the apartment office to get someone to give me the spare so her cats would have food for the week. When I'm unmedicated I can't even get myself to shower half the time, forget eating or cleaning. Before I started living with my fiance I'd just like, not eat for days because I didn't have anyone to remind me to eat or go buy me food. I've forgotten to turn the stove off so many times and ruined kettles and tbh been DAMN fucking lucky the house didn't burn down. I've done stupid, impulsive shit that's nearly gotten me KILLED. I can't remember to close the shower curtain reliably even through my fiance points out every single time I forget, and he's almost out of soap rn bcs for the last MONTH neither of us have been able to remember to order more once we get out of the shower.

I've had such bad memory my entire life that to this day someone suggesting I forgot something because I simply didn't care enough is a legitimate trigger that, in the worst cases, makes me have a breakdown.

I get that for some of you this is just something that makes studying hard or you forget to take a pee break when you're playing Minecraft or whatever, that's still a valid struggle and you do deserve help and understanding, but like, ADHD is a disability. It's disabling. It's not impossible to improve and learn coping skills, meds help a lot, there are great accommodations out there(LIKE CLEANING SERVICES), but not every case of ADHD is the same, and a lot of them are pretty ugly ngl, and just because you managed to do something doesn't mean someone else is gonna be able to manage it too, or that they're being lazy for struggling. And that obviously doesn't mean ADHD people have a free pass to never work on themselves and make everyone cater to their every need or whatever, but we do deserve some understanding when we explain that our disability is actually disabling in ways that aren't palatable to you. So like, idk, maybe don't immediately recoil in horror when you find out that someone with ADHD can't keep their house clean. And for fucks sake don't ridicule them for it.

[cj-theyoungling]

Simon Riley x Reader

cw : Being drunk. This is pure fluff soooo.

synopsis : Simon goes to a pub after a mission and ends up getting a bit more drunk than he bargained for. After asking for you incoherently Gaz finally gets you on the phone.

author's note : This was inspired by this work I read while I was on the train and I had to put my two cents in. Simon might be OOC in this but it's my story so I get to decide how he acts drunk.

The sound of your ringtone fills your bedroom and wakes you up with a start. You fumble around the empty sheets looking for your phone, you squint at the brightness of the screen and answer once you see Simons contact photo.

"Hey! I think Ghost is asking for you. He's a little bit wasted right now." I man in a baseball cap says to you. You watch as he hands the phone over to Simon.

Simon's face fills the screen, once he catches sight of you the fabric of his balaclava folds in a way you know means he's smiling. "Hi baby." You coo at the screen. His eyes light up as he brings the screen closer to his face. You can tell he's drunk when he leans against Price as he replies.

"Hi doll. I miss you." He slurs his words together, between that and the usual muffling of his mask you can barely make out what he's saying.

"I miss you too Simon." This elicits what you can only assume is a frown from him.

"You don't call me that." He grumbles, you giggle in response and the sound of Price chuckling comes through the phone.

"Damn! You're whipped LT!" A Scottish accent shouts, also clearly drunk.

"Where are you love? I'm gonna come get you." You start putting on your sweatshirt and shoes, you laugh as you hear Simon ask Price the name of the they're at. You hang up, much to Simon's dismay, and drive to go get him.

You enter the mostly empty pub and quickly catch sight of the table full of burly men who all seem to be arguing over something.

"Well is she your wife Ghost? You have their last name saved as Riley." The one who answered the call says, now having shed his cap from earlier.

"Why didn't you tell us about her." Another man says, his hair is sticking up in a mohawk.

Price chuckles at their antics, having caught sight of you walking towards them. "Nice to see you again." He greets, giving you a quick side hug.

"Again?!" The mohawked one says incredulously. You chuckle and introduce yourself to the two men. Simon, suddenly alert once you start speaking stands and wraps his arms around you tightly.

"I missed you doll." He mumbles into your neck, ignoring the laughs from Gaz and Soap.

"I missed you more baby. Now let's get you home, you're wasted." You chuckle as you lead him away from the table. You wave at the men and get Simon into the car.

Once you get into the drivers seat Simon grabs your hand and holds it tightly. You smile as you begin to drive home. Making sure to take a few pictures when Simon falls asleep in the passenger seat.

[satsugo]

୨୧ postpartum. the baby’s asleep. gojo misses you — all of you. mlist

i wanted this to feel like healing and hunger at the same time — soft praise, quiet obsession, and the kind of love that worships stretch marks and leaking skin. to anyone who’s ever felt unseen after giving everything: this one’s for you ♡

gojo satoru x reader

minors do not interact. this piece is intended for 18+ audiences. contains the following: postpartum body discussion, lactation kink, oral (fem receiving), soft obsession/yandere undertones, extreme tenderness, possessive praise, emotional vulnerability, and light breeding talk.

The baby is finally asleep.

Swaddled tight in his bassinet, little sighs puffing from his nose. One hand peeking out, tiny fingers twitching in dreamland.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you sit down. A soft blanket draped over your lap. Shirt still unbuttoned from the last feed. Your body aches — warm and sore, stretched and softened in places you’re still learning to accept.

The apartment is quiet.

Until you hear the soft pad of bare feet and the quiet click of the bathroom door opening. Gojo steps out, shirtless, damp towel slung around his neck, hair dripping in soft silver waves. He smells like soap and warmth and everything safe. But the look in his eyes?

Starving.

He sees you — shirt rumpled, breast slightly exposed, stretch marks tracing your hips, belly still swollen and tender — and stops cold in the doorway. His expression shifts, like something in his chest just cracked open.

“...You’re fucking stunning.”

You scoff under your breath, self-conscious. “I haven’t even showered. I smell like spit-up and milk. My hair—”

“Stop.”

His voice cuts through, low and rough — like it hurts him to hear you speak that way about yourself.

He walks over slow. Like you’re sacred. Like he’s afraid to touch something so breakable.

Then he kneels in front of you, both hands coming to rest gently on your thighs, warm and grounding. His thumbs rub slow, reverent circles into your skin.

“Do you even know what you’ve done?” he whispers, looking up at you like you hung the damn stars. “You made our son. With your body. You carried him, fed him, loved him. Every single part of you right now—” his palm smooths over your belly, still soft, still healing “—is the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your throat tightens. You blink hard, trying not to cry.

“You’re gonna make me cry,” you whisper.

He smiles. Kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

“I already did,” he murmurs. “You should’ve seen me holding him in the hospital. I was a wreck.”

You laugh softly, burying your face in his damp hair as he leans in.

But when his lips trail lower—down your neck, across your collarbone, brushing the swell of your breast—you feel it. That familiar ache. That low, pulsing need you’ve ignored for weeks.

His hand slides under the blanket, up your belly. His thumb grazes under the curve of your breast, then stills.

“You’re leaking,” he whispers, gaze fixed on the tiny droplet forming at your nipple.

Your breath catches.

“I should go pump—”

“No,” he says, voice husky. “Don’t move.”

“Toru—what are you—”

“Let me.”

Before you can argue, his lips wrap around your nipple. Tongue warm, mouth soft and full. He licks the droplet away, then sucks — gentle, slow, reverent.

A gasp escapes you.

The stimulation is instant — not just physical, but deep, like something in you that’s been aching finally gives way. You whimper, thighs twitching beneath the blanket as he nurses with slow, deliberate care. Not for milk — but for you.

“Still so sensitive,” he murmurs, switching sides. “You were made for this. Look at you. Feeding our baby… and still tasting so sweet.”

Your fingers thread into his hair, the other hand gripping the edge of the blanket. Your whole body trembles, not from exhaustion this time — from the low burn of pleasure spreading under your skin.

“I’ve missed you,” you whisper.

He looks up, lips wet, pupils dark.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he replies. “Every night you held him, every time you fell asleep in that rocking chair—I wanted you so bad I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

He rises slowly and lifts you like you weigh nothing.

“Toru—wait—”

“I know,” he murmurs. “You’re healing. I’m not gonna rush you.”

He lays you down gently, blanket falling away. Presses soft, patient kisses to your thighs. His mouth trails lower, until his tongue grazes your skin with aching tenderness.

“I just wanna love you,” he breathes. “Every inch. Every part. Nothing rough. Just this.”

Then he devours you — slow, deep, worshipful.

His hands grip your hips but never hold tight. His tongue moves with precision and reverence, drawing soft cries from your lips and tremors from your thighs. You try to stay quiet — the baby — but it’s no use. He’s too good. He always is.

When you come, it’s with a sobbed-out breath, your fingers curled into his hair, your chest shaking with relief.

He kisses your inner thigh, then crawls up beside you and gathers you into his arms.

One hand finds your breast again. His thumb gently strokes another tiny stream of milk.

“You’re gonna hate me for saying this,” he mutters, kissing the corner of your mouth.

“What now?”

He grins.

“…I already wanna knock you up again.”

You swat his shoulder. “Satoru—”

“I’m serious,” he hums against your neck. “I wanna fill you again. Watch you grow. Glow. Leak. Carry.”

“You’re absolutely insane.”

“Nah. I’m just in love,” he says. “Obsessed. And never getting over this body.”

He glances at the bassinet, where your son sighs in his sleep.

“We made him. With this.” His hand slides down to stroke your belly. “So yeah… I want more. As many as you’ll give me.”

You sigh, still catching your breath, still glowing from his touch.

“…Give me at least six months.”

His eyes gleam, wicked.

“Deal. But I’m not pulling out once.”

satsugo 2025 © all rights reserved; do not plagiarize, translate, or repost my writing.

[sweetstrawberryys]

“That’s Your Wife?!”

--- Younger!Reader x Husband!Price

Reader decides to go visit her older husband at work.

Rating: Sweet with a bit of spice.

Warnings: Age gap (legal and consensual), teasing, flirtation, protective Price, and Soap being a menace.

---

You stepped onto the base wearing tight jeans, a cropped hoodie, and a pair of sunglasses that cost more than most soldiers’ paychecks. Your duffel bag swung casually at your side, and your lip gloss shimmered in the sunlight like a beacon of “not military approved.”

You looked like a college girl who’d made a wrong turn and wandered into a war zone.

And that’s exactly what every soldier thought.

“Who’s the civvie?” one of them whispered.

“Damn, did she get lost on the way to the mall?”

“I’ll help her find her way…”

“Oi, careful, she looks real expensive.”

You just smiled, walking past the whispers like you didn’t hear every word.

And then:

“Baby,” came that deep, unmistakable voice.

Everyone turned.

Captain John Price, beard perfect, sleeves rolled up, standing like some military-grade Greek god in the middle of the chaos. His eyes lit up the second he saw you. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

You ran into his arms, jumping up with the kind of excitement that definitely didn’t scream “military spouse.” He caught you like it was nothing, grinning like a damn fool. “Missed you, Daddy.”

Dead silence.

Absolute silence.

Soap dropped his protein bar.

Gaz blinked like he just saw a ghost.

Ghost muttered, “No fucking way.”

You kissed Price on the cheek, then looked around with a sweet smile. “Hi! I’m Mrs. Price.”

“Mrs.—?” Soap choked. “You’re married? To him?”

Price just smirked. “Is there a problem, Sergeant?”

Soap: “Nah, just… you sure she’s not a hired actress or—?”

“Say one more word and you’re cleaning latrines with a toothbrush.”

Gaz leaned over to Ghost. “She’s gotta be, what, 23? 24?”

“She called him Daddy, I don’t want to do this today,” Ghost replied, turning around.

---

Later in the rec room…

You sat on Price’s lap while he read over reports. Soap was still staring like he was trying to solve a math equation.

“Does she even know what you do for a living?”

“I’ve seen him shirtless. I know enough,” you said sweetly.

Gaz choked on his water. “She’s dangerous.”

Price just kissed your cheek, totally unbothered. “That’s why I married her.”

---

Bonus:

When you left the base the next day, wearing his dog tags and his hoodie, Soap muttered, “That man’s living my dream…”

And Ghost?

Just said, “That girl’s gonna be the death of him.”

But from the way Price watched you walk away, hand casually adjusting the waistband of your leggings like it was a reflex?

He’d die smiling.

---

[littlemissaddict]

Price with a pretty little misses that likes to bake. It started as a hobby with John taking the sweet treats into work for the rest of the task force who devoured them with pleasure. The boys telling him that she should start selling her bakes because of how good they were, she shrugged the praise off at first, just happy they enjoyed them but eventually she decided to take the plunge.

Starting at small markets, beaming with pride when people praised her bakes, until her little business started taking off. She hired someone to start doing deliveries for her, taking occasional collections from their home. The next step in the journey was to find a little store to rent out as she was begins to get too many orders to cope with running it from home but that seemed to be proving difficult so far so for now she continued as she was.

Though through it all, she still made sure there were sweet treats for John to take into work for his team so much so that Monday mornings they seemed to have been conditioned to expect the goodies. Only the Monday after John came back off leave, he returned with nothing for them.

"Sorry lads, got back late last night from a little break away for the misses. She works too damn hard," he apologised, leaving the rec room and towards his office.

Little did he know that Simon had managed to track down his wife's business and ordered some brownies to collect on his day off that week, unable to go a week without his fix of sweet treats.

So when the day rolled around Simon, as punctual as ever, turned up at 10 on the dot to collect his goodies. John on the other hand was surprised to see his Lt stood on his doorstep on his day off.

"What can I do for you Simon?" John asked, just as she came into view with the box of brownies in hand.

"Simon, is it?" She asked and he nodded in response as she handed him the box and took the money he handed her, "Sorry I'm a little unorganised this morning, been a little distracted" she apologised as she glanced over at John before looking for some change to give him from the twenty he had given her.

"S'alright love, keep it" Simon smiled, his gruff voice making her freeze, wondering if she'd heard him right. Simon hadn't missed her not so subtle glance at John, knowing just exactly what it was that she'd been insinuating, and he didn't blame him. Now Simon had seen her, he knew if she were his he'd keep her distracted at every chance he got. Not that he should be thinking that way about his Captain's wife and as observent as he was he'd missed that John had picked up exactly what he was thinking.

"Are you sure that's a big tip?" She asked, and when he nodded, she smiled in return, thanking him before he left, completely oblivious that John knew him as she had never met his team.

John however watch Simon closely back at base, especially as he sat eating one of the brownies. It didn't go unnoticed by Soap and Gaz either as they recognised the treat straight away, rounding on Price to ask why Simon had one of his wife's bakes but they didn't.

"Ask him yaself" Price retorted, leaving Simon to be hounded by the sergeants. That'll teach him to eye up my wife, Price thinks as he goes

[lazysoulwriter]

sweat & purple rain - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡ content: NSFW, explicit shower sex, oral f receiving, unprotected sex, hair pulling, spanking, praise & slight teasing kink, Pedro being annoying and hot, fluff and humor, domesticity, singing Pedro lol

----

You hear the door before you see him. Then the heavy thud of his gym bag hitting the floor, followed by—

“Mi amoooorrrrr,” Pedro calls out, still out of breath, “I almost DIED doing squats today, where’s my reward?”

You barely have time to look up from the couch before he’s on you — shirt soaked through, arms wrapped around you, lips smacking against your cheek over and over.

“Pedro!” You shove at his damp chest, squealing. “You’re all sweaty! Get off!”

“Let me love you,” he whines dramatically, breath hot on your neck. “I’m weak. My muscles hurt. I need comfort.”

“You need a shower,” you laugh, trying not to breathe in his delightfully gross gym smell, “and a damn exorcism.”

He pulls back just enough to grin, cheeks flushed, curls damp. “C’mon. Shower with me?”

You roll your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah,” he smirks, tugging you up by the hand, “but you love it.”

The second the water hits, he’s humming.

Then singing. Loudly.

“I never meant to cause you any sorrow—”

“Pedro,” you groan, “please—"

“I never meant to cause you any pain—”

You reach for the shampoo with a snort as he presses his chest to your back, water cascading down your bodies. His hands stay on your hips, thumb rubbing circles.

“I only wanted one time to see you laughing…” he croons, completely off-key.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, lathering your hands.

“I only want to see you laughing…” He turns you around with a dramatic flourish. “In the purple rain!”

You burst out laughing, shoving shampoo-slick fingers into his curls. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re beautiful,” he says, suddenly softer. His eyes stay locked on yours while you gently wash his hair, massage his scalp. “You spoil me.”

“I tolerate you,” you mutter, but your thumbs brush along his temples lovingly.

He leans into it like a cat, all smug and warm. “You love me.”

You rinse his hair, trying not to smile. “I do. But I liked you better when you weren’t so—”

His mouth crashes onto yours before you can finish. You gasp, hands sliding down his chest, soap slick between you.

“You were saying?” he whispers.

You don’t answer — you just kiss him harder.

Hands wander. Hips press. His palm slaps against the wall beside your head and you moan into his mouth.

“Turn around,” he rasps.

You do. Water runs down your back as he kisses your neck, your shoulder, his hand slipping between your thighs.

“You want it?” he asks, voice husky, fingers stroking slowly.

You nod, grinding back into his hand.

He grabs your hip with one hand, the other guiding his cock to your entrance. You’re already wet — hot and ready for him — and he slides in with a low groan.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants. “So tight for me.”

You brace yourself against the tiles, gasping as he sets a steady rhythm, hips slapping into yours.

He doesn’t rush. Just drags it out — deep and slow and filthy. His hands roam, groping your tits, tugging your hair, smacking your ass just hard enough to make you yelp.

“This what you needed?” he growls. “Me ruining you in the shower like a fuckin’ animal?”

You whimper, pushing back onto him. “Y-Yeah.”

He leans in, biting your shoulder gently. “Say it.”

“Needed you,” you gasp, “missed your cock, fuck—Pedro—”

You come with a cry, legs shaking, water washing the sweat and sin from your skin.

He follows not long after, moaning your name like it’s a hymn.

Afterward, you’re breathless, sagging against him in the misty steam. He pulls you close, presses a soft kiss to your temple.

“Still think I need an exorcism?” he murmurs, voice smug.

You swat his ass. “Still think you need a muzzle.”

He laughs. “Fair.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[mangooes]

Your Cat is Heavy Ma'am!

(Name) was exhausted. Her heels had been kicked off halfway through the hallway, her jacket slung somewhere across the kitchen island, and her only plan for the evening was to faceplant into bed. But the moment she stepped into their shared bedroom—

“OH MY GOD!”

A wild caracal was lounging on the middle of their bed. Elegant, huge, with tufted ears and slitted golden eyes locked directly on her like she owed it a snack. Or her soul.

And before she could bolt or scream again—it lunged.

"AUGH—!"

She hit the carpet with a dramatic thump, limbs flailing in pure chaos, only to find the caracal landing squarely on her, tail swishing and purring like a damn engine. It rubbed its head along her cheek, licked her chin, and stretched languidly on top of her, completely knocking the breath out of her.

From the corner, Mephisto cawed in what could only be described as robotic bird laughter.

“Mephisto! Not helping!” She shrieked, swatting at the air as the smug avian continued flapping with mockery. “You’re supposed to protect me, not broadcast this like a soap opera!”

The caracal, unbothered, licked her nose.

She groaned dramatically, hands flopping to her sides. “Okay. Fine. I guess I have a cat now. A huge, kissing, clingy cat. Sylus is gonna freak when he finds fur in the sheets...”

At the sound of Sylus's name, the caracal tensed. Fur rose. Ears flattened.

She blinked. “...Huh. That’s weird. What, don’t like him?”

But the tension passed quickly, and she just shrugged. “Whatever, big guy. You’re sweet. And super heavy. Like—what do they feed you, bricks?”

Still, she scooped him up with effort, staggering toward the hallway like a warrior bearing the weight of an 18-pound demon kitten. “We’re gonna cuddle. And then I’m gonna show you off to Sysy—he’ll get all jealous, it’ll be funny.”

She’d barely made it past the front hallway when the front door slammed open.

Luke and Kieran burst in, panting like they’d just outrun a dragon stampede, Kieran holding a glowing vial like it was the Holy Grail.

“MISSUS!!” they both shouted in unison.

She stared at them, caracal still slung in her arms. “...Why are you both sweating like marathon runners? And what—”

She pointed to the vial. “What is that? Where’s Sylus?! Did he—”

The cat sniffed the vial, and then—

LICK.

And then… P O O F.

She suddenly found herself pinned under something a lot heavier than a caracal.

A man. A bare-chested, the smell of his signature colgone, very familiar, very muscled man.

“…SYLUS?!” she shrieked.

Sylus, now very much human again, groaned in bliss, nuzzling into her neck like a sleepy cat, voice rich and husky. “Mmm… I like this better. Your skin’s much softer than the sheets.”

She was frozen for all of two seconds. Then she exploded.

“WHA—YOU—YOU WERE THE CAT?! YOU WERE LICKING MY FACE—GET OFF ME, YOU NAKED MENACE!”

Sylus smirked, not moving an inch. “I told you I missed you.”

“YOU TERRORIZED ME! YOU JUMPED ON ME! YOU PURRED LIKE A DAMN ENGINE!”

“You called me sweet,” he murmured smugly, kissing the edge of her jaw. “You said you wanted to cuddle—who am I to deny you that?”

She turned cherry red, smacking his shoulder. “Get off me, put some clothes on!”

Luke and Kieran, watching the chaos unfold from the doorway, turned away with synchronized salutes, dying of laughter.

“Respectfully lookin’ away, boss!”

“Don’t forget to tell us if you wanna go full tiger next time, we’ll prep the litter box!”

(Name) howled, trying to squirm out from under him. “SYLUS! THEY SAW EVERYTHING!”

He grinned devilishly, arms tightening around her waist. “Good. Let them see who I belong to... Master.”

“You’re unbelievable, wait what MASTER—”

“And adorable,” he purred, nipping her earlobe. “And all yours.”

She groaned dramatically, ruffling his hair messy. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Mmm,” he rumbled, finally scooping her up bridal style, completely ignoring her flailing. “Lucky you didn’t adopt another cat. That would've gotten messy.”

“You were jealous of yourself,” She pointed out flatly, arms crossing as he carried her to the bedroom.

“I was jealous of a version of me that got more cuddles than this one, yes.”

She sighed again. “You’re impossible.”

He chuckled, nuzzling into her hair. “After all, a cat can't stray away from it's master for too long no?”

This was inspired by the cat event last year, PLEASE BRING IT BACK I LOVE CAT SYLUS AKSJDNASKJDNAKA I NEED THE CLOTHES RAGHHHHHHH also could you tell that i rlly love cats, anyways sylus is a caracal cat its canon guys i love him

[lostintransist]

You're cooking with that gym one.. keep going

Here is my submission for you anon.

John rubbed tiredly at his face. His feet pressed in turn to the rotating belt of the treadmill. He did not want to be here.

Base doc told him he wouldn't be getting clearance to go back on jobs until he got is cholesterol down. He, wisely, did not question how his cholesterol could be high when the only things he consumed were cigars, toast, and coffee.

Having tried the base gym a few times he found it...full of distractions.

If he could be found on base he had everyone, including the devil, showing up at his side. If it wasn't questions, it was paperwork. He fucking hated paperwork.

Gym etiquette said to, when possible, leave a machine open between you and the next person over on treadmills. You had already been on a machine when he arrived. John walked with no music. Oppositely you jived and mouthed along with whatever you were listening to. He appreciated that you didn't sing as you walked. Soap's of kilter voice drifting from the showers was more than enough.

John lifted a brow at the young man who stepped onto the machine between you and him. The man didn't spare him a glance. John shrugged. He maintained his pace, eyes fixed on the news. Damn he should start bringing his glasses. Those subtitles were stretching his limits of vision.

"Come on, just talk to me already!"

The man beside him shouted. John turned in time to see the man hit the off button and step off the treadmill. Glancing at you he his concern rises. Tight jaw, nose flaring wide as you suck in breaths, and white knuckles gripping the arms of the machine tell him a lot.

When the man appears before your treadmill John is already reaching for his off button. He's a bastard. His ex-wives agreed on that, but this was unacceptable behavior.

You surprise both men when you rip your headphones off.

"I know you don't listen to your mother either, but let's see if your kindergarten teacher was right about you being a good student." A look of disgust adds sting to the words you whip at the man. "If a woman is ignoring you, she's busy. When a woman gives you a closed mouth smile after you attempt to flirt she is uncomfortable but won't say so because she doesn't want to be raped or murdered in the next alley over. Now unless you have something of value to provide to society as a whole, you will get out my face."

All that said without you missing a step.

"God, no need to be a bitch," the man sneered up at you. "I was going to tell you I thought you were beautiful."

"Women are only beautiful when you want to stick your dick in them. Buy a flesh light instead and leave women alone. Leave me alone." You throw up double middle fingers at him.

The fucktard shouted hate as he stalked away.

John, no longer tired, laughed so hard he started to cough. He paused his machine. Covering his mouth with a fist he laughed again when he could breathe. You are staring at him when he looks up. Distrust paints the color of your eyes.

"His kindergarten teacher?" He asked, starting to chuckle again.

The tension melts away from your shoulders. The tip of your tongue makes an appearance on your lip as you give him a sheepish look. You open and close your mouth as your fingers work themselves into knots.

"So ya see..." You can't finish your thought before you are laughing too.

"I'm John," he offers you a hand to shake over the empty machine.

"Good to meet you, John," you shake his hand and give him your name in return.

"That happen to you often? If so, I would love to witness more of you cutting men off at the knees." John can't help but smile, full and wide at the embarrassment that sparks through your posture.

You sigh through your nose.

"More often than I care for," you admit.

"Well, if you need a gym buddy I am in need of a good laugh," John pulls his phone from his pocket and hands it to you to add your phone number.

"I am at your service, John. My misfortune is yours to witness," you pass the phone back with a flourish.

John can't remember the last time he laughed so much.

Gym Adventures:

SoapGaz | Simon | Phillip Graves | Ghost | 4 for 1 Special | SoapGaz/Reader NSFW | Phillip Graves NSFW | AO3

[eraserbread]

your best friend with benefits, suguru, really likes watching u shower ✧

→ f!reader, est 'relationship', use of baby/baby girl, recording while nude, suggestive, sfw

water falls burning hot over your skin, flushing you from the inside out. it plugs your eyes, drowning out your hearing, and the fan blares in the background.

you love taking showers at suguru's—he has a whole shower room that heats and ventilates. the sliding door keeping you from the hallway is frosted over, and you're drawn in blissful white noise.

"baby, did you get lost in there?"

his voice cuts through the static like a hot knife, and your lips curl up instinctively. he's muffled, standing on the other side when you crack open your eyes. his reflection is tall and blurred, you can see he's still shirtless—his hands are in his pockets, hair loose and tucked over his shoulder.

"you missed me already?"

the sound of your voice, soft and welcoming, is the only permission he needs to slide open the door. he peeks his head through with a small smile on his lips, focusing on your dripping face before trailing all the way down your familiar, nude body.

he hums. "let me join you."

you give him a watery glare, reaching forward to close the door on him. "no, I'm sore."

"baby~"

you feel the rush of air when he pulls the door open again, this time with his face covered by his digicam. you're too familiar—he's glued to it.

"wha-

"don't worry, i'm just getting your face." he catches your words, zooming his lens on your hands and the way they comb the water through your hair. suguru thinks that's beautiful—he thinks you're beautiful. he couldn't help himself.

sometimes, it'll be a candid of you on a walk, other times just you two in a bathroom mirror, ripe with the afterglow of love making. he just loves capturing you. the profile picture of you on his phone changes weekly, though he does have favorites.

and they're always the worst ones.

"look at me, pretty baby."

you open your eyes, sending daggers straight into his lens. on the other side, he gasps, focusing on how your eyelashes clump against the water.

"nice."

on command, your features soften. you give him a look only he could appreciate—like you want to laugh but don't want to take this moment for granted.

"do you know how pretty you are?"

"you tell me often."

"cause you need to know." sugu's getting flustered, you can hear it in his tone. "can I record your body?"

unblinking, you look at his clouded reflection through the water. "yeah."

"oh, thank you, baby." he whispers, panning the camera over your neck then to the dip of your collarbone and shoulders. he tries not to linger on your chest, but he does, breath all hot in his throat.

the way the water drips and pools against the dips and curves of your body has him going manic. you move so delicately, soap slides off your body in all the right ways. your stomach drives him fucking crazy.

"please, i want to join you."

"four rounds in a day is my limit. you're all tapped out."

you swear you can hear a defiant whine rise in his throat. the camera falls at his side, you two lock eyes.

"i don't know why, but i'm so crazy over you." he's talking, but not loud enough for you to understand. he brings the camera to his waist, cutting it off with a flip to the power button.

staring face-to-face, that's all he can say. all he can do is admire you outwardly, but the stars in his eyes are damning.

you swallow a laugh, reaching to turn the water off.

"you know, it wouldn't kill you to say you have a crush."

[em1i2a3]

Tonight, Tonight

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

Summary: After being separated for a month and a half, you and Bob decide to take a night to reconnect with one another.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, A Shaving of Angst (because Bob and Reader really miss each other). Bob and Reader have an established relationship, Heavy on yearning, Bob is a sweetie in this and wants to make the night special and goes all out, Bob and Reader are absolutely touch starved

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (I ain’t the sex police…But wrap it up friends lol), Spit Kink, Edging, Dry Humping and Making Out, Fingering, Oral Sex (female and male receiving), Pretty Messy Sex, Reader and Bob are definitely switches in here, Cum Play/Cum Eating (Bob and Reader both participate in this), Phone Sex/Sexting (there is mentionings and references to it), Bob loves leaving hickeys on you, Praise/Worship Kink (Bob likes kissing your wounds), Aftercare (with Sentry hehe…), Dirty Talk and Pet Nicknames (Good Boy, and Good Girl are used). Pretty damn steamy. I hope I didn’t miss anything.

Author’s Note: I love the good old reunion trope, so I was in the mood to put my soul into it lol. Hope y’all enjoy! I loved writing this :)

Word Count: 15,293

It had been forty-five days since you touched Bob.

You remembered because that morning–bleary-eyed, sore in the best way, and heavy with dread–you and Bob had wrapped yourselves around each other like ivy, tangled and desperate, clinging to every last second like time itself might take pity on you if you held each other tightly enough.

His arms were cinched around your waist, not loose or lazy, but tight–possessive. Like maybe if he held just hard enough, your body would melt into his and you wouldn’t have to go. You had your face pressed deep into the crook of his neck, your breath caught in the cradle where his pulse fluttered soft and steady beneath his skin.

He still smelled like your mint chapstick.

The room was warm, the sheets wrecked from the night before–damp at the small of your back, the imprint of your body still cooling into the mattress. You could smell the sweat on him, sharp and primal, but layered beneath that was his body wash, soft and clean and maddeningly familiar.

That particular scent was very much Bob incarnate–a crisp mix of eucalyptus and juniper, warmed by the heat of his skin and faintly tinged with something woodsy and sweet underneath. Not cologne, not artificial in any sense, it was just the way his soap clung to him after a shower–cool and bracing at first, but softening the longer you held him. There was a hint of salt there too, where your bodies had pressed together for hours, and something richer in the air–like love, or longing, or the deep, quiet ache that came from having to let go of someone you’d just spent the whole night worshipping.

Both of you had barely slept. You thought maybe you caught twenty minutes, but then you just fell into each other again, and again…

Now, his hands were flat against your back, fingers spread like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go of you. His chest rose and fell against yours, slower than usual, like he was trying to keep himself calm.

You could still feel the ghost of his mouth on your skin–his kisses down your collarbone, the rasp of stubble against your shoulder, the barely-there scrape of teeth just beneath your navel. But it was the quiet things that stayed with you most: the soft grunt he made when you curled your fingers in his hair, the way he whispered your name when he came, and the way his hands trembled just slightly when they cradled your face afterward, like he was overwhelmed by the shape of you.

The sheets were half on the floor, your thigh slung over his, skin to skin. The room still smelled like sex and warmth and Bob.

The knocking started just after sunrise.

A heavy, impatient thud thud thud on your door, followed by Walker’s half-shouted grumble:

“Five minutes, lovebirds, or you’re missing the damn jet!”

Still, neither of you moved.

Bob’s fingers flexed against your lower back like he might pull you tighter–like there was still time to undo this whole separation. His nose was buried in your hair now, inhaling you. Not like a man savoring perfume, but like someone desperate to remember what home felt like. His breath was hot against your scalp when he finally whispered, barely audible:

“Don’t go yet.”

You could feel your heart aching, like something inside you had split open and bled out between the spaces where your skin met his, because you didn’t want to go…But you had to.

You hadn’t been apart from him for more than a few days at a time since getting together, and even those rare stretches felt like they scraped at something tender inside your ribs. But this? This had felt surgical–like someone reached into your chest and carved around the part of you that only stayed quiet when Bob was near.

You were being sent to New Zealand with Ava and Yelena–something covert, something biological. A classified facility hidden in the dense coastal ranges had gone dark, all personnel presumed dead or turned. Intel said the site had been experimenting with hybrid pathogens–possibly mutagenic, possibly synthetic. Your team was tasked with reconnaissance and recovery…But you knew better. It would end in fire. They always did.

Bob was sent to Singapore with Bucky, Walker, and Alexei to intercept a shipment of stolen vibranium tech. Armed smugglers had taken over an offshore manufacturing port, planning to retrofit the tech into combat-ready exosuits. Walker called it “a glorified hardware heist.” Bucky called it “suicide with a skyline view.” Bob hadn’t called it anything. He had just kissed your forehead before stepping onto the jet and said:

”Call me wh-when you land.”

And you did.

You called him the moment your boots hit tarmac in Wellington, your voice still shaky with jet lag, the wind howling in the background as you leaned against one of the transport trucks and cupped your hand around the mic. He’d picked up on the first ring. You could still remember the way his voice cracked when he said your name–like just hearing it again made something in him give out.

You figured out the logistics quickly. Bob had already mapped the time difference–only four hours between New Zealand and Singapore. It could’ve been worse. It could’ve been half a world apart. It could’ve been twelve hours and dodgy signals and windows of time so small they slipped through your fingers.

But it wasn’t. It was four, manageable, and predictable hours. A lifeline you both clung to with white-knuckled discipline.

Every night like clockwork, he called you. Or you called him.

Sometimes you were getting ready for bed when he called—moving slow and tired, your body aching from a day spent combing through abandoned labs or hiking through fog-drenched forest terrain. The kind of fatigue that crawled into your joints and made you forget what comfort felt like. Still, you answered on the first ring. Always.

Sometimes, you’d just finished showering, wrapped in a towel with steam curling off your skin, making tea for yourself in the small kitchenette of the safe house you shared with Ava and Yelena. They usually gave you space. Ava would mutter something sarcastic but fond and slip on her headphones. Yelena would give you a sly look and disappear into her room, pretending she didn’t hear your voice soften as soon as you answered the call.

More often than not, you were already in bed when he rang–curled up on your side with your tablet balanced against your pillow, the screen casting a dim blue light across the room. It was always too dark, always too quiet when he wasn’t near, and the glow of his face on the screen was the closest thing to warmth you had.

Bob always made sure he had privacy when he talked to you. You could tell by the background–how he’d be huddled into a far corner of his assigned room, propped up by a makeshift pillow pile, the light behind him dim and golden. The second he picked up, his voice dropped into something low and private, something meant only for you. Even though he was rooms away from Walker, Bucky, and Alexei, he still spoke like he needed to protect every word. Like love might lose its shape if it echoed.

Sometimes, you just talked. About nothing or about everything.

He’d tell you what he made for dinner with the limited options they were supplied in their safe house, how Walker burned rice again, how Bucky spent twenty minutes arguing with the local tactical ops over weapon clearance codes. You’d describe the terrain, how the fog clung to the trees like ghost skin, how the inside of the lab smelled like bleach and battery acid.

He never asked for too many details–he didn’t have to. He could hear it in your voice when things got bad.

And then there were the nights that started innocent but didn’t stay that way.

Nights where you shifted just a little too far down in bed, the strap of your tank top sliding off your shoulder as you adjusted the screen. Nights where he let his hand slip beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, his breathing growing uneven as you murmured things meant only for him. Nights where the distance between your bodies felt like a crime. Where you had to see him to believe he was still yours. Nights where you traced your fingers down your own stomach and imagined they were his.

You’d whisper his name, and he’d whisper yours.

He’d talk you through it in that quiet, reverent voice–telling you how beautiful you looked, how much he missed you, how it killed him not to be there. And when he came, he said your name like it was something sacred, something broken open in his chest.

Sometimes the connection would drop just as you were both coming down, and that was the worst. The silence after was so loud, so cruel.

But it was something. It was enough to survive on.

The solution was good.

It helped more than you could ever say out loud.

But it wasn’t real.

And it certainly couldn’t replace Bob’s touch.

It couldn’t replace the heat of his palms on your skin–broad and grounding, steady in a way that nothing else in your life ever had been. It couldn’t replace the absentminded way he’d trace your veins with his thumb, slow circles down your arm while you talked about something completely unrelated, like his body just needed to stay connected to yours without thinking about it.

It couldn’t replace the way he’d cradle your hips in the early morning light, his chest to your back as you brushed your teeth in the washroom. That sleepy weight of him–half-awake, shirtless, warm–pressing soft kisses to your shoulder as if saying good morning with his whole body.

It couldn’t replace the way he held your face when he kissed you.

The kind of touch that didn’t rush. That lingered. That told you more than words ever could. His fingers always cradled you like something precious, like porcelain and fire–something delicate, something burning. Like every kiss might be the last and he wanted to remember how your jaw felt beneath his thumbs. How your lashes fluttered when he leaned in. How your breath hitched right before your lips met his.

You missed everything about him.

His scent.

His voice in person.

His laugh–not through a speaker, but felt through your chest when he tucked his face against your neck and grinned against your skin.

But you were grateful for modern technology. For the screen that displayed his face. For the calls that gave you his voice, and for the way he still managed to look at you through pixels like you were the only thing on Earth that mattered to him.

Today though…You were being reunited.

—————————

You, Yelena, and Ava landed on the compound’s rooftop helipad just before noon, the sharp whump-whump-whump of the quinjet’s rotor blades slicing the sky into a hot, trembling blur. The entire landing platform seemed to vibrate with the descent, wind kicking up from the turbines and whipping at your clothes, stinging your cheeks as the aircraft settled down with a low, weighty thud against the reinforced tarmac.

Your boots hit solid ground with a jarring finality, knees momentarily weak from the hours spent airborne. You hadn’t realized how much tension your body had been holding until the moment it touched the earth again. The concrete beneath your feet felt real–not like the steel plating of airstrips or the spongy moss-covered paths of the forests you had spent the last month and a half traversing, but like home.

Above you, the sky stretched out in a flat, pale blue dome, crisp and cloudless and sunny. Cool wind curled past your ears, threading through the sweat-damp strands of your hair, and it was the first time in weeks the breeze didn’t taste like salt or chemical runoff. This air–sharp, thin, edged with the faint scent of metal and freshness–tasted like relief.

No one said much as you disembarked.

Ava trailed behind you, bleary-eyed and bone-deep exhausted, her go-bag slung tight to her chest like she might float away without it. Her shoulders were hunched, mouth slack, and she blinked against the light like it physically hurt. Yelena barely waited for the bay doors to finish opening before she muttered something about needing “a bottle of something strong and at least two fucking showers,” then shoved her sunglasses higher on the bridge of her nose. Her accent was thicker with fatigue, her movements sharp with leftover adrenaline.

You just nodded, your own limbs leaden and your mind hazy, already moving on autopilot. Every step felt a little less real than the last. The mission had chewed through all of you–gnawed at the edges and left everything frayed and vibrating.

But even as your body screamed for rest, your thoughts refused to still.

Because Bob wasn’t here yet.

The jet from Singapore was due to land within the hour. You’d already memorized the arrival schedule. Flight paths from both your locations had aligned almost perfectly–less than nineteen hours with Thunderbolts tech, though it still felt like a lifetime. It could have been worse. It could have been a twelve-hour delay or a different time zone or god forbid, radio silence. But it wasn’t. It was close. Close enough to hope.

You dropped your gear in your room without unpacking–just letting it fall where it landed. You kicked your boots off with a heavy thunk and peeled your jacket from your shoulders like shedding skin. The second the door clicked shut behind you, you were stripping out of your clothes and stepping under the spray of the shower, turning the knob until the water was scalding and steady.

Steam flooded the bathroom almost instantly, curling up from the tiles and wrapping around your body in a thick, suffocating embrace. You braced your palms against the wall and lowered your head between your arms, letting the water pour down your back until your skin flushed red and raw. You stayed like that for what felt like forever—long enough for the mirror to fog entirely, for the scent of antiseptic and moss and the ghost of burning plastic to lift from your pores. You didn’t cry. But your chest ached. Like your ribs were splintered inward.

It didn’t go away when you dried off.

It wouldn’t–not until you saw him.

You pulled on soft clothes–cotton and fleece and something that didn’t smell like blood or fire–and left your hair damp as you climbed two floors up to the landing deck’s control entrance. The interior of the room was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of wall-mounted displays and the low orange glow from a desk lamp. A row of screens lined the far wall, each one displaying real-time feeds of exterior cameras, weather updates, and flight telemetry.

But your eyes found his dot immediately.

Bright green. Approaching from the west. The tagged signal of his quinjet crept steadily across the screen, and you watched it like a storm rolling in–heart in your throat, stomach tight with a pressure that refused to name itself.

Fifteen minutes.

Ten.

Five.

Your pulse sped up with each passing update, your fingers twitching at your sides like they needed something to hold.

At the two-minute mark, you pushed through the sealed access door and stepped out into the open air.

The helipad stretched wide beneath your feet, matte-black surface gleaming faintly in the sun. Heat from the earlier landing still radiated in soft, wavering pulses across the tarmac. The wind had picked up, brushing cool fingers across your damp hair and bare forearms, carrying with it the sharp tang of jet fuel and steel.

And then–

There. A glint on the horizon.

The backup quinjet appeared like a shadow cresting the sky. Sleek, dark, and fast.

Your breath hitched.

The low rumble of engines grew louder, vibrating in your chest, and you stepped toward the edge of the platform before your brain even fully caught up–drawn forward by something magnetic and ancient.

The aircraft descended in a smooth, arcing glide, rotors pivoting midair to ease its drop. Dust and wind kicked up again, flaring around your legs and tugging at the hem of your shirt. You squinted against the blast, hand lifting instinctively to shield your face, eyes locked on the familiar insignia near the nose of the craft.

Then came the soft whine of the hydraulics.

The landing gear extended and the wheels kissed down onto the platform, and suddenly your heart felt full again.

The engines powered down with a long exhale of hissing pressure. The fuselage creaked and hissed as the cabin adjusted to the temperature outside. For a moment, everything was still–suspended in that fragile, breathless space between anticipation and arrival.

Then the hatch cracked open.

The metal ramp began to lower with a mechanical shhhhtk, steam curling off the edges as it descended.

And through the rising mist of heat and wind and waiting–

Bob emerged from the quinjet like a prayer answered.

His boots thudded heavy against the ramp, the soft hiss of the hydraulic lift barely registering over the pounding of your pulse. He was backlit by the hot shimmer of the sun, wind tugging at the hem of his t-shirt and the open collar of his rumpled overshirt. His light brown hair was longer than when he’d left–just enough that it landed damp above his shoulders, tousled by wind and travel. There was the faintest smudge of exhaustion under his eyes, but those eyes were bright, open, and shining.

He scanned the deck with a blink like he wasn’t sure this was real. Like maybe he was still in his room in Singapore, dreaming you into being. But then his gaze finally locked onto yours.

The breath rushed out of his lungs like he’d been punched with relief. A smile cracked across his face, huge and immediate and boyish–shoulders dropping as if your presence alone had cut the weight from his back.

He placed his go-bag down carefully onto the ground, watching as you quickly made your way toward him.

Your feet barely made a sound against the platform as you crossed it in a blur. He opened his arms the moment you launched yourself at him, catching you against his chest with a force that felt both desperate and safe. His arms wrapped around you tight–so tight your toes barely touched the ground, his nose burying deep into the curve of your neck as he clutched you like something sacred.

He inhaled sharply. Once. Then again.

And again.

“God, I mi-missed that smell,” He breathed, voice cracking at the edge.

You laughed softly against his collarbone, still breathless, as he took another quick, greedy inhale like he could pull your scent into every alveolus of his lungs.

“Bob,” You murmured, threading your fingers into his hair, “You sound like you’re getting high off me.”

“I am,” He replied without shame, muffled against your neck. “I really, really am.”

He smelled different now–familiar in new ways. Still Bob, but layered with something sweeter. His skin was warm beneath your hands, his clothes clinging to him slightly from the heat. But beneath the faint musk of sweat and travel, there was something playful and bright–like artificial strawberry, sugary and almost fizzy at the edges. The scent clung to him like powdered candy–sweet but with a hint of sour, like the dust on taffy or the sheen on a hard-boiled sweet left too long in a pocket. There was a trace of something creamy too, almost milky–like strawberry yogurt melted on skin.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face–and then you kissed him.

Hard. Hungry. Grateful.

His mouth opened against yours like it had been waiting forty-five days for this exact moment, like it was starving for the shape of you. His lips were soft, familiar, and so sweet–your tongue brushed his, and you tasted it instantly: strawberry. Candy-sweet. Creamy and artificial and unexpectedly delicious.

You moaned into the kiss, low and surprised, your fingers curling against his jaw as you pulled him impossibly closer.

When you finally drew back–just enough to breathe–you left a string of soft, fluttering kisses across his cheeks, his temple, the curve of his mouth.

“You taste like you ate a bunch of strawberries and drank a carton of heavy cream,” You whispered. Bob laughed under his breath, the sound breathless and giddy, his eyes crinkling with affection.

“Singapore had these really de-delicious candies in literally every store Bucky and I we-went to,” He said, the smile never leaving his face, “I bought like four bags of them ca-cause I haven’t seen them here…So you better get used to the ta-taste.” You let out a soft laugh, one that curled warm and teasing in your throat as you leaned in again, brushing your nose against Bob’s.

“Already familiar,” You whispered against his lips, the words melting into the shape of his mouth before you kissed him again.

This time it was slower. Deeper.

His lips moved with yours in a way that felt like memory and promise all at once–sweet and soft, drawn out with aching patience. One of his hands rose to cradle your cheek, the heel of his palm pressing gently beneath your ear while his fingers spread along the curve of your jaw. His touch was warm–too warm, almost clammy from travel, from nerves, from how long he’d been waiting to do this. But it was perfect. So perfect.

He held you like he was afraid you’d break. Like your skin was made of silk and fire and everything holy. His thumb brushed the apple of your cheek, slow and reverent, grounding you in that exact moment like he couldn’t bear the thought of it slipping by.

Your knees felt weak. Not from exhaustion, but from how good it felt to have his mouth on yours again–how natural and full and right it was. The warmth bloomed from your chest and spread outward, golden and thick, curling through your limbs until you felt dizzy with it.

But then–

“Ugh.”

The sound snapped like a twig behind Bob.

You both pulled apart just enough to glance over his shoulder–and sure enough, Walker was standing a few feet back on the platform, looking half-dead from jet lag and thoroughly unimpressed. His hair was tousled, his shirt wrinkled, and he was squinting against the brightness of the sky.

“God, guys…” He muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Save it for tonight at least.”

Bob immediately went red. Full-body, neck-to-ear red. He ducked his head, pressing his cheek against your temple like he could hide in the crook of your neck, and mumbled something incomprehensible under his breath. You, still hot and a little dazed, looked at Walker confused.

”What’s tonight?” Before Walker could even answer, Bucky appeared at his side with two duffel bags slung over one shoulder and an obnoxiously smug look on his face.

“Bob rented an AirBnB for all of us,” He replied casually, “So you two could have the compound to yourselves for your little…Reunion.” You turned your head toward Bob, who was now trying very hard to pretend the tarmac was the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Thanks for ru-ruining the surprise, guys,” He mumbled, still bright pink and refusing to meet your eyes.

“I have nothing to do with ruined plan,” Alexei interrupted, as he stepped off the ramp with a grunt, adjusting his top and squinting at the group, “Do not put me in with them.” You laughed–soft, delighted–and pressed another kiss to Bob’s cheek, feeling the heat still radiating beneath your lips. Then another, right beneath his eye, and one more at the edge of his jaw just to hear the tiny sound he made in the back of his throat.

“An Airbnb to send everyone away, hmm?” You teased, your voice low and sweet, curling like smoke in the space between you. “How interesting.” Bob groaned, dramatic and bashful, tipping his forehead to your shoulder like he might melt into it.

“It’s not–ugh, it’s not like that,” He muttered, muffled against your skin, though his arms were still wrapped tight around your waist.

You tilted your head, grinning. “No?”

“Well…” He huffed, finally pulling back enough to meet your eyes, his blush still very much alive. “We’re not ex-exactly…Quiet.” Your brow lifted slowly, amused.

Bob rolled his eyes and admitted, “So it was either they go…Or we get noise co-complaints at a hotel.” That made you snort. Loudly. You shook your head, still smiling, fingers tracing light patterns along the collar of his shirt beneath the hoodie.

”Hey, I’m not complaining about your plan, It’s very thoughtful of you.” His expression softened instantly at that–relief blooming behind the shy curve of his mouth.

He leaned in again, his lips brushing yours as he whispered, “Always thinking a few steps ahead…” A pause. A wink. Then, “Wanted to make sure we had that freedom to be...Vocal.” The both of you shared a mischievous giggle, and then he kissed you again.

It was slower this time, more controlled–but no less full of that rich, aching hunger. His mouth moved with yours like a promise sealed, like he was claiming back every lost second and kissing into existence every single one you still had ahead.

“Someone drug me before they start having sex on the helipad, please,” Walker groaned somewhere down the landing pad, voice loud and so dramatic.

Bob made a noise of protest against your lips. You pulled back just in time to see Bucky roll his eyes and slap a hand against Walker’s chest–not hard, but firm enough to make the man stumble a step.

“Lay off them,” Bucky said with a dry edge. “Remember what happened at the safe house?”

Walker’s face twitched, like maybe he’d just imagined something that was cringe inducing.

Alexei let out a low, theatrical sigh as he adjusted the strap on his shoulder. “I do not wish to remember anything from safe house,” He muttered. “Let’s not bring up again.”

As the three of them started to wander off toward the compound–Walker still muttering under his breath, Bucky nudging him in the ribs every few steps–you turned back to Bob, eyebrows raised in amusement.

“What happened at the safe house?” You asked, lips twitching with a smirk.

Bob groaned and scrubbed a hand down his face. “Let’s just say,” He muttered, sheepish and already blushing again, “I broke the handle off the shower.”

You blinked.

Then grinned.

He winced. “I’m not going into any more details.”

You bit your lip and leaned closer, your breath brushing the shell of his ear.

“I’m sure I’ll get it out of you later…” Bob let out a soft, strangled laugh and hugged you tighter, burying his face in your shoulder again like you were his favorite place in the entire world.

“I have no doubts you will.”

—————————

You and Bob sat on the couch in the common room watching everyone file out of their living quarters with their overnight bags, moving toward the elevator in tired anticipation to leave.

The energy in the compound was unusually domestic–soft, slow, and full of the kind of quiet that only came after long missions and barely-slept nights. Boots scuffed against tile. Zippers rasped. Low murmurs passed between teammates like background static as bag straps were adjusted and mugs of coffee were drained.

You sat close–so close–to Bob that the sides of your bodies felt fused together. His thigh was pressed against yours, solid and warm. Your shoulder nestled beneath the curve of his arm, and his hand rested gently at your knee, thumb brushing absent circles along the soft fleece of your pants like he couldn’t stop reminding himself you were real.

You hadn’t separated since he landed. Not truly. He hovered behind you in hallways, walked so closely beside you it felt like his gravity had shifted just for you. His gaze kept dropping to your mouth, your hands, the shape of you under your hoodie, but he hadn’t touched you like that yet.

Out of respect.

Because the both of you knew–deep down, under skin and soul–that the moment his hands moved with intention, it was over. Forty-five days of self-control and whispered phone sex and waking up aching would snap like a bowstring.

It was going to get loud.

Bob had sent the Airbnb location to Yelena that morning. A sleek, modern condo nestled in the heart of the city, all tall windows and quiet luxury. He’d found it weeks ago, combed through reviews like a man on a mission. It was spacious–room for the whole team, enough bedrooms that no one had to share unless they wanted to, and–his favorite part–a massive living room with a wide sectional and blackout curtains.

The decision to get rid of the team for the night wasn’t just about sex though. It was about having a space that wasn’t made of expectations and constant surveillance. A place where you could sit on the floor in pajamas and eat greasy takeout. Where Bob could press his face into your stomach on the couch and fall asleep there without anyone walking in. A space where time didn’t feel like it was counting down.

Yelena appeared first with her hoodie zipped up to her chin, a messy bun wobbling on top of her head and sunglasses still perched on her nose. She didn’t look up from her phone as she walked by, only offered a casual, “Don’t set the place on fire.”

Ava followed close behind, hair still damp from her shower, headphones already on. She shot you a thumbs-up with a completely unreadable expression, then leaned in to mutter something to Bob that made his ears go red.

Walker was dragging two bags and a blanket under one arm, face scrunched like he hadn’t slept at all. “We’re not even gone yet,” he mumbled as he trudged toward the elevator, “and I already know they’re gonna defile every flat surface in here.”

You grinned sweetly. “Only the clean ones.”

Walker let out an exaggerated groan.

Then came Bucky, ever the last-minute straggler, one hand balancing his duffel and the other wrapped around a travel coffee mug. He paused as the elevator doors opened and turned back toward you and Bob with a flat look and the kind of voice only a tired team leader could muster.

“Please don’t demolish the walls,” He said dryly. “Val will have our heads.” The elevator dinged softly. “Seriously. The drywall’s new.”

Then the doors closed, and silence descended.

It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t even heavy. It was just–instant.

Bob’s eyes found yours.

And for a long, slow second, neither of you moved.

Then, softly–like the words were exhaled from somewhere deeper than his lungs–he murmured, “Alone at last.”

Your breath caught, just slightly, your chest rising as you looked at him.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t rushed.

It was gentle.

His hand rose to cradle the side of your face as he leaned in, mouth brushing yours with a tenderness that made your heart ache. The heat was there–oh, it was–but it simmered beneath the surface, beneath the restraint, in the way his thumb swept beneath your jaw like it was the most important thing in the world to him.

You hummed softly against his lips, a sound of contentment, of relief, of home.

His other hand slipped around your back, pulling you closer, and the kiss deepened just slightly–enough for his breath to hitch. You could feel the tension he’d been holding for weeks bleed out of him, poured into the press of his lips, the way his fingers trembled just a little where they held you.

Your tongue slipped past his lips–slow and teasing–chasing the taste of him, letting that artificial strawberry sweetness coat your senses. He groaned softly into your mouth, a low, helpless sound that vibrated at the back of his throat and made your skin spark like a live wire. His hand curled tighter at your waist as he kissed you deeper, his tongue meeting yours in a slow, slick glide that made heat bloom low in your stomach.

It was dizzying–the way he kissed. There was hunger, but he was so gentle in how he displayed it, holding onto what little control he had. Every brush of his mouth was a confession, a plea, a reminder. Forty-five days. Forty-five fucking days.

You shifted instinctively, climbing into his lap without a word, your knees bracketing his hips, arms wrapping around his shoulders. The second your weight settled on him, his hands flew to your hips like magnets–gripping you hard, like maybe he needed proof you were real and not some hallucination cooked up by longing and strawberry sugar highs.

His mouth opened wider as he kissed you again–deeper this time, slower, like he was savoring you. You pressed forward, grinding against the hardness beginning to grow beneath you, and he gasped, fingers flexing against your sides like he was trying to hold himself back slightly.

”God,” He breathed against your mouth, his voice cracking–wrecked and raw, “You feel so–god, I mi-missed you, so much.” You pulled back just slightly, just enough to look down at him, lips slick and swollen, breaths mingling.

“I missed you too, Bob…” You murmured, your voice thick with heat and something more tender underneath. “So fucking much.”

Then you kissed him again–lingering this time, your lips plush against his, pressing in slow and deep, your tongues sliding together with the kind of wet, open-mouthed heat that left nothing to imagination. It wasn’t rushed, but it was obscene in how thorough it became–messy and wet and utterly addictive. Each pull of his mouth fed the need growing between your legs. Each swirl of your tongue tasted like sugar and ache.

His thighs flexed beneath you, solid and trembling, heat radiating through the fleece of your pants like a furnace. You rocked forward gently–grinding against the thick length of him through his sweatpants–and he choked on a moan, hips twitching up like instinct.

“Y/N–shit,” He whispered, his throat tightening with want, “I’m not go-going to last if yo–“

“We have all night,” You breathed, licking into his mouth with a slow teasing sweep, “I’m pretty sure you’re going to finish more than once tonight.” You swallowed his groan with your mouth.

The kiss deepened again, wet and filthy now–tongues tangling, lips parting wider, spit slicking your chin. You could feel it building–heat curling and crackling between you like static, your core dragging slow over the shape of him. He was hard now. Fully. You could feel him straining against the fabric of his pants, thick and twitching beneath you, and you rocked again–slow and deliberate.

The friction hit you just right–your clit catching on the seam of your underwear and pants–you gasped into his mouth, breaking the kiss with a slick pop. A thread of spit connected your bottom lip to his, and his eyes fluttered open, glazed and desperate.

“Christ,” He muttered, his fingers twitching against your skin.

You leaned forward again, not giving him a moment to recover, your lips brushing his as you whispered, “Open your mouth.” He obeyed instantly. You spit into it.

Just a slow, sensual bead of saliva gathered on your tongue and that dripped into his mouth, and Bob let out the filthiest moan you’d ever heard from him–like the act alone fried something in his brain. His eyes rolled slightly, his hips jerked up into yours, and he caught your face in both hands like he was worshipping you.

He swallowed it.

Greedy.

”One of my fa-favourite drinks,” He groaned, his voice low and trembling, hands sliding down your back to grip your ass, pulling you hard against him. You could feel every inch of him now–every throb, every twitch–and your body burned with the need to feel more.

You kissed him again, lips bruised, spit-slick, tongues dragging slow and sticky. The kind of kiss that made time disappear. The kind of kiss that left you soaked and aching and dizzy.

You ground against him again and again, hips moving in a slow, devastating rhythm that made you both pant. His hands clung to you, moving from your waist to your hips to the underside of your thighs like he couldn’t figure out where he wanted to worship first.

The wet heat between your legs was unbearable now–your underwear stuck to you, and a small wet patch formed on the crotch of your sweatpants as every drag against him lit up your nerves like fireworks.

“I want you to ruin me,” You whispered against his mouth, breath hot and trembling, your voice caught halfway between a plea and a promise.

He whined loudly, the sensations crowding him.

“I–I’m gonna,” He stammered, breathless, eyes wild. “I–I swear to god, I’m gonna.”

And you believed him.

Because you could feel it. In the way his hands gripped you, trembling but unrelenting. In the way he kissed you like he was trying to memorize every taste you’d ever offer him. In the way your bodies locked together–grinding, gasping, swearing under your breaths–desperate to make up for every lost second.

Your hips rocked harder–deliberate now, brutal in how slow you dragged yourself over the thick length of him, grinding down with the weight of everything you’d missed.

Bob sobbed into your mouth.

A real, broken sound that punched out of his throat like it caught him off guard. His hands flew to your hips and gripped them tight, like he didn’t trust himself to survive this if you kept going like that. Like he couldn’t believe this was real and wasn’t about to disappear into ash and heat and wanting.

His head tipped back against the cushion, throat bared, jaw slack.

“Ah–fuck,” He gasped, voice splitting around the curse, his mouth falling open like he’d just been wrecked by air alone. “Ohh my g–“ You cut him off with another kiss, teeth grazing his lip, tongue messy and sweet, spit sliding hot between your mouths. Then you ground down again—hard—your clit hitting just right through the layers of soaked fabric. And he cried for it.

That sound again. So pretty. So pained.

A high, strained nghh that cracked as it left his throat and curved into a ragged moan, his hips jerking up against you like a man possessed.

Your hands dove into his hair without thinking, threading into the soft, travel-tousled strands and yanking–not harshly, but firmly enough to send his spine arching like a bow. He gasped, eyes fluttering open, pupils blown and wild.

“Y-You’re gonna make me come just like this,” he stuttered, lips wet and trembling. “Please, pl–please don’t stop–don’t stop, I need–”

“I’m not stopping,” You panted, dragging your lips over his cheek, your breath hot against his flushed skin. “You feel so fucking good under me, Bob, you’re–god–I’m so close.”

You pushed yourself harder now, riding him with frantic, rolling pressure, your thighs trembling from the tension winding tight in your belly. You weren’t even touching your clit, not directly–but the drag of the fabric, the heat of him underneath, the friction between your soaked bottoms and the thick, pulsing shape of him through his sweatpants–it was enough to send sparks dancing behind your eyes.

You kissed him again, all tongue and spit and teeth, and he groaned into your mouth–deep and guttural this time, the kind of sound that vibrated through his chest and made your insides clench.

Then it happened.

His hands slid down, palms shaking, thumbs pressing into the crease where your thighs met your hips. His body tensed–hard and helpless–and his voice broke.

“F-fuck–I’m coming,” He gasped. He jerked beneath you, his hips thrusting up once, then twice–desperate and involuntary–right as your own orgasm hit you like a tidal wave. Your mouth fell open in a silent moan, your entire body seizing as you came hard against him, pulsing through the pressure, through the fabric, through the ache. Your thighs clamped down around his hips, your nails digging into his clothed shoulders, and you let out a strangled, shattered noise as your head dropped against his.

Bob whined, A long, sharp, high-pitched sound–soaked with surprise and overstimulation and desperate relief–ripping from his throat as he came in his boxers with a wet, audible twitch of fabric. His legs shook under you. His jaw dropped. His brows pinched tight as he grunted hard into your neck, hips spasming beneath the soaked cotton.

“Ah–ahhh, shit,” He choked, his whole body twitching like a live wire as his orgasm dragged him under. You held him through it–kept grinding, slow and deliberate, until you felt the last of it ripple through him. Until his muscles went slack beneath you, his chest heaving against yours.

The aftershocks hit him hard.

One last jerk of his hips. A startled nghh as the wet cling of his boxers brushed over the sensitive head of his cock.

He twitched again.

Then groaned low in his throat, deep and hoarse and trembling, like it physically hurt to feel that good.

You collapsed forward with him, your forehead pressed against his, both of you gasping into the silence like you’d just come up from underwater. His hands were still on your hips, too weak to grip, just resting there like he needed the anchor.

His eyes fluttered open, dazed, wide, ruined.

And then–soft, barely audible–he laughed.

“That’s one way to st–start the night.” Bob murmured, still breathless, the ghost of a stunned smile on his lips. You let out a soft, slow laugh, brushing your nose against his.

“Starting off strong.” You commented, planting a lazy kiss against the corner of his mouth. Then your hand rose to cradle his cheek, the pad of your thumb stroking gently beneath his eye, “Are you okay?” You whispered. His eyes fluttered shut at your touch, lips parting just slightly before he nodded–slow and blissed-out.

“Way more th-than okay…” He breathed, voice warm and wrecked, “But I do think we should grab some water bottles and go to your room so we can…Co-Continue this reunion in comfort.” You grinned, teeth catching your bottom lip, and hummed low in your throat.

“What a perfect idea.” You kissed him again–slow and deep, one last taste of strawberry and spit and satisfaction–and then eased off his lap, your legs trembling slightly as your weight shifted back to your heels. Bob’s gaze dropped between you before either of you said anything, and your eyes followed instinctively. The wet patch on his sweatpants was unmistakable–wide and dark and so obvious it made both of you snort.

“Jesus,” You muttered with a smirk, running a shaky hand through your hair. “We should really not be allowed to be alone.” Bob let out a low, breathless chuckle as he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, one hand dragging down his flushed face.

“I don’t think we’re gonna make it through the night with any self-control intact…” You steadied yourself enough to stand fully, and once upright, you turned and offered him your hand. He took it without hesitation–his fingers curling around yours with a grip that was still a little weak from release, but no less certain.

You both paused at the fridge on the way to your room, laughter still humming between you. You opened the door and reached for two cold bottles of water, pressing one into his palm. Bob tilted his head toward you, eyes still heavy-lidded but sweet.

“You go to your ro-room,” He said softly, “I have to grab something fr-from my bag.” You blinked, then lifted a brow as you unscrewed your water cap.

“Something secret?” He gave a small, sheepish shrug, his ears tinged pink.

“I brought you ba–back some stuff from Singapore.” Your smirk widened immediately, playful heat blooming behind your eyes.

“Oh?”

“Mm-hmm,” He nodded, ducking his head a little like it would help cool the flush creeping up his neck, “I-I’ll meet you in your room.” Your smile widened as you leaned in to kiss him again—quick, soft, a brush of sweetness against his mouth.

Then you pulled back, grinning with mischief, and turned on your heel to head for your room. You only made it two steps before Bob’s hand landed firmly with a smack against your backside.

You jumped, an involuntary squeak slipping from your lips as heat immediately bloomed in your cheeks. You turned your head just enough to give him a narrow-eyed glare over your shoulder, but the curve of your smirk betrayed you.

“I’ll get you back for that,” You murmured darkly.

Bob just stood there with his water bottle in one hand, cheeks flushed and lips still a little swollen, absolutely pleased with himself. His eyes sparkled, that stupidly innocent smile tugging at his mouth like he hadn’t just made your knees buckle twenty minutes ago.

“I’m counting on it,” He called after you.

You shook your head fondly and slipped into your room.

It was exactly how you’d left it before the mission. Soft lighting filtering through partially drawn curtains, a faint scent of your shampoo lingering in the air. Your bedding was still tidy, throw blanket folded across the foot of the mattress, pillows fluffed just the way Bob liked them when he curled around you. The air was just a touch too cool–nothing a hoodie wouldn’t fix–but it felt good. Familiar.

A quick glance at the windowsill told you your plants had survived your absence. Somehow. A bit droopy, but alive. You made a mental note to thank whoever watered them while you were away.

You padded across the room, toes sinking into the plush rug near your bed. With one hand, you tugged at the waistband of your sweatpants, wincing a little at how the fabric clung to the still-damp spot between your legs. You peeled them down slightly, just to adjust, sighing at the relief of cooler air brushing against your skin. You weren’t even embarrassed by the state you were in.

Your eyes flicked to the nightstand where your duffel bag sat, and you moved to unzip it. Nestled between a spare hoodie and your toiletry kit was the small, wrapped package you’d been saving. You pulled it free and unwrapped it quickly, heart thudding just a little harder as you turned the leather-bound journal over in your hands.

It was dark brown, buttery-soft to the touch, the kind that scuffed easily and aged beautifully. You’d picked it up in Wellington–tucked away in a little market beside the coast, just before your last recon sweep. The cover had a subtle stitched border, and you’d chosen it because it reminded you of Bob’s hands. Quietly worn, deeply warm, and steady. There was no name, no decoration. Just a smooth, empty canvas that you hoped he’d fill.

You placed it gently at the center of your bed.

A peace offering, in a way. And a small shield against the storm of affection you knew would pour out of him the second he saw it. Bob was the kind of man who insisted you keep every gift, who got flustered when receiving anything himself, always murmuring things like “You shouldn’t have,” or “Y-you didn’t have to do th-that for me.”

But this time? This time you had something ready. Something just as thoughtful as whatever was in his bag. And he wasn’t going to get the upper hand.

You straightened up, smoothing your hoodie and adjusting your sweatpants again.

Then the door creaked open slowly, and Bob peeked in with an expression that could only be described as suspiciously innocent. His cheeks were still pink from earlier, and he was holding something behind his back.

Your brows lifted. “What are you hiding?”

Bob stepped inside, shutting the door with his heel. “Al–Alright,” He said, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, “Pick a hand.”

You smirked. “The right one.”He let out a small, boyish laugh, clearly delighted, and brought his right hand around from behind his back to reveal a snow globe. Your eyes lit up instantly.

“Oh my god,” You breathed, reaching out to take it from his hands like it was something precious. “You got me a new addition to my collection?”

The snow globe was small and delicate, the glass catching the soft light of your room in a shimmer. Inside was a miniature skyline of Singapore, etched with startling detail. The Marina Bay Sands hotel curved along the waterline, flanked by palm trees and the iconic Merlion statue mid-roar. Tiny flecks of silver and gold glitter drifted inside when you gave it a soft shake, swirling around the little city like a gentle tropical storm. The base was painted a deep navy blue, trimmed in gold, and read Singapore in looping script, with tiny sakura flowers embossed around the edge.

Bob rubbed the back of his neck, watching your expression with a shy, lopsided smirk. “Th–Thought you might like it.”

“I love it,” you said warmly, already moving toward your closet. You flipped on the light, revealing the top shelf lined with snow globes from all over the world–Tokyo, Seoul, Prague, Toronto, even one that had a miniature version of the Watchtower in it, a custom made one that everyone chipped in for. Each globe was spaced carefully, each one part of the quiet little story of where you’d been–or where the people you loved had thought of you.

You made a space in the very center, shifted a few things aside, and placed the Singapore globe with reverence.

It fit perfectly.

Bob stepped closer behind you, just watching the way your face softened in the warm closet light. Then, he revealed what was in his other hand. a small stack of postcards, corners slightly curled, edges lovingly preserved.

You turned, already laughing under your breath. “You know me too well, Bob.”

He shrugged, bashful. “Every shop had a rack of them. I just… I dunno. Thought of you every time.”

You flipped through them slowly–sunsets over the harbor, busy market scenes, a picture of a street vendor surrounded by colorful bowls of food, and even one of a snoozing orange cat on a windowsill with the caption “Singapore Siesta.”

“I can’t believe you remembered,” You murmured, touched.

Bob smiled shyly. “Y-You keep everything, how co-could I not remember?”

You turned, placing the postcards on your desk carefully before glancing back at him with a raised brow and a teasing smile. “You definitely topped me when it came to souvenirs, though.”

He tilted his head, confused.

You motioned toward the bed with a tilt of your chin. “Look.”

Bob followed your gaze. His eyes fell on the leather-bound journal lying at the center of your bed.

He froze.

His breath hitched softly, and you saw the way his expression shifted–fondness overtaking surprise. He stepped forward slowly, like he didn’t want to touch it until he was absolutely sure it was real.

“No way…” He whispered.

He picked it up carefully, both hands cradling it like it was something sacred. His thumbs brushed the buttery-soft surface, fingertips skimming the stitched border before he lifted it closer to his face and breathed in the rich, familiar scent of fresh leather.

“Th–This is perfect.”

His voice cracked a little on the word perfect.

Your heart clenched, watching the way his hands squeezed the journal gently–like he was testing the give of it, the texture, the weight. You knew Bob was the kind of man who held onto his thoughts quietly, like pages yet to be written. This was for him. A safe place to empty all the things he could never say out loud.

“You said you needed a new one, so I thought it would be a good buy.” Bob’s gaze found yours then, eyes glasses and full of warmth.

“Yo-You didn’t have to,” He murmured. Bob smiled softly, setting the journal down on your nightstand with a reverence that made your chest ache. Then he reached into the front pocket of his hoodie, pulling out the water bottle he’d been carrying like an afterthought and placing it next to the journal.

When he turned back to you, something shifted. There was still that tender glow in his eyes, but it had deepened–melted into something low and hungry and warm. He closed the space between you in three slow steps, arms slipping around your waist like they belonged there. His head dipped down, lips brushing yours in a barely-there kiss that lingered with the quiet weight of a promise.

“You know I wanted to,” you whispered against his mouth, the words feather-light but firm.

He smirked and kissed you again–just a little firmer this time, just a little deeper. You felt it in the bend of his fingers against your lower back, the way his breath hitched slightly as your hips grazed his.

“No–now,” He murmured, voice thick and gravel-slick, “I gotta thank you.”

You tilted your head, eyebrow lifting. “And how are you going to do that?”

He licked his lips slowly, almost nervously, and you could see the flicker of anticipation ripple down his throat.

“Well…” His voice dropped lower–warm and sinful, spun from velvet and longing. “I’ll need you to take your clothes off first…And th–then I’ll be able to show you.” The knot in your stomach tightened like a pulled thread unraveling down your spine. Heat rushed through you, dizzying and thick.

“Okay…” You breathed, the word barely more than a gasp.

You reached for the hem of your hoodie and peeled it upward, exposing your torso inch by inch–skin flushed and warm beneath the soft light of your room. Then came the sweatpants, shoved down in a quick, fluid motion, pooling at your ankles. You stepped out of them, bare feet brushing over the rug as you stood there in your lingerie–black lace against your skin, the bra hugging your chest just right, the matching underwear cut high on your hips, trimmed with satin that caught the glow of the bedside lamp.

His eyes drank you in.

Wide and glassy, bottom lip caught lightly between his teeth as he took you in, slow and reverent, like seeing you like this for the first time all over again.

“Go la–lay down for me,” he whispered.

You let the smallest smile curve your lips. “Hmm… Getting a little dominant tonight, are we?”

He huffed a quiet, breathless laugh, his gaze still glued to every inch of exposed skin like he couldn’t decide what to worship first.

“No,” He started, voice trembling with something deeper, “I ju–just really want to shower you with all the love I’ve been holding in for the past forty-five days.”

The way he said it broke something open inside you. The honesty in it. The need. The adoration packed so tightly into that single sentence that it spilled out the seams and into the air between you.

Your heart thundered against your ribs as you backed up toward the bed, eyes never leaving his. You climbed up slowly, settling into the mattress with a soft rustle of sheets, your head propped gently against the pillows as you watched him.

He pulled the hoodie over his head, revealing the white undershirt stretched across his chest, the hem already clinging faintly with sweat. His hands were shaking slightly as he pushed down his sweatpants, leaving him in nothing but his damp boxers below the waist–the dark patch still visible, the bulge unmistakable beneath the fabric.

Bob crawled onto the bed on his hands and knees, slow and deliberate, like each movement was calculated to draw this out–to make you feel the weight of him even before he touched you.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he moved between your legs, the space between your thighs already open and waiting, the warmth of him folding into you like a tide returning to shore. His eyes flicked down to your chest, your stomach, your parted legs–and then back to your face, as if grounding himself in the look you gave him was more important than anything else.

When he finally settled on top of you, his forearms braced on either side of your head, his hips resting lightly against yours, the thin fabric of his shirt brushed against your bare skin–and it was maddening. Too soft, too teasing. You could feel the slight dampness from his travel still clinging to him, the faint warmth of the fabric where it hugged his ribs and chest. But it was the pressure of his body, the closeness, the utter reverence in his eyes that made you tremble beneath him.

Then he kissed you.

And it wasn’t soft this time.

It was intimate.

His lips met yours with a low, desperate hunger, and his tongue slipped into your mouth immediately–warm, searching, slow. Not rough, not rushed. Just thorough. Like he wanted to taste every inch of you. Like he wanted to crawl into your lungs and live in your breath. He kissed you the way someone might memorize a language–studying the shape of every sound, every sigh.

You moaned softly into his mouth, fingers curling around the back of his neck, nails lightly scratching at his scalp as he deepened the kiss–his body settling further into yours without even meaning to.

He pulled back only slightly, lips slick and parted, and then began trailing kisses lower. Down your jaw. Across the slope of your throat. He didn’t rush. Not once. Each kiss was a pause, a breath, a confession. His tongue flicked along the tendon of your neck before he nipped gently, coaxing a shiver from your spine.

Then he found the soft skin just beneath your collarbone–and stopped.

Bob hovered there, his breath fanning hot over the spot, and you could feel the anticipation build before his mouth even touched you. His hand slid up your side, fingers spreading along your ribs like he needed to hold you still for this.

And then he latched on.

It was messy.

Wet.

Intense.

He sucked hard, drawing the skin into his mouth with a heat that bordered on indulgence. Like he wasn’t just giving you a hickey–he was kissing you there. Making out with your skin. His tongue rolled over the mark he was forming, slow and deliberate, and then he licked it–flat, hot, and wide–before dragging his teeth across the spot in a light graze.

You arched into him with a gasp, your legs twitching beneath his hips, and your fingers dove into his hair–scratching lightly at his scalp in response.

Bob groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your chest.

Then he did it again.

Sucked the same spot until it deepened–purple, red and raw with affection. When he finally pulled back, a line of saliva connected his lips to your skin, and he exhaled shakily.

“God…” He muttered, staring down at the bruise he’d made. He reached up with one finger and traced over it gently, eyes heavy with something carnal and affectionate all at once. Then he smirked–soft, proud, utterly ruined–and murmured, “So pr-pretty like this.”

Before you could even respond, Bob’s mouth was hot and wet on you again as he dragged his tongue across the swell of your breast, lips plush and reverent as he sucked another slow bruise into the sensitive skin just above the cup of your bra. His breath trembled against your chest, and you could feel the quiet desperation in the way his hands gripped your sides–like he was trying to memorize the give of your body under his palms.

Then, with an ease born of familiarity, his hand slipped behind the arch of your back and unclasped your bra with a single, practiced motion.

The moment the tension released, he pulled off the spot he’d been sucking on with a slick, satisfied pop, just long enough to slip the straps from your shoulders and drag the bra off your arms. He tossed it aside, not even glancing at where it landed–his eyes too fixed on the bare skin he’d just revealed.

“Fuck…” He whispered, almost to himself, his voice thick with awe. His hands cupped your breasts gently, then firmer, thumbs brushing over your nipples with careful, trembling pressure. You shivered, breath hitching as his palms molded to your curves like they’d been made for this–made for you.

“So so-soft…” He murmured, lowering his head again.

He returned to the place he’d been working–right above your left breast–and latched back on, determined to make the mark last. His tongue rolled over the bruise as he sucked, lips sealing around the skin with a heat that sent sparks crawling across your nerves. You arched into him, pressing your chest deeper into his mouth as your thighs squeezed around his hips.

Bob groaned low and desperate in response–his hips pressing forward, grinding into your core in a slow, instinctive rut.

The friction–hot and muffled by fabric–was just enough to make you sigh, breath soft and sultry against the shell of his ear.

“Love the way you do that, Bob…”

The sound he made in return was helpless–high and wrecked and muffled by the curve of your breast. His moan vibrated through your skin as he moved his mouth to your nipple, dragging his tongue in a slow swirl around it before pulling it into his mouth with a reverent suck.

You gasped, your hands flying to his hair again, fingers tightening as he flicked his tongue once–twice–and then sucked harder, sealing his mouth around your breast with the kind of worshipful attention that made your spine curl off the mattress.

“You’re so good to me,” You whispered, breathless, your head tipping back against the pillow.

Bob’s hips rocked into you again, harder this time, his cock thick and twitching through the soaked cotton of his boxers. The weight of him, the friction, the praise–it was too much and not enough all at once.

He pulled off with a pop and immediately moved to your other breast, mouthing at it like he needed to even the score. His hand slid up your side again to squeeze the one he’d just abandoned, kneading it gently while he sucked and licked and nibbled on the other–teeth grazing your nipple just enough to make you whimper.

He moaned against your chest again, louder this time, like the taste of you alone could bring him to the edge. His tongue flattened against your skin as he dragged it across the soft curve, leaving you slick and burning in his wake.

Then–without warning–he began kissing lower.

Down your sternum.

Across the softness of your stomach.

His mouth slowed when he reached your hips, and you felt his breath catch–just slightly–when his eyes landed on the healing cuts decorating your skin. Thin and raw and pink, like paper slices that had only just begun to close.

Bob stilled.

Then he leaned down and pressed a slow, reverent kiss to the first one–right above your hipbone. His lips lingered there, gentle and tender. He kissed the next one too, lower this time, and then another–his breath shaking more with each one.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

You could feel everything in the way his mouth moved against the wounds—careful and aching and quiet, like each kiss was an apology for not being there.

Then he reached the sharp jut of your hip bone and latched on again, sucking a new mark right onto the edge. It hurt, just a little–just enough to drag a gasp from your lungs–but the sound that left Bob’s throat was something close to relief. Like he’d wanted to leave a piece of himself there. Like marking you made him feel closer. Anchored.

His mouth pulled off the bone with a pop, and he exhaled hard, his breath fogging across the skin just above your underwear.

He hovered there for a moment.

Then slowly, one of his hands slid down the curve of your thigh and traced back up–until his fingers hooked just beneath the waistband of your underwear.

He looked up at you.

Eyes dark and shining.

Silent question.

And you nodded, just once, already trembling with anticipation. Bob held your gaze for a moment longer, his fingers still curled beneath the band of your underwear–then, slow and deliberate, he tugged them down.

The lace dragged over your thighs with maddening friction, catching slightly at the bend of your knees before slipping off entirely. He eased them down your calves, then over your ankles, hands reverent, careful–as if this moment might slip away if he moved too quickly.

But when they were finally off your legs, he didn’t toss them aside.

He balled them up in his fist.

And brought them to his nose.

The moment he inhaled, his eyes fluttered shut. His chest expanded with the breath, like it filled his lungs with something divine, something necessary, and he let out a broken, breathless moan that shook in the center of his throat.

“Go–God, I missed your scent so much…” He whispered. His voice cracked on the word “missed.” Then he exhaled like he’d just been blessed and tossed the lace aside, completely ruined.

You bit your lip, heat surging low and fast between your legs at the sight of him so thoroughly gone from something so simple–so intimate.

He sat back on his knees just long enough to tug his shirt off over his head. It clung slightly to his damp skin, catching on his biceps before he yanked it free, baring his chest to you. His body was flushed pink–heat blooming across his pecs, the swell of his shoulders, the soft dip of his stomach. His muscles tensed slightly as the air hit him, a visible shiver passing through him as he dropped the shirt behind him without a second thought.

Then he looked at you again.

And something changed.

Bob’s eyes dropped to your center, gaze zeroing in on the slick glistening between your thighs like it physically rooted him to the spot. His breath caught–sharp and shallow–and he swore under it.

“F-Fuck,” He whispered. “You’re so wet I ca–can see it–Jesus.”

His hands moved before his thoughts could catch up–gripping your thighs and pushing them up, pressing your knees gently toward your stomach until you were completely open for him. His fingers trembled against your skin, knuckles white with restraint, pupils blown wide as he stared down at the dripping mess between your legs like he’d stumbled across something holy.

And then–

He buried his face in you.

No warning.

No teasing.

Just full contact.

His tongue licked a stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit in one slow, filthy motion, and he moaned the second he tasted you–loud and helpless, like the taste of you lit up something inside him.

“I missed this–I mi-missed this so much–”He choked out into your core. You cried out, your hips jolting up into his face, and he welcomed it–his hands flying to your thighs to hold you steady as he devoured you like a man starved. He sucked your clit into his mouth, lips sealing around it like a kiss, and moaned again–low and guttural, the sound vibrating directly into you.

Your hands dove into his hair instinctively, gripping tight, grounding yourself.

“Oh my god, Bob–fuck, yes–just like that–”

He groaned again, this one higher, more desperate, as he dragged his tongue down to your entrance and licked into you like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. His nose nudged against your clit with every stroke, every filthy swirl of his tongue that curled and flexed and explored you like he was learning you all over again.

“You taste–god–you taste ev-even better than I remember,” He gasped between licks, his voice thick and trembling. “Could eat you for hours–fuck–I’d die between your thighs, I swear to god–”

You whimpered, your hips rocking against his mouth instinctively. The angle had him pinned perfectly–your knees pressed up, his hands gripping your thighs, his mouth working you over with the kind of hunger that bordered on feral.

You rolled your hips, grinding into his face.

He moaned–loud, breathless, broken.

“Th–That’s it,” He slurred, “Fuck–use me–use my mouth, don’t stop–don’t stop–please–“

“God, Bob,” You gasped, your thighs trembling around his head, “You’re so good–so fucking good at this–you do this like it’s your fucking job–“ Bob whined. A high, desperate sound muffled by your core, his hips rutting into the mattress below as he licked faster, messier. His tongue moved in tight, eager circles over your clit before flattening out, licking in wide, wet swipes, his breath hot and uneven. You were soaked, dripping onto his chin, his cheeks, your slick painting his mouth.

“Such a good boy,” you panted, fingers yanking gently on his hair. “My perfect boy–so hungry for me–so fucking good with that mouth–”

He gasped against you, voice ragged and pleading.

“Say it again–p–please–”

“My good boy,” You moaned, your whole body tensing under the onslaught of pleasure. “My sweet, filthy, perfect boy–just can’t get enough, can you?”

His moan ripped through you.

He sucked your clit hard in response, then released it just to lick faster–his tongue working in rhythm now, determined and frantic, as his hips jerked down against the mattress with helpless need. He was grinding, whimpering, devouring you with every breath like it might be his last.

You could feel your orgasm rising–fast, hot, uncontrollable.

Your back arched.

Your breath caught.

“Bob–Bob–I’m gonna–”

And he moaned again–deep and wrecked–and latched back onto your clit, sucking like he was starving for it.

“Come for me,” He gasped against your core, “I wanna taste it–I need it–I fucking need it–pl-please, come for me–” He didn’t give you a chance to brace yourself. Bob buried his face deeper into your core–his nose grinding into your clit now, his mouth open wide as his tongue plunged into your entrance. The wet, obscene sound of him eating you echoed softly between your thighs. He moaned when he felt you tighten around him, his mouth so far into you it felt like he was trying to consume your very soul.

That was what pushed you over.

Your hips jerked violently upward, your fingers twisting in his hair as your back arched off the mattress. A cry ripped from your throat, sharp and breathless, your whole body locking up as the orgasm hit you like a detonated star.

“Fuck–fuck, B–Bob–!”

He groaned into your core, tongue fucking you through it, deep and rhythmic, slow and greedy. He didn’t let up–not when your thighs quaked, not when your heels dug into the mattress, not when your breath hitched and choked. He just held you open, drank you down like something divine, and moaned at every pulse of you around his tongue.

He didn’t come up for air until you were trembling too hard to keep your hips still. Until your hands, still tangled in his hair, went slack with overstimulation and your voice cracked on a whimper of his name.

Only then did Bob ease back.

He kissed your core once. Then again.

Soft, reverent.

One just above your clit. Another to the inside of your thigh. A final one to your soaked entrance, like a benediction.

Then he moved–slowly, carefully–up your body.

You were limp beneath him, muscles warm and twitching, breath coming in shallow waves.

And then he kissed you.

His mouth was slick, drenched in you, tongue warm and coated in your taste as he pressed it into yours with an aching sound that cracked open your chest. His kiss was everything–grateful, overwhelmed, heavy with the need to share the pleasure he’d taken from you. You moaned softly into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue, and suddenly it made sense. The addiction. The need. The way he whined when you came, the way he talked about dying between your thighs.

You got it now.

The taste of your orgasm still fresh and thick on his tongue, he kissed you like a man whose reward was worship.

You stroked a hand through his hair–messy, damp at the temples–and pressed your forehead to his.

“My turn,” You whispered.

Bob blinked at you, dazed. Wrecked. Glowing.

“Wh–what?”

You rolled him gently onto his back. “Let me take care of you now.”

His breath stuttered. “O-Okay.”

He watched, wide-eyed, as you settled between his legs, your mouth already swollen, your chin still shining with shared slick. His boxers clung damp to his thighs–soaked from earlier, dark with release, still visibly hard beneath the wet fabric.

You reached for the waistband and dragged them down–slow, careful, deliberate.

His cock sprung free, flushed and swollen, still glistening from his earlier orgasm. The base was damp, the head still wet, a bead of precum forming right at the tip.

You hummed low in your throat. “God you’re so hard…”

Bob’s hips twitched at your tone.

You leaned in, and licked the head. A single, slow stroke of your tongue across the slit–salty and warm. You moaned at the taste.

Bob sobbed.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a breathless, overwhelmed, strangled gasp that punched out of him like the air had been stolen from his lungs.

“Fu–Fuck,” He whispered, his head falling back against the pillow, one hand gripping the sheet. You wrapped one hand around the base, stroking him slowly as you took him into your mouth. Just the tip. Just a tease. Your tongue swirled around it, lapping up the mess he couldn’t stop making, dragging a groan from deep in his chest.

“Still so sensitive.” You murmured, after pulling off with a slick pop, “Didn’t even get a break.” His cock twitched in your hand. His mouth opened, but no words came out–just a ragged gasp.

You smirked.

Then you went back in–deeper this time, your lips wrapping tight around him, your mouth wet and hot and relentless. You bobbed slowly, taking more with each stroke, your saliva mixing with his leftover arousal, making everything obscenely slick. Your hand stroked what your mouth couldn’t reach. It was a mess. And he was falling apart.

“Y-you’re gonna kill me,” He gasped, his other hand flying to your hair, fingers curling tight.

You moaned around him.

And then–just when you felt the tension peak in his thighs–you stopped.

Pulled off with a slurp, your mouth slick and open, your eyes heavy-lidded as you watched him writhe.

Bob whined.

His whole body arched, hips lifting like they could chase the heat of your mouth. His face was flushed red. His cock throbbed in your hand, dripping slowly. You gave him a few strokes, slow and deliberate, your fist gliding up the slick length of him while your other hand anchored against his trembling thigh. Bob’s cock twitched in your grasp, flushed dark and leaking steadily, and his chest heaved like he was trying to keep it together with willpower alone.

Your eyes didn’t leave his face.

You wanted to see it. Every flicker of ruin. Every little shake in his jaw. Every desperate, bitten-off moan he couldn’t stop from spilling past those plush lips.

He was wrecked already–eyes blown wide, mouth slack, hands curled tight in the sheets. You gave the head of his cock a teasing lick, then sucked him back into your mouth for a few strokes, tongue dragging over the sensitive underside. He let out a strangled sound–part moan, part sob–and his hips twitched up, involuntary and helpless.

But just as you felt the tension start to crest in his thighs again–just as you tasted that telltale shift of salt and heat in the precum–you pulled off with a wet pop and let him slip from your lips.

“Fuuuck–” Bob gasped, his whole body jerking. “Ugh… You ca-can’t do that–”

His voice cracked on the words. Wrecked. Pleading. Beautiful.

You grinned up at him, wicked and flushed and so full of want you were practically vibrating.

“Maybe…” You panted, dragging your mouth back up to his flushed torso, “I want you inside me now.”

The breath punched out of him.

A choked, feral little grunt escaped his throat before his hands found your waist and flipped you both over in one, seamless motion–quick and rough, the mattress bouncing beneath your bodies. You let out a breathless sound, startled but exhilarated, and spread your legs immediately beneath him, thighs falling open in invitation.

Bob was already reaching between you, frantic but focused, one hand sliding down your belly to grip his cock. He lined himself up with you in a single, sure movement, the head pressing hot and slick against your dripping entrance.

And then–he pushed in.

All the way.

No warning. No pause. No breath to adjust.

He sank into you in one smooth, devastating thrust, and your back arched with a gasp so sharp it could’ve split the air.

“Fuck–Bob–!”

You took him so well–your core soaked and ready, clenching around the stretch of him with a wet, obscene squelch that echoed in the room. He groaned low, trembling, his body folding over yours as he buried himself to the hilt, the weight of him heavy and perfect between your thighs.

“God–you’re such a good girl…Ta-Taking me so well–” He choked, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “So warm–f-fuck–I missed this so much–“ You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, nails digging into the meat of his back as he pulled out and slammed back in again–hard, deep, relentless. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, fast and filthy, every thrust wet and thick with the heat of you.

He was fucking you like he meant it.

Like he couldn’t help himself.

Like it had been forty-five days of aching and this was the only way to survive it.

“Don’t stop–don’t stop–” You moaned, clawing at his back. “Bob, please–fuck–don’t hold back–”

He didn’t.

He grunted hard and adjusted–grabbing the backs of your thighs and pushing them up, folding your legs toward your chest. The angle shifted, deepened, and the second he thrust again, you screamed.

“Ah–oh fuck–!”

He grinded into your g-spot with terrifying precision, over and over again, his eyes glued to the way your face contorted with every stroke. Sweat beaded along his temples, dripping down his chest as he pounded into you, thighs slapping yours in a rhythm that felt like it was going to make you cry.

Then–one hand slid down.

And he started rubbing your clit.

Fast. Rough. Desperate.

“Bob–!” You sobbed, your body writhing under him, “Yes–fuck–just like that–don’t stop–”

His fingers were slick with your arousal, rubbing tight, messy circles over the swollen bud as he fucked you deeper, harder, your walls clenching wildly around him.

“Y-You’re gripping me so hard–so wet–fuck–I-I can’t–” His voice cracked into a whimper, and he thrust even harder, hips snapping against yours like he couldn’t hold back a second longer.

Then he grabbed one of your legs and brought it over his shoulder, bracing himself deeper inside you.

You shattered.

Your eyes rolled back, your mouth fell open, and your back bowed off the bed as the angle hit something devastating inside you–your clit throbbing under his fingers, your cunt milking him like you were begging for him to come with you.

“Oh my god–oh my god–Bob–I’m gonna–”

“Come with me,” He gasped, his thrusts faltering now, erratic and fast and sloppy, “Come with me, baby, please–I’m so close–”

Your nails raked down his back, your whole body clenching–

Then you came.

Hard.

A scream tore from your throat as your orgasm exploded through you–wet and messy and overwhelming–your walls pulsing around him like it was trying to keep him. Bob let out a strangled moan and followed immediately after, his cock twitching deep inside you, hot spurts flooding you as his body trembled through release. He collapsed against you with a wrecked groan, his hips twitching helplessly as the last waves of pleasure rocked through him.

Both of you were shaking.

Sweat-slicked. Soaked. Breathless.

And for a long, stunned moment, the only sound was your mingled panting and the pulse of your hearts trying to slow.

Then Bob’s mouth found your neck again.

Soft. Tender. Like he couldn’t stop kissing you even if he tried.

His breath was still ragged when he finally slid your leg down from his shoulder, easing it back onto the bed with a trembling hand. He hovered over you for one more beat–eyes fluttering, lips parted–and then he thrust once more, slow and deep, just to feel you squeeze around him before he leaned in and kissed you.

Soft. Gentle. A thank-you in the shape of a mouth.

Then he pulled back, his chest still heaving, and carefully eased out of you.

Your body clenched reflexively at the loss, slick heat stretching between you for a moment before it broke. Bob’s gaze dropped immediately to your center–and his breath caught again.

“Jesus…” He murmured.

His cum was already beginning to leak from you, creamy and wet, slipping in lazy trails down your folds. He groaned softly–wrecked and reverent–and brought his hand down between your legs. Without saying a word, he collected the mess with his middle and ring fingers, gathering it up from the sheets and your thighs in slow, deliberate strokes.

Then he pressed them back into you.

You gasped at the intrusion, hips twitching as his fingers sank in, thick and warm, curling slightly inside you as he tried to push his cum deeper. The stretch made you whimper, your body still spasming from aftershocks.

“Bob–” You choked, your hand flying down to wrap around his wrist. “Super sensitive. You need to give me a minute or two to recover.”

He froze immediately.

Then flushed.

“Oh–So-Sorry,” he stammered, ears turning red as he slowly, carefully pulled his fingers from you, wet with your combined slick.

He paused for only a second–then lifted his hand to his mouth and licked his middle finger clean. His tongue was slow, savoring, his lashes fluttering just slightly like the taste truly did something to him.

Your breath hitched.

Before he could finish, you caught his hand and brought it to your mouth, eyes locked on his as you took his ring finger between your lips.

His lips parted.

You sucked slow and sweet, tongue dragging over the knuckle, swallowing every last trace of yourselves off his skin. When you pulled back, his breath stuttered out of him like you’d knocked the wind from his lungs.

“We were ma–made for each other,” He complimented, voice hoarse, broken by awe. “We ta-taste so good together.”

You smirked, still licking the last of him from your lips.

“It’s fate,” You said simply.

Bob let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, his expression somewhere between blissed-out and utterly ruined. He leaned forward and kissed you again–slow and deep–his mouth still warm and sticky with the taste of you both. He pulled back and kissed you again. And again. Small pecks now, like he couldn’t stop.

Then, between kisses, he whispered, “Se–Sentry’s coming out.”

You giggled quietly, brushing your fingers along his jaw. You’d seen it before–the flicker of golden light creeping into his pupils, the way it shimmered there, not quite overwhelming the blue yet, just painting it at the edges like sunlight bleeding into ocean water.

“Haven’t seen him in a while…”

“Ye-Yeah, I know.”

Bob’s voice was a whisper–thin, cracking, like it was being dragged up from somewhere far beneath his ribs. Then his body gave a visible shudder, a ripple that traveled down his spine as he kissed you one last time–slow, plush, lingering.

That warmth you already knew so well–his body heat, always a little higher than normal–suddenly spiked. Not painfully. Not even sharply. Just… More. More radiant. More sun-like. It rolled off him in waves, chasing away the post-orgasmic chill on your skin, wrapping you in something golden and alive.

A low groan slipped from his throat as he pulled back, and when his face came back into focus, the shift was unmistakable.

The glow had arrived.

Sunlight bloomed behind his eyes–liquid gold bleeding into blue, curling like solar flares into the edges of his irises. It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t overpowering. It just… shimmered. Lit him from the inside out.

You smiled up at him, breath still shallow, your body still limp and soft against the sheets. His gaze flickered across your face, slow and heady, before he raised his eyebrows and clicked his tongue softly.

“My my…” Sentry murmured, voice like molten honey. “What an absolute mess.” You let out a breathless laugh, eyes crinkling with the warmth of it.

“You’re not wrong.”

His gaze dropped briefly to where your thighs still glistened and your chest still rose in shaky waves. He leaned in again, kissed you slow–open-mouthed, reverent, like he was relishing the taste of what you’d become under his hands.

Then he pulled back just enough to murmur, smugly, “Go Bob.”

You couldn’t help it–you snorted, hand covering your mouth. He laughed too, low and pleased, before sighing and leaning back a little more, holding out his hands for you to grab onto.

”Let’s get you cleaned up, hmm?” You exhaled, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. Your legs shifted slightly, just testing–and immediately trembled beneath the weight of sensation. You blinked, surprised, and let out a sheepish laugh.

“I don’t think I can get up.” You informed, looking at Sentry, who was grinning.

“I figured,” He said, bending down and pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee, where the tremble still lingered. “I’ll grab the washcloths.”

“Thank you, Sentry,” You murmured, watching him as he stood.

He moved with the same effortless power you always forgot he had–strength wrapped in golden light. His body, fully bare now, glowed softly under the lamplight and the afterglow of you. You watched his backside unashamedly as he crossed the room, muscles flexing beneath flushed, still-sweaty skin.

He opened the bathroom door without closing it behind him–never one to hide from you–and you saw the slow, methodical way he moved as he pulled open your top drawer and grabbed two washcloths. First, he wiped down his own body with the dry one, slow strokes that caught in the curve of his neck, along the slope of his stomach, over the flex of his thighs. He stood in front of the mirror as he did it, head tilted slightly, studying his reflection–not with vanity, but quiet curiosity. Like he was grounding himself.

You caught yourself watching him, that soft, primal appreciation coiling deep in your chest.

He reached for the second cloth, ran it under warm water, and turned to come back to you, shuffling back towards the bed. He knelt onto the edge, the free hand resting on your thigh so he could anchor himself.

“How was the mission?” He asked, his voice still thick with warmth and post-coital reverence.

You sighed softly, eyes flicking to his golden ones. “The usual…” Your fingers toyed with the corner of a pillow. “I was just missing Bob. And you. The entire time.”

He let out a soft laugh–quiet, fond, maybe a little shy.

“I broke a few things accidentally because I missed you too,” he said, glancing up at you as he dipped the cloth lower. “So I guess we were in the same boat.”

You smiled as he began to clean you.

It wasn’t clinical. It wasn’t rushed. It was worship.

The washcloth was warm and damp, and his touch was slow, tender, deliberate. He wiped between your thighs with a gentleness that made your throat tighten. Each pass of the cloth was like an apology and a promise–careful strokes that swept through the sticky mess he’d left behind, the sensitivity still twitching beneath your skin. He didn’t rush. He didn’t look away. He cleaned you like it meant something to him.

Because it did.

You touched his shoulder lightly. “I’m probably gonna talk to Val about sending us on missions together more.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, glowing. Attentive.

“Because I don’t think we’ll survive another forty-five day celibacy.”

Sentry gave you a look of such fond agreement it almost made your heart ache.

“That,” He murmured, voice velvet-slick, “would be a wonderful idea, sunshine.”

You grinned at the nickname, a quiet flush blooming across your cheeks. And he smiled right back, like it was the only name you’d ever need from him.

Then–slow, careful–he leaned in and kissed the inside of your thigh. Again. One last soft, sacred touch.

He dropped the washcloth to the side without a second thought, the soft thud of damp fabric barely registering before he was climbing up your body again–slow and sure and impossibly gentle.

His arms slid beneath and around you in one fluid motion, drawing you into the warmth of him like you belonged there. And you did. You always had. Chest to chest, your thigh hooked loosely over his hip, his forehead pressing against yours with a quiet kind of urgency–like even now, even after everything, he still couldn’t get close enough.

His breath puffed out across your lips, warm and steady.

“I’ll give you a couple of minutes before we do anything else,” he murmured, voice soft and golden, each word laced with that post-bliss reverence that made your heart ache.

You snorted under your breath, a lazy grin tugging at your lips. “Thank you for considering my refractory period…” You said, tone light and teasing. “I’m not a god like you.”

A deep, quiet laugh vibrated through his chest, low and fond.

“Don’t want to exhaust you too quickly,” He whispered, tucking you tighter against him, fingers stroking lazy circles along the bare curve of your back. “We’ve got the rest of the night still to reconnect.”

You hummed softly, eyes fluttering shut as you pressed your face into the crook of his neck, the scent of sweat and sex and something innately Bob curling in your lungs.

“I love you…” You whisper, and he runs his hand over your back.

”Love you too, sunshine…I’m glad you’re back.” He replies., heating up just a little more to surround you perfectly in a cocoon of comfort.

[404creep]

Y'all were eating up my Simon x civilian cleaner drabble, so I decided to add some more on it!

Previous Part Next Part Series Masterlist

In the last one I said that you just accept him following you around like a creep because he gives you scary dog privileges, but that wasn't an immediate thing.

Early on when you first caught his attention there were many young cadets that had the unfortunate timing of trying to flirt with you when he'd show up for his daily fix.

Safe to say those poor cadets would end up running laps until they were sick.

One had the nerve to try and get your number while Simon was watching and he became the volunteer (victim) for Simon's next hand to hand combat training dimenstration.

The whole thing just literally ended up as more work for you because you had to mop up the blood

He felt so bad :(

Never wants to make more work for you

One time, a comms tech wasn't looking where he was going and ended up bumping into you in the hall while you were sweeping and spilled his coffee all over the floor and a little on you

Literally started screaming about YOU needing to watch where YOU were going and about how you're just a cleaner and you're easily replaceable and all that.

You're biting your tongue because you need this job, but damn if the coffee soaking your shirt didn't hurt.

Simon, however, is PISSED.

How dare that little shit stain talk down to HIS bird????? And he didn't even have the decency to ask if you were okay????

Marched right over and pulled that little dickhead away from you. Made him clean up his mess and then Simon contacted his direct supervisor about the little shit making a hostile work environment and harassing civilians.

Dude got put on probation

You warm up to Ghost after that.

He may be a weird little stalker, but at least he had your back

Safe to say after that event EVERYONE on base knew to stay away from Simon's little cleaning lady unless they wanted to face his wrath.

Johnny is tickled pink by it when he finds out

Soap will hover around you now too, asking you stupid questions about your life and telling you dumb jokes while side eyeing Ghost looking like the cat that ate the canary.

Johnny is nice enough but you long for the days when you could do your work in silence.

Ghost also misses the time when you worked in silence because he's never wanted to punch Johnny in the face more than when he interrupts your guys' quality time

Now onto the kid

The first time Simon sees you go pick up the toddler from the base daycare he almost cries

Convinced you're married or have a man at home looking after you and his little fantasy shatters. He'd never seen a ring on your finger so he assumed you were single but maybe you took it off when you were at work???

He basically goes into mourning

He's in a horrible mood for a while after that and it drives the 141 a bit crazy.

He refuses to go watch you after that, because he doesn't wanna step on any toes but he misses you :(

You notice the absence and honesty kind of miss your shadow :(

Johnny finally can't take it and casually asks one day if you got a mister at home

You say no and explain that you take care of your sisters kid.

Johnny basically skips to Simon to give him the good news.

After that your shadow is back and he's even moved a bit closer to you.

You're happy to see him back honestly

Meanwhile Simon is thinking of all the ways he can sweep you off your feet. His poor bird has so much going on in her personal life, he needs to take care of her.

Starts leaving little treats in your locker

You know who they're from

[angelx]

⟡ ݁₊ . Kirishima Eijiro x Fem!reader headcannons that have been killing me from the inside ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

Handsy in the most wholesome way: Kirishima doesn’t even realize how much he loves touching you — hand on your waist while you’re brushing your teeth, arms wrapped around your shoulders while you cook, or just dragging you into his lap while gaming. His love language is touch and it shows. “What, babe? Just makin’ sure my girl’s still real. Gotta hold you for quality control.”

Always horny in the morning: He wakes up with morning wood and the audacity to grind against your thigh like he’s dreaming. You’ll open your eyes to his sleepy little smile and raspy voice like: “Mornin’, sunshine. You feelin’ this too or should I hit the shower solo?”

Obsessed with your thighs: Man’s a thigh maniac. He lays his head on them like a pillow, massages them when you’re watching TV, and definitely likes to bite them during makeout sessions. You sit on his lap in shorts and he's fighting demons. “You tryin’ to kill me, baby? Wearin’ those shorts like that... You got no mercy.”

Huge fan of showering together: He’ll suggest it under the guise of being “eco-friendly” but let’s be real — it’s just an excuse to soap you up and press his chest against your back. Kiri in a steamy bathroom? His hair down and voice low? You’re not making it out.

Gets flustered but loves when you're bold: You call him "daddy" as a joke? He short-circuits. You sit on his lap in public? He’s sweating. You whisper something dirty in his ear? Man’s blushing and grinning like it’s Christmas morning. But you know he’s into it. “Y-You can’t just say that, babe… now I gotta walk around with a damn hoodie in front of my pants.”

Ridiculously good at aftercare: Even if it’s just heavy makeout sessions, he’s wiping you down with a warm towel, getting you water, tucking you in, giving you forehead kisses, and calling you “his precious girl.” He takes care of you like you're made of glass.

Big on praising you… but also loves being praised: He calls you gorgeous, perfect, and strong like it’s your name. But if you tell him he’s handsome? Or strong? Or say something like “You feel so good”? He’s putty. Putty with a boner.

Turns into a needy little thing if you ignore him. Busy with homework? Working late? He’ll poke your cheek, kiss your neck, or send you pics of him pouting with captions like "Miss me yet? 🥺👉👈” until you cave.

Mutters the filthiest things in your ear when he's in the mood: Normally sunshine boy. But when he wants you? His voice drops an octave and he says stuff like: “If we weren’t out in public, I’d have you bent over the nearest surface by now.” “You’ve been teasing me all night. Get in the car. Now.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

check out my other works here!: MHA MASTERLIST

EMERGENCY WRITING COMMISSION OPEN

[writeriguess]

Can you write me a MHA fic where reader and Katsuki have been crushing on each other for ages but both are denying it and Katsuki is really mean to her, and reader is really mean to Katsuki. One day, Katsuki's friends trick them and get them to go on a blind date, they have a huge fight but end up making out.

Like Hell I’d Fall for You

"God, he’s insufferable."

You slam your locker shut with a little more force than necessary, scowling like the world personally offended you. Which, to be fair, it kind of did. Or more specifically, he did.

"Bakugou Katsuki is the human embodiment of a stubbed toe," you mutter under your breath.

"Funny," says Mina from behind you, “because I just heard him say you were the reason birth control was invented.”

You whip around. “He said what?”

She raises her hands innocently. “Hey, I’m just the messenger. Though, to be fair, didn’t you call him a sentient Red Bull can last week?”

“That's generous,” you scoff. “Red Bull gives people wings. Bakugou gives people migraines.”

Meanwhile, in the opposite hallway…

"She’s fucking unbearable," Bakugou growls, kicking his locker shut hard enough to dent it.

“She’s literally the only person who can keep up with your bullshit, man,” Kirishima replies, biting into an apple like this is just another episode of their weekly soap opera. “That kind of energy? It’s flirting.”

Bakugou’s eye twitches. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying. She calls you a dumpster fire with legs, but she also stares at you for ten minutes during training.”

Bakugou turns his glare on him. “If I stared at a fire for ten minutes, it’d be because I wanted to burn it out.”

Kirishima just smiles knowingly. “Right.”

This, of course, has been going on for months. The entire class is in on it. The professors? Probably too. It’s hard to miss the sheer voltage of tension between you and Bakugou.

You mock him, he scowls at you. He mocks you, you threaten to shove his gauntlet up his ass. Everyone pretends not to notice that neither of you ever backs down. It’s exhausting. And weirdly entertaining.

Which is why Mina, Kirishima, and Kaminari decide to intervene.

By lying to you.

Friday, 6:30 PM – Somewhere in a trendy Tokyo café

You’re dressed like a liar. Because you were told this was a casual coffee meetup with Mina and Momo. So you showed up in a cute dress, makeup on, hair nice.

Which is exactly why, when you see Bakugou at the other end of the café looking just as confused and wearing a crisp black button-up (that you refuse to admit fits him way too well), your stomach drops.

“Oh hell no.”

He spots you. His face does a weird thing. You think it might be pain. Or fury. Or indigestion.

You both start walking toward each other like you’re about to duel at high noon.

“What the hell is this?” you hiss.

“I was told this was a Kirishima thing,” he growls.

“Well, Mina’s dead to me now.”

He crosses his arms. “Like I’d go on a date with you.”

“Oh please. Like I’d want to.”

And yet, neither of you leave.

You’re both seated. Begrudgingly. In utter silence. Until the barista drops off two drinks Mina apparently pre-ordered under the names “Queen of Spite” and “Lord Explosion Murder.”

Your cup has a little heart on it. His has a middle finger doodled on the side.

You blink. Then laugh. “Okay, that’s actually kind of funny.”

He snorts. “Idiots.”

Silence again. Then:

“You look good,” he mutters.

You glance up, startled.

He immediately scowls. “I mean, like. For you. Not—whatever. Fuck.”

You smirk. “Wow. That almost sounded like a compliment. Who are you and what have you done with the snarling porcupine I know?”

He glares. “You look like you’re going to a damn gala.”

“Oh, so now it’s too much?”

“You’re fishing.”

“I don’t need to fish for compliments from you, Katsuki.”

“You just did!”

“Oh my god, do you even hear yourself?!”

You’re both standing now. Not yelling, but close.

“You think I wanna be here?” he bites out.

“I know you don’t. You’d rather die than admit you like me.”

He goes still.

Shit.

Shitshitshit.

You freeze too. A beat of silence. Then:

“I—what?” you stammer.

His mouth works like he wants to say something, but can’t.

Then he does.

“Of course I fucking like you.”

Your heart slams into your ribs.

“I’ve liked you since second year,” he mutters, not meeting your eyes. “When you beat the shit outta that third year who said my quirk was all boom, no bite. You called him a discount sparklers pack.”

Your jaw drops.

“I've tried everything to stop. You drive me insane. You talk back, you’re loud, you fight dirty—”

“So do you!” you shout.

“Exactly!” he snaps. “You’re like... I don’t know! A natural disaster. A pretty one. With teeth.”

You blink.

“Oh my god.”

And then—

You launch across the table.

He catches you halfway.

Mouths crash. Teeth knock. Someone knocks over a latte. It’s chaos. It’s electric. It’s inevitable.

Your hands are in his hair. His hands are on your waist. Your body feels like it’s on fire and your heart is trying to punch out of your chest. It's a fucking moment.

Somewhere behind the counter, a barista stops mid-pour.

“Holy shit,” says the newer one. “Should we... call security?”

The older barista just watches calmly, chewing gum. “Nah. This is like a nature documentary.”

The new guy blinks. “What?”

She jerks her thumb toward you and Bakugou, still aggressively making out.

“Predators. They fight, then they mate. Give it a minute.”

You and Bakugou eventually stumble out of the café, breathless and flushed, hand-in-hand like you didn’t spend the last year trading death threats.

“So,” you say, looking up at him. “Was that the worst date you’ve ever been on?”

He grins, wide and wolfish. “Nah.”

“I mean, you did spill my latte.”

“You tackled me.”

You smirk. “So we’re even?”

“Not even close,” he growls, pulling you in again. “I’m gonna spend the rest of the damn week making up for lost time.”

And he does.

Much to the horror (and secret delight) of everyone at U.A.

[weeping-treee]

A Desperate Man- Part 3

Simon is so desperate for you, and he can't bring himself to care.

All parts here

The next week, Ghost watches, from afar.

Not close enough to catch every word, but close enough to hear you laugh. And right now? You're laughing at something a nurse says—soft, yet bright, a laugh that makes people look up.

Your head tips back, and you shake it, flashing that half-smile Ghost can recall from memory alone.

He's not close enough to hear the joke, but that doesn't matter. What matters is he heard your laugh. That he saw you smile.

He's supposed to be passing through. Just a quick stop. Five minutes, tops.

So what if Price gives him that same look he gives Soap when the Scot is late to the debrief? It's worth it in his eyes.

You're near the desk with a chart in one hand, glove on the other, moving easily from one patient to the next like it's nothing. Like none of it touches you the way it touches him—the way you've touched him. Moving with a silent urgency that shows you've done this for years.

He pretends not to see you. But drinks in the sight of you any chance he gets—like cold water after a month in the desert.

He shifts against the doorframe, gaze flicking away whenever you look up, even if it's not directly at him. Maybe you don't see him, maybe you do, you're just not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Either way—your world keeps spinning. Life keeps ticking on without him. Charts to update. Lives to stitch back together. Smiles to offer people who aren't shaped like ghosts. People who aren't him.

Yet there he is. Always watching.

Your gaze finally finds the door—but he's gone. Slipped away like a shadow. A ghost.

Your day continues. His doesn't.

He's stuck in that moment—long after Price scolds him for being late, long after the debrief ends and the next mission is assigned.

Later that night, he finds the nerve—or maybe just enough of it—to actually speak to you.

He finds himself in the medbay. It's late. You're checking vitals on sleeping soldiers with that same pep in your step—but your eyes tell another story.

You're tired.

And all he wants—really wants—is to march over there, scoop you up and put you to bed. Let you rest. But he can't. Even if every part of him burns to.

You turn around. You see him. You smile.

That damn smile—soft, familiar, and downright lethal. The same one that makes him weak in the knees all over again.

"Miss me already, did ya?" you tease, nodding toward an empty exam room.

He follows like a lost puppy.

He takes a seat. Forgets why he came. What was his excuse again? Christ—he had one, didn't he?

"My shoulder is sore," he lies, scrambling.

"Oh yeah?" You say, snapping on gloves.

"Guess I'll need to see it, then."

You gesture to his hoodie.

He hesitates. Meets your eyes. There's something vulnerable—some silent resistance. Then he peels it off. Nothing underneath to shield him.

He stares at your face, waiting for the reaction.

The flinch. The pity.

But you don't blink. Don't stare. Don't make that face.

You just focus on his shoulder. Soft smile. Gentle hands.

"It's a little red," you murmur, pressing lightly around the wound. "How bad does it hurt?"

He stares at the hoodie in his lap.

"Not bad. It's only when I move... or when the rifle kicks wrong."

Another lie.

You nod softly, eyes scanning his skin.

"Want something for the pain?"

He shakes his head.

"I'll be alright, love. Just wanted to make sure it wasn't infected or nothin'."

"Alright, you should be all good then," you say, stepping back, satisfied.

But your eyes linger for a second too long.

He sees it. The flick of your gaze down his chest. The way you look—just for a second.

And the way your cheeks flush a light pink.

He puts his hoodie back on, hands tugging it into place.

Comfortable again. Almost.

"Want me to walk you to the door this time?" you ask, a teasing warmth in your voice.

He smirks beneath the mask.

"You know what? Maybe I do."

You raise a brow, tossing the gloves into the garbage.

"Well, aren't you full of surprises tonight?"

He shrugs, nonchalant.

"Thought I'd try bein' brave."

You chuckle.

"This is you being brave?"

He nods, dead serious.

"Took me a week to work up to it."

You blink at him. He's not joking. Not one bit.

He got you for once.

Your breath catches, and he sees it—the flicker of surprise, the heat in your eyes.

The way your stomach must be flipping, because his sure as hell is.

You clear your throat.

"Wow. Guess I should be flattered."

"You should," he says, voice low yet amused.

"I don't say that kind of thing to just anyone, y'know."

You cross your arms, fighting a grin.

"And what kind of thing was that, exactly?"

He huffs, rolling his eyes. You want him to say it out loud.

"...That I wanted to be walked to the door."

You laugh softly.

"You're something else."

"Don't know what that means, exactly, but I'll take it," he says, amused once more.

The creases at the corners of his eyes deepen.

He's smiling.

"C'mon then, big guy," you say. "Ladies first"

You hold the door for him.

He shakes his head at your audacity. Walking through the threshold, pausing at the entrance of the medbay.

And before he can stop himself, the words slip out:

"Are you free Friday night?"

You blink. "What?"

He turns to face you fully, dead serious.

"Friday. You free or not?"

You pause. Then stammer out, "Y-Yes. I'm free.

"I'll meet you here. Eight o'clock. Don't be late." With that, he's gone.

Leaving you standing there—reeling.

Friday. 8PM. For what, exactly?

Not even he knows yet.

But he'll be damn sure to be there.

[thistle-wrote]

Okay, could you guys imagine if the thing that finally got Ghost and soap together wasn’t some life or death situation where they’re forced to confront their feelings but rather Price's nosey, meddling wife?

F!reader X John Price and Ghost X soap

Authors note: This has been rattling around in my noggin for months.

“Hey, John?” you murmured as the two of you cleaned the mess left behind by the boys.

“Yeah, love?” John asks glancing up at you from the pile of dishes he’s working on

“You ever notice anything about Johnny and Simon?” you ask him in an almost cautious tone, these men meant more to him than he would ever care to admit.

“Yeah, drink their weight in liquor every damn time we have them over” your husband grumbled, you wonder sometimes if he’s willfully oblivious or just a man.

“No baby, like..” you thought for a moment. How exactly do you explain queer longing to your very straight husband?

“Okay like when Simon makes a joke he immediately looks at Johnny to see if he laughed. When Johnny has a question he only asks Simon. When Kyle says something stupid they look at each other like they have their language, like me and you do.” You do your best but John is all for minding his own business, he’s a pretty unproblematic guy overall, too old to care maybe.

“Lovie, mind your business, please. They’re grown men, if they have the hots for each other they can figure it out on their own.” John rolled his eyes at you and continued working. You didn’t love that, dismissing your want to gossip but it’s very John, makes you want to strangle him. You don’t bring it up again at least not for a few months, not until Kyle’s wedding, that was a very interesting trip as far as your snooping was concerned.

The moment Kyle and his beautiful wife said their ‘I do’s’ you glanced toward your husband in his fancy tan suit, remembering how that moment felt when it was the two of you standing at that altar. You can’t help the way your eyes drift from your husband to the blonde man behind him. Simon, much like you were looking at John, was looking at Johnny.

You knew from that point on you couldn’t let it go, they’re soldiers, they don’t talk about feelings, you know this, you sleep in a bed with one every night. The idea that they might miss out on potentially the greatest thing in either one of their lives because they’re either too stubborn or too stupid to realize what’s happening meant you didn’t have a choice, you had to meddle at least a little.

It started small, sitting in Johnnys seat when the group goes to a bar so he’d have to squish into the booth next to Simon, asking Johnny and Simon to watch the house while you and John were away for the weekend. Sure Kyle usually does it but he’s so busy with his new wife can’t you guys make the time? Asking Johnny, what is wrong with Simon when there is absolutely nothing wrong with him just so Johnny will have to pay more attention to figure it out.

You weren’t being malicious you were just trying to push them together, John was mostly unaware, although he occasionally gave you a look, specifically the time you asked Johnny if he thought ‘Simon’s haircut looked good’ (it did)

It eventually got a little more pushy. Not pushy in the sense that you were being mean or even trying to push them into something they didn’t want, because they want it. It’s just you knew soldiers, you knew these boys. They are dumbasses.

“Hey Simon?” you asked one Sunday afternoon. Simon had come over to watch some game with John, not unusual, although it is unusual for him to not have Johnny with him. This was your moment, John had gone to the bathroom so you wouldn’t have to hear “Stop being nosy, love!” You can just continue with your plan.

“Mm?” The quiet man asked you turning his head from the Telly to look at you. He’s not uninterested so much as he’s just quiet, you have known him for long enough to know that.

“How long have you and Johnny been dating?” You asked, you knew they weren’t dating. All part of the plan, all part of the plan.

“What?” He looked confused, you know him, maybe not as well as your husband but you know him. He can’t hide his facial expressions for anything, it’s probably best he wears a mask on the field.

“What?” You give the same facial expression as if trying to understand where his obvious confusion is coming from.

“We’re not dating, why did you think we were dating?” Simons interrogates you, it’s so rare that he says so many words you almost feel a little guilty.

“Oh, I’m sorry I just assumed.” Your tone is light, an honest mistake Simon, so sorry for the inconvenience.

“Why? Why did you assume that?” For the first time all the time you’ve known him he seems flustered.

“Oh, I just… you guys live together, always touching, talking quietly to yourselves, it’s just exactly like me and John. I just assumed dating, shouldn’t have.”

Your statement is made with kindness and a smile but one day you’ll tell him how you conned him into being in love.

“We’re not” Simon stated leaving no room for your argument. There was a long stretch of silence before he spoke again.

“Do you think he thinks we’re dating?” Well you didn’t expect that question, Johnny lacked common sense sometimes but he’s not stupid, no you did not believe he thinks they’re together.

“Yeah probably, I would.” LIES, one day you’ll have to confess to this but not today.

He left not too long after that conversation, and you kind of felt like you may have messed something up. But you shouldn’t doubt yourself, you know this, you’re like a wizard in the art of getting in other people’s business. Your self-doubt is as squashed the minute Johnnys' silly little contact photo popped onto your phone. A phone call, you answer.

“Hello?” You barely have time to start speaking before Johnny starts in. Poor guy.

“Si just texted me and said he talked to you bout somethin’ and it made him ‘realize some things’ that hell’s that about?” Rambling is funny on him, he’s always so calm and collected, now this is where you kinda hesitated, do you tell the truth or do you stir the pot? You settle on stirring the pot. For the greater good of course.

You ended up telling Johnny everything you and Simon spoke about, leaving nothing out, you simply just finished off your little story with a

“Who knows maybe it made him think hard enough he’s going to tell you how he feels.”

Johnny stays silent for a long moment on the other end of the line, mulling it over probably.

“So Si has the hots for me aye?”

You wish he could’ve seen your eye roll but you’re sure he heard your sigh.

“Just a hunch” you add maybe you could get him to make a move, he’s probably easier to work on than Simon anyway.

“Aye, good hunch, lass.” You are acutely aware that your husband still in fact doesn’t know you’re trying to convince his soldiers to break “no fraternizing” rules. But he will only be annoyed until he sees his mates so happy.

Your phone call with Johnny doesn’t last much longer. You feel like a Disney villain for a couple of minutes but then John put on his reading glasses so you kinda got a little distracted and ‘forgot’ to mention to him that you were psychologically manipulating his best friends for their good. You let fate do its thing now, you pushed enough.

Weeks maybe even months go by, and you haven’t seen the group in a bit, you and John are off in the kitchen making drinks while Kyle and his new wife make googly eyes at each other in your living room.

When Johnny and Simon finally decide to grace the group with their presence, you see it immediately, holding hands, nothing is different except for that. You and John rejoin the group at some point, talking and laughing like always, they don’t mention it, you don’t ask and neither does anyone else. But everyone knew something had changed, thank the gods.

You’re poor dumb husband looks at his two best friends after a while, once the food was mostly gone and the drinks had been flowing. He looks at them and then back to you before ducking down and whispering in your ear.

“Love? I know That’s your handiwork.” yeah NO SHIT, John. But they look so happy.

Horrifyingly years later once the whole story had been recounted they told that story at their wedding, which was, yes embarrassing but the thought that you helped bring these two beautiful souls together eased that pretty quickly.

CoD Masterlist