🤍 Dia dhuit! Welcome to my writing side-blog. I'm Angie, a trainee therapist and writing hobbyist. Currently very much in a Lewis Pullman phase.
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❥ hit undo, you're so cool (Bob Floyd/Reader) | 15th July
❥ you get all worked up (Bob Floyd/Reader) | 29th June
❥ so incredibly loud (Bob Reynolds/Reader) | 24th June
❥ i knew right then (Rhett Abbott/Reader) | 22nd June
❥ swear that i try (Major Major/Reader) | 31st May
Emperor Caracalla
❥ Masterlist
Emperor Geta
❥ Masterlist
Eddie Munson
❥ Masterlist
Michael (Hoard)
❥ Masterlist
Ralph Penbury (Timewasters)
❥ Masterlist
Johnny Storm
❥ Masterlist
Sue Storm
❥ just how i feel
Ben Grimm
❥ Masterlist
Eric (A Quiet Place: Day One)
❥ the feeling comes over
Prince Paul (Catherine the Great)
❥ Masterlist
Bob Reynolds (Thunderbolts*)
❥ Masterlist
Bob Floyd (Top Gun: Maverick)
❥ Masterlist
Rhett Abbott (Outer Range)
❥ i knew right then
Jordan Weaver (Skincare)
❥ i'm a ghost and you know this
Calvin Evans (Lessons in Chemistry)
❥ young and so in love
William Lee (The Testament of Ann Lee)
❥ in his mercy
Summary: Bob is the undisputed king of games night. No one’s ever been able to dethrone him. But you have an idea that just might work.
Word count: 1.8k
Tags and warnings: Fluff, established relationship, squad shenanigans, no pronouns for reader, no use of Y/N.
(I have no excuse for this. I just wanted to write another fic of @getaapologist's husband being the super cute sweetheart that he is.)
Bob Floyd Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist
As much as they love to pick on each other like siblings, none of the Daggers ever have a bad thing to say about Bob. Well, except for Hangman - who always has something to say about everyone - but even he has to really think about it before he can give him any shit. To which Bob always just blinks and politely tells him that he doesn’t understand the joke.
He told you once in confidence that he understands perfectly well, but he knows how much it gets under Jake’s skin when he pretends and makes him explain the joke to death. You, of course, treat this information like it’s top secret military intel. He's not always as serious as people seem to think.
There is, however, one little thing that drives the entire squad mad about Bob.
And it’s that he can’t be beaten at video games.
Whenever everyone's able to get together and hang out, someone will inevitably make the mistake of asking to play a few rounds of Mario Kart, which is immediately followed with a collective groan from the rest of the room. Ironically, it's never Bob's idea - he's just happy to be spending time with his friends. He doesn't really mind what they do.
The first time you suggest it, you're quickly left wondering if you've killed someone in Jake's family and somehow forgotten all about it from the way he glares at you.
"What?" you ask, oblivious. "I thought it would be fun."
"You're joking, right?" he shoots back. He still looks deadly serious. "You really want to take a perfectly nice, peaceful night between friends and ruin it like that?"
You're obviously missing something. Natasha rolls her eyes, leaning across you to lift a can of soda from the table.
"There's a few things about your dear Bob that you haven't found out yet, clearly," she says with a smile that knows too much.
This only leaves you more confused. You and Bob have been together for a few months now, and while he isn't always the most forthcoming, it's less to do with the fact that he's hiding something, and more of a combination of shyness and not having anything to hide in the first place. You're confident that you know him pretty well by this point.
At the sound of his name, Bob looks up from his slice of pizza, eyebrows knit in a slight frown as though he's in trouble.
"Wait, you haven't said anything?" Mickey asks him.
Bob just blinks. "About what?" he asks in return.
At least he's as clueless as you are. That's reassuring.
Jake looks as if he's about to lose his mind. "About King Bob!" he exclaims, throwing his arms up with enough force that poor Reuben almost loses his pizza to the floor.
"Dude, c'mon," he snarks, elbowing Jake in the ribs.
In spite of your confusion, you find yourself laughing. "Sorry, King Bob?" you ask, lightly prodding Bob in the side. "What are you hiding from me?"
He sighs as he adjusts his glasses. "It's nothing. Just a silly nickname."
Mickey looks offended. "We've never been able to beat you at a single game - ever - and you're calling that silly?"
"It's like he's cheating, he's that good," Natasha explains. "And Mario Kart's the worst one. None of us have ever won a race against him."
“And he always picks that damn lizard, which is an insult, honestly,” Jake gripes.
“His name is Yoshi,” Bob mutters, low enough that only you hear it. His frown deepens then, as if he's genuinely annoyed.
Now you're curious. You had no idea that Bob had an competitive streak. He's been doing a great job of hiding it from you.
After a bit more moaning and complaining from Jake - because it wouldn't be him if he didn't - Natasha sets up the console, digging the extra controllers out of the drawer. A couple of games in and you soon find out that Bob doesn't seem to have a competitive bone in his body, and this is what pisses Jake off so much. Not so much that he's untouchable, but that he's so polite about it. He doesn't brag, doesn't shit-talk; he just calmly crosses the finish line every single time like he's on a pleasant Sunday drive. He makes it look zen. Jake looks like he's about to kill someone.
Slowly, an idea begins to form in your head.
Reuben offers you his controller after yet another victory for Bob. "You wanna try the impossible?" he asks with a grin.
You shake your head. Thankfully, he doesn't insist, passing it to Bradley instead.
This plan of yours is going to require some privacy. And if it goes well, you just might be able to dethrone the king once and for all.
It's a few nights later when you decide to set things in motion. Bob's sitting cross-legged on the floor at the coffee table, putting the finishing touches on his latest model fighter jet. He's so meticulous about keeping everything clean as he works - newspaper pages cover the table in a neat formation, and he's wearing an old T-shirt kept solely for painting - and yet somehow he always ends up with flecks of paint scattered across his face, like colourful little freckles.
You don't tell him. You never do. Once he's finished, you always make him sit next to you and take your time cleaning each tiny splatter yourself. He gets so flustered every time; it's more than enough of a reward for your work.
"Hey, I was thinking…" you start casually, as you carefully clean the paint from Bob's skin.
He tries his best to focus on you as you speak, but with his glasses off, you can tell he's struggling, because his eyes keep crossing the smallest amount. You bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing at how cute he looks.
"Since you're done with your painting," you continue, once you've composed yourself. "Why don't we play a few rounds of Mario Kart?"
Bob's eyebrows raise, as if he's surprised by that. "Sure," he replies simply.
Well, that was easy. You finish up, running your fingers through his hair to push it out of his face as he puts his glasses back on. His cheeks are slightly ruddy from where the more stubborn flecks were.
You leave him to tidy up his supplies while you set up the console. Now onto phase two of your plan. This part might be a bit trickier to pull off.
You pass Bob a controller as he makes himself comfortable on the couch next to you. As always, he immediately chooses Yoshi, patiently waiting for you to go through the different characters. It doesn't matter who you play as, you know you haven't a chance of winning. Still, you want to make it look as though you don't have a secret agenda. You're just having a nice time playing video games with your boyfriend, that's all.
About twenty minutes pass, and Bob's won every single round, as predicted. There were a few times when you came pretty close, but every time, he managed to evade defeat. It doesn't matter how you play, what character you pick, how you hold the controller - he's untouchable. And like every other time, he's an absolute sweetheart when he wins. No bragging or boasting, or rubbing it in your face. Nothing. Just that pleased little smile. From anyone else, it might come off as condescending or patronising. But with Bob, it's different. He really is a quiet winner - nothing more to it.
Time to instigate the next part of the plan. You watch as Yoshi crosses the finish line a whole lap ahead of everyone else before letting out a big sigh. As predicted, Bob's immediately checking in.
“You okay, honey?” he asks, and there’s not a trace of sarcasm in his voice at all. “We can play something else, if you want.”
You shake your head, letting out another exaggerated sigh. “No, it’s okay. It’s just…What would you say to making things a little more…interesting?"
You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. Oh, you've definitely got his attention.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Well…Why don’t we make a bet?" you reply, choosing every word carefully. "If you win, I give up trying to beat you and you can stay the undisputed king of Mario Kart. But if I win…”
You pause for dramatic effect. Bob leans in closer. You’ve got him hooked. Perfect.
“…I get to kiss you.”
The whole idea is ridiculous, and you're well aware of it. You and Bob are in a relationship - you can kiss whenever you like. But life's far too serious sometimes, and you're nothing if not a little stubborn. You turn to him with your hand held out resolutely.
“Deal?” you ask.
You're fully committed to pretending to be oh so serious about it all, not breaking eye contact for a second. It's hard to miss the faint tinge of pink creeping into Bob's cheeks. He stops, as if he's processing what you've said, before taking your hand in his.
"Deal."
You're not sure how this next part's going to go. Bob might not be the most competitive, but you're also having a bit of a hard time imagining him just throwing away his unchallenged title over something as silly as this.
So, of course you're surprised when not thirty seconds into the next race, Yoshi's cart slows to a complete stop. There's a soft thump against the couch, and when you look down, it's to find that Bob's dropped his controller. He looks at you, almost expectantly.
"I think my controller's broken," he says quietly, a knowing smile spreading across his face. "Guess I lose."
It takes you a second, before your own controller slips out of your hand to join his. You're not quite sure which one of you moves first - what really matters is that your plan actually worked. And you can't even be annoyed at him for not putting any effort in. Because it might not mean all that much to him, but he still threw his undefeated title away - for you.
By the time you pull away from him, the tinge from before has spread to a flush right across his cheeks. You don't think you'll ever get used to just how smitten he is with you. You're no better.
"You know you didn't technically lose, right?" you tell him, as he catches his breath. "I didn't finish the race either."
He squints over your shoulder at the screen. "Mm…No, you definitely stopped after I did. You win," he insists.
He's rooting around the couch cushions before he finishes speaking, quickly finding the remote and turning the TV off. Before you can even think about wrestling it away from him, he's tossing it out of your reach and pulling you in for another kiss. You don't fight him on it - after all, this was all your idea.
Bob might not technically be the king of video games anymore, but that little secret can stay between you and him. As far as you're concerned, no one else needs to know.
Red Scrubs | Bob Reynolds x OXE Experiment!Reader | One shot 1.3k
Bob wakes up next to you in the desert with no memory of what happened in the vault.
Content: canon-divergent, what if Bob wasn't the only experiment? What if you were worse! Bob is a sweetheart. Memory loss.
For @fluffyjuly Day 14 - “You stayed?”
And @juniebjonesin picnic prompts - quiet affection / yearning
Masterlist | Marvel | Bob Reynolds
It's hot, it's far too hot and Bob isn't entirely sure what he's going to do about that but considering you've been out cold for almost an hour, he figures it's probably his responsibility.
He'd woken in the blazing sun wearing hospital scrubs with what looks like bullet holes in them. His are blue-green, yours are red.
Something itches in the back of his mind that you need to run, but he's not entirely sure from what. Just a growing sense of dread and a desire to be literally anywhere else.
He can see dust in the distance, cars driving along a road maybe? And part of him knows that could be the easiest way out of this. Following the road to a town and then calling for help.
But he also can't remember who he's running from, what if they follow him? What if they answer?
Bob doesn't have the best relationship with the police and he's not keen to see if it's changed since the last time he was cuffed in the back of a cruiser. He's fairly sure there's at least one warrant out for him and he isn't overly keen to find out if it's still outstanding.
There is a building though, and from this distance, it looks abandoned. At least it might shelter you both from the sun for a while.
With some effort Bob rolls you onto your back, checking your face and temples for any bleeding. It's a beautiful face, one that tugs on his memories in a way that has his gut twisting. But nothing clear surfaces.
It tracks, his memory has been terrible for years, since he started using, and he doubts that whatevers happened to him in between will have helped.
Unlike his scrubs, yours are mostly intacked, apart from one hole at your shoulder. There's no blood there, but there is a neat circle punched out of the fabric. Looking down. He can see a wider circle on his own chest in the same place.
Did you get in front of him? And then he what? Took the rest of the bullets and lived? Whatever you'd both taken it had to be crazy.
At least there was no blood, just your floppy body.
"Hey," he taps your cheek gently, "hey wake up."
Your eyelids flutter, your hand shooting up to wrap around his wrist, and then you're sighing into his palm.
"Can you walk?"
You shake your head, but Bob manages to get you half to your feet, your weight leaning against him as you both stumble through the dry grass and rocks of wherever the hell you ended up.
The building looks further away now if possible. But together you pick your way towards it.
On closer inspection, it looks like an abandoned garage, maybe there'll be some running water, what if there's food?!
Bob picks up the pace and beside him you try to keep up, your feet dragging.
He doesn't remember what kind of man he was before what is clearly the worst trip of his life, but he knows he'd never leave you behind. He knows he's not the kind of man to leave anyone behind, but certainly not you. With renewed energy, he picks you up, hooking his arm under your legs.
He takes a stumbling step, but then he finds his balance. Despite the heat you tuck your face against his neck, your breathing shallow. It feels sticky on his skin but the mostly regular inhale and exhale helps him keep a slow, but solid, pace.
He was right, the garage is abandoned. A calender displaying a mostly naked woman tells him it was last used in 2019.
As soon as he has you settled in a shady spot, he tears it off the wall and drops it into the waste paper bin.
Mercifully the tap is still working, ice cold water bangs out of the pipes, rattling the entire sink. He runs it for a few minutes, just in case, and then fills a cracked mug to the brim, sipping slowly.
He can feel your eyes on him from the main garage room, so he brings the mug through and holds it up to your dry lips.
"You stayed with me." You croak the words out slowly and it takes Bob a moment to process them.
"I couldn't leave you in the desert."
"Not just the desert, before."
"I don't really remember before." He hands you the mug so you can have the last drink.
"Oh," you close your eyes and sigh.
You look sad again and he isn't sure why, he wants to make you happy.
He saw a few cubbies in the backroom, maybe there's food.
Bob hurries around, refilling the mug and looking for anything left behind, returning after a few minutes with some Twinkies and a fruit roll up.
"You must be hungry."
You crack an eye and take the offered treat, eating it slowly and savouring every bite.
The calm look on your face makes Bob feel better too, and he wants to keep it that way for as long as possible.
"Let's stay here for a while, then we'll figure out our next steps."
Your hands moves across the concrete floor and covers his, there's dirt beneath your nails and your skin is dry, but the weight of your palm is a reassurance he'll be searching for for a while.
"Thank you, Ba—Bob." You close your eyes again, catching your words, and there's that tug at Bob's memories again, making his stomach churn.
"You're welcome."
Before he can process anything else, the door opens and a cross looking man in leather is marching in, followed by a familiar group of sorry looking anti-heroes.
"Bob!" There's a blonde woman with a bloody nose and a dirty face looking very excited to see him.
His memory pulls again.
Yelena.
She's wriggling in her handcuffs to try and get closer to him and the action reminds him of something. A tunnel, no, a tower, a silo, an elevator shaft.
"Uh—hi," he didn't think he could possibly feel anymore confused than he already was.
"This is Bob?"
"Yes, Bob!" The group choruses, and a tall man with a scruffy beard a dust bin lid — no — that's Captain America — was Captain America follows up with a muttered, "how many times, Bucky."
That's who he is, the man in leather, Congressman Bucky Barnes, what on earth is he doing —
His train of thought is interrupted by a loud ringing and Barnes answering the phone.
"Yes," his voice softens, "Mel… yes, I found them."
There's a series of protesting noises from the assembled, tied up, group.
"If I tell you that I found your experiments too, you'll do the right thing, won't you — yes plural."
Barnes squints over at you both and Bob can feel you shrink behind him, curling your body inward, arms around your knees. He leans over, covering you from Barnes' eyeline.
"Two, Bob and I dunno, Bob's friend. He's in blue, yes."
Bob looks down at his scrubs.
"— and she's in red. Yes she, yes red — oh. Right. Okay."
Barnes puts the phone down and slides it into his back pocket.
"Robert?"
"You can just call me Bob."
"Your friend there, what's her name?"
"I can't remember," bob shrugged.
"Ma'am, do you remember?" He's obviously trying to be nice, but he looks ready to fight.
"Uh— I'm not sure, I just remember following Bob out of that basement and then now I'm here."
Barnes looks at everyone and circles a finger. "We need to get out of this building, you too Robert."
Bob looks at you instead, tears in your eyes.
"Why are they frightened?"
"I don't know," you choke out. Maybe you do know, maybe you've seen a video of why and maybe you can feel why bubbling in your body the more frightened you become.
"Robert," Barnes says gently, "she may be dangerous, why don't you come outside with us?"
Even Yelena is looking pointedly at the door, imploring him with her eyes.
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.
just a reminder that to keep a fandom alive you need to support your fandom creators, whether it's writers, artists, gif makers, editors or update accounts. fandom is a community, not a commodity and most of the time people do not create just for themselves or for the sake of it. your feedback, your comments, your tags and most of all your REBLOGS will take you 3 seconds but will make a difference to someone. this is not the place to be stingy towards your creators. show your appreciation, don't take people's time, efforts and work for granted and most of all click!! on!! that!! damn!! reblog!! button!! ffs!!
Summary: Bob's had something on his mind for a while now. Tonight feels like the right time to finally do something about it.
Word count: 1.5k
Tags and warnings: Smut (not super explicit), fluff, reader and Bob are married, brief mentions of alcohol, reader is she/her, no use of Y/N. 18+! Minors, please don't interact!
(This is revenge for the amazing, beautiful, gorgeous Bob Reynolds-related hell @getaapologist put me through recently. Love you!!)
Bob Floyd Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist
"I wanna try something."
It's a thought that Bob's been having for a while now, and tonight feels like the perfect time to finally do something about it.
You're curled up together on the couch, his arm around your waist as your head rests against his chest. You've both had a few drinks, and that nervous feeling that's been plaguing him seems to have disappeared. He feels brave; he's not going to waste it.
"What?" you ask lazily, shivering as Bob's fingers walk a playful line along your back.
"Do you trust me?"
You look up at him then, a little confused, but you're smiling nonetheless.
"Of course I do. Bob, what are you-"
That’s all he needs to hear before his knees are hitting the floor with a soft thump. Your confusion only seems to grow as you try to straighten yourself up.
"Honey, are you okay?" you ask.
He doesn't answer; his hands find the bare skin of your legs as he shuffles closer. Sometimes he gets so far into his own head about things like this that he ends up talking himself out of it altogether.
But he wants to. God, he wants.
How could he not? You're the prettiest thing he's ever seen. From the very first moment he saw you, he knew he was a goner. There'd be no one else for him. No one that could ever make him feel the way you do. And he wants to tell you, wants to show you, but sometimes it becomes so overwhelming that all he can do is stare.
He's smitten with you.
People talk about the 'honeymoon phase' - the couple of months where everything's perfect and you don't see any of the other person's flaws through that haze of early love. And then, over time, the haze lifts, the cracks begin to show, the less sturdy relationships crumble and fall to pieces.
Bob doesn't believe in the honeymoon phase. Because it's always felt perfect with you. Even when you argue, even on the nights he can count on only one hand where one of you has gone to bed in a bad mood, he knows that it'll always be okay. There's not a doubt in his mind about that. There's nothing the two of you can't work through and make right.
He hopes someday that he won't need a little liquid courage to spur him on. He's working on it. But right now, he has you exactly where he wants you - where he needs you- and he's not about to let it slip away.
Strong hands run along the underside of your thighs, sliding up to your hips with a gentle squeeze. His fingers hook into the elastic of your sleep shorts. Giving the fabric a little tug, he lets it snap lightly against your skin. He doesn't miss the way you jolt.
"You just say the word and I’ll stop," he murmurs.
The way you're looking at him, like you're hanging onto his every word, does things to him that he couldn't explain even if he tried.
"I trust you," you tell him. Your voice is barely more than a whisper, but it's firm. Resolute.
Your pajama shorts soon find the floor, underwear following quickly after, and that's when it really seems to click with you. What he's about to do.
A nervous laugh escapes you at being so suddenly exposed, and your legs reflexively press together.
"Come on, no hiding. Let me see you," he tells you softly, with a kiss to your knee.
When he looks up at you again, he almost wishes he hadn't. Your cheeks are flushed - from the alcohol or from him, he can't tell. Your eyes are half-lidded, a shy smile curling the corners of your lips. You're like an angel. Beautiful.
You reach for his glasses, carefully removing them and setting them to one side. He blinks hard, trying to focus. His eyesight is terrible without them, but right now, they'll only get in his way.
Besides, he doesn't need them to see you. He has every part of your face, every line and slope and curve, committed to memory. He'd know you in the dark.
Slowly, you let your knees part, and his breath hitches in his throat. To know that you'll let him do this - that you trust him to do this - is something that he'll never take for granted. He knows how shy you can be at the best of times.
He needs to show you how much it means to him. Make every second of it worth your time.
His touch is gentle but firm against your thighs, pushing ever so slightly to make more room for himself. You get the message, yielding under his touch. He starts slow, pressing soft lines of kisses along the length of sensitive skin exposed to him, from your knee right up to your upper thigh. He feels your fingers thread through his hair and a sudden shiver runs down his spine. He reaches up, placing his hand over yours. Squeezing a little. Hoping you'll understand.
Tentatively, your grip tightens. A groan slips from him, deep and low, and that seems to encourage you. You pull again, harder this time, and that's about all Bob can take. He needs you, and he needs you now.
You're fond of telling him that he's a tease because he drags everything out, but he would never dream of doing that to you. He thinks it's cruel. But he can't help that he wants to take his time, explore every inch of you, give you everything you deserve and more. Sometimes, it's not until the early hours of the morning that he's finally satisfied.
You can't accuse him of being a tease now.
The sharp gasp that fills the air from the very first press of his tongue against you might be the most beautiful sound he's ever heard. He wants to hear it again. Needs to hear it. Needs to hear you, feel you fall apart in his hands. You leave him feeling woozy in the sweetest way. Like he's laid down on his bed after a couple of drinks and the room's slowly spinning around him.
He could become addicted to you, if he let himself.
He moves again, his hands steadfast against the backs of your legs as he drags you closer, until your heels are digging into his shoulders blades. There's a part of him that's struggling to keep it together, struggling to stop himself from pulling you into his lap and burying himself inside you.
But a bigger part of him wants this. Wants to be on his knees for you, let you take your own pleasure from him like this, feel you fall apart against his tongue. He can't pretend there's anything selfless about what he's doing.
He wants to worship you like you deserve.
He doesn't let up for a second, determined to pull every gasp and moan and whine from you that he can. And when you say his name, a breathy whisper of a sound, God- It’s almost his undoing. He's a grown man, and just the sound of his wife crying out his name has him almost coming untouched. That's what you do to him. The power you have over him.
And when you finally break for him, when the tension finally snaps and you cry out, fingers tight in his hair as your back arches, he thinks this might be what heaven feels like. He holds you close, not letting up for a second until he feels you collapse against the couch again, until you gently swat at his back.
"Okay, okay," you tell him, your voice trembling as a breathless laugh leaves you.
Reluctantly, he sits up. His back protests from the position he's been in for so long, but when he sees your face - all smiles and flushed skin as you try to catch your breath, the pain seems to vanish.
"Oh God, you're a mess," you say, embarrassed. "Let me just-"
The rest of what you were about to say dies in your throat. Pushing past his rising nerves, he holds your gaze as he cleans himself up, fingertips dragging along the corners of his mouth as he licks his lips.
"Got it," he replies, and he's surprised at how steady his voice sounds.
You laugh again, and this time when you reach for him, he doesn't stop you. You pull him close, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him breathless. His palms rest against the small of your back, pressing you flush against him. It's impossible for either of you to ignore how hard he still is.
"I wanna return the favour," you murmur between kisses. "Let me?"
The word 'yes' has barely left his mouth before you're pushing him against the couch and climbing into his lap. His hand fumbles along the cushions, searching for his glasses. There's no way he's going to miss a single second of this. He wouldn't dare. You're like a dream he never wants to wake up from.
summary: bob lets you see the less reserved side of him through the excitement of a new relationship and accidental confessions
content: reader is a bartender, bob has a habit of watching her from across the room, some sweet relationship fluff and of course lots of smut, dirty talk from our shy king, mutual masturbation, size kink kinda but not really (idk bob talks about how small readers hands are compared to his dick so there’s that), confessions of love, bob getting turned on by emotional intimacy, unprotected sex, cream pie (reader explicitly asks bob to come in her for the first time and his brain short circuits)
word count: 3.6k
author’s note: another day another smut about a man named bob… really though, with the lewis pullman obsession taking over every fiber of my being, it was only a matter of time before i wrote for bob floyd. also i didn’t do an extensive amount of research for this, so apologies in advance if it’s not exactly “lore accurate”
The night Bob Floyd finally worked up the courage to ask you out, you were almost too stunned to respond.
It was a simple “What time do you get off?” delivered in a severely underconfident tone, with a weak smile accompanying it.
He had been watching you for weeks. Going to The Hard Deck with other members of his class to let off steam, and subsequently seeing you working behind the bar every night.
You were always so busy taking orders and pouring drinks, but it never stopped you from feeling his stare from across the room.
You noticed him right away; always sat in the back of the crowd, quietly observing with a content smile on his lips.
He didn’t talk much, not even the times he found himself face to face with you at the bar top, just a quick greeting and a straight forward drink order, but his eyes spoke volumes. They were soft and teeming with curiosity. His stare always met yours, but never longer than five or six seconds. However, that short time was enough to have both of you flustered and searching the room in a desperate attempt to play off the mutual attraction.
But Bob was oblivious to your crush on him.
He had convinced himself that there was no way on earth he had a chance with you. Every time he glanced your way and found you already looking in his direction, he felt a twinge of embarrassment for getting caught in the act— stealing a glance at the pretty bartender that was way out of his league.
It wasn’t until the sixth or seventh time everyone found their way to bar for drinks, that a few of the other guys gave him enough flack to actually influence him to ask you out. Succumbing to peer pressure and the notion that maybe, just maybe, you were interested in him too, he let his hesitant feet carry him to the bar.
It was a round-about way of asking you on a date— inquiring what time you got off work— but he was far too chicken to ask you out directly. He figured this way he had a better chance of getting let down easily.
So it took him by surprise when you answered a straight forward “Nine o’clock,” with a sweet smile and your eyes fearlessly locked on his.
That was the night he took you to get ice cream and the two of you walked along the beach, talking for hours with nothing but the glow of the moon reflecting off the tide to illuminate your path on the sand.
He kissed you that night. On the steps of your front porch with his hands holding either side of your face, he gently leaned in. His lips were soft—timid in their descent, but confident once they met with yours. There was an undeniable passion in the way his mouth moved. Even with a simple goodnight kiss, it was obvious to you that there was something more there, hidden and burning beneath his movements.
That soft spoken spark grew into a blazing fire over the next few weeks.
It almost felt silly to you now— your first impression of him— a quiet, shy, and almost dorky man, who you figured might stumble over his words and follow your lead like a lost puppy.
He couldn’t have been further from that when the two of you were alone together.
He may have been shy, but he was far from quiet. There was no doubt that Bob had no trouble holding his own behind closed doors— specifically your bedroom door.
The first time he had you pinned against your bedroom wall, hands roaming down your body and his lips on your collarbone, your knees nearly buckled. You’d been a clumsy kissing mess all the way through your front door and across your living room, until you finally pulled him past the threshold of your bedroom, and let him take the reins.
He carefully pressed your body between his chest and the wall, wasting no time as he explored every inch of you.
You’d severely misjudged his level of experience. Either that or he was gifted with the god given talent of actually knowing how to please a woman. Whatever it was, it resulted in the two of you spending many sleepless nights tangled in your sheets.
Your honeymoon phase of complete toe curling bliss was cut incredibly short by Bob getting enlisted to train for an elite mission alongside some of the other graduates from his class.
While it was a huge honor for him to be involved with such a high profile mission, it meant you saw less of each other.
A lot less.
Not only did he spend most days training from sun up to sun down, but the details of the mission were highly classified, meaning they kept close tabs on all of the recruits involved.
Of course, he still found time to see you, it was just far less than you were both used to after nearly two months of enjoying unrestricted time together.
Although it was temporary, the sporadic and rushed nature of his visits never failed to keep you on your toes. Some days you’d see him, other days you didn’t.
This, however, was the longest you’d gone without seeing him since he was put on the assignment.
Four days.
Sure it didn’t seem like much, but with the blooming nature of your newly christened relationship, four days might as well have been four weeks.
And as you noticed the light hues of orange threatening to cover the clouds outside your kitchen window, you feared four days might turn into five.
And then a knock.
And another.
The two hurried taps against your front door shouldn’t have sent adrenaline coursing through your veins, but you knew it was him. And the excitement of a surprise visit from Bob was enough to have you eagerly striding to your front door, ripping it open at lightning speed.
There he was. Hair falling slightly from its gel slicken place, pins perfectly placed at the pocket of his uniform, glasses sitting cordially on the bridge of his nose, and a wide beaming smile stretching across his lips.
A matching smile burned at your cheeks and a cheerful greeting was due to follow, only he crashed his lips into yours before you even had a chance to speak.
The weight of his body met yours, causing you to stumble backward into your living room. Instinctively, his hand found your lower back, arm snaking around your waist and holding you steady as he worked to guide your feet, walking you further into your entry way with his lips still attached to yours.
He wasted no time. Showing you just how much he missed you in that grueling 96 hour period where he was rendered unable to taste your lips on his.
His hands were quick to find the hem of your shirt, pushing it up your body and allowing you to help him throw it to the floor.
In the time it took you to pull the material over your head, your lips were free long enough to get a few words out, “So I don’t even get a hi, how are you?”
He smiled, but it was unclear if the source of his delight was from your sarcastic remark or the view of your newly exposed skin.
It wasn’t long before you felt his sloppy grin press into your neck, lips peppering gentle kisses just underneath your jaw.
“Hi” His voice was a muffled hum against your skin.
“How are you?” His question teetered on mocking, but the sweet way the words tumbled from his lips and into the crook of your neck made it all the more endearing.
“Better now,” the answer to his question slipped past your lips as you tried your best not to moan with him lightly sucking at a particularly sensitive spot.
It was muscle memory the way your hands found his belt. The motions seemed to be an ingrained pathway in your brain as your fingertips pulled it free from the loops of his pants.
You could feel his breath hitch against your neck, as your hands found the button of his pants.
“God, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” His lips were still moving against your skin, moving back up your neck as your hand slid into the front of his pants, dipping below the waistband of his underwear.
“You were on my mind, every minute of every day.” His voice was low in your ear as your fingers wrapped around his dick that was already straining against the tight confines of his pants.
“What did you think about?” The question sounded innocent as it purred from your lips, but paired with the way your hand was shoved down his pants, slowly stroking him, your words were aimed to kill.
“Thought about your lips, and how soft they always feel on mine.” He placed a quick kiss to your mouth the second the words left his tongue.
“Thought about your hands…” He pulled away from the kiss, his arms still wrapped around your waist holding you close, but his gaze fell between your bodies at your hand pumping agonizingly slow in his khakis.
“How small they are when they’re wrapped around me.” It was like he was in trance, his eyes fixed on your wrist just barely visible at the top of his pants. He watched as it moved in time with your palm gliding against his length, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.
His words were confident but not arrogant. The confessions— regardless of how dirty— were kindly spoken. Each one delivered in an earnest tone despite the shaky breaths expelled between them. He was trying his best to keep his composure while your hand busied itself in his briefs.
Breaking out of his daze, his eyes found yours again, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he let one of his hands slide to the front of your body, tracing the skin along the waistband of your pants.
“Thought about how you’re always so wet for me.” Those words held a bit more sensuality as his voice dropped to a raspier octave, and his hand dipped into the thin material of your panties, fingers wasting no time as they found the arousal pooling at your center— evidence of his hushed admission.
His name left your lips in a soft gasp as he teased your entrance with the pad of his middle finger.
There you both were, standing in the middle of your living room with your hands shoved down each other’s pants.
While somewhat pathetic, the desperate sighs of relief and impulsive moans pouring into the space between you were anabashadly hot. It was a primitive display of excitement in finally feeling one another.
He leisurely pressed his finger into you, watching the way your lips parted at the feeling.
A quiet whimper found its way past your opened mouth and Bob groaned in response,
“Thought about those little sounds you make.”
Almost as if the warmth of your pussy wrapped around his finger was too much to handle, his head fell into the crook of your neck.
Your hand was still keeping a steady rhythm, stroking him in his pants, when he mumbled into your neck, “Keep making them for me.”
He was referring to the soft moans and unsolicited whines that bubbled up from your chest every time he curled his finger into you. Adding another digit and working against the restraint of your pants, he had every intention of hitting that perfect spot that would send profanities dripping from your tongue, except you grabbed his wrist, halting his movements and forcing his head from its resting place on your shoulder. He gave you a raised eyebrow and slightly tilted his head in question to your abrupt interruption.
“Bobby.” His name filled the room like a song— soft and sweet from your lips.
“Can you just fuck me already?” The words were rushed and breathless, and the look on his face was a mix between surprise and utter amusement as he freed his hand from your pants and effortlessly guided your body onto the nearby couch.
With your back against the cushions, you maneuvered your hips, pushing your pants and underwear down your legs and tossing them aside, while Bob stood over you eagerly undressing himself until the two of you were completely bare and he was hovering above you, kissing you with passion fuelled anticipation.
He lined himself up at your entrance, eyes flickering between your face and the space between you where your bodies met, watching as he pushed himself into you, slowly stretching you to take every inch of him.
“Fuck- you feel so good.” Your words melted into a moan as he continued to push into you, an agonizing pleasure overtaking your body as he took his time pushing in to the hilt.
“God I love you.” He hummed out, gazing at the way he disappeared between your thighs.
The second the words left his lips he’d filled you completely, dick fully sheathed inside your plush walls, and all he could do was freeze.
He didn’t mean to say it out loud.
Neither of you had used the ‘L word’ yet.
He knew he loved you weeks ago— three weeks ago to be exact— when you were wearing his t-shirt and cooking him breakfast while you giggled at one of his stories from class.
It hit him like a semi truck in that moment, he cared so deeply for you, wanted to spend every waking moment in your presence, wanted to see you in every single one of his t-shirts, and would do anything to make you laugh over and over again just to hear the sound of it. He loved you, but he refused to say it first.
His overwhelming fear of rejection kept him from making the outward profession of his feelings too soon, yet here he was, balls deep in you on your living room couch, the three simple words echoing in the silence of humiliation.
You looked up at him, waiting for any sort of follow up clarification or retraction, only to be met with a very serious and slightly apprehensive stare, and Bob’s heaving chest.
Your hands found the back of his neck, sliding affectionately into his hair and bringing his face down closer to yours.
“I love you too.”
The palpable tension pulling at his muscles immediately melted, and his eyes softened at hearing the reciprocated confession in your gentle voice.
It was impossible to stop himself from lowering his head into yours, kissing you for what felt like the hundredth time in the last half hour, as relief flooded throughout his body, and crashed into your lips.
Still buried inside you, his hips pulled back before thrusting into you with measured intensity.
Over and over again, his hips met with yours as your hands tugged at his hair with messy moans escaping through locked lips.
“Say it again.” His demand was sweet and sincere, as he pulled away from the kiss, continuing to drive into you at the same satisfying pace, with his eyes watching carefully as the words floated from your lips once more.
“I love you, I love you, I love you.” It sounded through the room like a quiet chant on each of your moans, whispering words of praise and affection at every one of his thrusts.
The sweet nature of the moment was drowned out by the guttural groans coming from the man above you. It was like every time you uttered those three little words, something primal lit up in his brain, telling him to push into you harder— faster. Hitting the same sweet spot with each jerk of his hips, and you could feel the familiar coil of release tightening in your abdomen.
“Oh sweetheart, keep squeezin’ me like that.” His voice was a breathless groan, threatening to crack at the pleasure of feeling you pulse around him.
You obliged, tightening around him with every stroke of his cock, throwing your head even further back into the pillows underneath you.
Your hands that were tangled in his hair found their way down, tracing the muscles of his back.
Feeling your hands running down his body sent Bob’s mind into overdrive, as his head dipped down to kiss and nip at your chest.
His mouth worked skillfully, tongue dancing around your nipples, sucking eagerly anywhere and everywhere he could. His actions drew groans of appeasement from you as you laid underneath him, his thrusts working in tandem with his mouth to send you over the edge.
You squirmed and moaned, nails raking into his back as you tensed up, warning signals of your impending climax.
“That’s it sweetheart.” In a pussy-drunk haze, he let out a mumble against your chest, feeling the way you were freezing up underneath him, grasping at his back, letting him know you were close.
His words acted as the final push, tossing you into a pool of utter euphoria as you came around him with a pathetic squeak of his name.
He slowed his thrusts for a second, a gentle hand coming to rest on your face while he met you in a kiss. Sweet whispers of praise left his lips as you came out of your orgasm induced fog, a haphazard smile painted on your face.
His thumb rubbed back and forth across your cheek, his hips stalling with his dick still pushing against your now soft and swollen walls that tensed around him repeatedly.
“So perfect…” His eyes gazed down at you with nothing but affection swimming in them.
Now it was your turn to let something spew from your psyche, completely unfiltered—
“I want you to come in me.”
You could hear him audibly swallow, as his eyes stayed on yours.
While you’d had sex countless times, in plenty of different positions, with condoms, without condoms— relying on the pullout method and the birth control pills you took religiously every night to do their job— you’d never gone into this territory before.
“A-Are you sure?” For the first time since you’d known him, Bob stumbled over his words. His eyes searching yours in an effort to ensure that your request was genuine.
Without a single word, you just nodded your head, hands gently running across his back.
You wanted this. More than wanted— you craved it.
In your mind there was absolutely no other way for this meeting on your couch to end. You knew it was risky— stupid even, but you needed to feel him in every way possible.
Without needing any more reassurance, he began to move, pulling out of you and pushing all the way back in, savoring the enveloping warmth of velvet between your legs.
Already sensitive and still working your way down from your high, the little sounds you were making in rhythm with each of his movements sent every ounce of blood in his body straight to his dick.
Your moans and the sound of your voice asking him to come in you, replayed over and over again in his head, causing him to pick up his pace, desperately chasing his own high.
You braced yourself for his release, hungry to hear that strangled groan you knew would escape his throat when he came.
“C’mon baby, I wanna feel you.” You were stuck in such a fucked-out headspace that you hardly recognized your own voice as you begged him to finish.
But your words were exactly what he needed to hear for his hips to stutter and a gravelly whine to push past his lips as he spilled into you.
His warmth flooded you, sending your legs wrapping around him.
You pulled him further onto your body as his dick throbbed, sending its sticky heat spreading deeper into you.
Subdued sounds of pleasure and relief filled the room as you both let out an assortment of sighs and moans at the gratification of raw, unrestrained love and desire.
The setting sun sent shades of deep orange and dusty pink into the room, painting the walls and filling the space with an ambiance of peaceful quiet.
Bob’s body fell against yours, naked limbs intertwined with one another as you both squeezed next to each other on your couch, his length still buried inside of you, a mess of release spilling onto your thighs, but neither of you cared.
The only thing on your mind was the comfortable weight of his body pressing into you, and his chest rising and falling calmly as his eyelids fluttered closed.
“We should get up and get cleaned up.” You attempted to reason with him— and yourself, bringing a hand up to run through his hair.
A huff of air was his only response as he hugged you tighter into him.
“I can make you dinner…”
You thought for sure the offer of a warm meal would entice him, but he didn’t budge.
“Just a quick nap,” His voice faded into a deep breath as you played with his hair.
“And then dinner.” He opened his eyes a little, peeking at you with a playful smile on his lips.
You smiled back, nodding ever so slightly as his eyes fell closed again.
You snuggled into his chest, fingertips still running through his hair when you heard a content, “I love you,” leave him in a whisper before he drifted off.
Summary: There's only so long Bob can control the bad thoughts before they become too much for him. Luckily, he isn't alone.
Word count: 2.1k
Tags and warnings: Angst with a fairly happy ending, The Void, mentions of Bob's mental health (mainly anxiety, low self-esteem and fragmented self-talk), mutual attraction, no use of Y/N.
(Bob, I'm so sorry I keep writing miserable fics about you, you deserve to be happy. This is quite similar to one I wrote before, but with this one, I wanted to explore The Void as more of a quieter presence in Bob's mind.)
Bob Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist
It’s only a matter of time.
They’ll realise what you are. What you really are. And one by one, they’ll leave.
They’ll leave you alone. Like you deserve.
Clock’s ticking.
He thought he was getting better. He really did.
Thought he had a better handle on the voice in his head. He keeps arguing with it, shoving it down, trying to ignoring it, but he's tired. God, he's so tired.
Tired of his own mind beating him down, again and again. Maybe it's right. That voice that slithers around him. Gentle at first, always so gentle. Luring him in, allowing him respite.
It's only a matter of time before it starts to tighten its grip. Pull him closer. Squeeze the air from his lungs. Leave him gasping and screaming. Begging.
He'd give anything to make it go away. He's sick of the pain it brings. But it doesn't matter how far he runs or where he hides. It's all the same. Because he can't outrun himself. Can't outrun what he is. This darkness that festers in him. Like a sickness. Rotting him from the inside out. Infecting everyone around him.
He wants to be alone. But he is alone. That voice…It's his own. Thoughts and words picked up from other people — people who should have been kinder, better — but the voice is his. No matter what he does, he's destined to lose.
Soon they'll see. Wouldn't it be better if you left before they realise? You've been feeding them so many lies. They don't know you like I do. I see you for what you really are.
He tried to leave. He really did. But there's always an excuse to stay. A late night talk with Yelena, a training session with Ava, a silly inside joke that Alexei loves to make with him.
Always an excuse. He's so weak. He's going to hurt them. How long can he keep lying to himself? How long can he keep pretending that he isn't dangerous?
And then there's you. God, if he hurt you, he'd never forgive himself. The rest of them are like a family to him, but you…
He can't say what you are. If he lost that…
But you will. You always hurt the ones you love.
So he does what he knows best. He retreats. Locks himself away in the furthest room of the Watchtower, away from concerned questions and worried eyes.
If you really cared for any of them, you'd leave. Disappear. Let them forget all about you. But you're a coward. You always have been.
He just wants it to stop.
Bob's been disappearing more and more lately, and it's becoming hard to ignore. You try to give him his space - he's quieter than the others and needs more time to himself - but it's becoming too much, even for him.
The Watchtower is an enormous building, even for the amount of people who occupy it, and some of the rooms furthest from the common area are gathering dust from lack of use.
You're willing to bet that's where Bob's hidden himself away.
You leave under the pretence of wanting to spend some time alone in your room. Whether anyone believes you or not remains to be seen, but depending on Bob's current state, you know that he likely won't appreciate the entire team descending on him like a flock of mother hens. Even just one of you is probably pushing it. But you need to know if he's okay. Call it selfish, but you really miss his company.
You keep as quiet as possible as you make your way across the building. Bob's hearing is sensitive at the best of times, and you don't want to alert him to your presence too early. You can't let him run away before you've even found him.
When you reach the end of the hall, you expect to find the door locked, but you're grateful to find that it opens easily. The room is dark, which doesn't come as a surprise. It's easier for him to hide this way.
Slowly, you close the door behind you, conscious of making any sudden sounds. You close your eyes, letting the silence wash over you. This is the last room. He has to be in here.
There. A sniffle, from the far corner of the room.
"Bob?" you call in a hushed voice.
Muted shuffling against the wooden floorboards. A stifled whimper.
Your stomach drops. Is he hurt?
"Bob?" you call again, soft and low. "Can you make another sound for me? So I know where you are."
You hold yourself still, poised for any minute sound. The silence is unnerving.
"Go away." His voice is hoarse, as if he's been crying.
The room is fairly small and sparsely decorated, and with some concentration, you're able to make your way around the furniture without too much of an issue. Faint lines of evening light fall through the cracks in the curtains, dimly illuminating your way.
Another muffled sniffle, and you've found him. A hunched silhouette on the floor, huddled against the wall.
"Bob?" You carefully crouch down in front of him. Not so close that you might startle him. "Are you hurt?"
A shuffling sound. Shaking his head, perhaps. If he's hurt, you need an answer. You try again.
"No- No, you need to leave. I need you to leave," he begs. "Please."
You squint in the low light, and as your eyes adjust, you begin to make out the shape of him. His head's lowered, chin tucked behind his knees as he hugs them tight to his chest.
Like a frightened child.
"Bob, I'm worried about you," you say gently. "We all are. I know you need your space, and that's okay. But this isn't healthy, you're isolating yourself."
You stretch your hand out to him, to comfort him in some small way.
"I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm going to stay right here with you, for as long as you need me to. Will you let me?"
He flinches as you touch his arm. His head snaps up suddenly, and in one swift movement, your back collides with the floor. The air's forced from you in one quick breath. Bob leans over you, heavy hands pressed to your shoulders. His eyes are wild. You've never seen him like this before. He's scaring you.
As quickly as that, he's gone. Retreats back into his corner liked an animal that's been spooked. He clutches tightly at his hair, whispered sorries tumbling from his trembling lips.
Carefully, so as not to startle him again, you pull yourself upright.
"Bob?" You keep your hands to yourself this time. "Bob."
Over and over, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
"Bob," you say again, firmly. Willing your voice to remain steady. "Listen to me. Please?"
His grip tightens. If you don't stop him, he's going to hurt himself.
"I know you didn't mean what just happened." Every word is chosen carefully. "You're scared. I know. But it's okay. I'm here with you."
His head shakes. You're not sure if he can even hear you.
"You- You have to leave," he mumbles. "Before he- Before I-"
There are parts of Bob that you still don't fully understand. Parts that he does his best to keep hidden. Everyone has secrets. But his can turn people into shadows with barely a thought.
The Void. All of Bob's pain - his rage, his sadness, his despair - brought to life by the Sentry serum. Sometimes it's it, sometimes he. But never I.
"You're not going to hurt me," you tell him. Fear still runs like a current through you, but you believe what you say. "I know you won't. Because you're strong."
A barely stifled sob slips from him, and you press on.
"You are. You're so strong. You don't want to hurt me, and you won't. And I won't leave you."
"But what if I do?" he whispers. "What if I hurt you? What if I lose control and- and-"
He shakes his head again.
"Please. Just- Just go."
Pushing through the thrumming anxiety, you reach for Bob's hands. He clutches harder at himself, reluctant to let go. So you stop trying, lightly running your thumbs back and forth across his skin instead.
"It's okay," you murmur, in an attempt to soothe him. "It's okay."
It takes some coaxing, but gradually, his grip loosens, and his hands slip from his hair. You gently guide them down so he doesn't hurt himself.
"If anything happened to you and it was my fault…"
He stops, swallowing another lump in his throat.
"I- I can't let that happen. You…You mean too much to me."
It's the first time he's ever said anything like this. Bob's always been more of a listener than a talker, and it can be hard to tell what he's really thinking. But this…
This feels like an admission. A confession.
Something you've been wanting to hear for a long time. What you've been desperately hoping for.
You take a breath, hoping that you can keep yourself together for a little while longer. For his sake.
"And you mean too much to me to let you fight through this alone," you tell him. "So let me help you. And it's not because I feel like I have to. It's because I want to."
You pause, giving your words the time to sink in. Hoping that Bob's letting them.
"I want to help you, Bob."
You want to keep talking, keep pushing, anything to make him give in and let you care for him. But you know that'll only scare him away. So you wait, sitting quietly in the dark with him for as long as he needs.
It's some time before Bob finally moves, and when he does, he all but collapses into your arms, clinging to you as if he's worried you'll disappear. He's heavy, and the angle is awkward and painful, but none of that matters right now. All you care about is that he's letting you in.
The light outside is gone completely by the time you and Bob leave. He trails after you in the dark, neither of you saying a word. He's exhausted after what he's been through, and you're not faring much better.
Bob's room is your first stop. Even if he knows the Watchtower as well as you - better, perhaps - you wouldn't feel right leaving him to find his way alone.
You're about to say goodnight when Bob reaches for you, a trembling hand clutching at your sleeve.
"I- I can't," is all he manages.
I can't be alone.
You place your hand over his, gentle and reassuring. "Can I stay with you tonight?" you ask softly.
You've learned from experience that wording what Bob wants as something you want makes it far easier to get a straight answer from him.
He quickly nods in reply. You give him a little squeeze, not letting go as you lead him into his room. He follows you readily without a word. You're already in your pajamas, and Bob doesn't even stop to undress - he just climbs right into bed with you.
Normally, he's hesitant around other people touching him, but he falls easily in your arms. Maybe he's too tired to care, or maybe you've finally proven yourself trustworthy enough. Either way, you're not about to question it.
"Promise you'll still be here in the morning?"
His voice is so small that you find yourself suddenly fighting the urge to cry.
"I promise," you murmur.
His hold on you tightens for a moment, before slowly, it begins to relax.
"Try and get some rest, okay? You're safe here. I'm not going anywhere."
It takes Bob a while before he settles - you can feel every minute twitch and warm sigh - but eventually, fatigue overwhelms him, and his breathing gradually starts to even out into quiet snores.
Your mind is still racing, and you let yourself breathe properly for what feels like the first time tonight - in slowly, out slowly. There's nothing to do right now except sleep. You rest your cheek against the top of Bob's head, trying not to think about soft his hair is.
Whatever's waiting for you can be dealt with in the morning. Right now, the only thing that matters is that Bob's safe. That's all you can ask for.
Summary: All Rhett had wanted to do was go out for a few drinks alone. But his plans quickly fall apart when he finds himself distracted by a pretty stranger.
Word count: 3.1k
Tags and warnings: Fluff, Rhett has an unexpected crush, first meeting, Rhett gets into a bit of a bar fight, mentions of alcohol, reader is she/her, no use of Y/N.
(Me? In love with a cowboy? Absolutely not. Sure, Rhett's rough around the edges, talks out of the side of his mouth and gets into fights at the drop of a Stetson, but he’s also so sweet and a total romantic and embarrasses himself more times in the show than I can remember. Thank you as always to @getaapologist for encouraging my nonsense!)
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It's late one Friday evening when Rhett decides to drive into town. He needs out of the house for a while; wouldn't mind hearing himself think if he's completely honest. Having three generations of Abbotts under one roof can be a little stifling at times - and that's being polite about it.
A few beers sound nice. He's not so proud that he can't do things alone now and again. So he pulls on his boots and heads out in his truck. The stifling heat of the day has finally mellowed out into something more tolerable, and the breeze through the rolled-down windows is more than welcome after spending most of the day lugging hay bales around the ranch. He's grateful he doesn't have to try and fight with the AC - the old thing's rattling is borderline unbearable to listen to these days.
When he walks into The Buckle, he's immediately met with a wall of noise. Probably should have known better, been plenty of nights where he's been part of that wall. Still, he's here now. Might as well make the most of it.
He nudges his way as politely as possible through the groups of people dotted here and there around the bar. Place is busier than usual, now that he thinks about it. Almost like half the town's trying to blow off steam from the long work week gone by. The booths are all taken, they always do fill up early enough - a lot of rodeo fans trying to land themselves a cowboy for the night, or any man convincing enough to look like one. Rhett avoids eye contact. Won't make that mistake again.
There's an empty seat near the end of the bar. He's willing to bet the change in his wallet that there's something wrong with it. Everyone knows that if there's an empty seat left in The Buckle, it's not by accident. He decides to stand next to it instead. Better that than risk his ass when it inevitably breaks. If he's going to embarrass himself tonight, he'd rather not do it stone cold sober.
The plan is to have two drinks, three at a push. He'll take his time on the ride home, roll the windows down to keep himself alert. Empty road the whole way out to the Abbott ranch, no one'll be the wiser. Hell, he'll sleep in the cab of his truck if he has to - wouldn't be the first time.
He scans the room as subtly as he can as he orders, trying to pinpoint any potential unwanted conversation - the Tillersons, namely. His poor head's already suffering from the sweltering heat of the day, he doesn't need their shit on top of it.
So far, so good. No one he recognises. Nothing beyond a quiet nod of acknowledgement, at least, and he's thankful for that. But for some reason, he finds himself faltering. Gaze flitting back to the same point, to the far side of the bar. He shouldn't stare - his ma would tell him she taught him better than that - but he can't help it. It's not often he finds himself distracted like this. His family love giving him shit like he's hooking up with someone new every other night, but it's not like that at all.
Every time he tries to make himself focus on something else - anything else - his attention's drawn back to you. There's someone sitting next to you, but they're completely absorbed in conversation with the person on the other side of them. Your head's bowed slightly, as though you're looking at something he can't see from here, and a half-empty glass sits in front of you.
It looks like you're alone. Surely there'd be no harm in-
No. He needs to shut that thought down before it even has a chance to start. Odds are you're waiting for someone. Or they're here already. Maybe they're buying you another drink, or they're in the bathroom. There's no way someone as pretty as you could be here by yourself. He takes a bigger drink than he meant to, swallowing it with a grimace. This is stupid, the whole point of coming out was to get some time to himself. And now here he is, unable to concentrate on anything other than this stranger sitting across from him.
He finishes his drink, wincing as he sets the bottle down too hard. Even over the bustle of the room, the sharp sound draws your attention over to him.
Your eyes meet his. He needs to look away, stop staring, but he can't seem to make himself move at all. You give him a little smile, before ducking your head to take a sip of your drink.
He feels like an idiot. But you smiled at him. A real, genuine smile too- not one of those polite grimaces to save face. Lord knows he knows the difference by now. Or maybe he's just seeing what he wants to see.
He drums his fingers against the empty beer bottle, trying to make up his mind. What's the worst thing that'll happen if he does go over to you? Maybe you'll gently let him down and send him on his way with his tail between his legs. Maybe you'll chew him out for making assumptions, or your big bastard of a boyfriend will catch him and knock his ass into the dirt. All great options. He could really do without another busted nose.
But then he spys you looking over at him. And this time, when you smile, it's bigger. Warmer.
Fuck it.
Steeling his nerves, he makes his way across the room, taking his time as he does. Doesn't wanna come off as desperate - even though his heart's pounding harder than normal.
There's a look of surprise on your face when he manages to slip in beside you. But the smile's still there, and suddenly he doesn't feel just as worried.
He leans his elbows against the bar, hands firmly clasped in front of him. Gives the room another quick scan while he tries to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Rhett's no self-proclaimed Casanova by any means, but this isn't like him. He's not normally so nervous.
Must be something about you.
"I hope I'm not interruptin'," he says at last.
You shake your head, closing a small notebook that Rhett's only just noticed sitting in front of you. "Don't worry about it. It's not like I can even hear myself think with all this noise, anyway," you reply, slipping the book and a pen into your bag. "To be honest, I just needed out of the house for a while. Felt like I was about to go crazy."
Rhett laughs. "Preachin' to the choir here."
He turns towards you, holding out his hand.
"I'm Rhett, by the way."
You take his hand in yours, introducing yourself as well. He tries not to dwell on how soft it is compared to his own.
"I know who you are," you tell him, and there's something about the way you say it - he can't quite put his finger on it, but you sound almost shy.
"Well, now you've got me worried," he jokes with a lopsided smile. "Who you been talkin' to?"
When you pull your hand away, he sneaks a quick glance down. No ring. His gaze meets yours again, like nothing ever happened.
"I've been to some of your competitions," you explain. "You're good, by the way. Like really good."
Rhett's no stranger to a compliment - he works damn hard at what he does - but he's never been one to take praise well. Blame his Pops for passing down his stiff upper lip. But for some reason, it feels different coming from you. Almost like he wants to hear you say it again.
Would you get it together already?
"Thanks," he manages to force out, busying himself with trying to catch the bartender's attention.
He gestures towards your glass and holds up two fingers, before making another attempt at conversation. It's never been his strong suit, and he'd be the first to admit it.
"You new in town?" he asks. "Feel like I should've seen you around before now. Wabang's a pretty small place."
"I moved here just over a month ago," you reply. "It's been kinda slow-going, getting everything organised. Been living out of boxes longer than I'd like to admit."
You pull a face, as if you're embarrassed. Rhett has to stop himself from asking if you need any help with unpacking. You just met, it'd look weird. Luckily, the bartender sets two drinks in front of you both, providing a decent distraction.
"I'm trustin' you with this," he teases, tapping his finger against the side of the glass.
You smile as you reach for a straw. "Fair warning, it's a little strong."
You weren't kidding. Rhett's immediately sucking in a breath through his teeth after the first taste.
"Oh, that's dangerous," he says with a grimace. "How many of these have you had?"
You just laugh, which doesn't seem like a good sign. He's about to ask again when you're leaning over, concentrated on something across the room.
"Oh, look, an empty booth!" You slip out of your seat, nudging at Rhett gently with your elbow. "We should take it before someone else does."
Rhett quickly grabs his drink and heads after you. This is going far better than he was expecting. Maybe his luck's starting to change. It's about time.
He slides into the seat across from you. You look so proud of yourself, and Rhett's finding it harder and harder not to stare. Blame the alcohol.
"Y'know, I was about to ask if you were here by yourself, but I think you practically kidnappin' me's answer enough," he quips, feeling strangely bold.
The offended look you level him with would have him worried if you weren't trying so hard to hold back a laugh. "Please. As if you didn't follow me willingly."
You've got him there.
"What does it matter, anyway?" you ask, taking another drink.
Rhett follows suit. It's a bad idea and he knows it. Whatever's in this thing is lethal.
"Well, to be honest with you…I guess I just find it hard to believe someone as pretty as you would be sittin' in a bar all alone on a Friday night. Don't make sense to me."
It slips out of his mouth before he even realises what he's saying. Your eyes widen, as if that was the last thing you were expecting him to say. Your gaze flicks to one side for a second, and the sudden discomfort on your face is hard to ignore.
"Oh, no," you mutter anxiously.
Rhett's heart sinks. He's taken it too far, of course he has. It was only a matter of time before he fucked it up. He's about to try and backpedal, apologise - whatever will fix his mistake - when you're tugging at his arm and turning your head to face the wall.
"Pretend we're talking," you tell him softly.
Rhett frowns, confused. "Why? What's-"
"I'll explain later," you interrupt, tone nervous. "I just need you to do this for me. Please?"
The look on your face is worrying him, but he decides not to press you any further right now. He leans closer to you, saying any old thing that comes to mind to make it look like you're completely engrossed in conversation.
"There you are. I was starting to worry you'd run off home," comes a voice. "Lucky I found you."
Rhett doesn't even need to see who's talking to know that he already can't stand him.
"Who's your friend?"
It's hard to miss how his voice sours on the last word. You're staring hard at a spot on the wall, still acting like you didn't hear anything.
"Hey. Sweetheart. I'm talking to you."
Rhett thinks he's been polite long enough. He glares up at the unwelcome party. He's a big guy - taller than Rhett by a few inches, broader too. He knows him. Murphy Something. A last name's not coming to mind, but he knows his family, and they're all trouble. Worse than the Tillersons - Murphy especially. Guy's been kicked out of half the bars in Wabang, and he never seems to learn from it.
"We heard you," Rhett says, with what little calm he can muster.
He's not about to start trouble. Especially not in front of you.
"Last I checked, pal, I wasn't talking to you." Murphy jabs an accusing finger in your direction. "I was talking to her."
Rhett gives him a tight-lipped smile. "And I'm talkin' to you," he replies, tone more clipped than he'd like.
He's trying his damnedest to keep his cool, but he's never been good at it at the best of times. And this asshole's really starting to get under his skin.
"You're not seriously gonna sit with a loser like him, are you?" he asks, as if Rhett's not even there.
Rhett gets to his feet then, taking a slow breath in through his nose as he does. This doesn't have to end in a fight. His fingers twitch reflexively all the same.
"She's not interested. So why don't you get outta here before you embarrass yourself any more than you already have, huh?"
Murphy rolls his shoulders back, making himself look taller than he already is. Rhett stands his ground. He's dealt with enough bulls in his line of work. He can handle this one.
"Like I said. I wasn't talking to you."
Rhett sucks his teeth. He's fighting a losing battle against his own temper right now. He slips out of the booth, taking a step forward, then another. Height difference or not, he makes damn sure he's staring this guy down.
"I told you. She's not interested. Now back off."
His tone is still calm, but his jaw's clenched tight enough to hurt. Murphy's loud, obnoxious laugh right in his face tips him too close to the edge.
"Or what?" he sneers. The boozy smell on his breath makes Rhett grimace. "What are you gonna do?"
Another step closer. Rhett's playing with fire.
"Somethin' I'm not gonna regret in the slightest," he says through gritted teeth.
"Big talk from a man who can hardly last ten seconds on a bull," Murphy spits. "I hope you fight better than you ride, Abbott."
A tug at his arm pulls Rhett back down to Earth for a second.
"Rhett, please, just leave it alone," you plead quietly. "You don't have to do this."
"Stay outta this, sweetheart," Murphy tells you in a patronising tone.
His hand inches towards yours, as if to pry you away from Rhett, and Rhett's tired of pretending to be the bigger man. He grabs Murphy's wrist, wrenching it back. He may be smaller, but he's stronger. And less drunk, which is definitely working in his favour. Before Murphy can attempt to fight back, Rhett's already moving. He twists his wrist, hard, shoving his arm up his back and slamming him down against the table. Murphy lets out a pained wheeze as the table's edge hits his middle, knocking the wind from him.
The sudden hush that falls over the room is eerie. Music still crackles from the old jukebox speakers, but Rhett knows the whole bar's staring at him now, afraid to move. He can't really bring himself to care.
He leans in, making sure that Murphy can hear him loud and clear. His grip doesn't let up for a second.
"Talk to her like that again, and I'll break your fuckin' arm. Got it?"
He starts pushing Murphy's arm further up his back.
"Got it?" he hisses.
It doesn't take long before Murphy cracks. "Okay, okay! Just get off me already, fuck."
Rhett lets him go then, stepping back to straighten his now rumpled shirt. His gaze doesn't once leave Murphy until he's shamefacedly stumbling out the door.
He takes a breath and runs a hand through his hair, pushing back a few strands that have fallen loose. Slowly, the chatter begins to pick back up, as if nothing had happened. Rhett's not sure if the bartender's happy to finally see the back of Murphy, or if she knows Rhett well enough by now to know that he's not one for getting into a fight without just cause. He's just grateful that he's not being thrown out on his ass as well.
When Rhett turns to you, he's full of anxiety. "Look, I'm sorry about…all of that," he says quietly. "I know you tried to stop me, and I understand if you want me to leave you alone. God knows I've embarrassed you enough."
To his surprise, you shake your head. "How about you buy me another drink and we'll forget the whole thing?"
Rhett doesn't need to be told twice.
One round turns into two, then three, and all too soon, the bartender's calling time. Rhett squints at his watch. Shit. So much for a couple of quiet drinks.
He wants to ask how you're planning on getting home, but even in his current state, he thinks better of it. Normally, he wouldn't care so much, but he doesn't want you to get the wrong idea about him.
While he's distracted with his racing thoughts, you're busy too - scribbling something into your notebook before tearing the page out.
"Here," you say. "I don't normally make a habit of handing my number out like this, but…"
You slide it across the table.
"You seem different, Rhett," you tell him. The sincerity in your voice isn't lost on him. "If I'm reading all of this wrong, you can just throw it away. But-"
"You're not," Rhett interrupts. "I promise."
You stare at him for a moment, before your smile widens. You slip the book back into your bag and slide out of the booth.
"Thanks for tonight."
You lean down, pressing a quick kiss to Rhett's cheek before you leave. He just watches you go, lost for words. Part of him wants to go after you, but he knows he shouldn't. Maybe it's the drink talking, but it feels like there might be more to all of this. More to you. He shouldn't throw it away just because he wants to pull you back and kiss you.
Not quite trusting himself, he waits another minute or so before he heads out. The sudden rush of cool air leaves him feeling dizzy, and he can't seem to stop himself from smiling.
Rhett's not the most optimistic at the best of times, but this? Somehow, this feels different.
And who knows? Maybe it's the start of something good.
Summary: A night of drinking leaves poor Major a little worse for wear in the infirmary. A confession leaves you reeling.
Word count: 3.4k
Tags and warnings: Fluff, Major is a sweetheart, brief mentions of drinking and background characters fighting, slight spoilers for Major's real name, reader is a nurse, reader is she/her, no use of Y/N.
(I've been reading Catch-22 and recently finished the mini-series. Given the state of my blog lately, I doubt anyone's surprised that I've written for Major. Forever destined to write for the little guys with next to no audience, I guess.)
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The entrepreneurial talents of one Milo Minderbinder never cease to amaze you. You have no idea how he manages the seemingly impossible, but manage it he does, and that evening, the army base has its first taste of alcohol in months. And not the cheap stuff either, he had explained, but single malt whiskey from Scotland.
"Nothing but the best for our boys fighting the good fight," he announces to the already rowdy mess hall with a broad smile, the sounds of laughter and clanking metal cups quickly filling the air.
Naturally, the infirmary is pandemonium within a few hours.
The tension in the barracks has been reaching new heights lately, especially with the mission count being raised yet again, so it was really only a matter of time before a fight broke out. And then another. And another. Before you knew it, you and the other nurses were run ragged, cleaning up bloody knuckles and icing bruised eyes.
All things considered, this is an easy shift. Everyone's still alive, for a start. You're always grateful for that.
The lightweights begin to trickle through next - although not without some assistance. Some wobble their way in on their own and need to be directed to a bed (or a bucket, whichever is of more pressing need); others are dragged in, draped across the shoulders of their comparatively more sober companions.
Major Major falls decidedly into the second category. He would have fallen through the door too, if the poor man keeping him upright didn't have such a good grip on him.
"Think you got room for one more?" he asks, jerking his head in Major's direction. "I'd bring him to his own bed, but I don't know if I could live with it on my conscience if anything happened to him. Poor fella's way passed his limit."
You finish drying your hands, pointing to one of the closest empty beds. "Set him down over there for me, will you?"
Major goes quietly, his head steadily nodding, as though he's keeping time to a song only he can hear. His eyelids are already drooping, and you're willing to bet he'll be unconscious once his head hits the pillow. Rolling him onto his side and letting him sleep it off seems like the best course of action. Still, best to give him a quick once-over, just in case.
You pull a spare stool up to the side of the bed, sitting down in front of him. Somehow, he's still upright, albeit very slumped. It's impressive, considering how much he's swaying.
"Evening, Major," you say, louder than you normally would. You feel like you've spent most of the night shouting, but the drunker they are, the less they seem to hear. "How are you feeling?"
"Dizzy," he mumbles, and then giggles to himself like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard.
At least he's co-operative.
"Can you tell me how much you've had to drink?" you ask, pulling a small pad of paper and a pen from your uniform pocket.
He blinks at you, his brow set in a deep frown. From his expression, you would think you had asked him for top secret military intel. His gaze drops to his hands in his lap, fingers moving as he counts.
"Four," he finally says. "No. No, five. Seven?"
He looks to you to make sense of what he's just said. You're none the wiser.
"Seven what, Major?"
He shrugs then - an exaggerated movement that shoves his shoulders right up to his ears, almost knocking him off-balance. You reach for his arm, steadying him.
"Can you tell me your name?" you ask.
Surely he remembers his own name. It's the same as his last name. And his middle name. And his rank. Poor man.
He frowns again, lips moving silently.
"…Caleb," he finally mumbles.
Well, what do you know. He does have a name. Maybe it's a running joke he and the others have going. You'll dig out his file later, when the chaos has died down.
Leaning in a little closer, you hold your hand up in front of Major's face.
"How many fingers am I holding up, Caleb?"
At the sound of his name, he starts, eyes wide and eerily focused. It lasts for the better part of a second before his gaze seems to cloud over again. He clumsily reaches out to take your hand, and you pull it away.
“No, no, that’s cheating,” you say with a quiet chuckle to yourself.
Major pulls a face at you. It's hard not to laugh when this grown man - and a major at that - is pouting at you.
He might feel like hell tomorrow, but so far, he's not exactly worrying you. Still, you don't want to take a chance on that and send him out on his own. You stand up, gently guiding him to lie down on his side.
"You get some sleep, alright? You'll be back to your old self in no time. If you need anything, you just call for me or one of the other-"
Major shakes his head suddenly, and for a worrying moment, you think he's going to be sick.
"Can I tell you a secret?" he asks softly.
His eyes are wide again. You've never really had the opportunity to look at him like this - he doesn't seem to find himself in the infirmary all that often - and it's a shame too, because he's really quite a handsome man. Brown curls swept back out of his face, and dark eyes that would have you believing they were brown until the light hits them just right. His cheeks and nose are flushed pink from drinking, his teeth worrying at his lip.
He beckons you closer, clumsily waving his hand and narrowly avoiding hitting you in the face.
"I think you're the prettiest girl I've ever seen," he confesses in an awestruck whisper.
You can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek, and the smell of expensive booze is hard to ignore. His words catch you off-guard, and you find yourself feeling a little dizzy as well. His smile is wide and care-free as he stares up at you. Your heart definitely wasn't beating quite so hard a second ago, was it?
And then, with a few heavy blinks, he's out like a light. As if nothing had ever happened. It's still so loud in here. Did you imagine it?
Dazed, you leave a bucket and some water by his bedside, reluctantly moving on to the other beds that still need your attention.
He's gone the next morning. Most of them are. By the time you were able to catch your breath, it was long past lights out, and you were desperate to fall into bed and sleep the muscle pain off. Major's bed was on the way out the door - couldn't hurt to check in, could it? - but he was still very much asleep as you left.
You've been replaying his confession in your head over and over all morning. Surely it was just a slip of the tongue; whiskey-fueled words that mean nothing in the cold light of day. He could barely see two feet in front of him, and he certainly wasn't able to sit upright without wobbling. Still, the nurses are hardly strangers to lonely guys trying to shoot their shot, and having a girl on base is convenient. You're far from stupid.
But there's something about Major that tells you he's not that type. And of course you'd be lying if you said you didn't have a little crush on him. Sure, he's clumsy, forgetful, and he always seems to be landing himself in hot water at every opportunity - but there's something so endearing about him too. For starters, he's never been anything less than a gentleman to you and the others. And there was that time a few weeks back when he found you caught out in the pouring rain. He'd rushed to your side with all the grace of a newborn deer, and held his coat over your head until you were safely in the mess hall. He'd paused for a second, his cheeks and ears reddening from the exertion, before he'd all but run off again.
In that one second, you'd thought he might kiss you. Hoped for it, even. And if you were truly honest with yourself, you'd been hoping ever since.
You need to snap out of it. You barely know him. Maybe the loneliness of this place is getting to you too.
But then a thought occurs to you.
No one likes to say the Q word in the infirmary. Quiet. The second anyone does, chaos descends immediately. But you aren't being kept quite as busy, let's say, as you were the night before, so you decide to take a peek at Major's medical notes. At the top of the first page, in neat type, is his name.
Last name: Major.
First name: Major.
Middle name(s): Major.
You smile to yourself. His parents certainly had a strange sense of humour.
Something draws your attention further down the page. Another section, just underneath.
Other names.
And there it is - the name he told you last night. Caleb.
Heart racing a little faster, you place the file back and close the drawer.
"Does anyone know which one Major Major's office is?"
You slip out for ten minutes under the pretence that your notes from last night are missing a few details. Muriel had eyed you suspiciously as you left. She's always had an uncanny ability to sense bullshit from a mile away. It's one of the things you like about her.
Finding Major's office was easy. Getting into his office is a whole other story. And his assistant, Sergeant Towser, point-blank refuses to budge on the matter.
"So I can't go in there until the Major leaves," you say, making sure you understand the bizarre system that this office seems to run by.
"That's correct, ma'am," Towser replies.
"And once he's left, I can go in to see him?"
"Absolutely."
This is absurd. Surely Towser must be joking. But one look at his stony expression tells you otherwise.
"Do you want me to pass a message along?" he asks.
You shake your head. "Oh, no, don’t trouble yourself. I’m sure I’ll bump into him at some point."
Towser nods at you with a polite smile as he returns to the novel he's not so subtly hidden behind a stack of paperwork.
Stepping back outside into the hot afternoon sun, you try to figure out what to do next. You could go back to your station with no answers and spend the rest of the day distracted, or…
An idea comes to you.
Rounding the small building, you find what you were hoping for - a window, wide and low enough to the ground that it just might do the trick. The roller blind has been pulled all the way down, obscuring the room inside, but the window itself lies open. If you listen closely, you can hear a familiar voice muttering.
Carefully, you reach under the blind, searching for the cord. It gives easily with a tug, quickly sliding up and out of the way with a sharp snap as it reaches the top. Major jolts in his seat, almost falling out of it entirely in fright. The paintbrush in his hand clatters to the floor, and he scans the room in a panic, before his wide eyes finally land on you.
"Hello, Major," you greet cheerily, resting your arms on the windowsill.
He stares at you blankly, as if by chance you might be a figment of his imagination. Slowly, his gaze drifts to the intricately detailed model boat sitting on his desk, then back to you. The colour quickly drains from his face, and he's up like a shot, all but throwing himself in front of the boat to hide it from view.
"Oh! I was- I was just taking a little break from all of- You know-" He frantically scrambles to find something, eventually landing on a manual of some kind and holding it up. “This. Work. So much work. Gotta get back to it."
He knocks his fist against the manual’s cover, forcing a laugh that makes him sound as though he's been winded.
"Well, by all means, Major, don’t let me interrupt you," you reply.
He nods, a few too many times. You don’t move.
"I just wanted to stop by to see how you were feeling today."
"Me? Oh, I’m feeling much better. Thank you," he tells you, voice quivering.
He still looks a bit peaky, but considering how he was last night, you're surprised he's on his feet at all.
Time to start testing the waters.
"You boys sure had a lot to drink last night. The things I heard," you comment breezily.
Major tilts his head with a curious expression, but doesn’t take the bait.
You try again.
"You know, I thought I'd heard every swear word in the book by this point in my career, but apparently not. Some of you could do with having your mouths washed out with soap."
You shake your head, pretending to be offended, but there's a smile on your face.
"And as if that wasn't enough, I even overheard a few…confessions."
You draw the word out, looking at him expectantly. His mouth opens and closes a few times, but nothing comes out. He reminds you of a goldfish.
"Why, I think I even heard one from you, Major."
At that, his face flushes a bright shade of red. Suddenly, he can’t seem to look at you anymore.
"Is that- No, that can’t be right. I wouldn’t- Surely, I wouldn’t do such a thing." He laughs nervously. "Why, there’s no one here that I- Well, I mean no offence, you girls are lovely, of course, but not-"
His mouth quickly shuts before he says something he might regret.
You drum your fingers along the windowsill, trying to figure out your next move. You thought perhaps he would have cracked by now, surely. Major Major is a notoriously clumsy man, and that includes with his words. He has something of a reputation for blurting things out at the most inconvenient of times - everyone knows that.
Unless he doesn’t remember…
You decide to press on.
"Oh, come on now, you were pitching woo just as sure as any of the others, there's no use in denying it. I remember you saying to…"
His frown only deepens, and you're reminded of how he looked last night, when he was trying to answer your questions. He really doesn't seem to remember anything. You quickly change tack.
"…Nurse Muriel that she’s the prettiest girl you've ever seen."
You hate to throw poor Muriel to the wolves like that, but you can’t possibly face the embarrassment of being turned down by a man with no recollection of what he said. Besides, she’d have no qualms at all with just sending him on his way.
Major looks as though he’s in the middle of figuring out the entire world's secrets. You’ve never seen him so focused. Slowly, he starts to pace the floor, finger tapping against his mouth as he thinks.
"Nurse Muriel? No, now that can’t be right. I mean, she’s a lovely girl, don't get me wrong, but you’re far prettier than-"
He stops abruptly in his tracks, one of his boots scuffing against his floor. His back is to you, but you can see that tell-tale flush creeping the length of his neck, right up to his ears.
"You didn’t- You didn’t hear me say that…did you?"
His voice is barely more than a whisper, and every word sounds so frightened. You're not quite sure if you're faring any better. Between the baking heat, and now this-
You decide to answer him in the only way you know how right now - by climbing through the window. There’s no decent way of doing it, and all you can do is hope that no one walks by.
The sound of your shoes against the wooden frame alerts Major's attention, and almost as quickly as he turned to look, he's facing the other way again, fists clenched and shoulders pushed up to his ears.
You straighten yourself up, fixing your uniform as your breathing steadies.
"I heard every word," you say softly. "In fact, that’s why I’m here."
Major hasn’t moved a muscle. You carefully take a few steps forward.
"I shouldn’t have lied to you before. I was worried when you didn’t seem to remember. But what you said, when you were in the infirmary last night…You said it to me."
You were hoping he would have said something by now. Anything. Normally, it's a feat in of itself to make him stop talking.
"I know you were drunk, and I didn’t want to get my hopes up. But I need to know." You pause, afraid of what you're about to say next. "Did you mean it?"
The seconds tick by agonisingly slowly as you wait for him to reply. The already humid air feels thicker now, harder to breathe. Slowly, he turns to you again, his eyes darting between you and the ground nervously.
"I meant every word of it," he says at last.
The relief that floods through you is enough to leave you lightheaded. But you can't stop there.
"You told me your name too," you remind him. "It’s Caleb, isn’t it? Caleb Major."
He blinks at you, as though he's just been pulled from a deep sleep.
"Never in my life did I think someone would ever call me by that name again," he says in a small, astonished voice. "I was starting to forget what it sounded like."
His words tug at your heart in a way you don't truly understand. But you're starting to realise that there's more to this clumsy, hapless man than anyone seems to give him credit for.
Words don't feel like they're enough. Without another thought, you close the distance between the two of you, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. He reaches for you as you try to pull away, his hand finding yours.
"Wait-"
His face is such a bright shade of red that you would worry he had a fever if you didn't know better. His hand trembles against yours.
"I can't- I can't just let you go without asking you on a date," he says shyly. "It wouldn't be proper of me. A man of my rank and all."
He pauses then, and you nervously wait for him to continue.
And wait.
And wait.
He seems to be tongue-tied again. He chews at his lower lip, scared eyes searching yours.
You take a little breath, gently squeezing his hand. Despite how careful you are, he flinches all the same.
"I finish at six tonight, you can stop by the infirmary to pick me up then," you tell him, taken aback by your own boldness.
It takes him a moment to register your words. Then he's nodding at you like a marionette.
"Just you try and stop me," he replies with a quiet chuckle. He stops suddenly, looking at you worriedly. "No, wait, please don't do that, I want to-"
"Caleb," you say, interrupting him. "I'll see you tonight. Okay?"
He stares at you for a long moment, before a bashful smile spreads across his face.
As much as you would love to stay, you're now very aware that your ten minutes ended a long time ago. You head for the window again, Major following behind.
The heel of your shoe catches against the windowsill as you try to manoeuvre yourself over it again, knocking you off-balance. Major is quick to react, reaching for your waist to steady you as you lower yourself to the ground. He doesn't let go, and you don't pull away. His hands are strong and sturdy against you, and you want nothing more than to lean in and steal another kiss from him.
He comes to his senses first, hands whipping away from you as though he's been burned. The moment's gone, but he still has that big smile on his face.
"6pm, don't be late," you tell him, as you reluctantly head on your way.
He nods. "Wouldn't dream of it," he replies, almost breathlessly.
It takes quite a bit of work to throw Muriel off the scent of what you were really up to, but you somehow manage to slip back into your workday relatively unscathed. And when 6pm rolls around at last, and you step outside to find Major - Caleb - waiting for you, hat folded under his arm and a bright smile on his face, you know all the trouble you went to was worth it.
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I honestly don't know what the hell I'm doing. Whether I should stay or go, or where I should go, or why I'm even here.
LEWIS PULLMAN as Cameron Cassmore
REMARKABLY BRIGHT CREATURES (2026) — dir. Olivia Newman
Summary: Strange visions plague your dreams. William cannot allow you to suffer such pain alone.
Word count: 2.5k
Tags and warnings: Smut (non-explicit, but very much there), religious themes, religious guilt, some kind of established relationship, no pronouns for reader. 18+! Minors, please do not interact!
(I saw this film in the cinema three times, and every single time, it broke my heart in a different way. The way William's queerness is handled so softly is so important to me. I wasn't going to ever post this, if I'm honest, but it felt like a waste of hard work. I don't personally believe that William was celibate by choice (if at all), and I've made sure that this fic is as gender-neutral as possible. Everyone has their own interpretation, and this is mine. Thank you as always to @getaapologist for your support with this, appreciate you!)
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By way of strange dreams come visions. Terrible, ghastly images that leave you trembling and gasping in the dark of the night. Strong arms instinctively reach for you each time, holding you close and murmuring assurances as you steady your breath, and lay still your pounding heart.
You should speak of them. These visions that plague your dreams and haunt your waking thoughts. Mother Ann would implore you to. But you cannot. For there is far more to what you see.
Each one is the same. A wolf — dark in colour with streaks of grey by its ears — prowls your dreams. It stalks after you in a frenzy, snapping at your heels; no matter where you run, or how you hide. It will always end the same. It looms over your prone form, rivulets of spit dripping from its vicious maw as its growls rise ever higher from its throat. Head lowered, hackles raised. Dark eyes boring into your soul. And when it strikes, it is with such bloodlust and rage that each and every time, you wake with a shriek, thrashing against the thin bedding as if your very life depends upon it.
And every time, he is there. William. Your dear companion, and even dearer part of your heart as the months and years go by.
You speak not a word to him; allowing him to comfort. Soothe. And yet not even he can rid you of this.
Only your eyes — and those of God — see the shame that dwells within your heart. For the sudden, fearful awakening is always followed by something much, much worse.
A feeling of release. The likes of which you have never in your life experienced, but you know it. The sin of Adam and Eve. And to have this overwhelming feeling, whilst William holds you to his heart in comfort…
It is unholy.
You must find resolve. Cast out this demon. For surely it must be a test of faith. God has chosen you, and you must not fail.
William returns from his daily toil that evening much later than you. He is nothing if not determined, oft to his own detriment; as he is now, he is rather worse for wear. Autumn is approaching fast, and the shortening days are filled with collecting firewood and provisions for the Wintertime.
He stops by your side, a soft kiss pressed to your temple. “How fares my flower?” he murmurs.
You smile in turn, leaning into his touch, before he steps away. Making quick work, he strips himself down to his drawers, clothes tossed aside as he seats himself at the dressing table on the other side of the room. He twists himself to and fro, as if trying to better see himself in the mirror.
With a little sigh, you rise and approach him. “What has happened?”
His fingers trail along angry red welts that mark his shoulder.
“Thorns,” he replies. “I lost my balance and fell.”
William is no stranger to injury, and you have a small cabinet filled with remedies for such things. You fetch one of the ointment bottles, holding it out to him. He looks up at you with an apologetic expression.
“Would you mind?” he asks. “I can’t quite reach.”
Dutifully, you set to your task, carefully applying the tincture to his wounds. Your gaze wanders, however briefly, and you attempt to keep your focus where it is needed. It is difficult to ignore the long scars that run the length of William's back. Faded as they are, your heart aches at the sight of them.
He tries to hold himself still, for your benefit, but each little hiss and wince of pain that escapes him leaves you feeling as though a pit of snakes nests within your stomach, and you make haste to finish soon.
“I will fetch you a clean shirt,” you murmur, wiping your hands.
He reaches for you before you can leave his side, his hand encircling your wrist. His touch is soft; yet you feel as though you have been branded. It burns.
“Come,” he says, tugging lightly. “Sit.”
You press your lips together tightly, fighting the urge to protest. Reluctantly, you allow him to gather you up, until you are seated in his lap. His arm slips around your middle, holding you close. Never have you felt so safe, and so trapped.
Slowly, he presses your head to his uninjured shoulder, his fingers tangled in your hair.
“You are keeping things from me,” he says softly.
His heart beats so calm and steadfast against your ear. Yours, by contrast, is a war drum.
“What ails you, flower?”
Your hands clench into fists. Pain, as if from some invisible force, wracks through you. You wish nothing more than to scream, to cry, to throw yourself upon the mercy of the man who cradles you so gently, as if you truly were a delicate flower.
“Your sleep is disturbed, your appetite wanes. So little now do I hear your voice. I miss your birdsong.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, tears threatening to spill. There is no one in the world who could ever doubt William’s utmost devotion to his sister, but what remains is poured into you. To feel such a deep, profound love — though a mere drop in the ocean compared to his love for Mother Ann — is truly overwhelming. You can hardly bear it.
“Whatever it is, you can tell me. Your burdens are mine to shoulder too.”
And oh, how he means every word. And how it tears at you — claws at you like the frantic, violent beast that comes to you in your dreams.
Weary, you raise your head. To look him in the eye is too much, so you focus your attention elsewhere. On the slope of his nose, the soft set of his mouth, the greying hairs that rest at his temples—
Nausea washes over you, like a tumultuous wave in a storm. Sudden realisation threatens to choke the air from you — how you wish that it would. But there is no escaping the truth.
The creature that stalks your dreams, that sets itself upon you night after night until you are wide-eyed and trembling in the dark. The terrifying feeling of sheer pleasure that erupts through you each and every time.
The wolf is William.
Or rather, it is your desire for him, manifesting itself in the strangest way. How it mocks you. Taunts you. It is cruel.
“Whatever is the matter?” he asks, with such kindness that another nauseous wave washes over you.
How are you to ever look him in the eye again? You are undeserving. You sit here, unable to confess, unable to repent. Hiding in plain sight; no more than a sinful blight in the presence of virtue.
You cannot allow him to suffer as he does now.
“There are things that I must tell you,” you at last reply in a choked whisper. “Things that I have seen.”
His brow knits in a slight frown as he takes in your words. “What kinds of things?”
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you continue, “They…come to me. In dreams. These…visions.”
The air feels stifling; each breath an ashen burn upon your lungs. How fitting, that the gates of Hell should find you here, in the midst of your shame.
"What I am about to say…will surely cast me in a different light." Your voice softens. "Perhaps now you will see me for what I truly am."
There is an unbearable sadness in his eyes as he looks to you. Those eyes — as dark as storm clouds — study your every expression with great focus. Even now, his devotion is as plain as day.
You must make him see.
"I already do see you for what you are," he replies, low voice laced with quiet determination. "When I am lost at sea, you are my anchor, tethering me so that I may not find myself adrift in dangerous waters."
Each word is a sharp switch upon your upturned palms. When he smiles, you cast your gaze aside. You are undeserving of such a beautiful thing.
Carefully, his hand touches your chin, tilting your head up to him. "Do not spurn me, love. Speak."
Even when he commands you, it is done with affection. And yet, the nest of snakes seems to knot itself even tighter together. You feel ill.
"I find myself…yearning. In ways that I should not. Sinful, unholy ways." You force yourself to meet his gaze — the confounded look he levels you with is as sharp as a dagger to the heart. "For you, William."
Confusion gives way to realisation at last. His eyes widen, and you shrink under his scrutiny. Rarely is a silence between the two of you uncomfortable — in spite of his strength, there is a quiet gentleness to William that few others possess. When the world is chaos, he is shelter. A haven. Safety.
You do not feel safe anymore.
For the briefest moment, his hold on you tightens — blunt nails scratch at your scalp, fingertips twisting into the fabric at your hip. Then, as soon as that, he releases you. His grip relaxes, though you can still feel the phantom press of his touch, even in its absence.
How you wish for him to say something. Anything. You would beg, if you believed yourself deserving.
When he does again speak, he does not seem himself. "You were right to confess this to me."
There is a hollow look in his eyes, as though he is far away. He seems to look through you. His voice, too, is smaller.
"Permit me to take it from you."
Immediately, you shake your head. You will not allow him to carry this burden. Your burden.
You open your mouth to say as much, but he interrupts you before you even begin.
“You will not deny me this.”
He looks to you with such fervour in his eyes. He truly would move Heaven and Earth if it would mean that you would grace him with a smile. He holds your face, thumbs wiping your stray tears away with gentle reverence.
“Do not deny me.”
His forehead presses to yours; the warmth of his breath ghosts across your lips. You are falling apart at the seams, destined to unravel in his devoted hands.
A whisper, barely a beat of a breath. “Do not deny yourself.”
Spoken into the small space between you, yet it echoes in your ears as though it were screamed to the rafters.
He patiently awaits your answer, but words evade you entirely. You should fight. Run. Lock yourself away from him. You cannot let him rot too.
As if against your will, you finally nod. He wastes little time, fumbling at the fastenings of your clothes, careful hands pushing and tugging until at last, enough of you is bared to him that he may set to his task. It is not the first time that you have seen each other in such a state of undress, but this…
This is different. There is no innocence to this. There is purpose, a weight to what is about to unfold. How much does a man’s soul weigh?
When he touches you, all thought is lost. It is like lightning thrumming across your skin. You have never felt anything like it before in your life. You find yourself desperate to both squirm away and press yourself closer. It is dizzying.
Your pulse is a rolling thunder in your ears. Heat strikes you in flashes — it is only just that something such as this should be called a sin. This feeling, that threatens to drag you under and drown you, could leave you destitute in your addiction to it, and you would welcome it. If life were this, and only this — being brought to rapturous release again and again and again — you would gladly forfeit your seat in Heaven in exchange.
Even God does not possess enough mercy for such an unrepentant soul. And yet, in this single, glorious moment, you cannot bring yourself to care.
Not once does William's hand stop; he moves with such practiced ease that you dare to wonder how he became so well-versed. His other hand is firm against the back of your neck, the warmth of him blooming across your skin. His breaths are almost as harsh as your own, and the thought that he, too, is unraveling as quickly as you — he without a touch — is almost enough to drag you asunder.
He presses harder, and a keening cry slips from your lips — you cannot stand this blissful torture for much longer.
He knows your mind too well. “Do not try,” he implores in a hushed breath. “Give in. Please.”
His pace quickens then, and the only thing you can do is obey. You allow yourself to give in, allow him to take this burden — this sin — from you and claim it as his own. Tremors rack through you as he holds you tight, only faltering when you beg it of him.
A beat, a shuddering breath. “Think no more of this.”
He draws back then. You have never seen him in such a state. Cheeks flushed and lips parted, strands of his dark locks swept across his forehead. His gaze is heady, pupils blown wide. He is truly beautiful.
“You are free of this sin.”
Tears spring to your eyes once more. He is but a man; he cannot absolve you of such atrocity, and yet you let yourself believe his words. That you are free.
A gentle kiss is shared between you. Slow, unhurried. A mutual understanding.
This shall remain here.
And here, in your sanctuary, time seems to have slipped away entirely. He holds you close to his heart, the steady thud of it lulling you into a doze. A faraway call of your name rouses you some; strong arms help you the short distance to bed. You reach for him in your sleep-addled haze as he turns to leave.
“Allow me to dress, love,” he says, a soft kiss pressed to your hand as he untangles himself from your weak grasp.
He returns to you shortly thereafter, climbing into bed and sliding his arms around you. His nose brushes against your neck, and a quiet sigh escapes him.
"Rest now," he whispers. "You are safe here."
And when you dream that night, the wolf is there to greet you once more. But it is different now. It follows after you with curiosity. You do not feel afraid. Tentatively, you reach out a hand, and it comes to you, pushing its head against your palm. Such power it holds, even in so small an action, and yet you are no longer wracked with fear. You feel safe — as if the wolf has at last been sated.
You do not wake until the first rays of sunlight begin to stream through the window in the morn. William is still by your side, hair tousled and cheeks rosy from sleep. He stirs as you move closer to him, and the guilt that suddenly threatens to engulf you seems to melt away as his hand finds yours.
There will be time later to dwell. Right now, your only care is these fleeting moments spent with your beloved, before the day begins anew.
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Summary: An innocent moment of quiet stolen together in the car turns into something completely unexpected, but you certainly aren't complaining.
Word count: 1k
Tags and warnings: Smut (not explicit, but very much hinted at), fluff, established relationship, Bob using his Sentry powers, slightly confident Bob because Lord he deserves it, reader is she/her, no use of Y/N. 18+! Minors, please do not interact!
(This was 100% inspired by the photos of Lewis at the Oscars. I have a whole gala fic in the works, but between work and studying, I don't know when it'll see the light of day, so I'm posting this little snippet from the same universe for now. Hopefully it makes sense as a standalone!)
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The car's new. Alexei's new baby. Much more expensive than the limo — tinted windows, far more spacious, bulletproof. A much needed upgrade for the newly christened Avengers.
Bob’s still trying to figure himself out. He doesn’t want to use his powers after…well, everything. The Sentry’s moment in the sun was over and done far too quickly, and no one’s been able to trace The Void back to him, so as far as the public’s concerned, he’s just some guy.
Some guy who spends a lot of time around a group of superheroes. It’s strange being the centre of attention and completely ignored at the same time, but he’s trying to get used to it.
The night of the gala, he ends up drinking just a little too much. Before the serum, it would have been enough to leave him in the hospital, but now? He’s tipsy. He feels warm all over. It's nice.
The company's even nicer, though, he has to admit. You’d said you were stepping out for some air, and he hadn’t exactly been subtle about following you. He’d tried, really he had — but his inhibitions seem to have gone out the window along with his nerves tonight.
Even outside, the place was buzzing with people. He’d innocently suggested taking a breather in the car, and you’d all too readily agreed.
He hadn’t meant for this to happen, he swears, but he’s certainly not complaining. How could he? When the prettiest girl he’s ever laid eyes on is sitting in his lap in the back seat, knees pressed to his hips and hands on his chest. His own settle on your legs, fingertips running light lines up and down. Head resting against the seat, he looks up at you with half-lidded eyes, a lazy smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so relaxed,” you say, hands smoothing out the slight wrinkles in his shirt.
He hums. He’s sensitive at the best of times, but now? Your touch feels like heat licking at his skin. If he’s not careful, it could become addictive. Maybe he doesn’t care.
“Is that a bad thing?”
You shake your head. “No, of course not. Just wish I could see it more often. You deserve it.”
His smile widens. You always seem to know what to say. He takes your hands in his, gathering them together against his chest and giving you the gentlest little tug. He’s always so careful with you, knows exactly the damage he’s capable of. Would never dream of hurting you.
But even when he’s gentle, he’s still so strong. A squeak of a sound escapes you as you yield all too easily, finding yourself pressed flush against his chest.
“There’s my pretty girl,” he murmurs, and there’s no mistaking the effect his words have on you.
A shuddered breath against his skin. His nose brushes yours. You’re trembling in his hold, he can feel it. Every minute movement feels like waves crashing over him. It’s intoxicating.
He wants to take his time with you, cherish every single second. Every breath, every glance, every smile — all of it. But there’s a part of him that wants to give in. Let that building urge take over. Leave you overwhelmed and at his mercy in the most delicious way.
His resolve is slipping.
So is yours, from the looks of it. But he has to be sure.
“Y’know, everyone’s probably wondering where we’ve got to…”
He deliberately trails off, holds your gaze. Waits.
You bite your lip. “What’s ten more minutes?”
And that’s all the answer he needs. He gives in, lets that feeling that’s threatening to overpower him take over. The mask falls away. He kisses you like he’s never going to see you again. He can’t help himself — he needs this. Needs you. The one thing that makes him feel safe when he feels like he’s losing his grip on reality.
His hands slip under your dress, and you don’t stop him, pushing yourself closer as you thread your fingers through his hair. His thumbs press against your hips, anchoring you. A quick squeeze is enough to make you gasp, and his head is swimming. He might be obsessed with you. You do things to him that no one else ever has.
He should reward you.
Focus isn’t coming easy to him right now, but he pushes through, forces himself to concentrate. Find that one spot that'll make you see stars. And when he does — oh, it’s so worth it. He’s never heard that noise from you before — a mix of sheer pleasure and shock. You’re quick to pull away, disbelief written all over your face, his name whispered in a shaky breath. Your hands slide down to his.
“How did you-” you start to ask, but when your eyes meet his, you falter.
And it hits you.
“Your eyes…”
He should feel scared, but he doesn’t. He feels confident. Powerful.
“What about them?” he asks.
As if he doesn’t know. He waits for your mouth to open in reply before he strikes again. Hits that same point. Pulls that same noise from you.
His hands are still securely on your hips. You both know that. And he can’t help himself. He pushes further. Touches you everywhere he knows you like — and not once do his hands move.
He’s never needed you more than he does right now, but he needs to see you fall apart first. Make a mess of you. Ruin you for anyone else.
It’s selfish, he knows that, but how can he help himself? He’s so head over heels for you.
And when you do finally break, when you’re so overwhelmed that you can’t take any more and it all hits you at once, he’s mesmerised. He’s never seen anything as beautiful as you are right now.
He might have the powers of a God, but you? You make him feel so weak. He loves it. Loves the power you have over him.
It takes you a minute to catch your breath. He lets himself bask in it. Just you and him. He couldn’t ask for more.
Until you’re tearing at his suit like you’re possessed, exposing every inch of skin — how could he possibly refuse you?
Taglist: @getaapologist @nomajdetective
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a feel like the new generation of fanfic readers NEED to understand that clicking on a fic (interaction) does nothing. ao3 has no algorithm. your private discord discussions of fic do not reach the authors. if you do not actively engage with writers they will stop posting. this isn’t social media this is community.
A little masterlist for my Bob Floyd fics! All fics are Bob Floyd/Reader. Reblogs are always greatly appreciated. Any smut will be marked with a ❣️. You can join the taglist here.
climb the cliff edge
Bob’s been your best friend since you were kids, he’s not about to ruin it all over a silly crush. But a power cut in the middle of a storm might just push him too far.
Fluff | 3.7k words
operation: get bob smashed
The squad are on a mission to get Bob to loosen up on a night out. Getting him drunk is one thing, but getting him to bed afterwards is a whole other challenge.
Fluff | 4.5k words
you get all worked up ❣️
Bob's had something on his mind for a while now. Tonight feels like the right time to finally do something about it.
Smut and fluff | 1.5k words
hit undo, you're so cool
Bob is the undisputed king of games night. No one’s ever been able to dethrone him. But you have an idea that just might work.
Fluff | 1.8k words
Summary: The squad are on a mission to get Bob to loosen up on a night out. Getting him drunk is one thing, but getting him to bed afterwards is a whole other challenge.
Word count: 4.5k
Tags and warnings: Fluff, mentions of alcohol, Bob and reader are married, Bob’s a bit of a messy drunk (but he’s very cute about it), squad shenanigans, reader is she/her, no use of Y/N.
(HAPPY BIRTHDAY, @getaapologist!! I’m so grateful to call you my friend and writing partner-in-crime! Seriously, you’ve been an incredible support and inspiration, so here’s a little Bob Floyd to say thank you! I hope you have the best day, you deserve it!)
Bob Floyd Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist
Bob’s not exactly one for partying. His idea of a ‘wild time’ is staying up past 11pm on a weeknight to finish a movie. He’s a man of routine, and he gets enough excitement as it is at work. So what if that might seem boring to some people? There are worse things he could be in life.
The rest of his squad, on the other hand, are sick of it. They want him to go out and let loose with them, even once.
Bob may be quiet, but he’s stubborn. Contrary to popular belief, he’s not as much of a pushover as he might look, and once he’s made up his mind, it can take a lot of convincing for him to change it.
So, they try a different tactic. They enlist your help.
It’s Friday evening, and you, Bob and the rest of the squad are at Natasha’s place for dinner. It was supposed to be a potluck sort of arrangement, but half the guys conveniently “left their share at home”, so takeout was very quickly ordered instead. It’s something you try to do together once a month when your schedules allow. It’s a nice way to catch up outside of the chaos of work. At least, it normally is. Maybe it’s you, but something feels a little off tonight. It isn’t until Bradley calls Bob over to help pick a movie for everyone to watch after dinner that you’re finally clued in.
“Listen. We need your help,” Mickey whispers, leaning in to you.
You were right. There is something going on.
“With what?” you ask.
Javy peers over your shoulder, making sure that Bob’s completely distracted before moving closer. “We have a plan.”
That answers nothing. “A plan,” you echo. “Are you gonna tell me what it is, or…?”
Natasha nudges Mickey out of the way as she lays out plates on the table. “They wanna get Bob drunk,” she says simply.
Jake scoffs, offended. “Uh, we wanna get Bob drunk, Phoenix. You included. Don’t make it sound so shady.”
You let them bicker back and forth for a while before you cut in. “Okay, you wanna get Bob drunk. One, why? And two, what does that have to do with me?”
“Because he won’t listen to us,” Reuben replies.
You’re still not satisfied. “And what makes you think he’ll listen to me?”
Mickey raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? You’re his wife. You have power that we lowly peasants can only dream of.”
Natasha rolls her eyes. “Look, you don’t have to,” she says. “It’s just- Well, he’s always way too busy taking care of everyone else-”
She shoots a pointed glare at Jake, who’s conveniently helping himself to as much food as his plate will take to even notice.
“-to let himself have fun.”
Mickey and Reuben stand on either side of her, giving you the most pathetic-looking puppy-dog eyes they can manage. Already, you can feel your resolve slipping. Damn, they’re good.
“Okay, fine. I’m in,” you say, conceding defeat.
Before any of them can celebrate, Natasha’s immediately shutting it down.
“Covert mission, guys, remember?” she says, as if she’s scolding teenagers.
Javy and Reuben both pretend to scratch their necks, as if they weren’t about to high-five.
“What do you need me to do?” you ask.
Jake vaguely gestures behind you. “We’ll fill you in on the details later,” he mutters, before plastering a grin on his face as he raises his voice. “What took you guys so long?”
A gentle hand touches your waist, and you smile to yourself as you lean into it.
“We were barely gone five minutes,” Bob replies, confusion in his voice.
“And somehow most of the food’s already gone,” Bradley says, giving Jake a dirty look – who gives him a smug smile with his mouth full of food in reply.
The rest of the evening passes much more quietly – mostly because Bob’s too close within earshot for any more conspiring to be done. Although it doesn’t escape your notice when Jake starts snickering to himself about halfway through the movie. You sneak a glance over at him. He’s holding his phone close to his face as he types something. He tilts the screen slightly towards Mickey, who immediately tries to cover up his sudden laugh with an unconvincing cough. That wouldn’t be all that out of the ordinary – if they didn’t both clam up the second they caught you looking over at them. They turn their attention back to the TV, but not before Jake taps his nose at you. Mickey’s mouth is pressed tightly shut as he tries to contain himself.
Clearly they weren’t as subtle as they thought, since Bob mentions it in passing on the ride home.
“Was it just me, or did everyone seem a little…weird tonight?” he asks.
You clear your throat, caught off-guard. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know, I guess it felt like…something wasn’t quite right? Maybe I’m imagining things.”
“They’re always a little weird,” you reply fondly, giving his knee a gentle pat.
He huffs a laugh at that. “Yeah, I can’t argue with you there. It’s probably nothing.”
He says no more about it after that, which you’re grateful for. You feel bad for not being entirely honest with him, but it’s not like you’re keeping some horrible secret from him either. The guys are right – it’d be good for Bob to blow off some steam. God knows he deserves to, with how hard he works.
You decide not to say anything. It’ll be worth it, you know it will.
The next evening, you and Bob are lying on the couch together, watching an old war movie. Well, he’s watching it - and ‘watching’ might not be the right word for it. It’s been a long-running joke for years that Bob cannot watch anything military-related and sit quietly - especially if it’s old. With how exhausting his job is, you’d think the last thing he’d want to do when he gets home is look at more planes, but if anything, he finds it relaxing. It’s hard not to see how much he loves what he does. He even has a set of miniature fighter aircraft models he’s been working on over the past few months. On more than one occasion, you’ve had to go into the study to let him know what time it is – if you didn’t, odds are he’d still be in there until the early hours of the morning.
If you’re completely honest, you have no idea what he’s talking about when he really gets going, but it doesn’t matter – seeing him so happy makes you happy. And seeing how excited he gets, the way his eyes light up and how animated his hands are – he’s so cute. So you don’t mind if you’re struggling to keep up with him, it’s more than worth it.
Right now, he has his head in your lap, completely enraptured and mid-explanation, while you play with his hair, doing your best to follow what he’s saying. It’s always so meticulously styled first thing in the morning, but by this time, his loose curls are winning the fight against whatever remnants of pomade are left.
Your phone buzzes, pulling your attention away from him for a second. The screen lights up as you turn it over. One new notification.
You have been added to Operation: Get Bob Smashed.
You quickly flip it over again, trying to pass off a laugh as a yawn. Bob shifts then, curious eyes looking up at you.
“Sorry, honey,” he says, embarrassed. “Was I rabbiting again?”
You shake your head, leaning down as best you can to press a kiss to his forehead.
“Don’t be silly, I love listening to you,” you reply earnestly. “Just a little tired after today, that’s all.”
He hums quietly, seemingly content with your answer, and settles himself against you again, none the wiser as you unlock your phone.
The plan is exactly how they’d described it to you – they want to go out, get drunk, and make sure Bob gets just as drunk with them. No babysitting, no self-imposed managerial duties. They want him to have fun.
Hangman
I love the guy, but it’s like going out with your grandpa sometimes.
Coyote
That’s cold, man.
Hangman
Am I wrong, though??
The invitation had been extended to you too, of course. You might have come into their lives a little later than Bob, but over the years, they’ve become like a family to you. You love going out with them, and any other time, you would have jumped at the chance, but you were insistent that tonight, it should just be the squad. Bob’s already an overthinker as it is, and he ends up spending so much time trying to make sure that you understand every story and inside joke. It’s so sweet that he goes to all the trouble to make sure you feel included, but he gets so caught up in it all sometimes that he won’t let himself relax.
Besides, just because you won’t be there doesn’t mean you’ll be missing all the fun.
Your role, as delegated by the group, is to simply get Bob out the door – which is not as easy as it sounds.
It’s taking longer than usual for him to get ready tonight, but you’d expected that. It hadn’t taken all that much to persuade him to go out, but getting him out might be a whole other matter. Normally, he’s so punctual; everything’s laid out exactly as and where he needs it, his shower’s perfectly timed – you’d expect nothing less from a lieutenant – but he really seems to be dragging his feet, and your resolve’s starting to waver as a result.
You want him to go out and enjoy himself, but it feels like you’re making him do something he doesn’t want to do for the sake of everyone else.
When you go to check on him, it’s to find him standing in the middle of the bedroom, shoes in hand, staring down at them as if they’re hiding some big secret from him.
“Honey?” you call from the doorway. “Everything okay?”
He snaps to attention at the sound of your voice.
“Huh? Oh. Yeah. Yeah, of course,” he replies unconvincingly. “I’m just…”
He holds his shoes up, as if that explains anything. It doesn’t.
You sit down at the end of the bed, patting the space next to you. “Something’s wrong,” you say gently. It’s not a question.
With a sigh, Bob sits next to you, setting his shoes on the floor. His eyes are glazed over. He looks like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders, and it’s making you feel even worse.
“I guess…I guess I’m just nervous,” he admits. “About tonight.”
That’s not what you were expecting. You know something’s not right, that much is obvious, but you figured it was because he was tired or concerned about having his routine thrown off. He’s always been a bit of a stickler like that.
“What’s got you nervous?” you ask.
“I don’t know, I…” He trails off, staring down at his hands in his lap. “I guess I don’t think I’m all that much fun when it comes to things like this. Going out, I mean. And I’m worried that everyone’s gonna see that, and I’ll be letting them down.”
He chews at his lip, his brow furrowed with worry. Just looking at him is enough to break your heart. You take his hands in yours.
“Hey. You’re plenty of fun. And I’m not saying that because I have to,” you tell him, squeezing his hands gently before he has a chance to interrupt. “And the guys? They love you, Bob. Would they even bother if they didn’t?”
He shrugs half-heartedly. “They’re just being nice.”
You reach up to turn his face towards you. “Sweetheart. Look at me.”
His eyes finally meet yours, but it’s not without some effort.
“They love you,” you say again, insistent. “Trust me. They want you to go out with them. So, no more overthinking, okay? Go and enjoy yourself. You deserve it as much as anyone else.”
He stares at you for a moment, before finally nodding. You kiss the tip of his nose, and at last, he gives you a smile.
He’s still a bit hesitant as he finishes getting ready, but he does seem more settled in himself as he leaves later that night, which is reassuring. Besides, you know him well enough by now that he’ll enjoy himself once he’s there with everyone. And some time to yourself for a few hours sounds nice, so it’s a win-win, really.
It’s about an hour after he’s left that the first update arrives. You’re cozied up on the couch, about to start a book you’ve been meaning to read for what feels like forever, when your phone lights up.
It’s a photo. Jake looks as though he’s in the middle of one of his typical dramatic stories, if his facial expression and blurry hands are any indication. Mickey has his arm slung around Bob’s shoulders, holding a drink with his head thrown back in laughter. Bob, by comparison, is very much still sober. His hand’s pressed to his mouth, as if Jake’s said something embarrassing – which, knowing Jake, he no doubt has – but even with his face partially covered, you can see the creases around Bob’s eyes from where he’s smiling.
Payback
One drink down!
You shake your head with a smile, saving the photo before going back to your book.
The next update is about forty-five minutes later - a message from Jake, followed by another photo.
Hangman
Okay, when was anyone gonna tell me that Bob can do shots??
You click on the photo. Bob’s standing at the bar, with a shot glass raised as if in triumph. He’s not hiding his smile this time, and his cheeks are starting to turn rosy. Jake’s standing next to him, with an expression that would make you think his whole world’s falling apart.
You send a side-eye emoji in reply, with no context. You know exactly how Bob built a tolerance for shots, but you’d rather let Jake suffer for a while first before you fill him in on the details.
Now that you’ve had a few messages, you’re finding it difficult to focus on reading. As silly as the whole idea might have seemed at the start, you’re invested now. So when your phone eventually lights up again, you’re quick to pick it up.
Fanboy
Your husband’s being sickeningly cute right now.
It’s obvious this photo’s been taken sneakily. You can see a little of Bob’s shoulder, but it’s what he’s doing that’s the clear focus. His phone’s in his hand, with a picture of you on the screen.
You don’t think you could help the smile spreading across your face if you tried as you type a reply.
Even after all these years, he still knows how to make you feel like you’re the most important person in the world.
You
I picked a good one, didn’t I?
There’s a bit of radio silence before the next message, and you can feel yourself starting to doze off. You’re definitely going to have to reread the last few pages, you can’t remember a thing that’s happened.
Coyote
You have to see this.
This time, it’s a video. Bob, Mickey and Bradley are standing by the jukebox in the bar, singing their hearts out. It’s not often that Bob sings, at least from your experience. Occasionally, you’ll hear him humming under his breath or muttering the chorus of a song when he thinks you can’t hear him, but actual singing is a whole other thing.
There’s no doubt about it, he’s definitely drunk now. And the best part is that he’s obviously having the time of his life. It’s not that Bob doesn’t know how to have fun, but with his job and how much of a worrywart he can be, it’s not often that you see him this carefree.
You can hear Javy trying to stifle his laughter as the camera shakes slightly, and you’re struggling to keep quiet too. They’re doing more shouting than anything else, but they look like they’re having so much fun that it doesn’t matter how off-key they are.
You need to experience this in person. Next time. You’ll make sure there’s a next time.
You’re in the middle of getting ready for bed when the next update arrives. And the last one, from the sounds of it.
Hangman
Oh man, Baby On Board’s hit his limit.
It’s rare that Bob ever really hits his limit; he usually ends up so focused on taking care of everyone else that he skips right into a premature hangover.
There’s a photo underneath, from Natasha. She’s looking at the camera with a knowing smile on her face, cut off as she tries to fit everyone into the frame. Behind her sit Jake and Reuben, both of them pulling faces. They’ve been drinking, sure, but they could still mostly pass for sober. And right in the middle of them is Bob, who looks as though he has no idea where he is. He’s staring right at the camera, but there’s a vacant look in his eyes, and his glasses are nowhere to be seen. His lips are parted, as though he’s about to say something, and his cheeks and nose are tinged a soft shade of red.
Phoenix
I think it’s time someone went to bed.
Fanboy
Your orders, Captain?
You smile to yourself. You couldn’t ask for a better group of people to trust your husband with.
You
He’s dismissed. Bring him home.
About twenty minutes later, the doorbell rings. And rings, and rings, until you’re scrambling down the hall to make it stop before it ends up broken. As soon as the door opens, you’re met with a chorus of cheers, all too quickly shut down when you harshly shush them.
“Guys. Neighbours,” you remind them sternly, and they at least have the sense to look even a little guilty.
“Delivery,” Mickey sing-songs under his breath.
Bradley steps forward with an apologetic expression, and your gaze lands on the poor thing clinging to his shoulders.
“Oh, honey, what have they done to you?” you say, trying to stifle a giggle.
“In our defence, nothing he didn’t want,” Jake pipes up.
“Bob had a point to prove tonight, apparently,” Natasha adds.
You step aside, letting Bradley guide Bob inside. He can still walk, at least; he’s just a little unsteady on his own. That’s a relief.
“Where do you want him?” he asks.
“Bedroom would make my life a lot easier,” you reply, rolling your eyes as Jake wolf-whistles.
Thankfully, Bob goes down onto the bed without a fight. Now all you have to do is get him into it, which won’t be easy.
But first things first, you have a small drunk army waiting to celebrate with you in the hallway. As soon as you leave the bedroom, you’re being dragged into a group hug. With how excited they are, you’d think they’d just come back from a real mission.
You can’t blame them, though. This is big. After all these years, they did it – they finally got Bob drunk on a night out. It’s no wonder they’re as excited as they are.
It takes some manoeuvring, but you manage to free yourself. “Thanks for taking care of him tonight.”
Natasha pulls a face. “You might want to hold off thanking us until you see how bad the hangover’s gonna be.”
You shake your head. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
They all say their goodbyes in varying degrees of “quiet” voices as you usher them out the door. Their job may be done for the night, but yours has just started.
When you return, you expect to find Bob passed out. Instead, he’s upright — albeit very slumped, attempting to yank both his shirt and slacks off at the same time and getting absolutely nowhere with either one. His face is set in a very concentrated frown, as if he’s working on something incredibly complicated.
“God, it’s too warm in here,” he’s muttering to himself.
You stand in the doorway, unable to look away from the disaster unfolding in front of you.
He eventually figures out that one item of clothing at a time is the easier option, and so focuses on his shirt, dragging it up over his head and tossing it across the room. You suck in a breath. No one knows better than you what Bob’s hiding under his uniform, but goddamn if it doesn’t still catch you by surprise. You’re so distracted that it takes you a minute to realise that his glasses are gone. Again.
Bob doesn’t seem to have noticed either, judging by how hard he’s wrestling with his belt. Maybe it would be best if you put him out of his misery and helped him. You crouch down in front of him, reaching for the buckle, when he lets out a sudden yelp, slapping your hands away and scrambling halfway up the bed.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” you ask, concerned.
God, you hope he’s not about to throw up.
“No- No, you can’t do that,” he tells you, his words slurring together slightly. “I’m sure you’re a lovely girl, but I’m- I’m married.”
He holds up his hand, showing you his wedding band.
“Happily married. See?”
You bite back a smile. “Really? How happy are we talking?”
He scowls at you then, and you find yourself taken aback by it. Bob’s never looked at you like that before. It’s unsettling, honestly.
“Very happily,” he retorts. “And I don’t appreciate the implication.”
The fact that he can still say any of those words in his current state, let alone know what they mean, is impressive. He shoves his hand into the back pocket of his slacks, clumsily fishing out his phone. It takes him a few tries to unlock it, and his frustration only seems to be growing each time he puts his password in wrong. Eventually, he manages it, and he holds it up to you to show you his screensaver. It’s a picture of you and him from a few months ago. The one you begged him to delete, if you remember right.
It was from the day you all went to the beach. Natasha had bought this ridiculously oversized sun hat, and the guys were having a great time making a game out of seeing how many of them could fit underneath the brim.
“It didn’t look that big when I ordered it,” Natasha had grumbled, which of course was met with a chorus of whooping and hollering.
Bob had snuck off to set up his phone to record while the rest of them were busy arguing.
“It’s easier this way. Means I can take screenshots,” he’d explained to you. “Trying to get them to behave for a photo? It’s a nightmare.”
After a while, they’d all drifted off to do their own things. Natasha wanted to catch up on her book, and the guys were insistent on setting up a game of football. You had point-blank refused to join, not wanting to go home covered in bruises from constant elbows to the ribs, and Bob had stayed with you. As soon as everyone was distracted, he’d leaned in to plant a big kiss on your cheek, and you’d burst out laughing in surprise. His phone lay forgotten in the sand.
When you’d gone through the photos together later, you remember complaining about that one, saying you didn’t like how you looked in it.
“But you look so happy,” Bob had insisted.
He promised he’d delete it – crossed his heart and everything – but seeing it now, you couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at him even if you wanted to. He was right – you do look happy. And you know how he feels about you. He tells you every chance he gets how beautiful he thinks you are.
It’s been fun riling him up, but it’s probably best to quit while you’re ahead. You’ve never seen Bob so genuinely distraught. You find his discarded shirt, and lo and behold, his glasses are safely buried in the fabric. You pull them free, crossing the room and carefully placing them back where they belong. It takes Bob a second to even realise, blinking up at you owlishly before you’re suddenly being tackled to the bed. You don’t put up much of a fight. Even drunk, he’s a force to be reckoned with.
“Sweetheart,” he whines at you, face buried in the crook of your neck. His glasses are immediately shoved out of the way again. “Missed you.”
You consign yourself to your fate, letting him sling a leg over yours as he cuddles closer. You can think of far worse ways to go.
“Missed you too,” you reply with a smile, kissing his forehead.
He lets out a contented hum, brushing his nose against your neck.
“Did you have a good time?” you ask.
You feel him shake his head. You have a mountain of evidence to the contrary that would hold up very well against him in court, but you decide to humour him.
“How come? Did something happen?”
He huffs a sigh, blowing hot air against your skin.
“Wasn’t the same without you,” he mumbles, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s pouting.
Not five minutes ago, he was fighting with you, and now here he is, clinging to you like a koala bear. And even the argument was him trying to prove how much he loves you. Bob Floyd is a ridiculous man sometimes, but he’s your ridiculous man.
You gently run your hand up and down his back in an attempt to placate him. “I’ll come with you next time, honey, I promise.”
“You’d better,” he grumbles, but most of the fight’s left him at this point. His breathing’s growing longer and heavier, and you know you only have a minute at most before he’s dead to the world. Leaving you trapped underneath him in the centre of the bed. With the lights still on.
“Bob. Sweetheart,” you call softly, shaking him. He lets out a loud snort, jolting against you. “Come on, into bed.”
You somehow manage to wrangle him into an upright position and under the covers before he collapses against you again. His arm slides around your waist, pulling you flush against him. There’s a slight possessiveness to it that no one else would believe from such a sweet guy. There was a time when you wouldn’t have believed it either. You’re certainly not complaining, though.
You wait until you’re certain that Bob’s dozed off before reaching for your phone. Taking a quick photo of you and your now-snoring husband, you send it to the group chat. Almost immediately, you’re hit with notification after notification. You put it on silent, setting it down on the bedside table as quietly as possible. The mayhem can wait until tomorrow.
Bob mumbles something incoherent in his sleep as he all but shoves himself closer to you. It’s hard to stop yourself from smiling, as you let your eyes close as well.
Operation: Get Bob Smashed was a complete success.
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