25 She/Her 18+ Minors DNI. Finished my degree, but it also finished me. Only use mobile, so if the formatting is weird, that’s a you problem.🤷🏻♀️ Mentally, married to Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw.🐓
we’ve been waiting forever for the last part of couple days in so I put it into chst gpt but it was nowhere near as good as your writing! please finish it 😞😞😞
#1 - as a note for here on my blog: when I say don't repost my work, it absolutely includes putting a fic into chat gpt. Don't you dare.
#2 - do you know how absolutely horrible it is when writers block hits, when life hits, when just shit doesn't go the way you want it to and you're already feeling bad about deadlines and updating and someone says "they've been waiting for forever" feels? Even if it's not meant with bad intentions, it does hurt. The people on the otherside of the fics you read are real people and things come up. Might I add, they're writing this stuff for you FOR FREE. There is a kind way to encourage an author. Something like this would be my suggestion: "Gosh I love your writing! I think about [xyz] fic every day and I can't wait to see where you take the end of the story! Lots of love! 💛"
#3 - if you put people's fics into things like chat gpt, not only is that stealing and plagiarism because you didn't get consent to do so, but you are contributing to a MASSIVE problem. You do know that WGA is on strike right? You do know that shows and movies and the industry you love aren't working and things like AI writing is stealing work from real life humans and as said in this ask IS NOT AS GOOD. Why? Cause there is not life breathed into the writing. There is not hours of love and dedication and passion in the writing. It's not good because it's STEALING and piecing together random shit to tell you the end of the story that's not its to tell.
#4 - if you ever think about the ending of a story you're waiting on, if you're ever tempted to do this yourself I have two things to say: I sincerely hope you've already told the author how much you love their work. Did you leave a comment or a reblog? Maybe a sweet anon message in their inbox? If you left only a heart but you're so desperate for the end of the story, please take a breather and think about how you could support the author more. If you *have* done those things already, I encourage you to write down some of your thoughts and share it with the author. NOT telling them the end of their story they're telling, but maybe some guesses, some questions, something to get them motivated and talking about their work.
Please don't do this. Do not do this. Please wait patiently for fics you're getting for free, please have real dialogue and interactions with the real life humans providing you something you're enjoying, and for the love of God please don't feed the problem that's literally destroying the arts or we're not gonna have anything with real love and grit and depth left. 💛
Summary: No one expected you to understand fae customs just yet—much less Illyrian customs. So maybe Azriel should have made his intentions a little more obvious. He began to understand that mistake as you began to pull away.
Word count: 3k
Warnings: Biggest miscommunication trope lol, angst, pining!, idiots in love, Archeron!Reader but really only that she was human and now fae
a/n: I can't believe I actually wrote something finally lol thank you for reading if you're heree <3 This is such a fun trope to read I love it please enjoyyy! (part 2 coming)
Main Masterlist ♡
~~
You slumped back into your seat, arms crossed over your stomach in a show of frustration you would rather hide. Sometimes, it was easy to pretend you weren’t falling in love with Azriel in a pathetic way. Today was not one of those days.
The Shadowsinger had his head tipped back in a laugh, cheeks tinged a subtle pink as Mor recounted something you couldn’t hear. Well, you could, your new fae ears tuned to every sound, but you’d learned how to block out what you didn’t want. Sound had been the most disorienting sense after you’d been Made, but Azriel had done well in teaching you to hone it.
You wished he had taught you how to tamp down your emotions as well; immortality in the face of longing and jealousy was looking bleak.
Clutching your wine glass in twitching fingers, you directed your attention to Feyre and the babbling Illyrian babe in her lap. Things always seemed so effortless for her in this world, but that wasn’t true, and you knew it. Still, you found yourself envying her mateship and the ease with which love found her. It may have been a journey, but Rhys was clear with his intentions, and the mating bond cemented that.
Even Nesta, harsh and unrelenting as she was, had a sure bond that she could rely on. And then there was Elain, finding her way with Lucien in minute acts that all meant something to both of them. You had tried to chalk your feelings for Azriel up to jealousy or seeking a partner in a paired-up family, but those were surface-level excuses. The way your heart raced in his presence, the spark that lit up your skin each time you touched—those were not symptoms of pure loneliness.
But you were sure he would think it was desperation if you pursued him. He was the only single male out of the fae you knew, and you knew so few people in this world. If you started professing your love for him, waxing poetic about the simple way he smiled, you knew the pitying look of rejection would come soon after. He would wince slightly and run his hand along the side of your head as he so often did, and then he would say that he didn’t see you that way. That you were new and unexciting and a responsibility above all else—his High Lady’s sister that needed help adjusting to life as fae.
He hadn’t exactly shown interest in you. He had been kind and attentive and bordering on adoring, but that was just how he treated his family. You’d seen it. You were not going to be the pathetic little thing chasing after him in the wake of a war. Things were at peace now, and he didn’t need to be bogged down with the toll of rejecting you.
Still, you sighed as you watched him enjoy his night. You bit the inside of your cheek and choked down another glass of the fae wine you could barely stomach. Your sisters asked you questions about your training with Madja, and you answered them, allowing the ring on your pinky to dig into the skin of your palm. When Azriel had given it to you, sliding it onto your smallest finger, you had been elated, feeling light and dizzy with affection. You felt foolish wearing it now.
You couldn’t take it off. Azriel seemed to look for it whenever he saw you, eyes going from your face to your hands as if on instinct. He would touch it sometimes—when he flew you over the city or took things from your hands to carry instead. You would feel his thumb brush the metal embossed with twines of azure stone and think something was there, but then he would offer you a polite smile and simply walk beside you. He would blush and laugh with Mor, but he would only smile with you.
Pity. It was pity, surely.
You had clung to him for weeks after being Made. Something about him brought you comfort in a newly abrasive world, so he allowed you to follow him around and you accepted his touches with greed. It had all been ordered. Rhys had surely ordered his Spymaster to ensure his mate’s sister was properly cared for, but you hadn’t been thinking about the implications at the time, pathetically seeking him out under the pretense of a genuine connection. And sure, Azriel was not cruel. He thought of you as family and cared for you as such. But your feelings were yours alone.
“Shall I take you back? Or would you like to sleep here?”
You startled at the sound of his voice, Azriel suddenly at the back of your chair. The room had dimmed in conversation, with Rhys and Feyre gone to put Nyx to bed and Mor only muttering short sentences in low tones that had Cassian nodding in agreement. Elain had all but vanished from the table, and Nesta was facing the fire to capture its warmth. You had missed the shift as your thoughts ran rampant.
Your chair creaked as Azriel leaned against it, mouth closer to your ear. “Are you alright?”
You blinked and tilted your head slightly to show you were attentive to his words. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
Azriel hummed. “So would you like to stay?”
Staying at the Riverhouse would mean distance from Azriel. And you could walk to the clinic in the morning rather than depending on him to fly you down. That was good.
“Yes. That would be best.”
“I’ll walk you back then.”
He always walked you to your room—all the way there. He never came in, always content to stop at the door, but he never did anything less. Even now, when he would leave for his own room at the House miles away, he was offering to take you down the hall. It was too much. You’d become too much.
“That’s okay,” you breathed out, finally turning your head to look at him. Your faces were only inches apart, and you had to catch your breath at the closeness. “I’ll find my way.”
Something unusual flashed across his expression, quickly righted with a soft smile. “I wouldn’t mind.”
“It’s just down the hall, Azriel. I doubt I’ll get lost.”
He blinked, looking between your eyes before clearing his throat slightly and standing straight. You used the opportunity to push out from the table, trying to ignore his guiding hands. “Right, of course,” he nodded. He looked lost for a moment, standing before you. His wings twitched as you looked over his shoulder to the joining hall. “I’ll—goodnight, then. Sleep well.”
“Goodnight, Azriel.”
~~
Distancing yourself from Azriel after your dinner revelation was not an easy task. You hadn’t realized how much you’d intertwined your life with his, and the realization was enough to make you cringe. He was a whole person with a life before you, and now you were reliant on him for so many things.
So, you tried to make your own way. You stopped asking to stay at the House so you could walk wherever you needed. You asked passersby for directions instead of waiting for Azriel to tell you where shops and restaurants were located. You even tried making friends, talking more with the patrons of the clinic to… be more independent—separate, even, from Azriel and your newly grown family.
You figured he would appreciate the effort. He was probably so tired of guiding you everywhere, of keeping polite smiles on his face as you droned on about your new life and let him fly you around Velaris. And he probably loved that he finally got his overcoat back. He had let you borrow it several weeks ago, placing the Illyrian-forged threads over your shoulders when you asked him to go flying in the middle of the night.
He had told you how much it meant to him that night as he buttoned it up to your neck. His mother had hand-woven it when he came of age, he had told you, and he had saved it ever since. You might not have understood why a coat was of so much importance, but you understood that you were hogging it. That he had let you borrow it on a cold night, and then you had practically commandeered his prize possession. He always insisted you wear it when he would fly you around, but he was just being polite.
The thought grated on you.
“What?” Azriel asked, mouth slightly agape as you gently placed the coat in his stiff hands.
“I—Thank you for letting me borrow it for so long. I should have returned it ages ago. I was being greedy with it,” you tried to joke, pressing it further into his grasp.
Azriel remained frozen. His eyes flicked down to the material now in his hands and then back up to you. “I don’t—I don’t think I understand. You don’t like it?”
A flash of confusion struck you, but maybe he assumed you weren’t going to give it back? “What? No, Azriel, it’s a wonderful coat. Honestly, the softest, warmest thing I’ve ever put on. I just… I know it’s important to you. I’ll wear my own when I need you to take me somewhere. Although I think I’ve been doing well getting around by myself. I’ve been trying to learn Velaris’ layout, and I think I almost got it.”
Azriel finally moved, curling the coat closer to his chest. He wet his lips before shooting his gaze down to your hands. Finding some semblance of an answer there, he nodded once, mostly to himself. “I’ve noticed that. Have you enjoyed exploring the city?”
No. You enjoyed exploring it with him. “Yes, very much. The people of Velaris are very helpful with directions.”
Azriel hummed, rubbing his fingers along the sleeve of the coat. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. I’ll look forward to you enjoying flying again, though.”
“Yes, well, I never stopped enjoying that. I’ll try to space it out more, though—maybe get Cassian or Rhys to lug me around every once in a while.”
“Why?”
An unmistakable inflection of hurt trailed in his tone. Wonderful, now you were offending him. “Oh! Well, just to take some of that off of you. I know you’re very busy, and I’ve needed a lot of help for a long while.”
“Take…what off of me?” he asked, words slow and lingering.
“Um, the responsibility? Again, I know how busy you are. And I know it’s taken me a while to adjust, but I think I've got it now. At least, I’ve got it more than I used to,” you tried joking again, a dry laugh rocking you back on your heels.
“Responsibility,” Azriel repeated.
“Right,” you affirmed. “Now you can spend more time on other things.”
“Such as?”
You clicked your tongue, glancing up at the ceiling as if there were answers there. “I don’t know. What did you do before I was around?”
Azriel’s brows came together. He shook his head slightly as if you were partially insane. “I don’t think… I didn’t think you wanted to talk about that yet.”
Maybe you were partially insane. You thought you were having one conversation, but it seemed Azriel was having another. What did that mean? Maybe his life was far easier before you started forcing him into tasks and stealing his clothes? And you weren’t ready just yet to hear that? He really thought you were unstable then.
You laughed, despite that thought, brushing a hand through the air casually. “Come on, Az. You obviously had a life before me. Multiple lives, if we go on human terms. I’m sure you had several hobbies that didn’t include taking me places.”
And now he looked uncomfortable. Azriel folded his coat onto his arm, and his mouth twisted before he let out a sigh. “There were pleasure houses, obviously. A few relationships, although they do not seem important in the slightest now.”
You choked on air, clearing your throat as Azriel itched his jaw and looked up at the ceiling himself. Nothing was up there, but both of you were sure looking. “Oh,” you squeaked out.
“The relationships are in the distant past. The—well, the casual things are more recent, though nothing after I met you, obviously.”
Your mind was doing flips, bashing jarringly against your skull as Azriel looked at you with an almost concerned discomfort. When you said hobbies, you thought he would share that he used to train more or had a secret joy for puzzles. You had not expected a brief overview of his sexual partners, but Azriel looked about ready to give you a list if you asked. To dive deeper into the topic you were about to melt into a puddle over.
This was what you were really holding him back from, then.
He wanted to go to pleasure houses, but you were taking up all of that time.
When you remained silent, Azriel shifted his weight between his feet. “I know things were different for you. You were human. I’ve learned of the demands and expectations of human women, so that’s why we’ve been going slo—”
Your ears were ringing as he spoke. You clutched your hands together and interrupted him. “Right, yes, different for humans. And not alive as long, obviously. Less time for hobbies.”
“I don’t mind. I don’t care about that,” he offered slowly. You weren’t even sure what he was talking about. Another beat of silence, and then, in the most usure voice you had heard from him, Azriel asked, “Is that okay?”
Was it okay for him to go back to pleasure houses? To seek out intimacy? Who were you to decide that for him?
“Of course,” you blinked, raising a hand to your forehead. “I’m—I’m going to go rest, I think. Long day.”
“Alright,” Azriel simply replied, left standing in the hall.
~~
You missed him, which was terribly awful in the worst ways.
Not only had he made it abundantly clear that he was setting his sights on other women, but he was being extra nice now, probably fearing for the worst now that you were aware he was going to be spending his newfound time… doing other things.
He asked you to accompany him to dinner every night this week. You turned him down each time, but he still asked, a casual hope ringing in his words. He arrived at the Riverhouse every morning, ready to walk you to the clinic even though you assured him you were okay to go alone. He didn’t bring his coat back, but he grabbed your own from the closet by the door and had it open for you on each of those mornings.
And his wings were doing strange things. When you would come to the door, he would spread them just a few inches wider, seeking your eyes as they roved over the exposed veins. He opened them behind you as you walked, almost ushering you closer to him on the streets of Velaris. They seemed to ruffle when he sat beside you at dinner, in the sitting room, when he caught you reading and joined you on the couch. It was almost imperceptible, but the sound was becoming soothing, and that was dangerous.
You were reading too much into things, acting crazy again, and so, you distanced yourself more when you started to notice the patterns. And then you missed him because of it.
He noticed. You were sure he noticed. You could only turn him down so many times before he began to question the change.
“Have I done something wrong?” he asked after two weeks of your eyes flitting away from him.
“What? Of course not.”
“You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m not.”
Azriel took you by surprise then, kneeling by the chair you were nestled into. “You are. Tell me what I did.”
Such a picture of devotion made you squirm. You unraveled your legs from under you and sat eye-level with the Shadowsinger’s form. “Nothing, Az. Remember, I told you I was trying to be more self-sufficient. Give you more time back.”
“Is this because of our conversation a few weeks ago? Because I only told you because it’s important to understand my history as my—”
You quickly shook your head, not wanting another recount of his love life. Not when you weren’t part of it. “Nothing like that, I swear.”
Cassian chose that moment to enter the small library, a decision that was both your downfall and eventual salvation, as time would reveal.
“Nothing,” you quipped, feeling Azriel’s eyes still glued to your face as it heated and turned to Cassian. “What are you doing here? Feyre said you were at the camps until next week.”
“Yeah, well, got sick of the camps,” he replied, brow raised when Azriel reluctantly rose from the ground and stiffly turned.
“Glad you’re back then.”
“Thanks for the warm welcome, sweetheart.” Cassian kicked back into a far chair, the air still heavy. “Anyone have plans tonight? I feel like going out.”
Azriel cleared his throat, fingers flexing with shadows that twined between them. “I believe Mor is going to Rita’s. But I have… business tonight.”
“Business, huh?” Cassian smirked, flicking his gaze over to you in a quick motion.
“Cassian,” Azriel warned, but it was too late. Something ugly and hot gripped your throat, making it impossible to swallow.
This was it. This was what you wanted. He was finally free from you, and his words tonight were only a semblance of guilt for leaving you when you asked him to. But it wasn’t fair to hold him in your grasp when he didn’t want to be there. When you were a duty to him.
He needed to know that it was okay to move on from the responsibility of you, so you steeled yourself and swallowed down the searing pain in your chest that felt like it was yanking at you when you were resolute in your next words.
“Sorry, Cass, I’m not free either. I’m going on a date.”
summary: being secretly fake-married to your sweet best friend, bob floyd, is almost perfect... until tensions rise, the secret is out, and you both struggle to keep your feelings (and your hands) to yourself
notes: this fic took my soul... there's a piece of my soul in this??? so y'all better enjoy! no, but seriously, i can't wait to hear what you think! i giggled like an idiot when i came up with the idea, and throughout the entire writing process... so please, please let me know what you think! (also, i want to hear y'all chanting perv!bob from across the pacific ocean)
warnings: swearing, alcohol, fake marriage (is that a warning?), italics, seemingly unrequited love (but not really), tiny bit of angst, bob is a perv (i'm not sorry), reader is also kind of a perv (don't fight it), bob’s HUGE dick, and SMUT (male and female masturbation, heavy making out, female oral receiving, a bit of dirty talk, unprotected p in v, rough-ish sex, lots of praise) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!
word count: 22467
Bob Floyd is an incredible husband.
He’s sweet, attentive, and always knows exactly what to say to make you smile. He fills up your car before the gas gets too low—and checks your tires, too. He leaves sticky notes around the house with cute messages and gentle reminders. He goes with you to any appointment that makes you nervous—including the goddamn gyno. He knows your coffee order and wakes up early every Sunday to make you breakfast.
He’s perfect. Literally. You couldn’t build a better husband in a lab, because Bob knows how to be an amazing husband better than anyone else on Earth.
You almost feel bad for taking him away from his would-be soulmate. For marrying him out of convenience—for benefits over love. Not that you don’t love Bob Floyd—you do. Just… more like a best friend. A platonic soulmate. Someone you can rely on.
You’ve known Bob since he was fresh out of flight school. You met him during his first assignment as a WSO to one of the strike fighter squadrons at Lemoore, back when you were still a civilian contractor in a lowly admin role with the digital systems department.
For nearly two weeks, you went back and forth with him, troubleshooting and raising tickets with IT every time you found a new bug or glitch in the digital flight-planning or weapons-targeting software. He wasn’t shy, just quiet—and very sweet. He made sure you got recognised for all your work, and straight-up refused to deal with anyone else on the systems support team.
Work discussions turned into coffee runs, which eventually became quiet moments amid the chaos of military life. You quickly became good friends, confiding in each other things you wouldn’t dare tell anyone else. You came to care for Bob more than you probably should have, and it wasn’t long before you started thinking of him as your best friend.
Assignments came and went. He moved, you moved—but you always stayed in touch. Bob looked out for you in a way no one else ever did, even when he was halfway across the world. Eventually, you ended up back on the same base again—him crashing on your couch because he hated the barracks.
You were burning out at the time. Your contractor status was fragile. Insurance was expensive. But you couldn’t even think about moving back home. One night, you were crying, spilling your guts to Bob, stressed out of your mind, when he said it—the two words that changed your life.
Marry me.
You said no at first, because of course you did. But after a long conversation and a few more tears… you agreed. Because it made sense. You trusted him—more than anything—and if he was okay with it, how could you not be?
You promised that if he ever met someone he truly loved, you’d bow out and let him be happy. But every time you said it, he’d just shrug and say he is happy. That you make him happy. And that he’s just glad to be able to look after you. To know you’re safe and cared for, that you don’t have to worry about losing your job, or affording healthcare, or having somewhere to live.
He just wants to be there for you—in every way he can. Including the benefits of a military marriage.
So, now you’re here. On North Island. Because Bob’s special detachment just got commissioned as a permanent unit—which obviously means his wife would be moving to be with him.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Bob asks, dark blue eyes wide behind his glasses. “I feel bad.”
“Bobby, come on,” you sigh, propping a hand on your hip. “I’m a very capable woman. A few boxes aren’t going to break my back.”
“I can call in sick?” he offers.
You stare at him, deadpan. “Do not call in sick. Get your butt to work. I’m fine.”
The new apartment is littered with moving boxes and half-assembled furniture. You’ve been here for two days already, but there’s still so much to unpack. Most of it’s yours. Bob barely brought anything from the barracks, but everything you hauled from Lemoore? Definitely not minimal.
“It’s my shit anyway,” you say, walking him toward the door. “My responsibility to unpack.”
He sighs as he steps into the corridor, turning back with a look you know too well. The one that says he’d set the sky on fire just to keep you warm.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” you say, exasperated. “Now go, or you’ll be late.”
He hesitates—brows drawn, boots still planted.
“Bob Floyd, go to work.” You lean in, hand on his shoulder, and press a kiss to his cheek. “Now.”
His face flushes, lips twitching into a smile. “Fine. I’m going.”
You watch him head down the hall toward the lift, cheeks still pink as he presses the button and waits.
“Don’t lift anything heavy,” he calls, just as the elevator doors slide open.
“I won’t,” you call back. “Leaving all the heavy stuff for you, my love.”
He smiles softly, nods once, and steps into the lift.
You roll your eyes and step back inside, shutting the door behind you. Then you lean back against it, staring out at the mess of boxes and half-built furniture.
You’ve got the husband-and-wife act down pat after just over a year of marriage—although, at this point, most of it doesn’t feel like an act at all. Just genuine affection. Because you do love Bob. More than anything. And you don’t know what you did to deserve a best friend this goddamn sweet—all you know is that you’re beyond grateful for him.
You linger there a moment longer, facing off with the chaos of cardboard and scattered tools. Then you take a deep breath, push off the door, and start tearing open boxes.
You spend the entire day in the apartment—unpacking, sorting, putting things away. You leave most of the furniture alone. Not because you can’t build it, but because you know Bob would be mad if you did. He considers it his job every time you move, and honestly? You don’t mind. The fewer blisters you get from over-twisting stripped screws, the better.
By six p.m., your limbs are aching, your head is throbbing, and your stomach’s growling so loud you're almost positive the neighbours can hear it. You still haven’t gone grocery shopping, which means the only things you’ve had all day are a coffee Bob made for you and a protein bar he picked up yesterday when he filled your car up.
You dig your phone out from under a pile of packing paper and shoot Bob a quick text to let him know you’re heading to the store. Then you pull on a hoodie—or Bob’s hoodie, technically—and head out the door.
The grocery store is only ten minutes away and easy to find. You park, grab a trolley, and start weaving through the aisles. Normally, you’d have some sort of list—scribbled on a scrap of paper or texted from Bob—but today, you’re winging it. On an empty stomach. Great.
You’re only in the second aisle, gazing at the Pop-Tarts and wondering which flavour Bob would be the least disappointed in when—
“Excuse me.”
You whip toward the voice, eyes wide. “Crap. Sorry, am I in your way?”
It’s a man—mid-thirties, probably—with pretty green eyes and a wide smile. He’s gorgeous in that obnoxious way that makes girls swoon—and yeah, he definitely knows it.
“No, no,” he says, raising a hand. “I just—I have to ask. Do you always look this good in a grocery store? Because now I have to pretend I didn’t almost walk into a cereal display.”
You snort softly. “Wow. Good one.”
He lifts his brows. “Did it work?”
You consider it for a moment, tilting your head and leaning a hip against the trolley. “Hm. No. Not really.”
“Damn it,” he chuckles. “I’ve been trying to think of something to say for the last two aisles that wouldn’t make you immediately reject me.”
You laugh softly, giving him a quick—but deliberate—once-over before meeting his gaze.
“It’s not the line,” you say. “It’s the uniform. I don’t date military, sorry.”
He frowns. “But I’m not wearing—”
“Dog tags,” you cut in, eyes dropping to the silver chain peeking out from his shirt.
“Shit,” he says, laughing. “You’re good.”
“It wasn’t that hard.”
“Really?” He steps aside to let someone pass, bracing one hand on the shelf beside you. “What else gave me away?”
Your eyes flick down to his feet. “Boots.” Then his wrist. “Watch.” Then up. “Haircut.”
He raises his brows. “Impressive.”
“And your posture,” you add, gaze drifting across his broad chest. “It’s too straight. Too perfect.”
His eyes narrow playfully. “Did you just call me perfect?”
You roll your eyes. “I called your posture perfect, pretty boy. Now if you’ll excuse—”
“So you think I’m pretty?” he interrupts, still not moving.
“You know you’re pretty. You don’t need my validation.”
He shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt.”
You shake your head, biting back a smile. “Alright. What’s it going to take for you to get out of my way?”
“A number,” he replies, too quick.
You give him a flat look. “Okay. One. Now move.”
He smirks. “Clever. But not the number I’m looking for.”
“Then keep looking,” you say, gripping the trolley and stepping back. “Because I don’t date military. Trust me—it won’t end well.”
Then you quickly steer around him before he can stop you, pushing the trolley down the aisle.
“Won’t end well for you or me?” he calls after you.
You glance over your shoulder. “Really want to find out?”
“Can I at least get a name?”
You stop at the end of the aisle, turning back with a small smirk. “See you around, pretty boy.”
“Oh, you will!” he shouts, loud enough to earn a few puzzled glances from other customers.
You laugh quietly to yourself as you turn your trolley into the next aisle. You catch glimpses of the man again as you shop, but you keep your focus on the task at hand—filling the cart with things you know Bob likes, and whatever you can throw together into a few easy meals.
Still, you’re a little disappointed. Because that guy was hot, and he seemed like he could be a bit of fun. But you and Bob have one very strict rule: no military.
You’re allowed to mess around with other people—because you’re both human, and you still have needs—as long as it’s casual and doesn’t put the arrangement in jeopardy.
Hence, no military.
It’s just too risky. Not that you ever really see the same person twice—because even that feels like a gamble—but especially not someone you might bump into at work. You’re still a civilian contractor, and if you hook up with someone and they recognise you on base? God, the whole thing could blow up.
So you keep your hookups brief, occasional, and with people who have zero ties to the military. It’s just easier that way. Safer.
Just as you reach the checkouts, your phone buzzes with a text from Bob:
‘I’m home. Let me know when you are so I can come help.’
You smile and reply with a string of nonsense emojis. Then you pay, haul the groceries to the car, and head home.
Bob is already in the garage when you pull in—because of course he is. He’s leaning against the wall, looking unfairly adorable in a pair of sweats and an old U.S. Navy hoodie, hair still damp from a shower.
“Evening, Lieutenant,” you say with a grin.
He steps up to the car, smiling softly. “How was your day?”
“Productive,” you reply, popping the boot open. “Couldn’t you tell?”
He chuckles. “Oh, you mean ground zero upstairs?”
You nod. “Yep. That’s my organised chaos. Just you wait—by tomorrow afternoon, everything’s going to be perfectly put away.”
He shakes his head, amused, and leans into the boot, loading as many bags as he can into each hand. When he straightens up, there are only two bags left—and it’s infuriating how easily he handles the weight of four bags per hand, like it’s nothing.
“Show off,” you mutter, grabbing the last two.
You head upstairs in comfortable quiet, neither of you feeling the need to fill the silence just for the sake of it. That’s something you’ve always loved about Bob—being around him feels effortless. He doesn’t expect anything from you. Doesn’t ask for more than you can give.
You could sit beside him for hours and not say a word, and it would still feel like love—not real love, obviously, just the safe, platonic kind. The kind that doesn't get complicated.
You’ve done things in front of him that would make other men blush. Cried with your mouth full. Passed out snoring on his shoulder during a movie. Gotten so drunk once that he had to wash your hair while you sat slumped in the tub, head in your hands. You’d been wearing your underwear, obviously, but Bob? He hadn’t even looked. Hadn’t dared. Just held the shower head and worked the shampoo into your hair like he was defusing a bomb. Gentle. Respectful. Sweet as ever.
That’s the thing about Bob—he’s never once crossed a line. Never even hinted at it. You’ve been fake-married for over a year, shared hotels and couches and drunk stories and everything in between, and he’s never tried anything. Never looked at you like that. You don’t think he’s even thought about it.
Which is honestly kind of a miracle.
Any other man might’ve used this arrangement as an excuse to test the waters. A ‘harmless’ kiss. A comment. A suggestion. But not Bob. Bob’s too good for that. Too decent. He’s respectful to a fault. The kind of guy who would take a bullet for you but apologise if he got blood on your shirt.
It’s why you love him so much. Not in a romantic way—just... as a person. As a partner. A friend. You trust him more than anyone. You’d trust him with your life, your secrets, your worst moments. And you know, without a doubt, that he would never do anything to jeopardise what you have.
Honestly, if more men were like Bob Floyd, the world would be a better place.
“I met a guy at the store,” you say, pausing halfway to putting the milk away.
“Oh?” Bob replies, not looking up as he carefully arranges the eggs into the little plastic holder.
“Yeah, but he was military.”
“Damn,” he mutters, glancing up briefly. “North Island’s small. You’ll probably have to look further north for anyone not Navy.”
You nod, leaning a hip against the kitchen counter. “I figured. But he was hot.”
Bob lets out a soft chuckle. “Really?”
“Yeah. Bit cocky, but that can be fun sometimes,” you say, turning to unpack another bag. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just bugging ‘cause it’s been a while.”
He hums in agreement, quietly focused as he lines the little spice jars up—in alphabetical order, of course—on the rack like it’s a puzzle that might save his life.
You sigh, dramatic and long, as you drop a few bundles of fruit onto the bench. “Would it really be that bad?”
He glances at you, brow furrowed. “What?”
“A military hookup.”
His eyes go wide. “Yes. That would be bad. Very, very bad. North Island is small. And my squad? We’re kind of... well-known.”
“I’m not though,” you counter with a shrug. “I haven’t started my new role yet, but my desk is probably buried in the bowels of some overcrowded office. Who says I’d ever even run into you? Or anyone else?”
Bob shakes his head, firm. “Still too risky.”
“Ugh,” you groan, throwing your hands up. “Fine. But if my vibrator blows up from overuse, I’m blaming you for cockblocking me.”
He chuckles again, cheeks flushing pink as he turns away to continue putting away the dry ingredients. He doesn’t reply—but he doesn’t have to. You both know the conversation is over.
And you know he’s right. It is too risky.
Your marriage might be a secret for now—from his squad and from his CO—but once you start your new role, you’ll have to declare it. And then you’ll have to be even more careful. Not just about what you say.
But who you do, too.
- Bob -
After dinner and an hour on the lounge—scrolling through your phones, only half-watching the Nat Geo doc on sperm whales that Bob put on—you sit up and yawn.
“Okay,” you say, pushing off the couch. “I’m going to bed.”
Bob nods, looking up at you with a soft smile. “No worries. Goodnight.”
“See you tomorrow, handsome,” you call over your shoulder as you walk toward the main bedroom.
Bob doesn’t mind giving you the bigger bedroom. He knows you like having an ensuite, plus you’ve always had more stuff than him. So every time you’ve moved, he’s happily taken whatever spare or second bedroom is left.
He waits on the couch a little while longer, until he’s sure he can no longer hear you moving around. Then he quietly turns off the TV and pads into his bathroom. He brushes his teeth, removes his glasses, and steps into the bedroom across the hall from yours, where his mattress is still lying on the floor—he hasn’t gotten around to building the bedframe yet.
He’s about to switch off the light when he hears it. That soft, familiar hum—barely audible, but impossible to mistake.
Bob Floyd knows that sound.
The sound of your vibrator, buzzing through the walls like a siren song.
He groans low in his throat, flicks off the light, then drops to his knees at the edge of the mattress. He falls forward, burying his face in the pillows, and lets out a long, quiet sigh.
He doesn’t move. Not at first. Just waits—face pressed into the cotton, heart pounding, cock already swelling thick and hot against the mattress.
Because he knows what’s coming. He always does.
Like a fucking creep, like a goddamn pervert, Bob knows exactly what happens next. And he lies there—unmoving, desperate, strung tight—just listening.
It starts small. The shift of sheets. A soft sigh. The subtle creak of your bedframe as you get comfortable.
Then the hum kicks in. Louder now. Higher. The toy you keep tucked in the top drawer of your nightstand—the one he’s heard more times than he’ll ever admit.
He knows that sound like the back of his hand. Not from seeing it—God, he wishes—but from too many nights lying in the dark, counting every soft rise in pitch, every subtle shift in tempo like it’s a fucking metronome set to ruin him.
Then your breathing shifts—sharp, shallow, soft. It’s quiet enough to pass for nothing at all. Quiet enough that you probably think no one can hear.
But Bob hears everything.
He bites into the pillow, hips slowly rolling down, the friction of the mattress nowhere near enough but still better than nothing. He grinds again… and again, slow and heavy, like he can’t stop himself—and really, he can’t.
Because he can hear you. All of you. The way you sigh, that breathy little whimper as you press the toy closer. He imagines your thighs parting, your back arching, your free hand curling into the sheets.
He groans into his pillow, hips pressing forward again—slow and deliberate—pressure dragging against his length while he pictures you wrapped around it. It’s not relief, not even close—but it’s something. It’s the only thing he has.
And he knows he shouldn’t. God, he knows. This is fucked up. You’re ten feet away, touching yourself, slowly coming apart with no idea he’s lying here, rutting helplessly against his mattress like a goddamn teenager.
But he can’t help it. He’s never been able to help it when it comes to you.
Not when he can hear you biting back a moan, shifting your hips under the covers. And then—fuck—that tiny little gasp. The one that always gives you away. That last, wrecked sound you make when you come.
He’s memorised it. Just like everything else about you.
And the second it hits his ears, he knows it’s over—and he falls apart too.
His body locks up, muscles tight, grinding hard into the mattress as his orgasm rips through him—hot, heavy, and overwhelming. He chokes on your name, burying it deep into the pillow like a secret he’ll never tell as he spills into his boxers.
It’s not graceful. It’s not pretty. It’s desperate. Messy. Shameful.
And when it’s over, he just lies there—panting, trembling, sticky and spent.
Shame curls in his stomach, guilt gnawing at the edges of his hazy thoughts. Thoughts of you, in your room, flushed and glowing with that post-orgasmic haze.
He hates himself almost instantly.
But this is who he is. This is what he does. Not just since living together or being fake-married—no, Bob has been getting off with your name on his lips for years.
Because the truth is—Bob Floyd is completely, helplessly, stupidly in love with you.
God, he wishes he wasn’t. Or better yet, he wishes he’d had the guts to ask you out all those years ago when he first met you at Lemoore. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He was too chickenshit. And now? Now he’s trapped in a fantasy you think is fake—wearing the ring, playing the role, losing his fucking mind.
And he’s the idiot who signed up for it. Who offered it.
All he’s ever wanted was to make sure you’re happy. Safe. Cared for. And if he couldn’t tell you the truth—couldn’t admit that he’s in love with you—then being your fake husband felt like the next best thing.
Even though it’s killing him. Slowly. And ruining all his boxers.
Because living with you, pretending to be married to you, is the hardest thing Bob has ever done—literally and figuratively.
He likes to think he’s good at hiding it. Hiding how he really feels.
But it’s getting more and more difficult every day, and—
Fuck. He’s stupid. He left his goddamn bedroom door wide open.
You could’ve walked out at any moment—you still could. To grab a drink. Check the front door. Or even adjust the thermostat. And the worst part? This isn’t even the first time he’s forgotten to shut it.
Just like it probably won’t be the last. Because no matter how many times he promises himself he’ll stop getting off to the sounds of you touching yourself, he always lets those breathless little noises unravel him.
Every damn time.
After a few minutes of wallowing in self-pity—and sticky underwear—Bob rolls off his mattress, grabs a clean pair of boxers, and heads into the bathroom. He cleans himself up in the dark, avoiding the lights—and his own reflection—before slipping back into his room and falling into bed.
Sleep finds him quickly, despite the guilt lingering like static under his skin, and before he knows it, the sharp ring of his alarm is dragging him upright again. He groans quietly and moves through the motions the same way he does every morning.
First, he makes a fresh pot of coffee. Then he showers, does his hair, changes into his flight suit, and heads back to the kitchen.
Your door is still shut by the time he’s lacing up his boots. He can’t hear the shower running or the muffled sound of videos playing on your phone, so he figures you’re letting yourself sleep in.
He fills his travel cup with fresh coffee before finding your favourite mug in the sink, giving it a quick rinse, and setting it beside the pot. Then he digs through his work bag for that little pad of yellow Post-it notes and scribbles out a message:
Good luck today. Remember, the boxes are more afraid of you than you are of them. ♡
He sticks it to the side of your mug, checks his pockets for keys and ID, then slips out the door—making sure to shut it quietly—smiling to himself like a loser at the thought of the text you’ll send him when you find the note.
He knows it’s ridiculous. He knows he shouldn’t indulge himself. But acting like a real husband is what keeps Bob from going completely insane. Kind of.
Leaving you notes, bringing you flowers, doing all the little domestic things a good spouse might do for their significant other—that’s what makes Bob happy. And he knows it makes you happy too. So he’s not going to stop. Not until you tell him to. Not until you stop saving all his little Post-it notes in that journal you think he doesn’t know about. The one you keep in the top drawer of your dresser, hidden beneath your lingerie.
And how does he know that?
Well—spouses do each other’s laundry. It’s completely innocent. He has absolutely no hidden agenda when it comes to offering to do your laundry. It’s not like he’s ever gotten off into a pair of your panties before.
That would be insane. Perverted, even.
Bob wouldn’t do that. No way.
“Hello?” Natasha waves a hand in front of Bob’s face. “Are you even listening?”
He blinks, vision slowly refocusing on the brunette standing in front of him. He’s not sure when she walked into the briefing room—or when she even started talking. All he knows is that, before he started daydreaming about your lingerie drawer, he was the only one in the room.
He clears his throat. “Sorry. Distracted. What were you saying?”
She folds her arms and glances around, as if checking to see if anyone else can hear what she’s about to say. “How’d the move go?”
Bob straightens a little, subtly shifting in his seat to check the room. Javy and Reuben have arrived and are seated at the back, talking about the flight schedule for the day.
He turns back to Natasha and nods. “Good. She’s still unpacking. Won’t start on base until next week.”
“You should tell Mav,” she says, sinking into the seat beside him. “You’re going to have to declare the relationship. It’ll be better coming from you. At least then you can ask him not to tell the others.”
Natasha knows about you—of course—not because Bob told her, but because she saw his ring hanging beside his dog tags during PT one time. She also spotted the polaroid he keeps of you tucked behind the threat matrix card on his kneeboard, and she put two and two together.
He hadn’t hesitated to tell her it wasn’t a traditional marriage—because he knew Natasha would understand. What he didn’t expect was for her to immediately clock that he’s in love with you. Or the way she sighed and shook her head when he told her that you didn’t feel the same and asked her to keep her mouth shut.
He knows she wants to meet you, too. He’d even say she’s dying to. But that can’t happen yet. Not until you’re properly settled on North Island and his CO knows about the relationship. Then Bob will think about telling the rest of the squad.
Or maybe he’ll just invite Natasha over for dinner and forget the rest of them entirely. Because you’re his secret—his favourite secret—and something about letting that out makes him feel nauseous.
“Good morning, aviators!” Maverick calls as he walks into the room. “Nice to see that most of you care about being here early.”
He drops his folders on the desk before powering up the digital display and pulling out his tablet.
Natasha nudges Bob in the side and tips her head toward Mav. Bob hesitates, glancing over his shoulder to see that Mickey has joined Reuben and Javy at the back, but neither Bradley nor Jake are here yet. They’re not late—but they’re cutting it close. Which means Mav won’t start right away.
Which means Bob has the perfect opportunity to speak to his CO about you.
Natasha elbows him again, harder this time, her eyes wide with warning.
“Okay,” Bob mutters, pushing up from his chair. “I’m going.”
He walks slowly up to where Maverick is scowling at his tablet, tapping the screen harder than necessary.
Bob clears his throat. “Mav. Can I talk to you for a sec?”
“Yeah—uh, yes sir,” Bob replies, dropping his voice low. “I just wanted to mention something before it comes up.”
“Okay…?” Maverick says slowly. “Is this private? Do we need to leave the room, or—”
“No, it’s okay,” Bob says, pushing his glasses higher up his nose. “I mean, it is private, but before the others get here—um.” He clears his throat again. “My wife just moved here. She’s a civilian contractor, and she’s going to be working on base.”
Maverick’s brows shoot up, but his voice stays low. “Wife?”
Bob nods. “Yes, sir.”
“Wow. Okay.”
“I’d just appreciate if you could keep it quiet,” Bob adds. “We’re not really—”
“Don’t worry.” Maverick drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “I get it. The squad doesn’t need to know. This is your life, your secret. Your wife.”
God, Bob loves hearing that. His wife.
“Just file the paperwork with HR, and let me know if there are any issues,” Maverick says, letting his hand drop. “If anyone questions it or gives you a hard time, send them to me. I’m not against a—um… convenient arrangement. So I’ll vouch for you, alright?”
Bob’s cheeks flush. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”
Maverick nods, and Bob takes the dismissal. He turns back toward the room and is relieved to find the others still deep in conversation at the back. Only Natasha is watching him, her eyes sparkling and lips curled into a knowing smirk.
“What’d he say?” she asks as he drops into his seat.
Bob shrugs. “Not much. He understood the situation.”
“Oh?” Natasha raises a brow. “So he’s all over the fake-wife-who-you’re-secretly-obsessed-with thing?”
Bob shoots her a sidelong glare. “Shut up.”
She snorts quietly to herself but doesn’t say another word—just turns her gaze toward the digital display where Maverick is bringing up their latest sim stats.
Eventually, Jake strides into the room, with Bradley not far behind. They drop into their usual seats, and Maverick launches into the day’s briefing—something about sim times, and how they need to be tighter. Bob tries to pay attention, but his focus is shot. He stares at the screen, nodding at the right moments, jotting down a few notes here and there, but his mind is miles away.
With you. Wondering what you’re doing. Whether the unpacking is going okay. If you’ve seen his note yet. If you’ve texted him.
He’s usually better than this—better at compartmentalising, staying locked in—but something about today feels different. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re finally here. In North Island. In the apartment. In his everyday life, not just in his daydreams and text messages.
He keeps thinking about last night. The way your shirt had ridden up while you reached to shove a box into the top cupboard above the fridge. The warm stretch of bare skin, the way your hips swayed without you even realising. Or the soft little moan you let out when you bit into your chocolate bar after dinner—like it physically hurt to taste something that good. Or the way your lips wrapped around it, slow and indulgent. He shouldn't be thinking about that. But he is.
Mostly, though, he can’t stop hearing you.
That breathy, broken little sound you made in the dark. The one that slipped through the walls when you thought no one could hear. When you were touching yourself. Coming apart. And he was ten feet away, grinding against his mattress, pretending it was you.
God. What is wrong with him?
He drags a hand across his jaw and tries to focus, but it’s useless. It’s like something inside of him cracked open during the special detachment—like the distance rewired him. Like missing you for so long left something raw and exposed, and now that you’re here, in his orbit again, he can’t think about anything else.
You’re everywhere. In his apartment. In his bed—in a way. In his skin.
And no matter how hard he tries to shake it off, you're still there. Taking up every thought, every breath, every beat of his heart. More than ever. And God, he’s not sure how to deal with it anymore.
“Not hungry, Floyd?” Javy asks, pausing at the door with a small frown.
Bob blinks, quickly glancing around the now-empty briefing room—except for Javy. “Is it lunch?”
Javy chuckles. “Yeah, man. Where have you been?”
Bob takes a deep breath and pushes out of his chair, gathering his things before following his very sceptical squadmate out into the corridor.
By the time he reaches the mess hall, everyone has already grabbed lunch and settled around the usual table. Bradley and Reuben are deep in an argument about something Maverick apparently critiqued during their sim flight last week—not that Bob has any idea what it actually was—and Natasha is explaining to Mickey, for some reason, that possums do not, in fact, lay eggs. Why? No clue.
“Okay, everyone shut up,” Jake says, dropping his tray with a dramatic thud. “I have an announcement.”
The squad falls quiet—all eyes on him, brows raised, mouths shut.
“Thank you.” Jake grins. “I just wanted to let you all know that I—Jake Seresin—met the love of my life last night.”
Natasha frowns. “Are you talking about Penny’s new bartender? Because she literally told you to choke.”
“Nope,” Jake replies, unfazed. “Different woman. Grocery store. Breakfast food aisle. She was buying Pop-Tarts but looking at me like I was the tart.”
Reuben snorts. “That checks out.”
“So what happened?” Bradley asks, a smirk lifting one corner of his mouth. “Did you talk to her?”
“Yep,” Jake nods. “It was magical. She was so hot, and funny too. The chemistry was insane.”
“Did you get her number?” Mickey asks.
Jake sighs. “Well, no, but—”
Bob frowns, leaning in. “What was her name?”
“Didn’t get that either.”
Bradley chuckles. “Hold on. So she’s the love of your life, but you don’t even know her name?”
“We had a connection beyond this plane of existence,” Jake insists, eyes narrowed. “I’m telling you. It was spiritual.”
“Is there anything you did find out about her?” Javy asks, clearly trying not to laugh.
Jake shrugs. “Well, she clocked me for military pretty quick, and said she doesn’t date military.”
Bob’s stomach drops. Panic creeps up the back of his neck, making the little hairs stand on end and his flight suit feel uncomfortably hot.
“She wasn’t wearing a ring, was she?” Reuben asks, grinning.
“Nope,” Jake says. “I checked. Not making that mistake a third time.”
Bob exhales quietly, relief washing over him. He remembers—very clearly—seeing your wedding ring on your finger last night. He always notices when you're wearing it. He fucking loves seeing it on you.
“Alright, Romeo,” Natasha says. “How exactly do you plan to find this mystery woman again if you don’t know anything about her?”
“I trust the universe,” Jake says, leaning back with smug confidence. “I’ll see her again. Soon. It’s destiny.”
Javy claps a hand on his shoulder. “Okay, destiny. You might want to stop talking before someone calls medical and gets you checked for a head injury.”
Jake just rolls his eyes and picks up his burger, eyeing the beef patty like it might be radioactive before finally taking a bite.
There are a few minutes of quiet while everyone starts eating their lunch. Bradley grumbles about how he should’ve picked the burger instead of the sloppy joe, and Javy mutters something to Natasha about trading his vanilla pudding for her chocolate one.
Then Reuben pipes up, loud and clear across the table. “So, Floyd… saw you whispering something real secretive to Mav this morning. What was that about?”
Bob stiffens, nearly choking on his sip of water. “What? Oh, nothing. Just… work stuff.”
“Oh yeah?” Reuben grins. “Looked like top-secret classified info. You trying to get reassigned?”
“Probably just checking if he could skip night duty next week,” Natasha says dryly, without even looking up from her pudding. “Someone’s got laundry to fold and throw pillows to rearrange.”
Bob’s eyes go wide. “I’m not—there’s no—” he splutters, flushing red as he waves a hand in mild panic. “It was literally just… paperwork.”
Javy raises a brow. “Paperwork that makes you blush like that?”
Bradley frowns, leaning forward to look at Natasha. “What are you talking about throw pillows?”
She glances up, eyes wide and brows raised—the picture of innocence. “Hm? Oh, nothing.”
Bob sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Can we just drop it?”
“Ooh,” Mickey pipes up. “Maybe Bob has a secret love child we don’t know about.”
Reuben leans in, eyes gleaming. “Blink twice if it was about alimony.”
Bob lifts his head with a flat stare. “Do I look like I have time for children?”
“Secret love child…” Jake says slowly—thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’d believe it.”
“If Bob had a kid, don’t you think we’d know?” Bradley says, flicking a green bean across the table at Reuben.
“Exactly,” Natasha grins. “If Bob had any secrets, we’d know. Right, Bob?”
If looks could kill—or at least maim—Natasha would already be halfway to medical by now.
“Right,” Bob mutters, jaw tight.
“And if anyone had a secret love child,” she adds, gaze drifting across the table, “it’d be Hangman.”
Jake scoffs. “Why me?”
Mickey snorts. “Because you have the most sex, hands down.”
“Speak for yourself, dude,” Reuben mutters.
“Yeah,” Bradley smirks. “Seresin strikes out more than the rest of us combined.”
“Well, yeah,” Mickey chuckles. “But only because he flirts with way more women than the rest of us.”
“Again,” Natasha chimes in, “speak for yourself, Fanboy.”
There’s a chorus of oohs interlaced with laughter as Mickey rolls his eyes, cheeks going just the softest shade of pink—but Reuben notices. The teasing quickly shifts to Mickey, leaving Bob staring down at his lunch with his pulse pounding in his ears.
The next half hour passes in a blur while Bob does his absolute best not to think about you—which means, of course, you’re all he can think about. And then just as everyone starts rising from their seats, his phone buzzes with a burst of rapid-fire texts stamped with your contact name.
‘The boxes are winning. If I don’t make it, tell my husband he was too good for this world.’
‘Oh, and he’s not allowed to move on for AT LEAST two weeks.’
‘P.S. your wife says thanks for the coffee. Might reward you later with some expertly folded laundry.’
Bob’s heart lurches into his throat while all the blood in his body reroutes south. He types out a quick reply: ‘What laundry?’
“You coming, Floyd?” Natasha asks, standing on the opposite side of the table with a frown.
Bob looks up, dazed. “I—uh, yeah. I’m coming—I mean, you go. I’ll catch up.”
“Okay...” she mutters, eyeing him suspiciously as she turns to follow the others toward the tray return.
His phone pings again, lighting up with another text from you: ‘Found a pile on the floor in the bathroom and assumed it was dirty? Promise there was no creepy sniffing, and I definitely didn’t notice anything about your boxers!’
Bob lets out a strangled noise, drops his phone onto the table with a clatter, and buries his face in his hands.
Right now, he wouldn’t mind if the ground opened up and swallowed him whole. Or if a rogue fighter jet spiralled off course and obliterated the mess hall. Or if a black hole cracked open beneath his chair and sucked all of North Island into oblivion.
Except for you, of course. He’d want you to be safe.
But aside from that, he’d gladly disappear right now. Some inexplicable catastrophe would do just fine—anything to keep him from going home and facing the woman who just washed his crusty boxers. Boxers that were only crusty because of her, anyway.
And—
Oh, God. Why is he getting hard?
It doesn’t make any sense. One dumb joke about laundry and boxers and suddenly his body is acting like you sent nudes. He’s not even thinking about you like that—not really—and yet here he is, halfway to a full-blown erection in the middle of the mess hall with zero warning and absolutely no control. What the hell is wrong with him?
He shifts in his seat, eyes wide and pulse thundering in his ears as his flight suit starts pulling taut in places it absolutely should not.
If he doesn’t get moving, he’ll be late—and Maverick will ream him for it. But he can’t exactly stand up with a raging hard-on in the middle of the goddamn mess hall.
With another strangled groan, Bob white-knuckles his lunch tray and holds it right in front of him as he shoves back his chair and stands. He beelines for the tray return, drops his tray without making eye contact with a single soul, and turns sharply toward the exit.
Once he’s out the door, he yanks down the zipper of his flight suit and adjusts himself as quickly and discreetly as humanly possible.
Mercifully, there’s no one within ten feet of him—but just ahead, where the squad is walking back toward the squadron building, Bob spots Reuben glancing over his shoulder. Brows drawn. Eyes wide. Curiosity written all over his face.
And now Bob wants to die.
Great. What a fantastic Tuesday he is having.
By the time Maverick dismisses the squad at the end of the day, Bob can’t get out fast enough. He barely mumbles a goodbye before practically running out the door and across base.
He flicks you a quick text to say he’s on his way, then jumps in his car. But instead of heading straight home, he makes a stop at the little florist he passes every morning and afternoon—the one he’s been wanting to visit for months. He’s been thinking about it since you agreed to move here, picking up flowers on his way home from work like some hopeless suburban husband. It’s dumb. Ridiculous, even. But he can’t help himself. He started doing it the first week you moved in after the ‘wedding’ and now it’s a ritual. A compulsion.
He grabs a bunch of blood-red roses—because he’s romantic like that—and drives the rest of the way home, parking beside your car in the underground garage. His palms are sweating by the time he’s in the lift, and his heart won’t slow down. He feels twitchy. Wired. Like his whole body has been buzzing with anticipation since he last saw you—which, tragically, was only twenty-four hours ago.
“I’m home,” he calls as he pushes open the door, trying not to sound breathless.
The apartment already looks better than it did this morning. Fewer boxes now. The bookshelf is upright and full. The dining table is properly assembled—chairs and all. There’s a knife block, a roll of paper towel, and a candle on the kitchen bench. And right in the middle of the island—an empty glass vase. Almost like you knew.
“Bobby,” you call, ducking your head out of your bedroom door at the end of the short hallway. “Just showered. I’ll be out in a sec.”
His breath catches at the sight of you clutching a towel to your chest, damp skin glowing, droplets racing down your collarbones and disappearing between the curves of your breasts. Your hair’s wet. Your legs are bare. And for one unbearable, glorious moment, Bob forgets what language is.
His cock twitches.
“No worries,” he mutters, voice hoarse and a little too high.
You’re already gone before he even finishes speaking, but you don’t fully close the door—and his pulse kicks hard against his ribs. Because fuck, you’re naked in there.
He drops his bag like it’s on fire, kicks off his boots, and sets the flowers on the counter without even looking. Then he starts down the hall toward his room, right across from yours. His head is bowed like he’s deep in thought, but his eyes flick to that sliver of open door.
And God—he sees you.
Just a glimpse. Just enough. A stretch of skin. The slope of your back. And then you turn slightly toward the bed and—fuck. Your tits. Just there. Bare. Bouncing softly with your movement.
He lets out a strangled sound and walks face-first into his closed bedroom door with a loud thunk.
“Shit,” he hisses, clutching his forehead and praying to every saint he can think of.
Your door swings open and you step out, now holding a sweatshirt to your chest. “You okay?”
Bob can’t even look at you, his cheeks burning. “Yeah—yeah, I’m fine. Wasn’t, uh… wasn’t looking. Just tired. Mav really pushed us hard. Long day.”
“Mm,” you hum, clearly amused. “Well, Lieutenant, maybe wait until you’re in bed before you close your eyes?”
He half-laughs, half-chokes, and gives you a quick salute. “Noted. Bed first.”
Then he shoves his door open, stumbles inside, and shuts it behind him in one fast motion. He leans back against it, eyes squeezed shut, hands trembling.
His cock is hard. Painfully, unreasonably hard. Pressed tight against his flight suit with nowhere to go.
God, did you notice?
He’s pretty sure you didn’t. Otherwise, you’d be freaked out. Right?
With a deep breath, he drags the zipper of his suit down and wriggles out of it. He kicks it off his feet and leaves it crumpled on the floor before turning to face the door. Then he braces one hand against the wood while the other slips beneath the waistband of his briefs. He pushes them down slowly, deliberately, letting his hard length spring free, skin slick with the heat of anticipation.
His breath catches, shaky and uneven, as he wraps his fingers around himself. He drags slow, torturous strokes up and down, eyes squeezed shut, clinging to the vivid, forbidden image of you—wet, vulnerable, just beyond that goddamn door.
Each stroke draws a ragged gasp, the heat building low in his belly until it’s almost unbearable. His hips start to lift, chasing the mounting pressure, fingers tightening instinctively.
He imagines your voice—soft, breathy—whispering something filthy in his ear, something that would have him leaking on the spot if he dared to imagine it too loud.
His skin prickles, pulse pounding in his ears. The world shrinks until there’s nothing but his hand, the hard length in it, and this door separating you from him.
He fights to steady his frantic breath as white-hot pressure builds at the base of his cock. And just as that delicious snap of heat tears through his body—
“Hey, did you want the blue Gatorade or can I take it?” you call out.
His whole body locks up, release spilling in hot, sticky ropes against the door.
Fuck.
“A-All good,” he croaks. “You have it.”
He slumps forward, forearm pressing against the wood as his head drops with a soft thud. His dick twitches in his hand, still half-hard, still leaking.
God, this has to stop. He can’t just jerk off every time he sees so much as your shoulder.
Though, what he saw before was much more than that. But he was creeping—looking for it, trying to catch a glimpse. No, this all has to stop. Not just the wanking, but the perving too. Jesus Christ, it has to stop before you find out. Or worse—catch him.
The thought makes his spine tingle—but... not in an entirely unpleasant way.
Great. Now he’s turned on by the idea of you catching him in the act.
Maybe he needs therapy. Or maybe he should be the one getting checked for a head injury—not Jake and his grocery store destiny.
After stripping off his underwear—using them to wipe down the door, because he’s disgusting—and pulling on a pair of sweats, Bob finally steps out of his room. His cheeks are still hot, his pulse still hammering, but at this point, that’s just baseline when it comes to being around you.
“You don’t have to keep getting me flowers,” you say, smiling softly as you arrange the bouquet in the vase like you’ve done it a hundred times.
He shrugs. “Just being a good husband.”
And trying to make up for jerking off to you like a goddamn lunatic.
“Well,” you slide the vase into the middle of the kitchen island, “they’re gorgeous. Thank you.”
He gives you a small nod, lips twitching like he might smile—but then he notices what you’re wearing, and it dies immediately.
“Going out?” he asks, keeping his tone light.
“Yep,” you reply brightly. “I’ve got a date.”
His stomach drops.
“Okay, not a date,” you amend quickly. “Just a hookup. Strictly sex. But I didn’t feel like I could show up in my sweats, you know?”
Bob thinks you look stupid hot in your sweats. But right now you’re in a pair of jeans that cling to your ass and a shirt he’s pretty sure he’s never seen before, and his brain is starting to melt again.
“Hence, the nice clothes,” you add, gesturing to yourself. “I shouldn’t be late. Probably won’t even eat. So… save me some dinner?”
Bob frowns. “What dinner?”
You roll your eyes, sliding one arm into your jacket. “Whatever you decide to make. Because you’re an amazing cook. And I know you’re going to make something, because you cook every weeknight except Fridays.”
“What if I don’t feel like cooking tonight?” he mutters, feeling petulant and jealous and very much trying not to show it.
You smirk. “Okay, grumpy. Then order me some extra takeout.”
He doesn’t answer—just nods once and turns to the fridge, opening the door like whatever’s inside is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.
“I’ve got my location on,” you say, stopping at the front door to slip your shoes on. “Just in case the guy’s a psychopath.”
Bob glances over his shoulder. “Should I be worried?”
“Nah,” you shrug. “He’s an accountant. Boring as hell. No military ties. Didn’t even know North Island was a Navy base—thought it was Air Force.”
Bob’s eyes narrow. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope,” you say with a laugh. “He’s up in La Jolla. I guess when you’re wealthy enough, you don’t have to worry about anything outside your little bubble.”
Bob shuts the fridge and turns to face you, frown deepening. “La Jolla’s nearly an hour away.”
“I know,” you say. “But no military, remember? Means I have to travel. And Bob, I know you don’t want to hear this—but I need sex. I’m dying. I’m falling apart. My vibrator can only do so much, but I need a real di—”
“Okay,” he cuts in quickly, eyes wide. “That’s… enough. Just go. Be safe.”
He steps up against the kitchen island, grateful that the counter is hiding his growing hard-on. Again.
You flash him a grin and pull the door open. “If I’m not back by eleven, call the cops and avenge me dramatically.” Then you step out into the corridor, waving. “Love you! Bye!”
“Love you too,” Bob mutters.
The second the door clicks shut, he collapses forward, forehead hitting the cool marble benchtop with a groan loud enough that you might’ve heard it on your way to the elevator.
Bob spends the evening doing everything he can not to be a creep. He cooks dinner, sets aside a container for you, and watches a documentary called Inside The Vatican—hoping some religious guilt might fix him.
It doesn’t.
After washing the dishes—and spending a concerning amount of time scrubbing your mug—Bob paces the apartment, trying desperately to think of anything besides jerking off. Then his eyes land on his mattress still lying on the floor, and he decides maybe building his bed will take up enough time.
Again, it doesn’t.
Once he hauls the mattress into the frame, he spends the next twenty minutes carefully rearranging the furniture in his room. Then he sits on the edge of the bed, phone in hand and stalks your location like a man possessed—willing it to move, craving nothing more than to see you heading home. But after ten minutes of nothing, he gives up.
So he decides to wash his bedsheets. He strips the mattress, hauls the bedding to the small laundry room beside his bathroom, and shoves it all into the washing machine. Once the cycle starts, he checks the dryer—and immediately regrets it.
Your bedding is crumpled up inside, still a little warm and smelling so strongly of you it makes his head spin.
He tries—he really does—to pull it out and just dump it at the foot of your unmade bed. But no. He can’t leave it like that. He has to make it. It’s what you would do for him. Because you’re not just housemates—you’re friends, you’re a good fake husband and wife. Making your bed is just a kind, domestic gesture.
That’s all.
With a deep breath, he starts unravelling your bedding. He finds the fitted sheet and drapes it over the mattress, stepping carefully around the bed to tuck it in and smooth it out. His hands move mechanically, trying to focus on the task, willing himself to keep it together.
Even though the scent of you in here is like a drug—sharp and heady, flooding his senses and making his sweatpants feel tighter by the second. But it’s fine. He’s got this. He’s in complete control.
Once the fitted sheet is on, he picks up your duvet and throws it over the mattress before smoothing it down. Then he finds the two pillowcases, picks your pillows up off the floor, and starts shoving them in.
He’s almost done—and almost proud of himself—as he drops one of the pillows at the top of the bed, closest to the side he’s on. Then he grabs the other one, leans forward to place it on the far side, and—
His cock brushes the pillow.
Just barely, but it’s enough. Enough to make heat pool at the base of his spine, to turn half-hard into fully, painfully hard in a heartbeat.
His breath catches. His fingers twitch. He tries to pull back—he means to—but his body betrays him. His hips roll forward, dragging his length against your pillow in the most delicious, dangerous way.
He groans. Loudly. And grinds down again—harder, deeper. His cock drags thick and aching against the pillow, trapped beneath the soft cotton and the cling of his sweatpants. The smell of you is everywhere—on the fabric, in his lungs, in his mouth—and it’s driving him fucking insane.
He leans forward, spreads his legs, and humps the pillow like a dog in heat. Quiet, desperate thrusts. Every inch of his skin burning. His lips part on a shaky gasp as he picks up a rhythm—slow at first, then faster, rougher.
His hands fist your duvet. The mattress creaks softly beneath him.
He grinds harder, angling his hips until the pressure hits just right, chasing friction, chasing the fantasy. You, writhing under him. You, moaning into the mattress. You, letting him rut against your thigh like a pathetic, needy animal.
His cock pulses hard against the pillow. He’s panting now, forehead damp, face twisted in agony as he thrusts deep into the softness over and over and over—
And then he’s coming. Sharp and hot and shameful, grinding through it like he never wants it to stop. His sweatpants absorb most of the mess, but some of it seeps through onto your pillow, warmth soaking into the cotton.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he mutters, scrambling upright.
He snatches the pillow off the bed and yanks the cover off. There’s only a small stain on the pillow itself, barely the size of a dime. He’ll just flip it.
He grabs the other pillow, strips its case, and bolts to the laundry, shoving both into the washer with his half-finished load. Then he makes a beeline for the linen cupboard and exhales hard when he spots a similarly coloured pair of pillowcases.
Ignoring the mess in his sweats, he returns to your room and quickly finishes making your bed with the fresh covers—flipping the soiled pillow face down—before fleeing the scene and shutting the door behind him like it might somehow seal in his shame.
He needs help. He needs therapy. He might even need religion.
At this point, he’ll take whatever divine intervention he can get, because clearly he can’t be trusted not to hump your goddamn pillow like some desperate, fucked-up freak with zero self-control.
What the hell is wrong with him? You’re his friend. His roommate. His fake wife. Not his personal fantasy to jerk off to in every room of the apartment.
But no matter how many times he tells himself to stop, no matter how disgusted he feels afterward, it’s like his body won’t listen.
It’s not just lust—it’s deeper than that. Obsessive. Addictive. He’s terrified you’re going to catch him one day and never look at him the same again. And that’s what really scares him. Not the guilt, or the shame, or even the twisted desire.
It’s the thought of losing you. Because as much as he wishes he could compartmentalise the feelings from the hormones, it’s all tangled up now. He needs you like air—like water.
Romantic or not, sexual or not—he just needs you.
So he has to stop. He has to figure out how to act normal before he fucks this whole thing up beyond repair.
After a cold shower—self-imposed punishment—and making his own bed, Bob flops onto the couch and hits play on a documentary about sea otters. Then he checks the time on his phone—and your location. Again.
He tells himself it’s just to make sure you’re safe, but his heart still leaps when he sees you’re already halfway home.
He tries to focus on the otters—really tries—but his eyes keep darting to the front door like you might materialise out of thin air. Which is stupid, because he knows exactly how far away you are. He’s watching your little blue dot crawl toward him on his phone screen like a stalker.
Thirty painstaking minutes later, the dot pulses directly over his own. Right on top of him.
He holds his breath. And when the lock finally clicks, he forces his gaze back to the TV screen—doing his best impression of someone who is totally, one hundred percent emotionally invested in a family of sea otters and not, in any way, pathetically desperate to see you walk through the door.
“I’m back,” you mutter, shoving the door open a little harder than necessary.
Bob frowns, eyes narrowing at your expression. You’ve come home from hookups before, and he knows what you look like when they’ve gone fine, or good, or even great—he hates that the most. But this? This isn’t any of those.
“Hey,” he says cautiously. “You alright?”
You scowl as you shrug out of your jacket, tossing it toward the dining table along with your keys. Then you kick off your boots and leave them lying haphazardly by the door.
“No,” you snap. “I’m not alright. That was the worst experience of my life.”
Bob’s eyes widen—and it takes everything in him not to smile. He shifts on the couch, making more room for you, and grabs the remote to pause the TV.
“What happened?”
You stomp over and drop down beside him, groaning as you fall onto your side into the throw pillows.
“He opened the door shirtless,” you start, already exasperated, “which would’ve been fine if he wasn’t holding a protein shake—and if the first thing out of his mouth wasn’t, ‘Sup, babe.’”
Bob’s brows shoot up, but he manages to not to laugh.
“Then he led me straight to his room, which reeked of feet and Axe body spray. He dropped his fucking sweats, laid down on the bed, pointed at his half-hard dick, and said—” you hold up finger quotes, “—‘The weapon awaits.’”
Bob snorts and immediately slaps a hand over his mouth.
You sit up and glare at him. “Don’t.”
He shakes his head. “Didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“Thinking what?” he asks, all wide eyes and faux innocence.
You give him a flat look. “That I deserve it.”
He shrugs, fighting a grin. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“No, but you’re thinking it,” you mutter, settling back into the couch with your arms folded.
He chuckles softly. “Maybe a little.”
“Ugh,” you sigh, tipping your head back. “I just wanted to get laid, not be traumatised.”
Bob snorts. “Maybe don’t trust what people say on dating apps. Or drive almost an hour to hook up with a guy you’ve known less than a day.”
“I needed sex, Robert,” you say with a sidelong glance. “What else was I supposed to do?”
His heart kicks against his ribs. He wants to say me. You were supposed to do me. Your best friend. Your fake husband. The guy with a perfectly functional—and admittedly impressive—dick that is quite literally always hard for you.
He opens his mouth to reply—to say something he’ll almost definitely regret—
But you cut in first.
“He couldn’t even find my clit. I had to literally direct him—like a fucking traffic controller.” You curl your legs up beside you, muttering, “I faked it just to get out of there.”
Bob’s mouth goes dry. “Faked it?”
You nod, eyes still fixed on the frozen TV screen. “Yup.”
There’s a beat—long enough for Bob to imagine every possible thing he could say next.
But then you sigh—loudly. “I just want someone who listens. Is that really so much to ask?” You glance over at him, brows drawn. “I’m not expecting some expert sex god. Just… someone who pays attention. Enough to figure out what actually feels good.”
Bob lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah. Imagine that. Someone who listens. Really pays attention. Makes sure you finish.” He shifts awkwardly, glancing down to check that the bulge in his pants isn’t obvious. “Multiple times, even.”
“God,” you sigh. “Men like that must be a myth.”
He clenches his jaw, biting back every smartass thing echoing in his head. Now isn’t the time to make you feel worse. And it probably isn’t the time to admit that he’s been secretly in love with you for years.
Although, Bob’s not sure when the time for that would ever come.
Right now, you just need a friend. Someone to complain to. Someone to remind you that it’s not you—it’s men. They suck.
“Well,” you say, swinging your legs off the couch and pushing up. “At least I’ve got my vibrator to make up for that shitty experience.”
Bob nearly chokes.
“I’m heading to bed,” you add.
“No worries,” he mutters, giving you a tight smile. “Goodnight.”
“G’night Bobby,” you murmur, soft and sleepy, flashing him a small smile before turning away.
And God—if that isn’t a shot straight to the heart. A kill shot, to be specific.
Because you’re so warm. So sweet. And you love him so much—just not like that. He wishes it were enough. But more than anything, he wishes he could show you what you mean to him—because words wouldn’t even come close.
And fuck, he really wishes you weren’t about to lay your head on a pillow stained with his cum.
- You -
By Wednesday afternoon, just about everything is unpacked. There’s a stack of broken-down boxes by the front door, a few rubbish bags full of packing paper, and one very exhausted woman lying on the living room floor—you.
It’s only three p.m., which means Bob won’t be home for a few more hours, but after three straight days in this apartment alone, you’re starting to feel like you’re losing your mind. Sure, you’ve seen Bob in the evenings—and there was that pathetic hookup last night—but aside from that, it’s been nothing but boxes and furniture and cleaning.
You don’t necessarily need human interaction. You just need a break. A change of scenery. A coffee, maybe.
With a deep breath, you push off the floor and grab your jacket from the rack beside the door—the one you just finished assembling. You slide your arms in, slip your shoes on, and head out.
You’re not overly familiar with North Island, but you’re pretty sure you saw a nice-looking café a few blocks over. And you don’t mind a walk.
You try to take in your surroundings as you go, but it’s hard not to check out every fit man you pass. Because God, you are horny. So horny that even two rounds with your vibrator last night did nothing to loosen the knot burning low in your stomach. You need dick. Real dick. Good dick. Something hard and decently sized, attached to a reasonably attractive man who knows how to use it—someone who can fuck you stupid so you stop eyeing every guy like he’s a walking, talking slab of prime beef.
God. You don't want to admit it, but even Bob was looking good last night. With his flushed cheeks, soft messy curls, and those big blue eyes behind his adorable glasses. You were five seconds away from dragging him into your room and letting him ruin your freshly washed sheets—ones you’ll have to remember to thank him for getting out of the dryer and making your bed with. Sweet man that he is.
But Bob is too nice for you to ask something like that of him. You don’t doubt he’d be decent—probably even good. There’s something about him that tells you he’s not quite as vanilla as people think. But he’s your best friend. You can’t risk ruining a friendship and a perfectly good fake marriage just because you’re desperate to come.
Not that you think Bob would fall in love with you or anything. God, no. Bob doesn’t see you like that. You just know that arrangements like that get messy, and you love him too much to risk it.
So for now, you’ll just have to keep looking for some decent dick—something to sate the white-hot need burning behind your hipbones.
“No way.”
Your thoughts scatter like a flock of birds, reality seeping back in as you blink toward the source of the mildly familiar voice.
“Oh,” you laugh softly, cheeks already burning. “It’s you.”
The green-eyed man from the grocery store grins—and it’s so bright, so wide, you almost want to slide your sunglasses further up your nose.
“It’s you,” he echoes, just a little breathless.
That’s when you notice what he’s wearing—a tight tank, gym shorts, running shoes. His tan skin glistens with sweat, chest rising and falling too fast. He’s on a run—or at least he was.
You lift a brow. “Shouldn’t you be at work? You know, protecting and serving?”
He shrugs, bracing a hand on each hip. “My CO dismissed my squad early. Thought I’d get some PT in off-base.”
“Isn’t this whole island a base?”
He chuckles. “Technically, yeah. But I meant outside the hangar. With the ocean breeze, warm sun—” his gaze flicks down, then back up, “—pretty girls.”
You roll your eyes. “Right. Because there weren’t enough of those at the grocery store?”
You don’t wait for a comeback—you just flash him a small smirk and keep walking, gaze locked on the café at the end of the block.
“Hey, wait a second,” he says, easily falling into step beside you. “You can’t just disappear again. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Monday night. I need to know your name.”
“Since Monday?” you glance at him, brows raised. “Wow, is this your longest relationship, then?”
He snorts but stays at your side—clearly undeterred. “Why do you assume I’m a player?”
“Seriously?” You give him a flat look. “Look at you.”
He grins. “And?”
You huff a laugh. “God, you’re a piece of work.”
“But I’m worth it.”
“I doubt that.”
“Come on,” he sighs. “Just give me a shot.”
You stop walking and turn to face him, arms folding tight across your chest. “Look. You’re hot—and you know it—but you’re also military. I have a strict rule, okay? Besides, I’m—” you pause, pulse quickening, “I’m not looking.”
He frowns. “What does that even mean?”
You glance down at your hand and instantly regret not wearing your ring today. Because as hot as this guy is—not exactly your type, but undeniably attractive—you just can’t do military. Bob would kill you.
And what better way to scare someone off than with a wedding band? But no—you left it in your car. Like always. You only wear it when you need to, and usually ditch it when there’s a chance you might run into someone worth boning. Like at the grocery store the other day. Or now—even though that was clearly a mistake.
You clear your throat. “It means thanks but no thanks. Now leave before I do something stupid.”
He grins. “What if I want you to do something stupid?”
“You don’t even know what stupid thing I’m talking about.”
He shrugs. “I’m hoping it’s something along the lines of kissing me—or worse.”
You roll your eyes again. “It’s definitely worse.”
He opens his mouth to reply, but the shrill ring of his phone cuts in. He yanks the zipper on his pocket, pulls it out, and frowns at the screen.
“You should get that,” you say, nodding to the phone.
He looks up. “Wait, just—”
“See you later, pretty boy.”
You flash him one final smirk and turn on your heel, heading back the way you came—determined not to give him one more second to wear you down. You can just have coffee at home.
And honestly, at this point, he’s kind of annoying. Too persistent. Too cocky. There’s something about him that feels like one giant neon warning sign—aside from the military thing. Something deeper. Weirder. Something that feels... dangerous. And not in a fun way.
You take the first corner you reach, then the next, hoping that if you wind your way home along a complicated enough route, he won’t be able to follow you. Not that you think he would. You’re pretty sure he’s just a cocky boy—not a full-blown stalker.
It doesn’t take long to reach your apartment block, and you’re definitely feeling a hell of a lot better than when you left—coffee or not. Sometimes it really is enough to get some fresh air. Go for a walk. Touch grass. Remind yourself the world isn’t made entirely of cardboard boxes and bubble wrap.
You ride the elevator up to your floor and walk the hall, chewing your bottom lip as you wonder what to make for dinner. Bob usually cooks, but every now and then, you like to return the favour—not that it’s ever quite as good.
You slide your key into the lock, turn the handle, and—
Freeze.
A choked moan breaks through the quiet apartment. Low, needy—completely unfiltered.
What the fuck?
You ease the door open, step inside, and shut it quietly behind you. Bob’s boots are by the door, his duffel bag dropped beside the dining table, and there’s a bottle of wine on the kitchen island.
He’s home early.
Another groan curls through the air, thick and strained, and your breath catches.
You should make a sound. Slam the door. Jingle your keys. Do literally anything except stand here like a frozen creep. But you can’t. Because your pulse is racing, your mouth is dry, and that ache low in your belly is pulsing hot.
Then you hear it—soft and unmistakable—a whimper, followed by a choked, “Mmmf—fuck.”
Oh God. That’s Bob.
You swallow hard and step forward quietly. The closer you get to his bedroom, the louder it gets. Deep, unsteady breaths. The slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. A low gasp, a soft curse. The tiniest creak of bedsprings beneath a body working for release.
And holy shit, you're already wet—your panties soaked and sticking to you, no match for how goddamn horny you are.
You stop in the hallway, standing halfway between your bedroom door and his. The right thing would be to duck into your room, slam the door, and pretend you didn’t hear a thing.
But it’s too late. You’re too far gone. Too turned on. Your pulse is pounding, your legs feel like jelly, and you can’t pull yourself away.
Like a fucking creep, like a goddamn pervert, you lean forward and peer through the narrow crack in his door.
And stop breathing.
Bob is sprawled across his bed, one leg bent, the other stretched out. His shirt is bunched up around his ribs, sweatpants shoved low on his hips—just low enough for his hand to move.
And fuck, is it moving.
His knuckles are tight, forearm flexing, sinew rippling beneath skin. His chest rises and falls with every shallow breath, and his head is tipped back against the pillow, damp tendrils of hair sticking to his forehead.
His lips are parted. Brow furrowed. Glasses pushed halfway up his forehead like he forgot they were there.
You can see the muscles in his stomach twitch every time his hand drags up the length of his cock—thick, flushed, glistening with slick—and then back down again. Controlled. Focused. Like he’s thinking about something—someone—very specific.
He lets out a groan. Soft. Broken. And fuck, it’s... almost your name? No. No, it couldn't be. It's not. You're just imagining things. You’re horny and delirious.
And a total perv right now, but you just can’t find the will to move.
You watch as he bites down on his bottom lip, hips lifting from the mattress like he’s chasing something just out of reach.
Without thinking, you slide a hand between your thighs and press two fingers against your clit. The pressure sparks a jolt of pleasure up your spine, forcing you to bite back a whimper.
This is wrong. So wrong. You’ve never even thought about Bob like this, let alone seen him. Well—okay, maybe you’ve almost thought about it once or twice over the years, but you’ve always been able to stop yourself. Because this is Bob. Your best friend. Your sweet, kind, too-good-for-this-world best friend who—
“Sh-Shit—hnng, oh—fuck.”
—who looks so fucking hot right now.
You watch his hand speed up—just a little. Grip tighter now. Surer. He’s close, you can tell. You can see it in the way his thighs start to tense, the way his hips jerk up more urgently into his fist, how his breath starts to catch and stutter like he’s barely holding on.
You press harder against your clit, your wet panties sliding as you move your fingers in slow, torturous circles.
His back arches slightly. His other hand fists in the sheets beside him, the tendons in his arm straining. The room is filled with wet sounds and shaky breathing and the quiet thud of the headboard tapping rhythmically against the wall.
Then his mouth drops open. His brows pull tight.
You draw a shaky breath—almost silent, but not quite. Not that he could hear it over the sound of his own ragged gasps.
A long, wrecked sound slips out of him—deep in his chest, low and guttural. “F-fuck—”
Your fingers stop moving, and you just watch. Captivated. Hungry. Mouth watering at the sight you shouldn’t be seeing.
He strokes himself faster, chasing the edge, working right up to it with almost painful precision. His eyes squeeze shut, a flush rising over his chest, his cheeks, the tips of his ears.
And then he’s coming. Hard. Head thrown back, neck arched, stomach flexing so tight you can see every line of muscle. His whole body locks up—frozen in pleasure—then shudders as thick ropes spill over his knuckles, striping his hand, his abs, the hem of his shirt.
His hips twitch as he rides it out, groaning softly as aftershocks ripple through him. He slows his strokes, pumping himself through every last wave until he’s spent and breathing heavy, chest rising and falling like he’s just run ten miles.
For a moment, he just lies there—limp and boneless. One hand still curled loosely around the base of his cock, the other pressed flat to his chest like he’s grounding himself. Sweat shines on his skin. His curls are damp. His glasses are crooked.
He looks ruined. And completely, stupidly beautiful.
He’s still Bob Floyd—your best friend, housemate, fake husband. But now he’s something else too. Something you can’t unsee, can’t stop wanting. And it’s making your head spin.
You watch his eyes flutter open—and bolt. You slip into your room and ease the door shut, praying he doesn't hear the soft click behind you. Your breathing is ragged, your pulse is pounding, and you’re clenching around nothing.
God. You need something. Now.
You stumble toward the bed, stripping off your pants as you go, and drop onto the edge of the mattress. Then you yank open your nightstand drawer and reach all the way to the back—for the one toy you only use when you're desperate.
Thick silicone. Eight inches. Subtle ridges and a realistically moulded head.
Normally, it feels big in your hands. But after seeing Bob? Not even close. You’d always suspected he was packing—years of damp swim trunks and clingy grey sweatpants made it hard not to—but nothing could’ve prepared you for the reality.
Because he’s big. Cross-your-heart and have-paramedics-on-standby kind of big.
And God, you want it.
With a pitiful whimper, you collapse back onto your pillows, knees falling open. You're breathing hard, eyes squeezed shut, the image of Bob—sweaty, panting, coming hard over his own stomach—burned behind your eyelids.
You drop the toy between your thighs and glide it through your slick. You’ve never been this wet in your life—you’re sure of it. You tease your entrance, chest heaving, every nerve pulled tight—then drag it over your clit—
And moan. Loud. Raw. Desperate.
But you don’t stop. Not even as your face flushes hot with embarrassment. Not when the ache between your hips is too sharp, too deep to ignore.
You push the tip in, slowly at first, and let out a trembling gasp. It’s not him—not even close—but your body doesn’t care. Not when you’re this wet. Not when your head is full of the sound of his voice, his breath, the way he groaned like he was falling apart.
You slide it in deeper. Your hips twitch. Your fingers tremble on the base.
Your mind paints the picture so clearly it might as well be real—Bob above you, thick and flushed, eyes dark behind his glasses. He’d be gentle at first, probably ask if you were sure, if you were okay. You’d tell him to stop being sweet, and then he’d ruin you.
You fuck yourself harder.
The stretch, the angle, the slick slide of it—it’s good. Better than good. But it’s not enough. You want weight. You want heat. You want Bob’s hands on your hips, his mouth at your ear, telling you you’re doing so well.
You twist your wrist and angle the toy up, hitting just the right spot—and stars explode behind your eyes.
“F-fuck—”
Your orgasm hits like a freight train. Sharp and sudden. Your back arches off the bed, toes curling, walls fluttering tight around silicone. Your free hand fists the sheets. Your mouth drops open, and a broken sob of a moan punches out of you as you come.
It rolls through you in waves. Shudders. A full-body collapse.
You lie there for a few minutes—panting, legs still twitching, the toy slipping free as your muscles go limp. Your sheets are damp beneath you. Your chest is slick with sweat. And your brain is buzzing with images of Bob—ones you’ve never even considered until now.
Well, shit. That’s new.
With a heavy breath, you sit upright and grab the sticky toy. Guilt and panic twist in your stomach as you pad toward the ensuite—all the heat of the moment fading fast.
You need a shower—a long one. With scalding hot water. And maybe a lobotomy.
After cleaning yourself up, stripping your bed, and changing into pyjamas—it’s still early, but there’s no way in hell you’re leaving the apartment again—you finally emerge from your room.
Somewhere between washing your hair and scrubbing the shame from your skin, you decided that pretending nothing happened is the best way to go. Because technically, nothing did. You both masturbate. You’re both adults. Sexually active ones. There’s no evidence that says you were or weren’t thinking about each other.
Well—you know Bob wasn’t. He thought he was home alone.
Bob would never do something as perverted as what you just did.
But he doesn’t need to know about it. So if you act normal, then there’s no reason for him to suspect anything. Right?
“Hey,” you call lightly as you step into the kitchen.
Bob glances up from whatever he’s slicing with practiced ease. His cheeks are tinged pink, eyes slightly wide, and there’s the faintest trace of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. But otherwise, he looks… composed. Relaxed.
Well. He would, after a release like that.
“Hey,” he replies, voice even. “Didn’t hear you come home.”
Your cheeks flare with heat, but you wave it off. “Yeah, I ran straight into the shower. Went for a run and got a bit sweaty.”
He raises a brow, clearly amused. You don’t run. And you both know it.
"Right," he mutters, eyes dropping back to the chopping board.
You clear your throat and square your shoulders, determined not to let this be awkward.
“You were home early,” you say, leaning a hip against the kitchen island.
He nods. “Yeah. Maverick let us go early.”
“Oh, that was nice of him.”
Your eyes drift to the ingredients spread across the counter—chicken breasts, halved baby potatoes, fresh rosemary, a bowl of mixed greens. It’s one of his go-to dinners, the kind he could make blindfolded with one hand and still have it taste incredible.
And in the middle of it all, a bottle of wine.
“I was going to offer to cook tonight,” you say, reaching for the bottle. “Did you bring this home?”
He glances up again. “Yeah. Thought you’d like it.”
You run your eyes over the label, nodding. “Looks good. Want some?”
He nods once, without looking up, as you turn to grab two glasses from the cupboard above the bench. Then you uncork the bottle, let it breathe for a moment, and pour two generous glasses—sliding one across to him.
“Thanks,” he says, taking a sip.
The kitchen feels smaller all of a sudden. The usual easy rhythm between you is strained, like you’re both circling something neither of you wants to name.
Quiet tension stretches between you, filled only by the low hum of the fridge and the soft scrape of Bob’s knife. He doesn’t look up again, and you don’t dare look at him for too long. Instead, you swirl your wine and take slow, nervous sips until the alcohol starts to hum in your blood—and you decide to sit down.
“I’m going to put a movie on,” you say suddenly, already turning toward the living room. “Any requests?”
“I don’t mind,” he mutters. “Maybe something with action.” Then he drops his voice, low and half to himself—like he’s talking to the chicken. “And no sex scenes.”
You choke on your wine, nearly tripping over nothing on your way to the lounge.
You don’t respond. You can’t. What are you supposed to say to that?
So you just drop onto the couch, set your glass on the coffee table, and start scrolling through streaming apps—skipping anything with even a hint of romance.
-
You barely speak to Bob for the next twenty-four hours—and you’re pretty sure it’s the longest you’ve ever gone without properly talking to him.
It’s not that you’re avoiding him. Okay, maybe you’re avoiding him a little. But seriously, can you be blamed? You just saw your best friend’s huge dick—in action—and then proceeded to come so fast it was honestly kind of embarrassing. And now every time you blink, there he is again—sweaty, panting, flushed, wrecked. Fucking his own fist with your name almost on his tongue.
Or at least, that’s what you like to imagine he was saying.
But the worst part is the sudden, devastating realisation that Bob is hot. Not just cute. Not just objectively attractive. But actual, soul-shattering, knee-weakening, unfairly hot.
When the hell did that happen?
Maybe you’ve known it all along. Maybe you’ve just been ignoring it. Denying it.
Because you’ve always known he’s good-looking. He’s tall and broad and has that stupidly nice face with kind eyes and a soft mouth he never quite knows what to do with. But you’d written him off early. Filed him under safe. Untouchable. Your best friend. Your fake husband. Too good, too sweet. Not for you.
But now you’ve seen him. And it’s like the filter is gone. Like you’ve stepped on a landmine you didn’t even know existed and now your brain has been blown open by the truth.
Bob Floyd is possibly the hottest man on planet Earth.
He’s hot in a soft, devastating way. Hot in a slow-burn, bedroom-eyes, makes-you-feel-safe-then-fucks-you-stupid kind of way. The kind of hot that sneaks up on you. That lives under your skin. That ruins everything.
And now he’s just... existing. In your shared apartment. Doing normal things. Breathing. And you’re in a constant state of barely holding it together.
God, you’re an idiot. You need to sort yourself out—immediately—before Bob realises what a creep you’re being and everything blows up.
But first… you have to tell your contract manager that you’re married.
You’re awake before Bob’s alarm on Friday morning, but you don’t get out of bed. You just lie there in the quiet, listening to him move around, waiting until you hear the front door close behind him before throwing back the covers. Then you shower, make your bed, do your hair, and change into your clothes for the day.
The smell of fresh coffee hits you the second you open your door. And sure enough, beside the pot—with a little yellow Post-it stuck to it—is your favourite mug, freshly washed. Just like every other morning.
Made extra coffee. There’s banana bread in the fridge. See you tonight, Mrs. Floyd. ♡
Your heart kicks hard and heat swells through your chest. Everything feels different now. Heavier. Like you’ve stepped into some alternate version of your life where every little habit, every small kindness, means more than it used to.
Like you’ve been half-asleep this whole time and only just woken up to the fact that your dorky, sweet, thoughtful fake husband is also... kind of perfect.
And maybe—just maybe—you’re starting to feel different.
Your phone pings, startling you out of your spiralling thoughts. You swallow the lump in your throat and quickly check it—a text from your contract manager asking when you’ll be on base today.
Shit. You probably should have told Bob last night that you’d be visiting base. But instead, you hid in your room pretending to be exhausted because you didn’t trust yourself to sit next to him without doing something weird.
You type out a quick reply to let your manager know you’ll be there around midday. Then you tuck your phone away, peel the little note off your mug, and pour an exceptionally large cup of coffee—because that ought to help your nerves. Right?
After coffee, banana bread, half a movie you barely register, and another coffee, you decide to go for a walk. Because you’re still thinking about Bob, and you still can’t figure out exactly what it is you’re feeling.
You do the same loop you did two days ago—same turns, same streets, same houses—before returning home with zero recollection of it because all you can think about is Bob. He’s everywhere—in your head, under your skin, stuck between your ribs.
You try to distract yourself by cleaning the already spotless apartment, but it’s no use. So by eleven a.m., you grab your wallet and keys and head out the door. Maybe you can go for a walk and get your bearings on base before meeting up with your manager. And maybe you’ll try to ogle a few other military men so you stop thinking about the one who sleeps across the hall from you.
At this point, you’ll try anything.
You go through all the usual checks when you get to base—signing in at the front office, getting your visitor’s pass, a quick vehicle inspection. Then once you’re cleared, someone calls your manager to let them know you’ve arrived, and the clerk hands you a little printed map, pointing out the best place to park for your building.
Jeannie, your contract manager, is glad you’re early—which is good. That means less time alone to spiral.
You find the building easily, and soon enough you’re sitting in a small conference room going over the details of your commencement next week.
“So,” Jeannie says, shuffling her papers into a neat pile, “you mentioned there was something you needed to flag before you start?”
You nod. “Yes—um, sorry if I should’ve mentioned this earlier, but I’m married.”
Her brows lift, as if to say and?
“My husband is an aviator,” you add. “Here. On base.”
“Oh,” she nods. “Right. That’s fine. Ideally, we’d have had it declared earlier, but it’s not a big deal. Since you don’t technically work together, and you're a civilian contractor, there’s no concern about rank. I’ll just get HR to send over the paperwork. You’ll both need to sign, as well as his Commanding Officer. It’d be best to get it squared away before Monday—do you know who his CO is?”
You feel heat crawl up the back of your neck.
“Maverick,” you reply quickly—without thinking. “Oh—sorry, I mean—”
“It’s alright,” Jeannie says, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I know who Maverick is.”
You nod, pressing your lips together while she pulls out her phone and makes the call. As she speaks to whoever’s on the other end, you quickly pull out your own phone and type a text to Bob.
‘Hey, really hoping you see this before I find you. I’m on base. Need you and Maverick to sign something. Please check your phone!’
Now you’ve done it. Not only are you on base without giving Bob a heads-up, but you’re about to have him formally acknowledge your fake marriage. A marriage his squadron doesn’t even know about.
Fuck.
“Perfect,” Jeannie says, setting her phone down. “We’ll have the forms in five. I’ll get you to read them over, then we’ll have someone escort you to Captain Mitchell’s squadron building.”
You give her a tight smile. “Thanks, Jeannie.”
She returns the smile and stands up, gathering her papers. “I’ll be back in a minute. Sit tight.”
You nod, trying not to throw up the banana bread and coffee.
“Oh,” she says, stopping halfway out the door, eyes sparkling. “A naval aviator—well done. Maverick’s squad... they’re kind of legendary.”
You laugh softly, breath catching. “Thanks. He’s—um—he’s the best.”
Then she’s gone. Out into the office, leaving you to sit and stew, staring at your phone, praying Bob texts back before you have to show up at his squadron building and ask him to declare your top-secret fake marriage in front of all his legendary colleagues.
The next fifteen minutes are a blur. An HR rep shows up, talks you through the paperwork, and asks for all the details of your marriage—when, where, how—before a junior officer knocks on the door and announces he’s ready to escort you to the Dagger Squadron’s building.
You grip the papers with shaky hands as you follow the officer through the building and out to a cart waiting by the curb. He doesn’t talk—thank God—just drives carefully across base while you sit beside him, looking like a seasick idiot on dry land.
When the cart rolls to a stop, he glances over at you. “Here we are, ma’am.”
You swallow hard. “Thanks. Do you—uh, do you come in, or...?”
“No, ma’am,” he replies. “Captain Mitchell was radioed about your visit. You’re cleared to go in.”
You nod once, breath coming in unsteady gasps as you force your feet to move. Force yourself out of the cart. Across the concrete. Toward the front entrance.
You steel your nerves and step into the building, immediately hit by the cool blast of air. Bob always whinges about how hot the flight suits get, so it makes sense that they’d keep the buildings icy.
There’s no chatter, no footsteps—just the low hum of ducted aircon and the faint rustle of paper. You follow the hallway toward the only open door in sight and quietly poke your head around the corner.
At the front of the room stands a dark-haired man in a flight suit, flicking through a little notebook. He glances up almost immediately, green eyes pinning you in place.
“Sorry,” you mutter, “I didn’t mean to interrupt—I’m looking for—”
“Floyd,” he says with a grin—a very charming grin. “Or Mrs. Floyd, should I say?”
Oh. This is Maverick.
You step into the room and straighten instinctively. “Yes, sir.”
He chuckles. “Don’t bother with the formalities. I’m Maverick. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
He crosses the room with an outstretched hand, and you shake it with tight smile.
“Your manager called ahead, said you’d be stopping by,” he says, gesturing toward the front row of chairs. “Not sure Bob knows, though. He didn’t mention anything. They’re all at lunch right now, but I could—”
“Actually,” you cut in, settling into the seat beside him, “Bob doesn’t know I’m here. I forgot to tell him I was coming, and I honestly didn’t think I’d be delivering the papers myself.”
Maverick’s brows shoot up. “Oh. So he doesn’t—?”
“Nope.”
“Alright then.” He scrubs a hand along his jaw. “Why don’t we say you’re from HR, updating his records? Think he’ll catch on?”
You nod. “Works for me.”
He grins again, and you hand over the papers, pointing out the sections needing his signature. He doesn't ask questions—just nods and signs, methodical and quiet.
Once you’ve gathered the papers back into order, he leans back in his chair and just looks at you—like you’re easier to read than a children’s book being held wide open.
“So, how’d you and Bob meet?”
“Through work,” you reply, keeping your tone even. “He was first stationed at Lemoore, where I was in systems support. We got along well, and one thing led to another… now we’re here.”
Maverick nods thoughtfully, eyes gleaming. “Been a few years then?”
“Yep.”
“And how long have you been in love?”
Your heart jumps and you glance up, blinking. “Uh… well, since we started dating, I guess.”
You’re pretty sure Bob said that Maverick knew the marriage wasn’t entirely legitimate.
Maverick lifts a brow. “Dating?”
You nod, but it’s not convincing.
He tilts his head. “I didn’t think you two dated. From what I gathered, the marriage is—”
“No way.”
Your stomach drops. Your skin prickles. The hairs on the back of your neck rise.
That voice is familiar. Sickeningly familiar.
“It’s you.”
You turn your head slowly, dread pooling in your gut.
And there he is. The guy from the grocery store—sun-kissed and smug, all lazy confidence in his flight suit as he leans one shoulder against the doorframe. A group of aviators lingers behind him, peering into the room with furrowed brows and curious eyes.
Your stomach lurches.
“I knew it was fate,” he says with a grin.
“What’s fate?” one of the others pipes up.
“Move your ass, Bagman,” a woman’s voice snaps.
Bagman?
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Your face is on fire. You can feel it—hot and prickling, crawling down your neck and up behind your ears. You try to speak, to move—to do anything—but your body has entered fight-or-flight mode and apparently chosen freeze.
Maverick glances between you, brow raised. “You two know each other?”
The guy—Bagman, apparently—just chuckles. “Yeah, we’ve run into each other a few times.”
“Hangman, move,” says a tall, moustached man, shoving his squadmate aside.
Oh no... Hangman?
You know Hangman. Bob’s told you about Hangman.
Cocky Hangman and his reckless flying.
Womaniser Hangman with his endless string of conquests.
Pain-in-the-ass Hangman—who just so happens to be a member of the Dagger Squadron. Bob’s squad.
Holy fuck. How could you have screwed up this badly?
“Hangman?” you echo, your voice cracking.
He nods, green eyes gleaming as he steps aside to let the rest of the squad through.
The moustached man—Rooster, you recognise—frowns at you, curiosity carved into every line of his face. A woman follows close behind, scowling at Hangman—you’re guessing she’s Phoenix. Then two tall men step in, both looking confused, followed by a shorter one bringing up the rear.
And then—
Bob.
He steps through the doorway—
And freezes.
His eyes go wide. His whole body locks up like he’s been hit with a tranquiliser dart. The colour drains from his face so fast it’s a miracle he’s still upright.
The silence is deafening.
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Nothing comes out.
Maverick slowly leans back in his chair. “Well, this just got interesting.”
Hangman clasps his hands behind his back like he’s about to give a formal speech, stepping toward you with an oblivious smirk stretched across his face.
“Phoenix and gentleman,” he starts, “I would like to introduce you all to my future wife.”
Maverick chokes beside you.
“A mere five days ago, I first laid eyes on this stunning woman in the grocery store. There I was, minding my own business, and boom—she appears. Like a hot, pissed-off angel, scowling at me because I interrupted her Pop-Tart selection process. And right then and there, I knew this was the woman of my dreams.”
“You say that about every woman,” Phoenix mutters, rolling her eyes.
Rooster smirks. “He hasn't said it about another woman since Monday, though.”
“Exactly,” Hangman says. “Ask Coyote. This is the one. I felt it in my loins.”
“You’re disgusting,” Phoenix sighs.
The tallest one tilts his head. “Wait, wait, wait. Are we talking about the same woman you said was stalking you?”
“She wasn’t stalking me,” Hangman says quickly. “That was a joke.”
Phoenix scoffs. “It wasn’t funny.”
“Everything I say is funny.”
“No, it’s not.”
“I’m a delight, and I’ll have you know—”
“Hangman,” Coyote cuts in, raising a brow. “Maybe... shut up for once?”
You’re still frozen in your chair, eyes locked on Bob—who hasn’t moved a single muscle since he walked in. You’re pretty sure he hasn’t blinked. You might not have either.
Your cheeks are burning. You can feel them. But Bob—Bob is going scarlet.
It starts in his ears, then spreads rapidly down his neck and across his cheeks. He looks like a man being slow-roasted from the inside out. His fists are clenched at his sides, shoulders stiff beneath his flight suit—and when Hangman shoots you another wink and starts to open his mouth again—you’re genuinely worried he might blow his carotid.
He looks furious. Downright murderous.
At first, you thought it might be at you.
But... his dark blue eyes are locked on Hangman.
“Tell me, sweetheart,” Hangman says, stepping even closer as his eyes drag over you without a hint of shame, “are you free for dinner, or do you prefer a brunch-with-champagne kind of thing? Because I’ll happily rearrange my entire schedule just to watch you eat a strawberry.”
You glance sideways—just in time to catch the tick in Bob’s jaw. His gaze hasn’t moved. His whole face is red now, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast, his hands curled into fists like he’s physically restraining himself.
And something about it—about him—pulls tight in your chest.
Because he looks... wrecked. Quietly, furiously wrecked.
Not embarrassed. Not confused. Not oh-God-my-squad-found-out. But furious. At Hangman. For flirting with you.
Your stomach swoops.
And suddenly, you can’t breathe.
Because Bob Floyd is jealous.
The same Bob who brings you coffee every morning. Who washes your favourite mug. Who brings you roses and wine after work, just because. Who smiled so sweetly the day he suggested this marriage, like it was the easiest thing in the world to do for you. The same Bob who hasn’t blinked since Hangman called you the woman of his dreams.
A small voice whispers in your head—he loves you.
And for a second, you almost believe it.
Your heart thuds loud in your ears. Your mouth goes dry. You want to look away, to break the spell, but you can’t. Not when the truth is burning so bright between you it feels like the rest of the room has fallen away.
He loves you.
“Listen,” you say, voice shaky as you stand up, “Hangman, I—”
“Call me Jake, darlin’,” he cuts in, smooth as ever with that Southern drawl. “I never did get your name, though. Wanna finally tell me what it is?”
There’s a pause—a brief silence. A collective held breath as the room waits for you to respond.
You swallow hard and step forward.
“Floyd,” you say, voice firm. “My name’s Floyd.”
Hangman’s smirk drops. His brows pull tight, confusion flickering behind his green eyes.
There’s a gasp. A chuckle.
“Holy shit,” Phoenix mutters.
But none of it matters.
Because the look on Bob’s face is enough to make your heart stop.
His eyes are wide and locked on you like he misheard—like he can’t quite believe what he heard. His lips part. His shoulders relax. He visibly exhales—only for his breath to catch on the way back in. His gaze darts to Hangman, just briefly, then snaps straight back to you. He closes his mouth, swallows hard, and unclenches his fists.
He looks… nervous. Unsure. Like he wants to be relieved by what you just said, but doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know what happens next.
But you do.
In three quick strides, you’re standing in front of him. You glance up, breath shaky, heart pounding. Your fingers curl into the collar of his flight suit—and you pull him down.
His mouth crashes into yours, hard and hungry, and the world falls out from under you. His hands hover for half a second, like he doesn’t believe this is real—then they grip your hips, hard. Fingers digging in. Burning through the denim.
The kiss isn’t soft. It isn’t sweet. It’s desperate. Messy. All heat and drool and pent-up longing—like months, years, of tension finally snapping loose in a single, earth-shattering moment.
You gasp against him and he groans into your mouth, hands sliding up to your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
Someone whistles. Someone else mutters Jesus Christ. But none of it registers.
You’re already gone.
Lost in the feel of him—his mouth, his hands, the warm solid weight of him pressed tight to yours. Your hands slip into his hair, tugging just enough to drag another sound from his throat. He kisses you harder. Like he’s starving. Like he’s making up for every second he didn’t.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.
Bob’s eyes are dazed. Wide. A little wild.
“Wait,” one of the other men says—the shorter one, “Bob’s married?”
The taller one chuckles. “Bob bagged a baddie.”
“A baddie?” Maverick echoes, voice laced with confusion.
His friend—Coyote—snorts. “That’s not your future wife, man. That’s the mother of Bob’s children in T-minus nine months from tonight.”
Your cheeks burn impossibly hot as you carefully untangle your limbs from Bob’s. He looks absolutely wrecked—but in a good way now. In a way that makes you want to beg Maverick to let him leave early. With you. So you can take him home and wreck him just a little more.
Maverick clears his throat. “Well. Now that that’s all cleared up... Bob, you need to sign some paperwork to formally disclose your relationship.”
Bob gives you a soft, dopey smile before heading over to where Maverick is. The loss of his heat leaves you feeling cold—almost empty—but you don’t have time to dwell on it because the rest of the squad immediately closes in.
“I’m Fanboy,” the shortest one says with a brilliant grin.
You smile and nod, still too dazed to speak.
“Payback,” the taller one says.
Then Phoenix steps forward. “You probably already know who I am.”
You laugh softly, nodding again.
“Coyote,” the guy behind her chimes in.
“She was almost Mrs. Hangman,” Jake mutters, still sulking behind the group. “What could’ve been…”
Coyote elbows him. “She literally never agreed to that.”
“Details,” he sighs wistfully.
Rooster slings an arm over your shoulder, leaning in a little. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll move on tomorrow night.” Then he flashes you a smirk. “I’m Rooster, by the way.”
You blink up at him, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. “These are your callsigns, right?”
Phoenix nods, opening her mouth to reply when—
“Okay, that’s enough,” Bob says, cutting through the group and grabbing your hand. “She has to go now.”
“Aw, no,” Fanboy whines. “I want to get to know Mrs. Floyd.”
“Too bad,” Bob mutters, pulling you toward the door.
You give them all a little smile, waving over your shoulder. “Bye. It was nice to meet you all.”
There’s a chorus of byes and teasing words, but above the noise you hear Phoenix shout, “Thank you for embarrassing Hangman!”
You snort as Bob leads you into the hall, stopping a few feet from the door.
“I can’t be long,” he says, a little breathless. “So we can talk at home—yeah?”
Your stomach twists—half-giddy, half-anxious.
You nod. “Yeah. At home. Get back to work.”
He nods, eyes flicking between yours and your lips. There’s a taut second of silence—nothing but the sound of your shaky, shallow breaths as you stare at each other.
Then—
“Fuck,” he mutters, leaning in and kissing you again.
And God, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this—his mouth on yours. Soft but sure. Sweet but possessive. Like he’s claiming you, gently and completely. It’s nothing like you’ve ever felt before. And you don’t want to feel anyone else’s. You’d happily spend the rest of your life doing nothing but kissing Bob Floyd.
He pulls away too quickly, and you lean after him a little—desperate for more.
He chuckles, soft and low. “I’ll see you at home.”
You swallow and nod. “Okay. See you at home.”
Then he’s gone—and you’re left standing in the corridor of the squadron building, listening to his team tease him while your head spins, your heart hammers, and that ache between your legs pulses with every breath.
-
You don’t remember the walk back to the car. Don’t remember the drive home or climbing the stairs or unlocking the front door. It’s all a blur—just background noise to the steady thrum of want under your skin.
Because now that you’ve had a taste of him—of his mouth, his hands, the sound he made when he kissed you like it hurt—there’s no coming back from it.
You feel wrung out. Strung tight. One spark away from coming undone entirely.
Bob Floyd kissed you like he meant it. Like he needed it. Like he’d been dying to.
And now you can’t stop picturing it—his mouth trailing lower. His hands under your clothes. The way he’d sound when he groans your name against your skin. You wonder what his fingers feel like when he’s not trying to be polite. When he’s not holding back. When he’s desperate.
God, you want him desperate.
You want to see what happens when all that quiet control snaps.
You want him panting and flushed, cursing under his breath as he pushes into you—slow at first, then rough, then reckless. You want to hear him fall apart. You want to make him.
You want to pull his flight suit down and wrap your legs around his waist and feel him groan into your mouth as you whisper filthy things for only him to hear.
You want to know if he’s loud. If he talks. If he begs.
You want to be sore tomorrow.
You want him sweaty and wild and undone.
You want him to love you too. Soft and quiet. In the domestic, steady way he already does.
But first—you want him to ruin you.
Thoroughly. Desperately. Completely.
After pacing the apartment for a good thirty minutes, you start busying yourself by preparing dinner—because it’s the only thing you can think to do. You decide to make spaghetti and meatballs, from scratch. Which means a good few hours of kneading dough, cutting pasta, rolling meatballs—not thinking about anything else—and simmering sauce.
At six p.m., you get a text from Bob letting you know that he’s on his way home—and you panic. You jump in the shower, scrub yourself from head to toe, and change into the laciest pair of panties you own. No bra. Just one of Bob’s old sweatshirts and a pair of loose lounge shorts.
Then you’re back in the kitchen, stirring the sauce, making sure it doesn’t boil, and pouring yourself a nip of whiskey. Or two. For the nerves.
You set the table with matching plates, cloth napkins, two tall candles, and your vase of roses in the centre. The sun spills through the far window, bathing the whole open-plan living area in a warm orange glow, and then—
You hear the lock click. And it feels like a powerline just snapped.
You face the door, standing between the kitchen and the dining area, hands curled at your sides and heart hammering in your chest.
He steps inside—and your breath catches.
He’s so beautiful. And you feel stupid for not noticing it sooner.
Tonight, there are no flowers. No wine. Just Bob—in his flight suit—cheeks pink, eyes dark, something unreadable simmering behind them.
“Hey,” you say, a little unsteady. “Hungry?”
He takes a deep breath, eyes flicking toward the table, then back to you.
“Starving,” he mumbles, dropping his bag to the floor.
You swallow hard. “I know you said we’d talk about today, so I thought I’d set the table and—”
“Talking’ll take too much time,” he says, voice soft, just a little rough. “I think I just better show you.”
Before you can speak—before you can even breathe—he’s moving.
Three long strides. One hand sliding into your hair, the other curling around your waist, and his mouth is on yours.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a claim. Hot and desperate and all teeth and tongue, like he’s been starving for you and finally gave in. You can taste the whiskey you drank earlier on his tongue, and wonder if he does too, the way his mouth groans softly against yours.
He kisses you like a man undone. Not rushed—but hungry. Like he’s trying to get closer than your skin will allow.
Your hands fist in the front of his flight suit, dragging him in until there’s no space left between you. His lips part yours with ease, tongue sliding against yours with a low sound in his throat that sends heat pooling between your legs.
His grip tightens at your waist. You gasp against his mouth and he swallows it, angling your face back, pressing closer—until the edge of the table digs into your hips.
“You taste like whiskey,” he breathes, voice hoarse, lips brushing yours.
You nod faintly. “Took a shot… before.”
He huffs a half-laugh, his nose nudging yours. “Why?”
“Nervous,” you murmur, cheeks burning.
He lets out a broken little groan, then kisses you again, harder this time—deeper. His fingers dig into your waist, anchoring you like he needs the grounding. You gasp into his mouth, gripping the front of his flight suit like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, as he crowds in, the edge of the table biting into your hips.
His breath shudders. His forehead rests against yours for the briefest second before he says, low and wrecked, “I want you in the worst way.”
Your stomach flips violently. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his flight suit, grounding yourself in him—in this.
He kisses you again—slower now, but just as deep. His hands are everywhere, mapping your curves like he’s learning them, like he wants to memorise the exact feel of you under his palms. The tension is humming in the air, sparking down your spine, and when his hands slide beneath the hem of your sweatshirt to knead at the bare skin of your waist, your whole body jolts.
Then his lips trail down—jaw, throat, collarbone—and you whimper, tilting your head to give him more. But he pauses, mouth hovering over your neck, eyes flicking to the table behind you.
“Do you wanna put away anything that’ll break?” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin.
You look at him—his swollen lips, his flushed cheeks, the raw need burning in his eyes—and shake your head.
“No,” you whisper. “I don’t care.”
That’s all he needs.
He crashes into you again, mouth hot and hungry, pushing you back until your hands scramble for balance on the table’s edge. One of the cloth napkins slips to the floor. The candles rattle. The vase of roses wobbles precariously—but neither of you cares.
Because nothing else matters now.
His hands skim down your sides, then grip tight just below your ass. He leans in and kisses your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—lips dragging over skin like he can’t get enough—before he murmurs, rough and breathless, “Up.”
You barely nod before he lifts you, strong arms sliding beneath your thighs to boost you onto the table like you weigh nothing. You scoot back instinctively, the wood cool under your skin, and his hands follow—pressing your knees apart as he steps between them, eyes burning.
“You have no idea, do you?” he says, voice low and awed. “How long I’ve wanted this. How long I’ve wanted you.”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s no time. He’s already kissing you again, deeper this time, messier, until you’re dizzy from it—until a wine glass tips behind you and crashes to the floor.
You flinch. He doesn’t.
“Leave it,” he mutters, lips brushing yours.
Then he drops to his knees.
Your breath catches as his hands glide down your bare legs. He looks up at you like he’s about to pray—and maybe he is. Then one hand trails back up your thigh, slow and reverent, until his fingers hook beneath your panties and shorts and ease them down—so gently it feels like a sin.
“Been thinkin’ about this for years,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Thought about it the second I first saw you.”
His hands urge your legs wider.
And then his mouth is on you.
You gasp, eyes fluttering shut, head tipping back as heat blooms low and fast. He’s slow at first—teasing, licking—then deeper, hungrier. Like he’s starving. Like he’s waited forever for this moment. He moans against you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted—and it sends a jolt straight through your core.
He murmurs sweet, filthy things between licks—how good you taste, how soft you are, how bad he wants you to fall apart just for him. His glasses sit crooked on his nose, fogged at the edges, barely hanging on as he stares up at you with those wide, hungry eyes. His cheeks are slick with your arousal, his mouth wet and shining with it—and God, it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.
“You’re so wet,” he groans, voice muffled and wrecked. “Can’t believe this is mine. You’re mine, aren’t you?”
And something about the way he says it makes your chest ache. It’s not just the heat or the moment—he needs to hear it. Needs to know that you’re his. That you belong to him.
Your fingers sink into his hair, trembling. “Yes.”
“Say it again,” he breathes.
“Yours,” you gasp, legs shaking.
“That’s right,” he says, mouth back on you, tongue pressing firm and flat. “That’s my girl.”
Your back arches. Your fingers tighten in his hair, nails scraping just a little, and he groans—low and wrecked—like he loves it. Like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him alive.
He keeps licking, firm and slow, then fast and relentless. A rhythm just for you. His tongue circles your clit, flicks it, presses flat and purposeful, then sucks softly—just enough to make your hips jerk. Your thighs tremble around his shoulders, your whole body coiling tighter and tighter, every nerve strung like wire.
“Bob—” you gasp, hips tilting forward, chasing more, needing more.
His hands curl under your thighs, anchoring you, holding you open like you’re precious—like he’s worshipping. His mouth never stops. He sucks, licks, flicks, groans, whispers your name like a prayer between filthy praises. And it’s too much. It’s not enough.
The pressure builds like fire in your belly. Your legs start to shake. You feel it spike—sharp and blinding.
You’re right there—right at the edge—and then he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, just hard enough.
White-hot pleasure rips through you. Your body jerks, a strangled cry catching in your throat as you come apart against his mouth—shuddering, gasping, twitching, every muscle tightening then breaking.
And he doesn’t stop.
He licks you through it, slow and steady, his tongue gentle now but insistent, teasing more from you even as your whole body trembles. You’re whimpering, breathless and wrung out, your body slack and oversensitive—but not sated. Not even close.
“Bob,” you whisper, voice ragged. “Baby.”
Your hands reach for him, tugging at the collar of his flight suit, urging him up. He rises slowly, eyes never leaving yours—flushed and panting, his face slick with your arousal. His glasses are fogged and crooked, and you slide them gently from his nose, setting them aside before cupping his flushed cheeks.
He looks wrecked. Worshipful. Dark eyes devouring you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted.
“You still want—” he starts, voice hoarse.
“I need you,” you breathe, cutting him off. “Now.”
That’s all it takes. His hands fly to his zipper, clumsy and urgent as he peels himself out of the flight suit—shoulders, chest, hips—until he’s stepping out of it completely. His undershirt goes next, flung aside without a thought.
You pull your sweatshirt over your head and toss it away. Nothing underneath. Nothing between you.
He stares.
For a moment, he just drinks you in, chest heaving, eyes glazed with disbelief and hunger. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice low and reverent. “You’re so—fuck—”
You don’t give him time to finish. You reach for him, pull him closer. He steps between your thighs, still in his briefs, and his mouth finds your breasts—soft, wet kisses and open-mouthed licks, tongue flicking over one nipple before sucking it into his mouth.
Your head drops back with a soft cry, fingers tangling in his hair again as heat coils sharp and fast inside you. His cock grinds against your soaked core, separated only by thin cotton, and you feel the sheer size of him even through the fabric.
“Fuck,” you gasp. “Take them off.”
But your hands are already moving—slipping between you, tugging at the band of his briefs. You shove them down, and he helps, kicking them away—and then he’s bare, hot, and hard and impossibly thick.
Your breath stutters.
Your fingers wrap around him, shaky and reverent—and you can’t even close them all the way. Your mouth goes dry. Your whole body tightens.
“Oh my god, Bob,” you whisper.
He leans in close, forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged.
“I know,” he murmurs, voice raw and tender. “But you can take it. I know you can. You’re so fucking ready for me, sweetheart.”
And you are—dripping onto the table, slick and aching and pulsing with want. You shift your hips, lining him up, desperate to feel him. Every inch of your body is on fire, begging for the stretch, the pressure, the fullness.
He reaches down, one hand on your thigh, the other guiding himself to your entrance—and his tip just barely nudges against you, slick and hot.
Your breath hitches.
Your eyes meet his—wide, pleading.
“Please,” you whisper. “I need you.”
He groans—deep and guttural—and begins to push in.
You gasp as the tip breaches you—hot and thick and already stretching you more than you thought possible.
“Oh fuck,” you whisper, clinging to his shoulders. “You’re so big—”
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, breath shuddering. “We’ll go slow.”
And he does—inch by agonising inch, letting you adjust. Letting your body yield to him.
Your nails dig into his back as you breathe through it, chest rising and falling with every trembling inhale. The stretch burns, pressure building low and tight, but it’s good. It’s so good. Too good.
He’s panting against your neck, forehead pressed to your skin. “So tight, baby,” he groans. “You feel like fucking heaven.”
He pauses, buried only halfway, chest heaving. You can feel him throbbing inside you, feel every twitch, every inch still waiting to sink deeper.
“Can I keep going?” he asks, voice wrecked.
You nod quickly—too quickly. “Please, Bobby. Need all of you.”
He kisses you—slow and deep—and presses in again.
You moan into his mouth, high and breathless, clenching around him as he sinks deeper, deeper still, the fullness dizzying. Your thighs tremble around his waist. Your whole body shudders.
“Almost there,” he whispers. “Just a little more. You’re taking me so fucking well.”
And finally—finally—his hips press flush to yours.
You both freeze.
The air between you stills, hot and heavy. You can feel your pulse in your throat. Between your legs. Everywhere. He’s completely inside of you—thick and deep and overwhelming—and you’ve never felt so full in your life.
You cling to him, fingers digging into his arms, heart pounding out of control.
And then it hits you.
The feeling. The weight of it. The way your body holds him like it was always meant to. The way your chest aches with something so fierce and raw it knocks the breath from your lungs.
“I love you,” you whisper—it slips out like a secret you’ve kept too long. “Oh my god, I love you.”
He goes still—completely still.
Your chest tightens. For one agonising second, you think maybe you’ve ruined it.
But then—
He looks at you like you’ve just handed him the whole damn world.
“I love you so fucking much,” he breathes.
And then his hips draw back—and snap forward, hard.
You both cry out.
Your head drops back. His name spills from your lips in a broken moan. It’s too much and not enough all at once—him, everywhere, holding you, filling you, claiming you in the deepest, most perfect way.
His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Like he needs to anchor himself inside you. And all you can do is hold on—eyes wide, chest split open, heart bared—because this? This is everything.
He is everything.
Your gasp tears through the air the second he thrusts in again, a raw, desperate sound as your back arches and your nails drag across his shoulders. The stretch is relentless, searing, addictive. You’ve never felt anything like it—so full, so deep, like he’s carved out space inside you and claimed it all for himself.
“Jesus,” he groans, head falling to your shoulder. “You feel—fuck—you feel unreal.”
The table jerks under you as he pulls back, just an inch, then sinks in again. Slow. Measured. But it still punches the breath from your lungs. You can feel every inch of him, every thick pulse of his cock dragging against your walls, and it’s almost too much. Almost.
But you don’t want almost. You want all of him. Ruin and worship. Love and filth.
“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Bob, please—don’t stop.”
His mouth finds your throat, your jaw, your lips—kissing like a man gone feral. Like he needs you to breathe. One hand fists in your hair, the other gripping your thigh, pushing it up, opening you wider. The next thrust is harder. The table rattles. A plate clatters to the floor.
“Gonna break the fucking table,” he mutters into your skin, almost in awe, like he can’t believe this is real. His voice is wrecked—low and ragged—completely undone.
“Let it break,” you choke out. “Just don’t you dare stop.”
He growls—growls—and his pace picks up. The sound of skin on skin is loud, messy, perfect. His pelvis slaps yours, the rhythm brutal and sweet all at once. Your slick coats him, soaking the tops of your thighs, dripping onto the damn table, and still—it’s not enough. You want more. You want everything.
“Touch me,” you beg, voice breaking. “Bob, I—please—”
His hand drops between your bodies instantly, fingers finding your clit like he was born knowing where to touch you. He rubs tight, filthy circles, and your vision whites out. Your head falls back. A loud moan rips from your chest.
“That’s it,” he pants, watching your face like he’s memorising it. “Come on. Let me feel you. Let me have it.”
The table shudders with every thrust. Something else crashes to the floor, but you barely register it over the thunder of your own heartbeat and the filthy, perfect sounds of him fucking you.
His cock drags deep, perfect pressure against every spot inside you. And that heat—God, that unbearable, beautiful heat—builds fast. Sharp and coiled, like lightning in your spine.
“Close,” you gasp. “I’m—I’m so close—”
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, kissing the edge of your mouth, then your cheek, then your temple. “Always got you.”
He’s getting close. You can feel it—his rhythm falters, his breathing shatters. And then his arms wrap tight around you, strong and shaking, and he murmurs into your hair, “Lay back for me, baby—just like that, I’ve got you.”
He eases you down against the table—one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your thigh. The wood is cool against your spine, but his body follows, hot and heavy and trembling as he slides back in, deeper than before. A new angle. A devastating one.
Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as he bottoms out—so deep it feels like he’s pressing inside your stomach. And then you feel it—his hand trailing down to your lower belly, palm flattening gently just above your pelvis.
“Feel that?” he rasps. “That’s me, baby. Right here.”
You nod frantically, eyes glassy. “Bob—fuck—please—don’t stop—”
“I’m not stopping,” he swears, voice low and cracked. “Not until I feel you fall apart around me. Not until I know you’re mine.”
Your body arches, legs trembling, hips chasing his thrusts. His cock hits that spot over and over again, rubbing just right, the pressure building like a storm. His fingers return to your clit—slick and practiced—and that’s all it takes.
The vase topples. Water spills across the table, soaking the cloth, flooding under your shoulders—but you hardly notice. All you can feel is him. All you can hear is your name on his lips, the slap of skin, the scrape of the table legs against the tile.
“Come with me,” he grits, forehead against yours. “Right now. Let go for me—come on—”
The coil inside you snaps. Your second orgasm tears through you like a live wire, white-hot and all-consuming. You cry out—shaking, clenching, blinded by heat. And a heartbeat later, he follows—spilling inside you with a hoarse, broken moan, his hips stuttering, his whole body seizing with it.
The stove beeps. There’s a pop. Then a low whoosh.
Flames flicker—and the smoke alarm blares.
You both freeze—panting, sweating, still locked together—then slowly dissolve into breathless, messy laughter. He doesn’t move. Just leans in, presses a kiss to your damp forehead, and murmurs against your skin, “I love you.” Then another, softer kiss to your lips. “So much.”
He pulls out—slow, careful—and helps you sit up. You glance over at the little fire crackling in the pot on the stove, eyes going wide.
“Shit,” you breathe, still dazed. “We—We should fix that.”
“Yeah,” he sighs, like it physically pains him to let you go. “Yeah, we should.”
Stark naked, skin slick with sweat, and cum still dribbling down your sore thighs, you hurry into the kitchen. Bob is right behind you, sliding his glasses back on as he grabs a dish towel and tosses it in the sink. You try not to stare—try not to drink in the sight of him standing there like some Michelangelo sculpture come to life—but it’s useless. The way the light catches his bare skin, the way his muscles flex as he soaks the towel until it’s nothing but a dripping rag—it’s impossible not to look.
When he turns, cheeks pink, lips glossy, eyes glazed—he smirks. Bob Floyd actually smirks.
“What are you looking at?” he asks, voice rough and teasing.
You bite your lip, drop your gaze, then drag it back up, slow and deliberate. “Just my hot as fuck husband.”
His blush deepens, and it makes you giggle. That man just fucked you so good your knees are shaking, but this—a compliment—makes him blush?
“Watch out,” he murmurs, wringing out the towel.
You step aside as he lifts the pot lid and smothers the flames. Then he checks the oven, flicks off the stove, and turns back to you, smoke alarm still blaring overhead like it’s part of your own personal soundtrack.
“I’m sorry,” you say, even as a grin tugs at your lips. “Want to get takeout?”
He shakes his head. “I think I’d rather have something else.”
Before you can blink—or even breathe—his hands are on you, sliding under your thighs and lifting you effortlessly until you’re perched on the cold kitchen counter. The marble bites into your skin, but you don’t care. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, your slick core pressing to the heat of his stomach. Your bodies flush together, skin igniting where you touch.
You card your fingers through his damp hair, eyes locking on his behind smudged glasses. “I have to tell you something,” you admit, butterflies swirling fiercely in your stomach.
His brows pull together. “What is it?”
You swallow. “I—um, I saw you the other day. When you thought you were home alone... jerking off.”
His frown fades, but his face stays carefully blank—too blank. Not scandalised. Not surprised. Just watching you.
Then he nods. “I thought so.”
You blink. “You’re not creeped out?”
“No,” he says simply, shaking his head.
“Even though I made myself cum after watching you?”
His laugh is soft, low. His breath ghosts across your skin as he ducks his head, hiding his smile in the curve of your shoulder. “I’m not creeped out.”
His lips brush your neck. “There are things I want to tell you too,” he murmurs, then leans back, eyes piercing. “But first…” His hands tighten on your hips. “Let’s see how much love we can make.”
Then he’s on you again—lips, tongue, teeth, hands—everywhere. He kisses like he’s starving, touches like he’s claiming. And though you’re aching to hear what he has to say, to dig into all that’s just erupted between you… right now, none of that matters.
Because Bob Floyd—your best friend, your fake husband, your everything—is about to ruin you all over again.
And you’re going to let him. Happily. Absolutely. Again. And again. And again.
DESCRIPTION: Bob keeps your relationship private, but he doesn't try to hide the dozens of Polaroids of you all over his locker and truck. He has a daily routine of taping his favorite Polaroid of you to his jet's console, but when it goes missing, things get chaotic. Luckily, you're there to make everything better.
WORD COUNT: 2.3k
WARNINGS: Bob gets angry in this one, folks. Cussing. Fighting. Hangman's an asshole- sorry.
MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3
Bob didn’t like talking about his relationship. It’s not that he wasn’t proud of her, or that he felt ashamed. But in fact, the opposite. He’d seen these animals, he’d call co-workers, and how they’d treat girls. Granted, the squadron he was with now wasn’t so bad. Rooster, Hangman, and Fanboy were hard flirts, but they had basic decency. He never felt embarrassed by their behavior when they went out to the bars, and they’d try and pick up a girl. If they were successful, they celebrated. If they weren’t, they’d walk away and move on.
But it was his past experiences with other pilots. Locker room talk always rubbed him the wrong way. He did his best not to judge these guys. He had those thoughts, too, but he had heard too many dehumanizing things said about women he knew and didn’t. So he preferred to keep his gorgeous girlfriend, Y/n, under wraps, even if he did trust his current friends.
They preferred to keep their lives separate anyway. With Bob having his work and friend group, and Y/n having hers. It kept their conversations interesting, as they had their own lives to discuss, not just their shared one.
The Dagger Squad, of course, would try and pry any information out of him. All they knew was that he had a girlfriend. Half the time, they’d forget what her name was because they had never met her, and Bob preferred not to talk about her, for fear they’d ask to see her.
He was surprised they didn’t notice the Polaroids. Taking pictures of his girl was his favorite thing to do besides flying. He wasn’t exactly a photographer. But he made good use out of the instant Polaroid camera she got him for Christmas. It was so much better than taking pictures on his phone because he could hold the memory in his hand. The light and the moment were captured and printed instantly just for him.
They were stuck everywhere. Photos over the years were plastered all over the inside of his locker. In his phone case was a picture of her wearing his glasses. And in the fold-out mirror of his truck was a photo of her taken off guard in the kitchen that she hated, but he loved. The one of her kissing his cheek was usually tucked in the front pocket of his flight suit. They all served as reminders of what he had waiting for him once his shift was over. His best friend and the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his whole life.
His favorite was the photo he taped to his control panel every day. It was a little beat up, naturally, but he made sure to keep that one in the best condition it could be. It was his good luck charm- the first Polaroid he had ever taken of her. It was Christmas morning, and she sat next to the lit tree, in his old Lemoore High School shirt that she had stolen for herself. She hugged the frankly huge teddy bear that he had gotten her. While the lights on the tree sparkled in the photo and cast a golden glow on her smiling face. For some reason, when he had it, the missions went better. The days went by more easily when he got to see his girl’s face after a stressful hiccup in flight.
It had been a long and grueling day flying under the sweltering sun. They had been training for a strike mission, and the dogfighting exercises had left him drenched in sweat, and owing Maverick 200 push-ups. Thanks, Payback, for the BRILLIANT idea. And thanks, Hangman, for doing what he did best- leaving him in the dust and pushing his buttons.
After an almost embarrassing amount of time, he walked back to the locker room with biceps so sore they screamed. He unzipped his flight suit and took his glasses off, using the white shirt underneath to clean the fog and sweat off them. He couldn’t wait to go home and find his girlfriend in her study, working. And he especially couldn’t wait to bug and distract her from all of it.
That’s when the sense of dread hit him, and he realized. He quickly checked all his pockets. Yes, the one of her kissing his cheek was there. But his lucky charm wasn’t in any of the other pockets. He rushed to climb out of his flight suit and scrambled to throw on a random shirt and shorts from his duffel. He couldn’t leave it in the jet. Who knew what maintenance would do if they found it? They’d probably just throw it away.
Throwing on his backpack, he sprinted back down to the hangar. He didn’t even notice the whole squadron standing around talking. He didn’t care. All he wanted was his favorite picture and for this horrible day to be over with.
The sunset shone on his forehead, exacerbating the glistening stress sweat. He quickly climbed the ladder onto the Super Hornet and looked inside the backseat interior. The only place it could be. And when he looked at the spot between the radar and the comms control, he put his face in his hands. It wasn’t there. The memory of the Christmas lights and the bear was missing.
“Fuck.” He said to himself. It was hard to get Bob to curse, but this felt like an appropriate occasion.
Then Hangman’s voice rang out behind him.
“Hey Baby on Board! You sure this isn’t a picture you found on Google?”
Bob’s head whipped back to find Jake Seresin holding the photo. On one hand, he was just grateful that someone had found it. On the other hand, out of all the pilots, he wished so deeply that it wasn’t Hangman.
He quickly climbed down the ladder. “Give me it back, please.” He said exasperated, and walked towards him.
Jake held the photo up so that Bob couldn’t get it. Neither of them was short, but Hangman was just slightly taller.
“I’m not kidding.” He said, trying his best to keep his cool. It took a lot to make Bob angry. He was typically level-headed and able to logically think things through. That’s why he was a WSO Top Gun Graduate, and not necessarily a pilot. But right then, his whole day had been building up inside him, and this was the one thing he didn’t mess around with.
“I just can’t believe that a babe like this is with a guy like you. Really, you should let me call her up.” He said teasingly with a smile. After leaving Bob and Phoenix stranded, AND doing this, Bob was at the end of his rope.
“Hangman, just give him back the photo,” Phoenix voiced with her arms crossed. She and Rooster watched the whole interaction, which just made him feel worse. This was humiliating. It was like they were boys in a school yard- which Bob would say was an apt description of most of the people he had worked with in the past.
He reached up for the photo and finally got a grip on it, but Hangman didn’t let go.
“I just think it’s funny! I wanna look at it. I think there’s more in his locker, too.”
“Just let go, Hangman.” His voice was less whiny and more serious now.
“No!” He grinned.
The two tussled and grabbed at the photo. It felt like a moment that was way too long. Until eventually they each pulled in a different direction, twisting it. It completely bent. Thankfully, it couldn’t rip because of the type of film, but the photo itself was fairly distorted. Bob’s heart beat out of his chest, and it was like his stomach twisted the same way the photo did.
He suddenly let go of the photo and pushed Hangman so hard he stumbled back, surprised. The photo slapped onto the pavement.
“YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE,” Bob said, following after him, ready to beat the shit out of him. Even though at first glance, most people would believe that Hangman would win in a fight between the two. It didn’t quite look it at the moment with the anger in Bob’s eyes and his arms pumped from the earlier push-ups.
Rooster quickly ran over and grabbed his shoulders, pulling him back. “HEY HEY HEY!”
Phoenix ran over and did the opposite, pushing her hand against Hangman’s chest, though he didn’t try to move forward. He knew he was in the wrong here, and it was clear by his guilty expression.
“Bob, man, calm down,” Rooster said. They all looked at him, surprised. Timid, awkward Bob was… kinda scary when he was pissed off. His glasses slightly crooked and red in the face. Maybe it was just strange to see him so out of control.
He slowly pushed Rooster off of him and walked over, grabbing the crumpled photo on the ground. After a failed attempt at straightening it out, he put it in his pocket and walked off, steaming.
That night, when he got home, he slammed the door. He was never the type to do that, but he felt so defeated. His duffel bag dropped to the floor uncaringly.
“Bob? Is that you?” Y/n called out from the study.
He sighed, a little relieved. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me.” He said, his voice almost completely flat. That wasn’t normal. He’d usually meet her in the study, but at the sounds of distress, she quickly came out.
She walked out to find him hanging up his sweatshirt with a depressed look on his face. His usual smile was replaced by a small, tense frown, and his shoulders were high and stiff. Something was very wrong.
“Oh, baby.” She said, walking over, “What’s wrong?” Her voice was so gentle.
He sighed and quickly wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry. I need to shower,” He said, not having gotten the chance to on base. But he still squeezed her, needing the support dearly.
She shook her head against his chest. “What happened?” She knew he was trying to avoid it.
He stepped back and pulled the bent photo out of his pocket. “Hangman happened.”
She gasped at the sight of it in his hand. “Oh no… Is this a man or a dog we’re talking about here?” She asked confused, and that made him laugh a little. He was already so grateful to be home.
“Man. Though he definitely acts like a dog.” He groaned.
She gently took the photo from his hands. “I can try and fix it. Straighten it out. There might be a crease still in it, though.” She tried her best to flatten it out like he did, but to no avail.
He shook his head. “You can try, but I doubt it’ll be okay.”
That answer was so depressing, she looked up and tilted her head. “Hey, we’ll get it back to normal. I’ll look it up. How about you go shower and eat? I made pasta cause I was too lazy to be a real chef tonight.” She tried to lighten the air. “Then you can tell me all about your day.”
He sighed in relief. “You’re too good to me.” He said softly, pulling her in for a much-needed kiss.
And that’s exactly how they ended up sprawled on the couch, each with bowls of penne and vodka sauce. On the coffee table, the photo lay on a piece of wax paper and was buried under some thick fighter jet manuals Bob had.
“It was just like the whole day had been building up in me. Payback’s bet. Hangman leaving me and Phoenix dead in the water. The two hundred push-ups. And the photo going missing in the first place drove me crazy. So when he bent it, I just… exploded a little.” He admitted, almost ashamed to have lost control.
She sighed. “That’s okay. It was natural after all of that.” She reassured gently, reaching for his calf and squeezing it. “This Hangman guy sounds like a real douche.”
“Understatement.” He said, but he was feeling better talking through it all with her. “I just hope that the photo is okay. You know it’s my good luck charm, and if it’s not flat, it won’t stick to my console very well.”
A small smile appeared on her face. “It’s under some of the thickest books I’ve ever seen. If it’s not flattened, then that’s just defying gravity.” She said.
He exhaled again, relaxing, and it was like the tension in him completely dissipated. “You’re right.” He said gently.
“Hey, maybe after today he’ll leave you alone.” She suggested.
He scoffed, “Hangman? I give him less than a week before he starts using you against me.”
She chuckled and set her bowl down so she could lie down against him. “Hmmmm, gotta get you enrolled in anger management classes then.” She teased.
He kissed the top of her head. “You’re funny.” He said sarcastically.
The next morning, he woke up at the crack of dawn per usual. He slowly slipped out of his girlfriend’s grasp, and she whined, half asleep. Their typical routine. He gently leaned down, ran his hand over her hair, and kissed her forehead. “Go back to sleep.” He whispered, and she subconsciously did so.
He got ready in his khaki uniform and walked out to the living room. On the table were the stacks of manuals. He very carefully took them off one by one and set them on the couch to soften the noise. Checking on the Polaroid, he sighed in relief as it was flat again. A small crease was across the middle, but at the very least, it was flat. He turned it around and saw something new. On the plain white back of the photo was a lipstick kiss mark over the folded line. In the tiniest pen was ‘A kiss to make it better’.
And the biggest smile grew on his face. This was better than he could’ve asked for.
Now he didn’t just have a good luck charm, but also a kiss to remember her by.
Summary: You find out Clark is Superman, and he finds out what it feels like to lose you. In more ways than one.
Word count: 4k
Warnings: Angst (but a happy ending!!), injury, canon-typical violence, dual POVs that kinda bop around
a/n: Guys another fandom I know I know 😭 I'm honestly kinda unsure about this but I always feel unsure and silly when I try something new so ignore me <3 but also don't ignore me and please please tell me what you think thank youuuu :)
~~
As wind fluttered past the open window and disrupted the gently parted curtains, Clark Kent felt his world fall apart. An exaggeration to some, maybe, especially considering that he had just saved the world from a 400-foot monster moments before, but you were Clark Kent's world, and you were in his apartment when you shouldn’t be.
Eyes blown wide, bowl clutched to your chest, Clark watched your expression shift from fear, to shock, to complete and utter betrayal. The faint scent of cinnamon wafted from his kitchen, a smell he’d cling to over the next few days—until it faded, much like your presence in his life.
The bowl had begun to hurt your hands, the metal creating indents in your skin as you held it tight to protect you from nothing. There was still so much batter left. Did you set the timer for the batch in the oven?
Clark—Superman—took a step forward. You took a step back. Not on purpose; your body was moving based on feelings, and you were feeling hurt beyond belief. Clark’s face flashed with something raw when you favored the wall at your back over his hands on your body.
“I can explain,” were his first words to you. He held his palms out facing the floor as if trying to tame your rampaging emotions before they were fully felt.
Your throat hurt as you spoke. “I don’t think I need an explanation.”
“You do. Please let me explain. Please, honey.”
Some of the pain in your throat must have moved its attention to your eyes. Your waterline burned as tears built, and it felt silly to cry, but you had asked him about this. You had thought—
“Gosh, don’t cry. C’mere, let me just—”
Hearing your boyfriend’s endearing pleas from such a larger-than-life figure was too much. You shifted the bowl into your arm and held out a finger, silencing him. It would’ve been easier to speak without the knot lodged in your throat.
With a steady inhale and a few more tears building, you shakily said, “You don’t trust me.”
Clark let out a heavy breath that moved his whole body, posture slacking as if it physically hurt to hear you say those words. “What? No, I do. I-I trust you so much. I love you. I wanted to tell you I just—”
“You just didn’t,” you finished for him. “You didn’t. After I asked you, Clark. After—you made me feel crazy, you know that? I thought you were cheating on me and then—”
“I would never be with anyone else.”
“I know that. God, I know that.” You finally abandoned the mixing bowl on the nearest counter, palm pressing to your forehead for some sense of relief. “I asked you if something was going on. Do you remember that?”
The slow tempo of your words made him nervous. Clark flexed his fingers outward, his body urging him to just touch you. “Of course I do. It was two months ago. I missed dinner.”
“Again. You missed dinner again.”
Clark nodded hurriedly, desperate to keep you talking. You tracked the movement and attempted not to feel ridiculous talking about a missed dinner with Superman. You looked towards the counter when his cape billowed from the open window.
“And you told me it was just work. I asked if there was anything, and you said work. You looked at me and you lied, Clark. For probably the hundredth time. We—God, our anniversary is next week. It’s been a year!”
As your voice became louder, more frantic, Clark felt his chest begin to hurt. This wasn’t going well. This was going terribly, like out of his nightmares where he would tell you, and then you would leave him. Only, he hadn’t given you the opportunity to do that. He’d made you find out like it was an accident—like he never meant for you to ever find out.
“I know. I know, and I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Things have just been so tense with this—this side of my life, and it would have been dangerous for you. Lexcorp could have—”
“Don’t,” you interrupted, word thick with tears. “Don’t make this about me, Clark. And don’t talk about things being tense or-or dangerous because I don’t know! You said it yourself—it’s another side of your life. One you decided I shouldn’t be part of. God, do I—do I even know you?”
Clark lost his breath behind panic. He rushed you without meaning to, holding your face in his hands when you hadn’t permitted him. He was losing you; he could feel it, and nothing could be worse than that. You could be mad at him for this, but this could be his last chance to hold you, and his brain recognized that somehow.
“You know me,” Clark pressed, eyes searching yours. “You know me better than anyone. I should have told you. I’ll regret that I didn’t do it sooner—that I didn’t let it come from me—for the rest of my life. But you have to know that it had nothing to do with not trusting you. And I’m still me. Still Clark.”
He could tell you wanted to believe him. You leaned into his touch on instinct, wet eyes staring up at him in such a pretty way, but filled with so much disappointment. Like you wanted this all to be made up. Like he was too good to be true, and you had always figured that.
Your continued silence was too much.
“I love you. So much,” Clark emphasized. His face was drawn in so much panic it made you ache. “I never wanted to hurt you. That’s the last thing I wanted.”
“I know, Clark,” you whispered. The words did not comfort him—not the way you said them with such finality. “I’m not—I’m not mad at you, I don’t think. I know you wouldn’t try to hurt me.”
Clark was so eager to cement that. “I wouldn’t.”
“But I’m still—” you paused, pressing your lips together as Clark’s thumbs brushed against your cheeks over and over. “I think I might need some time to… get my thoughts together.”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” Clark nodded vigorously, brows drawn together in earnest. He pulled back and rubbed his palms down his thighs, and you were reminded again—looking at him fully—that your timid, adoring boyfriend was Superman. “I’ll leave. I can—”
“Clark, this is your apartment. I’ll leave.”
“But you’ll come back, right?”
Your deep breath had fear pulsing through him.
“Right?” he tried again.
“I need time.”
Several emotions splayed across his face. His brows raised and then lowered. His mouth opened as if to argue. He tried to smile to make it all seem okay, because it had to be okay. Clark loved you, more than anything, and he was trying to protect you. He thought he was doing the right thing.
“Okay, yeah. Let me just walk you—”
“Time alone. For a little while.”
And then you told him goodbye and his apartment still smelled like cinnamon, even with you gone.
~~
Clark had tried to reach out on the first day, and then the second, and then the third. You weren’t ignoring him, but every response you sent was dry and devoid of the warmth he loved.
He was going crazy.
Actually, he was exhausted and sad and everyone could tell. And he was going crazy.
His articles weren’t making sense. Perry looked at him exasperatedly as he slapped papers back on his desk for the third time. He was dropping everything he picked up, the coffee stains on the carpet by his desk a testament to his fumbling hands. And he cried at work yesterday—a complete accident when he thought no one was around. He had stayed far past closing, staring blankly at his computer, and it was just one tear, but he was pretty sure the custodian saw him. The older man shot him worried looks as he ambled out of the elevator this morning.
Jimmy had tried to cheer him up, and Lois had used her stern tone to pull him from his slump, but none of it worked. He screwed up. And what did “some time” even mean? Did that mean forever? Clark had had girlfriends in the past, but the breakups didn’t feel like this. Were you breaking up with him?
Clark felt his stomach turn as he leaned back at his desk.
He wanted to marry you. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with you. There was no other future for him, and he might’ve caused that future to blow up.
“Hey,” Lois called from across the bullpen. “You gonna be okay? Seriously, Clark, you look like you’re about to throw up.”
Clark’s brows jumped in recognition. He lifted his glasses to wipe his hand down his face and let out a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
Jimmy snorted, tearing his eyes from his screen. “Sure about that, buddy?”
“Honestly?” Clark posed, because why not? It wasn’t as if things could get any worse.
“‘S why we’re asking,” Lois chimed in, resting her hip against her desk. “Is it about y/n? I haven’t wanted to bring it up, but—”
“But it totally is, isn’t it?” Jimmy asked.
Clark stared at his dull, lifeless phone. “Yeah. Pretty sure it’s over.”
“Yeah, no offense, Clark. But the two of you are kind of gross. Like all the time. There’s no way it’s over so easily. Relationships like yours don’t work like that.”
Clark knocked his head to the side as Jimmy spoke, a spark of hope igniting. He didn’t let it flourish, however. They didn’t know what he’d done. They couldn’t.
Clark shook his head slightly, crossing his arms over his chest. “I screwed up. Badly. I don’t—I don’t really know where to go from here.”
This conversation was not appropriate for the workplace. Employees of the Daily Planet walked past none the wiser, and the usual commotion persisted, but he still shouldn’t be talking about this. Talking about you. He didn’t even want to share in the first place, afraid speaking would make his memory of you less vivid somehow, but they kept asking, and, to be honest, he needed advice.
“Well, what’d you do?” Lois asked
“I—Well, I kept something from her.”
“Something big?” Jimmy asked, brow arched.
“Obviously something big,” Lois rolled her eyes, softening as she turned back to Clark. “But it couldn’t be that bad. Nothing a bit of groveling couldn’t fix. What’ve you done so far?”
“Uh, texted her?”
Jimmy let out a low whistle. “Wow, dude.”
“What?” Clark panicked, sitting up straighter. “What should I have done?”
“Flowers, at the least. A handwritten letter to be cheesy. Maybe stand outside of her apartment with a boombox over your head to show off your big, strong arms.”
Lois smacked Jimmy’s arm. “Stop being an ass. But he’s right. Partially. You have to show her you’re sorry.”
“But she said she needed time alone.”
“She can still be alone with you trying. Let her reject you. Let her be angry and show her you aren’t going anywhere.”
The spark of hope from earlier returned. Clark considered his friend’s words for a beat, and then he kicked up from his chair with a renewed energy buzzing under his skin. He was going to go to that floral shop you always stared at longingly and then—
Far off screams stopped him in his tracks. They were distant, probably a few miles from him, but they were clear. The telltale sounds of crashing buildings came next, and Clark knew that his efforts to win you back would have to wait. Disappointment tinged his resolve; he’d been looking forward to catching a glimpse of you.
“Getting right to it?” Jimmy called as Clark continued his path out of the Daily Planet. “I’ll cover for you!”
“Thanks!” Clark called over his shoulder. He wasn’t really lying. He was going to continue his plan right after he took care of whatever was ravaging Metropolis.
Something immediately felt… off about the air. He was flying fine, felt fully in control of his powers, but something wasn’t right. Clark spotted the scaled beast ducking between skyscrapers in the distance and knew it wouldn’t be too hard to take it down, especially with help from the Justice Gang currently slowing it down.
But still, he couldn’t shake this feeling.
Clark joined the efforts and fought as he always did, taking even more care to save the city’s infrastructure than was typical. This was your neighborhood, and you would probably be even more mad at him if your favorite coffee shop was turned to rubble. Luckily, Clark had maneuvered the alien off the path towards your apartment.
Unluckily, you had decided to take a walk across town, trying to clear your head after shutting yourself in your apartment for the past few days. According to several of your worried friends, the fresh air was supposed to be good for you, but you were sure they hadn’t accounted for the massive extraterrestrial clobbering through the streets. Or the falling debris.
You were only a couple of blocks into the walk when the fight began.
As if on instinct, you had looked for Clark.
You always looked for Clark when you were scared. And anxious. And sad and happy and everything in between.
In all honesty, you knew being upset at Clark wouldn’t last long. You wanted to stop as soon as you’d started, but the sense of betrayal and mistrust was still raw, and it overpowered the feeling of missing him. At least, it had for the first couple of days. This morning, you had rolled over in bed and reached for him, and you realized that missing him was rising above the hurt.
But he should have told you. He shouldn’t have lied. You knew his explanation was probably air-tight with his stupid Clark logic, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. You could have been there for him—that was the point of relationships, and he hadn’t let you in.
As you stared up at the sky and searched for him now, you considered that maybe this was part of his reasoning. You were worried for your safety, yes, but the thought of him going after that monster made you antsy. Nervous. So much so that you didn’t move. You didn’t run like the others on the street. You simply stood on the sidewalk, shoulders crashing into you, and stared up at the sky.
Looking for him.
You decided staying home would have been better for your mental health when the pain in your leg shot you out of your stupor. The billboard wasn’t a massive one. It was a rinky thing, haphazardly thrown on the window of a building and probably only cost about $200 to advertise, but it still pressed you against the concrete as if it had a spot in Times Square.
In your shock, you grabbed for it and attempted to shove it off, but it was too heavy. Your leg was throbbing where it was pinned, but you were sure the adrenaline was masking much of that pain. Fear was prevalent and available, though. You felt it stronger than anything else as the ground shook under the monster’s steps.
You screamed for the only thing that made sense.
Over and over.
When Clark heard the shout of his name, the world seemed to pause. It wasn’t a cry for Superman. It wasn’t a cry for help. It was you—fear scratching each letter of his name.
Clark abandoned his efforts with the Justice Gang, no longer caring for buildings and subway lines as his name ricocheted through the weight on his shoulders. He flew faster than he ever had, and you still felt too far. When he had hoped to hear your voice again, the reality of a moment like this had never even entered his mind.
He found you on an otherwise empty street, narrowing his shoulders as he plummeted to the earth. The creature was still roaring in the distance, the sound of attacks following each screech, but that barely registered to him. The ground shook as he landed and had little time to recover as he threw the metal from your body, the material crashing harshly through a window in the distance.
His mind was in overdrive. Find the threat—neutralize it.
Clark looked over his shoulder and then spun when rubble crashed a block away. He felt his eyes begin to heat on instinct, needing to protect you even though you were mad at him and hadn’t spoken to him in days. Even if you hated him and wanted him to leave. The cry of his name was on repeat in his mind, and he knew it would live there for years. What was the point of keeping this secret from you when you had to scream like that? How could he—
“Clark?” your breathy voice called, still so unsure and scared.
Clark’s defense began to shatter, the armor of Superman cracking as he turned towards your voice and saw you on the ground. Dust coated your face and layered through your hair. Small cuts dotted your skin. Your hand was placed precariously on your leg, and the sight of that alone made Clark drop to his knees.
His eyes raced over every inch of your body, searching for anything internal and finding a broken leg. He raised his hand to do something and came up blank, leaving it hovering by the apple of your cheek. You stared back at him, brows furrowed, jaw quivering from the anxiety and adrenaline.
Clark broke a little more because he wasn’t sure what to do—he knew what Superman would do, but he wasn’t just Superman. Not with you.
“Clark,” you said again, whispering it into the settling dust.
He gave in. Clark placed his shaking hand on your shoulder and poured as much reassurance as he could into a small smile.
“We’re going to get you help, okay?” he promised. “To a hospital. You’re going to be okay.”
Superman—he still sounded like Superman.
You blinked, and your chest shuddered. “I’m sorry,” you cried, halting Clark’s motion to pick you up. “I’m sorry for being so upset—for not talking to you. I-I was just scared and sad and I thought you weren’t fully in. I thought you didn’t want me to know everything because you weren’t serious about us.”
Clark shook his head as you spoke, feeling more of Superman chip away as tears fell from your eyes. He softened and found himself somewhere in the middle, still in hyperdrive to protect you, but falling into the need to comfort you.
“Don’t apologize,” he softly called into the short space between you. “Let me take you to the hospital and we can talk—”
“I didn’t know if I’d get the chance to tell you. You—you do these dangerous things every day and I didn’t know. I didn’t know that you could die, Clark. I ignored you for days and you could’ve—”
“Hey, hey—look at me, yeah? Deep breaths, honey.” Superman was gone, his suit the only remnants of the persona. “Nobody’s dying. I’m not going anywhere unless you send me away.”
Blasts could be heard in the distance, a final, roaring cry spelling the end of the alien. Clark felt the vibration of it crashing to the earth under his knee, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was you and the softness of your skin as he rubbed the dust from your cheek.
“You hear me?” Clark asked, searching each corner of your face, tracking each tear as it trailed down.
You nodded, and he rubbed both palms along your temples to push your hair back, the motion just a touch uncoordinated and reminding you so much of your Clark. It was a stark contrast to the last time you saw him like this—when he was pristine, blowing in the wind.
This was still Clark. And he kept glancing down at your leg like it was going to fall off your body.
“It doesn’t hurt that much,” you mumbled, causing Clark to flick his gaze back to your eyes.
“It’s broken, sweetheart. I can see it clear as day.”
“Oh, right. You can do that.”
“Will you be okay if I pick you up?”
“Think so,” you sniffed. You looped your arm over his shoulders and shoved your face into his neck immediately, feeling the tinge of pain blossom in your leg as he rose.
“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he rambled, trying to be gentle and struggling over the debris on the street. “I’m going to go up now, okay?”
“Up?”
“Flying.”
“Right. You do that, too.”
You gripped him tighter when the pressure of gravity began to feel different, face still glued to his neck. Air flowed along your skin as he went, his hands steady under your body. It felt familiar. This felt like Clark, too.
The brush of wind was the only sound between you.
“I thought I lost you. Twice.”
You pulled your head up to find Clark’s voice, the shakiness clear even beneath the wind. His eyes were glossed over as he looked down at you.
“The second time, when I heard you scream, I thought that none of this even mattered. Superman, my duty—none of it. If you were gone, I don’t—”
“Clark…” you began.
Clark shook his head, face shining with tears, even with the small smile that met his sad features. “I should’ve told you sooner. I thought I was protecting you. I couldn’t even do that.”
“That’s not true. You were protecting me. You always do.”
“I thought you were gone.” Your chest split open at the crack in his voice.
Still in the air, still being held by Superman, you reached up and held your Clark’s face in your hands. “If you don’t get to go anywhere, then I don’t get to either, got that? No dying for either of us.”
The bittersweet smile was still plastered on his face as he nodded and furrowed his brows. He was hovering now, stagnant above the clouds as if that would keep you safer. Clark brought his forehead to meet yours and scrunched his eyes shut.
“I love you,” he said, like a fact. He nodded against you slightly as if to confirm it.
“I love you, Clark.”
Clark let out a breath and found you again, dimple peeking out as he kissed your temple and began the descent back down.
“I have a lot of making up to do.”
You clutched his neck tighter, the force of the flight igniting fear back into your chest. “What does that mean?” you called, the Metropolis General Hospital finally coming into view. Crowds had stopped on the street to watch Superman save a damsel in distress, completely unaware that he had tears still drying on his face.
a/n: okayyy yes i have a breeding kink. whatever. complain about it
cw: breeding, mentions of future pregnancy, slight cnc? maybe? if you squint, slight daddy kink, slight mommy kink
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
There's a new boutique in town. Nondescript, cute, with a quaint little sign.
Walking in has you sighing in relief as the air conditioning hits your face. Wabash summers are no joke, after all, the air outside sticky and suffocating. You hair is stuck, matted, to your forehead with sweat as you step inside.
Only once inside do you realize what kind of boutique it is exactly. A slow heat creeps up your face, having nothing to do with the sun blazing outside those doors. You avoid eye contact with the lingerie clad half-mannequins.
"Ma'am?" One of the store clerks greets you eagerly. "Lookin' for somethin' new?"
You almost turn tail. You almost say no, and walk right back out those doors. But, the thought, the mere idea, of the look on Rhett's face if he saw you in one of these lacy, silky things has you pausing. Humming in interest.
"Actually," You grin. "Maybe you can help me."
Rhett never comes home quietly. Sometimes he tries, oh, dear, does he try. He'll think he's slick, quiet as a mouse, trampling in like one of those rodeo bulls he mounts in his heavy boots and clacking spurs. He'll set down his keys in the little dish on the counter by the door, right on top of yours, and take his hat off, throwing it on the table as he shakes his sweaty hair out.
He's not quiet today, trampling in, screen door slamming. "Darlin'? 'M home."
It's hard not to be nervous. It's even harder not to be excited. Things like this don't come easy, and they don't come cheap. Silk stretches across your chest, drapes down over your stomach and just barely hits the top of your thighs. Lace adorns the edges, soft as anything.
"In here!"
"Where's my pretty thing?" Comes Rhett's rumbling voice, low and tired, as he makes his way to your bedroom. "Darling?"
"Hey," You breathe as he appears in your doorway. You lean back on your hands from where you're sitting, perched, on the edge of the bed. Your hands smooth over the sheets.
Rhett stops. Stares at you, eyes darkening. His throat, that damned Adam's apple that's gonna get you in trouble one day, bobs in a damn near thirsty swallow.
He melts against the doorway, groaning appreciatively.
"Oh, God," Rhett rumbles, quickly making his way across the room. You giggle as his hands scramble at his belt, huge hands working the buckle and practically throwing the damn thing across the room. It skids on the floor with a noise neither of you care to listen to. "God, Mama, ain't you a sight."
"Y'like it?" You ask shyly as he finally gets his hands on you, placing your own hands on his firm chest (and God, the hard muscle there has saliva pooling in your mouth). Rhett's palms slide up your waist, fisting silk between his fingers like he's just barely got a reign on himself. He takes a few deep breaths in through his nose and out his mouth, warm breath fanning across the skin of your neck as he nudges his nose there.
Rhett just... hovers over you for a second, breathing in your scent with his eyes closed.
"Baby, I don't even know what to do wi' myself right now," He admits quietly, voice thick. "You- When'd you- Where'd you-?"
"There's this new little place in town, y'know, in historic downtown-?" You try and tell him but you're thoroughly distracted by his roaming hands, grabbing at your thighs and hovering over your chest like he wants to grab so, so badly. Your voice comes out breathy, "Yeah, well, anyway... they're sellin' stuff like this."
"This- you get-" Rhett clenches the meat of your thigh in his hand, just on the side of painful. Like he can't help it. "-More?"
"This ain't the only one, if'n that's what you're askin'." You breathe out. A groan tears itself from Rhett's chest, deep in his throat as he tips you backwards onto the bed. You go eagerly, happy to be splayed out under your cowboy as he climbs on top of you, boots and jeans and all. "Got a couple more. Y'really like it?"
Rhett's eyes are suspiciously wet when he lifts his head from your neck, mouth dropped open just barely.
"Hell," He rasps. "How'd I become the luckiest man alive? Huh?"
"Well, I don't know about all'a that, now..." You huff, secretly pleased. "I'm glad you like it, 'cause it came out your bank account."
"Good," The cowboy replies immediately. "You use every last drop that's in that account, honey, and I'd die a happy man."
You slowly, carefully, trail your fingers down his chest as your thigh lifts to meet in-between his, nudging the bulge straining the fabric of his jeans. He's hot and heavy against your thigh. "You sayin' you wouldn't die a happy man right now, cowboy?"
Rhett huffs under his breath, letting his chin thunk down on top of your head as he grabs at you, steadying himself. "I'm not all certain I ain't dead right now, I'll be honest wi' you, babydoll."
"Well, I'm glad you're not," You huff a laugh as you tangle your hand in his shirt. "'Cause I'm hoping you're 'bout to get this thing off me, instead."
"Oh, darlin', I'm not sure you could stop me from gettin' this off'a you," Rhett admits quietly, leaning back to just... stare at you. He drags his gaze over your form like a weapon, heavy and armed.
"Cowboy, you'd be lucky to pry me off you," You laugh, tugging gently at the curls at the base of his neck. He grins like the Devil at that, leaning into you're touch like he just can't help it.
"Ohh, I'm real sure," Rhett agrees eagerly. "How 'bout you help me get this bullshit off first?"
Immediately, you're helping him tug his shirt off over his head (helping is a loose term, more like running your hands up his now revealed stomach and pecs, smoothing your palms over his warm skin). He shakes his hair out once the shirt is off, throwing it somewhere across the room to join his belt.
Rhett's dark eyes meet your heated gaze.
"Quit lookin' at me like that 'fore I do somethin' real stupid," He says quietly. You grin up at him.
"I want you to do something stupid," Leaning back on your hands again, palms smoothing over the sheets as you bare your chest to him. His eyes lock on your chest, where silk is stretched over your soft skin. Something hungry erupts in his eyes and you swear you see drool pooling at the corner of his mouth. "Jeans?"
He hastily kicks off his dirty boots, the wood and leather of them hitting the floor loudly as he scrambles at his fly, getting off of you just briefly to shove his jeans off, past his thighs and pooling on the floor.
Rhett's on you in between one second and the next, sliding his hand across your jaw and the other into your hair, slamming your lips together in a heated mash of tongue and eagerness.
You moan into his mouth, his tongue already lapping at yours, and receive a happy groan in return. Rhett's grabbing at you, holding your head in place as he tries his darndest to get close, to get deeper inside your mouth, as far as you'll let him reach. You grip his shoulders in your hands, nails digging crescent moons into his tanned and sweaty skin. He likes that, too, and makes his appreciation known by nudging his hips into the crux of your thigh, cock sitting hot and heavy in his dark boxer briefs.
"Tell me you wan' it, baby," He mumbles into your mouth. "Tell me you need this as badly as I do, cause-"
"I need it, please," You try not to whine, you really do, but you're already getting moist between your thighs, pulse thudding. "Please?"
"Been thinkin' about you all damned day," Rhett rumbles, eyebrows furrowed as he breaks the kiss and reconnects your lips rapidly, once, twice, slick lips sliding against your jaw and over your mouth in his haste. "Out in that heat, God, you're all I can think about. Your pretty little mouth, those fuckin' red lips, and- Good God, your pretty little fuckin' pussy, baby-"
"The Devil talks outta your mouth, Rhett!" You laugh as he travels down your neck, biting at you like some sort of rabid dog. "That mouth of yours is gonna get you in some real trouble one day, cowboy."
"Well," He huffs against your skin. "I'm hoping it gets me into some real trouble with you right now, Mama."
Instead of dignifying that with a response, you just huff another laugh at bite at his jaw, face already sore from where he's dragged his stubble at against your skin. You shriek a laugh as he hauls you up the bed, fingers digging bruises into your waist as he settles over you.
"Now, as pretty as you look, baby," Rhett starts, staring at your chest mournfully. "I'm thinkin' it's time you get this off."
His fingers slide under the strap of your lingerie, snapping it back against your skin. You stare up at him, eyes dark and mouth open just slightly to breathe.
"Whatever you say," You breathe eagerly, already nodding your head. Rhett slides his hands up under the silk, palms smoothing over the heated skin of your stomach and up to cup your chest. He holds you reverently, like something precious. Like something he don't wanna break. "C'mon, Daddy, get this shit off me."
Rhett rumbles through an incredulous laugh before he's peeling you out of the silky, lacy thing, same way y'all went about getting his shirt off, like he's eager to see it go. And maybe he is- as pretty as it is, you're real sure he likes the sight of your bare chest a whole lot better.
"You're so pretty, baby," He murmurs as he settles your lingerie to the side (keeping it for later? You laugh internally). Rhett's gaze falls to your chest and then lower, where you're bare. "You weren't wearing anythin' beneath that? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."
"Don't pretend you don't like it that way," You retort, sliding your hands up his thighs, feeling the hair there brush against your palms. You hitch your leg up, just barely, and give him a real show. His eyes tighten, and so do the hands now on your hips.
Rhett takes a deep breath, hands flexing against your skin.
"I- I can't keep holdin' back like this much longer, darlin'," He admits, accent thicker and voice just slightly deeper.
"I want you inside, Daddy," You murmur, trailing your hands up his stomach. He shivers. "Please?"
"You damned tease," The cowboy breathes, head hung low. "You were sent by the Devil."
"Yeah, well, the Devil says go 'head and hurry up," You tell him, tapping at his chest. Your hand finds his and you lead him down, slower, nudging his fingers at your wetness. "Can you feel how wet I am for you? How bad I want it?"
The boxers are off in less than three seconds, flat, and he's forcing his fingers inside of you before you can get more than a glimpse at his hard, aching cock, on the wrong side of an angry purple and bobbing in the air like an eager dog. You whimper happily as he works you open, not really doing anything more than feeling your wetness, before you're empty again.
"I can't really wait much longer, darlin'," Rhett confesses, sweat dripping down his nose and blotting into the sheets. "You think you can take it?"
He nudges the tip of his cock against your opening, just resting there. His fingers are wrapped so tight under the head it looks painful.
"I can take it," You soothe, running your hand down his arm. God, his arms. "You're gonna make me take it, right, cowboy?"
"Yeah," He breathes, head nodding just barely. "Yeah. I'll make it fit, honey."
And he does. God, does he. It's not enough prep, not nearly enough for his stupidly big cock that gives him more of an ego every day that passes by, but he forces it in nonetheless. Inch by inch, he breaches your walls, carving a way for himself inside of you, stinging just enough to be painful.
It's good. It's so fucking good.
"Rhett, Rhett," You mewl, clawing at his arms. He shushes you like a wild animal, little soothing "sh, sh, sh" noises as he goes deeper and deeper. You gulp down air like your life depends on it. Rhett holds your thighs open, settled between them like he belongs there, thumb soothing over your heated skin.
"Takin' it so good, baby," He praises, petting down your hair. You breathe into the skin of his chest. "Like you were fuckin' made for me."
He's so snug against your cervix that you feel like maybe he was the one made for you. A perfect fit, his hips flush with yours. It's a feeling you'll never quite get over.
"Move," You croak. "Please. Please, Rhett?"
"Ain't no reason to beg, baby," Rhett grunts as he slides out of you, just to the tip, before slamming in again. His hips stutter into a steady pace, tip dragging over your walls on each tug out. "Fuck. Fuck! Baby, darlin'-"
You mewl. High, embarrassing, but it only eggs Rhett on, his hips slamming into yours even harder. Huge hands scramble at your hips, tugging you down to meet his thrusts (not that it's needed- you're rolling your hips back in time with him, goading him on).
"You gon' let me cum inside, baby?" He questions, pitched and breathy. "You gon' let me in? Huh?"
"Still not on birth control- oh, my God!" You break out into a cry of pleasure as he slams on that spot inside of you.
"I don't give a fuck," He snarls, low in his throat. "If you cared, you wouldn't've let me in bare. You wan' it, don't you, baby? You want me to put a baby in your little tummy? Plant my fucking seed there, get you all knocked up like a good little Mommy?"
"Oh, my fucking God," You whimpers, eyes screwed shut. You don't know how he does it, how he gets heat to race through your veins, how he gets you to draw so close so fast, heat pooling into your abdomen and threatening to spill out. "Oh, God, oh, God,"
"Yeah, baby, you like that?" Rhett murmurs. "You like my cock in your little pussy? You like me fuckin' you raw?"
"Uh-huh," You nod pathetically, the wind knocked out of you with each rock of his hips into yours. "Fuck, please, please-"
"Good girl, good fucking girl," Rhett rumbles in your ear. His hips stutter. "You gonna take it, baby? Fuck, I'm so close, where- where you want it, baby, you gotta tell me- fuck, you gotta let me pull out-"
Hell to the fucking no. You roll your hips up into his, locking your legs around his hips as he fucks into you deeper. He's panting into your shoulder, now, lips sliding down until they can find your chest, biting and sucking at the skin there. Your fingers slide into his hair without thinking, holding him there as he suckles at you.
"Inside, honey," You murmur. "Inside, inside, please, cum inside me-"
Rhett doesn't respond, just groans into your skin as his hips stutter noticeably. He holds you down so hard you have no chance of escape, that is if you even wanted to. The way you pulse around him certainly gives you away.
"I'm gonna come," You rasp desperately, clutching at his shoulder. The headboard slams loudly against the wall, over and over, the entire bed shaking with your combined efforts.
"C'mon, baby, give it to me, come on Daddy's cock, babydoll," Rhett whines, scrambling at your waist. "I ain't gon' last much longer neither, honey, c'mon-"
"Fuck!" You weep as he drags over that spot again, then again, slowing his hips to a grind as you draw closer. The heat pooling in your abdomen explodes, stars lighting up behind your eyes as Rhett shoves his hand between the two of you, thumbing over where you're joined. "Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck-"
"That's it, baby, give it to me," Rhett murmurs, eyes lidded. His pupils are completely blown, those baby blues nothing but a faint, thin ring. He holds your hips flush to him as he comes with you twitching and pulsing around him, pumping you full of his cum. Heat spreads hot through you, the head of his cock pressed direct to your open, spongey cervix. "Atta girl, that's my good girl, God, baby..."
"Daddy," You whine. His cock twitches in you, just enough to feel it. "Fuck, wait, you came inside..."
"My momma's gon' be so pissed," Rhett breathes out heavily. You giggle, and that sets him off, too, the cowboy laughing on top of you. "Okay, wait, jus' hold on..."
He slowly slips his softening cock from your aching hole, the lack of prep catching up to you. There's one moment of quiet before his cum starts dripping out of you, sliding down your skin.
Without a word, Rhett swallows as he gathers it back onto his fingers and shoves it back inside your hole. Your hips twitch.
He doesn't meet your content, languid gaze as he sighs, petting over your thigh with his opposite hand.
"There's- pills now," Rhett struggles to say, practically biting it through his lips. "For this sorta thing."
"Naw," You say. His dark gaze meets yours. You cover his hand with yours, silently shaking your head. "No."
"Yeah?" He whispers, like he can't quite believe it. His eyes brighten as he fully registers what you're saying. "Yeah?"
You bite your lip between your teeth, nodding. A disbelieving smile breaks out across Rhett's pretty face.
"Yeah, Rhett," You tell him sweetly as he whoops, laughing loudly as he gathers you up in his arms. You laugh back.
"Oh, baby," He swears. "Oh, darlin'. Just you wait. You're not leaving this bed for the next week, hell, this next month, not if I can help it."
"Oh, cowboy," You smile back. "I'm counting on it."
ROBERT “BOB” REYNOLDS x F!READER: Four times Bob let’s his true feelings for you go unaddressed, and the one time he doesn’t [3.3k].
» CONTENT WARNINGS: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, non-sexual intimacy/nudity, bob’s sadness and self-deprecating thoughts.
» NOTES: didn’t feel like my usual formatting today, it’s actually so much work?? why do i do this to myself? 😭 anyway, whatever lol. i was actually gonna take a break from writing (again, i know, i’m sorry) but i somehow managed to bang this out today at work so here you go, my first ever bob fic 🫶🏻 happy wednesday!
« truth be told »
The first time he touches you, he does it almost without hesitation.
Normally, Bob makes a point to keep a respectable distance. He doesn’t touch anyone or anything without the most careful of considerations first—even though he wants it, craves it.
But when you’re this close, when you’re leaning into him instead of away, when you’re looking at him like he’s just Bob and not the same guy who almost let the Void inside him swallow New York whole, his hands can’t help but ache for you.
He’s restless with it, his palms itching as though something was missing. He wants to know what your skin would feel like under his fingertips, whether your eyelashes would flutter under his touch, and if you’d sigh just the way he would whenever he imagined closing the distance between you.
So before he knows it, Bob’s already reaching for you.
His heart leaps to his throat the moment he makes contact, turning his hand over, using the blade of his finger to brush away the crumbs at the corner of your mouth.
You look up from your plate, the box of pastries you’d bought for the entire team as an early afternoon pick-me-up still laying open on the table, your eyes widening a fraction when they meet his.
“You’ve got a little bit of…” he trails off, not really caring or even knowing what it is. Bob’s never had much of a sweet tooth, but right now, you smell like almonds and raspberry jam and a touch of something that’s uniquely you… and he suddenly wants nothing more than to taste.
“Oh,” is all you say, staying still as he lets his hand linger instead, his knuckles brushing along the curve of your jaw. You smile, your eyes softening, and for a fraction of a second Bob swears you lean into his touch. “Thanks, Bob.”
He nods, not trusting his own voice or the temptation of your name on his lips, before very reluctantly breaking the connection. His fingers are already twitching with the need to touch you again by the time he puts it back down onto the dining table.
And although you never talk about it, there is an easing of invisible barriers after that. Now that he’s had a taste, Bob can no longer resist the warmth of your skin against his—no matter how chaste or innocent the contact is.
“You’ve got an eyelash,” he’d say, pointing to his own face, his lips twitching with the fib, and you’d simply lean forward at the same time he did, allowing him to swipe the tip of his finger down your cheek. Trusting, unsuspecting, and oblivious to the yearning expanding like a balloon in his chest.
What if, one day, he could lean in just like this and let his lips find their way to yours?
Impossible, but a man could dream.
But sometimes there isn’t anything there at all, but he still dips slightly at the waist, beckoning you with his hand before removing the imaginary thing from your cheek, your nose, or the aching perfection that is your cupid’s bow.
And when you smile up at him expectantly, even when Yelena catches him in his little white lies one day, lifting a skeptical brow when she meets his eye over your head, Bob just carries on.
Truth be told, he can’t even bring himself to feel guilty about it.
—
The first time he ever holds your hand is on a Thursday.
It’s unseasonably cold for the time of year, and Bob’s shivering under his sweater. You have been sent out on an errand to restock the Tower with food and supplies, and Bucky insisted that Bob go with you.
“Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you out there,” Bucky said to you, slapping a hand down onto Bob’s shoulder before turning towards him, “Right?”
“Right,” Bob mumbled, feeling his cheeks going red because evidently his feelings were written all over his face, and now even Bucky, of all people, was taking it upon himself to nudge things along.
“Plus Bob can help carry your bags,” Yelena joined in, not looking up from the game of Scrabble she was playing with Alexei. “Dad, that is not a word!”
“Says who?” He said, gesturing to the gibberish he’d placed on the board, full of X’s, M’s, C’s, and V’s, but not a single vowel in sight.
Ava scoffed, her face scrunching up in both confusion and annoyance. “She can take care of herself. Just last week she kicked John’s ass—”
But then John nudged her, maybe a little too hard, almost sending her tumbling out of her chair. She glared up at him, before she caught the meaningful look on his face.
“Oh… yeah… erm, nighttime in New York is practically the Purge. Might as well take him with you.”
You gave them all looks of thinly veiled suspicion, but then you just shook your head and turned to Bob as you were winding a scarf around your neck. Smiling, you asked him, “Do you mind, Bob?”
As if he would.
Venturing outdoors is still rather daunting, which is probably another reason why the team’s been so eager to get him out of the Tower. The thought that someone might recognize him makes him sweat, despite the mid-morning chill.
And then the two of you approach a particularly crowded spot on the sidewalk, and Bob’s footsteps falter slightly. You stop as if you sense his hesitation, turning to him just before disappearing into the throng of New Yorkers. As naturally as breathing, you hold out a hand.
“Come on,” you prompt with a shake of your hand when he just stares for a few seconds.
Bob holds on quickly before you can change your mind. You tug him along, squeezing his hand tighter as you reach the thick of the crowd. Bob emerges on the other side of it with pink cheeks that should be almost numb from the biting wind, but instead they are warm with something else.
And even as the horde dissipates, the sidewalk opening up with more than enough space for the two of you to walk side by side, you don’t let go.
He catches your reflections in the glass windows of the nearby shops, you with your head turned away to admire the displays of a flower shop, but your hands still joined together.
Bob wonders what others think you are to him.
He wants them to know you’re special.
He hopes you know, too.
—
The first time he falls asleep next to you starts with him sitting in the dark of his room, his shoulders slumping a little further forward with each passing minute. The others have left on another mission without him, and Bob just wishes he could do something to help.
But he still can’t control his powers well enough yet; it’d be too dangerous for him to be out in the field with them. He understands this better than anyone—the last time he tried tapping into full extent of his Sentry powers, he almost murdered somebody (even if Alexei would argue that that person, Valentina, had deserved it), that god-like sense of superiority leeching ominously into his mind.
He is hopeful when Yelena says he’s improving, slowly but surely, tries to believe it when Bucky tells him that it will happen soon. He just needs a little more time.
But Bob can’t help but feel like a burden, someone they have to take care of rather than a part of the team. The voice in the back of his mind comes back, a few notes lower than his own, that slight taunting lilt of it latching onto the edges of his subconscious.
You’re worthless, Bobby.
You think they care about you?
You will always be alone.
It will always be just you and me.
He doesn’t know how long he's sat there like that, but the room remains dark now even though someone draws the curtains. Bob shrinks back, as though the beam of moonlight spreading across his lap hurts him, doesn’t even look up when someone calls his name.
“Bob?”
He sighs, closes his eyes against the habitual burn of shame, that familiar heat creeping up his neck. Because he’s never wanted you to see him like this—so sad, so pathetic, wallowing in his own self-pity.
“Do you want to talk about it?” You ask carefully, and he doesn’t know if it’s better or worse when he hears you kneeling on the carpet in front of him.
He shakes his head.
“Okay,” you tell him gently, patiently, so kindly, “do you want me to leave?”
Please don’t. Don’t ever leave me alone, he wants to say, but he can’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he just shakes his head again. Despite himself, he’s somehow relieved when he feels the mattress dip slightly next to him, the warmth of your thigh dangerously close to his.
When he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees in the periphery of his vision is your hand, lying face up on your lap. It’s an invitation that’s too sweet for him to deny, and he slides his hand into yours, watching with a strange mixture of disbelief and euphoria as your fingers close around him.
That you would still want to touch him after seeing him like this. That he would find such comfort in the simple meeting of your palms.
His chin lifts when you turn, your other hand coming up to tuck a curtain of his hair behind his ear.
“Is this okay?” You whisper.
Bob nods, and for one treacherous moment he lets himself believe that you unconsciously seek him out too, that your hands itch to touch him just as his own do for you. And then you’re gathering him into your arms, and he follows without hesitation, falling into your embrace and burying his face into your shoulder.
He doesn’t know when he fell asleep but when he wakes, you’re still there.
“Hi,” you breathe, as though afraid you’ll disturb this peace if you speak any louder. Bob doesn’t tell you that he thinks he’ll only find peace if you’re around.
“Hi,” he whispers back, a smile lifting his lips as though you’re breathing life back into him. “Thank you.”
You don’t even hesitate. “Anytime.”
—
The first time you undress in front of him is, well, it’s not like that.
Because the entire time, Bob is furious. He wants to break something, feels the frustration crowding his lungs and resists the urge to just scream it out.
The whole team had frozen when he appeared in the doorway when they got home, his eyes wide as he took in the sight of you. One of your arms was slung around Ava’s shoulders as she propped you up, and your other hand was pressed gingerly to your ribcage.
There was a bruise blooming along your temple. Your lip had split in two places, and there was dried blood along your hairline. He could smell fresh blood in the air, even though he couldn’t see any open wounds.
John took a step toward him, one hand up in what seemed to be a placating gesture. “She’s okay, Bobby.”
“Okay?” Bob asked shakily, “she can barely stand.”
“She made it home alive, that’s all that matters,” Yelena reminded him, and while it was somewhat reassuring, it did little to quell the fire in his throat.
“She just needs to rest now,” Bucky told him, inhaling sharply when Bob’s jaw was clenched so tight it looked like his teeth might crack under the pressure.
“I’ll be fine, Bob,” you said quickly, smiling at him through your pain.
That was somehow worse than your physical injuries. Bob wanted to know then and there who did this to you, because he would unleash the full and unrestrained wrath of his powers if it meant avenging you, consequences be damned.
For the first time, he wanted to see something burn.
Ava cursed under her breath when Bob’s eyes flashed gold, but then you were asking him, “Help me to my room?”
Just like that, his eyes returned to their natural blue, and the room breathed a collective sigh of relief.
And now, as he stands in your room, his hands are shaking as he pulls a clean set of clothes from your dresser. You limp toward the en-suite bathroom, leaning one hand on the counter and breathing deeply through your nose as you try to peel off your soiled tact-suit.
The second you let out a hiss of pain when the movement tugs at your stitches, Bob is at your side in an instant. He pushes down the panic clawing at his throat, the one that won’t quite settle down even though you’re right here, alive and breathing.
But he can spiral later; you need him now.
Bob gently, so gently, brushes your hand away so he can reach for your zipper. You make eye contact with him in the mirror, nodding, and he swallows the lump in his throat as he slowly helps you out of your bloody clothes.
“I’m going to be fine, okay?” You repeat and he just nods, his hands skimming over your shoulder blades, down your arms, as he helps you undress. His breath hitches as your suit falls into a heap around your feet, when he finds the square of gauze taped over your midsection with a spot of dreaded crimson seeping through. There’s a matching one on your opposite side. “It was a through and through. Missed all vital organs, the doctor said. It’s basically a flesh wound.”
“I should have been there,” Bob finally says when he finds his voice.
“Hey…” you turn to face him, “this happens. It’s part of the job.”
“I can help,” he almost pleads. He presses your hand to the side of his face, trying to hide the sting of tears. “If I’d been there, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt. None of you ever would.”
He hates it, that feeling of helplessness as he’s forced to stay behind in the Tower. But what he hates even more is the thought that one day, you or Yelena or any one of the team could die out there—and he’d be here, safe and sound even though he was the strongest out of all of you, twiddling his thumbs waiting for you to come back.
“Don’t say I’m not ready,” Bob bites back a sob as he drops his forehead to your bare shoulder, “I’m ready. I’ll always be ready to protect you.”
He’s just found you.
He can’t lose you now.
“I know,” you turn around and your eyes shining just as brightly as his are. “And we’ll protect you, too. I promise.”
Bob’s never doubted you before.
He won’t doubt you now, either.
—
The team never leaves Bob behind after that, and when he first tells you what’s in his heart, it’s a quiet, almost unassuming thing.
He hadn’t intended to, although he’s always wanted to.
He wanted to tell you when you all boarded the jet, full of nervous but cautiously optimistic energy now that Bob was with you. He found his spot next to you, ignoring John’s teasing quip and Alexei’s beaming smile, his arm pressed to yours on the armrest between your seats.
He wanted to tell you just before stepping off the plane, when you gave him a reassuring smile and a confident nod, like you were saying you’ve got this. He wanted to call it after you as you rushed into the fray, weapons raised and ready, the others following closely behind you.
He wanted to tell you when he stepped in front of you, absorbing the impact of a bullet aimed straight at your forehead. It bounced harmlessly off him with a high-pitched ping, didn’t even leave a single dent or red mark on his skin, but you still gasped behind him and cried out his name.
But he couldn’t think straight in that moment, could only think about eliminating anything and anyone who’d try to take you from him.
He wanted to tell it to you on the plane ride home, when you brushed his hair back to double and triple check the spot where he’d been hit, undeterred by the splatters of someone else’s blood on his suit.
Bob thought about the man it belonged to. He hadn’t set out to kill anybody, but if that was the price he had to pay to keep you alive… well then, he’d pay it again and again.
“It didn’t hurt at all?” You asked. “Are you sure?”
He smiled, full of affection, exhaling on something of a laugh, “I’m invincible, remember?”
“That we know of,” you didn’t return his smile, “please, don’t do that again.”
Bob didn’t answer, because he knew he couldn’t promise that. Even if he could, it’s not like he ever would.
He wants to tell it to you when you pull him into your room the second you get home, standing close enough that he can count the stars reflected in your eyes.
He wants to tell you everything right now, everything he’s held onto so tightly all this time because he didn’t think that he ever deserved this.
Bob’s been made his whole life to think that this was never in the stars for him. The Void in his chest, the one that he manages somehow to keep at bay most days, still whispers it to him. Still sneers at him for even entertaining the idea he could ever have it, let alone with someone as good as you.
Then you kiss him. Just a peck, the briefest meeting of lips at first. You look up at him searchingly, waiting for him to push you away or say this is a mistake, but he would never. So long as you want it, he’d give you anything.
He’s the one to initiate your second kiss, more firmly this time, with the reverence of a man who believes he would never get to do this again. You wrap your arm around his shoulders, pull him closer and closer until your chests are touching.
“Invincible, maybe,” you whisper once you pull away, your voice wobbly as you breathe the words into the quiet space between you, “but not replaceable. Not to me.”
Bob feels something crack open inside him then. He buries his nose in the junction of where your neck and shoulder met, hot tears dripping down the delicate curve there and soaking into your shirt.
He wants more, to let his body tell you what he can’t yet bring himself to say, but finds himself almost afraid of it. It has been a while since he’s been this close, this intimate, with someone he genuinely cares about. Maybe even longer since he’s done it with a clear head.
But you seem content to just hold him, like that first time, as though it doesn’t make him near desperate with want and weak with affection all at the same time. And later, before sleep can claim the both of you, he carries you to the bathroom to wash up. The two of you stay in the tub long after you are clean.
Steam curls into the air, hot water rippling as Bob sits behind you, caging you between his arms as you lean back comfortably against the sturdy planes of his chest.
He says it to you then, murmurs into your skin that he’s found love here.
Bob almost can’t believe it when you say it back.
That night, he falls asleep in your arms again, the side of his head pressed to your chest, listening to the steady beating of your heart against his ear.
The darkness in his own begins to recede that much further with each reassuring thump, as though chased away by the dawning of the morning sun.
thinking about rhett railing you in his truck during your lunch breaks 😌 he definitely cums in you before sending you back with a kiss on the cheek and a shit-eating grin
“and here i thought you wanted a romantic lunch date,” you found yourself teasing, as rhett pulled into a secluded area in the parking lot of your work place. just far enough into the woods that no one would know what you were doing, unless of course they took a closer look. beside you, rhett grinned knowingly as he threw the gear in park. “i wan’ have you for lunch,” came his reply. there was a dark glint in his eyes. hungry, but not the kind of hunger that a good sandwich could satiate. no, he wanted something else. and you were more than happy to give it to him.
shifting in your seat, you held eye contact with him as you leaned in close. “wanna know somethin’?” you murmured, walking your fingers up his bicep. “hm?” rumbling low in his throat. it sounded more like a growl that a tiger might make before pouncing on its prey. “i’ve been wet for you all morning, thinking about this.” it was the truth, after all. when he told you he’d stop by for your lunch break, there had been an electric charged meaning behind his words. all morning, you had been filled with anticipation, imagining what he was going to do to you once he got his hands on you.
his eyes narrowed, mouth parting. “yeah? you soak through your underwear?” he asked. you hummed. “why don’t you find out?” you moved to unbutton your pants, and he watched as you shoved them down to the floorboards, before you grabbed his hand, placing it between your thighs. instantly, he felt it. the wet fabric of your underwear, barely concealing your needy little cunt from him. you gripped his forearm, staring into his eyes. “please…i need your dick so bad. i feel so empty.” you took on that innocent-sounding tone of voice that he loved so much, and that was what did him in. “c’mere,” he growled.
it was a scramble of limbs and bodies. the squeak of worn car leather. the clink of his obnoxious belt buckle as your hands rushed to get it open. “wait, ‘ve got…shit,” he gasped when your hips rolled against his own. “i’ve got lube in the glovebox.” fumbling, you reached over, yanking open the compartment and shoving your hand inside. it took a moment, but soon, your fingers wrapped around a packet of lube. you retrieved it, victorious, before you settled on rhett’s lap once again, straddling him. he watched as you wrapped your hand around his cock, before you allowed the lube to spill onto the hard, blushing shaft. he was mesmerized as you loosely ran your hand alongside him, smearing the lubricant over his heated skin.
there was no time for teasing. no time for taking it slow. you had about twenty minutes until you needed to return to work, without looking suspicious. it was either fast and hard, or none at all. steadying yourself by placing your hands on his broad shoulders, you watched as he reached down, his own large hand stroking his shaft once, twice, before he aligned himself with you. “g’ on, sit on it, baby,” he urged. obediently, you began to sink down on him. slowly at first, hissing at the stretch, eyes fluttering shut. god, you’d never tire of the feeling of his thick cock sliding into you. it was addictive. and once you’d taken as much as you could, you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his own as you allowed yourself to adjust. rhett grunted softly, hands coming up to grip your hips. “fuck, honey. lemme know when you’re ready. ‘ve gotta make it quick.”
you kissed him lazily, mouth hot and open. “i’m ready,” you breathed, “fuck me, rhett.” that was all he needed. holding you in place, he began to shift his hips upward, slowly at first, but quickly building a rhythm. determined to find that perfect angle, he experimented with different strokes, but the moment he nudged your hips forward, he hit the spot he was looking for. “oh my god!” you wailed, lurching forward. “right there!” he couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face once again. anchoring his feet against the floor, he used the strength of his powerful quads to push up into you. “yeah? that’s your spot, ain’t it, girl?” taunting. cocky. and the thing was, he had every right to be cocky. because he knew exactly how to hit it. his dick wasn’t just for show. he could use it so effectively he’d have you seeing stars soon enough.
above him, your eyes were rolling back already. the windows had fogged up. the force of his thrusts jolted the truck. but you didn’t care. not when he kept hitting that spongey little spot within you. the one that made you sob out his name and leave claw marks on his back. “takin’ it so well baby,” he breathlessly praised. the only response you could muster was a nod, your eyes still squeezed shut. god, he felt so good. the power in his movements jarred you in a way that made your eyes roll back in your head, body falling forward against his, mouth open and drooling against his shoulder as he had his way with you.
“touch yourself for me,” he gritted in your ear. obeying, as if on auto pilot, your hand slipped between your bodies, fingers searching for your sensitive little clit. as soon as you connected, you squealed lowly, shuddering in his arms. the race against the clock only served to heighten the sensations you felt. it sped your biological response along, building and building until you were seconds away from reaching a crescendo. “o-oh my g—ah! fuck! i-i’m already cl-close!” you stuttered, and when rhett offered a particularly deep thrust, you couldn’t help the shriek that ripped itself from your throat.
“c’mon now, honey. your little pussy’s just squeezin’ me so tight. be a good girl and come all over this dick,” he urged, tone rough with desire. you were almost there. almost there. almost there. several more deep thrusts. your fingers working more deliberately against that swollen bundle. closer and closer and closer until, to your utter shock, you were coming around his cock, trembling like a leaf against him as you fell apart, crying out his name into the cab of the truck. he held you close, groaning breathlessly as you clenched around him like a vice. pleasure crackled at the base of his spine, threatening to consume him whole. fingers holding your hips in an almost bruising grip, he clenched his jaw and let his head thunk back against the seat. “fuck, fuck, fuck. jesus, darlin’,” he swore. he couldn’t hold it anymore. it hit him just as you came down from your own peak.
moaning high in his throat, he pushed his hips into yours, cock sliding deeper still, before he succumbed to it all. “yeah, that’s it,” he gasped, as he flooded your still spasming pussy with his sticky spend. “take it, baby. take every fuckin’ drop.” and you did, whimpering at the feeling of being so full. soon, it began to seep out around the edges of his cock, dripping down to his pulsing balls. and as you both floated down, you found yourself suddenly wishing that you didn’t have to head back into work, because that meant you would have to part from him, and it would leave you feeling empty after he’d just made you feel so full. even so, you found yourself smiling sleepily as you murmured, “mm, that was so fucking good. i love your cock.”
that pulled a laugh out of rhett as he kissed your nose. “your pussy’s pretty great, too,” he teased. you settled into him for a moment, face nuzzled against his neck, where he smelled like cologne and sweat and something so masculine and soft all at once. you left a kiss against his pulse point before you pulled back to reluctantly check the clock. five minutes until you had to be back. “damn,” you said in disappointment. you had wished to stay here a little longer and enjoy the feeling of his cock softening within you. but it was time to part ways. so, you very carefully pulled back, hissing softly as he eased himself out of you. “i’ll take care of ya proper when you get home tonight,” he assured you with a kiss to the corner of your mouth. then, he retrieved your panties from where they’d landed on the gearshift. he eyed them for a moment before he smirked at you, handing them back.
“wan’ you to walk back into work with my cum inside you,” he said. “nobody’ll know, but you will. you’ll think about what a dirty fuckin’ girl you are, walkin’ around with your man’s cum drippin’ outta your pussy.” his words made you whimper involuntarily, and you nodded as you plucked your underwear from his hand. “o-okay.” he had to admit, he found great satisfaction in watching you gingerly slide out of his truck, once your pants were back in place. you took a few uncertain steps forward, clearly still feeling the affects of what he’d just done to you. he thought of you walking into work with his cum smearing between your thighs, and his dick nearly twitched to life again in his jeans. “i’ll see y’ later, baby,” he murmured with a smile. “and don’t worry about it all leakin’ out. i’ll just fill you up all over again tonight.”
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His shrill whine shatters the silence that has collected in the room. Box springs squeal as his hips jerk, chasing nothing but air.
"You stopped," he whimpers, like his whole world is about to end. "Why'd you stop?" And if you didn't know him any better, you would think Bob is genuinely upset about this crime you've committed against him.
Sweet blue eyes peer back at you, so wet that they glisten in the dull light pouring in through the window, courtesy of a streetlamp. Even in the dark, you can feel the weight of them tracing over your face, looking for a reason. An answer. Something he can fix.
They find nothing.
His foot kicks, grumbling low in his throat. Petulant.
Puppy eyes must be one of his superpowers.
Your hand wraps around his cock once more, returning to the lazy rhythm you'd built up prior to your little stunt, loose ups and downs, punctuated by the swipe of your thumb over his weeping tip. Fuck, he's so wet that you almost didn't need to tear open that packet of lube.
But you can still feel him looking at you. Waiting on the answer you've yet to give him.
"I was just messing with you," admitting it with a kiss on the tip of his nose, as if to atone for your crime.
Bob squirms closer, working his way up onto your pillow and pressing his forehead against yours. "Mean." The bridge of his nose wrinkles, his best attempt at showcasing his displeasure.
Your wrist twists. That expression dissolves from his face in a matter of milliseconds, eyes falling closed, sucking in a sharp breath.
"Like that?" You ask it like you don't already know what he likes.
"Uhuh," nodding, dumbly, a little noise slipping out of him. Its impossible not to repeat the motion, tightening your fist as it twists around his cock, jerking him off in earnest now.
His eyes roll, falling closed only for him to pry them open again, determined to keep looking at you. It's a losing battle, broken by the desperate twitch of his own hips. He just can't seem to stay still. He's wriggling like a damn worm, chasing your touch only to reel back from it, unsure of what he even wants.
Your thumb smooths over his cock head, rubbing one, two, three firm little circles into it. And oh, he gasps, keening all high and pitchy. Those thighs squeeze together, cock twitching in your hand.
"I...I'm..." Bob's mouth hangs open, tongue resting on his bottom lip, panting like a dog. His breath hitches, kicking his foot again.
"That's it," you hum; there's no need for him to finish his sentence, you already know. "Cum for me, baby."
His head tilts to the side, cheek squishing into the pillow, and your thumb swipes across his tip one last time, and—
Bob's body jerks, cumming with a drawn out whine that ought to wake whoever is sleeping on the other side of the wall. Whoever that is, you don't care. You can't think about anything other than this. The sight of his cum painting your hand, length twitching so hard that you reckon you can see the waves of his orgasm washing through his exhausted body.
"Shit," he's laughing through a gasp, cut short by his own moan. "That...oh my god."
"If you're not tired now," a yawn strikes before you can finish that thought, "then I don't know what to do with you."
Right on queue, a yawn wracks through him, so contagious that the mere sight of it sets him off. "I think I can sleep now."
Summary: You've lucked out with the perfect neighbor, a kind and overly helpful WSO. He puts up Christmas lights, lends his lawn mower, and grabs your morning paper. But what happens when he's out of peppermint tea one night?
Word Count: 3.6k
Warnings & Notes: Robert "Bob" Floyd x gn!reader, extremely fluffy, food mentions, heavy making out, shirtless Bob, only referred to as Robert for the series, unrealistic expectations of next door neighbors, 18+ as always. This idea hit me like a bus while walking the dog (where I almost was hit by a bus) and has been fully unable to leave my brain since then. Cozy, sweet, overly helpful Neighbor!Bob is literally all I want for Christmas. And he's my holiday present to all of you!
“I have a ladder you can borrow.” You look up from the box of Christmas lights you’re detangling in the garage to see your neighbor standing in the opening to the street. Coffee mug in hand as he watches you loop out another knot. He’d noticed your garage open that morning, too early for a Saturday, and came to investigate or possibly offer assistance. If there is one thing Robert Floyd does best, it’s help his neighbors.
You had moved into the tidy bungalow just under a year ago, placing a potted fern on the doorstep and painting over the dated beige walls. It was finally starting to feel like a home. Now with the holidays approaching (as reminded by the entirely too jolly Santas everywhere in town) you were excited to start new traditions in your humble home. And it started with putting twinkling lights on the house, lights currently tangled in the cardboard box you haphazardly threw them in twelve months ago.
Threading out another knot, you give him a playful smile. “How do you know I don’t have a ladder?”
“Lucky guess?” He’s not going to admit he’s scanned and memorized nearly every inch of your garage.
The day after the moving truck came and went, you were thrilled when your first new neighbor rang your doorbell. While you had expected some middle aged woman with a plate of brownies and a plea for babysitting, you were pleasantly surprised at the man in a flight suit (Lt. Robert Floyd according to the stitching) with the striking blue eyes who stood there instead. He didn’t have brownies, but he happily gave you the lowdown on the neighborhood as you sat amongst moving boxes drinking lemonade out of paper cups.
As the months passed, an easy friendship had developed amongst neighbors. In the morning before making his way to base, Robert would scoop up your morning paper and walk it up the seven steps to your porch. The paper boy always threw it short. And despite numerous pleas to leave it be - you didn’t mind the short walk - every morning when you went for the paper, there it sat neatly on your mat along with any misdelivered mail.
And when he wasn’t saving kittens from trees in his free time, Robert was a shining example of a great neighbor. Driving his truck for a trip to get plants at the nursery, lending his mower when yours broke in the heat of July, cleaning your gutters when the leaves fell…you shouldn’t be surprised he’s now offering up his ladder so you can enjoy your Christmas lights. Looking down at the tangled mess, you hadn’t even thought about how you were going to get them actually on the house. Nails? Did you even own nails?
Not even an hour later you’re standing on the sidewalk facing your home with a hot cup of coffee in your chilly hands. Propped up on a ladder with detangled lights in one hand - and a tool belt around his waist like your personal Mr. Fix It - Robert hums to himself as he hammers nails into the trim before wrapping the first strand of lights in place.
You had accepted his ladder graciously, but mentioned you needed to hit the hardware store first for nails. With a nod of his head he left your garage and you continued on the lights. It was a tedious project, but rewarding once the final strand lay flat against the concrete floor. You were digging around in boxes for tools when your neighbor reappeared. He had a ladder and his tool belt, a full box of nails clutched in his large hand. Cheeks warm, you assured him you would buy your own. He let out a playful pfft.
“Nonsense. It’s Saturday, the hardware store will be packed. Consider them an early Christmas gift.”
You couldn’t help but smile. “Let me at least trade you for them? A cup of coffee?”
“Do you still have those Kona beans?” His ocean blue eyes are hopeful.
Your smile widened as you nodded. The overpriced beans you had expensively shipped every month were a favourite of the weapons systems officer. Last month you had hosted the homeowners association meeting (for the first and hopefully only time) and Robert had raved about the coffee you served. He was used to the basic stuff they made on base, his own home brewing not much better. Your coffee was the best.
When you came back to the garage after whipping up a carafe - hot mug in hand - you shouldn’t have been surprised to see your neighbor already up the ladder, deep into the project.
You holler up to him. “Robert, get down! You don’t need to do that!”
But he waves you off, insisting that he had already started and might as well finish the job. He would just drink your delicious coffee once he was done. And so you were relegated to the sidewalk to make sure everything looked straight from the street.
From this distance you could admire him innocently. The military-issue wire frames that catch the morning sun. Broad shoulders under the neat canvas barn coat he recently replaced when the corduroy collar ripped. His strong hands shielded from the chilled wind under his workman’s gloves. Because someone like Robert Floyd follows safety precautions and owns workman’s gloves.
At this angle you can see the slight smile on his lips as he strings lights along your porch. For the next hour you watch him put up lights, him occasionally turning back and asking you how they look.
“Are you sure they’re straight?” You promise him they are, but he meticulously checks his work anyway. He wants your house to look perfect.
The wind has tinged both your cheeks a deep pink and the cold is starting to seep through boots. Robert has nailed the last of your lights to the trim and deemed them faultless. He comes down the ladder and walks to stand beside you to admire his handiwork. Hands on hips - with that damn tool belt still astride his waist - he turns to you beaming at a job well done. It’s impossible not to beam back, thinking how long it would have taken you to do even a job half as good.
“Thank you for putting up the lights. You didn’t have to, but I appreciate it.” He isn’t sure whether your cheeks are red from the cold or something else. “I’m so lucky to have you as a neighbor.”
His smile is permanently stuck at your compliment. He opens his mouth to make a joking comment about the coffee you owe him - anything for more time together - when he feels the telltale buzz in his pocket. Pulling it reluctantly out after shedding a glove, he sees it’s Phoenix and is only semi-annoyed. They have lunch plans, which he’s running late for. And while he’s sure his front seater would approve of him blowing her off for the neighbor he can’t stop talking about, he’s a better friend than that.
Turning back to you, where you’re enjoying your freshly strung twinkling lights, Robert rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I have to head out…lunch plans. Rain check on that coffee?”
Nodding through your disappointment, you help him gather up his ladder and assure him that coffee is his whenever he wants.
The following morning you pad toward your front door, eyes bleary from a deep sleep. The house was cold and you pull your robe tighter around you. Through the glass panel in the door you can see your paper on the mat, as always, ready for you to consume over coffee and toast. As you open the oak door and scurry to shut it with the paper secured, something - or rather someone - catches your eye.
Robert stands in the doorway of his own bungalow, calmly watching the neighborhood. The thick fair isle sweater covering his wide shoulders looks incredibly cozy, and he nurses a mug between both hands. He exists in that moment without worry, and you’re envious.
His placid expression is broken when he feels your eyes, turning his head to see you, bedhead and newspaper clutched in your fist. His lips turn in a warm smile and he raises one hand in a slow, friendly wave. Your heart flutters, utterly taken away with how surely he carries himself, how sweetly he treats others. An emotion quickly squashed when you realize you are still standing in a bathrobe and knobby socks, flying back inside and shutting the door with heated cheeks.
As you go about working on your Sunday chores, you keep picturing Robert’s face, that small happy smile you can’t get out of your head.
Later that night, after hours of tossing and turning in the sheets unable to find peace, you finally trudge down the hall into the living room, settling under blankets on the plush couch with a cup of chamomile. You’ve lost details of the plot of the movie you started, brain racing as your fingers fidget with the mug.
The faint trill of your phone on the coffee table breaks you from your thoughts.
“Hello?”
“Hi. It’s Bo-Robert…from next door?” You yawn a hello while checking the clock. It was nearly one in the morning. “I just wanted to check if everything was alright? Noticed your lights were on.”
A warm feeling spreads through your chest at his concern. Picturing him peering out his kitchen window with the striped cotton curtains, filling up his own kettle, distressed that your house lights were on so late. You’d like to think he wore tartan pajamas, neatly buttoned. Those would suit him.
You settle back into the cushions as you reply. “Everything’s fine. Just couldn’t sleep.”
His thoughtful nod can practically be heard through the phone.
“Better question is, what are you doing up so late?”
The whistle and clink of boiling water and china crash over the line. A sigh pulled from his lips before responding. “I was going to make myself a cup of tea while I finished some reports, but appears that I am out.”
You glance down at your own mug of tea. It’s late, but not that late.
“What kind of tea do you like?” He muses on about his lack of preference - an equal opportunity tea lover - before admitting he was looking forward to a cup of peppermint. You make your way to the kitchen, phone pressed to your ear as you both open your cupboards. Your voice feels small as you offer, “I think I might have some.”
A silence lingers on the line. An unspoken late night implication that neither of you knows what to make of it. Your fingers flip through boxes of tea that take up too much cupboard space. Pomegranate, green, oolong. You don’t even drink tea that often. But right as you think you have too many white teas, you see the striped box of peppermint tea, one lone bag waiting for its turn.
You empty the box and walk to the window in your kitchen, where you can see the faint light on through his curtains. You clear your throat. “Look out your kitchen window.”
To your disappointment, Robert does not wear tartan pajamas to sleep. Although you are delighted to see his shirtless chest, defined from years of Navy training. He waves at you through your respective kitchen windows, holding up his mug of hot water. You lift up the tea bag, and his face splits into a toothy smile.
Before you can offer to bring it to him, he’s already turning toward his front door, speaking into the phone, “I’ll be over, just a minute. Need to find my coat.”
By the time there’s a soft knock on the door, you’ve turned on the kettle and gotten a fresh mug for him. You open the door, greeted by the tip of his nose and ears a merry red, the cold kissing his features. He’s been outside all of a minute. You usher your neighbor in, watching him observe how you’ve put up garlands and festive knickknacks in the entry since his last visit.
He slips off his boots, bare feet settling on the cold hardwood, and fingers the collar of his canvas barn coat. In his rush to come over he’d thrown his coat on forgetting his bare chest. It feels obnoxious to be half naked in your home, so he keeps his coat on and follows you to the kitchen.
“Peppermint still good?” You tease, the packet of tea leaves in your hand. He nods, slightly distracted by how cozy you look in your soft loungewear and the robe from this morning. Dunking the bag into the hot water, you search for a topic to pass the steeping time. But when you turn to talk to him, words catch in your throat because he’s right there.
Eyes so blue the sky is jealous. Shy smile so friendly it warms the room. Your thoughts dirtily flit to the tool belt around his waist on the ladder, fingers adeptly wielding a hammer. Fingers that brush yours in the proximity. He’s so close and your brain blanks as bodies simultaneously take action.
Your mouths find each other effortlessly, bodies pressing together as if they know the moves the two of you were just figuring out. The low-lying tension building for the past year breaking the surface as the dark of the house gives you both the bravery needed. His hands are cold as they find your waist, your hands too warm on his chilled jaw.
His mouth is all soft lips and hard pressure, the faint hint of toothpaste in his taste. It’s exactly as you imagined, but better.
Lips become more desperate the longer you connect, your back suddenly against the counter as he presses into you. This moment has been building since he’d watched you first walk up the front steps with that too big moving box. A hand slips into his sun-bleached locks he always has so perfectly combed. He moans into your mouth, a sinful noise in the quiet kitchen.
Before sense can interrupt, you’re reaching for the zipper of his coat, revealing every inch of his toned pale chest as the zipper slowly comes down. You slide a hand over the skin, a low gasp slipping out at the strong muscle. You’ve been attracted to his mind for so long, it feels unfair his body should be attractive too.
He shrugs out of the barn coat and follows you to the lowly lit living room, where the couch is softer on your back than the counter edge. Sitting side by side, knees knocking, he’s more hesitant to touch you in this context. Despite his body screaming to explore every inch of his pretty neighbor’s mind and body, he knows he’s basically barged into your home and immediately stuck his tongue in your sweet mouth. You get to set the pace.
“This okay?” His hand encompasses your knee, thumb rubbing smoothly through the fabric. You nod, tilting your head toward him to continue kissing. He’s warmed up now, your home and body bringing him to temperature. Robert smiles into your kiss. You can’t get enough of him, wanting to consume him fully. He’s delicate with you in the most delicious of ways; gentle kisses pressed to your soft lips before sliding his tongue across to politely ask for access.
Your mouth can’t open fast enough.
You place you hand on his hip, enjoying the warm skin and lean muscle beneath your fingertips. Groaning lightly into your mouth, he blindly reaches for your hips to bring you into his lap. His tongue takes its time to taste you, learn every intricacy of your flavor. Administration so thorough your eyes roll back in your head. The sounds escaping you music in the darkened room.
Fingers dance across skin, finding purchase on thighs, shoulders, chests. You can’t get close enough to him, resting one hand on the back of his neck as your swollen lips press harder to his. Robert loves the way your thighs straddle him as he leans against the couch cushions, his warm, large hands along your back bringing you closer to him. Your sharp inhale as one hand toys with the waistband of your lounge pants.
When his lips trail down your neck, praising the delicate skin, you can’t hold back your declaration any longer. “I…I’ve wanted this for a while.”
His lips pause, brow furrowed. “This?”
“You.”
That gratified smile will forever be imprinted along your neck. “I’ve wanted you since the day you moved in.”
The whimpers that rip through you when he nips the thin skin behind your ear have him grabbing your chin and swallowing your sounds. Reveling in the shared passion you’ve both had simmering beneath the surface. Can’t help his hips rutting up into yours, glorious friction he’s been craving satisfied. You giggle through a moan against his lips.
“So, we could have been doing this all year long? What a shame, lieutenant.”
You ground down in his lap, running your own tongue along his lips and savoring his taste. Thoughts of what he tastes like after his peppermint tea have you wrapping your arms tighter around his bare shoulders. Behind his head, outside the window, the faint glow of the Christmas lights he strung up shines in the winter night. How did you find this perfect man, and how is he your neighbor?
You express your gratitude for him with your mouth along his jaw, licking along the skin while he deliciously whimpers in your ear.You can only take so much before you’re sealing your lips over his again, inhaling his every breath.
As lips finally reach exhaustion - brains well past tired as the clock strikes a new hour - Robert and you pull apart with content smiles. Already cold without his warmth, you immediately lean back into him. He’s practically a furnace now under your ministrations. Unspoken words pass between as you invite him to sleep on your couch with you. A throw blanket produced from the nearby chair as the two of you tangle your limbs. There’s something comforting in the way he rests your head upon his arm, your knee upon his thigh. Again, it’s like your bodies know the actions like they’ve been waiting for you to finally figure them out.
You’ve just settled your head upon his warm chest when a thought strikes you, prompting you to lean up to look at those sleepy cerulean eyes. The small curious smile he gives you melting your heart.
“Did you still want your tea?”
He shakes his head with a chuckle, using the last of his energy to tuck the blanket tighter around your body. “It’s okay. I got what I really wanted.”
Your heart feels two sizes too big as he presses a kiss to your temple before sleep takes you both.
When the winter sunrise streams through your curtains the next morning, you refuse to get up. Perfectly warm wrapped up in the thin throw and your neighbor’s arms, you are purely too content. When Robert blinks open his eyes and gazes at your face, he sees the same placid smile he wore the morning before. The same one he’s had since you moved in next door.
Despite both being all too happy to remain entangled on the couch, sharing small kisses on any skin within reach, the responsibilities of Monday morning dawn and you must get up. Reluctantly you release him, watching him fold the throw neatly upon the sofa arm before helping you stand. Warmth blossoms down your spine the more you’re in Robert’s presence, the little things he does meaning so much to you. Especially as he strides through your home shirtless, musing about the whereabouts of his coat on the kitchen floor.
Your eyes flit to the cold mug of abandoned peppermint tea as you offer him coffee. But he’s intent on getting home for his flight suit, the drive to base longer than he’d like. Of course, he would ideally spend the morning drinking your expensive delicious coffee and listen to you go on about the neighbors down the street with the atrocious holiday decorations. If you’d let him, he would spend every morning like that for the rest of time. But his admiral would put him in drills all week if he was any later.
You walk him to the door, robe pulled tight across your chest to keep out the cold. He’s pulled on his boots for the short walk and wraps his arms around you in an intimate embrace, disappointed this perfect night must come to an end. You bury your nose in his jacket-covered chest to enjoy the last of his herbal and citrus scent, hands reluctantly slipping from his middle. He turns to leave and both your hearts pang.
When Robert reaches the end of your path, he bends down and picks up the paper, thrown too short as always. He turns around and retraces his steps, walking back up the steps and straight up to where you reside in the doorway still. Fingers brush as he hands you the newspaper, saving you the walk as he always does. Only this morning he tips his head to press a kiss to your lips.
You’re already adding peppermint tea to your shopping list as you walk back into the house. Just for him.
