tags: bob reynolds x bpd!reader, angst, hurt no comfort, short one shot
The silence stretches between you like static—unbearable and thin. You stand by the counter, hands shaking just enough that you hide them in the folds of your sweatshirt. Bob leans against the far wall, arms crossed. His jaw’s locked tight, his eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder.
You can’t stand it anymore. “Why are you pushing me away?” you ask, your voice breaking halfway through. “What did I do wrong?”
He exhales, long and slow, like he’s been waiting for that question and dreading it all at once. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“That’s not true.” You step closer, feeling your chest ache. “It’s always like this. You get close, then you pull back, like I’m—”
He flinches. You see it. The way his fingers curl against his arms, how his throat moves like he’s swallowing words he doesn’t want to say. “I just need space sometimes,” he says quietly.
“Space?” You laugh, but it’s sharp, too loud. “You’re always disappearing, Bob. You say you need space, and I wait, and then you don’t come back. Do you even want me here?”
The question hangs there, ugly and trembling. He looks at you finally, and it’s worse than if he hadn’t. There’s guilt in his eyes. Fear, too.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits. “Every time someone gets close, it feels like I’m going to break something. And you—” He shakes his head, like the words are too heavy. “You make me feel everything.”
Your throat tightens. “Is that so bad?”
“It scares me.”
The words hit like a door slamming somewhere deep inside you.
For a second, you can’t tell if he means you scare me or this scares me—the difference feels like everything. You nod, trying to look like you understand, like you’re calm, but your body betrays you: your fingers tremble, your throat burns, your eyes sting with unshed tears.
You always ruin it, something inside you whispers.
The air feels heavier now, sticky with shame. You force a laugh that comes out wrong, too breathy. “Right. Yeah. I get that. I’m— a lot. I know I am.”
Bob’s face softens, but it’s that softness that makes you want to scream: pity.
“You’re not—” he starts, but you cut him off, words spilling out too fast, too wet.
"It’s okay, Bob. I know I come on too strong. I text too much. I ask too much. I feel—” You stop, swallowing hard. “Too much.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant.”
But it’s too late—you’re already crumbling beneath the weight of what you think he’s saying. Every memory of closeness flashes behind your eyes: his hands on your shoulders, the way he’d rest his head against yours when he thought you were asleep. All of it feels like a dream that’s starting to fade.
You take a small step closer. “I just don’t know how to not love you.” The confession falls out of you before you can stop it. “I don’t know how to turn it off. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.”
He looks like he’s about to say something, then doesn’t. You can almost hear his pulse in the silence between you.
“I don’t want to scare you,” you say, voice cracking. “I just— when you pull away, it feels like I’m being erased. Like I stop existing if you’re not looking at me.”
Bob closes his eyes, his jaw tightening like he’s holding something in. “That’s not fair,” he murmurs.
“I know,” you whisper. “I know. But it’s true.”
For a moment, you both just stand there—two people on opposite ends of the same storm, watching it tear through everything they built.
He finally steps forward, just enough for the air to shift between you. “I don’t know how to be what you need,” he admits.
You smile, and it hurts. “Me neither.”
And then it’s quiet again—the kind of quiet that hums with everything unsaid. You can feel the love still there, fragile, bruised, desperate to survive its own weight.
You want to reach for him. You don’t.
Because sometimes loving him means staying exactly where you are—on fire, and trying not to burn down the room.
And you bite back the insecurities, the desperation gripping your throat. You know Bob has bad days. You know he deserves space and quiet and peace. But it kills you that you can’t be that for him—that your love, for all its warmth, only ever seems to make him flinch.
Pairing: Bob Reynolds x OC
Tags: angst, romance, mental health issues (depression, bipolar, suicidal, etc), loss, mourning, grief, found family
Summary: where the world ended, she found him, a fragile ember in the ashes of everything she couldn't save.
in which two souls bound by pain and loss learn to love again.
Masterlist
Whoever said time heals never met grief the way I did. Time doesn't mend us—it teaches us how to mask our pain in public, how to feign normalcy. We don't heal. We adapt. We perform.
There are holes in my chest, and I know the name of each person who left them behind. I've mapped their absence like constellations in a night sky I no longer believe in.
They say nothing lasts forever but time, but even that is cruel. I know this. And still—I'm only human. I wanted them to stay. Just long enough for me to learn how to say goodbye without the silence swallowing me whole.
They died with honour. For the greater good. Like the heroes they were. And yet—
I resented them for it.
I felt abandoned—left in the wreckage of a life I didn't know how to live. Like someone handed me a broken compass and told me to find home with no map, no light.
When Bucky found me, I was a ghost myself. I was anything but alive. Breathing, maybe, but just barely. I don't know if it was guilt or cowardice. I was a black cloud floating through someone else's sunny day. Suicide wasn't an option—I had made promises. But I broke them in every way except the final one.
God, I miss them.
Bucky understood. Maybe because he lost just as much. Maybe more. So, he knew what I needed the most: he gave me space, the right to fall apart.
But then, he barged in one morning; there was something important he had to say. "Valentina announced the New Avengers," he told me.
I laughed, and laughed, and laughed. The grass on my father's grave had barely learned to grow upright, and already they had replaced him, us.
For a long time, I stopped watching the news, stopped counting the days. I didn't care what was happening in the world. If it all ended tomorrow—another war, another crisis screaming for heroes—I wouldn't have blinked.
Although I am ashamed to tell you this, you who think so highly of the Avengers, of me, there is not a single righteous bone in my body.
I became the Peregrine not out of virtue, but out of desperation. I needed to prove to my father that I was worth keeping. That I was worth anything at all.
You see, he never wanted a child. His parents died when he was young—left him half-grown, half-healed—and maybe something in him stayed broken. He was afraid he'd become like his father, so he solved that fear by disappearing emotionally, kept his distance.
I learned early on that the only way to make him see me was to shatter something. A vase, a robot, a car. After a few crashes, even that lost its effect. But the day I put on the suit, the day I stepped onto the battlefield as the Peregrine, he looked at me—really looked at me—for the first time.
So, I stitched myself with pieces that I had stolen from others, until I resembled someone who was worthy. And for a while, even I believed it—that I wasn't just a tall child aching for her father's gaze, but an Avenger.
Maybe his failures with me taught him to be a better father for Morgan; that thought should comfort me but it doesn't. It just leaves another bruise that'll never heal.
Before I could get a word out, Bucky placed a manila folder in my hands, in which your whole life was summarised into a few pages.
You were born into a broken home. Got hooked on morphine after a car crash before you were old enough to understand addiction. Life dragged you under like a riptide. Then OXE came along—dressed their greed as salvation, and offered you a second chance: redemption, they called it. You said yes. And they remade you—over and over—until you became more than they'd planned. And so they did what monsters do when something stops being useful: they tried to erase you.
Bile crawled up my throat as I read, so I slammed the folder shut.
"I hate to do this," Bucky said, voice low, tired, "but we really need your help, Clementine. Bob needs somewhere safe to train. You're the only one who still has access to the old Avengers compound—"
"Aren't you tired of this, Bucky?" I interrupted. And then, almost without thinking, I found myself echoing Vision's words: "Our very strength invites challenge. Challenge incites conflict. And conflict breeds catastrophe." I paused, letting the words hang. Then said, quieter, almost to myself, "What if we stopped this endless cycle? What if the extinction of heroes is what finally brings peace?"
I knew I was being unreasonable. Delusional, even. But God—I needed it to end.
The world had built itself on a factory line of suffering: take a broken person, turn them into a weapon, call them a hero, and discard what's left when they fall out of use. I was sick of it. Sick of being the cog that turns the next machine. Of watching people like you—like me—become obsolete the moment we stopped serving someone else's purpose.
For the first time in months, I felt tears rise—bitter, burning, clenched-teeth tears. Tears of resentment, of hatred, of exhaustion. I hated this world, Bob. This greedy, hungry world that always asks for more and more and more.
Bucky didn't try to correct me. He simply looked at me with a grief I recognized—one that said, me too.
~°~
The day I met you, every fibre of my body ached.
The Tower held too many memories for me—my father and Bruce working in the lab, Steve tearing punching bags, one after the other, in the gym, Nat fixing herself a drink at the bar, and Clint hiding somewhere in the vents, in the nest he had built. Each wall held the remnants of our beginning, of glory, of the fragile, fleeting moments we had once called happiness.
I couldn't breathe. I bit my bottom lip so hard it split open. The sting was sharp, the blood warm. It grounded me, though barely. My body stood in the present, but my mind ached for the past.
Then the elevator opened.
And there you were—all of you. The New Avengers. The replacements.
You were smiling. All of you, except Ava who stared at me with weariness, and Yelena.
God—her eyes. They were Natasha's. Or close enough that I wanted to crawl into the vents and never come out. I'd always thought it should've been me on Vormir. Nat was a star—our brightest. I was only a mote of dust, floating around in her light. Yelena's lips were pursed in disdain, but I didn't need words. I could hear the accusation: You killed my sister.
And I said nothing. Because I had no defence. I had lost a sister too, but it didn't matter. Not to her. Not to anyone.
Bucky had warned me about Alexei and John. And God, he was right. Alexei's booming voice rattled my skull, his eagerness to be an Avenger scratching at something raw inside me. He saw us—the old guards—as legends, and wanted a taste of the glory.
But the worst was John.
The shield hit me first. Then the anger.
I didn't know where to place it. Was it Steve? For choosing Peggy over Bucky and me? For making promises he never intended to keep? Till the end of the line. Ha! What a lie it turned out to be.
Or, maybe it was John, he who had desecrated something sacred.
My fingers tingled, fists clenched. Madness hovered at the edge of my mind, whispering, all it would take was one push, one slip, and I could burn it all down.
And then—
I saw you.
You stood behind the others, trying to fade into the background, and yet, your eyes found me.
They weren't cold or calculating. No, they lingered, soft and uncertain. Like someone reaching through fog with hands that weren't sure they deserved to touch anything at all. My heart stilled, like a bird folding its wings.
You were quiet. But not in the way people are when they have nothing to say. You were quiet like the moments before rain. And in that silence, something in me began to realign. A part of me that had been bent for so long I thought it had grown that way... started to straighten, just enough to breathe again.
I saw it in you, too—that fracture, that longing for gentleness in a world that offers none. You carried pain like I did, careful not to let it spill. It was then that I knew—we were the same. Both of us sharp around the edges, not from cruelty, but from being handled too roughly. Both of us looking for somewhere soft to land.
I don't know how I knew, Bob. I just did.
And then you spoke.
"Y-You probably don't remember," you stammered. "But we met at a kebab place once. Your dad signed my hoodie."
My mouth went dry. I didn't remember meeting you. But I remembered that night. I remembered the panic blooming in my throat. The way my hands wouldn't stop shaking. The way the streetlights felt too bright—like they were watching me.
It was as if the Earth might crack open beneath me. Again.
As if the sky might tear itself apart. Again.
As if the Chitauri were descending. Again.
And somewhere in that chaos—my father, falling, weightless.
Instead of dwelling on the past, I focused on you. "It's nice to meet you, Bob," I said as I offered you my hand. "I'm Clementine Stark."
"Bob Reynolds," you replied, wiping your palm on your sweatshirt before shaking mine. Your smile was wide and boyish, maybe a little too eager. "They also call me the Sentry. But you can call me whatever you want. Bob, the Sen—"
"Bob," Yelena interrupted with a nudge to your ribs. You let out a breath like you'd been holding it since I stepped out of the elevator.
Pairing: Bob Reynolds x OC
Tags: angst, romance, mental health issues (depression, bipolar, suicidal, etc), loss, mourning, grief, found family
Masterlist
Epigraph
"I am a dreamer. I know so little of real life that I just can't help re-living such moments as these in my dreams, for such moments are something I have very rarely experienced. I am going to dream about you the whole night, the whole week, the whole year."
― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, White Nights
Prologue
Dear Bob,
I'm writing this in case I never get the chance to say it aloud—because I've learned that silence can outlive the body.
It's strange, isn't it? I hope you never read this. And yet I hope you do. Because if you do, it means I'm gone—and my words are all that's left.
Death has always felt like a finish line I didn't choose, but one I kept running toward, carried by the ghosts of those who left before me. They told me to take my time, to live, but I couldn't—not after they died. Something in me curled up beside them. Something vital never came back.
The world called me many things over the years: asset, Avenger, Peregrine. Names like medals pinned to a skin I barely recognised. But the only name I ever wanted to answer to was "Sweetheart," whispered from your mouth like a prayer.
And I became greedy.
The more time I spent in your orbit, the more I began to imagine a life outside of war, outside of chaos and blood. A life where we were nobodies on a nameless patch of countryside in England. Chickens in the yard. Mud on our boots. A son with your messy curls and a daughter with my crooked smile. I saw it so clearly sometimes it hurt to blink.
It's 3:07 a.m. now. You're asleep in the room next to mine. I can hear your breathing, even through the wall, like tide against rock. It soothes and shatters me all at once.
Oh, Bob—am I selfish for writing this? For leaving you these words, knowing they might become another wound you'll carry? I don't want to be another weight on your back. I only wanted to tell you: you were my sun. My warmth. My undoing.
And like Icarus, I would fly toward you again and again.
I don't know how to hold all this feeling anymore. My chest is a cracked glass bottle—it leaks, it spills, it won't contain the ache. I've tried, I promise I've tried.
So please—please forgive me. I have to keep writing. It's the only way I know how to love you when I can no longer touch you.
Kat Anderson never expected to be taken in the heart of New York. She'd been to more risky places, after all. Hell, she'd once been targeted by a sniper trying to get under her Father's skin.
But it didn't stop her from waking up in a hospital bed, two hundred miles from home, wondering how the hell she ended up in that basement, wondering how the hell she was supposed to move on with her life, wondering what was behind the soft green eyes of the ADA assigned to her case. Wait, what?
Summary: Kat has a better idea of how to spend her and Rafael's second anniversary than dinner.
Warnings: MDNI, Smut, blow job, fingering, unprotected piv, creampie, desk sex, cunnilingus (because this is Rafael Barba we're talking about)
A/n: Kat is my OC, and this is part of a larger fic I'm working on. She has (non-sexual) trauma that results in her hair being pulled being a trigger.
Kat took a second to appreciate the sight in front of her: Rafael, hunched over his desk under lamp light, his vest hanging open, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. The lamp light accentuated the soft lines of his cheekbones, of his jaw, the random lighter strands of hair coming in at his temples. Her lips pulled into a small smile unconsciously, and she knocked on the door frame gently, raising her brows when he looked up at her.
“Did I lose track of time again?”
She huffed out a laugh and stepped into his office, closing the door behind her. “No, no, you didn’t. I moved our reservation to Friday.” She stopped next to him, leaning on the side of his desk.
Rafael sighed, dropping his pen and turning his chair, his hand finding hers. “Why?”
“I didn’t think you’d fully be there, that’s all. And I thought a night relaxing would be better worth our time.” Kat squeezed his hand. “You’ve been prepping non-stop all week.”
“I know, I just… this case is complicated.” He let go of her hand, smoothing his palm up her thigh, stopping just under the hem of her skirt. “Rape by impersonation technically–”
“–Isn’t a crime, I know.” She shifted closer to him, teasing as he pushed back from his desk. “You’ve talked it to death, Raf, and you know I think you’re doing the right thing. But right now, I’m here to get you to take a break.”
He tilted his chin up, raising a brow. “That sounds like you have an idea.”
Kat bit her lip and nodded, sinking to her knees in front of him. She smoothed her palms up his thighs, her shoulders dropping when he caught her hands with his.
“We’ve talked about this, Kat.”
“Oh, come on, guapo,” she whined. “It’s been two years. You can’t tell me you’ve never thought about it?”
“Oh,” his pupils dilated. “I promise you, I have. But I don’t trust myself not–”
“To pull my hair, I know. But I trust you, and that has to count for something.”
“Kat…”
“Rafi, I want to.” She shrugged, tugging her hands from his and continuing to smooth her palms up his thighs, just brushing against his crotch. “Sit on your hands. Please? Just once?”
Rafael watched her for a few moments, his hips and jaw shifting each time her fingers brushed against his crotch. She could see him hardening in his slacks, could see his resolve slipping, until he sighed. “Okay, okay.”
She grinned, shifting closer to him, her lower abdomen warming.
“Ah,” he interrupted, giving her a stern look. “Not so fast.” He pushed back from her and stood, methodically closing the blinds in his office, clicking the lock on the door, his arousal more obvious as he moved around the room. He slipped his vest off and unbuttoned his slacks, his suspenders allowing him to shift them down just enough. He made a show of sitting on his hands and then raised a brow.
Kat bit her lip again, trailing her hand up his thigh again, this time palming him through his slacks. She trailed her nose along the inside of his thigh as she stroked him, shifting closer on her knees, still sitting on her heels. She met his eyes as she tugged his shirt from his slacks, unbuttoning a couple of buttons to open it at the bottom, to keep it out of her way.
He was watching her intently, his breathing measured but unwavering so far, but she could see a faint blush on his cheeks, and it deepened as she pulled his cock out of his briefs, above the waistband so there would be no risk of his zipper snagging the sensitive skin. She spit in her hand and pumped him slowly, circling the tip with her thumb.
Her own cheeks were flushed; she could feel it, and she gave him a sweet smirk. “Did you know your cheeks only ever blush like that during sex? Every other time, it’s always your neck.” Her stomach clenched at the thought, at knowing she was the only one who got to see it, got to cause it.
“Yet you blush all the time,” he murmured, his voice rough, but not quite raspy. “How’d that work when you were a spy?”
She hummed, wetting her lips. “Control, and not having a hot fiancé who likes to tease.” And then she rose to her knees, swiping her tongue along the underside of his cock before taking him into her mouth. His groan, deep and raw and unexpected, went straight to her core, and she took him deeper into her mouth. She swirled her tongue around him, letting her eyes close for a few minutes, to savor him.
His cock was heavy on her tongue, the musky taste matching his natural smell with a hint of salty. The skin was soft against her lips as she slowly bobbed her head, and his breathing was getting heavy, quiet groans escaping him. She pulled away, focusing on his tip while her hand pumped the rest of him, and she flicked her tongue in the small slit, between her legs warmthing to an almost painful level as she tasted his precum for the first time. Kat trailed her lips down him, gently sucking as she opened her eyes again, looking up at him.
His eyes were half-open and trained on her, his lips slightly open. His tongue darted out, wetting them, when she met his eyes, and her name came out strangled.
She kissed back up his cock before swallowing him again, bobbing her head and hollowing her cheeks, her thighs pressing tightly together. She took a few deliberate deep breaths, preparing herself, and met his eyes again as she took him deeper into her mouth, until his tip and a bit slid into her throat.
Rafael’s head fell back, and his thigh tensed under her hand. “Mierda, Kat, Jesus fuck,” he moaned, his voice going higher like he was angry or overwhelmed.
Kat smiled around him and pulled back after another moment, breathing through her nose to catch her breath, her tongue twirling around him. She was out of practice and knew she wouldn’t be able to take all of him, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try. So she did it again, taking a couple of inches into her throat, and bobbing slowly until his hips started to jerk.
Then she pulled away, pumping him with her hand while glowering up at him. “You’re not going to hurt me, papí. Let go.”
His chin fell to his chest, his voice raspy. “Where the fuck did you learn that?”
“You weren’t my first everything, you know.” And then she took him back into his mouth, back into her throat, and swallowed. His eyes closed, a moan escaped him, his thigh tensed further under her hand, and his hips jerked, less controlled. So she did it again, and when he hardened further in her mouth, she pulled back and hummed at the same time. His cock jerked in her mouth, and she hummed once more, moaning as he came on her tongue.
She swallowed, only pulling away when he relaxed back into his chair, resting her cheek on his thigh as she caught her breath. Between her legs was pulsing, but she ignored it for the moment, smiling at him as he opened his eyes, chest heaving.
He shifted, pulling his hand from under his thigh to stroke her cheek. “You okay?” He rasped.
Kat nodded, her thighs clenching. “Never better.”
“You didn’t have to–”
She flicked his knee, cutting him off. “I wanted to. I like getting you off, the same way you like eating me out.”
His eyes darkened again, and he sat up with a quiet groan, tidying things on his desk just above and behind her. “Speaking of,” he pushed back again, giving her room to stand. “On the desk.”
Kat sucked in a breath and did as he asked but not before reaching under her skirt and pushing her underwear off, letting them fall to her feet, and then the floor as she sat on the desk.
Rafael grabbed them and raised a brow, smirking at the wet spot.
“Oh, shut up and make me cum.”
He chuckled, a dark, sensual sound, scooting forward and between her thighs. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am.”
She squeaked as he tugged her closer to the edge of the desk, pulling her knees over his shoulders. He was slightly hunched over, and she ran a hand through his hair to grasp the back of his neck. “You’re going to hurt your back.”
Rafael rolled his eyes, trailing his nose up her inner thigh. “I feel like you only ever call me old during sex.”
She shivered and leaned back on her other hand, looking down at him. “I wasn’t calling you old. I was calling out a fact of life.”
He shoved her skirt around her hips, looking at her through his eyebrows. “My back will be fine, I assure you.” His nose trailed further up her thigh until it brushed her labia, and his tongue traced the crease of her thigh. He smirked against her as she shivered again, and then traced her slit.
“Rafi, c’mon,” Kat whined, able to feel herself clenching around nothing, her stomach twisting.
“Patience, querida, patience.” His breath brushed against her, and she shivered again, and then he pushed his tongue into her.
A breath escaped her as his tongue pushed into her, just barely, until he found her clit, circling it. And then he flattened his face against her and sucked, and a moan ripped from her throat.
“Quiet, Kat,” he murmured, teasing.
She clenched her lips together, each whimper almost embarrassingly high, even while muffled.
He slipped a finger into her, and she clenched around it immediately, her stomach heaving and clenching at once. She lowered herself, knocking something to the ground, and bit her arm to muffle herself. He slipped another finger into her, thrusting them slowly at first, teasing her clit with his tongue, and her stomach tightened even further.
She pulled her arm away from her lips, just enough to whimper out his name, her eyes squeezing shut and her other hand tightening in his hair. She felt him smirk against her, and then he did the ‘come hither’ motion with his fingers, right against her G-spot. That was all it took for the knot in her stomach to burst, and her thighs tightened around his head, her fingers pulled at his hair, and her back arched off the desk as she bit her arm.
Rafael’s movements slowed, but only until her muscles relaxed around him, and then he sped up again. She was overstimulated, her thighs twitching next to his ears, her gasps sounding more like sobs. She knew he was giving himself time to recover, but he knew how to play her like the law, his fingers finding the right spots inside her, his lips sucking at just the right strength, his tongue pushing against her clit at the right times. She came again in no time, and this time she pulled at his hair, pulling him away, as her muscles relaxed.
He smoothed his hands along the outside of her thighs, resting his cheek against her inner thigh, pressing soft kisses to the skin there as she came down.
When she could breathe almost normally and her toes had stopped tingling, she pushed herself back into a sitting position, a laugh escaping her as she took him in. His hair was sticking at all angles from her pulling on it, his lips slightly swollen, the bottom half of his face shiny with her arousal. She plucked a tissue from the box on the corner of his desk, gently wiping his face as he looked up at her with that look that was saved for her.
He stood when she was done and brushed her hair behind her ear, his other hand still smoothing along the outside of her leg. “You alright?”
“More than alright. Is your mouth clean of gluten?” Kat asked, already urging his mouth to hers.
He responded by pressing his lips to hers, his hand resting on the side of her throat, his thumb caressing her jaw. She grasped the back of his neck tightly, pressing herself as close to him as possible, their noses smashing together as their tongues danced. This wasn’t the first time she could taste herself on his lips, but it was the first time the taste of him mingled with it, and warmth bloomed in her stomach again, spreading closer to her fingers and her toes with each second.
Rafael pulled her leg around his hip, grinding against her, his cock once again hard, sliding against her, against her clit. He pulled away, whispering against her lips, eyes searching hers, always checking. “Yes?”
“Yes, please, fuck,” she responded breathlessly, reaching between them to line him with her entrance. Her eyes rolled back into her head as he buried himself inside her, stretching her, filling her, and she dragged his lips back to hers. She trailed her hand up his torso to wrap it around his shoulders, wanting to be as close as possible, even with their clothes between them. It was absolutely salacious, being connected to him like this in his office, but she’d never felt closer.
Maybe it was because it was their anniversary, or maybe it was because he trusted her trust in him by letting her suck him off, or maybe it was the fact that they were doing this in his office, or maybe there was no reason. But she wanted to savor it, and she tightened her leg around him, a shaky hand resting under his ear, her thumb brushing his cheekbone, murmuring breathlessly: “Stay.”
He nodded almost imperceptibly, pressing closer to her, his hand leaving her leg to wrap around her waist. They were pressed as close as possible, forehead to forehead, nose to nose, lips to lips, chest to chest, stomach to stomach. Her body warmed even further, absolute adoration and love and understanding pumping through her veins, and she tried to push it through her kiss, and his hand tightened around her waist, and she knew he knew.
And she knew he felt it, too.
He slowly started to move against her, barely withdrawing from her before pushing back in, the drag of him inside her creating just enough friction for the warmth across her to turn tingly. She had to drag her lips from his, her breath coming out in low whines against his cheek. “Rafi,” she whimpered, grasping the back of his neck tightly, her other hand moving to clutch the back of his suspenders, needing anything to hold on to. “Harder–fuck–please?”
“Anything,” he gasped out, his breath warm on her cheek, and he trailed kisses down her cheek, her jaw, her throat, until his forehead could rest in the crook of her neck, increasing the sharpness of his thrusts against her as he went, burying himself in her again and again, until his hips were snapping against hers. His hand dropped from her throat to between them, his thumb finding her clit.
She was babbling in time with his thrusts, seemingly only knowing three words at that moment: “Rafi,” “fuck,” and “yes.” The tingling grew stronger, turning to pulsing under her skin, and then small electric shocks. Her head dropped to his shoulder, her babbling turning into gasps.
Rafael was grunting lightly in her ear, and in the back of her mind, she acknowledged that it was a good thing they were wearing clothes; skin-on-skin would no doubt be much louder if they weren’t. He shifted angles, now hitting her G-spot with each hard thrust, and she clutched his suspenders tighter, her knuckles burning. “C’mon, mi amor, I’ve got you,” he rasped, his arm tightening around her waist.
“Rafi,” she whimpered, “Please.”
“I’ve got you,” he moaned, “Mierda, Kat.” His hips jerked unsteadily against hers, his breath heavy in her ear, and then he gasped, “Come, now.”
And she fractured, her entire body going fuzzy, and she bit his shoulder to muffle her small shriek. He buried himself in her one last time, and she felt him pulsing inside her, felt his warmth fill her, heard his deep groan against her neck before her ears rang and she lost herself in the static of her orgasm.
When she came back to her body, Rafael was breathing more evenly in her ear, his hands smoothing up and down her sides. She let go of his suspenders as she slouched against him with a small whine, her body still a little fuzzy. “Was that a good enough break?”
He chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “Better than good. It’s even going to get me to go home, though I have a feeling that was your actual goal.”
She hummed and nodded against him. Kat let her leg fall from his hip as she pulled back, massaging the back of his neck and giving him a lazy, satisfied smile.
He smiled back, kissing her quickly, and spoke against her lips. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” She kissed him chastely before leaning back on her hands, rolling her neck. “We’re going to have to figure out dinner now, though.”
“We have leftovers.” Rafael plucked a few tissues from the corner of his desk before pulling out of her and gently wiping between her legs. He tossed it in the trash and grabbed her underwear, sliding it over her feet and over her thighs as she slid off the desk. He smoothed her skirt back over her legs and raised a brow as he rebuttoned his slacks. “Alright?”
She nodded, her brows pinching as she reached up, running her hands through his hair. She did her best to smooth it out, but eventually gave up with a sigh. “Your hair might give us away.”
“And whose fault is that?” He deadpanned.
“Oh, you like it, and we both know it.” She smoothed down his tie and stepped to the side so he could gather his papers. “You should probably bring some cleaning wipes with you tomorrow, wipe down your desk?”
He nodded absentmindedly, “Probably, but I’m not going to lie, mi amor, all I’m currently thinking about is getting home with you.”
“Oh.” She smiled to herself, a pursed, bashful smile. “Well, I’m ready.”
Rafael slid his papers into his briefcase, grabbed his vest, and then slid his blazer on, holding out a hand. “Me, too.”
Kat intertwined their fingers and unlocked his office door before letting him tug her out. They almost smacked into Olivia and Sonny just outside the antechamber.
Olivia looked surprised, speaking as she took them in, her voice confused. “Oh, Barba, just who we were–”
Rafael sighed, tightening his hand around Kats. “Can it wait until the morning, Liv? We were just on our way home.”
“I–” She looked over them again and smirked. “Yeah, it can wait until the morning. Anniversary dinner?”
Kat’s lips twitched.
“Something like that,” Rafael replied, pulling Kat away and tossing a “Good night” over his shoulder.
Kat couldn’t help it: she giggled incredulously. “She so knows.”
“Probably.”
Sonny and Olivia watched them go, and Sonny spoke quietly. “Do you think they just–?”
“Yes.”
“In his office?”
“In his office,” Olivia confirmed with a sigh, shaking her head. “It was probably Kat’s idea.”
In honour of plotting a BobxOC fic, I went ahead and wrote, well, the smut first, sort of like an avant-première. No Thunderbolts* spoilers! (I LOVE BOB)
Tags: mdni, unprotected sex, p-in-v, oral (m receiving), fingering, virgin!Bob, fluff (if you squint), overstimulation (Bob), praise kink (Bob/if you squint) & cockwarming at the end (lightly mentioned), fem!OC
Word count: 4.4k (of pure smut)
How innocent could a man in his thirties really be?
When Rae blindfolded Bob and told him to wait on the bed, that she had a second gift for him—he didn’t overthink it. He just smiled that soft, self-effacing smile, and did what she asked.
Because he never expected much for his birthday. It had been years since anyone remembered, let alone celebrated his birthday. What was there to celebrate, when all he saw in the mirror was a failure, a man who had wasted countless second chances, breathing the air he didn’t deserve?
But Rae didn’t see him that way.
She looked at him like he was a blessing. Like loving him wasn’t a curse. Like he was the miracle, not her.
And for once, all the noise in his head—the guilt, the fear, the ever-present echo of you don’t deserve this—went quiet when the blindfold slipped off. As his eyes adjusted, the first thing he saw was her: on her knees, lips painted in that vivid, sinful red that always made his pulse spike.
His breath hitched. “Rae, what are you—”
She tilted her chin down, playfully gesturing to herself as she smiled. “Happy Birthday,” she said.
She sounded confident, looked and acted like some grand seductress, but her heart was racing. Everything she planned—every move she was about to make—came from research. A lot of research. And porn. Too much porn. But none of it could fully prepare her for the way he was looking at her now.
Rae got the idea after a conversation following a heated kiss that left them tangled in the sheets, panting and buzzing. She'd asked, voice a little shy:
“Have you ever… had someone go down on you?”
“No,” he stammered, voice cracking a little. “I don’t—I mean. No.”
And Rae always remembered what Bob told her, even the littlest details.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
That stopped him. His lips parted like he might argue again, but she leaned in and pressed a kiss to the inside of his thigh. He flinched, shocked by the contact, and groaned softly, the sound involuntary and hoarse.
“I want this,” she said again, voice lower now. “I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.”
Bob swallowed hard. “I’ve never… I don’t know what to do.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” she whispered, trailing her fingers up his hardening bulge. “I’ll take care of you.”
He let out a broken breath. “Rae…”
Her fingers curled around the waistband of his sweatpants, and Rae hesitated for half a second, not because she was unsure, but because she wanted to savor this. The look on his face. The way his chest rose and fell, tight with anticipation.
Then she tugged gently. “Lift your hips for me?”
Bob obeyed, cheeks flushed, arms tense at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.
She eased his sweatpants and boxers down together, slow and careful, dragging them past his hips and thighs before throwing the bundle over her shoulders. His cock bobbed free—already half-hard, flushed and thick—resting against the soft line of his stomach. His size almost made her gasp but she bit down on her bottom lip to keep quiet, not wanting to scare Bob, who was clearly feeling more nervous than she was.
Instead, kissed the mole on his left hip and then, with the lightest flick of her tongue, she licked a slow stripe up the underside of his cock.
Bob gasped like he’d been shocked.
“Oh,” he choked out. “Oh god—”
Rae grinned wickedly around the head of his cock, her lips wrapping around it just long enough to swirl her tongue. He was already leaking—salty, hot, the taste sparking a nameless hunger inside her. She pulled back with a wet pop and looked up at him through her lashes, breathless and whiny as her tongue flicked against her bottom lip.
“You taste so good,” she moaned as she dragged her thumb over the slit of his cock, watching him shudder.
She pressed her palm firmly to his thigh, grounding him. “Easy,” she whispered, her voice low and coaxing. “I can show you how good this’ll feel, but you need to behave, baby.”
Bob let out a groan, and Rae could feel how hard he was trying—his thigh tensed beneath her hand, fists curled in the sheets as his chest rose and fell like he was running.
And then she leaned in again, lips just brushing the head of his cock, her breath warm and sweet where he was most sensitive. She didn’t rush—didn’t take him into her mouth yet, just hovered.
Close enough to drive him crazy.
“Good boy,” she said before taking him back in her mouth, down her throat.
His entire body shuddered—a helpless tremble that ran down his spine and bled into his thighs. Like the praise short-circuited something inside him.
He fisted the sheets hard enough to threaten a tear, forearms trembling with restraint, and his back arched slightly, hips twitching like he was trying so hard to stay still. His jaw slackened and his lips parted.
A soft, broken sound slipped out—half gasp, half moan—his eyes fluttering shut for a moment like he couldn’t bear how good it felt, how intoxicating it was to be praised like this.
And then he looked down at her.
God help him.
Rae was staring up at him with half-lidded eyes, dark and glossy and fixed entirely on him. Her mouth was wet, slick with spit and the shine of his precum smeared across her lips—a sight that made his stomach clench violently with arousal.
“You’re doing so good for me… my sweet, sweet boy.”
The praise dripped from her lips like honey, slow and thick, curling around his mind until it drowned out everything else. His cock twitched at the pet name, the last thread of rationality snapping as her words buried deep into his chest. All he could think about was being good for her, pleasing her, hearing her say it again, and again, and again.
My sweet boy.
His thoughts were a mess, heat and want tangled together, as her mouth worked him over. Every glide of her lips, every flutter of her throat had him gasping, panting, his eyes clenched shut as if the pleasure was too much to bear.
He was thick and heavy on her tongue, and she had to breathe through her nose as she took him deeper. Bob let out a strangled moan as he looked at her and felt like the world had stopped. His chest caved inward, breath caught somewhere between worship and horror.
“Rae—Rae, I can’t—”
She didn’t stop. She kept going, even when her eyes watered, even when her throat fluttered and her jaw ached. She gagged once, just barely, and the way he shuddered at that—
He didn’t mean to thrust.
But he did—once, but too deep.
She choked violently around him, and the sudden tight clench of her throat sent him straight over the edge.
Stars exploded behind his eyes.
Bob made a sound unlike anything he’d ever made—a half-shouted groan, strangled and raw. His body bowed forward, hands gripping her shoulders like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality as his cock throbbed violently in her mouth, spilling down her throat.
Rae’s body hummed with arousal and she could feel it gathering between her thighs. She wanted to touch herself, the taste of him overwhelming her senses—too sweet, too salty, too hot—and he made her feel like one of those actresses she saw while researching. Glamorous women writhing under perfect lighting as they pleasured their partners, all sighs and desperation; she thought it was simple exaggeration to fulfill male fantasy but here she was, pussy clenching around air, drunk on the taste of his cum.
After swallowing all she could, she finally pulled away, lips swollen and the lipstick long gone, a thin string of spit and cum clinging between her mouth and the head of his cock. Her eyes were glassy and cheeks streaked with tears.
And yet, she smiled.
A proud little smile that made his stomach and his cock twitch, already too sensitive but still caught in her spell.
Bob looked at her and forgot how to breathe.
He didn’t know whether to feel guilty for hurting her, or aroused beyond belief that she looked so willing for him.
She didn’t wait—didn’t give him a moment to catch his breath. Her hand found him again, fingers curling around his still-swollen length. He wasn’t fully hard, not yet, but he twitched under her touch, stiffening as she stroked over the flushed, oversensitive skin. Saliva slipped from her lips, warm and wet, beading at the head of his cock before gliding down his length, mixing with the slick already coating him.
“Rae, wait—” he gasped, hips jerking back instinctively.
Rae wrapped her pretty lips around his cock again, slurping loudly as she cleaned the mess she made, swallowing every single drop of his cum that she had missed.
“Oh God,” Bob whimpered. “I just came—Rae, please—”
But she was already moaning around him, already sucking greedily, hollowing her cheeks as her tongue teased along the slit. And that sound—that sinful hum that made her throat vibrate around him—made him feel like a madman.
Bob’s body went rigid as she took him deeper, the head of his cock hitting the back of her throat.
And he saw stars again.
His thighs clenched, groaning and panting, his hands clutching the sheets like lifelines. But he didn't stop her—couldn't. The way her throat fluttered around him, gagging just a little as she pressed forward again?
He felt his vision go white at the edges.
“God, you’re gonna kill me,” he gasped, voice cracking, tears in his own eyes now.
She pulled back just long enough to catch her breath, lips glistening and drooling. She didn’t wipe it away.
If he hadn’t promised to behave, he would’ve hauled her up and kissed her right then, just to taste himself on her tongue, to feel her skin pressed against his, her heartbeat thudding against his chest, her scent flooding his lungs like oxygen.
She flashed him a crooked smile, wicked with purpose, and then she went back to work—slow and deliberate, the suction just enough to unravel him completely. It pulled broken sounds from his throat, noises he didn’t recognise as his own, so pathetic, so helpless. His body trembled beneath her touch, and when he came again, she took it all, swallowed every drop.
This time, before she could reach for him again, before her hand could touch his twitching, too-sensitive cock, Bob pulled her up.
“Come here,” he murmured, voice still shaky.
Rae let out a surprised squeak as he tugged her upward, wrapping his arms tight around her waist and pulling her against his chest. He fell back into the pillows with her on top of him, completely spent, like gravity had finally reclaimed him.
She blinked. “Are you okay?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Just held her, one hand spread wide between her shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of her head like he wasn’t ready to let go yet. His heart was still pounding under her cheek, wild and uneven.
“I think my soul left my body,” he mumbled.
Rae laughed, the sound muffled against his collarbone. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re dangerous,” he shot back, still breathless. “I almost had a heart attack.”
“You wanted me to stop?”
“No,” he said too quickly, squeezing her a little tighter. “Definitely not.”
There was a beat of silence, warm and sweet and humming with leftover adrenaline. Then Bob asked, a little too carefully, “Where… where did you learn how to do that?”
Rae pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him. His cheeks were flushed, still pink from exertion, and there was something boyish about the way his brows were knit—like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer.
She tilted her head, smiling gently. “I didn’t.”
“You definitely did,” he said, eyes wide. “That was, like—you’re telling me that was …”
“Research,” she explained. “A lot of late-night Googling.”
He stared at her.
“And maybe some videos,” she added with a shrug.
Bob’s lips parted. “You did all that… for me?”
“Of course.” Rae smiled, brushing a thumb along the slope of his cheek. “I’d do anything for you.
Bob’s breath hitched. He blinked, like the weight of her words hit him somewhere deep.
“You mean that?”
“Of course I do.”
There was something raw in the way he looked at her now. Like he wasn’t sure what to do with that kind of devotion—like no one had ever offered it to him so freely before. They lay like that for a while—Bob half-dazed, Rae tucked against his side, fingers tracing idle patterns along the line of his abs.
She felt the shift before he spoke—how his hand that had been resting harmlessly on her waist twitched slightly, like he was thinking about something and trying to decide if he had permission.
Then, carefully, his voice, low and hesitant, he asked, “Are you… not wearing underwear?”
Rae smiled into his shoulder. “I was,” she murmured. “Took them off when I changed into this.”
She leaned back just enough to look at him, letting the silk of her nightgown shift slightly, thin straps slipping along her shoulder, the hem riding high on her thighs.
Bob blinked. His gaze flicked down, salivating at the sight of her milky skin.
“Can I… touch you?” he asked after a moment of hesitation.
Her heart skipped—was it anxiety or excitement? “Yeah,” she answered, trying to mask her eagerness. “You can do whatever you want with me.”
He let out a breath like he’d been holding it, and his hand—warm, calloused but unbelievably tender—slid down, moving from the curve of her hip to the dip of her thigh. He hesitated there, fingers splayed wide.
She guided him, gently pressing her hand over his and shifting it higher. “Here,” she coaxed him. “A little more.”
Bob followed her lead, his fingers brushing against the bare heat between her thighs, and he gasped—like he hadn’t been expecting her to be this warm, this… wet. And he felt dizzy, knowing that she got this wet just from sucking him.
“Feels… incredible,” he breathed out.
She pressed her hand lightly over his again, guiding his middle finger to her clit. “There. That’s the spot.”
He nodded slowly, eyes fixed on her face, and started to move—small, tentative circles, gentle at first like he wasn’t sure how much pressure to use.
But then his fingers adjusted, finding a rhythm that made her breath catch, squeeze her eyes shut, the movement smooth and just right, like instinct was taking over. Like he’d been born knowing how to touch her.
“Just like that,” Rae moaned, breath hitching. “You’re doing so good, Bob.”
Bob’s eyes flicked up to hers again, wide and reverent, as if he couldn’t believe the noises he was pulling from her. Like this moment was sacred—and to him, it was.
His touch grew more confident, more exploratory, and when she rolled her hips just slightly into his hand, his mouth fell open with awe.
She bit her lip, trying to stay quiet, but it was hard—the gentle swirl of his fingers, the way he watched her reactions like they were a map he was trying to burn into his mind, it was all too much.
“You’re a fast learner,” she breathed out.
He smiled, bashful and amazed. “Guess I just needed the right teacher.”
Rae laughed softly, hips twitching as he grazed her clit just right again. Her thighs trembled a little. “You're gonna make me cum if you keep doing that.”
His gaze darkened just a little—was it purely lust or something darker? More desperate? He craved to see her come undone in his hands, to hear her scream out his name.
And with the way he was touching her now, she was close to doing so.
His eyes never left her face. He looked like he was trying to memorize her—every twitch of her brows, every gasp, the way her lips parted when he circled just right.
Rae whined, hips shifting restlessly as she guided his hand lower, her own fingers wrapped gently around his wrist. She trusted him to follow.
And he did.
His fingers slid in slowly—two of them—careful and deliberate, and her body welcomed the stretch, the heat, the intimacy of it. She gasped loudly, feeling full.
A guttural sound tore free from his throat as he felt how warm, how soft she felt around him. He stilled for a moment, just to feel the way she pulsed, the quiet clench of her body drawing him in further.
“Is this okay?” he asked, voice soft with care.
Rae could barely nod. “Yes. Please—don’t stop.”
He kissed her shoulder, then her cheek, his thumb finding its rhythm again just above where his fingers moved inside her—gentle, steady, so achingly tender. His eyes stayed locked on hers, watching every reaction like she was something holy.
Her thighs trembled around his hand, her hands gripping at his shoulders now, her body caught between wanting to move and needing to hold still.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispered. “So beautiful.”
She nearly cried at how sincere he sounded, his words tugging at her heart.
Unbeknownst to Rae, Bob also had a trick or two up his sleeve—something he read somewhere a lifetime ago. He curled his fingers just right, and her body seized around him, a strangled scream ripping from her throat.
The squelches got louder and louder as he continued on, and she would’ve felt embarrassed for being so needy, so wanton, if he wasn’t fucking her so good with his fingers. So, she tugged his bottom lip with her lips before kissing him to hide the sounds that she was making.
When she broke the kiss, her head fell back, a scream tearing from her throat as her cunt clamped down hard around his fingers. Her voice trembled, fraying at the edges as she moaned his name again and again like a broken prayer.
“…You okay?” he asked quietly, blinking like he couldn’t believe what he’d just done.
Rae exhaled a laugh against his neck before pressing a tender kiss. “You’re not allowed to be this good on your first try.”
Bob flushed. “I just… paid attention.”
She leaned up just enough to kiss his cheek. “Remind me to make you ‘pay attention’ more often.”
“I can do that,” he said, perking up enthusiastically.
Bob gently pulled Rae on top of him, cradling her against his chest. The moment was tender, still and raw—the taste of intimacy dizzying, like drinking on an empty stomach. Desire stirred low in his stomach, curling tighter with every breath she took—her cunt was leaking over his cock, and he felt himself hardening again.
Bob swallowed thickly. “Rae?”
“Mhm?”
He lifted his fingers to his mouth, and he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “Can I…?”
Rae knew what he meant. Her breath hitched, chest fluttering. She nodded, unable to speak, watching as he slid his fingers past his lips, moaning softly as he sucked them clean.
“You taste so sweet,” he groaned.
Her sweet, innocent Bob.
She felt like the Devil for corrupting such a pure, innocent soul, but she found herself moving, slave to desire and lust, and straddling him.
He let out a laboured breath. She looked radiant like this: bare thighs framing his hips, nightgown rumpled around her waist, lips swollen and red from sucking his cock.
His fingers brushed along the outside of her thigh. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.
She rocked her hips and his breath stuttered, the hard length of him slipping against her soaked folds, her slick coating him inch by inch. It pulled yet another broken sound from his throat, somewhere between a whimper and a plea.
Rae flushed, not knowing where she found the courage to be so daring and controlling, but she didn’t look away.
Her hand curled around his cock again, and she sighed, guiding him to her entrance. Slowly, she sank down, inch by inch, moaning openly at the stretch. Her walls burned around him, fluttering and pulsing with every inch she took.
Bob gasped, his hands flying to her thighs, back arching off the bed. Every muscle in him went taut, trembling. She leaned down to kiss him, to soothe him, her breath still trembling. “Look at me,” she whispered, cupping his jaw gently.
And he did—wide-eyed and awestruck.
“You okay?”
He nodded vigorously, unable to speak. There were no words that could describe the emotions brewing inside him. It was more than love, wilder than lust—it gripped him like madness. He was given a taste of heaven—he had offered his innocence to his goddess, who then showed him what it meant to be wanted. To be loved.
And not for the parts of him he hid, but for all of it. For his quiet, hesitant heart. For the way he trembled under her touch. For the way he gave himself over so completely, so vulnerably, with nothing but trust in his eyes.
Rae smoothed his hair back gently, her fingers combing through the strands as he tried—and failed—to breathe evenly. And when she started to move, a slow roll of her hips, testing the rhythm, his head tipped back into the pillows with a low, wrecked groan.
Endless moans spilled from her lips, mixed with whimpers whenever his cock brushed past the soft, spongy spot inside her.
His hands slid up from her thighs to her waist, breath catching as he felt her clench around him. Rae's rhythm faltered—just slightly as her hips stuttered in their slow, steady roll. Her breath hitched.
She gasped. “Oh—” eyes fluttering shut, her thighs trembling where they pressed against his sides.
As she lifted herself again, ready to sink back down, Bob’s grip tightened on her waist. She stilled above him, blinking in surprise.
“Bob?”
He didn’t answer, just looked up at her and then, suddenly, his hips snapped upward, catching her off guard. Her breath hitched, a sharp cry escaping her lips as he hit deeper than before; the pressure was sudden, toeing the edge of too much and not enough all at once.
She tried to move—instinctively—but his grip tightened yet again, anchoring her to him, holding her in place as he thrust up again and again and again, relentlessly, in a way that made her head spin.
The sensation maddened her as he kept brushing that spot inside her, the one that made her toes curl and her breath catch in her throat. Her hands scrambled against his chest, nails digging deep into his skin. He didn’t flinch. He welcomed the sting, relished it—like her pleasure was something he wanted to etch onto his flesh.
“Bob—” she gasped. “I—what are you—”
“You looked like you needed help,” he murmured, voice thick with heat, rough around the edges. A little breathless. A little smug. Like he couldn’t believe he was the one doing this to her.
As he drove into her with a ruthless rhythm, making her moan in pleasure and in pain, the knot coiled deep in her belly finally snapped. Her mouth fell open in a silent cry, body seizing as pleasure tore through her in crashing, unstoppable waves.
And Bob felt it: every pulse, every flutter of her cunt gripping his cock like a vice. The intensity stole the breath from his lungs, forced a strangled moan from his throat. She clenched around him again and again, and he swore he could feel her heartbeat inside her walls, dragging him closer to the edge with each desperate squeeze.
His control shattered.
A low, broken moan tore from his throat as he sloppily thrust into her a couple more times, driven purely by instinct and need, chasing the high that tore through him with raw, blinding force, as he spilled deep inside her.
“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck—”
Rae’s back arched as he continued to fill her, thick pulses of cum spilling deep inside her, making her gasp as her body trembled around him, greedy and grateful all at once. She was still convulsing, her walls fluttering in the aftershocks of their shared release, when she collapsed onto his chest. His arms came around her, strong and grounding, holding her close.
For a long, blissful moment, Rae and Bob just stayed there, wrapped in each other’s arms, breath still uneven, skin warm with the afterglow. He hadn’t moved—still deep inside her, still holding her like he didn’t want to let go—and she was content to stay just like that, her cheek resting against his chest.
Then she shifted slightly, just enough to poke his cheek with one finger.
“Where did you learn how to do that,” Rae asked, cocking a brow..
The confident Bob—the one who’d taken control, driven her to the edge and right over it—was gone. In his place was the flustered, sweet man she adored, cheeks turning red.
“It just felt like the right thing to do,” he muttered, lips twitching as he fought off a bashful smile. “This might be the best birthday present ever.”
“Glad you think so,” Rae murmured, eyes fluttering shut again. “I don’t think I’ll be able to walk tomorrow.”
It was painfully clear that Bob had no idea just how… big he was. While Rae didn’t have much experience herself, she still knew enough to recognise he was well above average. The lingering ache between her thighs was proof enough.
And yet, even through the soreness, even though her hips were aching from his iron grip, all she could think about was how good he’d felt in her mouth—heavy, warm, filling her like he was made for it. She found herself already looking forward to the next time she could taste him, to watch him fall apart for her all over again.
“I’ll carry you,” he offered without hesitation.
“Yeah, and let the others find out what we did?” she snorted. “Absolutely not.”
As if on cue, a muffled shout came through the wall: “WE HEARD EVERYTHING!”
Rae groaned and buried her face in Bob’s chest. He blinked, looking absolutely horrified.
justice for rafael barba because he deserved better.
when in pain, fight pain with pain.
(I)
A mother weeps at the cradle of her babe—
a beautiful soul once held beneath her heart,
bathed in prayer.
She trusted the voice of the ever-merciful God,
the one who promised that life was a gift.
But what grace is this,
that cloaks despair in the name of life?
A heart that could not feel,
lungs that would never rise
to meet the kiss of fresh air.
Eyes that would never open
to the world’s quiet wonders,
ears that would never know
the sound of her voice.
And she hits the place where her own heart is,
she screams mea culpa—
my fault,
my sin.
There is no way to tell her beautiful babe,
the one who bore her eyes,
got his father’s mouth,
that she never meant for his first breath
to carry pain.
That she loved him—
so fiercely,
so wildly—
that she would tear herself apart,
without hesitation,
and offer the pieces
just to see him whole.
Because she cannot bear such guilt,
cannot watch him be forced to exist—
she,
a mother,
falls to her knees,
and prays
for her son’s death.
She begs God to hear her—
to show her son mercy
even when
it is already too late.
And her husband,
the father,
wails—
his son is there.
Still warm.
Still his.
He can be seen.
He can be held.
And how—
how can the mother
who should be nursing,
rocking,
singing,
speak of letting go?
He is.
That was all that mattered.
So he stands to fight,
to move mountains
with bare hands—
when his legs
could barely carry
the weight of his own breaking.
(II)
The mother and the father
seek the wisdom of Solomon.
They beg that their babe be seen—
as he is.
The mother steps forward:
“This is my son.
He is but
a beautiful lump of flesh.
My righteousness,
my faith—
they pushed him
into an existence of pain.
I prayed for miracles.
I tried to bargain
with the Devil himself.
But his mind
is already gone.
Only his body remains—
warm,
waiting,
but empty.”
And upon hearing those words,
the father roars—
“No!” he cries.
“He is still here.
He is.
He knows my touch,
he feels your breath.
He is warm because he is alive,
not because he was.”
He stumbles forward,
his hands reaching desperately—
as if love could tether a soul
that has begun to drift beyond them.
And beneath their guilt,
their sorrow—
the vessel of reason cracks
and overflows.
He was meant to be wisdom,
meant to be balance,
but even the wise
are not immune
to the tremble of love,
to the scream of parents
begging for opposite truths.
What is mercy,
when breath is a burden?
What is righteousness,
when the cost is a life
unlived,
unwanted,
unbearable?
Solomon
removes his crown
and bows low—
he blesses the babe
with trembling hands,
and prays—
not for justice,
not for pardon,
but for peace.
Then, with his sword,
he severs the silver cords—
those final, sacred threads
that bind the soul
to its vessel of sorrow.
And the babe—
freed from flesh,
from ache,
passes softly
into the arms
of the awaiting angel.
The world cries out:
Murderer!
Solomon has spilled the breath
of an innocent babe!
They call for judgment,
for blood,
for a name to burn
in the name of justice.
And Solomon—
still and sorrowful—
gladly takes on the blame.
Let the world stone me, he says.
Let them rage,
for the mother and the father
have suffered enough.
But the world does not care
that the vessel of reason,
the king of wisdom,
is still a man
beneath the crown.
His heart bleeds.
He trembles.
He weeps.
And as Solomon stands
to receive his judgment,
he does not deny
what he has done.
He does not flinch
from the truth:
he took a life.
That his hands, once lifted in wisdom,
are now stained with love’s darkest cost.
He does not plead.
He does not justify.
But the enraged People
do not accept his silence.
So he continues his confession:
“The mother and father showed me
the babe.
Beneath him were orange roses—
blossoms he would never smell,
never see,
never reach.
He would never feel the warmth of sunlight,
trace the shape of a cloud,
watch a rainbow dissolve into the sky.
He would never know the moon,
or the stars,
or the arms that held him.
He did not know his mother’s face,
nor his father’s voice.
He knew only pain.
That was his world.
That was his life.”
And without malice,
he turned to the People—
“Would you have borne
such a life?
To wake in darkness,
and never know
there was light?
To ache
and never know
the cause?
To be held—
yet never feel it?
To be loved—
yet never understand it?
Tell me,
in truth:
Would you have chosen to stay?”
The mother,
in her husband’s embrace,
wept—
and so did the People.
Their final verdict—
a merciful release.
They offered back his crown,
but he turned his gaze.
He was no longer a king,
no longer the vessel of reason.
He was only a man—
an Atlas unthroned,
who had borne the weight of life
in both hands
until his spine bent,
and his breath grew thin.
inspired by "insouciant angels" from Sylvia Plalth's Ennui and born from my obsession of unsub reid
In his eyes, they were insouciant angels of god.
Right and wrong mattered not—just cause and claim.
They answered cries with minds both sharp and flawed,
Then measured sin and pinned it to a name.
They took their trophies, lives beneath their gaze,
And walked through blood to earn the crowd's delight.
But he, who'd stared too long into the maze,
Now embraced the dark, his long-awaited rite.
A devil nests upon his shoulder bone—
It whispers, “You could’ve done it better.”
He nods: “One lie, and he’d have knelt alone—
No loss, no chase. Just order, bound in fetter.
I’d coax the blade into his trembling hand—
And teach him violence only I command.”
They whisper that his heart is hollow,
a vessel for reason, not refuge,
unyielding, when the fractured soul calls for softness.
They murmur of hands too coarse,
grasping where gentleness is needed—
when the pieces beg to be held like breath.
They do not see—
his hands
and the seams of his tailored suit
bleed red beneath restraint.
His heart,
torn in tender boyhood,
was never stitched whole.
He was the child
who learned to listen
long before he dared to speak—
for he had seen
what his voice could cost.
The price of an outburst:
fresh bruises blooming
on his beautiful mother,
whose only crime
was to have loved unconditionally.
His father—
the ruthless judge,
wielding violence
as if it were justice,
when in truth,
it was a coward’s verdict.
He had seen it
beyond the walls of home—
on cracked pavement,
in locker rooms thick with sweat and spite,
in classrooms,
behind the teacher’s back—
the one meant
to guard,
to see,
but never looking
when it counted.
Too soft.
Too smart.
Too something.
And he never forgot.
He fought
to get to the top.
Not to look down—
but to reach back.
Now, he is Michael—
not sent to soothe,
but to drive the serpent from the sanctuary.
“To be just,
it must be fair,”
he says,
the words drawn like a blade.
He has seen
what passes for fairness—
how it failed his mother,
failed the boy
he used to be.
And he is now the sworn watcher,
ever vigilant—
so that Justicia’s scale
does not tip
toward the serpent
wearing borrowed bruises,
while the garden is left
to rot around the petals
of the trampled.
There are days
when he catches his father
in the mirror—
the rage
coiled behind his eyes,
begging to be unbound.
The cunning serpent
slithers through the room,
manipulating
the soft-hearted,
the sympathetic,
turning justice
into theater.
It hisses in honeyed tones,
weeping at will,
masking venom
with victimhood.
It coils
not in pain,
but in performance—
for it knows
how to wear the wounds
it never earned.
And Michael,
with the fire in his chest
and the ghost of bruises
echoing down his bloodlines,
sees it for what it is.
He wishes to behead it
before God’s verdict.
To strike first.
To end it—
not in justice,
but in fury.
But he doesn’t.
He swallows the fire.
Turns it into light.
He is his father’s son,
born of fire,
forged in fury—
but he is also
his mother’s:
stitched together with delicate grace,
with love that did not yield
even when the world demanded it.
And that is enough to keep him in the light
But the serpent is never truly slain.
Like Hydra,
even when one head falls,
another rises in its place.
The garden still bleeds.
And so—
his watch continues.
His fight goes on.
ellievsbear
