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pairing — underground fighter!andrew ‘pope’ cody x fem!reader
summary — pope cody’s got himself a girl he’s sweet on who works on him between rounds, and there’s no part of him that can imagine the thought of leaving you.
warnings — ( 14.5k words ) 18+ MINORS DNI !! explicit sexual content ( p in v, m!receiving oral, pope’s got a size kink, marking, scratching, praise kink, softdom!pope, slightly needy!pope? he’s also rly awkward during sex) slow burn-ish, no physical appearance described of reader (small hands + general size difference noted in relation to pope, no other physical descriptors) obsessive!pope, guns and threat at gunpoint, financial exploitation of reader - she’s paying off a debt by working, brief harassment scene, hurt/comfort and hurt/no comfort, violence, blood + injuries, emotional ending, incarceration, brief mentions of drug use, absent parent, protective!pope, reader’s guarded / slow to trust, unwanted touching (not from pope), pope has a heavy savior complex in this, no use of y/n, pope’s pov, canon-compliant (ish) but it’s pre-season one.
notes — this one got a little away from me and i’m already Sorry it’s a shawn hatosy summer!!! also i’m laughing to myself ab this fic bc the original plot was gonna be so different but this is just the way the cookie crumbled while writing + experimented with a different writing style bc i just think pope’s pov would feel like a lot at once
Craig had made some pretty stupid decisions in his life. He blew his money on blow and bikes most of the time, but once in a blue moon, he made decisions that really cut it, like putting in over three grand into Pope across a single night. Money Craig didn’t even have, money he’d borrowed off a man people didn’t borrow off, because he watched Pope punch a bag by the pool and put a body on the concrete in a parking lot behind a bar and decided his older brother was an investment.
It was, as it turned out. Pope won. Craig got his three grand back and then some, and that was how the basement off Atlantic became a regular thing, because Craig had a taste for it now and Pope had a use for cash that didn’t run through Smurf’s shady fingers first.
The crowd there was the worst he’d stood in front of, and he’d grown up in Smurf’s living room, so that was a measurement that meant something. Men who bet money they needed and meant to take the loss of someone’s skin. The air thick enough to chew, smoke and sweat and the bitterness of a room full of people who’d collectively decided this was the night their luck was going to turn.
Pope wanted to lose just so they’d fuck off.
It was run by a guy named Leo who’d met Craig at a party, late, both of them lit and certain they were about to make each other rich. Leo had the basement, the crowd, the connections that made cops uninterested, and a way of talking that made one-track-minded guys like Craig feel like they were cut in on something even as he was lifting your wallet. Pope didn’t trust him. Pope didn’t trust anybody, but he distrusted Leo with a specificity that felt like respect.
Leo ran the place like a man who’d thought about every cent in a dollar twice. Nothing in that basement was there by accident, which was how Pope knew, eventually, that you weren’t either.
The first night he didn’t put it together. He came up out of the third round with his ears ringing and his knuckles screaming and somebody pressed a wet rag to the back of his neck, and his body did what it always did. He came around with his elbow up and the words already out of his mouth. “Get the fuck off me.”
You went still. You were crouched down close enough that he could see you’d done your eyes earlier in the night and they’d worn through, smudged soft at the corners, and that should have made you look tired and instead made you look like you’d been left out in the weather, gentled by it. There was a smear of someone else’s blood drying brown along your jaw—not yours, you didn’t have a mark on you, you were the only clean thing in a room built for ruining people—and you hadn’t wiped it off because your hands had been busy all night being careful with men who were far from deserving it.
“Okay,” you said, and that was all. You stayed crouched in front of him, an arm’s length back now, holding the rag out where he could take it himself if he wanted it.
He felt like garbage. It all arrived once, the way it did with him, fine one second and then sick with it. You couldn’t have been much more than a bucket and tape to anybody else in that room, just the girl who patched them up, and he’d snapped at you like you were one of the men in the room baying for his blood.
He took the rag off your hands.
And you just went back to it. You pulled his hand into both of yours like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just shown you the worst of himself in the first ten seconds of knowing you, and started cleaning the wreck of his knuckles with a little furrow between your brows. Devotional, almost. Like his hand had been lent to you and you were supposed to return it in good condition.
It was then he realized Leo had gotten way too lucky with you. He was sure you were used as nothing but a front. You were something soft to put at the edge of all that ugliness so men had a reason to keep their money in the room a little longer. A girl who patched up fighters, sure, but mostly a thing for them to look at, to crowd, to reach for between rounds.
Pope wouldn’t admit it to Craig, or any of his brothers, ever, that the only reason he came back the next time was to see you again. He knew his words and then his sudden muteness probably made you read him as one more man to be careful around. He’d handed you that impression himself, and now he had to live inside it.
The second night, you didn’t tend to him. There was another girl near the bucket—older, harder, a cigarette tucked behind her ear and no softness in her hands at all—and she did his corner between rounds like she was wiping off a dusty counter. Pope sat there and let her and looked for you over her shoulder the whole time, which was how he found you across the room, working the cash, the cigar box against your chest as your lips moved over the count.
Pope hardly believed in coincidences. He was sure he’d snapped and you’d adjusted by putting a body between yourself and the man who’d shown his teeth. It was the smart thing. It was exactly what he’d have told you to do if he were anyone other than the man it was being done to. It sat in his chest all night like a swallowed stone, the understanding that he’d gotten precisely what he deserved and hated every second of it.
He won. He always did; that was the whole problem with him, the thing that made his Craig rich now and him useful to Smurf and left Pope standing in basements full of people who wanted to watch him hurt somebody. The crowd howled, money changed hands, and Pope barely heard whatever Leo was saying because he was watching you seal the night’s take into a zip bag and press the air out of it with the flat of your hand carefully.
He found you after, by the stairs, when the room had thinned to the stragglers and the smell of it had gone stale. He came up slow, hands where you could see them.
“You drew the short straw last week,” he said, the words coming out of him too rehearsed, because that’s what he’d been doing since he noticed you and while getting his guts punched. “Patching me up.”
You looked up at him. Up close, your worn-soft eyes were tired. “I just asked Kate to take your corner tonight.”
So, not a coincidence. He’d already known, yet it did something ugly to him. He already had people who he’d known his entire life scared of him—brothers who were career criminals—and he’d made peace with it, like he had to with everything he couldn’t change. But it landed differently from you, because you didn’t have the years to back the wariness up.
“Right,” he said, because what else was there to say?
You tilted your head, just slightly, and scanned his face like you were checking it for swelling. He knew there was none, not today. He still held still. He realized he’d have held still for anything you wanted to do to his face.
Whatever you were looking for, it seemed like you hadn’t found it. Or maybe you had. Your gaze caught on his mouth, under his jaw, and you clicked your tongue.
“You’re not —” You shook your head faintly. “It’s easier,” you said finally, “to not get in the way of guys like you. That’s all. It’s nothing personal.”
Guys like you. Jesus. He wanted to ask you what that meant, even though he knew. He was guys like him. He’d spent thirty-some years being exactly that. But he wanted, with an intensity that made no sense, to be not that to you.
Any other guy would have let it go. A smarter man, a less stupid one, would’ve said that was a fair enough explanation and left you to your transparent zip bags and never come back to you unless you did to him.
“It is though,” Pope said, voice too rough. “Personal. I wasn’t—right, after the third round.” The words, his voice, everything came out clumsy, and he briefly wondered if his eyes had dropped down his face and his nose had turned upside down. “You don’t have to put Kate—or whoever there. I’m not gonna—” He wasn’t sure how he wanted to end the sentence. “I’d rather it was you.”
He suddenly felt like a complete idiot all over again when he watched your brows furrow slightly and your lips press together as you looked at him almost sadly. Then you let out a disbelieving chuckle as you shook your head as you twisted your neck slightly to look around.
“Is this gonna be a problem?” you said, lowering your voice, glancing off to the side. Checking, he realized, who was still on the stairs, who might be close enough to hear.
That was its own answer to a question he hadn’t been able to ask yet. It told him there were people you didn’t want knowing this, even though there was hardly a ‘this.’
“What?” Pope asked, playing dumb just so he could hear the words from you.
“You.” You brought your eyes back to him, and he felt slightly shaken as you pinned him with a glare that seemed almost gentle. “Saying things like that.” Your voice stayed even, but there was an edge working into it now. “I do my job here. I keep my head down—that’s better for me, okay?”
He didn’t get that. Not really. But he heard the need in it.
“Nobody’s gonna bother you,” he said roughly. It came out flat and certain, it always did when he was truly sure of himself. “Not while I’m here.”
You just looked at him like that again. “Go home, Pope—”
“Andrew,” he said, and he didn’t even know why he did.
He hated that name just as much as Pope. It was just another thing Smurf had handed him that never fit anywhere in his growing life. To the room he was Pope. On the cards he counted, he was Pope. He’d been Pope so long he sometimes forgot there was anything under it. But he didn’t want to be Pope to you. Pope was guys like him. Pope was the thing on the cards coked-up wishful men put their money on. He had no clean self to offer you—God knew he didn’t—but he had the name hardly anybody used often, and so he gave you that, stupidly, like it’d be worth something to you.
His pulse climbed into his throat. He had the sick, racing feeling he got right before things went sideways, the one that had been wrong about as often as it was right and that he'd never once been able to switch off.
“Andrew,” you said, testing it quietly in your mouth, where Pope felt everything landed differently for some reason. And then you looked at him again, and said, “Go home, Andrew.”
Thankfully, by some grace of God, Pope realized he may not have done it all wrong when you came to patch him up after the first round the following week. You dropped down onto the concrete in front of him with the bucket and the brown bottle and a roll of tape gone soft at the edges from your thumb.
You took his hand like nothing had been said, as though the conversation on the stairs had been filed somewhere and this was the conclusion you’d come to on your own time, and Pope felt that he should let that be, instead of pointing it out. He’d learned that much, and tamped down the feeling like his entire week had paid off.
“You lead with right too much,” you said, looking at his hands. “When you’re tired. You drop the left and lead with the right. That’s how they got your eyebrow.”
Pope parted his lips and blinked. “You watch me?”
“I watch the cash.” You pressed the tape down over his knuckle. “Fights are what make them move, but yeah.” You shrugged, and it was stiff. “You drop your left.”
Pope stayed silent for a moment, then asked, dumbly, “You a fighter?”
It was meant to land as dry, a joke, but it never quite did with him.
You let out the smallest of chuckles. “I watch men get hit everyday.”
Pope swallowed, not sure how to respond to that. So he watched the top of your head instead, the part in your hair, the concentration you put into doing a job that probably paid no extra if you did it well. You wrapped him efficiently, all business now, and Pope felt that you’d closed a door he hadn’t realized you’d opened.
It should have frustrated him. Instead, it made him want to earn that inch back slow, the way you’d coax anything that didn’t trust easy. He knew that wanting. He had it about a dog once, a half-feral thing that lived in the corners of the Cody Compound for a summer, that he’d fed in silence for weeks before it let him near. He’d never told anyone about that dog. He thought about it now, crouched-down you and careful tape, and didn’t enjoy what it told him about himself.
“You’re done,” you said, and stood briskly.
“Hey,” he said, the word coming out before he could think it. “Thanks.”
You looked at him a second, and whatever you found in him, it earned him the corner of a smile. You must not have been used to being thanked very often. Pope flexed his wrapped hand, feeling something close to proudness. He wasn’t sure for what, exactly, but it felt good for the moment.
For three weeks, you rationed out small jokes that he was almost sure you didn’t realize were jokes, taped him up, and left Pope driving home with whatever you’d given him that night turning over in his chest.
His fight hadn’t started yet. He leaned up against the support post by the stairs, hood up, trying to do everything he could to make himself look very still and very boring so the crowd would forget to look at him. From there, he had a clean line of the cash table, which meant he had a clean line on you, which was the actual reason he’d stood there.
There was a man at your table. Big, going soft in the middle, a Lakers cap on backward and loose, oozing the sleazy confidence of someone past four beers and good judgement. He’d been talking to you a while, Pope noticed. You were wearing a smile aimed past his shoulder—a small, pleasant, and all around absent thing—and Pope watched you do it with a protective switch under his thumb.
The man reached over and tucked a bill into your bra, slowly, like it was funny. Two fingers folded the bill below your collarbone, and you went rigid, smile staying in place while everything behind it moving.
You went somewhere way back behind your own eyes the way Pope had watched you go a dozen times, and the man laughed at his own joke and left his hand there a beat too long.
The trouble with Pope was that most of the time, he never decided. One second he was against the post and the next he had the man’s wrist in his hand and he was bending it back off you, almost politely.
“Wrong,” Pope drawled, plucking the bill out of your collar with his free hand and pressed it to the man’s palm. He closed the man’s fingers over them. “Cash goes in the box.”
“The hell’re you —” The man turned to get a real look at him, and got the whole of him. The hood and the wrapped hands and Pope’s uncanny stillness, and Pope watched the recognition arrive, and the bluster went out of him like the air on your sealed bags. “Pope—hey, man. No harm. No harm.”
“Sure.” Pope let go of the wrist and the guy immediately melted back into the crowd. The whole thing had taken maybe nine seconds and Pope’s pulse hadn’t even climbed, which it should’ve, but some animal thing under him had considered this easy.
“Why would you do that?” you said, voice quieting.
“He had his hands on you.” His voice came out defensive, which he hated, because it made him understand that he’d done something wrong before he could even process it. “I’m not standing here watching some creep—”
“That was Reyes,” you said, like it meant something. It didn’t, not to Pope, and your face did something between fury and despair as he realized this. “He runs paper for Leo. You just—” You pressed your lips together and looked around quickly, the same way you’d done on the stairs except this time he could see real fear attached in it. “I don’t—I don’t need people thinking a Cody’s got a thing for me,” you finished, quieter. “You don’t.”
“What if I—”
“You don’t, okay?” It came out sharper than you’d intended, and he saw how you caught it. “It’s fine. It’s no big deal.” You were already looking away, gathering the cash box against your chest, busying yourself. “I really am better when people don’t worry about me, Andrew.”
You tucked a piece of hair back, gave him a quick, tired ghost of a smile that didn't reach anything, and stepped back into the crowd with your box like the last nine seconds could be put away with everything else you put away.
There was that horrible feeling tightening in his stomach again. He knew he’d done the right thing, but there was a frustration in him of being right about the wrong thing. The thing he’d done to help you had immediately become another thing for you to be frightened of, clean up, another man’s decision landing on your plate.
You’d probably spent your entire life cleaning up after other people’s choices and he’d just handed you one more.
He fought ugly and won ugly, which was somehow worse than losing altogether. The crowd got what it paid for and then some, and Pope walked out with a rib that clicked when he breathed and a cut over the eye he’d earned by leading with the right all night like the idiot you’d warned him not to be.
He collected off Leo without a word. Pope wasn’t even sure why the guy even bothered to grin and laugh and talk to him while he counted the money; Pope had said around two words to him and won him more than two grand.
He didn’t bother hearing the compliments—the fake, complimenting bit to make sure he came back—and took his roll of cash and shoved it inside his pocket and left out the back.
He went up the concrete steps, into the lot behind the building where the air was at least air instead of four hundred people breathing the same lungful.
He leaned against the cinderblock wall in the dark, in the orange wash of one working lot light, and pressed the heel of his hand under the bad rib and breathed shallow and concentrated on not being anywhere, on going behind his own eyes the way he'd watched you do it, somewhere the night couldn't reach him.
The door opened and shut carefully, and the latter action made him not need to look to know.
“You walked out without letting anybody look at that,” you said.
“I’m fine.”
“No, I can tell,” you said drily, almost amused. Your footsteps came across the lot and stopped a few feet off, not crowding him—you never crowded him—and giving him the room he hadn’t asked for and needed anyway. “I basically heard your ribs.”
He huffed something close to a laugh. It pulled at the rib and he stopped.
Your hands hovered around his body, like you were asking for permission to take a look without saying the words.
“Are you okay?” he asked, forcing the words out roughly. Because he needed to, it’d been gnawing at him for too long. “Is he hurting you?”
Your hands when still where they hovered. You took the rag instead, wet it from the bottle, and reached up to the cut over his eye as though he’d never asked the question.
“Hold still,” you said.
“That’s not—” He caught your wrist, palm loose around it, but he caught it. “I asked you something.”
In the orange light, Pope could see the smudge of your makeup, dark and worn through around your eyes, and the rings on your fingers catching the light each time your hand moved. You let him hold your wrist without pulling away, your eyes dropping to his chest like you’d decided against looking at his face.
He could feel your pulse under his thumb, thrumming. He let go of your wrist with a sigh, and you stepped back into the work, dabbing at the cut, close enough he could feel the warmth coming off you.
You said, after a moment, evenly, “Don’t try to help me.”
“Don’t try to help me.”
“I didn’t say—”
“It’s written all over your face.”
You pressed the rag a little harder than the cut needed and let you, kept his face still, watching yours. You narrowed your eyes at him when he didn’t react to the pressure, as though his stillness annoyed you. Pope didn’t know how you hadn’t realized he’d let you do anything. He’d let you press the rag as hard as you wanted and he’d sit there and take it. He’d stopped having a choice about it a while ago.
That, and the fact that your hands, so small compared to the enormity of him, were the furthest things from the worst he’d taken.
“Are you trying to hurt me?” he asked, amused despite it all.
“If I were, you’d know.” But the corner of your mouth tugged, just barely, before you caught it and put it away. You eased up on the rag. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
For a second, it felt easier between you two again. Then, you remembered yourself, and he watched as your lips pursed.
“I mean it, though,” you said. “Don’t. Whatever you’re sitting there cooking up.”
“You don’t know what I’m cooking up.”
“Andrew,” you said his name flatly, and he felt like a dog at how quickly it got his neck to tilt up to meet your eyes. You hadn’t even spoke and he was looking at you like you’d asked him a question he wanted to get correct.
“You’re not the first one to try this,” you said softly. “It always goes the same way.”
“Yeah?” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Tell me, then.”
“Either he gets in over his head and screws up.” You wiped the last streak of blood from his brow, your hand coming to rest light against his face to hold him still. He leaned into your palm, the warmth of your hand and him moving into it like it was the most natural thing he’d ever done.
One of your rings sat cool against his cheekbone and he felt that, too, the small contrast of it, cool metal and warm palm, and he was very aware you were still talking and he was having trouble with that.
“ —or he sticks around for long enough to figure out it’s too much trouble, gets bored, and quits. He leaves, and either way I’m standing here worse than before,” you said, conversationally, and he did believe it was a tale as old as time for you.
“I won’t get bored,” he managed to say. “I’m good at what I do.”
“They all say that, too.” You smiled that sad, soft smile again.
You took your hand back off his face and he felt the loss of it like air. He was already thinking about how to get you to put it back, which was probably the most pathetic thought he’d ever had, and he’d had some bad ones.
“When do you fight next? You shouldn’t, for a while. For your ribs.”
He let you change the topic. He noticed you did that often.
“Next week, probably,” he said. “My brother’s already running his mouth about it.”
“Tell your brother your ribs are hurt.” You crouched to gather the bottle, the rag, the soft-edged tape, packing them back into the bucket.
“Where do you go? After this,” he asked.
He watched the careful machinery turn—watched you weigh whether it was a real question or a way in—and then something in you must've been too tired to keep the door shut, because you let it swing.
“Home. My mom’s,” you said. “She’s around, just—not a lot.” You gathered the bucket against your hip. “So it’s me and my brother mostly. He’s eleven.”
The whole shape of you tilted and resettled in the space of the word. Why you watched every dollar like it held something up. You weren't just keeping your own head down. You had a kid behind you, in the blind spot, where the room couldn't reach him.
“He know you’re here?” Pope asked.
“He thinks I wait tables.” The corner of your mouth went up, rueful. “Thinks I’m terrible at it. The tips are all over the place, so.” You shrugged.
Pope cleared his throat. “Are they?”
“This week, yeah,” you said.
“Do you want to?” Pope found himself asking, “Wait tables.”
You looked at him for a long moment that he almost thought you wouldn’t answer. “It’d be nice, I guess. To have steady cashflow and all that.”
“Leo pays you enough?”
You shifted the bucket against your hips. “He doesn’t really—” You stopped yourself, then started again. “The tips are what they are.”
Pope hummed. “That cover everything?”
You looked at him sideways, catching what he was doing. “Most weeks,” you said hesitantly.
“This week?”
You looked off past him, and he watched you decide whether to say it. “My brother’s shoes split,” you said finally, and it’d come out in a small voice. “Bottom’s gone right through it, so.” You shrugged, making a small face as you pinched your eyes shut, like you hated saying it.
Pope took the roll out of the jacket, thumbed off a fold of it without counting and held it out.
You looked at it, then at him. “No.”
“For the kid.”
“Andrew.”
“Take it.” He kept his hand out. “It’s shoes.”
“That’s not—” You stopped. Your jaw worked. He could see all of it going on behind your face, the pride and the rule and the thing you'd spent the last few minutes telling him. “That’s just what I told you not to do.”
“You said not to help you.” He pushed his hand further toward you. “This is shoes for a kid I never met.”
He watched your eyes rise to look at the sky and you shook your head. “You’re making this really hard.”
He tipped his chin down. “Just take it. I don’t need it.”
You took it slow, your fingers closing over his for a second before they took the bills, and you didn't say thank you—he was glad, thanking him would’ve made it a transaction—you just held on to his hand a beat longer than you needed to, and breathed out, shaky, and let it go.
“Please don’t make this a thing,” you said, voice thick. “I can’t—I can’t say no to the money. I wish I could.” You looked at the bills in your hand. “I don’t wanna take things from you.”
He felt himself shrug, eyeing the top of your head as you looked down. “I’d let you.”
He’d meant to keep that to himself. Or he hadn’t. He didn’t really care, though. The money itself was nothing; what he’d just handed you was a rounding error, less than what his brothers dropped in a single night without blinking. It was the kind of number that moved in the Cody household without anyone thinking to count it; money they’d find between the cushions from five years ago.
He had more coming in than he knew what to do with and nowhere clean to put it. You had a kid to help out with and yourself to take care of, and the situation was so simple it almost made him angry.
It became a thing without either of you calling it one. It was a thing, in Pope’s mind, obviously, but he was sure that telling you would’ve spooked you and he wasn’t ready for that.
You’d started taping him differently. Early on you’d wrapped him all brisk and businesslike, done before he’d thought of anything to say. He had to watch his words in general, but he had to try even harder with you, for he never wanted to say the wrong thing. Somewhere in those weeks, you slowed. You took longer than the wrap needed—smoothing the tape down twice when once would’ve held just fine, turning his hand over in both of yours to check the knuckles you’d already checked—and Pope started to pretend he didn’t notice.
He’d sit on the folding chair with his hand lent out to you and watch the top of your head and feel his pulse come down out of his throat, slow, the dog talked off the thing. One night, he let his thumb find the inside of your wrist while you worked, resting there against the thrum of you.
He started taking on more fights and ending them earlier. He told himself it was because of his ribs, the cash, any of the reasons a man might want a thing over with. All of it when the reason was that when the basement emptied after, it was just the two of you, and Pope had started living for the after the same way men lived for the fight.
You started watching the fights now—not the cash, him—and he knew because one night he had a bad one, a hook he missed that snapped his head around. He looked for your face before he looked for anything else, and found you already wincing.
Your hand had come up halfway to your mouth. You caught yourself and dropped it. But he’d seen it and carried it home for a week, a proof of what, he didn’t know.
Pope really, really hated asking Craig anything. He knew that he’d make him pay the toll one way or another. Sometimes by talking for forty minutes about something nobody asked about, or remembering the question to bring it up at the worst possible time. So Pope sat on it for a week; he iced the rib, didn’t fight, and drove past the ring twice without going in. He knew it was fucking pathetic.
Pope found Craig by the pool, sunburnt and shirtless and rolling something on a paper plate.
“You know the girl,” Pope started, “at the ring, the one who does the cash?”
He found that he wanted to keep your name to himself, in case Craig hadn’t already caught onto it.
“Which one?” Craig asked without looking up.
“The one that does the cash, man.”
“There’s like three girls.” He licked the paper and twisted the end. “You gotta be more specific. There’s the older chick, the mean—”
“Younger. Quiet.” Pope forced his voice to stay even. “Patches people up.”
Craig looked up at him then, a slow grin spreading. “Ohhhh.”
“Don’t.”
“No. No.” Craig held his hands up, waving them slightly, delighted. “Can’t believe you’re asking me about a girl, man.”
“Forget it.” Pope turned to go.
“Hey—hey,” Craig said, standing from the lounger. “I’m messin’ with you. C’mon. What do you wanna know about her?”
“Why’s she there?”
Craig shrugged. “Pretty sure she owes Leo.”
“She owes Leo?” Pope asked, letting the surprise show in his voice. “For what?”
“Pretty sure she’s collateral.” Craig lit the thing, talking around it. “Some guy that was around. Dad. Stepdad. Who knows?” He waved the smoke out of his face. “Pretty sure she’s just workin’ the square until it pays itself off.”
“How much?” Pope asked immediately.
Craig rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Don’t be stupid, man.”
“Just say it.”
“I’m not his accountant,” Craig said. “And she’s not worth it. It won’t work, and I’m pretty sure she’s been working there longer than she hasn’t.”
Pope ignored that. “It’s not even hers,” he said, quietly, almost to himself. “She’s down there holding it for a guy who took off. Kid at home, no money, and she’s—”
He stopped talking once he noticed the amused and incredulous expression on Craig’s face.
Craig’s hand moved to the side, waving vaguely in confusion. “She’s got a kid?”
“It’s her brother.”
“Jesus—how much have you talked to this chick?” Craig dragged a hand down his face. “Real talk. You go pay the guy off—say you even can, say he gives you a number and it’s a real one, which it won’t be—you know what happens? He realizes Pope Cody just dropped twenty grand on a girl who pours drinks and puts bandages on people.” He spread his hands. “Best case. Best case, man. We don’t know what else the guy’s got her doing. She’s been there a long time. Girls don’t stay in places like that just counting cash.”
Pope felt his teeth grind. “She counts cash and she patches people up,” he said, tipping his chin down slightly to pin Craig with a glare. “That’s what she does.”
Craig looked at him for a moment and shrugged. “Alright, man.”
“And even if she—she doesn’t just do that. It doesn’t—”
Pope’s jaw worked, and he had to look away from Craig. He had no words for it. It didn’t matter what you did in the basement, what Leo had you doing or what Craig was implying. You were still you, and Pope knew that.
If the situation was larger, then Pope saw it as more of a reason to get you out, not less. That was the thing Craig wouldn’t understand.
“It doesn’t change anything. For me,” Pope said flatly. “She shouldn’t be there, that’s all.”
Craig’s lips opened like he wanted to say something, then caught the look on Pope’s face, and said, “Yeah, man. She probably shouldn’t.”
He’d hoped that Craig would never have to meet you, at least not in the way he did.
It happened on a night Craig hadn’t wanted him there at all. Craig had come for the first few of Pope’s fight, and realized he actually didn’t have to see his older brother take down a man twice to know the money was good. He could simply hand over the bet and go do anything else with his night. So most weeks, he dropped his cash with people and disappeared upstairs and reappeared only to collect.
This week, he hung around the edge of the ring, three beers in, restless, and that was how he was standing right there when Pope took a cut over the cheekbone bad enough you came down to the corner with your supplies before the round was properly called.
Craig noticed it. The dumb piece of shit. One second Pope had your hands on his face, turned away from the crowd so nobody would notice your closeness, and the next he could feel the exact attention of his brother sharpening as he moved down to catch the interaction.
You were too deep in the work to notice Craig, lips pressed flat, that furrow between your brows, going fast because the round was coming. “This one’s gonna scar if you keep splitting it open,” you murmured, tipping his head toward the light. “You’re doing it on purpose at this point. You’re gonna ruin this face.”
“What do you think about this face?” Pope said before he could think the words through.
You rolled your eyes, lifting a hand off his face just to smack his shoulder lightly before it went right back to the cut.
“You talk too much when you’re losing blood,” you lied, but the corner of your mouth had gone soft. “Hold still.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“You’re fishing.” You pressed the butterfly closed over his cheekbone, your thumb lingering there a half-second past the job, warm against his face, and you dropped your voice even though there was nobody close enough to hear. “Ask me again when you’re not bleeding on me and I’ll think about it.”
He felt his mouth want to move closer to yours then, and he tamped down the urge. But he must’ve let something through because when his eyes flicked up over your shoulder, there was Craig, beer halfway to his mouth, forgotten.
You followed his eyes, found Craig, and Craig found you. Your hand came off his face and your spine went straight. “You know him?” you asked, quietly, gathering your bottle and tape as you stepped back to a safe distance.
Pope caught your wrist. “My brother. He’s nobody. He’s dumb.”
Your eyes went over the crowd that was distracted. “You tell him anything?”
“There somethin’ to say?” he asked, raising a brow that made him wince.
You gave him a flat look, unimpressed by the deflection. “Don’t try to be cute.”
Pope generally blamed his anger on a rage that had been planted in him from a tender age. Smurf had put it there the way you put a seed in dirt—patient, deliberate, knowing exactly what it’d grow into—and then spent thirty years acting surprised at the sheer size of it. He never thought about it. Thinking about it wouldn’t beat it away. It was just there—low and perpetual—like a pilot light he’d learned to turn down because the alternative was what happened in the ring when he forgot to.
He forgot to that night. It had nothing to do with the guy across from him. The guy was a nobody—some gym rat Leo had matched him with, all shoulders and bad footwork—and Pope would, on any other day, put him down clean in two rounds because there was no reason to make it ugly. But Pope had spent a week with a number he didn’t own and a plan he couldn’t run with yours and Craig’s voice saying ‘don’t.’ The whole impossibility of you had stacked up in his sternum with nowhere to go, and when the guy clipped him, caught him good across the mouth first, something in Pope just opened the valve.
He didn’t remember most of it after, and that was how he knew it was bad. The parts that came back later were wrong-angled and too bright (the kid’s head snapping, the wet sound, the way the crowd’s noise changed, going from hungry to something quieter, pulled back). Crowds like this roared throughout all of it unless they were watching a man go somewhere they wanted to stay back from.
Somebody got between them. There were hands on his chest and a referee he had no idea even existed shouting something and the guy on the concrete not getting up the way he was supposed to. Pope was standing over it with his chest heaving and knuckles split open through the wrap and no memory of the ninety seconds at all.
The crowd parted for him when he started walking and that should’ve told him something, the way grown men stepped out of his way. He'd looked for you on the way through.
He'd looked for you the way he always did, automatically, and he'd found you at the edge of the cash table with the box held up against your chest, and you'd been looking right back at him.
Pope was distantly and too closely—both at the same time, two things too large for him—able to register you hadn’t looked at him the way you usually did.
You'd looked at him the way the crowd had. You’d gone still and careful, your eyes wide and fixed on him like he was the thing in the room, the dangerous thing, and you'd held that box to your chest like it could go between you and him. Just for a second. Just one. Then you'd caught yourself and your face had closed over it, gone professional.
He went upstairs, and into the gap behind the stairs where there was a cot and a mop sink. It smelled like bleach. He put his head against the cinderblock and slid down it to the floor and tried to get his breathing under whatever was happening in his chest.
Pope let himself sit on the floor with his hands ruined, the pilot light still guttering too high, and he let the worst story about himself tell itself all the way through. You’d finally seen the actual thing. You’d patched him up and made jokes and told him things about yourself, and then you had to watch him nearly kill somebody over nothing, and now you knew. Now you looked at him the way everybody did, just the way his mother had intended.
He heard the door open, and he had to shake his head even though he wasn’t sure you could see it.
“Don’t,” he said, and his voice came out wrecked. “You don’t have to help me or anything. Go help the guy.”
“Andrew—”
“I mean it.” His hands hung between his knees, split and shaking, and he kept his eyes on them. “Go check on him. I don’t—I don’t need it.”
He heard the door shut behind you, and then your footsteps came across the little room. “He’s up,” you said. “He’s fine. He’s got people. Concussed, probably, but he’ll be fine.” You paused, then added, “I came back here for you.”
That made his chest pull tighter. “Shouldn’t have.”
You set the bucket down by his feet, and then you were crouching in front of him, and he could see the toes of those wrong gray shoes in the edge of his vision and still couldn't make himself look higher. “Can I have your hands?”
“No.”
“They’re split to the bone. Andrew, give ‘em here.”
He didn’t. The muscle in his jaw ticked as he sat there, and before he could stop himself, he asked, “Are you scared of me?”
You stayed silent for a second, and he felt his chest seize. Then, he felt your hand—cold to the touch—against his face, turning it gently so he’d look at you. He kept his eyes trained to the ground.
“Look at me,” you said quietly. When he refused again, your thumb slid against his cheekbone. “I’m not.”
When he said nothing, you continued, “You scared me a little out there. But look at you, you’re hiding behind the stairs. C’mon. Scariest man alive.”
He huffed and let his eyes come up anyway, finally, and you were just looking at him. “You mean that?”
Your bottom lip pushed the top, and you looked at him as you tilted your head. “Yeah. I mean it.”
The plainness of the words got him. You said that as though it cost you nothing to mean it when it was the most expensive thing anyone had handed him in years. You had no idea the things he’d done so many times they stopped feeling like anything at all. You’d seen one bad night. And he wanted to tell you that maybe you should have been scared.
He kept his mouth shut. He looked at you looking at him and decided, quietly and completely, that he was going to spend whatever time he had making sure you never had a reason to find out you were wrong.
You were close. You’d been close the entire time, crouched between his knees with your hand cold on his face, and he’d been waiting for you to flinch that he hadn’t realized how close you were.
He felt it now. Like always, he didn’t decide. The same broken wiring in him was pointing somewhere new, because one second he was looking at your mouth and the next his hand had come up, ruined knuckles and all, and curved around the back of your neck.
He stopped a breath short to give you an inch, some last careful piece left in him left it up to you, hung there close enough that he could feel your breath go uneven, waiting to see if you’d close it.
You did, soft, slower than he’d expected. He’d always been waiting for quickness and hardness, things that got over with, and instead your mouth settled against his and stayed. Your hand came up light along his jaw, and the split in his lip stung but he didn’t move away from it. He was sure he couldn’t have this without paying for it.
His hand was still at the back of your neck, knuckles wrecked, and he held you there carefully, just keeping you close. His thumb moved once behind your ear. You made a small sound against his mouth and he felt it more than heard it, felt it go down through his chest.
Your fingers curling at the collar of his shirt, your breath warm and uneven against his cheek between kisses.
His rib ached when he leaned into you. He leaned in anyway. He could feel the warmth of you all down his front, your weight tipped against his knees, your other hand finding his ruined one where it sat between you and holding it.
It felt like such a stark difference to how you usually held his hand, to clean it, Pope distantly thought.
You broke off to breathe, but neither of you went far. Your forehead hovered over his, and your breath stayed uneven against his mouth. He let his hands hesitantly drift down to your waist, letting his palms run over the shape of you.
You let them, your waist, the dip of it, the warmth coming up through your shirt, and you watched him do it with your bottom lip caught between your teeth.
“Do you like this?” Pope asked, hesitance creeping into his voice despite how hard he tried to push it out. He hated how it came out, like he had no trust in himself. But he had to know—had to hear it—because he’d just spent too long thinking you’d seen the worst of him, and now you were warm in his hands and he couldn’t quite square the two.
Your mouth curved, soft, and you tipped your forehead down against his.
“Yeah, Andrew,” you said, like it was obvious. “I like it.”
Your thumb moved along his cheekbone, and he let his lashes flutter slightly at the feel of your skin against so many parts of him all at once.
“Been liking you a while,” you added, lower, a little dry, a little shy. “If you wanna know.”
Pope’s hand tightened at your waist. “How long?”
“Not saying,” you said, smiling when you kissed him again, and he felt it against his mouth, and that was better than the answer would've been anyway.
He kissed you slow at first and then not slow, his hand sliding up your spine to press you closer, the other still spread wide and certain at your hip.
You shifted down into him and he broke off with a rough breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his grip going tight to hold you still.
“Hang on,” he managed to say, low against your collarbone. All the wanting you stacked up behind his ribs with nowhere left to go, and you were so warm and so real on his lap, and he was trying not to be what he always was, too much, too fast.
“We don’t have to—” you started.
“I know,” he said, voice rough. He lifted his head to look at you. “I wanna. I just—” He pushed his lips around, trying to find the right words. “I don’t want you doing anything back here. In this building.” His thumb moved at your hip. “You’re better than this place.”
Your hands pressed against his chest, and he registered the smallness of them against his broad frame, and you pulled yourself back slightly and let out a staggered breath. For a second, you looked at him. Stunned, almost, like the words hadn’t landed anywhere familiar, like nobody’d ever told you that before. He watched it cross your face quickly.
One of your hands left his chest and slid up, slid back, fingers pushing slow into the short hair at the nape of his neck, your nails digging light against his scalp. Your fingers worked through his hair and curled at the base of it, and the newness of the touch—the pure uselessness of it, a touch that wasn’t for anything—went through him like a current.
It got a low and rough sound out of him and his eyes slid shut. His face went hot at the helplessness of it, a man his size coming apart under fingers in his hair, but he couldn't stop it and he didn't pull away. He pressed back into your hand instead, into the slow drag of your nails, chasing it.
“So are you,” you said quietly after a moment.
He fluttered his eyes open halfway.
“Better than this place,” you clarified.
Pope’s mouth twitched, wanting to tell you he wasn’t. He wanted to tell you every single bad thing he’d ever done. He wanted to lay all of it down between you so you'd see he didn't belong anywhere clean, least of all up against you, you who had never chosen to work in this shithole, you who’d probably never hurt a goddamn fly.
The words stayed sealed, because he had a feeling you’d hand them all back if he tried.
“Come on,” he said instead. He shifted under you, wanting to ease into the position while having to force himself to move. “Get your stuff and clock out. I’ll drive you.”
You blinked. “Where?”
He let out a short-lived laugh. “Wherever you want to go.”
You looked at him like he’d just done a trick. “I have to be home,” you said slowly. “My brother waits up.”
“Alright.” Pope eased you off his lap, and got a hand against the cinderblock. “So I’ll take you home.”
“You don’t have to—” You were saying from the ground.
“C’mon.”
He held a hand out to you, then you took it and let him pull you up.
Pope was uncomfortable about everything. His entire life, he’d been uncomfortable, whether it was in his own skin, in his house, in rooms full of people. So it came as no surprise when he had no fucking clue what to do with you. He hadn’t thought this far; he’d wanted to get you the hell out, not get you. And now you were here—or as here as you could’ve been—and he didn’t have the next part. Nobody had ever handed him a good thing and let him keep it. He kept waiting for the catch, turning his pockets out for the cost of it, and the cost wasn’t coming. And that was uncomfortable, waiting for a hit that never landed.
So he did the only thing he thought he could’ve done, which was keep it quiet and keep it close.
The cab of his truck. The back room after the basement emptied. Your mouth on his, his hands learning you slow, because he wanted to—Pope wanted to learn you the way other men wanted to win. It was the only ambition he’d ever had that belonged all to him. He wanted the map of you. He wanted to remember the exact spot in your ear that made your breath catch, that he’d found once on accident and gone back to like a man returning to the one warm room in a house that was freezing. The way you said his name, the real one—Andrew—that fit in nobody else’s mouth but yours.
Pope had to be clear with himself about the fact that it was nothing like a life, even in his own head, because hoping for more than the thing in front of him was how you got hurt.
When the basement ran late and your house was a long quiet drive, sometimes you’d let him take you back to his place instead, and you’d sleep there. You would actually sleep, hard and deep, in a way you’d once told him you couldn’t at your own home.
He watched you sleep. He knew it was a strange thing to do but he did it anyway; propped on an elbow in the gray lights off the blinds, because it was the only time your face went all soft. Awake, even with him, you kept some of it back, the watching, the careful, the part of you that—like him—was always waiting for the next bad thing.
Asleep, you let it all go. You looked younger, and Pope thought this was how you would’ve looked all the time had the world dealt you a different house.
He must’ve shifted, or his breathing must’ve changed, because your eyes cracked open. You found him in the dark, found him watching you, and your mouth curved, slow and sleep-heavy.
“Creep,” you mumbled into the pillow.
“Yeah,” Pope said in a whisper.
You shifted toward him, unhurried, still half in sleep, and your hand came up to his jaw as your fingers traced the line of it.
“You don’t sleep,” you murmured. You’d noticed it weeks ago.
“No.”
“C’mere, then,” you said, rough, tugging lightly at his jaw, and he came.
He kissed you slow.
He always started slow—it was the only speed he trusted himself at—and you let him have it slow for a minute, warm and half-asleep against his mouth. Then you weren’t half-asleep anymore, he felt the change in you as your hand slid back into his hair and curled and pulled. The sound that the pull had dragged out of him was embarrassing.
“Quiet,” you breathed against his mouth, throwing his own word back at him—I can be quiet, he’d said once—and he huffed a rough laugh into the crook of your neck and got a hand spread wide and certain against the small of your back to pull you flush against him.
Your leg hooked over his and your breath went uneven against his ear, and Pope allowed himself to stop thinking.
He dragged his mouth down your throat, slow, to the soft place that made your breath catch, the spot he'd mapped weeks ago and gone back to since like the one warm room in a freezing house. Got there. He felt you go boneless and then not boneless, your fingers tightening in his hair, your hips shifting against his, and he made a low sound into your skin and pressed you down into the mattress with the careful weight of him.
“Andrew,” you said, rough against his collarbone.
“Yes?” He lifted his head to look at you, and found you already looking at him.
Your hair was loose around your face and your lips were swollen and your eyes were dark. Pope felt a sort of satisfaction he’d never felt before knowing he’d done that, that you’d come to his bed neat and composed and he’d taken you apart this much already.
Your hand still in his hair tugged him down to your ear. “Take my shirt off.”
He went still for a second, eyes closing at the words, then he regained himself and pulled back enough to look at you.
You lifted your arms. He got it over your head and dropped it somewhere and then he just stopped, brain short-circuiting as his body immediately reacted, shifting underneath you. His hand came up and hovered over your bare waist, not quite touching, just close. Deciding where to start.
His hand settled finally, warm and certain against your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breasts. He let out a shaky breath. “You’re so pretty,” he murmured.
You let out a soft breath, and he let his thumb move, again, slow, up and he rubbed over the swell of your breasts through the bra, watching your face with his whole attention.
He pushed himself up onto one elbow to get a better look at you and you let him, lying there with your hair spread out and your eyes on his face. He took his time, and he could tell it made you want to squirm, and his free hand settled on your hip, holding you still.
“Come here,” you said softly, reaching for him.
“In a minute.” His thumb traced the underwire of your bra, following the curve of it. His eyes followed his own hand and his jaw was tight the way it got when he was concentrating.
“Andrew.”
“Give me a minute.” His mouth came down on your sternum and pressed there, warm, just breathing for a second, his hand still moving over your ribs, your waist, the dip of it. His lips moved to the curve of your breast, the soft skin at the edge of the fabric, and you felt his breath go unsteady against you.
“Can I—” he started.
“Yes.”
He reached around you, unclipped it with one hand—slightly clumsy, which was so unlike him—and drew it off you slowly, and then he just stopped again, forgetting how to move when he looked at you.
His mouth found you properly then, warm and slow, and you let your head tip back and your hand tighten in his hair and he made a low sound against you.
He worked his way back up to your throat, your jaw, found your mouth again, and kissed you slow until your hands were pulling at him and your hips were shifting and you’d stopped being patient entirely.
You pressed at his chest. He went, rolling onto his back and taking you with him, and you sat up over him in the gray light and watched his face as you settled your weight down against him, and his hands went to your thighs and gripped and his eyes went briefly shut.
You leaned down and kissed him once, soft. Then his jaw, his throat, the way he'd done to you, finding the places that changed his breathing.
His hands moved up your back, down again, restless, unable to settle. You felt him swallow when your mouth reached his collarbone.
You moved lower. His stomach tightened under your mouth and his hand came up to your hair, resting there, heavy and warm, the way he did everything when he was trying to hold himself back. You looked up at him from where you were and found him already looking down at you, jaw tight, throat working.
“Are you—”
“Mhm.”
You got his briefs off and he lifted his hips to help you without being asked, which made you press your lips together against a smile. You settled between his thighs and took him inside your hand first, and he let out a shaky, breathless sound as your fingers tightened around his length, small fingers tugging slightly.
You shifted down, and pressed your lips to the inside of his thigh first, just to feel him react, Pope understood. His whole leg went rigid under your lips. You stayed there a moment, and his fingers curled in your hair out of impatience he wasn’t proud of at all.
“C’mon, hey—”
You did it again, the other side, taking your time, and heard him exhale hard through his nose.
Then, you started from the bottom, tongue gliding over him, base to tip, and Pope’s jaw dropped open and stopped pretending he wanted any sort of control in this situation.
His hands fisted in your hair. Not pushing—he wasn’t going to do that—but holding on, because he really, really needed something to hold onto and you were it, you were all of it, had been all of it for months, and now you had your mouth on him and your small hand wrapped around the base of him while looking through your lashes at him like you knew exactly what you were doing to him—you absolutely did—and he wanted to do nothing about it except lie there and take it.
You took him into your mouth properly and his hips came off the mattress before he caught them, hand pressing down against his own stomach, jaw locked.
“Christ—” It came out mangled, just sound.
You set a pace that was sure to kill him, so deliberate with everything and focused attention on him entirely, and he had the distant thought that he’d never been on the receiving end of attention like this. His thighs tensed around you and his free hand found the sheets.
You pulled off just enough to say ‘don’t’ when his forearm moved toward his face, and he dropped it back, exposed, staring at the ceiling, throat working. Your hand worked what your mouth couldn’t, and he felt his vision go slightly sideways, hand in your hair tightening involuntarily, fingers curling against your scalp.
“Let me—” He stopped when he noticed how wrecked he sounded, barely his own voice. His grip tugged you up. “Can you—Can I—”
He stumbled over the words, but you still moved up.
You settled over him, knees either sides of his hips, and he got his hands on your waist immediately. His chest was heaving and he was sure he looked completely undone.
“Can I—” he tried again. His thumb moved against your hip, pleadingly. “I need to—” He tried again. “Will you—”
You looked down at him. “Are you asking me something?”
“Yeah.” His jaw tightened. “Trying to.”
“So ask.”
He took in a sharp breath, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass. “Can I be inside you?”
You held his eyes a second. “Yeah,” you said. “Yeah.”
The sound he let out at that was quiet and involuntary and you felt it in your sternum. His eyes closed for just a second, like he needed that, you saying it had done something to him before anything had even happened yet.
You reached between you and his breath caught audibly, hands tightening on your hips, feeling it happen, needing to feel it happen somewhere in his palms.
You sank down onto him slow and his head went back and his throat worked and his hands on your hips pulled you down the last inch with a low, helpless sound that he clearly hadn't planned on making.
He’d never felt this way before, so all-encompassed. You were so warm and close in way the months of wanting had never prepared him for, your hands braced on his chest, your weight settled on his lap, and he could feel your pulse where you were joined and his own pulse and everywhere else.
He stayed there a second, both hands spread wide on your hips, breathing.
“You okay?” you asked, quiet.
“One second.”
You gave him the second. He sat up after that, and his arm banded around your waist and pulled you flush against him and that made you gasp, hands grabbing at his shoulders, his neck.
He was so much bigger than you like this, your knees hardly finding the mattress either side of him, and he held you there, mouth finding your throat.
“Do you like this?” he asked into your skin.
“Yes—yeah,” you said, slightly breathless.
He bit down lightly at your pulse point, just enough, and your nails raked down his back in response, and the sound that got out of him was dark and satisfied, his hips rolling up into you slow and deliberate.
His hips set a pace after that, one hand spread flat against your lower back holding you exactly where he wanted you, the other gripping your hip, guiding you down to meet each roll of his hips. You could feel everything. He made sure of it, and he knew by the way your walls clamped down on him.
“Andrew—”
“Feels so good,” he said through a groan, mouth set on your throat. “You feel so good.”
Your nails found his back again and he groaned into your neck and his hips stuttered, losing the rhythm for just a second before he found it again, deeper this time, and you made a sound against his shoulder that you felt him collect, felt him file away, his arm tightening around you in response.
“That good?” he murmured.
“It’s—” you started, breath catching.
“Yeah?” His hand moved from your hip to the small of your back, adjusting the angle, pressing you down onto him, and whatever you'd been trying to say dissolved entirely into something that wasn't words at all. “There?”
“Jesus, Andrew—” you said, a punch in your words as he pushed you down onto him. “Where’d you learn this?”
He pulled back to look at your face, and the look on his was almost amused, almost, underneath all the want. “Just wanna make you feel good,” he said, “with me.”
Your hands coming up to his face without deciding to, cupping his jaw, and he turned into it immediately, that same helpless lean he always did when you put your hands on his face, like he couldn't help it, like you'd found the one soft spot in him nobody else had ever found.
You kissed him then, different from the others — slower, more deliberate, saying something you didn't have words for yet, and he kissed you back the same way, his pace going slow and deep and unhurried, like the night had gotten longer suddenly, like neither of you were going anywhere.
His forehead dropped to yours when you broke off, both of you breathing uneven, his hand moving up your spine, vertebra by vertebra, just feeling you.
“You with me?” he murmured.
“Yeah,” you said. “I am.”
His hand pressed you further into him, like there was any space. “Promise me.”
It came out rougher than he meant, needier than he'd have liked, and he felt it land between you in the dark and couldn't take it back and didn't try.
You looked up at him. Whatever you found in his face made yours go soft. “Promise,” you said.
He exhaled against your mouth and his hips rolled forward and you made a small sound and your hands slid up into his hair, pulling, and whatever had gone tender between you tipped back into heat, his pace picking up, deeper now, one hand gripping the headboard above you and the other finding your hip, holding you where he wanted you.
Pope had come to the basement earlier, before his fight. He had no good reason for it—the fight was in an hour, the place was half-empty, the crowd still trickling in—but he’d gotten restless at the apartment and figured he’d find you early, steal a few minutes before the room filled up.
He came down the concrete stairs and heard Leo’s voice before he saw anything, and the sound of it stopped Pope three steps from the bottom. Pope had never once in his life heard the guy yell, lose control, and the voice coming up was low and almost patient, like you’d talk to a child or a dog.
“ —count it again,” Leo was saying. “‘Cause I counted it, and I’m coming up short. That’s a problem, you know that, right?”
“I counted it three times,” you said, your voice flat and so, so careful it gnawed at him. “It’s all here. I swear, it’s all—”
“Don’t swear to me, sweetheart. Count.”
Pope came down the last steps quiet. You were at the cash table with the box open in front of you and your hands unsteady on the bills. Leo was standing close to you, like that was the point—looming, using the size of himself—as he crowded you back against the table. He was making you do the math all out in a flat, dead voice, your shoulders up around your ears, and Pope watched you flinch when Leo shifted his weight even though the guy hadn’t done anything.
“You’re light,” Leo said, soft. “You’re light and you’re trying to swear. You know what happens to my count when one of my girls gets light.” He let his words hang, tilting his head. “It comes out of the square. Adds to it. You’re going backwards, sweetheart, after all this time. Going the wrong direction.”
Leo reached and took your jaw in his hand—almost gently, tipping your face up out of the count—and your body went still, and that was the second you saw Pope behind Leo’s shoulder.
“Don’t touch her,” Pope said, without thinking about it.
Leo turned, unhurried, his hand still loose at your jaw before he let it drop, on his own time. He was making a point of it, Pope realized. “It’s off.” He spread the hand, easy, showing him. “See? We’re just talking. Business.”
Then, he turned to look at you, chin tipping down. “You really messing around with this guy? I thought it was just people making shit up.”
“People talk—” you started to say.
“You were just waitin’ around for some rich guy to come along?” He looked at you, shaking his head. “That it?” Then, he turned to Pope. “She could’ve gotten out a lot earlier—you know that right?” He shook his head, like he was disappointed. “Could’ve taken the back room, cut the number down to nothing in a couple months. Easy. Plenty of guys asking. But no, she just wanted to do it the long way.” He tipped his chin at Pope, lazy. “—And then go and give it away to you. For free.”
Pope’s pulse should’ve been climbing. It had gone flat and slow and cold. “Watch your mouth.”
“Or what?” He asked, almost fond. “You gonna—”
The gun was out before he decided to pull it. His hand went to the small of his back and came around and then the thing was there, level, steady, muzzle a few inches off Leo’s forehead.
The guy stopped smiling. He didn’t flinch—Pope gave him that—but he went very slow, very careful, his hands drifting up off his sides. His palms were loose and open.
“Okay,” Leo said, quiet now. “Okay. Easy.”
“Are you kidding me?” Pope muttered, shaking his head. “You don’t have a damn gun on you?”
“I don’t need a gun in my own place,” he said through gritted teeth. His eyes flicked to the stairs, then back to the muzzle. “You wanna put that down before you get stupid over nothing?”
He’d half-hoped that Leo would’ve been carrying, show any sign that he felt afraid. “Her number. Say it.”
“That’s not—” He huffed, almost a laugh, disbelieving. “That’s not how—there’s a process to this, there’s people I gotta answer to.”
Pope’s lips flattened, eyes flicking to the ceiling, annoyed. “You know I’ll do it, man. I don’t care enough not to.”
Leo’s smile dropped then. “Half the room’s had their hands on her, you know that? She’s not somebody’s girlfriend, man. The second she doesn’t need either of us, she’s not looking back at you any more than she’s looking back at me.”
Pope let out a short chuckle. “Now you’re getting whatever I’ve got in my pocket or I’m shooting. Your call.”
“You’re making a mistake,” the guy said, his last call, Pope realized. “You can’t pull a gun on me and —”
“That’s tomorrow’s problem.” Pope’s hand stayed still. “Right now, you take the money, she’s square, she walks.” His head tipped, slight. “Say yes, man. You’re a smart guy. Say yes.” Pope nudged the gun slightly further into his head. He leaned his head closer to the guy’s ear, voice dropping into a register that would’ve been too low for you to hear. “I’ve put people down for less than this. You know that.”
Leo took a beat. “Fine.” The word came out flat, bitten-off. “Fine. The money. She’s square. Get it out slow, I don’t want your fucking hand movin’ fast near me.”
Pope reached into his jacket with his off hand—the gun never leaving Leo's face—and pulled the roll, the whole fight roll, thick and rubber-banded, and tossed it onto the table by the box. It landed heavy. Leo didn't look at it. He kept his eyes on Pope, and his hands stayed up, and the deal sat there in the dead air between them, made.
Leo looked at it, and a long moment passed. He let out a short, disbelieving breath through his nose. “That’s it?”
“You should’ve said yes the first time. You knew I was good for it,” Pope said. “Say it,” he added. “She’s good. Tell her so she hears it.”
“You’re square,” he said to you, the words ugly. “You don’t owe me shit. Don’t come back.” A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Either of you.”
Pope held the gun where it was a beat longer than he had to—long enough to make it clear the leaving was his idea, not Leo's permission—and then he lowered it, slow, and stepped back, and reached out without looking and found your wrist.
“Let’s go,” Pope said roughly to you.
You didn’t move at first. He had to tug your forearm once, and then you came, stumbling off the spot you’d been rooted to, and he put himself between you and Leo and walked you up the concrete stairs and out the side door into the lot, into the air that was finally air, with the gun cooling against his back and your pulse hammering under his fingers where he still had your wrist.
Pope let out a shaky breath as he tipped his neck back to look at the sky. He’d assumed that one day, he would’ve figured it out, how to help you—it would have been cleaner, probably, and wouldn’t have happened right in front of you—and he hadn’t thought it’d be fucking today.
He still had your wrist. He made himself let it go, and turned to look at you. You were looking at nothing, at the chain-link past the lot, your arms coming to wrap around yourself, holding your elbows.
“Get in the car,” he said to you.
You stayed still.
Pope shook his head once, pressing his lips together. He nodded at the truck. “C’mon. Just get in the truck.”
You stayed rooted there in the orange light, arms folded over yourself, shaking your head faintly—not at him, not a no exactly, just somewhere else, somewhere he couldn't reach you. He felt the impatience climb in him, the adrenaline still draining, the gun still warm against his back and the tomorrow-problem already stacking up behind his ribs, and it came out rougher than he meant.
“Just—get in the damn car.” He dragged his palm down his face and exhaled.
You went around to the passenger side and shut the door. He got in beside you, and for a second, neither of you said anything. He pulled out the lot and drove the way he always did with you, to his apartment. You sat against the window with your knees pulled up and your arms still around yourself, and he kept glancing over, waiting for it, the thing he could feel build up.
“You mad at me?” he asked, the words coming out choked, almost like he was forcing them out.
You took in a breath and looked out the window. “Are you gonna be fine?”
He snorted. “Yeah. Don’t worry ‘bout me. I’m safe.”
You nodded, even though he could tell you didn’t believe it. He wanted to tell you that he was probably the most safe guy in Oceanside, part of a family that would make sure nothing happened to anyone in it, even if they all may hate each other deep down.
“I didn’t want it to happen like this,” you said a moment later. “I wanted to do it myself.”
Pope knew what you meant, but he wanted you to talk more, just so he could justify it. “Yeah?”
“I was gonna work it down to nothing,” you continued. “And one day it’d just be done, and I’d—walk out. And it’d be cause I did it. Me. The one thing that was gonna be mine.”
“You weren’t getting out.” When you snapped your head to look at him, eyebrows furrowed, he forced to keep himself looking at the road. “I’m sorry, but you were never getting out. Don’t be dumb. I know you wanted to.”
“Don’t call me dumb.”
“Then don’t be.” He shook his head. “You’re paying off a debt that’s not even yours when you could be—what? Working anywhere that gives you an actual paycheck. He wasn’t gonna let you have that. There’s no fucking contract making sure he lets you out.”
You looked back at the window, jaw tight. “I didn’t want you buying me,” you said quietly. “That’s exactly the thing I didn’t want. Now I’m—I don’t want to owe you, Andrew. I like you.”
“You don’t owe me,” he said, voice rough, trying to ignore what the words did to his chest.
“That’s not how—”
“It’s how it works with me,” he said flatly. “I didn’t buy you. Don’t say shit like that. I bought you out.” His hands tightened on the wheel. “There’s nothing you owe me.”
“I wanted it to be clean,” you said, and Pope almost wanted to shut you up. “Us. I wanted to get out and just be—someone you liked. Not somebody you had to save or something like that.”
“Well, that’s too bad, then,” he rasped. “You can come with me. You can go wherever you want. You’re out, you can choose.” He killed the engine as the car reached his apartment. “You are someone I like already. I never liked who you had to be, but I like you—this, whatever it is. Alright?”
A part of Pope knew he shouldn’t have taken the job. Robberies were always a mess, but Baz had a fondness for them. And Baz had a kid and a whole life balanced on not going inside, and Pope had a girl who he wasn’t even sure was his girl, and no good reason in the world to be holding the bag when it went wrong.
So now there was a phone bolted to a cinderblock wall and a line of men behind him and a number he’d memorized. Thank God he’d memorized.
It rang twice.
“Hello?”
The sound of your voice did something itchy to his sternum. He’d last heard it three weeks ago, before the job, when you’d been half-asleep against his shoulder in the truck outside your place. You’d told him to call you when he got home.
“Andrew?” you asked immediately, like just an exhalation of his breath, you could recognize. “You’re in jail?”
He forced out a dry chuckle, because the opposite would’ve gotten him kicked. “Folsom County.”
“Jesus—why?”
“Robbery. It was a—a family thing—” He kept it short. The line was recorded; half of what he wanted to say, he couldn’t, and the other half, he wouldn’t. Especially not to you, not like this, with a guard at his back and a clock ticking somewhere.
“Can I visit you?” you asked immediately. The hope in your words tightened something in his chest so hard he had to close his eyes to loosen it even a fraction. “How long are you in there for?”
“No—don’t. Hey, listen,” he said, voice shaking and he hated it. “You—you gotta be safe, okay? If anything happens, I need you to look for—”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can’t take care of you from here,” he said through gritted teeth. “I need to make sure you’ll be okay.”
“How long are you in for?” you asked, weary, like you’d read somewhere between the lines and realized that you were going to hate the answer.
“Six years,” he said, letting out another sigh. Then, because he couldn’t help himself when he heard you go silent on the other end, he said, “I’m sorry.” He pressed the phone harder against his ear, as if that did anything.
“Fuck—fuck, Andrew. Six years—?” you said, voice so sharp he could feel it cut through him. He heard you breath, trying to collect yourself. “Okay. Okay—I can come there, to you. Visit you and stuff, alright?”
“You’re not living the next six years meeting me behind a glass, alright?”
“I don’t care about that.”
“I do.” It came out rougher than he’d intended. He pressed his forehead to the cold block, eyes shut as his free hand came up to tug at his hair. The line of men and the guards and the whole gray space fell away from him for a second, and it was just your voice in his ear and him trying, failing, to do one right thing for you. “You just got out—I’m not putting you back in. You got out, and you—you can do whatever you want.”
“I don’t want it without you,” you said, voice breaking clean down the middle, and it about took him out at the knees, standing there in his county blues with a telephone crushed to his ear.
“You’re not thinking right,” he said, trying to get the words out slowly, like saying it that way would make you believe them. “You’re not waiting for me for six years. You know how long that is?”
Pope was at a loss in this; he’d never had to push someone away before. Every person he’d needed gone, before he even knew he did, he’d made himself ugly enough to push it out. He didn’t have the ugly to use on you; he’d used up every bad thing in front of you already and you’d stayed anyway, and now he had nothing left to drive you away with except the truth, which was that Pope loved you too much to let you do this to yourself.
He couldn’t say that either because maybe then you’d really never leave.
You only breathed on the other end, and he could hear the hitch of your voice when you started to try saying something, then stopped.
“I won’t like it,” he said, quieter now, “if you wait for me.”
It was a lie and you both heard it. He didn’t try to sell it harder and let it sit there, all wrong, and moved on before you could call him out from it, because he had something he needed you to have more than he needed to win the argument.
“Listen,” he said, forcing his voice to steady. “You got something to write with? Or open something on your phone to get it.”
“Andrew—”
“Please.”
Something in his voice must’ve reached you, because he heard you shift.
“Okay,” you said, voice thick. “Okay.”
He recited the number, slow and twice, so you’d have it right. “That’s Baz. Alright? Barry Blackwell—write that down, too. My brother.” His teeth gritted. “You don’t ever have to call it, but you keep it. And if anything ever—” His jaw worked, and he pinched his eyes shut at the horrible thoughts. “If money gets tight or if people come sniffing around even though they shouldn’t. If you get caught up in anything—somebody gives you trouble, or anything, the car dies, whatever it is. You call him. You say you’re mine, say Pope said to call. He’ll help.”
“I don’t want your brother to—”
He didn’t want his brother to, either. Baz had a bad track record with people Pope considered his, people Pope loved. He pressed his molars together at the thought of Baz with you, of all people. Despite how much love he held for his brother, he didn’t like the thought. Six years was a long, long time.
Six years was long enough to forget a voice, long enough for the thing you’d been holding in your hands to shift without noticing, long enough for a warm and present man to become more real than a memory behind a glass. Baz wouldn’t. But he can’t imagine Baz ever meeting you and not seeing what Pope loved about you, what everyone could love about you.
“It’s the only way I can do anything for you,” he said quickly, making sure you’d understand. “It’ll make me happy.”
He heard you choke slightly on the other end. “Can you call me, then? If I can’t visit you.”
He wanted to say yes. It would've cost him nothing in the moment and it would've ruined you slow, six years of you living from phone call to phone call, your whole life arranged around fifteen minutes of a recorded line, waiting on a man in a cage. And he knew he’d rightfully deserved to be caged. He’d seen what waiting did to you. He’d pulled a gun to get you out from under exactly that.
“No,” he said. “You stay out. You got out. Stay out of all of it, including me.”
And a part of him believed he was doing you a favor, despite it all. He’d never quite gotten you all the way like he’d wanted—merged your life into his and his yours—and maybe that was for the better. As long as you were wrapped up with him, you would’ve been wrapped up with his family, the jobs, the heists, the next county lockup waiting for him somewhere down the line.
Your little brother deserved a sister who could come home clean, someone who didn’t have a Cody-shaped problem following her through the door. He’d been told he was the worst of them; he was built up for a purpose and it wasn’t the kind of thing you brought home. Pope cared about you enough to know that; it was hard not to realize it, standing in prison.
He heard you say a jumble of words in one breath, and he couldn’t quite catch any over the ringing in his own ears. The guard said he had sixty seconds left.
“I’d do it again, I swear,” he said, fast, before your voice cut off. “I’m sorry I couldn’t—it was short.”
Your breath stopped for a second, then you asked, forcing an even voice, “How will I know you’re okay?”
“I’ll be fine. I got people watching my back, I swear.”
“Please, just—”
“Bye,” he said, forcing his voice gentle. “Take care of yourself, okay? And the kid.”
The sound you made—wet and broken, landing like a wound he’d probably carry for six years—was the last of you he let himself take. He set the receiver down slow, like slow made it kinder, before you could say his name again. Because he never would've managed it if you'd said his name again.
summary: a non-linear series of short fics detailing the trajectory of your relationship with andrew (can be read in any order)
wc: 12.9k (so far)
warnings: light kissing, fluff, jealousy (dilemma over an age gap moreso), punching a wall, tending to wounds, switch!andrew and reader (but very much dom!andrew mostly, he just needs assurance), oral (m!recieving), good boy, fingering, coming untouched, one mention of good girl, hurt/comfort, yearning, getting high, shotgunning, dryhumping, fingers in his mouth, coming in pants, lots of praise
sticky sweet, tangerine - honeybee (month 7)
andrew cody has never been a man who smiles, not until you started waking him up by littering kisses onto every freckle on his face.
you plus me equals a heart forever - u + me = <3 (month 3)
andrew asks about your tattoos, before confessing he'd have you etched onto his skin forever.
my head is full of poison - the cure (month 5)
andrew sees you talking to j and spirals, letting the poison spill out as words he can't take back.
it clings to my bones - cigarette smoke (month 2)
you and andrew get high together, and somewhere between shotgunning and light touches, you end in his lap, kissing for the first time (among other things).
wip:
a local grocery store and a favourite florist - purple (month 1)
andrew bumps into you in the cereal aisle and against all odds, it ends up changing his life (the story of how he met you).
i'm an anchor in the ocean - begged (month 4)
andrew gets a palm reading from you, but while tracing his lines, your own secrets begin to spill out (tw: sh).
you're so so pretty boy - drop dead (month 6)
you and andrew have sex for the first time.
you're a spark in the dark - stupid song (month 12)
andrew starts carrying a ring around long before he works up the courage to ask the question.
this is super self-indulgent and reader is alt-coded and yes i am aware some of the songs don't match the situation but the TITLE does okay i really tried (trying to cope with finishing animal kingdom)... anyways will try to do a fic a week mwah
Summary: When you let slip to Lena one night that you want the kind of love where someone would do anything for you, Pope sees his opportunity to give you exactly that. His obsession with you now perfect since...isn't that what you want?
Pairing: Pope Cody x Lena's babysitter!fem!reader
TW: 18+ MDNI, NSFW; Sex scene includes oral f recieving, fingering, p-in-v, slight breeding kink if you squint; Andrew is down bad for the reader; reader has a crush on Andrew; Andrew prevents her from leaving and makes the first move; Lena and the reader are really close; mentions of alcohol. I think that's it. I hope so.
Credit: GIF by @littlebatx
A/N: Can I be completely honest that I have no clue what this fic is anymore? I wrote the beginning and by the time I got to the smut, the story I was intending was gone and Pope was just...sweet and...perfect...so. I dunno know, guys. Hope you enjoy it!
Pope remembers when he met you for the first time, June 1st 2012. You were eighteen and bright-eyed, happy, smiling. Precious. Catherine needed time to herself, needed help with little Lena, two years old at the time and you were there. The babysitter.
He met you when he went over to talk to Baz about a job and found that Baz and Catherine were out and you were there, holding Lena on your hip.
“Hi,” you had said, your expression concerned, drawn together, suspicious, your body put between him and your charge, the door not entirely open. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for my brother, Baz,” he had replied and your eyes had narrowed in that analytical way you have, the one he didn’t know then, but he grew to know. Grew to love. “Where can I find him?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell have gone out. They won’t be back for a few hours. Should I take a message?” You were perfectly polite, but all he’d done was shaken his head, angry at the stone wall you’d put up, the impenetrableness of the force which you created.
“I’ll be back later,” is all he’d said, storming off, walk rigid like always. He’d been told by his brothers that he didn’t walk like a human and when he’d reached his car, he’d glanced back, noticing the door still open. You were watching him, making sure he left, protective of Lena. Of the girl you were tasked to look after.
That was the first time he met you, but it was not when he fell into deep, sickening love, a kind of love that others would call obsession, stalking. That time came later, after you’d been introduced to him by Catherine and Baz and he became Mr. Cody, someone okay to be around Lena.
You were always there, watching over Lena, your laugh always echoing, infectious. A college student, he’d been told. One studying science, but no one ever told him what science, only that you were quite good, quite skilled at what you did. What you were studying. He could sometimes see you doing complicated equations while Lena scribbled with crayons.
But he did not fall into his love (obsession) until October 27th 2012, a date seared into his memory. He’d been tasked with checking on Lena, a task from Smurf who didn’t like Catherine and he knew that you were watching her, most likely at the park.
He’d shown up, lurking in the trees, watching as you played with Lena in the sand, pushed her on the swings, looking for all the world like a young mother or older sister. There was just something about you that made him feel you truly cared for the girl. He watched and he felt something shift inside of him, like the compass in his chest that was always steered to Catherine now steered towards you.
You’d looked up at that moment, your body haloed by the sun, attention on him. You had noticed him and waved him over, calling out “Mr. Cody!” Lena had grown excited and he complied, standing there awkwardly, standing there unsure what to do, unsure what to say the way he always was.
He did not know intimacy. He did not know love. He knew what had paid for, had been purchased, bought, and expected of him. He did not know what it felt to have someone entirely his to be someone else’s entire. He knew what it was liked to be used, forced and hurt.
He knew heartbreak.
But you made him want more. You made him want love. Especially because as Lena fell asleep against you, the three of you sitting on a grassy knoll, watching the birds as you explained that Lena liked to do, you had been at peace. You had not been scared of him, ashamed. You had felt comfortable, safe.
And you read him like an open book.
“You’re in love with Cath,” you had whispered and he remembers that he looked at you with shock, surprise. You had smiled at him, the kind of smile that came from being used to people’s surprise. “You don’t hide it, Mr. Cody,” you continued, the smile turning sad. “I just wish more for both of you.”
“What do you mean?” he had asked and you sighed, your hand stilling on Lena’s head from where you had been smoothing down her ever-growing dark hair.
“I mean that Cath deserves someone who loves her wholly and you deserve to love someone capable of loving you back, Mr. Cody.” He had wished that you would call him Andrew, called him by his name, but it seemed like you were incapable of that, a line drawn between professional and personal. Except for Cath, it seemed.
“You call her Cath,” he had said, unsure of how to ask, unsure of what to say and you had looked at him with softened eyes and a smile, one nostalgic.
“Because she asked me too,” you’d whispered. “She said that I’m more like Lena’s older sister than her babysitter and that I should call her Cath.” He had wanted to ask you what would happen if he asked you to call him Andrew, but he understood then that he was not Cath. That Cath was Cath and he was Mr. Cody, a line forever drawn.
But he didn’t want that line there. He just wanted you. You as his and he as yours. A part of him thought you wanted that too.
And then he fell headfirst into loving you, learning your music preferences, your favourite colours and foods and days. It didn’t matter, what you loved he knew about. He just wished that he made it onto that list.
When he was arrested in 2013, you were the person he thought of, cared about. Worried for. You visited him once at Folsom, a backpack on your shoulders, your body tense and rigid as you stepped into the visiting room, putting the phone to your ear as he did the same on the other side.
“I heard Mr. Blackwell and Deran talking about you being here,” you had said and he’d swallowed hard at your words, at this admission that he mattered enough to you for you to do that. “I thought I’d come by.”
“Why?” he’d asked, watching as your face shifted, shuttered, eyes darting around, refusing to settle on him.
“Because I figured no one else was.” It was true, the truest truth he’d heard since…well, ever and it did not surprise him that it came from you. You seemed honest to a fault. “And Lena wanted me to tell you about her ballet recital.” You had pulled your phone out, putting the screen against the dividing wall so he could watch as his niece toddled around the stage in a glittery blue costume. “Made the costume myself,” you’d told him and he felt his heart pound and pound and pound harder and harder because you were so…perfect.
You came every so often for a visit, some update about Lena over the three years he was away, but you mainly wrote him letters, keeping him apprised of her daily life, but never you. It was still a line drawn between you and him and what you could be.
But in the walls of Folsom, he pretended that the wall did not exist, spoke of you to the inmates as his wife. His, his, his, his, his. He wanted you to be his. So badly.
When he got out, the first person he went to was you, your apartment number burned onto his mind and he stayed in the rental vehicle he’d gotten, watching you through your curtains, watching as you moved around. Alone.
Blissfully alone.
He knew then, that night, his first of freedom, that you would be his.
He just had to wait until the time was right.
“Are you crying?!” Lena cries, standing up from the couch, her little face twisted into an expression of shock and disgust, hands on her slim hips.
“No,” you lie, looking away, your hands pressing against your eyes, moving from in to out, wiping away your tears.
“You so are! Why? That movie’s just weird,” she says and you can hear her grab her glass from the coffee table, small feet making a surprising amount of noise as she stomps to the kitchen.
“The Notebook is not weird, you little gremlin!” you call out, your voice teasing despite the thickness still there. The movie reduces you to tears every time, the way that love wins and yet it doesn’t. The way they fight for their happy ending and yet lose it so quickly.
“He’s so obsessed with her!” Lena calls out and you roll your eyes, untangling your legs from one another and the fluffy blanket you’ve curled up under, planting your feet flat on the hardwood floor, pushing up to a stand, grabbing the popcorn bucket and your glass, walking through the living room, back towards the kitchen, the movie’s credits still rolling.
“And what?” you ask, stepping in, walking to the sink while Lena pulls a bottle of water from the fridge. “What’s wrong with him being obsessed with her like that? I think it’s romantic.”
“He never moves on,” Lena says, her spare hand held up, index finger of her right hand, the one currently wrapped around the bottle ticking down the reasons, folding each finger. “He, like, falls apart and is all unkempt because she’s gone—”
“He did survive war too, you know,” you interrupt, but she waves you away, silencing your protests with an enthusiastic wave of her hand.
“He builds the house for her,” she says. “And he fights to have her even when she’s marrying someone else!”
“That doesn’t count!” you exclaim, turning from her to the sink, running some water in your glass, the one that held you cream soda. “She wasn’t in love with him. She loved Noah the whole time too.”
“Yeah, but,” Lena continues, “she was moving on. And Noah ruined it! Besides! Lon’s way cuter!”
“You take that back!” you cry, spinning around, eyes wide as they settle on the child who has completely and totally destroyed your faith in humanity. “Ryan Gosling is way hotter than James Marsden! That rain scene, man!” Lena’s laughing so hard that it’s more a cackle, her seven, nearly eight year old body, convulsing with her laughter while you roll your eyes, leaning back against the kitchen counter, hands splayed flat on the cool, smooth granite.
“I just,” she says, now that she’s calmed down, “think it’s creepy how in love with her Noah was. You know.”
“I don’t know,” you muse. “I think it would be romantic to have someone…willing do to anything for you—like the house. I think…ah, man, I think I would want that.”
“You’re weird,” she says, tone flat and thick black brows drawn together, her expression so stern and serious that it’s now your turn to laugh, the kind of laugh that starts deep in your stomach, rumbling through you.
“Yeah,” you tell her, amidst the laughter. “Don’t listen to me, kiddo. Now, go get ready for bed.” She runs past you, up to the stairs, her feet padding on the carpet noisily despite the fact that it’s carpet and she’s no more than 60 pounds soaking wet.
You can’t help but laugh again, the sound more of an exhalation than any real laugh, as you run some water in the sink, adding soap, knowing that Mr. Cody prefers his house clean, obsessively so.
A part of you wonders what would happen if you didn’t bother to clean, what he would say, but you know there’s no use going down that path, even if you sometimes wish that he would speak to you. Look at you.
But that line of thinking leads nowhere.
It’s best to just close it down.
Pope’s heart is in his throat, pulsing and pounding erratically, his lungs tightening and clenching, constricting and burning. He heard you, those words I think it would romantic to have someone willing to do anything for you…I think I would want that still echoing around him, surrounding him, choking him.
He’s been waiting for the right time, the right way and here it is. He just has to show you that he’ll do anything for you.
And he can do that.
The club is loud, music pulsing in the air, almost in a way that you can see, the sound so loud, more noise than music. Your friends are laughing, yelling at each other just to be heard over the music, but you’re quiet, hand turning your glass in circles, a single shot of tequila downed. You’re not much of a drinker, never have been, preferring to stay present in your mind. Preferring to stay present.
“YOU OKAY?” Jonathan yells, his voice still just barely audible as you turn to him, shrugging.
“IT’S TOO LOUD,” you reply and he nods, looping his arm through yours, his touch gentle and kind, sweet in his way. Jonathan is sweet though and pretty, bright green eyes set in skin the colour of toffee, dark hair curling down his forehead and a smile even and pretty. Not crooked in the slightest. Not like…nope, you won’t go there, not even in your own mind.
“Better?” he asks, pushing out of the club, the autumn breeze cool and crisp, tinged with cigarette smoke and car exhaust, yet still better than the sweat and alcohol smell of the club that mingles with mildew and broken leather.
“Much,” you tell him, sighing and leaning against the brick wall of the club, your head falling back against it, a buzzing in your jacket pocket. “One sec,” you tell him, walking a ways away, pulling your phone out, noticing LENA in all caps on your screen. “Lena?! What’s wrong?”
“Uncle Deran fell asleep before he could help with the bedtime routine!” she cries, her voice thick and pained and you sigh, your eyes closing for a minute. The bedtime routine became sacred after Cath left, an open sore, her disappearance still a question of what? Where? Who? When? Lena needs to see her door close, needs to know someone is there, the way Cath isn’t.
You wanted a single Saturday night to yourself, with friends. You wanted to have fun, to return to a world that wasn’t full of the Cody’s and the Blackwell’s, but rather the life you could have had if you had never accepted the babysitting gig that your friend, Elizabeth, skipped out on seven years ago.
You wanted to forget and be someone young. You wanted to act your age. But you just can’t get that.
“Hey, I have to call it a night, Jonathan,” you say, tucking your phone into your pocket after assuring Lena that you’ll be there, just wait for a bit, you’ll be there, always.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, hands tucked into his jean pockets, cheeks darkening from the cold.
“My…Lena needs my help,” you tell him, your lips twisting into an apologetic smile, but he shrugs, eyebrows rising.
“I could give you a lift and then, you know, when you’ve helped her…maybe you and I could grab something to eat or…something,” he says and you can feel something inside of you, some kind of feeling that you don’t entirely know rise as you nod and he smiles, a bright kind of smile.
“That sounds good,” you tell him, mind only half here, the other part on Lena and who was supposed to be watching her.
Why wasn’t Mr. Cody there?
Where is he?
Did Lena lose another person again?
You fumble with the keys that Mr. Cody gave you, the ones needed for the days that you pick Lena up or for the occasional times that you have to take her somewhere and lock up and unlock it again to come back.
They’re slipping through your fingers, chiming and clinking against one another as you finally slot it into the door, unlocking first the deadbolt then the knob, twisting the handle and pushing the door open. You step into a quiet house, still except for the sound of snores coming from the couch.
Deran, the fucker.
“Deran!” you hiss, closing the door behind you with more force than necessary, delighting in the way he jumps on the couch, hissing shit in a startled voice, head swivelling until he sees you, standing, arms crossed, no doubt a seriously pissed off look on your face.
“What are you doing here?” he asks you, blinking, sleep still heavy in his eyes, in his voice.
“I’m here because Lena called me, fucking crying because you fell asleep before the bedtime routine could happen,” you hiss, watching as realization dawns on his face, his hand coming up, scrubbing down his face as he murmurs “shit” for a different reason now. “And where the fuck is Mr. Cody? He’s supposed to be here watching Lena.”
“He left real fast. Said he had to check on some girl,” he answers, his voice becoming more alert as he sits up and you grit your teeth together, turning to dart up the stairs, taking them two at a time, conscious of the fact that Lena’s up there, she’s sad and scared and her routine has been thrown out of order.
“Lena!” you call out when you reach the second floor landing, pushing open her partly closed door to see her sitting on her bed, face stained with tears. “Lena,” you whisper, “let’s do the routine, okay?”
“Okay,” she whispers, standing and walking over to you, her face brightening at your presence. “You look fancy,” she says, “were you out with a boy? And did he look like the love of your life Ryan Gosling.”
“Oh ha-ha, little one,” you say and she giggles, heading across the hall to the bathroom to rewash her face and brush her teeth, but in truth…Jonathan kinda does look like Ryan Gosling. But even as you think that, you swallow hard because that’s not exactly what you want. You want someone older, you want someone rougher around the edges who never looks at you and is awkward and someone you should never want, but do. Someone with dark auburn curls and hazel eyes…you blink, refocusing on the here and now and the nice boy waiting for you who has never seen the inside of a prison.
“Okay,” Lena says, bounding into her room, her face clean and words trailing minty breath. “I’m ready.” She runs across the room, leaping onto her twin bed, disturbing her piles of stuffies, tucking herself in as you cross the room towards her, kneeling down and smoothing the hair back from her face.
“I miss, Mommy,” she whispers and you can feel something crack inside of you. Something you’ve kept inside, locked up tight.
“She was a good woman,” you whisper, feeling tears in the back of your throat as you press a kiss to Lena’s forehead, tucking her blanket in tight all around her and rising, swallowing hard. Lena really does look like Cath, does carry that bit of her.
“She liked you,” Lena says and those words threaten to bring you to your knees.
“I liked her too. She was my friend.” Lena nods, satisfied with your answer before snuggling deeper into her blanket, eyes still open, watching as you click off her lamp and walk to the door, pulling it closed while you mouth good night. You know as the door clicks shut, the light flipped off that now she’ll fall asleep. Because she saw you leave.
You didn’t disappear in the dead of night.
You draw in a deep breath, shaking your head against the onslaught of tears that threaten you, bounding down the stairs preparing to rip Deran a new one, except…the living room is empty. You glance around, seeing nothing of Deran, instead just Mr. Cody standing there in the entrance way, his hazel eyes on you.
“Where’s Deran?” you call out, watching as Mr. Cody walks towards you, his presence making your mouth go dry and you swallow hard, his walk like that of a predator.
“I sent him home,” he says, his voice husky, rough. Dark, in a way that you like but wish you didn’t. You shouldn’t like him; you can’t like him. You are nothing if not professional.
“Well,” you say, nodding once and moving to step past him to the door. “I best let you get on with your night. Lena’s all tucked in, Mr. Cody.” You begin to walk, but he catches your wrist, his fingers calloused and warm against your skin in a way that feels good, feels nice, but no, stop that. You can’t think that way.
“It’s late,” he says.
“I know,” you answer, keeping your gaze trained straight ahead. “But I have a ride waiting for me outside.”
“The boy?” he asks, his voice darkening, deepening. Primal in a way, if a sound can really be primal, which, you think it can.
“Yeah, Jonathan…why?” you ask, feeling a small bit of fear like ice creeping up your spine, goosebumps spreading along your skin.
“I sent him home,” he says and you can feel his breath on the back of your neck and you know his body is far too close, but you also don’t want him to step away and god, you’ve always had that line of professionalism, but this man…since Cath disappeared, he’s been the best with Lena and you never expected to feel anything for him, but…you do.
“Why?” you whisper and then he’s tugging on your wrist, turning you around, pulling you against him, his broad chest against yours.
“Because it’s late,” he whispers, his words actually rumbling through his chest, echoing into your body. “Because you’re already home.” You swallow hard at his words, at the way he’s just said that this…his home…is yours too.
It’s not like you haven’t stayed here before on nights when you’ve been told that no one will be watching Lena and you’re needed for a few days, but calling it home…that’s different. That’s making it seem like he likes you, that he caresfor you.
“I’m not home,” you whisper, looking down at the ground where the toes of your shoes are against his. You forgot to take your shoes off in the rush to get to Lena and you never do, but he’s forgotten too.
“Eyes on me,” he says, two fingers under your chin, tipping your head up, your gaze landing on him because how could it not? Everyone else is afraid of him, but how can they be, when he’s kind and caring and sweet and he’s quiet. He doesn’t just speak what’s on his mind, he looks at a room and decides what to do from there and god, professionalism. Professionalism, you remind yourself even as his proximity is fraying the last of your control because his lips look reallysoft and kissable.
Oh god, it’s hot in here, isn’t it?
His stare is unrelenting, tracing every part of you as if he expects to find some damage on you, but you’ve been safe all night.
“Why were you gone, Mr. Cody?” you whisper, noticing the way his jaw tightens at your words, the way his eyes darken and the grip on your wrist tightens.
“Andrew,” he spits out, “call me Andrew.”
“Why were you gone, Andrew?” you ask and he drags his fingers from under your chin to trace your lips, the digits replaced by his thumb pressing down on your bottom lip, a pressure that has a fevered feeling growing beneath your skin.
“I was watching someone,” he whispers, his voice husky, watching every bit of your face for a reaction. For a response.
“Who?” you ask, the word just slightly muffled by his thumb digging into your lip.
“Who do you think?” he asks and Jesus Christ, has his voice always been this hot, this capable of getting a reaction out of you? And you really need to leave now, really need to get going, but with the way he’s looking at you, the closeness of your bodies, you press your thighs together, hoping he doesn’t notice.
But of course he does.
Because he’s Andrew fucking Cody. And he notices everything. And really, where does he get off on ruining your professionalism, on breaking that line you’ve built, a tentative wall? Where does he get his attitude? And what deity decided that making your boss look like that was fair?!
You hate your life right now, but also not because as he presses his body against yours, the hard lines of his body fitting against the soft lines of yours, you realize that everything you’ve imagined is not even close to reality.
God did not make everyone equal because Andrew Cody might be the hottest man in the entire world and you are so fired if you don’t end this now.
“I have to go!” you blurt out, pulling back and sliding your wrist from his hold, running from him to the front door, but he’s faster than you, putting his body between you and the door.
“No,” he says.
“Why?” you ask him, swallowing hard feeling both serious lust and fear inside of you, the two warring together and yet working together at the same time too.
“Because you said you wanted this,” he whispers and you can feel confusion added to the choking mix of emotions, your throat tight, lungs burning and chest constricting, heart pounding, pounding, pounding almost as odd a beat as “Edge of Seventeen”’s drumbeat.
“Wanted what?” You don’t want the answer, you’re slightly afraid of it because you really don’t know what he’s talking about, only that he’s blocking an exit.
“Someone willing to do anything for you.” His words ring in the room where just yesterday, in the kitchen, you mentioned that to Lena, how you thought Noah was romantic and Jesus! He was there the entire time.
“That’s…that’s out of context,” you tell him, blinking fast, trying to see him while also not see him at the same time.
“What context did I need?” he whispers, stepping towards you, steps slow and quiet as if he’s afraid that you’re a doe he’s about to startle before he can get off the killing blow and should that idea really turn you on as much as it does? “Because I would do for you anything that Noah did for Allie? You want a house like he fixed for her because I’ll do it, sweetheart. I’ll do anything for you.”
“What?” you whisper, confusion winning out over fear because those aren’t the words of someone who only wants one thing. Those are the words of someone in love. Those are the words of someone who wants you for more than sex.
“Don’t you get it?” he asks and honestly, not really, because this is the most he’s ever spoken to you before. “I’m in love with you. Completely in love with you.”
“You don’t talk…to me,” you whisper, turning from him, from the words he’s saying that sound pretty and honest but at the same time like lies and you walk, your shoes dragging against the hardwood floor, your steps slightly off-beat towards the kitchen, the tile floor.
“What was it that Noah said?” you hear Andrew whisper behind you. “‘So it’s not gonna be easy. It’s going to be really hard; we’re gonna have to work at this every day, but I want to do that because I want you. I want all of you, forever, every day. You and me…every day.’”
“What did you memorize the movie?” you whisper-yell, spinning around, taking note of his relentless proximity to you.
“Maybe,” he whispers and the sheepish expression on his face has you laughing, but not a laugh built of humour, more of someone delirious and surprised and horny, yeah, horny too because he has no right to look that good.
You can feel your knees giving way, this night having been too much, too much and you slide down the counter, the handles of the cabinet digging into your spine as you sink down, your head landing in-between your knees.
“June first,” you hear him say, his body landing beside yours. “Twenty-twelve. The first day I met you.”
“What?” you whisper, your head pressing against your left knee as you tilt your head, looking at him.
“Yeah,” he says, “I was looking for Baz, but you were there, Lena on your hip, watching me until I disappeared.”
“No way you loved me then,” you whisper, your arms wrapped around your knees, body folded into a self-contained unit.
“No,” he agrees. “That came later. October 27th 2012. You invited me over when I was lurking and I fell in love with you because you were the first person not afraid of me and you talked to me. And I didn’t want to live without that. And then…you visited me in prison and wrote me letters…and…you love me too. I know you do.”
“Mr. Cody,” you whisper, but he shakes his head, eyes darkening again.
“Andrew,” he hisses, “call me Andrew.”
“You’re my boss,” you cry. “I can’t be with you. That breaks every moral and ethical code I have!”
“But do you love me?” And for once, you fall silent, the answer in you truth, the answer resting on your tongue a lie and you don’t like to lie.
“I knew it,” he whispers and then his lips are on yours, his hands pulling you, shifting you, your body coming to rest on his lap, straddling him as he kisses you relentlessly. He kisses like he stares, deep and dark and predatory. It’s not a battle or a conquest, but a claiming, his teeth sinking into your bottom lip, his tongue controlling yours, sliding along it and leaving you breathless, his hands everywhere, hips moving up into yours, the bulge pressing into you, telling you just how much he wants you.
“Andrew,” you whisper, pulling back from his lips as best you can, his hand on the back of your head, holding you close to him. “We can’t do this. Lena’s home.”
“I’m sick of people telling me what I can’t do,” he whispers, voice low and dangerous and so unfairly hot. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”
“Andrew…” He’s kissing you again and you don’t want to fight this. You don’t want to stop, you want this closeness, you’ve wanted this for so long, but you need assurances. You need to know that this isn’t going to ruin the babysitting job. “Pause,” you murmur against his lips and he listens, his head falling against yours, forehead pressing against you, eyes on you.
“What?” he asks, his voice not curt, but concerned.
“What does this mean for me? You’re my boss, Andrew,” you whisper and then he’s shifting again, rising, pulling you with him and shoving your hips into the counter, the granite digging into the small of your back, his body pressing into you, caging you in.
“Be Mrs. Cody,” he whispers, one hand tracing your face with a feather-light touch. “Be Lena’s aunt…just,” he pauses, his head falling against your shoulder, “be mine. Please.”
“I don’t have a ring,” you whisper, “but alright.” And then he’s lifting his head and looking at you, deep and dark and now you understand that expression he’s been giving you for years: love. He does love you.
Then his lips are on yours again, tongue sliding along yours as he guides you up the stairs, his hands firm on your hips, guiding even as his lips trail from your mouth to your neck, to the sensitive spot just below your ear, teeth sinking down onto it, your gasp muffled as you bite your tongue, skin fevered.
He pushes you down the hall, to the very last door and inside, shutting the door with his foot, hand leaving you. You can hear the lock flip and then Andrew is walking you back to the bed, his hands drifting to the front of your hips, fingers pulling open the button of your cutoffs, undoing the zipper and they drop to the floor. You step out of them and you want him now, want this relentless ache and throb to end, but he’s someone who seems to savour, his mouth trailing over your neck, teeth sinking into the skin every few minutes, tongue lashing out to soothe the bite marks.
He pushes you back, your body landing on his bed and he’s rough, but at the same time gentle as he kneels on the ground, sliding your underwear from off your hips, down your legs, set aside. He pauses for a moment, folding your cutoffs and underwear, setting them aside, his room obsessively neat, something you appreciate.
“God,” he whispers when he turns back, lifting your legs onto his shoulders, “so pretty.”
“Andrew,” you whisper and he looks up at you, eyes black with desire. “You’re too dressed up.” He stands, taking his shirt off and god you wish you’d said nothing because who made him look like that? He’s too attractive for his own good. It’s highly unfair.
He unzips his jeans, folding them and his shirt, setting them in a pile beside yours, boxers still on, just like your baggy shirt is still on. He kneels again, a coil in your stomach tight, yet not tight enough, your legs on his broad freckled shoulders. He presses a kiss against each side of your arousal slicked inner thighs before, pulling you closer to him, his tongue darting out to lick a stripe from your entrance to your clit, the fucker locking eyes with you the whole time.
He knows exactly what he’s doing and where the fuck did he learn to do this? Because the way he circles your clit with his tongue, doing figure eights, his one hand sliding along your thigh, long fingers slipping along them, into the space between. He teases two fingers between your folds, scissoring them apart before plunging both of them inside of you, sinking them up to the knuckle and scissoring you open before pulling them out, knuckles dragging along your walls.
“Jesus—Christ!” you cry as he continues to finger you, tongue never stopping its ceaseless rhythm on your clit, little figure 8s which stop every time that he pulls his fingers out, rather his tongue pressing against your clit, against the swelling pearl. “Andrew! Fuck!”
You can feel his chuckle against your clit, your pussy and you want to hit him, but also not because that coil in your belly is winding tight, tight, tighter and it’s about to burst and his mouth and hands are really unfairly good at what they’re doing right now. You’d hate to mess up his—rhythm.
He has four fingers inside of you at this point, all his extremities pumping in and out of you at a faster and faster pace, knuckles dragging down your walls one by one, each finger leaving you at different times, his index finger the last to leave always, the slowest drag against your walls, stimulating every part of you that it touches.
It’s not long before he has you coming apart, your orgasm ripping through, that coil snapping as he pushes all four fingers in again, his tongue pressing against your clit. He holds his fingers still while your cunt trembles with aftershocks.
“I’ve got you, sweet girl,” he whispers against you, his breath causing you to hiss as he pulls the four fingers out of you, slipping them in his mouth, sucking them clean, eyes locked on yours as he steps out of his boxers, cock hard and the tip leaking, a bead of precum sitting on top, sliding down, a vein bulging.
“Andrew,” you whisper, “how’d you get so good?” He comes to sit beside you on the bed, pulling you up, holding you, his lips on yours for a moment and the kiss is sinful and oh so hot because you can taste yourself on his tongue.
“When they…” he looks down at his hands for a moment, “when they paid for women to sleep with me, I learned what they liked because I…I never liked anything.”
“Andy,” you whisper and his head jerks to yours, “what do you like?”
“You,” he whispers and then his lips are on yours again and your body is flat on the bed, his cock teasing between your folds, kissing against your entrance as his tongue slides along yours and he murmurs, you, you, you into your mouth.
He slides his cock from your entrance to your clit like he did his tongue, circling your clit with his tip once before sliding back down and pushing inside, sinking into the hilt with a single thrust. He moans at the feeling of you all around him, a kind of whimper that shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but it is.
“You’re okay,” you whisper when he pulls back from the kiss, his eyes closed. “Keep going, Andy. Use me.” And he does, pulling out and slamming himself back in over and over in a brutal rhythm that has your entire body moving with each thrust, his mouth hot on your neck.
“You’re so perfect, sweet girl,” he says, his words slightly unclear, but you know what he means, can hear it, the tip of his cock slamming against your cervix. “Gonna fuck a baby into you. Give Lena a cousin, maybe?” He’s hesitant in his words, but you nod and he looks up at you.
“Go ahead, Andy,” you whisper and his pace picks up, relentless and punishing and delicious, his one hand on your waist, the other resting on your mons, thumb circling your clit, drawing you to orgasm at the same time he does. His release is thick and hot inside of you, cock pulsing and then he’s collapsing beside you, his body pulling yours tight against him and you’re not aware of much, except that he pulls the covers over the two of you and you fall asleep to his kiss against your neck.
“Good night, Mrs. Cody.”
“I knew it!” Lena screams the next morning, taking in the sight of you and Andrew both in the kitchen, making breakfast, your body in his clothes, a ring on your finger that he went out and bought for you. “You’re gonna be my auntie!” And then her stick arms are around you and holding tight.
“Yeah, bug,” you whisper, your hand smoothing down her hair, the pancakes in the pan, “I am.”
“And hopefully,” Andrew chimes in, “you’ll have a cousin soon.”
“Andrew!”
Lena giggles when you hit him with the oven mitt and his response is to press a kiss against your cheek and you feel a contentment you’ve never felt before.
Word Count: 6,200
Cross Posted on AO3
Warnings & Notes: 18+, Reader has the callsign 'Weave.' AFAB! Reader, post-jet crash scenario, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, face-sitting, hurt/comfort if you squint, friends to lovers trope, blood, and bodily injury, and a likely inaccurate description of naval aviator gear.
There is nothing quite like waking up and seeing a multi-million dollar aircraft burning right before your very eyes.
It doesn't look real. Vivid hues of red and orange dance along the busted shell of what used to be a Naval aircraft, a stark contrast against the pristine, white snow. The hellish heat that licks at your exposed, frozen cheeks is the only indication that it's not a figment of your imagination. Distantly, you think you must've crashed, but it's hard to believe when there's not a single ache in your—
"Fuck!"
You shouldn't have moved, you shouldn't have moved, you shouldn't have moved.
Eyes screwing shut. Mouth ajar. Yet not another sound escaping. Every bone, joint, and muscle on your left side is screaming. White-hot, piercing through every nerve. Your rib cage feels as if it's just burst open, burning hotter than the remains of your plane.
God, what happened?
You don't recognize this place. These trees don't look like the ones from back home, and you don't recall the weatherman saying California was expecting six inches of snow. What you do recognize is the stray boot that pokes out from behind the jet. U.S. Navy issued. But you're not missing any shoes...
"Bob?" The joints of your shoulders beg you not to move, but you've already pushed yourself up, vision blurring as your head swivels. Your feet scramble for purchase on the powdery snow, but something tugs at you from behind, throws you off balance.
It's your parachute, tangled within the branches of the tree above you, leashing you. Closing your frigid hands around the material is near impossible, fingers so frozen that they can hardly bend. You've barely enough strength to disconnect yourself.
"Bob?" You try again.
No answer.
There's a numbness in your legs as you stumble closer to the roaring flames. On its own, the world seesaws, leaving you to stumble as you struggle to keep upright. You only mean to take one step left, but that singular step becomes two, four, five.
The ground comes back up and smacks you in the hip.
From down here, you can see the boot better, but you can't the leg attached to the foot that occupies it. Or maybe...that's three boots. They're right in front of you, but when you reach out to touch them, your hand can't seem to reach. Scooting forward, you swipe out and try again. All you get is snow.
But they're right there.
Forward a little more. Nothing. Something within the jet pops, wicked flames bursting out in a mushroom-shaped plume. Ravenous heat claws at your skin, threatens to eat right through you. Just a little closer. Just a little...
your hand grabs hold of the boot, vision centering a little. Around you, the wind spins like a top, but even through the haze, you realize something.
There isn't a body attached at all.
Your head feels like someone's just filled it with lead. The colorful hues of red, mere feet away from your face, threatens to reach out and melt the skin from your cheeks. You need to move. You know you do, but even as you tell yourself to move, your body refuses.
The collar of your flight suit tightens as you're yanked backward.
In the blink of an eye, you've got control again, wriggling, fighting to turn around as you're drug away by the thin material of your collar. Words tumble out of your mouth, but your ringing ears hardly comprehend them. Your foot catches on a rock, body flipping around and—
that face is familiar.
Cheeks patched with soot, blood pouring from a gash that stretches from his temple down to his cheek, just barely avoiding his eye. Glasses long gone, but there's a red indent between his eyes from the frames.
"Bob?" You know it's him, and yet it tumbles off your tongue anyway.
"'m here," his voice breaks, shaky.
The arm you're using to brace your weight crumples out from under you; the snow that catches you is pillowy soft, but the numbing cold stings at your skin, nevertheless. Bob's next tug on your collar is half-hearted, urging but lacking the strength to put behind it.
Next to you rests a bootless foot, bathed in a deep crimson that makes your heart sink.
On its own, your hand wanders out to hold onto his thigh, "you're hurt."
Your observation doesn't receive a response, doesn't exactly warrant one, either. Silence is better than hushed insistence that he's alright when you both know that's a downright lie. Instead, he shifts to rest his weight on his forearm, curling his body around yours as a viciously strong wind ripples past. The fire behind you spikes with a roar, heat blasting.
His free hand strokes the side of your head, thumb swiping at what you only assume to be blood, "what's the last thing you remember?"
And where the hell is your helmet?
There's a fogginess to your memory. You remember waking up to Natasha snoring and Bradley clapping his hand over your shoulder a bit too hard on your way out of the cafeteria. But you don't remember taking off, and your memory lacks a single shred of where you flew.
But your ears vividly recall a flurry of voices coming through your radio. Your bones still rattle with the vibrations of a too-close-for-comfort explosion, a missile narrowly avoided. A tiny voice screams out from the commotion, barely audible over it all.
"I remember you telling me to brake left," you shouldn't be leaning up into Bob's touch the way that you are.
His response takes some time, but eventually, he hums, "I didn't account for the one comin' up from beneath us."
After all this, you'd better get a raise and a vacation.
It's hard to miss the faint hum that cuts through the air. Too far away for you to see, but even through the ringing in your ears, the sound is unmistakable. Bob's head lifts, tilted toward the direction that it's coming from.
Muscles aching, you push yourself up to your knees, ignoring the angered twinges of muscles that beg you to stay still. Shelter. You need shelter. Bob doesn't require any urging, already has one hand braced on the trunk of a tree as he heaves himself up.
A yelp ripples through the chilly air, echoing through the forest around you.
It's not until Bob falls back into the snow that you realize who it came from. Crimson drips from his trembling foot like a waterfall; beneath, dull white shines through.
"'m okay," his voice wavers, "I'm okay." With his good leg, he shields the wound from your view, but you know what you saw.
The whirring of that helicopter is growing louder. Closer.
"No, you're not," but there's no time for you to grill him on it. He's already trying to get up again, breathing through gritted teeth as he's forced to put weight on his injury. You know your backseater too well for your own good. Already know he's not going to ask for help.
And that's exactly why you lift his arm and shove yourself beneath it.
"You don't need to do that," he fusses, but all it takes is one step forward for him to gasp and lean against you. That foot can't bear weight, and you both know it.
Liar.
It's hard to tell where you're going, but with the whirring of those helicopter blades growing louder, you don't have much of a choice. The only thing you know is that you flew in from the South-West; your best bet is to head in that direction. Search and rescue has a better chance of finding you there.
But only if your enemy doesn't follow the patches of red that mark your trail.
Your swollen shoulder strains under Bob's weight, so sore that even the slightest of pressure has you gritting your teeth to bear it. Fuck, never mind your shoulder; everything hurts. As your weary feet tread through the snow, it's difficult to tell what's just sore and what's been injured. Though, you've got a sneaking feeling that your shoulders and ribs are decorated with some hellish bruising.
And yet, even as he limps along by your side, suffering through the same ejection pains you are, Bob still has it in him to smile at you. It's watery, faltering when that mangled foot is forced to touch the ground, and it doesn't quite meet his eyes, but it's there.
"Bobby—"
"'m alright," he turns his head off to the side, shielding his eyes from your sight. You hate that you know what he's trying to do. Those baby blues tell a story too heavy for his tongue to bear; if they meet with yours, they'll start talking.
It's the one reason why he can't play poker.
"What's that brown mass on our right?" It's hard to tell if he's trying to change the subject or if he's actually trying to figure out what he's looking at.
The muscles in your neck are tight, making it difficult for you to turn your head. "We need to get you Lasik after this," joking through the pain, you squint in the direction Bob's transfixed on. Trees, trees, more trees, a clearing, followed by, you guessed it, more trees. You don't see what he's—
oh
wait.
Tucked up against a steep hill sits a tiny shack. The paint has long since withered away, leaving behind nothing but brown, rotting planks. The front of it bows forward, the neglected roof sinking inward, but it's shelter.
A shelter that might collapse on you. But that whirring is growing louder and louder. The ground hums with the motions of the unknown helicopter's blades. You're in no place to argue.
"It's some sort of shack," you observe aloud, fighting the urge not to hasten your step.
It's a longer walk than it looks. It would be easy to sprint through the clearing, but Bob can't run in this state. There's no guarantee someone won't spot you from overhead. By your side, Bob meekly hobbles along; blood no longer stains the snow, but his noises grow with every step. Little grunts of pain that burn you to the core.
That helicopter just keeps getting closer and closer and closer. And finally, you see it emerge over the horizon; looks nothing like the ones back on the aircraft carrier. That's not search and rescue.
"They don't see us yet," Bob's words are rushed, jumbled together as he tries to move a little quicker. Grunting with every step, eyes bolting shut.
You're almost there. Just a few more steps. Just a few more.
"Almost there," you grunt, stumbling in tune with his hobbled steps, "almost there."
You don't even get to touch the door handle.
It's hard to tell whose foot gets caught in who's. All you know is that you're falling forward. Shoulder slamming into a flimsy wooden door that gives at the slightest amount of pressure. The decrepit floor knocks the breath from your lungs. Leaves you struggling to garner another breath.
Rusty hinges wail as the door swings shut behind you. Oddly...human.
Light barely filters through the tiny, broken windows, illuminating a cracked fireplace and what looks to be a shelf that's fallen off the wall. The very definition of bare bones.
Movement on your left has you turning your head.
Bob's shoulders shake like leaves in the Autumn wind. Laying on his belly, pretty face buried in the crook of his arm, concealing the tears that you already know are there. The blades of the helicopter are loud, but his wobbly breaths are louder.
Careful, as if moving too quickly will hurt him, you reach out to smooth your hand along his shoulder blades. Only serves to make him shake a little harder, sniffles escaping even as he visibly tries to swallow them down.
"'m fine." Not daring to lift his head.
"No, you're not." Running your hand upward, you dare to run your fingers through his messy hair, the damp locks remarkably soft, even now.
You can't be doing this. Touching his hair only makes you want to gather him up in your arms and kiss those tears off his cheeks. Your tongue already bears the words you'd whisper into his ears, sweet nothings and reminders that his feelings matter to you.
"Bobby," you try again, this time allowing the pads of your fingers to skitter across his temple. His jaw moves, ready to speak. You beat him to it. "Don't you dare tell me you're fine."
That's enough to get his head raising, red eyes peeking out from the corner of his elbow. Those baby blues meet with yours, immediately flickering away as if your gaze has just burned him.
"Me whining about being hurt is going to do nothing but get on your nerves," he murmurs, his voice barely audible, and yet his words burn themselves right into your skin, "it doesn't fix any—"
"Moron," even being shot out of the sky cannot knock the attitude from you, "you never got upset when I dislocated my ankle and whined about it for a week straight. Why would I ever get upset with you?"
Bob's eyelashes flutter, voice raising by an octave as if it'll strengthen his argument, "I didn't want to upset you."
"I love you too much to get upset with you for being in pain."
Silence.
Your mouth feels like it's full of lead. Face growing even colder than it was out in the snow. Did that really just fly off your tongue? Now of all times?
On second thought, being gunned down by that helicopter doesn't sound so bad. "I'm sorry, I—"
"D'you really mean that?" Well, he doesn't sound upset, at least. Shallowly, you nod.
You don't expect him to lift his head from behind the barricade of his folded arms, opting to rest his head on top of them instead. The hand that was just in his hair slides down to the dusty floor, limp. Bob watches it as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. Even reaches out to run his fingers along a tear in your glove. They curl around it, loosely holding your hand as he looks back up at you.
And he just...stares. A quiet transfixion on your face, like it's the first time he's ever seen you. Taking in every detail, every wrinkle and crease that your skin has to offer. His head moves forward by just a fraction, but then an awkward smile overtakes him, and he has to look away.
Your synchronous inhale is so loud that it echoes through this tiny, one-room shack. Bob tilts his head back to you, seemingly unable to take his eyes off of you. Next to his head, his fingers twist together, like they always do when he's deep in thought. You wonder if he can hear the way your heart pounds against your chest like a drum. Any stronger, and it just might break free of its confines.
Bob's moving. Pushing his weight up onto a forearm, tilting his body towards you. Hesitates, just shy of bumping his nose into yours. Again, your eyes meet. Getting shot down was scarier than this.
Hesitant lips press against your own, slotting together like puzzle pieces. There's nothing else to it, each holding it in fear of the other having second thoughts. Only lasts a few seconds, but it feels as if you spent forever there.
"We shouldn't...be doing this," you find yourself saying as if you're not actively curling your hands around his bruised cheeks, "if Cyclone finds out..."
"Fuck Cyclone." And then Bob's lips are on yours again, no thought required.
It's cruel how easily you fit together. You have a sea of options out there, and yet only Bob Floyd's lips fit against yours so flawlessly. Only your backseater smells of suede and jasmine because he can't stay out of that Polo Blue cologne to save his life. The hand that curls around your cheek feels as if it belongs there. This is how things always should have been.
The angle is awkward; you want to wrap your arms around his neck, but one of your arms is stuck, bracing your body weight, while the other awkwardly flings around to rest between his shoulder blades.
A shy hand presses against your belly, urging you to sink back against the floor. You don't know what possesses you to comply, but the feeling of Bob settling on top of you is something else entirely. Gasping as he disturbs his injury, but unable to draw himself away. Your knees rise, caging either side of his lithe hips; Bob's not wide by any means, but with him between them, your legs feel like they're spread for miles.
"Bobby," panting against his lips.
"'ve got ya," one of his hands glides up your sides, working its way beneath your heavy gear, greedily taking in what lies beneath him. Your back arches, leaning into the touch; haven't felt someone touch you like this in so long that it's foreign.
The desperate need for air is the only thing that can drive a wedge between you, lungs stinging as you gasp for much-needed oxygen. Even that can't stop you from leaning back up, still panting as you press a wayward kiss to his exposed neck. Faintly, Bob's breath catches.
"'m probably sweaty," he warns, but his words fall on deaf ears. You're already dragging your tongue along a protruding vein, sealing it with a wet kiss. "Oh, that's..." the words die with nothing but a sigh.
You've waited your entire life to hear him make that noise. "You're lucky your gear is keeping me from your collarbone," it's more of a cautionary remark than it is anything else. You're itching to nibble on those pretty, exposed bones, can only imagine what sounds he would make.
It only takes him five motions. One to unclasp his life jacket. Two to undo the strap across the chest. One to pull the underlying zipper down and another to shrug the harness off his shoulders, letting it fall down to rest against his hips.
Hallelujah.
Bruises scatter his collarbones and shoulders, glaringly sore but so sensitive as you gingerly work your way down to plant kisses on them. Feather-light, teeth only grazing so as to not hurt him. The motion leaves your neck exposed, giving him the perfect opportunity to press his wet lips to the skin beneath your ear.
"Shit," you hiss, fingertips curling against his shoulder blades. He doesn't say anything, but you can feel his mouth curling against your skin.
His hips dip down, moving on their own accord, something hard brushing against your core. With a strained noise, Bob freezes, nose wrinkling with the grimace that laces his features.
"Were you trying to grind on me, pretty boy?" Teasing. A futile distraction from the pain.
Cheeks heating red, he nods, "'n I got my karma for it, too."
It was just a simple brush, not even full contact, but you've already gotten hooked on that feeling. This isn't the time, nor is it the place. You can already hear the downright fit Cyclone is going to have when he catches wind of this.
Bob's eyebrows raise just a fraction, "yeah?"
Motivated by spite alone, your fingers are already halfway through fumbling with the confines of your harness. Wouldn't have even realized you were doing it had Bob not said anything. It takes some squirming; getting that harness off your legs is harder than it looks, and Bob can only get it down to his knees before he needs assistance.
The millisecond you get that harness safely off his ankle, you plant two firm hands on his chest and push.
"Jesus," he chuckles, arms opening up to welcome you as you climb on top of him.
It's easier this way. You've got to do most of the work, but it keeps Bob from disturbing his ankle. And now, there is nothing that can stop you from tentatively straddling his hips, ass brushing against a hardness that you hope to become overly familiar with someday.
"Better?" You chirp, back aching as you lean down to meet his waiting lips.
As the gap closes, he hums, "better."
Beneath your hands, you can feel his heart pitter-pattering away, soft little thumps that mirror the one that rattles through your weary bones. In the back of your head, a familiar little voice asks you if rolling your hips down into Bob's hard-on is a good idea. There may be no going back from this. The last thing you need is for Cyclone to split you two up and never let you fly together again.
But Bob's sharp inhale tells you that this is a very, very good idea. "Sweetheart," it's hard to tell if it's the pet name or the deep, guttural groan that sends your head spinning, "'m not sure you wanna do that to me."
Eyeroll. "But, Bob~" singsonging.
"But Weave," he whines back, twitching up to rub against the curve of your ass. His eyes scrunch shut, ankle disturbed, but it doesn't hinder him in the slightest. "If we do this," grunting, "I don't think I'm ever gonna be able to get my hands off of ya."
Should you be making major decisions fresh out of a crash? Probably not.
Will you make that decision anyway? Yes.
Leaning down, you allow your mouth to open, teeth grazing the shell of his pale ear, "maybe that's what I want." And that ear goes ruby red in the blink of an eye.
Hands running up your sides, Bob bats his pretty eyes up at you, "then lead the way, pilot."
In all of your whimsy daydreams, you've never come up with a scenario quite like this one. Your quiet, sweet-eyed backseater, laying beneath you in a decrepit shack in the middle of God-knows-where, fresh after an ejection. But somehow, as your hips begin to work themselves against Bob's clothed bulge, and as his hands timidly draw up to cup your breasts, you can't help but realize how fitting it is.
His hips unintentionally shift, and in that simple motion, everything changes. Even through the material of your flight suits, you can feel the outline of him pressing deliciously against your cunt. Not much friction, but it's just enough to have both of your heads rolling, surprised gasps falling from your lips.
You don't know when he's found the opportunity to unzip your g suit, the material that was once wrapped snuggle around your waist, now hanging low on your thighs. But now those deft fingers toy with the zipper of your flight suit, waiting on your command. Rolling your hips once more, you nod.
Bob can't get it down quick enough, barely gets the zipper halfway before he's reaching beyond, hands remarkably warm as they slide beneath your shirt. Those dull nails drag just right, tickling your skin.
"So damn soft," he muses, and with the way he's stroking up your spine, you almost think he's petting you.
They're on the move again, concealed by the distraction of his hips rising up to meet you halfway. Your bra shifts as those wandering hands dive beneath it, doing nothing but feel the shape of you in his palms. Thumbs flick across your nipples, sends your body jerking.
"Jesus, Bobby," squirming as he toys with them, you idly fumble with the side-zipper of his g suit.
"You're lucky there's snow on the ground," he's not even looking at your face, absolutely consumed by what's going on beneath your shirt, "else I'd be beggin' to get this blasted shirt off your pretty lil' frame."
"We can—" fuck, it's hard to talk with him handling your chest like that, "we can save that for when we're sneaking around on the carrier."
"We ain't never gonna hear the end of it," he rolls his hips with yours as he speaks, "Bob and Weave, validatin' everythin' them Admiral's keep sayin' 'bout us."
Just as quickly as he'd reached under your shirt, he retreats, instead taking hold of your devilishly spiraling hips. The pressure tells you to move forward, but when you do, he keeps asking you to move further.
"Bob...?" You're fully sitting on his chest now, and he's still wordlessly asking you to move up.
He reaches up, dragging that zipper down as far as it will go. Right down between your quivering thighs, exposing the flimsy shorts you're wearing beneath. Whether or not he recognizes that these are his own shorts is a different topic entirely.
"Up a little more, sweet thing," he urges once more, "want you sittin' on my face."
Oh.
You don't even know what to think. It's hard to believe that your innocent backseater even know this was a thing, to begin with, but here he is, hooking an index finger into the crook of your shorts and panties. His breath is hot against your sensitive skin, enough to have you trying to rise up and away from the feeling.
"What if you can't breathe?" Bracing your hands on the ground beneath his head.
Brilliant blue eyes flick up to take in your expression. "Good."
And with both of his hands gripping your hips, he leans up and drags his dripping tongue right between your folds. Broad, flat as he spreads you open with it, fuck, that's a hell of a feeling. With you distracted, he pulls you downward, forcing you to sit on his pretty face.
"Bobby," fuck, fuck, fuck, his tongue flicking against your swelling clit is something else.
The bastard hums, somehow already understanding what you mean when you whimper his name. Already knows that the fingers tangling in his hair are a good thing. If you'd thought his breath was hot, this is something else entirely. The wet muscle that laps at your cunt burns hotter than the flames that consumed your aircraft, threatens to burn right through you.
Only plays with your clit for long enough to have you whimpering his name under hushed breaths before lapping his way down, down, down to your neglected entrance. Tonguing it, tracing your sensitive rim before pushing inside. The soft tip of his nose presses into your clit, paying it attention while his tongue works in and out of you.
"Fuck, fuck, Bobby," you hope there aren't any foot soldiers looking for you; they'd be able to hear you a mile away, "how the hell did you—ah, even know about this?"
You shouldn't have asked that. No, no, you shouldn't have because now he's peering up at you as he works your sensitive cunt, "y'talked 'bout it one night at the Hard Deck." He doesn't even try to pull away as he speaks, words vibrating right up your spine. "Been dreamin' 'bout it ever since."
Then he's drawing back up, swirling around the swollen bud that he can't seem to leave alone, "Can y'imagine the heart attack this'd give Mav?" How long has he been hiding lewd words under a sheepish smile? "Find'n out I've got my pilots sweet lil' pussy on my tongue right after I promised I wouldn't?"
Mav. Poor bastard spent the past month convincing Cyclone you and Bob weren't seconds away from jumping each other's bones, only for it to actually happen the moment he turned his back. Not a soul on that carrier has a clue. They don't even know you're alive, never mind squirming on your backseater's face as he laps at your pussy like it's his nine-to-five.
That thought alone sends something tightening in your gut. Familiar.
"'m close," you gasp, tugging at his short locks, "don't wanna cum like this."
Bob pauses midstroke, seems to think a little before speaking, "how d'ya wan' it?"
"I'd rather cum around your cock," not even missing a beat.
And even with his face right between your legs, tongue fresh off your pussy, Robert Floyd has the audacity to turn beet fucking red.
"Well," suddenly unable to meet your eye, "then...be my guest?"
You hate him, you think, as you squirm back down, dragging his flight suit zipper along with you. You hate, hate, hate this motherfucker and his ability to sway so seamlessly between demanding and sheepish.
Beneath his flight suit, his shirt has risen up, revealing a milky-white tummy that absolutely demands a kiss or two. Even if the angle is awkward and puts a strain on your already sore neck.
"'r you really kissin' my belly right now?" Combing his fingers against your scalp, but that doesn't sound like a complaint to you.
"I've gotta do what I've gotta do," the cold tip of your nose nuzzles the smooth skin that resides just next to the waistband of his shorts. Your fingers itch to pull them down, but his flight suit creates a hell of a conundrum. You can't even catch glimpse of his pale thighs, and those are probably an eighth-world wonder on their own.
Next time.
For now, you'll have to be content with pushing the loose material of his shorts upward enough so that you can see his briefs lurking beneath. Even from here, you can see the strain he's putting on the material, makes it easy to find him when you reach past.
"Shit," he hisses, hips rising as you take hold of him at the base. Slowly, slowly, you guide him out, finding yourself amused as he chases your touch until he no longer can.
He's bigger than you thought he would be. A considerable weight in your palm, pale-pink tip silky soft as you toy with it. You hope there will come a day when you can sit down and see how long it takes him to get off from you playing with that mushroom tip. Because right now, as he bites his lip to stifle his noises, you don't think it would take too long.
Speaking of...
"Hah-!" That's a new sound. Peering up at him from beneath your lashes, you poke your tongue out and run it against his length once more. Clamping his hand over his mouth, he reaches down to bat you away from his poor cock, "'gonna get us caught if ya keep doin' that."
Maybe that's the point. Dying with his cock in your mouth. What a way to go.
Cautiously, you settle yourself up on his lap, one hand braced on his sturdy chest while the other guides him to where you want him the most. Blunt head spreading your folds with such ease that it's as if he was made to do it. Once you apply the slightest bit of pressure but allow him to slip forward, just a slight taste that has him grumbling beneath you.
Drawing him back, he catches on your entrance, and slowly, as if moving too quickly will break him, you allow yourself to sink down. It's been a long while since the last time you felt the growing pressure that comes with such an intrusion, gradually stretching to accommodate his girth.
You want to make a remark over the way he downright whimpers into the back of his hand, but you can't so much as make a noise. A little too distracted by how your walls mold to fit the shape of your backseater, filling spaces you forgot you even had. Then your hips are flush together, and it's as if your voice has been punched back into you.
"Fuck, Robby," panting like a dog, you're forced to brace yourself against his chest with both hands or else you'll collapse into a messy heap on top of him, "you could've at least warned me that you were packing."
He rolls his eyes. You hope they get stuck back there. "'m not that big," but he is, and it's so dizzyingly delicious to feel inside of you. Not necessarily long, but thick enough to warrant a wide-load sign.
Experimentally, you lift your hips, testing the waters as you rise up, then slowly sink back down onto him. He hasn't even hit anything special, and yet it's enough to have your lips parting with a silent sound. You haven't the slightest clue where he's finding the strength to swivel his hips beneath you, blindly searching on each timid upward stroke.
And then your breath is hitching, stars sparkling beneath your eyelids as his plush head finds the neglected bundle of nerves hidden within those gooey walls. There it is.
"Better?" He chirps, smiling. Evidently, he's not just good with buttons and switches in fighter jets.
Nodding. "Better"
Drawing yourself up quicker now, barely clinging to his chest as you find your pace. Something shallow enough to avoid the aching in your thighs but quick enough to give you what you want. His head downright nails that poor little spot, has your cunt fluttering around him like a damn butterfly.
"Look so beautiful on top of me," he whines, absolutely awe-struck by the way your body moves, working up and down like you've trained for this moment all your life. His hips twitch upward, weakly meeting you halfway, and rips a surprised cry right out of your throat. "Fuck, 's that what you need, darlin'?"
"Just like that, Bobby," you don't even know what you're saying, only capable of moving a little quicker, desperate to feel him strike that sensitive bundle again and again and again. "Bobby, just like that."
You want more. Need to hear his soft grunts that follow every lewd smack of skin on skin, need more of everything he has to offer you, but your thighs are growing sore. Muscles burning, begging you to stop.
"Can't," you're trying, but your legs just aren't having it, unable to chase the familiar tightening of your core as you ride him. "I can't keep—"
"I got ya," there's an unfamiliar strength to his hands as they tighten around your hips. His upward thrusts are weak, but he pulls you down into them so hard that you can hardly notice a difference.
Two motions of his hips, and you're crumbling like a house of cards, collapsing into his chest. All of a sudden, his name is the only thing you're capable of uttering, face hiding in the crook of his sweaty neck. You don't know where this is coming from, but you pray it never goes away.
"So good for me," he mindlessly babbles against your temple, "cum on my cock for me, sweetie."
His words have you clamping down around him like a vice, writhing as he fucks you. Rhythm faltering but downright merciless as he works that sensitive spot over and over, sends a fire rippling up your belly. Skin prickling as it builds, your mouth starts to move on its own. "Bobby, Bobby."
"Cum, darlin'," and he's saying more, some whispered encouragement to give it to him, but you don't need it.
One, two, three more pumps of his cock, and you're biting down into his collarbone, unable to stop the strangled squeal that he just about jackhammers out of you. Distantly, you can feel his hips stalling, an unfamiliar heat filling you, but your head is back up in the clouds. Foggy, the air so thin that you can't catch your breath as you weakly pulse around his dick.
But this time, when you open your eyes after a long while, you don't find yourself surrounded by snow and an unfamiliar forest. No, you're wrapped in the strong arms of your Weapons Systems Officer, cock still wedged in you as he presses kisses to your sweaty forehead.
"Y'still with me?" He coos into your temple.
Nodding, "barely."
It's twelve hours before search and rescue are finally deployed to come and find you. It takes another twelve for them to release you and Bob from debriefing hell. It's an hour after that when the honorary "they're not dead!" celebration takes off. The cafeteria that houses the impromptu event reeks of alcohol, which may be the reason why nobody catches you and your backseater sneaking out of your own party.
"I still can't believe you didn't break it," you muse, too focused on rewrapping Bob's ankle to pay attention to the fingers that stroke your cheek. The countless stitches look worse than the original gash itself did, sends a chill down your spine every time you see it.
"See? I told you I was fine," his eye-roll is audible in his tone, never has been good at hiding it.
Not missing a beat, you nip at his thumb, chasing his hand away from your face. You need to focus. The last thing you want to do is wrap his ankle too loosely or too tightly. But as you place the metal clasp back into his gauze, your work doesn't look too far off from the medics.
"Better?"
"Not yet," tapping his lips, "'m still missing a little something."
Huffing, you lean up, meeting his lips halfway. You fear that you're slowly creating a kiss fiend. "Now, is it better?"
All of it is worth it when you get to see his face light up, features laced with a grin so big that his eyes wrinkle with it. "Better."
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SUMMARY: in which the Abbott's nanny and Rhett Abbott take playing house a little too far, or, alternatively, in which Rhett Abbott is so responsible.
SHIP: afab!reader x Rhett Abbott
WARNINGS: explicit content (minors stay out), unprotected p n v, and f (kinda) receiving oral, sub!reader, Rhett Abbott is just itching for a wife and you're begging for a husband. age gap mentioned but it's not a huge gap. strong breeder kink energy #BKE, barn sex (does that need to be a warning?), you guys kinda have playful banter before and after. it's giving porn with a plot. it's also giving forbidden romance with the "oh this bitch is our nanny" but it's more like domestic yearning turned freak off ;). you guys are also building a chicken coop together so labor warning? #idon'tdreamofdoinglabor
WORD COUNT: 6.1K
SONG: tears by sabrina carpenter
"I get wet at the thought of you - being a responsible guy!"
A/N: hello sexies, it's me. I've returned with erotica of my favorite cowboy. I've been trying to be semi-regular with this account but life has been so busy lately. Rhett Abbott is literally... i be thinking about him and he makes me giggle. like a school girl with a crush. it's embarrassing. pls don't tell my boyfriend. so I had to write this. kinda in my man's best friend era. as always, reblogs, comments, likes, and shares are greatly appreciated!
.·:*¨༺♱༻¨*:·.
Nannying for the Abbotts wasn’t easy work, but it was honest work. You come in at 8am every morning just to take Amy to school, and do household work until it’s time to pick her up. You only started working with the Abbotts after Rachel’s disappearance, or her willingly leaving, the jury was still out on which one it is. Perry Abbott hired you to be there for Amy until Rachel came back or was found. To be like a mother for her; nine months later, you still have a job. You felt for Perry, he was a working man and without Rachel around, it was hard to be a working man and a father.
Good thing Rhett Abbott was around too.
The (usually) irresponsible, rugged, and reckless Rhett Abbott was nothing of the sort when it came to his niece. She was receiving the princess treatment most women dreamed of having, and from someone who’ll love her unconditionally, nonetheless. Kindness that eventually extended over to you. At times, you and Rhett would drive to Amy’s school and pick her up, take her out, and get her ready for bed. It was hard to view Rhett as the bull rider, the occasional drunk, the dirty rancher. When he was around you and Amy, he was nothing short of a gentleman.
It drove you up the wall.
Mainly because Rhett would pretty much do your job for you, which made you wonder why you woke up so early to be there in the first place; But also because Rhett was cheeky about his kindness. It was like you were Mary Poppins, and Rhett was the chimney sweeper that didn’t care about anything else but having a good time. Of course, you only thought this as Amy fell asleep on your lap while watching Mary Poppins. Always asking you for permission to do something as if you weren't an employee of the ranch. As if it wasn’t his home. Bastard.
Rhett was one of the busiest people you knew. Growing up in Wabaang, you knew the Abbotts were hard working and didn’t care for nonsense. Yet, for some reason, and on most days, Rhett was caught up in doing things for you and Amy. It was easy to chalk it up to an uncle wanting to do something nice for his niece, wanting to distract her from whatever was going on with her father. It was harder to accept any other answer that could explain his playful, and sometimes, flirty nature towards you. Rhett has always had the biggest crush on that bank teller, Maria, he wasn’t going to fall for some twenty something year old playing house with his niece.
Amy had been getting into buttonquails. Which was a problem for a while. Normal kids want dogs, or maybe a cat. Perry would’ve been fine with a bunny or something. But buttonquails? It seemed absurd. You understood, especially after seeing some pictures of the fully grown birds. Perry gave her the thumbs up, said that it was perfectly fine to have maybe two or three quails. Then Rhett went and ordered five quails, and has been helping Amy raise them in the incubator while you watch from the clothesline, folding laundry. God, no wonder Maria was all over Rhett, look how gentle he is with Amy, and with the quails (conveniently named the Chicks after…well, the Chicks). The way he held them, the way his sleeves were rolled up, with his jeans covered in dirt and the sun glistening on his sweaty arms; such a hard worker. What a good, honest man. So…responsible.
Yes, Rhett Abbott was driving you up the wall.
And today was no different, Amy was at a friend's house and you were stuck doing the dishes. From the corner of your eye, you can see Rhett’s truck pull in, and your eyes followed him as he got plywood from the back of his truck and took it to the barn. You hate to admit that you were watching him a bit too closely, because your eyes met briefly, and when they did, he signaled you to come over. Your facial expression gave off annoyed, but deep down, you were elated. You washed the soap suds off your hands and stepped outside; wearing a blue gingham top, jean shorts with stars on them, brown cowboy boots, and your hair flowing in the wind.
Rhett smiled over at you and held up the plywood. “Hey lady.” he smirked. “Guess what I got.”
You cross your arms. “Let me guess, arrested?” you joked.
He shook his head. “I ain’t even gon’ argue with you about how dumb that was, too psyched about this.” he pulled out cans of paint. “Y’know how Amy’s growin’ fond of the Chicks?” he asked, and you nodded. “Well, the Chicks are gettin’ big. We don’t got a coop for them yet, so I'm gonna build one for her, paint it pink.” He said with a grin, getting a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handing it to you.
You examine the page, seeing a drawn out coop in crayon. You smiled softly. “She was telling me about the petal pavilion.” you hummed. “Yeah? Well, I'm gonna make it a reality for her. Gonna be a sweet surprise. You’re…more than welcomed to help out.” Rhett offered, his brown eyes staring over as he tipped his hat. God, always taking Amy into consideration, always wanting to make sure she’s happy. Being so paternal. It does something to your stomach. You hand him back the drawing. “Can’t today, cowboy. Got laundry to do.”
“Cmon, it needs a woman’s touch.”
You could think of a couple of other things that needed a woman’s touch, but you divulge. “I’m serious, Rhett. Perry’s out doin’ god knows what, and your folks are out of town. Maybe later when it’s time to paint it.” you hummed.
Rhett nodded. “Alright, whatever you say, lady.” he sounds a bit defeated. “If you need any help again with feeding the quails, don’t be afraid to ask. The last thing I need is for you to get stressed out even more without Amy being here.”
You scoff. “I know how to feed quails, Rhett.” your voice slightly raises as he walks away from you, a small smile overcoming you as he whipped around. “Whatever you say, lady!” he yelled back with a smile, disappearing into the barn. Lady. It got on your nerves, even if it was endearing. To be fair, you were years younger than him. When he was a senior in high school, you were a freshman. Now you’re twenty something and he’s pushing thirty. If anything, you could yell back ‘whatever, old man.’ Yet, it didn’t feel right. Whatever. You turn back around and walk to the home, trying to finish up your chores before you have to go pick up Amy from her friend’s house.
In the back of your mind, however, all you could think about was Rhett building that coop. That red flannel fit him perfectly, so did those Wrangler jeans, fitting so perfectly around his hips. He smelled like saw dust, yes, but also pine. Was he using pine wood for the coop? Or was it cedar? You couldn’t help but stop to think about how his eyes twinkled at you when he asked for your help. A big man like him could do it on his own, but it was just more sweeter than he wanted you there.
And when you were doing the laundry, and got the first load into the wash tub, you couldn't help but get a whiff of his cologne. When you were doing the dishes, you couldn’t help but notice how he put everything away before you got there. When you were cleaning the front of the home, near the door, you couldn't help but look at old family photos of the Abbotts; when they were all younger. Rhett was a bit of an ugly duckling, a funny looking kid…God, you wanted one.
You ovulating wasn’t helping your cause.
You weren't seriously attracted to Rhett Abbott though, right? You couldn’t be. Maybe just for today, hopefully…?
You hadn’t been with anyone for a while either, not that you didn’t want to be celibate, Wabaang is just a small town where gossip spreads fast. Aside from a few eligible bachelors, there were the Tillersons. It would be beyond conflicting if you slept with a Tillerson boy while working for the Abbotts, considering their feud. It sucked that Rhett wasn’t one of those eligible bachelors you could muck around with.
Later in the afternoon, you passed by the barn with a basket full of wet laundry. The clothesline was next to the barn, since Mrs. Abbott's herb garden was next to the home. You glanced in the barn and saw Rhett hammering in a nail, while another hung from his lips. His flannel was off now, and he was left in a white wifebeater. Sweaty, tanned, lifting things, setting things down, hammering, hammering, hammering. You were pretty much drooling before catching yourself spying on him. You knocked on the barn door and smiled, setting the basket of wet laundry down.
He glanced up at you, a tight smile forming as he took the nail out of his mouth. “Hey lady.” he hummed. “Was just thinking about when you were gonna come out here, you off to get Amy any time soon?” he asked.
You shook your head. “Maybe in like an hour or two. Why? What do you need?” you saunter over to the nearly finished coop. It was actually impressive how much he got done in such little time. He chuckled softly to himself. “Why you always thinking I need somethin’ from you?”
“Isn’t that why I’m here?” you chirped.
Rhett smirked to himself. “Sure, maybe.” He looked down at his boots. “Help me paint the coop.” he stated, more as a demand rather than a favor. “I know I know, you’re busy with the…” he waves his hand around. “The laundry, but Amy will appreciate this a lot more than having the laundry done.” he joked. Touche. It would mean a lot to Amy if the coop was done when she got home. The look on her face would mean everything to the both of you. So you turned over to Rhett, and gave him a weak smile. “You’re right, I got nothin’ better to do.”
“That’s the spirit.” His voice rang, almost sounding too cheery to be out of kindness and more from excitement. He reached over for the plastic paint pans and poured a light pink shade into them, handing you a small paint brush before dipping his own in the paint. “Never get to really talk to you without Amy around, just wanted to thank you.” he turned to you. Thank you? Since when you were ever thanked for anything around here. Sure, you were paid handsomely for your time, but never out right thanked. You listened intently as Rhett continued. “Perry was a mess when Rachel…well.” he sighed softly. “He was against gettin’ help, thought he could do it all on his own. If it wasn’t for mama and I pushing him to hire a nanny, he would be drivin’ himself crazy.”
“It’s the least I could do, I can’t imagine a child losing a mother like that.” you said as you swiped the paintbrush across the wood. “You’re pretty good with her, never thought you had a soft underbelly like that.” you joked, hoping that it would land.
He chuckled. “Well, now you know.” he smiled at you. “What, you thought someone like me couldn’t be levelheaded and calm n’ shit?” he nudged towards you.
You shook your head. “I’ve seen you get into a bar fight once with a Tillerson over a football game, so no, I didn’t believe you could be levelheaded and calm n’ shit.” you sarcastically jabbed. “I’m…glad I was wrong.” you said softly.
“Wait, what was that?” he turned to you, giving you the biggest shit eating grin you’ve ever seen. You already regretted telling him that. You sighed. “Don’t make me take that back, cowboy.” you declared, not wanting to hear Rhett gloat about every good deed he’s ever done. But it was too late, Rhett was already buttering himself up. “I think you said you were wrong about somethin’.” he smirked. Why did he have to look at you that way? It made your stomach churn, your cheeks red, and your blood rush to all sorts of sensitive places.
“Look, all I said was that you were pretty good with your niece, that’s bare minimum.” Yet, you couldn’t help but be in awe over it.
“Yeah, it’s practice.”
Practice? You cocked an eyebrow as your arm stopped painting for a second. “Being an uncle and being a father are two very different things, Rhett. That’s like if I thought being a nanny was great practice for being a mom.” you clarified. “You never gave off the impression that you wanted children in the future or to even be married. Does Maria know?”
You saw Rhett's demeanor change, he cleared his throat and looked down at the floor, halting his own painting in the process, as his shoulders slowly slumped. “Maria and I…” his voice faded softly. “We didn’t work out.” he kept it short.
“Rhett…” you spoke softly. “I’m…sorry, I didn’t know-”
“-It’s fine, lady.” He scratched the back of his neck, starting to paint again. “Seriously, we just wanted different things outta life. She’s movin’ to Boston and, well, my life is here. Can’t uproot my life for a woman who doesn’t want what I want. Make the same mistake Perry did with Rachel.” he turned to you. “Besides, Amy can’t lose anyone else.” God, so loyal. Surprisingly reflective. “It’s nice you know what you want, feel like most boys my age won’t ever know what they want.” you expressed.
Rhett lightly laughed. “Yeah, that’s what bein’ in your twenties is. Never got that luxury though. Always knew what I wanted. Just feel like I’m runnin’ out of time to meet the person I wanna be with. Created a reputation for myself that can’t just be erased overnight.” he shrugged. You scoff. “Men can have babies until they’re like 90, you don’t gotta worry about time, you got your whole life to be a father.” “Yeah, but aint no way I’m getting to 90 alone.” he rebutted. “I want a wife.”
You blushed at how blunt he was, how serious he was, how…”that’s responsible of you.” you gulped softly. “Figured you’d go down the baby mama route.”
“Hell nah.” he clicked his tongue. “My woman is gonna have a ring on her finger, she’s going to be taken care of. We’ll hire another nanny so if she wants to work, she can. Joint and separate bank accounts, but she’ll never have to worry about the bills. I’ll make sure she lives a comfortable life. Hell, I’ll build us a house with my own two hands before I’ll ever let her rent some shitty duplex downtown. I’ll do everything around the house like put the dishes away or something just to make her life easier.” he proclaimed. With each passing sentence, your cheeks turned more and more red. Maybe chivalry isn’t dead. “What’s the point of everything if you ain’t got someone worthy to share it with…”
You nodded. “I get that…” you answered. “I knew how much you liked Maria, so I can’t imagine how sucky it is to lose someone you thought you were going to be with in the long haul. But it’s just like how my grandma told me; if one man won’t, another man will…well, woman, in your case.”
“Easy for you to say, lady.” he hummed. “You’re just as young n’ dumb as the boys you complain about. You’re free to mess up. I’m too old for that.”
Oh? That offended you. “But I know what I want.” You snapped back.
Rhett raises an eyebrow. “Really? This is news to me.” he shifted his posture slightly. “What is it that you want that boys your age can’t give you, huh?” he asked.
“Commitment.” you spoke. “Stability. Loyalty.” you listed off, watching Rhett’s face fall slightly. “Because believe it or not, Rhett Abbott, you’re not the only one in Wabang that wants those things, and feel like finding them here is impossible. I want a husband and a father just as badly as you want a wife and a mother.” you hummed.
Rhett bit his bottom lip and raised his eyebrows. “You? A mother?” which warranted a reaction from you. “What? You don’t think I can? You’ve seen me with Amy-” “-you once told me that the best part of your job was giving Amy back to us and going home-” “-suddenly, I’m not allowed to tell jokes, Abbott?” you asked.
Rhett put up his hands in defense. “Lady, I never said you’d be bad at it, or that I think you couldn’t be a mother. You just never expressed wantin’ that for yourself. When I was your age, I wasn’t thinkin’ that deeply about family and marriage like how I am now. It just caught me off guard, that’s all.” he reassured. “Well I guess we’re both surprising each other.” you nearly barked. “You know, I work five days-forty hours a week, practically being Amy’s mother, and half of the time I feel like I’m not really doing my job because you always insert yourself. You’re playing house just as much as I am-” “-Lady-” “-it all makes sense now, why you’re always around-” “-Y/N-” “-and here I was beating myself up because I can’t focus when you’re there, being everything I want in a man, treating me the way I'm supposed to be treated. There really is no point in trying with some other young dumb guy who’s apparently so much like me.”
Rhett looked like he got the wind knocked out of him, now he was the one with his cheeks red, his teeth tugging on his bottom lip, as you went back to painting the coop. The silence between you both stretched thin, as he looked straight at you, reading you, trying to process or gauge the situation at hand. As if you weren’t echoing his desires back to him, making passive attraction into a real possibility. He steps closer, looking down at you with a sense of longingness that you’ve never seen in his eyes. “That ain’t fair, Y/N…” he said softly. He gently grabbed the paint brush from your hand, skin brushing against each other as he kept his eyes on you. “I’ll finish this for you-” "-you don’t need to do things for me-” “-I always do things for you…felt like I was being obvious. I guess not.”
Your face flushed as you stared up into his brown eyes. You couldn’t help but feel the anxiety building up in your stomach, almost as if pining after him was going to pay off somehow, after convincing yourself that it was fruitless. Rhett’s eyes glance down at your lips. “What else do I gotta do…?” he said raspily. Maybe we’re on the same wave length, and just realized we could have that with each other. Maybe we were yearning for each other and didn’t know it.
You stared up at him, feeling your skin burn hot as his gaze fell back to your eyes. You can see it in his eyes, he wanted nothing more than to have you in this moment before the moment was gone. Your fingers slightly brush on his arm, almost testing his boundaries to see what he really wanted: and when your soft fingers grazed his arm, that same arm wrapped around your waist and pulled you into him. The smell of tobacco and pine filled your senses, as your hands fell on his sweaty chest. “What else do I have to do, Y/N?” his voice dips. “You think I don’t notice it? The way you look at me when I pass by you? The way you stare at me when I’m working?” he questioned. You tried to look away, but his other hand held your chin up, so you had no choice but to look at him.
You were starting to feel crazy for how bad you wanted him to touch you.
Your throat goes dry, you want to say something, anything. Maybe another witty comeback or a way to make the passivity last longer, when all you wanted was action. He looks at your lips. “Cmon, darlin’.” he spoke gently. “Use your words. I’ll do anything you want me to, you just gotta tell me.”
Your face burns with embarrassment, wanting more than a kiss, wanting more than just a small moment, you feel yourself melt into him as he holds onto you tightly. “You have to stop driving me crazy like this, I work for your family-” “-God, but I want you, Y/N.” he confessed. “I’ve been wanting you since-” you couldn’t take it anymore, the thought about picking Amy up from her friends house, your responsibilities, slipped through your mind. Your lips crashed into his feverishly, as if you couldn’t imagine not leaving this barn without doing that. He doesn’t hesitate, he catches you in the kiss and gives back just as much energy. He finds himself grabbing onto you as if he could lose you at any moment.
His lips softly morph into yours, as you pull away ever so slightly from the kiss. “I want you too-” you gasped out before he attached your lips to his again. He wasn’t letting you talk, not because what you had to say wasn’t important, but because he knew that if you said more, he was going to lose all self restraint. You do so anyway. “You’re so-so responsible-” “-I’m about to not be-” he confessed, before you interjected with. “-It makes me so wet for you the way you’re protective and-and consistent…”
He stares at you, a small smirk creeping onto his face as he grabs your neck and pulls you into a kiss, his tongue sweeping your bottom lip. He was such a good kisser, the way he made you feel safe to turn your brain off and just feel him. He knew what he wanted and how to get it, his hand slipping down your hips and grabbing your ass. A soft moan left you from how surprising his touch was, before feeling him lift you up and wrapping your legs around his waist. His hands claw to your back as your kiss doesn't break, gently taking you to his work bench and sitting you down. “You have no idea how fuckin’ beautiful you are” he mumbled softly against your lips, his hand attached to your neck still, slowly drifting up to your cheek, cupping it.
If only you could focus on what he was actually saying, instead, you were feeling his bulge rub up against your thigh, so you just nod along, feeling yourself get so turned on, that it was impossible to focus. “Mhm” you said back, eagerly kissing him back as your tongues brush past each other. You could nearly rip his tank top off, you’ve been wanting to do that all day. You feel yourself tug at it, pulling him in closer as he stumbles into you, his bulge pressing into your aching cunt. A groan left him. “Don’t do this to me so early, darlin’” he said. “I wanna make sure you’re ready for me.” as if the verbal sparring wasn’t enough for you.
You whined, thrusting your hips against his cock as he sucked in his breath. “Fuck.” he groaned. You persisted, soft whines escaping your lips as you tugged at Rhett’s bottom lip, feeling him trying to restrain himself from pinning you down, his breath shakes as he pulled away from the kiss. His fingers delicately go to your blue gingham top, which has been making him feral, and slipped off one strap, giving him room to place hungry kisses all over your neck. You smelled like cherries, he always loved that you smelled like cherries.
He bites down softly on your neck, as his other hand went to your zipper; where he was delicate with the shoulder straps of your top, he was reckless and eager with the zipper of your shorts. He stares down at your shorts as he tries to slide them off, his heavy breath hitting your neck as your panties slowly got exposed; the cutest pair you had, and they were soaked. Rhett took notice of this right away, seeing your wetness smeared against your inner thighs. If you smelled like cherries, you had to taste like it too, right?
Right as Rhett got on his knees in front of you, you stopped him, shutting your thighs as they shook from excitement. Rhett let out a frustrated huff, kissing your knee and looking up at you. “Cmon darlin, what’re you doin?” he asked. “Let me take care of you.”
You hesitantly shook your head. “I want your cock in me, now.” you said almost dominantly. Rhett blushes hard, he’s not used to getting bossed around, but he liked it when it came from you. He stood up slowly, his eyes on you like he was worshiping you. He grabbed your hips tightly and cupped your face, his hand going down to your throat. “What was that, darlin?” he asked, matching your dominance. “Please…” you squeak out. “I need you in me…make me a mommy, pretty please…” you whispered, pleading with him. Making it clear that you didn’t want to waste anymore time.
And he heard you, loud and clear.
“Fuck…” he groaned before kissing you, his hands busily unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants, seeing his cock get trapped by his boxers as he slipped it past the fabric. Watching it spring up with need, and already seeing precum dripping from his tip. He was getting just as wet as you. He laid you back on the workbench, seeing sawdust and bits of hay float around you as he dove his head in between your thighs, his cowboy hat tipping back and falling off as he kissed and nipped your cunt. A shudder came out of you as you squeezed your thighs around his head. You didn’t want him to eat you, but he wasn’t gonna leave without tasting you.
He licked your wetness that was plastered onto your thighs. “So fuckin’ wet f’me…” he groaned agaisnt your panties. “Wet for me this entire fuckin’ time.” he said to himself as he got up and slipped your panties to the side. His cock was so pretty, just ripe and twitching with need. His tip glided up to your cunt, and a loud moan escaped you. He was teasing you, teasing you even though you were aching for him. Your thighs shook with each glide. “You wanna be a mommy so bad, right darlin?” he huffed out. “Pretty lady like you deserves to get filled up every fuckin’ day.” he raspily said. Before you can even nod, and beg, and plead with him, he slowly slides the tip in. Even here he tries to be gentle.
You gasped, feeling him stretch you out as his head falls forward, strands of his hair covering his face as he moaned out a loud ‘fuck’ before slamming into you. You feel your body tense up with need as he ravages your cunt, needing you just as bad as you need him. “So fuckin’ tight.” he hoarsley spoke. “Just like that, pretty lady.” he hummed. You couldn't help but feel your body jolt with each thrust. You can tell by the way he moves his hips how badly he’s been wanting you. Almost like he’s been holding back with everyone else and only wanting to go all out for you.
He rolls his hips against you, feeling the base of his cock press up against your throbbing clit as moans keep spilling out of you. Your clit was sensitive, almost burning with lust and need. Rhett knew that, he wanted that. Without changing the pace, his thumb rubs circles on your clit as he breaks your pussy in. you don’t even sound like yourself, but you’ve never felt more like yourself. All you cared about was how Rhett was going to make you cum early if he kept going.
“Y’gonna make me a daddy, darlin? Huh?” he groaned, thrusting harder and fully pressing his cock up against you, almost digging in your cervix with how deep he was going. “You gon’ let me fill you up, pretty lady? My pretty-” he thrusts harder. “-fuckin-” you squeal. “-lady.” he groans as drool runs down your chin. “Pretty dumb thing…” he whispers roughly. You had to be dumb to be drooling all over yourself like this, unable to say anything back without it coming out in mumbles.
“Imma make you…honest man.” you whimper out almost tiredly, yet needily.
“Yeah?” he breathes out. “Gon’ get you the prettiest fuckin’ ring.” he mumbles. “Build you a nice house. Make you my pretty wife. Get you everything you want.” he slams harder into you. Your moans turned into screams, and cries, as you nodded along to everything he was saying. “Don’t nod, I wanna hear you say it.” he grabs your chin and holds it. “Say you want it too, darlin’” he’s almost asking you to confess to him and validate him. And who were you to disagree? You wanted everything he wanted and more.
You whimper as tears lined your eyes, you were already so close to cuming, this was going to push you over the edge. “You’re such…a good…husband.” you said between deep breaths. You didn’t care that he wasn’t even your boyfriend, not yet anyway, you just wanted him to know how badly you wanted everything spilling out of him. He blushed and slammed harder into you. “Good girl, good fuckin’ girl.” he groaned out, keeping the fast pace as tears ran down your face. It felt too good.
Rhett noticed the tears running down your face, a worried look overcame him as he slowed down, leaving you gasping. “No no no no no don’t stop-” you whined as more tears came down your cheeks. You cried out as you moved your hips against his cock, hoping for more momentum. He clicked his tongue and grabbed your face. “Awh.” he cooed softly, his free hand wiping a tear off your cheek. Your entire body was buzzing with desire as you whined harder, signaling him to keep going but not knowing if he would or not. It’s not like you were crying in pain, you were crying from how hard he was going, how good he was doing. “Pl-please-” you choked up as you looked into his eyes.
Rhett ran his thumb on your bottom lip, before he leaned in and kissed your cheek. Your breath stabilizes itself, trying to get him to touch you again. You were right there, so close to cuming all over him. It’s all you wanted. Then, Rhett’s tongue glides up your cheek, licking your tears off your face. He pulls you into a kiss, where you can taste the saltiness of your tears. His tongue gently slides itself against yours as he bumped noses with you. Tender kisses placed on your plumped, red lips. He pulls away. “Sorry darlin, I’ll be more careful with you…” he hums.
You furrow your eyebrows, not wanting anything to change. Right before you were about to plead with him to continue, he rams into you. A loud gasp left you as you screamed, arching your back against the wall of the barn, holding onto the edge of the work bench, and feeling yourself reach your high. You try to make it last a bit longer, but you know there’s no use, Rhett was working overtime to make you cum all over yourself. You jolted in pleasure as you looked into his eyes, raggedly whimpering out a soft. “Baby-I’m gonna cum-”
Rhett smirked as he kept his pace. “That’s it, darlin’, that’s my girl.”
You trembled as you felt your wetness slide down your thighs, a loud, high pitched moan left you as you held onto Rhett tightly. Strings of ‘oh my gods’ and ‘yes’ flew out of you as he kept fucking you. You became overly sensitive, each thrust making you cry from overstimulation as your cunt sucked him in more and more. Feeling your pussy squelch. But Rhett couldn’t stop himself; this is the messiest he’s seen you, and he wanted nothing more than to keep feeling how warm and soft you were for him.
You went completely limp for him, the energy being zapped out of you as he kissed you softly. “You’re fuckin’ mine” he mumbled agaisnt your lips, his hips sputtering as he neared his end. “God, you’re fuckin’ mine…” he murmured. You, looking dazed and satisfied, nodded lazily. You meant to say ‘yes sir’ but all that came out was incoherent mumbles. You weren’t too sure about wanting something with Rhett. You always wanted to take things slow, but when it came to Rhett, you couldn’t help yourself.
Rhett let out a loud groan as you felt his cock seize up in you, before feeling ropes on cum line your insides, you whined softly as he struggled to pull out, not wanting to because you felt so good, but not wanting to have that risk they were toying around with. His labored breath slowed as he kept thrusting in you. He couldn’t get enough. He gulped and groaned before finally pulling out, watching cum spill out of you. He looked over at you, sitting you up and scooping up the cum that was leaking out of you, before shoving it back into your aching hole. A soft moan left you, your cheeks bright red as you grabbed him and left a soft kiss.
Both of your breaths slowed, and Rhett glanced up at you, pulling away from you as he lazily smiled. “Jesus Christ, lady…” he chuckled to himself. “If I knew you were that…god damn good at fuckin’...I would’ve had you a long time ago.” he joked. You couldn’t even say anything witty or sarcastic back, you just smiled back at him. “Yeah? Speak for yourself. I’ve heard rumors but I never thought I’d…you know-”
“Yeah, I know.” Rhett pulled away completely. Stuffing his cock back into his boxers and zipping up his jeans. He picked up his cowboy hat from the floor and looked over at you. “So damn good I dropped my hat.” he wiped the dirt off the hat and put it back on. “Does it stay on during sex?” you asked as you hoped off the table. Rhett smirked. “Do you want it to next time?” god yes, and maybe take off your shirt next time too, and maybe I’ll let you eat me out, and have your way with me not in a barn. Instead, you just shrugged, pulling your shorts up.
As you got dressed, Rhett looked at his watch, then over at the coop. He sighed. “Bad thing is we never finished painting this, maybe we could finish it tomorrow? Surprise Amy with it later?” he turned to you. You fixed your strap and nodded. “Doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”
Yet, there was a lingering feeling in the air, like you both could do a round two, or maybe even a round three. The way he was looking at you, with complete adoration, felt so nice. He wasn’t dismissing you the way boys your age do, instead, he took you seriously. And he treated you oh so well. You look over at him, almost hesitant to ask him something that’s been weighing heavy on your mind. “Hey Rhett?” you said softly. He turned over to you. “Yeah Y/N?” he perked up. The eyes don’t lie, and the way his eyes twinkled for you told you everything you already wanted to know.
“When…” you started. “When you said you were doing things for me, it was because you like me, right?” you asked. Rhett chuckled. “No, I was just talkin’ about making you my wife while I was balls deep in you as a joke.” he hummed. “Yes, I like you, lady. Some might even say I like you a lot.” “So you'd do anything for me?” you stop in your tracks, holding your own hand as you anxiously bit your lip.
Rhett looks at you, his face softening. “...yeah.” he confessed. “Anything you ask.”
You sigh in relief. “Good, can you pick up Amy? I never finished the laundry.”
pairing: bob reynolds x fem!reader
summary: ava and yelena have no choice but to call your ex-boyfriend when you refuse to leave girls’ night out without him. but in your drunken haze you forget you’re broken up, and bob was never very good at telling you no.
tags: new avenger!reader, exes to lovers, angsty mutual pining goodness (i can’t seem to write anything except men who yearn these days), alpine picked bob in the divorce (you were never married)
warning(s): reader wears a dress and makeup, reader drinks alcohol and is intoxicated, mentions of addiction, mentions of mental health issues, suggestive content (no smut but some mild spice), one derogatory joke about florida (sorry florida. love, a californian 🫶🏻)
word count: 11.6k
note: title comes from the song back to friends by sombr, which i listened to while writing to help inspire the angst 🙂↕️
masterlist
If Ava and Yelena had known what a menace you were when you got drunk, they would never have floated the idea of a girls’ night out. They just thought you needed to blow off some steam after Bucky banned you from going on missions for two weeks.
Ever since you and Bob broke up, you’d been trying your best not to visibly mope too much. It had been almost three months since the breakup, and it was easy to avoid Bob when you went on missions and he stayed behind at the Watchtower. You did everything you could to throw yourself into work and volunteer for missions with barely any breaks in between to avoid the pain of seeing him.
Everything was going to plan until Bucky put his foot down after you almost got shot in your exhaustion. Luckily, John had gotten there just in time, but it was a closer call than any of your teammates were comfortable with.
So, for the last week, you’d been locked in your room to avoid Bob. You tried desperately not to run into him, only using common areas when you knew he was scheduled for training.
That was how Ava and Yelena got the idea to have one of their famous Thunderbolts—you never did quite feel like the “New Avengers” label fit you, much preferring your inside joke team name—girls’ nights out.
And boy, were they regretting that now.
You were something of a dark horse when it came to alcohol tolerance.
At first, Yelena and Ava were blown away by your ability to throw back drinks. For the first hour, Yelena was banging on the bar top and yelling for you to chug while Ava cupped her hands around her mouth and cheered. During the second hour, you hit the dance floor, closed your eyes, and let your hips sway with the pulsating beat of the 2000s dance track playing.
It was the third hour when all your drinks caught up with you.
You were delightfully sweet when you were drunk; they had to give you that.
Even though you were leaning against the bar, blinking slowly at your friends, you had a honeyed smile on your lips. Your already short dress was riding up your thighs as you slumped on a bar stool, and the eyeliner Yelena had carefully applied for you at the start of the night was smudged at the corners.
The nightclub had already started winding down. The dance floor that was buzzing only half an hour ago was now a cluster of stragglers clinging to the last songs. You could taste salt on your lips, from sweat or the rim of some forgotten glass.
“Yelena, your hair looks soooo good slicked back,” you said, just slightly slurring your words. Yelena, whose love language was exchanging insults and making fun of you, stared back emotionlessly. “Like—like a sexy seal. Ava, tell her she’s a sexy seal.”
“Yes,” Ava deadpanned. “She is a very attractive aquatic mammal. Happy?”
You laughed, delighted. “See? You get it. Yelena’s the prettiest seal in the sea. If seals wore blue eyeliner and were trained to kill.”
You blinked slowly. The lights in the room had gone softer, pink, purple, and blue lights smearing at the edges like a watercolour painting. Your body was slow to obey you, limbs heavy and skin hot, a pleasant hum under your skin where alcohol loosened your nerves.
Yelena snorted, then sighed as she watched you wobble on your stool. “Okay, dorogaya, time to go,” she declared. In your inebriated state, you had no idea this was the fifth time she’d said this. “Drink’s empty, party’s over. Up you get.”
You pouted, clutching your glass protectively. It was empty, save for some ice left behind, condensation wetting your fingers. “Noooo, I’m not leaving until Bob gets here!”
Rubbing her forehead, Ava tried not to lose her temper. “Bob didn’t come out with us tonight,” she reminded you. “He’s back at the Watchtower.”
You leaned across the bar top, whispering like you were telling them a secret. “Liar. He never misses girls’ night out!”
Yelena rolled her eyes, muttering, “I am not paid enough for this.” Then, more gently, she tried to urge you out of your stool. “Come on, you’ll see him tomorrow.”
You shook your head furiously, words dragging together. “Nooo, I need him now! I miss him. I love you both sooo much, but you’re not Bob. Nobody’s Bob but Bob.” You pointed very seriously at Ava, who blinked like she wasn’t sure how to answer.
“True,” is what she went with. “I’m not Bob.” Then, below her breath, Ava muttered, “Who’d want to be from Florida?”
You giggled, throwing your arms around her anyway. “But you’re my best ghosty-shadow girl. I love you.” Ava had to admit that it was nice to get a hug. If there was one thing the Thunderbolts were starved of, it was physical affection, but you gave it out freely and happily. “But I need Bob to take me home.”
Yelena lowered her voice while you nuzzled Ava’s shoulder. “She’s going to break him in half,” she declared. Even though he was the one who broke up with you, everyone knew it absolutely destroyed him. “He’s just barely standing, and now this?”
The pinched expression on Ava’s face suggested she agreed. “I don’t like it either. But she’s not going to move for anyone else. She’ll stand here all night long, hoping Bob will show up.”
You lifted your head suddenly, eyes bright and wet. “Did I ever tell you? Bob makes the best midnight snack noodles.” A faraway, glazed-over shine filled your irises. “He always stirs them with chopsticks because he thinks it makes the soup tastier.” Your voice grew tender. As your eyelids grew heavy, each blink lasted a second longer than the last. “Nobody makes noodles like Bob…”
Yelena tried not to let the stab in her chest show on her face. “You are killing me.”
You perked back up, grabbing Yelena’s hand and kissing it. “But youuu, you’re the absolute best. You’re my girl forever, Lena. Even if you make me drink water when I don’t want to.”
Taking the opportunity, Ava suggested, “Maybe drink some now? Before you declare your love for the bartender.”
You gasped, genuinely scandalised, clutching a non-existent string of pearls. “I would never! Only Bob.” Your gaze fell to the bartender, eyes narrowing as you studied him. “…Also, maybe the bartender a little bit. He gave me free fries.”
Yelena muttered something under her breath in Russian, and Ava was glad she didn’t understand the profanity. “She is impossible,” Yelena complained.
“She went all judo on my arse when I tried to drag her out,” Ava reminded her flatly. “I vote we surrender and text him.”
You were the most experienced out of the three of them at hand-to-hand combat, and you nearly tossed Ava over your shoulder the first time she tried to help you out the door. Even drunk, you weren’t going to let anyone carry you anywhere.
Yelena pinched the bridge of her nose. “He’ll come. And then what? We get front row tickets to his heartbreak?”
“Better than a broken wrist,” Ava retorted, but she didn’t look happy about it.
You leaned across the bar again, all wide-eyed with sincerity. Some of your body glitter was smudged across your cheek. “You guys always take care of me. You’re my family.” Your voice wobbled, suddenly heavy with emotion. “But I just— I need him, okay?”
Yelena shut her eyes, inhaling sharply. “Text him the code,” she told Ava. “Before she starts crying.”
Ava, who was already pulling out her phone, muttered, “He’s going to kill us for letting her get this drunk.”
“At least we’ll leave in one piece,” Yelena said.
AVA: code safety net. she’s fine, just refuses to leave the club without you.
When you and Bob first started dating, he set up what he called a “safety net” with the rest of the team. If anyone sent him a code safety net, he’d come running. The idea was that it was for non-emergencies, moments when you needed him but couldn’t ask him yourself.
The last time anyone sent him that code was over four months ago, when you were still his girlfriend.
Now, Bob sat on the edge of his bed, tugging his sneakers on one at a time. Getting that code used to mean rolling out of bed, grumbling half-heartedly to himself about how you’d gotten yourself into trouble, and loving that it was his responsibility to come and help you.
Reading the code word now felt like stepping into dangerous territory. Bob didn’t know if he was allowed to be the person who came to your aid now that you’d broken up.
When he got the text, he’d already had the messages app open, scrolling through an endless exchange of texts between the two of you. He knew he shouldn’t have reread them again, but it was like pressing on a bruise to see if it still hurt.
Spoiler alert: it did. A lot.
Even months after the breakup, letting you go was something Bob hadn’t quite figured out how to do, no matter how hard he tried.
He had to remind himself that he had reasons to break up with you; good reasons. Bob reminded himself of these reasons constantly, just to stop himself from taking it all back.
At the end of the day, it wasn’t fair of him to drag you into his mess. He was still trying to learn what it meant to be Sentry, still doing his best to tame the thing inside him that one day might crack open and release Void into the world again. He couldn’t risk that, not with you sleeping beside him every night.
Whether he was Bob, Sentry, or Void, he would burn the world down if he ever hurt you.
And then there was his sobriety. Even in the best of times, it was a fragile, fickle thing. Bob had been in and out of programmes enough to know how it worked: no new relationships for at least a year, not until his feet were steady under him. He had broken that rule the moment he kissed you, but he couldn’t let his feelings for you be the reason he fell apart this time.
You were the right person at the worst possible time.
Bob knew meeting you was the kind of kismet people only got once in your life, and that’s if they’re lucky. He never considered himself particularly lucky, so he’d held on tight when he first found you.
Bob wondered now if that made it worse. Now that you were broken up, he knew exactly what he was missing.
When he arrived, the club was almost empty. The music was quiet, a few people were slouched against the walls outside, and the bouncer didn’t bother checking his ID when he walked in.
The smell hit him first. The scent of cheap spirits was soaked into the bones of the club, leaving the floor sticky and tacky beneath his shoes. Even though nobody was smoking, cigarette smoke clung to the walls, making his throat tighten. The air was heavy with memories Bob didn’t particularly want to relive.
He’d never been much of a drinker, but chemicals were chemicals, and his body recognised the promise of it even if his mind didn’t want it.
Bob’s mouth went dry, a phantom bitterness gathering at the back of his tongue. His thumb rubbed compulsively across the ridge of his palm, a nervous tick he’d barely registered unless you pointed it out to him.
He spotted you sitting on a bar stool beside an exhausted-looking Ava and Yelena, and the way your eyes lit up when you saw him made something in his chest shatter. In seconds, you were there, arms flung around Bob’s neck with the easy warmth of someone who didn’t remember they were supposed to keep their distance.
“I knew you’d come,” you murmured so sweetly that he felt his knees buckle a little.
You smelled of his favourite perfume, sweat, and alcohol, and it was so dizzying that it was almost like another type of intoxication. Bob’s breath hitched. He nearly folded into you without thinking, fingers twitching with the urge to hold you before remembering he wasn’t supposed to anymore.
His heart pounded against his ribs, too fast, too loud, and he irrationally you’d hear it. He forced his muscles to stiffen, every nerve screaming at him to let you go while every neuron insisted he hold you like he wanted to. It was the most delicious sort of agony.
Yelena and Ava’s eyes flicked his way, because of course they noticed his turmoil, so he took a heavy step back. Inside, everything screamed. Bob tried to mask his face in calmness, knowing his teammates could see right through his efforts.
“Sorry about this,” Ava said, grimacing at the way you pressed your face into Bob’s neck. “We wouldn’t have dragged you out if we had any other choice.”
Nodding drily, Yelena added, “She refused to leave. We tried everything short of a tranquiliser dart.”
“I’ve never seen her like this,” Ava mused. Now that Bob was here, your shoulders had completely relaxed. “She said she’d only go home if you came.”
Forcing a smile, Bob waved away their concern. “S’alright. Don’t worry about it. I’m glad you texted.”
“Don’t you think Yelena looks like a sexy seal?” you asked excitedly. Bob wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but nodded anyway.
As you babbled drunkenly about what you got up to that night, Ava and Yelena shared a weary look. “He says he’s glad,” Yelena mumbled, “But he looks like he swallowed glass.”
“Yeah. I noticed,” Ava agreed.
“You know I can hear you, right?” Bob cut in, brows pulled together, offended. “I’m fine.”
When you moved back just enough to peer at him with glossy, adoring eyes, Bob audibly gulped. “I missed you so much, Bob,” you said sweetly. Your voice was a little husky and tired, and it made him shiver.
Stiffening slightly, Bob gently patted your back with one hand. The other was still busy doing his usual nervous tick, rubbing his thumb across his palm. “Yeah, I—I missed you too,” he stammered, shooting Ava and Yelena a concerned look.
Yelena softened, her expression regretful. “She doesn’t remember,” she explained, cadence uncharacteristically tender.
It felt as if someone had punched Bob in the gut. He couldn’t actually feel anyone’s punches with his impenetrable skin, but God did he remember what it was like. His breath gushed out of him all at once, and his organs felt like they were being crushed together.
Incredulous, he looked at you with wide, questioning eyes. And there you were, grinning at him like you’d never broken up. “You look soooo good tonight, handsome,” you told him. The familiar nickname was like a second blow to his stomach. “D’you know that?”
Bob’s eyes darted to the others. “Uh…”
You frowned, unhooking your arms from his neck and catching his hand in yours. “You’re doing it again. The thumb thing,” you noted. “You only do that when you’re worried. What are you worried about, Bob?”
He choked a laugh, trying to pull free gently. “Nothin’, sweetheart. I just— don’t worry about me.”
Suppressing a laugh, Ava commented, “She’s sharper drunk than half the team sober.”
Yelena was slightly less tactful; she didn’t even try to hide her smirk. “Only when it comes to Bob,” she sang. “A tragic gift.”
“Very inconvenient,” Ava agreed.
Still holding Bob’s hand, your voice wobbled a little. “You didn’t answer me. I missed you. Did you miss me?” Your head tilted as you took on a seductive tone that used to make Bob do whatever you wanted. “You do, right? You always do, especially at night…”
Heat curled low in Bob’s stomach, and you thought you might have caught a familiar glimmer of gold in his irises. “Of course I missed you,” he admitted hoarsely.
You hummed happily, lacing your fingers together and resting your other hand on his solid chest. “Knew it. You always say as long as you miss me, you love me. You still love me, right?”
Bob swallowed loudly. “You’ve… had a lot to drink tonight.”
You offered him a bright, tipsy laugh. “Only enough to tell the truth,” you teased. “You’re my Bob. Always my Bob.”
When you leaned in and started pressing kisses to his neck, Bob jerked back, turning scarlet. He shot Ava and Yelena a look that said, For God’s sake, how much did you let her drink?
“Don’t look at us,” Ava exclaimed defensively, hands up. “We tried cutting her off hours ago. She just kept sneaking off and getting more.”
“We told the bartender to deny her orders, but she caught the next guy once his shift ended,” Yelena added, straight-faced. “It’s a miracle she still has a functioning liver.”
Bob huffed out of breath, blowing the hair from his face. “Okay.” He started steering you toward the exit. “C’mon. Time to head home now, yeah? Fresh air’ll do you good.”
Dopily blinking at Bob, you smiled. “If you think so, Bob.”
Yelena and Ava trailed behind, keeping an eye on you. As you stepped into the cool night, the music dulled behind you. You closed your eyes contentedly as the breeze soothed your warm skin. New York City air wasn’t exactly fresh, but Bob said it’d help, so you basked in it regardless.
“Easy now,” he said, holding you steady. “One foot at a time.” You nodded, clinging to his arm and taking careful steps.
“She does exactly what he says,” Yelena said, partially impressed. “We spent almost an hour arguing with her to switch to water.”
“Tell me about it,” Ava groaned. “I nearly pulled my hair out.”
“I told them I wouldn’t go without you,” you told Bob sincerely. “I knew you’d come. You always come when I need you, and I really needed you tonight.”
All Bob could do was nod, smile, and try not hide how much his hands were shaking. It was ridiculous how he still remembered the sensation of your weight against him. Muscle memory was a cruel thing, and this one came with a sharp jab in his chest.
“Yeah. I’m here,” was all he could say.
Warmth pooled under your skin, not from alcohol but from leaning against Bob. His skin was always hot, bleeding into you until you felt safe and cosy in his arms.
You paused as Ava lifted a hand to flag down a cab. Bob could feel the burn of Yelena’s stare and pointedly ignored her. While you were the person who knew Bob best, Yelena was his best friend. The two of them were inextricably bonded after everything they’d gone through, and he knew he’d fall apart if he saw the pained sympathy on her face.
“For the record, we did try everything,” Ava said as a nearby cab slowed to a stop beside them.
“At one point, she sat on the floor and said she lives in the club now. That was our breaking point,” Yelena added. She hurried to open the back door, watching Bob carefully manoeuvre you inside the cab.
“Alright, careful now,” Bob warned, careful to put his hand out so you wouldn’t hit your head as you got in.
“Let’s go before she decides she’s staging another sit-in,” Ava sighed. She took the passenger seat, giving the cab driver the address for the Watchtower.
The middle-aged man stared at her in shock, clearly recognising the address and the team in his car. Without making a big deal about it, he started the meter once Yelena slid into the last available seat in the back, shutting the door behind her.
The cab rattled softly, city lights flickering across the windows. You were half-curled against Bob’s side, still talking despite your heavy eyelids. Yelena watched you with a conflicted frown.
“Knew you’d come for me, Bob,” you murmured again. Your heartbeat slowed when your head tipped against his shoulder. “Always do.”
“Yeah, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” he assured you. The old anxiety ticks were back before he could stop them, thumb worrying the side of his index finger, shoulder giving the faintest twitch every time your hand shifted further up his thigh. “Let’s just get you home, alright?”
You smiled at him, eyes half-closed and gleaming with exhaustion. “Home’s wherever you are, silly.”
Bob felt his pulse jump in that ugly, uneven way it used to when he was strung out—except this was worse, because there was nothing to take the edge off. Just your eyes, devoted and pure, looking at him like he was still yours.
Noticing the shift towards the kind of honesty you wouldn’t be verbalising if you were sober, Yelena leaned forward a little. “You should rest,” she suggested. “Save the poetry for the morning.”
You giggled tiredly. “S’not poetry. S’the truth.” Your skin tingled deliciously where it touched Bob’s. It wasn’t sexual so much as the electrical spark of recognition, like your body was sighing in relief. “Missed you so much tonight, Bob. Like my chest was hollow until I saw you walk in.”
Ava turned from the passenger seat to glance at Yelena.
Beside you, Bob stiffened. “You’ve, uh, you’ve had a long night,” he said, soft and strained. “Just close your eyes, yeah?”
You shook your head clumsily, words slurred but earnest. “Can’t. Gotta tell you.” You touched his chest softly, with all the care in the world. “For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m not empty anymore,” you confessed. “And we’ve only been apart for a few hours. Isn’t that wild?”
Silence filled the cab. Even the driver flickered his eyes to the rear-view, then looked away.
Bob kept his jaw locked, molars grinding so hard he knew they’d crack if his body was still capable of breaking. It was better than letting his mouth soften, better than letting something slip that he couldn’t take back. There was a low, burning ache behind his sternum. Not sharp or panicked, but heavy, like his heart was collapsing in on itself.
Ava cleared her throat, trying to cut the tension. “Hey, maybe we all just… take a breather, yeah? Get some rest.”
You pouted, trying to keep your eyes open. “I love you. I always will.” Your laughter came out fond and warm, almost dreamy. “My Bob…”
Bob looked stricken, eyes darting helplessly to Yelena. His thumb rubbed harder against his palm, and he was sure that if his skin could still chafe, it would have. Yelena shook her head slowly, silently urging him not to answer.
Still, there was an almost imperceptible shift toward you when you drifted off to sleep, his body betraying what he wouldn’t let himself admit aloud.
The worst of it was the relief. That tiny, treacherous thought whispering: you still loved him. You still wanted him. It made Bob light-headed, sick with hope he knew better than to trust.
You can’t love me if you don’t remember why we ended things, he thought. You can’t. But God help me, I want to believe you.
Bob’s head tilted towards you as you dozed, the old instinct to shield you from the world kicking in even when he was supposed to have stopped. This was a masterclass in containment. He didn’t explode or crumble; he absorbed your confession, keeping it together while his heart split down the middle.
Bob effortlessly helped you out of the cab and up to your room in the Watchtower. It had taken a few months to get used to the newfound strength that came with the Sentry serum. But at least he wasn’t accidentally ripping doors off their hinges or breaking dishes when he picked them up anymore.
With uneven steps, he guided you into your room, setting you down on the bed. Seated, you blinked up at him, drowsy and smiling like he’d hung the stars. It was a look that was overfamiliar; an intimate expression he’d missed seeing.
“I’m not tired,” you mumbled, resisting his help.
“Love, you’re half asleep already,” Bob tried, coaxing but awkward. He gave a short, nervous laugh. “C’mon, let’s just get you sorted out.”
You squinted like he’d offended you. “Sorted? I don’t need sorting. I need… food.”
With a huff of laughter, he shook his head. “Face first. Food later. That’s—uh, that’s how it works. Pretty sure.” Then, mostly to himself: “If you’re still awake by then, which… yeah, probably not.”
Disappearing into the bathroom, Bob kept an ear out for any noises as he grabbed your makeup remover and wet a washcloth with warm water. He returned and crouched in front of you, carefully starting to wash your face for you.
You leaned into the touch happily, taking the opportunity to admire your ex-boyfriend. “You always do it nicer than me,” you mumbled, grinning. “So good to me.”
Quietly, Bob admitted, “Old habit.”
You pouted playfully. “I love it when you take care of me,” you confessed. “I always think it’s so hot when you—”
“Okay, I think it’s time for pyjamas,” Bob blurted, pushing up to his feet a little too fast. He turned away, ears pink, and wondered briefly if his poor heart was as conflicted as his mind was tonight. “Don’t fall over, alright?”
After taking your favourite pair out from your dresser, Bob turned his back to you as you wriggled into your pyjamas. His back was unnaturally stiff, listening for the sound of you stumbling. When you flopped back against the pillows, hair mussed and smile loose, he finally glanced over.
“See?” you said proudly. “All sorted. I can sleep now.”
Relieved, Bob nodded. “Good.” He moved to tuck the blanket around you.
You blinked up at him, suddenly urgent. “Wait,” you said, loud and high-pitched. “Snack!”
Bob sighed. “But—”
“No, Bob, listen,” you hurried, sitting back up with wide eyes. “If I don’t eat something right now I’ll die.” Your confession wobbled, tears starting to form as your eyes became glassy.
Oh boy. If there was one thing that was Bob’s Achilles heel, it was you crying.
There was something so heart-wrenching and wrong about seeing you in tears. The way your cheeks puffed up and your eyes widened, lips curving down into the most perfect frown, was enough for him to agree to do anything to make it stop.
“I’m so hungry now,” you whined, the first few tears cascading down your cheeks. Bob caught them without thinking, chest aching at the sight. He was torn between wanting to maintain some semblance of ex-appropriate boundaries and the dull twinge in his chest.
Eventually, his soft heart couldn’t take it any longer. “God, sweetheart,” he groaned. “You can’t do that. You know I’m useless when you cry.” He tried to laugh, but it came out as a thin sound.
You sniffled, only a touch dramatic. “You wouldn’t let me starve. You love me too much.”
He shut his eyes at that, steadying himself. “You don’t play fair,” he said under his breath.
Triumphantly, you offered Bob a teary smile. “So… snack?”
“Fine,” he agreed. “Yeah, okay. But you stay put, alright? Don’t you dare try and follow me.” Bob wasn’t sure what he’d do if you kept looking at him like you still loved him. “Just stay here.”
You huffed, visibly offended. “As if I’d follow you.”
Bob arched his brow. “You absolutely would.”
“Nu-uh!”
You padded into the kitchen after Bob, clutching the back of his sweatshirt like he’d disappear if you let go. He was resigned but soft with you, guiding you towards the counter. The fluorescents hummed overhead faintly.
“Midnight feast!” you whisper-yelled excitedly, pumping your free fist in the air.
“It’s a quarter to two,” Bob corrected.
You gasped, delighted. “Even better,” you declared.
Bob wasn’t sure what your metric was for deciding what time was better to have a snack, but he laughed anyway. He went through the fridge while you rummaged noisily through the pantry.
Moments later, your tiny gasp of joy filled the kitchen. You held up two packets of noodles like they were a rare treasure. “Bob, noodles!” You held them out for him, already climbing onto the counter deftly. Even your drunken state couldn’t stop years of practised agility. “It’s perfect.”
Bob gave a half-laugh, shaking his head. “That’s… yeah, sure. Wild, right? Cosmic destiny.”
Midnight noodles were something of a weekly ritual when you were dating. You usually had dinner early with the rest of the team, then stayed up late chatting and cuddling. By the time the two of you were tired enough to sleep, you were hungry again.
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t mock.”
He smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh no, hey, I’m serious. I swear.”
Taking the packet from you before you tore it open with your teeth, Bob took out a saucepan and set the water to boil. You sat swinging your legs, watching him with lazy admiration.
Bob’s shoulders hunched, stomach tightening each time you called out to him affectionately. His face was schooled into neutrality, but he didn’t know how much longer he could hold it. He was hyper-aware of your position in the room. If you swayed, even slightly, his whole body tensed in case he needed to catch you.
“You like this,” you mused, teasing him. A lazy, fizzy happiness bubbled in your chest. You couldn’t quite figure out why, but you felt truly happy for the first time in a long time. “Taking care of me.”
Bob ducked his head shyly. “I like when you’re not sad. Or mad at me. So,” he motioned awkwardly to the stove, “noodles.”
You nodded. “You’re good at making sure I’m not sad,” you said fondly. “Can’t ever feel sad around you.”
It was a compliment that meant more to him than you could imagine.
Bob chuckled lowly. “No, I’m good at screwing stuff up, mostly. This is just hot water and noodles. Even I can’t—” he faltered, jaw tightening. “Well, I probably could mess it up.”
You frowned at his characteristic self-deprecation. “Don’t be mean to Bob,” you scolded.
Bob raised an eyebrow, dropping the noodles in the boiling water. “Pretty sure I am Bob.”
“Exactly,” you huffed. “Don’t be mean to my Bob.”
He nearly dropped his chopsticks at that. Clearing his throat, Bob bought himself some time by stirring the soup base into the water. To himself, he mumbled, “Didn’t know I was still yours.”
You smiled, still oblivious to your break-up. “‘Course you are, Bob. You’ll always be mine, and I’ll always be yours. That’s how the whole ‘forever’ thing works.”
Bob busied himself with the noodles, but when you started humming, he couldn’t stop glancing at you. You leaned your cheek against the cupboard beside you, watching him as if he’d strayed out of a dream. Reaching for him without thinking, you tugged carefully at Bob’s sleeve, pulling his free wrist closer.
“Miss you tonight,” you told him, longing to hold his hand.
Bob laughed softly, deflecting. “I’m right here.”
You shook your head stubbornly. “Not like that. Missed you in my bones, y’know?”
His chest squeezed. He cracked the chilli oil packet open to have an excuse to take his hand back. “Yeah, but you had your thing, right? Girls’ night. Shots. Dancing. Didn’t need me standing awkwardly in the corner.”
“Always need you,” you argued.
Bob’s hand tightened around the chopsticks. Still facing the stove, he begged, “Don’t say that.”
Your brows pulled together. “Why not?”
“‘Cause it’s— you’re drunk, okay?” It was tough to maintain a firm boundary and not get lost in how you treated him like he was still your boyfriend. “You say stuff like that—”
“Because it’s true,” you said happily. “You’re shy tonight. What’s the matter?”
“I’m,” he gestured at himself, voice breaking, “I’m Bob. I’m the guy who ruins every good thing he touches. And you’re…” he trailed off, swallowing hard. Bob couldn’t bring himself to say, You’re the last person I wanted to hurt.
You slid off the counter, stepping closer. Bob finally looked at you, wincing like it hurt to meet your eyes. For a second, all the noise in his body stopped—no fidgeting, no rambling. Just raw, aching stillness.
“You are something good, Bob,” you declared. It would have been sweet had your words not slurred together, reminding him of your tipsiness.
Bob reached for the bowls and poured noodles and soup into them. “Okay, so, noodles—uh, one for you, one for me,” he rambled, passing you the bowl with a noticeably bigger portion.
Bob returned to your room, balancing a glass of water and some painkillers for the headache you were sure to have in the morning. You were curled beneath the duvet, hair a mess, cheeks warm, still blinking against the low light. The noodles had settled in your stomach without making you nauseous, which you were both grateful for.
He set the glass on the bedside table, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure if he should tuck you in or back away. “So,” he cleared his throat. Your eyes drifted up to his. They looked like the ocean during a storm, and you were transfixed. “There we are. One water, one magic pill. Not as fun as tequila, but you’ll thank me in the morning.”
You grinned sleepily. “You’re bossy.” You were comfortable in Bob’s presence, letting your guard down entirely.
He huffed a shy laugh. “M’not bossy, I’m being responsible. Someone’s gotta keep you from feeling rotten tomorrow.”
“Bossy,” you sang, pulling the duvet higher. Bob rolled his eyes fondly. He perched at the edge of the bed, hands clasped so tight in his lap his knuckles paled. You noticed. “Why do you look like you’re waiting for your turn at a job interview?”
Startled, Bob stammered, “Wh—what? I’m not— this is just how I sit.”
You giggled. “We’ve been dating for, like, nine months. I think I know how you sit.”
Bob bit his lip, glanced away, then reached down to straighten the corner of the duvet to keep his hands busy. “Just making sure you’re settled,” he said. “That’s all.”
You hummed, dubious. “You’re fussing. You only fuss when you’re nervous.”
His cheeks turned pink at that. “Maybe I’m always nervous around you,” he diverted your question. You blinked up at him, a little too fuzzy to catch the weight of it. “Right. You’re all tucked in. No more sneaking around for snacks, okay?”
You opened your mouth to argue, but a muffled sound at the door caught your attention. A soft little purr. Both your heads turned. “Apine!” you gasped, ecstatic to see Bucky’s feline companion entering your room.
The little white cat slipped in, tail high, and leapt onto the bed. You sat up straighter, arms out, laughing as Alpine bumped her head against your chin and curled beside you. Your smile spread wide and unguarded.
“Hi baby,” you cooed, stroking her head with the back of your hand. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore.”
“‘Course she does. She’s just picky.” Bob brushed a crease from your pillow, doing anything to stop himself from reaching for you.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” you accused Alpine, speaking to her in a low, dulcet tone. You watched her with almost childlike delight, pressing your cheek against her. “For weeks and weeks. I thought I got on your bad side somehow. Like that time John accidentally stepped on your tail.”
Bob chuckled, but his hands twisted together in his lap. He bit at his lower lip. Watching Alpine’s purrs vibrate against your cheek made his chest split in two. He’d always been more of a dog person, but he did have a soft spot for Bucky’s cat. “I’m sure she just missed you.”
“Or you,” you argued. “You’re her second favourite, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know about that.”
“No, you are. Everyone knows it,” you insisted. “She follows you around like a shadow. You spoil her with treats when you think nobody’s looking.”
“I guess she likes me well enough,” Bob allowed. His hand hovered near Alpine’s back, then withdrew, retreating to his lap.
You giggled into Alpine’s fur, drunk and unbothered. But then the giggle faded, replaced by a sudden, sharp earnestness you couldn’t quite stop.
“But she hasn’t come near me for weeks,” you murmured, lips pressed to the soft patch between the feline’s ears. Your hand stilled on her fur. “Not since…”
The words trailed away. You didn’t know why. Some small, skittish part of you pulled back from finishing the thought.
Your smile slipped, slow and reluctant, like something precious sliding out of your grip. A heaviness pressed against your chest, cutting off the little bubble of warmth you’d been floating in all night long. You lifted your head, blinking at Bob. His face was flushed, eyes darting from you to Alpine to the headboard behind your shoulder.
Your stomach dipped, a cold wash chasing away the warmth of the alcohol. That’s it, isn’t it? The pieces slid into place with cruel precision, emerging from the alcohol-induced fog that kept them hidden all night long.
“She’s been with you,” you said, the words cracking open in your throat. “Because we—because we’re not…”
Bob froze, throat bobbing as it worked against words that wouldn’t form. “I—I—don’t…” He tried again, breath stuttering. “It’s not—”
The ache in your chest grew so quickly that it made your hands shake. You dragged trembling fingers down Alpine’s back, stroking her fur in desperate repetition, like you could keep yourself from fracturing if you just kept the motion steady.
Your voice spilled into the room in a whisper. “We’re not together anymore, are we?”
The words hurt more once spoken, like they’d hadn’t been true until you said them aloud. Tears pricked hot at the corners of your eyes. You blinked hard, but it only made them spill faster, streaking down your cheeks and landing in Alpine’s snowy fur.
“You broke up with me,” you recalled, your reply wavering in the middle of your sentence.
Bob looked ruined. His whole chest heaved, and for a moment, he just stared, caught in the wreckage. Hesitant and trembling, his hand pulled you gently, carefully into him. The dam broke when Bob wrapped his arms around you, turning your silent cries into sobs.
“Don’t—don’t cry. Please,” Bob begged, audibly torn. One hand rubbed your back in clumsy circles, while the other cupped your head, tender and desperate.
Your question came muffled against his shirt, small and devastating. “Why did you break up with me? I love you so much.”
Bob flinched like the words struck him, eyes squeezing shut. His hand kept caressing your back, not steady but frantic, trying to stop both of you from falling apart.
You pressed your face harder into his sweatshirt, tears hot and messy against the fabric. The sobs came out loud and hard, shaking your shoulders, then softened into smaller gasps and hiccups as the rhythm of Bob’s hand calmed you.
He could feel how your remaining energy slowly burned itself out. First, your trembling quietened, then your hands loosening where they’d clutched his sweatshirt, then the weighted slump of your body. His arms tightened around you instinctively, holding you upright.
You gave a little sniff. “Don’t you love me?”
Every muscle in Bob’s body locked. His lips parted, but nothing came out at first; not with your breath warming his sweatshirt, not with the fragile pressure of you sinking so trustingly into him.
“I— Do I love you?” The words shuddered out of him, frayed at the edges. “Of course I do.”
But when he pulled back to see your face, your lashes were already lowered, breaths evening out, body soft in the safety of his arms. Your question had used up the last of your energy, and now you were asleep.
Bob’s chest throbbed with relief and grief all at once. You’ll never know, he thought. Not really. Not the way he wanted to tell you—awake, sober, with steady hands instead of shaking ones. He pressed his chin to the top of your head, shutting his eyes to stop his own tears from falling.
You woke to sunlight pressing against your eyelids, a dull yellow insistence that came from your curtains being open. Your head throbbed; not stabbing but heavy, like someone had stuffed your skull with cotton. Your mouth was dry, your tongue thick, every swallow tasting faintly of metal.
You blinked slowly, trying to piece the previous night together. What you remembered came in flashes: Ava’s laugh at the bar, Yelena making a face at the DJ, colourful lights blurring overhead. And then, nothing. Just a clean break in the reel, as though someone had pressed stop and forgotten to hit record again.
At least you were in your own bed, the duvet pulled up to your chin like your own personal fairy godmother helped you home. You couldn’t smell cheap takeaway on your clothes, which meant you’d dodged your usual post-club ritual of inhaling fries at three in the morning.
Still, the gap in your memory made your stomach twist a little. Not in fear, you trusted Ava and Yelena too much for that, but embarrassment. A mortifying little voice in your head whispered that if you’d blacked out at the end of the night, you’d probably done or said something mortifying.
You groaned and pressed the heel of your palm to your eyes.
After taking the painkiller someone left for you on your bedside table, you shuffled into the kitchen looking for something to have eat. You didn’t care that your hair was mussed and you looked distinctly worse for wear; you just needed to get something into your stomach before the nausea took over.
In the kitchen, Yelena and Ava were sitting at the table while John rifled through the pantry. Both of them look just as bad as you did. Yelena wore sunglasses even though you were indoors, and Ava still had eyeliner streaked across her face. You gratefully accepted a cup of coffee when Ava passed it to you. Collapsing into the chair beside her, you groaned quietly.
“Okay,” you began, a little sheepish. “Don’t laugh. I don’t remember anything after the club last night.” Your friends shared a look that said they weren’t surprised. “I just wanted to say thanks for dragging me home and dealing with me.”
Yelena smirked. “Dragging is the right word. You fought like a feral raccoon.”
“We were two seconds away from calling animal control,” Ava chimed in, grinning.
If they were teasing you, then their hangovers weren’t that bad.
You groaned, burying your face in your arms. “I knew it. I’m the worst drunk.” When you looked up, you gave your friends your prettiest smile. “Sorry about that. How did you even get me into bed?”
Yelena and Ava exchanged a quick look.
Before you could prompt them further, John interrupted. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he screeched. You turned around just in time to see him slam the pantry doors shut, glaring at the three of you like you’d committed a horrible betrayal. “Who ate my noodles?” John demanded.
All he got in return was three blank stares.
“Pardon?” Ava asked, her tone suggesting she was already done with the conversation before it started.
“My last two packets of instant ramen,” John said, crossing his arms and glaring between you. You had to admit, as much as you all liked messing with him, he could be pretty intimidating when he wanted to be. “Been saving them all week, and what do I find? Empty shelf.”
Without missing a beat, Yelena said, “Maybe the universe is telling you to eat a vegetable.”
“The universe can shove it,” John deadpanned. “Someone in here’s a thief. And don’t act innocent! It’s been a while, but my noodles used to vanish every week like clockwork.”
You froze with your coffee cup halfway to your lips. Your eyes snapped to Yelena and Ava, who were already looking at you, matching your wide-eyed look of surprise.
“It was Bob,” you said quietly, almost accusing, once John gave up and started searching the fridge for something edible. “That’s how you got me to come home.”
Yelena sighed heavily, rubbing between her eyebrows like she was getting a headache. “We didn’t have a choice, you wouldn’t leave without him. Besides, it wasn’t that bad.”
“Wasn’t that bad?!” you exclaimed, not buying it for a single second. “I know exactly how unhinged I get when I’m drunk, and you let me spend the night with my ex-boyfriend?”
“You honestly didn’t do anything embarrassing,” Ava insisted. Then, she paused. “Well, I guess you did forget you were broken up and treated him like you were still together,” she admitted. You opened your mouth to keep yelling, so she hurriedly added, “But he was honestly fine with it!”
“He took it very well,” Yelena agreed. “It crushed his mind, body, and spirit. But he took it well.”
“Even if I was asking for him, I can’t believe you forced him to come,” you retorted.
Yelena gasped. “We did not force him!”
John, who was eavesdropping the entire time, cut in. “Wait, wait, hold up.” Your eyes drifted over to him. “Are we even allowed to call a code safety net if the two of them are broken up?”
You frowned. “Code what?”
“Nicely done, Walker,” Yelena drawled sarcastically, pretending to applaud him. She was known to resort to his last name when he messed something up. Which, in her eyes, was often. “What is it about a secret code that you don’t understand?”
“What secret code?” you asked, already dreading the answer.
“Okay look,” Ava said, giving it to you straight. “When you and Bob started dating, he set up an emergency code called ‘safety net.’ If you were too far gone at the club, or if you needed him but were too scared to ask, we’d send him the code. He always came to help, no matter what.”
You swallowed, processing the news. “That’s…”
“Overly protective?” John teased, smirking a little. He didn’t mean it, of course. Nobody had called a code safety net more often than him. He just lived to tease you and was convinced you ate his noodles.
“I was going to say romantic,” you corrected him, rolling your eyes.
“Don’t you think you’re a little too, I don’t know, divorced to be making comments?” Yelena added.
“Jesus,” Walker muttered, holding his hands in defence and grumbling about ordering takeout instead.
Once he was out of the kitchen, Ava smirked. “So, midnight noodles with Bob?”
“I have a big mouth when I’m drunk,” you grumbled, downing the rest of your coffee to soothe your dry throat. You’d never told them about you and Bob’s midnight noodles, so you knew you had your drunk self to thank for that one.
“Yeah, but it was cute,” Ava said, leaning back in her chair. “You looked very proud of your little tradition.”
Yelena snorted. “You made it sound like a sacred ritual.”
You pressed your lips together, staring at the empty mug in your hands. “But… why would he still come? Why would he—” You broke off, shaking your head. “He’s the one who ended things. If he doesn’t love me anymore, then why show up to help?”
For once, Ava didn’t have a snarky comment locked and loaded. She just tilted her head, eyes warming. “That sounds like a question for him,” she said.
Yelena nodded, elbowing you lightly. “Yeah. Don’t waste your breath on us. Go ask Bob. We’ll be here eating John’s backup noodles. I found them this morning and stashed them in my room.”
You stood outside Bob’s door longer than planned to. Long enough to wonder if the team could hear your pacing from the hall, long enough to almost turn back around. Twice. You even considered coming back tomorrow, but you knew your courage was dwindling fast. If you left now, you probably weren’t coming back.
You held your breath as you knocked. From inside, you could hear Bob shuffling around before the door slowly cracked open. He blinked at you, hair a mess and t-shirt wrinkled like he’d been napping. For a stupid, dizzying second, the sight of him all domestic and soft punched through your ribs. You could still feel what it was like when you used to wake up in that bed with him.
Bob looked surprised to see you standing there, but not unhappy. “Hey.”
“Hey,” you echoed, hating how your throat tightened around the word. “Um. Can we talk?”
For a second, you thought he might say no. Then, he stepped back and opened the door wider. “Yeah. Sure. Come in.”
You crossed the threshold and realised you hadn’t prepared yourself for the wave of nostalgia that made your stomach clench. Bob’s room looked exactly the same as it had the last time you were in it. From the mug on his bedside table to the blanket you’d bought for him, half-folded on the bed.
It was all the same, except you didn’t live here anymore. Your fingers itched to straighten the blanket the way you always used to, so you folded them together like a penitent child.
You hovered awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure where to sit. Bob noticed and gestured toward the chair at his desk before sitting on the edge of his bed. It felt like he’d deliberately put distance between you.
“So,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “What’s up?”
You smoothed your palms over your jeans. “I just— I wanted to check in. See how you’ve been.”
Bob’s brows lifted. “I’ve been… fine,” he said slowly. “Busy, I guess. You know how it is around here.”
“Yeah,” you agreed. “Of course. I get it.”
Before the awkward silence stretched further, he asked, “And you?”
You blinked. “Me? Oh, you know. Same thing. Busy.”
“Right,” he replied. Bob didn’t point out that he knew Bucky had banned you from going on missions for two weeks, and refused to acknowledge how he’d accidentally broken the windows in the conference room when he found out you were almost shot.
You nodded, exhaling through your nose as your fingers tightened on your lap. “Okay, so… Ava and Yelena told me about last night.” Bob’s eyes flicked up to yours wearily.
“They said you came to pick me up,” you continued. “Brought me back. Stayed until I was asleep.” You shifted in the chair, the words scraping raw in your throat. “John mentioned something about missing noodles, so I assume you made those for me. Which I—I don’t remember at all.”
“I don’t know what I did,” you admitted, voice smaller than you intended. “I don’t know what I said. I just keep thinking— God, I must’ve been awful. Embarrassing. Ava said I forgot that we’d, y’know,” you gestured vaguely with your hands, referring to your breakup, “And I hate that I don’t even know what to apologise for.”
Something flickered across his face, not quite a wince, but close. Bob looked down at his hands, thumb dragging over his palm. “It wasn’t like that,” he said finally. “You weren’t being embarrassing. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You almost laughed at how gently he said it. “Then what was it like? Because right now, it feels like everybody knows something I don’t,” you revealed.
Bob hesitated, mouth opening and closing before anything came out. “You were drunk. People get drunk, they… say things. Do things.” His cheeks and ears flushed as he averted his eyes. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me,” you pressed. “Why did you come when they texted? You could’ve ignored the code, or told Yelena to handle it, but you didn’t. Why?”
His jaw tightened. Truthfully, Bob had never considered the fact that you might find out about code safety net. When the two of you broke up, he assumed you’d never have a reason to hear about it.
“Because it was you.” He said it like he expected a blowback, shoulders hunched just like when he’d first confessed his feelings for you.
You blinked at him, the honesty of it knocking you off balance. Bob seemed to realise what he’d admitted, because he immediately pushed on, fumbling. “I mean— I set that code up for a reason. Back then. You always knew exactly when I needed help, and I was never as good at figuring that stuff out, so I set up a code. Even last night, I couldn’t ignore it. That’s all.”
“That’s all?”
Bob nodded too quickly, eyes darting to the floor again. “That’s all.”
You studied him. Dating for almost nine months allowed you to mentally store something like a Bob Reynolds textbook. You could tell from the way his shoulders shook like he was bracing for impact that he wasn’t being entirely truthful. Then there was his nervous tick of rubbing his thumb across the ridge of his palm, and the way his legs couldn’t keep still.
“You didn’t tell drunk-me we broke up,” you said after a beat. “You just let me think…” The words trailed, your breath catching at the memory you didn’t have. “Why would you do that?”
He shook his head, voice rough. “You were drunk. I wasn’t gonna hit you with reality in that state. Didn’t feel right, not when you were smiling for the first time in months.”
You sat back, staring at him like you were trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing. “So… you didn’t tell me because I was drunk. Because you wanted me to be happy.” Bob shifted awkwardly on the bed. “And because you knew I wasn’t saying anything I didn’t mean.”
His head jerked up to meet your eyes before he could stop himself. “You’re sure you don’t remember anything?”
You nodded. “Not a thing. But I can guess. If I thought we were still together, I would have trusted you with my most private thoughts. I would have poured my heart out without knowing what I was doing.”
Bob exhaled slowly. “End of the night, you figured it out. When Alpine came in, you looked at me like—” He broke off, jaw working. “You realised we weren’t together. It hit you, and—it tore you up.” His wince said the memory still hurt. “If I’d known telling you up front would’ve spared you that, I would have said something. But I didn’t know what to do. I just didn’t want to hurt you.”
“You wanted to spare me the pain,” you pressed. “Why? If you were just helping me out of an old obligation, why did it hurt you to see me upset?”
“Because I—” Bob cut himself off, breathing hard through his nose. Because I love you was dangerously close to the tip of his tongue. “Because it was hard. Anyone would’ve found it hard.” The excuse was weak, even to him.
You leaned forward, refusing to let him retreat. “I don’t care what anyone would’ve thought. I care what you thought. Why was it so hard for you?”
Finally, Bob dragged in a breath. “You think this is easy for me because I’m the one who ended things? Believe me, it hasn’t been easy.”
Your heart thudded hard in your chest, but you didn’t speak; you didn’t move.
“I broke up with you because, for once, I wanted to do the right thing,” Bob went on, words tumbling out like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve. “I had to focus on the depression, and the loneliness, and the never-ending void.” He rubbed his eyes. “I messed this stuff up so many times trying to get sober, and I can’t afford to do that with the Void and the Sentry hanging around. If I fall off again, it’s not just me who pays the price. I couldn’t drag you through that.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but he pressed forward, too worked up to let himself be interrupted.
“I wanted you. God, I wanted you. And maybe that’s what made it worse. Because every time I looked at you I thought—what if I screw this up? I couldn’t live with myself if I did that.” Bob’s words caught, low and ragged. “So I let you go. Not because I wasn’t sure I loved you. It was just… bad timing.”
You sat frozen, his words blowing up everything you thought you’d known. You’d told yourself a hundred stories about why he’d walked away; boredom, fear, maybe even that he stopped loving you. But you’d never considered this.
Bob scrubbed his hand over his face, then let it drop. “You know I’m sober,” he said. “And yeah, the serum means drugs don’t really… stick anymore. I can’t drink, can’t use, not in any way that matters. But sobriety isn’t just about not putting stuff in your body. It can make you screw up the people around you while you’re trying to get clean. I guess my fear of doing that to someone never really went away.”
He let out a shaky breath, eyes flicking up to gauge if you were still listening.
“Every program told me the same thing: don’t date in the first year. Because you’re too raw, too unsteady. You’ll lean on someone in ways that end up hurting them.” He shook his head. “And I thought if I wanted a real shot at keeping the Void under control, I had to treat it like I was back at square one. Like I was still in that first year.” His jaw flexed, guilty, pained. “But by then I’d already met you, and for once, I thought maybe I got lucky.”
He looked away. “But I couldn’t have it all. Not when I was still learning how not to let the Void bleed out, or not to let the Sentry serum break everything I touched.”
You let out a laugh, shaky and wet, dragging your hand across your cheek. “Do you have any idea what you’re telling me right now?” you whispered.
His brow furrowed, wary. “I’m telling you why I ended things.”
“No,” you said, tone firming. “You’re telling me you never stopped loving me.” You were startled by how steady the words sounded, considering how violently your pulse was hammering.
Bob’s mouth opened, then closed. He didn’t deny it.
The months without him came crashing down: every long night staring at empty walls, every mission you buried yourself in, hoping exhaustion would trick you into not missing him.
“I know exactly what I would have said to you last night if I thought we were still together,” you admitted. “I would’ve told you I love you. That I miss you so much it feels like part of me got ripped away.” You swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in your eyes. “I’ve been walking around trying to pretend that I didn’t search for you every second of the day.”
Bob’s silence should have scared you. Months ago, when it felt like you were on the verge of breaking up, it did.
“Do you know what the worst part was?” you whispered. “Not knowing why you did it, or if I’d been wrong about you. I kept thinking—if you could walk away so easily, maybe you never loved me the way I loved you. And I hated myself for wanting you anyway.” Your chest rose and fell unevenly. “And now—” You broke off in a half-laugh, half-sob, “now that I know why you did it, it makes me love you even more.”
Bob’s hands twisted together in his lap, and then slowly stilled. “You know,” he said, voice quiet enough that it made you lean in to catch it, “it’s been a year.”
You blinked at him. “Since…?”
He glanced up hesitantly, like he wasn’t sure if saying it aloud might jinx it. “Since the last time the Void broke through. Since I—” Bob exhaled shakily. “Since I lost control like that. One year of doing everything right. No shortcuts, no lies, no risking it. Other than being with you, I guess.”
Your throat tightened. “You did it.”
“I did it,” Bob echoed, almost like he couldn’t believe it himself. “I didn’t think I could, but I did. And these last few months,” his eyes found yours, steady now, “I missed you so much.”
Something tugged at your gut. “Then why be with me at all, if you’d promised yourself a year?” The words came out softer than you meant, not accusing, but like you were afraid of the answer.
Bob’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Because I couldn’t let you go. You were the only thing that made me feel like I wasn’t just surviving that year, but actually living it. I thought—I thought I could hold both, you and the vow, but when it came down to it… I was terrified I’d break one, and I couldn’t risk it being you.”
You bit your lip, forcing yourself not to cry. “I missed you so much,” you said. “Nothing feels right without you.”
Bob swallowed, his gaze fixed on you. “You really think…” His words faltered, and then, barely above a whisper: “You really think you could take me back?”
You reached for him before you could second-guess it, your hand covering his. His fingers tensed, then relaxed, instinctively interlocking with yours.
Bob stared down at your joined hands, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I don’t deserve this,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t—”
“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you interrupted, quieter than you meant, but steady. “If anything, the fact that you were willing to give this up to get better proves that you deserve it.”
When he looked up at you again, there was something tender in his eyes. “I just don’t want to hurt you again.”
“You did hurt me,” you admitted, a small, almost rueful smile tugging at your mouth. “By keeping things from me. But we can work on that.”
For a long moment, he didn’t speak, just held your gaze like he was trying to capture the moment in a memory. Then, voice rough, Bob asked, “So what now?”
You squeezed his hand, feeling the warmth of it sink into you. “Now?” You drew in a shaky breath, lips trembling with something like a laugh. “Now we see if we can get it right this time.”
Then Bob leaned across to reach you, almost hesitant, like he was giving you one last chance to pull away.
Your free hand caught his sweatshirt collar and pulled him in the rest of the way, and then his mouth was on yours. It was laughably familiar, the exact way you used to tug him down for a kiss when he was stalling, and you felt his breath hitch like he remembered that too.
It was the kind of kiss that came from months of restraint tearing loose all at once. His lips pressed hard to yours, hungry and desperate, like your bodies remembered what your minds had tried to forget.
You tasted salt—your tears, his, you couldn’t tell—and his hand slid to cradle your jaw, tilting your face so he could kiss you deeper. It was as if he’d been picturing this moment in his head and couldn’t risk losing a single detail now that it was real.
The tremor in his hands gave him away; Bob always shook when he was holding too much back, and you realised this was months of self-restraint crumbling. Your lungs burned with the need for air but your body refused to stop, greedy and starved, like you’d gone months without food and only he could satiate you again.
The heat of it built fast, familiar and overwhelming, like no time had passed at all. Bob’s mouth found yours with the kind of certainty that only comes from practice, from knowing exactly how to draw that sharp gasp from your lips, exactly how to make your knees weaken.
You broke apart just long enough to breathe, and he let out a ragged groan against your mouth. “I missed this,” Bob whispered, deep and wrecked like it always was after you kissed.
“Then don’t ever make us miss it again,” you said, and dragged him back into another kiss.
Bob’s breath shuddered against your mouth, his thumb tracing over your cheek to ground himself in you. “I love you,” he said, hoarse and certain, before kissing you again.
Your hands slid into his curls, tugging him closer, closer, until the chair scraped back against the floor. Bob didn’t care, didn’t even pause, just caught your waist and pulled you into his lap like he couldn’t bear a single inch of distance. Your knees sank into the mattress you used to sleep on every night, heat flooding your abdomen.
The sound he made when you settled against him was half growl, half plea, and it vibrated through you, low and devastating. His hands slid up your back, spanning your ribs, mapping you all over again with a reverence disguised as desperation.
“You feel exactly the same as I remember,” Bob rasped against your mouth, the words breaking on another groan as your fingers tugged his hair. “Except so much better than anything my mind made up.”
You kissed him instead of answering, teeth catching on his bottom lip. He cursed softly, lost to it. His hands moved restlessly—your hip, your thighs, your back—like he couldn’t decide where to touch you first. There was nothing careful in the way he kissed you.
When you leaned back, Bob chased your lips. “I can’t stop,” he whined, trembling as his thumb stroked gently across your throat. “Tell me to stop and I will, but—God, I can’t—”
“Don’t stop,” you cut in, breathless, your lips bruising his as you spoke. “Don’t you dare.”
That was all it took. Bob surged up to kiss you again, all fire and urgency, one hand splayed across your back to keep your chest pressed against his. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart against yours. You gasped when your back hit the headboard, legs wrapped around his waist for stability. His mouth was already chasing the sound, devouring it.
“Missed this—missed you—” Bob muttered between kisses, completely wrecked. His hands roamed, greedy and adoring all at once.
Your fingers hooked into the hem of his sweatshirt, aching for bare skin, tugging it half-way up before you even realised you’d done it. The noise he made when you touched him—strangled, helpless, carnal—shot straight through you like lightning.
He broke the kiss only long enough to yank his shirt over his head, his chest heaving, eyes burning into yours. “Tell me this isn’t just me,” he rasped, already pulling you back in.
“It’s not,” you whispered. “I love you.” Then you kissed him as your hands traced over familiar lines of muscle, remembering exactly where to touch to make him shiver and groan.
Bob’s masterful composure broke. He fell back without warning, pliant and gasping underneath your fingers. Your knees dug into the mattress again, your hands bracing on either side of his head while his fingers disappeared underneath your t-shirt. You arched into him instinctively, his name breaking on your lips, and his grip on your hips tightened.
Bob knew exactly how to undo you, exactly where to linger, exactly how to make your breath stutter. And you knew him just as well; the way his hands trembled when you trailed kisses down his neck and across his collarbones said you hadn’t lost your hold on him either.
Every scrape of his stubble, every brush of his tongue, every shaky gasp between kisses was a reminder that Bob knew you inside and out.
And then you started laughing. Messy, breathless giggles that bubbled up between kisses when Bob fumbled with the button of your jeans and swore under his breath, when his nose bumped yours because neither of you could keep still.
You dropped your forehead against his shoulder, giggling helplessly. He smelled the same, soap and cedar and the faint tang that clung to him when he woke up, and it sent another wave of hysterical affection through you.
“We’re a disaster,” you teased, rolling over to lie on your back beside him.
“Speak for yourself,” Bob muttered, though his grin was hopelessly crooked, his chest still heaving. “I’m very smooth.”
You gave him a look, one brow arched. He sighed, sagging down beside you, reaching for your hand like it was the only thing tethering him.
“Okay,” he admitted, eyes flicking away. “Maybe not smooth. More like… sandpaper. Or, uh, a car crash. The kind you can’t look away from because it’s that bad.”
You laughed again, louder this time, tugging him forward so you could kiss the corner of his mouth. “Bob.”
He glanced at you warily, self-deprecating humour still lingering in the downturn of his smile. “Yeah?”
“You’re fine,” you whispered, cupping his cheek, brushing your thumb over the stubble there. “More than fine. You’re the best thing I’ve ever let crash into me.”
Something unguarded flickered in his eyes then, relief tangled with endless affection. The way his face crumpled—half a laugh, half like he’d taken a breath after holding it for too long—was so unmistakably Bob that you couldn’t help kissing him again. Softer this time, slow and sweet, like coming home.
bob tells you he’s never been kissed. you decide to change that. (post thunderbolts, spoiler free!)
bob reynolds x fem!reader, fluff, friends in love, kissing, thunderbolt!reader (or at least she is implied to live in avengers tower), 1.7k words
“You’re telling me you’ve never been kissed?”
Bob’s face is already hot, but now it burns like a furnace. You’re staring at him like he’s grown two heads.
“No,” Bob shakes his head, embarrassed under your gaze. He looks at his hands instead. “I mean… not properly.”
You must be able to tell he’s embarrassed about it, because you soften.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” you say gently. Bob didn't think you meant it like that, but it doesn’t make it any less embarrassing. You twist towards him. “I just meant … I don’t know, you’re cute. How come no one’s ever kissed you before?”
Bob goes a bit blind. He’s already nervous enough, having you in his room like this. You’re meant to be playing his new video game together, but you’d gotten talking about an old high school fling who used to play video games and was, incidentally, a terrible kisser. You’d asked Bob if he’d ever had a kiss so bad it made him want to brush his teeth five times over, and he’d blurted his secret before he’d even considered lying.
“I don’t know,” Bob mumbles. The tips of his ears burn. He wonders if he imagined you calling him cute. “Nobody’s ever liked me that much, I guess.”
There’s a beat of silence. Bob realises he’s made a pretty pathetic image of himself (as if he wasn’t enough of a loser already), and he goes to amend, but you beat him to it.
“I find that hard to believe,” you say. You put your controller down on the duvet by your hip and twist to face him. You’re sitting side by side on the end of his bed, legs dangling over the edge. It’s a big bed — it’s a big tower. Bob’s still not used to living in the Avengers old headquarters, and he doesn’t think he ever will be.
Bob swallows and finally looks up at you. You’ve got this look on your face that he can’t put a name to. The forgotten video game glowing on the TV reflects back, colouring your features different shades of blue and orange. You’re really pretty. He’s really nervous.
An awkward chuckle tumbles from his mouth, “Why’s that?” He asks.
You shrug one shoulder. “‘Cos you’re really nice. And funny. You’re handsome too, if that helps,” you say, grinning a bit now.
Bob just blinks at you, flummoxed. Is he dreaming? He doesn’t remember falling asleep.
“Are you making fun of me?” He asks eventually. He doesn’t think you ever would, but he can’t fathom that fact that maybe, you’re telling the truth.
You shake your head vehemently. “No. No, what? I’m serious, Bob, you’re a great guy,” you say earnestly. Then, like an afterthought, “I’d kiss you,” you add quietly.
Bob short circuits. He truly can’t figure out if he’s dreaming or not. Surely, he is. Surely you, the loveliest, prettiest girl he’s ever had the pleasure of knowing, doesn’t want to kiss him. He searches for something to say but all that comes out is,
“Oh.”
You grin, not teasing but getting close. “You don’t believe me?” You ask, raising an eyebrow.
Bob flounders, “I—no. I mean, yes? I… I don’t know.”
Smooth, he thinks sarcastically, then promptly shuts his mouth before he can say anything else stupid. Meanwhile, you’re leaning closer, your thigh pressing into his.
”I can prove it, if you like,” you say in a quiet voice.
Bob’s heart hammers. “Prove … what?”
It’s a stupid question, but you’ve never made him feel stupid and he doesn’t think you ever will. You just smile softly.
”Prove that I want to kiss you,” you say simply. “Can I?”
Bob doesn’t know how to respond to that. He’s not sure if he’s lightheaded from your proximity, your sweet perfume, your words, or a mix of all three. He finds himself nodding.
“Okay,” he says.
He watches in a sort of trance as your eyes flicker to his mouth and back up again.
“You sure?” You ask.
Bob’s never been more sure of anything in his life. He tries not to breathe too fast. “Yeah,” he nods.
You grin. Now Bob’s looking at your lips, the curve of your Cupid’s bow, your plump bottom lip. The tip of your tongue as it darts out to wet your top lip.
His heart thuds in his chest.
“Alright,” you say. “Shut your eyes, handsome.”
Bob slams his eyes shut and stays very still. He’s so nervous he can feel it in his bones, a warm sort of buzzing deep in his limbs. It’s unfamiliar and strange, but not uncomfortable. He feels you moving closer, and then feels your hand on his shoulder. Jolts of electricity go down his arm.
“You ready?” You ask in a whisper.
You’re so close now Bob can feel your breath on his lips when you speak. Meanwhile, he can’t speak, so he just tilts his chin up in response.
You take the hint. You press your lips to his and kiss him. Bob forgets how to think — your lips are warm, your kiss achingly soft. He doesn’t know what to do with himself but let himself be kissed, his heart pounding so hard now he’s sure you can hear it. You kiss him for longer than he’s expecting, your thumb pressing into the fleshy part of his shoulder. When you pull away, he wants more.
“How was that?” You whisper. You’re very, very close, so close Bob could count your eyelashes if he wanted to. The glow of the TV reflects warm orange in your eyes.
“Not a real kiss,” Bob murmurs. Your kissing has left him feeling braver than usual.
Your eyes glint and you grin, all Cheshire Cat-like. “I was just warming you up,” you say a little defensively. “You want to go again?”
Bob nods. His nose bumps yours. “Please.”
You kiss him again. You’re more sure this time, warmer, like you were waiting for him to ask for more. Your hand migrates to the very top of his back, your arm caging his shoulder as you push up into the kiss. Bob finds himself kissing back, though he doesn’t really know how, he’s just following your lead. Your thigh starts to squash his and he doesn’t care, ‘cos you taste like butter popcorn and something sweet, and you’re kissing him like you’ve wanted to do this about as long as he has.
You move closer, your kisses getting surer, and Bob’s hand starts to move of its own accord, an invisible thread tugging it towards your waist. His thumb skips over your sweater, and his hand aches with want, but he hesitates.
You break away from the kiss.
“You can touch me,” you murmur with a lopsided grin. “Go on.”
You reach down and take his hand in yours, pressing it to your waist. Bob swallows. You’re so warm, and his hand fits perfectly to the dip of your waist, his pinky finger sliding over the bump of your hip. If he’d known touching you would be like this, he’d have done it much earlier.
“S’that okay?” He asks you.
You nod. “Yeah. You can touch my face, too, if you want. Do you wanna try kissing me now?”
Bob does want to, very badly, but he’s afraid he’ll mess it up. “I don't know how,” he says honestly, past caring how pathetic he sounds.
You shrug. “That’s okay,” you say gently. Your hand returns to his shoulder and you push your palm up towards his neck. You lean close until your noses almost touch. “Just do what I did, okay? I’ll help you.”
You let your eyes fall shut. Bob, his heart rampant with nerves all over again, takes that as his sign and moves forward to slot his mouth with yours. It’s messy — his nose squashes into yours, and he’s not sure whether to part his lips or not. His decision gets made for him when your lips part very slightly under the pressure of his kiss.
“That’s good,” you murmur against his lips, nodding encouragingly. “Good job.”
You grab his neck and tug yourself closer. Your mouth is hot, your hand greedy at the nape of his neck. Bob remembers what you said before, and raises his free hand to very gently cup your jaw. You’re abnormally warm under his touch, and when he presses his palm to your neck, he can feel your pulse going almost as fast as his.
He pulls away from you an inch, suddenly concerned. “Are you okay?” He asks, frowning. “Your pulse is a riot.”
He must sound as clueless as he feels, because you give a breathless laugh.
“You’re making me nervous,” you say shyly.
Bob blinks. “Oh,” he says. He didn't know he had the capability to make you nervous.
You giggle breathlessly, lips all swollen and dark pink, and Bob decides he’s in love with you right then and there.
”Yeah, oh,” you echo, smiling like a fool. “Kiss me again, will you?”
Bob doesn’t need to be asked twice. His hand roves around to the small of your back and he kisses you again, and sure, it’s not perfect, but you make up for it by kissing him back so ardently that it’s a wonder Bob doesn’t pass out. Your hand pushes up into his hair, greedy as anything, and now he’s sure he’s gonna pass out. You tug at the strands of hair at the very nape of his neck and Bob makes a sound he can’t help. He whimpers.
He’s about to die of embarrassment when he feels you smile against his lips.
“Feels nice?” You ask, pulling back, but not before giving him a few short kisses.
”Sorry,” Bob says back. He’s almost certain he’s steaming at the ears right now.
You shake your head. “Nothing to be sorry for, handsome,” you kiss the side of his mouth, your fingers curling into his hair like it’s second nature. “You want me to keep going?”
Bob’s not sure he could handle it, but he nods anyway. If the others find him passed out or dead in his own bedroom in the morning, he’s blaming it on you.
-
thank you for reading! please consider reblogging if you enjoyed 🤍
Knight in Shining Glasses : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader
Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader
Summary: All you wanted to do was enjoy your first night in San Diego at the bar recommended to you by your father, but a hot-shot new to the Top Gun program was intent on bringing you home with him, or at least couldn't take a hint. Lucky for you, there's a knight in shining glasses ready to save you.
Warnings: 18+ ONLY (I am not responsible for the media you choose to consume), fluff, language, kind of a pushy douchebag guy is in this, female reader, language, probably incorrect descriptions of the Navy (my dad was a Marine, I'm doing my best lol but I did do a ton of research so hopefully it's accurate-ish), suggestive and steamy but no smut (but boy did we get real close), like a TINY maybe hint of angst for 0.2 seconds
You nodded your head at the gorgeous woman behind the bar, who was already sliding a beer your way before you’d even answered, as if she could read your mind. You gave her a smile in thanks, sighing the second your hand touched the cool glass of the bottle.
San Diego was hot, too hot for your liking. Every piece of fabric on your body felt as if it was clinging to your body right now in a way that had you begging the world just to make it legal to walk around naked. You much preferred the weather back in New England, on the complete opposite side of the country, but you had promised to come to town for a bit. It had been years since you’d seen your father, not since his promotion and subsequent move to San Diego, your conflicting work schedules making it impossible to make the cross-country trip, even if you missed him.
You were here now, though, seated in the bar that had come highly recommended to you straight from him: The Hard Deck, located right on Coronado Beach, just minutes from the Naval Air Station of North Island.
“Local beer?” you questioned the woman as yet another group of rowdy, young Naval aviators came bursting through the doors of the bar, disturbing some of the other guests in the packed bar. The woman, whose nametag you could now see said Penny, just laughed at the antics of her new guests before nodding at you.
“Yeah, local company. They’re pretty popular around here, so I always have to keep them in stock,” you hummed, taking another sip of the drink in your hands. Rich in flavor, maybe with a hint of sweetness that complemented the bitterness it left behind. You could see why it was popular around here. Penny wiped the bar directly in front of you, flashing you a smile. “Now, I know most of my regulars here, and you certainly aren’t one. Where’d you blow into town from?”
“Watertown, New York,” you told her as another group of Naval aviators passed by you in their service khakis, older than the group that had just come in. Your eyes followed them for just a moment, lingering as they moved to the back of the room to the pool tables as if they were there every night, before looking back at Penny. “My father is in the Navy, stationed here in San Diego. Thought it was finally time I visited him.”
“Good, means you know how to deal with the rowdy bunch I have here,” you both laughed as she gestured toward the group of young pilots that had just come through. Someone called to her from further down the bar, and she paid you one final smile. “Holler if you need anything, or if anyone’s giving you trouble.”
“Will do,”
With the jukebox playing off in the corner, Summer of ‘69 by Bryan Adams filling the air, it gave you a chance to really take in the atmosphere. Given the proximity to the Naval Air Station, you weren’t surprised by the amount of Navy paraphernalia that decorated the entire bar. Mugs hung from the ceiling with F18s on them, plenty of pictures of those monster jets hung up around the tables as well. And with the clientele that Penny seemed to attract here, judging by the number of young pilots scattered around, you weren’t surprised that this seemed to have turned into a place many in the Navy flocked to after a long day on base.
The young group of aviators, who seemed to have met up with another group of friends, were loud and rambunctious over by the dart board as they took bets on who could make a bullseye first. You rolled your eyes at their antics with a slight smile, reminded of the stories your father had told of his days, and looked over your shoulder toward that older group by the pool tables.
Easily your age, or at least older and more experienced than the group by the dart board. There was one woman among the groups of men with darker hair, already kicking their asses at the pool game they were playing. That alone quirked your lips up just slightly as you watched Penny deliver a tray of drinks to the group that seemed very personally friendly with her. Ah, so they must be stationed here at North Island and be regulars of the Hard Deck.
They were quite the bunch, from what you observed from the bartop. There was the young man playing alongside the woman, and what seemed like his best friend pestering him after another missed shot. There was a taller, tan blonde who you could tell from here exuded confidence in an over-the-top way, and a friend beside him who also seemed to have that arrogant confidence about him. The man taking the tray from Penny and passing out the drinks had that same confidence and charm, but it almost seemed to roll off of him naturally as if he wasn’t even trying to charm those around him.
It was the one sitting off to the side, silently observing his friends, that caught your eye.
He didn’t exude confidence in the same way that his friends did. He wasn’t walking sex on legs like many would think the tall, overconfident friends of his were…but he was to you. Quiet, simply observing his friends with a tiny smile that stirred something in your chest. One hand holding onto the neck of his beer bottle, the same one you were drinking, and the other casually snacking on a cup of peanuts. You tried, and failed, to keep your eyes from lingering on those long, slender fingers of his, or the fact that, even from here, you could tell his hands were large in a delicious way that had your mind imagining what they’d feel like settled on your bare-
Okay, yeah, maybe it was time to say ‘fuck it’ to your no hook-up rule and get laid on this vacation. You couldn’t be thinking like this over a man you’d been looking at for less than a minute, didn’t even know his name, or had yet to make eye contact with.
But then, when your eyes finally left those slender hands, you were making eye contact with him.
There was an adorable flush crawling across his cheeks, and god were you a sucker for a cute man in some glasses. His lips quirked up in a shy smile as he met your gaze, giving you a tiny nod. A similar flush crept up your neck at being caught staring, giving him a small wink before turning back around to not seem like a creep watching him.
With Penny off taking orders as the bar only seemed to get busier by the minute, and no one around you seemed like good options for a conversation, you found yourself spun around to lean against the bar and observe the room. No time like a crowded bar to people watch.
With a few work emails checked to ensure you weren’t missing anything pressing on your vacation, and a text sent to your father to thank him for the bar recommendation, you found your eyes drifting back to that same Naval aviator once more.
The woman had dragged him from his seat, his beer and peanuts left behind as a pool cue was shoved into his hands as his friends cheered, bringing a grin to your face. Your eyes tracked him as he bent over the table to line up his shot, his friends engrossed in a conversation together, but then his eyes flicked up and met yours again. Your eyebrow shot up as you raised a beer to him, a simultaneous encouragement for him to sink his shot and also a challenge to see if he could. His lips quirked up at that as, without even glancing down to his cue, he took his shot: directly in the pocket without interference. His friends clapped for him, patting him on the back, but his eyes stayed on you. Even with another flush crawling up his neck and nerves practically stitched into his smile, he shot you a wink this time, and you couldn’t stop the giddy grin on your lips.
“Well, never seen girl as pretty you before,”
You didn’t want to stop looking at that gorgeous man in glasses across the bar, but you were intrigued to know who was speaking to you.
He wasn’t the worst-looking man, he was attractive. Dark hair that matched the mustache and the beard that was growing in, which was definitely against grooming standards for the Navy. Pretty brown eyes…but he wasn’t your shy, glasses-sporting boy across the room. Plus, you recognized him from that rowdy bunch of pilots that had walked in beforehand. The smile you’d given the man across the bar dropped into the smallest, friendliest one you could muster as you looked at the name on his badge: Jackson.
“Well, that’s definitely a way to open up a conversation,” you shot back. The man only laughed, leaning against the bar next to you with a charming, over-confident grin on his lips.
“Warrant Officer Daniel Jackson,” he held out his hand to shake yours, and you reluctantly gave it to him. You regretted it the moment he brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, and you quickly took your hand back and slyly wiped it along the side of your jeans. “Friends call me Caveman.”
“Interesting callsign,” you shot back with a fake laugh, tilting your head. “You get that from the unkempt beard that’s clearly not within grooming protocols?
He laughed again, but it did nothing to lift your smile from where it was frozen to be polite. He took a swig from his own beer that he’d brought over with him before leaning closer.
“Funny, and you know the Navy,” you laughed uncomfortably again, taking a subconscious scoot backward on your chair to get away from him. “Brand new to Top Gun, friends and I got in earlier. About to become the best of the best…”
He continued talking, droning on and on about Top Gun and the ‘prestige’ that came with being one of the best of the best (if he could actually get through the vigorous training). In the interest of being polite and not pissing off a man your first night in town, you laughed politely when appropriate and pretended to be listening.
When your eyes glanced back at that man in the glasses, though, he was already looking at you. Back to standing near the seat he’d occupied before, peanuts in his hands and the pool game abandoned as he seemed to be watching you. You gave him a dramatic roll of your eyes, pitching your head toward the pilot still talking your ear off as if to say ‘get a load of this guy,’ and you could see him laugh from across the bar. That simple action sent a flutter through your chest, and god, what you wouldn’t give to actually hear that laugh.
“...I could show you base sometime,” your attention was, sadly, brought back to Caveman beside you, who was still smiling at you as if you were a prize he’d won and wanted to flaunt around the entire bar to each and every patron. “Could sponsor ya for the day, give ya a private tour.”
“That’s sweet, but I’m sure if I wanted to visit the base, my father would happily sponsor me,” you shot back, trying to turn him down as politely as you possibly could. Your comment only seemed to brighten his mood even more.
“Navy dad, you say?” he’d leaned in closer once more, and you were running out of room on the little stool to lean away from him. “Guess that means you know a lot. Dad have rules about…dating pilots?”
Yeah, no, now you were uncomfortable. There was no being polite now, he’d made his intentions clear and could clearly not read your body language. Your body instantly tensed as your eyes avoided his, still trying to keep the most polite smile you could on your lips. Penny was nowhere in sight to help, so your eyes immediately found your pilot across the room.
He was already watching you, it seemed, but when you locked eyes again, he stood up a little straighter, the smile he had on his face dropping slightly. It was as if he could see the way your demeanor had suddenly changed, and god, you hoped he could see it.
“I’m flattered, but I’m not looking for anything like that,” you’d awkwardly laughed out as you looked back at him finally. “I’m just here on vacation.”
That was when his hand settled on top of your knee, and your heart leapt into your throat. The heat of his hand felt like it was burning a hole in your jeans as he squeezed just so.
“Don’t got to be anything serious, I’m down for some fun,”
That polite smile was gone off your face in an instant as you tried to yank your leg from him, but he squeezed it just slightly tighter.
“Okay, Caveman, sounds like you must’ve got your nickname from how you treat women,” that snide comment seemed to drop his confident demeanor immediately. “I’ve turned you down, I’ve made it clear I’m not interested. So I suggest you let me go.”
“Come on, I think you just need to-”
“I’m pretty sure she said let her go, Caveman,”
There was an edge to the voice that cut in, but not one that made you feel on edge yourself. A hand clamped down on your shoulder from behind, firm but not uncomfortable in the way that the hand on your knee was. Grounding, and when it squeezed your shoulder just slightly, it felt comforting. Protective, in a way. And when you finally turned your head and noticed those familiar glasses you’d been staring at all night, and those gorgeous blue eyes hiding behind them, you immediately relaxed into his touch.
Caveman’s hand immediately left your knee as he seemed to sit up a little straighter, putting his hands up in surrender as he looked at the man standing at your side now.
“Lieutenant Floyd-”
“Things are looking tense over here!” those two pilots you’d observed earlier, the ones who exuded confidence in your eyes, suddenly appeared behind Caveman. The taller blonde placed his hand down on his shoulder just as Lieutenant Floyd’s was on yours, and you glanced at their tags: Lt. Seresin and Lt. Bradshaw. The blonde pointed to Caveman, raising an eyebrow at the man at your side. “Baby-on-board, is this man causing trouble?”
Your shoulder was squeezed once more as you turned back to look at the man at your side, feeling another flutter in your chest as you got a good look at those sky blue eyes up close, which made him even more attractive in your eyes. He gave you a small smile, tilting his head toward your ‘friend’ just like you had earlier on.
“Is he bothering you?”
You’d glanced back at Caveman, who seemed semi-scared shitless around these guys, and a smirk curled up on your lips.
“Yes, yes he is,”
“Disrespecting a lady?” it was Penny’s voice now as she reappeared behind the bar, her glare set on that poor pilot that everyone was ganging up on. She ‘tsked’ in his direction, before stepping back to point to a sign hanging just behind her. “It’s your first night here, you should probably check the rules before you get comfortable.”
Disrespect a lady, the Navy, or put your cellphone on my bar…you buy a round.
Alright, Penny might be your new favorite person, besides the hot ass pilot in glasses still comfortably resting his hand on your shoulder as the scene played out before you all.
Caveman never even got a chance to defend himself, as Penny had stepped up to the bell hanging from the ceiling beside the sign, the ring of it echoing throughout the bar. Within seconds, there were chants of ‘OVERBOARD!’ heard throughout the room before Lt. Seresin and Lt. Bradshaw had the man hooked under their arms, dragging him out to the parking lot as his friends quickly followed behind.
“A-Are you okay?”
Your eyes found your pilot’s brilliant blue ones again, this time in front of you as he chose to now occupy the seat Caveman was sitting in just moments prior. You simply stared at him for a moment, still trying to process the entire interaction, before a smile stretched wide across your face.
“You know, I thought the Knight in all the fairytales was wearing shining armor?” you posed it like a question, a teasing tone present in your words as you took a quick swig of your beer, eyes never leaving his, and your smile turning into a slight smirk. “Didn’t know mine was going to come bearing shining glasses, instead.”
He’d laughed, that laugh just minutes ago you would’ve burned this bar down to hear, and my god, did you adore it. You adored it more than you should, given that you still didn’t know this mystery man’s name.
“No woman deserves to be treated like that, ma’am,” he tried to dismiss you, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as your eyes trailed over those hands once again, now that they were so close. You could see the redness in his cheeks from this close now, too. “T-The way he was acting, my mom would’ve torn me a new one if I didn’t step in.”
“And is that the only reason?” you quipped back immediately, placing your beer down on the counter just so you could really look at him, study him. “That you stepped in?”
You could see the way he hesitated for a moment, but not as if he didn’t want to answer you. No, you could see that flush deepening in his skin: you were flirting with him, and he knew it, he just didn’t know how to handle it.
“N-No, no, that’s not the only reason,” there was a shy smile on his face as he huffed out a sheepish laugh, looking down at his lap for a moment, before looking back to you. “I should actually thank him, his incompetence gave me the balls to come over here and talk to you.”
He’d made you laugh, a boisterous one that caught the attention of a few lingering around the area of the bartop you were sat at, and you knew already that you were screwed when it came to this man. You’d offered your name immediately after that, a hand out to shake, and he took it in his own as he gave his name: Bob Floyd.
You tried desperately not to think about the way his hand had felt against yours, or the way it had absolutely engulfed your hand due to its sheer size alone. You forced your gaze to the badges that adorned the left side of his khaki uniform, glancing back up at him with a grin as you pulled your hand away.
“So, a Lieutenant?” you commented, gesturing toward the two silver bars on the collar of his uniform, before pointing with your beer bottle to the golden wings centered above his heart. “Flight officer badge. You’re a Weapons Systems Officer?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he gave you another kind grin as Penny swung by quickly, shooting a wink in both of your directions as you slid you both another beer each, muttering something about it being on the house. Bob took his with a sheepish smile, thanking Penny quietly before his attention refocused on you. “Top Gun graduate.”
“Ah, that and the rank explain why Caveman was so scared shitless to see you and your friends,” he’d laughed again at that comment as you finished off the last of your beer, a sly smirk appearing as it was hard to miss the way that Bob’s eyes flickered down to your neck as you tilted you head back to finish off the bottle. “Typically, you’re only recalled here for special detachments and sent home to your squadrons, unless you’re here to train newbies like our friend in the sand outside.”
“We were brought in for a mission months ago,” Bob’s attention was turned away as Lt. Seresin and Lt. Bradshaw reentered the bar. They both gave you polite waves that you happily returned for what they’d done for you, before making the most obvious of kissy faces toward Bob that had him shaking his head in embarrassment. You tried to hold in your laughter for his own sake. “They thought we had good team dynamics, so they formed a special squadron to keep us in town for a while. VFA-73 Dagger Squad, at your service.”
“Well, cheers to you all and a sincere thanks for your service,” he happily clinked the top of his bottle against your own. “Must be one special group to get a new squadron formed, no less made up of the best of the best.”
“Oh, they’re special, alright,”
You’d quickly come to learn in the next few minutes that Bob Floyd might’ve been the quieter one of his friends, but he was just as charming as the rest seemed to be. Honestly, you weren’t sure he understood just how charming he really was. He’d pointed across the bar toward his friends, naming off their names and the callsigns that you were sure to remember more easily. With each name, he seemed to easily have a story or a quick-witted quip about each one (including the embarrassing story of his Bob ended up his callsign and how Hangman had turned it into baby-on-board) that had you progressively laughing harder, leaning further toward him. You were seated facing one another, bodies angled directly at the other, and his knee was just barely brushing up against yours now with each laugh shared.
“Hangman seems like a piece of work, but I bet he’s got a soft side buried somewhere down in there,” you’d shot back, turning Bob’s attention back to you as you leaned closer to him with a grin, launching into a story that Bob seemed gripped to, an easy smile on his own face. “My dad’s the same way, took my Uncle Solomon–not my real Uncle, but kind of chosen Uncle–to break him down a little bit, get him to loosen up more.”
“So, your father was in the Navy?”
“Still is, reason that I’m in town right now,”
With Bob this close, you were losing focus fast. The way he hung onto every word that you said, seemed to genuinely care about what you had to say, had a flutter flying through your chest that you hadn’t felt since your first boyfriend back in high school. Sure, you’d had your fair share of relationships in adulthood, but nothing that clicked, no one that made your heart soar or made you want to ‘pop your foot’ as Princess Mia always said in your favorite childhood movie. You were starting to understand her logic, though, because every second around this charming knight in shining glasses had you ready to throw caution to the wind.
So, with a little boost of confidence fueled by the third beer in your hand and the adorable sight of a blush on the Naval aviator’s face, you moved even closer. Your leg slotted itself between his, pressed between his thighs as your foot rested against the bottom rungs of his chair. You could see him freeze for just a second as his eyes followed you, not apprehensive, but just unsure, like he’d never been here before. With your beer pushed off to the side, not seeing a need for any more liquid courage, your elbow came to rest on the bartop and your head on top of your hand, allowing you to look up at the handsome man before you and watch as he visibly swallowed the lump in his throat.
God, that really had no right to be as hot as it was.
“S-So, he’s stationed here on North Island?”
“Maybe,” you shot back with a smirk, one that brought an easy smile back to his lips as he could surely hear the teasing tone laced through your words as you kept your answer vague. “I’d prefer not to talk about my dad, though, when I could be hearing more about the incredibly handsome WSO who saved this poor damsel in distress.”
Another easy laugh was shared between you both before the floodgates seemed to open up.
Bob had no issue telling you all about his childhood. He’d grown up in Montana, on a ranch somewhere on the outskirts of Bozeman, which prompted a lengthy debate on whether or not he qualified as a cowboy or not (you thought he did, and when he confessed to owning a few cowboy hats, you declared yourself the winner of the debate). His mother and father, Bonnie and Owen Floyd, had three daughters before finally having Bob, their youngest: Laura, and the twins Sophia and Sierra. He’d recounted a story from back in high school when they’d taken a trip to Yellowstone National Park for Bob’s birthday, at his request, where his oldest sister had gotten yelled at by a park ranger for stepping way too close to one of the hot springs.
“That’s, like, impossible to do!” you’d almost shouted through the bar incredulously as Bob laughed at your reaction. “All you have to do is stay on the guided paths, right?”
“That’s what I said!” Bob managed to explain through his own laughter. “Laura swore she saw a bald eagle and was just trying to get a closer look. She then, unbelievably, yelled back at the ranger about how one day she was going to be a conservationist and work there.”
“In the nicest way…she sounds like a piece of work sometimes,”
“No offense taken, the whole family agrees. I like to say she took all the extrovertedness in the family so that there was none left for me,”
Your lips quirked into another bright smile at that, tone slightly teasing once more, but in a soft way.
“I don’t know, you don’t seem so introverted around me,”
Bob paused at that, that adorable blush still ever present in his skin, as his lips quirked up just slightly higher than they were before.
“Yeah, yeah, I don’t,” he’d shyly managed to say, eyes never straying from yours. “You make it easy.”
With more shared laughter, two hearts fluttering just from conversation alone, Bob even told you the story of how he’d decided to join the Navy. He’d been with his father one day, the family truck getting worked on at the local shop, and his dad had slid him some money to grab them both some snacks from the pharmacy a few doors down. Bob had only been around 10 at the time. In between those two buildings, though, had been a Navy recruitment center where he’d overheard the conversation inside with some high school students, and the rest was history. He suddenly had every book known to man about the Navy, was watching every movie that even mentioned the Navy in passing, and had sheepishly admitted to even starting a collection of model planes he’d built, dreaming one day of flying them.
God, if that wasn’t somehow the cutest story in the world, but also the hottest moment of vulnerability you’d seen from a man your age in years, you were practically ready to swoon and drop to the floor right there in the middle of the bar. You had a feeling that Penny wouldn’t take kindly to that, even if she seemed to like you and Bob’s friend group.
In turn, you’d told Bob everything about yourself, too. Growing up in a town in New York that felt more like it was part of Canada than New York, given your proximity to the border. You were an only child, your father (who had you skirting around any details that Bob asked about him) was too focused on his career to think about having another kid. But he always swore that you were enough for him. His workaholic nature and deep love for the Navy and moving up the ranks strained the relationship he had with your mother until they divorced. How you never got to see him often, but he always managed to call at least once a week to talk to his ‘perfect girl.’
With the depressing comparison of your childhoods and family dynamics, you’d told him the happy stories and memories, too. Ones that you didn’t normally divulge to a man you had just met. You’d been on a softball team all through high school with your best friends, won multiple championships, and even gotten a scholarship to Boston University because of it. There were multiple stories about how your parents always bribed you with Cold Stone Creamery, and how it was still your favorite ice cream place today. That time your friends had gotten caught sneaking alcohol into the punch bowls at prom (that story had Bob laughing, as he recounted a similar one that Hangman had told them from his high school days). And, of course, the thrilling stories of your very mundane marketing job back in your hometown, the one you never managed to escape.
“You at least like your job, though, right?” Bob had asked, and with the way you were now sitting together, it would probably be more comfortable and practical to just climb into his lap and use him as a chair. Legs still wound around one another, both leaning against the bar with beers long forgotten, faces entirely too close together as you sat in your own bubble together. The sun had long since gone down, as it had still been in the beginning stages of setting when you’d first entered the bar.
One hour, two? You had no clue how long you’d been talking to Bob Floyd, but every part of you wanted to talk to him for the rest of the night and beyond. It was easy, it was comfortable, and you felt more respected in the entirety of this conversation than you did on any Tinder date you’d been on in years. Safe. That’s what you felt. You felt safe around Bob Floyd, a feeling that was a hot commodity in today's dating climate.
“I do. I went to school for it, so I hope I like it,” your eyes drifted to the bartop, finger absentmindedly tracing the water ring left around your discarded beer bottle. “Pays well, very well. Just want to do it…somewhere other than my hometown, is all. Love the company I work for, just want a change. If an opportunity presented itself, I’d leave Watertown immediately.”
“And besides your mom, you wouldn’t uh…you wouldn’t be leaving anyone behind, would you? No like a, uh, a boyfriend…or anything?”
You’d glanced back up at him now, at the way he bit into his bottom lip with both nerves and hope shining in his eyes as he waited with baited breath for your answer. And in turn, you smiled, leaning just the slightest bit closer to him with amusement laced in your words.
“Lieutenant Floyd, if you haven’t noticed, I’ve been flirting with you all night. I wouldn’t do that if there was someone waiting for me,”
He laughed then, and you could almost physically see the tension and nerves leave his body.
“Good, because uh, I-I don’t either. Have anyone, I mean,” your head tilted as Bob groaned slightly, running a hand down his face and adjusting his glasses with a deep chuckle. “I’m sorry, I’m really not good at this.”
“At flirting?”
“I never really get the chance to, no one ever really notices me,” he’d shrugged it off like it was nothing, but you’d felt a small pang in your chest at that comment. “Jake, Bradley, Javy…it’s always them, and it doesn’t normally bother me. But I…I saw you earlier, and you looked at me like you saw me. Like you really saw me. You never looked at them, you kept looking at me. And…I’ve never been the one looked at like that, not when I’m with them. I’m not the one noticed.”
You shuffled, sitting up slightly now so that you weren’t leaning against the bar, as you placed your hand on top of his, where it lay in his lap. Bob simply watched you, a tiny smile never leaving his face, as you reciprocated the look and gave his hand a squeeze.
“I’m not one to flirt with a random guy at a bar, or sit and divulge details of my life story to him for hours on end. Which means you, Bob Floyd, are special. And honestly? I’m glad the other ladies don’t notice you, because I sure did. And that just leaves more for me.”
There was silence for a beat before his hand under your own moved back just slightly, his fingers now splayed out over your own, wrapping around them slightly with a tiny squeeze. And somewhere in that small movement, in the looks exchanged in the never-ending eye contact you seemed to hold with one another, something changed. Those heated looks from earlier held a new weight with the words spoken out loud, the tension on the rope connecting the two of you tighter than it had been from the moment you’d first saw Bob Floyd from across the bar, and it felt like all it was going to take to snap that tension was to lean in-
“Baby-on-board! You done hogging your girl over there so we can meet her?”
And…moment ruined. Bob immediately shut his eyes, groaning with a mumble under his breath about how he was ‘going to kill Hangman’ while his friends all laughed from across the bar. You’d simply laughed, leaning your head down until your forehead rested against Bob’s shoulder, his breath and words ghosting over the side of your face as he finally spoke.
“Sorry about them. The one time I have a girl interested in me, they decide to be pricks about it,”
“Maybe they’re just trying to summon you back over, I have held you hostage long enough,” you commented when you finally lifted your head, glancing down at the watch on his arm to see that you had, in fact, held this man hostage at the bar for almost two hours, even though it had felt like minutes.
“Trust me, this was no hostage situation. I’d rather be over here with you,” Bob was quick to interject, his smile seeming to stretch wider as you were sure he could see the flush crawling up your own neck. Untangling your legs, Bob rose to his feet beside the chair as a pang of disappointment hit you square in the chest. That was, until he held his hand out to you with a sheepish grin. “Care to join me?”
You were pretty sure you would’ve followed Bob Floyd anywhere at this point. Was it insane to like a guy this much after barely knowing him for a night? Probably, but you didn’t feel like you’d just met him. No, Bob Floyd felt like meeting an old friend again, and god did you love the feeling. That’s why you didn’t hesitate to put your hand in his.
“Lead the way, Lieutenant,”
There was another round of cheers the second you and Bob were finally in their vicinity, another comment from Hangman about ‘Bobby finally bagging a woman’ that ended with a harsh shoulder slap from Phoenix. You’d only laughed as Bob shook his head at their antics and gratefully accepted the barstool he’d held out for you. Your eyes watched him, like they had been the entire night, as he turned down the invitation to the pool game at hand, taking a seat on the stool directly next to you.
What he probably hadn’t expected was for your foot to hook around the leg of his stool, dragging it directly to your side until every part of you that could be pressed up against the handsome WSO was. When he saw the easy smile on your face and the tiny wink you gave him, you could see any last bit of tension leave his body as he easily leaned into you as well.
They’d all quickly introduced themselves, though Bob had already given you the rundown before. You greeted them politely with a smile, finally giving them your own name so Bradley didn’t have to call you ‘mystery bar girl’ anymore.
“Well, well, well baby-on-board,” it was Hangman once again, shaking his head as he took a shot on one of his last solids left in play, sinking it easily. “Looks like you snagged a confident one. Too bad, bet I could’ve swept her off her feet if given the chance.”
Flirty. Bob certainly didn’t exaggerate just how flirtatious Jake Seresin seemed to be, not that you were interested at all in any comments from him. The comments didn’t catch you off guard, but Bob’s actions did.
His hand was immediately on your thigh, closer down toward your knee, but resting there nonetheless. Just the slightest bit of pressure, enough to feel as if it had been meant in a comforting gesture, but it inherently held something a little more to it. Not quite possessiveness, but something akin to staking a claim, to say you were with him and him only. While Caveman’s hand on any part of you had you wanting to run for the hills, Bob’s firm grip had you leaning into his side more, chasing after the warmth and security he provided. It still sent a flash of heat through every inch of your body, especially when you glanced down to see just how big his hand was when it was resting on such a small part of you. You wished you’d opted for the jean shorts you had picked out earlier now just to feel his hand engulf your bare skin instead.
“Knock it off, Bagman. Clearly, she’s more interested in the quiet types,” the wink Natasha sent your way made you laugh, a similar chuckle coming from Bob at his front-seater’s comments, as she whacked Hangman over the shoulder. While lining up to take her own shot in the game, you saw her catch the way Bob’s hand rested on your leg, and a flash of surprise followed by pride seemed to cross her features. “So, never seen you around before. What brings you to Fightertown?”
“Visiting my dad for a few weeks, he’s stationed here on North Island. But…I’m also here for work,” you could see Bob’s head turn to look at you curiously from the corner of your eye, but you kept your gaze on Natasha. “The marketing firm I work for has a branch out here in San Diego, over in Chula Vista. They know I’ve been looking to move, so they thought I should come check out their set-up out here to see if I liked it enough to take their offer.”
There was a squeeze to your thigh as you turned your attention back to Bob, who was looking at you quizically.
“You didn’t mention that before,”
“Wasn’t sure I was going to take their offer earlier,” you shrugged innocently. “San Diego is hot, I’m not built for this weather.”
“But you…think you might take it now?”
You bit into your bottom lip, leaning just a fraction closer to Bob as you tried to hold back your grin as you replied.
“Well…maybe I found another enticing reason to hang around San Diego for a while,”
There was a low murmur of laughter throughout the group at your words, that gorgeous redness settling back into Bob’s cheeks, and you could hear Fanboy mumble out just loud enough a ‘damn, she’s good at this’ comment.
The group asked their questions, and you answered happily. Where you were from, what all your job entailed, even the stupid little questions like who your celebrity crush was or if you ever thought about joining the Navy like your father.
All the while, Bob never strayed from your side. His thumb had been rubbing little circles into your jeans, just firm enough to feel it on your skin each time the digit moved back and forth, and god, you were really cursing yourself for not wearing those shorts right now. At some point, during a pool rematch between Rooster and Coyote, your head had found it’s way to rest against Bob’s shoulder, and after a brief moment there was the unmistakeable feel of lips pressed to the crown of your head that had a shiver running down your spine and another flash of heat rushing through you, this time heading all south.
Charming, sexy in a quiet way that made him seem so non-threatening, and an absolutely sweetheart and a gentleman…it hadn’t even been a day, but you knew Bob Floyd had already ruined your standards for men. He was the standard.
“Sorry, my favorite fighter pilots,” the attention of everyone crowded by the pool tables turned to Penny, hand on her hip, but an easy smile on her face as she glanced around, eyes lingering on you and the WSO who were still wrapped around one another. “Last call time, going to have to kick you all out now.”
Last call? With a quick glance around the bar, you noticed that there was, in fact, barely any patrons still around. The ones still left behind were already moving toward the door. And with a glance down at Bob’s watch, the time was confirmed: 2 a.m.
“Damn, we almost never stay here until last call,” Rooster laughed, packing up everything on the pool table so that Penny didn’t have to deal with it, Fanboy and Paybackl disappearing after offering to help Penny clean up bottles still littered around the bar.
“Time does fly when you’re having fun,” Natasha commented, bumping shoulders with him before she set her sights on you. “What about you, our honorary Dagger? Need a ride back to wherever you’re staying?”
“Nah, I’m staying at Hotel del Coronado right down the beach. Perks of the job. I just walked along the beach to get here earlier,” your gaze then flickered over to Bob, his thumb still rubbing circles into your leg where he’d never let go throughout the night. “Though it’s pretty late, I’d love if there was some knight in shining glasses still hanging around that wouldn’t mind walking me back.”
There wasn’t a second of hesitation from Bob before he was on his feet, the heat of his hand on your leg disappearing, and then reappearing moments later when his hand wrapped around your own, fingers sliding into place between yours.
“I’ve got tomorrow off, I’ll see you guys on base Sunday,” Bob nodded toward his friends, tugging you even closer to his side. “Tell Penny I’ll come grab my truck later.”
“More like in the morning,” Hangman commented, trying to conceal it surrounded by fake coughs. The group had laughed, the comment spurring another bloom of red across Bob’s cheeks and your own, before he’d tugged you out the back door of the Hard Deck and into the sand.
The beach in these early hours of the morning was quiet, beautiful in a way that only these lonely hours of the night could make it. No distant sound of traffic, no families or rowdy groups of teenagers running up and down the sand, just the sand, the waves, and the moon. It cast streaks of light over the water, its reflection rippling in the waves as they crashed to shore, setting the scene of a picturesque night along the stretch of sand that lasts miles.
Bob had held you up as you removed your sandals, carrying them in one hand in order to appreciate the cool sand beneath your feet. Your other hand still stayed wrapped up in Bob’s, the warmth of his skin a delicious contrast to the cool breeze that came with the cool nighttime California air. Conversation hadn’t stopped, not once, since you’d both started talking earlier on in the night, but this time it was Bob pointing up at the sky as you lazily moved down the beach at the slowest pace you could, naming constellations visible.
“That one right over there,” you followed his gaze as he pointed just slightly West in the sky. “That one is Hercules.”
“Ah, absolutely. I can totally see it,” you nodded your head repeatedly, and it was clear that Bob was already starting to laugh at your response. “The square those stars form, and the little stick arms and legs, definitely gives off a mythological Greek hero to me.”
“Well, actually,” Bob managed to speak through his laughter. “It’s named for his Roman counterpart. Heracles was his Greek counterpart, so they’re essentially the same thing.”
After a moment, you dropped Bob’s hand, turning and angling your body so that you were facing him head-on, walking backward in the sand. Even in the dark of the night, you could tell there was a tiny blush creeping along his cheeks as you tilted your head toward him.
“Bob Floyd, don’t tell me you’re also a secret space nerd!”
His laugh echoed down the beach as he hung his head for a moment, adjusting his glasses when he finally looked back up to you with a grin.
“Guilty, hard not to be with the kind of night skies I grew up seeing in Montana. I-I haven’t…completely ruined my chances now that I’ve nerded out…have I?”
“On the contrary. I have a thing for smart men,” with another wink, you’d spun on your heel in the sand, continuing your walk toward the hotel. “Especially this smart, handsome WSO named Bob Floyd that I met tonight.”
You’d barely gotten a few steps away before there was a sudden tug on your hand, your body spinning back around in the sand until your chest was pressed directly to Bob’s. And before you could utter a single word, his lips were, finally, on yours.
Without a second of hesitation, you fell into him, swept away by the way his fingers traced the line of your jaw, sliding their way to the back of your neck as he held you in place against him. His lips moved against your own with a sense of gentleness that disappeared once it was clear you were reciprocating with vigor, his mouth swallowing yours with the hunger of a starved man.
Almost involuntarily, a delicious little sound you swore you’d never made before tumbled from your lips, swallowed whole by the soft, firm moves of Bob’s lips against your own. A spark grew in the pit of your stomach the second the hand on your waist gripped you just the slightest bit tighter, a spark that was soon a raging inferno that you had no thoughts about taming.
It takes no effort to give in to Bob Floyd, not when he holds you like this. Not when he’s kissing you on a moonlit beach as if you’d personally hung the moon in the sky just for him.
There is no question in this kiss, no lingering doubts about whatever had sparked between you both since the moment you’d made eye contact hours ago. When your hands find their way to the nape of his neck, fingers sliding through and tugging lightly on the sandy blonde hair you couldn’t even see in the dark, and he elicits a groan that has your knees threatening to give out in the sand, there’s no question: there’s a claim. If his hand on your thigh was the precursor, the writing of a contract to claim you as his in a way you didn’t even realize you already were, this kiss was the signature. Signed and dated, written in stone. You weren’t sure there was another man in the world who could kiss you the way Bob Floyd was kissing you, who could ignite a fire that bright in the depths of your soul.
With reluctance, as if it takes the gods themselves to pull either of you away, you part for the simple need to breathe. And, god, does Bob Floyd look wrecked. Panting, lips red and swollen, the skin of his neck and cheeks flushed red, and an unmistakable bit of fog to his glasses. You laughed then, breathy from your own lack of oxygen, reaching up with the sleeve of your shirt to wipe at the fog, knowing that, given how you felt right now, you surely didn’t look any better than he did.
“Well…hi,” you managed to huff out, chest still struggling to get air back into your lungs.
“Hi,” his voice came out almost like a whisper at first, full of wonder, his hand still cradling your head. His thumb was, once again, drawing little circles into the skin right around your ear, his smile wider than you’d seen all night. “I…I’m sorry-”
“Do not apologize for that,” you’d interjected immediately as Bob huffed out a laugh. “Please, never apologize for that.”
“Good, because I was lying. I-I’m really not sorry,” the hand against your cheek left you, taking its warmth with it, before both of Bob’s hands settled on your waist. You tightened your arms around his shoulders in response, sandals having been long discarded in the sand somewhere amid the kiss. “I’ve wanted to do that for hours. I…I like you. Like, a lot. More than I think I should for the few short hours I’ve known you.”
“Well, it’s a good thing we’re on the same page. I don’t divulge my entire life story to just any Naval aviator in a bar,” another breathy laugh fell from Bob’s lips as you leaned forward, the tip of your nose brushing against his. “No, I only tell all those stories to this one guy that I happen to really like. Like, a lot.”
And when Bob Floyd kissed you again, it was blissful. Gentler, still passionate, so full of an emotion that you wouldn’t ever dare to call love, not this soon. It was more like affection, adoration, a warmth that had you melting into his arms without a care in the world. You’d do anything, as long as it meant you got to keep kissing this man.
Maybe Princess Mia had been onto something with that ‘foot pop’ of a kiss idea, because this sure felt like that moment.
“God, you’re going to be the death of me,” Bob groaned out against your lips, hands squeezing at your hips again as you laughed, playfully leaning back to swat at his chest as he smiled down at you, illuminated by the moonlight.
“Hey, you’re the one who keeps kissing me. I think any court of law would find you at fault for that. Also,” you quickly gestured around at your surroundings with a tilt of your head. “Hell of a setting for a first kiss. A moonlit beach in the dead of night, did you walk straight out of a rom-com, Bob Floyd?”
“In all honesty, I was going to wait until I got you back to your hotel room to kiss you and hopefully get your number,” he stated matter-of-factly. “But then I looked at you and…and you were just too beautiful not to. And I was going to kick myself in a few hours if I didn’t kiss you.”
If you were ever asked to pinpoint something you adored about Bob Floyd, his ability to make you laugh with the simplest of things would probably be your favorite. He barely even had to try, and he had you laughing like a little schoolgirl.
The entire walk back to the hotel down the beach felt like a dream sequence, like something straight out of a movie that you never believed actually happened to people in real life. Bob’s hand never strayed from yours, swinging between you both as you kicked at the sand. Every few steps, he’d push you away from him slightly, just to be able to pull you back into his side and make you laugh again.
And somehow, in the midst of the walk, you’d ended up engaged in the most spontaneous round of ‘Never Have I Ever’ questions you’d ever been part of. You and Bob had both been caught speeding during college, but Bob had managed to awkwardly sweet-talk his way out of a ticket with the female officer. You’d been skinny dipping twice before, both on bachelorette trips for two of your college friends, and you didn’t miss the way Bob had to swallow the lump in his throat at that confession (no doubt imagining it). He, in turn, had ended up having to confess the embarrassing story that was him having a crush on his high school English teacher.
“I’m sorry, I’m just trying to wrap my head around that,” you’d managed to say through your laughter that you couldn’t contain as you both approached the main doors of the hotel building. “She was at least young, right?”
“Yes, she was in her thirties,” Bob shook his head, obviously amused by how hilarious you found the story. Like the gentleman he was, he’d opened the door for you, a hand resting on the small of your back as he led you into the building. “Girls didn’t look at me in high school, okay. She always offered that I could eat lunch with her since she had a free period, and the entire school had agreed that she was objectively pretty. You can’t blame me!”
“Okay, fine, but you do have to admit it’s a little funny,” you’d offhandedly waved to the concierge, the same one who had checked you in that morning, now working the graveyard shift, before leading Bob over to the elevators. You rested against the wall, awaiting your ride to arrive, while Bob stood just barely a foot in front of you. “As for the girls: their loss. If I’d have gone to high school with you, trust me, I would’ve looked at you.”
The doors for the elevator slid open with a ‘ding’ as you quickly moved inside, back turned to Bob.
“And trust me, if I’d have known you back then, we’d be married by now,”
The second the elevator doors shut, you paused, finger hovering over the button for your floor. Turning on your heel back to Bob, head cocked to the side in amusement, you could see the realization flicker over his face as it dawned on him what exactly he’d just said.
“Oh, would we now? You saying we’d be high school sweethearts?” Bob sheepishly laughed, fixing his glasses as he looked anywhere but you. “That kind of sounded like a line straight out of Hangman’s playbook, and I barely know the guy.”
“Yeah…y-yeah, it really did, didn’t it? Might have to blame the alcohol, I-I don’t typically drink much on our nights out,”
You hummed, taking a step toward him with a growing smile as his stuttering came back for just a second, something you realized only ever made an appearance when he was nervous. His eyes were locked on you as you leaned up, nose bumping his.
“Don’t worry, I found it cute coming from you,” you leaned back to hit the button for the third floor, and the second you did, Bob’s hand was settled on your hip, pulling you back to him. Teeth gnawing into your bottom lip, you contemplated the words floating around your head for a moment, afraid that whatever was happening here was fragile and your words could break it. “When we get up there…do you want to come in?”
You had read it before, about the way a man’s eyes darkened with ‘lust’ or in moments such as this, but you’d never witnessed it. Not until now, and once again, Bob Floyd had you weak in the knees.
“I’d love to,”
“Good,” you nodded. “Just know…I don’t do hook-ups. I don’t do flings.”
“Good,” he responded with his own nod. “Because neither do I.”
“Good,”
The door of your hotel room had barely been closed before Bob was on you.
His hands on your hips guided you, pressing you up against the closed bathroom door just to the right of the room’s main door, and his lips descended upon yours as if he were attacking his target. Vigorous, relentless, he kissed you in a way you’d never been kissed before, not even like he did on the beach, and you knew you didn’t stand a chance. A wanton moan slipped out of you, parting your lips just enough for Bob’s tongue to sneak through, to savor the taste of you. You savored the taste of him, too: the lingering taste of the beer he’d been sipping all night, and the remnants of your own vanilla chapstick still smeared across his lips.
You moved in tandem, like your bodies were one with each other. It didn’t take long before your shirt was off, his lips hot, slicked with spit, dragging themselves over every inch of skin he could get his lips on. Every drag of his lips, every press of a kiss against your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts had your mind going blank, your fingers desperately fumbling with the buttons of his khaki uniform to no avail.
If you just asked, you’d let him have anything he wanted in this moment. You’d let him take you against this door, the wall next to it, the floor, the bed, hell, you’d let him lean you over the balcony railing where anyone might be able to see you both. Nothing else mattered besides Bob Floyd, as long as he continued to touch you, adore you, worship you the way he was.
In the moments it took Bob to maneuver you from the wall to the bed, you’d finally come back to yourself, able to delicately unbutton his uniform and not ruin it, before tugging it from its place tucked into his pants and tossing it across the room. The white shirt he had on beneath it was gone in seconds, too, and god, you wanted to admire him like a painting on the walls of a museum, like he was the Mona Lisa himself.
Like they say, it’s always the quiet ones. You shouldn’t have been surprised; he was in the Navy, after all. But you couldn’t deny the heat that pooled between your thighs from just a single look.
With a tiny yelp from your lips, your back hit the bed, and Bob was on top of you in seconds, drawing yet another moan from your lips. At this rate, there’d surely be a noise complaint in minutes. His leg wedged itself between your thighs, delivering just enough friction to have you squirming, while his lips locked back into your neck. From your jawline, all the way to your collarbone, Bob nipped at every inch of skin he could, blowing a short puff of air across over tender spot before leaving a searing kiss to it that felt like you were being branded. All the while, your hands roamed up and down every expanse of skin you could touch, His forearms to his biceps and every vein that ran along them, popping out from under his skin. The lean body that hovered over you now, nails ghosting along the lines across his stomach toward his chest that had a low grumble emitting from him. And in a moment of boldness, invigorated by the tension that had snapped between you both, your hand traveled lower, just barely grazing over the outline straining against his khaki pants, finally feeling for yourself just how big he truly was. And the groan that left him that time, wrecked and on the verge of falling apart, had a whole new flood of heat rushing through you.
In a show of his strength, Bob rolled you both again with just one arm. Suddenly, there you sat, straddling him as he lay below you, half naked, eyes blown wide behind those glasses, looking absolutely desecrated beneath you. The only sound that flickered through the room was the heavy pants from each of you, once again catching your breath and calming the firestorm of emotions in you both.
“So,” Bob had breathed out once he’d finally caught enough of his breath. “Y-You’re totally taking that transfer to San Diego, right?”
You’d let out a breathy laugh, swiping your hand down your face as you sent him a small smirk.
“In all honesty…I already accepted it. That was half the reason for this trip: to see my new office and meet my new coworkers. Meeting you, though…well, that’s just like the cherry on top,”
His grin was infectious, but your mind was elsewhere in the moment as you took your chance, simply grinding yourself down on the man below you with a smirk of amusement still on your lips. His smile was gone instantly, lips straining to hold in a moan as his hands gripped your hips tightly, forcing you to freeze in place so you couldn’t make that same move again.
“I-If you do that again, I’m not going to be able to stop myself,”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“Yes, because I want to do this properly. I want to do this in order,” he huffed out a laugh. “Tomorrow, my day off. 7 p.m. I’ll pick you up. Il Fornaio, an Italian restaurant just on the other side of the island, right on the beach, with beautiful views of the water. We’ll eat, we’ll drink, and for dessert…a Cold Stone Creamery, barely a minute away. And if I can muster up the confidence to do it, I’ll make you mine before you’ve even taken a single scoop of your ice cream, because I don’t need a second date to know I want this. And then I’ll bring you back here, and then I’ll fuck you the way you deserve to be fucked, to be worshiped. God…I already don’t think there’s a single thing I wouldn’t do if you just asked me to.”
If you opened a dictionary, Bob Floyd would be painted under the word ‘perfection,’ and there was no doubt in your mind about it. Hell, he’d remembered the stupid story about your favorite ice cream shop you’d told him hours ago. You were about ready to ravish him on the spot.
“Sounds like you’ve had this planned out for hours now,” your voice had dropped into a whisper, laced with just pure awe for the man below you.
“Since the moment we first locked eyes across the bar. Had to add the ice cream bit in, later,”
And you’d laughed, something you had done all night with him. For a moment, you paused, smile stretching nervously, as something you’d been meaning to say all night, but had been stuck in your throat, was itching to finally be said. It terrified you, but you had to say it. Bob Floyd was an angel; he deserved to know what he was getting into.
“Well, that’s a yes to dinner, and everything that comes after. I’ll just have to make sure to tell my father I can’t have dinner with him after I visit the base tomorrow afternoon. I hope he doesn’t get too upset, you know how the, uh…how the Vice Admiral can be,”
It was like you’d just dropped a bomb, and you could see the aftermath in Bob’s eyes. The way he tilted his head from beneath you, before realization seemed to crawl into every feature of his face.
“The…the Vice Admiral. As in…Vice Admiral Beau Simpson, Cyclone…” it wasn’t a question, it was a statement, and all you could do was nervously nod your head as Bob let out yet another breathy laugh. “Your Uncle Solomon…Rear Admiral Solomon Bates, Warlock. Wow, how did I not figure that out?”
“Because I was really careful not to give it away,” you’d tried to laugh, nerves only calmed slightly by the little circles that Bob’s fingers were drawing into the skin of your waist where his hands still lay. “I’m sorry, I should’ve said something earlier. But you were so sweet, and not to mention attractive, and it was so easy to like you…I was scared if you knew, you wouldn’t think it was worth it.”
Bob’s eyebrows furrowed as he shifted, sitting up on the hotel room bed now with you still positioned in his lap. One arm fully locked around your waist, the other taking your chin between his fingers to keep your eyes locked on him as he spoke.
“Why would I think that?”
“I dated a Navy man in college; he was a few years older than I was. He was excited for his reassignment; he was going to be training under my dad. But then, I told him that it was my dad, and he freaked. Thought he’d be treated unfairly if his superior knew he was dating his daughter. I just…I just didn’t want you to think I wasn’t worth the hassle. I know how my dad can be.”
Bob stared at you for just a moment before he pulled you into another kiss. Softer than any previous kiss the entire night, but firm, as if he was trying to drill something into you. Whatever it was, it was working, as your chest fluttered and your hands wound their way back into his hair. And barely a beat later, he’d pulled back, forehead pressed to yours, hand on your chin, cupping your jawline to hold you there with him.
“If in the end, I get you…anything is worth the hassle,”
summary: bob floyd was in a pickle. his ma and pa were expecting him to bring someone home for his older brother’s wedding. are you up for the challenge of being his fake girlfriend for the week? or will it ruin your friendship?
warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, unprotected sex, fingering, oral fem and male receiving (bob eating it from the back), male masturbation, roommates/friends to lovers (my fav trope sue me), no use of y/n
word count: 14.3k
a/n: bob is a total mama's boy in this, but in such a good way. can you guys tell i just love bob so much? i hope you enjoy!
masterlist
your call sign: bee
In a month, Bob was expected back in Montana for his older brother's wedding. But he stared at the most recent missed call from his Ma and grimaced. How was the wedding already so close? And how had he dropped the ball this badly?
A few months earlier...
"Ma, yes, I'm still coming," Bob spoke into the phone pressed against his cheek and shoulder. His hands were folding his fresh laundry as it lay out on his bed.
"And your older brother needs to know if you're bringing someone with you, honey. There's no shame in coming home alone again..." his mother said in a sweet voice, but Bob knew what the underlying tone meant. All his life, he never had anyone to bring home. It was like an ongoing joke inside his family at this point. No high school or college girlfriends seemed acceptable at the time, but now he was a Navy pilot and couldn't get a girl? Well couldn't get the girl he really wanted.
Before he even thought about what he was saying, he blurted out a response, "I'm bringing someone."
What.
"What?! Robert Floyd, you better not be messing with me!" his mother squealed over the phone. "Jim!" Bob had to pull the phone away from his ear with a grimace as his mother shouted for his father. "He's bringing someone!"
"About time," he could hear his father's gruff voice on the other end of the call. "Was gettin' worried about him out there in California. That boy's not built for the beach."
"Oh, you hush! Honey, I'll go ahead and let Mark know. I love you!" his mother's excitement could be felt through the phone, her voice all high and pitchy.
"Bye Ma, I love you," Bob huffed out. What did he just do?
"How's she doing?" Bob jumped at the sound of your voice, quickly turning to you. You lounged against the door frame of his bedroom, wearing nothing but a sports bra and some running shorts. He hadn't expected you to be home from your run with Phoenix so soon.
"Ma? Oh, uh, yeah, she's good. She's good, nothing new, y'know," he fumbled through a response, trying to not to look at the way the beads of sweat ran down your neck.
You hummed at him, "That's good. Are you still up for Thai food tonight? The new place on 4th?"
Of course, he was. When you first mentioned it last weekend, he had almost jumped at the opportunity. Sure, he liked Thai food, but sitting across from you and sharing a meal was what Bob really cherished. "Yep! Yeah, that sounds good. Ready in an hour?"
"You read my mind, Bobby," you said with a grin as you backed into your room across from his.
Present time…
“What’s wrong?” you saw the scowl on Bob’s face as he stirred the pasta like he had a personal vendetta against it.
“Huh? Oh, um, just thinking about my brother’s wedding,” he said like even the thought made him sick.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you said as you prepped the various vegetables on the countertop around you. “I love weddings. The outfits, the candles, the flowers! I can’t wait to get married. And I don’t want to have a big wedding, y’know? But like more of a backyard, summer barbecue type of vibe. Oh! And I want all my bridesmaids in different color dresses!”
Bob watched you as you described your perfect wedding, mentally taking notes. The way you had set down the knife to wave your hands around was adorable. You were always so animated, unafraid to show your emotions.
“But Bobby, the best part about weddings is…” you left the ending open for him, ushering him to fill in the blank.
“The cake?” he questioned. To be honest, he was trying to appeal to your sweet tooth.
“I mean, yeah, that’s pretty high up there. But no, it’s the look right before the first kiss. So many people say it’s the first look or the actual kiss, but for me it’s that moment where everyone knows what’s coming next and the purest emotions are on the bride and groom's faces,” you explained in pure joy and awe, like you had experienced this feeling yourself. It was sweet to watch. Your wonder and love for the simple things were something Bob loved about you.
“But, why is that moment better than the first look?” he asked innocently.
You sighed wistfully. "Just that moment when you can see the excitement on the groom's face, and he can barely contain himself. And the bride is usually so bashful, but always so excited. It's just so sweet, Bobby."
It did sound sweet. If Bob and you were getting married, he doubts he'd be able to contain his eagerness before the first kiss. No, he'd be way too focused on you to even listen to the officiant of the ceremony. Surely, he'd forget what to say, and he'd be a mess through his vows.
Bob was quiet for a minute or two, and you wondered what was going on in his head. You saw the way he had a small smile on his face, like it was hidden and just for him at this moment. And the way his shoulders relaxed, going more and more slack as time passed.
"You're thinking about it, aren't you?" you asked him with a teasing smile.
"Yeah, maybe," he chuckled and went back to stirring the pasta. Bob wanted to stay in this moment forever with you. It was so domestic. Cooking together in the kitchen you shared, laughing and throwing each other playful looks, talking about weddings. Maybe one day you'll talk about your wedding. Anything you wanted for the big day, Bob was sure to agree.
Living with you had been both the best and worst thing for Bob. A few months into the program, your lease was about to let up, and you were scrambling to find a new place. Bob hadn't known you prior to the mission that brought you all down to San Diego, but you had become close very quickly. Being two of only a few backseaters in the squad, you and Bob had spent a lot of time together in training and going over mission briefs. He had met a handful of WSOs in his time in the Navy, but knowing you was like a breath of fresh air. You never diminished your position or your knowledge, even when other pilots would question your place in the military. It was a learning curve for him to be around at first; seeing you go toe-to-toe with cocky pilots was daunting. He learned that's where your call sign came from, Bee. You were sweet, but could sting when you wanted. Soon, he got used to it, becoming more confident in himself in turn.
When you joked about bumming it on Phoenix's couch until you found a new place, Bob chimed in, "You can stay at mine. I have a spare bedroom, never really got around to using it."
"Wait, really?" you asked, fully turning your body towards him. You always did that, too, gave your full attention to whoever you were talking to. It was a bit intimidating. Bob was only now getting used to it, but still felt his heart beat pick up.
"Yeah, I wouldn't mind having a roommate," he said with a soft smile.
"Oh, Bobby, I could kiss you right now!" you said with a big grin, squeezing his forearm. He wished you had.
It wasn't until you had fully moved in that Bob realized the full consequences of his actions. You were horrible to live with.
Not in the way that you left dishes in the sink to "soak" all week, or you forgot to switch your laundry out for hours on end, or even in the way that you would blast music loudly at 2 in the morning. No, you didn't do any of those things. In fact, you always cleaned up after yourself, and Bob too, taking his plate right from his lap before he could protest. You cleaned the whole apartment, top to bottom, on Sundays. Your music carried throughout the hallways as you moved from room to room. Best of all, you baked! Every week! Trying a new recipe and being a little messy was your favorite way to unwind from a hectic work week, and lucky for Bob, he was your taste tester. Sure, you brought in your treats for the entire squad on Mondays, but Bob got to sit at the counter and watch you work. You would always gravitate towards him during this time, either letting him try the new brownie batter before you added more sugar or asking him how many chocolate chips are too many.
You were a great roommate. Always so courteous and kind. Anyone would be lucky to share a space like this with you. But it was torture actually living with you.
Too many times, Bob has caught a glimpse of you walking around in nothing but a shirt and some panties. To be fair, it was almost always after you had showered and were walking to your room. But as Bob watched you track down the hallway, he cursed himself for offering up the room in the first place.
And since moving in and getting closer, you had become even more touchy than usual with him. You were quick to give out hugs and other normal affectionate gestures to everyone on the squad, Bob included, even when he had only known you for a few weeks. But now, it was like Bob's personal space was your personal space. You always pressed into him when maneuvering around the small kitchen. Bob always held his breath, feeling you up against him, reaching for the oregano or paprika. Recently, too, your hand would work its way into his windswept hair after long days at the beach. The way your nails would drag against his scalp made him want to groan every time.
But worst of all were busy nights at the Hard Deck. On multiple occasions, barstools would fill up quick, only leaving the squad with two or three seats. It was fine for most of the night, with everyone so invested in the latest match of pool between Bradley and Jake. But after a few hours, you needed a break and always found your way into Bob's lap.
"I can get up, so you can sit," Bob stammered out the first time you sat on his lap. The rest of the squad shared amused looks, careful to hide them from both of you.
"It's okay, Bobby, I know you wanna sit too. Plus, you're comfy," you said, wiggling around trying to find the best position like he actively wasn't about to combust.
A bump of your hip snapped the man back into your kitchen. "Everything okay over there, space cadet?" you asked, tilting your head to look at him better.
"Mhm, yeah. I'm okay," he said in a small voice, the smile on his lips not quite reaching his eyes.
Furrowing your brows, you wondered what was making Bob so distant tonight. "You know you can always talk to me, right?" you offered with a small smile. People say that but rarely mean it. But you meant it, and you wanted him to know that. He just nodded his head and continued stirring the boiling pasta. "Okay, Bobby. I'm here when you want to talk," you said as you rubbed up and down his back. You swore you saw a chill run up his spine.
You watched the way his face continued to fall as you worked on dinner. Bob was always quieter than you, so gentle and sweet. But you hoped whatever was bothering him would go away, or that he would talk to you about it at least. As the night continued, he gave you those small smiles, and your worry just grew.
જ⁀➴
"Why don't you just ask Bee?" Phoenix questioned as she grabbed the drink Penny put on the bar top. The Hard Deck was busy with patrons in all corners of the joint.
"I can't just ask her!" Bob squeaked out; he felt his cheeks flush at the thought of it.
"Why not? Because you have a crush on her? Come on, Bob," she teased him with a shit-eating grin on her face. She watched him slump against the bar as if she had just punched him in the gut. "If you won't take me, then why not Bee?"
Bob sighed, given that they had this conversation almost every day. Before training, after training, and even during training. Even the clear blue skies weren't safe from Natasha's questions. "It's not like I don't want to take you. But my parents know you. They're expecting me to bring someone home, y'know."
"Someone to give them grandchildren," Phoenix cackled as Bob groaned loudly. Penny placed his fizzy soda on the bar with a smile, knowing all about the man's debacle. Natasha thanked her, and they made their way back to the squad.
"Don't say that! I don't even, I can't even think- Oh jeez, Phoenix. No more talking about this. I've decided." The pilot swore she had never heard his voice that pitchy before. Bob shook his head as he wove through the crowd of people.
Once they had settled back into the fray of the squad, Natasha finally took to giving actual advice, not just teasing her back-seater. "I think you should just be honest, tell her. It's Bee."
"Oh yeah, let me just tell her I've been in love with her for months on end now. She's gonna think I'm a creep! Luring her into my apartment, making her live with me," he half shouted, half whispered at her. "And I also said, I didn't want to talk about this. Especially with her right there." Bob glanced at you laughing freely with Bradley, head thrown back. Your energy was contagious to the people around you, as he saw Bradley and Mickey spotting matching smiles. Bob found himself smiling to himself, too.
"She wanted to live with you, idiot. And I'm not saying confess your love. Just ask for this favor. You don't have to give anything away if you don't want to," she said matter-of-factly. If only it were that easy. Within minutes of you being in his childhood home, Bob would surely fold and show all the feelings he's been trying so hard to hide. One conversation and approving nod from his mother, and he'd propose on the spot.
The pair were too entrenched in their conversation to see you making your way over. You didn't mean to snoop, but you couldn't help overhearing snips of their chatter.
"I just don't know what I'm going to do. I have to tell Ma I'm not bringing anyone," Bob muttered, dragging a hand down his jaw.
"To the wedding?" You whipped around and saw Bob's eyes almost pop out from behind his glasses. Phoenix, however, let a mischievous glint dance on her face as she watched the two of you. Directing your attention back to Bob, you continued, "Sorry, I didn't mean to eavesdrop. But if you need someone, I'll go."
Natasha let out the biggest cackle you had heard; it even caught a few of the other aviators' attention. She looked to Bob, who seemed to be frozen in time, and decided she would do her best friend a solid.
"His family is expecting a girlfriend. That's why Bob is having such a hard time," she explained. But you just furrowed your brows further at this.
"I'll be your girlfriend," you said. At this, Bob nearly fell off his barstool. "I mean, I can be your pretend girlfriend for a week. I'm really good with parents and family and stuff. And we know each other well, too! I'm sure we'd be a convincing couple. So, yeah. If you need someone." Suddenly, you felt awkward under his gaze. You definitely gave it away. Who just proclaims they'd be someones fake girlfriend?
You met Jake's gaze from across the pool table and saw him biting down on his bottom lip, trying to suppress the grin on his face. Flashing a 'Help me!' face in his direction, the blonde man made his way over to you.
"Offering your fake girlfriend services again, Bee?" he asked with a raised brow. Both Phoenix and Bob shot him quizzical looks. "Bee came out to dinner with my folks when they were in town a few weeks ago. They were on me about not settling down, but she quelled those fears. Swear I've never seen my mom fall in love faster."
"Really?" Bob asked, looking between both of you. "You met his parents?" A flash of hurt crossed his face. You had missed it completely, but both Hangman and Phoenix caught the distress on his face.
"That's perfect! Right, Bob? Bee would be great," she hit his arm, trying to snap him out of what Jake had just said. The three of you looked at Bob, waiting for his response.
He nodded slowly before responding, "Yeah, I mean, if you're okay with missing the full week. I'd love to take you." Natasha grinned at his recovery, mentally noting to pat him on the back about it later.
"I can talk to Maverick about it tomorrow. I'd love to come," you said bashfully. Jake smiled knowingly at your response. He locked eyes with Natasha and winked. The woman just rolled her eyes but got the signal.
"When was the last time I beat you in pool Hangman? I think my trophy needs a little dusting off," she challenged, gaining the attention of the squad and taking it off Bob and you.
"Looking for a rematch? I'm happy to oblige," Jake said in a sickeningly sweet tone. He stepped closer so only she could hear the next part of his sentence, "I'll win this game, just like I'll win our bet."
"In your dreams, Seresin," she scoffed. "Rack 'em!"
જ⁀➴
Jake's couch had become a second home to you at this point. Its cushions surely remembered the way you would slump into them every weekend. Being Jake's back-seater was a challenge at first; you were never one to back down, and neither was Jake. It wasn't until you both had figured out that instead of going up against each other, you could turn your focus on the pilots around you. So as time went on, you bonded over your love for college football, dad rock, and surprisingly, the Great British Bake Off.
"Oh come on, Tom! No one is going to win with a ganache like that," Jake exclaimed from the end of the couch. There was no quippy response from you, and Jake raised an eyebrow in your direction. You had been like this all week. Mopey and weird. Your usual trash talk to other pilots or Maverick was replaced with a stone-cold face. It was just as intimidating, but Jake knew something was up.
Clutching the throw pillow in your arms, you couldn't even focus on the monstrosity that was Tom's cake on your screen. No, all that ran through your head was how you were going to contain yourself around Bob and his family. In just two days.
With a whack, fabric came flying on top of your head.
"Ow! Jake!" you exclaimed, immediately putting your arms up to protect yourself from further attacks.
"Jake! Don't Jake, me," he sassed you, only making the pout in your lips grow deeper. "What is going on with you? Is this still about Baby on Board?"
"Don't call him that," you grumbled, taking your pillow and whacking him across the chest.
He just rolled his eyes and continued, "Seriously, you need to get it together. Baby on Board and his family are expecting a perfect girlfriend, and right now, you're this."
You scowled at him as he chastised you. "Jake, that's mean. I just," you sighed before continuing. "I just don't know how I'm going to do this. A whole week? He'll know!"
Your dramatics were nothing new to Jake, but when it came to Bob, it seemed like you dialed it up tenfold. "This opportunity has been placed in your lap. I think you should take advantage of it, embrace it," he suggested.
"That's easier said than done," you mumbled.
This upcoming week made you queasy just thinking about it. It wasn't that you didn't want to go to meet Bob's family. No, you wanted all of it. But not like this. From the first day you met Bob, you knew you were in for it. His cute glasses and sweet smile almost had you confessing by the end of the first week.
When he asked you to move in with him, you had happily agreed. But as the arrangement unfolded, you realized what kind of agony would be in store for the near future. The way he always carried in all the groceries, not letting you lift a finger. How he always drove you, never letting you sit behind the wheel, no matter what kind of day he had. And he was so handy around the apartment, too. One day, the garbage disposal in your kitchen stopped working, and just as you were about to call someone, Bob brought over his tool kit and got down on his knees. It was way more attractive than it needed to be.
But these little daily pains were nothing compared to what you had walked in on about a month ago. You were about to go on your daily run with Phoenix when she called you from the car to cancel. Turning your keys and walking back into the house, you slipped off your sneakers and began padding down the hallway towards your room.
Just as you were about to head into your room, there was an odd sound. At first, you thought it was the apartment, settling, or something that people always say when a building makes noise. But as you paused, clutching your shoes and phone close to you, you knew it was something else. It was him.
His moans were unmistakable, so vocal and loud. And you froze. For a few seconds, you just stood there, listening. Listening to Bob falling apart. The schlepping of his hand against himself was unmistakable. The rocking of the bed, too. You had to peel yourself away from this. Away from his noise. So that's what you did.
You tried to forget it. But a part of you wanted to remember, as horrible as that sounds. You hadn't been able to look Bob in the eye for a few days after, and when you did, the heat in your tummy would start again.
The thought of sharing this week with Bob was more daunting than any mission you had ever faced.
"Hey! Are we going to watch this episode, or are you just going to sit and stew the whole night?" Jake's voice snapped you out of your thoughts.
"Sorry, just a little worried still," you said quietly. Jake had never seen you like this before, so in your own head.
He slid down the couch and placed an arm around your shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. Everything will be okay, I promise. Your biggest worries right now should be if Tom can figure out his presentation for the judges."
You giggled at his teasing. "Fucking, Tom," you murmured under your breath.
"Yes, fucking, Tom! God, he's selling it!" Jake boomed next to you, throwing you into another fit of laughter. "Seriously, Bee. Don't worry too much about this week."
"I will be texting you live updates every hour, I hope you know," you said with a grin.
"Wow, only hour updates. I was expecting every 5 minutes," Jake teased, poking into your sides. You just swatted his hands away, fighting off a smile.
જ⁀➴
Stepping onto the packed dirt and smelling the fresh Montana air was a relief to Bob. The picturesque mountain ranges were illuminated by the strong moonlight, and the sky was lit up by thousands of twinkling stars. It was something to get lost in, and that's exactly what Bob found as he turned to look at you. "It's so beautiful," you said, eye going a little wide, and your voice was quiet. Bob figured it was from your hours of traveling, maybe partly from the awe of the view.
Without looking away from you, he responded, "Very beautiful."
Bob's moment of peace with you was interrupted by a swift closing of the front door and a cheery voice. "Bob! Oh, honey, you made it safe!" an older, but spry woman ran up to Bob. You looked at the pair as they embraced and caught a look at them, side by side. Bob was much larger than the woman, towering over her. His arms stood out against her frame as your eyes trailed across his large muscles and hands without even realizing what you were doing. And his nose, it was the same as the woman who stood next to him. The cute button was something you always caught yourself looking at when tracing the map of his face.
A squeal snapped you out of your daze, and you were quickly met with a tight hug and a rushed introduction of Bob's mother's name, Pam. "Oh wow! You must be Bee! You are so gorgeous. I don't know why Bob kept you hidden from us for so long." She leaned back a bit and took you in, dragging her hands across your frame and face. You giggled at her ministrations.
"Thank you for having me this week. I'm so excited to get to know you all," you said with a sweet smile.
"Oh, we are so happy to have you, Bee! Such a cute little nickname, you don't mind?" she asked, but continued on anyway. "We were a little worried about Bob for a while there. Honestly, never thought he would-"
Bob's eyes widened, knowing the long list of stories his mother could tell you. "Alright! Alright, let's not talk about all that just yet," he cut her off with a blush that dusted his cheeks.
"Honestly," you started, gaining the attention of both Bob and his mother. "Bob is the best thing that's ever happened to me. You raised such a kind and thoughtful man. I'm so thankful for him." Your eyes met his as you spoke, sharing a look of genuine care. Pam caught the way you looked at her son and smiled knowingly.
"Well, you two had better head on up to bed. Your Pa is sleeping, but he'll be up bright and early. And everyone will be over tomorrow night to meet you, Bee," Pam said, finally letting you out of her grasp. Instead, she placed a hand on your lower back to guide you inside.
You turned to grab some of your bags to take inside, but instead saw Bob balancing all of your luggage in his hold, just the same as when you left the apartment and at the airport. He shot you a look, telling you to head inside. You rolled your eyes, but mouthed 'thank you' as you kept walking with his mother.
She led you to a small bedroom upstairs in the rustic-looking house. It was cosy, a queen bed with golden colored quilt, a small adjoining bathroom, and a small window with lace curtains. She gave you another quick hug and whispered 'goodnight' before heading back down the stairs to bed.
Bob set down your bags and let out a deep breath.
"You okay? Wanna shower first? You had a long day," you said, a hand coming to his shoulder and rubbing it sweetly. He melted into your touch, unconsciously leaning into you.
"No, no. You go first, I'll be okay," Bob said softly, trailing off a bit towards the end. You had been traveling since that morning, and you could tell how tired the man in front of you was. Your flight was a few hours long, and since his family didn't live in Bozeman or Billings, Bob had to rent a car and drive 3 more hours out to the small town.
"Bobby, go shower and get ready for bed. I'll unpack and lay out the clothes for tomorrow." You took your hands and placed them on both sides of his shoulder, pushing him into the bathroom as he chuckled lowly.
Bob gave you a tired, but grateful look before he closed the bathroom door carefully. Today had been long, but seeing the way you interacted with his mother made it all worth it.
Stepping under the warm stream of water, Bob felt his muscles relax instantly. He didn't want to take long in the shower, knowing you were waiting for him, but he also needed a few moments to himself. Reflecting on your day together, Bob felt himself getting half hard at the thought of you.
On the plane ride over, you had fallen asleep against his shoulder, your body angling into his. With your odd positioning, your tits were pressed right up against him for the majority of the flight. It took everything in him to keep his gaze straight ahead on the action movie playing on the little screen in front of him and not your soft, full chest.
His right hand drifted down, gripping himself firmly.
And your hair. You had been tucked right under his chin, and the scent of your shampoo was overwhelming. Sometimes, Bob would catch a whiff of it floating down the hallway after your showers, but now it was coming at him in waves. He felt like such a creep, but what was he supposed to do? Push you away from him? Bob didn't know the next time you would get so close to him.
Now, his cock stood proud under the stream.
In the car ride over, you had made it a point to keep him company since it was so late at night. Finding a radio station that played old country music, you began to sing along to almost every song that played. After the fourth song, Bob knew it wasn't a fluke that you knew all the lyrics so well. You explained that your college roommate was from Wyoming and was constantly playing her music in the dorms.
Bob knew he needed to keep his eyes on the road, but he couldn't help the way he looked over to your figure sitting beside him. Your lips moving along to whatever song was playing, your thighs pressed up against the leather seat of the truck, and the way your hand would occasionally find its way to his upper back, rubbing soft, smooth circles into it, all drove him to glance over at your sweet face.
His pace was steady now.
Bob felt so dirty, touching himself like this with you, only a thin wall away. But he knew if he didn't do it now, he wasn't sure when he would get a chance this week. So he hunched over the corner of the shower, trying to focus on anything but you. But like every time before this one, Bob's mind only wandered to thoughts of you.
What would you look like with water cascading down your tits? Or how your back would arch into the tile of the shower as he fucked you from behind. Best of all, how your face would twist with pleasure as he drilled into you, making you cum all over his thick cock.
That's what always got him to finish. Thinking about you, your pleasure. He caught the groan in his throat before it sounded, instead biting down on his free fist, whining lowly.
After cleaning up fully, Bob looked around the bathroom and realized he hadn't brought any clean clothes in with his. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he stepped out sheepishly.
At the creak of the bathroom door, you looked up from your place on the ground. You were met with Bob's nearly bare form. Water droplets from his hair were dripping down his shoulders, finding their way down his chest and waist. As you tracked one of the droplets, your eyes stopped when they met his waist. Bob's v-line was even better than you had imagined, and you had thought about it a lot.
He had an aversion to taking his shirt off around others, and that was reasonable. Especially in front of a bunch of macho, testosterone-fueled Navy men. But you had always wondered what he looked like under the kaki uniform he wore so often. Seeing it up close almost had you drooling.
"Forgot a change of clothes," he explained in a quiet voice. You just hummed, not trusting your voice. Pushing up off the ground and padding over to the dresser, you opened a drawer, and Bob found all of his clothes folded and set perfectly. His heart warmed at the thought of your delicate fingers working across all the clothing he had packed for the week. You had obviously taken care of his stuff first, as your luggage was still open on the floor.
Bob grabbed a change of clothes and kept his voice at the same quiet tone, "Thank you, Bee." You smiled up at him, staring a bit too long. But quickly, you fumbled to grab your nightwear from your bag and made your way into the bathroom.
Bob dropped the towel from his waist and began to dress. He didn't miss the way your eyes trailed down his body, and honestly, it made his stomach flip. Just as he was about to lie down and call it a night, he realized you hadn't discussed the bed situation. Bob would never want to make you uncomfortable, so he shuffled down the hall and found his way into the spare linen closet, grabbing a fluffy comforter and some blankets to lie down on the floor beside the bed.
Not too long after, you emerged from the bathroom and furrowed your brows at the sight of the empty bedroom, expecting to see Bob knocked out on the bed from such a long day.
"Down here," Bob's voice startled you as his hand shot up in a lazy wave from the other side of the bed.
"Bob? What are you doing?" you asked the man, walking over to see him laying down on the makeshift bed he had set up on the hardwood floor.
He rubbed the back of his neck, not quite meeting your eyes. "Didn't want to make you feel like we needed to share the bed or anything like that."
"We've literally fallen asleep on the couch together," you said, narrowing your eyes as a teasing smile made its way to your face at his chivalry. "I don't mind sharing the bed at all, Bobby. And that can't be comfortable."
"No, no. Ma's got the best blankets. Feels like a cloud," Bob explained with a soft smile.
You narrowed your eyes at the man before speaking, "With you back? Do you remember earlier today when we got off the plane?"
Bob recalled the moment of weakness. He had stretched out a bit too far after sitting for hours on end and felt a tug throughout his body, wincing a little. You had fused over him for the next 30 minutes, almost refusing to get in the car if you couldn't drive. But Bob, of course, got his way.
He looked as if he was about to argue with you. Bob was hardheaded sometimes, but you knew just the right thing to say to knock him out of it.
"Plus, if your mom comes to wake us up and she sees you sleeping on the floor, everything would be ruined," you offered. Seeing a look of recognition flash across his face, he nodded slowly, like he was considering your words. "Come on, Bobby. I'll help you fold everything and put it back."
You giggled as he sprang up from the floor, a hand already coming down to his lower back.
"I knew your back was going to hurt! Comfy my ass," you said, smacking him lightly across the chest. He just smiled at you, joining in with some soft chuckles that warmed your heart.
Curling into bed, you felt sleep hit you almost immediately. Letting your eyelids droop, part of you wanted to stay up and think about tomorrow. To pick Bob's brain about who might show up. Worry about what they would think of you. But the sound of Bob's voice made your heart slow and breathing even out.
"G'night, Bee. Thank you again for coming with me," Bob told you, not even sure if you were lucid enough to hear him.
"Anything for you, Bobby. Goodnight," you said in the softest voice he thinks he's ever heard from you. Your words slurred a little and were definitely muffled by the pillow, but he still heard you. He saw your eyelashes flutter across your cheeks as you settled into sleep. The way your mouth opened slightly, lips parting so delicately. How your body seemed to curl into itself, making you look so small and fragile.
Wishing to hold you close to his chest like earlier today on the plane or to grasp your hand to hold in his sleep, Bob just stayed up for a few minutes longer to watch your sleeping form. Soon enough, his thoughts of you became muddy and distant as sleep took over, claiming you both now.
જ⁀➴
Bob had awoken to soft beams of sunlight streaming through the lace curtains. Everything was quiet, and Bob let himself lie for a moment, taking in the peace. Just as he was about to stretch and get up, he looked to his side and saw you.
Your cheek was still flushed up against the pillow, and your hair was in a bit of a mess as it rubbed on the fabric. It wasn't rare that Bob got to see you relax, but it was rare to see you completely void of all concerns. Usually, you were still holding some type of resistance in your shoulders or furrowing your brows slightly, even when lying across the couch at the end of the day. But now, you looked completely free. He smiled a bit at this.
Like you had sensed him mentally tracing the outline of your nose or the apples of your cheeks, suddenly your eyelashes fluttered, and you opened your eyes.
"G'morning, Bobby," you half mumbled-half whispered into your pillow. You weren't sure he understood you until hearing his telltale chuckle that was seemingly reserved for you.
"Morning, Bee," he said softly, voice a little deeper than usual. You chalked it up to the morning hours, but it still made your tummy flip. "Did you sleep well?"
"Mhm," you hummed. Bob saw that you made no effort to move from your comfortable position and chuckled again.
He often teased you for being so out of it in the mornings, but Bob had never seen you so unguarded. On the weekends you had off from training, you would usually pad into the kitchen, eyes still a little puffy and your movement still a little soft. There was one time Bob had to quickly intervene before you poured your coffee into your cereal bowl instead of your mug. But right now was different.
"Don't laugh," you grumbled. "Need like five more minutes. Or maybe ten."
Just as Bob was about to say okay and lie back under the covers with you, he heard a familiar pattern of steps making their way up the hallway.
"I'm afraid you're not going to get that, Bee," he spoke, seeing your brows fold in on themselves at his words. But soon, the bedroom door opened, and Pam was rushing to hug you good morning.
"I can see Bob has been soft on you, letting you sleep in," she joked as you shot up in the bed to meet her embrace. "We Floyds are early risers! Better start building the habit now."
"Oh, I know. Bob's up every morning at the crack of dawn, it feels like. Always hear him trying to be so quiet around the apartment," you said with a yawn as she drew away from you. Bob's cheeks heated at the thought of you being so in tune with his morning routine.
"Well, I won't rush you this morning, but breakfast will be ready in 20 minutes. Then we'll head into town afterwards, alright, Bee?" she said with a fond smile on her face. You nodded your head, saying a quick thank you as she closed the door and left.
The room was silent for a few seconds as you and Bob shared a small smile and knowing look at what had happened. "I'm only getting up early for her this week, Floyd. Don't expect any new habits when we're back home," you joked, a teasing smile on your face.
"Oh, I know. Wouldn't want to disrupt your morning routine of inside-out jeans and backwards shirts," Bob said with full seriousness as he pushed the covers off his body.
"Whatever that happened like one time," you said, pursing your lips. Hearing his laughter fill the air made your face flush with embarrassment. "One time! It was one time!"
Your protests at his teasing had no effect. Instead, Bob's laughter seemed to increase ten-fold as he doubled over in the bed.
"Bob, stop! It was one time!" you whined now. "You said it wasn't that bad."
His laughter subsided as he began to speak, "I know, I know." There was a silence that lasted for a few seconds until he spoke again, "But it was so funny, Bee." With that, Bob burst out laughing again as you half groaned, half laughed loudly.
From the kitchen, Pam smiled to herself, hearing her son's laughter carry throughout the house.
જ⁀➴
That night, like Pam had promised, Bob's extended family was over. Honestly, Bob was a little worried for you. His family could be a lot, and given that this was the first time he had brought anyone home, he expected everyone to poke and prod at you. But as his family filed into the house, your bright smile had never faltered.
Sometime after dinner but before dessert, Bob had lost you in the crowd of Floyds. He had walked through the house about ten different times at this point, looking for you, but you were nowhere to be found. Seeing the worried look on his face, his father gently grasped his son's shoulder to gain his attention.
"She's outside," he said lowly. Bob nodded and walked with purpose towards the back porch. His mind racing, thinking of all the possibilities that would've pushed you to escape outside. Were you crying? Was this all too overwhelming? Did someone ask you a rude question? Had you finally gotten sick of him? Sick of this role you were playing?
Right as he was about to push the door open, Bob paused. He saw you outside, but you weren't alone.
Gathered around you in the grassy field was a gaggle of small children, all laughing and smiling. Bob couldn't tell exactly what you were playing with the children, but after one of his younger cousins ran up to you and tapped your hip, he understood immediately. Bob smiled to himself, seeing you take off into a run as all the children screamed joyfully.
"She's sweet. Reminds me of your mother." Bob was snapped out of his trance as his father spoke. "Good job, son," he added, hand coming to clap softly on Bob's back.
Bob felt his heart race watching you. He knew you were perfect, living with you and being best friends had proven it to him. But he had never seen you like this, so carefree and thoughtful. Sure, there were nights when Jake or Bradley would get a bit too carried away at the Hard Deck, and you would be right by their side, taking care of them. But it wasn't even close to this.
Bob saw you chase around the children, never gaining too fast on the younger kids, but still giving the older ones a run for their money. He watched as all the kids gravitated towards you, all of their smiles and laughs being thrown your way. And Bob understood this feeling deeply. He had always felt a pull towards you. It came out in various ways, like always finding your eyes when Coyote would say something outrageous during training. Or bursting out into synchronized laughter whenever Jake would ultimately lose another game of pool to Nat. And his favorite was the way you would find your way over to Bob whenever you were in a large group. You could talk to Jake or joke around with Bradley, but whenever the full Dagger Squad was together on a crowded night at the Hard Deck, you were glued to Bob's side. These moments let him know that you were undeniably in each other's orbit.
Finally, Bob pulled open the door and walked out to you and your new friends.
"Uncle Bob!" one of the children exclaimed. You whipped around, seeing Bob walking up to you with a small smile on his face.
"Thought I lost you in there," he joked. You smiled, not speaking but walking closer to meet him in the middle. He met your kind eyes, but upon looking into them further, he squinted a little at you. Just as he was about to step back, you lunged forward.
"Tag! You're it!" you blurted out, giggling as you sprinted in the opposite direction. The children seemed to follow your example, all shrieking and laughing as Bob took off.
Suddenly, you heard little cries of your name. Turning around, you saw Bob gaining on you. Before you knew it, his hands grasped your waist, picking you up a few inches off the ground, bringing you into his chest.
Tucked close into him now, you felt his breath on the back of your neck. The heaving of his chest against your back had you squirming. "Can't get away that easily," his voice close to your ear. Biting down on your lip, careful to not let the whine out, you felt your tummy flip at the position he had you in.
You had come outside to escape, yes. But not from Bob's never-ending list of uncles or aunts. From him.
During dinner, he had been nothing but kind to you. Caring. Attentive. And it had been like that all day. From when you left the house and went into town with him and his mother, you hadn't as much as blinked before Bob made sure you didn't have to lift a finger. Sure, he had done this to a certain extent back in California, not letting you open the door or always opening glass jars for you when in the kitchen together. But today was a different level.
Pam insisted on getting you a pair of real, genuine cowgirl boots. She marched you into "Jesse's Boots & Shoes" and immediately sat you down on one of the little benches. After gathering what seemed like half the merchandise in the store, she came back to you with stacks of boxes full of different types of boots.
As you began to bend down to untie your shoes, Bob suddenly appeared in front of you. On his knees.
"I got it, don't worry," he said, before delicately unlacing your shoes. His large, warm hand flew up underneath your calf, and the other shimmied off your shoe. Then he looked up with that sweet smile and repeated the whole process on your other foot. You could've sworn you saw Pam snap a picture.
Later in the day, you made it back to the house and were helping Pam fix up some lunch. She handed you a big yellow onion and a kitchen knife, but before you could even take hold of the wooden handle she had outstretched to you, Bob had rushed into your view. Stealing the onion out of your right hand and gently pushing you out of the way of the cutting board, you looked at him incredulously.
"I know how watery your eyes get. I got it, just go sit down," he offered with that same sweet smile.
"I can cut one onion, Bobby," you said, playfully trying to grab the onion from his hand. He just raised his hands above his head, ensuring you wouldn't be able to reach him.
"I got it, Bee. Don't try to argue," he challenged, raising his brows. Huffing, you rolled your eyes, but couldn't help the small smile that was creeping on your face.
Pam once again snapped a picture. This time, giggling to herself a bit like she knew this was going to happen.
The third time was right before everyone had arrived. You were upstairs, checking your hair one last time and making sure your outfit looked okay, when you noticed you had forgotten to put your necklace on this morning.
After retrieving the delicate piece from the bathroom, Bob had seemingly appeared. Seeing the jewelry in your hand, he walked forward with purpose, holding out his palm. You raised an eyebrow at his actions.
"Seen you do it a million times," he started. "Let me."
You nodded, not trusting your voice once again, dropping the piece into his hand. Softly, his free hand came down to your hip, guiding you to turn around.
Then, you felt his arms go around your shoulders, not touching, but there. It was so quiet in that moment. The only noise you could hear was the creaking of the old house and Bob's soft breathing close to your ear. It was distracting. Maddening, after the day you had.
Clasping the necklace around you, his hands dropped. Turning back around, you were met, once again, by the same sweet smile.
"You look beautiful, Bee," he told you before backing out of the room. "I'll be downstairs whenever you're ready."
Driven outside, you had wanted to sit on the porch for a bit. Think about what this weekend really meant for you. For Bob. For your friendship. But your plans were quickly interrupted after feeling a little tug on your leg and hearing a quiet invitation to a game of tag.
"Robert Floyd, you'd better let go of that girl! We've got apple pie coming out the oven!" Pam's voice drew you back into the heart-racing position you were in. Bob was quick to set you down, smoothing his hands over your hips in an effort to fix the creases in your dress that his hold had caused. But you saw the raging blush that crossed his face and burst out into a fit of giggles, and soon, all of his younger cousins were doing the same thing.
"I think this might be your inside-out jean moment," you teased with a smile, seeing the blush turn to a darker shade.
"Not funny," he said sternly, but you could tell he was trying to hold back a laugh.
"Mm, I recall saying something earlier this morning like that." You grinned at him, walking closer to the house, but your body was still fully facing the man in front of you. "But Bobby, it's so funny!" you laughed, throwing your head back. Bob couldn't help but smile, even if it was at the expense of his own actions.
What neither Bob nor you realized was the crowd of onlookers peaking through the windows, watching as Bob Floyd was struck with a look of love.
જ⁀➴
You had been right. The look before the first kiss was the best part of a wedding. Bob doesn't remember the last time he'd seen his older brother so giddy.
You, on the other hand, had missed it completely. Looking at the man who sat next to you instead. You saw the way the corners of Bob's mouth pulled upwards, smiling brightly.
The week had gone smoothly, both of you getting away with touches that were a little more lingering than usual or looks that called for a deeper conversation. To Bob's family, this looked like restraint, manners, and control. To you, this was torture, heartache, and suppression. You didn't know how many more instances of Bob's big hand on the small of your back you had in you before you broke completely. His gentle guidance and care throughout the week had been something that you reveled in. Returning to California, returning to normalcy, it all seemed so distant.
Sipping some champagne, you sat with Bob at the reception. Stringed bulbs lit up the night. Bright colors popped from all of the flowers that seemed to be placed on every table. And sweet music filled the air, inviting everyone to dance.
Bob studied your face under the night sky and limited lighting. You were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Dread filled his heart, though. The thought of this week just being a glimpse into what life would be like if he got up the courage to ask you to be with him weighed heavily on his heart.
Going to bed with you every night was something Bob didn't even know he was missing, but now he craved it so deeply. Being able to talk to you and share his thoughts with you right before bed. Getting to hear you ramble on, either about your worries or joys, was something he began to love more than anything. The way your voice would begin to taper, become gentle, when you were truly tired and ready for sleep. How you supported your face under your small palm while talking with him in the dark. How your eyes would become glassy and glazed over as you finally hit the pillow. These moments became precious to him.
"All couples! Head to the dance floor now! Tell your partner how much you care about them, and let's dance!" The DJ's voice broke Bob's train of thought. Without thinking, he rose out of his seat and offered you a hand.
Sheepishly, you took it, letting him guide you.
A soft, slow melody filled the air as you began to take your place with Bob. His hands brushed your hips, stiff, like he was in middle school, and it was his first time slow dancing. You chuckled a little under your breath.
"What's got you laughing now?" he asked, soft and sweet. Eyes searching yours with intensity you had only seen from him this week.
You looked at him for a moment and just grinned, like you knew something he didn't.
"Just so stiff, Bobby. Relax," you told him, pushing into his space a little more. Your hands found their way around his shoulders, palms settling on the broad plain of his back. Now, your face met his chest, and you melted into him.
Bob felt the sway of your hips and the light movement of your feet. If it wasn't for you, he would've stood still, not knowing what to do with you like this. Sure, he had danced like this before. But it was never this intimate. This deep. This connected.
At any moment, Bob felt like he was going to let the words spill out of him. Tell you how he was really feeling. It seemed so easy.
The way you interacted with his family. Cooking with his Ma, talking about college sports with his Pa. Even the way you talked with his brother and sister-in-law. Though it was brief, you made an immediate connection. You and his sister-in-law, chatting away like you had grown up together. And he didn't miss the way his older brother shot him a look of surprise, but approval.
But it wasn't just about them. It was also about the way you just fit so well into his life. Sure, you weren't an early riser, and Bob had learned this weekend that you weren't the best with large animals, but he didn't mind. If being with you meant slow mornings where you would coax him back to bed, hands grasping for him to come lie with you beneath the sheets, he'd be okay with that. More than okay. And if the biggest animal you owned was a chocolate lab, that would be okay by him, too.
Slowly, his large hands came around your waist, more secure and grounded. And Bob closed his eyes, letting out a deep breath. Taking in this moment with you was the most important thing to him.
You danced under the twinkling lights and stars, no concern for the people around you. No concern that this was fake, that it was all pretend. Because right now, it felt real.
Hearing the thump of Bob's heart calmed you. It was grounding you, just like the gentle guitar in the background. You swayed like that for a while, but eventually the pounding of his heart and the steadiness of his figure became all too much. While the music swelled, so did your chest. Heaving up and down at a much more rapid pace.
Bob, feeling the sudden shift in your energy, pulled back, but just slightly. Still close enough to hear the hitch in your breath, to see the quiver of your bottom lip.
Your eyes blinked rapidly. Looking up at Bob seemed like an impossible task. But with a gentle touch to your chin, you did.
"Bee?" he asked softly. Concern written across his face.
"I'm sorry," you said, even quieter. With slow moments, you pressed your lips to his.
Your lips were softer than he imagined. The way your lips slotted between his was like second nature. And before you could pull back, he learned in deeper. Taking the hand that was under your chin and pressing it into the back of your head. Meeting you in the kiss, he pressed closer to you, and you felt the strong hold he had on your hip.
Bob wanted so badly to lick into your mouth, to mix your spit. But he restrained himself upon feeling the slight jump below his waist.
The solid kiss made your tummy turn in a way you didn't think was possible. Something deeper took hold of you as you melted, once again, into the man in front of you. The heaving of your chest was still present, but now it was fueled by want rather than anxiety.
Pulling away slowly, your breathing was heavy. Your eyes searched his, trying to see what he was thinking. What would his reaction to your impulsivity be?
Before your question could be answered, you were being pulled by one of Bob's cousins, urging you to go line up for the bouquet toss.
Bob watched as you were ripped away from him. His hand came up to grab onto you, but his fingers slipped against the fabric of your dress. Your eyes widen, head whipping around to look at him. But just as quick, you broke your gaze.
જ⁀➴
As soon as the door to the guest bedroom clicked shut, you immediately began apologizing.
"Bobby, I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me, and I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking," you said, hands coming up to your face in an attempt to hide from him.
"Bee," Bob tried to cut in, but you could barely hear him over the sound of your racing heart and rambling words."
"I didn't mean to ruin this. Ruin this weekend and make you feel uncomfortable. Ruin what we have. Our friendship," you kept going, stomach now turning at the thought of losing Bob from your life.
"Bee," he started again, but still you weren't hearing a thing he said.
Your hands now rubbed nervously down your dress, like you were trying to wipe off what had happened earlier that night. "I'm gonna go take my stuff and sleep in the bathroom or something. You don't have to share a bed with me tonight. And if you want me to move out, I will. I'm sorry, I just, I don't know-"
"Bee!" Bob's voice startled you into silence. He stepped closer to you, reaching for your hands, trying to quell your nervous energy.
Bob's hand closed around your wrists. Your heart was beating out of your chest as you looked at your best friend.
"Tonight," he started, hand rubbing softly against yours. "What did the kiss mean?"
He took a deep breath as you just stared at him.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," you said, feeling tears well up in your eyes.
"I'm not mad, and I'm not uncomfortable. I just," he took another deep breath before continuing. "I just want to know what it meant to you. Why you did it."
A tear slipped down your cheek at his soft-spoken words.
"I love you," you said quietly as more tears fell from your eyes. "I kissed you because I love you. Because I'm in love with you. I'm sorry, Bobby."
You felt your world crumbling around you. Years of friendship, laughter, and good memories all seemed to blur past you. Surely, when you got back to California, Bob would ask you to move out. The thought made you sick to your stomach.
Bob stared at you, silent. He felt like he was dreaming. All week, he had been trying to tell you how he felt. Been trying to get the words out. And here you were, saying everything he was thinking.
His hands quickly came up to your face, wiping the tears away. You couldn't look at him, eyes closed and body closing in on itself.
"Bee, will you open your eyes, please. I just want to talk to you," Bob pleaded. "I need to tell you something. Need you to look at me."
You shook your head, starting to feel like everything was all too much. Of course, he was still being sweet to you. After everything, after all of what you said and did. The thought made more tears come to your eyes.
"Please, please look at me," he asked again, thumbs now stroking your cheeks. Bob could see the internal debate you were having as your lips pushed deeper into a pout.
But after a few seconds, you opened your eyes. Blinking away the last bit of tears, you tried to look at the man in front of you.
As soon as your eyes met his, Bob smiled at you sweetly. "I love you. I'm sorry I didn't say it sooner. And I'm sorry about this week. I should've told you how I was feeling, but I thought everything would go okay. That we could just go back to being normal after all this."
Your shoulders relaxed with his admission, your mouth opening just a bit to look at Bob in awe.
"But we can't," you said, voice still small. It made Bob's heart ache thinking about all that you were feeling this week, knowing he was feeling the same way.
"No, I don't think we can." His eyes dropped to your lips for a split second. If you weren't watching him so closely, you would've missed it.
Something in your stomach turned at the thought of kissing him again. Your chest began to rise and fall much like it had earlier.
Still holding your face in his hands, Bob leaned in slowly. Slow enough to let you pull away if this was something you didn't want. Slow enough that seconds felt like minutes.
Finally, your lips met for the second time that night. Less rushed than before and softer. Your eyes flutter shut at the feeling.
The kiss was sweet. Bob's heart was racing out of his chest, having you like this. He was content letting your lips brush up against each other in a soft manner. But each time you kissed, he got hungrier. It wasn't until you let a soft sound slip past your lips and into his that he pressed into you harder.
Suddenly, Bob was walking you backwards into the bed. You felt one of his hands leave your face and come down to the small of your back, pressing you closer to him.
"This okay?" he asked breathlessly as you nodded, not trusting your voice.
With that, Bob got to work on the zipper at the back of your dress. He felt your hands in his hair, on his arms, pulling him in closer. Finally, the dress dropped and you let it fall to the floor.
Bob's eyes scanned your body. Wearing the prettiest set of black lace underwear and a matching bra, he felt his stomach turn. You were perfect.
Quickly, his hands were all over your body as you fell back with him on the bed. Feeling his hard length grind down on your barely clad heat had you biting down on your lip. Bob worked his mouth against your neck, looking for the spot that would make you moan against him. His licking and biting made your legs tighten around his waist, pulling him even closer if possible.
"Please, Bobby. Need you," you whispered. His head shot up to take you in. Your eyes were blinking quickly, like you were struggling to keep them open. Your mouth parted slightly, like you couldn't take deep enough breaths. Your hair splayed out around you, like you were an angel come down from heaven.
"Want me to touch you?" Bob asked as you whined, head nodding. "Gonna have to be quiet for me, okay? I wanna help you."
"Okay, I'll be good. Promise," you said, eyes searching his. Waiting for his movements to change. Waiting for him to help you feel good.
His hands moved from your hips down to your heat. Only one hand cupping it at first, while the other worked at the back of your bra. Pushing into your underwear, Bob's big hand began to feel you everywhere. His thumb quickly found your clit, and you thought you were seeing stars as he rubbed it softly.
You felt the tightness of your bra loosen, and Bob's other hand quickly moved to take it off you completely. Seconds after, his mouth came down to your pebbled nipple, swirling his tongue around it, sucking it into his mouth.
Your jaw dropped at the feeling. His kisses and ministrations made your hips jump up into his hand. "Need more, wanna feel your fingers," you said softly, trying to keep your promise to him.
Popping his lips from your tits, Bob looked at you with darkened eyes. "Being so good for me. I can feel you, so wet for me," he praised you, but still, his hand made no effort to move further into your heat.
Your brows furrowed at this, and you propped yourself up to look at the man lying above you. "Bobby, please," you whispered, kissing his cheek sweetly.
There was no way he could resist you when you asked so sweetly. His hand made its way towards your opening, stretching your underwear a bit. Bob played with you a bit more, and you whined into the pillow next to you.
"Sorry, honey," he whispered into your ear. "Just love your little pussy so much."
Your jaw dropped at his dirty words and at the feeling of two of his fingers stretching out your heat. They felt so thick, and Bob knew exactly what he was doing, moving them with expert precision. Pushing in slow and deep, reaching your spot almost immediately, your back arched off the bed into his touch.
Bob watched as you crumbled at his touch. It had to be a dream. The way your tits heaved up and down made him dizzy. Your face, now driven into the pillow next to you, silencing your noises, made his cock jump from beneath his trousers. You lying on the bed, almost completely naked, and he still fully dressed, made him bite down on his lip hard.
He was trying to take his time with you. Be gentle. Get to know your body. But every noise that escaped you and every look of longing you shot him made his resolve crumble. He could spend hours like this, with you at his disposal to play with. But sweat beaded down his forehead in restraint. Bob had to know what your tight pussy felt like around his cock.
A hand on his bicep pulled Bob from his thoughts. He felt your pussy clench up at his fingers, and he instantly moved his thumb back up to your clit. The reaction was immediate. Your body curling off the body and into him, Bob leaned into you, taking one of your tits into his mouth again, sucking harshly this time.
"Oh, fuck," you whispered as your orgasm ran through you. You never knew your orgasms could be so intense, but with Bob's constant attention to your body, you had never felt better.
Delicately, he pulled his fingers from your entrance and leaned down to kiss you sweetly.
"You're so beautiful," Bob said breathlessly. Then he brought his fingers up to his mouth, and you felt your pussy throb all over again at the sight of him licking your slick from his fingers. "Taste so good, too," he said, popping his fingers from his mouth. "Can I taste you?"
You nodded, but apparently, this wasn't enough for him anymore.
"Wanna hear you," Bob spoke softly. "Killing me, not being able to hear all your cute noises."
"Sorry," you said bashfully. "Yes, please."
"Don't gotta say sorry. Doing so good for me, my beautiful girl." Bob leaned in to kiss you again, making you feel his want and warmth as he licked into your mouth. His mouth traveled down your body, stopping to suck dark marks into your throat and all over your tits. But you didn't stop him, not really caring about how you would cover them up in the morning. His nips and licks were much more convincing than anything your brain told you.
Finally making his way down to your heat, Bob pushed your underwear to the side. Licking a broad stripe with his flat tongue, he tried to feel all of you. Your thighs worked to close around him, but his strong hands came up to grip them just hard enough to remind you of his strength, but not hard enough to hurt you. Continuing, he kissed all over your heat, much like he had just licked into your mouth. The movements made you dizzy.
Focusing on your clit, you felt one of his hands leave your thigh and dive into your heat again.
"Bobby," you whined. Quickly slapping a hand over your mouth, remembering what you had promised him. He looked up at you, chuckling a bit at your movements. But the vibrations against your heat only made you squirm and cry out more.
Removing his mouth from your heat, he kissed your thighs sweetly.
"Need me to help you, honey?" he asked, voice low and eyes dark as they looked at you.
"Mhm, please," you whispered, still moving your hips against his fingers.
He smiled at your movements. "So needy," he whispered more to himself than anything. "Didn't think you'd be that way."
Your tummy flipped at his admission. Even if he hadn't explicitly said it, just thinking about Bob touching himself to the thought of you made your pulse race like crazy.
Pulling your underwear away from your heat, Bob tossed them across the room. His hands now moved to your waist, picking you up effortlessly, flipping you on your tummy softly.
Your neck craned back, a puzzled look on your face. But he was already meeting you half way, coming up to kiss you again and ask a question.
"This okay, honey?" Bob asked, one hand coming to raise your hips. Another guided a pillow beneath them. Your stomach turned at the thought of what he was about to do.
"Yeah, it's okay," you whispered. He smiled at this, placing a sweet kiss on the crown of your head. But soon, his hand was pushing your head into the pillow, tucking your hair behind your ears, making sure you were comfortable. But still, his hand came down to guide you into the plush surface beneath you.
Not seeing Bob and only feeling him was something you never thought you would love. But the way his hands dragged down your body, fingers toying with your body, and firmly kneading your ass made your breathing sharp and shallow. Bob made his way down to your heat once more, licks more confident and sure now.
Sure enough, you whined into the pillow underneath you, pushing your hips back into Bob as he continued to work at your entrance. His tongue pushed in and out of you, sucking harshly. Hands spreading your ass, allowing him to kiss you better, get deeper.
It was quick for you to feel the familiar tug in your tummy return, ready to snap at any moment. Snaking a hand under your tummy and to your clit, Bob worked diligently to make you feel good, rubbing tight, small circles.
Your hand flew back, trying to grasp at anything you could. Your fingers found his golden locks, and you gripped them tightly as you came for the second time that night.
After a few last licks, Bob kissed up your back, letting his body sink into you a bit. It wasn't until his kisses reached your neck that you felt his hard length straining against your ass.
"So good, honey," he whispered, placing sweet kisses against your hair once more. "Gonna go get a towel to clean you up, okay?"
Soon, he moved to shift off the bed. But you shot up, grabbing his forearm.
"What's wrong?" Bob asked, concern evident on his face as he looked at you. He wondered if it had been too much. He had indulged a little bit, but he thought that you were feeling good. Or maybe he was pulling away too soon, maybe you wanted to cuddle a bit more before he got up. But what you said next made his heart jump.
"Wanna feel you. Do you not want to?" you spoke softly, forehead creasing in on itself.
Bob smiled at your question, coming back into your space, pressing his lips to yours. You smiled into the kiss, too. Something about them was so sweet and gentle, but so deep and longing at the same time.
"Course I do, just didn't want to push anything," he spoke, pulling away a bit. "And, I don't have anything here. I didn't bring any condoms," Bob whispered the last bit, like it was a secret.
"I'm clean and on birth control," you offered with a small smile that Bob swore would be the death of him.
"Me too," he said, immediately backtracking at the sound of your giggles. "I mean clean. No birth control."
Your smile grew wider at his words. Even when Bob didn't mean to, he made you laugh, always making you feel good.
"Can I see you? Think it's a little unfair you're still dressed," you teased him. Even with the faint glow of the moon and the soft bedside lamp, you were able to see the way Bob's ears turned pink.
Without a word, he began to unbutton his shirt. Scooching toward him on the bed, your hands made quick work of his belt, button, and zipper. Bob would've laughed at your eagerness if he weren't feeling the exact same way. Kicking off his pants and underwear and whipping the shirt off over his head, Bob stood before. Your tongue peeked out a bit at the sight of him.
His abs are sculpted and molded to perfection; you were able to gawk at them more openly now than a few nights ago. As your eyes traveled further, you saw his V-line, prominent and defined. And his length stood proud in front of you. Chills ran down your spine at the thought of taking all of him. You leaned down, falling on your elbows before him. Kissing his pink tip, your tongue began to kitten lick at his head.
Bob groaned audibly at the sight in front of him. Your ass up, mouth working against his length, and eyes looking up at him for approval. This wasn't real, surely. Any minute now, he would wake up in bed, spoiled underwear once again. But as you moved to take his length further in your mouth, Bob couldn't deny what he was feeling.
Knowing that if you sucked his length much longer, he wouldn't last, Bob softly grasped your head in his hands, moving you away from his length and instead onto the bed like you once were.
Lying back on the bed, you watched as Bob moved over your body. Settling on top of you, you found yourself face-to-face with him. Smiling at him, your eyes met, and you couldn't help but laugh a bit to yourself.
"What's got you so happy?" Bob asked, leaning down to kiss your neck as you let the giggles flow freely. He smiled at you, the kisses sweet rather than searing like they were before.
"I just love you," you whispered. Bob's head shot up, dopey grin now on his face.
"I love you," he whispered back. Leaning down to kiss you again, you thought about how you would never get used to this. Just a few hours ago, you were anxiety-ridden with thoughts of losing your best friend to a dumb mistake. Now, all your nerves were still on fire, but for a different reason. Bob's lips worked against yours until you felt your tummy flip again, and it seemed he felt the same way; one of his hands moved down to grip his length. Guiding himself to your heat, you felt Bob shudder in your embrace, but his lips never left yours.
Bob groaned against your lips as he pushed into you. Only a few inches at first, seeing the way your body would react to him. Your chest heaved, and your eyes screwed shut at the unfamiliar feeling. But your hands pawed at his chest and back, trying to bring him closer to you.
"Doing okay, honey? Feel good?" Bob asked, watching your face for any signs of discomfort.
You whinnied a little as you answered, "Feels good. So good. You're so big."
"You can take it, can't you, honey?" Bob asked, pushing a bit more into you as your jaw dropped at the feeling. He was now kissing up and down your throat again, unable to keep himself away from your soft, dewy skin for too long.
The man felt you pulsed around him. Your heat seemingly needing more from him. Before Bob could ask, you spoke in a breathless whisper.
"More, please. I can take it."
With that, he pushed into you fully. Balls settling against your ass, pelvis meeting yours. His arms came around under your back, bringing you tight into his embrace. Bob made sure to hold onto you, made sure he was taking care of you.
When he started moving, it was filthy. The sounds couldn't be masked as he moved in and out of your heat at a steady pace, deep enough to be hitting your spot in just the right way. Your bodies began to sweat and shine under the soft bedroom light.
You tried biting down on your lip, tried to not let the sounds escape you, but it was no use. The way that Bob moved above you drew out soft, airy noises. Bob saw that you struggled to control yourself and fully feel pleasure, so he took matters into his own hands.
Placing a large hand over your mouth, Bob met your eyes. They shot wide open at first, maybe a flicker of embarrassment, but soon they became droopy again as you focused more on his thrusts into you.
"It's okay, honey," he leaned down to talk near your ear. "Know it feels good. Just gonna help you a little."
You nodded at his words, clenching around his length again. Your moans were now muffled behind his big hand. The feeling of Bob asserting himself over you made you dizzy. You knew he was confident and could take charge if need be, but this was something else. Bob worked with precision, seemingly adjusting to your every move. It wasn't long until his other hand left its spot on your hip and made its way down to your heat once more, circling your clit in what you now learned was your favorite way. His big thumb moved in tandem with his thrusts, and you opened your eyes to look at the man above you.
Bob, seeing the way your eyes glossed over, kissed your lips, briefly moving his hand before placing it back and speaking, "It's okay, I got you. Wanna feel you cum around me."
With that, the knot in your tummy unraveled. Shaking against Bob, you pushed your body as close to his as possible. Still working into you, Bob felt the way you squeezed his length and couldn't hold back anymore, coming to his high with you.
Slowly, Bob moved his hand from your mouth and instead stroked your hair, placing a kiss on your hairline. You smiled at his actions, despite being exhausted from your rigorous activities.
"I love you," Bob told you. He watched as you relaxed against the bed, shifting slightly to hold you better.
"I love you, Bobby. Thank you for inviting me this week," you said sweetly, sharing another kiss with him as he was still nestled inside you, neither of you moving to get up just yet.
He smiled at your words. Thinking back to this week and all that had happened, Bob was grateful you were by his side. From his rambunctious family to the quietness of rural Montana, you fit in perfectly. Bob couldn't wait to bring you back, properly this time.
જ⁀➴
Like always, you and Bob went along with the squad's outstanding Saturday night plans at the Hard Deck, not caring that you had just gotten back to California a few hours prior. Jake grinned at the sight of you walking into the Hard Deck, hand in hand with Bob. He watched as Bob carefully guided you through the crowd of people, delicately holding onto your waist and shielding you from the rowdy patrons.
"Well, well, well," Jake teased as soon as you had both made your way over to the pool table full of aviators. "Looks like my plan worked."
Bob's brows furrowed at this, immediately looking to you.
"No way, Bagman, you aren't getting the credit for this," Phoenix chimed in, abandoning the game of pool.
Now it was your turn to look at Bob with confusion on your face.
"I was the one who sold Bee about the parents thing," Jake argued. You felt your face flush at his admission of your white lie.
"Well, I was the one hyping Bob up for weeks about getting her to come," Phoenix fought back. Bob closed his eyes, not thinking he could survive the look of amusement on your face.
Suddenly, both of your pilots turned to you.
"So who did it?" Phoenix asked. Both you and Bob looked at each other, puzzled.
"Oh come on," Jake said exasperatedly. "You know what were talking about. Who made the first move?"
The squad was silent, watching both you and Bob under a microscope, it seemed. A slight tilt of Bob's head in your direction made Jake cry out triumphantly, pumping his fists into the air.
"I knew it! I knew it! Suck it, Phoenix," Jake whooped as onlookers watched with amusement at his antics.
"Knew it?" Bob asked, almost scared for the answer.
Jake grinned at the both of you. "Yup!" he said, popping the ending syllable in a way that made Nat's eye roll even farther back into her head. "I knew Bee would make the first move. She's gutsy! No offense, Baby on Board."
"Jake," you chastised, but knew the nickname was all in good fun now.
"Where's my twenty dollars? My wallet seems to be missing something," Jake faux-questioned, turning his attention to Phoenix.
Digging into her back pocket and sifting through her wallet, she slapped a crisp twenty-dollar bill into Jake's outstretched hand with a groan. Jake almost giggled in delight, a sound you had only heard come out of him once or twice.
"I just want to say," he started, raising his glass to the group, "that I, Jake Seresin, best pilot among us, was instrumental in ending our suffering. That is, watching these two dance around each other forever like little lovesick puppies."
The group groaned at his statement, but raised their drinks nonetheless. You giggled into Bob's shoulder, and he smiled widely at the sound. His eyes found yours and saw a playful look on your face. Before he knew it, you leaned into his space, pressing your lips to his.
The group watched as he melted into your touch, half-cheering and half-whistling.
Pulling away slightly, you smiled at the man next to you. Bob's cheeks were now dusted with pink, but he still wrapped a hand around your waist, bringing you close into his hold.
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Description: A throwaway joke about 'one of my friends humped me yesterday to get out some pent up energy' becomes reality when you get a little too close and a very whipped Steve can't hold back his feelings anymore ;)
Pairing: Steve Harrington x GN!Reader
Warnings: 18+ Explicit themes, sexual tension, physical intimacy, mentions of consensual workplace grinding and physical release (wink wink), mutual pining finally explodes, lovesick Steve Harrington.
Word Count: 2.4k ish :D
A/N: This twitter post inspired all these words, good ol’ Heart Eyes Harrington you are everything to me. Listened to Rasputin while typing this out in its funk, not proofread but it is the stuff of my dreams, enjoy! <3
It starts with Steve hovering.
Hovering too close.
Hovering like he’s built an orbit around you and lost the ability to step out of it.
You’re shelving returns and he keeps almost touching your back as he reaches for tapes on the same shelf.
Finally you blurt out, “Steve. You’re acting weird.”
He freezes. Hands mid-air. Face turning an impossible shade of guilty pink.
“Weird? No. No, I mean. Kind of? Maybe. Yes.”
He swallows.
“I am a little weird around you today.”
“Why?”
He runs a shaky hand through his hair, pacing in a tight circle before stopping in front of you, looking like a guy about to confess to arson.
“Okay, just. Hear me out. Just listen,” he blurts.
“If you ever….have a lot of pent-up energy or whatever....”
He winces.
“You can just.…um. Use me.”
You blink. “Pent up energy? What do you mean—Wait, use you?”
Steve’s face goes crimson.
“Not in a—well, I mean—yes? Also no?”
He groans into his palms.
“I’m screwing this up. Let me restart.”
He takes a breath, meets your eyes with the softest, most hopelessly in-love expression you’ve ever seen on a person.
“Me and Robin were talking about this joke we heard at Scoops, a long time ago from one of the customers where the person.…”
He looks away.
“....humped her friend because they had pent-up energy.
He swallows.
“And I just.” His voice drops to a pathetic whisper.
“I thought, God, I wish she’d do that to me.’”
"Who, Robin?" You giggled at the absurdity of his sentence, not realising what was about to come. (spoiler alert: him)
"....you."
Your brain short-circuits.
“Steve.”
He keeps talking. He can’t stop.
He’s spiralling and it’s adorable.
“I mean, not like humping-humping, unless you want to, oh my God why am I talking–”
His hands flap around uselessly.
“I’m just saying, if you ever need….y’know….physical–relief? Release? Not like that release, unless–the stress is like….okay, shutting up.”
“Steve,” you repeat, stepping closer.
He stands there, shoulders hunched, staring at the floor like it might swallow him just to end his embarrassment.
“…I like you,” he admits softly.
“Way more than I should. Enough that if you said ‘hey Steve I need to grind on you because I’m restless,’ I’d say yes so fast I’d probably dislocate something.”
Your breath catches.
He looks up through his lashes: big brown eyes, anxious, hopeful. Absolutely whipped.
“Please don’t make fun of me,” he whispers.
“I just. God, I’d do anything you asked.”
You step closer to him until your bodies brush, being close enough to able to smell his cologne and wait– is that hairspray– and his breathing stutters.
“Anything?” you murmur.
His nod is instant. Desperate. Pathetic in the sweetest way.
“Anything,” he repeats, voice gone rough. Eyes gone dark.
“Tell me what you need and I’ll….just—tell me.”
Your hand slips into his hair, tugging gently and he inhales like he's taking his first breath.
“Steve,” you whisper, leaning closer.
“Do you perhaps....want me to take out my pent-up energy on you?”
His answer isn’t verbal. It’s a broken, helpless sound deep in his throat.
He leans in slowly, worshipful, begging without words and when his forehead presses to yours, his voice is barely a breath, “Please.”
You don’t even kiss him at first. You just keep your hand in his hair, tugging gently, barely enough to move him, but enough to make his lips part on instinct.
The sound he makes is soft, strangled, reverent. Like he can’t believe this is happening.
“This okay?” you murmur.
He nods too fast. Too eager.
His breath shakes.
“I’m–yeah. Yes. Just….you’re touching me.”
His answer is so simple. So honest. And it makes your chest melt into literal warmth.
You slide your other hand to his jaw, feeling the stubble under your thumb, feeling how he leans into it like your touch is gravity itself.
“Steve,” you whisper, “look at me.”
He does. Instantly.
And oh heavens, he’s ruined. Completely, helplessly ruined for you.
Brown eyes blown wide, lips flushed and glistening, breathing shallow like he’s trying not to make a mess of this moment.
You tilt his face up.
Slow. Gentle. Deliberate.
His hands hover in the air like he doesn’t know where he’s allowed to touch.
“Here,” you say softly, taking his wrists and guiding them to your waist. His fingers curl into you hesitantly at first and then on purpose, like he wants to remember every inch of you starting from the waist.
“God,” he breathes, almost a prayer, “you feel so warm.”
You move closer: chest pressing into his, hips touching lightly and he melts. There’s no other word for it.
His shoulders drop. His breath stutters. His whole body sinks against yours like he’s finally allowed to rest.
“Steve,” you whisper against the corner of his mouth, “you can kiss me.”
His lungs empty in one shaky rush.
Then he kisses you.
Slow at first. Careful, aching, like he’s learning the shape of your mouth by touch alone. His lips move with this soft, desperate honesty that goes straight to your knees.
He’s not trying to overwhelm you.
He’s trying to savour you.
And every time you deepen it, even a little, he makes these quiet, helpless noises in the back of his throat that tell you exactly how long he’s wanted this.
Your hands slide down his chest, fingers brushing the hem of his shirt, and Steve breaks the kiss with a trembling gasp, forehead falling to your shoulder.
“Wait—wait—”
He’s not pulling away. He’s grounding himself.
“If you touch me like that I’m gonna…I’m not gonna last long.”
The confession is whispered into your skin, soft and humiliating and devastatingly sincere.
You smile and run your fingers lightly under the fabric anyway.
He whimpers.
Actually whimpers.
“Oh my–please don’t tease. Please—”
You kiss the shell of his ear. He shivers violently.
“Steve,” you murmur, “tell me what you want.”
He lifts his head, flushed, panting, eyes dark and glossy.
“I want….”
He swallows hard. “....I want to feel you. However you want me. Anything you give me, I’ll take.”
He presses his hips forward just enough for you to feel the heat, the need– his need, his trembling restraint.
“Just—just let me hold you while you use me,”, he whispers, voice shaking.
“I’ll be so good for you.”
His hands slide up and down your waist, palms warm, fingers trembling as they grip your hips, pulling you gently, slowly, into the kind of closeness that makes your breath stutter.
You move against him: soft, warm, intentional...and Steve breaks.
His head drops to your shoulder again, mouth open against your skin, breath ragged, hands tightening on you like he’s trying not to fall apart entirely.
“Oh God—”
His voice is cracking.
“I can’t.…I can’t believe you want me—”
You whisper into his hair: “I want you so much, Steve.”
He shudders like you touched his spine directly.
“Say it again,” he begs quietly.
“Please—just—say you want me.”
You take his face in your hands and kiss him slow, deep, with intention. When you pull back, your lips brush his as you whisper, “Steve Harrington, I want you. So bad.”
He lets out a sound, half breath, half moan, and melts completely, body pressing to yours, hands sliding up your back, holding you like you’re something he’s been praying for.
And when you guide his hips just slightly, just enough.
Steve gasps, eyes shut, jaw slack, utterly undone.
“Tell me what to do,” he whispers, breaking, “and I’ll do it.” His hands are already trembling on your hips when you guide him backward, slow, patient, until his back hits the video shelf.
The impact is gentle, but it knocks a breath out of him anyway, more from nerves than force.
He looks up at you with this helpless, lovesick expression that makes your stomach flip.
“You sure?” he whispers, voice rough with wanting.
“’Cause if we do this, I’m gonna—”
This time, you kiss him before he can finish.
He melts into it instantly, soft lips, warm breath, the kind of kiss that feels like someone giving you every secret they’ve been hiding.
Your hands slide down his chest, slow and steady, until you reach his hips. The moment your fingers rest there, Steve gasps into your mouth, the sound small and needy, like he wasn’t prepared for how good that alone would feel.
“Oh…God,”, he breathes, forehead falling against yours, “okay—yeah, yeah, I’m done for.”
You take one step closer. Your thigh brushes his. He makes a broken noise.
And then you move.
Just the slightest roll of your hips: slow, soft, deliberate.
Steve’s breath catches on the inhale and never quite comes back out. His hands clamp onto your waist, not guiding you, not holding you in place, just holding on because he feels like he might fall.
“Oh—fuck.”
He chokes on the word.
“You’re, god, you’re actually—”
You do it again. This time your body presses fully against his, hips aligned, chest touching, your thigh sliding perfectly between his. Steve’s head thuds back against the shelf.
“Okay—okay—baby—wait—”
His fingers dig into your hips.
Not to stop you. To steady himself.
His voice trembles. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You kiss down his jaw, slow and warm, and roll your hips again, gentle, intimate, the kind of motion that isn’t rushed or frantic. Just two bodies fitting together in a private rhythm, heat building quietly, beautifully.
Steve whimpers again.
“I can’t—”
His hand slides up your spine, holding you closer, pulling you flush against him.
“You feel so good—please don’t stop—please.”
You grind against him again, slow and deep, and he shudders so hard you feel it through your whole body. You whimper into his neck.
“Steve….please look at me.”
He forces his eyes open (barely) and the expression is devastating.
Soft. Overwhelmed. Desperate.
Completely yours.
You guide his hips just a little with your hands, syncing your movements, letting your bodies line up in an easy, natural rhythm. He follows instantly, helplessly, like he’s been waiting for years for someone to lead him like this.
“Oh my god—”
His voice breaks. “I’m–baby, I’m so close already.”
You kiss him, slow and warm, your hips rolling into his with a delicious, steady pressure. The heat between you grows, building carefully, tenderly, pleasure rising like a tide instead of crashing like a wave.
Steve clings. Not gripping, not dragging: clinging like he needs to hold you to stay upright.
His breath turns into these soft, uneven gasps against your mouth.
“Please—please—don’t stop—just like that—”
You whisper, lips brushing his: “Let go for me, Steve.”
He chokes on a sound that’s half-moan, half-sob, pulling you impossibly closer as his hips stutter against yours. Soft, sloppy, helpless motions that tell you he can’t control anything anymore.
“I’m—honey—oh god—”
His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath hot, body shaking.
“I’m right there—please—”
You grind into him one more time—slow, deep, perfect.
Steve breaks. Completely, beautifully breaks in your arms.
A soft, strangled moan escapes him, muffled against your neck as he clings to you, whole body trembling through his climax, riding the pleasure gently, sweetly, pressed tight against you.
When it passes, he stays there, breathing you in, warm and shaking, arms wrapped around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go too fast.
“….holy shit,” he whispers, voice raw.
“I love you.”
He freezes.
You freeze.
His face goes bright red as he slowly pulls back, eyes wide, horrified.
“I—I mean—I didn’t—shit—ignore that—”
You take his face in your hands and guide his gaze back to you.
“Steve,” you whisper, smiling softly but not saying it back entirely, “I kinda–sorta– really like you too.”
He melts again. But this time it’s not from desire.
It’s from relief. And he kisses you like he finally knows he’s allowed to. He holds you, he has been all this while but now he’s still doing so.
Still breathing into your shoulder, warm and shaky, lips brushing your skin like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.
Then, slowly, Steve pulls back.
His cheeks are so pink it’s almost comical. His hair is a mess. His chest rises and falls in uneven little breaths.
And he won’t look at you at first.
“I, uh.…” He rubs the back of his neck hard. “I have….some questions.”
You bite back a smile. “Questions?”
His eyes dart up to yours, wide, nervous, too sincere to be anything but real.
“Yeah, but if they’re dumb just—just pretend they’re not from me.”
“They won’t be dumb.”
He inhales sharply, gathering every molecule of courage he has.
“Did….did you like it?”
You soften instantly. “Steve, yes.”
He looks relieved and then panicked all over again.
“Like….really liked it? Or were you just being nice because I made noises that probably have never been made by a fully grown man before?”
You laugh softly and step closer, cupping his jaw. His eyes flutter shut like he’s short-circuiting.
“I liked it. A lot.” you repeat, slow and deliberate.
“Every part.”
He swallows hard.
“Which part?”
You raise an eyebrow. “You want specifics?”
His face goes tomato-red.
“…yeah.”
You lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth.
“Your hands on my hips.”
He audibly whimpers.
Then he clears his throat like he’s trying to pretend he didn’t:
“O-okay—yeah—cool—hands good—got it.”
You continue, “And the way you followed my movement without me saying anything?”
His jaw literally drops.
“I did that?”
“Yeah.”
He looks dazed, like you just told him he unlocked a new superpower.
Then, quietly, “Did you….like hearing me?”
He’s so flustered he can’t even say what exactly you might’ve heard.
You step closer until you can whisper into his jawline: “I loved hearing you.”
He inhales sharply.
“Even the—like—the sounds that were… not very… masculine?”
You smile into his skin. "Steve, the sounds you made were perfect.”
He groans, an embarrassed, overwhelmed groan as he hides his face in your neck.
His voice comes out muffled: “Jesus Christ, I’m in love with you.”
“You already said that,” you tease softly.
He clings tighter, mumbling: “Well, sorry but you’re being very sweet and very close and I’m having a moment. It is really you–right? This is happening?”
You stroke his back, slow and comforting, slightly smirking, “Yes it is me Harrington, I’m right here, don’t cream your pants. Oh wait…”.
He pulls back again, just enough to look at you, cheeks still pink, eyes still blown.
Then he whispers, almost shyly. “If we…do this again, is there something you want me to do? Something you liked that I should keep doing? Or something you want me to try?”
You kiss the tip of his nose. “I’ll tell you everything, don’t you worry pretty boy.” you whisper.
He shivers. “….you saying things like that is gonna get us to Round Two really fast.”
"In that case–I can't wait." you smile, giddiness lingering all around.
Summary: After leaving special forces, Wade finds himself as a Mercenary, always going to a specific bar for his jobs. However instead of giving his friend a dickwad greeting, he’s meets the new pretty bartender, and he’s instantly awestruck.
- Drabble, Deadpool M.List, Navigation — other works!
Warnings: Dirty Talk.
Taglist: Just ask to be added.
Wade sighed as he placed the gold card onto the bar, or more accurately slammed. He could feel the bruise on his side start to form. His target had slammed a chair into him, it made Wade shooting him all more rewarding.
Speaking of rewards, he better get the actual amount of money he was promised — if not then he needed to talk to HR. Did they have a HR?
“Give me a glass of whiskey, on the rocks.”
A glass of ice was placed in front of him, and he saw a stream of liquor pour into it.
“You look good in a tie.” Either Weasels voice got a lot more feminine, or that was a chick. Both choices heavily viable.
Once the stream stopped, he looked up to the bar tender. He felt his breath hitch at the sight of you, you wore a very thin tank top, and he could see the lace on your bra under it.
You had beautiful eyes, and he engraved every single detail of your face into his head. Now that’s a pretty lady.
Wade swallowed, hard and hoped no one noticed how sweaty his hands got. He looked down, to his shirt that he had the sleeves rolled up, and his very loose tie. Both of the had blood all over.
He looked back up at you, his drink forgotten, and he promised to win you over. “Wanna marry me?”
What the fuck? Is all Wade could think of. Yes he was trying to make an impression — but this?!
“Excuse me?” You were very concerned for the mercenary. The man definitely had made his mark, and it wasn’t every day you were proposed to — especially without a ring. So concern didn’t even cover it.
Fuck it, and roll. Is what Wade repeated in his head as he opened his mouth again.
“I mean, is that not the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard?” Okay he was actually rolling with this, but as he continued to stare at the girl he couldn’t help but think maybe getting married to her wouldn’t be so bad. Clearly his subconscious and dick agreed.
“A guy proposing to a stranger? It might’ve been better if you were some stalker and already had a ring prepared for me.” You couldn’t help but be amused at this situation, confused but amused.
“Oh well I can come back in a week after I’ve followed you home, and jerked off to you in the shower.” He took a sip of his drink, thinking to himself he really needed to learn when to shut up.
You laughed as you cleaned one of the drinks glass. The bar was significantly empty, and weasel could manage on his own for a bit. Just enough for you to run down to the court house with this handsome stranger.
You couldn’t believe you were actually considering this. You really couldn’t, but here you were wanting to do it. To take a risk — and everything in you screamed to go with this man.
“Look, I didn’t mean to come off so strong.” Before he could continue you cut him off.
“Okay.” You placed the glass down and looked at him. “Okay?” He couldn’t believe this was actually happening.
“Let do it — just one thing.” He stood out of his stool, and even though it was stained in blood, he was thankful he was at least wearing a suit.
“That is?” Please don’t change your mind, he silently pleaded. Everything in him wanted this. “I should probably know your name, and I should stop a get a dress from a store.”
Wade smiled at you, he didn’t believe in any of that stupid destiny mushy stuff, but maybe it was fate. Maybe that’s why he was feeling like this.
“Wade Wilson.”
You walked around the bar, and grabbed his hand, shaking it.
“Y/N.” Wilson.
A/N: This is really short, but it was just a small idea I had.
requested by anon: Hey Lottie, congrats on your achievements!! Could I request number 23 with Colin and maybe something about arranged marriage? Thank you and all the best for you!!!! 💗
a/n this ain't a song for the broken hearted *bam bam*
summary: Colin Bridgerton has watched from afar at every ball and soiree as Y/N danced with many a suitor, never having the confidence to make a move himself. But when Y/N ends up in an arranged marriage at the hands of her father, Colin decides to finally make his feelings known. And whilst many marriages in London high society were business deals between husbands and fathers, Y/N is determined hers will not follow the same route. It's her life, after all.
"Oh, look at you."
Y/N tried not grimace as her mother cooed over her, fluffing the train of her wedding dress - not that it was finished - and admiring the detail.
"Madame Delacroix, you are a magician," her mother exclaimed, turning to face the woman.
"It is nothing, Lady Y/L/N," Madame Delacroix said, pinning the hem up. "It is an honour to make this for your daughter."
"Now, I was wondering if we could talk about the veil," Lady Y/L/N said, ushering Madame Delacroix over to a wall of fabrics.
Y/N sighed sadly, running a hand down the silk gown, staring at herself in the mirror. It wasn't what she had dreamed of as a child - or in the last few weeks, to be honest. But she was making her mother happy and securing her future and that was the main thing.
The bell over the front door jingled and Y/N turned, wanting to see who had entered. She felt her heart almost drop at the sight of Colin Bridgerton, along with his two sisters and mother, standing awkwardly in the doorway.
It'd been three years since she'd first met the third eldest Bridgerton. Three years of longing gazes, stolen moments and nothing else. Colin had left for his tour not long after and Y/N had waited for him to return - to grow up and come back for her.
And, to his credit, he did. He did come back for her. He just came back a few weeks too late. So, Y/N was resigned to her fate - to marry a man she hardly knew - and to watch the man she loved walk away with someone else. Colin wanted her - she knew that. He had made it clear not long after he had returned. But there was nothing Y/N could do. She was a woman after all.
"Miss Y/L/N!" Lady Bridgerton exclaimed, her face lighting up at the sight of Y/N.
"Forgive me, Miss Y/L/N," Daphne said, looking at her gown inquistvely. "But is this a wedding dress?"
Y/N felt her face heat up and ducked her head, fiddling with the skirt. "Yes, yes it is, your grace. We have not announced it to the ton yet but I am to be married in a few weeks time. To Mr Barrow."
"Mr Barrow?!" Eloise exclaimed, unable to hide her squawk of surprise. Daphne elbowed her in the side and Eloise grunted slightly. "Sorry."
"No, it is fine - I was surprised myself, I shall admit," Y/N said, smiling slightly. "The invites are being sent out today and I know for certain there is one with your family's name on it, Lady Bridgerton."
"Oh, thank you, Miss Y/L/N," Lady Bridgerton replied. "Eloise, stop that, for heaven's sake."
As Lady Bridgerton darted off to stop her errant daughter from escaping the modiste, Y/N turned her head, finding Colin looking at her.
"Engaged?"
Y/N sighed softly. "Arranged," she corrected.
She took a step forward, aiming to step of the podium she was standing on. Colin came forward and held out both his hands in assistance. Y/N placed hers in his - trying to ignore the warmth of his skin against hers.
"Arranged? Y/N, what -"
"Colin, I don't have a choice," Y/N said, cutting him off. "My parents arranged it and I cannot dishonour them and risk ruining our reputation by pulling out now. We met with the queen, yesterday, Colin. She is insisting on a big wedding at the cathedral - the entire ton is going to be there."
"Surely, there is something," Colin said, almost begging. "Y/N, you barely know this man."
"It is a better offer than most of the weddings that happen, Colin," Y/N told him. She squeezed his hands tightly. "Please, Colin. For my sake, do not interfere. Just let me go."
Colin looked at her, his eyes begging her, his voice silent. Y/N ran her thumb along his knuckles, attempting to reassure him.
"Colin, dearest, come along," Lady Bridgerton called.
Colin cleared his throat and let go of Y/N's hands, walking away without a glance back. Y/N felt her eyes burning as she watched him leave. She turned back to look at herself in the mirror, sadness digging deep into her soul as she stared at the dress.
"Right, shall we try this veil on, ma cherie?" Madame Delacroix asked, appearing with a length of veil material draped over her arm.
Y/N sniffed, raising her head. She forced a smile onto her face. "Yes, let's do it."
Her house had never been so busy. The ballroom was full of the wealthiest members of the ton - all dressed in their finest outfits with their jewels sparkling. Y/N was wearing a brand new, all-white dress, with a set of jewels lent to her from the queen around her neck and in her pinned up hair.
Despite it being a ball to celebrate her engagement - an engagement that had taken the entire ton by storm due to its suddeness - Y/N had found herself feeling a bit of a wallflower. She'd been standing by the wall, next to Lady Danbury, for the better part of twenty minutes, her husband to be nowhere to be seen.
"Where is your fiancee, Miss Y/L/N?" Lady Danbury said, looking around the room.
"I do not know, Lady Danbury," Y/N muttered quietly.
"You do not seem overly concerned."
Y/N sighed, not irritatedly, just resigned at Lady Danbury and her observation.
"Could that be because it is arranged and not a love match?"
"Lady Danbury, please, never stop being so blunt."
"Why would I stop? It is one of my charms." Lady Danbury whacked Y/N in the leg with her cane. "You never answered my question."
"I have spoken to the man approximately three times since we announced our engagement," Y/N admitted softly. "I believe he is in the smoking room with his friends."
"Ah. Mr Bridgerton! What brings you to our dark corner of the room?" Lady Danbury asked as Colin approached, hands behind his back.
"I was wondering if I could have a few moments alone with Miss Y/L/N, Lady Danbury?"
Lady Danbury gave Colin a side-eyed glare but walked away with a hmmph to stand near the drinks table - which was less than two metres away.
Colin stood next to her, facing the dancing mass. "Miss Y/L/N -"
"Mr Bridgerton, you cannot be here. People will talk," Y/N said quietly, looking straight ahead.
Colin gently reached out and took her gloved hand in his. "Y/N, please."
"There isn't anything I can do about it, Colin."
"You deserve more -"
"I am content, Mr Bridgerton. That is all that matters," Y/N replied. "I do not have the privilege to back out now."
Colin stared at her, his eyes betraying his hurt. "Y/N, I can help. We can think of something, anything -"
"There is nothing, Colin," Y/N said sadly. She turned her head to look at him. "We can't... we can't be seen together."
"Y/N -"
Colin trailed off as Y/N walked away from him, moving on to talk to her other guests. He watched her leave, staring at her back, wishing he could run after her.
"You took too long, I fear," Lady Danbury said, appearing again.
Colin barely acknowledged her. "She doesn't want this."
"No, she does not. But there is nothing she, nor you, can do about it, Mr Bridgerton," Lady Danbury replied quietly. She put a hand on his arm and Colin turned his head to look at her. "So, let her go. If not for your sake, for hers. Don't make this any harder than it already is for her."
She was beginning to panic. The tiara, the veil, the dress - the sheer weight of it all - was beginning to overwhelm her. Her hands were sweating inside her white satin gloves and her head was itchy where the pins scraped her scalp.
Her mother, however, was oblivious to it all. She was in her own world.
"Oh, look at you," she cooed, wiping her eyes with a frilly handkerchief. "My girl, all grown up. Now, let me just sort this out."
She began tugging on the veil, which sat behind the diamond and pearl tiara, and then fluffed it out, showing the full length and detail of the material. Roses and carnations decorated the edge of the veil - which were also what her bouquet was made out of.
"I still can't believe the queen is hosting this wedding," her mother said, sighing happily. "The cathedral looks beautiful, as do you, dearest. Now," she turned to the door, "are we all set?"
The maid hovering by the door bopped a curtsey. "Yes ma'am. Whenever you are."
"Right, shall we begin, then?" Y/N's mother asked, ushering the maid over.
As the maid picked the train of her dress and veil up, Y/N turned around to face the door, holding the front of her dress up so she could walk.
Her mother led the way down the corridor, her heels clicking loudly on the tiled floor as they headed down the stairs and to the walkway from their rooms to the cathedral.
Her father was waiting in the door way and he extended his arm to Y/N, walking her out the door and down the stone walkway. Y/N was lost to her own thoughts as the walked, wondering how she had gotten here. Dressed in white for a wedding she didn't even want.
In a daze, Y/N into the cathedral, her arm tucked into her father's. Her mother arranged her train and her veil, untangling the material and smoothly lying it on the ground.
"I'm very glad you decided to go through with this, dearest," Y/N's father said, patting her gloved hand. "It is for the best."
"I know," Y/N whispered, swallowing her fear.
Music began and Y/N felt the knot in her stomach tighten until it was almost unbearable. It was just one foot in front of the other, now. One foot in front of the other to her inevitable doom.
The curtain swished back and she began walking through, keeping her eyes set on the man who was to be her husband. But on the left of the room, a few rows back, sat Colin Bridgerton. And he was watching her with eyes full of happiness, pain and sadness. Y/N couldn't bear it. She tried not to look at him but it was like they were drawn to one another.
Y/N looked at Colin until she couldn't be subtle about it anymore. Her eyes moved to her husband to be and suddenly, so suddenly, she realised that she couldn't do it. She couldn't marry him just because her parents told her to.
"Please be seated," the Archbishop said, his voice gentle and calm. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this Congregation, to join together this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony..."
The Archbishop's voice became a buzzing noise in Y/N's ears as she stared at her husband to be. Her heart was pounding, the room was beginning to tilt and she just wanted to leave.
She didn't want to get married. Not now. Not to this man. She clenched her hands around the stems of her bouquet, feeling the roses prick through her gloves slightly. As subtly as she could, Y/N glanced over at Colin. He was watching her intently - her, and no one else. It was if he could knew - as if he could read her mind.
"Miss Y/L/N."
Y/N looked back at her future husband, startled. "Pardon?"
Mr Barrow frowned at her, his eyes narrowing. "The Archbishop... wants you to repeat after him."
"Oh."
"Miss Y/L/N, is everything alright?" He asked, watching her.
"I..."
Y/N trailed off, staring back at him. She was going to regret doing this later but, as of right now, short of sprinting out the room, she had no other option. And, if she was entirely honest, she did feel like it was going to happen anyway.
So, she swooned.
Colin felt as if his entire world was going to crumble as he watched Y/N stand there, dressed all in white. She looked stunning. But she didn't look happy. If anything, she looked like she might pass out. Y/N turned slightly and Colin felt her eyes on him. He found her gaze and looked back at her, trying to appear happy (and failing).
Y/N turned back as her husband to be called her name, bringing her attention back to the wedding. But then she stuttered and hesitated. Colin was on the edge of his seat - literally, he was squeezed in between Benedict and Daphne on a pew smaller than his arse - as he watched Y/N. And it was only because he was watching Y/N so intently, that he caught the exact moment her intended fake swoon turned to a genuine faint.
A gasp went up around the room as she hit the floor with a thud - the bouquet falling from her hands. Her husband to be didn't move, he just stared as Y/N lay there in a pool of white silk. Her parents stared too - no one seemed to be doing anything other than staring.
Colin did, though. He squeezed past Daphne and ran over to Y/N, his mother hot on his heels. The sudden movement of two Bridgertons seemed to shock the rest of the ton out of their stupor and suddenly there were people yelling and standing up, all trying to see what was happening. Y/N's mother was... wailing for some reason and the Queen had stood up, mainly to move out the way, Colin suspected.
"Someone call for a doctor!" Colin yelled as he knelt at Y/N's side, raising his voice above the clamour and chaos that had erupted in the cathedral.
"We should take her out of here," Violet said, looking over her shoulder. "Why is her mother wailing? Dear lord, this poor girl. Take her back to her rooms, Colin. No one else is offering to help."
Colin nodded. He lifted Y/N's arm up and put it over his shoulder and then slid an arm under Y/N's knees and under her shoulders and gently lifted her up into his arms. The fabric of her dress and veil hung down, trailing along the floor, picking up the flower petals scattered along the floor, as he carried her through the mass of people.
Colin just held Y/N against him as he carried her, willing her to be alright. This was the closest he'd gotten to her in weeks and his skin was tingling. A maid held open the door to Y/N's rooms for the day and Colin walked in, reluctantly laying her down on the chaise lounge in the corner, untangling the fabric of her dress and veil and laying them out neatly, not wanting them to be ruined.
He stood up and looked down at her, suddenly aware of how... perfect she looked. Colin stepped back as a doctor and numerous maids bustled in, not wanting to intrude.
"Miss Y/L/N?" The doctor asked, shaking Y/N and tapping her cheeks. "Can you hear me?"
Colin jumped as a hand landed on his shoulder. He turned and looked at Anthony, a feeling of order settling inside him at the presence of his eldest brother.
"She'll be fine, Col," Anthony said softly, squeezing his shoulder. "I doubt the poor girl has eaten all day."
"Where are her parents?" Colin asked, suddenly realising they weren't in the room.
"Begging with the queen and the groom," Anthony answered, his tone clearly showing how he wasn't impressed. "The queen is more worried about her than her parents are."
"You sound surprised," Colin muttered. He looked back at Y/N, his eyes burning slightly as he watched the doctor fuss with her. "I can't..."
"I know," Anthony said quietly. "I know, brother." He looked up as the doctor stepped back. "Well?"
"Exhaustion, dehydration, lack of food - typical wedding stress," he answered, shrugging. "If she doesn't wake up in half an hour call for me."
"But she will be alright?" Colin asked, his tone a little harsher than intended.
"She will be fine, sir. It happens to almost every young woman on their wedding days - they don't eat to fit into their dresses, the summer heat makes them dehydrate and the stress means their bodies decide to quit for a moment. Excuse me, please."
Colin took a step back, relief crashing over him. He looked over at Y/N, his very own sleeping beauty.
"I'll be outside," Anthony said, patting Colin on the back.
As his brother left, Colin grabbed a chair nearby and brought it to Y/N's side, sitting down in it. He looked down at her, reaching forward and brushing the veil from her face.
"I know you're awake."
"For a man who is so often oblivious, you are really observant at times," Y/N muttered, opening her eyes and looking up at him.
"As someone who has passed out before, far too many times count, might I add, I knew you were awake the moment I carried you in here," he replied, leaning back in his chair. He looked at her. "What happened?"
"I panicked," Y/N replied, sitting up, pulling her veil up so she wasn't sitting on it.
"So you decided to swoon?"
"Well, it started off as a swoon but then apparently turned into a genuine faint since I don't remember how I got in here. Besides, it was either that or sprint out of the cathedral and leave him at the altar," Y/N answered. "I thought this the lesser of two evils."
"You scared the crap out of me."
Y/N didn't even blink at his coarse language. "I apologise, Mr Bridgerton. I just..."
"Couldn't go through with it?" Colin finished.
Y/N nodded weakly. She slumped back against the chaise lounge, a cloud of silk, tulle and diamonds. "I cannot do this. I cannot marry him." She frowned, looking around. "Where are my parents?"
"Anthony said they were begging the queen and your husband to be," Colin replied. "They did not seem to really -"
"They don't," Y/N retorted. "This only happened because of money, Colin." She sighed sadly, picking at her dress. "It is always money."
Colin watched her pick at the silk material. He leant forward. "Why did you change your mind?"
"Pardon?"
"Before, at the engagement ball, you were adamant there was nothing to be done. That you had no say. What made you change your mind?"
"You, honestly. You and the fact I realised that, despite what society says, this is my life. I am not going to live forever, I know that. So, I just want to live, and I mean properly live, whilst I can. And I want to do it my way. On my terms." She smiled at him. "It's my life, Colin. I want to live it my way."
Colin nodded, a smile pulling at his lips. "So, what do you want to do?"
"Leave. Run far away from here for a bit then face the chaos."
"Then we'll do that."
Y/N's head shot up. "Colin. We cannot."
"Why? You have just given me a whole speech about how it's your life -"
"I know but -"
"No regrets. No buts." Colin stood up and held his hand out to Y/N. "It is now or never, Miss Y/L/N. We are not going to live forever." He paused. "I know you don't trust me, which is fine, I understand. But we can do this. I am not going to go anywhere, Y/N. I am a changed man."
Y/N looked at Colin and then at his hand. She placed hers in his and he pulled her to her feet. "Alright. But.. we cannot steal a carriage."
"Isn't it a good job I rode here, then," Colin replied, winking at her.
Hand in hand, the two of them snuck out of the room and out to the front of the building where the horses were waiting. Colin tossed some money at a footman, whispering instructions to him as he passed.
"We are going to cause a scandal by doing this, you do realise that," Y/N said, looking at Colin as he sorted his saddle out.
"I know. I have had my fair share of scandal, though. I am almost used to it," he quipped, smiling. He turned to her and tucked an invisible strand of hair behind her ear. "We can turn back. We can go back inside and resume this wedding. We can find your parents. Or, we can run away for a moment, organise our minds, and do it our way."
"I do not want anyone forcing me to do anything anymore," Y/N said firmly. "It's my life."
He smiled. "So you keep saying." Colin put a foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself up onto the horse. He extended a hand down to Y/N and she took it, letting him pull her up onto his horse.
She didn't care about her dress or her hair or how she was inevitably going to ruin it all. The mirage and game of pretend had to end.
"Take me away, Mr Bridgerton," Y/N said quietly, wrapping her arms around Colin's waist.
Colin smiled. "Of course, Miss Y/L/N."
He urged his horse on and they rode away from the cathedral, Y/N's veil flying in the wind behind them. There would be chaos when they returned, that was inevitable. But for now, in this single moment of time, it was just them - doing it their own way.
The incessant ringing of loneliness (or three weeks part two).
Pairing: Luke Castellan x Apollo!Reader
Summary: Luke is back, officially. But you can’t find it in yourself to be happy about it.
Content: angst, loser!luke makes an appearance, a lil fluff, this one is probably happier than part one
Word Count: 4k
Notes: i can’t thank you guys enough for the love on three weeks :( it really means the world, and i hope you enjoy this one too! i don’t think there’s gonna be a part 3 just because i want the rest of luke and r’s story to be up to your own interpretation - especially since his path to healing is such an important factor and it could go in any way. hope that’s ok with you guys :)
꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷
You weren’t very popular at camp.
Despite the fact that you’d been there for longer than most of its occupants, and that you’d bandaged up some of their gnarlier injuries, you just didn’t have what it took to have people know your name upon first glance.
Clarisse had her unbridled aggression — she scared people into knowing who she was. Charles Beckendorf was the guy you went to when you broke a sword and didn’t want Chiron finding out about it, plus he was six foot six and kinda hard to miss. The Stoll Twins were behind pretty much every crazy scheme that ended up in Hermes losing desert privileges. Luke was…well, he was Luke. Need I say more?
Point is, while everyone knew everyone, not everyone really knew you. They knew your face, your parentage, and your overall skill set. But they didn’t know your name, or what made you tick.
Which was fine, really. You liked the alone time you got in the infirmary when your sister would run out to gossip with her friends in Aphrodite whenever she saw them walk by. You didn’t mind that, when your cabin got their hour of free time each day, your siblings would rush off to their friends and you would simply settle down with a good book.
It’s not as if you were entirely lonely — you had your fellow Apollo kids. You, Alina and Lee bonded especially, being the older kids of the group. So you had them — the only difference was that they had other people, too.
Which, again, was fine.
Except when you started to take care of Luke, you finally felt like you had a person. You looked forward to seeing him after meals each day, and you found excuses to linger in his room whenever possible. Call it odd, but you grew to enjoy the fact that nobody else knew he was back. Because that way, you had him, he had you, and that was that.
But then Luke got better.
You didn’t even have time to worry about it — one minute you were scarfing down your breakfast, eager to bring that second plate up to the Big House, and ignoring the strange looks your siblings sent you. Then in a split moment, everyone was cheering, people were standing and suddenly you didn’t feel so crowded anymore.
You heard murmurs of excitement, but people were practically standing on the table around you — unhygienic, much? People are eating here — and you couldn’t see what they were looking at. You tugged on your brother’s leg and he glanced down at your raised brow, then he said, “Luke’s back!”
It was like you were sucked back in time. No — it was like you were sitting in a waiting room, shivering from the cold breeze that whisked in through the automatic doors. And then the doors closed, and you could release the tension in your body because the warmth was already reaching your fingers — only for someone to walk past and make the doors open again, sending the sharp sting of the cold right back to where it was before.
Yes. That’s what it was — the warmth Luke’s eyes on you had provided was suddenly ripped completely from you the second your brother's words reached your ears. Replaced with the blistering cold of nobody ever knowing your name.
So it was back to normal for you. The normal you had grown accustomed to — the normal you liked. The normal you thought you liked, anyway.
You didn’t even catch a glimpse of Luke’s face as you stood and left the Pavilion, focusing on the floor beneath your feet rather than the crowd forming around him. Oh, but you couldn’t forget that he was back, it was all anybody could talk about. Once they’d done the math and realised he was the patient you’d been taking care of for three weeks, you locked yourself in your cabin to avoid all the questions, and didn’t see him until the very next day.
The chatter of Luke’s return had died down when you woke up the next morning — a little later than you usually did, Lee having to shake you so you wouldn’t miss breakfast. You rubbed the sleep out of your eyes and pulled a clean camp shirt over your head, stumbling a little due to the fact that you hadn’t fully woken up yet.
When you were ready, Lee was waiting by the door. A few of your siblings were still getting themselves into a line after his loud Fall in! had woken them up, so you had time to stretch your arms and let out a sigh once you had taken your place beside him. You and Alina always walked with him to mealtimes, even though neither of you were counsellors, and you greeted her with a smile.
The air was stuffy again — so much so that even Lee let out a wince when the shining glow of the front door hit his eyes. Then he stepped out of the cabin — his usual routine of checking the garden and cabin for pranks before letting them out coming into play. But he stopped.
“What?”
He swung his head back at you, brows raised and smile growing, “Luke’s back.”
Out of instinct, you rolled your eyes, “Pretty sure we all know that, already.”
“Yeah, but —“ He turned fully then, hands on the doorframe and grin shining, “He’s back, which means the Hermes kids are finally under control again, which means we don’t have to worry about being pranked first thing in the morning!”
“Holy crap.” Alina was grinning now, both of your siblings looking at you and each-other with this excited expression that made you sort of angry – why are they perceiving Luke? They’re not allowed.
You huffed a sigh as Lee started to lead the line outside, “He got back yesterday, there’s no way he’s already –”
But he was. As you stepped into the sun, the skin on your thighs already forming an uncomfortable layer of sweat, you looked to where the Hermes cabin was filing out of their door, led by the one and only Luke Castellan. You paused.
He’d been back a day. Sure, his scar had healed nicely, but it was only three days ago that he was struggling to hold his own in a sword fight – if he was back to his counsellor duties, was he going back to teaching sword fighting? You were unsure he should even be in charge of all those Hermes and unclaimed kids so soon, but going back to teaching only days after coming back to camp? There was no way he was ready for that.
Should you say something? Or would he dismiss you, now that he was done with you?
You watched as he walked with Chris, chatting idly as if nothing was wrong. But you saw Chris glance occasionally at the jagged line through his brother’s eye, and you saw Luke attempt to ignore it.
Should you say something?
You tripped. You were so busy staring creepily at Luke that you tripped over your own feet and tumbled into Lee’s back. He stumbled slightly but righted himself with a huff and a chuckle, turning and asking if you were alright.
But you had looked straight back in Luke’s direction – he was still talking to Chris. He wasn’t looking at you.
He wasn’t your person anymore.
Luke was unsure.
Which didn’t happen often — as one of the oldest campers, and the one everyone else looked to in times of peril, it was sort of essential for him to be sure. He needed to know what to do, to have a solution for every situation, and to be completely calm about it. Otherwise, camp would go to shit.
That much was obvious — he didn’t know why you hadn’t told him this in the three weeks you spent together, but camp had turned itself upside down in his absence. Apparently nobody was prepared for him to be gone for so long, and they kind of all lost their shit.
He was happy to be back, don’t get him wrong. He lit up when he saw his brother’s faces again, when he felt their arms wrap around him. He laughed when Travis joked about thinking he was dead, and when Connor quipped that the camp was seconds away from starting a revolution. He nodded at Chiron, smiled amusedly when Mr D rolled his eyes, he scooped Annabeth into his arms, whispered to her that yes, he was alive, and he let himself be whisked to his table, the crowd following like moths to a flame.
It was slightly overwhelming, but he was well-equipped to deal with it. He liked the feeling — if he ignored the throbbing on the side of his face, it could be like he’d never even left. The quest never happened, the dragon never happened, and people are just happy to see him because he’s their counsellor. Of course they would be. Everything was fine.
Everything was fine — so he ignored the urge to scan his eyes across the crowd in search of a familiar head of hair. He stopped himself from glancing at the Apollo table, from looking in Lee’s direction, just in case he wasn’t standing alone.
Because he didn’t need you anymore. Not that he didn’t appreciate all you did for him, but the healing was done. He was better, he was back at camp — he was Luke Castellan again. If he looked for you, if he met those eyes and returned that smile, it would be admitting defeat. Admitting that he wasn’t better, that he still needed his doctor.
But he didn’t. Because he was back, baby! And he didn’t need to think about that stupid quest, his stupid dad, or his stupid scar ever again.
He had a short chat with Chiron, who looked a little uneasy when he expressed his readiness to get back to camp duties. He told him that it was fine if he needed time to settle in, but Luke was firm. He didn’t need to settle, he didn’t need to wait. So Chiron sighed, and told him to escort his cabin to the climbing walls for their morning session.
And that’s how the rest of the day went — climbing wall, arts and crafts cabin, strawberry fields, archery practice. Luke did it all, just like he used to before he left. If people would just stop looking at his damn scar, maybe he could pretend he never left at all. If they stopped murmuring about him being the secret camper, hidden from them this whole time, he could avoid thinking about you and the sweet touch of your fingers on his face.
The fact that he hadn’t seen you at all since his return helped him on that front — you weren’t around at breakfast, lunch or dinner. You weren’t in the infirmary whenever he peeked through the windows. You weren’t with the rest of your cabin when they were paired with Hermes for hand-to-hand defence practice.
Not that he was looking for you, or anything.
“Hey, man.” Chris clapped him on the shoulder as they walked up to breakfast. It had officially been twenty-four hours since Luke’s return, and the chatter had died down significantly. That was good for him, helped him ignore the fact that he was ever not there.
All he had to do was keep his eyes off you — who had magically reappeared in camp — as you also walked up to breakfast, the Apollo kids trailing behind you, Lee and Alina.
“Listen, you did great yesterday.” His brother was saying, and he zoned in on it. “It was like you never left.”
Cool, that was the plan.
“But it’s sword fighting today.”
Luke raised a brow, “So?”
“So…” Chris sang, awkwardly waving a hand, “You don’t have to jump right back into training us, is what I’m saying.”
He scoffed, running a hand through us curls, “Nah, bro, I’m good.”
“Are you sure? Because —“
“Y’know, Chris,” Luke sent his brother a cheeky look as they took their seats around the Hermes table, “if you’re scared to get back to my gruelling training sessions, just say that.”
Chris’ face fell, appalled, and he put a hand on his chest, “Scared? Dude, you’re the one who should be scared. I’ve gotten good since you’ve been gone.”
And there it was — a reminder that it wasn’t the same. That he couldn’t pretend he had never left, because nobody else was. Whatever, it’d be fine. A couple of weeks and this would all blow over and he would never have to think about it again.
The Amphitheatre, unlike the rest of the camp amenities, was familiar to him. He didn’t need to stand and take it all in like he did with everywhere else, because he’d been here not even a week ago with —
No. Stop. You aren’t in his life anymore. He never went on his quest. Everything is how it should be.
The kids gathered around him were letting off a range of emotions as Luke stood before them, sword in hand. The younger ones were giddy, eager to get back to training with their favourite teacher. Some of the older ones, however, were only slightly confused that he’d bounced back so quickly. If he had to spend three weeks in the Big House before even going outside, was he ready to jump right back into sword training? Maybe he’d go easier on them today, take it slow.
“Alright — if there’s anything I've learnt over the years, it’s that sword fighting is all about reflexes. So, today, we will be working on y’all’s dodging skills. Oliver, get up here!”
Luke was back on Mount Tamalpais. The fiery breath Ladon was shooting at him seared his skin and burnt holes into his shirt. He was ducking out of the way, but there was no room to breathe when another one of his hundred heads came at him with a fierce snarl. His sword felt useless in his hands, every swing being deflected and every jab proving useless compared to the dragon's swift movements.
He blinked, and he was back at camp. Sparring with an unclaimed kid who’s name was lost on him. Sweat dripped down his brows but he wiped it away with shaky fingers. He gave an off-handed comment on the kids form before calling a water break.
“Yo— woah, man!”
Chris looked wide-eyed at Luke. He had tapped him gently on the shoulder and he had responded with an aggressive swing towards him. He stepped out of the arc just in time, but Luke still dropped the sword like it had burnt him. He stepped back, hands shaking, and stared at the ground.
It was odd — being at Archery in the mornings. You’d spent three weeks skipping the hour in favour of taking food to Luke and ensuring his dressings were changed. Which for most cabins, was what? Three classes a week?
Not for the Apollo kids — who have always and will always have their first hour spent on the Archery fields. Mainly because it’s when the sun is rising, shining on them in the early mornings and giving them their power to hit the bullseye. You included, even if healing was more your purview.
So you’d missed probably around twenty classes, give or take a few. Your form was, well, subpar at best. Lee had to spend the entire hour making sure you didn’t accidentally hit one of your siblings — and that was after he had to re-teach you the basics.
You probably would’ve been better had you not been so distracted — your mind whirring with thoughts of Luke. You wished your brain would just leave it alone, but apparently you weren’t done mulling over the situation. You wanted to slap yourself across the face and say hey, idiot. The three weeks is up, he’s healed. It’s over. But your siblings would probably look at you weird, so you decided against it.
Instead, you threw yourself into your duties. Archery was a bump in the road, but now you were smooth sailing. You didn’t focus on anything else but what you had to do that day — not taking a moment to breathe because if you did that, you’d start thinking about Castellan again. You didn’t want that, you really didn’t want that.
It was going really well, too. But then Chiron just had to interrupt your canoeing session, asking you to clear out any medical supplies you left over in the spare room of the Big House since nobody was staying there anymore.
Oh, great. You were thinking about him again.
And then all the thoughts you’d been suppressing since ten in the morning were overflowing your head, and you thought you might have had to ask Mr D if you were going mad because when you cracked open the door and peeked your head in, Luke was sitting on the edge of the bed like usual and you had to blink to make the hallucination go away.
Except it didn’t go away. Instead it looked at you and smiled, “Hi.”
Your lips parted, and you stepped in. Your eyebrows curved in on themselves, “Uh, hey. What are you…”
You were still about seventy percent sure that he wasn’t real, but nobody was there to listen to you talk to air, so you replied anyway. Luke clicked his tongue, let out a chuckle, then sighed, “I don’t think I can do it.”
Okay, fifty percent sure.
“Do what?”
“Go back out there.” He gestured a hand to the window that pointed outside, although it was still covered with the curtain. “I thought…I dunno, I guess I got too excited yesterday. Thought I was ready to jump back into it.”
You stepped fully through the threshold, and he followed you with his eyes as you walked over to the desk. Nothing but a few spare bandages that you scooped into your arms before looking back at him. You tilted your head, “Healing isn’t linear. It’s perfectly normal to feel like you’re on top of the world one day and then like it’s crumbling around you the next.”
He stood, walked over to you. Thirty percent.
“I don’t want to disappoint them.”
“You won't.” You shook your head, “You made a big step, coming back to camp. That's it for now, you don’t need to take any more big steps for a while.”
He nodded, “No more big steps.”
“Not until you’re ready.”
Luke’s hands reached out, taking the bandages from where you cradled them to your chest. He put them back onto the desk behind you. Ten percent.
His eyes bore into yours, “I don’t think I’m done healing.”
You shook your head surely, “I don’t think you are, either. And that’s okay.”
He nodded, lips clicking when he parted them, “Which means you’re not allowed to leave me yet. You have to stay with me until I’m fully better.”
You shook your head then, stammering, “It’s — that’s not how it works. What you went through, it — you might not ever be fully better.”
But Luke just nodded like he knew that already, taking a step closer, “I think I’m okay with that.”
“Oh.” You didn’t know what else to say. What the hell do you say to that? “Okay.”
He nodded, pressing his lips together, “So you’re not gonna leave me.”
Five percent.
A shake of your head, “Not until you ask me to.”
“Good.”
He wrapped his arms around you, and you froze. Okay, he was real. He was really there. You were sure. You hugged him back — he buried his face into your neck and whispered something about you never leaving him again and you whispered something in return about how you wouldn’t dream of it.
So, apparently, you severely underestimated what it was like to be friends with Luke.
You’d thought about it — of course you had. You would imagine what perfect golden boy Luke Castellan was like when he didn’t have to be a perfect golden boy. When he could just be a boy, hanging out with his friends like a normal person would. What jokes did he tell? Did he still keep up that Luke Castellan Grin or did he relax into an easy smirk? Did he make his friends follow the rules even when they were alone? Did he follow the rules when he was alone?
You wondered, although you never thought you’d actually find out. But he’d made it clear you were never leaving his side so long as he still needed you — and he was sticking to that. Firmly.
The summer sun was hot on your back — only this time your dad seemed to be going easy on you, as you weren’t completely uncomfortable under the warm cotton of your camp shirt. You still wafted it every now and then, proving some cool air to your chest, but overall you were feeling good.
You walked into the Amphitheatre with the rest of your siblings — who were less than amused that, despite Luke’s return to camp, Tyler P from the Hephaestus cabin was still running sword fighting practice. They heaved themselves onto the tiered seats with dramatic groans, but he simply grinned at them.
You paused from where you were about to sit down next to Alina when a waving hand caught your peripheral. It was Luke, tucked into the very top corner of the steps, smiling at you from the shadows.
“What the hell are you doing?” You asked when you reached him, raising your brow in amusement. He patted the spot next to him and you sat down, just as Tyler began to talk. Luke leaned in.
“I’m watching.” He muttered into your ear, then he smirked at you, “You can’t stop me from doing that.”
“I wasn’t going to.” You murmured, leaning back on your elbows and watching as your siblings paired up reluctantly. “Thanks for pulling me away, though. Gives me an excuse not to take part.”
Luke huffed a laugh, “He can’t be that bad, right?”
“Just you wait.” You smirked.
Turns out, Tyler was that bad. Every ‘new skill’ he tried to teach them either (a) they already knew, something Luke liked to whisper at you with a shake of his head, or (b) he couldn’t even do it himself, let alone teach others how to. Another thing Luke commented on from where he sat beside you, hands aching to get in there and show him what was what.
“Just one tip, and then I’ll go.” He begged under his breath as Tyler dropped his sword for the umpteenth time. “Please.”
“No.” You didn’t even look at him, “Because one tip turns into a demonstration. And a —“
“— a demonstration turns into a class, yeah yeah.” He rolled his eyes, but you just grinned at him. He smiled, “You’re mean.”
“I know.” You said in a faux-sympathetic tone. You pouted at him, “I’m just so cruel, aren’t I?”
His eyes narrowed, and his mouth stretched into a disbelieving grin, “Damn, doc. What happened to you?”
You scoffed amusedly, “You did.”
His mouth dropped open and you smiled, looking away. He poked your side and you shuffled away with a giggle, attempting to ignore his riled up smile. He didn’t relent, for every inch you moved away from him, he scooted right back towards you. You looked at him with a narrowed gaze, “I miss when you were too miserable to talk to me.”
“No you don’t.” He shook his head. He was right, you didn’t.
He let out a slow breath through his nose, and you felt it on your face. That was when you realised how close your faces were — mere centimetres apart. You swallowed thickly, but you didn’t move away. Luke’s smile stretched, and his hand began to inch up your arm.
You squinted, “What are you doing?”
It was his turn to feign confusion, pulling his lips into the same pout you did only moments earlier, “What are you talking about?”
His hand was at your elbow now, sliding higher. You shook your head, a minute movement, “Doctor Patient Fraternising isn’t allowed.”
He gasped, pulling his hand back in favour of placing it dramatically against his chest, “It’s not?”
“Nope.” You grinned amusedly, “Sorry.”
“Damn.” He leaned back, glancing at you for a second before looking back towards Tyler’s shitshow of a sword lesson, “Guess I’ll have to get another doctor.”
You snorted, “You’re a loser.”
You stood up and went to rejoin your siblings, and Luke shouted after you, “I’m your loser!”
“What was that?” Lee asked when you stopped beside him.
“What? Oh,” You glanced back at where Luke was sat, and he averted his gaze from where he had been looking at you. You looked up at your brother, “He’s just happy to be back, is all.”
He chuckled, “Sure.”
Whatever. He was your person again and Lee could suck your dick if he had anything to say about it.
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The three weeks it took for Luke Castellan’s wounds to heal.
Pairing: Luke Castellan x Apollo!Reader
Summary: Luke comes back from his quest defeated and angry, and refuses to let anyone see him. But he still needs tending to. You are the lucky sucker who gets to do so.
Content: post-quest angsty luke, reader is awkward, i use the word under’t at one point because i think im shakespeare or some shit
Word Count: 7.6k
Notes: Pushing the agenda that lukes scar is gnarrly like it’s nasty !! not just some faint lil line. the boy was attacked by an actual dragon, like pls. also this hasn’t been proofread so sorry if it doesn’t make sense
꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷
The spring that Luke Castellan spent on his quest was a strange one for the residents of Camp Half-Blood.
For years, campers knew who to go to whenever they needed advice. When they needed help. They knew who to direct the new campers to when they stumbled over the boundary line — and knew they were in good hands. Luke’s hands. He was the big brother the whole camp needed, and not just because he was older than most of them. He just had that aura — and he was undoubtedly kind to everyone he came across. Not to mention the guy was insane with a sword, and had this boyish charm that anyone would fall for. Most campers, if not all of them, looked up to Luke Castellan.
So when he left, nobody knew what to do.
It was pretty tame at first, mostly just awkward. Especially in the Hermes cabin, with Chris Rodriguez in charge in his brother's absence. A Hephaestus kid had taken over the sword fighting classes Luke usually ran, which proved to do more harm than good because he wasn’t all that great at using a sword than he was at forging them, and most of Luke’s students were already better than him.
But nothing went wrong — at least for the first week.
But after the initial awkwardness wore off, chaos ensued.
Chris couldn’t keep the Hermes kids in check — once they realised he wasn’t as authoritative as Luke, they began to use it to their advantage. Everyone got pranked, the camp store was raided three times before Chiron decided to close it down for the meantime and dishwashing duty every night was not slowing them down.
You hadn’t realised just how much the camp relied on Luke until he wasn’t there to keep things under control. Fights broke out with nobody to step in between them, and more and more kids were showing up to the infirmary with injuries that they could take care of themselves — something Luke would’ve told them to do instead of bothering you and your siblings. It was actually unbelievable how much a group of about a hundred half-gods relied on the steady hand of one seventeen year old boy.
You couldn’t wait until he got back so you could finally get some peace and quiet.
Luke didn’t return to camp for two and a half weeks, and as the days went by, campers began to get uneasy. Nobody knew what his quest had entailed, or where he had to go, so the longer they went without news the more antsy people got. You didn’t speak to Luke much — maybe a few shared sentences to be polite — but you knew what he was capable of. You tried your best to reassure the campers, as did your brother Lee and the rest of the Cabin Counsellors.
You knew Luke would come back. You knew he would stumble down that hill with his head held high and meet the group of campers waiting for him at the bottom. You knew there would be a celebration, a party, and a lot of kids out past curfew. But you knew Chiron would let it off, because Luke Castellan was back.
Except that’s not what happened. At all.
It was a warm day, and you were helping some of your younger siblings make friendship bracelets by the lake. Your camp shirt clung to the sweat on your back and you peeled it off with a grimace whenever you stood, straightening out your shorts and checking on the next kid. They seemed happy enough to be in the sun — really, you should’ve been too. Child of Apollo and all. But apparently your father wasn’t feeling the love for you today, because while the rest of your siblings were thriving, you were seconds away from jumping into the lake just to cool down — even if it pissed off the Naiads.
Thankfully, when you stood up once more and looked over the horizon, you saw your brother Aden jogging towards you. You took the opportunity to hide under the shade of the trees by meeting him halfway, and greeted him with a breathless, “Hey.”
He spoke your name with a nod and a smile, throwing a thumb over his shoulder, “Chiron needs you in the Big House. Looked serious. I’ll take over here.”
“Oh, Okay.” You nodded, turning to the kids and telling them you’d be back as soon as you could, before marching your worn converse through the grass and up to where the house sat on the edge of the hill.
Chiron was in the doorway when you reached the porch, sat in wheelchair form and wearing a grim look. You paused, worried. He nodded at you, “Thank you for coming on such short notice. Usually I wouldn’t do this, but…desperate times. Follow me.”
You followed as he led you down the hall, brows furrowing, “What's going on? Is everything okay?”
He looked at you with a serious expression, saying your name lowly, “I need you to ensure that what I am about to tell you will never leave the walls of this house. Nobody needs to know about this until we have deemed it appropriate.”
“Of course.” You said immediately, folding your arms. You weren’t so warm anymore. “What happened?”
He straightened up, and stared, “Luke Castellan is back from his quest.”
That was not what you expected him to say. Dropping your arms to your side and stepping forward slightly, “What? Since when?”
“Ten minutes ago, give or take.” He replied, brows in a concerned furrow, “Mr D has taken him upstairs. He is injured.”
“Right.” You nodded, “I’ll go and—“
“Wait, child.” You stopped, one foot on the bottom step of the stairs, looking back at him, “You must know something.”
Chiron took in a deep breath, eyes glossed over like whatever he was about to say weighed heavily on him, “He is…not in good condition. On top of his injuries, Luke is unfortunately…not in a good state of mind. His quest has affected him, and he requested quite adamantly that nobody should see him until he is ready to see them. I will respect his wishes, of course, but he will still need someone to tend to his wounds. That will be you.”
“Me?” You’d never shared a full conversation with the guy. Maybe some small talk, a polite smile here and there, but you were hardly acquainted, let alone friendly. You told him this.
“Exactly my point.” Was his reply, head held high, “Luke does not want to talk to anyone at the moment, and I’m sure if any of his friends were to be up there, they would simply coddle him. You, on the other hand…”
“I’m a stranger.” You nodded, “Of course. Right. I get that. So, you just want me to patch him up, act like it never happened? I can do that.”
“Not exactly, my child.”
You raised a brow.
“Luke’s injuries are quite extensive. He will need around the clock care until he is healed enough. He will also need someone to bring him food, clean clothes.”
“Oh, so you want me to nanny him.”
He chuckled, but it faded just as quickly as it came, “Unfortunately, he needs it.”
You pursed your lips. It didn’t seem all that hard — it was just like having any other camper in the infirmary. Only this one, everyone was on the edge of their seats waiting for, and you weren’t allowed to tell anyone he was a mere fifty feet away from them, curled up in a bed in the Big House.
No biggie.
i. WEEK ONE
Chiron had ushered you up the steps as soon as your conversation was over, and given you directions to the room Luke was in. Your steps were slow and unsure — you’d never been this far into the Big House before, but Mr D stood idly outside one of the doors lining the second floor hallway, arms crossed and face taut. The floorboards creaked under the weight of your foot when you reached the landing, and he looked up at you.
“He’s in there.” He pointed to the door in front of him, “Careful, he’s a short fuse right now. All the medical thingamabobs you need are in there already. Keep your mouth shut about this.”
Then he slid past you and down the stairs without another word, and you were left alone in the empty hall. Blinking hard to clear your head, you stood a few measly steps toward the door, stopping just outside of it and leaning your ear against the wood.
Nothing tangible. Mostly just the scraping of wood against the skin of your ear, and once you had stopped moving, there was nothing. No mutters, no bed creaks, not even a sniffle. It unnerves you, but you wrapped a hand around the cold metal of the handle and turned it anyway.
Maybe it was because he had been gone for a while, or maybe it was because you never saw him that much when he was around, but you had to blink away the shock at Luke’s appearance. Minus the obvious injuries, he just looked different. His skin was tanned and rough, his jaw taut and his hair hanging messily over his forehead, longer bits curling around his ears after going uncut for so long.
He was sitting on the edge of a bed that had been tucked into the corner of the room. There was a window just above it, but a thin curtain had been pulled over it and blocked out the sunlight that was begging to shine on you. The room was dark, but light enough that you could see what you were doing when you walked over to the desk in the other corner and started shuffling through the medical supplies Chiron had left there for you. Not much, but enough for now. You could always get more later.
Turning, you finally made your way over to where Luke was hunched over, staring at nothing. When you entered his line of vision, his dark eyes slid up to yours, and he blinked. Then he sighed, straightened his back and gave you a look that said do what you have to do and then get out.
But you didn’t move, not for at least ten seconds. Because while Chiron had told you he was injured extensively, he didn’t mention the five inch long scar that ran down the side of his face, cutting through his eye. It was jagged and gnarly, sharp edges carving a path through his skin. It was red all around, and just from looking at it you could tell it needed work. It was fairly new, but he had left it long enough for it to heal over — a thin layer of skin stopping it from bleeding.
He raised his eyebrows at you impatiently, and you nodded, scooting back to the desk and grabbing what you needed before going back to where he sat.
“I, uh…I need to get closer.” You were afraid to speak, to break the silence of the room, but you did need to get closer to his face. You waited for him to turn slightly to his left, hitch a leg up on the mattress and face his scar in your direction. Instead, he just slid his legs apart, inviting you to step between them.
And so you did, albeit a little shakily. You didn’t know Luke well enough to consider him a friend, but you’d seen enough of him to know that he never acted like this. He was never this quiet — all eyes, slow movements. He was charming, always grinning, always offering a hand. His battle instincts and ADHD made him fidgety like the rest of them, but from where you stood between his thighs, he was as still as a picture. It unnerved you more than the scar on his face did. You’d seen nasty injuries before, you’d never seen this.
You picked up a gauze, doused it in rubbing alcohol, and started wiping the area. You started on the outskirts, but when you pressed over the edge of the injury, his brows twitched and you let out a weak apology before lessening the grip. You kept your breaths thin and your eyes on your hand, but he wasn’t looking at you anyway. He had drifted off again, staring at nothing, and you were scared to break him out of his stupor again.
“He’s a short fuse.” Mr D had said. But he didn’t seem that way right now, sitting back silently and letting you do your work on his face. He wasn’t much of anything, if you had to make an assessment. You really wanted to know what happened on his quest, and why he was gone for so long, but you also didn’t want to test Mr D’s words by asking.
“What happened?” He didn’t say anything, again. You pressed on, “I sort of need to know before I reopen it…just in case something—“
“A dragon.” He murmured at once. His voice was rough, like he’d just been screaming. Maybe he had been, and that’s why Mr D had warned you. But it seemed all his anger had dissipated in the time it took for Chiron to get you and explain the situation. Maybe. “Ladon. Poisonous bites.”
So he had been to the Garden of the Hesperides. Presumably to collect some Golden Apples. What for, you didn’t know. You weren’t going to ask. You just grabbed a scalpel, muttered a quiet, “This is going to hurt.”, and started cutting down the scar, following its path across his cheek.
Luke hissed hard, not expecting you to dive in so suddenly, and his hand reached out for something to grab. That ended up being your camp shirt, bunching at your waist from where he gripped it between his knuckles. You didn’t mind it, but when you put the scalpel down and started to clean the inside of his wound, he adjusted his hand so he was holding the side of your waist instead, eyes clamped shut and feet tapping the wooden floor. You paused momentarily, but you couldn’t let him breathe or else it would just hurt more when you went back to work, so you brushed it off and continued your rampage down his face until the whole wound was free of the dirt and grime he had let accumulate inside it while he travelled back to Long Island.
“Sorry.” You finally built up the courage to say.
“S’Okay.” He breathed, “My fault.”
You wiped it over one last time before taping a bandage over the top. You cut it into two bits so he could still see out of his left eye, before stepping back from between his legs and assessing your work. Once you had deemed it good enough, you picked up your supplies and headed back to the desk, feeling Luke’s hand fall from your side.
“Uh—“ You really wanted to leave the room now, “I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but how long did you leave—“
“Three days.” He answered quickly. Chiron had probably already asked him that, and you felt stupid for making him repeat it.
You turned to leave, but then remembered what Chiron had said to you before sending you up to Luke’s room. You looked at him.
“Do you need anything from your cabin?” You asked, “It’s, uh, kind of my job to get that, if you do.” You turned to face him fully, “Oh, and are you hungry? Because I have to—“
“Just some clean clothes, thanks.” He quipped. It wasn’t looking like he wanted you around for much longer.
You were quick to leave.
It was hard coming up with an excuse as to why you were stealing clothes from Luke Castellan’s bunk, but you just told them there was a new camper in the Big House and Chiron had run out of spares that morning. They brushed it off, and you ran back up to Luke with the clothes bunched in your arms, and were breathless by the time you dropped them on the bed beside him.
“Did anyone see you?” He asked just as you were about to give him the privacy he needed to change.
You were facing the door when he asked, and turned to answer, but he was already pulling off the marred camp shirt he’d arrived in, revealing his very toned torso. You paused, eyes drifting, but quickly snapped them back up to his awaiting gaze. He didn’t seem to care that he was shirtless in front of you, but neither did most boys.
“No.” You weren’t sure how he would react if you’d told him the truth, even though it was harmless. He nodded and started to unbutton his cargos, and you were quick to turn back to the door and yank it open, “Okay, I’ll…uh, probably be back at…later. Bye.”
The rest of your week was rough to say the least. You had a lot on your plate, and it didn’t help when your siblings kept wondering why you were at the Big House three times a day and why you always made a second plate of food at mealtimes. Eventually, it got around that a new camper had arrived, and you were taking care of them. That's when the rumour mill started running.
“I heard they were older, like twenty or something. Apparently they’re super embarrassed.”
“Well, I heard they were injured super badly on their way into camp, and that’s why nobody’s seen them yet.”
“I heard they got violent when Chiron explained the demigod thing and now they have him locked away in the basement!”
So yeah, lots on your plate. You did little to dispel the rumours, not wanting to allude to the truth accidentally, but when you were the only one who knew the truth, it was difficult to hide from those who wanted it too.
But after a few days, you had developed a routine. Wake up, get breakfast, take food to Luke. Check his dressings while he ate and restock your med supplies if needed. Go to whatever task you were running that day, ignore anyone who asked about the new camper, go for lunch. Take lunch to Luke. Check his dressings. Dismiss curious campers. Go to dinner. Take dinner to Luke. Check his dressings. Dismiss curious campers. Lead the campfire sing-along. Check on Luke one more time. Go to bed.
It was a lot, to say the least. But you didn’t complain — if you did this top secret doctor work right, Chiron might make you cabin counsellor when your older sister Alina leaves after this summer.
And just as you had, Luke eased into the routine too. Every time you entered his room, with a polite knock, he would be perched on the side of his bed, legs open and inviting.
You wondered if he actually did this for you, or if he just never moved from that position.
Sunday morning was slightly different — as camp activities were more relaxed and you had more time on your hands. You strolled slowly to the Big House after breakfast — rather than your usual sprint so you weren’t late to Archery — and knocked politely on the door before cracking it open and heading for the desk. With a plate of food in one hand and a fresh bandage in the other, you made your way over to where Luke sat, readying yourself for another quiet twenty minutes of work. It was quite peaceful, now that you’d gotten used to it. More comfortable, less awkward.
“Hi.”
You blinked, almost dropping what you held, but Luke was there to grab the bandage from your hand as your grip loosened in your shock. He attempted a smile, but winced when it pulled at his scar, and chose to nod at you instead.
“Uh…” You put the plate down into the bedside table, straightening your shirt, “Hi.”
He’d never said hi before.
He didn’t say anything else after that, just let you do what you did, but your mind remained a whirlwind. He said hi. That’s a completely normal thing for him to do, and yet you were reeling from it.
Once you had changed his dressings, you headed for the door and allowed him to eat his breakfast. Your hand wrapped around the metal of the handle and turned it, pulling open the wooden door and stepping one foot into the hall before the voice sounded again.
“Bye.”
You chuckled this time, not looking back, “Bye.”
ii. WEEK TWO
It was an average morning, the blistering sun from last week finally fading and allowing you to walk comfortably outside. You never knew what your dad’s problem with you was last week, but you suspected that it had something to do with the cabin counsellor who slept on the second floor of the Big House with a bandage across his eye.
Like usual, you were heading up the stairs, breakfast plate in hand, ready to give your first checkup of the day. If Luke was healing like he should’ve been, you wouldn’t have to change his dressing at lunch, and you were crossing your fingers that he was.
Pushing the door open with your back, you walked in slowly and headed towards the desk like usual. You grabbed the bandage, made your way over to Luke and put the plate down next to his small lamp. Then you straightened up and put the new bandage under your arm, holding it in place while you moved to unwrap his eye.
Before you could, however, Luke was pulling the bandage from where it was trapped against your ribcage and held it in his own hands. You looked at him, and he gave you a weak smile, “Thought it’d be easier if I held it for you.”
You murmured out a thanks and smiled at him, keeping it there even as you peeled back the old dressings and revealed his still healing scar. Usually, it wouldn’t take this long for a demigod wound to heal itself, but because Luke had gone so long without nectar or ambrosia — or any form of medical help, that is — it was in worse condition. You had to scrape out the infected skin from it a few days back, and it left Luke blinking hard to try and hide the tears.
Nowadays he seemed to be better — not as broody as he seemed last week. But you always caught him drifting off, staring at nothing. You wondered if he was reliving it, asking himself what would’ve changed had he done it differently. Your guess? Not much — you’d read up on Ladon the dragon after finding out it was he who caused Luke’s pain, just in case there was something you needed to know before starting the healing process. He was vicious, not even Hercules could get past him. And while Luke was the best swordsman camp had seen in three centuries, even he would struggle going at Ladon alone.
Once you had redressed his face, you stepped back like you always did, your footfalls sounding out the same metronome as they did three times a day. You wondered if you would wear a mark into the floor from your constant repeating path — door to the desk, desk to the bed, bed to the door. You briefly thought that wouldn’t be possible, something like that would take years to indent, but then you looked back at Luke — his forlorn expression, the bandage across his eye and the bags under’t — and wondered how long it would be before he could build the courage to stand up from the bed, return to a camp that relied so heavily on his skill set, and take the weight of his failure with him.
He pulled the plate onto his lap and you don’t think you’ve ever seen someone look so sad while stuffing their face with bacon.
“Hey, uh —“ You started, hand on the doorframe in an attempt to look casual. You couldn’t just leave him like that, right? “Do you…know — uh, know where the spare practising swords are kept?” A measly excuse, but it had him looking at you again.
He swallowed his food before speaking, “The wooden ones are in these old boxes in the back of weapon storage, but I think the celestial bronze ones are kept in the Hephaestus cabin now.”
You nodded, tapping your hand against the wood. That didn’t work in the way you wanted it to, but you weren’t going to force it. So you turned, went to open the door and leave —
“Why?”
Nevermind!
You whirled around — not too eagerly! You didn’t want to scare him off, now — “Oh! Uh, some Ares kid snapped one in half the other day, we needed a replacement.”
Luke nodded. Shit, say something else. Get him talking!
“Odd weather we’ve been having.”
What?
His lips parted, and he had the gall to look amused, “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Oh, yeah.” You breathed, humiliated. You pressed your lips together, ready to give up, until a thought came to you, “Hey, you haven’t been outside in, like, a week.”
Luke nodded, shadows falling across his face like the mere mention of the fact that he hadn’t been outside was a painful reminder of his circumstances, “Yeah, I, uh, don’t think I want anyone to know that I’m back yet. Not until I’m healed, y’know?”
You knew. You also knew that probably wasn’t the only reason he refused to let anyone know he was safe in the Big House, but you didn’t say that.
“Right, but —“ A breathy chuckle, “You need, like, sunlight. Fresh air.”
“I don’t wanna risk it.”
“Ok.” And that was that. You said goodbye, left him to his own devices, and didn’t mention the sun thing again for two days.
It was on Wednesday that you finally gave in. Now that you’d put the thought in your own head, you kept noticing the effects that being cooped indoors was having on Luke. His skin, once tanned and glistening under the sun, was paling by the hour. He winced whenever he had to straighten his back, and even though his scar was healing nicely, he seemed to be more sensitive to the pain of it than he was a week earlier.
So on Tuesday night you formed a plan, and on Wednesday morning at breakfast you put it into action. It started with asking Lee — ever so casually, of course — what the activities schedule was looking like. He started yapping about their cabin, and you waited patiently for him to bring up the Amphitheatre. Then, when he said the Apollo kids were training at two, you said —
“I thought we trained at twelve on Wednesdays?”
“No, that’s Ares and Hephaestus.”
“Oh, but don’t they train at four?”
“No, Hermes and Athena train at four.”
“Then who trains at ten?”
“Nobody.”
Bingo.
Luke was halfway through pulling on a pair of shorts when you burst into the room. He jumped, yanking them up the rest of the way before turning to look at you — his face was a mix of shock and unbridled anger until he realised it was you, then it softened into something calmer. But you saw him, even for just a split second, and the animosity in his gaze made you take a quiet step back. It was fearful almost — you’d seen him annoyed, irritated. You’d even bore witness to the Carden Cross Hot Cross Bun Incident of 2002,
(Carden Cross was this fifteen year old Ares kid. He threw one too many hot cross buns at the Aphrodite table and a then-sixteen-year-old Luke had wrung him out in front of everyone.
Nobody had ever heard Luke raise his voice like that, and Carden avoided everyone for a week straight).
but you had never seen such indignation in his gaze. It was gone in a flash, and you could’ve told yourself it was never there, but it was. You were hit with the humbling realisation that whatever Luke had gone through on his quest was more damaging than you could ever imagine, and no amount of fresh air would change him back to who he was before.
That saddened you, but then you realised he was shirtless again and all morbid thoughts went straight out the window. You grinned at him, “Sorry. But we don’t have a lot of time.”
He stared at you, then at your hands that were empty of breakfast food or bandages, and asked, “Time for what?”
“For some fresh air!” You sang, throwing in some jazz hands as if they would wipe the hesitant frown that had graced his features, “Put some shoes on, let’s go!”
He said your name softly, “I can’t go outside.”
You straightened up from where you had leaned dramatically into the room and sent him a blank look, eyes still sparkling, “You can. I checked the schedule, the Amphitheatre is free from ten till twelve and it is currently…nine forty-five. If we hurry, we’ll miss the post-breakfast rush.”
Luke looked a little more at ease now, but he made no move to put his shoes on. His body twitched like he was thinking about it, but when he couldn’t come up with a valid excuse to get out of it, he sighed and nodded, “Alright. Doctors orders, I guess.”
“Awesome.” You smiled, “I’ll let you get ready.”
It took some convincing, even after you’d gotten him to follow you down the stairs, to get him out the door. But a few firm words (and a couple of threats) and he was basking in the morning sunlight just as you’d planned.
Well — more like squinting painfully. Turns out, after a week and a half in a dark room, it takes a minute to get used to the sunlight again. You ensured nobody was around and took the long way to the Ampitheatre, letting out a content sigh when you knew you were away from prying eyes. Luke seemed more relaxed already, and you could practically see his muscles getting looser.
“Damn.” He muttered, hand over his eyes, “I needed this.”
“Yeah.” You spoke over an unattractive snort, “I’m an Apollo kid, I know a Vitamin D deficiency when I’m looking at one.”
“Alright.” He rolled his eyes at you, amused, and moved towards the steps. He climbed up two before turning and sitting, leaning back on his elbows and blinking at the sky, “Think your dad made it extra sunny just for me?”
“Probably.” You smiled, standing in front of him — but still making sure you weren’t blocking the sun from his face. “After some convincing from your dad.”
Luke’s smile faded. His eyes remained closed but his hands tightened into loose fists, “I don’t think so.”
Now you were desperate to change the subject. Your eyes darted to the wall, and the rack of swords sitting in its usual spot, “Hey, wanna swing some bronze?”
“Gods.” He let out a rough laugh, and you grinned in satisfaction, “Swinging Bronze. Haven’t heard that in a while.”
You nodded, glad he was back to being somewhat happy, “We thought we were so cool.”
“We thought it’d catch on.”
You shared a laugh, and Luke peeked an eye open, looking at you, “How come we were never friends back then?”
A meek shrug, “We weren’t really friends until a couple of days ago. That's if you even count us as that now.”
He just kept looking at you, and his gaze burned into your skin. You stepped back, closer to the middle of the arena space, “We never really spoke.”
He looked at you as if he was thinking hard about what you said, and what he was gonna say next. Apparently he came up short, because seconds later he was clicking his tongue and pushing himself up, joining you in the middle of the arena, “Alright. Let’s swing some bronze.”
You let out a shaky breath, nodding. This was going well. He was outside, he was laughing, he was about to pick up a sword for the first time since he’d angrily thrown his own at the porch of the Big House when he got back a week and a half ago.
He handed you a wooden practice sword, and you raised a brow. Usually the wooden ones were for first-timers, or younger kids. He shrugged, you let it go.
Despite the fact that you and Luke had been at camp together for five years, you’d never actually gone one-on-one in a sword fight with him. It was rare that Apollo and Hermes were paired together for activities, since they were the two highest populated cabins, but even when Luke was running the practice he always picked the people he knew the best for demonstrations. You lingered at the back, watching.
So you were slightly nervous, but you also didn’t want to show it. Sure, on any normal day Luke would reassure you with kind eyes and that Luke Castellan Smile, but he wasn’t exactly himself right now. You swallowed down your nerves, matched his stance, and swung.
Best Sword Fighter in Three Hundred Years — not an exaggeration. His moves were swift, calculated, and he stayed calm the entire time. It was as if he knew everything you were going to do before you did it, and had three counterattacks on the back burner for when you would strike. Your swords clashed every time you made a move and suddenly you realised why he wanted you to use wooden swords — the clang of wood was a lot quieter than the clang of bronze, it was less likely anyone would hear you fighting. It made sense, but you couldn’t focus on that when he was practically parrying your thoughts with sweat dripping down his temple.
You held your own, though. You were quite impressed with yourself when you blocked his swipes and sidestepped his jabs. It was making him groan in frustration, and the edges of your mouth perked up. You didn’t realise how good you were at this.
Then Luke stumbled. He grunted, righted himself, and swung again. You blocked it, and he steadied his shoulders. You slowed, focusing on the way he heaved for breath, taking in gulps of air, while you were hardly breaking a sweat. The way he kept readjusting his grip on the hilt of his sword, and how his fingers shook on his free hand. He went for you again and you sidestepped him, making him trip up. He didn’t fall, but he did let out a long angry groan at his mistake, throwing the sword to the ground in frustration.
You flinched, “Luke.”
“This was a bad idea.” He snapped. He wasn’t looking at you, pacing up and down with his hands in his hair. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”
“You’re still recovering —“ You tried to reason, but he wasn’t listening to you.
“I’m the best damn swordsman this camp has ever seen. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t I do this? Why —“
“Luke.” You stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He looked at you, “It’s okay.”
“No it’s not.” He gritted through his teeth, “I fail one quest and suddenly I can’t do anything anymore? Yeah, that’s typical.”
You shook your head, “You just need time to get better.”
“I was better! Better than everyone else here, I —“ He paused, a faraway look in his eyes that unnerved you for a second before he was looking at you again, “I can hear people.”
You perked your ears up. He was right, you could hear the chatter of camp if you listened carefully enough — but it wasn’t anything to worry about. They were all doing their own tasks, far away from where they were. If someone was coming, it would be more clear. You told him that, but he shook his head.
“I need to go back. This was a bad idea.”
“Hey, it’s okay, we can go —“
“No, not we. Me.” He said firmly, a hard look in his gaze that he didn’t have before, “I’m going back. You’re staying here. And I’m never going anywhere with you again.”
iii. WEEK THREE
You hadn’t seen him in five days.
Chiron had pulled you out of Archery to ask about Luke — and why he had seen him storm angrily back into his room and lock the door. You just told him you thought it was best for him to find someone else to take care of him for the time being. You didn’t think Luke would want to see you again, ever.
All you wanted was for him to be his old self again. The guy you always saw helping out someone else with a smile on his face, the one who made others laugh and laughed with them. The one who waved at anyone who waved at him. The one who was completely oblivious to the flirting and just thought they were being friendly. The Luke Castellan who everyone gushed about, who everyone loved.
That man up there, with the scar on his face and the look in his eye, wasn't Luke Castellan. And maybe he never would be again, not completely. But he could come close — he could still smile, he could still laugh.
But you’d fucked all that up just by bringing him outside.
You didn’t know who Chiron had asked to replace you, because you never saw anyone else get up after breakfast with an extra plate. You didn’t see anyone sneaking out of the Hermes cabin with a pile of clothes. You stood in the fields for hours a day, watching those thin curtains stand stiff at the window, never to open. You thought you’d seen a shadow, but maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you.
The weekend came and went, and you spent the whole time worrying about Luke. Did this new person know that he preferred fatty bacon? Did they know that he liked keeping the curtains closed? Or would they just bring him a plate of pancakes? Ask him too many questions about his quest? Your mind whirred — would they make him worse?
No. That’s not what you were scared of.
Would they make him better?
Would they understand him more than you did? Would they coerce more words out of him? Would they even need to coerce him, or would he be comfortable holding a conversation with them no problem? What if he was better now than he ever had been with you?
You flinched when your name was called. Looking up from the bracelet you were crafting with some younger kids and meeting the eyes of Dionysus, “Sir.”
“Our, uh, special guest is requesting your presence.” He said with a stupid look on his face, “So get off your ass and get up there, I can’t stand his whining any longer.”
You did as asked with a slight roll of your eyes that made the six year old who was next to you giggle into their hands. It brought a grin to your otherwise down expression, unsure of what Luke wanted to say to you.
The room was dark when you cracked the door open — there was no response after you knocked, but you could hear him shuffling inside, so you went ahead and opened it an inch. It was a lot darker than it used to be — or maybe you too had gotten used to the shade after spending so much time there.
You pushed it open more, and there he was, in his usual spot on the edge of the bed. Head down, hands fiddling with something by his eye. He was muttering in frustration, and you stepped into the room in concern. The floor creaked, he looked up, and you gasped.
The side of his face where his scar sat was red with blood — you almost missed the bandage he was attempting to tie around it because it had been stained pink. His fingers were shaking and he pursed his trembling lips at you, “I can’t do it.”
You surged forward, immediately taking the fabric from his hands. He let them drop into his lap as you peeled it back and looked at the damage. You winced — not as bad as the blood had made it seem, but bad enough. The wound had reopened at the top, and the blood was dripping into his eye and along the curve of his jaw.
It took a few panicky minutes, but eventually the bleeding had stopped, Luke’s face was clean of blood, and you were staring at him in shock, your own fingers still red from the damage. He was avoiding your eyes, the only other thing he’d said to you being a strained thank you when you had stepped back.
“What —“ You were at a loss.
“I tried to change them myself.” He shrugged, picking at his fingernails, still not looking at you. “I’d watched you do it so many times, I figured I had it handled. Apparently I didn’t, because I woke up and it was freakin’ bleeding everywhere.”
“Oh, Luke.” You breathed, “Why didn’t you wait for someone to help you?”
“You never came back.” He said like it was obvious.
“What — so you’ve been doing this yourself for five days?” You asked, a shocked exclamation, “Chiron never sent someone else to help you?”
“He asked me who I wanted,” He shrugged, “I said you. You weren’t an option, so I did it myself.”
“You said —“
“I know what I said, alright?” He stressed, head in his hands now, “It was stupid. I was angry, hurt, whatever. It was at myself, but I took it out on you. I’m sorry. I don’t — “ His voice cracked, “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
“Luke.” You murmured. You took a step closer, kneeled before him, and gently pried his hands away from his eyes so he would look at you. His expression was so…sad. So distraught. “What happened on your quest?”
And he told you everything.
iv. THE AFTER
Luke was ashamed to admit it — but he had no idea what your name was when you started looking after him.
Sure, he’d seen you around. You were one of the Apollo kids who spent more time in the infirmary than on the archery fields, but he was too good at his job to get injured. Hence why he didn’t know your name. He knew your face, he smiled at you and you would smile back. He was friendly with your brother, Lee. But that was about it.
That’s what made it so perfect.
You wouldn’t ask him about his quest. You wouldn’t try your hardest to get him to open up. You would do your job, and leave him to mope. That was all he wanted.
Until he learned your name.
And just from glancing at your smile — all awkward and nervous as you introduced yourself — he knew he wanted to be near you. He knew you were the type of person he could sit in silence with and walk away from it with a happy memory.
He thought he knew enough about you to determine who you were to him (a stranger). But he didn’t know your name, your voice, he didn’t know your touch or your smile — the real one you give when someone truly makes you laugh. Not the one he thought he knew.
He stood stiffly on the porch of the Big House — three weeks was all it took before Mr D was kicking him out, telling him to get a grip and face the music. Luke was ready; physically. His scar was nothing but that — a memory, faded into his skin forever. There was no other reason for him to keep himself hidden other than the fact that he wanted to. If it was up to him, nobody would ever bear the burden of seeing him ever again.
For weeks he told himself that his quest was pointless. He screamed it at the gods, at Chiron, at you. He cursed his dad every night for sending him on a path to failure and not even acknowledging it. He cursed himself for ruining the first chance he had at gaining his fathers pride in seventeen years — he sat in the dark, fists clenched, and asked himself what it was all for.
The five years on the run, the endless monster attacks, the relentless training, the offerings, the prayers. Would his life be any better had he just let that first monster kill him?
No. Because he wouldn’t have met Thalia, or Annabeth. He wouldn’t have seen the brighter side of being a halfblood — he wouldn’t have met his siblings, he wouldn’t have found his calling. He wouldn’t have experienced the joy of helping a new camper, of being the guiding hand he never got to hold.
But what of his quest? His mission for his father brought nothing but pain — a pointless trip, a humiliating failure, a deep jagged scar. For weeks he asked himself why he was given the quest in the first place, and for years to come he will question himself each and every day.
But each and every day he asks himself what the gods had ever given him, he would be reminded of the day he learnt your name. And he would tell himself had he not taken that trip, had he not fallen to Ladon, he never would have felt the searing touch of your fingertips on his skin.
Based on Moth to a Flame by the Weeknd & Swedish House Mafia
Post-tlt!Luke x Apollo!fem!reader
Angst - 3.1k
warnings: making out, Steve is a warning 💀, reader is cheating with Luke, SPOILERS FOR THE LIGHTNING THIEF AND A TINY BIT OF SEA OF MONSTERS.
It wasn’t him.
That was all you could think about as your boyfriend kissed you passionately in front of the whole camp. Sure, he was an excellent kisser, but it wasn’t as nice as it could’ve been.
If it was him, he would’ve known to leave the breathtaking kisses for private. Known that you hated to make a scene. Would’ve put your comfort before his lusty need to kiss you-
You couldn’t think that. He was evil. And he had hurt your terribly. You refused to say his name even now, six months after his departure. He had left you and betrayed the whole camp and was conspiring with Titans, trying to start a war.
Steve…. Wasn’t like that.
You liked him. He was nice and treated you like you should be treated. He was a spectacle to be around.
You still remembered all the drama from when he’d first asked you out. It was a story, all right, just like Steve liked.
You hadn’t been in a great place then. You cried every night over him - you still did - you avoided the Hermes cabin like it was a plague, and you just felt numb and empty every day.
And then he’d asked you out. Steve was from the Ares cabin, and after he had left, the red team had been having a lot of luck with winning Capture the Flag.
It had been another one of Steve’s victories, and he’d been triumphantly waving the flag around before he passed it to his teammate, and drew the camp’s attention.
“So, thanks to me, we get the best chores, best privileges. Thanks Chiron.” And Ares cabin roared as Chiron nodded awkwardly. “Still, I want one more thing. I have to have one more prize. Her. I’d like to ask y/n l/n to be my girlfriend.”
And your friends had talked about this for a while before, how they seemed to just know Steve had a crush on you - even though you couldn’t see it - and how they thought you guys would be perfect together. And how it would help you get over him.
You said yes.
And it was a fairytale from there.
Every time he won Capture the Flag, (which was every week just about) he’d pick you up and spin you round, kissing you. It became a tradition, a victory kiss. And they were long, burning, breathless kisses, and he would continue even when you tired and stopped. He was passionate that way, all about making your pulse quicken. But not as much as did when he-
At dinners in the pavilion, you would share a peck before every meal while you queued. He was always next to you, and although it was kinda dull having him dismiss your friends so he could talk to you privately, at least you had the company right? And you always shared your extra food with him when he was hungry, and sometimes he would try to feed you sandwiches teasingly, which everyone cooed at. You wished they wouldn’t-
On weekend nights, you’d come back with him to Ares cabin secretly, and he’d make out with you in his bed, telling you he deserved his girlfriend after a long and hard week. And you would kiss and kiss and kiss and your lips would be swollen, your head would be spinning and people would roll their eyes and talk about how stupidly in love the pair of you were.
Like a fairytale.
Except, it had a bit of a twist. When he finally tired of your body and lips, and let out a few gentle snores, then you would escape.
You started the habit the first time you couldn’t sleep after one of your make out sessions.
It was idiotic, but you couldn’t fight the way you were still loyal to the traitor you had called your lover, how you felt sick to the stomach each time you felt Steve’s arms around you, tighter and more cage-like than his had ever been. You couldn’t fight the way your mind flitted between the two boys, comparing and contrasting between them to the detail, draining you of your sanity as the night stretched on. Hypnos didn’t bless you with rest, and you cursed the god that had ever created overthinking.
You’d walked out, your arms huddled around you like his should be, and you stumbled in the cool darkness all the way to the beach.
And in the obscurity of the night, you would let your heart break properly, as completely as it needed to. You would sin, become the villain of your own fairytale.
You would whisper his name, over and over and over, as you would tell him everything that had happened to you. Every event that had transpired since he left. Eventually, you’d bring old Polaroids of the pair of you you’d hidden away, and an old flickering torch to view them with. A lot of the time you simply sobbed your heart out, whispering his name again and again into the sands, this beach the only place you could ever continue to love him.
Usually, you were out for a while, bathing in your midnight misery, sometimes until Apollo deigned to let the Sun give light to the sky.
It wouldn’t make you happier.
Once everything was visible, occasionally
you stared at the ocean, spotting the distant specks that were ships. You wondered if any of them were his, stupid Princess Andromeda, with all the horrifying monsters aboard you’d heard about.
It was torture, thinking like that. That he was one call away, that you might scream across the waves and he would hear, and yet you were worlds apart.
Once the sunshine heated your skin, you would drown your love in the daylight, and head back to Steve, your… lover.
It was an awful, unhealthy routine. You knew that, and felt so many tremendous ways about it.
But it was also beautiful in a painful way you’d grown to love.
It was much the same tonight.
Relief like a tsunami washing over you, as you began to feel the sleepy inhales and exhales of your boyfriend. The fifteen minutes it took you to softly slip out of his embrace unnoticed, and how they dribbled by slowly. A quick check for harpies, a speedy walk to the beach down the faint path your careful steps had created.
Than the silence.
Agonising, serene silence.
The stars would hear his name again, as you spoke, the only witnesses to your traitorous actions.
You’d only said his name once, listening as it faded into the sounds of the night, the chirping of insects and breeze in the trees.
Crunching footsteps disturbed the peaceful aura.
Instantly, you were on your guard, cursing yourself for lacking in a weapon. No matter how heavy the clunky torch was, it would be no match for fangs or talons. You held it up regardless, circling around on your feet as you searched for the source of the sound.
“Is that a torch? Man, I’m outta here.”
You might’ve died. Your heart stopped. Your breath caught. Everything inside you froze.
It was him.
Him.
Your torch lowered as he approached, the moon casting a holy glow on his face and distinct scar.
He looked exactly as you remembered.
Tall, lean, eyes deep, dark and entrancing, curls the rich colour of cocoa.
Handsome as Adonis-
No. You raised your torch again, as you reminded yourself who this boy was, what he had done to you. No, you did not trust him, even if you missed him.
“It’s me. I’m not here to hurt you,” he reassured, approaching you softly as if you were the dangerous one, “you don’t have to be on guard.”
Being you isn’t enough anymore, you wanted to scream.
“What are you here for then? Are you planning some attack at camp?” You asked instead, horrified.
“What are you out here for? Are you planning to join me?” He whispered back, smirking.
“I- no, no. I could never do what you’ve done- what you do, no-“
“Yeah, yeah, I’m horrendous, I get it,” he interrupted, impatient, “but you’re still out here. And you were saying my name.”
The last sentence was almost… sensitive and hopeful. You didn’t like the way that vulnerability made you feel.
“I did not. I have not said your name since the day you left, the day you betrayed us.” You denied, shaking your head and backing away from him. He followed you, even as you feet moved left and right.
“Please, stop,” you begged, scared now as he continued to step where you stepped.
“No, I came back for you,” his expression and voice changed, no longer smug and smirky. He was desperate, genuine. “There hasn’t been a day I haven’t thought of you. I still love you, y/n, and the biggest mistake of my life was leaving you here.”
Your eyes welled at his words. This was all you’d ever wanted to hear.
“You can’t just say that, you- you-“ your voice broke, and you finally stopped your retreat as your back hit a tree. “You left me for six months. You can’t just come back randomly, if you loved me you wouldn’t have left and-“
There was only a foot between the two of you. And it was rapidly closing, each steady footstep bringing you nose to nose. You couldn’t stop it, and you didn’t want to.
“I-I- what are you doing, I can’t do this, whatever this is- I have a boyfriend and um, what-“
Your foreheads were almost touching. He was frowning, your guess was at the mention of Steve. Your eyes met, and you glanced away, knowing if you met his gaze once more you would give into anything he requested.
“If you loved your boyfriend,” he breathed, each word becoming hotter and breathier as it neared your lips, ”you wouldn’t be out here crying and saying my name like a prayer.”
It was impossible to resist. Your eyes met again, and it felt as if you didn’t have a choice as he leaned down to kiss you. Your body was just following what it yearned to do.
It was just as fantastic as you remembered.
Blazing, spectacular, thrilling fireworks all through your body. On both of your lips burning and tingling with electric attraction, as they moved at a seamless speed. On your shoulders, as he massaged the bones, his hands brushing the length of them. In your blood as every particle of you seemed to hum in joy and satisfaction. It was an eager, sweet kiss, and it was precisely what you’d been missing.
Why had you been trying to be a princess in a fairytale?
It was one of the only things you and he agreed on. You hated fairytales.
You preferred thrillers.
In sync you drew apart for breath, panting hard and grinning. After a short pause, you couldn’t hold it in anymore,.
“Luke,” you said.
It was like saying a dirty cuss word that held powerful meaning. A secret no one wanted revealed. This was the loudest you’d ever said it in months, and you felt glad at the release of his name from your heart.
It was the magic word for Luke.
Immediately his lips were on yours, and there was no restraint this time. If that kiss had been hungry before, these were starved.
Every ounce of anything either of you had felt was developed into that kiss. It was a myriad of different emotions, conflict and similar feelings rebelling and intertwining as your lips and tongues danced. I love you. I hate you. All I want is you. I’ve missed you. All I think about is you. I’ll never love someone how I love you-
“Come with me,” he begged, breaking apart as you shuddered for breath, and how could you refuse if he looked at you like that?
Luke beamed at you, seeing as you weren’t rejecting him and eagerly took your hand in his. The familiar warmth almost caused you to faint.
And then he was leading you swiftly away from the beach, into the woods, and towards another part of the shoreline.
You were almost giggly, as he pulled you along, over logs and past dense patches of lush shrubbery. It was like you were sixteen again, sneaking away from harpies and head counsellors so you could stargaze and kiss.
You made it to his ship soon enough, the Princess Andromeda.
It was certainly fit for royalty.
The style and size of the boat caused you to stop a moment, your jaw dropping.
Luke continued to tug at your hand, pulling you along and towards the deck before you could reconsider. You figured you were too far gone to turn back now. But you didn’t want to either.
“C’mon,” he urged, as you rapidly ascended the steps onto the ship. He led you inside, and down a few corridors, before he opened a door to what looked to be his room.
It was grand, stylish. A double bed stood in the centre, a desk and ensuite to the left, and a wardrobe and bedside table to the right. You knew then that this was probably bigger and better than anything he’d ever had in his life. You wondered if he ever got lonely in the large space, or simply always felt like a king.
Your thoughts were removed almost violently out of your head as Luke kissed you abruptly, pushing against you and using your back to close the door behind you.
“I missed you,” he muttered against your lips, his arms twisting around you and hoisting you up, as if you were a bride.
You laughed then, giddy, and said it back to him.
He placed you on the bed softly, grinning and giving you time to shift about and be comfortable before he climbed over you, hovering above.
The romantic assault ensued soon after. He tasted and smelled the same, and even though you were in new surroundings, it was like coming home.
“Your boyfriend,” he panted, laying heated kisses like freckles down your neck, “does he kiss you like this?”
“No.” The answer was breathy but definite.
You could feel his smirk on your collarbone. “He doesn’t know, does he? About what you do out there. Try and talk to me, look at photos of us, cry. I’m your secret.”
And he was exhilarated to be your secret it seemed, because the kiss he gave you then was heart-stopping and sped up, like all the love scenes in thrillers.
And then the kissing stopped, because you both stupidly needed to breathe, and he lowered his head to your neck, his nose brushing the hollow of it as he regained oxygen.
You sat up yourself, and while he continued panting, reached for the hem of his shirt. He froze, his eyes meeting yours in shock. He nodded insistently.
It wasn’t the worn edge of his camp t-shirt you were used to, but the smooth fold of a new, better-fitting, more expensive one.
You pulled it off, slowly, your fingers scraping against his sides in ways that made him shiver. It finally travelled over his head, and you tossed it somewhere on the floor, before cupping his face in your hands.
“I’ll never get over you. I never have. Steve is just Steve and you’re you.” You whispered, lovestruck.
You were sure he would’ve answered back something just as personal and romantic, but your fingers had found their way to his scar, the ridged line he’d loathed and you’d come to adore. All the words seemed to have evaporated from his mouth. You traced the length of the scar softly, before kissing every centimetre of it. His eyes had fluttered closed, and he was still. It was one of the only times his face looked so delicate.
He sank down into the mountain of pillows, yanking your shirt off and tossing it, and you hovered over him, tracing and smoothing your hands over the tense planes and valleys of his chest and shoulders. He inhaled and exhaled sharply, and you knew how much your care and adoration of him and his body meant to him.
He was even more muscly than before, somehow, and you marvelled at the strength and might of your beloved boy, as you began leaving a burning line of kisses from the hollow of his neck to his navel.
He shuddered, making little noises at each touch of your lips to his chest.
Once your lips had finished that journey, up and back, you settled into his side, tucking your head under his chin and on his chest.
His heart was racing, and as was yours, and the close, intimate feeling of it all was enough to make you beam. He turned his head to face you. His eyes were earnest, shining with clarity and joy.
“You’re the only good thing in this world. I love you.”
And the world seemed to stop once your lips met again, because everything was perfect.
Your heart, mind and body, all in the right place, cradled in his arms.
The sunshine that streamed in through the porthole was like a warning from your father, a reminder that your actions were against everything you loved. Everything you believed him.
A reminder that while you loved Luke, you loved Camp Half-Blood more.
You left your heart there, tucked between his sheets, nestled in his warm embrace. The loss of it tore your chest, as you tiptoed through the corridors, gasping at the monsters you could now see and swearing at yourself as tears flooded your vision.
Maybe you should’ve woken him, you thought, given him one final kiss.
