All of these fics are short, but still amazing fics. I didn't intend on them all being short, but I guess that's what I personally like to read. I hope you all enjoy them as much as I did!
Bon Voyage Voyageurs by Frostberry
General Audiences - Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov - Completed
Spoilers for the book The Long Game
For his very last Montreal game, a reporter asks Shane a question about balancing hockey and his personal life concerning his boyfriend Ilya Rozanov. Shane answers them bluntly.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
Naturally, everyone is devastated.
This fic was a really fun read! Despite how short it is, I found it to be enjoyable.
I'm Sorry if I Hurt You by mannaray
Teen and Up Audiences - Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov - Completed
The Raiders have known about Ilya's Montreal girl Jane for years. After a rival game in Boston, they plot to find out who Jane is via stakeout. The only problem? The run straight into the Voyageurs.
The Voyageurs have known about Shane's Boston girl Lily for years. After a rival game in Boston, they plot to find out who Lily is via stakeout. The only problem? The run straight into the Raiders.
It is not canon-compliant, but it is still a good read. I often find myself not reading anything with canon divergence, but I found myself enjoying this fic.
can't rush the dawn before it is time by Wretchedheart
General Audiences - Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov - Completed
It was supposed to be a joke, okay? It was supposed to be funny, and they were all supposed to get a laugh out of it. Despite all of his protests, Hayden had thought he could get Shane to see the humor in it once he gave in. Except the longer Shane decidedly didn’t find it funny, the less entertaining it became for Hayden as well.
Hayden hadn’t ever actually done a deep-dive into the whole Hollanov internet obsession. He wasn’t prepared to have the cornerstone of his worldview be destroyed by a youtube compilation video.
--
The Montreal team watch a Hollanov compilation on youtube, for fun, and realize some things.
This is a great fic to read after the last one. Even though they have similar themes, the outcomes are very different. This fic is spoiler-free, but it is a good read if you have read The Long Game.
Shane's "Boston girl" loves Ilya Rozanov by vio_h13
Not Rated - Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov - Completed
“Now Cap, I need to know… If your Boston girl is a hockey fan, who’s her favorite player? Cause if she’s a Bears fan…” he got cut off by Comeau, who said teasingly, “I bet she has an Ilya Rozanov poster up in her bedroom”.
-------
Shane's teammates tease him about his Boston girl... who apparently loves the Bears?
This is short, but still a great insight into Shane's life during the events of Heated Rivalry. I wish there were more fics that exclusively had Shane in them.
Shane's heart shatters when he finds a ring at Ilya's, the kind you propose with.
A woman's ring.
With Svetlana's name on it.
This has an nsfw scene in the middle of it. Additionally, this fic is canon divergent, which takes place during the events of Heated Rivalry. The tags say it's angsty, but it isn't too bad. Possibly, I feel that way because I've been reading too much angst. It is also tagged as a minor character death, but I think that is because it mentions Ilya's dad. Overall, this is a good fic with a happy ending.
՞. .՞𐦯 Summary: Svetlana calls the Hollander-Rosanovs to inform them Andrei and Alexia have been killed. And that Katarina, his niece, has less than a week before she's officially filed in foster care.
Nobody wants to grow up in Russia's foster system. And Uncle Ilyushka of all people, would not allow it.
՞. .՞𐦯 Tags and Themes: found family, hollanov domestic fluff, hollanov kid, hurt/comfort, ilya and shane being girl dads, soft and domestic
՞. .՞𐦯 Word Count: 3.8k - Only a preview | full version.
elle here! sooo, tumblr could not take the 7.6k words on the full fic. this is the sweeter, shorter, and more condensed version of it. if it feels like some context is lost, you can read the whole fic on ao3. thats all, enjoy!
divider credit - v6gue
April, Ottawa
The sky of Ottawa is pitch black, soft sounds of snoring fill the room, darkest hour cloaking the peaceful home with silence and sleep.
The faint, red glow of the clock ticks at 3:04AM, the pair barely getting two hours of sleep in, not with their naked bodies cuddled together in rumpled sheets.
Then vibrations break the monotonous sound, a groan coming from Shane, a light sleeper through and through as he groans and blinks, easily roused from his sleep as he peers over to see Ilya's phone glowing on his side of the night stand.
He shakes his husband awake, much to great effort. Ilya Rozanov slept like a goddamn bear, unbowed and unyielding. “Ilya,” Shane grumbles, jostling his shoulder. “Rozanov!” he says with exasperation as the Russian gives him a petulant groan.
Rolling his eyes, Shane reaches across and his brows immediately raise, annoyance turning into concern. “Ilya. Ilya, it's Svetlana,” he says, now worried.
“Ilya!”
“What?” the Russian finally budges, groaning as he blindly feels for his phone. Shane hands him the vibrating device, the call ending as silence fills the room again.
“Must be wrong dial,” Ilya grumbles but then his phone comes to life again.
He rubs his eyes and blearily swipes on the green button, pressing the phone to his ear, yawning. “This better be something important, Svetik.”
“Andrei is dead.” is the sentence that greets him.
Ilya's eyes fly open as he immediately straightens up, like a bucket of cold water is poured on him. “What…?”
“The bratva got him and Alexia in a shootout.”
Shane is looking at him with worried and curious eyes, barely able to grasp anything from the conversation as he sits at a distance from Ilya before his husband jumps off the bed, hurriedly wearing boxers.
“Katya? Is she okay? What happened to her? Where was she??” he asks in rapid succession.
Katarina Rozanova was five. Roughly just a few months when Ilya had cut ties with that family. But amongst his ire, only precious little Katya was free from it. He sent gifts annually through Svetlana, making sure she got them. He put a lot of money on a trust for her high school and college studies, was contemplating on a travel fund for her as well.
And now…
“She's fine, she's alive. A nanny was looking after her, and nothing bad happened to her..” Svetlana assures as he feels his legs turn into jelly, ducking down to try and hold back the emotions welling into him. “...Good,” he sighs in English.
“She will have to spend a week in custody before being released into the foster care system—”
“No!” Ilya nearly shouts through the phone and she has to flinch and distance it from her ear due to the sheer volume of his distress, startling Shane as well.
Nobody wants to grow up in Russia's foster system. And Dyadya Ilyushka of all people, would not allow it. Not with the shitty cell-like bunks, the less than nutritious food, the overloading of children, the mistreatment, the malnourishment. He could not allow it. Not on his conscience.
Andrei was a shitty brother. Grigori a horrible father. Russia was everything he despised and never wanted to go back to except her. And Irina would certainly be upset if he allowed her granddaughter to be stowed away like cheap garbage.
“Слушай. Я забронирую билет на самолет в Москву. Я позову Катю, ты должна мне помочь.” Listen. I'll book a flight to Moscow. I'll get Katya, you have to help me.
“Обязательно. Встретимся в аэропорту имени Кеннеди, но ради бога, хотя бы расскажи своему мужу, что происходит.” Absolutely. We'll meet at Kennedy Airport, but for fucks sake, at least tell your husband what's going on.
Right.
Ilya ends the call abruptly and swallows down the lump on his throat. “...My brother got killed,” he says, and Shane knows that's not the part that had upset him. “And they're throwing my baby niece in…in,” he struggles through English, not knowing what they called it. “Child prison. Like orphanage, but not,”
“Foster care?” Shane supplies helpfully as Ilya frantically nods.
“Shane,” he breathlessly says, collapsing by his husband's side of the bed, knees on the carpet. “I cannot let her.”
“Okay,” Shane sucks in a deep breath, “Then bring her here.”
“Ilya!” Yuna's breath clouds up as she rushes to him, giving him a firm hug as he shakily wraps his arms around her. It was at the asscrack of dawn, clocks striking 4:30.
“You take care out there, okay?” David's voice comes from behind him handing Ilya a steaming cup of Timmy's coffee, one for the road before he had to go through immigration for the earliest flight he could book to New York.
“We'll hold the fort down here,” he assures Ilya, rubbing his shoulder and giving him a firm hug while Shane unloads Ilya's bag from the car.
Ilya is trembling, and English is currently lost on him. Jaw sewn taut, the coffee barely nipping at the cold dread that seeped into his bones, but he was grateful. That his Hollanders would always have his back as Shane steps in and gently rubs Ilya's arm. “I'll have dad help you in,” he softly says as he glances at his parents to look away momentarily.
“Ilya,” he softly says. A voice that had always been good at tearing him away from the crutches of his own thoughts. “Ilya, look at me,” Shane softly urges, knowing he himself didn't hold eye contact just as long. But he had to see Ilya before he goes.
“I love you,” he mumbles, lips cold and slightly dry as Shane inches closer. And Ilya is careful to nurse the cup of coffee behind his husband as he desperately reaches across, his kiss scared and fervent. “I love you too,” Ilya whispers against Shane's lips.
“Thank you, Shane,” he sighs and closes his eyes, brows knit tightly. “I do not know why I am terrified,” he says, accent thicker than usual, “I am, Shane,”
“Shh, shhh,” Shane envelopes him in a hug, extending the hope that nobody that could recognize them in the dark car park would. “I know you are,” he sighs and rubs Ilya's back, “But I'll always be back here. You'll be with Svetlana, yes? And before you know it, you're back,” he assures with a soft smile, “And with Katya in tow,”
“With Katya,” Ilya nods and takes a deep breath, steeling himself as he presses one last kiss to Shane's lips. “Wait for me,”
“I will,” Shane nods with a smile, waving as David helps Ilya with his bags, walking towards the desolate and quiet airport.
Ilya's heart breaks.
She was so tiny.
What exactly did Andrei feed this little girl?
She was seated so primly, so properly at the Women and Children's Safety Department waiting room, the sterile white nearly swallowing her whole. Her hands were placed perfectly on her lap, eyes looking down at the floor, and her legs scarcely swinging. Ilya could tell she wanted to, to break the monotony and regulate herself but she had been stiff as a board.
She looked a touch like Irina with golden curls that were tied into twin ponytails, her pouty little lips so Andrei it made Ilya’s heart clench. And of course, the blue eyes that defined a Rozanov child. She looked nothing like her mother.
He slowly approaches her, immediately shrinking down to her level as she startles a little when he comes into view. And for the first time in Russia, his voice is soft.
“Hello, Katarina.” he offers her a gentle smile, “Do you remember me? ”
The little girl shakes her head with a small pout.
“Ah, maybe Uncle Ilyushka would help?” he offers as she finally looks up, seemingly scanning such a familiar yet strange face.
“Uncle Ilyushka?” she mumbled and repeats. “From the stories?”
Ilya smiles, gently placing a hand on her knee, looking for a negative reaction. “Yes. Yes, that's me.”
“You're papa's brother?” she tilts her head. Smart girl, and Ilya could only assume Andrei has not talked bad about him. Probably couldn't due to Katya's money from him.
" Yes, papa's brother." he softly says.
Steering himself, he takes her small hands into his, a hidden little sweetie now slipped onto her hand as a peace offering of sorts. "Do you know where your mama and papa went?" he asks, trying to grasp the situation.
And her response splits his heart into two. "Heaven." Katya softly says, looking down at her lap.
Ilya couldn’t help it, gently collecting the small girl into his arms as she easily wrapped her arms around his neck. She was so light, lighter than she should be for a five year old, and yet the burden she carried had nearly weighed her down just as easily.
And within his arms, a dam breaks, her lips quivering as Ilya rubs her back, the very first comfort she had received since watching her parent's coffins get lowered down the cold earth. "It wasn't your fault, Katya," Ilya assures her, hearing the small, broken sob tear through her lungs as he shuts his eyes tightly.
"Uncle Ilyushka is here now."
After a while, the door to the processing room swings open, Ilya looking over his shoulder when the clerk finally calls their names as Svetlana motions her head towards the door. Ilya sighs and gently takes her hands. "Uncle would make sure Katya is okay, yes? Come." he beckons her as she stands and fluffs her dress off before heading inside the office hand in hand.
"All handled?" Ilya subtly asks in English, and Svetlana gives him a subdued but certain nod. The both of them know this is just a formality, that ultimately—with 11 million Russian rubles, Katya was going to go home with Ilya. Money moved things ahead, that much Ilya knew.
Ilya gently guides Katya out the shower of his hotel room, not bothering to stay at his old home. He didn't know what he was doing, and he would've done it with Svetlana's help, but if he was going to raise Katya, he had to know how to do it himself.
He gently pats her hair dry with a soft towel, small head so delicate and nearly gets engulfed by his hand as she closes her eyes and lets him. Growing up with a nanny has made her acclimated to strangers and it scares him just how easily he had been able to take her home, his only obstacle the Canadian immigration when they finally obtain Katya's passport from the police.
And once he pulls over some jammies on Katya, his phone buzzes and they both look at the device. Is it the police? she softly asks as Ilya grabs it and he softly smiles.
Jane. All these years, and he hadn't changed it. Like an inside joke, rather than an actual secret.
“Sweetheart,” he greets, the FaceTime shifting to Shane as he tiredly beams at Ilya, glasses perched on his nose. “Hey, how is it there?” he asks before Ilya angles the camera down, facing it to Katya.
The little girl looks up at him with uncertainty. "Who is that?"
"My husband."
Katya blinks, eyes scanning Ilya, clearly calculating the arrangement laid in front of her. "So, you are a wife?"Ilya could only laugh. Soft and gentle. “She thinks I am wife,” he explains to Shane who he could see is already smiling.
"She's not wrong,”
“Yeah? So confident about it now, Hollander,”
“Introduce me properly to her, asshole,” Shane bites back a grin.
“Hey, watch language, there is a child!” Ilya immediately protests as he sees Shane chuckle before he places the phone properly against the bathroom counter, hoisting Katya on his lap.
"Katya, this is Shane. He is my husband and the one who is waiting for you at home."
"Home?" Katya asks, worried "What about home here, Uncle Ilyushka?"
Shane quiets, glancing at his husband through the screen as Ilya takes a deep breath. He could not find himself to lie to her, he had to have more faith in Katya's abilities to process certain things, underestimating Katya now wouldn't do her any good and he knows to a certain extent, she knows her parents are never coming back.
"Katya, since mama and papa are in heaven now, someone has to look after you." he whispers and gently caresses her face. "You have to come to Uncle Ilya and Uncle Shane to be safe."
"So I'm gonna come with you? To your house?"
"Yes, Katya. To Uncle Ilya's home."
"So that Katya would be safe?"
"So that Katya would be safe."
"My, my, crying already?" Svetlana pushes through Ilya's hotel room, the piercing cries of Katya ringing through the hallway.
Ilya gives her a tired, pained smile as he soothingly rubs Katya's back. "Do you think the hotel staff could be discreet about this?" he softly tells her in English to spare Katya the additional toll on her pride and Svetlana's gaze drifts through the soaked sheets where Katya had slept.
"Katya is a bad girl. I'm sorry Uncle Ilyushka." she sobs, clinging to his shirt as her eyes grow puffy and red, terrified of the repercussions she might face and it makes his heart crumble to bits by the base of his stomach.
He knows exactly what it was like, to soil the bed and be hit as a punishment in turn. By age six, he'd known how to hide wet and soiled sheets from his father, the first of his many lessons in hiding. And he decides that Katya was not about to suffer the same fate as other Slavic children. She had just witnessed her parents get buried six feet deep and now some strange man she could only recognize from stories had come to take her away from her home, Ilya could justified soiled sheets just as readily.
"No, no. You're not a bad girl, okay?" he soothes, "Yeah, you had an accident, but Uncle isn't going to hurt you." he placates and wipes her tears from her thin cheek, skin smooth and warm to his huge, calloused touch.
Her lower lip trembles, hiccupping so hard she's turning red and breathless as Ilya blows on her face to try and calm her down, rubbing her thin arms with a firm yet painless grasp. "Does uncle hate me now?" she asks heartbreakingly.
Ilya shakes his head, pressing a gentle kiss on her forehead shaking his head, "Uncle could never hate you," he reaffirms in English before taking her hand, guiding her to the bathroom as he takes a deep breath.
"Hi," Shane breathlessly greets, immediately engulfing Ilya into a hug, relieved and nervous all the same as Ilya groans and presses a kiss on Shane's temple, then his nose, then his lips, tongue immediately slipping through as he holds his husband close. It had been too long.
"Hi, my love," Ilya smiles, caressing his husband's face before breathing in his scent, nose pressed to Shane's crown. "I'm home," he mumbles against the soft, black tufts. "Mhm, welcome home."
Ilya steps back just a little, gently lowering the pink bag by the entryway and finally moving aside as Svetlana gently guides Katya up the steps to their front steps with a smile to match her touch. "Meet Katarina," she smooths her hair down and Shane is positive he could have a heart attack right there, on their porch. Squatting down to the little girl's level, Shane sticks his hand out with a safe distance with an accommodating smile.
"Hello, Katya. My name is Shane," he softly greets. Katya looks up at Ilya with wariness in her eyes but her uncle simply nods, and she shyly takes Shane's hand, the strange man shaking hers gently. Not too long, but the touch was friendly. Welcoming. Warm.
"Welcome home." he tries, looking up at Svetlana hopefully as she stands by the door with Katya's bag in tow, receiving an approving nod for his pronunciation.
With her small hand encased in Ilya's, they guide her to the guestroom right beside theirs, Shane opening the door as the scent of vanilla diffuser greets them. Her name was carved out in wood with English letters, Katya.
“This is your room now,” Это теперь ваша комната. Shane and Ilya speak in tandem, one after the other.
“If you need anything, you tell Shane or Ilya,” Если вам что-нибудь понадобится, скажите Шейну или Илье.
Katya has a death grip on the hem of her grey dress, still unsure of the offer as Ilya softly chuckles and grabs Shane's hand, guiding his husband to sit on the lowered montessori bed, before beckoning her closer.
She pouts, lower lip wobbling while approaching them with gingerly taken steps as Ilya welcomes her into his arms and whispers, “В этом доме можно плакать, Золотце,” It's okay to cry in this house, precious.
And she does, sobbing quietly and clambering up into Ilya's arms, she cries her tiny heart out. Shane couldn't pin whether its the pressure of being in a foreign land with strange people, or the relief of finding a home after a devastating tragedy for her.
What mattered is that she could cry into Uncle Ilyushka's arms, safe at long last and never going back to Russia. Ever.
After a tumultuous afternoon of barely touched food and acclimating her to the home like a skittish kitten, Katya has finally gone to bed.
“Do you think we'd be…okay at this?” Shane asks, head now resting on Ilya's chest as he sighs and traces his husband's skin. “We're basically like, her parents now,”
“We have to try, sweetheart,” Ilya presses a kiss to his crown, missing him so much after a week of being apart. “I think I have to talk to Coach Wiebe for an extra time off,”
“But you just started,” Shane lifts his head with a small frown. “We can think of something else,”
“Shane,” Ilya chuckles softly, “Is okay, my love. Centaurs still at early stages of thawing,” he assures him, “Won't make it to play-offs this season, I am sure,”
“Thawing huh, big word,” Shane smiles with amusement.
“I am learning,” Ilya simply beams and settles into their sheets further. “I think you keep speaking to Katya in English. She is watching the English kid shows, downloaded some before flying,”
“I will. Not like I have much of a choice, her Russian is more advanced than mine,”
“And I heard uh…children's brains are like sponge, Yuna said. Fast at processing information at that age,”
“And it would take her a while to unlearn a few things from Russia,” Shane adds, which makes Ilya freeze a little before nodding. “Yes. The faster she grows out of those, the better,”
Shane pulls the covers over them with a ponderous, far-away glance. And Ilya just watches with a fond smile, waiting for his husband to give his sale's pitch. He always did, especially for situations like these. “When Katya is ready to integrate into school, I have looked into Elmwood. They're international and have a few Russian students among them,” he starts.
“But for now, if she can handle it with the stress of moving here, we can hire her an English tutor. I highly doubt she'd be comfortable left with me just yet,” Shane starts compartmentalizing while Ilya just stares and watches his husband like he had hung the stars.
“I don't know how she's going to be with doctors, but I have a pediatrician's number on standby, closest we have from here but also with glowing reviews, of course,” he mumbles with a focused furrow between his eyes, “She’s so thin, Ilya…what could we make to have her eat more? I do have a nutritionist's contact saved but I think what matters most is her preference for food,”
“...You really thought about it, huh?”
“How could I not?! Ilya, there's a whole kid right next door,” Shane looks at him like he had grown a third head, “You haven't?”
“Honestly? My only thought was getting her out of Russia,” Ilya sheepishly admits, “My plan would've…what's the word, come and go,” he shoots his husband with a boyish, almost apologetic smile.
“But that's why I'm grateful to have you, yes? Boring logistics and all that,”
“You're lucky to have me, asshole,” Shane couldn't hide the quirk of his lips while shoving Ilya's shoulder away playfully.
Suddenly, they hear the small patters of feet against the wooden floor and Katya finds their door ajar. Peering inside, she immediately starts to retreat when she sees her new uncles now in bed, resting.
But Ilya calls out to her, soft and gentle. “Katya,”
She peers through again, and he is getting out of bed before ducking to her level, “Yes, bunny?”
Katya shakes her head, “Nevermind, uncle. I'm okay.”
“No, no, tell me. What do you need?”
Katya fidgets with her small jammies, still hanging off her thin frame as she presses her lips together and finally caves, tiptoeing to whisper in Ilya's ear, still shy with Shane in the room. “I can't sleep, I'm scared.”
“Do you want uncle to sleep next to you?” Ilya asks as she shakes her head, clearly cognizant enough to not want to pull her uncle away from his husband.
But Shane just smiles and approaches the both of them, rubbing Ilya's back. “You can have Uncle Ilyushka,” he assures her. “When Uncle Shane couldn't sleep, I also look for Uncle Ilya to help me,”
Katya blinks, still hesitant but ultimately relaxing her grip on her now wrinkled pajamas. Both Ilya and Shane wait patiently for a response.
Shane doesn't take it personally, already expecting as much that Katya would prefer Ilya over her. The familiarity and family ties are right there, and he was foolish to be jealous of a struggling five-year old. And he knows Katya could feel that.
So before they both know it, Ilya is crammed with Katya in her bed, now fast asleep as she cuddles in close, drifting off to dreamland.
June, Ottawa
“More please,” Katya lifts up her plate to Shane as he and Ilya shuffle around the kitchen, accent still thick on her tongue, but trying nonetheless.
“How many do you want, princess?” asks Shane, glancing sideways to check how many were left of the tuna melts Ilya had made. It was one of the few things Katya could actually finish, and exploring her palate was not their number one priority.
Not when she had night terrors, or threw up occasionally, or made accidents on her bed. Their priority was trying to improve her quality of life.
Which Shane could only hope was working for Katya as she shows two fingers. “Here you go, princess,” he softly says, serving up two small slices of tuna melt. Katya gives him a small, shy smile, “Thank you,” she says.
Her English had improved significantly. With basic words such as ‘hello’, ‘thank you’, and ‘may i have’, and ‘need potty’,the understanding of the language easy for her impressionable mind. Her hesitance towards Shane had whittled down into instinctive shyness, but nonetheless, her acceptance of her current situation was steady. And that much was enough to relieve Shane.
In turn, Shane's understanding and reception to Russian had improved. He could keep up slow sentences and few words Ilya would use regularly.
“How do you like it, bunny?” Ilya asks while wiping his hands on a kitchen towel.
“It's good, uncle Ilyushka,” she says, while swinging her legs from the high stool of the kitchen counter.
“That's good,” Shane sighs and gently caresses Katya's cheek, unable to help himself. It had been filling out nicely, since she got here despite the off chance she expelled her food.
“If you need anything more, just tell us,” he says, now a regular mantra, an assurance for the young girl they could only hope she would never forget.
“Any plans today?” Shane asks Ilya, hands snaking into the back pocket of his husband's shorts.
“I was thinking…” Ilya says, draping the kitchen counter cleaner on the handle of the dishwasher. “Maybe its time we start to try taking her to the supermarket?”
“Both of us? Wouldn't that be risky if someone spots us? You take her, I'll stay home,” Shane frets. Being outed was one thing, but being swarmed with paparazzi would be a match made in hell for Katya's adjustment.
“Right,” Ilya sighs and squeezes Shane's free hand, “I'm sorry if there aren't opportunities for her to…bond with you outside,” he apologizes but his husband just gives him an assuring smile.
“We'll have our time, what's important is she gets to spend some time outside too,” Shane caresses Ilya's face. “I'll go prepare her clothes, have her finish her food,” Shane gently presses a kiss on Ilya's lips, unabashed in his love, especially in front of Katya. Ilya gives his butt a love tap, garnering a playful glare from Shane as he retreats to Katya's room.
“Bunny,” he addresses her, leaning against the other side of the counter, "You're coming with me to the supermarket today. ”
And a twenty minute journey later, with a very cute ensemble of denim overalls and a frilly blouse beneath, the pair had arrived.
“Me-tro,” Ilya pronounces as Katya parrots while they walk small hand in a calloused one towards the entrance from the parking lot.
“Meh-tro,”
“Close enough,” Ilya shrugs and smiles as he grabs a cart and gently deposits her into the child seat. “You tell uncle what you want, yes? We will practice English while buying things lunch,” Ilya says and taps her nose as she softly chuckles and nods.
He adjusts his shades and ballcap of the Phoenix Suns, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible because ESPN would have a field day if they spotted thee Ilya Rozanov with a child. But he could never hide Katya away, his heart wouldn't be able to take it.
Rolling the cart in, he could see Katya looking around, taking in everything as she blinks and nearly short circuits at the sights and smells of a Canadian supermarket. Not like the small grocery stores back in Moscow.
“What that?” Katya immediately points once they get to the meats section and Ilya sees the sign ‘Moose’. Good lord, Canada.
“Is moose,” Ilya says, “Something like Лось,”
“Do they sell moose here?” Katya's eyes widen and Ilya couldn’t determine if it was wonder or disgust as he shrugs. “Well, yes,”
“Try?” Katya looks up at him all amazed and awe-struck, Ilya's resolve immediately crumbling. He doesn't think Shane would partake, and if Katya decides she doesn't like it? Well, Ilya Rozanov's diet would be moose for a whole day. And that was a gamble he was willing to take, always.
“Okay, let's try,” Ilya chuckles. It was dangerous—unable to say no to his pretty little niece.
Shane was going to kill him for not sticking to the list.
Then again, if it was for Katya? He knows he'd get away with it.
Shane and Ilya immediately avert their gaze when Katya looks up. They don't mean to hawk over her while she tries seared moose meat, but every reaction was one they didn't want to miss. They hear the cutlery scrape against the plate and the pair look back when Katya takes a bite. Then chews, then sticks her tongue out when she spits the gamey meat back out.
“Ah, figured,” Shane softly chuckles, a little relieved that Katya didn't force herself to eat just about anything anymore. The first week she had arrived to them, she would force herself to keep everything down and be sick afterwards.
At least now, she wasn't scared to be honest.
“I don't like it,” she frowns as Ilya nods and takes the plate. “At least you tried it, princess,” Shane pats her head. “Now, would spaghetti be alright for dinner?”
“Yes, uncle Shane,” she nods, now a little shy but once she sees Ilya taking her spoils down the house, the calmness seeps into her with a warmth she couldn't explain. The safety these two men provide her.
Ilya, for the most part, slept like he was constantly hibernating. Save for the fact that he had edged Shane the night before six ways to Sunday, he was knocked out cold.
As compared to his husband who couldn't wake up any later than his body clock allows. No matter how tired, how spent he was.
And with ritualistic care, Shane has always started his Sundays swiffing, cleaning, and tidying up. He fondly smiles when he straightens the askew bunny Jellycat on the couch, Katya's presence making this house brighter. Her toys had been tucked neatly in the box by the edge of the couch, always so perfectly kept by the little girl, a poncho for summer showers hanging by the coat rack beside the foyer's console, tiny shoes beside their much bigger ones.
A full house.
Once Shane shuts the cleaning closet, he could feel a pair of eyes on him right by the stairs as he turns and sees Katya hide behind the wall. Chuckling, he faces the stairs and calls out to her, “Come, Katya. It's okay, you can come down here with me,”
And a beat later, the fluffy blonde curls peek out followed by baby blue eyes.
“Are you hungry? I can make you breakfast,” he offers, waiting for her by the base of the stairs as she shakes her head but ultimately takes his opened hand, just standing there all shy but wanting to somehow have his attention. And she had it.
“What do you want to do then? While we wait for our Ilyushka to wake up?” he smiles and bends to her level.
“Watch Blue's Clues? With uncle Shane?” she suggests and truly, who was Shane to say no to such a sweet request.
He nods, guiding her to the living room and putting on Blue's Clues from the hard drive Yuna had found while rifling through Shane's childhood things in hopes of finding something for Katya. He readies the couch for her and sits down, patting the space next to him while Katya stands in her jammies, curls unruly and still smelling like sleep.
She takes the spot, closer to Shane than he had expected and his heart just melts when she slumps down by his side. He hums and adjusts his arm, making sure she's comfortable.
He could cry. She was small, and warm, and so lovely. His and Ilya's baby girl.
She lays her head on his lap, an attempt at closeness while her show plays. And Shane finds himself digging through her small hair care pouch on the coffee table while brushing and carding through her curls, always looking for negative reactions. But the buzz of the television and Steve's voice simply fills the silence between them, the comforting caress of his hands and the brush lulling Katya into a sense of security.
Her uncle Ilya was clumsy, and didn't know much what to do with her hair, but her uncle Shane was good and nice at it. Katya liked uncle Shane, how he didn't hover but somehow was always a steady presence for her. She could see how much he loved her uncle Ilyushka, and that much was enough for her to love him too.
She likes it here. In this strange country, in this strange place, with her two uncles who would always catch her when she falls.
Ottawa had a more different smell than Moscow. But when the kitchen smells of tomatoes, or maple syrup, or when the sounds of laughter ring from the hallways, or the warmth of the water laps up her skin during bath time – she knew she was home.
“Hey, Shane! You got a package,” Trevor, one of the Voyageurs’ assistants, announced.
It was Valentine’s Day, and while it was uncommon for players to receive gifts, it wasn’t unheard of. Sometimes wives but more often wannabe girlfriends sent cigars and even shoes in hopes of being a first – or next – baby momma.
Shane, of course, had never dated anyone over Valentine’s Day before.
Well, he wasn’t dating anyone now, per se. Not really. It was more of a situationship, right…? That’s what people called causal hookups over the course of…years.
Shane hesitated before looking up from his locker after the sudden whistles and wolf calls shifted into growls and scoffs of displeasure.
Trevor was holding a stuffed teddy bear. An obscenely large teddy bear that one person could barely carry on their own. In between its massive paws was red and white heart that read, “You’re bearly special to me!” Tied to its right arm were a large bouquet of balloons – enough for each member of the Voyageurs – and a decorative heart bag filled with Snickers, Shane’s favorite candy.
Next to Shane, Hayden snorted. “A bear? You have a mystery girlfriend who sent you a bear.”
“Does she not follow hockey, Shane?” J.J. asked, crossing his arms and all but staring down the massive stuffed animal as if it had personally offended him.
“Her name is Lily,” Trevor offered because he was a traitor and little too eager to be cool. He winced when Shane sent him a glare. “There’s a card.”
“Dump her, Shane.” J.J. said flatly.
“I’ve been trying,” Shane replied, trying his best not to smile. It wasn’t working. “You know how clingy some can be.”
Hayden shook his head, also stifling a laugh. “Well, she has a sense of humor. I’ll give you that. You should bring her around sometime. Jackie and I would love to meet her.”
Shane grabbed the bear from Trevor and put it on the chair in front of his locker. “Maybe. We’ll see how it goes. Hey, Trevor. Can you grab the social media team?”
---
No text. No call. FaceTime less than three minutes after the post went up.
Ilya was more horrified than outraged, but damn, did he look good sitting in his Lamborghini with his black toque pushing his golden-brown curls down, cheeks winter-kissed, and lips slanted in his usual crooked smile. His golden chain shimmered just above the collar of his too-tight sweater.
“How could you do that to Mr. Fuzzy?”
Shane smirked and tried to keep from laughing in his face. “You sent a bear into the Voyageurs’ locker room, and you thought he’d leave unscathed? That’s on you, Rozanov.”
“He is for you to cuddle with when I am not there, but you placed a Voyageurs’ jersey and hat on him. I think he may self-combust.”
Shane pushed back onto his kitchen counter. “Your teammates are going to freak.”
“They will recover from - ‘We ❤️ beating our rivals.’ You come up with that?”
Shane blushed and looked away. Maybe it was a little lame, but he thought it was funny at the time.
“You are proud of it. That’s okay. You are 1-2 against us this season.”
“We’re going to beat you next week.”
“We shall see. We shall see. Until then, I don’t believe you showed me how good you look all out for me on your counter.” When Shane snorted, Ilya replied, “Hey. You got a present. This can be my present.”
And how could Shane refuse?
---
March 2017
“ – and don’t head out after practice,” the Bears’ coach added at the end of his post-scrimmage speech. “Roz’s girlfriend Jane is treating everyone to catered chicken parm. The crew’s setting it up in team room, so make sure to get some before you leave.”
Ilya blinked. Oh, he would get some alright, but Shane treated him and his team to lunch?
Lily: It’s not birthday.
Jane: If it was, you’d be naked right now.
Lily: Who is to say I’m not?
Ilya could practically feel Shane’s eyeroll from more than three hundred miles away.
Jane: It’s White Day. In the Japanese culture, it’s when the person who received gifts on Valentine’s Day reciprocates.
Lily: And this means chicken parm.
Jane: And that thing you do with your tongue next week.
Ilya could imagine Shane sitting in his boring apartment, or in his boring car, or his boring locker room, all flustered as he wrote that.
Good. Not so boring.
Lily: It will be my pleasure.
---
August 2017
Hollander’s apartment in Montreal was off-limits. If there was one thing he disliked about his on-again, off-again, kinda sorta boyfriend – it was this. He wasn’t allowed in Hollander’s apartment.
Until now.
And only this time.
Because Hollander had brought a house, so they would be less likely to be caught. And he needed to pack and thus, needed an extra pair of hands.
Ilya had no intentions of packing.
After a few cokes and snacks, he crowded Shane from behind, began to nibble on that part of his neck – a move that drove Shane crazy – and then when Shane turned, lifted him into his arms.
Shane squawked, like he usually did, but he eventually curled his legs about Ilya’s waist.
Excellent. Time to finally enjoy Hollander in his real bedroom.
Except Ilya almost dropped Shane the moment he stepped inside.
In the middle of Shane’s massive bed, lying on pillows, was the obscenely large bear Ilya brought Shane for Valentine’s Day.
Hair askew, lips swollen and red, Shane followed Ilya’s gaze and sighed in Ilya’s hold. “You gave him to me to cuddle when you’re not around.”
There was nothing in the entire place that was Ilya’s. Not a toothbrush. Not a picture. Not a brief or sock, but the large bear he’d given Shane was right there, on the bed, lying next to his boyfriend every night and waking up next to him every morning.
He was not going to cry. He wasn’t, but it was then, in that moment, he thought perhaps there was something in the apartment that was his.
And it was not the bear.
Ilya sent Shane a bear every Valentine’s Day until he signed the Centaurs a few years later.
Ilya enjoys the last day of the first summer of the rest of his life, or more domestic married hollanov & twins fluff
Ilya emerged from his bedroom to see his husband and his son, DJ, sitting on opposite ends of the couch at their cottage, reading. His son a Harry Potter novel, the latest series he was tearing through, and his husband, a hockey book, of course.
“Where is our daughter?” Ilya asked as he poured himself a cup of coffee and added cream. Enough that if Shane knew how much he was adding he would likely be appalled.
“She’s in the barn shooting hockey pucks, I think,” Shane answered looking up at Ilya with a light smile.
Ilya nodded and ran a hand over his jaw that was covered in blond stubble, sipping his coffee. He slowly made his way out to check on her.
It was Labor Day weekend, which historically had filled Ilya with a sense of anxiety about the upcoming season, especially for the first 8 years of his children’s life. He was nervous about leaving them, especially after spending most of the summers in what had become his favorite place in the world, with just his favorite people in the world. But this year he wasn’t going back.
He would miss Shane, of course, while he was traveling in the season. But they had each won an MVP in Ottawa, and together they’d won 3 cups there. His injury the past year was what finally tipped the scale for him and allowed him to be honest with his husband about being ready to be done with hockey. Almost five full months after his ankle break and surgery, he was excited to be getting back on skates and working out, but he was glad to not have to rush back to tip top shape before the season started. He’d maintained his lifting weights regimen, as it helped quiet the demons in his head, and it was nice to spend quiet time with his husband in their gym, but he definitely wouldn’t miss two a days of conditioning.
Ilya smiled when he entered their converted hockey barn that had synthetic ice and a goal set up in it. Before he even saw her, he could hear his daughter ripping shots against a board.
He watched her for a few minutes, impressed by the rugged determination on her face as she pulled back and continued to put shots in exactly where she wanted them to go.
Shane and Ilya’d had many conversations when their kids were tinier about how they didn’t want them to feel pressured into hockey. But similar to Shane’s family, without the pressure that Ilya had grown up in, their kids actually just did like hockey, and part of the amount of time they had spent at professional games as toddlers and now children certainly hadn’t hurt. Ilya wasn’t sure if their son DJ, would want to continue playing hockey once he got older and the time and emotional commitment got more intense, but Irina would.
In most ways she was all Ilya. She was loud, goofy, and a bit mischievous. But her love for hockey reminded Ilya so much of Shane. She watched clips on Ilya’s phone of his juniors highlights whenever she could get her hands on it, she read children’s books about hockey from Shane’s parents cottage, she turned the television to MLH network whenever she got control of the remote.
Ilya was grateful for how far the woman’s sport had grown over the past years, and even more grateful for the relationships he’d been able to form with such amazing PWHL players through his and Shane’s charities. They were both great inspirations, and great role models for his daughter. If anyone knew that the men in the MLH were not all as great of role models as Shane Hollander, it was Ilya.
He was also grateful for Canada’s commitment to supporting their women’s junior and olympics programs, unlike Russia. He had no idea if she would reach that level, but he was glad the opportunity existed should she want it.
Irina leaned on her stick and looked over at him.
“Any tips?” Ilya tried to put his coach hat on, and take off his rose colored glasses that he always had on when it came to his children and any of their pursuits. But if all went according to plan he would be Irina’s middle school coach, a position he’d accepted already, but a team she was still a few years away from. So he would have to get better at offering her constructive criticism, something he shied away from because he’d hated his own father’s constant criticism of his game. And when they’d been littler it certainly hadn’t been necessary. But thankfully he definitely know how to be supportive, he would just need to get better at offering the criticism or coaching. Or not, Irina was so determined she’d probably figure it out with or without his help.
“Shoot another one at the top right pocket?” Ilya requested, and she did, immediately.
“Ok your aim is good, but if you slide your bottom hand up a few inches you’ll be able to get the puck off your stick faster.”
She slid her hand up, and ripped another puck into the top right corner, noticeably faster.
“Nice!” Ilya beamed. Irina looked down at her hand and nodded, no doubt saving the information for later, knowing her.
Eventually, he’d been able to convince his daughter to join him for breakfast and a swim, with promises that they had all winter for hockey but only one day left of summer really.
———
Late that evening, as they drove back to their house in Ottawa, Ilya felt a lightness that he wasn’t sure he had ever felt, not really. It reassured him that he had made the right decision. He reached over and held his husbands hand.
“What’s going through your head?” Shane whispered to him, both kids were exhausted and asleep in the back seat.
“Just feeling lucky, to have this, to have you,”
“Being tired and sunburnt makes you sappy,” Shane said, but he was smiling as wide as can be.
“Da, Yes,” Ilya agreed, head lolling back onto the headrest.
When they pulled into their garage, they both took a kid and tucked them into their respective beds. They still smelled like lake and the remnants of sunscreen. Which Ilya was sure Shane hated, but he probably like Ilya, was too tired to do anything about it.
However, since he knew it would make his weary husband happy, Ilya stepped into the large shower in their room. His eyes were closed when he heard Shane enter the bathroom, he kept his back to Shane, playfully wondering if his husband could read his mind.
He could, or at the very least they were predictable enough to each other after almost two decades. Shane stepped into the shower quietly, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s waist and resting his head on Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya sighed contentedly. He leaned back into his husbands touch.
“You must really love me if you didn’t just pass right out,”
“Mm,” Ilya assented as he tipped his head back, letting Shane run his fingers through his hair.
Ilya ran his hands over his face rinsing off, before turning and pressing a kiss to Shanes mouth under the water. He snuck his tongue in his mouth, briefly, borderline inappropriately, before stepping away, too tired to even escalate, but still wanting Shane’s mouth on his. He stepped out of the shower wrapping a towel around his waist as he watched Shane sigh contentedly before quickly washing his hair and stepping out of the shower after while Ilya brushed his teeth. By the time Shane entered their bed room, Ilya was in bed and actively trying not to fall asleep.
When Shane joined him in bed, Ilya rolled over and dropped his head onto his boyfriends smooth chest.
“Best summer ever,” he whispered quietly against Shane’s chest.
“You say that every summer,” Shane teased, but Ilya could hear the smile in his voice.
“Da, is truer every year,” he said, accent thick with sleep. Shane worked his hands into his hair. He scratched lightly and Ilya couldn’t fight off the sleep anymore.
—
Shane had returned to the rink after they’d sent the kids off for their first day of school. Ilya had worried that once he was home alone he’d feel the familiar feeling of dread creep back in, or at the very least anxiety, especially because he didn’t have a ton to keep him busy before Shane’s season or his coaching season started in October. But he felt weirdly ok. He had gone to PT after everyone else had left, worked out for a bit at home, and gone to the grocery store. He’d had a call with his agent about some potential opportunities for him to make guest appearances commentating on ESPN, TNT and Hockey Night in Canada, which sounded fun to him. Hamming it up on camera had never come with the pressure that he’d felt playing hockey.
He’d taken Anya on a long walk, and then soon his kids were home, and he was back into his routine of he and Shane making snacks and helping with homework and watching his kids play mini sticks in the basement, occasionally joining as all time goalie despite his kids protest that he was too big for the goal, to which he responded, “Yes, that is what makes me such good goalie.”
As Shane made dinner, he called Ilya into he kitchen.
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” he said, and Ilya just nodded, waiting for him to continue as he wrapped his hands around Shane’s waist.
“I talked to Coach Wiebe today,”
“Da?” Ilya responded in Russian now way more than he had in early stages of their relationship. Shane wouldn’t say he was fluent, but Ilya would say he functionally was.
“He - uh- he asked me if I would want to be captain.” Shane sounded anxious.
“Очевидно, obviously” Ilya self-translated, because he wanted to make his point clear to his husband. “You are best player on team now, no? Or did Luca finally figure out how to use his left hand on a power play?”
“Shut up,” Ilya could feel Shane rolling his eyes, but his words had no bite. “I’m trying to ask you seriously, if you would be upset if I took over as captain.”
“Why would I be upset?” Ilya genuinely did not know.
“Because it was your role, your team for over a decade?” Shane said like it was obvious to him, and maybe it was, Ilya had been a big part of Ottawa.
“I chose to retire, and I am your number one fan now, so no, I will not be offended if you become captain,” Ilya said frankly.
“Ok, I just wanted to be sure.” Ilya kissed him on the cheek, appreciating his thoughtfulness, and moved to set the table for their little family.
Later that evening, Shane was helping Irina to braid her hair before bed.
“Dad can you read to me?” DJ asked Ilya. It was something Ilya was insecure about as the kids had gotten older. He could read in English, of course, but out loud was difficult. He tried to leave it to Shane as they kids had progressed past picture books. And Harry Potter was British English, so while he was reading it along side DJ, it presented new challenges for his understanding of the language.
“My son, you know I am not very…” He trailed off before he made a self-deprecating remark like calling himself stupid for having a different first language than the rest of his family.
“Please?” He couldn’t resist.
Ilya nodded.
“You will have to help if your papa makes any mistakes, da?”
“Da,” DJ replied and Ilya followed him into his bedroom, leaning against a pillow at the the foot of his bed.
He read for longer than usual without making a mistake. First he mispronounced eschewing, and then asked his small son for assistance with sumptuously, which he was pretty sure they sounded out correctly, before looking up to see Shane standing, leaned against the door frame. Ilya was waiting for him to correct, but instead he just smiled and nodded his affirmation.
He finished the chapter and closed his son’s bedroom door, before he and Shane said goodnight to his daughter as well, and made their way to their bedroom.
“I’m proud of you,” Shane said, Ilya was propped on their mattress, elbows behind his head, and he rolled his eyes.
“I’m serious! I know you don’t like reading aloud,” Ilya’s brain snagged on the word allowed, or was it aloud, the second, he decided.
“Thanks, is good for me I think, keeps me humble,”
Shane laughed as he lowered himself down over his husband.
“Imagine if I was this sexy, this good of hockey player, and I had perfect English reading,” Ilya emphasized his accent playfully. “I would be unstoppable,”
“Asshole,” Shane whispered before pressing a kiss to his mouth. It was an amazing command of the English language that Shane possessed, to be able to make the insult sound so endearing and loving to Ilya. He almost didn’t mind it. Who was he kidding, he definitely didn’t mind it.
He flipped himself over on top of Shane, teasingly peppering him with kisses. He could feel Shane’s warmth underneath him, loving how easy it was to get riled up, even after so many years.
Here are some fluffy fics to help me wait for season 2
a farmers market adventure by ingberry
General Audiences - Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov - Completed
Spoilers for the book The Long Game
A video of Ilya and Yuna at the farmers market goes viral.
This fic is possibly my all-time favorite. The fic is just pure tooth-rotting fluff. This fic felt so much longer than it actually is because I liked it so much.
i keep closing my eyes but i can't block you out by stardustvx
General Audiences - Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov - Completed
Shane has a migraine before the game. He thinks he is good enough to play up until the second when he throws up all over Ilya Rozanov’s jersey. Yes, on the ice.
As someone who suffers from migraines, this is my comfort fic. Migraine nausea is so so real. Includes Ilya taking care of Shane for some sweet, fluffy scenes.
what if? - the ring was noticed by h0pei5Abutterfly_08
Not Rated - Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov - Completed
Spoilers for the book The Long Game
WHAT?!”
“Holy shit!”
“Rozanov’s engaged?!”
***
what if the team did actually pay a little bit more attention and noticed ilyas ring...
Includes coming out about their relationship. Includes elements of found family that Ilya definitely needs. I love the idea of the team seeing the ring and finding out more organically.
The Montreal Girl by some1_around
Not Rated - Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov - Completed
Five times Ilya lied (but not really) to his teammates about Shane, and one time he didn’t have to.
Inspired by two Cliff Marlow lines: In the airport, when their game with Montreal gets cancelled and he tells Ilya, “Whoever she is, she’s gonna get over it,” and the scene in the locker room when he says, “Wow, this Montreal girl works you up, brother—you’re straight up blushing, Roz.”
Or, the Boston Bears’ perspective of Ilya and Shane’s “secret” relationship over the years
Solid fic, but canon is a suggestion. I actually preferred part 2 to this fic, which is Lily and Jane Fall in Love. However, you need to read part 1 to understand part 2. Just a fair warning, part 2 is marked as mature. If you ignore anything you have ever read in The Long Game, this is a really fluffy fic.
secret's out by hufflebee
Teen and Up Audiences - Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov - Completed
Spoilers for the book The Long Game
Ilya Rozanov moving to Ottawa to be with a man he loved might not fit into the image most of the NHL had of him, but Harris found that it fit a lot easier with the one he had.
or, an alternate take on The Long Game where Shane and Ilya tell their teams about their relationship
This is such a detailed fic. Extremely canon compliant, and it makes the fic so much better. However, I do recommend reading The Long Game first because of how much it relies on canon content. Almost too fluffy that some characters are OOC.
Here's my first fic rec post for Heated Rivalry/Hollanov fics! This post includes a little bit of everything; my future rec posts will be more specifically themed.
Each recommendation below includes:
title/link
rating
word count
chapter count
2-4 relevant tags
ao3 summary (may be shortened for formatting purposes)
If the author's tumblr username is in the fic notes, it's included next to the title. I'm happy to add any username tags - just reach out!
If you have any fic requests, feel free to message me or check my fic rec tag.
i've never needed a reason for keeping secrets from myself by @bylroos | M | 9.7k | 1/1 | AU - soulmates, character study, hurt/comfort
Shane’s immediate reaction is to say that he doesn't know when it started. He doesn’t know who his soulmate is. This is what he’s been telling himself for years, because if he stops for more than a second to think about how long he's been collecting little pieces of Ilya Rozanov, he thinks he'll spiral out of control.
He'll hit the deck like a firecracker dropped unceremoniously onto the sidewalk, burning wildly and spiralling haphazardly, until he's fizzled out with nothing left to show for himself but smoke, ashes, and the knowledge that his soul is bound to Rozanov's.
or:
shane spends twenty-five years not thinking about his soulmate. the drawer in his apartment filled with cigarettes, toothpaste, and awful t-shirts says elsewise.
you're sofa king good by @smugrobotics | E | 1.6k | 1/1 | rough sex, light dom/sub, PWP
His team knows better than to try to get Shane to come out after playing Boston, win or lose. They throw exhausted goodbyes his way as he leaves, but Shane barely hears them—all he can think about is getting behind a closed door with Rozanov.
Or: an extension of the smash cut slam-fuck scene in episode four's opening montage
Adopt/Adapt | G | 2.8k | 1/1 | Ilya character study, Yuna Hollander
Yuna has questions. Ilya doesn't have answers.
Or
Ilya needs a mother. Luckily, Yuna is mother.
let's go to... | T | 1.5k | 1/1 | domestic Hollanov, fluff and crack
“This all you can eat pasta. I want to know more.” Ilya leans down and presses a kiss into Shane’s shin, fingers caressing the skin where his sweatpants are bunching up. “Tell me about this Garden,” he murmurs, looking up at Shane through blond lashes. “Please. Sounds magical.”
--
or, ilya discovers all you can eat pasta at olive garden (& other fast-casual chains)
Four Minutes | T | 33.8k | 3/3 | hurt/comfort, panic attacks, angst with a happy ending
Ilya had loved him through his worst moments. Ilya had helped him find a therapist when he’d collapsed on the floor of their hotel bathroom after losing a particularly brutal game, scratching at his chest. Ilya had held him, even when Shane yelled at him because there was panic crawling under his skin and he felt as though it might claw its way out. Ilya had told him it was okay; that it didn’t make him a bad player to resent the spotlight sometimes, that it didn’t make him a bad teammate to hate the team when they were too loud and too drunk and too physical, that it didn’t make him a bad person to need space to breathe. Ilya saved him.
And look what you give him in return. You’re a shitty husband, Shane Hollander.
You don’t deserve his last name.
too sweet for me | E | 11k | 1/1 | dom/sub, semi-public sex, aftercare
“Listen to me, Hollander,” Ilya’s voice is commanding, intense. That same tone that he uses to make Shane turn liquid in his arms. “You are going to do exactly as I say—”
Shane nods furiously, now desperate to get behind the privacy screen of the limousine.
“We are going to get in the car together, you are going to put your filthy mouth to work, and I am going to use your throat to keep my cock hard until we get back to the hotel.” Shane makes the only echoing sound in the hallway: a pitchy whine that has Ilya’s cock throbbing. “When we arrive, we are going straight to my room. Understood?”
Shane nods, but Ilya wants to test his teammate to see just how much he can push tonight.
Ilya swallows. “Answer me, Hollander.”
“Y—yes,” Shane rasps, quiet but determined as he looks at Ilya like he could break Shane in half and he would thank him. “Yes, Ilya.”
Sex and Hockey by @iammistressofmyfate | E | 61.4k | 20/20 | life transitions, rivals with benefits, falling in love
Ilya Rozanov isn't complicated. He likes hockey, nice clothes, fast cars, and women (and the occasional man). He's intent on enjoying his new life in North America as a high profile hockey star, but his family and a certain dark haired, freckled rival player, seem to have other plans…
the limitations of maddocks questions | M | 36.4k | 5/5 | career ending injuries, angst, hurt/comfort
when shane gets the injury that would come to end his career, in the moment he’s just thankful he didn’t break his jaw.
or: shane knew, in the abstract, that one day he would play his last professional nhl game. it never occurred to him that hockey would choose that day for him.
Dog by @agoodsoldier | E | 3.4k | 1/1 | pet play, dom Shane Hollander, sub top Ilya Rozanov
“Should call you the Ottawa Puppies,” says the Toronto centre, Svensson. As an insult it makes no sense, so Ilya ignores it, until he continues, “Hear Hollander keeps you on a short leash.”
Ilya is the captain, so if anything, he should be holding the leash. In English, you can be singular or plural, but he knows what Svensson is trying to say. He is saying Ilya Rozanov, you are Hollander’s bitch.
“Only sometimes,” Ilya replies, grinning. He wins the face off.
OR: Ilya trains himself to be a very, very good guard dog for Shane.
Don't Poke The Bear | G | 13k | 7/7 | homophobia, team as family, angst with a happy ending
After Shane and Ilya are outed in the events of The Long Game, Montréal and Ottawa play seven games against each other in the Eastern Conference.
The Centaurs still love their captain, of course. The Voyageurs, however, are not so united.
A.K.A - Five times Shane’s team was an asshole to him, the one time Ilya got to do something about it, and the obvious humiliation ritual that is the Centaurs playing a game against a post-Hollander era Voyageurs.
Purple-Pink Skies | E | 15.1k | 3/3 | AU - canon divergence, explicit sexual content
Over the course of his NHL career, Shane Hollander had come face-to-face with Ilya Rozanov hundreds of times. But in all of that time, Shane had never seen him like this.
“Hollander,” Rozanov said, accent even thicker than usual.
Ah. He was drunk.
[Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov have been NHL rivals for over a decade. One strange chance meeting leads to more.]
supercut of us | T | 2.2k | 1/1 | fluff, domestic bliss, anxious Shane Hollander
Shane is sure he has what Ilya refers to as his “determined kitten face” showing right now. “It was a perfect day today. We’ve had so many of these over the years, and I never posted it. I want to remember this.”
(Or: Yuna takes a cute picture of Shane and Ilya and Shane decides to be a brave.)
dip you in honey (part one of like a bright new dream | E | 3.6k | 1/1 | honeymoon, sexual content
Their waitress is kind enough to let Shane practice his clumsy Spanish with her. He pointedly does not look at Ilya after ordering, but he's known him long enough to know when he's laughing at Shane's expense.
“I hate you,” he says.
“No,” Ilya says. He looks unfairly handsome in a linen beach shirt and his flamingo-patterned board shorts Shane bought him last summer. “You do not.”
"You're supposed to smoke over there." Someone said from behind Ilya.
Ilya almost dropped his cigarette. His English was shitty, but he had studied that sentence enough times over the years to understand it immediately. He didn't even think about his words much anymore, but it was impossible to avoid them.
He turned instinctively, and was face to face with Shane fucking Hollander.
Out of almost seven billion people, of course Ilya's soulmate had to be his fated rival. It was almost poetic. Still, Ilya had enough sense to realize just how bad this was.
or, Shane says Ilya's soulmate words. Ilya vows to never speak a word to him to keep him from finding out. They fall in love anyway.
Kiss It Better by @inexplicablymine | M | 2.2k | 1/1 | light dom/sub, fluff and angst, idiots in love
Clear as day his typed out desperation has an eight letter word underneath its bubble that pops a lead balloon into his stomach.
“we never even kissed.” sits as delivered to one four letter contact that Shane swears should be defined as its own form of curse word in the dictionary.
Or, Shane sends that “we never even kissed.” text after all
loving this body by @jothebeetle and @weteddie | E | 22.3k | 1/1 | bodyswap, crack treated seriously, pining, idiots in love
Ilya picks up on the third ring, breathing heavily into the phone. Shane hears a door slam shut through the device. “Do not yell at me.”
Shane stares at the half-empty bottle of vodka on the coffee table. “You suck.”
“I suck? I scored hat-trick! In your stupid body! I have not eaten in six hours, Hollander. I have not pissed. I have not laid down. I want to go home.”
“Rozanov–”
“Your mother has called twenty times. Your manager has called thirty times. Your father text me picture of crossword puzzle and ask for help. Clue is about American President from the 1980s. I cannot help!”
OR: the hollanov bodyswap fic.
The same number of stars everywhere | G | 2.9k | 1/1 | fluff, humor, high Shane Hollander
“Ilya?” Shane said in that same dreamy, loopy voice as that morning. Ilya exhaled in a rush.
“Shane,” he said, and wanted to sag against the glass with relief. “What happened? Is something wrong?”
“Not! Any moooooooore.”
Ilya swallowed. Shane hadn’t gotten any quieter in the past seven hours.
“Why are you calling me? You need to be resting,” he said, and it sounded softer than he’d meant it to.
“I forgot to tell you something. Important.”
“You should not be telling me anything, you should be—”
“My cottage has really good water pressure,” Shane announced.
Ilya stared out the window while a small plane taxied past.
“What?”
——————
Shane's cottage has a lot of amenities, and he needs to tell Ilya about all of them.
i think i've seen this film before | T | 3k | 1/1 | hurt/comfort, fluff, angst
“You ever get tired of hotels,” Shane asks, tugging on his jacket.
Ilya shrugs, glancing back at him. “No. Hotels are simple.”
“How so.”
“No one expects you to stay.”
OR
Ilya Rozanov never tells the media anything real, but somehow can’t keep the truth from Shane Hollander.
give it up / do as I say by @bullseyebullseye | E | 2.4k | 1/1 | light dom/sub, degradation, possessive sex
“Shane Hollander,” Ilya gasped, faux-aghast. “You are wet. Wet like pussy.”
Shane flushed and tried to squirm out of Rozanov’s grasp, to no avail. “S’just sweat,” he murmured. “It’s just fucking… hot in here.”
Ilya’s strong grip tightened, vice-like, around Shane’s hip. His grin curled into something cruel, something bright and sparkling. “Is not hot. You are bad liar. Take it off.”
sex sells by @everwitch-magiks | E | 2.8k | 2/2 | sex work, light dom/sub, banter
Shane is a college student in sudden and urgent need of money. Ilya has cash to burn. They meet on an app that facilitates the exchange of certain services for funds.
Or: Shane 'Least Likely To Become A Sex Worker' Hollander becomes a sex worker. Ilya Rozanov indulges.
… Alternatively: an admiral and an raider walk into a bar. Their third topic of conversation will shock you.
That's all for now. I hope y'all enjoy these fics as much as I did. I'll be making more rec posts throughout the new year!
Summary: You’ve wanted Rhett Abbot since the day you laid your eyes on him. So when the opportunity for a friends with benefits arrangement presents itself you immediately take the plunge, even though there is a risk of hurt feelings on both ends.
Warning: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut (a lot of it), Jealousy, Angst, Fluff, and Swearing. We love when people don’t know how to communicate their feelings properly and seek arrangements that may cause issues! We love a jealous cowboy though…Can’t say no to that.
Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up y’all), Dirty Talk, Rough Sex, Sensual Sex, Fingering, Oral Sex (Female Receiving), Biting, Scratching, Very Light Choking, Bruising (not intentional bruising…But there’s bruising lol), Spitting ((hopefully I didn’t miss anything)
Author’s Note: Oh how we love a juicy friends with benefits fic. I eat these up, especially when you’ve got two people who don’t know how to communicate their feelings for one another and it tailspins…With a happy ending of course (in more ways than one HA! ZING!) anyways! Thank you for @haydenlizz for your lovely request! I hope this lives up to the ask, and that I met all requirements :), enjoy!
Word Count: 11,698
You knew who Rhett Abbott was before you ever really met him.
Everyone in Wabang did. He was that roughed up boy with grass-stained jeans and dirt-slick boots, who rode bulls on weekends and left class with scabbed knuckles and a crooked grin. He had a laugh like summer and eyes that always looked like they’d seen more than a kid his age should’ve.
He wasn’t exactly a jock, nor was he the best student either. He floated between circles–grinning at teachers, fumbling over flirting with girls he had no intentions of keeping, and disappearing before anyone could really get close to him.
You had a lot of classes together. He’d copy your history notes with a lazy drawl of ‘ya got the best handwritin’ I’ve ever seen,” and sit behind you in English, whispering dumb jokes until you were biting your lip to keep from laughing.
You truly didn’t think he acknowledged you as more than a classmate, until one day he walked you home after your truck died in the school parking lot after a football rally. He had dust on his boots, and rope burns on his palm and arms when he came up to you, and that blue-eyed smirk had softened into something quieter.
”Don’t want you walkin’ alone,” He’d said, “Town gets too quiet after dark…Wouldn’t want anythin’ happenin’ to you.”
After that day you weren’t able to look at him the same, and you’d been half in love with him ever since.
———————
The both of you stayed in Wabang after graduation. Neither of you left for college–you didn’t find a good enough reason, and Rhett just didn’t have the guts to leave, even when he told you–more than once, usually after a few drinks–that he would.
“I’m not stayin’ in this damn town forever,” He’d mutter, picking at the label of a peer bottle, with the porch swing creaking under the weight of both you bodies. You’d glance sideways at him with a smirk.
”Sure you’re not.”
But you both knew the truth. Wabang had its claws in you. It wasn’t just the land or the quiet or the unspoken expectation that you’d stay and carry on what was already here. It was the comfort of familiarity. The way the roads remembered the tires of your truck, and the way the stars always looked better from the Abbott’s fence line.
The way he was still here…That was enough for you…
You didn’t really talk about your friendship. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could sum up in words. It was just a constant.
It was Rhett knocking on your door at 11 p.m. with a busted knuckle and a lopsided grin, asking if you had any more of that whiskey he liked. It was you handing him a bag of frozen peas without comment, and sitting beside him on the couch while a movie played in the background–neither of you really watching it.
It was you keeping a spare key under the doormat for him–just in case.
It was him fixing the squeak in your truck door without you asking.
It was the dumb inside jokes, and shared music taste, and the way you always knew when he was lying to you because of the way he wrinkled his nose and batted his eyelashes.
You didn’t flirt with him, but the tension was always there, crackling beneath the surface like dry kindling waiting for a match. You called it closeness, his mother called it something else entirely, especially when she would see the both of you in action together, or when she would see you watching him.
Because you went to every single bull riding meet.
It didn’t matter if it was fifteen minutes outside of town or two hours into the next county–you were there, usually wedged between Cecilia and Perry Abbott, with your hands clenched tight around a plastic cup, with your heart hammering through your ribs every time he got thrown.
Rhett always spotted you in the crowd, even with his adrenaline spiked high and dirt caked into his skin, he’d look toward the fence line the moment he climbed off that bull–head tilting just a little, eyes sweeping the stands until they found yours. When you waved, he’d smile, soft and crooked, as if seeing your worried face made things worth it somehow.
Afterward, you’d sneak him away from the crowd and bandage his wrists or ribs in the front seat of your truck, your hands careful, your eyes averted, and your voice scolding but warm.
“Y’know you don’t have to prove anything right?” He would shake his head at you, wincing as you tightened the bandages, before reaching for his painkillers, mumbling.
”Ain’t about provin’–just gotta feel somethin’.” And you understood that on another level.
Then there were the weekends where you and him would go out drinking together, with or without Perry.
Sometimes it was a bonfire at someone’s ranch. Oftentimes, it was the back booth at a random bar, with Rhett’s knee pressed to yours beneath the sticky table as you made fun of the live band or ripped each other a new one about the latest town gossip about one another. Then sometimes you would play darts until your aim got too loose to win.
Sometimes he walked you home, and sometimes you walked him home.
More often than not, you ended up in each other’s living rooms, continuing your drinking on the comfort of a worn couch. You’d pass a bottle back and forth, taking sips and cringing. He’d take off his boots and prop them on your coffee table like he paid rent, and you’d push him and tell him to take them and put them at the front door like a normal person.
Neither of you put labels on what you had, and you never asked for more.
But you were in his life the way sunlight lives in dust–not loud or obvious, just always there.
He called you when his truck broke down, when his favorite horse got colic, when his brother went missing for two days and nobody would say why.
You called him when your water heater flooded the kitchen, when your uncle got sick, when your hand shook too much to open a stubborn jar and you didn’t want to cry alone.
He always showed up.
So did you.
And through it all–years, really–people kept asking.
”Y’all together or what?” You’d laugh, and he would smirk, shaking his head ‘no’.
But sometimes, when the music got low and the lights in your trailer softened to that familiar amber haze–when you were half-drunk on bourbon and closer than two people with no claim had any right to be–you wondered:
Why not?
Why wasn’t it more?
You never asked.
And he never offered.
But the ache settled into your ribs like something permanent. Something sharp and quiet and always humming under your skin.
Then lines were crossed…
——————
The night it happened started like any other time you and Rhett hung out.
A six-pack between you on the coffee table. Two bottles already open and held in your respective hands. The same playlist you always put on when the sky turned indigo and the bugs outside started their midnight song. It was low, something moody and twangy, bleeding softly into the corners of your living room like it knew not to intrude.
Rhett was sprawled across your couch, legs wide, his shoulders sinking into the cushions like he’d been there a hundred times–which, to be fair, he had. That old red flannel he always wore after a long day was clinging to him in the heat, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, buttons undone just far enough to show the sweat-shined skin at the base of his throat. His hair was still combed back, only being held by his posture, it he leaned forward tendrils of his light brown locks would certainly fall out of line and get into his eyes.
You were tucked into the far corner of the couch, feet up, knees pulled close to your chest, wearing a faded band tee and your usual cotton sleep shorts–barely-there, worn soft from a thousand washes. No bra. No effort. Just comfort.
Not for him, not really at least.
But still—there was something about the way his eyes kept flicking toward you between sips of beer. Something about the way he lingered, just a second too long, on the exposed stretch of your thigh or the slight sway of your chest when you shifted to grab another bottle.
The air was thick. Summer-heavy. The kind of slow heat that settled into skin and made everything feel a little lazier, a little looser. You were both warm from the drinks, buzzed from the day, and quiet in that way that only ever happened with people who didn’t need to fill silences.
And then he said it.
“I haven’t had sex in a while.”
You blinked, the words falling like a flat rock into the still water between you. He was staring at the beer label, picking at it with his thumbnail like it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. But his voice was too casual. Too practiced. The sentence didn’t belong there. Not between that song and the one before it. Not between the rhythm you’d spent years building together.
You raised an eyebrow at him, “Wow…So that’s where we’re at now, huh?”
Rhett huffed a soft breath, not quite a laugh. “Guess so.”
You studied him then. Really looking at his expression and his body language. His jaw was tight. His posture was just a little too still for how he normally was. His thumb had stripped the label halfway down the neck of the bottle, and his gaze hadn’t lifted once since he’d said it.
“You tellin’ me that because you think I should know,” You said, “or because you want me to do something about it?” That got his eyes on you. Sharp, and steel blue, and more tired than you expected.
“Wouldn’t’ve said it if I didn’t think maybe you’d…I dunno. Get it.” You shifted in your seat, your heartbeat hitching once, then steadying.
”Get what, exactly? Being celibate?” He shot you a look. The side of his mouth twitched–almost a smile, almost a smirk, but weighed down by something heavier.
“Not what I meant,” He muttered, taking a quick sip from his bottle, “Just figured you might be in the same boat.”
You raised your brows. “So what, we’re comparing dry spells now?”
“I mean,” Rhett leaned back, stretching one arm along the back of the couch like he wasn’t deliberately invading your space, “If you wanna get competitive, I’ll win on stubbornness alone.”
You gave him a sidelong glance. “You? Stubborn? No way.”
He grinned for real this time–wide and a little too cocky, like he was trying to climb back into comfortable territory.
You took a sip of your beer. “So let me get this straight. You haven’t had sex in a while, and now you’re sitting here telling me that fact for…What? Sympathy? A medal?”
“Didn’t think I needed a reason,” He drawled. “Just sayin’–sometimes you spend enough nights alone, you start thinkin’ too much.” Your eyes lingered on him. And then you said it–because someone had to.
“Sometimes you start thinking about the wrong people.” The words landed hard. You didn’t mean them to…Or maybe you did.
The air shifted. Heavy, warm, alive with the tension that had been lingering between you for years but had never been close enough to touch like this.
Rhett looked at you again, quieter now.
“You think this would be a mistake?” He asked, voice low.
You held his gaze.
“I think it’d be a mistake we’d both want.”
A beat passed. Then another.
His bottle hit the table with a soft clink. He shifted closer–just a little. Enough for the outside of his knee to touch yours. Enough that you could smell the beer on him.
“We’ve been dancin’ around this for a long time,” He said, almost under his breath.
You nodded once. “Yeah. We have.”
He licked his lips, glancing down at yours. His voice dropped to a murmur, like if he said it louder it might break the spell hanging between you.
“So you’ve thought about it then?”
Your breath caught. “Thought about what?”
He leaned in–slow, deliberate, like he was giving you every chance to stop him.
“Us,” He said softly, “Like this.” His nose brushed against yours, a barely-there drag that left your skin tingling. His lips hovered close—too close. Just far enough that you could still pretend it wasn’t a kiss yet. That it was still a choice.
You could feel the warmth of his breath on your mouth, the sharp tang of beer on it, the way it mixed with that unmistakable Rhett scent–something dusty, sun-warmed, and sweat-slicked, like hayfields and leather and the faintest trace of musky cologne long since faded.
Your chest rose and fell with tight, shallow breaths.
You could see the flecks in his eyes now–the stormy silver threads inside the blue, rimmed dark where his pupils had blown wide. He tilted his head, just slightly, lips brushing your lower one without quite committing.
Then he whispered:
“Bet you’d taste like trouble.”
You made a sound–something between a breath and a hum, your lips parted on instinct.
And then you kissed him.
You moved first, but he met you–his mouth opening the moment yours touched his. It wasn’t polished or perfect. It was a little off-center, and a little too much, and so goddamn honest you felt your whole body flinch toward it. His hand was already at your hip, fingers digging into the bare skin just above your waistband. Yours went instinctively to his jaw, thumb dragging along the scruff of his cheekbone as you deepened the kiss. He groaned–low and guttural–like he’d been holding it in for years.
Your beer bottle was still in your other hand, cold and slick with condensation. You didn’t even look–you just reached out beside you and set it on the coffee table blindly, fingers fumbling for a second before it settled with a quiet thud.
Your now-free hand went to his shoulder, then up–curling behind his neck, slipping into the back of his hair. He shuddered against you.
“Fuck,” He breathed out, like it knocked the wind out of him.
His hands moved–one gripping your thigh tight enough to anchor you, while the other slid up beneath your shirt completely now–calloused fingers skimming your ribs, dragging heat in their wake as they climbed higher. You could feel his fingertips hesitate at the swell of your breast. And then–with reverence and hunger in the same breath–he cupped it.
You gasped.
Your nipple was already stiff, so sensitive from the heat and the tension that you whimpered the moment his palm made contact. He groaned again, deep and ragged, lips crashing into yours harder now–needier, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he was starving.
His thumb flicked over your nipple. You moaned into his mouth, hips shifting instinctively against him, thighs pressing tighter around his.
“Christ,” He muttered against your lips. “You’re gonna ruin me.” He moved fast after that–his hands firm but careful as he grabbed your hips and pulled you across the short distance, settling you right into his lap, your legs straddling his thighs.
Your breath hitched at the feeling of him–solid, strong, and so thick beneath you. Denim rubbed rough against the cotton of your shorts, right where you were already aching, and the sudden friction made your stomach flutter.
You shifted–grinding once, experimentally.
He hissed.
His hands locked down on your hips. “Don’t do that unless you want me to lose my goddamn mind.” You did it again anyways. This time he growled–low and from the chest, one hand sliding up your back, under your shirt, splaying wide between your shoulder blades to keep you close. You buried your fingers deeper into his hair, tugging at the back as you kissed him again–open-mouthed, hungry, teeth scraping, lips plush and pink and bruised with want.
The heat between your bodies was unbearable now. The trailer felt thick with it. Sweat beading at the base of your spine, sticking your shirt to your skin. You could feel Rhett’s thigh muscles flexing beneath you, hard and solid, his jeans taut across them as he rocked up into your core with just enough pressure to make your toes curl.
You broke the kiss with a gasp, forehead resting against his, eyes fluttering shut.
“Bedroom,” You panted heavily, and he didn’t have to be asked twice. He wrapped his arms around your waist–one fluid, grounded motion, strength rolling through his spine as he stood with you in his arms like you weighed nothing.
Your legs locked tight around his hips.
Your breath stuttered as your back bumped gently against the hallway wall. His mouth found your neck–wet, open kisses trailing along your pulse, his teeth catching once on that spot just below your jaw that made your knees go soft. You whimpered. He groaned. The sound he made was pure need.
“I should’ve done this years ago,” He rasped against your throat. “Should’ve known you’d feel this fuckin’ good.”
Then he nudged your bedroom door open with his foot and walked you straight in.
The mattress creaked beneath your combined weight as he set you down gently–but his hands didn’t leave you. His mouth didn’t, either. Not for a second.
He hovered above you, body bracketed between your thighs, and when his hips rolled down again–hard, and slow, with just enough pressure to make you gasp against his lips. The grind of denim against your already-damp cotton was delicious and mean, a friction that bordered on unbearable. Your hands flew to the hem of your shirt, tugging up, breath catching.
Rhett stopped you.
“Let me,” He said, voice wrecked, eyes already dark and heavy with heat.
His fingers curled around the edge of your shirt, slow, deliberate. He peeled it up like it meant something–like unwrapping a gift he didn’t know if he deserved. And when it cleared your head and hit the floor in a soft flutter?
He just looked at you.
His breath hitched. “Jesus.”
Then he lowered himself again–slow. His lips found your collarbone first, the press of his mouth warm and open. His stubble scraped gently against your skin, rough and deliberate, like sandpaper edged in softness. You arched, gasped, fingers threading deeper into his hair as he worked lower.
Down the slope of your chest. Between the soft curve of your breasts.
“You’re burnin’,” He whispered, kissing a path along the swell. “Can feel your heartbeat.”
You moaned as his mouth found your nipple–his tongue wet and warm, his stubble catching just beneath as he sucked you gently into his mouth, tongue flicking slow, then faster.
Your thighs squeezed around his hips. “Rhett–fuck.”
He groaned against your skin.
He kissed lower, trailing fire along your ribs, your stomach, every exposed inch he could reach. His hands never stopped touching–one roaming up to cradle your breast, thumb flicking softly over the one he’d just worshipped with his mouth, the other gripping your waist like he was holding onto something holy.
You were panting now, nearly writhing under him, and your fingers scrambled at the buttons of his flannel, cursing softly when they wouldn’t come undone fast enough.
Rhett sat back on his knees, catching your hands gently in his. “Let me,” He murmured again.
He popped the buttons open one by one, slow and steady, like he wanted you to watch.
And you did.
You watched as the soft fabric fell open and revealed the toned stretch of his chest–sun-kissed, sweat-slicked, dusted with just a little bit of hair–and there, just over the right side of his chest, was the ink you’d seen a hundred times before but never like this.
The bull rider. The rearing beast, hooves kicked out mid-buck, the rider clinging on, frozen in that impossible eight-second storm.
You swallowed hard. You’d seen it before. But not in this light. Not in this context. Not when he was kneeling between your thighs, flushed and panting, staring at you like he wanted to crawl inside your skin.
“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” He said, voice a low rasp, “And this ain’t gonna last long.” You reached up, palm flattening over the tattoo, fingers splaying across the hard plane of his chest.
“You look better in this light.” His grin faltered–just for a second. Something moved in his eyes. Something softer than lust. Then it was gone, buried under the groan that tore out of him as he pushed you back down again.
He leaned in, kissed you hard, and whispered–
“Wanna taste you.”
You froze. Your heart skipped.
Then you nodded.
And Rhett wasted no time.
His hands were already at the waistband of your shorts, dragging the cotton slowly down your thighs like he was peeling away something sacred. His eyes didn’t leave yours as he did it, not once. They flicked down only when the fabric passed your knees—just enough to take in the sight of you bare before him.
And when they did?
God, his whole expression changed.
His breath hitched, jaw flexing like he was trying not to say something filthy, and then it softened. You’d never seen him look at anyone like that before–like he was staring at something breakable and holy all at once. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.
You shifted up the bed slightly, breath coming fast, your back meeting the pillows as you settled deeper into the mattress. The air between your thighs felt electric now, flushed and hot and wanting. Rhett followed–crawling after you like something primal and starved. His palms braced on either side of your hips, shoulders hunched as he ducked his head low.
He kissed your knee first.
Then the curve just below it.
Then your inner thigh.
And then again, higher.
Slow, wet kisses dragging open-mouthed up your leg, the scrape of his stubble leaving heat trails across your skin–just abrasive enough to sting, just soft enough to make your breath catch.
When he reached that sensitive, untouched place where your thighs met, he paused. Pressed his cheek there, the heat of him burning into you.
“Been thinkin’ about this–about you–way longer than I should’ve.”
Then he spread you open.
His hands were firm on your thighs, parting them wider, guiding them over his shoulders until he was fully settled between them, mouth hovering just above your soaked core. You could feel his breath—hot, reverent—ghosting over you.
Then his tongue dragged a long, slow stripe through your folds.
You gasped, spine arching, fingers immediately tangling in his hair.
“Rhett–oh my god–”
He groaned like your moan alone had done something to him, like it lit a fire in his gut. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, keeping them steady as he licked you again–slow at first, then firmer, the tip of his tongue circling your clit with maddening precision.
It wasn’t perfect.
It was messy and hungry and a little clumsy–but it was real. Eager. Worshipful.
He moaned into you, mouth slick, tongue relentless, lips pressing wet kisses to your clit between each sweep of his tongue. You felt like you were unraveling–bit by bit, every nerve ending lit up with the heat of his mouth and the press of his stubble, your legs shaking around him.
“Fuck,” He whispered, pulling back for half a second, lips glistening. “You taste like a goddamn dream.” Then he dove back in.
You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything except hold on–fingers curled tight into his hair, head thrown back, mouth open with sounds you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to.
He sucked gently at your clit now, tongue flicking fast, and your body jolted.
“Oh, fuck, right there–don’t stop–”
His hands came up to your hips again, holding you down as your thighs threatened to close around him. His name fell from your lips like a prayer–again and again–and he just kept going, groaning against you like he couldn’t get enough, like he was drunk on the taste of you, the feel of you squirming beneath his mouth.
When your orgasm hit, it hit like wildfire.
Hot, blinding, breath-stealing. Your whole body arched off the bed, a cry ripped from your chest as your hands gripped his hair and your thighs trembled around his head. He didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down. Just kept licking you through it, slower now, more deliberate–like he was helping you ride it out, tasting every bit of it.
Only when your body went limp against the mattress, your fingers slack in his hair, did he finally lift his head.
His lips were swollen, cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide with something darker than lust. He kissed your thigh once more, slower this time. Then he looked up at you.
“You good?” He asked, voice thick, rough-edged from use.
You stared at him, dazed. “You just…Jesus, Rhett.”
He grinned, cocky and sheepishly all at once.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” He said, crawling back up your body like a man with a mission, “We’re just gettin’ started.”You laughed, breath still uneven, your skin flushed and damp beneath him. “You sure you don’t need a break?” you teased, brushing sweat-matted hair back from his forehead.
Rhett huffed a breath, half a laugh, half a growl. “Darlin’, if you think I’m done after one taste, you don’t know me at all.”
His mouth found yours again—hot, slick with your arousal, and unapologetically greedy. You moaned into the kiss, your fingers dragging along the ridges of his spine, nails scratching lightly just to feel him shudder.
When he rocked against you again, still fully clothed from the waist down, the friction of denim made you both groan. You reached down without thinking, tugging at his belt buckle with quick, practiced fingers. His breath stuttered as he pulled back just enough to watch you.
“Impatient, huh?” he murmured, voice thick with that rough drawl, eyes flickering dark.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you whispered back.
He didn’t argue.
You popped the button on his jeans, dragged the zipper down slow, and slipped your hand past the waistband to cup him through his boxers. The groan he let out sounded like it came from the center of the earth.
“Fuck–” He rasped, head tipping forward to rest against your shoulder. “Keep doin’ that and I’m gonna embarrass myself.”
You smirked and gave him one last squeeze before helping him shimmy out of his jeans. He kicked them off the bed with a grunt, then slid his boxers down in one quick motion, tossing them somewhere behind him to even the playing field.
And then you saw him.
Hard, flushed, heavy–his erection curved slightly up toward his stomach, the tip already wet and glistening. He was thick enough to make your breath hitch, veins prominent along the shaft, the base dusted with soft, light-brown hair that was trimmed but not overly neat–natural, just like the rest of him. Masculine. Raw. Beautiful.
You stared a little too long.
He caught your gaze, saw the way your lips parted–and he smirked, wicked and self-conscious all at once.
“Like what you see?” He asked, accent thick, almost shy in the corners of it.
“I knew you’d be big,” You whispered, licking your lips. “Didn’t think you’d be this pretty.”
That made him flush–the redness high in his cheeks. His cock twitched against his stomach, and he groaned like you’d physically touched him.
“Jesus,” He muttered, hand bracing beside your head, voice dipping low. “Do I need a condom?” You shook your head slowly, eyes locked on his.
“As long as you’ve got a clean bill of health and no STD’s I somehow don’t know about…”
He raised both hands in surrender, playful but sincere.
“Healthy as a horse, darlin’,” He said, drawl thick, words hot against your mouth as he kissed you again, “But I gotta warn you–I ride real hard.”
You laughed–giddy, breathless–and wrapped your legs around his hips to pull him close.
“Then quit stalling, cowboy,” You whispered, “And show me what all that riding has done for you.” Rhett laughed–low and warm and breathless–as he shifted forward, his chest brushing yours, the heat of his skin pressing close.
“Quit stallin’, she says,” He muttered, mouth hovering just above yours, “Like you ain’t been teasin’ me with those damn eyes all night.”
You felt the blunt head of him brush against your soaked folds, your breath catching immediately at the pressure. He rolled his hips once–just enough for the thick ridge of him to drag slick and slow through your arousal, not quite entering, just testing. Your thighs twitched around him.
“Rhett,” You gasped, fingernails curling against the nape of his neck, “Please.”
His jaw flexed. His hand found your thigh and gripped tight, grounding himself before he finally, finally pushed in—slow, careful, inch by inch.
Your mouth fell open. A cry caught at the back of your throat.
“Jesus Christ,” Rhett groaned, voice cracking in half. “You’re so damn tight—fuck.”
The stretch was overwhelming. Not painful, just full—full in a way that made your whole body arch beneath him, your fingers digging into his shoulders as your nails scratched across sweat-slick muscle. He paused when he was about halfway in, panting against your cheek.
“You okay?” he whispered, kissing your temple. His voice was shredded, barely holding on.
You nodded fast, but your breath was still broken. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Just…big. Just need a sec.”
Rhett’s hand slid up and down your side in slow, grounding strokes, his forehead pressed to yours. “Take your time, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Ain’t no rush.”
You clenched around him, and he swore—soft and low and filthy.
After a few more seconds, you shifted under him, rolling your hips a little—testing. Adjusting.
“I’m good,” you whispered, voice steadier now. “Rhett…move.”
He obeyed.
Slowly, reverently, he sank in the rest of the way—grinding his hips down until he was buried fully, seated deep and pulsing against your walls. Both of you moaned in tandem, loud and shameless, the sound tangled with sweat and need and every year you’d spent pretending this wouldn’t happen.
“Holy fuck,” he gasped. “You were made for this.”
Then he started moving.
His thrusts were slow at first, deep and deliberate, dragging along every sensitive nerve ending inside of you like he was memorizing the exact way to break you apart. His jaw was tight with restraint, eyes squeezed shut, the muscles in his neck pulled taut from the effort of not losing control.
You clung to him—arms around his back, lips on his shoulder, whimpering every time he bottomed out.
Then he shifted—sat back just a bit, bracing one hand beside your head and the other slowly dragging down your stomach until it rested just above your pubic bone. He pressed down lightly.
Your vision whited out.
“Oh–fuck–Rhett–what the–”
He grinned, wicked and lazy, watching your eyes go glassy with pleasure as his hand held you down while he rocked up into you again, hitting deeper.
“You feel that?” He rasped, a small bead of sweat glistening down his jaw. “That’s me hittin’ right where you need it. Got this little trick from a girl back in high school–don’t worry though,” His thumb stroked the skin of your stomach, “You’re already screamin’ way louder than she ever did.”
Your hips jerked beneath him and you cried out, body caught between overstimulation and need, your thighs shaking on either side of his waist.
He growled low in his throat and leaned down again, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear. “Told you I ride hard…Hope you got stamina.” You could only moan, helpless under him as he kept you open and trembling, his thrusts still steady but picking up pace, your nails dragging down his back in desperation. Every time he rocked into you with that pressure on your belly, it felt like a bolt of lightning shot through your spine. Rhett’s gaze never left your face.
He watched you fall apart beneath him–watched the way your lips parted, the way your brows drew together like you couldn’t make sense of the pleasure surging through your body. He watched your chest rise and fall in uneven little gasps, your skin flushed and dewy in the soft light of your bedroom.
He grinned–that same cocky little smirk that drove you crazy when he used it in bars or before bull rides, except now it was darker. Hungrier. Wrecked.
“Goddamn,” He rasped, leaning down to press his forehead to yours, his thrusts still deep, still slow–but sharper now, more precise, “You’re makin’ the prettiest fuckin’ faces right now.”
You whimpered, your legs tightening around his waist, and he groaned–like the sound alone made him twitch inside you.
“Could watch you like this all night,” He murmured, voice rough in your ear. “Eyes all glassy, mouth open… You keep squeezin’ me like that and I ain’t gonna last.”
Then, without warning, he dipped his head and bit into the soft spot between your neck and shoulder–just hard enough to make your whole body jolt.
You cried out, hands flying to his back, nails dragging down instinctively. He soothed the bite a second later with his tongue, warm and slow, lips pressing there with something tender that made your chest ache.
“You’re so wet for me,” He whispered against your skin, hips grinding in deep and holding, just to let you feel it. “You’ve been so fuckin’ wet this whole time. Can feel it runnin’ down me every time I slide in.”
You let out a broken sound–half a moan, half a sob–and he shuddered above you, thrusting again. Harder this time. And again. And again.
The headboard started hitting the wall–soft at first, then louder as he picked up speed. A steady rhythm, punctuated by the slap of skin on skin, your moans, his groans, and the creak of the bed springs beneath you.
Your hands were everywhere–on his back, in his hair, clutching his shoulders like he was the only solid thing left in the world. You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. All you could do was feel–feel him, thick and hot and buried so deep it was dizzying, feel his sweat slicking against yours, feel the way your body was building again, tighter and tighter like a storm winding itself up from the inside.
“Come on, baby,” Rhett grunted, his voice catching with every thrust now, like he was chasing the edge of his own pleasure just behind yours. “Give it to me. Wanna feel you fall apart.”
You did.
Your orgasm slammed into you like a freight train–sharp and fast and blinding, your whole body locking up and shaking under him. You screamed his name, voice ragged and high, your nails raking down his back so hard you knew you’d leave marks.
“Fuck–” He choked out, hips jerking once, then again, deeper, harder. “Fuck, I’m gonna–shit…” He buried himself to the hilt, body trembling above you as he let out a raw, guttural sound against your neck. You could feel every pulse of it inside you, hot and thick and perfect.
For a moment, the world just stopped.
The only sounds left were the ragged gasps of your breathing, the thump of your heart in your ears, and the soft whimper Rhett let out as he collapsed on top of you–still buried deep, chest heaving, sweat-slicked and wrecked.
He didn’t move. Just wrapped his arms around you and buried his face in your neck like he needed to stay there, skin to skin, where it was safe.
You were still trembling.
He felt it.
He kissed your neck once–soft this time. Then again. Then he whispered:
“Still think it was a mistake?”
Your breath caught in your throat.
“No definitely not…I think it should…It should happen more often.”
———————
After that night, it wasn’t just a one-time lapse. It became something else–something raw and frequent and borderline unmanageable.
You and Rhett started sleeping together like your bodies had been waiting for permission and now couldn’t get enough of it. Like something old had snapped and neither of you knew how to put it back. There was no declaration, no sit-down conversation about what it meant. Just a shared, wordless agreement that this was a thing now. A thing that happened often. A thing you both needed like air.
He’d show up late some nights, boots dusty from the barn or the bar, a tired smile pulling at the edge of his mouth. You’d let him in without a word. Sometimes you were already in bed, sometimes he’d catch you in the kitchen still finishing a drink. The routine was always the same: a kiss before the door was fully shut, clothes in a trail to your bedroom, soft groans swallowed against skin as you dragged each other down into the sheets like you were starving.
And he never stayed.
That part was clear from the beginning. He always made a point to wrap himself around you for a while afterward, breath still ragged, one hand splayed against your bare stomach like he needed to feel it rise and fall. He’d press his mouth to your shoulder, sometimes your neck, and hold you like he meant it.
But he always left before morning.
Sometimes he had early chores. Sometimes Perry needed help with something on the ranch. Sometimes he just didn’t say. And you never asked.
You told yourself it was fine. It was what you signed up for. You respected the rules. No staying over. No sleepovers. No falling asleep in each other’s arms.
It didn’t mean it didn’t sting a little every time the sheets cooled beside you.
You didn’t go to his place much–not since you both agreed it’d be weird sneaking around with his dad or his brother still milling around the property. So you didn’t push. You didn’t ask for more. You didn’t press into the soft ache that bloomed every time his truck door shut and the gravel cracked beneath his tires at 2 a.m.
Instead, you adjusted.
The hookups came fast and varied–sometimes drawn out over hours in your bed, all heat and filth and tangled limbs. Other times they were desperate things done in the back of his truck or the passenger seat of your car, fogging up windows and whispering each other’s names like it was a secret that burned too hot to speak aloud.
One night it was on the hood of his truck just off the road behind the rodeo grounds–your back against warm metal, his mouth between your thighs with stars spinning overhead and his hat hanging low on his head.
Another time it was in your laundry room, barely making it through the door before he bent you over the dryer and fucked you with his hand clamped over your mouth to keep you from moaning loud enough for the neighbors.
He never said no when you reached for him. Never hesitated when your shirt came off. But afterward? When your legs were still trembling and his forehead was pressed against yours like maybe he was breathing you in?
That’s when he always started pulling away.
Always with that soft kiss to your shoulder.
Always with a low, muttered, “Gotta go, darlin’,” like he didn’t want to.
And maybe he didn’t.
But he did anyway.
And you let him.
Because friends with benefits didn’t ask for more. They didn’t ask why he always left or why he never let you fall asleep in his arms or why he sometimes looked at you like you were something he couldn’t hold on to for long.
They didn’t ask.
And you didn’t either.
But it was all eating away at you…And it came to a head one night.
It was late when it happened.
Later than usual, even for you two. The town was quiet, half-asleep, shadows stretching long across the pavement as Rhett pulled his truck down a gravel backroad and parked at the far end of a field you both knew well–an open patch behind the Miller place that hadn’t been tended to in years. No one would see. No one ever came back here.
The night was thick with summer, and the windows fogged fast.
He kissed you before the engine was even off–one hand tugging you over the console and into his lap, your thighs straddling him, the other already palming the back of your neck like he was afraid you’d disappear. His mouth was hot and hungry, tongue sliding into yours like he couldn’t stand even a second of distance. Your hands were on his shirt, pushing it up, exposing warm, sweat-damp skin that tasted like salt and beer and him.
It escalated like wildfire.
Your shorts were pushed aside, his zipper dragged down rough and quick, the head of his cock nudging at your slick entrance before you even fully realized you were grinding down against him like your life depended on it.
“Jesus Christ–” He rasped, arms wrapping tight around your back as you slowly sank onto him, both of you groaning in unison, low and filthy. His head tipped back against the seat, throat bare, jaw clenched like the stretch of you around him was something sacred and brutal all at once.
“Always so tight for me hmm?” he grunted, voice thick, hands sliding down to grip your hips. “Fuckin’ hell, Y/N…”
You rolled your hips, slow and deep, the sound of your bodies slick and obscene in the quiet truck. The windows had gone fully opaque, the only light spilling in from the moon, catching faint on the sheen of sweat gathering at his collarbones, the curve of your bare thighs grinding down against him. Your hands cupped his face, holding him steady–thumbs brushing the ridge of his cheekbones, your foreheads pressed together.
His eyes were wide and dark and unfocused, his breath a ragged pant. He looked ruined already.
“You feel too good,” He muttered, almost dazed. “Too fuckin’ good.”
You kissed him again–messy, open-mouthed, your moan swallowed by the groan in his throat as you rocked faster. Your hands slipped into his hair, fingers gripping tight, tugging, and he whined. He actually whined.
The sound did something to you–flipped a switch.
You leaned in close, your breath heavy against his mouth, and spit into it.
Not aggressive. Not calculated. Just…Natural. Intimate. A little filthy. A fully primal.
His lips parted instinctively to take it in, and something in him snapped.
Rhett’s growl was sharp and guttural, his hand shooting up to wrap around your throat–not hard, not painful, but firm. Possessive. Like he didn’t even know he’d done it until your breath caught and your pupils blew wide with heat.
“You dirty fuckin’ girl,” He rasped, voice shaking. “You knew what that would do to me.”
Your nails dug into his shoulders as he started fucking up into you with force, the truck seat creaking beneath you, the angle tight and punishing. His hand held your throat like a command, thumb resting right over your pulse point as his other arm anchored you down hard to his lap.
The sound of skin against skin echoed off the fogged glass. Wet. Furious. Desperate.
You were both sweating, trembling, completely gone.
“You like me chokin’ you while you ride me?” he panted, eyes wild, face flushed. “Like when I’m deep enough you feel me here–” He pressed his palm lower, flat against your abdomen where the head of his cock hit deep. “That what you want?”
Your head fell back, a moan tearing from your throat as he fucked up into that spot over and over again. “Yes–yes–right there, please–”
He was growling now, “Gonna come on me, Y/N? Right here in the fuckin’ truck where anybody could see if they tried hard enough?”
Your whole body tightened.
Rhett bit down against your neck, sucking hard at the skin there, and the pressure, the stretch, the grip on your throat–
You shattered.
Your orgasm hit like a freight train–wracking your body, your hands shaking, thighs squeezing around his hips like a vice. You sobbed out his name, head tucked into his shoulder, fingers clawing at his back.
He came seconds after, hips stuttering, choking out a gasp of your name like it was a confession and a sin all at once. His cock twitched deep inside you, spilling hot and thick, his arm locked tight around your back as he buried himself to the hilt and stayed there, shaking.
Neither of you moved for a while.
The only sound was the ragged pant of breath and the faint hum of the cicadas outside, still singing like the night hadn’t just shifted on its axis.
Eventually, Rhett’s hand eased off your throat—replaced with a soft, reverent touch along your jaw.
“You okay?” he whispered, voice wrecked.
You nodded into his shoulder, chest still heaving. “Yeah…Yeah.”
He kissed the side of your head softly. You stayed curled against him, breath finally slowing, your body still trembling from aftershocks and overstimulation. Rhett’s arm was around your back, hand splayed warm and wide across your spine. His other hand had drifted down to your thigh, thumb tracing soft circles in a rhythm that didn’t match the frantic one from minutes ago.
Eventually, you shifted. He did too. Just enough to kiss your shoulder again before helping you carefully off his lap and back into the passenger seat. You winced a little, tugging your shorts up over your hips while Rhett tucked himself back in and adjusted the hem of his shirt.
Neither of you spoke until he reached forward to twist the key in the ignition, the old engine rumbling to life beneath you. The AC kicked in, pushing out sticky warmth, and the windows slowly started to defog as he pulled out of the field and back onto the gravel road.
Your hair was a mess. His collar was damp. You didn’t bother fixing either.
The silence was comfortable. Familiar. Until Rhett’s hand dropped from the gearshift back to your thigh and stayed there. You glanced down at it–at the way his fingers spread, slow and easy, like they belonged there, even though it wasn’t anything to be read into.
“You doin’ anything this weekend?” He asked eventually, his voice still a little hoarse.
You turned your head toward him. “What kind of ‘doing’ are we talking? The biblical kind, or the regular?”
He cracked a grin, that familiar boyish smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. “Was gonna ask if you wanted to come to the bar. Saturday. Me, some of the boys…Y’know the usual.” You shifted a bit in your seat.
“Yeah, I’m in,” You said, “But fair warning–you’re drivin’ us there, not back. Because I fully plan on matching you drink for drink and I will end up dancing on someone’s table.”
Rhett huffed a laugh through his nose, patting your thigh affectionately. “That right?”
“Mhm.”
“Well, I don’t mind walkin’ back to your place,” he said, glancing over at you. “Would just have to be prepared for the second trek back to my place.”
You raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “You say that like it ain’t something you do every time anyway.”
His smirk faltered.
You leaned your head against the window, voice casual. “You ever think about staying? Just once?”
That landed heavier than you meant it to. Rhett’s hand went still on your leg. His eyes stayed fixed on the road, jaw shifting tight for a second like he was grinding molars behind closed lips.
“I mean—” you added, trying to sound breezy, “Not a demand or anything. Just a question.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then:
“I think about it.”
You blinked.
His fingers resumed moving, brushing lightly now, thoughtful. “More than I should, probably.”
You turned your head slowly to look at him. His expression was unreadable–serious, but not cold. Distant, but not cruel. Like he was wading through something heavier than the question itself.
“So why don’t you?” You asked softly.
Rhett didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quieter than you’d expected. “Because I don’t know how to make it mean less.”
You stared at him.
He glanced your way. “Stayin’ over, I mean. That ain’t just sleepin’. Not for me.”
You nodded, slowly. “So what is it then?”
He didn’t answer.
Just kept his hand on your thigh, thumb tracing idle patterns into your skin as the truck rolled on, headlights stretching into the dark.
You didn’t say anything else.
And neither did he.
The silence didn’t feel quite like comfort anymore.
Not this time.
———————
The bar was already halfway full by the time you and Rhett walked in, the familiar pulse of country rock vibrating through the wooden floorboards, neon signs buzzing quietly above the heads of locals hunched over whiskey and worn conversation.
You were both a few drinks in by the time it started.
Nothing serious–just beer, a round of tequila shots with the boys, and the hazy sort of warmth that settled into your limbs the way a summer night always did after a long day. Rhett had his arm slung casually along the back of your barstool, his body close but not touching, eyes half-lidded as he nursed a beer and laughed at something one of his buddies said.
And then the guy approached you.
Not from town. Definitely not one of Rhett’s people. He had a clean look about him–more polished than usual for Wabang. Collared shirt. Straight teeth. That too-easy charm of someone who knew they were decent-looking and had never been told otherwise.
You could feel Rhett tense before he even spoke.
The guy leaned against the bar beside you, grinning like he had time to kill and no one to kill it with.
“Hey,” He said, eyeing the bottle in your hand. “That what I think it is?”
You looked down. “A beer?”
“Not just any beer. That’s a Lone Star. You don’t strike me as a Lone Star girl.”
You smirked, humoring him. “Then what kind of girl do I strike you as?”
The man’s grin widened. Rhett went quiet beside you, the fingers wrapped around his bottle flexing just slightly.
The guy kept talking. You flirted back, just a little. Nothing serious. A tilt of your chin. A cocked eyebrow. A laugh that was more out of habit than real amusement.
Rhett didn’t say anything–but he moved. Sat up straighter. Pulled his arm back from behind your chair. His knee knocked into yours once, not accidental, and you felt it. That shift. That heat.
When the guy reached out to brush his hand against your arm–a soft touch, not gross, but bold enough–Rhett stood up.
“Gonna hit the head,” He muttered to no one in particular. But his eyes flicked toward you when he passed, and they didn’t hold that usual warmth. There was something sharp in them now. Hurt, maybe. Something darker.
He disappeared into the back hallway, and your gut twisted a little.
The guy leaned in. “That your boyfriend?”
You gave a half-smile. “Something like that.”
He looked disappointed. “Shame.”
You didn’t respond. Just slipped off the barstool and made your way toward the hallway.
You found Rhett by the back exit door, hands in his pockets, staring at the dusty floor like it had personally offended him.
“What’s wrong?” you asked, voice low.
He shook his head without looking at you. “Nothin’.”
“Rhett.”
Still nothing. Just the dull hum of the jukebox spilling in from the main room, laughter echoing down the corridor behind you.
You stepped closer. “You sure about that?”
His jaw tensed. “Yeah. Just…Tired.”
It didn’t sound like the truth. But you let it slide.
Eventually, the night pulled you both back to the bar. More drinks. Another round of shots. You ended up on the dance floor for a bit, swaying together, laughing when Rhett pretended to be too drunk to spin you. But he never fully relaxed–not the way he usually did. Not the way he always had with you.
When the bartender rang the last call bell, the room had thinned. Most people had filtered out already, and your feet ached from the boots you regretted putting on.
Rhett threw down enough cash to cover both your tabs and stood.
“C’mon. Leave the truck. I’ll get Perry to help me pick it up tomorrow.”
You nodded, following him out into the warm night, the buzz of alcohol still humming beneath your skin.
The walk back to your trailer was quiet. The gravel underfoot crackled in rhythm with your steps, the stars wheeling silently overhead. You walked close enough for your arms to brush, but neither of you reached for the other.
Not yet.
Not after that.
You didn’t ask again what was wrong.
And Rhett didn’t offer.
But whatever it was–it was still there. In the silence. In the sting of it.
And it wasn’t going away.
The trailer creaked softly as you both stepped inside, the screen door groaning a little before it clicked shut behind you. The air was warm–still holding the heat from the day–and smelled faintly like lavender from the aromatherapy humidifier. Rhett toed off his boots near the door, silent, and you locked up behind him.
He didn’t follow you into the kitchen right away.
You moved on instinct–tossing your keys onto the counter, flicking the dim overhead light on low. The soft hum of the fridge filled the silence as you pulled it open and reached for the Tupperware you’d stacked there earlier.
“I got some leftovers from last night,” you offered gently, glancing over your shoulder. “That stew I told you about–still good cold, but I can heat it up if you want.” Rhett didn’t answer right away. He hovered near the small table, one hand resting on the back of the chair, eyes downcast. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but inside his own head.
You set the container on the counter and grabbed two glasses from the cupboard. “Or just some water, if you’re feelin’ it.”
He let out a soft exhale through his nose and finally sat down. “Water’s good.”
You filled both glasses and brought them over, sliding one in front of him before taking the seat across. He took a sip, then held it in his hands like it might anchor him.
He still hadn’t looked at you.
“Okay,” you said softly, careful not to make it sound like a demand. “What’s goin’ on with you?”
Rhett blinked. His jaw flexed. But he didn’t look angry. Just…Tired. Off-kilter. Like whatever was eating at him wasn’t done chewing.
“You’re not usually like this,” You added, resting your forearms on the table. “You’ve been quiet all night. That wasn’t just the beer.”
His eyes finally lifted to yours–and they held something in them you couldn’t quite name. Something you weren’t sure you were ready to see.
He shook his head once, slow. “I dunno,” He muttered. “Feels like somethin’s slippin. And I can’t… Grab onto it.”
You leaned in slightly. “You mean us?”
He looked away again, jaw working. “I dunno what I mean.”
“You’re allowed to say if something hurts, y’know,” You said, voice soft but steady. “You don’t always have to act like everything’s fine just ‘cause that’s what we agreed to.”
There was a pause.
Then: “It wasn’t just the flirting,” He said, so quietly you almost missed it.
You waited.
Rhett’s eyes found yours again, and for once, he didn’t look away.
“It was seein’ you smile like that,” He said. “With someone else. Like maybe… Maybe I ain’t the only one you do that for.”
Your breath caught in your throat.
“That’s not fair,” You said gently. “You’ve never asked me to not entertain anyone else. And I haven’t until tonight.”
“I know,” He said. “That’s the thing. You didn’t do nothin’ wrong.” You watched the way his hand gripped the glass. The tension in his fingers. The way his knee bounced slightly beneath the table, betraying nerves he was too proud to name.
“Rhett,” You said, quieter now. “Were you jealous?”
He didn’t answer.
Not right away.
Just sat there, in the dim light of your trailer, with his jaw clenched and his eyes shadowed, the silence stretching so thin between you that it almost hummed.
You rose from your chair slowly, the legs scraping softly against the floor. Rhett’s eyes didn’t follow. His stare stayed fixed on the table, as though whatever lived in the grain of the wood was easier to face than you.
But you didn’t let that stand.
You stepped in front of him, and he still didn’t look up. Not until your hand reached forward–two fingers tilting his chin up gently.
“Look at me,” You said, softly.
His eyes lifted, wary and wide, the blue of them darker in the dim light. He looked vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed–like he wasn’t just holding his breath, but his heart too, trapped in his chest, unsure if it was about to break or leap.
You leaned in, hands rising to cradle his face between your palms, your thumbs grazing the bristle along his jaw. His breath caught. The angle of your touch forced him to keep his head tilted up, eyes locked with yours. There was nowhere to look but you.
“Were you jealous?” You asked again, quieter this time.
He didn’t blink. Just swallowed hard. His lips parted, then closed. Opened again.
And finally, he said it. Barely a whisper.
“Of course I was.”
Your breath stuttered softly. You could feel it—that subtle shift in the air between you. Like something sacred was about to be said. Or undone.
Your hands didn’t leave his face.
“Because you want me to be yours…” Your voice dropped, a breath more than a whisper, “And yours only?”
His lashes fluttered like he hadn’t expected you to say it aloud.
There was a long pause.
Then, a quiver in his bottom lip. His mouth opened. No sound. He closed it again. Tried once more.
“…Yeah.” It came out rough. Unsteady. Real.
Your heart gave a slow, traitorous ache in your chest. His eyes were glassy, like something too honest had cracked open and spilled out of him. You swallowed hard, gaze flicking over his face. You could feel the heat rising in your own cheeks. Something low in your belly tightened at the way he was looking at you now–like you were something holy he hadn’t meant to touch, but couldn’t stop reaching for.
You leaned in closer. Your hands slid down to his neck, your forehead nearly brushing his, and your lips ghosted the space beside his mouth.
“Then claim me for real, Rhett,” You whispered, barely audible. “Not just in the dark. Not just when it’s easy. Claim me as yours.”
Rhett didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
His mouth crashed into yours like it was instinct—like he was answering the only way he knew how. But it wasn’t rough like the others, not rushed or desperate. This kiss was slow. Deep. Laced with something that burned hotter than anything he’d ever let show. Like he wanted you to feel what he hadn’t had the words to say. Like he wanted to taste every part of the ache he’d been trying to bury.
You moaned softly against his lips, and his hands rose to your waist, gripping tight like he was grounding himself. Your body leaned into his, and he stood—just like that, lifting you as easily as breathing.
You didn’t even have to think–your legs wrapped around his waist like they’d been waiting for that cue all night. Like it was reflex. Clockwork.
The kiss didn’t break as he turned, carrying you toward the bedroom. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging gently at the roots, and he groaned low into your mouth, that sound vibrating straight down your spine.
By the time your back hit the mattress, both of you were already breathing hard. He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his hands smoothing along your thighs, bunching your dress up higher and higher until it pooled at your hips. His gaze drank you in like he didn’t know where to touch first.
“Goddamn,” He muttered, running a hand down your bare leg like he was reverent. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.”
You reached up, grabbing the collar of his shirt to yank him back down. “Then prove it.”
And he did.
His mouth met yours again–hotter this time, wetter. Tongues sliding, teeth clashing. It was messy and full of spit and hunger and the kind of kiss that left you both panting. You felt his hand slip between your legs, fingers stroking through the slick already gathering there, and you gasped into his mouth.
”Always so wet…All for me…” he murmured, pulling back just enough to speak against your lips. “Fuck.”
You didn’t have the breath to answer–not when he was dragging his fingers up and down your slit, teasing the edges of your clit before dipping into your entrance. Not when he curled two fingers inside you and started fucking you slow and deep, eyes locked to your face like he couldn’t bear to look away.
You moaned–loud and shameless–and he swallowed it in another kiss, his free hand cradling the back of your head, holding you in place while his fingers worked you open.
The sound of it was filthy. Wet and obscene and echoing faintly in the room.
He moved with purpose, curling his fingers just right, stroking that spot inside you while kissing you so thoroughly it felt like your bones might dissolve. His mouth broke away only to trail down your jaw, then your neck, biting gently, licking the spot after.
“Want you to come like this,” He rasped, voice ragged. “Wanna feel you gush on my fuckin’ hand before I even get inside you.”
Your hips bucked up helplessly. You couldn’t help it. The pressure was coiling fast–faster than you expected. It was the look in his eyes. The rough sweetness of it all. Like he wanted to ruin you just enough to keep you his.
He pressed his forehead to yours, sweat starting to gather along his brow. “Come for me, Y/N. Just like this…Just on my fingers.” You whimpered, legs trembling as your release built sharp and tight, and then–
It hit.
Your back arched and you cried out, one hand fisting the sheets, the other digging into his shoulder as you came with a shuddering gasp. He held you through it, fingers slowing just enough to milk every last tremor, his mouth brushing your cheek, your jaw, your lips.
“Fuckin’ beautiful,” He whispered. “All mine.”
You barely had time to catch your breath before Rhett was on you again.
There was nothing slow about the way he pulled your dress over your head—nothing neat, nothing gentle. It caught on your arms for half a second before he tugged it free and tossed it somewhere across the room. His hands were back on you immediately, rough palms sliding up your stomach, over your chest, thumbing the soft weight of your breasts like he’d been starving for the feel of you.
You arched into his touch, mouth parting on a gasp, and reached for the hem of his shirt in turn. He helped you, pulling it over his head with a growl caught low in his throat, like he couldn’t stand another second of skin between you. And once it was gone–thrown blindly behind him–his mouth was everywhere–neck, collarbone, the soft rise of your breast–kissing, biting, licking, like he was trying to memorize you through taste. He pulled one nipple into his mouth with a groan, tongue swirling slow and wet, while his hands gripped your thighs like he needed to feel you under his palms, needed to know you were real.
And then he was tugging at your panties, the fabric sliding down your legs with a quiet, desperate sound. You kicked them off without thinking, letting them land somewhere in the mess already forming around the bed. His belt was next–your hands fumbling with the buckle, too frantic to be graceful. Rhett cursed softly against your chest, helping you, pushing his jeans down with a rough jerk of his hips until they were halfway down his thighs.
He didn’t stop to take them off.
Didn’t need to.
Because his body was already pressing into yours–hot, heavy, solid–and you could feel every hard inch of him, thick and aching, dragging against your slick folds like it was killing him not to be inside you.
He leaned over you, one hand bracing against the mattress beside your head, and with the other–he reached for your hand. Intertwined your fingers with his and pinned them down beside your head, palm to palm, knuckles grazing the pillow.
His eyes searched yours for a beat. Just one.
Then his hips surged forward.
The stretch made you gasp, made your back arch, made your fingers squeeze his tighter as he filled you in one deep, unrelenting thrust. You felt the tremble in his arm, the strain in his breath, and when he bottomed out, he groaned–low and filthy–his forehead pressing to yours again.
“Fuck,” He breathed, voice shaking. “You always feel like fuckin’ heaven.”
Your free hand clutched at his shoulder, nails digging in for something to hold onto. He started moving–slow at first, but deep. Every thrust hit that spot inside you that made your eyes flutter, that made your thighs fall wider open, welcoming every inch of him.
“Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ night,” He rasped, voice pitched low against your mouth. “That dress. That smile. The way you looked at him…”
You whimpered, your walls fluttering around him.
“You wanted me jealous, didn’t you?” He growled, dragging his hips back and slamming forward again. The bed creaked. The headboard thumped once. “Wanted me to lose it.”
“No,” you gasped, breath catching. “I wanted to be yours for real….”
His grip on your hand tightened–possessive. And he fucked into you harder then, still deep, but more urgent now. Less rhythm, more need.
“Mine,” He said, grunting with the hard thrust he gave you. “You hear me? Mine. Nobody else gets to see you like this. Nobody gets to feel how fuckin’ tight you get for me.”
Your body shook with every thrust, with every word.
“Say it,” He demanded, hips snapping harder, “Say who you belong to.”
“You,” You moaned, eyes fluttering. “Fuck, Rhett–You. Only you.”
That broke something in him.
His mouth was on yours again, kissing you like it hurt, like he was drowning in it. His thrusts turned frantic–still deep, still dragging you closer to the edge with every roll of his hips, but now he was desperate too. Desperate to make you feel it.
He reached between your bodies, fingers rubbing tight circles over your clit, and your legs shook again.
“I want you to come around me,” He groaned, burying his face in your neck, teeth grazing your pulse, “I want it to be messy, darlin’. Wanna feel it…I need it.” You were already there–so close, the coil pulling tight, the pressure unbearable with the way he was working your clit and pounding into that sweet, swollen spot deep inside.
And then it hit–white-hot, sweeping through your entire body like a wave crashing over every nerve ending. You cried out, clenching around him as your orgasm shattered through you, trembling so hard your hand almost slipped from his.
Rhett groaned like he felt it in his soul.
“Goddamn…That’s it, Y/N…Just like that–fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so fucking tight.” He thrusted once, twice–then he was spilling into you with a broken, guttural moan. His hips stuttered and he stayed buried deep, pressing down so hard you could feel his heartbeat in the way his cock pulsed inside you.
His hand was still gripping yours. Tight. Like he couldn’t let go even if he wanted to.
When it was over, he didn’t pull out.
Didn’t move.
Just rested his weight over you, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, lips brushing your temple.
“You wreck me,” He whispered, voice wrecked and ruined. “Every fuckin’ time.”
You smiled–soft, dazed–and turned your head to kiss the corner of his mouth.
“And you still come back for more.”
He let out a soft laugh, one that warmed against your skin. His grip on your hand loosened just enough for your fingers to thread tighter, more secure.
“I always do,” He murmured. “Always will…And now that you’re mine…I’m going to stay the night with you.”
summary: Riding your Golden Boy. Somewhere along the lines, Sentry takes over and has his way with his girl.
warnings: smut, smut and more smut. bob being a soft boy, sentry being self indulgent and taking you within an inch of your life because you asked for it. (i fear i was the one being self indulgent bcs idk sentry is so hot but so is void. but bob has my heart. let me know what yall think. hope yall enjoy this <33)
word count- 2.2k
masterlist
He wants to live inside you forever. Imprint himself on your very soul and on every fiber of your being. You feel good, you feel so incredibly and unbelievably right.
“Oh God, Bob.You’re so big..” you moan as you sink down on his cock. The dangerously adorable man underneath you has the thickest cock you’ve ever had. The stretch overwhelms you and you bury your face in his neck, arms around him, trying to go as deep as possible. Bob hands grip your hips tightly, stopping you from sinking down on his cock too quickly. Mentally, you curse yourself for taking so long to try this position with your golden boy.
Bob feels dizzy too, his head spinning as he watches you. He craves touch, he craves your touch. His entire life, nobody had ever touched him like you, so lovingly and gently, tracing his skin like you were memorising and worshiping him. Instead, he spent a good portion of his years filling this empty space with drugs, getting high out of his mind and doing awful things he wouldn’t even want to tell you.
Leaning up against the headboard, Bob watches you with lustful eyes, his plump lips part as he pants breathlessly. At this very moment, Bob felt like his heart might explode, death would be welcomed since he had truly lived a life worth living, an angel in his arms, wrapped around his cock. Sex before you was meaningless, he had been far too high to care about anything that was happening anyways.
“G-go slow. Don’t have to get it all in.” He whimpers out between moans, groaning at how wet you are, dripping down the length of the cock.
“I-I want to, baby.” you reply shakily before pushing yourself down fully onto his cock. The stretch makes your eyes water, but he feels so good— you could cum right then and there.
Bob’s hands lift from your hips, moving to clutch your head and pull you away from his neck. “G-god, baby. Y-you didn’t– you didn’t have to.” He stutters out, his forehead flush against yours.
You want to ride him, bounce on his cock until you can't remember your own name. Rolling your hips and clenching down on his cock, your legs tremble at how good it feels. Bob, bless his heart, lets out a choked moan.
“B-Baby, baby. You can’t– you can’t do that. I’ll cum too–oh god, too soon!” He moans.
It takes all your might to begin riding your golden boy. Hands on his shoulders you start lifting your hips, then sliding back down in his cock, over and over again. Your pace is slow yet hard and deep. You want to go faster but the blood in your veins feels so hot, you think you’ll explode if you’re not careful.
His head is thrown back, eyes shut, lips parted and face flushed as you ride him. His hands return back to your hips, clutching you like a lifeline. The Golden Boy under you, is unequivocally and irrevocably yours, and fuck— he looks gorgeous under you.
Letting go of his shoulders, you reach to clutch his face. “Bob? Baby, look at me, please.” you whine, wanting those pretty eyes on you.
He blearily opens his eyes, his pupils blown and he looks utterly debased and lustful. His unnecessarily superhuman senses flare, overwhelmed by everything around him. He can feel every touch on his skin, the soft fingertips on his cheeks trying to reel him in, and the drag of your walls around his cock each time you move up and down.
Bob never wants this to end. He wants to be inside you like this forever. His cock pumping deep inside the love of his life.
The sound of your heart pounding in your chest echoes in his ears as he zeros in on you, the way your blood rushes so loudly through your veins.
The pleasure is too much, it throws you off-kilter. Head spinning, your hands drop down to his stomach to steady yourself.Thoughtlessly, his hands move to cup your breasts when yours let go of his face, entranced by each movement they make when you bounce on his cock. The pads of his thumbs toying with your hardened nipples.
His touch spurs you on, the way his eyes lustfully looks at you has you choking on your own saliva. Invigorated by this, you speed up, bouncing on his cock harder and faster. Bob can only take what you give him, mouth parted, moaning and grunting, here and there. You know you shouldn’t overdo it, but God— his cock stretches you out so good and so deep, you know you’ll feel it tomorrow. You want him to wreck you, rearrange you and ruin you for anyone else.
The coil within you winds up, getting tighter and tighter with each bounce of your body. Body tense and hot, you can feel yourself getting closer to the edge, higher and higher. Head light and blood rushing, you’re losing yourself to this pleasure, your legs and thighs begin to cramp but you force yourself to keep going.It's like your mind isn’t yours. You don’t want to stop, you can’t stop.
Bob knows you far too well. He can tell when you’re teetering to the edge of going too damn far. The way your eyes glass over, the way your moans spill out like you're about to cry, and the way you shake. His hands clutch your waist, his grip firm but careful, trying to bring you back to him. “S-Slow down, baby. You’re— fuck! You’re t-trembling.” He says shakily trying not to succumb to how good you feel on his cock.
He says your name so softly, so reverently, trying to rouse you back to him. His arms wrap around you, under your arms, pulling you flush to him. Bob’s hand finds purchase on the back of your head, as it falls into the crook of his neck.
Gibberish falls out of your mouth. Something along the lines of “I want to cum, Robert. Let me make you cum too, please.” if Bob’s superhearing is to be trusted.
“I-I know, baby.” he soothes you. “L-let me do this for you, baby. Don’t— you don’t have to p-push yourself f–for me.” he reasons with you, knowing you wouldn’t stop until both of you had been thoroughly spent.
Too far gone to think straight, you wrap your arms around his neck, letting him take over. Holding your hips tightly, Bob’s hips begin to thrust up into you, his pace is steady but deep.
The way you melt into him makes his heart pound out of his chest, how you trust him to take over, when even he didn’t trust himself. The way your soft moans spill out of your lips could make him cum inside your silky walls right now.
You want him to go faster, harder, make you cum so hard, you see stars. Desire has you so deep within its clutches, you can’t escape. So you beg. “Bob, please. Fuck me harder, please.”
“Shh, I– I don’t want to lose control, baby.” he whines back.
“I don’t care, Bob. Please, just fuck me hard.” You beg him, voice needy.
“I need you to fuck me. Just fuck me hard, Robert.” The words leave your mouth desperately without much thought.
Something shifts in the air and you feel it immediately. The sudden influx of unexplainable energy, it feels sharp and strong. Steady and firm, unlike Bob’s hesitance.
Beneath you, Bob shifts, hands gripping your hips even tighter. Then, he plants his feet down onto the bed, angling himself before thrusting back into you, hard. This new angle hits that spot inside you, the one that makes you scream and see stars
The force of his thrusts has you losing your breath, your arms tighten around his neck as you hold on for dear life. Ecstasy flows through your veins, as he begins to fuck you within an inch of your life while your moans spill wantonly from your lips.
This, you think, is new. Bob has never done this. He doesn’t usually fall into your begging, opting to hold back and not let himself lose. Alarm bells ring in your head, but somewhere between his grunts and the way his cock pounds into you, you forget it.
He’s so deep inside you, pounding your pussy like his life depended on it. The pleasure builds within you, the pressure between your legs borders between too much and just enough.
You don’t have a clue how long he has you like this but the coil finally snaps. Intense pleasure washes through you, sending your body into a state of ecstasy,and leaving you moaning and trembling. Your juices leak down Bob’s cock, coating both your thighs. He doesn’t slow down.
His thrusts don't falter. Bob’s pace is unyielding, grunting as your walls clamp down on him. Utterly spent, your body is limp and pliant atop his as you try to get your bearings, letting him have his way with you.
Before you know it, Bob flips the both of you.
The sudden movement shocks you. Suddenly, you are underneath him. Peering up at your Golden Boy, his eyes are shut and his curls fall haphazardly across his forehead, sticking to the sweaty skin.
Without much thought, your hand reaches up to brush away his curls. You think to ask why he stopped when he hasn’t cum yet.
Then, it clicks. The moment your fingers touch his skin, his eyes open. Otherworldly glow shines from his eyes.
Oh. This isn’t your Bob.
“Sentry?” You breathlessly ask.
The being above you doesn’t reply. Instead, he looks at you with the ferocity of a starved man. Fear rushes through you yet your excitement outweighs it. His cock is still buried inside your sensitive pussy, you don’t know whether to be afraid of him or do you want him to fuck you into the mattress.
Sentry speaks to you, “It’s unfair that he gets to keep you all by himself.”
Now, Sentry takes the reins. He pins you down onto the bed before thrusting into you. His presence is overwhelming, like he invades every inch of your senses.
Your previous climax had already made you sensitive. The sheer force of his unforgiving thrusts sends your body into overdrive. Overstimulation has you arching your back and curling your toes into the mattress.
In your fucked out state, you can’t even comprehend the words that spill out your mouth.
Sentry thinks you look so damn pretty like this. A lover fit for a god like him, moaning and writhing under him as he pounds into you. Only he should see you in this state.
He increases his pace, pounding into you harder. After all, you had asked him to fuck you hard. He can feel your thighs tremble and he can hear how hard your heart is beating.
The blood in your veins rush rapidly through your body as you fall deeper into your sex-induced high. Sentry too gets high on you. His focuses his efforts on bringing to the edge again, too feel you clamp down his cock and wantonly moan for him. Only him.
He knows he’s close to the edge when his balls tighten and the pressure low in his belly becomes too much. You feel yourself losing control, his cock is so big and he’s going too hard and too fast. When you tense and your body arches without your control, he knows your cumming again.
Only this time, he comes too.
He ruts into you wildly, grunting loudly while letting pleasure take over as he spills himself into you. He holds you close, letting your pinned arms go.
Somewhere in your haze, trembles and aftershocks you manage to wrap your arms around him as he spills himself inside you. It’s so much, even in your state, you know it’s too much.
The sheer volume of his thick cum feels so good inside you.
When he comes to, he can tell you’re still dazed. Your body is soft and pliant under him, while your eyes are glassy. His touch on your cheek grounds you a little. It’s like you see that it's him.
“Baby?” You call out breathlessly to him.
“Hmm?” He replies back but he thinks you don’t even notice.
You wince when he slides out of you. Thick fluids both his and yours leak out of you. He holds back the urge to push it back in. He knows that tomorrow that you’ll be sore but he hopes you don’t regret asking him to fuck you hard.
He lays beside you, pulling your weak body into his and letting your head rest on his chest. Sentry feels your body tremble under his touch, the aftershock of your orgasms.
He softly strokes up and down your arm, you are safe and sound here with him. He is the Sentry after all. A God in his own right.
When your breathing slows, he knows you’ll fall asleep soon. Your body is practically melting on him.
Right as sleep pulls you into its grasp, a soft sentence slips past your lips. Barely coherent and understandable but he doesn’t have superhearing for nothing. “Love you, my Golden Boy.”
Your Golden Boy. He likes the sound of that.
As Sentry closes his eyes, he hopes you wouldn’t mind him taking over your Bob next time. After all, it is unfair for Bob to have you all to himself.
Sentry lets sleep take him too, knowing that Bob will wake in the morning with only memories of this.
Sentry- 1, Bob- 0.
Yeah, he thinks. He’s a God, so why not keep a fucking tally.
So my trainer’s bf cheated on her. She broke up with him. He’s holding her stuff hostage until she agrees to talk with him. Which she refuses.
She trains; for free mind you; three college linebackers, a college wrestler, two martial artists, a body builder, and… wait for it…. a Navy seal. We’re gonna go get her shit for her.
So everyone who commented on this being like the avengers, you are absolutely right. That’s what all of us had in our heads as we were rolling over to dude’s house. But I’m very proud to say, this ended without violence.
Arrival:
So the super friends all jumped into one of the linebacker’s explorer and headed over to dude’s house. Ok the squad: you all know me, but the other martial artist is a little wirey hapkido guy, the linebackers are all giants (an estimated combined weight of I’d say 750-800lbs), the wrestler looks like an escaped gorilla, then the navy seal looks like your average guy but something about him is unsettling. Really unsettling. Unfortunately, the body builder had to work. Anyway, we send the Hapkido guy and the wrestler to the door first and dude answers, screams at them, and then slams the door in their face. Then the giant linebackers head over and they ring the door bell again. Lo and behold, he was much more polite, but still denied access. Finally, me and the seal join the fray. I casually make my way towards the front of the group, but the seal decides to CLIMB THE BANISTER. We all just turned and started at him completely shocked when dude answers the door. He looks at this weird mismatched group of relatively threatening individuals and one guy perched on his banister like batman. He was like “FINE. Go take what you’re looking for.”
Retrieval:
So we’re all walking through the house gathering what we think are her things and putting them into two boxes. Mind you. We are completely guessing. We didn’t even tell her we were coming, therefore we had no list of items.The only one really being productive was Hapkido, who was legitimately looking for stuff. The linebackers were just randomly picking up furniture, turning it over, and putting it back down. Just showing off how strong they were. In case the numbers game wasn’t enough, I guess they were letting him know they could break him if they wanted to. The seal was just shadowing dude in his own house. Walking behind him, not saying much, just being creepy. Then there’s me. Who was causing general mischief…. He said to take what I was looking for, that’s what I was looking for. Ahaha and the wrestler made a fricken sandwich. Because “you guys look like you have it under control, and I’m a sucker for egg salad.” We were in and out in 15 minutes.
Delivery:
So the autobots rolled out and headed towards homegirl’s spot. She was conveniently outside when we rolled up. We got out and she was like, how do you all even know each other. The truth is, we don’t. She sent us all an email once and didn’t blind copy us all. She vented to all of us about dude holding onto her stuff and we started emailing and that was that. We told her that we went to see her ex. “OMG what did you say to him?” Nothing. We’re not messenger boys. We’re delivery boys. And we gave her her boxes of stuff. She went through the first box and said that was most of her stuff. Then she got to my box and asked “Wtf is all that shit.” So I explained that I took all the batteries out of his remote controls, his deodorant, the light bulb out of his master closet, every pair of dress socks that I could find, the laces out of his running shoes, and all the toilet paper in the house. The guys just looked at me and kind of nodded like they were impressed. She then unexpectedly started CRYING and thanked us. So you have this group of meat heads all standing awkwardly with this weeping trainer. It was quiet for a second when the seal was like “So…. chipoltle?” And we all got burrito bowls.
I have a request! Where the reader is on her period and she has a lot of cramps and Bob takes care of her 🤧
Affection
Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader
Summary: You’re in extreme pain from your period cramps, and Bob is the first person to jump in to help you.
Warnings: No warnings, just fluff, lots and lots of fluff, and Comfort too (reader and Bob are very close friends)
Author’s Note: Thought I’d give y’all something light…Because ummm…I’m stirring a pot of angst and it’s stewing and simmering…The emotional bricks are at the ready lol. So I thought we’d actually just relax with this one a bit 😂 (thanks for the request BTW anon! :))
Word Count: 3,984
The kitchen was dim, steeped in the kind of quiet that only exists at 2:32 a.m–where the world was pausing between breaths. The under-cabinet lights were casting a soft amber glow against the tile, reflecting faintly off the sheen of sweat along your forehead. The red coil of the stovetop glowed like an ember, pulsing lazy hazes of warmth that didn’t seem to touch the chill in your limbs.
You were bent at the waist, forehead pressed to the cool marble counter as if you could siphon relief from its surface. The stone was slick beneath your skin–smooth and icy–and it did little to ground you. Your breath came shallow and fast through your nose, each inhale shaky, each exhale punctuated by a quiet whimper you couldn’t suppress.
Your shirt clung to your back, damp with sweat, the cotton twisting uncomfortably beneath your arms. You were overheating and freezing all at once–skin clammy, spine prickling, stomach coiled so tightly you swore it was tying itself in knots. The pain wasn’t sharp, not exactly–it was deeper than that. A dragging, molten ache that curled low in your abdomen seemed to radiate down your legs and all the way to your back, it was as if your body had been caught in a vice and someone kept twisting the handle and laughing.
Every few seconds at this point, a new wave crested–hot and unbearable–and your hand flew to your lower belly instinctively, fingers pressing hard into the tender flesh like the pressure alone might hold the worst of it at bay.
It didn’t. It never did.
A low groan slipped from your throat as the kettle finally began to whistle–sharp and rising, like it was mocking the sharpness in your gut. But you couldn’t move. Your muscles were locked in place, spine bowed forward, with your knees trembling beneath you.
You just needed one more minute. Just one more wave to pass. Then maybe you could stand up fully and stop the annoying whistling.
Then. Your ears caught the sound of footsteps, padding in from the hallway behind you.
”O-Oh…Sorry–I-I didn’t think anyone was u-up–“ Your head turned slightly at the sound of his voice, forehead lifting just enough to glance over your shoulder. The amber light from beneath the cabinets spilled across the entrance–and caught Bob standing there in all his soft, sleepy awkwardness.
He froze like a deer in the light, clutching an empty glass in one hand, like he’d just come to get water and stumbled into something he wasn’t sure he should be seeing. His hair was sticking up at odd angles, flattened on one side and wild on the other, and he was swimming in a faded navy hoodie that hung loose around his shoulders. Grey sweatpants clung low on his hips, and his bare feet shifted uncertainly against the tile.
His eyes–still heavy-lidded from sleep–tracked you slowly. From the way your body was braced against the counter to the sweat that began to bead at your temple, to the tremble in your knees. You could see his eyes soften at the sight, almost like he was trying to figure out what was wrong without asking you–because he knew you got frustrated when people were concerned for you.
Bob’s grip tightened slightly around the glass in his hand, knuckles paling. You could tell he was trying to play it cool–not alarm you, not smother you–but there was no mistaking the way his mouth parted, just slightly, like he was about to ask something, though he choked it back.
He took a cautious step towards you, shifting his weight to one foot like he wasn’t sure if he should stay or go–like he was waiting for some kind of cue from you. He didn’t ask if you were okay. He knew you didn’t like being asked that when you clearly weren’t. Instead his eyes continued to move over you, noticing the grip you had around your stomach. His mind immediately jumped to the conclusion it was something you ate–and the dread settled into him quickly. The chicken was the first thing that came to his head.
He’d insisted on making the team dinner, he had even waved off Walker’s offer to order Thai and physically blocked Ana from touching the stove because he said ‘No, l-let me do it! I-It’ll be a surprise!’
You watched his face slowly twist into a horrified expression. The dawning belief that he’d positioned everyone settling in his bone. That he was the reason you were hunched over a countertop at two in the morning like you’d been run over by a semi.
”I-I didn’t…Oh my god,” He blurted, stepping a bit closer to you, his free hand flailing slightly like he didn’t know where to put it, “I-I knew I shouldn’t have tried to make that recipe from memory. I-I mean I checked the chicken so many times. I-I know it was a little dry but…I swear…Wait…Oh crap…If Y-Yelena wakes up p-puking she’s gonna kill me and b-bury me in the woods I–.” Your laugh cut him off from continuing. A short, low wheeze that hurt to let out–but the kind that broke through your clenched teeth anyway. Your whole body shuddered with it, and you winced, but it was worth doing.
”Bob.” You said quietly, turning your head toward him as best you could, one hand still braced on your stomach, “As much as it was dry, and as much as I needed to chug water just to swallow it…Your food didn’t do this to me.” You added, your eyes snapping shut as another surge of pain twisted your insides around, before returning your forehead to the counter.
Bob blinked like he’d just been slapped with a wet towel–stunned out of his guilt spiral by your laugh, your voice, your reassurance. His posture softened almost immediately. The hand that had been flailing now just hovered awkwardly in the air before slowly lowering to his side, fingers curling around the edge of the counter like he needed something to steady him.
”O-Oh…” He breathed, “S-So then…W-What’s happening with you then?” He asked, reaching over to turn off the whistling kettle, his movements clumsy but quiet, his eyes still locked onto your figure, seeing the way you slowly swayed from side to side.
You lifted your head–only an inch or two–to look up at him again, and that was enough.
When his eyes met yours, everything in his face changed.
Tears were forming. They weren’t falling yet, but they were there–thick and glassy, clinging to your lashes like they were holding on for dear life. Your lips were slightly parted, trembling just enough to betray you, and your breath hitched audible as you tried to blink them away.
His brows pulled together instantly. Deep. Concerned. His whole expression shifted like something was cracking behind it–worry rising slowly, curling under his features like a rising tide. His lips parted slightly, jaw ticking with hesitation, but his eyes…His eyes said everything.
It was the look he got when someone on the team was bleeding but too stubborn to say so. The one he wore when he thought he wasn’t allowed to step in–but he desperately, desperately wanted to.
“It’s just cramps Bob…I’ll be fine. You should just…Get what you need and go back to bed.” You sniffled, wiping your eyes off quickly, averting your gaze from him. For a moment Bob didn’t move, he just stood there, staring down at you like it pained him not to get closer. You tried to be casual about the tears streaming down your face now–tried to pretend like your body wasn’t unraveling.
But Bob just shook his head. The kind of quiet refusal that didn’t come with volume–but from depth.
“W-Why…Would I-I do that when you’re n-not okay?” His voice cracked on the last word, and immediately your eyes returned to his, taken back by the softness in his tone–by the way he wasn’t trying to fix anything yet, and by the way he was just being present.
”I don’t need help,” You said barely above a whisper, “It’s just pain…It’ll pass.” Bob took a moment, and let out a short breath, before putting his empty glass on the counter and leaning forward, bringing himself down so he was eye to eye with you. You could feel his breath mixing with yours in the space between you.
The under-cabinet lighting, soft and golden, carved warm halos along the edges of his face. And for the first time since he stepped into the kitchen, you saw the fullness of his eyes–blue like deep water, not just bright but saturated, with something rich and aching caught beneath the surface. The amber glow softened them, turned the outer rim to shadow but made the center gleam, like starlight reflected off a dark lake.
They shimmered.
Not from light alone–but from the way he was looking at you. From the way he saw you.
Not just someone in pain.
You.
Not just a teammate or a friend–you.
The muscles in your jaw tensed as your eyes welled again.
Bob didn’t blink.
His voice, when it came, was soft. Unsteady.
“When…W-When was the last time someone a-actually took care of you, Y/N?” You swallowed hard.
That was the kind of question that shouldn’t have hit like it did. But it knocked the air from your lungs with its gentleness. The honesty in it. The fact that he wasn’t asking to prove something–he was asking because he saw it.
The exhaustion. The weight. The way you always powered through everything because it was easier than asking. Because you thought maybe you weren’t allowed to ask.
You didn’t answer.
You couldn’t.
Your lips parted to try, but no sound came out.
Bob didn’t push.
Instead, he lowered his voice even more–barely audible now, like a secret meant only for you.
“B-Because… I-I want to help. I want to take c-care of you right now. Because I care about you. And I–” He glanced away for a moment, jaw tightening, before forcing himself to meet your eyes again. “And I see you’re s-struggling. And I don’t think you should have to go through this alone.”
The words were simple.
But the sincerity behind them wrapped around you like a blanket–warm and devastating. There was no pity in his voice. No pressure.
Only care.
Only Bob.
You didn’t say anything right away. Your eyes stayed locked with his, and something in your chest cracked open. Not loudly. Not visibly. But something shifted.
Slowly, with a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, you nodded.
“O-Okay.” You stuttered, feeling your pulse beating in your throat, “Fine…” Bob gave you a small nod, slow and certain–like your quiet surrender meant more to him than anything else.
”I’ll help you to the couch,” He said, already adjusting his stance, “Then I-I’ll make your tea…That…Which one i-is it again?” You stared up at him.
”The gross raspberry leaf one…” You replied, watching a soft, sheepish smile appear over his lips.
”Y-Yeah that one…And then I’ll steal W-Walkers heating pad from the closet…S-Should help you a bit with the pain, alright?” You nodded at his plan, feeling his arm gently slip under yours, bracing your weight against his side.
”C’mon…I-I’ve got you.” Bob helped you to the couch with a kind of patience you didn’t know anyone still had.
Not rushed. Not overly careful. Just present–his arm braced solid and steady around your waist, one hand hovering protectively near your elbow in case you stumbled. The living room was dim, still cast in that same honeyed glow that the kitchen had, and the couch–your favorite end seat–looked like a sanctuary carved out of lowlight and flannel.
Bob eased you down onto it with a reverence that made your chest ache. His hands didn’t linger, but the warmth of them remained even after they left your skin. You slumped back into the cushions with a breath that felt just a little deeper than the ones before, muscles uncoiling slightly now that you weren’t upright anymore.
“H-Hold on,” Bob murmured, eyes flicking to the side.
He crossed the room in quick, quiet steps and tugged the large fleece blanket off of Walker’s ridiculous leather recliner–one of those overpriced monstrosities with fake cupholders and lumbar massage settings he claimed were “good for his spine.” Bob brought the blanket back and unfolded it gently over your shoulders, tucking it in around your arms like he’d done it a hundred times before.
Then he grabbed the remote from the coffee table and flicked the TV on, lowering the volume with a few soft clicks before handing it to you.
“News is on, if you want to change it,”He said, crouching beside you. “I’ll be r-right back, okay? Just going to get the tea, heating pad…M-Maybe a hoodie in case you’re still cold.” He added, repeating the list he mentally made in his head.
You nodded, too overwhelmed to say much more than a quiet “Okay.” Bob brushed his hand over the blanket once more before slipping down the hall. You could hear him moving–cupboards opening, the kettle whistling again. The low, comforting clink of a mug set on the counter. The closet door creaked open, followed by a quiet “shit” when something fell off the top shelf.
You couldn’t help but smile at the sound of it. Even through the pain. Especially through the pain.
A few minutes passed. The TV played on quietly in the background–some late-night anchor talking about overnight weather patterns and airport closures. It was white noise. Background to the warmth slowly returning to your limbs, to the softness of the blanket around your shoulders. The pain was there still, but it had become a little more manageable with the fabric wrapped around you–which was already a good sign that you would actually get a semblance of sleep tonight.
Then he returned.
He had the tea in one hand–the mug carefully braced with a napkin wrapped around the handle– and the heating pad folded in the crook of his arm with a hoodie covering it. He crossed the room in three steps and set the tea down gently on the side table next to you.
“Still p-pretty hot,” He murmured, “C-Careful.” You watched him as he knelt again beside the outlet and plugged in the heating pad. He held the hoodie out to you, but you shook your head. The little orange light flickered on briefly, before turning a dark red. Bob tested the temperature with his hand, feeling around the flat end with his palm, then he shifted closer to you.
“I-Is it okay if I…” he trailed off, eyes flicking to your abdomen, then back to your face. “If I help you with this?”
You nodded wordlessly, the pain still etched into your features but softened now by trust. You didn’t need to speak for him to see it.
He shifted forward slowly, folding one knee onto the couch cushion beside you. The pad was already warm–radiating a low, comforting heat as he carefully uncurled the cord from around the folded fabric. You could smell him now, fully–clean linen, spearmint, and that faint trace of cinnamon that always clung to his hoodie when he wore it throughout the day. It wrapped around you just as much as the blanket did, thick and soothing.
Bob held the heating pad open and reached for the hem of the blanket tucked around you.
“L-Lift up just a little?” He asked, voice low.
You obeyed, slow and stiff, and he slid the pad forward, pressing it gently across the curve of your lower abdomen. His hands ghosted beneath the blanket, through the thin barrier of your cotton sleep shirt–his fingers warm, a little rough from old calluses, but so careful it made your breath catch in your throat.
He smoothed the pad into place with open palms, applying a light pressure–not too much–just enough to let the heat sink into your skin. His thumbs brushed your sides on the way out, knuckles skimming the soft give of your waist through the fabric before he pulled back.
“D-Does that feel okay?” He stuttered.
“Yeah,” You whispered. “Yeah…It helps.”
Bob looked at the pad, frowning a little. “Wish these things worked better. I mean, it’s warm, b-but it doesn’t wrap all the way around, y-you know? Just heats the front.” You let out a dry laugh.
”Probably because Walker cheaped out and bought a throw away…” Bob’s smile flickered, small and crooked.
“I c-could’ve made one better in the fifth grade with a sock and a microwave.”
You tilted your head with a smirk. “Yeah? You gonna patent it?”
His eyes met yours and held. “Only if I can put your name on it too.”
There was a beat of silence. Not awkward–close.
Then, without another word, Bob settled beside you, his body angled slightly so he could still glance at your face while giving you space. The heating pad glowed faintly beneath the blanket, casting soft orange pulses like a heart beating slow and steady in the dark. You took the mug from the side table with both hands—fingers curling around the ceramic for warmth more than anything else.
The raspberry leaf tea was bitter, herbal, not exactly pleasant, but the heat soaked into your chest with each sip, loosening the tightness in your ribs. You cradled the mug and leaned a little into the couch cushions, letting yourself sink further into the moment, into the quiet that had grown easy now between the two of you.
Bob was watching the news like it mattered–eyes narrowed slightly at the forecast ticker running along the bottom of the screen. When he spoke, it was soft, conversational, like he didn’t want to break the atmosphere.
“D-Do you think it’s the s-storms that really c-cause more accidents or if people just…F-Forget how to drive?”
You glanced over at him. His hair was still tousled, his jaw faintly shadowed with very very light stubble. “A little of both,” You said, sipping again. “Storms and stupidity. Dangerous combo.”
He let out a breathy laugh through his nose, then looked down at the mug in your hands. “T-Tea helping?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Not magic or anything, but it’s better.”
You talked like that for a little while. Quiet things. Small things. Bob asked if you’d ever seen a tornado up close. You told him about the one time you had to shelter in a Walmart freezer with a bunch of other customers because they were within a tornado zone. He winced and muttered something about how “no one deserves that.”
Eventually, the tea was gone and you set the mug down with a small sigh, shifting under the blanket to get more comfortable. The pain had dulled but hadn’t left. It had just relocated. Mostly in your back now, a deep, dragging throb nestled in your lower spine.
Bob must’ve noticed your subtle wince, because his head tilted slightly, as concern tugged at his brow again. “Y-You still hurting?”
“Just my back,” You murmured, pressing your palm against the base of it. “Feels like something’s pulling at the muscles though…That’s all.”
He hesitated, then gently peeled off the hoodie he was still wearing. Underneath, he wore a simple black t-shirt–thin enough that you could see the dip of his collarbone, the lines of muscle in his arms. His movements were unhurried, like he didn’t want to draw attention to himself, but you still caught the way he swallowed before glancing at you.
”I–I could help with t-that…If y-you want.” He started, seeing the way you tilted your head at him, raising your eyebrows slightly, “I-I mean…I run pretty hot,” He said, almost sheepish. “L-Like, body temp-wise. I-It’s…It’s kinda just...How it is. S-Sometimes I sleep with the window open even when it’s snowing ’cause I get too warm.” He paused, looking down at you with hesitant sincerity. “So I thought maybe… I-I could just… Lie with you? J-Just hold you, maybe. Like–with my chest against your back, and the blanket and everything might…Y-You know…I-Insulate the heat.” You considered it for a moment, then gave a slow, small nod.
“Okay,” You whispered. “Yeah. That actually…That sounds really good.”
Relief bloomed on his face so quickly it made you want to reach for him. He gave you a quick, grateful smile and then turned, padding over to the wide sill beneath the living room window. The throw pillows you usually kept for decoration were stacked in a lopsided pile, half-flattened by time and sun. Bob scooped up three and brought them back over, crouching beside you again. He carefully arranged them along the edge of the couch, creating a makeshift bed—just enough space for you to curl into without losing the heating pad or the blanket.
“You sure you’re comfortable lying on your side?” He asked, already adjusting one of the cushions to support your knees.
“Yeah,” You murmured, shifting with his help. The motion was slow, a little stiff, but manageable. You rolled gently onto your left side, facing the TV, wincing as the dull ache pulled through your spine. Bob waited until you were settled, then carefully eased himself onto the couch behind you.
His movements were hesitant, precise.
He slid onto his side, chest brushing lightly to your back, one arm stretching out under the pillow you were lying on–so that his wrist dangled off the edge of the couch, palm up, loose in the open air. The other arm came around you, slow and cautious, like he didn’t want to startle you. His hand hovered just above your stomach, eyes flicking to yours.
You gave a small nod, shifting your hips back just an inch–enough to close the space between your bodies without making a show of it.
Bob placed his hand gently over the heating pad. You couldn’t tell if his palm was causing the pad to be warmer, but you could feel the temperature change almost in an instant. The newfound heat sank through the fabric of your shirt like a balm, and you felt your muscles instinctively ease.
His touch didn’t wander. He didn’t stroke or squeeze. He just…Rested there. Solid. Steady.
You felt safe wrapped up in his arms, but then again it was Bob…He was always safe to you regardless of everything that happened with The Void and everything.
You let your hand drift slowly, fingers reaching up the curve of the couch until you found his other hand–the one still hanging just off the side. Your fingertips brushed his wrist first, then his palm. He stilled for a moment, startled, but then his fingers curled up and around yours. No hesitation. Just soft, certain pressure.
No words were exchanged and the quiet deepened around you like a hush after a snowfall, the soft cadence of late-night weather reports humming in the background. Your body, which had felt wrung out and trembling before, began to feel like it might belong to you again–bit by bit.
His chest rose and fell against your back, the rhythm slow, soothing. And when his thumb began to unconsciously trace over your knuckles, your eyes fluttered shut.
“Thank you Bob.” You whispered into the dark. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze.
Summary: There was no place you would rather be than in his arms.
Pairing: Bob Reynolds x gn!Reader
Words: 1.2k
Content: Fluff, established relationship, some team banter and shenanigans sprinkled here and there, Alexei being Alexei
Prompt inspiration: "swaying back hugs while standing and waiting" by @novelbear
A/N: I saw this prompt and I immediately thought of Bob since he's occupied my brain for the last two weeks. The Bob Reynolds brain rot has taken over me, oops. Stay tuned for other future works as I get back into the swing of things!
It was a peaceful morning in the Watchtower. Or at least peaceful as you can get.
Instead of the typical cacophony of bickering and the occasional yelling, mostly coming from Alexei, it was a blended hum of quiet conversations and breakfast-making in the kitchen. Less chaos, more affable.
Yelena and Ava ate by the island countertop, sharing pleasant small talk as they finished up their meals.
John was scrolling on his phone, standing on the opposite side, forgetting now and then about his eggs sitting on his plate which were starting to get cold.
Alexei was busy at work frying bacon at the stove to add to his hardy breakfast. (Little did John know, Alexei had snuck a few pieces onto his plate while he was distracted).
And Bucky sat on the couch in the common area with a mug of coffee, catching up on the morning news playing on the TV.
Despite the somewhat charming yet homey background noise, you and Bob had encompassed yourselves in your own bubble of domesticity in the corner of the kitchen.
With the kettle on, Bob yawned, leisurely opening the top cabinet in search of two mugs to make tea.
As you slid by Bob to make your way over to the toaster beside him, your hand gently pressed into his lower back. It was the softest of touches, the warmth of your hand burning through his sweater and soaking into his skin. A pleasing jolt shot up his spine.
A blush swept across his face as he stole a glance at you, watching you remove the plastic clip from the bag of sliced bread. Reaching for the mugs, he placed them on the counter before snatching the box of tea bags that sat in a snug corner of the cabinet shelf.
Bob felt a pull, an overwhelming sense to touch you. Admiration waved through his bones — he wanted to cherish everything about you, even the littlest things like the simple act of putting sliced bread into a toaster. A tea bag in each mug and a string connected between the packet and tag.
A string was tied to the heart he wore on his sleeve, and on the other end of it was you.
A tiredness still lingered in Bob’s eyes from his decent night’s sleep. Another yawn escaped him. Despite his sleepy state, his affection propelled him forward, eyes glossed over with adoration and you being the only thing held in his vision.
Just as you pushed the toaster lever down, a set of arms snaked around your middle. The corners of your lips lifted into a smile when you felt Bob’s forehead rest against your shoulder.
You gently rested your hands on his forearms, sweetly brushing your thumb back and forth against the soft cotton of his sleeve. He let out a sigh.
“You okay?” You quietly asked.
You felt him nod. “M’fine. Just tired.”
“You can go back to bed if you want. I can handle everything from here and bring it back to our room.”
Bob gently pressed his chest into your back as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. Brown curls tickled your skin as you felt him press a kiss to your pulse point.
“I’m okay, I just wanna hold you right now.” He sheepishly mumbled.
Your cheeks simmered with warmth at Bob’s admission. Reaching for his hand, you tenderly intertwined your fingers in between his slightly fidgety ones.
Slowly, Bob gently began to sway you back and forth in his embrace. A grin made its way to your face as you let yourself melt into his arms and let your eyes flutter close momentarily. You were fully encompassed by him, forgetting about your breakfast and surroundings. The sway of his hug began to soothe you, almost as if you were being put under a comforting trance.
As he softly moved you side to side, he accidentally leaned over too much, making the two of you slightly stumble. You laughed as you found your footing. Bob chuckled near your ear, reorienting you back up.
With cooking finished and the stove turned off, Alexei turned to the sound of your laughs, letting out a boisterous laugh himself.
“Ah, yes. Young love!” He exclaimed.
Your intimate moment tucked away in the kitchen was soon brought forward to everyone’s attention as multiple sets of eyes landed on the two of you.
“Very adorable, very precious. Keeps the heart so full… so filled.” Alexei sighed.
John grimaced. “C’mon guys. In front of my eggs?”
“Leave them alone, Walker.” Yelena scolded.
Ava scoffed. “If you’re that bothered you could always move to the couch beside Bucky.”
“I’m good!” Bucky called, not taking his eyes off the TV. Always with the super-soldier hearing.
You opened your eyes, just so you could roll them at the sound of John’s comment.
Shuffling your feet, you turned around, enough to face John as Bob still held you from behind. You decided to let your actions, or rather Bob’s actions speak for themselves.
With your hand already interlaced with Bob’s and his arm settled by your waist, you started to move his hand around. His hand was pliable as you arranged his fingers in the perfect position. Holding Bob's wrist, you displayed his hand up towards John.
A lone middle finger flipping off.
You felt Bob’s lips turn into a smile on your skin, his body shaking from laughter once he realized what you made him do.
Lifting your own hand to flip a middle finger, you matched Bob’s to drive it even further home to John.
The kitchen erupted with snickers, Alexei especially letting out a belly laugh.
“You are so perfect for each other! Reminds me of my own love, my old flame Melina,” Alexei gushed. “We shared a hot and passionate love—”
“Dad, no, please don’t—” Yelena interjected with a groan.
The chaos and bickering returned to the kitchen once again.
It was Bucky’s turn to roll his eyes as he took a sip of his coffee.
“I’m too old for this shit.” Bucky mumbled to himself.
The ruckus tuned out like an afterthought as you turned yourself around in Bob’s arms. With a shy and lopsided smile on his face, Bob felt his heartstrings being pulled as you looked at him like he was the only person in the room. Reaching up, you gently brushed away the hair that fell in front of his eye, matching his smile.
Your hands slid up to his chest, feeling his heart beat rapidly under your palm. Shifting up, your nose brushed against the edge of his jaw briefly before you placed a chaste kiss on his warm cheek. It was your turn to wrap your arms around his waist, burying your head into the crook of his neck. Bob’s arms migrated up, engulfing your shoulders in his hold as he kissed your temple.
The toaster had popped up a while ago and the warmed kettle patiently waited to be poured.
Your breakfast was temporarily forgotten, however, all could be forgiven. Because in this very moment, there was no place you would rather be than in his arms.
He felt like home.
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Summary: Late one night in the avengers tower, restlessness keeps Y/N awake, until she stumbles upon someone else who’s still up.
Warnings: None
A/N: For a tiny bit of context at the beginning, the reader has powers of Electrokinesis, though it is not discussed more than in like 3 words. Enjoy!
————————————————
The clock on the wall in Y/N’s room blinked a dim 12:48 AM.
She sighed, rolling over in bed for the hundredth time, her sheets tangled around her legs, her pillow too hot, and her thoughts refusing to quiet down.
No matter how many deep breaths she took, or how many sheep she counted, her mind buzzed with leftover tension, flickers of static still crackling in her fingertips.
With a soft groan, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and sat herself up. She stared at the wall for a few moments, debating on if she should actually get up or not. She didn’t have anything that needed to get done early tomorrow, but she should still probably try and get some rest. Her mind was doing a good job of preventing that though.
Tea, she thought, Tea could help.
She stood upright with a sigh, stretching out slowly, before she tiptoed into the hallway, hoodie wrapped tight around her and socks gliding against the floor.
The Tower was quiet at this hour, aside from the soft snores coming from some of the rooms, (and the louder ones coming from Alexei’s).
The avengers tower was big enough that each person could have their own floor if they wanted. But that felt like too much space for everyone.
Too cold. Too lonely.
They all had wordlessly agreed not to do that, preferring the company and close proximity of one another.
As Y/N made her way to the kitchen, she expected it to be dark. But one soft light glowed from the common room.
She peeked around the corner, a soft smile making its way to her face.
There was Bob, curled up on the giant couch with a blanket draped over his lap, and a thick book in hand. A half empty mug of his own tea sat on the coffee table in front of him. His hair was slightly tousled, and he was wearing those cozy sweatpants she loved and his soft blue crewneck. The warm lamplight painted him in gold, making the scene in front of her look even more cozy.
She hesitated in the doorway, unsure at first, before thinking, screw the tea. She quietly padded over to him, and his ears perked at the sound of her approaching footsteps.
Bob glanced up and immediately smiled.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, closing the book gently, “You okay?” His eyes had softened at the sight of her; she looked so tired and worn out. And to Y/N, he looked so soft, so comfortable. She wanted to curl up in his lap and pass out right there.
Y/N shuffled a little bit closer, a yawn escaping her lips at the same time as she spoke, “Couldn’t sleep.”
Bob’s smile softened, and he held out one arm invitingly. “C’mere. You want to sit with me for a bit?”
She didn’t answer, just nodded and padded over, tucking herself against his side as he pulled the blanket up around her.
He carefully adjusted everything; one arm around her shoulders, one hand smoothing her hair, blanket snug, and his legs tucked up so she could curl in close.
“There,” he murmured, gently kissing the top of her head, “Comfy?”
“Mhm,” Y/N hummed, feeling more relaxed already as she buried her face into his crewneck, comforted by the smell of him, “You’re always so calming.”
Bob chuckled low in his chest, “Good, that’s all I ever want to be for you.” Her arms wrapped around him a little bit tighter.
He opened his book again, and his voice dropped into a slow, calming rhythm as he started to read to her. It was some sci-fi novel, with outlandish descriptions and mentions of time travel.
Y/N barely lasted five minutes.
By the time Bob turned the page, her breathing had evened out, her hand loosely curled against his chest. One of her legs had draped lazily over his, and her cheek was rested against him, fast asleep.
He smiled softly to himself and found himself staring at her for a moment. He watched in adoration as soft breaths escaped her lips, her chest rising and falling gently.
He kissed the crown of her head, closed the book, and let his head fall back against the couch.
Neither of them moved for the rest of the night.
———
The Next Morning
Yelena and Ava were the first ones to leave their rooms in the morning, their discussion of Alexei’s snoring problem coming to a halt as they froze in the doorway. Ava covered her mouth with one hand, grinning, and Yelena made a quiet, fake gagging noise.
“What did I tell you?” Yelena whispered, “Lovesick puppies, no?”
“John,” Ava hummed quietly, as Walker stepped out of his room. She waved him over, “Come look at this.”
John peeked in, and took one look at the two of them sprawled together on the couch. Y/N was snoring faintly, and Bob was holding her like she was made of glass.
“So this is what love looks like, huh? And here I thought it would involve less drooling.”
Ava shoved him, holding back a laugh, and Bucky filed in not long after, wondering what they were all crowded for. He took one look at the bundle of love on the couch, and rolled his eyes. The tiny look of fondness on his face didn’t go unnoticed though, as he quietly made his way to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.
John whispered again, “Ten bucks says Bob’s arm is asleep and he’s too in love to care.”
Yelena stepped forward and snapped a picture before leaving, “For blackmail purposes,” she whispered, the others nodding in agreement.
But none one had the heart to wake them.
And on the couch, Y/N stirred only once, just long enough to burrow closer and sigh contentedly when Bob instinctively tightened his arms around her.
summary: no one wants to talk about how close you came to dying, everyone walking on eggshells until bob finds out what really happened and asks why no one trusted him enough to tell the truth; you both know the reason involves your mutual feelings.
tags: some angst, fluff, mutual pining, idiots in love, yearning, light descriptions of violence, reader is held at gunpoint during a mission, mentions of wounds and bruises, tiny bleed, shame room, everyone in the watchtower knows you and bob are in love, bob has a cat (he gets her in this one shot that absolutely does not require to be read to enjoy this!)
word count: 2k
masterlist | taglist | ao3 | @eyelessupdates
buy me a coffee ♡
It’s unusually quiet when you step in and join the room, so quiet that you would have first guessed no one is actually here, so it comes as a shock when you hear the faint sizzling of the pan over the stove and see Walker and Ava cooking in a peaceful, unusual, almost unsettling silence considering they usually can’t stop bickering and picking at each other.
Yelena is sitting at the table lazily filing her nails, Bob is tucked away in his reading nook, and you glance around but Bucky and Alexei are nowhere to be seen, so you assume they’re down at the training floor.
You pull a chair and sit across from Yelena, making her glance up at you with a compassionate, gentle smile before she resumes her business. “You okay?” she asks simply, polishing her nails back and forth.
You hum softly and nod, repressing anything more. The truth is you’re exhausted and your limbs ache more than the painkillers can handle, and you’ve developed an awful headache from the pressure of it all, but you would rather leave today behind.
You know the reason everyone is so uptight and quiet, you know why the air feels so heavy. You’re painfully aware of the tension you have brought into the group after what happened during the mission, and you know how everyone feels despite no one really talking about it or letting it seep through except for that cold, weighing silence and the gentle motion as if everyone is afraid it will break the space around you.
The overwhelming quiet after the storm.
“I filed the report and got it sent to Valentina” you announce in a mutter.
Yelena’s eyes are back on you in a second. “Did you make it true to what happened?”
You nervously play with your fingers, picking at the skin around your nails, giving her a shake of the head. You can see Walker and Ava closely listening from the corner of your eye, exchanging a look before they resume their task when you look in their direction.
You sink back into your chair, wincing in discomfort when the shift in position painfully jabs at your side and steals your breath. “We didn’t tell Bob,” Yelena declares, setting her nail file down. “We figured we would save him the worry. We know how much he cares about you” she says, prompting you to look over your shoulder at Bob reading, earbuds in, blissfully unaware of the heavy atmosphere of the room.
Your heart tightens inside your ribcage but you are convinced it doesn’t have anything to do with the nagging pain of your wounded body. “Yeah, we should move on” you agree, turning back to Yelena. “Let’s not talk about that again,” you offer.
“We got to thank you one last time though” she grins with a slight tilt of her head. “You really put yourself out there for us. I doubt we would have made it if you didn’t offer yourself and put your life on the line for us. As stupid as it was”
You chuckle softly. “Come on, what’s a few broken ribs and a bet that could have easily gotten me killed?” you joke with a grin, the ache at your temple strangely familiar and similar to the feeling of the gun barrel pointed at it hours ago.
Despite the joke, you try to shake the feeling and memory away, grounding yourself with the thought that you’re here, you’re home, you’re safe, and there will only be bad dreams to catch up on you, nothing real.
You turn and lightly clear your throat when you hear Bob shift across the room, removing his wired earbuds, Yelena quietly quickly dismissing the conversation by not adding onto it, looking at you with a knowing glance.
“Bob, buddy, train your cat not to jump over the fucking counter when we’re cooking” Ava points at the evidence, the black cat meowing in response.
“Sorry, I’ll work on that” Bob says with an apologetic quirk of his lips as he gets Missy off the kitchen counter and puts her down on the floor. “She’s just hungry, it’s feeding time. C’mon Missy,” Bob calls, and the cat follows his every step as he grabs the box containing her food, needing to push her head aside when she already has it in the bowl even before he gets to pour her food.
“You can also work on those fangs of hers,” Walker remarks. “She bit me this morning.”
“Oh I’m sure you deserved it” Yelena casually mutters. Bob tilts his head in silent agreement, a small smirk threatening to grow on his face, and you can’t help but silently snort, the tension finally beginning to lift.
You feel safe here. It all feels warmer.
—
Missy is curled onto your bed, slowly blinking her sleepy yellowish eyes at you, not moving even as much as a millimeter when you sit down at the edge, not far from her.
A painful sigh escapes you, hand instinctively coming to clutch onto your badly wounded side in naive hope that the heat of your hand would make the pain subside just for a moment, but even the rising and falling of your chest as you breathe makes it hurt.
Your hand leaves your side and you try to compose yourself when you hear a soft knock at the door, Bob’s head peeking in the slight opening. “Hi– just checking in, have you seen– oh” he pinches his lips into a smile when you lean to the side – painfully, but you try your best for it not to show – and reveal Missy sleeping behind you.
“I didn’t close the door all the way so she made her way in,” you turn to look at the cat now peacefully sleeping.
“Sorry for that–”
“What are you apologizing for? I don’t mind. At all” you shrug.
Bob pinches a smile again, repressing another apology like you all have been teaching him, having been working on making him stop apologizing for everything and anything.
“Okay, I’ll–” he starts to back away, but suddenly stops, a worried frown forming over his face as he points a finger at you. “You– You’re bleeding”
You look down at yourself and see the spot of blood seeping through your shirt, a curse escaping under your breath. Bob quickly comes to your side, sitting down next to you.
Then, the second his hand rests over your arm, you’re sucked in.
Back there.
Your breath falls short again as you're standing in front of yourself, the version of yourself a few hours ago, gun kissing your temple. You watch as the civilian you willingly replaced breaks down in sobs, two other people clutching his side, leading him away from the scene.
When you turn around, the whole team is in front of you, just the way they were earlier, only this time, Bob is also there.
That's when you get it. His touch triggered this.
The scene unfolds, excruciatingly slowly for the second time today, and Bob watches intently, mouth slightly agape as Walker points his gun, as Yelena tries to reason with the man holding the gun to your head, as Alexei gets ready to charge onto him at any opening that could be offered.
You and Bob both remain silent as it goes on, flinching when the man threatening you readjusts and grips harder onto his gun, but you both know for a reason he eventually won’t go through with it.
Bucky steps forward and offers the man a deal, and everything seems to accelerate again as the man eventually gives up and kicks a knee onto your side before he violently drops you to the ground like a marionette with cut strings, your body crashing onto the same side you have been kicked. The man runs away while you groan and clutch the ground in pain, Alexei and Bucky rushing to you while the rest of them go after the man, Ava shifting through to stop him in his run and Walker giving him a hit of his folded shield, knocking him out.
Then, like you just blinked, you’re back in your bedroom, sitting next to Bob. Your eyes widen over him like you have seen a ghost, and he seems equally distraught, if not more.
“I’m sorry– You know I can’t control it” he pulls away, visibly shaken by what just happened.
“I know.”
You swallow, hard. The room remains heavy with silence until Bob speaks. “Why didn’t you tell me? Any of you?”
You sigh, rubbing a hand over your eyes. “It was easier that way”
He nods and hums. “So much for trying to make me feel included” he smiles bitterly, hurt.
You close your eyes for a second, suddenly aware of how wrong it sounded. “Bob” you reach for him and pull him back when he tries to leave. This time, you remain here, and your hand stays over his arm. “I didn’t mean it that way” you nod seriously. He readjusts his position over the bed. “We decided to just put it under the rug and not talk about it anymore. I even lied in the report. Valentina won’t hear about that but it wasn’t meant for the same reasons as you”
He frowns softly, listening intently. His gaze is focused on you, like your face could speak hidden facts directly.
“If we decided not to tell you it’s not because we don’t trust you or something” you explain with a small shake of your head, looking at him earnestly. “It was probably wrong that we tried to hide something like this from you, but we just didn’t want you to worry.” you nod. Your throat feels tight from the pressure, invisible hands grasping at you, suffocating you. “Because we know you care.”
“You’re damn right I do” he mutters, his dark blue eyes slightly flickering.
You can't exactly read his expression; it sits between frustration and something else that translates into the softness of his gaze but that you couldn't really pinpoint.
But you don't ask yourself any more questions. You have grown tired of it, and today might as well have been the last straw, so you do this the exact same way you did on the mission; you rush into it.
You rush into taking his face into your hands, pressing your lips against his without even questioning yourself.
A soft sound escapes his mouth as you do, but before you can even begin to wonder if you’ve startled him, he reaches for you with hesitant hands, as if he’s afraid to touch you, before they eventually come to rest at your neck for good.
When you pull back, your foreheads are still pressed together, his lips still lightly grazing yours before a contented smile lights up his face, his knuckles brushing against your face with more confidence he suspected he could have.
It feels like behind pulled back to the surface when you hear Missy’s high pitched meowing, making you both turn in her direction, making her desire for attention obvious when she sits right in the tight space between the both of you; it’s tricky, but she still manages to adopt a strange position that makes it fit.
Bob huffs out a laugh, petting her back, looking back up at you and watching the amused smile over your face when Missy stretches her lithe body under his scratches, asking for more.
You hiss softly when a fresh shot of pain courses through you, reminding you of the current state of your body, and Bob’s expression instantly shifts into a more serious one. “You gotta let me help,”
“That’s fine” you dismiss, trying to convince yourself that not giving importance to your pain will make it lessen; everything would be so much easier if it worked that way.
Bob’s head tilts slightly. “Trust me,” he mutters. “I know a thing or two about bruises”
You give him a bittersweet, compassionate smile before eventually surrendering, letting him take a look, assessing the situation before he takes it as his personal mission to look after you the way he wished he could have been looked after when he needed it.
—
any and every feedback/reblog/comment is greatly appreciated and helps more than you think!!
summary ۶ৎ in which, bob comforts you after a tough mission.
warnings ۶ৎ 18+ content/minors dni, thunderbolts* spoilers, mentions of drugs, mentions of violence, hydra, self-depreciation ( reader ), lots of fluff, kissing. lmk if i’ve missed anything!
bob reynolds x barnes!reader
𝓐/n ۶ৎ bob is so baby. please don't copy, translate or repost my work to any other platforms. and please be kind; if you don't like it, simply move on. thank you for taking the time to read this♡
⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐
‘as long as i’m with you,
i’ve got a smile on my face.’
bob has always had a pure heart. despite his fathers abuse, despite his mothers emotional punches, despite the car accident that kickstarted his addiction, a light has always flickered inside of him. he’s never believed that, of course. he’s fallen into darkness on numerous occasions. when he’d try climbing out, he was tugged back down with sharp claws digging into his skin, refusing to let go as more drugs were consumed into his system.
then, a miracle arrived in the form of a girl with a smile that can rival the sun’s warmth. you gifted him the hope to let the light hidden inside of him break free. you were the first person to see who he truly is, the first person not to treat him like a burden. you’ve given him unconditional courage that he can be better. that he can help rid the darkness that cloaks the world.
and now that you’re upset, he wants to be there for you. he sensed it almost immediately. you’re not as skilled at hiding your emotions, unlike bucky, your father. you’re the definition of aspectabund, allowing emotions to express easily on your face. bob’s realised that after gazing at you with those love-sick eyes all the time. when you’re excited, your nose scrunches like a bunny. when you’re nervous, you look down, urging the floor to help you. when you’re disgusted, you’re brows pinch together and your head recoils.
in this instance, you had returned from a mission and embarked straight to your room. no mission report, no check-ups in the medical room, no unwinding with the others. you kept your head down, not permitting anyone to witness what emotion you were wearing, and chose isolation.
and bob knows from personal experiences being alone, drowning in a well of misery with no one to pull you out, isn’t healthy. he’s generously given you fifteen minutes to yourself, enough space for you while he was pacing back and forth, wondering what he can do to lift your spirits. until, the idea hit him when yelena was cursing at john in the kitchen for burning dinner.
with a bowl of icecream in his grasp, he poises in front of your door. yet, he doesn’t wish to make you more upset in case you don’t want company. he hesitates, glancing at the floor then the door, contemplating knocking, before choosing the floor. he sits down, back against the wall as he stays there, almost akin to an obedient dog. he hopes you heard his loud shuffling. he hopes you’ll come out. and he hopes you know he’s there for you until the ocean dries up.
and, just how his miracle came true, so does his wishful thinking. the door opens, instigating him to look up. and there you are. you’re no longer in your new avengers suit, but clad in a scoop-neck, white top that’s adorned with a pink bow in the centre of its lace trim, matching your pink, frilly skirt and snow, thigh-high socks. the way you dress has always matched your personality, and bob finds it utterly endearing.
he studies your face, noticing your eyes, usually so full of warmth which you spread to others, are puffy and somber. his shoulders slowly drop. if anyone deserves happiness, it’s you. you’re the glue that holds the team together. you’re the one who still has a heart of gold despite the horrors you’ve endured.
his chest aches, as though a blade has sliced through his own heart. it physically hurts him seeing a hint of grey penetrate your colourful spirit.
“hey…what’re you doing down there?” you ask softly. your voice is quieter, a contrast to its usual chirpiness.
“hi.” bob says, absentmindedly, lost in a trance of how you look like an angel, with your wings tucked away so you don’t bother anyone. he snaps out of it once he realises a moment too long in silence has passed. “i was…well, i was just sitting here. you know, in case you need a shoulder to cry on. i can be a punching bag too, if that helps.”
cringing at his own words, he sighs and holds up the bowl inhabiting three different scoops of delicious flavours in, accompanied with a spoon. “i brought icecream.”
your smile, albeit little, makes his own grow. it’s addicting. you’re addicting. and he craves more. he wants you to smile to the point your cheeks hurt, the skin around your eyes crinkling too. because nothing is more beautiful to him than seeing you happy.
lowering yourself beside him, you murmur a quiet ‘thanks’ and gently take the bowl, a fluttery feeling swirling inside your stomach at the flavours: vanilla, cookies and cream, and butter pecan. he remembers your favourites.
“i didn’t know which one you’d want. i can get you something else if you-”
“no! no…thank you, this is really sweet of you.”
his cheeks flush. he feels like a teenager with a crush. a comfortable silence settles among the two of you. it’s relaxing, all the weight lifting and being swept away by an imaginary breeze. although, he can sense there’s still something amiss with the way you’re shoulders are slouched while you eat.
“do you wanna talk about it?” bob’s voice, gentle, breaks the silence. “i mean- i’m not that great at giving advice, but i can be listening ears. see?" he tugs at his earlobe with a boyish smile.
hesitation crosses your features, your bottom lip tucking between your teeth. if he wasn’t a shy, flustered man, he’d have coaxed your plush lip back into place with his thumb.
something passes in your eyes. something he recognises: trust. besides hope, that’s the first emotion which connected him to you. he’s never trusted anyone as much as he trusts you. he can only wish you feel the same.
with a soft exhale, you set aside your half-finished ice cream, losing your appetite. you tuck your knees to your chest ( thank goodness you’re wearing shorts underneath your pretty skirt, otherwise bob would’ve had an aneurysm ), and trace circles on your kneecaps to distract yourself.
he lifts his hand, hesitant, not knowing how you’ll react to his touch. he’s only ever seen you have physical contact with your father. but, he takes the leap, and rests his hand upon your knee, calloused hands meeting smooth skin. pride swells within him as he feels you relax, leaning into him, shoulders brushing. the slightest contact sends sparks curling around his veins, ready to explode.
“i was born in hydra, y’know.” you murmur, pinpointing your gaze on the floor, not brave enough to face him.
he thinks you’re the most bravest person on earth.
“they wanted more super soldiers and thought the best way to get them was by artificially inseminating a volunteer with their ‘greatest weapon’s’ dna.” you swallow thickly. “i didn’t turn out as they expected. too frail and weak no matter how much they fed me.”
with each word you reveal, bob’s world closes in. he knows a smidge about your past due to accidentally delving into it when you helped him out of that elevator shaft at the o.x.e. vault, but hearing you converse about it now makes his spine shiver, as if it’s being tickled with spider legs.
“they never let me see my dad. only for an hour or so after a mission he was forced to do. so it meant i spent a lot of time with the others.” your chin dips down, hair flowing in front of your face like a waterfall. you’re being so strong right now, that because of you, he finds the confidence to slowly tuck your hair behind your ear, his touch lingering.
you exhale a shaky breath, sensing the waterworks arriving. his warm gesture compared to your haunting recalling of your past allows you to carry on, knowing he won’t ever abandon you. “some of them were nice: ignoring me and letting me wander through the halls. others thought i was a waste of an experiment and kicked me like i was vermin. b-but one of them, he…well, he was the meanest. he was hydra’s best weapons manufacturer, and he liked testing his new weapons on me.”
when you flinch, as if reliving a certain, chilling memory, bob speaks. “can…can i hug you?”
“y-yes please.”
the pleading break in your voice is all it takes for him to wrap an arm around you waist, stroking your side soothingly, while his free one cups the back of your head as you bury your face into the crook of his neck. if it was any other circumstance, he would’ve burst with excitement, but now, he just wants to comfort you.
“i s-saw him on my mission and i just froze. h-hydra was right. i am weak.” you lean into him like you’re trying to intertwine with his soul, making him hold you tighter, more protectively.
you’re self-depreciating words causes something inside of him to become alert. how dare hydra make you feel this way. how dare you believe those words when you’re anything but.
pulling back slightly, he tilts your chin up, the world, his world, sitting in the palm of his hand. “you- you don’t deserve to think like that. you’re not weak…you’re the sun. you warm peoples soul and brighten their days. do you know how much strength that takes after being raised in a dark and cold environment? it’s- well, it’s a lot!”
a watery smile paints your mouth, and he delicately wipes a teardrop that’s slid there. the tip of his thumb grazes your lips, soft as a bed of snow. his breath hitches. your body shifts closer.
“you think so?” you ask, quiet as a mouse.
“i don’t have to think ‘cause it’s already a fact.”
a giggle escapes you, your mood instantly changing from dark clouds to a sunny sky. his chest lightens at the dulcet sound, and he nudges his nose against yours, realising then how close your faces are. he’s never been this close to you before. he has an urge to be closer, for his waves to meet your shore, but before he can act on it, you already have.
your lips brush against his, slowly, testing the waters, and he tenses, the spark within him exploding. everything fades except you, suspended in time, and he finally surrenders everything he’s been holding back. he returns the kiss with a passion that burns as bright as the sun. the sweetness of your lips are his new drug, an elixir he knows won’t ever harm him.
the soft hum that escapes you is his undoing as he parts for breath, resting his forehead against yours.“that…that was…” he breathes out, chest rising and falling rapidly.
a pang of worry hits you instantly. the over-thinker in you reappearing. “oh, gosh! i’m sorry, i should’ve asked. i’m such a-”
bob silences you by cupping your face with both large hands and crashing his lips to yours. yours instantly parts, allowing him to delve into your mouth. he’s gentle yet messy. he conveys his adoration for you which stretches beyond the twinkling stars, while also expressing his undeniable need and primal yearning for you.
vowing then and there, he’ll shield your pulchritudinous mind from those degrading thoughts threatening to diminish your pureness. because you’re his girl. his sempiternal love. you can protect yourself, he’s well aware, but you deserve someone standing beside you, supporting you in any way possible.
the feeling of you grinning against him? he forgets everything. not even remembering his own name. the only thought that’s clear is he’s made you happy.
and bob reynolds is determined to maintain it that way until your old souls drift off into the wind, and he can relearn to love you again in another life.
—summary: it's the first time you're wearing your new suit as an official (new) avenger and bob is a little too excited about it.
—pairing: bob reynolds x female!avenger!reader
—word count: 7k (oops)
—content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), descriptions of the reader having female genitalia, p in v sex, oral sex (fem receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, some porn with some plot, fingering, he talks to you through it, really passionate sex, a lot, lot of body worship, praise kink goes brrr, sub!bob, bob just loves his powerful strong girl too much. confident and self-assured bob is so dear to me.
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
“H–hey, here's your milk— woah,” Bob interrupted himself when he finally lifted his gaze from the floor so he could look at you. His eyes fell on your figure, roaming up and down shamelessly, scanning in wonder-struck silence at the way you looked in the new suit.
You were in front of your full-length mirror, analyzing with squinted eyes the way the suit that had just arrived, restyled and upgraded, looked on you. All the details you had mentioned were fixed now.
It looked good on you, you thought. It fit your body like a second skin though. But the fabric was pretty much perfect, it was comfy and flexible, it was designed to match your abilities and fighting style, without excessively exposing you.
And you still had to put on the cape, a feature Valentina had insisted on adding to the final look, that way you would impose more respect and appear more intimidating, according to her.
Bob stood frozen at the entrance of your room, in his hands he was carrying cups of milkshake he had ordered not too long ago, one of them probably meant for you.
Even though you had told him many times that you didn't like to eat or drink before a mission, he did it anyway. He cared too much about you to not to. So every time he ordered himself something, he had to order something for you as well.
“Thank you, Bob,” you offered him a kind smile nonetheless in appreciation, turning your head so that you could face him. His countenance was all flushed red and the content of the cups swirled a bit with the tremor of his hands.
“Can you help me with the cape?” you then asked, watching him as he awkwardly set the cups down on the small coffee table in the center of your bedroom before making his way towards you with swift steps, as if you were the center of gravity of the entire universe, of his universe.
He couldn't control how his eyes drifted down from your face and swept along your back, drinking in every curve, every outline of your gorgeous, perfect figure, relishing in the way the tight black fabric clung to your body like a second skin.
Bob's gaze traced a very slow scan across your lower back, through the shape of your hips, the curve of your ass, the complex of your thighs—
“Isn't it too much?” you wondered out loud, making him flinch. Your eyes were looking at him through the reflection of the mirror as Bob stumbled to set the cape where it supposed to be, hooking it onto your shoulders very carefully, with trembling fingers.
You could catch a glimpse through the mirror of the way his eyes were glowing under the soft yellowish light of your room, you could see your own reflection within them, melting into all the darkness of his particularly dilated pupils. The darkness in his eyes surrounded you completely.
He finished settling the cape on your back and Bob took a couple of steps back from you, permitting himself to gaze at you in awe, his mouth falling half-open.
“You're— you look nice.” He responded to you, in a stammering but entirely truthful voice, nerves racing on his tongue as he pronounced one of the many compliments that were flooding his head as he ogled you with big eyes. “L–like, really nice.”
He nodded his head in a short frenzy, approving the words from himself. Then his eyes searched yours through the reflection of the mirror and he found himself swooning as you spun around to face him, your cape twirling in the air with the effortlessly graceful motion.
You raised an eyebrow as you saw how Bob held his hands out in front of him, fingers clasped together casually. He kept an innocent visage, though his cheeks were flushed, nervous eyes dropping to the ground as he saw you walking towards him in all your glory and beauty, like a goddess stepping down from the heavens. And you didn't have to coax him into surrendering to you, he already stood in the palm of your hand, wrapped around your pretty finger.
You flustered him so much it was silly. Every step you took stirred an earthquake inside him.
He was as yours as the sun is to the moon, as darkness is to light, as craving is to love.
His heart raced as you stood in front of him, gazing at him from all your power and majesty. And Bob knew he was long gone.
“Are you okay?” you asked him in a tone that conveyed raw concern, just as much as what your eyes shared with his in their familiar, heart-warming silent intimacy.
You had your head slightly tilted and your brow just barely furrowed in worry. You looked so beautiful, so cute, that you had him speechless for a few moments.
“Y–yes, I—” Bob stuttered, jerking his head gently, dismissing any sign of worry he might spark in you. “I'll s–see you after the mission—”
Immediately after that, he rushed to grab his beloved milkshake, flashed you a lopsided smile all crooked with nervousness and stormed out of your room, almost tripping over the box full of vinyls you had yet to organize on the shelves.
Shortly before he left, Bob turned once more to look at you, with that sheepish little grin curving his lips and you noticed how he struggled to hold his cup of milkshake now low in front of him, trying to cover up the prominent bulge that had grown painfully harder the more he watched you in that suit.
And then he just disappeared.
You stood in silence, dumbfounded, staring at your door with puzzled eyes and gaping mouth. Then you glanced down at yourself, searching around for something wrong, something that looked ugly maybe, something that would cause such an outburst in Bob.
But there was absolutely nothing wrong with you. In fact, you looked perfect.
When you came back from the mission, the first thing you looked for in the living room once you stepped out of the elevator was Bob, naturally, eyes flicking to the couch where he usually lay down to read or gaze at the cityscape.
Yelena and Bucky were talking animatedly beside you, exchanging a single knowing glance as they both caught a glimpse of disappointment surfacing on your face, still a little sweaty from all the physical exertion the mission had taken. It had not been difficult. The guys had especially relied on your skills to accomplish it successfully.
For that, you were a bit tired, your mind and body had given up a lot to the energy of your abilities. You were still buzzing. Adrenaline was throbbing in your veins. And normally when you were like this, you reached for Bob's comfort to anchor you back to earth.
Your cape fluttered behind you as you made your way towards the hallway to the bedrooms, looking defeated.
Yelena huffed a small chuckle at you, taking a sip of water from the glass Bucky had offered her, “I can't believe that less than thirty minutes ago you were at full power, levitating off the ground, with your eyes glowing and all, and now you go crawling back to your boyfriend like this.”
You just shrugged, offering them both a small tired smile before continuing to walk towards Bob's room, needing to see him and hug him. You didn't even care that you were still wearing your suit.
You stopped in front of the door and as you were raising your hand to knock on it, it swung open with a ‘wooshh!’, revealing a very distressed looking Bob. His hair was a bit messy, he was still wearing that black shirt that looked so good on him. He had changed his pants, though, now wearing a pair of gray sweatpants, hanging dangerously low around his hips.
He looked like a hot mess. In every good sense of the term.
“You're back,” he breathed out, as if he'd been holding his breath all this time in your absence, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he gulped loudly. His eyes took a quick journey across you and widened as he noticed you were still in your suit. He pulled them back, forcefully, painfully slow back up to your face.
You looked at him strangely, realizing how you were both still standing in his doorway. “Yeah... are you okay, Bob? I feel you... closed off.”
“Yeah, it's just— I didn't want to distract you— before the mission and all that,” he explained, sounding more like a cheap excuse.
“Distract me?” You raised a single eyebrow, repeating his own word, noticing perfectly how his gaze wandered to your chest for just a split of a second, but nonetheless, you managed to catch up with it. A hint of an amused smile tugged at the corners of your lips, leaning against the threshold of his door, and he closed his eyes tightly, ducking his head in shame, knowing full well that he had been caught. Nothing could ever get past you. Not when it came to him.
“Looks like you're the distracted one here, Bob.”
“I'm not—” he stammered, his hands raised to his flushed face, “S-sorry, I don't mean to be like like a wacked out pervert— I don't want you to think less of me. It's just a s-suit.”
The last part seemed to be speaking more to himself than to you, as he grunted it under his breath, verging on a scolding.
But it wasn't just a suit.
It was you.
Your body, your naughty smile, your gaze, your lips tinted with that deadly crimson red.
A couple of beads of sweat led a wet trail down your neck. Bob could smell the saltiness oozing off your sweaty skin, mixed with that exquisite scent of your perfume. He could hear your heart pounding, the throbbing pulse in your jugular vein. Demonstrating that you were real, that you were breathing, that you were right in front of him, dressed like that.
You were devastatingly beautiful. And he was completely at your mercy.
Your hand rose to his face, making him stop his babbling with himself and lift his gaze slowly. His cheek felt warm under your palm, you didn't know if it was because he was a blushing mess or because that was the effect that your touch brought upon his skin.
“It's okay to feel desire, Bob, there's nothing wrong with that,” you reassured him, lowering your tone to a softer, more sympathetic one. “It makes me feel good that you desire me, actually.”
That got a reaction out of him, his lips quivered, hesitating whether or not to speak, until eventually, he made up his mind, “It makes you feel good?”
You nodded your head, your smile morphing to one of a little more shyness, “I thought you didn't like the way I looked in my suit. Since you just ran off without saying anything, I thought that—”
Bob interrupted you right there, shaking his head repetitively. You felt his jaw and flesh move under the palm of your hand as he spoke.
“What? No,” he blurted, huffing air as if it were the most obvious subject in the world. Regret passed over the expression of his face and he uttered your name in that adoring, soft way he did, “You look perfect. It drives me crazy, h-honestly. I haven't been able to stop t-thinking about you. You look so beautiful it makes me want to—”
He forced himself to shut up, suddenly feeling his throat constrict and his face grow even more red. One of his hands ran through his hair anxiously, looking really tense.
“You want to what?” You urged him, your breath feeling warm against his face, your thumb caressed his cheekbone, making him shiver under your touch, “Say it, Bob.”
Bob looked into your eyes again, struggling to maintain eye contact, his hands trembled at his sides, so desperate to reach out to you, to touch you, to grasp you. To hold all of you.
“Make love to you” He mumbled against your lips just before you kissed him, breathing in his air and devouring his words, covenanting them as a mutual yearning. A promise.
Bob kissed you as if you were the air his lungs depended on to breathe, his lips moving with yours like an old habit, like second nature.
“Jump,” he urged you between kisses and shaky breaths, his hands finally being set loose to reach out to touch you and hold your waist.
And you immediately complied, bouncing up and wrapping your legs around his hips. He lifted you up and held you so effortlessly. Sometimes you forgot that this man was the strongest among all of you. The strongest on the planet, most likely.
Without ever stopping kissing you, Bob locked you tightly against him with one arm while the other one stretched out towards the door, closing it behind his back once he started to walk with you in his arms over to his bed.
Both of his hands grasped your body at the bottom of your thighs, squeezing and cupping your warm flesh through the fabric of your suit.
Promptly you felt the bulge press against the underside of your thigh, so desperate for attention, for you.
Bob broke the kiss, the noise of your mouths slipping apart from each other swept across the interior of his room, so filthy and hot. He looked at you with half-closed eyes, gaze darkened by desire and raw adoration.
He was breathless and feeling so flustered and anxious he was trembling, you could sense it as he held you close against him.
“I-I'm sorry, I don't want you to feel pressured into anything. It—” he mumbled, closing his eyes in ecstasy as he felt your fingers sinking into his hair at the back of his skull, “It just... pops up. It's inevitable when it comes to you. You drive me crazy.”
He was referring to his erection, of course. His big erection. He was ashamed of it. Bob didn't want to appear desperate —although for you, he certainly was—; someone who was unable to control himself. He was striving for control.
“Just shut up and make love to me, Bob,” you murmured, pleaded, right against his lips, your tongue grazing across his bottom lip, pulled outward, his countenance turn into a pout. “I need you inside me, now. Please, baby”
“S-shit,” he hissed a lot of cursing under his trembling breath. He was buzzing, “I-I need you too.”
Bob kissed you one more time as he laid you down on his bed very gently, careful not to trip or get tangled up in your cape.
His lips traced a path of kisses across your face, down your chin, along your neck. Your body quivered as you felt his tongue run across your skin, wiping away a bead of sweat.
Your legs were still on either side of his hips, one of his hands was running up and down the outside of your thigh and the other was supporting his own weight on the side of your body.
You arched your back for him, grinding against his crotch. Bob groaned lightly into your skin at the friction.
“You drive me crazy— you don't know what you provoke in me,” he uttered, rasping out against the skin of your neck, like an unhinged man, blinded by lust and longing. “This fucking suit— shit. You look so good, so pretty for me. I need you so bad, baby. All the time.”
Rarely did Bob call you by pet names, but every one of those occasions elicited the exact same reaction out of you. Your gaze would darken and your eyes would squint. You didn't have to tell him anything at all. Your body spoke everything to him, calling out to him in silence, in complicity.
With you, the intimacy, the complicity spoke for itself above the silence.
He knew the power he had in you. He knew exactly how to use it.
“P-please... ah—” yet he still begged you, whimpering just from friction and touch alone, pulling his head out of your neck and bringing his face closer to yours. He kissed your lips once more, just as your legs squeezed tighter around his waist, pulling him closer to you and making him pant against your mouth. “I dreamt of your legs wrapped around my waist. Just like this...”
Even Bob couldn't fully recognize himself. He was in some kind of deep lust trance, everything was blurred, except for you. Just beneath him, your beautiful body squirming, flushed against his.
To think that not so long ago you had been out there, in your nice suit, in full super-heroine mode, helping and saving people. Protecting kids from the bad guys, fighting for them.
They all probably looked up to you with adoration, everyone would most likely be jealous of him if they knew how he had you now.
None of them could ever see you like this. Only in their dreams.
“Only in their dreams,” a voice murmured at the back of his mind.
“Bobby...” You breathed out his name, pleading for mercy, for him to do something, anything at all. One of your hands was curled around his forearm at your side, squeezing it to attract his attention. Your fingertips absentmindedly traced the veins outlined against his skin trough his arm. You could feel his throbbing pulse on them. Desperate and hepless. Craving.
“Let me taste you, baby, please” Bob cooed, his voice coming raspy and desperate out of his throat, “I need to taste you, yeah?”
“Y-yes, yes,” your mouth moved faster than your mind, gazing at him with eyes glazed over with lust. “W-wait, I have to take off my suit first, let me—”
Bob cut you off with a sloppy little kiss, pressing his forehead affectionately against yours, his nose nuzzling yours just before he pulled away, “I-I got it.”
He patted your thigh gently and you unwrapped your legs from his waist, following him with your gaze attentively as he settled over you carefully so that his fingers reached around your neck, in search of the zipper of the suit. When he found it, he began to pull it down, looking at you with ravenous eyes, blinking so slowly that it seemed like he wasn't blinking at all.
“Turn a little and lift your hips up, baby.” He said to you once the zipper trail was almost reaching your lower back. As he unzipped the bottom of it, you took off your top to help him, leaving your bare chest on full display for him. “That's it. God...”
Bob shakily exhaled air as he became aware that you weren't wearing any underwear at all, he had to be extremely careful not to tear the zipper into a thousand tiny pieces with the force he squeezed it, pulling it further below your hips.
“You don't wear anything under it? Should I be worried about this?”
His tone of voice was so confident and borderline playful that for a moment you felt like he was someone else entirely. He really wanted to look confident for you, he wanted to provide you that security and comfort. You were stripping naked for him, for God's sake. Bob had to make an extra effort to appear confident and self-assured.
“Just for you, baby,” you assured him, shifting your legs slightly just once to help him pull the suit off completely, tugging it delicately down your thighs. The distinctive noise of the zipper, which this time was reaching your ears like the most arousing noise on the planet, ceased at last, reaching its end.
“J-just for me,” Bob echoed, leaning into you again like a magnet to a gravity core. His lips latched onto your naked thigh, kissing the side considering the position you were lying on his bed now. His wet, leisurely kisses awakened shivers on your skin. He could smell how aroused you were. He practically could taste how wet your sex was. Thinking about it made his mouth water.
“So pretty, so beautiful, my God,” he babbled, his trail of kisses reaching your lower stomach, tickling you in a way that made you sigh. Bob looked up at you for just a moment, his pupils blown out with pleasure, “How could someone like me deserve something like this?”
It all seemed more like a conversation with himself, like if he was walking through a daydream.
Your hand came to rest on his face, cupping his cheek, and he leaned against your palm instantly, closing his eyes for a moment.
“Bobby, please,” you pleaded.
And he gave in immediately, kissing the palm of your hand, “You don't have to beg me for anything. You already have it.”
His kisses trailed back down your stomach and you arched your back so beautifully for him. When he pulled away from your hand, it fell to the side of you on the bed. You clenched in a trembling fist all the fabric of whatever you could catch hold of.
“Are you— are you sure about this?” he looked up to you for consent, his fingers soothingly caressing your thighs, hands pressing them to either side of his face and settling them on his shoulders. When he saw you nodding your head, too much overcome with lust, he brushed a kiss on the inside of your knee, attempting to get your full attention back, “I need words, baby.”
You hurried to answer, babbling, gazing down at him, kneeling so pretty in between your legs as if they were the gates to heaven, “Yes, Bob, baby, please.”
He kissed your other knee now and then licked his lips, hungrily.
“I want to see you fall apart under me,” his hot breath brushed against the skin of your inner thighs, spreading your legs a little wider with a delicate but assured grip. “You're soaking wet, baby,” he marveled, in awe watching your pussy dripping with his adored honeyed water, yet his voice sounded disappointed, “you're wasting my meal.”
The mere sight of how his eyes sparkled with adoration as he gazed at your pussy could have made you cum right there if you started to think about it too much. Bob looked at you as if you were the center of the universe, the entrance to paradise, the sun he orbited around.
It all made sense when you were there. Your presence in the room shifted the whole gravity of his being. His everything was for you. He was all made for you.
All the sense he could possibly envision now was to devour your pussy as if it were his last meal. He devoured it like a starving man, like reaching an oasis in the most arid desert, drowning and sheltering into it.
The sloshing sounds that spread with each stroke of his tongue between your wet folds made you flush all over, throwing your head back against one of his pillows and squeezing your eyes tightly shut, muttering and moaning his name out like a prayer.
To Bob, that noise was the most beautiful melody he'd ever heard. He sucked particularly hard onto your slit, pushing his tongue just barely into your gushing hole, pulling a loud, raspy moan from your throat. Oh, that noise...
His name sounded like the utmost hopeless and religious chant out of your pretty mouth. At that moment he was loving his name, loving the way you moaned it and kept murmuring it, as if it was yours, holding it close to your heart.
Amidst all the acoustic thrill of raw passion, mingled with his own soft whimpers breathing out into your core, Bob could nearly hear the stars themselves just above his red, hot ears.
Your cunt was pulsing all around the tip of his tongue and Bob sensed, tasted your heartbeat through it.
To feel that close to you nearly made him cum right there in his sweatpants.
One of his hands unclasped your leg, crawling up through your skin, his digits drawing a smooth path up your stomach, through your ribcage, all the way to reach your chest, cupping one of your breasts with a possessive hold.
“Bob— uhh—” you croaked out his name, glancing down at him with half-closed eyes, searching for his gaze in desperation.
Your back curved into such a perfect arch, your body squirming up against him as you felt his tongue flick your clit, his fingertips gently caressing your nipple. The stimulation would soon knock you into fucking heaven.
“Yeah, baby,” he responded to your call, disconnecting his mouth just an inch from your pussy, feeling lust-drunk enough to hold your gaze. His whole mouth was drenched with you, the slickness glistening under the dim light of his bedroom. His other hand sneaked between your legs, just barely brushing your pulsating cunt, “I'm here, hm? I got you, angel.”
Angel. That one was new.
You looked as close as he could ever imagine to an angel; sprawled on his bed, your body, magnificent, perfect, damp with sweat and arousal, your gaze searching for his in longing. There, in the shadows, Bob saw the whitish gleam of your energy flashing through your orbs, your power lingering in the air, pulsating along with your heartbeat.
You were so powerful, so strong and marvelous.
And you were all his to break apart.
“Are you going to cum for me?” He asked right before passionately kissing your pussy, his fingertips teasing your clit as he plunged his tongue deep into you, knocking all the air out of your lungs. “I got you, I got you.”
Bob felt you clench impossibly tight all around the two fingers he had thrust into your warm, fluttering hole, barely pressing against the spongy walls of your insides. He sucked your clit just right, breathing your name against your hot flesh. That's what pushed you over the edge, making you cum, falling apart so devastatingly beautiful against his mouth.
He slurped and drank in everything you had to offer him, lapping at your cunt as if he was drowning and it was the oxygen he needed to keep afloat.
He paused to gaze at you attentively as he made you cum, your whole body buzzing, squirming so beautifully under his touch that you resembled some ethereal, otherworldly sight.
His name rasped out of your throat, as if it were your own religion.
“There you go...” Bob cooed, his eyes hazy with adoration, licking his lips clean and kissing your twitching pussy once again. “So good to me. So good...”
His lips kissed a trail upwards, swiping his tongue occasionally across the scars and freckles that decorated your skin as a constellation that appealed to him to adore. Eventually, Bob reached your face, looking down at you with pure love and a glimpse of that gentle shyness of his natural mannerism.
“A-are you okay?”
Bob watched your soul slowly crawl back to the ground and to your body, right back to him, finally snapping out of your post-orgasm trance. He propped his weight against the bed on the side of your waist with one hand, his thumb brushing against your bare skin and he brought the other to your face, caressing your cheek reassuringly.
Your response was your mouth seeking his to join in a deep, loving kiss. Bob closed his eyes, kissing you back, his hand cradling your face.
You could taste yourself through his lips and tongue. And that managed to turn you on even more.
Wrapped in an adrenaline surge of lust pumping through your veins, you rolled both of you over on the bed, laying him underneath you now.
It was nice that you had much more stamina and energy than a normal human. Although there, you didn't feel like a human at all.
You were animals driven by their own instincts.
Bob gasped against your lips, his eyes barely opening so he could visualize you on top of him now, grinding your ass down on his rock-hard erection as you sat so prettily on his lap.
“Shit,” he croaked out your name, his hands grabbing as much of you as they possibly could, sliding past the curve of your waist to your ass, pressing you harder down onto him in urging. “If you keep doing that— I-I'm going to—”
You stopped all movement of your body and sat perfectly motionless on his lap. Bob whined hoarsely in protest, but you didn't let him utter a word, your finger pressed against his lips, silencing him instantly.
“I want you to cum inside me, Bob.” You purred against his ear, your tongue lazily stroking his earlobe. He froze speechless, just staring at you flabbergasted, still delighting in the way you had said those filthy words, so softly and lovingly. He strained himself to keep strong and not burst into his boxers at your words alone. “Let me take your clothes off, okay? Can I see all of you, baby?”
“Yes, p-please, just take everything of me— it's all yours” he promised you, helping you take off that black t-shirt he knew you loved to see on him so much. Exactly why he had put it on that morning.
When his naked torso was fully exposed for you, you bent down to kiss his neck, his collarbone, his pecs, your tongue spent some extra time fondling his sensitive nipples and Bob's legs twitched under your thighs.
The light in the room flickered for a split second and you just grinned against his flushed skin.
“I-I'm sorry—” he apologized with his voice lowering sheepishly, embarrassed. Then he closed his eyes when you raised your head to hush him with a kiss that was more tender than anything, reassuring him in silence.
Then your lips specifically grazed the spot where his heart was, beating maniacally on the other side of his skin.
He was so perfect, effortlessly perfect.
Bob was the most powerful man on planet Earth and yet, he was crumbling beneath you, bowing to the mercy of your touch.
You might as well just tear his chest apart and take his heart, it was already lying open for you, so full of you.
It was yours to take, to hold, to shatter.
You took your time to strip off his gray sweatpants, kissing his thighs, his knees and his calves, gently tugging at the hem of the gray fabric until you eventually slid it off his body and tossed it on the floor, forgotten alongside your scandalous suit.
Bob stared at you with a blushing, timid face as you rose again up through his body, your fingers lightly fiddling with the hem of his boxers now, fully ruined by all the pre-cum he'd been spilling. And you lifted your gaze, searching for his, silently asking for his consent.
He nodded tremblingly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.
With wobbly hands he helped you take off his boxers, lifting his hips so you could slide them down his body and toss them into the pile of clothes lying on the floor as well.
His cock sprung free and you looked at it in awe.He was so big, bigger than you had ever had before. It was long too, hard, powerful and desperate for you, just like him.
It's head was furiously red, throbbing and oozing pre-cum incessantly. You found it impossible not to bend down to his groin and swipe your tongue along his slit, scooping up every essence of him and savoring it delightfully. Your tongue lolled along the prominent vein that bulged all along his shaft.
Bob's eyes rolled back and in a blur of bliss, he had to struggle to guide a hand to your head, fingers brushing across your cheek to get your attention. You looked up at him with big, lustful eyes, swallowing everything you had slurped out of him. The taste was bittersweet, hot, familiar, like him.
“No— don't do— don't do that, p-please,” he begged for your mercy in a raspy, cracked, breathless voice. “Come here.”
His hand gripped yours as you took it and carefully, but hurriedly helped you to position yourself on top of him once again, his digits latched onto you your waist, holding you as you squatted just above his lap, straddling him.
You grabbed his cock and held it up against your pussy, the swollen tip slowly sliding in between your wet folds, pushing achingly slow through your entrance.
Both of you sighed at the contact. Wet, hot, shaky and desperate.
Slowly you began to sink down on his cock, hands pressed on his shoulders, clenching them more and more with every inch he pushed inside you.
Bob whimpered shudderingly, choking back the deep, heavy moan that crawled up his throat. He could feel his whole body shivering, squinting his eyes as he leaned his sweaty forehead against your shoulder, struggling to steady his breathing. It was like his soul was slipping out of his body and merging with yours.
No one had ever been so close to his soul. And he didn't think anyone else would, either. No one did it like you.
His veiny hands at your waist gripped your flesh, yet they never pressed you hard enough to push you lower any faster, no, he would wait for you so patiently, giving you the pause to accustom yourself to his size.
“You do it so— so good.” Bob praised hoarsely into your shoulder, his wet lips grazing across your skin, drooling all over you, “you take it so good, you take me so good. There's n-no one like you— no one.”
Heavenly, him pressing against you, his lips laying softly upon your neck, marking you on the outside and inside, his mouth felt like heaven, his kisses falling upon you like stars, shaping a constellation of raw adoration.
Your pussy fluttered around him, squishing him deeper inside.
One of his hands wandered down to your back, fingers tracing your spine reassuringly. He just took the time to reassure you amidst all the blissful trance of pleasure you made him feel.
“Just a little more, baby,” he murmured, his hand caressing your ass appreciatively. Your warm, spongy walls clamped down tight around his cock and Bob's voice cracked. “Oh— S-shit—”
You moaned so loudly against his forehead that your whole spine seemed to twitch, finally feeling your ass pressed down on his lap. He was so deep that you easily thought his tip was almost reaching all into your guts now.
“You're so deep, Bob” You whined, just barely pulling away from him so you could look at him. His eyes were already locked on yours and you caught a glimpse of that golden sparkle flashing through them, his irises glowing like two suns in the twilight. “Bobby—”
Your words struck him to the core and his eyes flashed golden once again, utterly starting to lose control.
“I'm here,” he hissed, panting your name breathlessly, his hands caressed your skin, scoring his imprint on it. He kissed you sloppily, “I got you, I always got you.”
As you began to move on top of him, Bob suddenly felt like he was in heaven. He could no longer envision a life where he didn't feel this way, where he didn't feel you. He shall be yours in every life.
He dropped back on the bed as your hand pushed against his chest, bending down with him and bouncing your hips so lusciously against his that you actually could see his eyes filling with tears, looking up at you riding him in pure adoration.
Bob whimpered your name endlessly, crying it out in a hoarse, broken voice, his hands squeezed your waist, your hips, your ass, anything they could possibly grope out of you.
“My God—” his eyes rolled back, arching his back as you delivered a particularly hard bounce down his cock, so deep that he saw the stars twinkle in the darkness right behind you.
The constant filthy noise of flesh slapping against flesh soon merged with the pornographic acoustic medley of moans, shattered sighs, slurred whispers of names and nonsense words.
You kissed his lips lazily, then his nose, and his chin as you cooed, “You feel so good, baby.”
The bed was beginning to creak beneath the ruthless sway of your hips, ass bouncing up and down heavy against his thighs, so deep that every time you bottomed out you felt him in your throat. His heavy balls were pressed hard against your ass, throbbing, so ready to give you everything they had, to fill you up to the brim, as if it were his sole purpose in life.
“You're perfect— perfect,” he croaked out so pathetically to you, thrusting his hips up to meet yours, plunging into you as if you were his nest, engulfing himself within your soft, warm, spongy walls, pressing against that squishy spot that knocked the breath right out of you.
He kissed your lips once more and in a fragment of a second Bob flipped you over on the bed, rutting into you so good that it made you gasp between kisses.
Bob began to set the pace just as your legs wrapped around his hips, pressing him impossibly close to you.
“Right there?” he whispered, burying his head down on your chest, nuzzling your sternum. “You feel perfect— so tight, my God—”
He kept on praising you endlessly, kissing you, grasping you, breathing in the air you breathed out, sharing the same oxygen, the same time-space that existed between you, that little inches that belonged to both of you and no one else.
“You feel like heaven.”
That was enough for him to have you cumming again, in some way even more earth-shattering than the last orgasm. Your body started to wobble, your pussy squelching and clenching so tightly wrapped around his cock.
The light voltage in the room lowered and raised, matching the racing beat of your heart.
Bob sensed the energy sparking off your body and blending with his own, merging and intertwining as one.
After feeling that, after feeling you so close, so inhumanly close, beyond the physical plane, beyond anything he had ever felt in his life —it was euphoric, overwhelming—; he was cumming too, picking up the pace to reach the apex of his high.
He buried himself in you to the hilt, sobbing out a ragged whimper as he leaned his forehead against yours.
The atmosphere shifted and the light in the room flickered once again.
His load felt hot and thick inside you, coloring your insides with his color, spurting what resembled an ocean of him inside your womb. His hips jerked, his cock shooting out ropes and ropes of hot seed, marking you from the inside.
Bob remained motionless on top of you, panting up against your face, keeping his eyes closed, buried to the fucking hilt inside your overwhelmingly stuffed pussy, making sure nothing could spill out.
And even though his body was drained and succumbing to post-orgasm limpness, he was careful not to collapse his full weight on you, supporting his hands on either side of your shoulders.
Your arms wrapped around his neck, hugging him close to you, hands soothingly caressing his back. He sighed against your lips, slowly opening his eyes.
Until then you hadn't realized that the room was completely dark now.
“I think we just blew out the voltage of the room.” You uttered after a comfortable silence, your throat felt scratchy and though you were still in the haze of the afterglow, your voice came out rather playful.
Bob glanced lazily away from you, finally noticing that there was, in fact, no light. He was grateful for that in a way, that way you couldn't see the blushing, tear-stained mess that was his face, snuggling it against your chest.
“I'm s-sorry,” he stammered in his own raspy voice as well, embarrassed, as if he wasn't balls deep inside you, his seed gushing out of your pussy. “I think— I think it was me.”
“I think it was both of us.” You smiled lovesickly as you kissed his sweaty forehead, fingers tracing his shoulder blades. “Don't worry, we'll fix it. Just give me a few minutes.”
Bob placed a couple of kisses on your chest before he began to reluctantly push himself up, carefully pulling out of you. You both sighed lightly at the over-stimulation and the loss of connection. Although, even when he had already slipped his cock off you, you could still feel him inside, leaking out of your gaping pussy, trickling down your thighs.
Bob rushed off in search of a washcloth, stumbling over the pile of clothes you had tossed on the floor. The sound of his feet walking clumsily back to you made you grin.
Then he swiped the cloth in between your legs, very delicately, wiping you clean. The contact made you shiver from the sensibility.
And even through the shadows of the darkness, you could see him frown slightly, very much focused on taking care of you, sensing how the fabric of the cloth felt uncomfortable against your sensitive skin, “I'm sorry.”
“You apologize too much, baby” you tried to reassure him, already in need of him close to you again. “Come here.”
Bob instantly flopped down on the bed next to you, careful not to crush you, but with your arms wrapping around his shoulders and pulling him tight against you it was complicated.
In between hugs and caresses, he ended up being the little spoon, happy to be able to feel your chest pressing against his back, arms embracing his torso.
“Did I— I do okay?” he asked after a brief silence, anxious.
“You were perfect.” You assured him, tenderly kissing his shoulder.
“You too” Bob whispered back, grabbing one of your hands on his chest and bringing it to his mouth, planting soft kisses on your knuckles. The words raced up his throat even before he could think, “I love you.”
He let the words carry up into the silence of the darkness and held his breath, already considering that he had ruined everything.
“I love you too, Bob.”
If it hadn't been for you holding him, his limbs tangled with yours, and because well, you were there, Bob had jumped out of his bed in joy.
But, because you were there, he stayed still, perfectly still, and smiled, utterly in love, savoring the way you had said the three words to him.
You were closing your eyes, drifting off in exhaustion when, through your super-hearing you heard steps approaching through the hallway, of more than a pair of feet, mixing with the voices of your teammates.
“What could have happened?” You heard Ava's voice ask, her tone hovering somewhere between worried and annoyed.
Yelena sighed. “I don't know. Some power failure?”
“A power failure in the whole city?” John remarked, as snarky as usual.
Your eyes opened wide and Bob halted his cute kisses on your hand, turning his head so he could look at you like a deer dazzled by lights.
