#first flight

The second C-5M Super Galaxy test aircraft makes its first flight on Nov. 17 2006 from Dobbins Air Reserve Base, Ga.

Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader

He’s flown a hundred times—but never with his heart in the passenger seat.

Bob’s Masterlist

The airfield always smelled the same in the mornings.

Oil and sun-warmed metal, a little dust carried in from the road, and that sharp tang of fuel that clung to the back of the throat if you stood too close for too long. It settled into everything—into the wooden posts of the hangar, into the cuffs of shirts, into skin.

Bob didn’t seem to mind.

He stood beside the plane with his sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, a rag in one hand as he wiped along the wing in slow, careful strokes. The metal caught the early light, pale gold reflecting against his glasses as he leaned in to check for streaks.

He liked things done right.

Even if nobody was looking.

Especially then.

He paused, stepping back just slightly to look over his work—and that was when he heard it.

The faint crunch of gravel.

Bob froze.

Just for a second.

Then he turned.

And there you were.

You always looked like you belonged somewhere softer than this place.

The airfield was all noise and grit and sun, and you—well.

You were something else entirely.

Your dress caught the breeze first, the fabric shifting gently around your legs as you walked closer, heels careful against the uneven ground. Soft curls framed your face, not a strand out of place, and Bob suddenly became very aware of the grease on his hands.

“Oh—” He cleared his throat quickly, straightening up so fast he nearly dropped the rag. “Mornin’, miss.”

He said it like he always did.

Polite. Careful.

Like the word mattered.

“Morning, Bob,” you answered, smiling in that easy way that made something in his chest go tight.

He nodded once. Then again.

Too many times.

“Yes, ma’am. I—uh—didn’t expect—” He stopped himself, pressing his lips together as if he could catch the rest of the sentence before it embarrassed him further.

You tilted your head just slightly. “Didn’t expect me?”

“No!” It came out too quick.

He winced.

“I mean—yes—I mean, I just—” He let out a quiet breath, gaze dropping to the ground for a moment before he tried again. “It’s real nice to see you.”

There it was.

Simple.

Honest.

Your smile softened.

“Well,” you said, stepping a little closer, “I was hoping you’d be here.”

Bob’s grip tightened around the rag.

He swallowed.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said again, softer this time.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The wind moved through the open hangar, carrying the distant hum of another engine somewhere far off. A loose piece of tin rattled faintly against the roof, and Bob became suddenly, acutely aware of everything—except how to stand normally.

You glanced toward the plane.

“It’s yours?” you asked.

Bob followed your gaze, nodding quickly. “Yes, ma’am. Well—she’s not much, but she flies steady.”

“I think she’s beautiful.”

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

And something about the way you said it—like you meant it—made his chest feel too full.

“Y’think so?” he asked quietly.

“I know so.”

That did it.

Bob had to look away.

He cleared his throat again, folding the rag once, twice, buying himself a second before he spoke.

“Well,” he started, then hesitated.

You waited.

He shifted his weight.

“If—uh—if you’ve got the time,” he said carefully, “I could take you up.”

Silence.

Not long.

Just long enough for his stomach to drop a little.

Then—

“I’d like that.”

Bob blinked.

“Yeah?”

You nodded.

“I would.”

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, something small and relieved slipping into his expression before he quickly tucked it away again.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, already moving toward the plane. “I’ll just—make sure everything’s set.”

He worked faster now, but not sloppier.

Never sloppy.

Still careful. Still precise. Just with a quiet urgency under it now, like something inside him had been set gently alight.

You watched him.

The way he checked each gauge twice.

The way he adjusted things that didn’t seem to need adjusting.

The way he kept glancing over at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

And then—

He wiped his hands on the rag.

Thoroughly.

Like it mattered.

Like you mattered.

When he came back around, he hesitated just a fraction before reaching for you.

Not grabbing.

Not rushing.

Just offering.

“Careful, miss,” he said softly. “Step’s a little high.”

You placed your hand in his.

His breath caught.

Just for a second.

But he steadied you all the same.

Gentle.

Certain.

Like he’d hold on as long as you needed him to.

—

The engine roared to life beneath you, louder than anything on the ground had been.

The whole plane seemed to hum with it.

Bob adjusted his headset, voice coming through a little crackled as he glanced over.

“You alright?”

You nodded, smiling.

“I’m alright.”

He studied you for a moment longer than necessary.

Then nodded once.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The plane began to move.

Faster.

Faster.

Until the ground wasn’t the ground anymore.

Until the air took you.

And suddenly—

You were flying.

—

It was quieter up there.

Not in sound—but in feeling.

The world stretched out beneath you in soft greens and golds, fields folding into one another, roads like thin ribbons cutting through it all. The sun sat higher now, warm and steady, spilling light across everything it touched.

Bob kept one hand steady on the controls.

The other rested nearby, fingers twitching now and then like he wasn’t sure where to put them.

He looked ahead.

Then—

At you.

Then back again.

Then at you.

It happened so often it became almost a rhythm.

You noticed.

Of course you did.

“You’re not watching where we’re going,” you said lightly.

Bob stiffened.

“I am,” he said quickly. “I mean—I was—”

You smiled, turning toward him fully now.

“You keep looking at me.”

Silence.

His ears went red.

“I—” He swallowed. “I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t mind.”

That stopped him.

Completely.

He looked at you then—really looked—and something in his expression shifted. Softer. Quieter. Like he’d been holding something back and wasn’t quite strong enough to anymore.

“You don’t?” he asked.

“No.”

Another pause.

The plane hummed steadily around you.

The sky stretched on forever.

Bob exhaled slowly, something nervous but warm settling into his shoulders.

“Alright,” he said.

And this time—

When he looked at you—

He didn’t look away so fast.

—

By the time you landed, the sun had dipped lower, painting everything in that same soft gold it had started with.

Bob climbed out first.

Then turned.

And hesitated.

Just briefly—

Before wiping his hands again.

Carefully.

He reached up to help you down.

“Watch your step, miss.”

You took his hand.

Again.

And this time—

He held it just a second longer than necessary.

—

Neither of you moved right away.

The world felt slower somehow.

Quieter.

Like it had softened just for the two of you.

“That was…” you started.

Bob waited.

You smiled.

“Perfect.”

His throat tightened.

“I’m glad,” he said.

And he meant it.

More than he knew how to explain.

You lingered.

So did he.

And then—

“Oh,” Bob said suddenly, like he’d just remembered something.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small folded piece of paper.

“I—uh—meant to give you this.”

You took it carefully, unfolding it.

The paper was worn at the creases, like he’d folded and unfolded it more than once.

Your eyes scanned the neat, careful handwriting.

Miss— I’m not much good with sayin’ things out loud, so I figured I’d try it this way. I was real glad you came today. I kept lookin’ over at you more than I ought to’ve. I hope you didn’t mind. —Bob

Your breath caught—soft, quiet.

You looked up.

He was already watching you.

Nervous.

Hopeful.

Like he was bracing for something.

“I didn’t mind,” you said gently.

Bob swallowed.

Nodded once.

And before he could lose his nerve—

Before he could talk himself out of it—

He leaned in.

Just slightly.

Pressing the softest kiss to your cheek.

Gone almost as soon as it happened.

But warm.

Real.

Lingering.

Bob stepped back immediately, clearing his throat.

“I’ll—uh—see you around, miss.”

But he didn’t leave.

Not really.

He stayed right there—

Looking at you like you were something he’d never quite seen before.

And maybe—

Never would again.

Unless you came back.

And something told him—

Superman/Clark Kent and Martha Kent by Gabriel Soares (2024). Source

Gabriel Soares : "Clark trying on his new hero suit made by his mother. ❤️ I love the idea that Martha Kent fashioned her son Clark's (Superman) costume using Kryptonian fabrics that came with him on his spaceship. This version of the uniform's origin is found in the 1986 comic The Man Of Steel. One of the things that always caught my attention about this character is his relationship with his mother. Though Superman may derive his superpowers from his Kryptonian heritage, his greatest power of all comes from his upbringing by his adoptive parents Martha and Jonathan Kent. The kindly Kansas farmers imbued their moral compass and deep sense of compassion into their son Clark, making Superman a very special character to me."