My Sun, My Star

LOVERS CREEK

John Price x chubby Reader // prologue

A/N; this is my first time actually writing a story for any fandom really. And I’m gonna try and be consistent as possible! This story will have multiple parts—so please be warned of that! The story also switches from past to present a lot and I don’t usually use first person so! This will also be uploaded on my AO3 !

Please note I do not allow my writing to be translated, published anywhere else that isn’t me uploading it, and I would not like it on any Poe AI or any of the sort without my permission, or acknowledgment ! I’m still learning as I go about c.ai and Poe so! Also I do not own any of the call of duty characters used in this story! I really “own” the y/n ( reader ) !

Story Summary: You and Price are childhood best friends, and almost Highschool sweethearts. But unlike a cliche, you both hold feelings in for years, even after graduating. Communication between you too soon diminishes as life after graduation gets busy. Price has succeeded in hiding his feelings, until he gets a letter at base. It’s a letter from you. And it’s about your wedding..

Dear John,

I hope this letter finds you well! It was hard finding anyone in the area that was still mutual with us to know where you were. But I took a trip to see your mother and she filled me in plenty. I didn’t know you were still doing that military job of yours, figured you’d find a steady life after. You always talked about a lake house you wanted to buy after your military duty.

But enough with miscellaneous talk—I plan to do that later with you— I’m inviting you, John Price, My best friend, to my wedding which will be hosted at the Saint Crossroads Church. The same church our mothers would force us to go to on Sundays. I remember how you always itched to take that tie you always wore off, but your mom would slap your hand away just in time. You’d sit next to me in the first row as the pastor would preach his word.

But now, on September 17th of this year—and next week!—, he will be my officiant, marrying me off to my soon to be husband. And I hope to see you there, in the front row like old times.

Sincerely,

Your Best Friend

His eyes read over the letter multiple times. His rough hands held the delicate letter with such softness that he barely touched it.

He wasn’t expecting this. John could feel his heart race, pounding and trying to leap out his chest. You. His best friend that he hasn’t forgotten was getting married. There was denial sprouting in his head. You can’t be getting married right? He thought to himself, but the fancy yet simple letter that laid softly in his head showed him more than the truth. It showed him the harsh reality. He remembered how your mom and his bonded—making you guys best friends as well. He remembered how the both of you would stick together around primary school, all the way to secondary school. He could remember his hidden feelings for you—he hid them so he wouldn’t ruin the friendship.

A conflicted sigh left his mouth. His rough hand put the letter down on his desk as his other hand shagged through his hair. He knew he had to go. A no show would break you.

And he’d love to see you again..

A/N ; just the prologue! Nothing too big but a bit short! I’m really just testing if anyone wants to read this aside from my friends aha!!

TagList ; @jenniferpendragon

Contract Spouse Masterlist

A contract spouse is someone who marries a military service member for the benefits. Contract marriages are illegal though rarely prosecuted.

Jake Seresin x Reader (nicknamed Pip)

Warning: Angst

I was thinking about this series and I realized I need to do a better job at warning people that it’s going to get dark at times, not just angst but touching on the realities of war.

Main Masterlist

Prologue: The Phone Call

Chapter 1: The Past

Chapter 2: The Letter

Chapter 3: Moving

Chapter 4: Living the Lie

Chapter 5: Interviews

Chapter 6: Crashing

Chapter 7: Realizations

Chapter 8: The Fallout

Chapter 9: The Wedding

Chapter 10: The Divorce Papers

Epilogue: The Future

Bob and the Superhero Love Story Arc

Masterlist

Pairing: Bob Reynolds/sentry x (f)reader

Tags: fluff, feelings, kissing, comfort, learning disabilities, childhood friends, found family (thunderbolts), some nice times because Bob deserves it

You were ten years old.

You were both in the same special needs class in elementary school.

Even if your needs were different.

It was your first day at a new school after you and your older sister had just moved to a new town. It was a small suburban town, with a small school at its center and small classrooms. Your sister had registered you at the main office, quietly informing the principal that you had a learning disability. He nodded and got up to exchange some husged wispers with the front desk lady. A moment later, the woman offered a soft smile before motioning for you to follow. "Come with me, hun."

Down the hallway, she led you into a quiet classroom where about ten students your age sat. The teacher paused mid-lesson as the door opened, and everyone turned to look at you next to the front desk lady.

"Miss Brown, please welcome your newest student," the secretary said.

The teacher, an older woman with kind eyes and a denim vest, nodded. "Good morning, why don't you come up here and introduce yourself."

You walked up to the front of the class, slightly fidgeting with the hem of your dress and told everyone your name.

Ms. Brown smiled. "It's very nice to meet you, y/n. We don't get new students often around here."

Gesturing to a boy at the far end of the room, she said. "You can have a seat next to Robert."

He sat alone, half-curled into his hoodie, shaggy brown hair hanging over blue eyes. The desk beside him was empty. You crossed the room with your backpack slung awkwardly over your shoulders, pulled the chair back, and sat down. Your hands were slow as you arranged your notebook and pencils.

"Hi," he wispered, looking up for only a second.

You smiled. "Hi. I’m Y/N."

He nodded. "You said that."

"Right," you chuckled, feeling your cheeks heat. You sometimes blabbed when you were nervous. "You have a nice name, Robert."

"Bob’s okay," he murmured, opening his notebook and scribbling the date in the corner.

Feeling like you somehow said the wrong thing, you turned to your desk and did the same, copying down the teacher’s notes. Your grip tightened on your pencil as the words blurred. Like they always did.

At lunch, a few of your classmates came over, smiling and curious.

"Hey, I’m Alex," a boy said.

"I’m Kate. I like your dress," added a girl sitting beside him.

A few more names followed. A boy named Timothy and a girl named Gillian.

"So, what do you have?" Timothy asked plainly.

You blinked. "What do you mean?"

He motioned vaguely around the room. "Everyone's got something in this class. I have ADD. Alex is on the spectrum... what about you?"

"Oh," you understood now, swallowing. "I’m dyslexic," you said quietly, pressing your lips together the way you always did when explaining it.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Bob glance up from his desk, eyes flicking to your notebook before returning to his.

"What’s that?" Kate asked.

"I... I have difficulty reading," you explained.

They gave you a variety of looks. Some curious, others sympathetic.

"I’ve never heard of that," Gillian said. "Sounds awful."

"Gillian," Bob said, without looking up.

Gillian grimaced, giving you an apologetic look.

"It's okay," You smiled, grateful even for that brief defense. “It’s not too bad,” you said, even if you didn’t always believe it.

The truth was that the school didn’t have the resources to distinguish between different types of needs. So, they grouped everyone together. And in time, you all became something like friends.

But Bob was still... distant. When you all tried to include him in group games or projects, he’d just shake his head, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on his desk.

Until one day.

Your sister was late picking you up, and most of the others had already gone home. You sat on the curb, arms wrapped around your backpack, and then noticed Bob lingering nearby.

You plopped down next to him, your leggings brushing against his scraped-up knees poking through wrinkled cargo shorts.

"Your parents not picking you up?" you asked.

He flinched slightly, then glanced over. His hair was a mess and falling into his eyes. You had the sudden urge to brush it away.

"Sometimes they’re late. Or they forget," he said with a sad little smile, eyes fixed on his shoes. "It’s alright."

You frowned. He smiled, but he clearly wasnt happy. You looked around, trying to come up with something to change his mood.

You froze when your gaze landed on the school playground. "Wanna go on the swings?"

He looked at you, uncertain.

You offered your hand. "Come on. It’ll be fun."

He hesitated. Then, slowly, his hand met yours. It trembled slightly in your grip.

It was that day you first felt it. A little flutter in your chest came with holding his hand. A crush.

From then on, you watched him more closely. How he always sat in the back. How he flinched at loud noises. How his eyes lit up when a teacher asked a question about science, or outer space, or machines.

It was during a group project—the group being your entire class— that you realized how sharp he was.

You and your classmates were brainstorming ideas for a model bridge, and Bob sat at his desk and mumbled something about tensile strength and suspension systems.

Kate blinked. "How’d you know that?"

He shrugged. "It was in one of Ms. Brown’s books."

"Huh. That sounds smart. Let me write it down for the presentation," Alex said, scribbling it down. "Thanks, Bobby."

Bob smiled a small smile. "Sure thing."

And that smile stuck with you longer than it should have.

You enjoyed math's and sciences enough, but your favorite subjects were history and literature. The ones that ironically required a LOT of reading and writing. After your sister showed you a movie about a pair of journalists who uncover a major political conspiracy, you had your goals set on becoming a journalist. And for that, you'd have to ace the humanities.

One afternoon, you were hunched over your history book you were researching for an assignment, frustrated nearly to tears. The letters wouldn’t sit still.

"Can I?" Someone asked softly. You looked up and saw Bob, taking a seat next to you, motioning toward the book.

You nodded, swallowing hard and handing it to him. Afraid that if you'd open your mouth, you'd might let out a sob.

He read aloud, voice low and steady. Something about the way he spoke made it all easier. You could’ve listened to him for hours.

You never told him how grateful you were. How safe you felt in that moment.

By the time you both turned sixteen, Bob had started to withdraw even more. You still waved in the halls. Sometimes he waved back, sometimes he didn’t. He was absent more often than not. But somehow, his name always showed up on the academic distinction list that was plastered on the wall at the end of each term.

The crush still lingered, quiet and patient.

He didn’t come to graduation.

And you wouldn’t see him again for a long, long time.

You were twenty-two now.

The surprise press conference was in full swing. Cameras flashed as Valentina stood at the podium, parading the new Avengers. The memory of the recent disaster still lingered in the air.

You’d been on the opposite end of New York during the Void attack, but the moment authorities announced it was safe to return, you were assigned to cover the story. So you rushed to the scene with your press badge and your crew.

You were just an intern at The Washington Post, clutching your phone as you tried to keep up, typing every word Valentina said with great effort. Your brows knit in concentration. This could be your big story. You didn't want to mess it up.

You looked up off your screen to take a brief look at the new Avengers.

Then your eyes caught on him.

One of the team members was clapping awkwardly with the crowd, standing a little behind the others like he didn’t quite belong.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

Oh my God.

"What is it?" Your co-worker, Anthony, asked while snapping pictures with his professional camera.

"Uhm, nothing. I'm just excited about the story." You mumbled, your eyes glued to Bob.

He’d changed.

He used to hunch over like he was trying to disappear into a desk. Now he stood tall—broad-shouldered, navy sweater tight across his chest. His curly brown hair was longer and messier, but it still fell into his blue eyes when he looked down.

But his smile—shy, unsure—was exactly like you remembered.

Your old classmate, Bob. Your first crush... was an Avenger. A superhero!

"Stand back," he said flatly.

After the conference, you circled the venue until you found him, chatting with the Avengers. You made your way over.

Only to be stopped by a stone-faced agent.

"Right. Sorry." You lifted your badge. "I’m with The Washington Post."

He gave you a once-over. "Interns don’t get access to the Avengers."

The comment was meant as a dig, but it didn't work. By now, you were used to being overlooked and underestimated. And you knew you could deal with it with sass when the time was right. You raised a brow. "You’re gonna regret that when I’m head writer someday."

He snorted. "Come back when that happens."

"Come on," you said, trying not to sound desperate. "I just want one statement from the team."

"No—"

"I give statement to nice young lady," came a booming voice behind him.

You turned to see the Red Guardian looming like a wall of muscle, casting a long shadow over the both of you.

"We have orders—" the agent began.

"Davai, Shoo, little man. I get brand deal now," Alexei said, swatting him away like a fly.

You blinked, feeling starstruck. "You're the Red Guardian. From the Soviet Union."

You read a lot about him in your history of the Cold War 101, a required course in your journalism program. Alexei was truly a fascinating figure, a warrior. A spy. A soldier. A human experiemnt. There was so much about him still unknown to the public. And he stood in front of you in the flesh.

"Im him, yes." He grinned a bearded, gold-toothed grin. "Washington Post, you said, da? I enjoy watching senators play... what you call... football. Ridiculous game. The name makes no sense. It's called football, but they hold it in their hands—ne vazhno. it's very violent. Entertaining."

"Uhhh..." Before you could say more, a quiet voice spoke up.

"Y/n?"

Bob had stepped beside Alexei, eyes wide with recognition. Your heart skipped. His voice was deeper now, steadier.

You smiled, a little breathless. "You remember me?"

He nodded, warm and surprised. "Of course I remember you." His gaze roamed down your body, and a pink coloring appeared on his cheek. He'd changed since you were kids, and so had you.

Recovering, he turned to the others, gesturing to you. "Guys… this is a friend from back home."

They all gave you the once-over, some more skeptical than others. You offered a sheepish smile and wave.

Bob glanced at your badge. His brows lifted. "You’re with The Post? That’s amazing!"

There was genuine pride in his voice.

You smiled back, feeling something catch in your throat. "Well… interning for now. But yeah. It’s a dream come true." You hesitated, then added, "And you’re an Avenger!"

According to Valentina, he was one of the strongest beings alive.

He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "You probably don’t remember me that well. I mostly—"

"I remember you, Bob."

He blinked. Swallowed. Opened his mouth—and couldn’t find the words.

The agent came back, signaling to you to wrap things up.

You cleared your throat and lifted your recorder. "Sentry, can I get a statement on this exciting new team-up?"

Bob opened his mouth, then closed it without saying anything. He did this a couple of times.

John Walker elbowed him. "Say something before you embarrass yourself."

Bob coughed. "C-can I see you again?"

Walker winced, shaking his head. Alexei let out a deep chuckle, rubbing his belly as he looked between you and Bob.

You froze, lowering the recorder. Then let out a small, surprised laugh.

"I mean, we don’t have to—" Bob backtracked.

"How’s next Monday?" You cut in.

His eyes lit up. "I’d… I’d like that."

You tore a page from your notebook and scribbled your number. When you handed it to him, he looked at it like it was something rare.

"I don’t like her," Yelena muttered, pacing the lounge.

Ava rolled her eyes from where she was sprawled on the couch. "What now?"

"She’s too pretty."

"I know," Bob mumbled sat in a chair, eyes on the floor. "Why would someone like her want to be with someone like me?"

Walker chuckled, chips halfway to his mouth from the bowl he held in his hand. "Nice going, Yelena."

"What?! No—," Yelena exclaimed, then turned to Bob. "I just don’t want you to get hurt, okay?"

"You can’t protect Bobby from everything, docha," Alexei said with a shrug, stretching out over the other leather sofa. "Even heartbreak is part of manhood."

Bob frowned. "Heartbreak...?"

"Oh my God," Bucky groaned, rubbing his temples. "Can you all shut up? They haven’t even gone on one date yet."

He clapped a hand on Bob’s shoulder. "Relax, son. It’ll be okay."

New tech filled the lab at Stark Tower. Bob was tucked into the far corner, flipping through the worn, half-burned files from Valentina’s vault.

Equations lined the whiteboard in his handwriting. On the table beside him lay pages from Tony Stark’s notebooks, dog-eared and annotated with scribbled notes. Every so often, he muttered to himself, tapping a finger on a page.

"Hydrogen density ratios don’t match…" he murmured, then sighed. "Unless the pressure chamber’s offset by six degrees…"

You smiled at the door. Sentry—the mighty Avenger—looked like a very tired, very nerdy engineering student.

You cleared your throat.

He looked up, startled, then grinned sheepishly. "Oh. Hey. Sorry, I was just… working on something for the team."

"It’s okay. Your friend Walker let me in." You stepped closer, glancing over the papers. "Anything interesting?"

"Sam’s flight suit overheats at high altitudes. I thought Stark’s insulation algorithm might be adaptable."

You nodded slowly. "Wow. That sounded really smart. I wish I understood half of it." You chuckled.

"I can explain it to you," he offered, shrugging. "If… that’s something you want to hear."

"Yeah. Definitely." You bit your lip. "Maybe over pizza, though?" You raised your brow in emphasis.

His eyes lit up as he remembered your date. He shoved away at the papers.

"I didn't forget." He rushed out. "I just got carried—"

You let out a soft chuckle. "Its fine, Bob. You don't have to apologize."

His shoulders dropped with a sigh of relief.

You licked tomato sauce off your fingers. "So, you’re solving cooling issues while the Red Guardian is learning how to post on Instagram?"

"He is?" Bob asked across the table from you before taking a bite of his peperoni and mushroom slice.

You held out your phone. "He’s live right now. Doing a Q&A."

Bob raised a brow. "Wow. Twenty thousand viewers?"

"They mostly ask him about his workout regimen."

He snorted.

The two of you walked side by side down a quiet Midtown street, the city’s hum distant behind you. Hands jammed into his jeans pockets, he nudged a pebble with the toe of his sneaker now and then. No godly aura. Just… a guy.

You laughed softly as you reached your building. "You’re still the same, you know."

Bob looked down. "I don’t feel the same."

You watched him—how his jaw flexed when he was deep in thought, how his brow furrowed like it always had. "You are. Just taller."

At the door, you turned your key. "Thanks for walking me home."

"Anytime." He lingered, hands still in his pockets. "Can I see you again?"

"I’m heading to D.C. next week for a press conference," you said, before joking. "Wanna fly down to meet me, Sentry?"

He smiled. "I might stop by if I’m in the area." Then he leaned in and kissed your cheek before wishing you a good night.

A knock came at your hotel window.

Sunset spilled across the National Mall in orange, blue, and soft pink. Stepping away from your papers and notes you've collected from the day, you walked over, heart skipping as you spotted him hovering over the balcony, wind in his hair, a shy grin on his face.

You threw open the window. "Oh my god!"

"How was work?" he asked.

Shaking your head, you laughed. "This isn’t real."

"I want to show you something." He held out his hand.

"…Are you serious?"

"Trust me."

You hesitated, then pulled on a jacket and boots before coming back and placing your hand in his.

"If you drop me—"

"I won’t."

With a gust of air, you lifted into the sky, wrapped in his hold. The city dropped away beneath you, a sea of lights and honking horns. Your stomach tensed as your hands gripped his shoulders.

"Don’t let go!"

He laughed above you, the sound vibrating agains your ear, and tightened his hold.

"I won’t, I promise." he said quietly.

He brought you to a rooftop that overlooked the Potomac, the city was wide and glittering in the distance. Wind woodshed around as Bob touched down, setting you down gently.

You whispered. "This is… amazing."

By a rusted AC unit, a picnic blanket was laid out with a paper bag and two bottles of Coke.

"Did you do this?" you asked, sitting beside him, knees brushing.

"Do you like it?"

You peeked into the bag and gasped. "Burgers? This is the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to anyone."

He chuckled. "What can I say? I’m setting the bar high."

You took a bite of your burger and moaned. “God, this is good. All i had to eat today was a croissant for breakfast." You turned to him. "You really are a hero."

He looked out at the horizon. "Still doesn’t feel real."

You wiped around your mouth, lowering the burger in your hand. "Must’ve been a massive adjustment, huh?"

"Sometimes, when everyone’s asleep, I just sit there… waiting to wake up. Like this is a dream."

You blinked, unsure what to say.

"You remember everything now?" You asked.

He nodded. "Bits. Enough. Mostly the bad parts."

You placed a hand on his. "Wanna to talk about it?"

"I should." He hesitated. "My therapist says it’s healthy. But maybe not right now."

You nodded. "Whenever youre ready."

He glanced at you. "I was wondering… when we were kids, how did you handle your dyslexia?"

You leaned back on your palms. "It was hard. People often thought I was lazy. Until I finally went to a school that recognized what having a learning disability means."

His jaw tensed. "Thats not fair. Im sorry."

"It's not so bad." You shrugged with an easy-going smile. "I got creative. Audiobooks helped a lot. Or people reading to me. Like you used to."

He looked at you, something tender in his eyes.

You asked gently, "Where did you disappear to after high school?"

His gaze drifted. "Nowhere good. I tried to… change. To fix myself. But Sentry—he wasnt a good solution. I couldn’t stop the—"

He stopped talking when he realized he was about to say "void" and possibly reveal his dangerous alter ego to you. He wasnt sure how youd react.

"I couldn’t stop the bad times. Until the Avengers helped me claw my way out."

"Its good you have them," you said softly. "And that you’re here."

He finally looked at you. His eyes were glassy, filled with something wounded and ancient.

"Yeah," he said. "I guess it is."

The two of you sat like that. Talking and watching the city light up the night.

After he flew you gently back to your balcony, Bob touched down with barely a sound, the soles of his sneakers brushing against the floor. The wind tugged at his hoodie, making his hair tousled from the flight.

He stepped back, motioning for you to go inside. But you lingered in the doorway.

"Thanks for tonight," you said, your voice low, carried barely above the breeze.

He smiled, looking down at his shoes. "Anytime."

You hesitated.

Then stepped toward him.

Before he could say another word, you leaned up and kissed him softly.

He froze for a second. His breath caught, sharp and startled.

You wondered if it was a good surprise or a bad one.

But before you could pull away, his hand lifted, finding the small of your back, pulling you gently but firmly closer.

His fingers rose to your jaw, warm against the curve of your neck. His lips softened into yours, gradually going deeper, more certain.

You gasped softly against his mouth as his his thumb traced the edge of your cheekbone. The scent of him, laundry detergent and wind, filled your senses. Your hands found his chest, feeling the muscles and ribs underneath his hoodie.

His hand shot out, bracing against the wall beside your head with a solid thud, his body crowding yours back into the doorway. Your blood roared in your ears.

And then you heard a crack.

You pulled back slightly, breathless. "What was that?"

He glanced at his hand, still pressed to the wall… or rather, into the wall.

A small hand shaped hole had formed beneath his palm—brick flaked and splintered, dust crumbling down.

Bob blinked. "…Shit."

You burst out laughing.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Great. Smooth. Way to go, Bob."

"You dented my wall," you teased, poking his chest.

"Yeah, well, you kissed me!"

You stared at each other. Then you were both laughing.

You grinned. "Goodnight, Bob."

He stepped back, hovering just off the balcony, the night air catching the hem of his hoodie like wings. His eyes never left yours.

"Goodnight, y/n" he said, voice low and happy.

And then he rose into the sky.

Bob came back to Avengers tower at around two in the morning.

"Where have you been?!" Yelena ran to him in a range, then pulled him into a hug. "Don't just walk off like that without telling us where you're going!"

Bucky leaned against the wall behind her, his face a mixture of disinterest and worry. "Shes right. You could have been hurt."

Bob wanted to laugh, he felt like a kid being lectured by his parents, but in a good way. He's never experienced that before.

"Did everyone forget the part where I'm invincible and have superstrength?" Bob patted Yelena on the back as she hugged him, muttering angrily that if she had to tie him to herself, again, she'll do it.

"Yeah, and what about your other version of pops by to say hello again?" Ava walked up to the living room with her hands folded.

His smile dropped. Ava was right. He slowly relearned to control Sentry's powers, but he never learned to control the Void. Hell, he barely understood what the Void even was, and thanks to Valentina, any scientist who may be able to clear that up was dead.

He didn't feel the void resurface as much since becoming an avenger. Even forgetting about him—especially since things were going so well with you.

"Ah, relax and let the kid have some fun, would ya?" Walker strolled out of the kitchen in bunny slippers and civilian clothing, his presence a welcome disruption of the tension. "You did have fun, didn't you, Bobby?"

Bob nodded eagerly, then slowed his movement when he saw Yelena's narrowed eyes. Now was probably not a good time to mention the fact that he got so excited from your kiss that he broke a brick wall with his hand.

"You be careful of pretty girls." She pointed a finger at him, then turned towards the hallway. "Hooligan, you nearly gave me a heart attack."

As his team all dispersed into their rooms, Bob plopped down on the couch. Instead of trying to wake up from a dream, he played with the strings of his hoodie, smiling as he thought of your laugh.

The Daggers see Bob with his normal glasses and are like dude you have a twin??? And he's like no????? I just wear different glasses when I'm at home with my wife. the Daggers - YOUR WHAT

They've been wondering why Bob has been MIA since the uranium mission ended! When they call, the first thing he asks is if it's an emergency and when they say no, he immediately hangs up.

Finally, the squad learns so one day Phoenix tells him yes, it is an emergency and he needs to get to the bar STAT!

Cue their shock when they see Bob with ungelled hair, normal glasses, and a white T-shirt.

"You're not our Baby on Board," Jake says.

Bob huffs, "Yes I am. Now what's the emergency?"

Cue the dagger squad realizing they never planned this far ahead.

"Seriously guys?! I could have been home with my wife!"

"YOUR WHAT?!"

"There's no way! Next thing you're going to say is you have a kid!" Bradley scoffs.

"No!" Bob sighs, "I have three."

Thinking about this cod fanfic and I need help finding it 💀💀

I think it was either soap or ghost?? Maybe even Konig??? Or price??? And like, they have a wife reader who takes care of 1-2 kids. And like, the fathers at the school thinks she's a single mom and always flirt with her. Because they never see Soap/Ghost/Konig around. And mom/wife reader is friendly cause she's like,"it's the right thing to do right??"

And so once Soap/Ghost/Konig are home for a bit, the kids tell them and attends the kids/school event going on dressed in their military gear or smth. And like, the dads are shocked and the moms flirt over him n stuff.

Idk it's been on my mind 💀💀 por favor I need that fic found LMAO

Okay I got some headcanons of Soap and Civilian Reader in the wips 👁👁 and i plan to finish tonight or tmr ???

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕮𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖓𝖊𝖉 𝖂𝖔𝖑𝖋

Yandere prince x AFAB single mother reader

Chapter 1

Y/N’s life revolves around one thing—her daughter, Isabelle. Working tirelessly to make ends meet, she’s used to long hours, small joys, and the quiet strength it takes to raise a child on her own. The last thing she expects is for their ordinary trip to the mall to catch the attention of Lucien Laurent—the cold, calculating crown prince known for his sharp tongue and colder heart. But something about Y/N and her daughter cracks through the prince’s icy facade. Lucien has never been one to want a family, yet he finds himself drawn to the warmth Y/N radiates—the laughter she shares with Isabelle, the way she faces life’s hardships without flinching. For the first time, the crown prince, feared by many and admired by all, wants something more. What starts as curiosity spirals into obsession. Lucien doesn’t ask for things—he takes them. And now, he’s set his sights on Y/N and Isabelle, determined to claim them as his own, no matter the cost. But love born from power is a dangerous thing. Y/N must navigate the delicate balance between protecting her daughter, keeping her freedom, and surviving the suffocating luxury of palace walls. Because when a prince decides you belong to him… escape is never simple. How far would you go to protect the ones you love when the most powerful man in the kingdom refuses to let you go?

The crisp morning air hung heavy with the weight of duty and expectation. Outside the grand palace gates, reporters jostled for position, cameras flashing like restless fireflies. Royal appearances were rare, and when the crown prince himself was involved, the media swarmed like vultures scenting fresh prey.

Lucien Reinhardt stepped out of the towering marble archway, the sunlight catching on the gold trim of his tailored charcoal suit. He moved with the precision of a man who owned the ground beneath his feet—calculated, unyielding, and wholly uninterested in the spectacle before him. His face, carved from cold stone, betrayed nothing. No warmth. No irritation. Just a sculpted mask of aloof indifference.

Where his father, King Aldric, waved to the crowd with the practiced charm of a seasoned ruler, and his mother, Queen Victoria, smiled gracefully for the cameras, Lucien barely spared them a glance. The weight of the crown, though not yet upon his head, had long since shaped his demeanor into one of quiet, domineering authority.

“Lucien, at least pretend to be approachable,” murmured his younger sister, Adrielle, adjusting the lapel of her silk blazer as she stepped beside him. Her tone was light, teasing, but there was an edge of nervousness. No one truly relaxed around Lucien—not even family.

He didn’t respond. He never did when the conversation was trivial.

The sleek, obsidian-black car pulled up to the curb, polished to a mirror shine. The royal crest glinted on the hood, subtle yet unmistakable. A uniformed driver rushed to open the door, bowing his head respectfully. Lucien stepped forward without acknowledgment, his strides purposeful, each movement economical and restrained.

Inside the car, the air was hushed, thick with unspoken tension. King Aldric slid in beside him, adjusting his cufflinks with the slow, deliberate movements of a man who valued appearances above all else. Across from them, Queen Victoria and Adrielle exchanged glances.

“You could smile once in a while,” the queen ventured, her voice soft but pointed.

Lucien’s sharp, emerald-green eyes flicked toward her, unreadable. “Smiling doesn’t win wars. It breeds familiarity. Familiarity breeds complacency.”

His father chuckled dryly, though there was little humor in it. “Always the strategist. But today isn’t a battle, Lucien. It’s a charity event. Kissing babies, shaking hands—the usual charade.”

Lucien turned his gaze toward the tinted window, watching the city blur past. Even the bustling streets of the capital, with their vibrant storefronts and bustling crowds, seemed muted through his detached lens.

“A charade,” he echoed, voice devoid of inflection. “That’s exactly what it is.”

It wasn’t disdain, exactly, that colored his words. It was something colder. Lucien Reinhardt didn’t waste emotions on things he couldn’t control, and the theater of royalty was one of them. His focus remained where it had always been: securing power, eliminating threats, and ensuring nothing and no one could ever undermine the empire his family had built.

To the world, he was the perfect crown prince—distant, composed, and ruthlessly efficient. To those who dared to know him beyond the polished surface, he was something far more dangerous: a man who didn’t need warmth to command loyalty, only results.

As the car glided through the palace gates and toward the city center, Lucien folded his hands in his lap, thumb brushing the crest embroidered into his glove.

He was already calculating the day’s itinerary. Meetings. Photographs. Public appearances.

The bustling mall echoed with cheerful chatter, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods lingering in the air. It was an event carefully crafted for good publicity—royalty mingling with commoners under the guise of generosity. Bright banners hung from the railings, boasting the royal crest alongside slogans of unity and charity.

Lucien Reinhardt stood at the edge of it all, a silent storm amid a sea of smiles.

His father, King Aldric, moved through the crowd with the ease of a man born into power, shaking hands and flashing a politician's smile. His mother, Queen Victoria, laughed softly as she crouched down to accept a bouquet from a wide-eyed little girl, her golden crown catching the light. Even Adrielle, ever the perfect royal daughter, posed for selfies with teenagers who squealed as they pressed close.

Lucien, on the other hand, stood near the marble fountain in the center of the atrium, arms crossed over the immaculate cut of his charcoal-gray suit. His emerald gaze swept the scene without interest, calculating and cold.

"Sir," a frazzled event coordinator approached, nervously adjusting her headset. "The children’s charity booth would love a photo with you. It would mean a lot to them."

Lucien didn’t move. His expression didn’t flicker.

"No."

The woman blinked, clearly thrown off by the blunt refusal. "B-But it’s for the press, Your Highness. It would—"

"I said no." His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of absolute authority.

The coordinator stammered an apology before scurrying away, leaving Lucien in the company of his own disinterest. He wasn’t here for pleasantries. He was here because the crown demanded it, and the crown always demanded sacrifice—time, autonomy, humanity.

"Do try not to look like you're plotting a coup, brother," Adrielle teased as she strolled past, her designer heels clicking against the marble floor. She waved to a group of college students snapping photos. "At least pretend you enjoy being adored."

Lucien didn’t spare her a glance. "Adoration is fleeting. Power is not."

"Gods, you're insufferable," she muttered, rolling her eyes before rejoining the crowd.

The event dragged on. Speeches, handshakes, forced laughter. Lucien fulfilled only the bare minimum of his duties—standing silently during his father’s address, posing stiffly for official photographs, ignoring the hopeful eyes of children who didn’t understand that royalty was nothing more than polished chains.

His mind drifted elsewhere—to reports awaiting his review, to negotiations that actually mattered. The world beyond this glittering facade.

But then, a glimpse of something—someone—caught his eye near the far end of the atrium. A woman, balancing a toddler on her hip while juggling grocery bags, standing just outside the cordoned-off VIP area. She wasn’t watching the royal family like everyone else. She was too busy adjusting the strap of her worn purse and wiping a sticky hand off her shirt.

Ordinary. Unremarkable. Yet, for the first time that day, Lucien’s gaze lingered.

He couldn't explain why.

And, as quickly as the moment came, he dismissed it. Just another face in the crowd.

Turning away, Lucien adjusted his cufflinks and waited for the day to end, unaware that the very life he found so mundane would soon entangle itself irreversibly with his own.

Lucien exhaled slowly, the forced smiles and rehearsed conversations grating on his patience. He stood at the edge of the bustling event, perfectly poised and yet entirely detached. His family, ever the picture of regal warmth, continued to charm the crowd. The cameras loved them.

No one was paying attention to him.

Perfect.

With practiced ease, Lucien stepped back, slipping past the velvet ropes and into the quieter, less glamorous corridors of the mall. These were the arteries of the building, where staff bustled with carts of supplies and cleaning crews worked unnoticed.

His polished shoes echoed softly against the tiled floor, the sound swallowed by the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Here, away from prying eyes and expectations, Lucien found a sliver of peace.

He adjusted the cufflinks of his charcoal-gray suit, the crest of his family glinting in the dim light. His emerald gaze flickered over the rows of plain service doors and unremarkable signage. The world behind the scenes was stripped of pretense—functional, efficient, and refreshingly honest.

If only the rest of life could be so simple.

A janitor passed by, barely sparing him a glance. Lucien preferred it that way. Invisibility suited him far more than the hollow adoration of the public.

He turned a corner, pausing by a vending machine as his phone vibrated in his pocket. A message from Adrielle flashed across the screen:

"Where the hell did you go? Dad's looking for you. Stop brooding and smile for the cameras like a good prince."

Lucien scoffed, slipping the phone back into his pocket without replying. Let them look. Let them wonder. He didn’t owe them his presence.

As he moved farther down the corridor, the sounds of the event faded into a distant murmur. It was in moments like this, away from the weight of the crown, that Lucien could almost believe he was just a man. Not a prince. Not an heir. Just… himself.

But peace never lasted long.

A soft laugh echoed from around the corner, pulling his attention. It was light, unguarded—the kind of sound that didn’t belong in a place like this. Curious despite himself, Lucien rounded the bend and found the source.

A woman.

She was crouched down, balancing a toddler on her hip while fumbling with a reusable shopping bag that had clearly seen better days. The child, a little girl with dark curls and wide brown eyes, clutched a half-eaten cookie in one hand while the other tugged at her mother’s hair.

The woman muttered something under her breath, clearly exasperated but smiling nonetheless.

“Isabelle,” she sighed, adjusting the child on her hip. “If you get crumbs in my hair again, I’m selling you to the highest bidder.”

The toddler giggled, utterly unbothered by the empty threat.

Lucien froze.

There was nothing remarkable about them, not in the traditional sense. No designer clothes, no polished facade. Just a mother and child, navigating life with the kind of ease forged through routine struggle.

And yet, he found himself rooted to the spot, watching the scene unfold like it was something precious.

Lucien leaned against the cold concrete wall of the service corridor, half-hidden behind the arch leading back into the bustling heart of the mall. The polished marble floors reflected the overhead lights, and the hum of idle chatter drifted through the air.

He had no real reason to linger. His family was still caught up in the fanfare of the charity event, shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries, and smiling for the cameras. Lucien had long mastered the art of disappearing without notice—silent footsteps, a sharp turn, and he was gone.

Now, he stood in the quiet hallway between storefronts, watching.

Her.

The woman stood near the entrance of a small clothing boutique, balancing two shopping bags in one hand and a lukewarm coffee in the other. Her clothes were practical, worn but clean, the kind chosen by someone who had little room for luxury in her budget.

Y/N.

He didn’t know her name yet, but he’d heard one of her friends call out something that sounded like it.

Her daughter, a whirlwind of brown curls and boundless energy, darted between clothing racks with an infectious kind of joy. The little girl clutched a worn plush bunny in one hand, its fabric faded from too many hugs and washes.

Lucien’s gaze lingered on the woman’s face. There was a calmness to her, the kind of patience born from necessity rather than nature. She didn’t scold the child for running around, didn’t look irritated or rushed.

She simply waited.

One of her friends, a woman with a fussy toddler on her hip, chuckled. “Isabelle’s got energy for days.”

Y/N smiled, tired but warm. “She always does. I figure she’ll tire herself out eventually. It’s just a matter of waiting for her out.”

Waiting for her out.

Lucien tilted his head, intrigued by the quiet strength in her words. Most people—his family included—had no patience for waiting. Everything was rushed, scheduled, calculated. But this woman? She stood in the middle of a crowded mall, sipping cold coffee and watching her daughter spin in circles, as if she had all the time in the world.

Isabelle eventually slowed, cheeks flushed and breathing heavily. She toddled back toward her mother, who crouched down, brushing curls from the child’s face and handing her a water bottle.

“Thirsty now, huh?” Y/N teased gently.

The little girl nodded, sipping noisily.

Lucien’s eyes flicked between them, sharp and calculating. They weren’t remarkable by societal standards—no designer labels, no glittering jewelry, no signs of wealth. Just a mother and daughter, living life quietly and without pretense.

It was… grounding.

The kind of life he’d never known.

Y/N stood, waving off her friends as they drifted toward the food court. “We’ll catch up later. I promised this one we’d check out the sale racks.”

Lucien followed, steps silent as he trailed them from a distance. He didn’t know why he was so drawn to the scene. Curiosity? Fascination?

Possession?

Y/N flipped through the clearance section with practiced ease, fingers brushing over price tags as if mentally calculating which pieces would stretch her budget the furthest.

Nearby, Isabelle tugged at her mother’s sleeve, pointing excitedly at a rack of costume jewelry. Tiny, sparkling charms dangled from the display, each priced low enough for a child’s allowance.

Y/N chuckled. “We’ll see, Isa. Clothes first, remember?”

Lucien leaned against the edge of a column, half-hidden in shadow.

He could leave. Should leave.

But he didn’t.

He stayed, watching as Y/N found a lavender dress tucked between mismatched tops. She held it up, smiling faintly before glancing at the price tag. Her smile dimmed.

Too much, even at a discount.

Lucien’s jaw tightened.

He’d seen his mother drop more money on a single glass of champagne at last night’s gala. Yet here stood this woman, weighing the worth of a child’s dress against her next grocery run.

It wasn’t pity that rooted him in place.

It was something colder.

Sharper.

I could fix that.

The thought slid into his mind unbidden, smooth as silk and just as dangerous.

Y/N placed the dress back on the rack with a resigned sigh and turned her attention to more practical finds—plain shirts, sturdy jeans, nothing frivolous.

Isabelle didn’t seem to mind. She had already moved on to inspecting tiaras, giggling as she tried one on and admired herself in the mirror.

Lucien stayed there for a long while, unmoving.

Watching.

Waiting.

And when they finally left the store, arms full of carefully chosen bargains and cheap trinkets, Lucien followed—not close enough to be noticed, but near enough to keep them within his sights.

He didn’t know what he was planning.

But he knew one thing with certainty.

He wasn’t done watching them.

Lucien's footsteps were silent as he trailed behind the mother and daughter, weaving through the bustling crowd without drawing attention. Years of carefully cultivated discipline ensured that no one spared him a second glance. His family’s presence at the charity event had drawn enough focus to the main atrium of the mall—no one would expect the crown prince to slip away unnoticed.

And yet, here he was.

Y/N walked ahead, one hand clutching her shopping bags while the other kept a gentle hold on Isabelle's wrist, guiding her through the throng of shoppers. The little girl bounced with each step, practically skipping as she chattered about the sparkly tiara she’d admired.

“Maybe next time,” Y/N promised, voice soft and patient. “We’ve already got plenty today, Isa.”

Lucien’s gaze flicked down to the bags in her grasp—practical clothes, sturdy fabrics, and a small bag from the discount jewelry stand.

Nothing extravagant.

Nothing unnecessary.

Efficient. Responsible.

He shouldn’t have cared. Shouldn’t have been intrigued by the way she balanced indulgence and practicality so effortlessly.

And yet…

They reached the heart of the mall—an extravagant, multi-level playground built to entertain restless children while parents lingered nearby. Vibrant slides twisted around faux tree trunks, rope bridges connected platforms painted like canopies, and a soft, cushioned floor mimicked grassy terrain.

Isabelle squealed with delight and tugged at her mother’s hand.

“Go on,” Y/N laughed, letting her daughter go. “I’ll be right here.”

Lucien drifted to the shadows beneath the second-floor balcony, leaning against the cool glass railing. From here, he had a clear view of everything—the child scaling a plastic rock wall, the mother finding a spot near the coffee cart, and the clusters of other women exchanging quiet conversation.

The mothers gathered in loose circles, sipping overpriced lattes and sharing stories in the universal language of parenthood—sleep schedules, picky eaters, school gossip.

Y/N, however, didn’t isolate herself.

She approached the group with an easy smile, seamlessly slipping into the conversation without hesitation. One of the other women, balancing a fussy toddler on her hip, gestured toward Isabelle, who was now chasing another child across the padded floor.

“She’s got energy for days, huh?”

Y/N chuckled, brushing loose hair from her face. “Like a wind-up toy that never runs out. I keep thinking she’ll crash, but she just keeps going.”

Another mother sighed dramatically. “I’d kill for that energy. Meanwhile, mine starts whining the second we hit the parking lot.”

There was laughter—soft, tired, but genuine.

Lucien watched, arms folded across his chest, expression unreadable.

This was a world foreign to him. He’d seen mothers before, of course—at charity events, galas, carefully staged photo ops for magazines. Polished, perfect, children dressed like porcelain dolls and just as fragile.

But Y/N?

There was nothing curated about her. She stood there, coffee in hand, nodding along as another woman offered tips for getting grass stains out of jeans.

“White vinegar,” Y/N added when the conversation lulled. “Works better than half the expensive stuff, and it’s cheaper.”

The woman beside her nodded approvingly. “See, that’s what I need—practical advice. Not ‘buy this $20 stain remover’ nonsense.”

Lucien’s gaze drifted back to Isabelle, who was now sprawled at the top of a slide, chatting animatedly with another child. Carefree. Safe.

Because her mother made it safe.

That realization settled uncomfortably in his chest.

He shouldn’t care.

He shouldn’t find himself intrigued by the way Y/N stood with one eye always on her daughter, attention never fully leaving the playground no matter how engrossed she became in conversation.

And yet, as the minutes ticked by and the coffee cart emptied, Lucien remained in place. Watching.

Waiting.

Calculating.

Y/N didn’t notice him. She laughed with the other mothers, called out gentle warnings to Isabelle when the little girl climbed too high, and shifted her shopping bags from one hand to the other with practiced ease.

It was a simple scene. Ordinary.

But to Lucien, it was captivating.

Because it was real.

And real was something he’d never had.

Not truly.

His hand drifted to the sleek phone in his coat pocket, thumb brushing the power button. He could call the driver, return to the polished facade of royalty and duty waiting for him in the atrium.

Or he could stay.

And watch a little longer.

He chose the latter.

Lucien lingered in the shadows of the mall’s upper level, his sharp gaze fixed on the playground below. Children dashed between jungle gyms and foam obstacles, their laughter rising like a chorus above the bustling shoppers. But his focus never wavered from one child in particular—her child.

Isabelle.

She flitted through the play structure like a butterfly, light on her feet, brown hair bouncing with each hop. Every few moments, she’d glance toward her mother—Y/N—who stood near a coffee cart, chatting with other mothers. The sight of Y/N’s soft smile, her easy laughter, stirred something unfamiliar in Lucien’s chest.

He didn’t belong here, surrounded by noise and warmth. Yet, he couldn’t look away.

Then it happened.

Isabelle, spinning in a circle with a plastic tiara askew on her head, suddenly froze. Her eyes swept the area—and landed directly on him.

Lucien stiffened. He expected her to look past him, like most children did when confronted by someone with his cold, commanding presence.

But she didn’t.

Instead, her face lit up with a mischievous grin.

Before Lucien could step back into the crowd, Isabelle darted toward him, weaving through chatting adults and strollers with practiced ease.

“Hi!” she chirped, stopping right in front of him, tiara now completely sideways.

Lucien blinked. He hadn’t been caught off guard in years.

“Hello,” he replied, voice cool and measured.

Isabelle tilted her head, studying him like a puzzle. “Why are you just standing there?”

Lucien glanced past her. Y/N was still unaware, laughing with another woman, coffee cup in hand.

“I’m watching,” he said simply.

“Watching’s boring.” She wrinkled her nose. “Come play with us!”

He opened his mouth to decline, but Isabelle was already tugging his hand, far too determined for someone so small.

“We’re playing Princess Rescue! I’m the princess, duh,” she declared, flipping her tiara back into place. “But we need a villain. You can be the evil king!”

Lucien blinked, caught between amusement and disbelief. Him? The cold, calculating prince, playing make-believe?

“No,” he said flatly, trying to withdraw his hand.

Isabelle giggled, entirely unbothered. “But you look like an evil king! All serious and grumpy.”

From across the playground, other children noticed the interaction. A boy with a plastic sword ran up, eyes wide. “Yeah! He’d be perfect!”

Another girl, dressed in a sparkly tutu, nodded enthusiastically. “He can kidnap Princess Isabelle, and we’ll save her!”

Lucien exhaled slowly, realizing escape was no longer an option. The children had formed a semi-circle around him, their eyes shining with excitement.

“Fine,” he muttered, more to end the conversation than out of any real willingness.

“Yay!” Isabelle cheered, grabbing his hand again. “Okay, Evil King, you have to steal me away!”

Before Lucien could protest, she dramatically threw herself into his arms, like a damsel from a fairytale.

Lucien froze, unsure what to do with the tiny, giggling princess clinging to his coat.

“Run!” one of the children yelled. “Take her to your castle!”

Lucien sighed. He cast one last glance toward Y/N, who was blissfully unaware of the chaos unfolding.

And then, with the resigned grace of a man who’d lost control of the situation, he adjusted Isabelle in his arms and took a single, deliberate step back.

The children shrieked with laughter, already giving chase.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, Lucien—the cold, untouchable prince—found himself playing along.

An evil king, indeed.

“Wait… is that…?”

Y/N frowned and turned to look, her breath catching in her throat.

There, among the bright plastic slides and scattered foam blocks, stood Lucien.

The Lucien.

The man known for his cold demeanor, untouchable presence, and calculating gaze. The same man who could silence an entire room with a single glance.

And he was currently holding Isabelle in his arms, pretending to be some kind of evil king, judging by the dramatic scowl on his face.

The children shrieked in delight, brandishing foam swords and plastic wands as they chased him. Isabelle, tiara slightly askew, was giggling so hard she could barely catch her breath.

“Is that… Prince Lucien?” another mother, Clara, whispered, nearly dropping her coffee.

“No way,” Leah muttered, her jaw practically on the floor. “He looks like he’s… playing.”

Y/N blinked, unable to reconcile the image in front of her with the man she’d only ever seen in stern photographs and fleeting news clips. There was no coldness in his expression now—just reluctant amusement and an almost imperceptible softness as he carefully dodged foam projectiles.

“Mommy!” Isabelle called, waving excitedly as Lucien swung her around like a sack of potatoes. “The evil king kidnapped me!”

Lucien caught Y/N’s gaze for the briefest moment. His usual sharp eyes held something different—something warmer, more alive.

Y/N swallowed thickly.

“Well,” she muttered, voice tinged with disbelief, “I guess even evil kings have their soft spots.”

The other mothers exchanged stunned glances, but no one dared interrupt the surreal moment.

After all, how often did you see a man like Lucien willingly wear a foam crown and accept defeat at the hands of a tutu-wearing army?

The murmurs started almost immediately.

“I knew he had a soft spot,” Leah whispered, her eyes practically sparkling as she watched Lucien stumble back, hands raised in mock surrender as the tiny army of princesses and knights swarmed him.

Clara, still clutching her half-forgotten coffee, chuckled. “You don’t carry yourself like that without hiding a heart somewhere under all that cold exterior. It’s always the stoic ones who melt for kids.”

Another mother, arms crossed and smiling, added, “He’s surprisingly patient. Look at how he’s letting them ‘capture’ him.”

Y/N sipped her coffee quietly, eyes fixed on the scene. Isabelle sat proudly on Lucien’s shoulders, waving her foam sword like a banner. Lucien, for all his usual aloofness, stood perfectly still, allowing the little girl to declare victory while the other kids cheered around them.

The sight tugged at something deep in Y/N’s chest.

“Excuse me,” she murmured with a soft smile, stepping away from the group.

Y/N moved gracefully across the playground, weaving between the running children with practiced ease. The chatter of the other mothers faded behind her as she approached the scene of Lucien’s “defeat.”

“Alright, little conquerors,” she called out, her voice light but firm. “I think the evil king has learned his lesson. How about we let him go before he turns into a grumpy dragon?”

Lucien shot her a glance, sharp eyes softening the moment they met hers.

Isabelle gasped dramatically. “A dragon?”

Y/N nodded, crouching down to eye level with the kids. “Oh, yes. Evil kings turn into grumpy dragons if they stay captured for too long. And grumpy dragons don’t like sharing snacks.”

That did the trick.

One by one, the kids released their hold on Lucien, already chattering about their next game.

“Let’s play explorers!” one shouted.

“No, pirates!” another countered.

Lucien exhaled quietly, adjusting Isabelle on his hip as Y/N stood beside him.

“Saved by the queen herself,” he murmured, voice dry but amused.

Y/N glanced up at him, lips curling into a faint smile. “Well, someone had to rescue you from the tiny terrors.”

Lucien didn’t respond immediately. He just stood there, watching as Isabelle joined her friends in their new adventure, her laughter ringing through the air.

For a moment, the cold, brooding prince looked almost… content.

Lucien adjusted his cuffs, an almost sheepish look flickering across his otherwise composed face. "I didn’t think I’d spend my afternoon being dethroned by toddlers."

Y/N smirked, crossing her arms as she watched Isabelle rally her troops for their next grand quest. “Well, that’s what you get for standing too close to a playground. Rookie mistake.”

He arched a brow, the sharpness of his usual demeanor softened by the faint curve of his lips. “And you just let it happen?”

“I thought it was character-building,” she teased. “Besides, it’s not every day you see the Lucien practically begging for mercy from a five-year-old princess.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, something rare and almost boyish. “Mercy was never granted, in case you missed that detail.”

“I saw.” Y/N leaned in slightly, mock-serious. “You’re lucky I intervened. I’m pretty sure they were about to knight Isabelle and name her ruler of the mall.”

Lucien tilted his head, eyes narrowing in exaggerated consideration. “Better her than some of the leaders I’ve had to work with.”

The two stood there for a moment, caught in an unexpected pocket of peace amid the chaos of the bustling mall. Y/N found herself studying him—the way the harsh lines of his face softened when he wasn’t wearing the weight of his title, the way his shoulders relaxed just slightly in the presence of innocent laughter.

Before she could dwell on it, the crisp shuffle of polished shoes on tile broke the moment.

“Your Highness,” one of Lucien’s guards approached, looking equal parts apologetic and exasperated. “The car is ready. Your parents are waiting.”

Lucien’s jaw ticked, the easy warmth in his eyes cooling back into something more familiar—detached, aloof. He nodded once before glancing back at Y/N.

“Looks like my reign in the playground has officially ended.”

Y/N smiled, tilting her head toward Isabelle, who was now trying to convince her friends to build a “princess fortress” out of foam blocks. “I think the new queen will manage just fine without you.”

Lucien hesitated, something unreadable passing across his face. Then, with an almost reluctant step backward, he gave a slight nod.

“Until next time, then.”

Y/N, ever the survivor of chaotic playdates and endless errands, grinned. “Don’t get kidnapped by tiny rebels on your way out.”

The faintest chuckle escaped him as he turned, the guard falling into step beside him.

And just like that, the cold prince was gone, swallowed by duty once more.

Lucien slid into the sleek black car, the door closing with a soft thud that sealed him away from the noise of the bustling mall. The air inside was cool, sterile—just the way he usually liked it. His guards settled into the front, murmuring into their radios, confirming his departure.

But Lucien barely registered it.

He leaned back against the leather seat, hands resting loosely on his thighs, eyes half-lidded as the car pulled away from the curb. Yet, instead of turning his mind toward the usual mental checklist of meetings, policies, and diplomatic nonsense, his thoughts betrayed him.

“You’re lucky I intervened.”

Y/N’s teasing smile flickered in his mind, brighter and warmer than the sun filtering through the tinted windows. There was an ease to her presence, something entirely foreign to the carefully curated world he navigated. She’d stepped into the chaos of children like it was second nature, effortlessly redirecting their boundless energy, saving him from further humiliation without so much as a second thought.

And Isabelle—Princess Isabelle, self-proclaimed ruler of the playground. Her tiny hands tugging at his sleeve, her wide-eyed insistence that he play the role of the villain. How had he let that happen? Him. Lucien. The man is known for his ruthless efficiency and unshakable demeanor, pretending to cackle as he was “banished” by a band of toddlers.

He exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing at his reflection in the window.

“Sir?” One of the guards glanced back, clearly noticing the rare moment of distraction etched into Lucien’s otherwise impassive face.

“Nothing,” Lucien muttered, gaze flickering to the passing scenery. Yet, the city streets blurred as his mind betrayed him once more.

The way Y/N had crouched to Isabelle’s level, brushing a stray curl from her daughter’s forehead as they admired discounted jewelry together. The warmth in her laughter when another mother had joked about kids having more energy than world leaders.

Lucien’s fingers tapped absently against his knee. Effortless. Natural. He’d spent years surrounded by people trained to charm, to navigate social intricacies like it was a battlefield. Yet none of them held a candle to the quiet authenticity he’d witnessed that afternoon.

“Shall we head to the palace, Your Highness?” the driver asked, eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror.

Lucien hesitated.

“... Take the long route.”

The driver blinked but didn’t question it. The car veered slightly, merging onto a less direct path.

Lucien leaned his head back against the seat, eyes slipping shut. He could still hear the faint echoes of children’s laughter, the soft cadence of Y/N’s voice cutting through the noise.

For the first time in what felt like years, Lucien allowed himself to indulge in the memory. Just a little longer.

The car hummed softly as it sped along the winding road toward the palace, the city lights blurring into golden streaks against the evening sky. Lucien sat in silence, his posture rigid, hands clasped tightly together. Normally, the quiet drive would be a welcome reprieve—a chance to reset, refocus, and push aside distractions.

But not tonight.

His mind betrayed him, looping the same images over and over. Y/N’s patient smile as she crouched beside Isabelle, holding up a glittering tiara that was clearly made of cheap plastic but treated like it was a crown fit for royalty. The way her eyes softened when Isabelle twirled, the little girl’s laughter ringing like bells in the air.

Lucien exhaled sharply, frustrated with himself. What the hell is wrong with me?

Yet, the traitorous thought crept in, unbidden but relentless: What if that was his family?

He could almost see it—the cold, cavernous halls of the palace warmed by childish giggles. Isabelle ran down the grand staircase, arms outstretched, her tiny feet thudding against polished marble as she darted toward him. Y/N trailing behind, breathless but laughing, telling Isabelle to slow down before she tripped.

Would Y/N still smile at him like she had at the mall? Would she stand at his side during tedious diplomatic gatherings, her presence a quiet anchor amidst the meaningless chatter?

The thought twisted something deep in his chest. Lucien had always dismissed the idea of family as frivolous—an obligation for duty's sake, not something to desire.

But this… this wasn’t duty. It was longing.

“Your Highness?” the driver’s voice cut through the fog of his thoughts, pulling him back to reality. “We’ll arrive at the palace in ten minutes.”

Lucien grunted in acknowledgment, his gaze drifting to the city lights beyond the window. They flickered like stars—beautiful, distant, untouchable.

Just like her, he thought bitterly.

But the image remained, stubborn and vivid. Y/N curled up on the couch beside him, Isabelle asleep in her lap, the soft glow of a forgotten lamp illuminating the room. Peaceful. Domestic. Real.

Lucien closed his eyes, jaw tightening.

He’d never been one to chase fantasies. But this?

This felt dangerously close to something he needed.

The moment Lucien stepped out of the sleek black car, the entire palace seemed to still. The guards standing at attention faltered for just a second. The maids exchanging hushed whispers in the hallway fell silent. Even the ever-stoic butler, who had served the royal family for years, blinked in surprise.

Because Lucien wasn’t scowling.

In fact, there was a distinct lightness in his expression, his usual brooding aura noticeably softened. It wasn’t quite a smile—no, that would be too much—but the sharp edge of his usual cold demeanor had dulled, replaced by something dangerously close to contentment.

His best friend and most trusted guard, Elias, stepped forward, eyeing him warily. “Rough evening?” he asked, expecting the usual grumble about dull conversations and suffocating royal obligations.

Lucien merely hummed, shrugging off his coat with an unusual ease. “Not at all.”

Elias narrowed his eyes. “Did someone die?”

That earned him a sharp glance, but the usual bite behind it was absent. “No.”

“…Did you kill someone?”

Lucien exhaled, shaking his head as he handed his coat to a maid. “I simply had an unexpectedly tolerable day.”

That did nothing to reassure Elias. In fact, it only made his suspicion deepen. The Crown Prince did not have tolerable evenings—especially not at public events.

As Lucien strode through the grand halls, the palace staff cautiously peered from their stations, whispering amongst themselves. The murmurs reached his siblings, who had gathered in the lounge. His eldest sister, Celeste, arched a brow when she saw him pass by, wine glass in hand.

“Lucien,” she called out, stopping him. “You look…” She tilted her head, scrutinizing him like one would examine a rare specimen. “Uncharacteristically… pleasant.”

His younger brother, Adrian, leaned forward on the couch, grinning. “Oh, this is concerning. Did you finally find a hobby other than terrorizing foreign diplomats?”

Lucien shot him a flat look. “Hardly.”

Celeste exchanged a knowing glance with Adrian before smirking. “Ah. So it's someone, not something.”

Lucien didn’t answer, but the faint flicker of something in his gaze was all the confirmation they needed.

“Well, whoever they are,” Celeste mused, taking a sip of wine, “keep them around. It’s nice to see you not looking like you’re planning someone’s assassination for once.”

Lucien scoffed, turning away, but even as he walked off, their words lingered.

Keep them around.

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

Because Lucien already knew—he had no intention of letting Y/N slip away.

Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Latina Reader

Blurb: You were once the best female pilot at Top Gun. That was until a mission ended very badly. Now, 3 years later, you're somewhat healed and dating a man who takes advantage of your trauma. Now, you work at Hard Deck, the closest you could allow yourself to Top Gun, when your old friends come back... including a new guy you don't know; and to say he's intrigued by you is an understatement. But when your boyfriend decides to lay hands on you in front of him and your friends, all hell breaks loose.

Contents: Domestic Abuse, Swearing, bar fight, some fluff(??)

(Title pending! Let me know if you have suggestions!)

Word count: 3,160

I hope you all enjoy! I'll try to update it as much as I can.

Chapter 1

You never thought you would step foot in Hard Deck after everything that happened two years ago, never mind work there. It was oddly comforting and your therapist said it could help with the trauma you endured. So when Penny gave you a job as a bartender and server, you jumped at the opportunity. 

Anything to be close to something you once loved.

You’re in the middle of cleaning out the dirty dishes bin when you hear the creaking of someone walking into the bar. 

“We’re closed,” you say. “Come back at 8.”

“Oh, I’m not here for a drink,” a man’s voice says. “I’m here to see Penny. Is she in?”

You turn toward the voice to see a man in a leather jacket with multiple patches usually worn by naval aviators. His dark hair is perfectly styled and when he takes off a pair of aviator glasses, he exposes his hazel eyes. 

“You must be Pete,” you said with a smile. “She told me you’d be coming around. She’s in the her office if you wanna go back there.”

He nods and makes his way toward the back of the bar. He stops at the entrance before turning to face you with a soft smile. “I’m glad you’re back, Y/L/N.”

Startled, you ask, “How do you know my name?”

“I work at Top Gun. I’ve heard stories and seen your pictures all over the place.” Pete smiles before turning serious and adding, “I really am glad you’re back. Admiral Simpson told me a lot of great things when he was your instructor.”

You take a deep but shaky breath before nodding, lips pulled tight before you say, “Thank you.”

You eye his jacket to see his rank and frown. “Captain?”

“Yeah, Captain.” Pete nods. When your brow lifts, he adds, “It’s a long story.”

“I’ll look forward to hearing it,” you smile. 

“I have a new class starting up today, maybe you’ll see some of my guys,” he says. “You may see some familiar faces.”

And with that, Pete walks into Penny’s office, leaving you reeling and wondering who you’ll see later.

*   *   *

Later that night, Hard Deck is packed with Naval Aviators and civilians. It’s loud, chaotic, and joyful for the most part. People are playing pool, throwing darts, and having a great time getting drunk.

It reminds you of the good old days, back when you weren’t traumatized and living with an abusive man.

You’ve just finished putting a couple of beers in front of a group of civilians when you hear someone call your name. 

“Y/N!” 

You turn just in time to see Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw, smiling ear to ear with his signature mustache sitting on his top lip. 

“Rooster!” You exclaim. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

“Yeah, I’ve been assigned here for the next couple of months, some sort of mission. You know how that is,” he drawls, smiling to himself. He looks you up and down before saying, “You look good, y/n.”

You’re wearing a simple black, V-neck shirt with a pair of jeans and Converse. The compliment makes you smile and wave his comment off. “I’m sure you tell all the girls that.”

“Nope,” he smiles. “Just you.”

“So what’re you having, and how many?” you ask. 

“I’ll have seven of your lovely beers,” he chuckles. “You should come over to the pool tables, Phoenix would love to see you.”

“My girl is here?” You ask excitedly.

“Of course. I’ll send her over for the next round,” Rooster says, watching as you expertly open all six of the beers quickly. “What time are you off?”

You check your AppleWatch before saying, “In about two hours.”

“Come meet us over there when you’re off,” Rooster smiles, pointing at the pool table across the way. “And Y/N, I’m glad you’re back in some way. We’ve missed you.”

“Thanks, Roo. I guess I’ve missed you.”

You watch as he walks off, noting the people he approaches. Phoenix practically breaks her neck looking in your direction, Coyote, Fanboy, Payback, and Bob smile and wave; and there’s another guy there you don’t recognize. He has sandy blonde hair, tanned skin, and an award-winning smile. From the bar, you can see his green eyes sliding over your body, checking you out. You cross your arms over your chest and cock a brow in question. When he waves at you with a cocky grin, you have to fight a smile from forming on your face.

It was cute but you’re taken. 

Unfortunately.

You’ve been dating Nick Abernathy for the past year or two and while it was very fun and loving in the beginning, now you can’t stand to look him in the eye. 

Not after what happened the last time you were at Top Gun. And especially not after how he reacted and treated you everyday after.

Speaking of the devil, you hear your boyfriend, call out your name to the left. “Y/N!”

You turn to see Nick, the man you once loved so much, smiling down at you. He’s all blonde hair and dark brown eyes, broad shouldered, and muscules; a naval pilot. 

Your type. Again, unfortunately.

“What’s my favortie lady doing looking at those aviators?” he asks. To the untrained ear, it sounds like he’s being playful. But you know the truth, and you know you’ll hear–and feel–it later.

“Just some old buddies of mine,” you tell him.

“Right,” he says, eyes narrowing. He moves a hand, reaching out to grip your wrist. “I’ll be waiting to take you home after your shift.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you tell him, smiling sweetly to hide the growing dread in your chest. 

“What kind of a man would I be if I didn’t drive my girlfriend home?” Nick seethes, looking beyond you. “Besides, I don’t like the way those aviators are looking at you.”

You turn your head toward where you know Rooster and the rest of the aviator group watch the interaction. Their faces are all hard, ready to defend at your ‘okay’. You send them a small wave and reassuring smile before turning back to Nick who is now practically red in anger.

“They’re just friends,” You tell him, fear begins to prickle all over your body. “I met them when I was at Top Gun.”

Before Nick can say anything, Penny comes into view, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Hey, can you stay another couple of hours? Pete wants to take me out and I can’t close early tonight.”

Relief fills you immediately when you reply, “Yeah, I can stay until closing.”

“Good,” Penny smiles. Then, as if seeing Nick for the first time, says to him, “Don’t worry about picking her up. I saw her drive here.”

Nick’s jaw clentches before he smiles, drops your arm, and responds, “Oh, I must’ve gotten confused.”

He turns to you before saying, “I’ll see you at home.”

Penny stays by your side until Nick finally leaves before turning you to face her and saying, “Go clock out. I’ll take it from here.”

“I thought you were–”

“I told him that so he would leave you alone,” Penny states, rubbing your shoulder. “Go catch up with Rooster and the gang. Just stay until closing so I can follow you home.”

“Thanks, Penny.”

You turn to leave, smiling to yourself and looking at the ground, when you feel someone’s eyes on you again. You glance in the direction of where Rooster and the rest of them are to find the green-eyed aviator that was checking you out before, staring. 

Creep.

You clock out before grabbing a beer from Penny and making your way toward the group.

“Hey!” Phoenix exclaims at the sight of you walking closer. Then, pulling you into a bear hug, says, “Come here, Bullseye! I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, Nat.” You smile, smoothing her hair when she pulls away.

“Bullseye?” the green-eyed aviator asks, Texan accent drawling and sending shivers down your spine. 

“You’re looking at the most badass female aviator I’ve ever met,” Phoenix tells him. “The best at shooting too.”

“Is that why your call-sign is Bullseye?” he asks you. 

You square your shoulders before smirking and replying, “Yes.”

“I’ll spoil it for you,” Rooster laughs. “She’s terrible at darts.”

“First of all, I was drunk!” you exclaim with a laugh. “I would’ve gotten that bullseye if you hadn’t bumped into me!”

“Mhmm, blame the alcohol,” Rooster teases. 

“So, Y/N, who was that guy you were talking to?” Coyote asks. 

“Yeah, didn’t look like a good conversation,” Bob adds. 

“Um, my boyfriend, Nick,” you respond, feeling Green Eyes stare at you. “Soon-to-be ex.”

“Why soon-to-be?” Fanbooy asks.

“Just,” you trail off. “We fell apart.”

“Didn’t look that way from our angle,” Green Eyes mutters. 

“I’m sorry,” You say, turning toward him. “Who are you?”

Green Eyes grins before outstretching a hand and saying, “Jake Seresin, Hangman. You can choose what you call me.”

“Hangman?” you ask, quirking a brow. “Like the game?”

“The one and only,” he responds coyly. 

“You’re looking at the only naval aviator with one confirmed air-to-air kill,” Phoenix tells you. “He’s also a dickhead.”

“Oh, stop. You’re being too sweet,” Hangman grins. He turns toward the bar and frowns. “Isn’t that your soon-to-be ex?”

Your spine stiffens. You don’t have to turn to know that Nick is standing at the bar, eyeing you from one of the barstools. Your eyes widen when you see him throw back a shot of what you know is whiskey. He turns aggressive when he drinks so this should be fun.

“You okay there, Y/L/N?” Phoenix asks.

“I have to go,” You say, starting to walk toward him. However, you feel a hand on your arm and turn to see Rooster looking down at you, concern written all over his face. 

“You’re not going over there alone,” he tells you. Turning to the group, he tells them, “We’re with her, I don’t like the way he grabbed her the last time he was in here.”

The group give affirming nods, all except Hangman. 

“I’ve got this,” you tell Rooster. “He’s harmless.”

You knew it was a lie as soon as it left your lips and so did Rooster. His dark brown eyes narrow on you before he takes a swig of his beer and says, “We’ll be close by.”

You curtly nod before cracking your neck and handing Phoenix your beer. So much for relaxing. 

You make the short walk to where Nick sits at the bar, feeling Penny’s eyes half on you and on another customer. Behind, you can feel the gaze of your friends as they watch you stand before Nick. 

“What’re you doing?” You ask. 

“I was about to ask the same thing,” he says. “See, I called the Hard Deck line and they told me you had clocked out. But I remember Penny telling me that you were staying until closing.”

“Nick–”

“Don’t,” he orders. “We’re going home. Now.”

“I don’t think so,” You boldly announce.

You’re just as surprised as Nick by the looks of it, so when he aggressively grabs your jaw and brings you close, you lock up completely. 

“That wasn’t a request, Y/N,” Nick tells you darkly. His face is hard, you glance down at his hand by his hips and see that it’s clenched tightly. 

“Nick,” You start. “Let’s just go. Let’s not do this here.”

“Why not? You don't want your buddies to see how much of a cunt you are?” he spits. “Let them see what happens when you try to act like you’re single.” 

“You’re hurting me,” You softly say. Nick scoffs before frowning at something behind you. 

Not something, but a couple of somethings. 

“Let her go,” you hear Hangman say. His Texan charm all the way off and threatening.

“This has nothing of concern to you,” Nick spits.

“How about you let her go, and we won’t beat the shit out of you,” Phoenix says, her hand on your lower back in comfort.

Nick obeys, pushing you to the left and into the bar top harshly before taking a few steps toward Phoenix. You turn, watching as Phoenix stands her ground, not flinching when Nick tries too scare her by flinching forward. Rooster comes between the two of them, almost touching Nick’s nose with his own. The bar falls silent, all eyes on the interaction. 

“Roos,” You start. “It’s fine. I’ll go home with him.”

“No,” Rooster says to you, eyes glued on Nick. “You’re staying with Phoenix until he leaves your apartment.”

“Rooster, I can–”

“That wasn’t a request, Y/n,” he booms. To Nick, he says, “Here’s whats gonna happen. You’re gonna leave and start packing your shit. When she comes home tomorrow, and we’ll be there to confirm, you’ll be out of there and her life for god. Got it?”

Nick smiles before tapping Rooster’s chest, hard. “So you were the one she used to fuck when she was an aviator. Tell me, Rooster, do you think she’ll open her pretty legs for you again?”

Rooster only smiles back before turning to his left where Fanboy and Coyote stand near you. “Get Y/N to the pool tables.”

Before they can grab you, Nick reaches out and squeezes your wrist tight before pulling you close to him. “You’ll have to peel her off me.”

“Let her go, I’ve called the police to remove you,” Penny says from behind the bar. “Your Captain won’t be happy to receive a call from jail.”

Nick clenches his jaw before slowly letting your wrist go and pushing you an arms length away. Before you have time to run into Coyote’s arms, Nick’s fist is flying toward your face in slow motion. When it finally makes contact with your cheek, you stumble, falling into someone’s arms and being dragged back before all hell breaks loose. 

The bar is filled with shouting and the sound of glass shattering. And yet, all you can focus on is the way Rooster, Coyote, and Payback block Nick from rushing toward you. You’re so engrained on the commotion before you, you don’t hear when Hangman calls out your name.

Jake was a lot of things, but a hero was not on his roster. As soon as he saw Nick hit you, he went into full-on hero mode, pulling you into him and rushing you both to the pool tables. The look of shock paints your face as he watches you stare at the commotion before you. 

I’m in deep shit if she wants to go over there because I’m not letting her out of my arms.

“Hey,” Hangman soothes. “Y/N, was it?”

You snap your head toward him and he has to fight to keep from sucking in a breath. Up close, you were gorgeous, even with that shiner growing on your left eye. 

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” You say, realizing who you’re sitting on and then standing from his lap. “I have to get over there.”

Hangman knew you’d say that so he stands with you, and shakes his head. “No, I don’t think Rooster would like that very much.”

“Well, it’s a good thing Rooster isn’t here,” You tease before breaking for a sprint. Only, you don’t go far because Hangman has his arms around your waist in seconds. 

“You’re a slippery one aren’t you?” 

“I just want to get Nick out of here,” You whisper. 

Hangman searches your eyes, sensing every ounce of truth radiating from them. Matching you, he whispers, “Rooster’s got it handled.”

“Are you okay, Y/N?” You both hear Rooster say it but you don’t dare turn your heads toward him. Hangman’s eyes search yours again, wanting you to say something.

“I can take you to my apartment if you’d like,” Phoenix says to you. 

You finally turn away from Hangman’s intense gaze and push away lightly. “Yeah, I think that would be best.”

“Penny said to leave your car here by the way,” Bob says, looking between you and Hangman. 

“Sounds good,” you respond, turning to walk away with Natasha, arms linked. Before you both completely walk out of Hard Deck, you turn around to see Jake already staring with longing eyes. 

Something about it makes you shiver and pull Nat closer.

*   *   *

Jake watches as you turn back around and smile at something Phoenix said, wondering what it was that made you smile. He turns to Rooster, who’s givinghim the most sly grin he’d ever seen.

“You like, Y/N,” Rooster states. 

“You’re not wrong,” he admits. “She seems so familiar. Have I met her before this?”

“You’ve probably seen her picture all over Top Gun,” Coyote tells him. 

“Wait where?”

“Oh, you know, the main entrance,” Bob says. “Literally in the classrooms… do you not pay attention to the walls?”

“She’s been through a lot,” Fanboy mutters before taking a sip of his beer. 

“What do you mean by that?” Hangman asks. When he sees the others give warning looks, he adds, “What happened?”

Rooster sighs before taking a swig of his beer. “You remember that aviator that went missing a few years back?”

“The one they found half dead?” Jake asks. “Yeah?”

“That was Bullseye,” Bob quietly tells him. 

“She was–” Jake had to stop himself from speaking. Anger and sadness filled is chest at the thought of what may or may not have happened to you. 

“Yeah man,” Payback says, clapping Jake’s shoulder. “That anger you feel right now? That was us when we found out it was her.”

“She’s never told us what happened, not even Nat.” Rooster tells them. “It’s like she just shut that out. What we do know is that she never stepped foot on a tarmac ever again.”

“She couldn’t bear to sit in the box again either,” Coyote adds. “She had a full panic attack as soon as the glass went down. Rooster here had to carry her out.”

Rooster nods. “So whatever you’re thinking of doing with her, don’t.”

At that, Jake recoiled and frowned. “What makes you think I wanted to–”

“C’mon, Jake. I saw the way you look at her when she and Phoenix walked out,” Rooster drawls. “Y/N is the closest thing I have to a sister, so just please. If you do try to get with her, don’t. And if you manage to actually succeed, don’t push her. She’s strong but she can only take so much.”

Jake only nods. 

His mind is swirling with questions he’s too afraid to ask.

What happened to you that made you so terrified to be in the box? Why were you with that asshole if you had so much trauma? Was Nick just a coping mechanism of sorts? 

When was he going to see you again? And why does the though of seeing you again make his heart warm?

Hangman didn't know the answers, but he damn sure wanted to find out.

I can't have what I want (but neither can you) | Bob Reynolds

Bob Reynolds x F!Reader

Summary: You don't know how to explain the feeling when you see Bob and Yelena together. You don't understand it, and you don't like it. You think maybe you're not a people person, maybe you're better off being on your own. You take matters to solve this problem your own way, but everyone doesn't agree with your logic.

Stand-alone. One-shot.

"'Cause I know we be so complicated But we be so smitten, it's crazy I can't have what I want, but neither can you"

Warnings: 18+MINORS DNI. Minor spoilers for Thunderbolts! Smut (my first time writing smut deserves a warning itself tbh)

Not proof read/edited. Maybe later. Idk. I hate editing.

a/n: I am so obsessed with this man...I just couldn't not write a fic. He has been rotting my brain since I saw Thunderbolts and I don't see my obsession ending soon lmao....also my first time fully writing smut. I tried.

ao3 | masterlist

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

The sound of laughter echoes around the living space as both you and Bob are scrolling through the endless selection of movies, making fun of each-others movie preferences. The light from the city is reflecting through the window glass, it’s a beautiful night and the two of you wanted to spend it indoors while everyone else in the Tower tended to their own business.  

It’s one of those rare quiet and peaceful nights at the Towel. You decided why not take advantage of it, hauling Bob out of his room and inviting him to a movie night (a movie night that doesn’t involve unnecessary commentary or spoilers).

“We’ve gone through an entire collection of romcom’s…do you not watch anything else?” Bob teasess as he nudges your shoulder, a small grin spreading across his face. You roll your eyes, tossing the remote to his lap. 

“Okay, drama queen. You pick.” 

Bob chuckles, causing his knee to press lightly against yours. He’s warm – you notice with every light tough to the shoulder, whenever your bodies lightly brush against eachothers, he’s always warm. Being close to him is no different from wrapping your body with a freshly dried blanket. Months since the New York incident, your downtime has been spent with Bob. You found comfort in him, his quiet smile and haunted eyes enticing you. He was both gentle and strong, it was impressive. Bob was the only person who made this new life you’ve all been pushed into feel like a home. 

After what seemed like endless scrolling, Bob lands on Warm Bodies. “Zombie movie. I think this one’s a winner.” 

“God help us,” you groan. “This is still romance.”

“Sure, but it’s with zombies.” 

You hum in response, sinking your body further into the large couch and glance back at him. You offer him a shrug – accepting the film of the evening. 

The sound of the movie beginning echoes through the surround sound, and it’s all you're able to hear as the two of you focus on the screen in front of you. That is until the moment was interrupted by the elevator door’s ding. 

Heavy footsteps make their way towards the couch, not shying away from being the only loud thing in the room besides the TV. You turn your head as they approach, it’s Yelena. 

“Movie night?” she asks, a grin spread across her cheek. She’s in a grey sweatshirt, her blond hair is pulled back by a headband. 

You turn your head back, nodding in response. 

“Nice,” she makes her way to the other side of Bob, dropping her body next to his. “What are we watching?” 

“Something with zombies, y/n says they fall in love.” he replies, turning to her with a wide smile – his soft eyes gazing over at her, his half-laugh expression you try to believe is just for you. 

It’s uneasy, the feeling at the bottom of your stomach. It’s doing more flips than you do during a mission, your arms crossing quicker than you realize how you’re reacting. It’s completely illogical, there’s no reason for you to feel this bothered.

But you watch them, you see the way she nudges his arm, how he doesn’t pull back. With you, Bob seems almost hyper-aware of his proximity to you, but with Yelena, it’s almost as if physical boundaries don't exist. He is completely comfortable with her. You begin to watch him watching her, how his eyes follow her subtle movements, how captivated he stares at her as she laughs – confident and magnetic. Why did he never look at you like that? The thought sneaks its way to your head, you can feel your heart rate slowly begin to increase. Something is pulling tight in your chest.

You don’t understand it, but you sure as hell don’t like it. 

“I’m actually kind of tired,” you say quickly, standing up before you are able to finish your sentence. 

Bob diverts his attention towards you, “Already?”

You lower your head, nodding sheepishly. The walk to the elevator feels as if it’s a few miles away as opposed to a few feet, each step feeling as if you’re walking in slow motion. 

Behind you, you hear bodies shifting. 

“You sure?” Bob mildly shouts, his voice dripping in confusion. 

When you finally make it inside the elevator, you pretend not to hear him. The sound of your finger pressing the button rapidly becomes the loudest noise – the desperation to be anywhere but the common room being obvious. When the door finally closes, it’s quiet but your thoughts seem to be so loud. There’s a mix of emotions and ideas going through your head, but you're unsure how to make sense of any of it. 

As you push open your bedroom door – it feels heavier than usual. The shallow light of your lamp shining too bright, and your bed looking like the ultimate safe space. 

You’re not used to this feeling – it’s beyond foreign and it startles you. Not even the most dangerous mission can make your stomach churn the way it does when you see Bob watching Yelena. It’s been like this for weeks at this point, your breath becomes shallow when they share an inside joke together. Your heart races more than you’re used to when you see Yelena place her hand on his shoulders. There's a nauseating feeling that takes over when every moment with them, you feel like a third wheel to their friendship. They share a specific bond, and a friendship like there’s can’t be replicated. They’ve been through too much, know each other too well. 

It’s way more intimate than any kind of friendship you and Bob have. 

But you’ve known this. This isn’t new. Their friendship wasn’t some kind of secret, it’s been this way since you joined the New Avengers and it’s been this way since before you were recruited in.

But recently, you haven’t been fine. You try to convince yourself that you’ve been sick, but the feeling of unease only happens when you’re around them. 

You just don’t know why. 

You're settled in bed, it’s dark, and you want to be asleep. You’d do anything to be asleep. The weight of the blanket over you should be comforting, but it just makes you feel too aware. It’s fabric grazing over your skin, the rustle of the sheets whenever you shift in place. While your room is dark, the light from under the door can’t seem to escape your focus. The realization that the movie night you planned is now happening without you. 

You try telling yourself that this is ridiculous. Why did you leave? Exactly what was the problem? Bob and Yelena are close friends, but they’re also your friends. They’re your team and co-workers, you all live under the same roof now – so why was your brain doing this to you? 

A soft tap on your door pauses your thoughts, your name being softly said against the other side. 

Your breath gets caught in your throat, for a few seconds, you actually forget to breathe.

It’s Bob. 

He stops tapping your door before he says, “Can I come in?” 

You don’t respond, keeping your body still. You hope the lack of any sound, any proof that you’re awake would cause him to walk away. To leave you and your thoughts alone. 

“I’m coming in.” 

You make a small noise as you hear the door slowly creak open, quickly pulling the cover over your head. Your body is still as you hear footsteps slowly approach you. 

For a moment, you think of getting up. Explaining yourself and wanting to offer an apology, ending the movie night before it even really started. But you lay there, still and motionless, pretending to be asleep. 

It feels like there’s someone hovering over you, you hear the sound of shifting on the ground. You imagine Bob standing over you, fidgeting as he contemplates whether to wake you or let you rest. Luckily for you, he takes a step back, you hear his footsteps slowly begin to sound further away before he lightly shuts the door. 

A loud gast escapes you, from the breath you forgot you were holding. You kick your sheets off you, releasing the sticky hold it had on you due to your sweat.

You’re unsure what you got yourself into, or how you got there in the first place. You just want things to be as they were, you want to feel normal again.

You have got to do something about this. 

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

You don’t mean to avoid him – that wasn’t the plan. 

At least not at first.

You just needed some space, some perspective, some time to breathe and allow yourself to be level headed. 

It was just easier to be all of those things without Bob. And without thinking about how he looks at Yelena, and without wondering if he’s ever looked at you that way (and to you, that’s wishful thinking). But, who cares. They’re friends. You’re friends. You’re all friends, there’s nothing wrong with that. 

And yet, the ache lingers. The feeling you got before sneaks its way into your body whenever you share your space with them. 

It was subtle at first – you skipping out on team meals. You’re not in the common room often anymore, you prefer to spend your evening locked up in your room or training by yourself in the training room. 

And it’s peaceful. 

There’s no aching feeling in your chest, there’s no butterflies flying freeling in your stomach, there’s no feeling of uncertainty or disappointment. You tell yourself, maybe you’re off being alone. Perhaps, you’re not someone who functions well in teams, you’re probably just naturally a lone wolf. 

And no one questions it, you hardley figure anyone even notices the fact that you’ve lightly pulled away. 

Well, at least most of them.

You can’t help but see the quiet looks Bob sneaks at you during meetings. You try to ignore the way his smile lighty drops when you answer him too quickly, or when you look too eager to leave. He stopped trying to sit next to you or stopping by your room when he’s bored. 

It hurt more than you thought it would. 

While you realize that this was the plan, this was your intention, you wanted space and you got it. But it still hurts. 

These days, the only thing that helps is being in your room or the Tower’s gym.

You decide today is one of those days. The world outside was too loud, just like in your head. You needed something to focus on, something to ground your body and allow your mind to be still. 

The Tower gym offered it all – empty, nothing louder than the echo of a weight dropping to the ground. It was the kind of noise you needed, it was the release your body was begging for. This was the place where you could move your way through the internal noise. You could sweat it out. Punch those intense feelings away. 

The current victim of your frustration was the punching bag, each strike against it vibrates up your arms like lightning. You finally felt like yourself again, the feral rhythm of your fists, the feeling of your strength, how accurate all your hits were. It reminded you of how accurate and sure of yourself you always used to be. 

You feel your sweat drip down your chest. Your hoodie was tied around your waist, your sports bra sticking onto you like a second layer of skin. It was incredible – you didn’t want to stop. You didn’t want to think. 

You didn’t want to think of how you managed to fumble your forming friendships. Or about how even being forced into a team, you manage to isolate yourself from everyone. Not about how Bob looked at Yelena like she hung the stars herself. Not about how easy it is for him to welcome her into his embrace, or how unguarded he is around her. You didn’t want to think about how your chest had pulled so tightly at the sight, you felt like you could barely breathe. 

“Woah,” a voice called out from the entrance of the gym, loud and sharp enough to separate you from your focus. “I never want to be on your bad side.” 

You pause mid-swing, averting your gaze to the doorway. You find John Walker leaning against the frame, sleeves pushed up and his arms crossed. He lets out a light whistle, a half smirk spread across his face. 

You wipe off your forehead with the back of your wrist, becoming too aware of your apperance.

“If you annoy me enough, you might become the new bag.” You say, and gratifyingly, Walker lets out a rare laugh. 

“Mind if I join you?” He asks while stepping inside. 

You reply with a shrug, turning back towards the mats. “It’s a free gym.” 

He drops his bag and follows you, silently joining your workout. 

In no time, it led to the two of you on the sparring floor, bodies intertwined and slamming into each other. The first few minutes of the spar was silent, just heavy breathing and grunting surrounding the two of you. It was the kind of silence neither of you mind. 

“Who pissed you off?” and then, Walker spoke. 

You don’t reply, trying to force yourself out of his hold. 

“C’mon, y/n.” he hisses, nudging your knee with his, holding onto you. “Your going at it like this is personal.”

Twisting your body, you manage to escape his hold. You stumble in front of him, landing on your knees. You shoot him a glare, “This is how you make friends?” 

He flashes you a toothy grin, “I mean, it’s working. Isn’t it?” 

You roll your eyes, but a chuckle manages to escape your lips. Walker offers you his hand, helping you up from the ground. 

You stretch your body for a second, rolling your shoulders before responding back to him. “Let’s spar. Talking optional.” 

Walker takes a step back, raising his hands in the air as if he’s surrendering. “Optional? That’s a shame. You have such a nice voice.” 

You scoff at his antics as you stepp into stance. He follows suit, preparing for the first most. You begin to stab at him once, then twice, and he braces it well. His arms are strong and hands steady, not holding back. It wasn’t long before you started picking up the pace, the sound of shuffling feet and strikes drowned out any of the previous spiraling thoughts you had. 

Walker ducks one of your strikes and smirkes as you lightly stumble. “You sure you not training for a match with anyone specifically?” 

“If you keep talking, I might be.” 

His laugh is loud and smile is wide, “Feisty. I like it.”

You can’t help form a grin across your face, and before you know it, you let out a full body laugh. Breathless. Genuine. 

You dodge another playful jab and attempt to shove Walker backward. He managed to catch your wrist mid-shove, and twisted it softly. It messes with your momentum, causing you to stumble into his chest, letting out a quiet yelp. His hand settles at your waist, pulling your bodies closer together. 

“Woah,” he teased. “If you wanted to dance, all you had to do was ask.” 

“I’ll make sure to lead.” you winked at him, pushing him back playfully. 

“So you’re one of those.” 

The two of you laughed, and for a moment, it was nice. This was the first time in weeks you weren’t spending your free time alone. It was simple. Flirty. Harmless.

 It was fun. 

Until the door opened.

The sight makes your stomach drop for reasons unknown to you. 

It was Bob. 

He stood at the doorway, his broad shoulder tense, arms to his sides and fingers lightly fidgeting against one another. Even under the low gym light, he was golden. 

He stood there silently, not saying a word. His eyes were too busy locked on the scene in front of him. 

Your body is pressed against Walkers, his hand still hovering near your hip. Your cheeks are flushed, your in your sports bra, your smiling like before and laughing like Walker was God's gift to Earth. 

Bob’s face was unreadable. He was too still, too quiet. 

“Hey,” you managed to choke out, still a little out of breath. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” 

Bob didn’t look at you, his eyes still laying on Walker's hand on your body. “Didn’t realize I was interupting.”

Walker shifts, hands still on you. He doesn’t notice your body tensing up or your breath becoming staggered. “We’re just messing around. You want in?” 

Bob’s eyes flicked to you, and for a second, you think you see his brown eyes quickly shift to gold. You can’t put into words the emotion going on behind his eyes, but it isn’t just irritation. 

“No,” Bob says flatly. “I’m good.” 

With that, he turns his body and walks out. 

“Uh…” Walker finally releases you, helping you find your balance as your bodies seperate from each other. “Did I miss something?” 

You shook your head slowly, trying to prevent your body from freezing or your mind becoming a frenzy. The gym that was once your safe space is now added to one of the places you are going to have to avoid. There’s a weight in your chest that is settling like concrete the longer you stand there. 

“I’m gonna shower.” You say softly before leaving to your last sanctuary: your room. 

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

The halls of the Tower always manage to feel too long when you don’t want to be found. 

You try to take the short way to your room, quickly leaving the bathroom as soon as you finish your post-workout shower. You try to ignore the uncomfortable dampness of your hair, or the chill spreading through your body under your over-sized nightwear. The only thing you want more than anything is to be alone in your room. You want to shake off the unnerving weight pressing down on your ribs. You feel guilty without having a reason to be. You feel like you did something wrong. You tell yourself that you might just be flustered, Bob just happened to catch you off-guard in a compromising position. It could have been anyone, and you’d probably feel the same way. It didn’t mean anything. 

But then you remember his eyes. How he looked at you (even though he was trying not to). He didn’t just look irritated or disappointed. But something else. 

You managed to finally turn to the last corner – but then you were stopped short. 

He was there, leaning against the wall outside of your room. Your sanctuary. The place that was supposed to be safe. 

His arms are crossed, head down like he’d been waiting on your arrival for some time. His hair caught the soft glow of the overhead lights, casting warm shadows across his cheekbones. You can see his chest rise and fall at a steady pace, like he’s focusing on it. He looks so calm on the outside, but you knew him too well. 

His jaw was tight. His posture was tense. If you didn’t look close enough, you’d miss the slight frown forming from the corner of his lips. 

“Bob..” 

He looked up slowly at the sound of your voice. 

“Hey.” His voice was quiet, but not soft as it was once before. It wasn’t gentle or warm. It was just quiet. 

You shift awkwardly, looking down at the droplets falling to the ground from the ends of your hair. You’re determined to look anywhere but at him. “Did you need something?”

“I think we need to talk.”

You sigh, slowly nodding your head. You slowly go past him, still not looking up. You unlock the door, stepping inside as Bob follows behind you, then closes the door behind him.

The lamp was the only light on in your roon, an amber gold hue shining a dim light around the two of you. You stand near the bed, holding your damp towels awkwardly. Bob stayed close to the door, like he didn’t have permission to come closer. 

The silence seemed to stretch on forever, the two of you sneaking glances at each other, waiting for the other to speak first.

Then, Bob lets out a deep exhale. “Are you mad at me?”

The question hurt. Hitting you like a punch to the gut. 

“No..why would I be mad at you?”

“I don’t know,” he sighs, his voice slowly growing sharper in frustration. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“No I haven’t –”

“Yes, you have,” he interrupts. “You ditched me on movie night, which was your idea. You stopped hanging out in the lounge. You sprint out of a room when I walk in. And then today…” his voice trails off, his jaw twitching before he begins to speak again. “Today I saw you. I saw you all over Walker.” 

You swallowed, the feeling of guilt crawling over your body again. “We were just training.” 

Bob nodded slowly, finally looking you in the eyes as if he was looking for answers. “Right. Just training.” 

“Bob…”

“I’m not mad,” he said between breaths, trying to calm himself. His voice is quiet again. “I just..I don’t understand what I did. If I even did anything. Did I bother you or something?”

Your throat tightens. Your fingers fidget against the towel in your hands, finding comfort in squeezing something. “No. It’s not that.”

“Then what?” His voice cracks with something raw, something new. “Was I around you too much? Talk to you too often? Did I..make you uncomfortable? Whatever I did…I…I think you need to tell me.” 

“You didn’t,” You said quickly, trying to ease his mind. You toss the towels in a bean bag not too far from you. You slowly begin to take a step forward. “Bob, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why are you pulling away from me?”

Your mouth opens lightly, but nothing comes out. How can you explain a feeling you don’t understand? How could you explain what you’re going through without shattering the friendship you’ve built? How can you tell him I hate seeing you smile at her like that without sounding crazy? 

While being so deep in thought, you don’t notice how Bob was currently looking at you. Really looking. Like he was searching for answers from your face.

Your silence and worrisome look on your face broke something in him. It’s as if he was finally able to connect the dots that have been in front of him all along. 

“You’re…jealous?” He asks, both you and himself. “That’s what this is?”

You flinch – the word you’ve been avoiding like the plague finally making it to the surface. “I’m not–”

“You are,” he takes a step forward. “You’re jealous of…Yelena?”

Your heart pounds against your rib cage, your ears become hot and you feel your body tense. This isn’t what you wanted, this wasn’t a conversation you wanted to have. 

“Why?” He asked. “Why does it bother you?”

You shake your head. You don’t want to say anything, but it spills out against your will. “Because – because I see how you look at her. How you smile at her. How comfortable you are with her. And I know you care about her. And I know I shouldn’t care, it’s stupid and petty, but I do care. I hate that I care because it really doesn’t make sense and –” 

Your voice broke, eyes widening as you just realized what you’ve said. You press your hands to your face, hoping to disappear. This was all too overwhelming, the adrenaline rushing too fast to know what to do with it. 

“I didn’t..I dont want to feel this way,” you whisper through your fingers. 

Bob was quiet for a second. A part of you hopes he’s so repulsed, so turned off that he just walks away and avoids you the same way you’ve been avoiding him. 

“What way?” He asks softly. 

You dropped your hands, heart in your throat. Your voice is working before your brain is, your thoughts and feelings finally being exposed to both you and Bob. 

“I think I’m in love with you.” 

You said it, quickly and softly. They were barely there, if Bob wasn’t listening carefully, it could’ve been missed. But as quiet as you were, it rang like thunder against the windowstill. 

You see Bob staring at you, stunned and speechless. 

You begin to rush to fill the silence, coming to terms with what you just confessed. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did. I thought it would just go away. I wanted it to go away, or at least for it to stop hurting. But then today, I saw you and you saw me, and God – I'm just so sorry. I dont want to ruin anything –”

“Stop,” he said quietly. 

You froze, afraid and relieved. It was finally out there. You finally admit to yourself what you’ve been going through, and now he knows too. But you were afraid that you would lose him, and that him not knowing would have been better.

Bob takes two steps forward, slowly as if he is waiting for you to tell him to stop. He cups your face, thumbs brushing against your cheeks. His eyes were shining, warmed and in awe at the sight of you flushed in front of him. 

“You didn’t ruin anything.” He says.

Then he kissed you. 

It was slow, as if he’s been waiting to do this forever. Like he’s savoring this moment, wanting to remember how your mouth felt against his. 

You melt into him, hands clutching the front of his shirt, trying to pull him closer. 

Your lips part with a soft sigh, his forehead resting against yours.

“I’ve been in love with you for a long time.” He whispers against you. “I didn’t think you felt the same.” 

You let out a shaky left, still gripping to his shirt. Slight tears cling to your lashes. “We’re both idiots.” 

“Maybe,” he whispered while pecking your forehead. “But we’re idiots together.” 

You kiss him again – this time deeper, more certain, more hungry. His arms wrap around you fully, pulling your body close to his. This time he was less hesitant, less shy. 

Your hands tangle in his hair as he gently backs you towards your bed. There is no rush in the way he touches you, only devotion. It’s as if he was memorizing every breath, every sound coming out of your mouth, every shiver. 

The back of your knee hit the mattress, and he pauses. Slowly parting his lips from yours.  

“You okay?” He murmured against your lips. 

You nodded, breathless. “More than okay.” 

He gives you his soft smile that beams across his face, it makes your chest ache. Oh, how’ve you missed him. 

His hands are careful as they slide under your shirt, fingers brushing up your sides, tracing your skin with feather-light touches. Goosebumps bloom across his skin, finally being able to feel you. He slowly peeled the shirt over your head, slow and unrushed, his eyes never leaving yours. 

“You’re perfect.” he said, his voice low and awed. 

You begin to tug at his shirt in response, “So are you.”

He chuckled at your playfulness, letting you pull his shirt off. 

You take a quick look at him, the way his hidden muscles flex at every movement, the definition across his chest. You can't help but have your hand trace along his chest, adoring evey inch of him. 

You look up to see him looking at you as if you were the only thing in the world he could see. 

You slowly lean back on the bed and he follows, settling over you gently. He braces himself on his forearms as he kisses you – slower, lazier, like he never wanted to let the moment end. 

Your legs tangle beneath him, his hands trace lines down your arms and outside of your thigh. You let out a soft gasp as his lips travel to the edge of your jaw, then the side of your throat, and the line of your collarbone. 

“Tell me when to stop..” he whispers between kisses.

“I won’t” you whisper. “I want this..I want you.”

His breath hitches at your response, his grip around you tightening. His hand trails down your body, before finding your most sensitive area. At first contact, your hips shift lightly, causing Bob to press down slightly firmer. He circles you – slow and soft, the pleasure causing your head to tip back. Bob begins to place kisses ontop of your exposed throat, wet and firm, like he was trying to leave a mark – like he wants to prove to everyone that you belong to him. 

His circles catch up to your moans. Every gasp and whisper results in him pressing harder, circling faster. 

“You’re doing so good,” he whispers into your ear. “You sound so perfect.” Your back arches at his soft praises, there’s a heat building up between your legs. He has you wrecked and he hasn’t even entered you yet, you’re a whimpering mess who is struggling to ask for more. 

Bob places a kiss back to your mouth, it’s sloppy and desperate. He’s moaning into you, your reaction to his touch is making him insane. It’s not enough – he wants you a wreck, he wants you to beg and plead, he wants you to want him the same way he’s been wanting you. 

His fingers dip lower, and he feels you. Soaked, warm, you're throbbing at his touch. It takes everything in him to not choke at the sensation, he focuses on your whimpering to keep him at ease. You arch deep into his fingers, thrusting into him for friction. 

“Oh my g-god…” you manage to breathe out. Bob hisses as your nails dig into his back, his fingers following the rhythm of your hips. Your moans slowly begin to get louder, your pace on his fingers increasing. 

“You can cum for me,” Bob whispers into your ear, as if he’s giving you permission to release. 

And you do, whimpering his name, your hips dropping to the mattress. He is still slowly pumping in and out of you, still pleasuring you as you come down from your high. 

You let out a disappointed sigh when his fingers leave you, but you’re quickly surprised when you see him put his fingers in his mouth – tasting you. He moans as he savours the taste of you, of what he’s done to you. 

He lowers his head, placing a soft kiss on your lips. You tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him close, slowly separating your thighs, thrusting up against him. You feel him, he’s hard and his tip is brushing up against you. 

“I want you…” you whisper against him.

“God…you drive me crazy.” he whimpers out.

After trailing soft kisses around you, he slowly begins to ease into you. The world around you shrunk – the only thing existing is breath, skin, and heat. 

It started off slow and tender, his movements careful as if this could end any moment. He begins to murmur your name like a prayer, rocking into you with patient rhythem. He was paying attention to every reaction you had, making sure to keep note of everything he did that felt good to you. 

“I’ve got you” he whispers into you, your moaning against him as his hands grip at your hips, pushing himself deeper inside you. He groans as he feels you gripping him, your slick causing the sound of your skins slapping to echo around the room. 

“You feel so good around me…you feel so good,” his cheeks are flushed. His thrusts begin to stutter, no longer feeling controlled like before. Bob is allowing himself to lose himself into you, gripping you harder and kisses sloppier. “I’m – oh, I-’m –”

You kiss his jaw, rocking your hips in return. The feeling of your clit rubbing against him and his fullness thrusting overwhelming you, causing your second orgasm to approach.  

“Me too…keep going…gonna cum for you,” you manage out, before you whine out multiple “fuck’s” as you cum around him. Feeling you finish while he was inside you was all it took for Bob to cum with a broken gasp, releasing all of him inside of you. He continues to pump into you slowly after you both cum, kissing you through the shuddering aftershocks. 

He gets off of you, plopping himself besides you. You curl into his arms, your bodies warm and hearts full. He presses a kiss at the top of your forehead, caressing your shoulder with the hand that's to your side. 

“I never want you to ignore me like that again, I won’t let you.” He confesses.

You hold onto him tighter, apologetically. “I won’t. I promise.”

And for the first time, the ache in your chest was gone. The endless months of doubts and feelings of uncertainty no longer existed. 

The only thing left was Bob, and finally feeling like you belong.