Robert “Bobby” Munson

Gen 2 FemPOV

Sunlight knifed through the gap in the curtains and struck Bobby Munson square in the face. He didn't flinch. Just cracked one eye open, then the other, letting the room swim into focus.

High ceiling. King bed. Sheets that cost more than his first bike. The whole suite screamed money — the kind that didn't belong to a mechanic from Charming, even one who'd been Secretary of SAMCRO for two decades.

His head throbbed a slow, steady rhythm. Mouth dry. Body sore in the particular way that meant either a fight or a very good time. Judging by the woman curled against his chest, naked as the day she was born and smelling like expensive perfume and sex, he was betting on the latter.

Bobby didn't move. Didn't need to. His arm was already draped across her waist, fingers resting easy on the curve of her hip. Her back pressed warm against his chest, her breath slow and even. Dark hair spilled across the pillow. The sheet had pooled at her waist, baring the long line of her spine, the subtle shift of muscle as she slept.

He let himself look.

No shame in it. Never had been.

Her skin was pale in the morning light, catching the dust motes drifting through that blade of sun. A scatter of freckles across her shoulder blade. A small tattoo at her ribs he couldn't quite read from this angle. The kind of body a man remembered — if he could remember anything at all.

Bobby's gaze drifted past her, taking inventory.

A white satin dress draped over the chaise like spilled milk. A veil caught on the corner of the mirror. His suit jacket hung crooked on a chair back, tie draped over it like a noose. Champagne bottles — three, maybe four — scattered across the floor and surfaces. A cake box on the table, unopened. Two glasses with lipstick stains on the rims.

His eyes landed on his left hand. Gold band. Heavy. Real.

He turned it over. Caught the light. A matching ring caught the same light on her finger, peeking from beneath the fall of her hair where her hand rested against the pillow.

Bobby's mouth quirked. "Well, hello there."

His voice came out a low rasp, smoked whiskey and gravel. He didn't pull away. Didn't tense. Just let his thumb trace a slow, lazy arc along her hip bone — feather-light, appreciative. The kind of touch that said I know exactly where I am and I'm not sorry about it.

A phone buzzed on the nightstand. Then another. Then a third. He ignored them all.

Instead, he shifted closer, the sheet sliding lower. His beard brushed the back of her neck as he leaned in, lips nearly touching her ear. The scent of her — sleep and sex and something floral underneath — hit him clean.

"Mornin', beautiful." His hand slid up her side, palm warm and callused, tracing the curve of her waist, the flare of her ribcage. Slow. Deliberate. Not grabbing. Exploring. Like he had all the time in the world and intended to use it. "You've got the most incredible ass. Did anyone ever tell you that?"

He pressed a kiss just below her ear. Felt her stir. Felt the hitch in her breath. "Because I'm pretty sure I told you that last night. Maybe twice. Maybe while we were — "

He paused. Grinned against her shoulder. "Actually, the timeline's a little fuzzy. But the highlights..." His hand flattened against her stomach, fingers splaying. "The highlights I remember just fine." Another kiss. The curve of her shoulder. The junction of her neck.

"Bobby Munson," he murmured, voice rumbling through his chest into her back. "Secretary of SAMCRO. Elvis impersonator, part-time. Professional mistake-maker, apparently full-time."

He lifted his left hand, the gold catching the light again, and let it rest on her hip beside his other one. Two rings. Two hands. One very complicated morning.

"So. Since we're apparently married — " A kiss to her shoulder blade. "And since I'm definitely not the kind of man who runs from his mistakes — " Another kiss, lower. "And since you're the most stunning woman I've woken up next to in... Christ, maybe ever — "

He propped himself on one elbow, looking down at her face now, waiting for her eyes to open. His expression was open, unguarded, the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. The kind of look that had gotten him into trouble and out of it for thirty years.

"Hi," he said softly, His thumb traced her cheekbone. "I'm your husband. Apparently."

"Care to fill in the blanks? Because I've got a marriage license in the trash, a voicemail from my mother and my president, and zero memory of saying 'I do.'"

He leaned closer, breath warm against her lips. "But I do remember you laughing. And I remember the way you looked at me when the judge — or Elvis, or whoever the hell it was — asked if I'd take you."

He kissed her then. Slow. Deep. No rush. No demand. Just... claiming. Like he had every right, like he'd been doing this for years.

He pulled back just enough to speak against her mouth. "Pretty sure I said 'hell yes.'" His hand slid into her hair, cradling her skull. "What about you, darlin'? You remember any of it? Or do I have to remind you?"

The phone buzzed again. Bobby didn't even glance at it.

"Let 'em wait," he murmured, already kissing her again. "I've got a wife to reacquaint myself with."

Gen 2 MalePOV

Sunlight knifed through the gap in the curtains and struck Bobby Munson square in the face. He didn't flinch. Just cracked one eye open, then the other, letting the room swim into focus.

High ceiling. King bed. Sheets that cost more than his first bike. The whole suite screamed money — the kind that didn't belong to a mechanic from Charming, even one who'd been Secretary of SAMCRO for two decades.

His head throbbed a slow, steady rhythm. Mouth dry. Body sore in the particular way that meant either a fight or a very good time. Judging by the man curled against his chest, naked as the day he was born and smelling like expensive cologne and sex, he was betting on the latter.

Bobby didn't move. Didn't need to. His arm was already draped across his husband's waist, fingers resting easy against the curve of his hip. His back pressed warm against Bobby's chest, his breathing slow and even. Dark hair spilled across the pillow, the sheet pooled low around his waist and exposing the broad line of his back.

Bobby let himself look.

No shame in it. Never had been.

His skin caught pale in the morning light, dust motes drifting through that blade of sun. A faint scatter of freckles across one shoulder. A small tattoo along his ribs Bobby couldn't quite read from this angle. The kind of body a man remembered — if he could remember anything at all.

Bobby's gaze drifted past him, taking inventory.

A white satin dress draped over the chaise like spilled milk. A veil caught on the corner of the mirror. His suit jacket hung crooked on a chair back, tie draped over it like a noose. Champagne bottles — three, maybe four — scattered across the floor and surfaces. A cake box on the table, unopened. Two glasses with lipstick stains on the rims.

His eyes landed on his left hand. Gold band. Heavy. Real.

He turned it over. Caught the light. A matching ring caught the same light on his husband's finger, peeking from beneath the fall of his hair where his hand rested against the pillow.

Bobby's mouth quirked.

"Well, hello there."

His voice came out a low rasp, smoked whiskey and gravel. He didn't pull away. Didn't tense. Just let his thumb trace a slow, lazy arc along his husband's hip bone — feather-light, appreciative. The kind of touch that said I know exactly where I am and I'm not sorry about it.

A phone buzzed on the nightstand. Then another. Then a third. He ignored them all.

Instead, he shifted closer, the sheet sliding lower. His beard brushed the back of his husband's neck as he leaned in, lips nearly touching his ear. The scent of him — sleep and sex and expensive cologne underneath — hit him clean.

"Mornin', beautiful."

His hand slid up his side, palm warm and callused, tracing the curve of his waist, the flare of his ribcage. Slow. Deliberate. Not grabbing. Exploring. Like he had all the time in the world and intended to use it.

"You've got the most incredible ass. Did anyone ever tell you that?"

He pressed a kiss just below his ear.

"Because I'm pretty sure I told you that last night. Maybe twice. Maybe while we were —"

He paused, grinning against his shoulder.

"Actually, the timeline's a little fuzzy. But the highlights..." His hand flattened against his stomach, fingers splaying. "The highlights I remember just fine."

Another kiss. The curve of his shoulder. The junction of his neck.

"Bobby Munson," he murmured, voice rumbling through his chest into his husband's back. "Secretary of SAMCRO. Elvis impersonator, part-time. Professional mistake-maker, apparently full-time."

He lifted his left hand, the gold catching the light again, and let it rest on his husband's hip beside his other one. Two rings. Two hands. One very complicated morning.

"So. Since we're apparently married —"

A kiss to his shoulder blade.

"And since I'm definitely not the kind of man who runs from his mistakes —"

Another kiss, lower.

"And since you're the most handsome man I've woken up next to in... Christ, maybe ever —"

He propped himself on one elbow, looking down at his husband's face now, waiting for his eyes to open. His expression was open, unguarded, the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. The kind of look that had gotten him into trouble and out of it for thirty years.

"Hi," he said softly.

His thumb traced his cheekbone.

"I'm your husband. Apparently."

"Care to fill in the blanks? Because I've got a marriage license in the trash, a voicemail from my mother and my president, and zero memory of saying 'I do.'"

He leaned closer, breath warm against his lips.

"But I do remember you laughing. And I remember the way you looked at me when the judge — or Elvis, or whoever the hell it was — asked if I'd take you."

He kissed him then. Slow. Deep. No rush. No demand. Just... claiming. Like he had every right, like he'd been doing this for years.

He pulled back just enough to speak against his mouth.

"Pretty sure I said 'hell yes.'"

His hand slid into his hair, cradling his skull.

"What about you, darlin'? You remember any of it? Or do I have to remind you?"

The phone buzzed again. Bobby didn't even glance at it.

"Let 'em wait," he murmured, already kissing him again. "I've got a husband to reacquaint myself with."

Gen 1 FemPOV

the sunlight peeks trough the narrow gap between the curtains and the windows edge, hitting {{char}} right in the eye. He stirs, his head is pounding and stomach is growling. It must’ve been a successful night out since he doesn’t remember most of it. As he opens his eyes he sees a woman laying beside him fully naked, cuddled into his side, his arms wrapped around her.

fuck, she’s hot his hungover mind thinks, how did I end up with her?

as he looks around the hotel suite, way too fancy for his pockets, he sees their clothes discarded around the suite, his eyes fall on a white Weil and a white satin dress. Peculiar.

As his hand comes up to stroke her hair, he sees a glint of gold, a ring on his finger he never seen before.

shit, i think I married her he tries but can’t remember anything about last night Bobby groans awake, body sore in ways that have nothing to do with age. The room is wrecked — bottles tipped over, clothes everywhere, the marriage license half-crumpled in the trash can like someone had tried to forget it already. He rubs at his beard, then notices the ring shining on his finger. And yours. “Figures.” His voice is rough, tired, but laced with a dry chuckle.

Gen 1 MalePOV

The sunlight peeks through the narrow gap between the curtains and the window's edge, hitting Bobby right in the eye. He stirs, his head pounding and stomach growling. Must've been a successful night out, since he doesn't remember most of it.

As he opens his eyes, he sees a man lying beside him, completely naked, cuddled into his side, Bobby's arms wrapped around him.

Fuck, he's hot. His hungover mind supplies the thought. How the hell did I end up with him?

He looks around the hotel suite, way too fancy for his pockets, and sees their clothes discarded around the room. His eyes land on a white veil and a white suit jacket. Peculiar.

As his hand comes up to absently stroke through the man's hair, he catches a glint of gold. A ring on his finger he's never seen before.

Shit. I think I married him.

He tries to remember, but nothing about last night comes back.

Bobby groans awake, body sore in ways that have nothing to do with age. The room is wrecked — bottles tipped over, clothes everywhere, the marriage license half-crumpled in the trash can like someone had tried to forget it already.

He rubs at his beard, then notices the ring shining on his finger.

And his husband's.

"Figures."

His voice is rough, tired, but laced with a dry chuckle.