@its-just-me-rin - Tumblr Blog

shy guy finish first ━ bob floyd

dedicated to: @bodhiscurls because i love her to bits and she’s the best writing buddy and chaotic little cheerleader i could ever ask for♡ word count: 15,777 words pairing: bob floyd x fem!reader synopsis: you were just trying to blow off steam at the hard deck, maybe flirt your way out of a dry spell, but then quiet, polite bob floyd snapped, cornered you in the bathroom, and showed you exactly what eight months of pent-up want really looked like. content warnings: smut, mdni, blowjob in a bar bathroom, desperate tension, grinding, throatfucking, glasses staying on, possessive!bob (which is ooc, i'm sorry!), overstimulation, mutual begging, heavy petting, light choking, swearing, and two idiots who haven’t even fucked yet but are already acting like it’s the end of the world. also my first time writing smut ever so please bear with me!! author's note: you guys might want to know that i physically cannot write anything without overthinking every line which is probably why this turned into a whole spiral instead of something normal, like i swear i sat down with one idea and now i’m here wondering what just happened, so yeah, thank you for reading and letting me be feral in peace! kofi︱request︱masterlist

“Chug! Chug! Chug!”

The whole Hard Deck roared as you tipped your head back, beer sloshing down your throat with not a single pause, not even a flinch. You didn’t even blink. You were standing on top of the bench now, one foot on the table and the other on Fanboy’s thigh for balance because you had somehow convinced him to sit still long enough for you to climb up like a drunken goat.

The squad was losing their minds. Rooster was banging his fist on the table like he was summoning a demon, Phoenix had her phone out recording everything, and someone, probably Hangman, let out the loudest “WOOOOO!” known to mankind the second you slammed the empty glass down on the counter.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, grinning like an absolute menace, your shirt slightly damp from the splashback, your hair a little messy, but your energy completely unbothered. You were glowing with the kind of chaotic pride only achievable through beer, adrenaline, and the undeniable high of being the most unhinged person in the room.

“Another!” you shouted, already reaching for someone else’s untouched pint.

The second your empty glass hit the wood, the whole place erupted. Cheering, whistles, someone slapped the bell behind the bar like it was a damn boxing match. Even Penny raised her eyebrows from across the counter, clearly impressed but already calculating how much trouble you'd cause in the next ten minutes.

You threw your arms up like you'd just won a championship, yelling out something unintelligible that made Fanboy yell back, “SHE’S UNSTOPPABLE!” and honestly, yeah. You kind of were.

“That was the hottest thing I’ve seen all week,” Jake said with a grin that could probably fry an egg on the nearest surface.

You turned, your head a little fuzzy, your lips still wet, and you locked eyes with him in that way the way that made people nervous, the way that made grown men second-guess all their choices. Jake was leaning back in his seat like he owned the damn place, legs spread, that lazy smirk tugging at his mouth, eyes doing things that should honestly be illegal.

You stepped down from the bench with the casual grace of someone who had no business still being upright, walked right up to him like you were in a slow-motion movie, and dropped your hands onto the back of his chair as you leaned in close. Close enough that your noses nearly brushed, your mouth just inches from his, and your breath tasted like beer and adrenaline and every terrible idea you had ever had.

Jake's lips parted, barely, like he was ready to close that gap, eyes flicking down to your mouth with all the grace of a man losing a game he thought he was winning.

And then, you laughed. You pulled back, slapped his cheek with exactly the kind of affection that made him blink in surprise, and said, “Nice try, Seresin,” before grabbing Phoenix’s drink and strutting away like you hadn't just short-circuited half the bar.

You didn’t look back, but you could feel the heat of Jake’s stunned stare drilling into the back of your head, and honestly? You were living for it.

───────

Not far from the noise and half the squad’s terrible chanting, Bob sat quietly at a small round table near the corner, shoulders a little hunched and nursing a cold glass of cola he hadn’t taken more than three sips from in the last hour.

The condensation had pooled under it, forming a perfect little ring, and he was absently tracing it with the tip of his finger, eyes flicking occasionally toward the bar but never staying there long enough to get caught staring.

Rooster slid into the seat beside him with a lopsided grin and two drinks in hand; one for himself, one that he placed in front of Bob with a hopeful raise of his brow.

“No, thank you,” Bob said instantly, as politely as ever, the corners of his mouth twitching up into the softest smile as he pushed the offered glass back with a gentle nudge. “Still got mine.”

Rooster chuckled and leaned his elbows onto the table, swirling his whiskey around as he gave Bob a pointed look. “You know, for someone who gets stared at like that every time she looks your way, you sure are committed to keeping your head down.”

Bob’s ears turned pink instantly. “She doesn’t—” he started, then stopped, then cleared his throat. “She’s just… being friendly.”

“Oh yeah,” Rooster said with a nod, full of playful sarcasm, “definitely the kind of friendly where she nearly kissed Hangman just now and then left him looking like a kicked puppy.”

Bob blinked, a little stunned, then took a very careful sip of his cola, mostly to buy time and to hide how fast his brain had started spinning.

Right on cue, Jake dropped himself into the third chair with a dramatic groan, throwing his head back like he’d been emotionally wounded by a Shakespearean tragedy. He reached across the table without even looking and grabbed Bob’s drink, taking a long sip before Bob could stop him.

“Hey—” Bob started, eyes wide, brows lifted in that quiet little protest that was never loud enough to actually work.

“She almost kissed me,” Jake said, voice filled with betrayal and beer. “She looked at me with those eyes, leaned in like she was gonna do it, and then she laughed. Laughed! Like I’m some kind of a joke. I’ve been emotionally dismantled, man. I’m not okay!”

Rooster snorted and tried to cover it with his glass, but Bob still heard it. He looked between the two of them, visibly confused and mildly horrified, and said softly, “You drank my cola…”

Jake waved a hand dismissively, still mid-rant. “I’ve been blue balled, Floyd. Absolutely slaughtered! Torn apart by her tease tactics. Do you know how many women have actually turned me down before the kiss? None. Zero. Zilch. This is uncharted territory. This is the end of an era. My era!”

Bob just stared at him, mouth parted, eyes wide, shoulders hunched like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to laugh or if this was somehow a moment that needed real sympathy.

Rooster let out a loud, careless laugh, the kind that made people at nearby tables glance over with raised eyebrows, and Jake immediately turned to him with a glare, sharp and squinting, like he couldn’t believe he was being laughed at during what was clearly a moment of personal crisis.

“What,” Jake snapped, dragging the word out like it was a threat, one hand flung toward Rooster in exasperation.

Rooster just leaned back into his chair like he had all the time in the world, nursing his drink with that usual smirk that made it impossible to tell if he was joking or being entirely serious. “You and Raven?” he said, voice casual, like he was just stating facts. “You two are too much alike. That’s your whole problem, dude.”

Jake furrowed his brows like he’d just been hit with a dictionary. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I mean you’re the same,” Rooster replied, gesturing lazily between him and the air, “like, exactly the same. You both walk into every room like it’s yours, you both flirt with anyone who gives you half a look, you both get bored unless something’s on fire, and honestly, you both kind of love causing chaos. You’re her with a bad haircut.”

Jake reeled like he’d been slapped with that one. “I am nothing like her,” he argued, his voice climbing a little, “she’s unpredictable, she’s loud, she does that thing where she flirts just to get people all hot and bothered and then walks away laughing like she didn’t just emotionally destroy someone—”

“Yeah,” Rooster said, looking directly at him now, “and who else does that, huh?”

Jake pointed at himself. “Not me.”

Rooster gave him a long, slow stare, clearly not convinced. “I know her type.”

Jake blinked and leaned forward now, like he was trying to get ahead of the thought before it landed. “I am her type.”

Rooster grinned. “Wrong, I know her type.”

Jake looked at him like he was waiting for the punchline, like maybe Rooster would laugh and say it was a joke, but he didn’t so Jake tilted his chin up, already defensive. “Who?”

Rooster didn’t say anything. He just turned his head slightly, just enough to glance past Jake’s shoulder.

And there, quietly wedged between them, like he had been the entire time, was Bob.

Still sitting perfectly still in his seat, both elbows on the table, his hands loosely holding the empty peanut box he had been reading for the past five minutes like it was the most riveting thing he’d ever seen.

His shoulders were drawn in just a little, his posture tight like he was trying not to take up space, and his lips were parted slightly like he was in the middle of mouthing a word printed on the back of the box.

The faintest blush still coloured his cheeks, and his glasses had slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose, but he hadn’t noticed or maybe just hadn’t bothered to fix them.

Jake followed Rooster’s gaze slowly, frowning, and when he finally landed on Bob, his eyes narrowed.

Rooster didn’t look away. He just kept his eyes on Bob and took a slow sip of his drink.

Jake turned to him again. “No.”

Rooster just raised a brow.

Jake turned back to Bob.

Bob, who now seemed to feel the weight of two stares drilling into him from both sides, slowly lifted his head, blinking like he had been deep underwater and was just coming up for air.

His eyes flicked to Rooster, then to Jake, then back to Rooster, then down at the peanut box like maybe it had answers, then back up again, and he looked completely overwhelmed.

“...Did I do something?” he asked softly, eyes wide, voice low and uncertain, like he was genuinely worried he’d somehow gotten himself involved in a conversation he hadn’t signed up for.

Jake blinked once, then sat up straighter like someone had just accused him of something criminal. “Hell no,” he said, scoffing, shaking his head so hard his hair bounced. “Come on, me I understand, but him?!”

Bob turned his head slowly, eyes still wide, clearly trying to keep up. “What’s going on?” he asked carefully, voice small, fingers curling tighter around the now slightly crumpled peanut box in his hands.

Rooster took a long, lazy sip from his drink, not looking at either of them, then shrugged like this whole thing wasn’t about to spiral into some kind of war. “I’m just saying,” he muttered, setting the glass back down, “every time Raven’s around, I catch her eye-fucking Bob like it’s her job.”

Bob choked instantly, eyes going comically wide as he nearly dropped the box and knocked his knee against the table. “What?” he said, voice cracking, the blush on his cheeks blooming into full-on panic as he looked between them. “I—I don’t think—I mean—I have no idea what you’re talking about—”

“She what?” Jake exploded, half standing, eyes wild as he stared at Bob like Bob had betrayed him without even knowing it. “There is no way. You’re messing with me. She flirts with me, man. I’m her type. This—this makes no sense.”

Rooster shrugged again, leaning his chin into his hand like this was all incredibly boring to him. “Nah. She flirts with you because she knows it gets a rise. It’s fun. You’re easy.”

Jake made a noise like he was being physically attacked. “Easy?!”

Rooster just kept going like he hadn’t said anything remotely controversial. “But every time Bob walks into a room, she looks at him like he’s a snack. And not like a chips-and-salsa kind of snack, but like a full-course, ruin-my-life, let-me-be-a-problem kind of snack.”

Bob made another squeaky little sound in his throat and turned fully toward the table, clutching the peanut box like it was a holy text, his ears now red, his voice barely above a whisper. “I—I think you’re mistaken,” he stammered, looking anywhere but at either of them, “I really don’t think she—I mean—she’s just friendly, I’m sure it’s not—”

“Oh come on!” Jake shouted, flinging his hands in the air like he couldn’t believe this was happening, like he had stepped into an alternate timeline where nothing made sense anymore. “This is actually insane. I flirt with her all the time, I wear nice cologne, I do the smirk thing, I lean against walls. What does he do? Sit there? Blink politely?! And that’s what gets her attention?!”

Bob looked absolutely horrified. He sat frozen for a moment, blinking rapidly, still clutching the peanut box like it was the last solid thing in his universe, and then, very quietly, barely loud enough to be heard over the music and laughter around them, he snapped.

“What are you guys even talking about?” he asked, voice sharper than usual, not mean, just overwhelmed, confused, a little cracked at the edges like he’d been cornered in the middle of a game he didn’t know he was playing.

Jake pointed a dramatic finger at him, looking genuinely betrayed. “You stole my wife!”

Bob reeled back. “What?! No! I—I didn’t—what are you even saying?! I haven’t done anything! I haven’t said anything! She doesn’t even—she hasn’t—this is ridiculous, I’m not even—look, I’m just sitting here!”

His voice broke halfway through, hands flailing a little in panic, glasses slipping further down his nose, and Rooster actually had to lean forward and grab one of Bob’s wrists before he knocked over someone’s drink. Bob looked utterly flustered, already blushing so badly he could probably cook an egg on his cheeks, chest rising and falling like he’d just run laps.

Jake and Rooster exchanged a look. Then, they both moved at once.

Jake grabbed Bob by the shoulders and turned him gently but firmly in his chair, while Rooster reached over and tilted Bob’s chin toward the centre of the room, both of them crowding in on either side like conspirators in some ridiculous, unspoken plan.

“Look at her,” Rooster said quietly, leaning in, voice low in Bob’s ear.

“Really look,” Jake added, his tone weirdly soft, like all the loud theatrics had suddenly drained from him.

Bob frowned, still confused, still flushed, but he blinked once and followed their direction, slowly turning his head, eyes scanning the bar, until they landed on you.

You, who were still standing by the jukebox surrounded by the others, all of them laughing at something you had just shouted across the room, your head thrown back with your hands up like you were telling a story, your cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the heat of the crowd, your grin completely unbothered, unstoppable, radiant.

Bob’s breath caught a little.

You hadn’t even noticed him staring, you weren’t even facing him directly, but he was looking now, really looking, like the shape of you had just rearranged something in him. The way your eyes danced when you laughed, the way your hands moved when you talked, the way you carried yourself like the entire bar existed just for your amusement, like you belonged everywhere all at once.

Bob couldn’t look away now. He took you in like he’d been starving for weeks and didn’t know it until now, like someone had hit the lights and the music all at once and all he could see was you.

And then, maybe because the universe had a sense of humour, or maybe because you could feel eyes on you even from across a crowded bar, you turned.

Your gaze swept lazily over the room, still laughing at whatever Fanboy was saying, still cradling someone’s beer in your hand like it was your own, but then your eyes landed on him.

You felt as though someone was staring at you, and you wanted to see who dared to look at him. You turned your head slightly, and your eyes met his, sharp and clear like a spotlight piercing through the background.

You remained silent. You didn't turn your head away. Bob felt his breath catch in his chest so painfully because you did nothing but look, really look, as if he were something worth examining, something you had already decided to destroy.

There was something in your eyes that knocked the thoughts clean out of his head. Not soft, not friendly, not even teasing. It was intense, it was focused, it was heat without warning, and Bob swore his heart skipped at least three beats and maybe restarted in a completely new rhythm.

His brain was trying to do something, maybe form a sentence, maybe just function, but everything short-circuited at once and all he could do was sit there and take it, jaw slack, eyes wide, face on fire.

Because you were looking at him. Like that. And he was pretty sure that if that stare lasted one more second, he was going to do something stupid and permanent.

He was going to—

“Oh come on!” Jake groaned, loud and long and absolutely miserable as he threw his whole body back into his chair like the world had personally wronged him. “Did you see that?! That was—that was straight-up eye-fucking, man, with capital letters and a neon sign!”

Rooster took a sip from his drink and leaned back, his voice calm and unbothered as he said, “Told you, man,” like he hadn’t just watched Jake’s pride collapse in real time.

But Bob didn’t move.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t blink, didn’t breathe properly, just sat there completely stunned, eyes still locked in your direction even though you’d already turned away again, already laughing at something Phoenix and Fanboy had said, already pulling someone into a side hug like you hadn’t just dismantled him from across the bar.

He was still sitting there, still staring at the spot where you had been, still dazed out of his mind, hands resting in his lap like he’d forgotten he had fingers, and somewhere down by his chair, the crushed peanut box had fallen and landed sideways on the floor without him noticing.

“Bro,” Rooster said suddenly, leaning in and snapping his fingers right in front of Bob’s face, “hey, Earth to Floyd, are you—wait, are you getting hard right now?”

Bob physically jerked like someone had slapped him, eyes wide as he whipped his head toward Rooster, mouth opening and closing without anything actually coming out for a full two seconds.

“I—I’m not—what?! No! I’m not—I wouldn’t—I didn’t even—” Bob stammered, his voice climbing an octave with every syllable, hands coming up like he could defend himself from the sheer accusation of it. His ears had gone so red they practically glowed under the bar lights, and he looked horrified in the most painfully sincere way.

“I can’t believe this,” Jake groaned beside him, slumping into the table like he was being punished by the universe itself, face pressed to the wood like he couldn’t physically carry the weight of his own disappointment anymore. “I flirted for months, I put in effort, I smiled with my eyes, and all it takes is one soft-spoken stare from a guy who reads peanut boxes like poetry and she’s ready to pounce?!”

Bob let out the most distressed sound anyone had ever heard from him, something between a gasp and a whimper, and looked like he was seriously debating crawling under the table and just staying there forever.

“I was not—I didn’t—Rooster!” he half-yelled, voice cracking again, both hands running through his hair now like he was seconds away from full shutdown, “You can’t just ask someone that! That’s—that’s not even—how would you even know?!”

Rooster shrugged, cool as ever. “I mean, you kinda spaced out for a full minute and then started breathing like someone pressed the turbo button.”

Jake let out another wounded groan, dragging his forehead across the table like he was physically trying to melt into it. “This is my villain origin story,” he mumbled, “this is how I go rogue.”

───────

You had really only meant to sneak a glance.

Just something quick, nothing serious, just a casual little look to see if he was still being flustered and adorable or if Jake had calmed down even a little or if Bradley was still wearing that smug older-brother-who-knows-something-you-don’t expression.

But the moment your eyes landed on Bob, blushing like mad, eyes wide, hands frozen mid-air like he was trying to figure out where they were supposed to go, and his shirt all slightly wrinkled from the way he had been messing with it nervously, your entire body tensed.

And the groan that left you wasn’t soft.

It was long and low and full of frustration, the kind that came from months of silently suffering in your own personal hell, and it slipped out before you could stop it.

Phoenix tilted her head, brows already raised. “You alright or are you gonna combust in public?”

Halo followed the direction of your stare, barely hiding her smirk. “I swear, if this is still about Lieutenant Eye Contact over there—”

You groaned again, dragging your hands down your face like maybe, just maybe, if you covered your eyes, your feelings would evaporate. “I swear on my last brain cell, I’m gonna lose it. I’m gonna actually lose it and scream. He’s sitting there looking like he just learned what sex is and it’s my fault somehow.”

Halo leaned closer, her drink balanced casually in her hand, voice low and amused. “Are we talking about the man you’ve been eye-fucking since last Christmas?”

“That’s the one,” Phoenix said under her breath, tapping the edge of her glass against the bar like she was keeping score.

“I have tried,” you hissed, slumping sideways against the jukebox, “I have flirted, I have smiled, I have worn outfits that would put a saint in a chokehold, I almost kissed Hangman for the sole purpose of emotional terrorism and he” — you pointed in Bob’s direction like it hurt — “he still thinks I’m being friendly.”

Phoenix blinked slowly. “You’re telling me that look you just gave him wasn’t a threat and a promise all in one?”

“I want to bite him,” you snapped. “And not in a weird way. I mean in a feral, I-don’t-care-if-this-is-socially-acceptable kind of way. I want to pin him to the wall and say oops.”

Halo just nodded solemnly. “Respect.”

“He’s so soft,” you went on, practically vibrating now, “like actually soft, not just emotionally soft but like if I kissed his neck he’d probably short-circuit and make a noise I wouldn’t recover from, and you’re all acting like I’m the crazy one—”

“You are the crazy one,” Phoenix interrupted calmly, “but it’s fine, you wear it well.”

“I need to get laid,” you groaned, dragging the words out like they hurt, your head dropping back against the jukebox again with a dull thud that none of them even reacted to anymore. “Like seriously laid. Like knock-me-out-and-reset-my-central-nervous-system kind of laid. My fucking vibrator at home is this close to giving up on me, I swear I can hear it sigh when I pick it up.”

Halo snorted, sipping her drink without breaking eye contact. “Okay, but Seresin’s right there. You could literally just make eye contact and he’d throw himself at you like a cartoon character.”

You scrunched your nose so fast it looked like a reflex. “Don’t be disgusting.”

Phoenix let out a snort of laughter that turned into a cough, nearly spilling her drink. “Did you just gag at the thought of Jake Seresin?”

“I’m sorry,” you said, holding up a hand, “I respect him as a fellow menace but if I ever have to look at his smug face while he’s naked I think I might actually start crying. I’d rather stay abstinent.”

“Okay, but seriously,” Halo leaned in, squinting like she was studying you, “when was the last time you got laid?”

You stared at her.

She blinked.

Phoenix leaned forward.

You blinked.

“...Nine months ago?” you said finally, very slowly, like you were doing the math in real time and were also a little offended by the number.

There was a pause. A full-body, what-the-fuck-did-you-just-say pause.

“Nine?!” Phoenix shouted, eyes wide, jaw actually dropping.

Halo looked personally attacked. “How are you alive?!”

You just shrugged, taking a long sip of your drink like this was normal, like you weren’t actively dying inside. “I think it’s Bob. Like he’s been reversing the effects of my last hook-up through sheer wholesomeness or something. Like every time he looks at me and blushes I forget what sex even is. I think I’ve been... un-fucked. Spiritually.”

Phoenix covered her mouth with her hand, wheezing. “You’ve gone insane.”

“I know,” you said again, voice muffled through your fingers, “and I’m not even sorry. It’s his fault. He says please and thank you and I want to ruin him.”

Halo nodded slowly, like it all made sense now. “You’ve got it bad.”

“Do I?” you snapped. “Because I’ve spent the last eight months wanting to throw that man against a wall and every time I try to flirt with him, he tells me to have a nice day.”

Phoenix was already laughing, her head tilted back, one hand pressed to her chest like she couldn’t believe the words coming out of your mouth. “Have a nice day,” she repeated, practically wheezing, “girl, he’s killing you.”

“He’s polite,” Halo added, eyes wide, voice dramatic like she was recounting a murder, “he calls people ma’am, he waits in lines, he probably says sorry when he bumps into furniture—”

“He does,” you cut in, voice sharp, pointing at her like that was the worst part. “He does say sorry when he runs into chairs. I’ve seen it. He bumped his knee on a coffee table in the rec room and he whispered sorry like it had feelings. It did something to me. I don’t want to be normal anymore.”

Halo covered her mouth and squeaked. “That’s adorable.”

“It’s lethal,” you said, arms crossed, foot tapping furiously against the floor. “I’m losing my mind. I’m walking around like I’m fine but inside it’s just Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob and then sometimes Bob in a towel because I saw that one time and it’s never left me.”

Phoenix spit her drink.

Halo grabbed your arm. “You saw Bob in a towel and you’ve been sitting on that information this whole time?!”

“It was months ago,” you hissed, glancing around like you were revealing top secret government intel, “I walked past the locker room and he had just come out of the showers and he had his little glasses on and a towel wrapped around his waist and wet hair and I genuinely almost fainted. Like black spots in my vision, I had to sit down.”

Phoenix looked devastated. “You sat on that. You kept that to yourself.”

“I tried to forget,” you said, pressing a hand to your chest like it still haunted you. “But it plays in my brain like a damn music video.”

Halo let out a long, low whistle. “You’ve got it so bad. You need to do something. You’re gonna combust.”

“Like what?” you asked, flailing your hands, fully spiralling now. “He probably thinks I’m just being nice! I wore a crop top last week and dropped my pen on purpose and bent over to pick it up and he said, “That's a safety hazard, ma’am.””

Phoenix wheezed again. “That man has no idea.”

“That man,” you said, staring at your drink like it had wronged you, “is my Roman Empire.”

Phoenix gave you a look. The kind that said she was about five seconds away from grabbing your shoulders and shaking the desperation out of you. “Okay then, if Bob’s gonna keep playing the oblivious virgin card, maybe it’s time to get some actual dick and stop hallucinating every time he says thank you.”

You opened your mouth to protest but she cut you off.

“No, don’t even argue,” she said, waving her drink around like a wand, “we’re surrounded by military-grade testosterone, someone in here has to be emotionally unavailable and hot enough to distract you for at least one night.”

Halo hummed and leaned forward, scanning the crowd like a hawk. “Alright then, let’s find her a rebound,” she said like it was a mission, eyes sharp, smile deadly.

You were about to tell them to chill, that you didn’t need a full-blown one-night-stand intervention, but then Halo suddenly pointed with her drink, her voice dropping into something lower, smugger.

“Okay, but like that guy,” she said, tilting her head slightly.

You followed her gaze, and your stomach flipped.

Across the room, leaning casually against the bar, was a man who honestly looked like he had walked straight out of a fantasy novel. Tall, dressed in a dark button-up with sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms, long fingers wrapped around a whiskey glass, head tilted slightly like he was thinking about something poetic. Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, soft curls pushed back, and the kind of slow, easy smirk that said he had ruined people before and never lost sleep over it.

And his eyes? Locked directly on you.

You blinked.

He raised his glass.

You blinked again.

“Why does he look like he writes sad poems for a living?” you whispered.

Halo grinned. “He’s been staring at you for the last ten minutes. And not like a guy who wants to talk, but like a guy who already has your Spotify password memorised.”

Phoenix sipped her drink. “He looks like if British regret was a person. That man reads Virginia Woolf in bed and then ruins lives with his hands.”

You gawked. “I mean he’s hot but what if he’s a serial killer?”

“I mean,” Halo said, eyes twinkling, “worth the risk, no?”

You groaned, slumping forward like this whole night was being personally orchestrated by the universe to destroy you. “I can’t. What if I sleep with him and then Bob finds out and I have to live with the shame of being dickmatized by a man who looks like he cries during jazz?”

Phoenix raised a brow. “Or... you could just march across the bar, grab Bob by the collar, and solve your little nine-month crisis tonight.”

You stared down into your drink like it was going to give you a divine answer, swirled the liquid slowly, lips pressed together, heartbeat a little too fast and brain way too loud.

Because on one hand, no. You weren’t about to throw yourself at some British man with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and a possible emotional support book of poetry in his back pocket.

You didn’t even know his name. What if he turned out to be weird? What if he asked you to call him “my muse” mid-way through? What if he wore socks during sex?

But also…

It had been nine months.

Nine. Whole. Fucking (not literally). Months.

You hadn't even realised how long it had been until you said it out loud earlier, and now the number was sitting in your chest like a dead weight, echoing louder than the music, making your brain short-circuit with every shift of Bob's glasses and every accidental flex of his forearms and every goddamn “ma’am” that slipped out of his mouth like he wasn’t slowly ruining your life with the power of respectful vocabulary.

You shifted on your feet and tried to act normal, but you were practically vibrating.

Am I really about to fold?

Am I that down bad?

Would having sex with a random man just to quiet the Bob voices in my head be considered spiritual cheating?

Is it even cheating if Bob has no idea I’ve mentally married him three times already?

You sighed. “I don’t know,” you muttered, finally answering your friends, still not looking up. “The idea of having sex with a stranger just makes me tired. Like emotionally, physically, mentally tired. The prep, the fake laughing, the pretending to be surprised when they say something dumb, the awkward moment when they ask if I came and I have to lie—”

Halo was already laughing. “Okay, that’s fair.”

Phoenix leaned in, smirking. “But...?”

You groaned and let your head fall forward until it bumped the jukebox again. “But I also feel like if I don’t get railed soon I’m gonna start seeing God in traffic lights.”

Halo choked on her drink. “Sweetheart, you are in hell.”

“I know,” you whined, “and he’s over there drinking soda like a virgin prince who doesn’t know he could absolutely destroy me with one firm sentence.”

“Hello…”

───────

Bob’s soul just fucking left his body the moment he saw that guy, tall and sharp and walking like he owned the place, like he belonged in the frame with you, like he was about to say something smooth and actually pull it off, and Bob didn’t even notice how Jake had started rambling again about something gross, probably his top three sex positions or some shit about eye contact and rhythm and Bradley, for some reason, was agreeing with him, even adding details, even leaning forward like this was an actual conversation people were meant to hear.

But none of it mattered because Bob wasn’t listening, couldn’t listen, not when he was too busy watching that guy talk to you, like really talk to you, not just throw lines but say something that actually made you laugh, something that made you shift a little and glance down like you were trying not to smile too much, and Bob just sat there, eyes locked and hands clenched and head starting to ring, because since when did you smile like that for anyone else?

Since when did you get flustered?!

Because he had watched you flirt with people for months, had seen you blow kisses at Hangman just to mess with him, had heard you call a superior officer “handsome” with a wink and not even blink after it, had seen you push Coyote’s buttons and knock back tequila and laugh like nothing could get to you.

But now, now you were playing with your drink, looking down at your shoes, tucking your hair behind your ear like you didn’t even realise you were doing it, and Bob was going to explode, he was going to lose it completely, and Phoenix wasn’t helping, she was right there giving you the most encouraging look he’d ever seen, and Halo was leaning in like she was ready to start chanting “take him home” in your ear, and Bob—

Bob was fucking stuck. Just stuck there in the middle of whatever hell this was, feeling his heart crawl up his throat as he watched the guy lean in closer to you, and you didn’t even pull away.

Bob kept watching though, he couldn’t not watch, and he couldn’t even pretend to glance away or look casual or participate in whatever the hell Jake was saying now about how shower sex was overrated if the water pressure sucked, because all he could do was stare across the room like he’d just been hit with something heavy, because you were still talking to that guy, nodding along and laughing at whatever he was saying.

And Bob could tell it was smooth, could tell the guy knew what he was doing, the way he was leaning with just enough space to be respectful but still make it feel like it meant something, the way his hand casually brushed the bar top right next to yours, like it was nothing, like he hadn’t been staring at you all night like you were the goddamn sun.

And you were eating it up.

You were laughing, you were twirling your straw around your glass, you were shifting one foot like you were nervous or shy or maybe just excited, and Bob’s heart was climbing, actually climbing, like physically trying to escape through his throat and he didn’t know what to do with his hands anymore, didn’t know where to look or how to sit or how to breathe, because you tilted your head and leaned in closer and the guy said something that made you smile so wide Bob felt it in his chest.

He didn’t even know the guy, had no clue if he was Navy or civilian or just some random who strolled into the Hard Deck like it was fate, but he hated him already, hated the way he looked at you like he deserved your attention, hated the way you gave it to him, hated that you weren’t looking back at Bob like you usually did, hated that you weren’t tossing him a glance just to see if he was paying attention, hated that this time, maybe you didn’t care if he was.

And maybe he’d imagined it all

Maybe all those looks across the bar and all the half-smiles and lingering hands on his shoulder or his wrist or the way you called him sweetheart when you thought no one was listening, maybe it was just how you were, maybe you were like this with everyone, maybe he was stupid to think it ever meant anything more than your usual mess of charm and games and heat, because now, now you were leaning against the bar and actually blushing at something some stranger said, and Bob’s lungs felt too small for his chest.

And Bradley nudged him, said something about looking like he’d seen a ghost, and Bob tried to answer but it came out wrong, because what was he supposed to say, hey man I think I’m watching my entire life spiral out of my control because the girl I’ve been lowkey in love with for the last ten months might be about to give her number to a guy who looks like he journals with a quill pen and kisses with poetry, because even thinking that made Bob’s stomach flip.

And he was still staring, still holding on to the fading hope that maybe you’d look at him, even for just a second, like maybe you’d catch his eye and do that thing where you smirk like you know you’ve got him wrapped around your finger, but you weren’t looking, you were still talking, and Bob could feel something in him starting to spiral.

And he wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.

“Dude.”

Bob blinked once, just once, because he was still looking at you, still watching how your fingers curled around your glass and how your mouth moved when you laughed, and maybe he imagined it, maybe it wasn’t real, but he could’ve sworn your eyes flicked up like you were about to glance around the room, and he waited, he actually held his breath like a loser waiting for you to look his way, but it never happened.

And then came Bradley, because of course it was Bradley, leaning in close like he was about to deliver classified information, his voice low, his brows up, his tone doing that annoying thing where it sounded casual but also absolutely meant business, and Bob didn’t even look at him properly because Jake, Jake was suddenly there too, on the other side, like they’d planned this, like they’d coordinated their chaos just to crowd him, shoulder to shoulder, pressure from both sides like they were about to shake sense into him.

“Are you seriously just gonna sit here?” Bradley muttered, and it was that tone, the really? tone, the are-you-fucking-kidding-me tone, and Bob wanted to argue, really he did, except Jake spoke at the same time.

“She’s right there, man,” Jake hissed like they were in the middle of some covert operation, “and you’re just... sitting? What, you think she’s gonna walk over here and propose to you?”

Bob blinked again.

“She’s laughing,” Bradley said, like Bob couldn’t see it himself, like Bob hadn’t been watching it happen in real time, like he didn’t know every shift of your weight and every twitch of your smile and every little habit you had when someone managed to genuinely get your attention, “and she’s smiling at him like he’s charming and she doesn’t usually do that, man, you know that, you know that.”

And Bob tried, he really did, he opened his mouth to explain that he was frozen, that he wasn’t physically capable of standing up right now, that his hands were literally sweating and his legs felt like twigs and his brain was caught somewhere between heartbreak and cardiac arrest, but Jake cut him off again, too loud for his own good, because he was Hangman and subtlety was a concept he never quite absorbed.

“Even I’m rooting for you now, Baby on board,” he said, like this was some kind of painful underdog movie, “you’re the quiet guy, the respectful guy, the one with the slow stare and the soft little voice that probably ruins people behind closed doors—”

Bob choked.

“—don’t act like you don’t know it either,” Jake pushed on, like Bob hadn’t already been living in denial for the past year, “you’ve got that whole Clark Kent thing going on and she’s been eye-fucking you since Christmas, and now you’re just gonna let her walk off with the guy who probably starts sentences with ‘Actually, in the original French—’?”

And Bradley was nodding along like this was completely reasonable.

Bob made a noise, something halfway between a breath and a crisis, and tried to look anywhere but at you, but that made it worse, because when he looked at the bar again, you were still there, still smiling, still twirling your straw and tilting your head and doing that thing where your knee bounced slightly when you were into a conversation, and Bob could see Phoenix give you this look, this wide-eyed, giddy, you got this, babe look, and Halo practically beaming beside her like she was your personal hype squad, and suddenly it felt like the floor was shifting, like the air in the bar got too thin.

And then Bradley leaned in even closer, close enough that Bob actually flinched, and his voice dropped so low it was almost unfair.

“She likes you,” he said simply, not a tease, not a push, just a fact laid flat between them like Bob hadn’t already known it, like he hadn’t been clinging to the maybe of it for months, “you just never do anything about it, man, and she’s not gonna wait forever.”

Bob opened his mouth again, completely panicked, completely lost.

Jake smacked his shoulder hard enough to jolt him and muttered, “Do something, Floyd, for fuck’s sake, before she gives Tall British Tragedy her number and breaks your entire bloodline.”

And Bob, poor, frozen, flustered, too-in-love-to-function Bob, just stared back at you like this was all some kind of test he wasn’t ready for, like maybe he’d already failed and this was the part where he had to find out what it felt like to lose something that was never his.

Bob’s eyes twitched behind his glasses, just a little at first, like his body was trying to warn him before his brain caught up, but then it happened again, sharper this time, more obvious, and he knew it wasn’t just a tick, it was rage or panic or maybe both, bubbling in his skin as he watched Phoenix and Halo walk away from you with the smuggest looks on their faces, winking like traitors, like they hadn’t just abandoned you with a man who looked like he belonged in a goddamn fragrance ad.

And you, of course you, tried to shoot them a glare, really tried, but it was weak and late and you didn’t even commit to it, because the second the guy opened his mouth again, you were distracted all over again, smiling, laughing softly, turning back toward him like he’d said something worth hearing, and that was when Bob realised he was going to snap.

He didn’t know how much time passed after that, couldn’t remember how many seconds or minutes had bled into one another while he sat there, too stiff and too warm and way too close to spiralling, because you were clearly flirting now, not just smiling and nodding politely, not just entertaining the guy because you were too nice to walk away, but genuinely engaged, leaning in ever so slightly, talking low, brushing your fingers along the bar while he mirrored the motion on his side, and it didn’t matter that he wasn’t actually touching you, because it was close enough, because the tension was there and the space was shrinking and Bob could see it, could see both of you slowly undressing each other with your eyes like this was the beginning of something that wasn’t supposed to happen in front of him.

And then you stood up. You stood up, and he did too.

He didn’t even realise it, didn’t plan it, just suddenly found himself walking, legs moving without consent, heart in his throat, and then his voice followed, shaky but determined, louder than it should have been as he crossed the room with his chest tight and his jaw clenched and his hands curled too tightly at his sides.

“Raven.”

You turned immediately, eyes catching his, and you tilted your head the second you recognised him, something surprised and amused settling over your expression like you hadn’t expected him to be standing there looking like he was two seconds away from short-circuiting.

“Yes, Bob?” you asked, calm and curious, lips parted just enough to make his brain freeze for a second longer than it should’ve.

He opened his mouth, words half-formed in the back of his throat, but the man beside you was already turning toward him, already offering his hand like he was made of pure class and silk, smiling like this wasn’t the most stressful moment of Bob’s entire year.

“Tom,” he said, accent undeniably British, voice smooth and kind, too kind, like this was all incredibly polite and not at all threatening, like he wasn’t on the verge of taking you home, like he wasn’t already halfway through winning you over.

And you, oblivious or maybe just cruel, smiled and gestured between them both like this was all normal.

“Bob, this is Tom. Tom, Bob. He’s my teammate.”

And Bob just stood there, face warm, hands awkward at his sides, heart screaming, because he hadn’t even gotten to say what he came here to say, because now he was meeting the man who might walk out the door with you tonight, the man who was taller and prettier and had an accent, and Bob had no idea how to compete with that.

Bob’s hand was clammy. He felt it the moment Tom’s fingers wrapped around his, calm and confident, like he’d never known a hint of nervousness in his entire life, and Bob knew his own grip was off, too strong at first then awkwardly loose, and when he said hi, it came out quiet and weird and he immediately followed it up with a second “hello” like that would make it better, and then he cleared his throat like that would help too, like somehow he could reset this entire moment and start over as someone cooler.

He let go too fast. And then he turned to you.

“Could we—” he started, voice unsure again, too high, too soft, and he cleared his throat again because fuck, “could we talk for a second?”

And your face, God, your face looked like you genuinely weren’t expecting that at all, because your brows furrowed and your lips parted like you were trying to remember if you’d forgotten something important, and then you glanced at Tom, probably just instinct, probably just checking if this was weird, if you needed to be worried, but Tom didn’t even flinch.

He was just standing there beside you, all tall and calm and British and perfect, looking at you like he was listening but not interfering, like he didn’t mind being interrupted, like he was curious, and it made Bob’s skin itch.

“Talk?” you asked, slower this time, confused and cautious. “About what?”

Bob could feel his heart thumping in his throat again, loud and uneven, and Tom didn’t say a word, just kept watching you like none of this was strange, and Bob hated it, hated the way Tom was so composed and kind and patient, hated the way he kept looking at you like you were something soft.

“About work,” Bob said, way too fast, voice firmer than before but still not convincing enough, and you gave him a look, the kind that made it obvious you were two seconds away from making up some excuse and walking back into whatever moment Bob had just interrupted.

You let out a sigh. A big one. The kind that came from your chest.

And you gave him this soft, apologetic smile, like you were about to let him down easy, like you weren’t mad at all but you definitely didn’t want to follow him away from the very charming, very hot man currently standing by your side with that soft-eyed patience that was making Bob feel violently unwell.

But before you could say anything, before that smile could fully settle into its place, Bob leaned in just the tiniest bit and dropped his voice. “It’s serious,” he said, and it was gentler now, like all that panic and fire had drained into something quieter, something realer.

And your eyes flicked up to meet his, like you could feel it, like maybe you finally understood that this wasn’t about work at all. “Please?”

───────

Was he really doing this right now?

Like seriously, was Bob Floyd, sweet, gentle, painfully shy Bob who couldn’t even hold your gaze for longer than five seconds without looking like he’d combust, really asking to talk about work, right now, when you were finally, finally about to break your absolutely pathetic nine-month streak of not getting laid, which was, let’s be honest here, kind of his fault in the first place, because if he hadn’t been looking at you all the time like you hung stars and also like he was absolutely terrified of you, then maybe, maybe, you wouldn’t have been stuck in this strange limbo of flirting and tension and frustration and sleeping beside a vibrator that honestly deserved retirement benefits at this point.

So yeah. You blinked. You tried not to groan. You tried to remember your manners.

But then Tom, ever the gentleman, ever the calmly spoken and irritatingly attractive British man who looked like he recited poetry and smelled like wealth, had the audacity to offer with a polite smile, “Why don’t you two talk about it while I’m here?”

And he didn’t even get to finish.

Because Bob, Bob who had just a second ago looked like he was about to melt into the floor, suddenly snapped his attention toward Tom with this polite but firm tone and went, “I’d prefer it was private.”

And then, it happened. A goddamn pissing contest is what happened.

“Oh come on,” Tom said lightly, clearly amused and clearly not realising that he was about ten seconds from being tackled by a man who probably hadn’t said the word “fuck” out loud in years. “It’s a bar, mate. Not a debriefing room.”

“I still think it’d be better if we stepped away,” Bob answered, still nice, still polite, still impossibly soft-spoken, but you could hear it now, the sharpness beneath it, the quiet frustration, the fact that he’d finally reached a limit and was now, apparently, taking a stand right here next to the jukebox.

And you just stood there, caught in the middle of it, not even sure what the hell was happening anymore, because you were supposed to be the chaotic one, you were supposed to be the one who caused scenes, but now you were watching Bob bicker with a English man like the slowest, politest trainwreck of your life, and the worst part, the most disarming part, was that your eyes had drifted, totally without permission, back to Bob.

Because he looked serious. Serious and flushed and focused and every bit like someone who had made a decision and was finally following through with it, and god, that look, that look alone might’ve short-circuited whatever parts of your brain were still functioning.

So ,you did what any emotionally unstable, horny, overthinking, severely overstimulated woman would do.

You stepped in the middle.

Literally.

You put yourself between them, palms raised, body angled to stop them from leaning in any further, because this was ridiculous, this was too much, this was like stepping into a fanfiction you forgot you were starring in.

And then, Tom took your right hand, and Bob took your left.

At the same fucking time.

And for a moment, you genuinely forgot how to speak, because the both of them were still holding your hands like it meant something, still glaring at each other over your shoulders like you were a trophy and they were fighting to the death, and you just stood there, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, absolutely certain that you were being pranked by the universe, because what in the Wattpad hell was going on.

And then Tom tugged your hand.

It wasn’t hard, it wasn’t aggressive, just a gentle kind of pull like he was trying to guide you back to his side or maybe get your attention again, but your wrist twisted just a little weird and the second the pressure hit your thumb the wrong way, you let out a soft, annoyed, “Ouch—”

And that was it.

Bob stepped forward. Not with words, not with a warning, not with anything but a shift, a movement, a quiet decision to put himself right in front of you like some kind of flesh-and-bone wall, and suddenly you were looking at the back of his jacket and the slope of his neck and the way his shoulders looked too tense to be real, and then he was leaning in, just a few inches, just enough that the space between him and Tom felt like it was about to catch fire.

And Tom was taller, yeah, by maybe an inch or two, and he was still calm, still composed, still fucking unbearable with how gentle his expression was, but Bob didn’t even flinch, didn’t look away, didn’t hesitate, just stared up at him with that quiet fury that only existed in people who usually kept everything buried.

“I think you should back off,” Bob said, soft and polite but absolutely not playing anymore, and you could hear the shift in his voice, could feel the ripple in the air around him like a fuse had just been lit under the surface.

Tom blinked, eyebrows raised, still not moving, still not letting go of your hand. “Look, I think you’ve misunderstood—”

But Bob cut in, not loud, not rude, just firm. “I’m going to say this nicely, because I’m still trying to be respectful,” he said, and you watched the way his jaw clenched as he exhaled through his nose, watched the way his voice stayed perfectly measured like he’d rehearsed it in his head a hundred times.

“But this is a bar full of Navy officers,” Bob continued, tilting his chin just slightly, like he was reminding Tom of exactly where the hell he was standing, “and I promise you, it won’t end well for you if you give anyone a reason to think you’re not welcome here.”

Bob gave a smile. It wasn’t sweet, and it wasn’t fake either, it was the kind of smile that made you blink and stop breathing for a second, the kind that made your stomach flip because it wasn’t Bob’s usual shy little corner-of-the-mouth smile, it was firm and controlled and slightly dangerous, and it made your pulse trip over itself.

Because holy shit, Bob Floyd was not playing.

And for a second, you genuinely thought you misheard him, like maybe you imagined it, maybe Bob didn’t just say what he very clearly said, but then you blinked and he was still looking at Tom like that, like that calm quiet stare could say everything he wasn’t shouting, and you actually felt your lungs stutter because what the fuck just happened, what do you even do when Bob Floyd says something like that so casually, like it’s already true, like he didn’t just light a match and throw it directly at your sex drive.

Tom didn’t say anything at first, just narrowed his eyes slightly, just shifted his jaw like he was still trying to decide whether this was a joke or a misunderstanding or something he could smooth over with enough English charm, and then he turned to you again, slower this time, voice measured and almost stiff like he was trying to keep it light, like he didn’t just get completely shut down in one sentence, and he goes, “I hope I get to see you again—”

But Bob spoke right over him.

Not loud, not mean, not rude, just... final.

“No, you won’t,” he said, and it didn’t even sound like a threat, it sounded like a certainty, like he knew for a fact that this night was going to end one way and one way only and it wasn’t going to involve Tom and his polite accent and his goddamn cheekbones.

And then, because apparently you hadn’t suffered enough, because apparently Bob wanted to absolutely end your life in the middle of the Hard Deck with a sentence, he added, “She’ll be with me.”

And your brain just stopped. Like fully, completely shut off.

You stared at him because you didn’t know what else to do, because your mouth had gone dry and your stomach had flipped and your knees genuinely, actually wobbled a little and you were so glad you were standing still because you were dangerously close to collapsing from sheer what the fuck was that.

Because Bob Floyd had never said anything like that to you before.

Because Bob Floyd was shy and sweet and respectful and he never looked at you too long unless he thought you weren’t paying attention, and now he was standing in front of you like he’d just decided this was done, that the tension between you wasn’t going to stretch out a day longer, that you were his, and that was it.

And the worst part, or maybe the best part, or maybe just the most terrifying part, was that you wanted it.

You wanted it so bad you couldn’t breathe.

Because it wasn’t even what he said, it was how he said it, that quiet steel in his voice, the soft but unshakable way he stood between you and Tom, the way he didn’t even look back at the guy anymore because he knew you were watching him, and god, god, you couldn’t stop watching him, you couldn’t look away, you couldn’t think of a single word to say because every part of you had short-circuited.

And yeah.

You were speechless.

And you were horny.

So catastrophically, unreasonably horny you nearly whimpered, because Bob Floyd just claimed you in the most Bob Floyd way possible and you might never recover from this moment.

You didn’t say another word. You just grabbed his hand, tight and determined and maybe even shaking a little because your brain had finally caught up to the rest of you and decided, yes, this was happening, this was actually happening, and Bob, and Bob didn’t even resist, just blinked in stunned silence as you pulled him along like some kind of feral force of nature who’d decided that tonight was it, tonight was the end of the waiting game, tonight was the fucking finale.

You didn’t check who was watching, didn’t glance at Jake or Bradley or even the girls because the second you looked back you might lose your nerve, might forget how to walk straight, might start overthinking everything and accidentally ruin it, so instead you just walked, fast and angry and certain, dragging Bob through the Hard Deck like a woman possessed, like your heartbeat was louder than the music, like your hands were about to start shaking from how badly you needed to feel something more than just the heat under your skin.

And the second you reached the bathroom that was blessedly empty, clean, the faint scent of lemony disinfectant still lingering from the cleaner who’d left maybe five minutes ago, and you yanked open the door, shoved him in with you, and locked it behind you without even giving him time to speak.

You were panting. You were flushed. You were a goddamn storm system ready to tear through everything in your path.

And Bob? Bob looked like he had no idea what just happened.

He was still trying to catch up, still standing there like he couldn’t decide if he should apologise or fall to his knees, and you didn’t say anything either, didn’t ask him if this was okay, didn’t ask if he wanted it, because you didn’t have to; his eyes already told you everything, wide and glassy and hungry, his chest rising fast beneath that stupid flight tee he still hadn’t taken off, his hands curled at his sides like he didn’t know where to put them, like if he touched you now he might lose it completely.

And maybe that was what you wanted.

Maybe that was why your breath hitched and your knees almost buckled, because he was just standing there, looking at you like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he didn’t know where to look first, like he didn’t know how to start, and it was killing you, it was absolutely killing you, the tension thick enough to choke on and your skin already buzzing, already hot, already wet, fuck, you were wet, and you could feel it now, every step you’d taken to get here, every heartbeat pounding between your legs like a countdown, like a warning, like something was about to break.

You could feel your panties clinging uncomfortably to your skin and it didn’t even embarrass you, it didn’t make you hesitate, because the only thing you could think about was how badly you needed him to touch you, how much it was already driving you insane that he wasn’t, how completely fucking unhinged it made you that Bob, sweet, soft, shy Bob, was the reason your thighs were clenching and your fingers were twitching and your back was already pressing to the cold tile wall just to keep yourself steady.

And he still hadn’t moved.

He was breathing like you were taking all the air in the room with you, like he didn’t know what the hell he’d just gotten himself into, and you could feel it now, the way your body was starting to shake with it, with all of it, the heat and the tension and the months of wanting, and the fact that you were both locked in a bathroom with less than three feet between you and only one possible outcome left—

And your voice broke out before you could stop it. “Do you know what you do to me?”

And you said it like a confession, like a sin, like something cracked open in the middle of your chest and bled out into the air between you, and your voice was hoarse and shallow and dazed and your back stayed right against the door because you weren’t sure your knees could handle even a step forward, weren’t sure if your legs would even work anymore because you were barely breathing and your palms were sweating and you were dizzy, not drunk dizzy, not flustered dizzy, just desperate, just overwhelmed, just fucking done with pretending you didn’t feel everything at once when it came to him, and when you finally looked up, when you really looked at Bob—

He wasn’t nervous.

He wasn’t stammering.

He wasn’t doing that soft little head tilt he always did when he was confused or shy or trying to figure out what the hell was going on in front of him, because this wasn’t confusion anymore, this wasn’t hesitation, this was heat, this was hunger, this was something unspoken and dangerous and so sharp it made your whole body lock up, because Bob Floyd was looking at you like he had been holding back for too long and maybe tonight he wasn’t going to anymore.

And then he stepped forward.

And your breath caught so hard it felt like something slammed into your lungs, and you didn’t mean to but you took a half-step back, only your back was already against the door, so it just made you straighten a little, made you tilt your chin up as his body closed in on yours, not touching yet, not even brushing, just crowding, just pressuring, just standing there like he could trap you with nothing more than proximity and silence and the way his eyes burned right through your fucking skin.

“Do you know what you do to me?”

He said it like it hurt, said it like a warning, like something he’d been trying so hard not to say and then failed, and the sound of it sent a whole-body shiver down your spine because it didn’t sound like Bob anymore, it didn’t sound like the shy, quiet, soft-spoken man you’d been lowkey in love with since forever, it sounded like something deeper, something hungrier, something wrecked and tired of waiting, and you felt your mouth go dry.

“You think I don’t notice,” he murmured, closer now, voice almost too calm, too quiet, like he was afraid if he let it rise at all he’d lose control of it, “but you look at me like you want me to lose it.”

And your stomach dropped.

Your legs shook.

Your hands itched to grab something, anything, because he wasn’t done, because he wasn’t backing away, because Bob was still coming closer even though there was nowhere else for you to go, and he tilted his head and let his eyes flick down to your mouth and then back up, and that was when you knew, that was when you really knew, because there was no coming back from this now.

“You don’t even realise,” he whispered, just loud enough for you to hear him over the blood rushing in your ears, “what it’s like watching you walk around like that, talking to everyone, laughing like that, wearing that dress like you didn’t know I’d be losing my mind the second I saw you tonight.”

Your chest was rising way too fast.

You couldn’t stop staring at him.

You could feel the heat building and building and your breath was shallow and uneven and your thighs were pressed together and you could swear you felt your own heartbeat between your legs, because Bob Floyd, Bob fucking Floyd, had you caged in with nothing but words and distance and tension and suddenly you weren’t even sure who was in control anymore.

You didn’t move, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything except stare at him because holy shit, holy actual fucking shit, you weren’t sure your body was yours anymore, weren’t sure your legs were holding you up or if it was just the door doing all the work, because Bob was still right in front of you, still not touching, still looking at you like he had months of frustration burning under his skin and he didn’t know where to put it anymore, and his voice, fuck, his voice was still low and tight and wrecked, and when he spoke again, it hit you straight in the spine.

“I’ve thought about what you’d look like,” he said, slowly, like every word was being dragged straight from his gut, “all fucked out and panting, still begging for more, still trying to say my name.”

Your breath caught so hard it hurt.

“I’ve thought about how wet you’d be,” he kept going, and your whole chest fluttered violently at that, “how you’d sound if I put my mouth on you, how long you’d last before you started begging me to let you come.”

And holy fucking hell, your knees buckled again, this time fully, but his hand shot out and caught your waist before you could even fall, and that was the first time he touched you, that was the first skin-on-skin contact you’d had all night and it was barely anything, just his fingers at your waist holding you steady, but your body reacted like he’d fucking thrown you onto the counter and split you open, because your lungs stuttered and your thighs squeezed tighter and your head was spinning and his hand just stayed there, firm and steady and grounding you like he knew he had to or else you were going to collapse completely.

“And I’ve touched myself to it,” he added, voice softer now but somehow more intense, like it was turning into something vulnerable, something real, “more times than I can count, but it’s never enough, it’s never enough, because it’s not you, and I can’t get you out of my head, and I swear to God, if you don’t kiss me soon I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

But he didn’t move. He stayed still, staring at you, breathing like he was barely holding himself together, waiting for you to close the distance, for you to make the first move, and your body was burning so hot it hurt, and the silence between you was so loud you thought it might break something in your chest, because holy fuck, this was happening, this was really happening, and all he’d done was speak.

“Bob,” you whispered, and your voice cracked a little, not from nerves, not from doubt, but from the sheer weight of how badly you needed him, how much it burned, how deep it sat in your chest, months and months of restraint clawing their way out of your throat in just one word, and you weren’t even sure if you could keep going but you had to, you had to, because if you didn’t say this now you were going to fucking explode. “Just kiss me, please.”

You barely had time to process the way your back hit the door, hard enough to make it rattle, before he was on you, really on you, his mouth hot and desperate and possessive against yours like he was trying to breathe you in and ruin you at the same time, like this had been killing him and he wasn’t going to wait another second, not even a heartbeat, and you kissed him back just as hard, your hands sliding into his hair, gripping like you needed to keep yourself grounded, like if you let go you might actually fall apart.

And Bob was groaning into your mouth now, low and helpless, the kind of sound that came straight from his chest and vibrated through yours, and it did something to you, something visceral, something that made your knees shake and your brain short-circuit and your fingers curl tighter in his hair just to feel him, just to know this was real, and he pressed his body closer, no hesitation, no question, just heat, just solid, overwhelming heat against every inch of you and you were melting into it, melting into him, gripping the back of his neck like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

And then he pulled back just barely, just far enough to breathe, just far enough for his eyes to crash into yours again, and his forehead dropped against yours and his hand was still on your jaw and the other still on your hip and his chest was heaving like he’d just run ten miles and he still wasn’t touching you enough, not even close.

“I’ve imagined this,” he whispered, voice all breath and wreckage, his lips brushing against yours even as he spoke, “I’ve imagined what you’d look like, pressed up against me, gasping, shaking, begging.”

You whimpered, actually whimpered, because you could feel your thighs pressing together now like they were trying to solve the problem on their own, and your head was swimming with it, dizzy and hot and aching, and Bob leaned in closer, his nose brushing yours, his hand sliding up your side until it was resting right beneath your ribs, holding you like you were breakable but his.

“Do you even know what you do to me?” he asked, and his voice was rougher now, low and shaken and dangerous, and it made your whole body clench, made your breath stutter out again as you stared up at him, completely gone.

You nodded, but it didn’t even matter, because he wasn’t done.

“How many times I’ve thought about this,” he said, and then he tilted his head, just slightly, just enough that his mouth brushed your jaw now instead of your lips, his breath hot against your skin, “how many times I’ve made myself come to the thought of you moaning my name, screaming for me, looking at me like you’re looking at me right now.”

You gasped, actually gasped, because you were looking at him like that, you were giving him every single unfiltered thought and ache and need in your body and he was eating it up like he’d been starving for it, like this was the only thing he’d ever wanted.

“You don’t even know what you’ve done to me,” he whispered, mouth still dragging along your jaw, and your fingers were digging into his shoulders now, your whole body trembling, your thighs pressed together and your hips tilted forward like your body was already moving without permission, like it was chasing the friction, and Bob didn’t stop, didn’t even pause, because he was too far gone now, his voice going darker and hungrier with every word.

“Months,” he breathed, “I’ve been dying for this for months, watching you flirt with every guy who’s not me, watching you laugh and tease and act like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing, and I still couldn’t stop thinking about how you’d sound, how you’d taste, how you’d fall apart under me.”

You almost cried. You almost cried right then and there because it was too much, it was everything, and you hadn’t even touched skin yet, hadn’t even unzipped anything, and your whole body was already humming with it, already aching, already so wet it hurt.

And then his hand slid from your waist to your thigh, slowly, like he was making sure you felt every inch, and his forehead still pressed against yours as his other hand slid into your hair, and you didn’t even realise you were holding your breath until he spoke again.

“Tell me,” he whispered, “tell me you want this.”

You let out a sound, not even a word, not even close, it was more like a broken moan caught halfway in your throat and your knees nearly gave out when his hand slid up and wrapped around the base of your neck, not squeezing, not choking, just holding, just owning, just enough pressure to ground you exactly where he wanted you, and you were already gasping before he even moved, already falling apart just from the weight of his palm and the way his thumb brushed your pulse, slow and knowing and devastating.

And then he rolled his hips, grounded into you, slow and deliberate and hard, and you swore the air was sucked out of the room because you could feel it, could feel the size of him through his jeans, thick and aching and right there, pressing up against where you needed him most and your whole body buckled forward into him like you couldn’t take it anymore, like it had already been too long and too much and too everything.

“Use your words, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and wrecked and almost gentle except it wasn’t, not really, because it was also dark and edged and dripping with heat, “I wanna hear you say it.”

And you could barely breathe now, could barely think, you could just feel, could feel the press of his thigh between yours and the way your hips had started moving without permission, grinding forward, chasing friction, chasing him, and your hands were on his chest and then his shoulders and then his neck and you were nodding and gasping and then finally it tumbled out, barely coherent.

“Yes,” you said, voice shaking and high and real, “Yes, yes, yes, I want this, I want you, I want you so bad, please—”

That was all it took.

He kissed you again like he was trying to consume you, like he was starved and you were the only thing in the world that could feed him, and this time it wasn’t slow, it wasn’t sweet, it was needy, it was all tongue and teeth and desperation, it was months of pent-up want coming out like a storm and you met him right there, kissed him back just as hard, grabbed the front of his shirt like you were about to tear it open just to get to more, because it wasn’t enough, you needed more.

And he was grinding into you again, harder now, rougher, like he couldn’t stop himself, like your body was pulling it out of him without even trying, and you could feel him now, full and heavy and aching through the denim, and you swore you were going to come from that alone, from the way his hips kept moving and the way your body kept chasing and the way you could already feel your panties sticking to you like second skin.

“Fuck,” he groaned into your mouth, voice barely there, all breath and grit and broken control, “You feel that? That’s what you do to me, that’s what months of you teasing me gets you.”

You whined against his lips and his hand was still on your throat and his thigh was still between yours and your hips were still rocking and you could feel him getting harder, could feel your own arousal making a mess of your underwear and he still hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

“You gonna let me ruin you in here, sweetheart?” he whispered, hot and heavy and almost sweet if it weren’t for the way his voice dropped on that last word, the way it felt more like a promise than a question, “Right here, against this fucking door?”

“Yes,” you breathed, and you didn’t even hesitate, not for a second, because it was already too much, you were already too far gone, “Yes, Bob, please, yes.”

And your hands moved before your brain could even keep up, fingers fumbling at his belt like you’d lose your mind if you didn’t get it open, like something in you would actually break if you didn’t get to feel him, right now, right here, against this fucking door like he promised, because your entire body was on fire and your panties were sticking to you and your head was spinning and the only thing anchoring you to this goddamn planet was him, was Bob, and the way he was looking at you like he’d been starving for months and only just now got his first real meal.

But then he stopped you.

His hand closed over yours, warm and firm and gentle and Bob, and it wasn’t rejection, not really, it was something else entirely, something that made your breath catch and your heart twist, because he looked at you like he meant it, like he meant you, and you watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice softer now, steadier, more grounded but still thick with that wrecked edge, still hungry, still barely hanging on, “I mean it, are you… are you okay? You’re not drunk or—”

You groaned, actually groaned, head hitting the bathroom door with a soft thud because this was just so Bob, of course he was going to make sure you weren’t tipsy even though you were stone-cold sober and vibrating out of your skin, of course he was going to check in with you first, even though you were seconds away from clawing his shirt off.

“Bob,” you said, and it came out more like a plea than a protest, your chest rising, your hands curling against his shoulders now instead of his belt, “I swear to God, I need you to ruin me.”

And you didn’t even mean to sound so desperate but that’s just what it was, that’s just what he did to you, that’s just where you were now, with him staring at you like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he wanted to wrap his hands around every part of you and keep it.

“I’ve gone nine months without getting laid,” you whispered, panting now, voice cracking like you were halfway to tears from the sheer intensity of it, “Nine months, Bob, and it’s literally your fault because no one’s ever been you and I didn’t even realise it until I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and now you’ve got me pinned against a fucking door and I’m shaking and I can’t feel my knees and if you don’t fuck me right now I swear I’ll—”

He kissed you again before you could finish.

His fingers slipped lower and you gasped, not even because he was touching you but because how he was touching you, slow and almost tender at first, just enough to make you shake with it, just enough to make you whine into his mouth like you were begging for more even though you hadn’t said a word yet, and that must’ve done something to him because suddenly he was groaning, deep in his throat, low and wrecked like he couldn’t help it, and his hips pressed against yours like instinct.

And that’s when you felt it the thick, hard press of him through his jeans, flush against your thigh, and holy shit, he was huge, bigger than you expected, and you let out a strangled breath that might’ve been a whimper if he hadn’t kissed it right out of you.

His fingers slid between your folds like he’d done it a hundred times, like he knew exactly where to find you, and when he brushed over your clit, soft but deliberate, your whole body arched, legs trembling, and he smiled, smiled, like he was proud of himself, like he’d just confirmed something he already suspected.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice hoarse now, darker, hungrier, “You’re soaking for me, baby.”

You nodded, desperate, mouth open like you couldn’t catch your breath, and when he circled your clit again, firmer this time, more focused, you let out a moan that echoed off the walls and made him growl, actually growl, his glasses fogging worse now, his other hand gripping your hip tight enough to leave marks.

“Tell me,” he whispered, right against your ear, lips brushing your skin, fingers still working you slow and lazy like he had all the time in the world, like he wasn’t one second away from snapping, “Tell me who did this to you?”

“You—” you choked out, barely able to speak through the heat curling up your spine, “You, Bob, fuck—”

“That’s damn right,” he muttered, dragging his fingers lower again, pressing two of them into you with a smooth, practiced motion that had you screaming, forehead against his shoulder, hands clawing at his shirt, “Only me.”

You were gripping his arms now, shaking, gasping, hips grinding down like you needed more, needed all of him, and he gave it to you, curling his fingers just right, just deep enough to make your legs shake, just rough enough to remind you that shy little Bob Floyd was gone, that this man touching you now had teeth and hunger and absolutely no patience left.

“Been thinking about this for months,” he said, voice low and filthy and way too fucking controlled for someone knuckle-deep in your pussy, “Thinking about getting you just like this, begging for me, dripping all over my hand.”

“Bob—” you gasped, eyes rolling back when he started moving faster, harder, hitting that spot so perfectly it almost hurt, and he groaned again, this deep, desperate sound that made your walls clench around his fingers, and he felt it.

“Oh, you like that?” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth, jaw tight with restraint, “You like when I fuck you with my fingers, sweetheart? You gonna cum for me like this?”

You didn’t even answer, couldn’t, because your brain had already stopped functioning and your legs were shaking so bad you could barely keep yourself upright, and thank God for the door behind you because without it you would’ve collapsed, folded right there under the weight of his fingers, under the sound of his voice, under the fact that Bob Floyd was saying things to you that should be illegal with the way they made your stomach twist and your pussy clench and your whole body feel like it was about to fall apart.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmured, low and thick and reverent, like he was watching something sacred happen right there in his hand, like you were something he’d worshipped from afar for too long and now he finally got to touch it, ruin it, claim it, “So wet for me, you’re fucking dripping, sweetheart, I can feel you, shit, you’re gonna cum just from my fingers, aren’t you?”

You nodded so fast your head spun, chest heaving, your back arching off the door as he started pumping into you faster, rougher, more focused now, and every curl of his fingers hit that spot so perfectly your thighs kept twitching, your mouth falling open in shock every time he found it again and again and again like he wanted to watch you unravel, like he wanted to see how much you could take before you broke completely.

And then he leaned in close, close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath on your neck, his glasses barely hanging on at this point, his body fully pressed to yours now, hard cock grinding up against your hip like he needed the friction, like it hurt not to be inside you, and when he whispered in your ear again, you almost sobbed.

“I touch myself to the thought of you,” he said, quietly, honestly, like he was confessing it right to your soul, “I fucking jerk off to the way you laugh, the way you walk around in those tight little shorts like you don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

You moaned, no, cried something high and shameless, and your hand shot out, grabbing at his belt again because you needed him, needed him, because no one had ever made you feel like this, and you didn’t care how messy it was or where you were or how fucking loud you were getting, because he was still fucking you with his fingers like it was all he ever wanted to do.

“Every night,” he breathed, nipping your jaw, “Every fucking night I’d get off thinking about how you’d sound falling apart for me, how tight you’d be, how wet you’d be, how desperate—fuck—how desperate you’d get just to have me inside you.”

You were gone, completely gone, head thrown back, hands gripping his biceps like you’d die without something to hold on to, and your legs were trembling now, your orgasm building so fast it was almost overwhelming, and he felt it, he knew, because his voice dropped again, soft and serious this time, his hand curling under your chin to tilt your face to his.

“Cum for me, baby,” he said, breathless, commanding, devastating, “Cum on my fingers, let me feel you.”

And you did.

You didn’t even wait for him to catch his breath, didn’t even let him steady himself after making you fall apart on his fingers like you’d been doing it together for years, like he knew your body better than you did, because you were already reaching for his belt again, fumbling, feverish, undoing the buckle like your hands had a mind of their own, and he was just watching you now, chest rising and falling like he’d run a goddamn marathon, lips parted, face flushed and stunned and still so fucking wrecked from watching you cum for him, and the second you pushed him back and made him sit on the edge of that sink, he let out a breath like his soul just left his body.

You dropped to your knees without even thinking about it, hands already yanking his jeans down past his hips, underwear too, and Bob let out the loudest fucking groan the moment his cock sprang free, flushed and hard and thick and twitching, and it was almost too much, almost stupid how pretty he looked like this, glasses slightly fogged, hands gripping the edges of the sink, head tilted back like he couldn’t believe this was happening, like he wasn’t sure if he was about to wake up.

“Fuck,” you breathed, voice gone already, mouth hanging open because you were soaked again just from the sight of him, because of course Bob Floyd had a cock that matched the rest of him, long and heavy and so fucking hard it actually made your mouth water, and you looked up at him once, eyes wide, dazed, overwhelmed, and you swear his face almost broke.

“You don’t have to—” he choked out, voice strained, already unraveling even though you hadn’t touched him yet, but you just looked up at him with this fucking look, like are you seriously trying to stop me right now, and then you licked your lips, slow and deliberate, and wrapped one hand around the base of his cock.

His entire body shuddered.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, jaw clenched, eyes squeezing shut, one of his hands flying up to your hair like he was trying to anchor himself to the moment, trying not to lose his shit too fast, but then your mouth was on him wet and warm and so eager, lips stretching, tongue swirling, and Bob let out a broken sound that made your thighs clench all over again.

“Jesus—fuck, sweetheart—shit, that’s—” he gritted out, hands twitching like he wanted to grab your head, wanted to fuck your throat, but he wouldn’t, he couldn’t, because even now he was still trying to hold back, still trying to be gentle, and it was killing him, you could feel it, you could see it all over his face, the way he was fighting not to lose control when he was so close.

You moaned around him, just to fuck with him, just to feel the way his hips jerked and how his fingers tangled tighter in your hair, and when you took him deeper, relaxed your throat and let him slide all the way in until your nose brushed his pelvis and your eyes were starting to water from it, that was when he snapped.

“Holy fuck, baby, you’re gonna make me cum, shit, fuck, you feel so good, you feel so fucking good,” he groaned, low and desperate, hips twitching, his other hand slamming against the wall like he needed something to break, and when you pulled back just enough to suck harder, bobbing your head, hand still working the base, mouth slick and messy and full of him, he looked down at you.

And the look on his face, flushed and sweating and wide-eyed and completely fucked-out it almost made you cum again.

“Look at you,” he muttered, voice wrecked now, barely holding it together, “On your knees for me, so fucking perfect, so fucking filthy, you’re gonna make me cum down your throat, sweetheart, you want that?”

He then came with a sound you’d never forget, raw and strained and so fucking desperate, fingers tangled in your hair like he’d completely lost track of the world, like all that mattered now was the way your mouth was wrapped around him, the way you swallowed every last drop like you’d been starving for it, like this was something you needed, like it was just for you.

And when you finally pulled off him, lips swollen and jaw aching and spit clinging to your chin, you were both gasping for air, your knees burning from the floor and your body shaking from everything, from the rush and the power and the absolute chaos of what the two of you had just done.

But before you could speak, before you could even get your breath back properly, Bob reached down and pulled you up, hands firm but shaking a little, and he kissed you like he meant to never stop, like he wanted to taste himself on your tongue, like he couldn’t believe you’d just done that, and God, the way he kissed you, all heat and teeth and soft little sounds at the back of his throat, it knocked the air right back out of you.

You whimpered into it, weak and overwhelmed and still so fucking turned on you could barely stand straight, and he kissed you again, slower this time, his palm cupping the side of your face like you were something fragile now, like he didn’t want to let go.

And when he finally pulled back, when he finally let you breathe again, he was still flushed and ruined-looking, but his voice was steady, low, thick, serious in a way that made your stomach drop.

“I’m not done with you,” he murmured, thumb brushing your bottom lip, and you swore your knees buckled, “Not here. Not in a bar bathroom. I’m gonna ruin you,” he said again, gentler now, firmer somehow, “But it’s gonna be in my bed.”

Then he kissed you again just once, slow and dizzying and so fucking full of promise and you knew, oh you fucking knew, you weren’t leaving his sheets in one piece.

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