traumatrios - Tumblr blog

traumatrios · 2 months ago

Text

the complete knock — bob reynolds

⟢ synopsis. you’re only here to try and understand why bucky’s suddenly gone off the rails and joined a new team, leaving you, sam and joaquín in radio silence. the last thing you expected was to find comfort in a stranger. a kind stranger named bob.

⟢ contains. spoilers for thunderbolts*, takes place during the 14 month later period. nothing too crazy, mostly plot. reader is described as female. bob is a cutie!! reader and joaquín are sambucky children of divorce :(

⟢ wc: 9.7k+

⟢ author’s note. wrote this with a vague idea and a dream. i don't know. don't ask pls.

You were here strictly for business.

The lobby was all polished glass, military-grade charm, and propaganda dressed in gold. Cameras flashed like fireworks along the crimson carpet, catching every inch of shine from designer suits and sharp smiles. A towering digital screen looped the promo again: "The New Avengers: Built for Tomorrow." You watched from the fringe as the montage played, the images slicing together in quick succession—John Walker throwing the shield with over-practised precision, Yelena Belova dismantling a room of dummies in under twelve seconds, and Ava Starr phasing through a concrete wall with a smirk. Hero shots. Sanitized. Manufactured. All of them.

You didn’t blink as you were ushered to an elevator.

Growing up, the Avengers Tower never really felt real to you. Sure, you’d seen the photos, the documentaries, the endless footage of press conferences held on its front steps. Hell, you’d even walked past it with your parents whenever you visited New York—but it still felt like it belonged to another world entirely. Untouchable. Almost mythic.

You never imagined you’d walk inside.

And yet now, riding the elevator up with a slow-climbing hum and nerves that prickled beneath your skin, all you felt was dread.

It was a strange kind of emptiness—the feeling of finally reaching something you once admired, only to realize it had been gutted and repainted in someone else’s image. The marble floors had been waxed clean, but the history here wasn’t. You could still feel the ghosts under the polish. Somewhere between the seams of the rebuilt walls and reprogrammed elevators, there was once a legacy. Real one. But it didn’t belong to the people in charge of this event.

You were crammed in with a handful of Congress members and defence contractors, all of whom smelled like cologne and quiet greed. Congressman Gary was there too, smiling too much, already half-drunk from the limo ride there. (He said it would be the only way he’d survive an entire night listening to people praise Valentina Allegra de Fontaine). Gary had been the one to suggest your attendance might smooth things over. It might make the New Avengers feel like someone from Sam’s camp was willing to listen. Get on their good side—that whole thing.

But you were here for an entirely different reason. His invitation was exactly what you needed to get in, though.

Underneath your gown—sleek, formal, and designed to draw no conclusions—you had a mic stitched into the seam of your strapless bodice. Hidden, but live. Your earpiece buzzed softly with Joaquín’s voice, casual as ever.

“If Sam finds out we’re doing this, we’re so dead.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to be overheard as the elevator operator gave a rehearsed speech about the tower’s restoration—how it stood now as a symbol of “unity, rebirth, and strength.” You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. The tower didn’t feel like a symbol. It felt like a stage.

“He’ll take away your wings at most,” you murmured, gaze fixed forward. “Relax.”

You could practically hear Joaquín pouting through the comms.

“I just got them back.”

“Then let’s not make a scene. Gary said it’d be good optics to have someone on our side here. We’re doing Sam a favour.” A pause. Then, quieter: “I’m surprised you didn’t want to come with me. You’re cleared for field work.”

“No, thanks. As much as I adore red carpet politics, I don’t think I can be in the same room as de Fontaine without committing a felony. Might get myself in trouble.”

“And I won’t?”

“You’re better at smiling.”

“You’ve never seen me smile.”

“Exactly.”

You exhaled through your nose, the tiniest edge of a grin forming before you could stop it.

“Just... try not to piss anyone off for five minutes, yeah?”

You didn’t answer. The elevator chimed. The doors slid open with a muted ding, and you stepped into a wall of flashing lights and artificial warmth.

The event space had been reconstructed on the upper floors, a showroom designed to impress donors and government officials alike. White marble floors stretched endlessly beneath towering banners that hung from the ceilings like monuments. Each one bore the new emblem of the team—sleek and stylized, but hollow. You could see the press eating it up already.

A digital display behind the podium read:

WELCOME TO THE FUTURE.

MEET EARTH’S NEWEST MIGHTIEST HEROES.

Your stomach turned.

“You still with me?” Joaquín asked.

“Yeah.” You nodded once, moving deeper into the room as your eyes scanned the crowd for familiar faces. “I’m here.”

“I’m gonna need camera access,” he said. “There’s a chip tucked under the gem on your bracelet. If you can slide that into an outlet somewhere, I’ll be able to map out the floor’s electrical system. Should help me locate the control room.”

“Guy in the chair,” you muttered, lips twitching into a faint grin. It was impressive—his gadgets, his confidence. Typical Joaquín.

Congressman Gary had vanished into the crowd, but you didn’t mind. Better alone than attached to a man who introduced you as a pet project. You plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray, the cold stem grounding in your fingers, and sidestepped toward the edge of the room.

An outlet revealed itself by a floor-length curtain. You knelt, as if adjusting your heel, and casually broke the gem from your bracelet, slipping it into the socket with practiced ease.

“Okay,” Joaquín said, voice clearer now. “Give me a minute to get my bearings. While I’m working on this, try not to look like a loser in the corner. Mingle or something.”

You scoffed under your breath. “Easy for you to say—you can talk anyone’s ear off.”

“You calling me annoying?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Go see if you can find Bucky while I work on this, would you?”

Right. Bucky Barnes.

You weren’t here to mingle. You weren’t here to sip champagne or shake hands or sweet-talk your way into the New Avengers’ good graces. You were here for Sam. And more specifically—for Bucky. Wherever the hell he was hiding.

The plan was simple enough in theory: Get a read on what Valentina was playing at. Try to talk to Bucky. Get ahead of whatever fallout was brewing between him and Sam before it turned into a full-blown civil war again. You’d offered to go because no one else would.

Joaquín was trying to stay neutral (and failing). Isaiah had dismissed Bucky as a long-lost white man with too many ghosts. And Sam refused to speak to Bucky since the news broke about the New Avengers. And Bucky hadn’t said a damn word back.

So here you were. You were the only one left who might still be able to stand in the space between them without setting off alarms, even if you were biased.

You still didn’t understand how Bucky could do it. How he could go from testifying before Congress about accountability and reform, to standing beside Valentina Allegra de Fontaine like she hadn’t personally undone everything they’d fought for. Like he hadn’t been there when Ross tried to throw his friends all in cells. (Sure, you weren't there for it either, but Sam told you all about it; the accords were one of the reasons the Avengers broke up.)

Valentina wasn’t just dangerous—she was calculated. Clever. The kind of dangerous that worked in the shadows, smiling for cameras while quietly tying strings around people’s necks. She had her ex-husband arrested, sabotaged Wakandan outreach missions, and picked through the wreckage of post-blip heroes like she was drafting a fantasy football team. The fact that she now had a unit of enhanced individuals marching under her payroll and calling themselves the New Avengers made your stomach turn.

And Bucky was one of them.

You believed Valentina was guilty the second Bucky first mentioned she’d recruited John Walker. Walker—who had murdered a man in public, with blood still wet on the shield—and somehow walked free. Charges vanished. Headlines redirected. Now he was being repackaged as a hero again, and Bucky was standing next to him like nothing had happened.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. No matter how many angles you looked at it from, it didn’t make sense. And the more you thought about it, the more it burned in your chest.

What was he thinking?

Why hadn’t he said anything?

Why wasn’t he here?

You pulled in a slow breath as you stepped further into the room, letting the sound of clinking glasses and diplomatic small talk wash over you like static.

The room was grand in a gaudy way—shiny surfaces and marble floors that reflected the chandelier light too harshly. Everything screamed polished excess, like they were trying to distract from the blood under the polish.

You tried to scan the crowd for Bucky, but there were too many faces, too many government suits and PR smiles, none of them him. You told yourself that when you did find Bucky, he’d have some kind of explanation—something to loosen the knot in your chest, something that could push down the rising anxiety. Something that could explain how the man you once trusted was now parading around in a suit under Valentina’s thumb.

Instead, you found Congressman Gary. Or rather, he found you.

He was already three glasses of champagne deep—five, if you counted the shots you’d seen him down on the way—and he beamed like he’d found a shiny toy in a sea of suits.

“There she is,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulder like you hadn’t just been avoiding him for fifteen minutes. “You have got to meet some of these people. Big names. Big wallets.”

You were too polite to shrug him off, even as he dragged you into a circle of De Fontaine’s investors. Their grins were just a little too sharp, their eyes a little too eager. The way they looked at you made your skin crawl, like you were a chess piece they hadn’t quite decided how to play yet.

You smiled tightly. Shook clammy hands. Answered vague questions. Nodded while they spoke about “opportunities,” “rebuilding legacy,” and “rebranding heroism.”

One man leaned in closer, his breath thick with bourbon. “You know,” he said, voice oily, “with your background, you’d be a perfect candidate for the new team. Valentina has a real eye for talent, and we’re building something bigger than what came before. Something better. You could help shape it from the inside.”

You swallowed your disgust with a sip of champagne. “I’m not really looking to join anything right now.” That was a lie. You already had a seat in the team Sam was putting together. But he did not need to know that.

He chuckled, as if that wasn’t an answer.

“Okay, I’ve got eyes,” Joaquín said suddenly in your ear. His voice broke through the haze like a rope thrown across stormy water.

You exhaled in relief. “Excuse me,” you told the group, already turning away. “I need to grab a drink.”

They nodded, already moving on to the next opportunity in heels. Gary wasn’t too happy, though.

You drifted from the circle, walking slowly toward the open bar. On the way, you passed a tray of themed hors d’oeuvres—tiny “Avenger” sliders with edible logos, cupcakes shaped like shields and guns.

A mounted camera in the corner caught your eye, its red light blinking lazily above a velvet-draped sculpture.

“See me?” you muttered.

“Yeah, I see you,” Joaquín replied.

“Still no sign of Barnes.”

“Scanning crowd pings now,” he said. “Either he’s ghosting the place or he got another haircut and I can’t recognize him. Which would be so like him, by the way.”

You sighed and accepted another drink from a passing server, something dry and too expensive, and kept moving.

You figured you’d shaken at least six hands tonight that belonged to people who’d love to see your head on a stick—if not for the lucrative optics of you standing here at all. You were an opportunity to them. A symbol. A bargaining chip in a war they didn’t even understand.

Your dress caught suddenly.

You stumbled—only a step, but enough for the chilled drink to slosh dangerously near the edge of the glass. You turned on instinct, hand rising to fix the silk scarf that had slipped from your neck and shoulder.

A man stood behind you, wide-eyed, hand half-raised like he’d been about to catch you.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he stammered. His voice was low, a subtle rumble barely audible over the layers of clinking glass, conversation, and ambient music. “—stepped on your dress. Sorry.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

He looked like he didn’t belong here. Not in the way the others did. No glossy name tag, no designer smugness. His suit was clean, but not flashy. Understated.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, instinctively adjusting your scarf where it had slipped from your shoulder. You shook out the fabric of your dress around the ankles, heart skipping in the echo of that voice. Something about the way he said it—apologetic, soft, like he genuinely meant it—caught you off guard.

“Sorry,” he mumbled again, even quieter this time, eyes dropping to the floor. His dark hair fell over his face, almost like he was trying to shrink three sizes. You could hear a faint, awkward laugh in his voice. “Uhm… yeah. Sorry.”

He didn’t linger. Just turned and slipped back into the crowd before you could even process anything. No second glance. Just a gentle pivot and a few long strides back into the crowd, swallowed instantly by the sea of shoulder pads, press passes, and sharp perfume.

You stood there for a second, staring after him.

He moved differently from the others. No performative swagger. No politician’s posture. No tray in his hand, so he’s definitely not a server. He was quiet in a way that made you feel like you’d imagined him, like he’d only brushed through this reality for a second before vanishing into another.

You didn’t recognize him.

And you should have.

For all the files you’d scoured, the profiles and photos, the research you’d buried yourself in to prepare for tonight, you’d made it your job to know every player in this room. Who to watch. Who to avoid. Who might be useful.

But not him.

You turned back toward the bar, but your mind didn’t follow. Not entirely.

Who the fuck was that?

You were just about to ask Joaquín to pull a facial scan when something in your periphery stopped you cold.

John Walker.

He was only a few steps away, mid-conversation with some high-level sponsor, until his gaze landed on you. And then he froze.

The look that crossed his face was quick, recognition, discomfort, maybe a flicker of guilt, but he buried it just as fast, turning away without a word. He pivoted like a man avoiding a ghost, ignoring the way the sponsor he spoke to called after him.

“Walker just made a hard left into the hors d’oeuvres,” Joaquín muttered in your ear, low and amused. “You see that?”

You exhaled, more irritated than surprised. “We’re not here for him.”

“Yeah. I think he knows that too. That’s why he’s pretending he’s got important shrimp to eat.”

That pulled a faint smile from you, biting down the urge to laugh.

Typical. The last time you’d seen Walker in person, he was seated in a courtroom with his jaw clenched so tight you thought he’d snap a molar. You’d testified in his case, alongside Sam, Bucky, and everyone else who had to witness what happened in Madripoor—what he did to that man in the square. The shield, slick and red. The silence afterward, heavier than any explosion.

You never fought him. Never had to. But you'd been on opposite sides of that mess, and he knew it. Hell, you’d spoken directly to his discharge. Your words were probably still echoing in the back of his skull.

The way he turned away just now… yeah. He remembered you.

“I’m surprised he didn’t start barking about national security,” Joaquín quipped in your ear again. “Do you think we should trail him?”

You hesitated. You didn’t want to. Just the idea of following in Walker’s smug footsteps made your jaw clench.

But Joaquín pressed, “He might know where Bucky is.”

And that was the problem—he was right. And you hated how much sense it made. Of course, Walker would know. You also hate how Walker and Bucky were probably friends now.

A camera flash caught your eye, and you instinctively straightened your posture, smoothed your expression. No time for a scowl, even if that’s all you wanted to wear.

You adjusted your gown, tugged lightly at the hem, checked the wire hidden at your waist, and started walking in the direction Walker and that ugly barret he wore had vanished.

The crowd shifted around you like tidewater—polished politicians and strategic handshakes, investors with too-white smiles and drinks that cost more than your rent. Every few steps, someone waved. A few shook your hand like they knew you, like you were an old friend they’d been waiting for. A woman asked for a photo. Another leaned in and whispered, “Are you joining the new team?” like it were a secret worth selling.

You deflected with a nod and a vague smile, each interaction leaving a layer of static behind your eyes.

It was strange how quickly the attention shifted now that you were in the spotlight. Recently, you’d spent most of your career standing behind Isaiah while Joaquín and Sam did the talking. You liked it there. It was quieter. Easier to breathe. Now, suddenly, they were holding out chairs for you at the table.

The whole thing felt like theatre. Scripted and glassy. Lines rehearsed. Costumes ironed. Every player doing their part beneath the blinding stage lights.

You still weren’t sure what was worse—that Bucky accepted Valentina’s funding, or that he and his new friends let her call them The Avengers.

Sam was right to be angry. He should be. He’d already turned down President Ross’ private offer to hand him the reins of a military-funded global response team. The same offer that Valentina had repackaged, repurposed, and handed off to people who were too coward to say no.

“He’s on the east end, talking to Ava starr and another woman. I think she’s Valentina’s assistant. Oh—shit. He just pointed at you.”

Your chest tightened. You turned too fast, momentarily losing your bearings in the rotating lights and mirrored walls. East—east—

And then someone stepped into your path.

A wall of a man appeared in front of you so suddenly, you nearly collided with him; broad-shouldered and bearded, dressed in a burgundy suit that looked just a size too tight across his chest.

He smiled widely, eyes bright like he’d been waiting for a moment like this all night.

“I know you,” he said, voice thick with a Russian accent. “I’ve seen you on the televisions. You shake hands with the new Captain America.”

You blinked. “I—uh, yeah.”

“Ah!” He laughed, clapping one heavy hand to your shoulder with surprising gentleness for a man who looked like he could punch through drywall. “Very brave of you. Very good. You look different in person. In a strong way. Like a panther. Or mongoose.”

You tried for a diplomatic smile. “Thanks, I think.”

“Oh! Where are my manners,” he said, dramatically straightening and offering his hand. “I am Alexei Shostakov. The Red Guardian.”

You knew that, but you didn’t know he’d be so... loud.

You took his hand, his grip warm and firm. “Pleasure to meet you, Alexei.”

“Kind. Very kind,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You remind me of my daughter! You have same fire in eyes. Around same age, too—you could be friends! Yelena is always looking for new friends.”

Yelena Belova. That name lit something up in the back of your mind. You’d seen the files. The attempted murder of Clint Barton. Her brief status as an independent threat before being absorbed, quietly and conveniently, into Valentina’s new game.

And suddenly, Alexei’s smile widened even more.

“Yelena!” he bellowed, cupping his hands to his mouth as if you weren’t standing in the middle of a very public, very polished gala. “Come meet new friend!”

Several heads turned. Cameras flashed—bright, blinding. You winced against the burst of lights, regretting everything from your dress colour to your decision to show up at all.

But it was too late. He leaned in beside you, one arm suddenly draped over your shoulder like you were posing for a family Christmas card. “Smile!” he boomed, and before you could protest, he struck a dramatic flex, biceps pressing into your back like steel girders.

You caught a whiff of expensive cologne and vodka.

In the corner of your eye, a flash of short, bleached blonde hair was making its way through the crowd with frightening determination. Elegant, yes—but there was no mistaking the sharpness in Yelena Belova’s gaze. She wore a sleek black suit like it was made of knives, a funky eyeliner design, hair slicked back and every step carved with purpose. And beside her—

Your heart dipped.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Poised. Smirking. Watching everything.

“Be careful. Yelena is coming your way with Valentina.”

Thanks for the warning, Joaquín. Delayed. But thanks nevertheless.

You stood up straighter, willing your heartbeat to slow down even as Valentina’s eyes zeroed in on you like a predator clocking a foe.

Wonderful.

You leaned slightly toward Alexei, trying not to seem as panicked as you felt. “Can I ask you something? About Bucky Barnes?”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, cutting you off before you could finish the question. “Bucky! Yes, yes. The Winter Soldier. Very cool. Very handsome. Like Soviet James Dean.”

You blinked. “I mean—do you know where he is?”

But Alexei was already on another tangent. “We fought in Uzbekistan once, did you know this? I threw him through a door. He did not like that. But I like him. I like him very much. Quiet, serious type. You know he never answers my texts?”

“Right. Yeah. That tracks.”

And then—

“Oh, what a pleasant surprise,” said a voice sharp as champagne fizz and just as bitter. De Fontaine. She cut into the conversation with the smoothness of someone who was always in control, grinning like she knew a secret you didn’t. A glass of bubbly dangled between her fingers, catching the light just enough to draw attention. As if she needed help with that.

“I was just about to introduce you all,” she said, placing a perfectly manicured hand on Yelena’s arm as the blonde finally joined your little nightmare circle.

“What is this?” Yelena asked flatly, eyes flicking between you and Valentina.

Valentina didn’t bother to answer—just gave a smug little hum and tugged Yelena closer, corralling her between you and Alexei. The four of you shifted automatically into position, an unspoken reflex in rooms like this.

You could feel the cameras turning like sharks in bloodied water.

Flashes burst across your vision. The moment was already captured—your stiff shoulders, your frozen smile. A picture-perfect lineup of cooperation.

And you could feel it: this wasn’t a coincidence.

This was intentional.

Valentina leaned in, voice cool and sugary against your ear as more bulbs burst. “I am so pleased to see you here,” she cooed, “considering how close you and Sam are.”

“I mean, I had to come congratulate you,” you said tightly, lips barely moving. “Recreating the Avengers. That’s… big.”

She beamed at the cameras, teeth white and wolfish. “Someone had to.”

“Of course.”

Another flash. Another frozen pose.

You winced. Sam is going to kill you.

Valentina fielded the sudden swarm of questions like she was born in front of a podium—deflecting, redirecting, charming. Every answer was deliberate, each word chosen like a chess move. Stability. Legacy. Global confidence. Alliances.

They lapped it up like champagne, snapping photos, nodding, laughing. You stood beside her, barely blinking, jaw tight behind your polite smile.

You weren’t meant to be part of this show. You were supposed to be on the outside looking in from the in the crowd.

When the flashes finally began to die down and the clamour shifted elsewhere, Valentina turned with that too-perfect, too-white grin. She glanced at Yelena and Alexei like she were dismissing children.

“Would you two mind?” she asked, breezy as ever. “I’d like to have a quick little chat.”

Yelena’s gaze flicked toward you. Not unkind. But cautious. Reading you like a live wire.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, her brows subtly knitting.

“Oh, everything’s perfectly fine,” Valentina replied before you could speak, her hand already at your back. “Go fetch a drink. Mingle.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

You barely had time to glance back at Yelena—at the slight, suspicious narrowing of her eyes—before the crowd swallowed her and Alexei whole.

Your earpiece crackled to life. “She’s taking you to the balcony,” Joaquín said, voice low and taut. “There are no cameras there. I won’t be able to see, but I can still hear you.”

There was a pause, then: “I’ll keep looking for Bucky.”

You barely managed a breath of relief before Valentina cut in, sharp and smiling.

“Bucky’s not here tonight, if that’s really why you’re here.”

You stiffened mid-step.

Joaquín swore in your ear. Something heavy hit a surface—maybe his fist against a table—and you heard the scrape of a chair.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice light, falsely sweet. “I came to celebrate you.”

You crossed the threshold to the balcony.

It was quieter out here, eerily so. The muffled pulse of the gala was dulled by glass and distance. The cold kissed your skin through your dress. You could feel it biting at your exposed arms, but you welcomed the sting. It was honest.

Below, the city stretched like a glowing circuit board. Skyscrapers hummed with light. Traffic moved in golden veins. It was beautiful in the kind of way that felt removed. Untouchable.

Valentina’s heels clicked once against the stone floor, then stopped.

“Cut the bullshit,” she scoffed, voice low now. “We both know that’s not true.”

You turned your head, slow and steady. Her eyes were already on you. Unflinching.

“Where’s your friend?” she asked casually. “The little Mexican one?”

You flinched—just barely. Your jaw clenched tight.

Valentina smiled wider at that.

You opened your mouth to answer, to lie, to throw her off, to say something clever, but she leaned forward before you could, voice barely above a whisper.

Her lips were close to your collarbone, eyes locked on your chest. On the mic she couldn’t see.

“Hola, Joaquín,” she murmured, velvet-smooth. “¿Cómo estás? How’s the arm? Still broken?”

She pulled back with a grin full of satisfaction. Joaquín didn’t respond—not a breath. But you felt the burn of it in your gut. He heard her. She knew he was listening. And that was the whole point.

She got what she wanted. You could see it in the eyes, the tilt of her head, the calm sip from her glass, the curl of smugness just under her lipstick.

Valentina turned her back to the railing, facing you fully, her glass catching the amber light of the city. Her smile didn’t crack once.

“You know,” she began, like she was catching up with an old friend, her voice silked with charm, “you don’t have to keep playing both sides. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

You said nothing. Not because you didn’t have something to say, but because the words wouldn’t form. Your brain was too busy calculating exits, signals, whether Joaquín could hear any of this, or if he was already doing something stupid like storming into the gala uninvited.

“You show up with a wire,” she continued, waving her champagne flute like it weighed nothing, “a dress like that, pretending you’re just here to smile for the cameras.”

Her eyes dipped slowly, then back up.

“You do look stunning, by the way,” she added casually. “But we both know you’re not here for the press or to butter yourself up to me or my team. You’re listening. Recording. Digging...”

The flute met her lips again. Sip. Deliberate.

“Looking for Barnes,” she said. “Like he’s going to whisper some grand truth that’ll fix whatever little crisis your friends are having.”

You could feel your jaw tighten. Every word she spoke landed like pressure against a bruise you didn’t want to admit was there.

Valentina tilted her head, studying you with the kind of gaze that belonged in an interrogation room, not a rooftop party. “You’re sharp,” she said. “Good instincts. It’s why Sam keeps you close, right?”

Still, you stayed silent. Because anything you gave her, she’d twist. She already was.

“But let me ask you something,” she said, voice a shade lower, softer. “What’s loyalty really worth—if the people you serve are always the ones left bleeding in the dirt?”

A pulse of heat shot up your neck. You didn’t move, but she saw it.

Of course, she saw it.

“And for the record,” she added, twirling the stem of her glass, “I don’t have anything against Sam Wilson. Poor guy. I pity him, actually. The shit he’s put up with just for carrying that shield—God.”

She clicked her tongue with exaggerated sympathy.

“I’d kill to have Captain America on my team. The real one. Not Walker. That man is a pathetic as it gets. Hair-trigger temper, zero emotional intelligence—”

“Sam would never work with you,” you said, sharper than intended.

Valentina’s smile widened because you finally said something worthwhile. “Oh, I know,” she said, almost gleefully. “He’s a purist. One of the last. His morals are steel-tight. Fucking unshakable. A real Boy Scout. Steve Rogers made a good choice.”

And that was the part that hurt—the part that made you swallow back a flicker of doubt you hadn’t expected to feel.

“Where’s Bucky?” you asked, voice quieter now. “I just want to talk to him.”

She didn’t even hesitate.

“Bucky’s not missing or anything,” Valentina said. “He’s busy. Doing a job for me in Pennsylvania. Cleaning up some loose ends, you know the deal.”

You felt it before you could stop it—that tiny, invisible shift in your expression. Something cracked. Something gave her an answer you hadn’t meant to give.

“That supposed to scare me?” you asked, though it already kind of did.

“No,” she said. “It’s supposed to make you think. About options. About what someone like you could do with the right resources. With the right funding. Imagine it: you with your own team. Autonomy. Access. No more red tape. You make your own shots. We clean up whatever mess you leave behind. And, get this, you even get paid for it.”

You glanced toward the city, anything to avoid her eyes. Lights. Windows. Warmth. All of it felt so far away.

“And if I say no?”

“Then someone else says yes.”

She stepped back, brushing something from her blazer sleeve. “Just think about it,” she said, all silk and sugar again. “We could use someone like you. You belong in rooms like this, you know. Not chasing ghosts, or waiting for Wilson to approve your next move. You’re already breaking. I can see it. You wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t. I’m sure Captain America won’t be happy seeing your name in the headlines tomorrow morning: The Next Potenital Avenger.”

Her smile held, framed in the cold, glittering dark of the balcony. Then she turned and walked past you, the soft graze of her shoulder against yours more intimate than it had any right to be. A mockery of closeness.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said, already stepping back through the doors. “Tell Sam I said hi.”

The glass door shut behind her with a quiet click.

And the cold came in fast.

Not just the air, but the after. The silence. The wrongness of being left alone up here, the wind biting now that you weren’t so focused on not showing fear.

Your body finally remembered it was yours. Your fingers hurt from gripping the railing too hard. You eased your hands free, flexed them, saw the white draining slowly from your knuckles. You still couldn’t feel them.

Your mic hissed faintly to life, and Joaquín’s voice filtered through the static like someone calling out to you underwater.

“…you okay?” he asked, strained. Urgent.

You didn’t answer right away. Your mind was still racing through what Valentina had said, how easily she’d dodged your defences, how easy she was to turn your presence into a publicity stunt, how well she knew you—or at least thought she did.

She must be blackmailing Bucky. That must be it.

You kept staring out at the skyline like it might give you an answer. It didn’t. Just glass and steel and lights that blinked too slow to feel alive.

“No,” you finally muttered.

It didn’t come out strong. It came out cracked. Like the inside of your chest had gone hollow, and you were just now realizing it.

Joaquín exhaled through the comm, like he’d been holding his breath.

“I think legal action is our next step,” he said, tone snapping back into focus like a lifeline. “We can sue them for the name. Trademark it. Or maybe—maybe Sam tries to talk to Bucky again? We’ve still got options.”

You didn’t respond. Not yet.

The railing under your palm felt like ice. You blinked hard, fighting back the sudden sting in your eyes. Not from fear. From frustration. From the way every word she said still echoed in your head, sticky and sharp, leaving splinters behind.

You dragged in a breath.

“…that fucking bitch,” you scoffed.

“Yeah… I don’t like Valentina either.”

You jumped.

The voice came from somewhere behind you, softer, unsure. You spun around on instinct, stepping away from the railing.

That man.

The one who stepped on your dress earlier. He was sitting now, low in one of the patio couches near a sleek electric fireplace that flickered lazily against the dark. The flames glinted off the patio doors and caught the edge of his profile—brown hair, downturned mouth, eyes wide like he was the one who got caught.

You hadn’t noticed him when you came out here. And now that you really looked… you realized why.

He wasn’t trying to be seen.

He sat in the farthest corner of the couch, hunched slightly, knees close together, hands clutched like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like someone had planted him there and told him to wait. The firelight danced across his face, softening him. He didn’t look threatening. Just... startled. And oddly apologetic for existing.

He offered a small, nervous smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, like… scare you.”

There was genuine concern in his voice—concern for you, not about you. That was rare.

“It’s fine,” you said, because you didn’t know what else to say.

“Who’s that?” Joaquín's voice cracked through your earpiece.

You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes stayed on the stranger, and for a moment, you debated whether or not to even breathe too loud.

“I don’t know…” You muttered.

“Okay, uh… I’ll try to do a voice match or something—see if anything comes up. Keep them talking.”

The man must’ve noticed the way you were half-turned, the way your fingers brushed against your ear.

He shifted slightly. “Who’re… who’re you talking to?”

You froze. And then, with a wince: “Uh… just… myself. Thinking out loud.”

There was a pause.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I do that too. All the time, actually.”

You weren’t sure what to do with that. You weren’t sure what to do with him.

He looked different now compared to earlier. Still awkward, still nervous—but less like he was trying to shrink into himself and more like he was trying his best to meet you where you were. His eyes held yours this time. Not for long, though. They dropped to his hands and shoes after a while. But it was long enough to feel it.

You took a cautious step forward, angling yourself toward the fire, toward him, but still keeping a healthy distance.

“You um… You know Valentina?” you asked. Stupid. Of course, he did. Everyone at this party did.

“Uh… yeah. Something like that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t like… eavesdropping or anything. It’s just—there’s a lot of people in there. And it’s… quieter out here.”

He hesitated, then added: “I’m Bob, by the way.”

His voice wavered, but not from dishonesty. He said his name like he wasn’t sure it would mean anything to you. Like he just told you his name to be kind.

You gave him a nod. Not a smile. But not cold either.

“Hi, Bob.”

A beat passed.

You debated telling him your name. Joaquín would probably advise against it. But you weren’t feeling tactical anymore—you were feeling tired. Bruised in a way you couldn’t name. And maybe you just needed to feel like a real person again. Like someone who wasn’t being puppeteered.

So, after a pause, you gave him your name.

Bob blinked. Then he offered a small, shy smile that cracked at the edges.

“Cool. Hi,” he said, breathless. His brows furrowed as his gaze dropped lower, his eyes catching on your waist, your hips. “Uh—sorry again, about your dress. I didn’t mean to step on it earlier. You looked like you were in a rush and I—well, I was definitely in your way.”

You felt your lips twitch. The barest curve, not sharp or defensive. A faint grin. Delicate. “It’s alright,” you said. “Bound to happen at places like these.”

His head tilted slightly, curious. “You come to stuff like this often?”

“Not often. Just sometimes.”

And it was only then that you realized you’d stepped closer.

Your arms had casually found their place against the back of the couch across from him, hands gripping the cool metal frame as your scarf drifted with the breeze behind you. You weren’t leaning in exactly, but the distance had shrunk.

When did that happen?

You tilted your head, letting your eyes linger a little longer now, more curious than guarded. You assessed him with a little more attention now.

“I’m guessing you don’t come to these events much?”

Bob immediately shook his head, a nervous, breathy laugh escaping his lips like it was running away from him. You could see the cloud of it in the cold night air, swirling and vanishing between you.

“God, no. This is my second one and it’s—it’s been a lot. I think I’m gonna ask to just stay in my room next time.” He gave a little shrug, slouching a bit. “It’s not like I do much anyway. I mean, I’m allowed to talk to people, and I like talking to people, but I’d rather not sometimes.”

That made you blink. Allowed?

The word snagged on something in your mind. There was something disarming about the way he said it, like he didn’t mean to offer that information but also didn’t think it was worth hiding. You couldn’t tell if he was joking, oversharing, or both. But it was too strange to ignore. Like it slipped past a filter that wasn’t built right. It made you hesitate, if only for a breath.

But he wasn’t watching your reaction. He was staring at the flicker of the fire, letting the silence sit between you like it belonged there.

You folded your arms gently across your chest, the smooth material of your dress whispering beneath your fingertips.

“You seem to be talking just fine with me,” you pointed out, softer now.

Bob looked down at his hands. Then back at you. Then away again.

“I… well…” he stammered, voice catching on another shy, almost embarrassed laugh.

And then you saw it.

The blush. A warm pink crawling up from the collar of his white shirt to the apples of his cheeks. Subtle, but not subtle enough to miss. Especially not in the glow of the firelight, which danced over his skin like it had a crush of its own.

“I… yeah, I... I don’t know. Some people are easier to talk to than others, I guess.”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it.

“Yeah,” you said, “I’d say so.”

The smile that tugged at your lips came easier than you expected. Not just polite. Not guarded. Honest. Probably the first one you’d let slip all night.

Seriously, who the hell is this guy? And why did he make the night feel a little less awful?

He was cute. Not the kind of handsome that announces itself the second someone walks in the room, but the kind that sneaks up on you, quiet, awkward, totally unsure of how much space he takes up and trying not to be a bother. Like he wasn’t used to being looked at for too long and didn’t know where to put himself when he was.

You’d seen a lot of people in this world wear confidence like a costume. Bob didn’t even try. He wore uncertainty like a second skin, and somehow, it made him feel… real.

You liked the way he didn’t crowd you. Didn’t puff out his chest or pretend to have all the answers. He sat with his knees slightly knocked together, most of his hands swallowed by the sleeves of his jacket, like even they were too bold to leave out in the open. Maybe he was anxious. Maybe a little broken in the places that never healed right, but he felt safe. Your gut told you so.

And that made you more nervous than anything else tonight.

You caught yourself watching him again. The way he kept his hands mostly hidden in his sleeves, shoulders rounded forward. His suit was clearly tailored but still seemed a size too big, like someone had tried to wrap him in something expensive just to prove he belonged. And still, it worked.

His hair was brown and shaggy, a bit longer than most people would have it at these events, barely even styled, but you kind of liked it. It gave him a strange charm, even if the loose curls hid his eyes whenever he ducked his head.

You weren’t used to thoughts like this. Not ones this soft. Not ones that fluttered in your chest like nervous birds. Not often. Not like this. Not here. Not in places like these.

You came for Bucky. That was the plan. Show up, find him, talk. Clear the air. Maybe start patching things up with your broken little found family—cracks and all. But Bucky wasn’t here. Valentina played you like a fiddle, and now the whole night had soured. Tomorrow, you’d wake up to press statements and headlines, scrambling to explain why your name wouldn’t be on the next New Avengers roster. You’d spin it clean, of course. That’s what you did.

But none of that mattered yet.

In this strange little pocket of quiet, just outside the hum of power plays and champagne politics, you kind of just wanted something normal. Not mission normal. Not cover-identity normal. Real normal. A conversation that didn’t hinge on leverage or patriotism. A moment that wasn’t already weaponized.

Maybe you could stay for another half hour before you disappeared and joined Joaquín in the van downstairs, counting your losses.

And maybe it was the firelight, a flicker here, a flicker there, warmth and glow dancing in the night that influenced you. But you found yourself leaning forward a little more, walking around the couch, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress. You straightened your spine, trying to will yourself into being brave.

“Would you...” You paused, “um. Do you wanna grab a drink with me?”

Bob blinked, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He sat up straighter at the invitation, startled, like a puppy hearing its name for the first time. His lips parted. For a split second, you swore he looked excited. Maybe even hopeful.

But then he deflated.

His shoulders fell, his expression shifting to a quiet sort of apology as his eyes darted away. “I... I can’t. Sorry—”

“Oh.” You blinked, trying not to let your smile falter.

“I want to,” he rushed to say, almost stumbling over the words. “I do.”

“It’s okay—”

“No. No. I would. It’s just... I’m—I’m sober now.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry—” he added quickly, like he was terrified he’d ruined something.

But you shook your head, even stepping a little closer without realizing it.

“No. Don’t be sorry,” you said gently. “Seriously. Congratulations. That’s a big deal.”

He smiled at that, small and grateful. A little crooked and thin-lipped. It was cute.

“Thanks.”

You hesitated a moment, then tilted your head. “Can I ask how long?”

“Uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking upward like he was counting the months with the stars. “I think about a year now. I’ve only really started keeping track since I moved here, so... maybe like, seven? Eight months?”

You smiled softly, your heart unexpectedly warm.

“That’s still a long time.”

He gave a sheepish shrug, and his cheeks pinked again, like he didn’t quite know what to do with your praise. Like no one gave it to him often enough for it to feel normal.

“Some days feel longer than others,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching at his own tease.

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, quiet, but real.

“What are you…?”

Joaquín’s voice fizzled to life in your ear, cracking the quiet like a crowbar to glass.

“Are you flirting right now?”

You froze, the smile instantly tugging at your lips again despite yourself.

When you didn’t answer, he laughed.

“Oh my god, you’re totally flirting right now! It’s so bad, but you so are! Who even is this guy?”

You turned ever so slightly, subtle as you could manage, and pressed a knuckle into your ear to mute him. Your cheeks warmed in tandem with Bob’s.

Bob blinked. “Sorry… did I, um—was that weird?”

“No, no,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. “That wasn’t you.”

He just nodded, like your word was more than enough. Like you could’ve told him the moon was fake, and he’d say, huh, never really thought about that before.

You moved to take a seat across from him, the fireplace crackling softly between you like a low, slow heartbeat. The warmth of the flames painted him in golds and ambers, the flickering light catching the softness in his eyes and the loose fall of his hair.

You fidgeted with your fingers out of instinct. And across the fire, he mirrored the motion—thumb twisting around his knuckle, pinky tapping rhythmically against the inside of his sleeve. There was something strangely reassuring in that shared nervousness, like you were both waiting for the same storm to pass.

You let out a quiet breath, tension easing from your shoulders. “You said you moved here? Like, New York?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. His shoulders dipped too, visibly relaxing just a touch, like your voice permitted him to breathe. “I… uh, I lived in Malyasha for a while. But I’m from Florida. Born and raised. Where—where are you from?”

You tilted your head slightly, watching how intently he tried to keep eye contact and how quickly he broke it again. “I flew in from Washington.”

“D.C.?” he asked, and you nodded.

His eyebrows lifted, eyes wide for a split second. “Wow. Do you work in the White House or something?”

You huffed a laugh, smiling into your words. “Sure. Something like that.”

His head bobbed along with the answer.

“So you’re like… a really important person here.”

You laughed again, this time wider. Your teeth showed. It surprised you how easily you let your guard down. “I wouldn’t say that.”

But he was smiling too, softer now. Less anxious.

“You are,” he said, more sure of himself now. “I saw the way people looked at you tonight. Not—not that I was watching you or anything… just, it’s hard not to. You’re, um…”

You saw the moment he lost his words, saw them spill and scatter like marbles across a floor. His blush deepened, blooming across his cheeks in a full, unmistakable deep red colour. He ducked his head, eyes falling to his shoes again, and you watched him fight a shy, apologetic smile.

“…I can see why they’d want your picture.”

And just like that, your heart softened.

You leaned in a little, elbows resting against your knees. “Thank you, Bob. You’re really sweet, you know that?”

Bob looked up again, startled by the compliment, his mouth parting slightly like he didn’t know what to say to that. You weren’t sure if anyone had ever told him that before, and if they had, you could guess they didn’t mean it the way you did now.

He didn’t belong here. That much was obvious. Not with people like Valentina, not with cold smiles and polished lies. Not with mercenaries, politicians, and millionaires who hide behind their money. You could see it in the way he sat too stiffly on a velvet chair meant for lounging, in the way he tugged at his sleeves or tucked his hands away when he felt exposed.

“What’re you doing in a place like this, Bob?”

He blinked, tilting his head like he wasn’t sure what you meant.

You smiled, eyes squinting a little as you leaned forward more. “I mean, are you like, a sponsor? Investor?”

The words didn’t even sound right on your tongue, not when directed at him. The image of him swirling champagne and talking stocks was so laughably out of sync with the shy guy currently pressing himself into the couch cushions like he wanted to disappear.

“I don’t think you’re here for the politics,” you added, and there was a touch of something playful in your voice.

He chuckled softly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Me? Gosh, no. I don’t… I don’t do politics.” He scratched the back of his ear, sheepish again. “That’s Bucky’s thing. I’m here for my friends.”

And just like that, your whole world tilted.

Your smile dropped before you could stop it. A subtle shift, but you felt it everywhere: in your spine, in your lungs, in the weight of your hands resting suddenly still on your knees.

You straightened. Slowly.

“…You know Bucky?”

The question came quieter than you intended, and Bob must’ve heard the change, the sudden stillness in your voice. His smile faltered, and he went still, too, sensing the tension without understanding it. His posture shrank, as if unsure what he’d stepped into, as if trying not to take up more space than he already had to upset you.

He nodded, a cautious kind of affirmation. “Yeah. He’s my friend.”

That stunned silence stretched long between you.

“I… I know he’s your friend too,” Bob added quickly, the words spilling out like he was trying to fill the void before it grew too wide. His voice was quieter now, softer around the edges, almost apologetic. “I heard you talking about him to Val, I—I thought maybe…”

You weren’t sure why he kept talking. Maybe because you hadn’t said anything. Maybe because your smile had disappeared too fast, and he could feel the way the mood had shifted even if he didn’t know why. His nervous ramble wasn’t meant to hurt, you could tell that. But it did. It did because the moment he said Val, something in you knotted tight again.

The warm glow you’d felt around him moments ago started to dim, curling in on itself like a candle snuffed out mid-flicker. Your heart gave a small, stupid lurch—embarrassed at how quickly you’d let your guard down. Of course he knew Bucky. Of course he was close to Valentina. The pieces slid together too easily now, fitting into a picture you didn’t want to look at.

You tried to pull yourself back together, quickly and quietly. You reminded yourself this wasn’t supposed to be about comfort. It wasn’t about soft smiles or normal conversations or maybe asking someone out for a drink. You came here with a mission, no matter how personal it was. To find Bucky. To set the record straight. This—this moment of peace with a stranger who felt safe—wasn’t supposed to happen.

He called her Val. Like they were friends. Like they knew each other beyond just work. Like he wasn’t just some shy, nice guy who complimented you under his breath and blushed when you smiled at him. Jesus, were you that easy?

A strange bitterness bloomed in your mouth. Not anger, more like disappointment. At yourself, maybe. For forgetting, even just for a second, what kind of place this really was.

You stood up.

The decision was sudden, impulsive, a small motion made louder by the way Bob flinched. His eyes followed you, something tentative and uncertain flickering across his face.

You reached for your earpiece, thumb brushing over the button to unmute Joaquín.

But Bob stood, too. Slowly, almost clumsily, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow you or stay where he was.

“Did I—did I say something wrong?” he asked.

You froze. Your fingers stilled over the earpiece. You hadn’t expected that.

You turned, not quite facing him fully, but enough to catch the look on his face. His brows had drawn together, confusion etched faintly into his expression, and one of his hands was lifted just slightly, hovering in the air between you like he’d started to reach out and changed his mind halfway through. There were still several feet of space between you. The fire crackled low between you both, casting shadows across the expensive furniture and marble tiles.

“I’m sorry if I did,” he said, voice smaller now. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

That stopped you. “No… you didn’t…” You said, the words stumbling out, half-formed. You didn’t know why you tried to soothe him. Maybe it was the way his eyes had gone wide or the way he seemed to dread the thought of you walking away just when he was finally starting to settle into himself. It stirred something in you. Something that made your chest tighten.

You could’ve said never mind. You wanted to. Pretend his words hadn’t struck a nerve, hadn’t made your heart twist in your chest. But they did. It bothered you.

“You didn’t upset me,” you repeated, softer now. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

Bob blinked at you. “Oh,” he said, so gently it almost got carried off by the breeze.

A silence fell between you again. You wrapped your arms around yourself against the wind as you turned to look at him.

“Who are you, Bob?”

He straightened, caught off guard. “I’m... I’m Bob,” he said. “Just... just Bob.”

You tilted your head. “That’s it?”

He opened his mouth like he was about to say more, but nothing came out. His lips parted, then pressed shut again, the words retreating back into him like they were scared to be seen. He just shrugged helplessly. Like that’s all he had left.

And yet he kept looking at you like he was begging you not to go. Not yet.

You sighed, bringing your fingers up to your temple, pressing cold skin to your warm forehead. There was a pulse pounding there now, dull and insistent.

“I just…” You started, voice cracking faintly. “I came here looking for Bucky. I thought maybe I could get him to come home.”

“Home?” Bob asked carefully, his eyes soft.

“Yeah. With Sam. With us.” You hesitated, glancing through the tall windows behind him. The light inside spilled gold across the floor, where laughter echoed and people clinked glasses without a care in the world. Your eyes landed on the group you’d been avoiding all night—Bucky’s new team, huddled together with drinks, grinning like it was just another night to celebrate.

It made your chest hollow out.

“Ever since he joined Valentina’s little fuckass team or... whatever this is,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the gala behind you, “everything’s just been so... shitty.”

You looked back at Bob, surprised to find that he’d stepped a little closer. Just enough that you could see the way his jaw twitched, like he was working through something he didn’t know how to say.

“Sorry,” you muttered, suddenly self-conscious. “Not to, like, dump all that on you.”

The cold bit into your arms. You rubbed them quickly, wishing you’d brought a coat.

“It’s not...” Bob started, and then, more firmly, “It’s not a fuckass team.”

You blinked. “Sorry?”

“They saved me,” he said, voice trembling just a bit. “Lena. Bucky. The others. They’re my family. We... we take care of each other.”

You stared at him, something icy curling low in your stomach. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said again, earnest. “I know it probably doesn’t look like it from the outside, but... they gave me a chance when no one else would. They didn’t treat me like I was broken. They... saw me.”

You wanted to believe that. You really did. But it felt like trying to swallow glass.

“Right,” you muttered, too tired to argue. “I have to go.”

You turned, reaching for your earpiece.

“Wait,” Bob said suddenly, like he’d only just realized this was goodbye. “Will I... will I see you again?”

You paused, fingers still hovering near your ear. The balcony lights flickered faintly behind you, and the sound of the city buzzed low in the background, as if the world were holding its breath.

You didn’t turn around right away.

Part of you wanted to say no. Make it easy. Clean.

But when you finally looked back at him, at the boyish worry carved into his face, the way he stood there with his hands half-raised like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or let you go, you felt that ache again. The one that whispered that maybe, despite everything, he meant what he said. That maybe there was still something worth salvaging in the strange, quiet warmth you’d felt earlier. Something real.

And you desperately wanted it to be real. You wanted it to mean something.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Bob swallowed. Nodded like he understood.

But his eyes lingered on you like he hoped the answer might change.

#OH GODDD #bob how I have grown be enveloped in you oh my gos #ur writing is mush #the characterization is muah #love me a reader that has a personality #josie recs!

5K notes · View notes

traumatrios · 2 months ago

Text

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 | 𝐛𝐨𝐛 𝐫𝐞𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐬

Pairing Robert “Bob” Reynolds x Female Reader Summary On a slow morning, away from the pressures of the city, Bob helps quell your fears about the future [contains fluff, mild angst, the nickname ‘Robby’, cute superpower usage, wc 2.6k] A/N I fell in love with Bob during Thunderbolts, and the events of this fic take place two years after the movie. A bit of maturing and healing have taken place—mentally and in terms of his powers. It’s my first time writing for him, so let me know what you think!

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Sunlight, bedsheets, and skin. Reality itself dawned with the visage of a dream. With a lone fingertip, you trace the line of his spine from the space between his shoulder blades to where the soft linen pools at his hips. Tiny hairs rise on his bare skin as he shivers. Bob envisions your soft smile and slow-blinking eyes before he tips fully into wakefulness. When he does, your touch stills midway along his back as you venture upwards.

Instead of car engines, birds sing outside. Rather than the sweeping windows of the Avengers tower, floral wallpaper and simple curtained panes allow the sun’s rays to paint the room. There’s no agenda, no meetings, no need to rush. This is the Catskills, and Manhattan is miles away.

You were grateful the team granted you two the weekend away at one of Bucky’s old safe houses. It’s a secluded rural farmhouse surrounded by oak trees—a scene fit for the silver screen.

“There you are,” you lilt.

Bob huffs a shy chuckle. “Hi.” He swallows when you comb your fingers through his hair. “Have you been up long?”

“Ages.” He frowns at that. “I’m kidding.”

A small smile breaks across his face. If you had been waiting long, he’d consider telling you that he’d had one of the best sleeps of his life. Then it’d make sense why he wanted to cling to it just a little longer.

He’d almost lost track of all his luck since he met you. A part of him feared it was bound to fade away, but even then, he’d be alright with life having given him time with you at all. It’d been a year since you met, and he couldn’t remember goodness ever prevailing this long. As far as he knew, there was a crash after every high.

But not all people were like vices he was once used to seeking: there one minute and gone the next. You’d stumbled into Bob’s life one chilly night on West 43rd and bonded over cheap slices. Sometime between then and him walking you home, you realized you liked having him around. Without so much as trying, he made you lean in closer, laugh too loud, lose track of time.

When your fingers pass through his hair yet another gentle time, a small sound rises in his throat as your nails scratch against his scalp.

“That feels good,” he sighs.

For someone who’d never quite be able to break, you treated him as though the opposite were true. Every touch was so thoughtful and careful that even he began to believe it might be possible after all. Maybe you saw that he was a bunch of tiny pieces held together by a renewed will to live. Maybe you were the glue.

“It’s getting so long.” You playfully rake some soft strands of hair into his face, and the feathery sensation makes him scrunch his nose. “You’re gonna disappear on me pretty soon.”

Bob combs his hair back to see you again, chest filled with a warmth that refuses to stay in one place.

“I promise I won’t.” The dual meaning of his words translates through his deep, blue eyes. “Gonna come find me if I do?”

You pretend to think, as if you hadn’t already done your share of saving each other.

“Maybe,” you say.

When his lips twitch with the threat of a smile, you poke his ribcage a couple of times to coax it out. It works like a charm. Before you know it, he rolls onto his back and pulls you to lie on top of him. Your legs fall on either side of his body.

“Robby, careful,” you chuckle in surprise.

He likes the pressure, the proximity. After a few seconds, you finally relax on top of him, scooting down his body enough to rest your head against his chest. His skin is warm beneath your cheek, and you can feel the rise and fall of each steady breath. One of his hands slips beneath your shirt to draw shapes across the small of your back.

Your eyes slip closed, and like a light switch, you’re transported back to the night you first met. Fluorescent lights shine above as the two of you sit across from each other near the front window of a pizza place. The steady buzz of chatter fills the air along with the rich scent of tomato sauce and oregano. Outside, pedestrians flutter by.

It’s a memory.

You can see your present selves too, standing over the shoulders of the yous forever bound to the past. You meet Bob’s gaze, taking in his boxers and muscled torso as his own eyes rove over you.

That night, the team had let him leave without Bucky or John tagging along. The independence wouldn’t have been a big deal in another life, but it felt like a rite of passage. They were finally beginning to trust in his ability to control the multitudes he contained. He could’ve gone anywhere in Manhattan, somewhere more bustling and lively, but he’d decided to take a walk and grab a greasy bite.

As Bob looks between your past selves, he can see the nerves in his gaze and the intrigue in yours. It was possible you had seen him on TV back when the city turned void. If you did happen to know who he was, you were sensitive enough not to mention that fateful day.

The real reason you’d struck up a conversation with him was because he’d held the door for you when you first walked into the pizza place, two strangers crossing paths in the city that never sleeps. There was a certain allure you couldn’t quite pin down, a palpable energy. Something behind his eyes.

It was no secret that those who wandered at night were often looking to feel a little more alive. Perhaps you’d met for a reason written somewhere amid the invisible stars.

Upon opening your eyes, you’re back in bed with him. You prop yourself up on his chest to study him.

“You took us back,” you say.

“Sorry,” Bob murmurs. “Wasn’t trying to.”

Sometimes, when he feels safe and thinks about you, his mind will pull you two into a lifelike memory. It wasn’t a matter of control; he simply allowed it to happen without fighting against it.

You run a light fingertip down his nose. “I don’t know if I believe you.”

Bob takes your wrist and kisses the heel of your palm. “But you liked it.”

“Says who?”

“The smile on your face.” As soon as he says that, you purposely flatten your expression. A chuckle rumbles through him. “Guess I’ll stop if it’s so unbearable.”

You could easily call his bluff, but the thought still stirs a small flicker of worry within you. Bob sees it in your eyes and squeezes you to quell it. There wasn’t a single part of him you hated. Not even the scarier, messier parts that often scared people away. It was their loss. It’d be hard to come across someone quite like him again.

•••

As the record player plays a jazzy instrumental, the sound of the spatula scraping against the bottom of the pan is a gentle accompaniment. Bob’s back muscles shift as he continues scrambling the eggs. It feels like you’re a koala bear with the way you’ve secured your arms around him, but he doesn’t mind. Not when it feels like this moment was handcrafted by tranquility itself.

You didn’t get many moments like this in Manhattan. Now that you’re seeing what it’s like to have him all to yourself with no check-ins, you realize you wouldn’t mind having this forever. Except, forever seemed to stretch like an empty void waiting to be filled. And it was up to you to do the shaping.

“Do you ever think about…” you trail off.

Bob waits for you to continue, but you don’t. “About what?” he encourages. It almost hurts how patient he is with you.

You tuck your nose into the space between his shoulder blades to inhale the scent of his shirt. “Thought you were a mind reader,” you accuse in a gentle attempt to deflect. “I want a refund.”

Laughing, Bob turns off the stove and faces you. “It’s your mind we’re talking about.” There’s a sparkle in his eyes as he speaks. “Not even I can get a read on that thing.” What he means is that he’d never invade your thoughts. He never had.

He tilts his head in that disarming, attentive way of his. “What were you gonna say?” His eyes remind you of the dark stare of a fawn, ever curious and searching.

You redirect your attention to the floor. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Bob lifts your chin back up with his index finger. “Like what?” It’s a painfully genuine question. “Like I value what you have to say?”

When you remain quiet, his eyes darken, and bright ribbons of molten gold swirl through his irises. It’s beautiful in an intimidating way that makes your stomach flutter; an attempt at levity. A small smile plays on his lips as his gaze returns to normal. You bite back a reaction because you know he’d done it on purpose, knows you like it.

“Tough crowd,” he playfully mumbles. “Talk to me, sweetheart, c’mon.”

“After breakfast,” you say. “The food’s gonna get cold.”

•••

Bob hums under his breath as he flips through a box of Bucky’s old vinyl. The house itself is even older, and the way the wooden floors creak tells the tale. He studies the cover art of the albums as you sit and watch from your place on the couch. You break your silence when you’ve had enough of the distance.

“Hey, Robby?” He redirects his attention to you. “Maybe we can pause the music browsing for a sec.”

With how quickly he steps away from the box, you’re convinced he’d been waiting for you to say that. The cushions dip as he joins you on the plush sage couch.

The entire living room is cozy. It reminds Bob of visits to his grandparents’ house as a boy. He remembers weekends and summers being dropped off when his parents claimed to need a break. It became a safe space that he never wanted to leave.

With his grandparents, there was no constant clamoring, shouting matches, or phone calls from the electric company threatening to cut the lights off. He played outside in the sun with the older kids and came back inside to homemade lemonade and playful comments about him having worked up a good sweat.

When he got older, and his grandparents passed away, his escape became the dingy basements of questionable acquaintances and back alleyways that never turned a lost soul away.

Bob reaches over to squeeze your thigh. “I’m all ears whenever you're ready.”

“It feels kinda stupid now,” you admit.

“Stupid and I go way back.” He’s sincere even as he jests. “Try me.”

You play with your fingers and bite the inside of your cheek. It feels like you’re a scared kid standing on a diving board at the deep end of the pool. All attention is on you. It’s time to jump.

“Do you ever think about the future? What it looks like?” you ask, pausing for a few seconds. “If people like us get a happily ever after?”

You meet each other’s gaze.

“People like us,” he repeats slowly. You can see the gears moving in his mind.

“I’m me, and you’re… you,” you say. “There’s no such thing as normal.”

Bob hums, not agreeing or disagreeing.

You exhale. “Everything’s starting to feel so perfect.” Bob waits for you to continue. “But it feels like I’m waiting for the rug to get ripped out from under me.”

“I hear you,” he says, reaching out to interlock his fingers with yours. He's quiet for a few thoughtful beats. “I don’t know what’s down the road, but I know what’s in front of me right now,” he says.

A silence stretches between you until he breaks it again. “Back when I tried the whole therapy thing, there was this idea called dress rehearsing tragedy,” he says. “It’s when you think of the worst so much that it gets hard for the good to shine through.”

You nod as you soak in every measured word.

“That was me every time things started to look up,” Bob admits reflectively. “I’m not saying that’s you right now—hell, you practically are the sun to me.” Your lips twitch upwards when he squeezes your hand.

“What I’m saying is we get this whole weekend together.” Bob leans in closer. “So let’s just be here.”

“And when the weekend ends?” you murmur, just to see what he says.

“I promise I’m in this for the long haul,” he assures. “Whatever it takes.”

Those last words linger in the air. Bob gives you his full attention when you shift as if you’re about to speak up. Instead, you brush your thumb over the back of his hand. His eyes never leave you. It’s a glimpse into what it must’ve felt like for him to be under your watchful gaze the night you met.

“Whatever it takes,” you echo.

So much in life seemed far away for you. Falling in love was for other people, marriage was for other people, buying a house and building a life was for other people. Not for you.

Bob offers a solemn smile. “I used to be scared all the time.” He thinks for a moment. “Now I refuse to be. Out of spite mainly.”

You huff a laugh, partly amused, partly in admiration. “I swear you’re not real sometimes. Like this is all just a dream.”

Bob chuckles. “I swear I am.” He kisses your cheek to prove he’s real. “Need me to pinch you? ‘Cause I can do that too.”

A small squeal escapes you as he reaches for your side, but he lets you push his hand away. You blink up at him in surprise when he stands and extends that hand to you.

“Let’s go,” he says.

You let him pull you to your feet, a spark of excitement stirring. “Go where?”

“The lake.”

•••

There’s a breeze that complements the warmth in the air. Grass crunches beneath your shoes as you follow Bob down to the shoreline. The still water shimmers in the light of the sun. Across the way, you can see somebody paddling in a canoe. There’s a bench beneath a cluster of birch trees, but Bob walks up to the water, and you stop by his side. Leaves rustle, birds chirp.

He snakes an arm around your waist and pulls you closer. You rest your head on your shoulder. It’s so still and quiet that your thoughts begin to settle. Bob was right. Neither of you knew the future. But in this moment, you at least know the feeling of standing beside someone you love. You know you’d be willing to fight for it. And maybe that was enough.

Bob looks at you after a while, cataloguing your features like it’s the first time. He closes the distance between you just as you’re about to jokingly ask if he’s looking for something. A pleasant warmth spreads through your body as his lips find yours. He kisses you tenderly, hands settling on your waist as you reposition yourself in front of him. Your fingers find their way to the nape of his neck, where you gently tug his hair.

Bob smiles into the kiss. Not for any particular reason, more like a culmination of things.

You pull away. “What?” you whisper against his lips, beginning to smile.

Bob’s cheeks warm as he shakes his head. “I’m just happy.”

“Me too.”

“We’re gonna be okay,” he promises.

Your lips find each other’s again.

Thanks for reading! All likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I promise I see them all!

BOB MASTERLIST

ALL MASTERLISTS

#yeah…#this is where it’s at #🚬#josie recs!

578 notes · View notes

traumatrios · 2 months ago

Text

bob has never been known to be loud. not loud like roosters drunken piano renditions in the middle of the bar. not loud like hangman's aura that commands attention in every room. bob is a quiet and calculated man.

but when it comes to you, walking across the stage to receive your graduate diploma, he's the loudest one there by decibels. he's unashamed as he whoops and hollers out your name in pride. the entire squad of people you love are either up on their feet or raising their arms high to cheer you on.

bob's not as physically loud and boisterous but his pride speaks volumes in the way he wraps you in his arms after the ceremony. he does his best to not crush the bouquet of flowers he meticulously picked out for you, but he doesn't hesitate to hold you for as long as possible. while he isn't the most versed in huge public displays in affections, it feels so effortless and natural with the way you pull him closer for a dramatic kiss. you're both too smiley to kiss for long as your teeth nearly clank together. you pull away only a few inches and the adrenaline in your body has you laugh in almost disbelief. you can't believe you're finally at the finish line. working year after year to get your degree has finally paid off.

"'m so proud of you sweetheart," his voice choking up as he sees your teary eyes.

"couldn't have done any of this without you Bobby," but he shakes his head in disagreement.

"yes you could have. you did this all on your own, honey. you put in all the hard work, I want you to be proud of that. give yourself all the credit," he lovingly chastises you while helping move the colorful tassel out of your eyes.

you both knew the significance and impact your support system had on your success. but that wasn't the point of today. for just a moment, Bob wanted you to set aside your humble nature and truly relish in your own accomplishment. he knew how grateful you were to everyone who has supported you, but this was your moment. nothing and no one should take away from the gravity of your own achievement.

"I can only take credit for the way the woman in front of me just about had a heart attack when i heard your name being announced," he snickers.

you playfully roll your eyes but still give him a bright smile. you've never felt so seen and loved until you met bob floyd. there is never a day that goes by where you don't feel his unwavering love in every bone of your body.

he can't help but kiss you one more time before letting the rest of your friends and family have their own congratulatory moments with you. it doesn't take but a glance to notice how he's still beaming with pride.

this isn't the first, nor last time bob will feel this overwhelming sense of pride and admiration for you.

but today, he can't help but be a little extra loud about it.

#i love shy and quiet guys #what can I say #we balance out #SO CUTE!#josie recs!

202 notes · View notes

traumatrios · 3 months ago

Text

Homecoming

Pairing: Commander!Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: Steve's back home after a mission.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), oral (f receiving), face-sitting, mild dirty talk, repressed feelings (slight angst), established relationship.

A/N: I haven't written fic in a long time and it probably reads like it. I haven't seen anything MCU since Dr. Strange 2/Spidey until Thunderbolts yesterday so not caught up on the lore. This popped up in my brain after a nap on Wednesday. Let me know what you think!

♡♡♡♡

It’s quiet when he comes in.

Sometime between your drifting off and the quiet snick of the bedroom door shutting, you’re aware of the time. The numbers on your bedside read 3:07AM.

A late arrival, then.

A firm, broad chest pressed up against your back, heavy arm slung low over your waist. The smell of cinnamon and vanilla and the slow sigh of relief once he’s pulled you back into him just a little.

“Hi,” Steve says.

You hum, one hand patting his own over your belly. “Hi.”

Slow, measured breaths tickle your skin, the quiet of the room only disrupted by a soft kiss to your shoulder, the nape of your neck. It’s a little while before either of you speak again.

You know Steve needs it, the comedown after a big mission.

It always starts off predictable enough— get to the Avengers compound, debrief, chew someone out if they were being stupid and reckless on the job or gently bring them back down if there were any losses, shower, return his suit and weapons, a brief psych evaluation and physical check for injuries, then get on the road back to the city.

Once he’s walking through your front door, though, it’s not until you get a good look at him that you can know how things went. Still, it’s always Steve.

“You’re back,” you murmur, voice barely there.

Steve’s arm around your waist tightens, warmth of his skin seeping into your own over the fabric of your sleep shirt. It’s one of his, an old, worn thing he bought in Jersey back when he’d first woken up. There’s a couple of loose threads coming from the left sleeve and an old stain at the hem that you swear is blood — Steve refuses to confirm or deny it — but it’s and it’s yours and you wear it to bed more times than not.

“I am,” Steve’s mouth brushes your skin where the shirt’s slipped a little, goosebumps following their trace. His beard’s gotten a little longer, a testament to how much time he’s been away from the comforts of home and his electric trimmer. “Debrief ended about an hour ago, but I stayed for a bit to plan my agenda for tomorrow.”

Huffing a quiet laugh, you turn in his embrace. “You have an assistant for that, Commander.”

Steve chuckles, a soft, sleepy sound settling warm in your heart. He turns on his back, bringing you up into his chest, willing you closer, sighing into your hair.

His breathing’s slowed enough that you briefly wonder if he’s fallen asleep, though after almost a year of sharing a bed means you’ve caught to his tells that he has yet to drift off— the tension in his arms, the quiet, intermittent sniffles he gets before he knocks out, the fact that he’s barely really said a word about the mission at all.

“Good trip?” you murmur.

You feel him shrug, sheets rustling beneath him and that just—

Pushing off his chest, you sit up to turn on the bedside lamp. Soft, warm light fills the room, dim enough to not make your eyes hurt.

Something else does, though.

“Steve…”

A cut over his eyebrow and a bruise already turning yellow on his left temple. Red-rimmed eyes and a swollen lip. Somewhere beneath the collar of his shirt, a thin, red line extends up the side of his neck, already healing. You watch him wince when you lie a hand on his stomach, feeling the taut muscles there contract.

Your words fail, throat closing up. One of his hands wraps around your wrist, big and warm and comforting, even though you should be the one comforting him right now.

“Looks worse than it is,” Steve shrugs again. This time, you catch the way his lips thin out just a little, the slight twitch in his eye at the movement. “Y’know I’ll be fine in the morning.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m used to it.”

At that, Steve’s fingers squeeze your wrist. He knows it’s hard for you, keeping up with what he does for a living. Technically, he could’ve retired years ago, but there’s something to be said about his insatiable need to do something to feel useful.

You know he’s talked about it with his therapist, and even Bucky and Natasha had tried to talk some sense into him about taking things easy, slowing down, moving into a less-exposed role once he’d handed the shield to Sam. But Steve Rogers is nothing if not stubborn, so he’d been made Commander and only deploys to missions that really need him. But he still deploys.

Steve’s thumb brushes over your skin, eyes on yours in the dim light, a quiet apology for now. You can’t help but let it go, leaning in to finally kiss him.

It’s a soft, sweet thing, the kiss. Mouths slotted perfectly over each other, Steve’s tongue only slightly running over your bottom lip until you open up for him, let yourself slide back down on the bed with him.

“I missed you,” you murmur, lips brushing his own. “A lot.”

“Missed you too, honey,” Steve sighs into the kiss. “A lot.”

He guides you to sit on his lap, the cradle of his hips warm and strong beneath your thighs. You can feel him through the thin fabric of your underwear and his sweatpants, can’t help but settle fully onto him as you stretch over his torso.

Steve tastes like mint and iron, undoubtedly from the injury to his lip, but you’ll have him like this and any other way you can get him as long as he gets to come back home. He sighs into the kiss, reaching a hand to cup your neck and angle your head the way he wants, the other slowly making its way down your back to rest above your ass. He swallows your resulting sound, making one of his own when you break the kiss.

You pull back, eyeing him suspiciously. “Steve.”

His hand doesn’t move, fingertips slipping under the waistband of your underwear. They rest there while he looks at you, a question in his eyes. The bruise on his temple will be gone in the morning, same as the cut on his brow, but you can’t help but wonder how he got them, who he had to fight this time around.

He can tell you’re distracted, hand on your nape squeezing briefly as if to bring you back to him.

“Honey,” he says and you sigh.

Steve lets you sit up again, hands slipping from your body to rest on your thigh as you sit cross-legged next to him. His half-lidded gaze meets yours, thumb brushing slowly over the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He watches you for a minute, assessing, waiting for you to answer.

In the end, it’s only right to try to be the sensible one in this situation. “You’re still in pain, Steve.”

He shakes his head, squeezing your thigh softly. “Not that much. Just— I need to think about something else right now. Can’t sleep yet.”

This has happened before, a few times.

It didn’t when you’d first started dating. Being one of Steve’s only relationships since he came out of the ice meant he’d had time to work through some stuff on his own before he tried to be with someone else, so when he’d had difficult missions at the beginning of your courtship, he’d always been upfront about needing some time before he could talk to you about them.

Lately, though, something’s been happening. Every other mission seems to be more taxing than the last.

You’re sure you’re wholly unclassified to know any of the information Steve eventually divulges, even if unspecific, but it’s specific enough to worry you. He never tells you exactly what happens, but the mornings and days after he’s managed to work through whatever he needs by working you, he makes it clear that whatever they’re fighting isn’t just the universe’s bad guy of the month.

You’re not totally complaining, but you are concerned that your boyfriend needs to blow off steam in such a way before he even considers facing his feelings.

Steve’s hands on your skin bring you back to reality once more. He’s still there, in your bed, gaze questioning, wondering where you went.

You’re sure he has an idea, but it’s not something he’s willing to address tonight.

“Please, honey,” he says. “C’n sit on my face, I won’t have to put in much effort that way.”

Steve adds the last bit as if it’s nothing, but the thought of it alone sends a flash of heat down your spine.

“You always put in effort,” you concede a little, laying a hand on his stomach where his shirt’s ridden up, thumb brushing beneath his navel.

Steve smiles at that, slowly reaching for your hand and helping you rest back on his lap. He holds your hand on his stomach, the other resting on your hip once more.

“‘S that a yes? Gonna let me taste you, baby?” He asks and your resolve is slipping by the second.

You try one last time, though. Need to make it clear where you’ve gone the past few times in as many minutes. “Promise to talk to me in the morning?”

“Promise.” Steve’s answer is emphatic, the hand laced with yours squeezing sure and strong. “Just need to focus on something else right now.”

And so you nod, leaning back a little when Steve sits up to capture your lips once again. He winces as he does so, but smooths a hand down your side while he shushes you, tries to ease your worries.

His hands reach beneath your shirt, cupping your breasts, pressing you into him, roaming over your ass and your thighs as he takes your breath away. Breaking the kiss after a while, he takes a good look at you, lips a little red and swollen beneath his beard.

“Gorgeous,” Steve murmurs, lying back down. He looks so broad like this, laid out only for you. “Love seeing you in my clothes.”

Heat blooms low in your belly at the praise, flashes even hotter when you feel the faint line of Steve’s cock pressing into you.

“Yeah?” you ask, brow raised and a teasing grin upon your lips. “Gonna be you for Halloween this year, wear your stealth suit.”

Given Steve’s resulting blush, he didn’t expect that as an answer. He goes silent for a minute, gaze heavy on you, thumbs slipping beneath your waistband once more, stroking over your hip bones.

Laughing, you let yourself fall forward onto his chest, careful not to rest too heavily on him. “Oh my god.”

“It’s not my fault you look good in everything,” Steve says, sheepish. He helps you sit back up on his lap, big hands back on your thighs. “Maybe the techs can make a version just for you. We could use it.”

“For what purposes, sir?” You snort, shaking your head when Steve gives you a slow onceover. “You’re incorrigible.”

He shrugs, smirking and pretty, brief embarrassment gone. “I’m a paragon of duty and righteousness, I’ll have you know.”

You shake your head at him again, unable to help the smile that comes on.

“Up, baby.”

He helps you get your underwear off, first through one leg then the other, then helps you scoot up his torso and towards his face. Fingers laced with yours next to your legs, he helps you settle above him, the prickly brush of his beard on your inner thighs as he brushes kisses there making you shiver.

“Already, honey?” Steve murmurs into your skin, heavy-lidded gaze locked on yours. “Barely even touched you yet.”

You feel yourself flush, only made worse by Steve softly blowing on your cunt before he gives you one long, teasing lick. Then a second, and a third. He pulls you fully down on his tongue, holding tight onto your hips so you have nowhere to go.

“Steve,” you gasp, tugging on his hair.

Steve growls low in his chest at the feeling, beginning to lap at you in short strokes, sucking at your folds, making it so wet and messy you’re sure it’s dripping down his chin.

“Want you to come on my tongue,” Steve murmurs.

He places a loud kiss to your folds, gaze locking on yours just to make sure you heard him, only going back to task once he gets a shaky nod from you.

Grinding on his tongue, sounds wet and loud in the otherwise quiet room. Steve’s hands settle on your ass, helping you move on him as he fully flattens his tongue. He switches up his rhythm, slow broad licks all over your cunt making you shiver.

“You’re so good at this, fuck.”

You feel rather than hear him chuckle at that, teeth nipping at your inner thigh. He dives right back in, eyelashes fluttering closed, mouth closing softly around your clit. You shiver, tugging on his hair again as your thighs close around his head.

“Fuck, Steve,” you moan, the coil low in your belly dissolving into warm static spreading through your limbs.

It’s a minute before you fully come to, shaking a little through Steve cleaning you up with his tongue and soft kisses to your thighs. He lies you back onto the bed, gathering you up in his arms again all while murmuring soft and sweet. Pressing chaste kisses to your lips, he answers your quiet noises with his own, nosing at you as your eyes open once more.

“Back with me?” he says, face brightening at your soft sound. “There she is.”

You hum, burying your face in his neck. “My ears are ringing.”

Steve lets out an actual belly laugh at that, his entire body shaking with it, your own heart glowing from it. “That good, huh?”

“Shut up,” you groan, weakly pushing at his chest. Placing a soft kiss on his jaw at his half-hearted ow, you let yourself fully sink into him, sighing softly when you feel him do the same. Finally ready to sleep now, then. “I’m really glad you’re home.”

Steve brushes a kiss along your forehead. “Me too, honey,” he says, words coming slow and sleepy now. “Me too.”

#SODOSOSOSOOSOSO GOOD #U write steve so perfectly 😔#josie recs!

1K notes · View notes

traumatrios · 3 months ago

Note

oh yes… yes…

going to basketball!luke’s game in his jersey and then he fucks you in to after 🤤🤤

ohhh this is over a year old i'm so sorry josie, but i see ur vision. it's giving the opening of 17 again tbh!!! and i’m talking a messy, sweaty, nasty fuck where he’s still running on adrenaline. (18+)

he finds you after the game with that look in his eyes—the one that’s half-cocky smirk, half-ravenous stare. sweat still clings to his temples, jersey clinging to his skin, and his hand slides to the small of your back the second you're close enough.

"you wear that for me?" he murmurs, voice low as his fingers tug at the hem of his old jersey hanging loose on you. it's long enough to fit oversized, but short enough that he can slide his hand up underneath it without anyone noticing as you stand in the back hallway of the gym.

you grin, "thought you might like it."

he doesn't say anything. just looks at you, teeth sinking into his bottom lip, and then you’re pressed up against the wall—fast, messy, urgent. like he's been thinking about this the entire game. like scoring points wasn’t the only thing he planned on doing tonight.

minutes later, you're in the locker room. not even locked. you’re bent over the bench, both of you still half-dressed, the cool wood digging into your thighs. luke’s jersey sways loosely on your body with every thrust, his number on your back bouncing in the mirror in front of you. and he’s obsessed with it.

“shit,” he breathes, one hand gripping your hip while the other slides up the small of your back, palm ghosting over his number. “look at you. y’so perfect like this.”

he watches the way your body moves, the way his name on your back means something. his breath is ragged, hot against your skin as he leans over to whisper, to kiss and mouth behind your ear.

his fingers slide around to your front, slipping under the jersey to touch where you’re already soaked. he runs wobbly, slopping, tight circles against your clit. “all that cheering. screaming my name. standing up in the front row looking like that.”

he’s still got his game shorts on, waistband pushed low, but everything else is gone. skin on skin, sweat-slicked and raw. you can feel his muscles twitch every time he thrusts in deeper, his hand gripping your ass, then sliding over the fabric of the jersey again like he can’t decide if he wants to fuck you or the idea of you in his colours.

and when you finally gasp his name, head dropping forward, he grabs your hair gently and tugs until you’re upright again, so you can see yourself. see the jersey, the flushed heat in your cheeks, the look in his eyes behind you in the mirror.

“say it again,” he pants. “wanna hear it.”

“luke—” it’s broken, almost a sob. your knees are shaking.

“that’s right.” he grins, smug and glowing. “say it like you did when i hit that three-pointer.”

#josie from a year ago was both in a luke kick AND a troy bolton one #banger after banger miss girl #👏#MEAN LUKE FTW #josie recs!

464 notes · View notes

traumatrios · 3 months ago

Text

in another life . . .

rating: explicit, 18+

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

word count: 7K

summary: Partner. That word had been jammed up inside his brain for as long as he could remember. Gym-class partner, lab partner, work-out partner, partner-in-training, partner in this fucking life or death situation where we’re only going to get out alive if we trust each other more than I trust myself. And then he met you and the definition changed again.

warnings: domestic!frankie, marriage kink (if that’s a thing), oral (f receiving) but i think that’s an expectation from every frankie fic, improper use of a kitchen table, unprotected piv, no use of y/n, brief mentions of PTSD, improper use of Spanish, eating in bed

a/n: requested for my 100 followers event! Anon: hiiii firstly! congrats on the big one hundo you totally deserve it 🥂‼️ secondly wondering if I could rq a Pedro boy drabble with prompt number 12... I wanna do laundry for Frankie Morales :D “did you just wash these sheets?” “I did.” “they smell nice. and they’re still warm.”

🤍Masterlist

. . . I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you.

Frankie fills the silence of the house without you in it with music. This house, it had been your choice, even though he never expressly made you choose, or even presented the dichotomy. This house, with its leaky faucet and janky AC unit and finicky pilot light, was what you wanted instead of a diamond ring, and so he gave it to you. First down payment, along with every other red cent you and he had both saved up, went into buying your first home together. This wasn’t forever, you both agreed (with only two bedrooms it wasn’t enough room for a baby, he often thought) but even as the real estate agent glanced around with disdain for the house and your budget, one look from you and it was settled.

“It has good bones,” you said, standing out on the concrete deck overlooking a postage-stamp-sized backyard. There were weeds in the corners and holes from some unknown animal but he could see the wheels in your head turning, imagining how you, like everything else you did, planned to tackle and wrestle control over it with your bare hands. “It needs work, but I think there’s something special here.”

“Yeah?” he asked, threading his fingers through yours, the real estate agent no doubt off somewhere inspecting the drains. “Is there something here?”

You grinned and shoved your nose then a soft press of your lips into his denim-shoulder.

“I’m sure of it.”

All his life, Frankie worked best in a unit. As children, his older brother, his younger brother, and him were practically inseparable, their physical similarities almost presenting as the same person but at different ages, and when that group disbanded because Oscar left for college, he went on to find another one. First, his army unit, then the boys. His boys. Left to his own devices, Frankie was terrible at remembering to eat, sleep regularly – focus on anything other than fixing cars and planes, really – but he’d do it for them. He hated to see that worried crease show up on Will’s brow when Frankie admitted he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He hated that Benny had to show up at his apartment to drag his ass outta bed to get him into the sunlight. And he hated when Pope felt obligated to take him out to bars to try and meet women.

“I’m not dating someone just so they can be my mother,” Frankie muttered into the lip of his beer bottle. “I don’t need anyone thinking I need to rely on them like that.”

“Yeah, but you do better when you have people relying on you.” Pope’s dark eyes flitted from a woman at the bar top to him, with intention and full of force. “And I’m not saying I’m trying to get you to fuck your mother, but you need a partner.”

Partner.

That word had been jammed up inside his brain for as long as he could remember. Gym-class partner, lab partner, work-out partner, partner-in-training, partner in this fucking life or death situation where we’re only going to get out alive if we trust each other more than I trust myself.

And then he met you and the definition changed again.

You are his best friend. You are the woman he wants to fuck every day for the rest of his life. You are the first person he wants to tell good news to and the first person he wants to talk to when he’s had a shitty day. Your voice quiets something inside him that has been far too loud for far too long. You are a relief and a refuge. For all his faults, you love him and sometimes he can’t fathom why.

You are his partner – in life, in marriage (one day), and forever (he hopes).

“I might not always like you, Catfish,” you said to him in Will’s backyard for Benny’s birthday party. You had been drinking and every sip seems to bring you closer and closer to him. With your face tucked up into his neck, arms up under his flannel and hugging his waist, the only way he could be physically closer to you was if he was inside you – which he was about two seconds away from suggestion when you leaned in close. “‘M not always going to like you, but ‘m always going love you.”

And love him you did. You loved him when he decided to go back to school to get some additional certifications so he could maybe teach flight school. The army would pay for most of it, was a fucking relief to your shared thread-bare, cartoon-spider-web empty savings account. But what the army would not pay for was for you to go to nursing school. You worked in hotels for the events services branch, coordinating everything from weddings to conferences, walking (mostly running) from one end of the hotel to the next. Your sister got you a Fitbit for Christmas one year and after the holiday rush, you walked twenty miles in two days.

“After that, this nursing stuff should be a breeze,” you said flippantly as you signed your paperwork for admissions.

Of course you got accepted at one of the better hospitals in the city – he never doubted for a second you would – and as the fresh-faced trainee, you got stuck with most of the night shifts.

Which meant his days looked a lot like this: wake up at 6AM, drive an hour to the helicopter tour building on the coast, fly rich idiots around all day, eat the lunch you had prepped for the both of you on Sunday night, continue flying rich idiots around, drive home in two-hour traffic, change into his work overalls, go work on some cars Benny’s buddy had at the local garage for some extra cash, then go home, heat up dinner you also made Sunday night, and then attend to the most pressing thing you or the house needed.

Which could be:

Fixing the AC unit, resealing the back door so it would close properly, re-caulking the shower, building more attic space, repainting the back fence, or replacing the hand towel holder.

Frankie didn’t mind the hard work. It kept his mind and his hands busy. What he did mind was the house silent and eerily empty without you here.

He didn’t mind the hard work because even for a few hours, he got to hold you while you slept. He got to eat with you at 10:30 at night and it was the highlight of his day.

Pay your surgeon very well to break the spell of aging

Sicker than the rest, there is no test, but this is what you're craving?

Frankie bobs his head, his earphones carefully tucked up under his shirt to prevent the laundry from tangling up in them. He hauls out the latest load and moves onto the washer, fishing out one more sock when suddenly the lights go off. All of them. Total darkness.

And then light and he’s staring down the bottom of the drum.

Then dark. And light.

You. Your code. One you designed when you read that PTSD victims are often triggered into a fight-or-flight response when startled. You, who knew before he did, how to manage the symptoms, create workarounds, and find a pathway through, instead of not at all.

He takes out one of the earbuds and smiles.

“Hey, you’re home.”

You lean against the doorway, smiling that smile that is reserved for him and him alone. Sometimes he’s selfish and wants everything of yours to be only for him – all your smiles, your laughter, your sighs – but that’s like trying to capture sunlight in a butterfly net: too focused on the impossible and you end up missing the daytime.

“How goes this fucking Sysphian task?” You nod at the baskets of laundry at his feet, referring to how you’d often rant and rave about how laundry, the dishes, and grocery shopping were never tasks that could simply be done. He knows how much you hate being unable to cross things off your to-do lists, so he holds your hand during all of these rantings and kisses your knuckles when you take a breath.

“Good,” he shrugs. “‘Bout to fold your scrubs for tomorrow.”

“Ah, have I told you lately that I love you?” You swing into the room and kiss him on his cheek, on the division where his patchy beard meets his skin – the place that you most often claimed on him. Your fingers squeeze around his bicep as you pull away and your eyes fall to the basket behind him. You gasp with glee.

“Did you just wash these sheets?” You ask like you’d just uncovered buried gold.

He smirks, propping his hip up against the dryer. “I did.”

Without another word, you scoop them up in your arms and inhale sharply.

“Mhmm, they smell nice.” You bury your head in deep. “And they’re still warm.”

In the rare moments when you’re both home and going through laundry together, he never fails to scoop up a load of hot towels and dump them over your head, relishing in the girlish giggle from beneath the clean laundry. “It’s so toasty,” you whimper with glee.

“They’re not gonna be if you get your hospital gunk all over them,” Frankie tuts, going back to add a new load into the washer as you glare at him over the lump of sheets.

“Ha, ha. Move over, Mr. Morales, and watch a master at work.”

“Yes, Mrs. Morales.” It’s stupid but his heart always fumbles when he calls you that. It started as a joke, one that you initiated, but now it’s like berry jam on his tongue, sweet and sugary. He’s thought about calling you that while he’s inside you but figures he should save something for the wedding night.

He sidles back, giving you space near the dryer as you pick up a basket of t-shirts.

“You know there’s dinner waiting for you in the kitchen.” He shakes his head as you begin to fold the shirts with lightning speed and precision – a side effect of being the oldest daughter in a family of five kids.

“Yeah, but you’re in here,” you say and bump his hip. He bumps you back and helps with the load. “Besides, it’ll get done faster with two people.”

He can’t exactly argue with that, so he lets the silence grow. But it’s not silence, not really. In the distance, dogs bark. Outside the room, the temperamental AC grumbles, a sound he never thought he’d come to appreciate. Inside the room, fingers tug at fabric, the soft thump as the shirts grow into a continuous pile. Then there’s you, breathing in the lilac-scented air, the scent of his deodorant and sweat and something entirely unique to him– his Frankie-ness as you’ve called it many times without elaborating. I’d bottle it if I could, you told him, bathe in it. You’re kinda weird, he told you, and you know he likes it.

Every once in a while, his elbow brushes up against yours, yours skirting around his, but never colliding, an awareness of the other always present and attended to, a flow of familiarity and recognition he’s never felt before or known since.

Bit by bit, you’ve taken pieces of him into you, picked them up, held them to the light and found them beautiful, until a second bit of his soul lives outside of his body. He knows every inch of you, how every atom calls out to him, begs to be close to him, and held tight. It’s not sunlight he’s trying to keep safe, it’s your heart. Your precious, wonderful heart that is somehow so full, it was enough to fill him up too. Gold filling in the cracks.

Kintsugi, Benny called it, when he got obsessed with anime for three months that one time two years ago. Frankie never could remember the actual name, and maybe that wasn’t the point and maybe it was a little ridiculous, especially when it was explained by a deliriously drunk and bleary-eyed Ben Miller at one in the morning on his brother’s lawn chair.

Maybe a better way of thinking about it was how separate, disparate, jagged and raw edges came to fit together. How someone like him got a do-over, another chance to be remade in the kiln, and how someone like you was allowed to love unselfishly, to ask for things and never be threatened with reparations of some kind – as if loving you deserved some sort of compensation.

Pieces, broken and scattered – he looked up and saw you carrying yours, and you witnessed the scars and blood dripping from the shards of his own past, his life, his love, and despite how slippery his pieces were, how dried and empty and wanting yours were, something pulled them together and made them stay.

Something stronger than light.

Stronger than gold.

You shook his hand and looked at what you built together, the pieces that came together, and in the end, that was your partnership. A creation of something greater – home, family, love.

So much fucking love.

In the end, Frankie Morales used love to build his life, not death, and you’re the one who gave it to him.

He drops the last shirt on the stack and he turns, his fingers seeking the drawstring of your pants.

You know what he wants. You want it too. A singular desire in two separate bodies.

The inherent closeness of domesticity draws you into him, closing the already limited space as hands find waists and lips find skin. He drags his nose against your jaw, somehow already shaking, his teeth grazing your throat, unwilling and unable to press his lips to you, wanting to drag this out as much as possible. He squeezes your hips, thumbs flipping under your shirt to touch, touch, touch, until his fingers wrap around your ribs and you make your first sound of the night. It snags at his restraint, pulling it threadbare.

“Frankie,” you sigh and he cannot fight the cataclysmic pull towards you – he stumbles, pinning you to the laundry room wall, his tongue cupping your earlobe into his mouth and he sucks. The next noise you make is high and keening and it turns his touch frantic.

Caught between the wall and his broad shoulders, he does with you what he wants. He nips at your cheek, your neck, the dip of your clavicle, as his thumb presses up each knot of your spine, drawing out the tension from your body like draining poisoned blood, and by the time he pinches off your bra, you’re all but hanging onto him.

“Baby–,”

He can hear you say, it’s late, we have work in the morning, you don’t have to do this,

I’m not worth this

With a low growl that is all possession, all anger that someone ever made you feel like your love was too much, he tugs your shirt off, knocking his hat off as he goes. In the drift, he sees your eyes flutter, mouth twisted in pleasure and guilt – you don’t want to be asking for things like this – and so he silences every doubt, every worry that he’s tired or it’s too late or his knees are aching too much to make you feel the way you deserve – he kisses you with enough force to knock out every unpleasant thought you’ve ever had about yourself and flattens you against the wall.

You let him pry you open, his touch fervent and insistent, tasting of iced coffee and gum. He licks into you, telling you things with his tongue, the way he tugs your bottom lip between his teeth, in the soft puff of breath that escapes him when you cup the back of his neck. Closer, he begs, closer.

His wide palm arching your lower back into him, he squeezes your ribs, up under your breast, before finally taking your nipple between his thumb and the meat of his hand and twists, just enough to make you break apart from his demanding mouth, gasping as if tapped by a live wire. But it’s him who is electrocuted, who catches fire, who wants to be chewed down and swallowed up. He shuffles and pulls you into him, the throbbing in his pants bordering on painful. He rubs himself against you once and you sigh like you know he hurts. You nod.

Your fingers peel your shirt up and over your head as he cups one thigh then the other until your hips hug his waist, smearing the hem of his shirt up over his skin. He feels the heat coming from between your legs, the slight dampness, against his lower belly and he groans, low, right near that source of warmth he wants to die in.

You curl above him, tipping his head back, as you dive into his mouth again, fingers twisting into his hair, thumbs brushing his temple right where you know he tends to get headaches. Your tongue brushes against his upper lip, tasting his mustache, and his knees threaten to buckle.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he laments, he praises, into the supple wetness of your tongue. You nod, pleased, and press your chest into him. He cannot fucking wait to get his mouth around your tits.

Mouth sealed to yours, hands cupping the meat of your ass, Frankie works entirely on sense memory to carry you into the kitchen, to a long wooden table beneath a wide window, white curtains closed and blinds shut.

This table had been one of the first purchases for the new house. Tan cedar boards with white knobby legs, it instantly reminded him of the one in his own childhood home, where he and his brothers fought over meals and did homework together. Where he held his mom after his father died and where he dropped his bag after coming home from a life too long spent fighting other people’s wars.

This table mattered to him and he’d be damned if it wouldn’t mean something to his own child one day.

That was something you too wanted to give your child, never having a table like this in your own life. You loved the stories he told about the table in his kitchen. How much it meant to him.

And now he was going to fuck you on it, this symbol of stability.

He just wonders how stable it really is.

His fingers clutching the back of your neck, arm running in tandem with your spine, he lowers you down, shifting your weight onto his arm so you don’t bump your head against the wood. He releases you but you protest, a muffled uh-uh, as he tries retreating. You loop your arms around his neck, tugging him flat against you and he feels your breasts mold against his chest, nipples already tight.

“Baby,” he breathes, sucking up and out of your mouth, “let me make you feel good.”

Behind him, he hears your sneakers clatter to the floor, your heels digging into his back as you toe off your shoes, and you shake your head.

“I am.” Kiss. A thumb under his bottom lip. “You do.” Breathless, reverent, grateful.

Grateful.

Grateful that he is kissing you.

Not good enough. God, he’s going to eat that self-loathing right out of you.

You whine, frustrated and hot, as he pulls back. He wants to go right for your pussy, but stutters at the sight of your unmarked tits. Smooth, flushed, heaving. There is no part of you he does not love, does not feel the need to worship on his knees.

But suddenly sour shame strikes him as he realizes enough time has passed since the last time you’d had sex for the hickeys to heal. He intends to amend that right now.

His thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your hips, to calm himself, he folds himself over you, dribbling kisses along your throat, over the wings of your clavicle, at the barest incline at the top of your breast, and then to the meat of your tit, the heaviness, the sway, and he bites down. Predictably, you yelp, nails scratching roughly into his scalp and that only makes him suck harder. You have very strict rules around where he can mark you, but on the places he can – oh, you beg him for it.

He palms your other tit, just to feel the goosebumps break out across your skin, to roll your nipple with the calluses on his palm. His teeth release, his tongue laving over that already pink and swollen skin, and he glances up, his other thumb coming to massage that fragile patch.

Being a pilot, a soldier, a brother, a son, those are the things he is. But Frankie lives – aches, pines, desires – to watch you come apart.

The purple bruise on your tit shining like a luxurious necklace, your eyes flutter open when you feel him pull up. Your fingers around his ears, your chest wet with his spit, you let him take you in. You give him this, because you know you’re about to get so much more. With your legs still wrapped around his waist, he can feel the soft cant of your hips, the quiet, patient begging, as you thought he needed reminding that you needed this. You rub up him, knees pinned to his ribs, and he lets you pull him into your mouth, grounding him. This kiss is brief, soft, a far cry from the tearing and biting that got you onto the table. Knowing exactly the state you need to be in to ask for what you want, he holds your jaw, thumb against the apple of your cheek and he slips his tongue out of your mouth. Again a protest, an instinctual reaction to the repeated pattern of abandonment, but like all cries for help, he quiets your squirming by sliding his thumb between your lips.

“Suck,” he murmurs gently. Your eyes flutter shut, your nails carving half moons into his forearm, lips creating a vacuum seal around his knuckle and you obey – you suck – and he rewards you with a trail of kisses across your sternum, over your breasts, to the soft swell of your stomach. He nuzzles your belly button and you groan, eyes still shut and his thumb still in your mouth. He bites, softer than before, just above the thatch of hair and you whine around his finger, body going supple for him. He slides his thumb out, dragging a shiny string of spit over your plush lips, down your chin, joining his other hand at the waist band of both your panties and your scrubs.

Any fast movement will awaken that anxious, overthinking, beautiful brain of yours, now that he has it fuzzy and unfocused, so he keeps kissing, keeps sucking and biting, that spot just above your curls. He tongues your hip, and then the other side, your bottom half wonderfully bare before you can open your eyes.

His shoulder bumps the back of your thigh as he stands up right, inhaling the sweat behind your knee, the pungent tang of your glistening curls, your almond butter body lotion. It’s hunger, he feels, but not a tangible hunger, one that can be so easily satiated. It’s not painful, or weakening – no, he is made stronger by it. He feels your blood pulse beneath his hand on your inner thigh as he opens you up and he’s made better by it.

He kneels, a holy servant before the divine meal of their goddess, on shitty linoleum beneath harsh lights in a kitchen he can barely afford.

Frankie takes your hand, kisses your knuckles, and slides your grip into his hair.

“Recuérdame cómo te gusta, nena.”

He eats. He consumes. He licks. He sucks. He slurps.

He tastes your dripping wetness on the seam of your cunt, before his tongue ever gets the chance to explore, to open, to divulge. He licks until he feels your breath hitch – a curse in the shape of his name, as if he needs scolding for making you feel so good – and then he opens his jaw and tongues your hole.

In a lust-drunk haze you once told him he has something better than DSL – he has a pussy-eating nose. He prods you with that nose you can’t seem to get enough of, licking in as far as he can, coating himself in everything as it leaks out of you, and he moans as he can feel it on his chin. You vibrate with the sound and above him, your fingers clench down into his hair.

“Oh, fuck, holy – fuck, Frankie–,” your trembling shakes the bowl of your hips, spilling his meal, so he sucks your clit in a way that makes your body freeze and then melt. You go limp, pliable, and gushing. He gets a few more moments of twisting and sucking and swallowing, until by the third time he puts his lips around your clit, you open-mouth whine and it’s like his body violently remembers he has a cock. He is seized with such a need to fuck you in this warm, wet place he’s dug out with his tongue, he doubles over and rests his teeth against your thigh.

“Frankie, I’m so close,” you writhe, chest flushed and brow sweaty.

Before you, he never knew sex could feel like this, could do this. Sure, he used sex to keep away those circling, vulture-like thoughts from time to time. But this, this drawing out and unthreading, unspooling, of himself and someone else, tearing at ego-drenched threads until all that was left was a being of pure want and desire – he didn’t know this was possible.

He didn’t know he could feel like this.

One more broad lick, coating everything in what he hope fucking smells like him, and you arch, thighs shaking, his hair in danger of being ripped from his scalp. You gasp as you flatten, the first orgasm of the night rolling through you, sweat making your skin salty, as though you had been breached by the ocean.

He laps you through it, of course, a nascent smirk on his face.

You open your eyes to this self-satisfied Frankie, eyes only visible over the top of your cunt, and you whine.

You reach for him and he goes, smearing your slick over your face, offering it to you in supplication on his tongue. He tastes your rising desperation, the way you sharpen your teeth against his lips, batter his tongue into the corner of his mouth, try to claim what your cunt already has. His hunger is an infection and your fever has reached a boiling point.

Your trembling fingers curl his shirt up his back, passing over the ruddy scar on his shoulder where he got hit with a stray bullet, the jagged white line over his ribs where a knife nearly split him open. He used to only fuck with his shirt on. He doesn’t now.

His shirt crumples to the floor as he sits up, you following, eyes dark, and you bite his pec muscle, your love for him twisting you into an anthropophagist. You want to consume him, like your pussy swallows his cock. Having him impale you is not enough; you want intercourse with him on a subatomic level.

You inch back to give yourself enough space to unbutton his jeans and he sees the wet slick left behind on the table. The heat behind his groin shoots up his spine and he grunts, burying his face into your neck where he tugs on your earlobe with his teeth, hands planted on either side of you.

“Hurry, baby, I gotta fuck this pussy,” he whispers against the curve of your jaw. He wants to leave a giant purple bruise there, this instinct to claim, to mark, stoking the roiling heat at the base of his spine and drawing up his balls.

But his attention snaps back to your hands when he hears a click, the release of his zipper is almost euphoric. He moans in relief, unable to see through his half-lidded eyes the explosion of goosebumps over your skin as his breath tumbles over your back and down your chest.

His urgent hands overwhelm yours, one pushing his jeans down his hips, the other palming your stomach, pushing you back and you go willingly, but seemingly mesmerized by the sight of his aching, flushed cock springing up against his stomach. You lie down, but only barely, still on your elbows, as he tugs you by your ankles to the edge of the table.

Your uneven breathing could mean a lot of things. He thought you were being complementary the first time you told him he was too big, but your eyes always widened at the sight of his cock.

“Do you need to be opened up some more, cariño?”

At his rawest, Spanish came out of him like a spilled bottle of molasses, sweet, slow, rich.

“Hmm? Tell me what you need. Hable mas alto por favor.” He rubs your knees, your thighs, hoping you’ll ask for what he wants.

“F-fingers, Frankie,” you swallow, eyes still latched on to his now weeping cock. You glance up at him, face open and full of trust, and he feels his dick pulse. “Please, Frankie, put your fingers in me.”

“Fucking anything.” He plants one hand and cups your mound, lost for a moment in the soaked curls, before pushing two fingers inside and thrusting. “I’ll fucking give you anything you want.”

His hips jerking slightly in tandem with the pulse of his fingers, his slacked mouth an indication of how unconscious his humping has become, as he watches you dissolve with every stroke of his hand. God, he didn’t know they made things this pretty. His hand pushes your knee up and back, finding room for three fingers and your eyes roll back in your head. You scrabble for anything to hold onto, fingers searching for the ghosts of your bedsheets, but finding none, your arms curl over your head and latch onto the other edge of the table. You present your fucking tits to him like you’re letting him admire artwork.

It almost brings him to his knees.

“Oh, I’m coming, oh, Frankie, I’m gonna –,”

He pulls out his fingers just enough to let you gush down his palm, his wrist, and he licks it up like a glutton. It drips a bit onto the linoleum and he smears it with his bare feet.

Frankie slides two fingers back in, his brain going fuzzy at being away from the clutch of your cunt for too long, when you grab his wrist.

You can barely breathe, your skin a pale pink, your cunt no doubt must be sore, but your eyes are as hard as diamonds in your skull. He swallows the flush of spit in his mouth.

“Now, Frankie,” you plead, fingers tight around his wet wrist, the hairs on his arm standing up at the sound of your commanding voice. “Fuck me, now, I need you inside of me.”

It always makes him a bit dumbstruck, the way you beg, the way you let him and only him see this side of you – this side of you that is sick with wanting.

His hand squeezes the base of his cock once, eyes fluttering, to remind himself he cannot blow his fucking load the instant the tip of him is inside you. He taps your clit, once, twice, lubing himself up as if he hadn’t moved around internal organs to make way for himself. He notches, then slides, white-knuckling his impending orgasm in favor of making this good for you. He steps farther between your legs, hands sliding from your thighs, up to your waist. He thumbs your nipple and your pussy twitches around him. He swears his heart flat out stops for a concerning length of time.

“How is a pussy this good all mine? All fucking mine?” He rolls his hips, pushing deeper, movements marionetted by the high-pitched whimpers and moans of your mouth. He could catalog every single one of them, has done so in the deep recesses of his brain, and it takes just a second to know when it switches from pleasure to pain.

He bends over you, you choking on his dick, and kisses you hard, shattering the tense look on your face.

“I love you,” he tells you, a secret that despite being well-known to anyone who sees him look at you, still feels precious and fragile. His hand plasters your hair to your sweaty neck as he kisses you desperately, speaking a language only you understand. “I love you so fucking much.”

You sigh into his open mouth. “I wanna marry you, Fransisco Morales.”

He is covered in gold. Dripping with it.

His nails at your hip dig into your skin and you know exactly what you’ve done.

“Say it. Say it louder, nena,” he snarls, face pressed into your cheek, and he thrusts forward with enough force to rock the table. The table legs squeak as you pin him to you one more time and nip at his ear. The last drop in the well, the rope slipping over the edge, the coil locked into place.

“I wanna fucking marry you.”

With a breathy grunt, he yanks you down onto his cock by your waist and slaps your ass with his balls. It’s been a while since your cunt has taken a beating like this. You clutch at the edge of the table again, mouth torn open.

He knows you like it when he plays with your clit, and he will, but he needs to get this out of him.

“Yeah? You’re gonna marry the guy who’s fucking your pussy so good right now?” It’s amazing that words escape at all through his gritted teeth, jaw taut. He watches as he disappears and reappears in you, your lips puffy and pink already but he needs more. He doesn’t want you to be able to walk out of bed tomorrow.

“Yes, Frankie – oh, god, there, right there – yes, I’m gonna marry you.” He tips your hips up as he pounds down and you arch, crying out at the angle, the depth, how full you feel. He fucks like he’s trying to bruise your ribcage through your pussy.

The thoughts in his head collide with the others, knotting together, blurring, until the only noise he can make, the only thing he can verbalize is the tight grunts, the hm, hm, hm, as he focuses on chasing this fire.

He feels it approach so fast, he’s nearly taken under by the intensity of his orgasm so he slows, grinds instead, and with his eyes on your face, he cups himself around where he’s split you open, feeling your lips suck in and out with every thrust.

He closes his eyes briefly, helpless against the waves of arousal that coat his fingers. He smears your clit with his thumb and his name is a split, jagged thing that burns your tongue. He wants that taste on his tongue again.

You throb once, a sharp climax warming your pussy, and he backs out, drops to his knees, and licks you up again. He can taste his sweat there this time and he groans. His hands slip over your skin from the sweat in the crease of your thigh.

The cries from your mouth are wet now, on the curve of a salty tongue. You tremble like your orgasm is a physical thing, thrumming under your skin, warming your blood and you claw at his forearm.

“B-baby, please–,”

Wiping his mouth on your inner thigh, then licking up the mess he made, Frankie stands. He swats your bottom lightly, tutting. He’s a mad man, he knows it, he can’t tell if it's delirium from the rough ache of his balls or masochistic joy in hearing you beg, but again he rubs himself through your folds. It’s not the same, not nearly enough, but it helps last just a bit longer.

“No crying until after I’ve made you come.”

“I’ve already come twice,” you whine as you buck your hips, trying to take him in deeper. “You said I can have anything I want.”

“And what does princesa want?” Yeah, there’s definitely something wrong with him.

Your eyes flash as your nails dig into his shoulders, that fire he so loves to stoke flaring out.

“I want to come on your cock, Mr. Morales.”

And he unravels, divinity calling his name.

His pace is slow, then rough, then deep.

The table is just the right height. He balances on knee on the lip, bending your knees over his shoulders, and fucking down into you. He’s going to snap you in fucking half and maybe he does but he’ll be there to seal you back up again.

Pour himself into you. Fill you. Make you whole once more.

Baby, please.

The first drip of tears starts out the corner of your eyes as you come, open-mouthed, throat exposed, a cry loud and in the shape of his name tearing from your lips, your body locking up, cunt squeezing him until he feels himself burst.

With a shudder and a groan, he spills, hot and flush into you. He comes, and comes, and comes, until his gooey spend is forced out of you and down the crack of your ass. He can’t see anything past the white spark in his eyes, feel anything but you and the tingle of his limbs.

The excess of you and him is everywhere, leaking out onto the kitchen table, soaking the wood. There’s a ringing in his ears he can’t quiet.

Your breath is hot on his neck, sweaty skin stuck tightly against his, he knows he’s crushing you, his arms given out at some point, but he really doesn’t think he can stand up right. He kisses your cheek by way of apology and thanks but you don’t seem to mind, your own gaze unfocused on the ceiling.

“Fuck, Frankie . . .”

He laughs, realizes his legs aren’t working, so trembling and uneasy, he slides out of you and manages to make it to the floor. He blames the sudden dizziness on a lack of food and then blames the dizziness for lying down on the floor.

His eyes flutter and somehow you’re suddenly curled up next to him, your palm resting over his pounding heart. His fingers find their way up into your sweat-damp hair, thumb gently rubbing against the knot at the base of your skull.

“Your back is gonna be killing you in about fifteen minutes, sweetheart,” you grumble sleepily into his chest, a grin on your face.

“I can’t feel anything below my waist right now.” He yawns. “So, we’ve got some time.”

You nod, absentmindedly stroking the dark hair on his chest.

“We need to talk about Pope’s birthday party this weekend. Will put us on drink duty . . . but I can’t really focus on anything right now.”

“Good,” he smirks with his eyes shut. “That was some of my best work.” And then he frowns. “You need to eat.” He pokes your side and you huff.

“Okay, if you’re awake enough to berate me, we can at least go to bed.”

Groaning, you pull him up and he threatens to stumble you both into the wall, but he kisses your cheek and swats your ass, before snagging a tub of ice cream and a spoon. He meets you in the bedroom with the cap off and a smear of chocolate around his lips.

You’ve got one of his shirts, grinning up at him from the center of the bed, and he’s torn about whether he likes you in his boxers, or nothing at all.

You take the ice cream from him before he has a chance to flop down on the bed.

“Not exactly a nutritious meal,” you mutter around the spoon and he turns his face from the pillow to glare at you.

“That’s the other dinner I made for you, so eat.”

Your giggle is all you can give to show your thanks.

He rolls onto his back, groaning theatrically, before tucking his hand behind his head, and his fingers coming to rest on his stomach.

Behind the lids of his eyes, he can feel you watching him.

“What?” He grumbles, feeling around for your foot to pinch your ankle. He hears you move so he knows he’s close. “Not the right flavor, princesa?”

“No,” you laugh and prod his hip with your toe. “It’s just . . .”

His eyes open, finding yours in the half-lit gloom. You’re grinning the spoon in your mouth, eyes bright with something unnameable. You shrug, eying his hand between you both.

“I just never knew Fransisco Morales could be domesticated.”

He wipes the chocolate off your chin with his thumb.

Yeah, who knew?

#this is the beg smut I’ve read in a WHILEEEE #like coming from the girl who skims body paragraphs…#I read every word #josie recs!

512 notes · View notes