Kiana Khansmith
Jules of Nature
No title available
hello vonnie
Xuebing Du
Sweet Seals For You, Always
titsay
🩵 avery cochrane 🩵
occasionally subtle
tumblr dot com
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Love Begins
Keni
No title available
Mike Driver
JVL
oozey mess
if i look back, i am lost
EXPECTATIONS
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
seen from Poland
seen from Poland
seen from Brunei
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Japan
seen from United States
seen from United Arab Emirates
seen from United Arab Emirates
seen from Malaysia
seen from Iraq
seen from Brazil
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@callsignrandom
Hello! I’m T (she/her)! Welcome to my corner of the internet. I read a lot of fics and rec them under #callsignrandom fic rec. If I'm writing, it's tagged under #callsignrandom writes! I write for Top Gun: Maverick as well as a slew of Lewis Pullman characters. I do not write Real People Fiction and I swear, if you send my writing to a celebrity, I will expire on the spot.
[2026 – Present] - updates when I have time!
Top Gun: Maverick
Robert "Bob" Floyd: Pretty Little Secret(s) | 3.3k Sunshine & Whiskey | 5.2k you, me, and a bed | 4.2k Love you, bye | 4k I'll Call You Mine | coming soon! Viva Las Vegas! | coming soon!
Jake "Hangman" Seresin: Dry Spell | 8.5k Show Me | coming soon!
Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw: Water at a Wedding | 1.5k Sunburn | coming soon!
Lewis Pullman Multiverse:
Robert “Bob” Reynolds/Sentry/Void (MCU): Encircled (Soulmate AU) | 13.3k Slowly, Slowly | coming soon!
Rhett Abbott (Outer Range): Never Been Mine | coming soon!
Calvin Evans (Lessons in Chemistry): It's Not Rocket Science | 12k Utter Nonsense | coming soon!
Harrison Knott (Press Play): Can I Call You Tonight? | 1.4k Just for the Summer | coming soon!
©️ All works are of my own mind. No AI. Characters belong to their creators; I just create alternate timelines for them. I do not give permission for anyone to copy or repost my writing, feed my writing into AI, etc. Likes and reblogs are appreciated, especially the latter!
THE SENTRY ⤷ lewis pullman in thunderbolts*
people are pissing me off in this discord i stg
And what if I scream?
Love you, bye // Bob Floyd x F!Reader
Summary: 4k Bob keeps slipping up when signing off his phone calls. Warnings: Bob is packing and Reader is lusting, but this is so PG. A/N: I've been sick the past week and haven't had time to write, so please don't judge me too hard on this. (Bonus at the end)
You loved the Dagger Squad. But being with them almost constantly was kind of exhausting. With mostly the same hours and mostly the same schedules week in and week out, you still ended up spending loads of time together outside of work.
Hikes in the surrounding area, trips to the beach, visits to new restaurants and bars, or even just visiting the Hard Deck after work some nights; you name it, you were all there. And somehow in the midst of being thrown together and reassigned to the new squadron under Maverick, you all became a family, though some of you were closer than others. It was natural.
You’d become closest to Phoenix and when the time came to relocate to California permanently, you both decided to get an apartment together. It saved on rent and the grocery bills, so it made sense.
The complex you’d gotten an apartment in happened to be mostly military due to its proximity to the base, but that wasn’t an issue. What was an issue was that you weren’t the only Daggers in the place and that meant your apartment became a hangout zone even when you weren’t prepared for it. Hangman got a one bedroom somewhere on the third floor of the building right next to yours, Payback and Fanboy were in the apartment right above yours, and the topping on the cake? Rooster and Bob had gotten the two bedroom two doors down. You’d told Natasha when you’d all decided to rent in the same area that it felt like the worst twist of fate to be so close to everyone, but it was actually kind of nice. Overwhelming sometimes, but nice.
Even though half the group was off, somehow you ended up grocery shopping alone, which was a miracle in and of itself. Someone was always there, berating your food choices or dumping junk in the cart that no one needed. But, just to be nice, you’d texted in the group chat that you were going shopping and asked if anyone in the building needed anything. No one responded, so you ignored it.
You were halfway through the produce section when your phone started buzzing in your pocket. Bob’s profile photo filled the screen when you pulled it out to look at it.
“Hello?”
“Hey! Are you still at the store?” Bob asked, sounding breathless. You checked your watch and realized he’d probably been at the gym with Mickey. They had a standing date most times to work out together.
“Yeah, did you need me to grab something for you?” You cradled the phone between your shoulder and your ear as you surveyed the bunches of bananas and hummed when you found a bunch you approved of.
“Do you mind picking up a few sweet potatoes and a bag of regular ones? I promised I’d grill tomorrow night and forgot to pick up potatoes. I was going to stop at the store after the gym, but if you’re already there . . .” he trailed off, tone hopeful. You rolled your eyes even though he couldn’t see you.
“I can’t believe you forgot the second most important thing for grilling.”
“Give me some credit. I got the steaks and Rooster stocked the fridge with so much alcohol I can’t even find the rest of the food I bought last week.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you laughed, “I’ll get your potatoes. Payback’s making his mom’s mac and cheese, right?”
“I think so.” Bob’s voice sounded more muffled for a second and you imagined him using his towel to wipe off gym sweat and, nope, you didn’t need to think about that in the grocery store of all places. “What are you and Nat bringing?”
“Ha, I put Phoenix on watermelon duty. You know damn well she can’t cook. I’m making s’mores brownies. And I think Hangman said he’d grab a vegetable tray or something, but that’s typical for him. I bet he shows up with a bag of broccoli or something. Is Javy going to make it?”
“He said something about his son being sick, so I don’t think so.”
You hummed and started choosing sweet potatoes, trying to pick ones that wouldn’t take too long on the grill but still had enough potato to make it worth cutting into. Coyote was the only one on your squad with a family, so he wasn’t always able to make it to your team dinners or extra events, but it was nice to know that at least one of you wasn’t going to die alone. “That’s too bad. I’ll have to check in and see if they need anything. I know he mentioned something about not having the same support system they had at their old posting.”
“It can’t be easy starting over with more than just yourself to worry about.” You could hear cars driving by and figuring Bob was now walking back to the apartment block from the gym in the community center.
“No, I bet it isn’t.” you murmured. Even though you had just seen him yesterday at work and even afterwards when all the boys had ended up on your couch drinking beers and watching some comedy show Jake was streaming to your tv from his phone, you held up conversation really well about other things and you kept Bob on the phone as you went around the store getting what you needed and what Nat had added to the list. But then you were in line at the registers and you didn’t want to be rude to the high school kid ringing you out, so you shifted the phone again. “Hey, I’m about to check out. I’ll see you in a bit when I get back, yeah?”
“You have the potatoes?”
“Yes, Robert,” you sighed, “I have your potatoes. You have such little faith in me. I was literally on the phone with you when I picked them up and I told you I’d get them.”
“Okay, I believe you,” he laughed. God, you loved his laugh. You were smiling into your phone like a teenager, happy just to hear it directed at something you said.
“I’ll be back in twenty and you can help me carry the groceries in. Consider that your second workout for the day.”
“Alright, let me know when you’re back.” You heard the door to the apartment shut with the outside world's sounds stopping immediately in favor of their air purifier’s hum. “Love you, bye.”
You didn’t even get a chance to say anything back because he hung up the phone immediately. Had he meant to say that? You stared down at the blank screen for a second before someone cleared their throat behind you and you realized you were holding up the checkout lane. Embarrassed, you quickly finished paying and exited the store.
The whole drive home you wondered if he meant to say that or if it was just a reflex. You’d certainly done it before by accident, usually after talking to your mom. By the time you parked in the lot right outside your building, you resolved not to say anything about it. If he didn’t mean to say it, you didn’t want him to feel bad about it. However, you couldn’t deny that you wished it was something he’d planned to say.
You shot him a text and three minutes later, a still sweaty Bob was bounding down the stairs to help bring up the groceries. The view stopped you in your tracks. You’d seen him sweaty before. There were only so many PT sessions and pushups a girl could watch him do before being in danger of passing out from how good Bob looked when he did physical activities, but today? It was devastating.
Whoever let Bob wear grey sweatpants needed to be put in prison. Because he was wearing them and an athletic sleeveless top that showed off his muscles and down below he was showing something else off. Bob was packing. He had to be doing this on purpose, right? No one just casually put on sweatpants that hugged the curves that made one practically indecent. Was he even wearing underwear?
You could feel heat rush to your face just from the act of tracing your eyes over the very clear outline in his pants that was more than just little, so you hid your face in your trunk in the guise of organizing your reusable grocery bags. The cashier had just chucked everything in there and you hadn’t taken the time to reorganize them in the store because you’d been so embarrassed about holding up the line.
Bob sidled up next to you and took three of the bags, leaving you with two.
“Potatoes?” he asked with a grin.
“Jesus, Floyd, if you ask me about the goddamn potatoes one more time, I 'm going to lob one at your head. As soon as I find them.”
He just laughed and started carrying his bags up the stairs, leaving you to close the trunk and carry the other two bags up. When you got upstairs just after him, he was waiting patiently for you to unlock the door.
“Nat’s home. You could’ve knocked.”
“Oh.”
“Or, I know you know the keycode to the door. You could’ve typed it in.”
“With Phoenix in there? Alone? No. She might’ve attacked me with a frying pan.”
A laugh escaped your mouth as you typed in the code and walked inside.
“Nat! I’m home! You better be decent because we’ve got company!” you shouted. You heard her door slam and grinned, turning back to Bob who was right behind you. “She definitely wasn’t decent so maybe you’re right.”
“I’m always right.” he muttered, heading into the kitchen to help you put the groceries away. It was like a choreographed ballet, the way the two of you seamlessly moved around your kitchen putting away vegetables and meats and the dry goods for your pantry. He even helped reorganize a section of your freezer so you could put your ice cream in there.
And then he found the potatoes and grinned that dopey smile of his as he held them up.
“What did I tell you, Floyd? I bought your fucking potatoes.”
“And you are a life saver. Need any more help?”
“Nope,” you said as you closed the pantry door, “you are relieved of your duties. Take your goddamn potatoes and go take a shower. You stink.”
“Hey,” he whined. “I—”
“Was at the gym, yeah, yeah. Go shower. Besides, I think Payback said something about the boys ordering takeout and watching some documentary, so I know you won’t want to miss that.”
“Are you and Nat coming up?”
“Absolutely not.” you sniffed, nose wrinkled. “It’s wine night and we’re polishing off a bottle and watching one of her trashy tv shows. I think she’s making me watch Love Island or something.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“You’re not invited.”
Bob had the audacity to actually pout. And it was freaking adorable.
“Go take your shower! I’ll see you tomorrow. Have fun with the boys.”
Three minutes later, you were alone in the kitchen and Bob was heading back to his place. Truth was, he could’ve stayed, but you were worried you’d jump his bones if he kept getting close to you with those sweats on. They really left nothing to the imagination and you contemplated getting off to the image that was now seared into your brain when Phoenix came out of her room with a devious smile on her face.
“Go take a shower!” she crooned in a horrible imitation of your voice, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
You fixed her with a blank stare and she grinned.
“You’ve got it so bad for him.”
“I do not.”
“Yes, you do, but it’s fine. You’ll admit it later after I’ve gotten a few drinks in you. You always do.”
You sighed, because yeah, you always did. She had a video of you drunkenly waxing poetic about Bob’s eyes and hair the last time you drank alone with her and you knew she also had video evidence of you saying you’d climb him like a tree if he’d let you. Drunk you was honest, which was definitely going to be your downfall one day. Though, if you were better at holding your liquor, you’d also have videos of Nat talking about how badly she wanted to bed Rooster. To you, that was even more gross than your pathetic crush on Bob Floyd. But maybe it wasn’t that pathetic if he’d told you he loved you on the phone. Even if it was a reflex.
“Maybe I won’t this time.”
“Please, I’m already prepared to listen to you whine about his sweatpants.”
“You didn’t even see them.” you blinked.
“Oh, I saw them. I just didn’t interrupt. Because I'm a great wingwoman.”
“Then you saw the front?”
“Honey, I didn’t need proof that Bob was hiding a monster down there. The boys have talked about it before. How did you miss that?” Phoenix laughed, going into the fridge to grab one of her smoothie drinks that you’d just restocked the fridge with.
“Well, it definitely adds to the appeal.”
Nat rolled her eyes and downed half her drink in one go. You must’ve made a face because she waggled her eyebrows at you for good measure.
“What are you making for dinner?” she asked.
“You really need to learn how to cook something other than box mac and cheese.” you groaned, stepping back into the kitchen to start pulling stuff out of the fridge to make dinner. “What if I left you to your own devices?”
“Then I’d starve and die. Why do you think I kept volunteering for deployments? They cook for me even if the food is shit.” She was grinning as she sat at the kitchen counter, tapping away on her phone. She was texting someone and you almost wanted to look over her shoulder to figure out who it was, but you had your suspicions. She’d been awful smiley ever since she found out Bradshaw would be staying on the team for good.
“I’m making cheesy chicken and potato casserole.”
“Delicious. See, this is why I keep you around.”
“Yeah, yeah. So you say.”
Dinner was finished with minimal side-comments and Nat poured the wine while you dished it up. She’d already queued up Love is Blind on your tv and sat there giving you recaps of what you’d missed while she shoveled down her dinner. And, by the end of the night, Phoenix had a new video of you in her camera roll of you whining about Bob’s indecent sweatpants.
It became a habit. Bob stopped texting you about certain things and instead picked up the phone to call you. While he was grocery shopping, about weekend plans or day off plans, whether or not you’d be on the same flight patterns, driving in the car someplace, you name it. And nearly every time he signed off, he signed off with a “love you, bye” like it was a completely normal thing to say. It turned your insides to mush every time.
After the tenth time he did it two weeks later, you turned it over to Phoenix.
“Nat, he’s killing me.” you groaned, head resting on the counter in front of you.
She hummed noncommittally around her cereal, which was one of the only things she knew how to put together.
“He keeps ending phone calls with ‘love you.’ Does he do that with you?”
“Bob doesn’t call me. He sends texts. Cryptic, horrible texts. He’s a menace and a bad texter. Actually, most of the time I just get a thumbs up emoji or some shit like that. He calls you?”
“Yes! Multiple times a week. And we talk.”
“You’re fucking blind.” she stated simply. “And deaf.”
“I am not.”
“You are too. The man’s got it as bad for you as you are for him. He’s practically admitting it—actually he has admitted it multiple times—and you’re over here whining about it.” She snorted and shook her head, scooping up more half-soggy cereal. “Woman up and go kiss him.”
“What?” you spluttered.
“You want to.”
“It’s not a matter of if I want to.”
“Mmhhmm.” she hummed, still engrossed in something on her phone. “Anyway, I’m going to be out tonight after work. Don’t wait up.”
“Where are you going?” you asked, eyes narrowed. Was this why she’d been on her phone lately?
“I’ve got a date.” she shrugged. “Might end up going really well if you know what I mean.”
“With Bradshaw?” Your mouth gaped. You never thought she’d admit it. Nat leveled you with a glare.
“No.” she gritted out. You watched her and decided you didn’t believe her. You’d definitely be checking her location later and texting Bob to see if he knew anything.
“Sure.”
Twelve hours later, you had your answer. Bob was knocking on your door with a grimace. He had a backpack slung over his shoulder too.
“What’s up, Floyd?” you asked, leaning against the open door. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly and readjusted the strap of his bag.
“So, it seems like our roommates are ‘getting busy’ and I need a place to sleep. Can I crash on your couch?”
“No shit. Her and Bradshaw are doing it?” you gaped, and peeked your head out of the door as if you’d be able to hear them going at it. You weren’t sure you wanted to anyway, but the vindication of being right was right there.
“Do you really need proof?” he asked weakly. “It’s, uh, pretty loud. I’m not sure I can look her in the face again after what I’ve heard.”
“Nah, I believe you. She said she had a hot date and she lied to me. Even turned off her location so I couldn’t track her. Lying bastard.” You ushered him in and closed the door. He kicked off his shoes into the pile you had by the doorway. “Anyway, it’s still kind of early. Wanna watch something before you turn in?”
“Sure, movie?” He dropped his backpack on the floor and flopped down on your couch like he lived there and you grinned as you collapsed next to him, nearly on top of him. The two of you settled in easily, right next to each other as you picked up the remote from the coffee table in front of you and turned on the tv.
“What do you want to watch?” You were already pulling up the dock of every streaming service you and Nat had commandeered from the team and your families.
“Star Wars?” Bob asked hopefully and you groaned.
“No. If I have to watch Return of the Jedi one more time this month, I might lose it. You know I love it, but we need some variety in our lives, especially with that marathon we’re doing in like a week. How about we compromise?”
“And what exactly is a compromise in your book?” He quirked a brow at you and your gaze flickered down to his lips for just a moment until you stopped yourself and turned back to the screen in front of you.
“What about Big Hero 6?” You gestured to the screen with the remote. Bob blinked at it. “Have you never seen this?”
“I don’t think I have.” He squinted at the screen and pushed his glasses further up on his nose. “What is that?”
“Well, you have no option now. We’re watching this. Do you want tissues?” Your voice was innocent as you asked and he turned to look at you in confusion.
“Do I need tissues?”
“Nevermind. Don’t worry about it. Pressing play!”
About seventeen minutes in, Bob stared at the screen in horror.
“How could you pick this?” He gaped, watching on as if it were a car crash he couldn’t look away from.
“Oh, keep watching. It gets worse.” you grinned.
“Worse than this? Dude, these people are sick.” He grunted, but settled in closer to you and dragged a blanket from beside him over your laps. You’d seen it at least twice, so you knew what would happen, but it was fun hearing his little quips and comments about each scene. It was always fun watching movies with him.
Towards the end, you caught him. His eyes were glistening with unshed tears and you nudged him carefully.
“Tissue?”
He shook his head and pulled you closer, causing your heart to start beating more rapidly. When had he reached an arm around you? Had you really been so comfortable that you hadn’t noticed? Apparently.
You decided not to overthink it and laid your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat while the movie played on. It was close to the end and you knew the outcome, but he didn’t and you listened to him sniffle for a second before you carefully tangled your legs closer together. Movie night had been significantly upgraded with this and you weren’t sure you could go back.
As the credits rolled, you moved your head to look up at him and Bob smiled down at you.
“That was good. And we are not going to talk about me crying.” he said sternly. Playfully. You laughed, the sound rolling over him in a delightful wave. His gaze slipped back down to your mouth and you found yourself doing the same thing, watching his lips like they were your favorite show.
Then, he did something brave and he brought his mouth down to meet yours. The hum you emitted was contented as you smiled into the kiss.
“Took you long enough, Floyd.” you murmured, reaching up to stroke a thumb along his jawline. He laughed quietly and leaned in again.
“Wasn’t sure if you were really interested. Rooster kept saying you were, but you know.” he mumbled between kisses. “Been trying to tell you for weeks on the phone.”
“So you really did mean to say ‘love you’ at the end of all our calls?”
“Yeah.”
“And are Bradley and Natasha really getting it on in your apartment or did you come over here with different motives?” Your eyes narrowed playfully and he pressed a quick kiss to your jaw that had you almost immediately forgetting what you’d asked.
“They are. It’s disgusting.” He answered. You groaned and climbed out of his arms, causing him to let out a noise of protest. “Where are you going? I wasn’t done with you yet.”
“I’m not done with you either, but if we stay on that couch then we’re both going to wake up with sore necks and bad backs. C’mon, Floyd. I’m taking you to bed.”
“To bed or to sleep?”
“To sleep. We have to be up early for work, remember?”
Bob sighed and hauled himself up from the couch, picking up his backpack and stretching his arms in the process. Your brain almost shorted out at the view of his muscled arms and the stretch of skin at the base of his shirt where it rode up.
“Besides, Mav’s not allowed to kill you before I tell you I love you back.” you said nonchalantly as you stepped into your bedroom.
His eyes nearly bugged out of his head when he heard the same words he’d been telling you for the past few weeks repeated back to him.
“Now, hang on.” he protested, following behind you. “You can’t just walk away after saying that.”
“Then you better hurry up and change and get into bed so I can tell you again and kiss you.”
Bonus:
Meanwhile, ten miles away at a local bar, Nat was looking down at her phone where your location and Bob’s were right on top of each other and grinned. She sent a quick text to her partner in crime, who was two doors down from the dots in question.
Trace: Mission accomplished. You can turn off the audio now. Bradshaw: You sure you don’t want to come over and make the sounds a reality? Bradshaw: Floyd will be gone all night ;)
And maybe, just maybe, she considered it.
Those schemers!!! I love this so much 🩵
Thanks for reading!! We love a pair of schemers!
i slept with the guy from open mic night and all i got was emotionally attached
cameron cassmore x female reader words: 2145 fluff, coffee and cinnamon rolls, aftermath of what was supposed to be a one night stand, reader meets tova, mentions of sex but nothing graphic, no y/n, one-shot
Cameron leans into your ear and whispers, “Why aren’t you wearing pants?”
“I don’t know,” you whisper back, “why didn’t you tell me your roommate is eighty?”
read on ao3 or below:
It’s kind of the last thing you expected.
This week was supposed to be about soup and board games and helping your aunt clear out her garage. It was supposed to be about sourdough starters and running errands.
It was not supposed to be about open mic nights at bars and hot strangers with guitars.
And voices that tickle your spine until you have goosebumps all over.
And blue eyes you could sink into and drown like you never learned how to swim.
It was not supposed to be about one night stands.
But, alas.
The blue eyes are closed. He’s still sleeping.
Cameron.
That’s his name.
Cameron.
You can still remember last night in flashes. His voice through the microphone. The scrape of his thumb over guitar strings.
The way he looked at you across the crowded bar like he already knew how the night would end.
And maybe you did too.
You remember his hands around your waist in the kitchen while you laughed into his shoulder. Remember him kissing you slow enough to make you yearn for more.
Yearn.
For a man you’d met less than three hours ago.
You remember thinking: oh, this is trouble.
Now he sleeps beside you completely unaware of the damage he’s done.
Mouth slightly open.
Hair a mess.
One hand curled loosely against your waist.
You should leave now, probably. Before you turn this into something it isn’t.
Instead you stay exactly where you are.
Cameron shifts in his sleep. Closer. His arm against you tightens.
Half-asleep, he murmurs against your neck, “Morning.”
“Good morning,” you whisper, trying to sound like you haven’t been awake for the better part of an hour just staring at his face. You gather the sheet over yourself, suddenly very aware of your own naked body.
He opens his eyes, barely, looking at you like somehow he didn’t expect you to reply. Like he wasn’t sure you weren’t just a dream.
His voice is rough with sleep. “You’re very pretty.”
You snort with laughter.
His brow furrows. “What?”
“Is that your go-to?”
“My go-to?” he repeats, visibly offended.
“Yeah. Your morning-after line.”
“You say that like I have a system.”
“You don’t?”
He shakes his head. “This doesn’t happen to me often.”
“Uh-huh,” you say. “I bet I can predict your next move, though.”
“There are no moves.”
“Right. So you’re not going to get me a cinnamon roll for breakfast?”
“No, I’m not—” He pauses abruptly. “Wait, what? How did you—”
“Last night, I told you I’m new to town and you said…”
Your voice trails off. That’s enough to spark his memory.
“That you should try the cinnamon rolls from the bakery,” he concludes.
“And you specifically said they make a great breakfast.”
His face shifts. Like he’s just now putting two and two together.
“But that’s not a move,” he says.
“No?”
“That’s just—”
“Yes?”
“Information that could improve your quality of life.”
“It’s that good?”
He nods.
You consider him for a moment. He seems sincere, and even if it is a move, like some sort of thank you for the sex, have a cinnamon roll and don’t be mad if I never call you scheme, what is really the worst thing that could happen?
That you leave here with two orgasms and a sugar high?
There are worse fates.
“Then I guess we’re having cinnamon rolls,” you say.
“Give me thirty minutes.”
He gets dressed like he’s already late for something—and for a moment you think he’s freaking out that you might not be here if it takes him a minute longer than he’s promised. You shrug off that thought as quickly as it comes.
Before he’s out the door, you realize that while last night has left you happy and satisfied and relaxed beyond measure, it has also left you icky. Dried sweat. Remnants of perfume. Whatever is left of your makeup.
“Uh, Cameron?”
He turns quickly. “Yeah?”
“Can I take a shower?”
“Sure. Through there,” he says, pointing to a door in the hallway. “Extra towels in the cabinet.”
You nod.
He leaves.
Thirty minutes doesn’t leave you with a lot of snooping time—not that you would, anyway, but you do glance around as you head to the shower, making a few accidentally-on-purpose stops along your way. The house is nice, well built, with a lot of wood and knickknacks that don’t really scream Cameron, but you just met the guy so what do you know? Maybe the little horses have a story behind them. Maybe the framed cross-stitch pieces were passed down to him. Maybe he got the place furnished and hasn’t had time to redecorate anything besides his room.
Maybe—
Maybe it’s been fifteen minutes and you still haven’t gotten to the shower.
The water pressure is bad. Like, really bad. And he doesn’t have nice products, but other than that it’s a fairly uneventful shower until—
The front door slams shut.
And just before you have a chance to call out his name, someone else does it for you.
“Cameron?”
It’s a woman’s voice.
A chill runs through your body.
You don’t reply.
You run through the possibilities in your head. This isn’t his house. He’s house sitting. Or he’s a burglar. A scammer. A real estate agent with boundary issues.
Or—
He’s married.
You don’t like any of the options.
Not because of him—God, no. If he’s a liar or cheater or whatever, good riddance. You do not care.
But simply because now you’re complicit. And naked. In a stranger’s house.
That’s the kind of thing that gets people shot.
“Your car isn’t out front,” the woman calls out.
The voice sounds frail, a little hesitant too. And it’s getting closer.
You turn off the shower. She knocks on the door. Your heart jumps and your eyes flick to the handle.
Locked. Thank God you had some sense.
“Cameron, are you in there? Is everything okay?” the woman asks.
“No, sorry, wrong person,” you blurt out, because you have to say something.
There’s a long pause.
“Who’s in my shower?”
“Funny story. I thought this was Cameron’s shower and not, um—I’m sorry, who are you?”
“I’m his grandmother.”
He lives with his grandmother?
Weird.
And sweet.
And—
Oh, for fucks sake. Get out of the bathroom.
You look around frantically only to discover that your clothes are exactly where you left them.
On Cameron’s floor.
The only thing you have is panties. Skanky panties.
That’s what your aunt had called them when you were unpacking. Then she’d laughed and said you would not be needing such things in Sowell Bay.
Joke’s on her.
You toss them on and reach for a towel, starting to wrap it around your chest before it hits you.
Modesty, maybe.
Or just the possibility of getting shot, which is still very real, and if that happens you do not want to be wearing skanky panties and a towel and end up the star of the most unfortunate crime scene photos.
Because the woman outside the door may very well be Cameron’s grandmother and she may be sweet and understanding to naked strangers and not shoot you—but what if the man you met isn’t Cameron at all?
What if the real Cameron is dead and stuffed in a closet somewhere and you were just a bit of entertainment for Scameron while he waited for grandma to come back so he could finish what he—
Oh, God. You have to stop listening to true crime podcasts.
And you can not go out there in a freaking towel.
There’s another knock at the door.
“Whoever you are, will you please come out?”
A quick glance around the bathroom proves most unhelpful to your current predicament—until you spot something hanging from a hook on the back of the door. A shapeless lump of dark fabric.
A sweatshirt.
Cameron’s, most likely. Unless his grandma is secretly an oversized sweatshirt kind of baddie.
You snatch the sweatshirt off the hook. It’s soft, probably from years of washing. Still warm, somehow, from the shower steam.
And before you can stop yourself, you bring it up to your face.
Big mistake.
It smells like him.
Not gross, sweaty boy smell. Just—him. Faint detergent, subtle woodsy cologne and skin.
Your stomach flips immediately.
“Oh, you are pathetic,” you whisper to yourself.
Cameron’s grandma clears her throat outside the door.
You pull the sweatshirt on quickly and then, carefully, crack the bathroom door open.
The woman waiting outside is about five feet tall with silver hair, a cozy cardigan and practical shoes. Her eyes glaze over you—bare legs, Cameron’s sweatshirt, wet hair—and for a moment you expect a scolding.
But then, she simply tilts her head to the side and mutters, “Oh, dear.”
“I’m sorry, I—” you stammer, but the rest of the words fail to materialize.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she says. “I’m not even supposed to be back yet.”
She starts walking down the hall, gesturing for you to follow. You do.
“I’m Tova,” she says.
You reach the kitchen. Tova starts putting on a pot of coffee.
You stand there awkwardly.
“And you, dear?” she asks. “What’s your name?”
“Oh, I’m—”
The front door opens. Both of you turn to look.
Cameron walks in carrying a stack of two white bakery boxes.
He’s smiling. Actually smiling. Hair damp from the rain, cheeks flushed from the cold.
“Okay,” he starts, “I was just gonna get cinnamon, but they were doing something new with pistachios, so I—”
He freezes.
You and Tova stare at him from the kitchen.
He walks over, eyes peeled on you and your bare legs and the whole situation at hand, and sets down what he’s brought on the counter.
“Uh, so, uh—”
“Relax, Cameron, we’re all adults here,” Tova says and begins unpacking the contents of the bakery boxes onto a decorative plate.
He rubs the back of his neck. “You said you wouldn’t be back until tonight.”
“Margaret’s husband developed chest pain, so we all came back early.”
“Oh.”
“He’s fine.”
“Great. Awesome. Fantastic for him.”
Tova walks over to the cupboard to grab coffee mugs.
Cameron leans into your ear and whispers, “Why aren’t you wearing pants?”
“I don’t know,” you whisper back, “why didn’t you tell me your roommate is eighty?”
“Fair point.”
“I haven’t seen you around Sowell Bay before,” Tova says, gesturing for both of you to sit down, and you feel obligated to obey.
“I’m just visiting.”
“Mm,” she says, pouring coffee into three mismatched mugs. “Sowell Bay has a habit of keeping people who need keeping.”
Cameron looks at her like she’s practically arranging a marriage.
You laugh.
“I’m going to take my coffee outside,” Tova says. “You two can pretend I’m not even here.”
“It’s raining,” Cameron tries to argue.
“There’s a roof over the deck,” Tova replies. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
And then, wearing another cardigan on top of the other one, she goes out into the cold misty air where rain is still falling and disappears from view.
Cameron nudges the plate of baked goods closer to you. You grab a cinnamon roll and take a big bite. It is exactly as good as he has described it to be.
He watches you and the way your lips can’t help but curl into a smile. You wash the bite down with coffee.
“She seems really nice,” you say, nodding your head towards the window. “Did you grow up here?”
He shakes his head. “We only met about six months ago.”
“Oh?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I have time.”
“You do?”
“I mean, my aunt is expecting me to go list all her Beanie Babies on Facebook Marketplace,” you say, unable to hide the hint of amused disdain in your voice. “But I think that can wait.”
“Alright.”
“Unless you’re scared, of course,” you add quickly.
He looks into your eyes from over the rim of his coffee mug. “Scared of what, exactly?”
“I don’t know. The longer I spend here, the more I like it,” you say. Then, you bite your lip. “I might fall in love with Sowell Bay and never leave.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Good cinnamon rolls.”
“Can’t argue.”
“Nice scenery.”
He shrugs. “When you can see it through the fog.”
“Friendly people,” you say.
Your cheeks are burning. He can see it, you know he can. He’s staring, now, and you don’t know if you’re supposed to break the silence or—
He clears his throat.
“Friendly octopuses, too,” he says.
You blink. “What?”
“Like I said,” he says. “It’s a long story.”
“Well?” you ask.
“Well what?”
“Go on, then.”
Cameron smiles.
This week was not supposed to be about cinnamon rolls, grandmothers and blue-eyed boys with stories to tell.
But, alas.
Maybe you do need keeping.
SALLY FIELD AS TOVA SULLIVAN AND LEWIS PULLMAN AS CAMERON CASSMORE
REMARKABLY BRIGHT CREATURES (2026) DIR. OLIVIA NEWMAN
i’m only interested in going back to sleep
LEWIS PULLMAN as LIEUTENANT KEEFER The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial (2023) dir. William Friedkin
I'm not in the discord for that reason 💀 but do you mind sharing the gist of what they're saying (I'm nosey)
I’m sorry, but no. If you’re on X/Twitter, I’m sure someone’s posted screenshots, but I won’t be sharing.
@topgun40fest day 4: aviation
i missed yesterday i hope to make it up asap but my attempts at drawing what i’m trying to draw have been fruitless 🥲
If you take requests or suggestions, i believe that you would execute a bob reynolds fic with this plot ✨perfectly✨
I literally LOVE all of your bob fics. They’re my comfort reads before i go to bed at night!
Body Paint
Pairing: Bob.Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!
Summary: You are trying to find the best smudge proof lipstick for the upcoming gala that the team needs to attend tomorrow, and you have found the perfect test subject for the swatches.
Warnings: Pure and utter fluff, and there’s quite a bit of sexual tension. The reader and Bob both have feelings for each other and they’re both well aware of the mutual interest (secretly of course), she takes this as an opportunity to tease.
Author’s Note: I loved this request so much and I immediately started writing it because I was so excited to give it a go! So So Fun! Thank you for the submission! :) (also credit to the artist who made the drawing too because it’s fantastic)
Word Count: 3,362
You gave every drug store lipstick display a run for its money with the collection you had laid out across the bathroom sink. An entire rainbow of tubes was scattered in a controlled type of chaos–organized first by shade, then grouped meticulously by brand. Reds on the left, mauves and berries in the middle, and neutrals off to the right like a little modest army. You had even gone so far as to lay a folded white towel beneath the lineup like a staging mat, saving yourself from scrubbing stains off the marble countertop. The air smelled faintly of your makeup remover wipes–sweet and sterile–and your forearm was streaked with half-dried swatches, but it just wasn’t good enough.
This was all in the name of finding the lipstick. The one that not only matched the dress you were wearing to the PR gala tomorrow, but one that was also smudge-proof. You didn’t want feathering, or fading, and you certainly didn’t want it transferring onto napkins, glasses or people.
You wanted security.
You knew you should’ve started this task earlier in the week, but between back-to-back recon debriefs, endless intel meetings, and mediating three separate team arguments that nearly ended in Walker and Yelena actually strangling each other, the lipstick trials had fallen to the bottom of your to-do list.
Now there was less than twenty-four hours to go, and you were elbows-deep in swatches and stress.
You capped one more tube with a dissatisfied sigh and reached for the next–
Only to pause at the sound of a soft knock on the bathroom door.
“Y-Y/N?” Came Bob’s voice–muffled, hesitant and laced with that familiar nervous warmth. “I-I need to come in and get my brush. I forgot it after my s-shower…” You froze, mid-reach, one hand hovering over a berry toned satin finish tube. Your lips curled into a slow smile.
Perfect timing. For you, anyway. For Bob? That remained to be seen. You crossed the small tiled room in a few barefoot steps and swung the door open with a grin.
“Excellent! You’re just who I need.” Bob blinked at you like a deer caught in LED headlights. His shirt–black, baggy, and soft–was damp around the collar, clinging to his skin and chest in a way that made it impossible not to look. His light brown hair curled at in little waves at the ends, still damp from his shower that was still kissing the walls, and the navy sweatpants sitting low on his hips were hugging him far too well for a man who clearly didn’t see himself in the way you were seeing him in.
”…Wh-What?” He asked, brows furrowed, gaze daring from your eyes to the mess of tubes on the counter.
“Come in,” You said smoothly, reaching out and tugging him gently by the wrist, guiding him over the threshold with ease, “Sit on the toilet lid, and hurry up with the hair brushing…I need a test subject.” He obeyed-but only in the way someone might follow a siren calling them to certain doom. He moved like he wasn’t sure if he’d stepped into a trap or a daydream.
”L-Last time I heard the words ‘test s-subject’ I ended up getting injected with a sun god…” He mumbled, grabbing the brush from the hanging organizer on the shower door. You laughed, warm and low at the comment.
“Relax. I’m not injecting you with anything. You’re perfectly safe with me.” Bob sat down slowly, brush limp in his hand as his gaze swept across the counter again, scanning over the contents that you had lined up with such care.
”S-So what is all of t-this?” You turned slightly towards him, unscrewing a velvet-matte red as you spoke.
“I’m trying to find the perfect lipstick for the gala tomorrow,” You said matter-of-factly, swiping the colour gently across your bottom lip, “It has to match my dress and it has to be smudge-proof.”
Bob tilted his head, watching your quick movements intently, “Smudge-proof?”
“Yes. I don’t want to be constantly running to the bathroom to check for fading or fix transfer stains. I want to actually enjoy the night. Have a drink. Maybe dance. You know…Breathe.” He gave a thoughtful little nod, bringing the brush through his damp hair.
”D-Didn’t really think about that, a-actually…” You turned away from your reflection to look at him, a coy smile peeling onto your lips.
“Most guys don’t.” But Bob wasn’t most guys of course, and as expected, a beat later he added to the conversation again…
”…W-Wait…Why does it have to be completely smudge-proof though? I mean if you’re just–“ You shrugged, letting your gaze flick toward the mirror, while your lips pressed together, transferring the color over to the bare one above.
”You never know,” You said casually, “I might be planning on kissing someone.” Bob froze like someone had yanked all the oxygen out of the room. His cheeks–already pink from the post-shower warmth–turned a deeper, rosier red in seconds. It bloomed across his cheekbones, dusting the tips of his ears, and spread like a sunburn. His mouth opened slightly like he meant to say something, but all he managed to get out was:
”O-Oh…” He choked, swallowing the lump of nerves in his throat. The brush in his hand was still mid-motion through his damp locks, but it had stopped moving entirely. You smiled at him.
”Alright,” You started, twisting the lipstick down and putting the cap back on with a soft click, “First one. You ready?” He nodded slowly, like he couldn’t trust his voice. His eyes tracked you as you stepped forward–deliberate and unhurried–until you were standing directly between his legs.
His brush lowered slightly, and then the wave of your scent hit his nose.
Your perfume was warm, and sweet, with a hint of plum riding off of the tail end of each inhale he took. Beneath the main notes there was something tropical–maybe coconut from your makeup remover, or the vanilla-tinged balms you always wore when your lips were bare.
But now your lips weren’t bare at all. They were red, and bold, and smooth, just like fresh velvet. He looked up slowly, through his lashes, and found you were already staring down at him. You tilted your head, smiling, the curve of your mouth smug in a way that made something tighten in his chest.
You didn’t say anything as you reached forward–fingers brushing gently along the side of his jaw, your thumb just beneath the hinge of it. He let you tilt his head more toward you like he was made of clay and you were the ceramicist.
He dropped the brush into his lap, forgetting about it completely.
Your face hovered near his and he could feel his breath hitch audibly. You leaned in slow enough that he swore he could hear his own heartbeat ringing through the room.
Then your lips pressed to his cheek.
Warm, firm and lingering. It wasn’t a quick peck either. Not an innocent brush. It was a kiss.
You lingered just long enough for him to feel the curve of your mouth, and the faint stick of product with the pressure of intention behind it. He could smell the stain now–berries and heat, sharp pigment and your sweet breath that had a faint scent of strawberries from the gum you chewed on. If he was a sailor and you were the siren…He would be dead at sea.
When you pulled away, he swore the room was spinning a little. You cocked your head to the side and looked at the mark you had left just above the apple of his cheek. A bright, undeniable red, plastered on his pale tone.
“Hmm,” You said thoughtfully, “Definitely transferred.” Bob sat in stunned silence, skin still tingling from where your mouth had been–he didn’t know whether it was because he was allergic to the ingredients or because it was just him buzzing from all the adrenaline, though he would find out in due time. You dabbed at your own lips with a tissue saturated in make-up remover, wiping the colour clean.
“Not a keeper,” You mumbled, “It’s a shame–it was a really good match.” He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t find words, nor could he find a way to breathe. He didn’t even know how he was still alive at this point, all he knew was he saw you reach out again.
You selected the next shade carefully.
A sultry plum–deep, and elegant, with just enough bite to stand out. You rolled the colour across your lips in smooth, practiced strokes, then blotted once on a folded tissue before turning back to him.
Bob still hadn’t moved an inch. He was still sitting frozen on the seat, brush limp in his lap, his shimmering blue eyes flickering between your mouth and the floor. The cheek you had kissed was flushed a bit deeper now.
“Test two,” You announced gently, stepping into his space again, until the hem of your t-shirt brushed against his thigh and he had nowhere left to look that wouldn’t betray him in some way. Your hand came up to his jaw again–just two fingers this time, soft and easy, tilting his face the opposite way.
His lashes fluttered under the feeling of your breath brushing over them as you kissed him again. This time it was just below his temple, closer to the hinge of his jaw–closer to where his pulse was throbbing faintly beneath his skin. You pressed a little firmer this time, letting your breath fan against his ear.
Bob inhaled a quiet breath through his nose, attempting to keep himself calm, but in reality he was gripping the fabric of his sweatpants between his fingers like it was the only thing holding him back from collapsing. When you pulled away, you didn’t look at him, you just kept your focus on the mark.
”…Transferred,” You murmured, brushing your thumb lightly over the stain–making sure it was more of a caress than a swipe. You didn’t move back this time, you just grabbed another makeup wipe and removed the color before reaching for another.
It was a dusty rose this time, it was softer, and much more muted than any of the other colors he had seen you in.
Once you had applied it, you leaned in–closer now–and kissed the slope of his cheekbone, just beneath the curve of his eye. Your lips barely grazed the skin there–it was as if you did it to see if he would flinch or move.
Bob’s jaw tensed under your touch, and you were hyper aware of his breath hitting your skin in short, warm bursts, his chest lifting against you. He hadn’t said a word–but his hands had now left his lap and were gripping the edge of the counter, white-knuckled in anticipation.
You reached for the next tube–something far more delicate than the dusty rose before it. A pink so faint it was almost nothing at all. A whisper of colour. You applied it, blotted it, then turned again. Bob had somehow managed to get a handle on his breathing in the moments you were applying the next colour, but it was too controlled. You could practically feel the storm building beneath his skin, golden and humming, and desperate to stay still.
Your thighs brushed the inside of his knees as you tilted his head up to yours again, looking at the way his skin was flushed and warm, beneath the shades of pinks and reds…A gradient of restraint. You leaned in, and this time your kiss landed just beside the corner of his mouth, not touching it, but close enough to tease.
Bob made a sound. It was barely audible. A sof, helpless little nnnnh in the back of his throat–like a gasp that had gotten stuck on the way out. You didn’t say anything. You only bit back a knowing smile, and pretended not to hear it. You just wiped your lips again and moved on to the next shade–a creamy nude gloss, with just a hint of peach.
You came back in and kissed beneath his jaw, where the stubble was soft and patchy and tender. The spot made him twitch, his throat working under the weight of the kiss, like he was trying to swallow air.
His breathing changed then and became heavier and shallower.
And when you came close to him again, in a different shade–this time pressing your lips right onto his Adam’s apple–Bob’s head tipped back instinctively.
Like he was offering himself up to you–surrendering himself completely.
You continued to kiss him, moving progressively lower, marking him up with various shades. Then suddenly you found yourself at the hollow of his throat, just between the lines of his collarbones. His chest was rising faster now, with flush traveling beneath his shirt, like it was echoing the trail your mouth had carved against his skin.
You pulled back slowly, lips hovering about the damp collar of his shirt, bringing your hand up to brush over the fabric.
”Oops…” You murmured softly, putting on a teasing tone beneath your words, “I think I’m running out of room.” Bob looked down at you with eyes that were no longer blue. You hadn’t even noticed he had his eyes closed tightly for the majority of this until now.
There was gold flickering at the edges. Sentry was just barely cresting the surface–quiet, curious, and turned-on by the proximity. He was enamoured by what was happening, and Bob was allowing him to watch through his eyes because he was too focused on trying to keep himself together. The air around Bob was shimmering faintly, vibrating with tension like he was lighting up the room.
The sensation of your lips had done this…You had done this, and you were proud of it.
Your nails dragged gently down the front of his shirt, tracing a circle around the fabric.
”I think you may need to take this off…To give me more space of course.” You whispered, watching as his brain seemed to short-circuit. His eyes were still half-lidded, heavy with heat and something distant and flickering gold. But when they opened fully they met yours with the softest, most terrified kind of care, glancing down at your mouth just as your bottom lip slipped between your teeth…And that’s what did it for him. That was the punch of encouragement to the gut.
He gave you a small nod, then reached for the hem of his shirt. His hands trembled slightly from the kind of overstimulated shyness that lived just under the surface of his flesh, in the space between ‘I want this’ and ‘I don’t know what to do with all of it.’ He peeled the black shirt up slowly, exposing inch after inch of pale skin, dusted with freckles and pure heat. There were a few scars here and there. A mole right near the dip of his sternum. A faint sheen of sweat that bloomed across his chest and shoulders from the heat in the room–or from the heat of your lips…Possibly both.
The fabric came over his head, messing up his semi-brushed hair in the process, and he folded it carefully in his lap like he was going to get up to put it on display or something. You let yourself stare.
At the freckles on his collarbones, the ones on his biceps. The soft stretch marks that feathered under his arms and the little curve of his ribs as they flared gently with each nervous breath he took. You wanted to map everything with your mouth.
So you did.
You leaned in again, with a fresh colour on your lips–deep pink this time, and kissed just beneath his collarbone, then a little to the right, then down the slope of his chest–right over where his heart was pulsating beneath its shield of flesh.
Bob made a quiet sound, something soft and strangled that never made it fully out of his throat. His hands were still in his lap, his thumbs gripping the hem of the shirt like it was the only thing keeping him from grabbing yours. Every part of him was vibrating–his jaw clenched, chest rising, shoulders tense–and still he let you do it, staying perfectly still.
You changed shades, kissing higher, then lower.
A sheer gloss that glimmered under the light as you kissed just below the curve of his pec. A matte brick red as you moved toward the center of his chest. Then you put on something soft again, something nude and barely there, as you pressed your hands against his thighs for a bit of leverage while your lips found the inside slope of his ribcage. You could’ve sworn you felt his knees buckle under your hands.
By the time you reached the underside of his pectoral muscle, you heard the faintest breath catch in his lungs, like he couldn’t even take full breaths anymore. And then you kissed just above it.
One final, perfect kiss.
You pressed your lips down and held them there–longer, slower, firmer–fighting back the urge to mark the skin with something that wasn’t lipstick. You felt the flutter of his pulse beneath it. And when you finally pulled away, you let your lips ghost against him, your eyes trailing down to where you had kissed.
“Ooooh. This one’s good…I think we found it. No transfer!” You announced, looking up at Bob, seeing the ruined look plastered on his face.
His eyes were heavy, shot through with blue and gold. His mouth parted. His skin was flushed a deep red and marked in soft lip stains, all across his chest, neck, jaw, and face. The air shimmered around him like static clinging to the atmosphere, and he was breathless. He let out a sigh.
”P-Perfect,” He whimpered, so dazed his words barely had shape to them. His body shifted, like he was meaning to stand–maybe to retreat, maybe to run cold water over his steaming body, maybe just to breathe–
But you didn’t let him.
Before he could even try to get up, you surged forward and kissed him on the lips. Hungry, wet, and deep. You kissed him like it was the conclusion to a story you had been telling in colour across his skin. Bob let out a muffled, desperate little moan into your mouth, as his hands found your waist, then your back, then your hips–grabbing, pulling, and holding. He crushed you to him, allowing all his restraint to unravel all at once, letting what little control he had slip through his fingers.
You kissed him like you had wanted to from the very start. Like all the kisses around his whole body led to this one final one–this overwhelming, messy, and utterly perfect one.
He kissed you back with awe. With the kind of pressure that said ‘thank you, please don’t stop, I’ve been waiting.’
You pulled back just enough to breathe–barely. Your foreheads bumped, and the air between you was heat, electricity, and trembling silence.
Bob’s lips were swollen now. Kiss-bitten, and wet. But when you looked…
The colour on your lips hadn’t transferred onto his. You smirked, and reached up, gently swiping the faintest trail of spit off his swollen bottom lip with your thumb, tilting your head to the side.
”Fantastic,” You whispered, leaning forward just a bit, “It’s definitely kiss-proof.”
waitttt are you talking about the attaboy discord or something else 👀 cause I've heard some stuff about the attaboy one with lewis
Absolutely I am. People have no respect towards him specifically in it and it makes me mad. If you have nothing nice to say, shut your mouth. And it’s a few people specifically who are stalkerish and rude and I don’t understand it.
It’s not hard to just support the whole band. They’re all very talented.
people are pissing me off in this discord i stg
✦ GLEN POWELL AS ⌜ RUSS HOLLIDAY ⌟ — CHAD POWERS ❨ 2025 ❩ ✦
Thunderbolts* (2025) dir. Jake Schreier
Bob + his precious face
LEWIS PULLMAN as Bob Reynolds — Thunderbolts* / The New Avengers (2025)
Policy Of Truth
Pairing: Swat Uniform/Gear!Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!
Summary: When Bob returns from a mission dressed in swat gear you can’t help but lose what little composure you have around him.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Reader and Bob are in a sort of established friends with benefits relationship (reader has a fluctuating libido with Bob, but Bob is always down when she’s down)
Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up friends), Oral Sex (female receiving), Fingering, Semi-Public Sex? (kitchen sex?), The Gear Stays On ™️, Biting, Marking, Rough Sex (it’s a quickie lol), Breast Squeezing, Finger Sucking, Bob is a messy kisser (so spit and drool are present), Choking (just a little), Dirty Talk, Cum Play/Cum Eating, Is Bob a little dominant here? Yeahhh, Aftercare and cleaning up the kitchen lol
Author’s Note: SWAT GEAR BOB Y’ALL! I fucking loved writing this whole scenario and honestly…Fuck yeah for swat gear Bob lol. I hope you guys enjoyed it, and I hope it meets expectations! <3 I was half asleep when I wrote this (I got drawn up on writing two other stories)
Word Count: 7,154
The kitchen was quiet, suspended like a glass jewel above the city. The Watchtower’s walls were more window than steel, a near-panoramic sweep of New York spread out below, its veins of light glimmering against the dark. From the 84th floor the world felt impossibly far away, the headlight below being nothing more than faint threads of gold, and skyscraper signs flickering light constellations against the night sky. Inside, everything was modern and sharp–a smooth marble island at the center, cool under your fingertips, and brushed stainless steel appliances gleaming faintly along the walls.
The overhead lights were dimmed to their lowest setting, no more than a soft amber suggestion, leaving the city itself to do most of the work. Neon reds and blues seeped through the glass, casting themselves across the marble countertops and polished floors in shifting ribbons. The kitchen breathed with a kind of hushed intimacy, lit by a skyline that seemed to pulse like a living thing.
And tonight, it was all yours.
You had claimed this rare silence, luxuriated in it. The day had been a gift–the television flickering with shows you never had time for, groceries being unpacked at your own pace, and the simple, decadent ritual of catching up on news like a civilian. You had sunk into a bath hours ago, pouring in the lavender oil that Bob had bought you months back, the scent still clinging faintly to your skin. Your muscles had melted into the steam, your lungs filling with the floral calm until you thought you’d never resurface.
Even when Bucky called thirty minutes ago–gravel-voiced and gruff–inviting you to join the team for drinks, you smiled and declined, because tonight belonged to you. To the hum of silence filled by a random Top 40s radio station playing on your phone and to your voice barely audible, humming along under your breath as you worked.
You stood at the marble island, with your knife in hand, slicing three mini cucumbers into quarters and laying them neatly onto a plate. A pint of strawberries waited nearby, their glossy and seeded skins catching the light like droplets of blood against the white marble. Two clementines sat beside them, glowing soft and orange, waiting to be peeled. The rhythm soothed you. Slice, place, hum. Slice, place, hum. It was the kind of rhythm that felt indulgent in its mundanity.
So indulgent, in fact, that you didn’t hear him until his voice cut through the music.
”Ha-Having a dance party for one?” Bob’s voice made you jump out of your skin, a knife-tip pause catching against cucumber flesh as the blade nearly nicked too close for comfort. Your head snapped up instinctively, and your jaw parted in a small, soundless exhale when you saw him.
He wasn’t wearing the Sentry’s suit.
Gone was the celestial blue and gold, the gleaming figure that carried godlike weight into every room. Instead standing there in the muted light of the Watchtower’s kitchen he wore something utterly mortal–and somehow infinitely more devastating.
The SWAT gear clung to him like it had been built for him alone. Thick, fitted black fabric stretched across his chest and shoulders, padding sculpting every line of muscle with merciless definition. The vest sat heavy across his torso, fronted with segmented plates that accentuated the breadth of him. Tactical webbing and empty holsters hugged his hips, the straps tightening across his thighs so that even his legs looked broader, more dangerous, and more muscular. The sleeves of the uniform were snug against his arms, making the rise of his biceps and forearms look like carved stone under black paint. Even stripped of weapons, he looked armed with nothing but himself.
His light brown hair was damp, strands curling forward to stick slightly against his forehead, as though the mission had wrung the last clean breath out of him. His face–still flushed from exertion–was open in a way it never was in Sentry’s suit. Bare skin. Sweat-darkened hair. Eyes sharp and impossibly blue in the dim amber wash of the kitchen, lashes already damp and low with that faint, nervous flicker you’d learned was his tell.
Your pulse spiked, hot and disobedient. Your hand on the knife tightened just enough to ground yourself, and you suddenly became achingly aware of your own softness in comparison–bare legs bare in short shorts, an oversized shirt sliding off one shoulder, the lavender scent from your earlier bath still clinging faintly to your skin, completely and totally underdressed.
“What’re you doing back?” You asked, your voice pitched low, quick, as if to cover the way your body betrayed you. Your wet fingertips left tiny, star-shaped stains across your phone screen as you tapped around to pause the music. He shrugged, a small half-smile tugging crooked at his mouth.
“I wasn’t really in the mood to go out and be the de-designated babysitter… That’s usually your job.” You hummed at the comment, biting down lightly on the inside of your cheek to keep the smirk away from coming up at the corner of your mouth.
”Yeah…Yeah it usually is.” You replied. And still, you couldn’t stop staring at the way the uniform framed him and at the way the straps and gear pulled your eyes down, making your body hum with a heat that crept steadily up your chest, your neck, the tips of your ears. You busied your hands, reaching for a strawberry, slicing the top away with practiced precision.
“What’s uh…What’s with the SWAT gear?” You tried to keep your voice smooth and casual, but the tremor of heat beneath it betrayed you, and you knew he noticed, because that’s what casual sex did to two people–it brought out tells and made it easy to spot.
From out of the corner of your eye, you saw him shift closer to the marble island, the faint scuff of his heavy boots echoing against the polished floor. His shoulders rising with another shrug.
”Se-Sentry decided to disappear mid-mission, so everyone thought it was a good idea to make me wear this just in case we got ambushed.” You smirked despite yourself, imagining the chaos of Yelena and Bucky barking orders at him, trying to wrangle Bob out of his divine garbs and into black tactical gear.
“Did he get stage fright or something? He never does that…” You pointed out, your knife making another careful slice, the strawberry’s red flesh gleaming wet under the blade.
And then you saw it–just barely in your periphery. Bob lifted one of the clementines off the counter, his gloved hand taking a hold of the fruit, as he bent forward to drag the leather of it between his teeth. You froze, the image searing itself against your mind like a brand. The sound of his teeth tugging the glove free was faint, but the sight–his jaw flexing, his lips pulling, the raw intimacy of him using his mouth like that–had your stomach clenching hard, heat pooling low in your body. He peeled the second glove the same way, slower, letting it hang from his mouth for a beat before tugging it free with his free hand.
You had to force yourself to breathe, to lower your gaze before he caught you staring too openly.
“I don’t know…” He went on, oblivious to what he had just ignited in your body, his voice soft, thoughtful. “He’s been off la-lately, honestly. I’m not going to make it worse by forcing him to come out though…You know how he gets when you push him too hard.” You huffed a laugh, trying to shake off the way your body was buzzing.
”He’s such a lazy god sometimes…” You commented, hearing his nail pierce the delicate skin of the clementine he was holding, as the air filled instantly with its sharp sweetness. The mist rose, and the citrus oiled lifted into the dim light, tangling themselves with the lavender scent that clung to your skin, and with his own scent that you couldn’t quite catch yet due to proximity.
“Yeah,” Bob murmured, eyes casting down as he peeled back the rind carefully, fingers precise and gentle, “He just wa-wants to be treated like he’s royalty.”
“Yeah…Yeah, royalty.” The words left you flatly, as though you were trying to shoo them out of your mouth before your body gave you away. His head tilted up at the tone, blue eyes catching yours instantly, his attention snapping like a cord pulled taut.
”Are you alright? You seem di-distracted.” You shook your head too fast, knife hovering above another berry.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. I was just…Thinking about whether or not I put a meeting with Val in my calendar.” He didn’t look convinced at your lie, as his lashes fluttered faintly, his nervous twitch betraying him even as he studied you and had the upper hand in a way.
His voice softened, giving you a soft warning, “Well…Just be careful, you almost cut your hand…” You nodded quickly, tightening your grip on the knife, determined not to look at him again.
“Will do…” You murmured, keeping your eyes pinned to the strawberries, slicing carefully, almost too carefully, as though precision might shield you from the awareness of him standing so close.
Silence stretched for a breath, thick and charged, before you heard it–the steady approach of his boots against the polished floor. The sound was slow, deliberate, each footfall reverberating up your spine until you straightened instinctively, your shoulders drawing taut. He moved around the island, closer, and closer still, until you felt the atmosphere tilt. The cabinet door creaked open, and the faint thud of discarded clementine peels echoed from the trash. Then, the soft scrape of fruit being set upon the marble–he’d placed it beside your plate. Such an ordinary act, yet the air around it pulsed, thick with his nearness.
And then he breathed you in.
It wasn’t subtle. His chest swelled, the tactical vest straining across the breadth of him, and the sound of it–low and deliberate–burned hotter than any touch. His lashes dipped as he angled his head toward you, eyes half-lidded, his expression caught between curious and hungry.
”“Oh…You smell nice…” His voice rolled low, threaded with something unguarded. He leaned closer, lips grazing the space near your ear, breath stirring the loose strands of your hair. He inhaled again, deeper, pulling you into his lungs like he needed proof. “Mmm…Is it that la-lavender oil I got you…?” Your throat bobbed, a faint shiver prickling over your skin. Yes, lavender lingered faintly from your bath–but it was his scent that seized you.
The mission clung to him. Gunpowder–sharp, acrid, almost metallic–wove itself into the fabric of his SWAT gear. Beneath it was the tang of copper, a faint reminder of steel or blood, as though violence still hummed just under his skin. And under all of that, the man himself: sweat, thick with salt and heat, musk darkened by exertion, earthy and heady. It mingled with something uniquely his, something you’d known since the first time you brushed past him in the Watchtower’s halls and caught yourself inhaling–warmth and weight, like the ghost of cedar and skin baked under sun. The scent was sinful now, drenched in effort, but it was him, and it sent heat lancing straight down your body.
“Yeah…” You managed after a beat, your voice catching in your throat. You swallowed, clearing it quickly. “Haven’t been able to use it until now…” He hummed low, satisfied, the sound vibrating through his chest like a growl muffled under velvet.
“Do you li-like it?” He asked, the words trembling through you, thickening the air in your lungs. You nodded, eyes still on the strawberry beneath your knife.
“It’s great. Really relaxing.” You replied.
And then, without warning, his hand reached out to you.
Large, warm, steady–his palm enveloped your wrist and eased the knife away. The motion was unhurried, intimate, as though stripping you of the blade wasn’t about safety, but about peeling away the last thin shield between you. His thumb brushed across your knuckles, lingering a moment too long before he set the knife aside. The sound of metal on marble was faint, final.
“Why won’t you look at me?” The question cut deeper than the knife ever could. Your stomach dropped, a weightless plunge that had your teeth sinking into the meat of your cheek. Saliva pooled in your mouth, thick and hard to swallow. Slowly–like turning toward the edge of a cliff–you shifted, meeting his gaze.
“I’m lo-looking at you now… See.” The words came out shaky, a whisper dressed as bravado. His eyes narrowed, squinting slightly, the sharp blue burning through yours. He leaned forward, breath brushing your lips with warmth and citrus. His stare locked you in place, his lashes dipping low before snapping open again, studying every flicker of your face.
“You’re nervous…What’s going on with you? Hmm?” Your pulse stuttered in your throat, hammering. And then his hand was on your cheek. Hot and calloused, the weight of his palm against your flushed skin sent a shock racing through you. Your breath hitched audibly. His thumb dragged slowly across the curve of your cheekbone, and his mouth curved–smirk sharp but teasing
“You’re bo-boiling too… Now I’m really curious what’s going on…” The smirk that followed his comment was a knife and a caress all at once, slicing through your composure even as it stroked your need. Heat gathered low in your stomach, pooling heavy in your shorts. Your thighs pressed together unconsciously, your oversized shirt slipping further down your shoulder as you shifted restlessly.
Then he inhaled again. Lower this time, angled deliberately toward you. And something flickered in his eyes–recognition. He’d caught it. The faint, telltale musk of your arousal curling in the space between you. He knew it. Of course he did. He’d smelled it on his own fingers before, on his skin after nights tangled with you, and most potently when his face had been buried between your thighs. The memory of it flashed through him–you could see it in the way his gaze darkened, the desire beginning to build up within his own body now as well.
His free hand slipped down, fingertips grazing along the bare side of your thigh, as the calloused pads skated upward, light, teasing, until they reached the hem of your shorts. He lingered there, tracing the edge slowly, maddeningly, the ghost of pressure sending electricity straight to your core. His mouth ghosted your cheek, his lips not quite touching, voice a whisper of heat.
“It’s been a while…Since we…Y’know.” His breath fanned across your skin, his tone careful, not pushing–gentle, respectful, but edged with want. “Are you in the mood?” He was always considerate of your needs first, especially because your libido fluctuated way more than his, and tonight seemed like the right night to truly ask–because you nodded immediately without hesitation. And you surged forward.
Your mouth crashed against his in a kiss that was wild, unrestrained, and filthy with the kind of hunger that had been gnawing at you for too long. His lips parted instantly, no hesitation, a groan rattling out of his chest as if he’d been starving for this very thing. It was sloppy, spit-slick, your teeth knocking his once, or twice, before you both angled better, deeper, and then there was nothing left but heat and tongues and the hot, damp slide of mouths desperate to consume.
Bob wrapped his arms around you with a force that nearly knocked the breath out of you. The weight of his SWAT vest pressed into your chest, cold plates and straps digging as if to remind you that it was him you were kissing–all sweat and muscle and trembling restraint wrapped in black tactical armor. You melted into it, clawing your hands up into his damp hair, tugging until he groaned brokenly into your mouth. His moan was low, hoarse, vibrating against your tongue, and it only dragged you deeper.
The kiss was feral, obscene, spit spilling to the corners of your mouths as you licked and bit and sucked. His faint stubble scraped your skin, rough and raw, making every drag of his lips across yours sting in the best way. You broke only to breathe, and even then, your foreheads crashed together, your mouths brushing still, too unwilling to separate fully.
He pulled back just far enough to suck in some much needed air, chest heaving beneath the heavy vest. His hand–still cupping your cheek–trembled faintly as his thumb dragged along your heated skin. He stared at you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, lips red and wet, panting through parted teeth.
“Can I ask,” He rasped, voice shredded with want, “What’s go-gotten you so worked up though?” You let out a small laugh, breathless and shaky, tugging lightly at the thick webbing of his vest as if to ground yourself.
“It’s the SWAT gear…” You confessed, your grin crooked, embarrassed but shameless all at once. “But then again, I just love when you’re in any sort of uniform…This has definitely done something to me though.” His laugh cracked out of him, disbelieving, half-choked by the way you immediately dragged him back into another kiss. This one was filthier, wetter, spit-stringing between your mouths as you pulled back just far enough to pant against his lips, “You just look so fucking hot in it.” That earned you a sharp inhale, his eyebrows shooting up, surprise flickering through his darkened eyes before it was swallowed whole by desire.
“Wha-“ You didn’t let him finish. You devoured him again, your lips pressing, parting, biting, your nails scraping up his nape into the sweat-damp curls. His hands slid down your sides, broad palms catching your waist, your hips, until they found your ass. He squeezed hard, and greedily, dragging a groan out of you that he swallowed whole, pressing you tighter against the blunt heat of his thigh. The two of you were everywhere at once, hands grabbing, pulling, tugging–his touch rough and desperate, yours just as wild, clawing at the armor that trapped the furnace of his body beneath. He ground against you once, slow and deliberate, the weight of his gear making the movement harder and heavier on you. When he finally wrenched back for air, his forehead slammed against yours, sweat dampening your hairline. His chest heaved, vest clanking faintly with the force of his breaths.
“Should we…Go to the be-bedroom?” He asked, the words gasped out, his mouth brushing yours as if afraid to lose contact.
You shook your head fast, your voice a hushed plea. “No…No…I need you right now. We’ll clean everything afterwards.” The way his eyes darkened at that answer–it was pure sin. He groaned, a low, helpless sound, before nodding once, sharp and certain. Then he bent, his hands gripping under your thighs, and lifted you with the ease of a super soldier. Your gasp broke against his lips, but he was already moving to the other side of the island setting you down on the marble counter. The cold shock of it on your thighs made you hiss, but it was gone instantly as his body crowded you again, filling the space between your parted legs, his heat and weight eclipsing everything else. Your hands flew up to his hair again, yanking hard enough to make him groan ragged into your mouth. The sound was guttural, his need bleeding into every edge of it, and he pressed harder against you, his vest scraping and the straps digging deliciously into you. He broke the kiss long enough to look down at you, eyes blown wide, pupils swallowing blue. His lips glistened, spit smeared, chest heaving.
“Help me take th-this off?” He panted, fumbling at the edge of his vest.
You shook your head, your voice dropping low, molten. “Keep it on…I want you to fuck me in it.” That undid him. You saw it–the flash of shock, the way his pupils went impossibly wider until there was barely any blue showing, his jaw dropping just slightly as though your words had hit him in the gut.
Then he laughed, breathless, broken, almost whiny with disbelief. “Fu–Fuck… I should wear a uniform like this more often.” You dragged him down again before the words had even finished leaving his mouth. The kiss was sloppy, spit-filled, his groan swallowed between your teeth. He kissed you back like a man unhinged, his desperation spilling out in every rough drag of his tongue, every bruising press of his lips.
When he tore back again, his breath was hot against your lips, his words trembling with something raw, and wanton, his mouth barely moving as he confessed against you:
“I’m going to go down on you st-still though,” He panted, voice ragged with pure lust, breaking like it cost him to hold back, “I fucking missed tasting you so much…Been craving you so badly.” Your hands came up, trembling, and you cupped his flushed cheeks. His skin was hot beneath your palms, damp from exertion and fevered with want. You tilted his face closer, your thumbs stroking along the strong lines of his jaw, forcing him to look at you with those darkened, desperate eyes. Your lips parted, and you gave him something sharp, filthy, teasing:
“Always so eager to keep me satisfied with your mouth, Bob…Like it’s all you think about.” The words lanced through him–his chest stuttering under the weight of his breath. A smile broke across his spit-slick lips, small and crooked, a smirk that made your stomach clench hard. He kissed across your face like he couldn’t stop–your jaw, your cheek, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth–before finding your collarbone. His teeth caught the delicate skin there, a gentle nibble, enough to sting, to brand. You gasped softly, the sound spilling against his ear.
One of his hands came up, large and rough, squeezing your breast through the thin cotton of your shirt. His palm molded around you, his thumb dragging across the peak with slow intent. He leaned in, his mouth brushing your ear, his voice dropping low and feral:
“I’m go-gonna ruin you on my tongue…Make you scream for me till they hear it two floors down. You’ll never fo-forget how good I can make you feel.” Your answering moan was small but sharp, punched out of you without resistance. The heat pooled low, dragging your body toward him like a tide.
Then he began to lower himself. Slowly, yet trembling with hunger, he kissed his way down your body through the fabric of your shirt. He pulled you toward the edge of the marble counter, his broad palms firm under your thighs, guiding you exactly where he wanted you. His breath came heavy, audible, each exhale fanning hot across the skin of your stomach as he went. You felt the wet heat of it even through the fabric of your shorts, the anticipation unbearable.
With one tug, he peeled them down. The soft cotton slid over your hips, down your thighs, pooling around your ankles before he hooked them free and tossed them aside carelessly. You barely registered the sound of fabric hitting the polished floor before his hands returned–spreading your thighs wide, framing you like you were something holy and obscene all at once.
“Fuck…” He breathed, staring at your arousal with a hunger that was almost painful. He gripped the backs of your thighs, pulling them over his broad shoulders. The edges of his vest dug into the soft skin of your calves, rough straps biting faintly–but it only made it dirtier, more intoxicating. He hauled you closer until the heat of his breath ghosted directly over your slick folds, the proximity dizzying. His eyes flicked up, catching yours just once. His lips were wet, parted, trembling with the sheer restraint it took not to devour you instantly.
“Smells so good…Been dreaming about this,” He muttered, voice shredded and feral. “Gonna ea-eat you till you forget your own name.”
And then he buried his face in you.
The first lick was broad, greedy, dragging from bottom to top like he wanted to take everything you had in one stroke. His tongue was hot and wet, the sound obscene as it lapped through your arousal. A moan ripped from him–unfiltered, raw–and it vibrated straight into you, making your hips jolt.
You cried out softly, your fingers tangling into his damp hair without thought, pulling, urging him closer. He groaned against you, the sound swallowed in your flesh, and dug deeper, his mouth working like a man starved. His tongue circled, stroked, flicked, each pass filthier than the last.
Your breath caught in your chest, back arching as your hips rolled against his face. He didn’t fight it–he wanted it–he pressed his mouth harder to you, letting you grind yourself over him, letting your wetness smear across his lips and chin. He moaned again, louder, the sound muffled and desperate.
His nails dragged gently along the outside of your thigh, a faint scrape that sent sparks racing through your skin. Then his hand shifted, his thick fingers sliding inward, pressing into your slick heat while his mouth never left your clit. The stretch made you gasp, your walls clenching instantly around him.
“God, you’re so tight…And so wet…All fo-for me,” he groaned against you, his words guttural, broken by his own panting. He curled his fingers perfectly, stroking deep as his tongue worked fast and relentless. “Love this…Love the way you taste…Love the wa-way you pulse around my fucking fingers.” You couldn’t hold yourself upright anymore. Your body trembled, shuddering too hard, your arms giving way as you laid back on the marble island. The stone was cool against your overheated skin, grounding you only barely. From this angle you could see the faint glint of city lights overhead, fractured and shifting, and the shadow of Bob between your thighs, eating you like it was his last meal.
You moaned, louder now, each sound spilling out without thought. Your hips moved of their own accord, grinding against his mouth, your thighs trembling around his head. He groaned every time you pulled at his hair, his own pleasure wound tight with yours, until his fingers pressed harder, deeper, scissoring, and curling hitting your sweet spot every time.
”Th-That’s it…Squeeze my fingers, Y/N…Be a good fucking girl and soak me.” He panted into you, the filth of it muffled by his lips sucking your clit.
And then you broke.
Your climax hit sharp and hot, your thighs clamping around his head, pulsing uncontrollably as your walls spasmed around his fingers. You cried out, your voice catching high and ragged as your whole body shook. He groaned into you, greedy, swallowing every drop, his tongue lapping, licking, prolonging the waves until you were trembling too hard to move.
Your thighs quivered against his broad shoulders, your chest heaving, sweat slicking your skin and soaking through your shirt. His fingers moved lazily inside you, coaxing, and drawing out every last pulse, until you whimpered and pulled at his hair in surrender.
Bob let out a low, guttural moan against you, the sound muffled by your trembling flesh as he finally, reluctantly, lifted his face from between your thighs. His lips glistened, his chin soaked, streaks of you shining under the fractured ribbons of neon light that spilled in through the windows. The sight alone made your pulse stutter, your thighs twitching with the aftershocks still tearing through you.
You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, chest rising and falling unevenly. When your eyes met his, he smiled–crooked, and toothy his voice raw and hushed. “Fu-fucking perfect as always. An absolute masterpiece.” The words struck you, filthy and praise filled at once, and you swallowed hard, heat blooming at the base of your throat. He slid his fingers out of you with aching slowness, watching the way your body clenched around the loss. Your slick coated his knuckles, dripping down the tendons of his hand. He lifted one finger to his mouth, lips closing around it with a slow, deliberate pull. His eyes fluttered as he sucked himself clean, savoring you with a moan low enough to vibrate in his chest.
Then he stood, towering again, and reached down with his free hand. His grip was warm, steady, pulling you upright until you were pressed against the hard, unyielding planes of his vest. One arm cinched around your waist, holding you tight against him, while his other hand–still shining with you–rose slowly. He traced his finger along your lips, smearing wetness across them like something sacred and obscene all at once.
Your breath shuddered, your lips parting under the command of his gaze. He pressed the finger between them, slow, insistent. Your tongue met it eagerly, curling around the digit, sucking it down as you hollowed your cheeks. The taste of yourself mingled with the heat of him, thick and intoxicating. His eyes stayed locked on yours, blue and blown black, his breath trembling as he watched you drag your mouth along his finger. The atmosphere thrummed, the kitchen filled with the wet sound of you sucking him clean until you finally released him with a lewd pop.
“Christ…” He hissed, his hand shaking faintly. Your hands moved immediately, urgent, dragging down to the thick belt strapped around his waist. The metal buckles clinked faintly as you tore at them, undoing the utility belt with frantic fingers.
“I want you to fuck me so hard I can’t think straight,” You growled, feral, your voice shaking with need. The words made him groan ragged, his hips jerking as though you’d tugged at strings buried in his spine.
”That ca-can be done…” He replied, as you shoved at the button of his pants, then the zipper, tugging hard. He grunted and pushed them down the rest of the way, his boxers with them, until the fabric bunched at his thighs.
His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, swollen tip angry red and slick with pre-cum that glistened in the muted light. He wrapped a fist around himself, stroking once–slow, obscene–as he dragged you closer to the edge of the counter.
“Go-Gonna fuck you right here,” He rasped, his voice shredded with want, “Gonna fill you up on this fucking counter till you can’t make a so-sound that isn’t my name.” You could feel yourself clench around nothing just at the sheer filth of his words, your nails biting into the straps of his vest.
”Then shut the fuck up and do it,” You snapped, breathless, “Make me your mess, Bob.” His groan broke into a laugh–disbelieving, desperate. His cock dragged through your folds, the hot head smearing pre-cum into your slick. The blunt tip slid along your seam, catching on your clit with every pass, making your hips jolt helplessly. Your wetness coated him instantly, his length shining as he pressed harder, teasing the entrance of your body.
“Look at that…” He panted, his eyes glued to the way you spread for him. “You’re fu-fucking dripping. Begging for me.” The thick crown breached you, stretching you wide. You both gasped, your moan catching sharp while his voice broke into a growl. Inch by inch, he sank into you, your walls fluttering around him, pulling him deeper. Your arm wound tight around his neck, your hand burying in his damp hair, tugging hard to ground yourself against the stretch.
“Fuck…Fuck…” He groaned, his forehead pressing against yours, sweat smearing between your temples. His gaze dropped, watching himself disappear inside you. “God, yo-your pussy looks so good taking me…Swallowing me whole.” The sound you made was broken, choked.
”You fill me up so fucking well…I’ve needed this.” You whispered, closing your eyes tightly. He bottomed out, fully seating himself inside you, the weight of him heavy and perfect, twitching against your walls with no space left between. You both stilled, gasping, clutching at each other as though afraid to lose the moment. Your lips crashed together again, messy, spit-slick, sucking kisses that felt more like possession than tenderness.
Then he pulled his hips back and thrusted forward. The counter jolted beneath you, the marble cold against your thighs as he slammed into you again, harder. His pace built quick, brutal, feral–every stroke driving so deep you thought you’d break open around him. You threw your head back, your mouth falling open on moans that echoed off the steel and glass of the kitchen.
His hand slid up, strong and unyielding, wrapping around your throat. His thumb pressed into the hollow there, his palm squeezing just enough to tilt your head forward, forcing your gaze down into his.
“Look at me wh-while I’m fucking you,” He grunted, his eyes wild, his voice breaking with command. “I want to see those desperate little fuck me eyes.” You obeyed, your gaze locking on his as your body jolted with every thrust. His cock slammed into you, stretching you mercilessly, wet sounds filling the air as your arousal smeared over him and the counter beneath you. Your hands clawed at his vest, dragging him closer, the plates biting into your chest. You wanted him pressed into every inch of you, wanted the marks of his gear burned into your skin.
Your walls clamped down, pulsing wildly, your thighs trembling against his torso. He groaned ragged, one hand gripping your leg hard to hold you open as he pounded into you. You dragged him into another kiss, sloppy and wet, spit spilling to your chin as your teeth clicked, tongues colliding. His rhythm faltered, his thrusts turning uneven, sloppy.
“I’m gonna fucking fill you up…I ca-can’t hold it in anymore,” He gasped, his forehead coming to bump against yours, desperation bleeding through every word.
“Do it,” you begged, your voice wrecked, filthy, your hand wrapping tight around the wrist of the hand at your throat. “Cum in me, Bob…Fill me till I’m dripping, till all I can feel is you.” That broke him. He slammed deep, burying himself to the hilt, his cock twitching violently as his release hit. He bit down on your collarbone, hard, marking you as he groaned loud enough to shake the air. Heat spilled into you in thick, hot waves, flooding deep, overflowing until you felt it leak down your thighs.
Your walls spasmed around him, milking every pulse, your body seizing in another ragged climax. You moaned high and broken, clinging to him with nails digging into his vest, pulling him closer as though you could fuse him to you.
The kitchen blurred into neon streaks and shadows. All you knew was him–his cock twitching inside you, his cum filling you so warm and thick it made you dizzy, his mouth biting, sucking, groaning against your skin. Every pulse of him dragged another shudder from your body until you were both shaking, gasping, wrecked together.
The both of you clung to each other as though you might dissolve if you let go too soon. Breathless and trembling, every inhale and exhale dragged across the other’s skin in ragged counterpoints. His forehead pressed against yours, damp hair clinging to your temple, the faint sting of his bite on your collarbone still pulsing like a brand. Your bodies were welded together–his cock still buried deep inside you, still twitching faintly in the overstimulated cradle of your heat. Your muscles fluttered helplessly around him, refusing to let go.
His hand around your throat finally eased. Fingers uncurled, sliding down the length of your chest in a languid, reverent sweep. He pressed his palm flat between your breasts, feeling the frantic beat of your heart as though checking if it still raced for him. Then, unable to resist, his hand closed over one of them. Through the thin, sweat-dampened fabric of your shirt, he gave your breast a firm squeeze–possessive, indulgent–before letting go just enough to lean back an inch. His eyes drank you in, and for a moment the city lights caught the sweat on his face, turning him into something sculpted in amber and neon.
And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t like the wild, spit-slick mauling from earlier. This was soft, warm, almost reverent. His lips moved slowly over yours, parting gently, savoring you like he couldn’t bear to lose the sweetness of the aftermath. You sighed into it, tilting your head, your arms still locked around his shoulders. When he tried to pull back, you nipped at his bottom lip, playful, tender, refusing to let him go entirely. He chuckled against your mouth, a broken little sound, and whispered, his forehead still brushing yours:
“I’m definitely going to keep this SWAT ge-gear.”
You laughed softly at that, the sound caught between the exhaustion tugging at your body and the flush of heat still rolling under your skin. He laughed too, both of you dissolving into breathless giggles that clashed with the filthy reality of him softening slowly inside you. You stayed pressed together, unwilling to move, savoring the strange, feral tenderness of it all.
After a long, quiet beat, you murmured against his damp neck:
“We should get everything cleaned up…” His chest rumbled with a hum, his lips brushing your hairline as he agreed.
“Yo-You’re right.” Reluctantly, he drew his hips back. The slide of him pulling out of you was slow, dragging, leaving you empty in a way that made you gasp faintly. His gaze dropped instantly–and what he saw made his pupils flare wide.
Thick cum leaked from you in hot rivulets, sliding down to smear against the marble. He groaned low, guttural, like the sight itself undid him all over again. Without hesitation, his hand was back on you, two fingers pressing into your swollen entrance, fucking his seed back inside you. The stretch made you whimper, your thighs twitching helplessly against the counter’s edge. He worked his fingers slowly, deliberately, watching the creamy mess disappear back into your body with eyes dark and heavy-lidded.
“God…” He whispered, almost to himself, “You ke-keep me so well.”
When he finally slid his fingers free, they glistened thickly in the low amber light. He lifted them without shame, bringing them to his mouth. His tongue wrapped around them greedily, pulling them between his lips. He moaned–a deep, long sigh that vibrated up from his chest–as he cleaned himself of both of you.
“We always ta-taste so good together…” He murmured, eyes fluttering shut for a second, savoring. “It’s like our bodies just know we’re compatible.”
Your lips curved into a sly, flushed smirk. “We are.”
His eyes snapped open, blue and dark as the ocean at midnight, and he bent down to kiss you again. This kiss was wet, lingering, his tongue sliding against yours so you could taste exactly what he had–salty, musky, rich and intoxicating. It was filthy and intimate all at once, and it had you moaning faintly into his mouth before he finally pulled back.
With a small, boyish grin, he stooped to collect the shorts he’d tossed aside earlier. He held them open for you, steadying your trembling legs as you stepped into them. His touch was careful, almost tender, as he guided the fabric back up your thighs and hips, smoothing it into place. He pressed a quick kiss to your temple as he finished, then buttoned his own pants back up, fastening his belt with practiced, efficient movements. The small clink of metal sounded strangely domestic after the chaos of minutes before.
When he finally helped you lean away from the counter, your legs wobbled slightly, your body still boneless from release. His arm steadied you, firm around your waist, his thumb stroking the small of your back before letting go.
The two of you turned to the kitchen in unspoken agreement. The marble island bore the evidence of you: smears of arousal, forgotten fruit, a knife still lying abandoned. You grabbed disinfectant from under the sink, spraying until the citrus tang filled the air, sharper even than the clementine still sitting uneaten. Together you wiped down the counters, rinsed the knife, and discarded the cucumbers and strawberries into the trash, knowing that you didn’t want to feel guilt by returning them to the fridge after knowingly having sex on the counter where they were cut up and prepared. Neither of you said much–there was no need. The silence felt warm, steady, a rhythm as grounding as the act of cleaning itself.
When the last streak of marble shone spotless, you leaned against the island, suddenly aware of how exhaustion pressed down on your bones. Your appetite was gone, devoured by what you’d already shared, and all that remained was the buzz of satiation and the steady thrum of him beside you.
Bob straightened, wiping his hands on his thighs, his damp hair curling against his forehead. His gaze found you, and his lips tugged into that crooked, devastating smile.
“How about we go for a ro-round two,” He suggested, voice still ragged, playful now. He tipped his head toward the hall. “Only this time we’ll do it in my room.”
You looked up at him, biting the inside of your lip, heat pooling low again despite your exhaustion. A small laugh escaped you, breathless. “I really can’t say no…”
His grin widened, boyish and hungry all at once. In one smooth motion, his arms slid under you again, lifting you effortlessly from the floor. You gasped, your arms flying around his shoulders, clinging instinctively as he carried you. His chest rumbled with a low laugh, the sound vibrating against you as he muttered, low and reverent:
“Thank God for SWAT gear.”
