"Yeah, the little white one is Pearl," you excitedly tell the Dagger Squad as you scroll through the photos of your newest foster kittens. "And the little brown tabby is Poppy!"
You're leaning over a table in the training room, grinning ear-to-ear as you show off the billion pictures you've taken of the sweet little kittens that have been consuming your life.
The squad is doing everything in their power to show interest in the photos, swallowing yawns and making over-exaggerated nodding motions when you turn to look for their approval. It isn't just that they love you and genuinely wouldn't want to seem uninterested in something so important to you, but it's also that your dad could have their heads mounted on the walls if they so much as upset you.
You're a Simpson--Cyclone's only daughter and youngest child--but you couldn't be more opposite of your father. You're a bubbly person by nature, someone who could talk to a brick wall. You're the kind of person that could ruin their favorite jeans and still somehow have a good day.
Rooster and Phoenix have their arms crossed as you scroll through the endless pictures, one blurry picture of a little kitten to the next. But they adore you--you're grinning so big that you could light up a dark room. So they keep watching, smiling and nodding.
Bob's watching from across the room very subtly. At this point, the two of you have mastered subtly. As much as he wishes he could be one of the people that crowds around you to look at kitten pictures, he knows that he wouldn't be able to help himself from getting a little too close to you. He doesn't think he'd be able to stop himself from pecking your cheek or wrapping his arm around your waist. So he doesn't go out of his way to be overly affectionate to you when he sees you around on base, which is often. He's Bob, which means he's overtly polite and overly-nice, and he treats you the same as he'd treat anyone else on base. But it's these little stolen glances that keeps him going throughout the day--just ticking the minutes until the day is over and he can go home to you and your kittens. There he can do whatever he damn well pleases with you without having to worry about prying eyes.
"Oh, and just look at this video I got of Poppy..." you laugh, scrolling quickly through your camera roll in search of a video of Poppy trying to climb the sofa.
Your heart jumps in your throat when you pass the picture. It's quick, really, just a fleeting image across your screen. But you know what it is: it's the picture you took of Bob napping with the kittens the other day. It's unmistakably Bob, too, despite his stubble and un-gelled hair. You're praying no one else saw it, praying that everyone's lost interest by now.
But you have six of some of the world's greatest Fighter Pilots around you, watching your phone with their eagle-eyes. Nothing really gets past them.
"Wait," Hangman interrupts, pointing to the phone with furrowed brows. "Go back."
The rest of the squad makes a sound of agreement and you try to stutter something back, something that resembles an excuse, but then Rooster is reaching out himself and swiping back through the photos.
The chorus of gasps that fill the room draw Bob out of his trance. He looks away from where your fingers are curled around your phone and sees that all six of his squad-mates are staring at him with their jaws slacked and their eyes wide. Except Hangman--no, he's grinning ear-to-ear. You're already looking at Bob, too, apologetically grimacing and mouthing I'm so sorry to him.
"Bob Floyd," Phoenix starts lowly, glancing down at the picture again. Her voice is stained with disbelief--how could she have missed you and Bob? She loved both of you so much and Hell, she even trusted Bob with her life. How could she have not known before?
"You sly, sly dog," Coyote says, grinning, clapping you on the shoulder.
"Simpson's daughter?" Fanboy adds, like you aren't standing right there. "Floyd, you animal!"
What the squadron doesn't know is that your father is actually quite fond of Bob--he even insists that Bob call him Beau. They've shared a couple glasses of good scotch and Simpson has even invited Bob to play golf a couple of Sunday's. Really, your relationship is only a secret from the squadron--and you feel vindicated for making that decision as you watch all of them scramble to pat Bob on the shoulder.
"Well, I'll be damned," Rooster whistles with an impressed grin, squeezing your arm. "You and Bobby Floyd."
You're blushing something fierce, watching as Bob flushes at all the sudden attention, not confident enough to stand while the boys ruffle his hair.
"Guess the cat's out of the bag," Bob finally manages to say, laughing dryly at his poorly-timed pun.
Payback grins at you.
"You're a lucky lady, aren't you?"
The truth is you are a lucky lady. You and Bob have been together for longer than any of the squadron would ever guess, carefully tip-toeing around base when you see each other to not draw attention to situation. Bob makes your coffee every morning and you adopt kittens together. You iron Bob's uniform because you used to do it for your father and you think Bob is just as important. You dance on sunlit porches and share good wine with your family on Saturday nights after big dinners. Bob's the best person you've ever met.
And Bob knows that really, he's the lucky one here. Because you're the best thing that's ever happened to the world--period. You're funny, like the kind of funny that has him laughing before the sun's even come up and he didn't think that was possible. You still get excited every time he comes home, racing to the foyer and smashing your lips against his as you chatter about your day and help him unlace his boots. You're the kind of person that will bottle-feed kittens every two hours and not so much as complain about it, not even when the feedings are at three in the morning.
The two of you are totally and completely in love--you have been for a while. But, yes, Bob's right: the cat is out of the bag now.
"I am a lucky lady," you tell Payback, locking your phone and making your way over to Bob with a sweet, sweet smile.
“Do you think they’re gonna get too hot?” Bob asks, concern carving his voice into a pitched utterance. “Like--you know, is the sun too much? Should we just take ‘em home?”
Humming from beside Bob, settled onto the old sheets you have laid out across the sand, you just sigh with a fond smile tugging on your lips.
Of course he’s concerned about the babies in this heat--he’s a good father, one that never has to be told what to do or when to do it, one that literally leaps out of bed in the night to change diapers.
“They’re alright,” you assure Bob. “They’re covered! How could the sun get them at all?”
It’s true--the babies are thoroughly covered. Linen shorts and cotton shirts, floppy little sunhats, sunscreen covering every inch of them. Not to mention the umbrellas Bob has staked in the sand behind you--which casts shade over the entirety of your family.
“A freak accident,” Bob tells you, eyes slightly widened when he thinks about one of his precious babies--including you--getting burned. “Maybe we should--!”
“--Baby,” you interrupt, laughing as you glance at him from the top of your glasses. “It’s good that they’re outside! Immunity! Vitamin D! Fresh air! They’ll be alright!”
Bob sighs, glancing down at Jolene, who is sprawled out on your bent thighs, blinking in confusion at the floppy hat that just barely comes down over her eyes. Then he glances at Waylon, whose sound asleep on Bob’s thighs, little milk dribbling down his chin.
“It isn’t too late to tell them that they can meet us at the house,” Bob tells you. He looks up at the sky--endless blue and the sun a fiery hole puncturing the sky. “If we want to do that.”
“We don’t,” you assure him. “And, besides--I think it is too late.”
At that, Bob follows your gaze and turns. Yes--you’re right. It is too late. The squadron is already trailing down the beach, all in their aviators and swimming suits, grinning and zeroed in on yours and Bob’s beach setup.
“Oh, Lord,” Bob says softly, a fond smile tugging on his lips now. “Rooster’s gonna try and steal them, I think.”
“You’re only telling me this now?” You whisper, nudging him with your elbow teasingly.
He has told you before, though, about Rooster’s affinity for children. He can’t get enough of ‘em--he’s always hogging whatever admiral’s child he can get his hands on, playing airplanes or tea party or somehow getting them to nap. And you know, somehow, that Rooster is the goofy looking one with the unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt treading through the sand.
“Sorry, honey,” Bob chuckles.
You see how much this matters to Bob. Never mind that you know him better than anyone else in the world, having met in middle school and fallen in love straight away. Even if you didn’t know him better than anyone, if you were just a fly on the wall--you’d still know. He woke up too early this morning, pacing the kitchen as the coffee brewed, checking in on the twins every few minutes until he heard the first sounds of awakeness. He picked their outfits with you, chewing on his bottom lip. He had the car packed and ready to go before noon. He even called Phoenix a few times just to make sure that plans were still on--and was reminded, a few times, that the plans were absolutely still on.
“You’re shaking the beach,” you whisper, pressing a hand to his bouncing leg.
“Sorry,” Bob mutters, distracted. He stops bouncing his leg. “I’m…I’m really--!”
“--Nervous,” you finish for him, leaning forward to press your warm cheek against his bicep. You kiss him there, soft and sweet, and then sigh. “It’s alright, Bobby. The babies are perfect, the squadron loves you, I’m very personable, the sun is shining, the seagulls are crying! Everything’s gonna be okay!”
“Yeah,” Bob sighs, scratching his head and giving you a quick peck on the forehead. “Yeah, you’re right. I guess I’m just--I don’t know. This is important to me.”
“I know it,” you say, heart swollen. “And I know it’s important to them, too. It’ll be good!”
“It’ll be good,” Bob repeats softly, glancing at you. You’re grinning at him--it makes his shoulders sink. “It’ll be good.”
“Well, well, well,” Hangman says as his feet sink into the hot, hot sand. He grins, squinting even behind his aviators as the sun beats down on his face. “If it ain’t baby on board and his babies on board.”
Bob grins at the sound of Jake’s voice--which surprises him, really. Before that never would’ve happened. But now Bob is back in Lemoore, with you and your babies, and everything feels distinctly better than it did before.
“Hangman,” Bob grins, sticking his hand out for Jake to take. “Good to see you, man.”
Hangman, who’s holding two comically large stuffed rabbits, shuffles to put them under one arm and take Bob’s hand in his.
“How goes it?” Jake asks. Then he glances at you--you’re grinning at him, holding your daughter still. “And this must be the Missus, huh? Pleasure to make your acquaintance!”
Jake crosses the sheets to take your hand, which he promptly brings to his mouth to kiss.
“Don’t mind him,” Rooster says as he appears, toting a cooler and a speaker. “The lack of oxygen in the cockpit really scrambled his brain.”
“Ha-ha-ha,” Hangman says, glancing at Rooster. “Did Bob tell you that Rooster is gonna try and steal them?” Jake asks, pointing to the babies with his brow perched.
“Actually, yes,” you answer, smiling softly. “He did.”
Rooster, rolling his eyes good-naturedly, sets the cooler in the sand before grinning at Bob and stretching his hands out.
“Baby me and I’ll beer you,” Rooster says.
“That doesn’t sound like a fair exchange,” Phoenix sighs, rounding out to clap Rooster on the shoulder before grinning at Bob and you. “Floyds!”
“Hey, Nat,” Bob grins. “How are you?”
“Oh, she’s great,” Payback answers, wiping sweat off his forehead as he sets his beach chair in the sand. “Super, even!”
“She got the aux in the van,” Fanboy explains, resting his elbow on Payback’s shoulder. “Two words: Def Leppard.”
“Lemme see those babies!” Coyote’s voice booms as he jogs up and rounds out the squadron. He’s grinning a broad grin, arms already outstretched.
“Hey, I already called dibs!” Rooster says.
“Yeah, but I got here first,” Hangman grins.
Everyone looks at Bob like he’s the tie-breaker.
“There’s only two of them,” Bob says, laughing quietly.
“You’re gonna have to choose,” Rooster says seriously.
“Here,” you suggest, leaning forward to put Jolene in Hangman’s extended arms. “Take one and pass it on.”
Everyone laughs--it’s music to Bob’s ears. He watches you carefully transfer Jolene into Hangman’s arms, watches him turn absolutely gooey at the sight of your infant daughter. He cups her little head, holds her close to him, grins down at her. You readjust her sunhat and then lean back.
“Oh, she’s too cute,” Hangman says, shaking his head seriously. “Rooster, you’re definitely gonna want to take this one.”
“Here,” Bob says, suddenly feeling more confident in his squadron’s ability than before. He leans forward and bestows Waylon upon Rooster, smiling softly and fondly as he Waylon coos and begins to blink himself awake. “You’re a natural.”
Rooster, delighted, sinks into the sand and holds Waylon close to him.
“Oh, I know,” he says--cocksure as ever. “Look at this little fella. Boy, does he look like a Floyd!”
“Yes,” you agree, laughing. “My DNA didn’t even try.”
As Hangman and Rooster hog the babies, everyone makes their rounds. You shake everyone’s hands, finally put faces to names, and collect all the presents for the babies and yourself. Bob keeps a watchful eye on the babies, but not because he’s stressed--but because he’s enamored that he has two perfect little beings to share with the important people in his life.
The afternoon drifts forward. Your little spot on the beach becomes the spot on the beach, everyone spreading their blankets out and overlapping, coolers abundant and drinks icy. The babies get passed around, hardly even fussing, but always somehow end up back in Rooster’s arms.
Even when everyone decides to get up and toss the pigskins, Rooster ends up staying on the palette with you and Bob and the babies. He’s somehow holding them both at the same time, grinning down at them as they blink up at him.
“You’re ridiculous,” Hangman had said to Rooster, rolling his eyes. “A giant, gushy, manchild.”
“Proud of it,” Rooster had said, cheeks pink.
“They really like you,” you tell Bradley, sighing softly. “I’m still getting used to having all this help, you know? I’m a bit mind-blown right now.”
“Well, I’m here for any babysitting services,” Rooster says. “Hell, I’ll pay you!”
“You’re my favorite already,” you tell Rooster.
Bob looks at you--you’re smiling softly at Rooster and the babies. Your eyes are heavy and your back is curved and he knows that you’re that special kind of tired that is special to new motherhood. Bob understands. He knows. But his heart still squeezes at your sentence. He had to leave only two weeks after they were born, which broke his heart and yours. Of course, because you’re you, you’d put on a very brave face for him. But there were a few times--a few more times than Bob is comfortable with--when you answered his call with a tearful sniffle and a deep sigh.
He reminds himself, as he gazes at you, that things are different now. He’s home for a while--and even after that, he’ll be close to home for the foreseeable future. He’ll never miss bath time or dinner or storytime. He’ll be here, beside you, through it all.
“They really are beautiful,” Rooster tells the both of you. He looks between the two of you, tired and unsure parents with glittering eyes and soft smiles. “You’re doing a damn fine job of it.”
“Thanks, man,” Bob says. “It’s all her.”
You have to swallow hard and roll your eyes, nudging him, to keep from crying pure tears of joy.
Rooster gasps suddenly. “Okay, don’t call me crazy, but I swear to God that Jolene just smiled at me!” He says, elated. “Oh, God. Hangman’s gonna be so pissed.”
If you're still taking requests, how about a beach day with Bob and the squad finds out he has a matching tattoo with his partner
𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐦𝐩
𝐚 𝐁𝐨𝐛 𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐛
There's a reason that Bob usually wears a shirt on beach days. Even if everyone else on the squadron likes to tease that it's because he's not as toned as they are--which simply is not true--no one really knows why that is.
Until you accompany your boyfriend to the beach one hot and wet afternoon, a wicker picnic basket tucked under your arm and straw hat flopped on your head.
You're happy to be at the beach--you and Bob had agreed to take advantage of the nice weather in San Diego more than you had in the past, so when the squadron deemed that afternoon as a beach afternoon, the two of you had been all in.
"Floyd," Hangman greets, waving the two of you over to the parade of sweaty bodies in the sand. Hangman cheekily tips his cowboy hat at you. "Eventual Floyd," he greets with a wink.
Bob's blushing--a good sort of blush, one that makes his heart pulse with adoration. Yes, you will be a Floyd--eventually. And he's glad that everyone around knows it.
And you're all grins, tipping your straw hat at Hangman and gesturing to the picnic basket.
"I brought strawberry muffins," you tell him, which causes a chain-reaction of hollering from the group as everyone abandons their previous activities to gather around your picnic basket.
Bob just watches you for a moment, slipping his sunglasses on, smiling softly as his toes dig into the sand. You're grinning that pretty grin of yours, happily giving away all the strawberry muffins you made this morning so dutifully. You're such a giver--and so, so kind--and that's something he loves about you. Even right now, you're offering everyone bottles of water and extra tubes of sunscreen. You just can't seem to help yourself.
And you're just happy to be there--you really do love the squadron and reckon you've found somewhat of a family in their company. So after everyone's given you very wet hugs and thanked you profusely for the muffins and refreshments, they're begging you and Bob to join them for another game of Dog Fight Football.
"Shirts and skins," Coyote says, looking between you and Bob with a smile. "Who's who?"
"Good question," Payback adds with a playful eye roll.
"You can both be skins if you want," Fanboy finishes, bumping you with his elbow. "Don't think anyone here would complain."
Phoenix strikes him in the back of the head with a grumble before Bob can.
You're blushing, laughing.
Bob's shrugging his shirt off before you can even think about it--even if Coyote's only teasing the two of you, Bob never wants you to feel uncomfortable.
"Bob, man," Rooster calls with a smirk. "You've got a tattoo?"
It tickles you that the rest of the squadron has seemingly never seen him shirtless--because if they had, they would have seen it already. It's hard to miss: it's about the size of the middle of your palm, inked on his skin in black. It's a stamp of a honeybee, drawn in a classic illustrative style that Bob found himself drawn to the year he got it.
"Uh huh," Bob says, shyly raking his hand through his hair and resisting the urge to put his shirt back on. He feels like he's going to burn alive not even under the sun but under the gaze of his entire squadron as they come to get a better look at him. "So, football?"
"Uh-uh," Phoenix tuts, letting her sunglasses fall down on her nose as she looks closer at the tattoo. "Is that a honeybee?"
Bob nods, pretending like the red in his cheeks is from the sun and not from their prodding.
You know Bob well--arguably, you know Bob better than anyone else in the world. So as you stand beside the emptying picnic basket and watch him shrink underneath everyone's gaze, wringing his shirt in his hands nervously, stuttering out responses and trying to steer everyone away from him--you know you need to do something.
So you take your cover-up off, which you know will give everyone a view of the matching stamp on your outer shoulder. You move over to the group, holding a tube of sunscreen in your hand, pushing your sunglasses up your nose.
"Hey, Nix," you call, smiling when she turns to you with her eyebrows raised. "Can you get my tattoo? It's sensitive to the sun. Don't want it to fade."
That's got everyone's attention, much to Bob's immediate relief. You've always been much better at receiving attention than him. You're less shy by nature, which is something he's always admired about you, and you don't get so stuffy beneath everyone's gaze.
"You have one, too?!" Rooster asks, coming to take a closer look at your arm as you smile, pretending to be coy.
"Uh-oh," Payback sing-songs. "That's a flower, isn't it?"
It clicks for the group just before you give a proud nod, confirming that you and Bob indeed have matching tattoos. And they're thinking about chiding you, the lot of them cooing mockingly and pinching your sides. But you're too prideful for that, just tilting your chin towards the sky and smiling your pretty smile, giving all of them the same energy.
"I'm his petal," you say, intentionally inducing a grimace on their faces, "and he's my honeybee."
"And suddenly, I want to play football again," Hangman snorts, promptly nodding before turning back to the sand.
What you're saying is the truth; you do call each other petal and honeybee. But it's always been something the two of you have kept under wraps, indulging in the sweetness of it but all too aware of just how sickly-romantic it is.
Phoenix is rubbing suntan lotion on you through her remaining giggles and the rest of the squadron is starting to filter back over to the sand to pick back up where they left off, crumbling their muffin wrappers and tossing them into the trash bag.
Bob falls more and more in love with you every single day--he is just a man after all. How could he not when you're the most perfect person he's ever met? You outdo yourself everyday--outdoing the previous days sweetness, selflessness, kindness, wit, beauty. And right now is no exception; you're chatting with Phoenix about her date, something she mentioned last weekend off-handedly but something that you'd remembered to ask about because that's just how you are. You're so happy, gasping and oohing and awing along with her words, practically glowing under the sun.
Whenever Phoenix finishes and you glance over at Bob, your eyes partially hidden by sunglasses, your smile is as sweet as those muffins everyone loves. Bob can't help himself--he cups your cheeks, tipping your hat back just slightly, thumbing your cheeks gently.
"Too much?" You ask, searching his wanton face as your smile falters. "Didn't mean to give our pet-names out like that, but I could tell you weren't comfortable and--!"
"--You better get ready," Bob interrupts, smiling softly as your face softens and your brows come together.
You carefully stroke his tattoo before letting your hands rest on his shoulders, his skin warm beneath your palms.
"For what?" You ask, giggling when he pulls you against him and presses his lips to yours sweetly.
"To become a Floyd," he mumbles against your lips with a grin. "Sooner rather than later, petal."
Going back home with Bob and him showing you his hometown and meeting his family 🫶
(lt-natrace on main❤️)
𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲, 𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲
𝐚 𝐁𝐨𝐛 𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐝 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞
When you met Bob for the first time, he was achingly perfect. You were at the farmer's market, which you frequented when the weather was nice enough, and happened to stop by the same local honey booth at the same time.
You noticed him immediately: the hunk in the old Temple University sweatshirt with the muscular legs straining against the cool blue denim shorts he was wearing. His hair was soft, but well-kept and his face was cleanly shaven. You knew, just from looking at him, that he took good care of himself. You liked that in an adult man and had found out, the hard way, that it was not a very common trait in the pointless circle of men you sometimes dated.
The two of you reached for the last jar of lavender-infused honey at the same time. His fingers pressing down on the back of your hand elicited a strange sort of physical response from you--usually, you'd jolt away after touching a strange man. But you wanted to lean into that touch, even if it was minuscule, even if it was minute.
But he retracted, eyes wide behind his wire frames.
"Oh, excuse me, ma'am! I apologize," he said instantly, cheeks pink.
You smiled at him, biting your lip.
"What are you sorry for?" You asked, letting your fingers slip off the jar of honey.
The wind was billowing softly, pulling the scent of the peonies from the next stand over to your nose and parted lips. Bob was blushing something fierce, squinting down at you beneath the harsh gaze of the sun, stammering softly.
"Well, I suppose I was making an attempt at that honey of yours," he says, laughing softly.
It makes you laugh--the two of you reached the honey at the same time, fair and square. The only thing he was guilty of was not bringing a hat or sunglasses out and about on a Saturday morning in San Diego. But he was so endearing, already willing to give you the last jar of honey despite your stranger-status.
He was smiling down at you, too tall for his own good, thin lips pink and soft. His eyes were the color of the sky just above him, so deep and so clear that you felt like you could suspend yourself in them. Honestly, you were having a hard time breathing as he gazed down at you, but in a delicious manner.
"You can have it," you say softly, smiling up at him. "I like the vanilla honey just as much."
Honestly, you don't like the vanilla honey just as much. In fact, the lavender honey was the highlight of your week. You kept having to purchase it every week because you ate it in copious amounts. You couldn't help yourself--it was that good.
But this guy's cute. And he tried to give you the honey already. His face is sweet and his smile is giving you heart palpitations. You think, without even really knowing why or how, that he deserves the honey. It's just an innate feeling that's sitting in your chest heavily.
"You're sure?" He asked softly, perching a brow questioningly.
You nodded, smiling up at him.
"Aren't I always?" You tease like you're old friends.
He grins, chuckling. And then he reaches for the honey and gives you a nod.
"Thanks for this," he says, gesturing to the honey. "I don't think I caught your name?"
You say your name, your heart fluttering when it falls off his lips.
"I'm Bob," he introduces, nodding politely again.
"Pleasure to have my honey stolen by you, Bob," you teased, wrinkling your nose adorably.
He laughed--it was a good sound, one that sounded natural among the calling seagulls and chattering people and live music playing down the street. It just sounded like it belonged there.
"Trust me, the pleasure's been all mine," he grinned at you.
Then you laughed--and Bob nearly doubled over at the sudden bout of butterflies in his belly. Remain calm, Bob. You literally don't even know her.
A soft lull fell over the two of you, both of you trying hard not to let your eyes wash over each other's faces. But there was a distinct longing to continue being in each other's presences, one that you both felt was suddenly intrinsic to you.
But Bob finally cleared his throat and nodded.
"Hope to see you around."
When he said your name again, the skin on the back of your neck prickled. It just sounded right falling out of his mouth.
"Yeah, I hope so, too."
You were a little disappointed that he didn't ask for your number before he wandered up to the register. Logically, you know it's silly. You literally don't even know the guy. But he was so cute and his cheeks were so pink and his lips were so soft looking that your heart felt a little swollen as you continued about the farmer's market, no honey in hand.
You did see each other around: ten minutes later at your favorite pickle stand. Bob fell in step beside you as you inspected a jar of half-sours, humming quietly to yourself.
You were startled, but grinning. He smiled down at you, cheeks pinker than they were before, breaths coming out in short puffs like he'd been hustling to find you (which he had).
"Hey," he breathed, shaking his head softly.
"Hey," you smiled softly. "Fancy seeing you here."
He laughed. God, you were funny. He liked that so much. He liked you so much. You in your pretty dress with your sunglasses on and your hair soft and sweet-smelling. He was an idiot for not asking for your number at the honey stand and had decided, not a moment after paying for the jar of honey you let him have, that he needed to step up and get your information. But you had been gone when he turned around--and not one jar of the vanilla honey had been taken. So, truth be told, he had hustled around trying to find you. And find you he did, your eyebrows furrowed as you inspected a jar of pickles, lips pursed.
And God, you looked fucking beautiful. He knew you were beautiful already. He had also noted you as soon as you'd wandered to the same booth. You had a faint smile on your lips and a little hum in your throat as you moved around wistfully, your hair billowing in the soft breeze. And just after your hands touched for the first time, he swore to God that he smelled flowers. Like some sort of weird fated thing. And to Bob, you looked just as beautiful looking at a jar of pickles than you did reaching for a jar of honey.
"Well, this isn't entirely serendipitous," he admitted, flushing again. He ran a hand through his hair, composing himself, trying to ignore how fucking perfect the color of your dress looked against your skin. "Had to track you down because you forgot..." Bob reaches into his tote bag and retrieves the fateful jar of lavender honey. "This," he finishes with a grin.
He put it in your hands before you even have a chance to tell him that it was his, he paid for it.
"I want you to have it," he told you with a sweet shrug. "But I was hoping that maybe I could buy you some lunch or something. You know, for all the trouble."
You were dithered entirely. God, he was fucking cute. And he had chased you down strictly to give you honey that he paid for and to offer to buy you food. A man after your own heart.
You're not sure what possessed you to do it. But you couldn't help yourself, watching him squint at the sun, his poor blue eyes straining against the brightness. You plucked your spare pair of sunglasses from your tote and slipped them over his eyes. And he's not sure what possessed him to let you, but he did. He didn't even mind that your sunglasses were ultra-feminine and layered on top of his prescription lenses.
And it softened the both of you entirely.
You grinned at each other.
"I could eat," you tell him, sinking your teeth into your lip.
And the rest was pretty much history.
Everything was easy with Bob. Like, really, everything was mind-numbingly easy. Everything clicked into place like it was a magnetized puzzle. You and Bob were a couple that prided themselves on their ability to successfully navigate stressful situations: moving houses, adopting an orphaned rabbit, deployments, IKEA.
What makes it so easy between the two of you is a deep and mutual love for each other. As crazy as you are about Bob, he's crazier for you tenfold. You just thoroughly and completely love each other.
So it's strange that you feel so entirely out of your element right now. You know deep down that everything is going to be just fine, but you're nervous to meet Bob's parents. I mean, the two of you have been together for nearly four years and between deployments and work and all the other shit in adult life, he hasn't found the time to take you back to his hometown.
It's something he's been meaning to do since the moment he asked you to be his girlfriend. He loved his family and considered them to be the most important people in his life, right up there beside you and Pook (your rabbit, obviously).
Bob couldn't be happier right now. His Suzuki is finally getting some dust on it as he drives down the familiar gravel roads leading to his family's farm, the sun is shining, you're sitting in his front seat, and he has an entire week off of work. This is Bob's version of bliss.
Your nerves are getting the best of you. You're usually calmed by Bob's presence alone and usually, you'd be totally open and honest about your nerves. But he's so happy right now--grinning and singing along to the radio, pointing out old stomping grounds, eyes sparkling with nostalgia. You don't want to put a damper on his mood.
So you sit quietly, fiddling with the hem of your dress, rolling the silky material between your fingers. There's a rapid pacing to your pulse right now and you're starting to sweat a little bit--but you're determined to suffer in silence.
You force yourself to take deep breaths when Bob turns down the long, winding drive that leads to the humble little farm house on the hill where he was brought up.
"Home sweet home," Bob sighs, squeezing your hand. He hasn't seemed to notice how clammy your palms are. "Can't wait for you to see my childhood bedroom, honey. It's basically a Star Wars museum."
Any other time, you would laugh. You would tease him. But you just barely manage to smile weakly. This Bob takes notice off immediately.
He squeezes your hand again, suddenly realizing the cold sweat slicking your fingers.
"What's going on, honey?"
You swallow hard, starting to shake your head, but he's peering at you with those earnest blue eyes and fuck--you've never been able to lie to him before. It's not going to start today.
"Just nervous is all," you say quietly, shrugging like it's no big deal.
But he knows you better than that. Of course he does--he's spent every single day of the last four years loving you better than anyone ever has in your life.
He nods, brows furrowing. He feels just a little bit like an asshole now, all giddy and carefree while you're sitting in the passenger seat in a cold sweat.
"I get that," he says earnestly, slowing the car down so you two have more time together, "but I promise that they're gonna love you. Like my mama is gonna be obsessed with you, honey. Promise."
Bob is just someone you always believe. He's never steered you wrong and you doubt he would start right now. You know that his family is going to be good people--how could Bob be such a well-rounded and perfect individual if he had not been raised by the cream of the crop? And Bob loves you so much that you're certain they're gonna have to love you at least a little bit.
"If you say so, Lieutenant," you sigh, sinking further into your seat.
He kisses your knuckles softly, letting his lips linger there as the car rolls to a stop in the driveway.
Your nerves boil over the moment you step over the threshold of his family home. You're overwhelmed for many reasons, the first being that Bob is carrying the luggage and has insisted that you walk into the house ahead of him (damn that gentleman). But you're also overwhelmed with affection and awe just looking at the sweet little farmhouse he grew up in, the one that still seems to stain all his laundry with that sugar-cookie scent.
"Mama, we're home!" Bob calls.
Your heart constricts as Bob lays the luggage down in the entryway and laces his arms around your waist.
And before you even really know what's happening, Bob's mom comes racing from the kitchen with a flowery apron on and flour in her hair, grinning the same grin as her son. And she's hugging you to her tightly like you're old friends, petting your hair, laughing and crying at the same time.
"Oh, sweetheart! It is so good to finally meet you! Bob's been talking our ears off about you for years! You're so beautiful! Can I get you anything? Water? Ice tea? A cookie? I think I have some leftover chicken and dumplings if you're hungry, honey! How as the drive?"
She's holding your biceps as she questions you, not taking a breath or pausing for you to answer even one of her questions. And that is oddly the moment that you know you're going to be okay. She hasn't seen her son in four years and she hugged you first--doing her damndest to make sure you're comfortable in her home.
"Breathe, mama," Bob chuckles, patting her shoulder. "Gonna give yourself an asthma attack!"
Bob's mama, who looks strikingly like Bob with her wavy hair and bright blue eyes and thin lips, just grins at Bob before pulling him into a hug, too.
And just seeing them hold each other, watching a mother love on her son that's been gone for far too long, it makes you feel warm and safe.
"We're so happy you're home," his mother tells him, shaking her head tearfully. "We've missed you so much!"
The rest of the night goes perfectly.
Every minute that you're there, you get more and more comfortable. Bob's mom could talk to a brick wall--she never runs out of questions to ask you and positively drinks in all your answers. She's pleasantly surprised and thoroughly impressed when you help her with the peach cobbler. Even Bob's dad, who is a quieter and meeker man, grows comfortable enough around you by dinnertime to play the harmonica for you around the bonfire.
Bob really comes alive when he's around his parents. No longer is he the shy and reserved man that nurses glasses of water in the corner of the bar--he's the light of their lives and he knows it. You've never seen him treated this way by anyone except you. There's a deep, deep comfort in knowing that you share this with his parents: Bob is your world and everything in it.
"You two love each other," his mother had remarked from across the fire, grinning widely.
Bob had blushed, teasingly rolling his eyes as he held your hand in his, your head resting on his shoulder.
"What gave it away?" You tease.
"Oh, I just like you so much, honey," his mother had said then, laughing. "You gotta come around more often!"
By the end of the first night there, just after two in the morning, you and Bob trudge up the creaky steps with smoke staining your hair and wine sloshing in your bellies.
"So?" Bob asks softly as he closes his bedroom door behind him, smiling as you take in all the endless Star Wars posters lining the walls. "What do you think?"
You're happy--the kind of happy that makes your cheeks ache. You're almost sad that you're only here for a week. This is the kind of place that you could stay forever, you think. All the old pictures and worn furniture and home-cooking--you love it. Being here feels like being the closest to Bob you've ever been and you want to stay in that feeling.
As you trace your fingers across a model of something called the Imperial Class Star Destroyer, you smile. There's not even a speck of dust on it--his mama cares enough to take care of the things he treasures.
"Mmm," you start, sitting on the edge of his twin bed with a tired smile. "I think I'm in love with your parents."
Bob laughs, coming forward to gently cup your cheeks. You lean into him, pressing your face into his smoky shirt, basking in the comfort his fingers invoke in your being as he carefully strokes your hair.
"And they love you right back," he whispers. "Knew they would, honey."
You hum, eyes fluttering shut.
"Let's stay forever," you yawn, cheeks flushed.
Bob's heart is so big right now that he thinks it might explode out of his body. He never thought this would happen ever--the girl of his dreams sitting in his nerdy bedroom and letting her fingernails gently graze the soft skin of his thighs as he holds her close. Quite frankly, he feels like the past four years have been an absolute daydream. But this--this is just perfect.
He says your name softly and you just hum in response, half-asleep sitting up.
"I'm so glad I stole that honey from you," he whispers.
You laugh. He holds you tighter.
"And I'm so glad you found me at the pickle stand."
Hi, could I request a Bob x Reader blurb that's a mafia themed one? I leave the plot up to you but I would love it if there was something smutty about it, thank you!
𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐌𝐞
𝐚 𝐁𝐨𝐛 𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐛
"C'mere, doll."
Who are you to deny him?
Oh, that's right. You're the woman he's obsessed with, the one who keeps him reeling all night long at just the thought of your lips around his cock, the one who is always game, the one who's actually not very happy with him right now.
So you don't c'mere, doll. You stay put right where you are across the library, leaving all that mahogany and leather between the tow of you, your eyes swimming with annoyance and your lips frowning.
Bob's raising his brows at you expectantly, one hand stuffed in the pocket of his cashmere trousers while the other holds a fat cigar up to his lips. He's not used to people not listening to him right away; what he's used to is people scrambling to follow his direction before he's even given it.
But you aren't biting. He can tell from that indignant expression on your pretty, pretty face that you aren't even thinking about obeying.
And dammit if that doesn't make all the blood in his thighs rush to the head of his cock.
You stare at him. You're annoyed, honestly, but not angry. You two had a date scheduled, one you bought a slinky new dress for, one that had you watching hair tutorials and buying a new foundation. But at the last minute, Bob had called--claiming duty calls--and effectively cancelled your date in a phone call that lasted less than 5 minutes. Usually, you understood. Usually, you were much more forgiving. He was a well-respected man, a man people feared--but he was your Bobby. And because he was your Bobby, you let yourself get worked into a huff about him cancelling your date. You really wanted to go to that new restaurant, the one he claimed is impossible to get reservations for (except for the Bob Floyd, who would do anything to please his lady and also happens to be the son of Danny Floyd--like the Danny Floyd, don of the mafia). Really, you just wanted to put on your pretty dress and be complimented and doted on. Really, you just wanted to eat filet mignon with the man you love and then go home and fuck his brains out. And then maybe open up a bottle of that nice red wine you like so much.
But he hadn't even come home until ten minutes ago, well into the wee hours of the morning. And when he came through the heavy French doors of the library where you've been perched on the sofa waiting for him, he merely pressed a chaste kiss to your head and slumped on the couch to light up a Cuban stogie.
"Thought I said c'mere," Bob says, blowing that thick white smoke from his bitten lips as he tilts his head at you. "Deaf or somethin', baby doll?"
He stares at you. He knows you're upset--you're not exactly one that can hide your emotions, especially when they're because of him. You're in a fantastic dress, one that he would love to run his hands over and then promptly rip off your body, and there are still heels strapped to your feet. You've even painted your nails and done your hair up real nice. He knows, just from looking at you, that you put time and effort into getting ready for the date that he cancelled on a short phone call. He really didn't want to--it was something that was out of his control--but duty really did call.
"Make me," you taunt, completely serious. You're not smiling, there is no playful glint in your eyes. You mean it. You won't come to him unless he makes you.
And boy if that doesn't make his heart rate speed up.
But Bob can play it cool, even if he knows the night will end with him between your legs, coaxing you into summing one more time, doll, c'mon--I know you can do it. So he leans back further into the couch, not breaking his eyes from yours.
Even at the end of the day, a day that dotted his shirtsleeves with blood and caused a whole lot of trouble for his family, he still looks fucking gorgeous. His hair mussed from his fingers running through it, his eyes drooping with exhaustion, his cheeks sunken in slightly. There's that delicious amount of scruff on his cheeks, which he usually keeps well-groomed.
He finishes his entire cigar, stubbing it out when it's merely a butt. And you stand there, watching him watching you, neither of you speaking.
But then he stands up, rolling the sleeves of his button-up to his elbows, and fixes you with a look that makes your knees weak.
"Want me to make you, doll? Or you wanna listen real good so we can both get what we want?"
You shiver, but hold strong.
"What I wanted was to eat steak tonight and have you take this dress off me," you snark.
He smiles.
"I can make one of those things happen," he says.
You bite a smirk, refusing to give in.
"Freezer's empty," you say absently, raising your brows.
"Shame," he says lowly, slowly crossing the room to where you're standing with wobbling knees. "Guess I'll just have to do the other thing, then, huh?"
*cough* pegging mafia bobby though, that's gonna be interesting
"yeah, just like that," Bob grunts through grit teeth, fingers sunk into the plush mattress below him. he bites his lips hard, eyes screwed shut as you can't your hips forward at a bruising pace. "fuck, doll, givin' it to me so fuckin' good. oh, baby."
"still tryin' to boss me around?" you pant, a tired but exhilarated smile tugging on your painted lips. "what makes you think you can make me do jack-shit right now? huh, baby?"
he groans at your words--Christ, you know just what to say to him. his neglected cock is dripping pearlescent drops of pre-cum onto the expensive sheets, the tip red and swollen.
his knees are aching from being in this position for the last half hour--not that he's complaining at all. sure, his knees are aching, but everything else feels fucking perfect. your delicate hands gripping the bend of his hips, fresh manicure puncturing the skin there. the strap on, a smaller and sleek thing that's only been used a handful of times, is hitting a spot inside of him that's making his thighs quiver. the rapture he's in right now is totally overwhelming all of his sense--so much so that he can hardly do anything at all except sit there and take it.
"fuck," Bob groans, shaking his head. you're still thrusting into him at that dizzying pace, the one that legitimately has stars dotting his vision. "fuck, doll."
he knows he's in no position to spout off anymore--you're already pissed at him for missing dinner, for leaving you hanging. in fact, you're still in your heels right now--unwilling to take them off. that dress he wanted to tear off of you is now on the floor, but it wasn't ripped off by him. no, no--you made him sit on the end of the bed on his hands as you slowly undid every single button, keeping your pouty eyes on his, before you told him that you were going to be fucking him nice and good tonight.
this is the first time that Bob has really given you total and complete control. sure, here and there you've gently grazed the sensitive area when blowing him or teased it with a playful tongue--but this, you fucking him, it's new.
and you fucking love it. the strap is delivering fantastic friction to your sopping cunt--not nearly enough for any real gratification, but enough that it knocks the breath out of your lungs a little bit each time.
"fuck, I--I, oh God, please, I just--I fuckin'..." Bob can't even form coherent sentences anymore. but he knows what he needs: release. and you haven't given it to him--in fact, you've withheld it from him. bringing him to the edge and then pulling him back over and over again. "doll, I--!"
"tell me what you need," you tell Bob, digging your thumbs into the tan flesh of his hips. god, he feels good beneath your hands. a shivering, sorry thing that pushes back against you to meet your every thrust. "g'on, baby. say it."
Bob immediately breaks.
"need you to touch my cock," Bob cries, head falling onto the sheets in exhaustion. "please, doll, I need it in a bad, bad way."
"yeah?" you mutter, hand drifting from his hip to the soft skin near his cock--dotted with groomed but coiled hair, ultra-sensitive. "need me here real bad?"
you let your fingers dance there, grazing all that skin that's been neglected. you're so close to his cock that tears of relief begin to stream down Bob's pink cheeks. he knows that as soon as you wrap that pretty little hand around his throbbing cock, he's gonna cum. and it's certainly fixing to be the best orgasm of his life.
"oh, you're a fuckin' angel," he says, uttering it like it's a most sacred prayer. he wants release so bad--so bad that he would literally denounce God and start worshipping you right this moment if you just let him cum. he'll worry about Hell tomorrow. "god, fucking--I love you so much, baby, please touch my cock. wanna cum for you. please, doll, please."
he's so desperate that it almost hurts when you pull away. not just your hand--everything, entirely, simultaneously. Bob, who was standing on the edge of the best orgasm of his life, is suddenly empty and reeling from the loss of contact.
"are you fuckin'--!"
reaching forward, body taut and hot, you hold onto the back of his neck and press a few kisses there, reaching around with your free hand to languidly stroke his cock a few times. he's suddenly back on the edge, dizzy from overstimulation and under-stimulation, gasping when you suddenly nudge him over and make him cum; all while holding his throat and kissing his ruddy cheeks.
he cries out your name as he cums, entire body quivering and tensing, fingers cracking as he tightens his grip on the sheets. and you work him through it like the good little doll you are, nibbling his earlobe, tonguing a few of his stray tears.
"next time you think about doing your dirty work and standing me up, I want you to think about this moment," you mutter into his skin. "'cause only I can make you cum like this, baby, huh? and I can take it away just as easily."
How are Bob and reader doing in the whoops! universe??
bob and reader have foster failed about four kittens at this point and everyone teases bob that he's "drowning in pussy" at home and it truly never fails to make bob blush.
they're still sipping wine after family dinners and dancing in the bathroom with tooth brushes hanging out of their mouths. bob is looking at rings and trying to subtly get nat to stalk reader's pinterest. and he's been doing an absurd amount of research on ethical gem mining, which he never thought he'd do.
he's thinking he's gonna do it whenever the moment is just right--which is probably going to be a small moment between just the two of them. when they're wiping sand off their feet after a walk on the beach and before they get back into bob's Subaru. or maybe while they're getting gas late at night and reader runs into the store to grab bob his favorite apple juice. or maybe in the middle of the night whenever reader is sitting up against the headboard with bob's head in her lap, humming absently while they watch X-Files reruns.
whenever it is, it will be perfect. she'll say yes, of course. she'll say yes before he can even get through his entire speech.
