Top Gun: Maverick X Reader - Blog Posts

Look Me in the Eyes (Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: During naval training, your jet crashed and burned, taking your memories with it. But the lieutenant who saved you seems to know you better than he lets on. The only issue is that he refuses to tell you his name.

A/N: pfft half yall don’t read this anyway so imma just say rooster’s hot, oreosmama out *drops mic*

Word count: 3345

It’s not the pervading scent of antiseptic and boredom that has carved its way into your skin, nestling deep into the creases of your brow and your sneering upper lip—

It’s his unflinching gaze.

The lieutenant hovering over you, with a spoonful of green, gelatinous “dinner” posed over your lips, mumbles, “Open the hatch, the F-18 needs to land.” 

He’s a staunchly built man ornamented in the same naval jacket he’d been wearing when you first came-to in the hospital room, his lofty shoulders embellished in unfamiliar patches. Over the last two days, most of which have consisted of him lording himself over you or sitting back in the chair beside your bed, his five o’clock shadow has thickened, and the wrinkles underneath his teasing eyes darkened a shade.

The F-18 bumps against your sneer, and he chortles to himself. 

You know why you’re here. 

Well, sort of.

You know that it must’ve hurt. Like a falling-unconscious-due-to-pain kind of hurt. Black and blue splotches paint your temple and upper left cheek, and each time you force a smile, it aches. The rest of your body looks the same. In the first shower you’d been allowed, you twisted and turned as much as your burning abdomen could handle and had come to the conclusion that you were glad you didn’t remember much of what had happened.

The only real issue was that you didn’t remember much of anything. 

The story you had been told was haphazardly crafted, not unlike if a toddler had drawn a house with crayons and passed it to you, insisting it looked exactly like the one you lived in. 

It goes something like this: you were flying your jet when the engine stalled, and when you ejected, your head smacked against the windshield. You were lucky—you were unconscious when you had crumpled in on yourself, snapping five of your ribs like pencils, and when you’d landed on the ground, face in the dirt—you were so, so lucky. 

But the lieutenant says differently. 

When he found you, you were awake. You were echoing his name into the stagnant desert air, screaming and sobbing in ways that still keep him up at night. 

You know because he sleeps with folded arms on the edge of your mattress, and he rattles the metal skeleton each time he flinches. And the times when he thinks you’re too buried in exhaustion and slumber, his hand finds yours, fingertips light as air against your skin.

These are the only times the lieutenant bares that part of himself to you. 

In the mornings, when you can look him in the eyes and see the guilt buried underneath, he winces a smile onto his lips and asks if you remember anything yet. 

You don't.

And he winces again. “Back to the drawing board, huh?”

The lieutenant is a nice-enough man when he wants to be. The only issue is that he doesn’t seem to want to be. 

“Tell me your name,” you snipe, dangling over the precipice of flinging Jell-O across the room. 

This is a game he never wants to play, despite how often he wins. He has the whole naval base’s hospital staff refer to him as Sir or Lieutenant-no-last-name, and each time you ask, he’ll give you the same response.

“You know my name.” 

You don't. He’s a complete stranger. He can hold you hand and feed you Jell-O and help you hobble to the bathroom; he can brush the hair from your sweat-crusted face in the mornings and, on some rare occasions where he thinks he’s woken up before you, he’ll graze a feather-soft kiss on your bruised temple.

And you still haven't got a clue. 

Because whoever the lieutenant is, the tight grip he has on your heart is completely foreign to you. It’s a grip that says you and him aren’t just something definable—you were a we in this life; the pair of you have formed a way of living in tandem, your own intrinsic tango to which nobody else knows the steps. It’s not just like or a passing fancy. It’s not just hot static running through veins. 

This is fully fledged; this is oxygen now. The rise and fall of your chest is the rise and fall of his. The absence of it must be suffocating. 

So you don't know why he doesn’t like this game. He makes a question-answer into a back-and-forth, and then he winds and winds you up until you’re ready to snap. 

It’s not fair. God, it’s not fair. You deserve to know his name. Doesn’t he know it’s not just a tickle in the back of your mind anymore? If he was the one whose name you were screaming, didn’t you deserve to know what it was?

“Why do you keep doing this?” 

You watch his lips purse, the color bleeding out of them and into pink patches on his neck and cheeks. The spoon rattles against the tray, and the glob of green wavers in its curve. He refuses to hold your gaze like always. Self-inflicted torment disguises itself as burnt-sienna irises. The life you’ve forgotten is bowing his shoulders, and your crash, no matter the fact that he saved you, is eating away at him. 

Then the lieutenant smiles, in the fractured way—the way someone might laugh at a funeral. 

“Because knowing my name wouldn’t help you. You never called me by it, anyway.”

This, oh God—this is the closest you’ve ever gotten, and you’re still wading in the darkness. A name you’d never even call him by, what a wonder that does to your psyche. 

A name was a start; it was a first impression. There was a lot in a name. 

So you’d never called him by his name… so what?

So what, only lovers knew each other by more than a name? So what, he never called you by yours? So what, you didn’t want to ever call him by his name, never felt the urge, but felt it was rather proper considering you didn’t know what to call him at all?

He keeps you doggy-paddling for it.

The hospital room is polluted with silence for the rest of the night. Slowly, you finish the Jell-O as he sits back in his chair, watching, yet not quite seeing you. You missed when his staring felt like a buzzing fly. Now it’s a thunderstorm hanging over you, foggy and dampened, and you’re struck every few seconds with a shiver. 

He doesn’t reach out for your hand when you pretend you’ve fallen asleep. Twenty minutes past lights out, he stands and heads into the bathroom, slowly creaking the door closed and locking it before the shower faucet turns on and stays on for a long, long time. 

Where his hand should be is where he laid his jacket, one sewn patch erroneously rough against your palm. With another glance at the light underneath the bathroom door, you haul the leather jacket up into your lap, tracing the ridges and folds. You trails your fingertips along the jacket, searching for… something. Anything. 

Cold metal, a zipper slips underneath your fingers, and you sit up straighter despite the outcry of pain in your ribs. 

A pocket, and inside is a small plastic card—his ID. 

That, and a small, velvet box. 

No…

No, you won’t open it. 

No, no, because he shouldn’t even have that here. 

Why—dear God—why did he have that here?

It’s not for you. That’s for sure. You don’t even want to open it. No.

It’s not yours. It’s not yours to have, especially since he hasn’t offered it to you, and it’s not yours to wear, and it’s not yours to look at, to watch, iridescent, crystal devotion reflecting the moonlight from the room’s lone window. 

But when you lift the cover and curse the stars that the man whose name you don’t even know knows you so well, knows how beautiful it is in your eyes, and even worse, how well it fits on your finger, you know it’s yours. 

Well, not yours. 

It’s hers. The one before the crash’s. 

That’s her ring on your finger, and that’s her lieutenant grieving in the bathroom. 

This is her life, not yours. All you own anymore is the absence pulsing in your chest. 

You own the spasms in your veins, the brief and lasting panic of who am I, really?, the deficiency of life and past and love; the frail hold on this reality, on that man, on this ring. 

The rest is not yours, so you should let it go. 

Then, ideally, you should be able to float away, free from these junctions to a girl you don’t know. The man who loves her loves your face. He loves your body, and your voice, and each of the words falling from your lips, perhaps in the wrong order, yes, but he’ll rearrange them in his mind so that it matches hers.

Ideally. 

Ideally, it’s not this drowning feeling, a weight like a hand pressing hard against your chest, shoving you deeper and deeper under the current. She’s the one who breathes, not you. You don’t need to breathe. You’re an accident in this world. 

The I.D. slips from your grasp and falls to the floor. 

You’ve read it. You saw the name, the rank, the naval symbol. In the dim moonlight and the single glowing strip underneath the bathroom door, his not-really-a-smile smiles up at you from the vinyl floor. 

And now you see it, chrome duct tape peeling off the jagged stitches of a patch, the one over his heart. Another of his games: his missing call sign. 

It… fits him. Strangely enough. 

Is this what you called him?

The hospital room floods with a subdued yellow light carried out by the steam of the lieutenant’s shower. He emerges with a towel wrapped around his lower body, a sheen of wet on his cheeks you’re not certain was caused by the shower. 

Like you, this is his third shower in this room, but unlike him, he’s not wearing a smirk when he exits, bare feet padding along the cold tiles. He doesn’t spare you a glance while he pilfers through his black duffle bag, the one seated on the only other guest chair in the room—the one that never moves. 

Maybe it was a good thing he didn’t look, because you hadn’t thought to take off the ring. It was a plan as half-baked as when you’d first decided to put it on. Some barbaric, frenzied part of you, the same one that had slipped it on and hugged it close to your heart, refused to yank it off. It was another you—not her nor you, but a new one that had fallen in love with him, Rooster, without memory or qualms, the one that had no issue with him lingering in every corner of your mind; no, in fact, she preferred it.

You don’t listen to her when the lieutenant pivots back to face you, a fresh pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and the rest sourced from the duffel bag in tow, one fist curled into his towel at his waist. His eyes land on yours, and your fingers slicken with the sweat of your palms, tremble like the thumps beneath your ribcage. 

At the worst moment possible, you notice, in the hazy yellow light of 10:07 PM, that Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw’s eyes are achingly akin to whiskey. It’s the dark, thick kind that coats your tongue and hits you five seconds after you sip it like a freight train; heady, terribly intoxicating, and in large doses, coaxes out the worst side of yourself at an even worse moment. 

The ring clinks against the bed’s metal framework before shuddering against the tile floor, and his eyes leave yours to watch it rattle. The skin of your left ring finger burns from the swift twisting and tugging you’d employed in a state of tipsy panic—your plan had been to slip the ring unnoticed beneath his leather jacket, the same place you’d stuffed the velvet box. 

A breath tears itself out of the lieutenant’s chest. Tan skin rises and falls once, and his grip goes white-knuckle on his towel. 

Then he pads back toward the bathroom without a word and disappears behind the slammed door. Somehow, in some terrible way, it is even harder to breathe with him not in the room after that. 

But he bursts through the door a second later, completely negligent of the violent pacing of your heart, donned in clothes wrinkled and stretched in odd places from frantic dressing. He covers the distance with three long strides and slackens back into the plastic hospital chair, the heavy creases under his eyes never having looked so deep-seated. 

You see it now. The damage this whole experience has done to him. He’s been hollowed out, rigorously gutted to the point that one last revelation might finally crack him in half and let the despair pour out. 

You’re afraid to tell him all that you don’t know. That even though you had slid that ring on and off your finger, you still don’t know him. But, God, you want to tell him that you love him, despite knowing it won’t be enough. It’s not even enough to you, and it’s all that you have. 

Usually, he wears this sheen layer of tenderness over his face; it slips off every night when you close your eyes, and he smooths it back on in the mornings in the mirror. Some days he layers it on so thick you never even notice the grief hidden underneath. 

It must have gotten too heavy to bear. 

The silence hangs just as heavy. He runs both hands down his face, pressing hard enough that his skin emerges pink, and folds his hands, knocking them against his lips. Veins in his eyes grow redder by the second, and your heart begins a slow crawl up your throat at the watery levels of his eyelines, waiting to spill. The ring sits on the floor untouched. 

“Do you,” he faltered, clearing his throat. “Do you… remember anything?”

He’s looking at you so intensely that your skin is searing. Shame washes over you, grasping your shoulders and burying you deeply into its chest. You want to cry. 

“Nothing.”

The lieutenant stares at you a second longer, stretching it out until you’re trembling. Then he looks away, down, before reaching and retrieving the ring from the ground. He observes it for just a second, the way it glimmers in night’s imperfect lighting, and his eyes squeeze shut.

Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw, you’ve learned, will draw things out until the perfect moment has come. He will wait until the ache swells and culminates, with a tolerance so inexhaustible you wonder if, in all your time loving him, you ever bothered to wait up. He’s noticed how the darkness has swallowed both of you wholly, and only now does he offer reprieve. 

Bradley tells you your name.

And he tells you that he’s been in love with you since the first second he saw you. 

He tells you that he can’t bear the thought of losing all that you’d had, and that his world had been crumbling apart before his own goddamned eyes ever since your jet’s engine had sputtered and died. He tells you that he’s so, so fucking sorry he couldn’t save you, sorry that your life ever got entangled so messily with his in the first place, and even more sorry that he’s so useless to help you find your way back, that you can’t seem to find your way back to him. 

And when you began to cry, he bolted up from his seat and held you, whispering apologies into your hair, and you cried a little harder, because you had found your way back to him, but he wouldn’t ever care, because it wasn’t the same path you’d taken before. 

You cry because it hurts to hold him, and even more because it hurts him to hold you. You want all of the I-love-yous he’s ever said to be for you, and you want that damned ring too. 

You want that goddamn ring on your finger right now because he’d promised you that it would be yours. That first moment he’d ever seen you, stumbling drunk in a crowded Hard Deck and spilling his beer half on his Hawaiian shirt, half on yours, that he’d make up for it by putting a spendy ring on your little finger right there, despite not actually knowing where right there was. The only one I’ll ever buy, he’d hiccuped, it’ll be yours, darlin’. 

“Rooster,” you croaked into his chest. “Roo.”

A provoked sob tore from your throat, your arms and ribs aching from how tightly you clung to him, even after he froze. You surfaced from the curve of his shoulder, hands sliding past his sides, over his thrumming chest, and up to cradle his damp jawline before drawing his face down to yours. He mumbled your name, whiskey eyes potent as ever, and you smothered the rest of his question against your lips. 

You couldn’t tell who was crying anymore. Your cheeks’ dampness was his, just the same as his lips pressed against yours so harshly, so numbingly you couldn’t quite tell where yours ended and his began. It must have been somewhere close to where his tongue met yours, making up for lost time as he fought hard and fiercely for everything he’d been starved of for three, going on four, unbearable days. His hands left their leverage against the bed and latched onto your hips, rough fingertips familiarly caressing the soft slopes of your sides, and when you offered an airy moan to him, he accepted eagerly with a tightening grip. 

You separated from him with a small cry, ribs twinging. Bradley pulled away in horror, and his dilated pupils struggled to sober up to join. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, larger hands now grappling at yours and trying to remove your grasp. “You need—ice, I’ll go get you some ice–”

“Roo, no,” you mumbled, refusing to let go of him. 

He paused, and his body shivered under your touch. The familiarity of his name from your mouth seemed as comforting to him as it was to you. His lips twitched and curled, and he breathed a small sigh. The hard lines of his face grew tender as he slid his hands down to your wrists, turning and pressing a kiss to each palm. 

His heart jumped and throbbed against your fingertips, and you had no doubt he could feel the same from yours. The heat of his damp cheeks had grown infinitely warmer under your touch, and for all the nights you’d spent with just a grasp on his hand, the change was more and more welcome. 

“Don’t leave me again,” he pleaded against the skin of your palm, voice thick and bittersweet, like honey seeping through your ears. “I don’t think I can handle that again.”

He steeled himself against your mattress with one hand when you tugged his forehead down against yours, lips just whispering against one another. You smiled. 

“Was it all the Jell-O that did you in, or…?”

“Yeah, actually,” he nodded, tongue pressed against his cheek. “It was. I hope you know we’re never having Jell-O in our house ever again.”

“Not even lime?”

“Especially lime.”

You huffed, “Fine.” You pulled away, despite how desperate Bradley was to follow you. He let you fall back against the pillows with your hand still in his grasp, and he settled onto the edge of the mattress, letting his spare hand find home in the pliant skin of your thigh. Your eyes rose to the ceiling. “But it’ll cost you.”

Soft lips brushed the back of your left hand before cold metal slipped around your finger. “One of these?”

“Exactly.”

Bradley hummed. “Gladly.”

Oreosmama’s Masterlist

AVATAR: THE LAST AIRBENDER/LEGEND OF KORRA

CALL OF DUTY

HAIKYUU!!

MY HERO ACADEMIA

ONE PUNCH MAN

STAR WARS

STRANGER THINGS

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Other Fandoms:

Chaos Walking:

🟣Headcanons🟣

When He’s Sad (Todd Hewitt) 🌦️

Criminal Minds:

Spencer Reid: 

■  Envy on Leave 🌦️

After failing his field test, Spencer is stuck on desk duty for a week. You, his usual partner for cases, get put with Morgan for the newest case, and Spencer can’t say he’s a fan. Oh no, he’s not a fan at all. 

Jujutsu Kaisen: 

Gojo Satoru:

■  Ten to None (Soulmate AU)🌦️

Soulmates’ markings add up to ten so soulmates know just how much of a danger their soulmate is to them. You have a ten on your wrist, so you know your soulmate must have a zero. There’s just one problem: no one in history has ever been worthy of a danger rating of ten, so who the hell is the supposedly “invincible god” were you fated to? 

Peaky Blinders:

Michael Gray: 

■  Gray Chains (Yandere) 🖤☀️ 

Michael needs to see you. It’s been three days after being shot by Luca Changretta’s men, and he knows you need to see him too–especially since you’re chained up against his headboard for trying to escape from him too many times. 

■  Lost and Found (Yandere/Sequel to “Gray Chains”) 🖤🌦️ (🔔?)

Michael is weak and desperate for you after being bedridden with his gunshot wounds in the hospital, but after weeks of caring for him, you know your feelings for your former kidnapper have grown into something you don’t dare confess. One night, when you almost let your feelings slip, you decide to flee. Michael won’t let you go so easily.

Queen’s Gambit:

Benny Watts: 

■  April Showers ☀️

All dolled up and ready to confess, you await a certain chess champion’s visit as a thunderstorm rages outside. But the longer your phone call stretches on, the closer you realize he may be to feeling the same about you.

Seven Deadly Sins:

Ban:

■  More Than a Name (Soulmate AU) ☀️

While escaping from the Holy Knights who are chasing after not her, but the name on her wrist, YN runs into the last person she expected to see so soon: Ban, her soulmate. 

Top Gun: Maverick

Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw:

■  Look Me in the Eyes 🌦️

During naval training, your jet crashed and burned, taking your memories with it. But the lieutenant who saved you seems to know you better than he lets on. The only issue is that he refuses to tell you his name.

Top Gun Fic Rec Masterlist

Masterlists

F&F Universe @clints-lucky-arrow

Masterlist @shouldershimmycity

Masterlist @youlightmeupfinn

Masterlist @callsign-phoenix

Masterlist @phantomtgm

Masterlist @topguncortez

Masterlist @roosterforme

Masterlist @pmitchell

Dagger Squad

Valentine’s Day @auroradawnwrites

Jake “Hangman” Seresin

you found me @augustinescruelsummer

thumbs up @lorecraft

secret sweetheart @theundercoversquid

Girl!dad Jake @kryptonitejelly

I.R.I.S @ohtobeleah

Mine, Yours, Ours @roosterscock

Blurb @ddejavvu

Signed Away @seresinhangmanjake

Absolute filth @roosterbruiser

Contract Spouse @discount-shades

Little Wonder @hangmans-wingman

Dad's Best Friend @sugarcoated-lame

Robert “Bob” Floyd

The Captain’s Daughter @coco-loco-nut (all parts are linked)

Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw

Show Me The Way Home, Honey @warnersister

Batting Practice

The Younger Kind

I Would Never Hurt You by roosterforme

Nick “Goose” Bradshaw

Gold Rush @duchesstypewriter

Tom “Iceman” Kazansky

Persuasion At Its…Finest? @crazyk-imagine

Let Me Prove It @bobby-r2d2-floyd

Mickey “Fanboy” Garcia

Nav @ohtobeleah

I Can’t Believe I Was Nervous

Javy "Coyote" Machado

your love is the love i need @theharddeck

Jake x OC x Bradley

Angel by the Wings @makethatelevenrings

Jake x OC x Javy

a little bit of fun @sushiwriterhere

Pete "Maverick" Mitchell

Drive In @thewhiskersonkittens

Your homie just saw Top Gun Maverick and whoowee I loved the plot🥰

The plot:

REQUEST ARE OPEN

Would anyone be interested in any of these ideas for Bob Floyd x Reader stuff? 🫣 cause I might be brewing something up in the wipsss

- Bob Floyd x Reader : You are Bobs childhood friend, venturing out to for a job opportunity that counts as a secretary at the Naval Base and he ends up finding out due to her going to the Hard Deck ???

- Bob Floyd x Reader : You are a teacher and there’s a field trip to the Naval Base, and that’s where Bob snd reader meet eye to eye and sparks fly yay!! Hes good with the kids—well all his team is— but he sticks out to you.

- Bob Floyd x Reader : Youre bobs ex lover. Not officially married but both of you too afraid to take that step. Only thing keeping you together? Your children, both twins. One girl, one boy. Both troublemakers and full of mischief to get their parents back together.

Omg stopppp,,,,

I just remembered this fic I read, though I can’t remember if it was here or on AO3 so please help !!

Basically, one of the top gun Maverick members had like a friend who I think was a single mom???? I think it was Bradley??? And basically they were in an abusive relationship with their ex, who found them again and started stalking I think???

I do remember a part where he— as in the ex—tried to take the kid from the daycare the mom reader dropped the kid off too and Rhett Abbot was in it for some reason? And I think maybe Bob died??? Jesus this sounds like a fever dream but trust it happened in a FIC GUYS 😭 I JUST NEED HELP FINDING IT

Looking for FIC help! Trying to find a fic that’s a Jake Seresin x reader(?) one ! My friend read it and recommended it to me but they can’t find it anywhere so— 🧎🧎🧎

They said it was obvi a Jake x reader where the dagger squad made the reader feel a bit scared/insecure! And there’s a moment where they break down in the hospital cause Jake got in an accident ! Making the daggers feel bad!

Looking for FIC help! Trying to find a fic that’s a Jake Seresin x reader(?) one ! My friend read it and recommended it to me but they can’t find it anywhere so— 🧎🧎🧎

They said it was obvi a Jake x reader where the dagger squad made the reader feel a bit scared/insecure! And there’s a moment where they break down in the hospital cause Jake got in an accident ! Making the daggers feel bad!

Gonna post the rest tomorrow I think! If you guys have any request for Top Gun or really anything— lmk! Aha!

Sneak Peak of Upcoming fic!

at a Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd x reader Smutty Fic🧎 because I’m too hyper to not share !!

A/N ; Please do not input my work into any ai along with Poe and C.ai! I also do not consent to my work being published on different sites without my consent! I also do not want my work translated without my permission! Ty!

I also have some stuff of Fanboy as well! ^^

NSFW UNDER THE CUT !!

He can’t help how he bites his lip, drawing a bit of blood as he holds in soft pants and whines. He’s sitting on the edge of the couch in your living room. His shirt unbuttoned and messy, his pants already off and littered on the floor by the couch. His eyes closed as he took in the pleasure. It’s been months since he’s had your touch, since he’s tasted you, since he’s breathed in your perfume that defined your scent so nicely. It’s all so overwhelming in such a good way that he can’t help but take it in. His cock twitching in the underwear he still had on.

You’re sitting on his lap, softly kissing up his neck and grinding down with soft movements. His hands are rested on your hips, kneading your soft plushly flesh in his hands, scooting you closer as a whine escapes his mouth. Your shorts hike up your thighs, and your shirt off. “Love you Robby, love you s’much” you mumble with each kiss you leave on his neck. Sucking and nipping along with kissing his flesh. He can’t help but gulp nervously as his eyes flicker open. Lidded they were, filled with love for you. His hair was messy and his glasses were barely holding on, inches away from slipping off his flustered face.

“Honey—B-Babydoll—“ he tries to speak, his voice stuttering within his mumbled tone. Your lips were too intoxicating to him. “Robbyyy” he could hear you whine out to him, your hips continued their actions. Your voice was filled with lust and need. “Sweetheart just—let me have more of you please—“ He couldn’t help but trail on a whimper. Begging to get more of you than kisses on his neck. His hands were still gripping on to your hips, but slowly starting to trail to your ass—yet his hands cradled and remained on your thighs for a good amount of time. The more he spoke, the more his little accent drawl spilled through. 

Pausing for a moment, your lips unattach from his neck as you pull away gently. Your eyes flicker open, admiring the scene in front of you. Bob breathing heavily, his mouth now open. His head tilted just a bit back as it gave you access to his neck that was now littered with wet kisses and hickies—bite marks galore—and you loved it. “Look at you Robby, looking so sweet~” you teased, a soft lustful smile adorned on your face. At your tone Bob couldn’t help but groan in pleasure as a response. Your voice, your body that was already up against his—it was almost too much—he loved every second of it. In his tight pants he could feel his cock twitch again. 

Sneak Peak of Upcoming fic!

at a Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd x reader Smutty Fic🧎 because I’m too hyper to not share !!

A/N ; Please do not input my work into any ai along with Poe and C.ai! I also do not consent to my work being published on different sites without my consent! I also do not want my work translated without my permission! Ty!

I also have some stuff of Fanboy as well! ^^

NSFW UNDER THE CUT !!

He can’t help how he bites his lip, drawing a bit of blood as he holds in soft pants and whines. He’s sitting on the edge of the couch in your living room. His shirt unbuttoned and messy, his pants already off and littered on the floor by the couch. His eyes closed as he took in the pleasure. It’s been months since he’s had your touch, since he’s tasted you, since he’s breathed in your perfume that defined your scent so nicely. It’s all so overwhelming in such a good way that he can’t help but take it in. His cock twitching in the underwear he still had on.

You’re sitting on his lap, softly kissing up his neck and grinding down with soft movements. His hands are rested on your hips, kneading your soft plushly flesh in his hands, scooting you closer as a whine escapes his mouth. Your shorts hike up your thighs, and your shirt off. “Love you Robby, love you s’much” you mumble with each kiss you leave on his neck. Sucking and nipping along with kissing his flesh. He can’t help but gulp nervously as his eyes flicker open. Lidded they were, filled with love for you. His hair was messy and his glasses were barely holding on, inches away from slipping off his flustered face.

“Honey—B-Babydoll—“ he tries to speak, his voice stuttering within his mumbled tone. Your lips were too intoxicating to him. “Robbyyy” he could hear you whine out to him, your hips continued their actions. Your voice was filled with lust and need. “Sweetheart just—let me have more of you please—“ He couldn’t help but trail on a whimper. Begging to get more of you than kisses on his neck. His hands were still gripping on to your hips, but slowly starting to trail to your ass—yet his hands cradled and remained on your thighs for a good amount of time. The more he spoke, the more his little accent drawl spilled through. 

Pausing for a moment, your lips unattach from his neck as you pull away gently. Your eyes flicker open, admiring the scene in front of you. Bob breathing heavily, his mouth now open. His head tilted just a bit back as it gave you access to his neck that was now littered with wet kisses and hickies—bite marks galore—and you loved it. “Look at you Robby, looking so sweet~” you teased, a soft lustful smile adorned on your face. At your tone Bob couldn’t help but groan in pleasure as a response. Your voice, your body that was already up against his—it was almost too much—he loved every second of it. In his tight pants he could feel his cock twitch again.