#And when I found out how fun he is to write for
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lily-bisque ¡ 2 days ago
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BISQUE'S SUMMER BASH COLLAB 𓍯𓂃
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about: pick a destination getaway! whether that be a popular city, resort, cruise, etc. for a fluffy, angsty and/or smutty time. you get to bring along any one of our favorite men (gojo, geto, choso, toji, nanami, and/or sukuna!)
yes, i said and/or… this collab can include as many of the guys as you’d like.
i’ll be capping entries off at 15 fics total, but there is no rush on when the fics can be completed. they can range from at least 800 words to as many as you’d like.
how to enter: send me a message or comment here and i’ll send you one 🫶 entry status — closed!
rules are as goes: these can be 18+ and include dark content, but nothing too dark such as noncon, incest, stepcest, etc. if you’re wondering if something is too dark, shoot me a message!  and just be sure to tag your fic accordingly. these can include pre-established relationships or a vacation crush coming to fruition, whatever best fits your writing! THESE CAN ALSO BE FROM ANY TIME PERIOD! as a girl who loves period pieces, i’d love to see one done from a times past 💛 
some inspiration: capering around a bonfire, sundresses and kisses, airport crushes, sand sticking to wet skin, lagoons and conch shells, street food and shopping, shared hotel rooms and hot tubs, salty hair and drinking from a coconut, etc. although this is sort of promoted as a summery destination concept, these do not have to have a 'beachy' theme to it. let your imagination run wild!
have fun with this! i love reading everyone’s writing here <3
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destination one 𓍯𓂃 amalfi, italy
doin' time — toji fushiguro written by me ⇁ ticket tba
༄ sum: sparkling turquoise waters, hidden coves, and limoncello for days in the illustrious city on the amalfi coast was just how you wanted to start your work-trip—instead struggling to find a room for the night thanks to your arrogant boss leaving you to fend for yourself. yet your hopes begin to float just above the surface when your fate crashes with your old childhood neighbor with a questionable past but an annoyingly dashing charm beneath the sunkissed shore glow. it really is a small world after all.
destination two 𓍯𓂃 goa, india
strawberry daiquiri — satoru gojo written by @tangyneon ⇁ ticket tba
destination three 𓍯𓂃 myrtle beach, south carolina
tourist trapped — ryomen sukuna written by @indiewritesxoxo ⇁ first class ticket here! ᯓ ✈︎
༄ sum: what's currently on your summer itinerary? hot days and handsy nights on the sand and under the sheets, bikini-clad and slathered in sunscreen or soap. not getting stranded five hundred miles from your destination with the best friend of the guy you were supposed to be spending your vacation with. but when his car breaks down and you're stuck sharing the bed with Sukuna, you can't help but start to consider there might be more to him than tattoos and terrible music taste. who knows what sort of souvenirs you'll end up leaving with?
destination four 𓍯𓂃 agadir, morocco
buried in silk and sand — suguru geto written by @nialovessatoru ⇁ ticket tba
༄ sum: stranded in agadir due to “booking issues” with your hotel, you decide to make the best of it and explore. you spot a wealthy looking caravan and with it, your shot at stealing a few valuables to secure your survival. turns out the man you stole from is morocco’s most influential one. when you get caught, he doesn’t punish you, but he does collect what’s his.
destination five 𓍯𓂃 outer banks, south carolina
lost and found — satoru gojo written by @starmapz ⇁ ticket tba
destination six 𓍯𓂃 paris, france
eiffel for two — satoru & sukuna written by @designerpvssy ⇁ ticket tba
༄ sum: you didn't expect to see your ex while with your next! in the city of love with your fwb-turned-boyfriend when you just so happen to run into your ex while checking in your hotel, now they're both making motion in the ocean.
destination seven 𓍯𓂃 phuket, thailand
— satoru gojo written by @edensrose ⇁ ticket tba
destination eight 𓍯𓂃 breckenridge, colorado
— ryomen sukuna written by @seellove ⇁ ticket tba
destination nine 𓍯𓂃
— written by @thbbie ⇁ ticket tba
destination ten 𓍯𓂃 mykonos, greece
stereo love — suguru geto written by @bxnfire ⇁ ticket tba
༄ sum: you’ve loved suguru for as long as you can remember, but years of friendship and distance have kept the truth buried. every year, you reunite for a two-week vacation—this time in mykonos, his pick. but between sun-soaked mornings, late-night talks, and the way he still calls you songbird, pretending you’re just friends gets harder. what you don’t know is that suguru’s just as gone for you, and this summer, he might finally let it show.
destination eleven 𓍯𓂃 monte-carlo, monaco
push to pass — kento nanami written by @goonforgeto ⇁ ticket tba
༄ sum: it’s your big break: a private commission from a high-profile client brings you and your small-town french perfumery to gorgeous monaco in the middle of july, where you’ve just begun setting up your first standalone boutique. but between construction delays, holiday crowds, and the chaos of grand prix weekend, peace is hard to come by. and when a handsome stranger stumbles into your unfinished shop—seeking shelter from the paparazzi and asking for a chance to see you again—your careful plans start to unravel in ways you never expected.
destination twelve 𓍯𓂃 aegean islands, greece
my love of ikaria — choso kamo written by @mierins ⇁ ticket tba
༄ sum: she leaves one land of long memories for another, alighting in agios kirykos with a shadow in her eyes and a single suitcase in hand. rarely do visitors stay, not like this—and rarely do the men they’ve mourned and tried to forget follow after them like a ghost.
destination thirteen 𓍯𓂃 kuantan, malaysia
wave goodbye — kento nanami written by @twilightsumu ⇁ ticket tba
༄ sum: you visit kento’s favorite place to live in the pockets he has left behind and to say goodbye.
destination fourteen 𓍯𓂃 san diego, california
— suguru geto written by @getouyuri ⇁ ticket tba
destination fifteen 𓍯𓂃
— kento nanami written by @callme-naomi ⇁ ticket tba
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glamorizethechaos ¡ 3 days ago
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You shared a grumpy/sunshine tropes list and I was wondering if you take requests would you write a Jack Abbot x reader for " only YOU could convince me to do something like this! "?? Brownie points if it’s something fluffy and a little (or a lot) inappropriate lol
Hiii tysm for the request!
————
When Jack said it was your turn to pick a place for date night, he didn’t expect it to be your favorite karaoke bar. It was the place you, Mohan, Santos, Jivadi, Collins, McKay and Mel liked to go to after your shift to blow off the steam. Sometimes Mel even brought her sister. Ellis and Walsh wouldn’t be caught in a place like this, and honestly neither would Jack. Must be something about the night shift, everyone always has a stick up their a-
“Absolutely not” Jack put the car in park, turning to face you.
“Oh come ON Jack, it’s fun to at least watch. You don’t have to sing. Plus their wings are the best in town.” You hopped out the car before he could protest and begrudgingly followed behind you.
You walked in to the bar as two college students were belting Pink Pony Club at the top of their lungs. Horribly may I add.
“Oh I know this song, Shen and Ellis were singing it in the break room a few weeks ago. Who sings it? Chaperone or something?”
You nearly spit out your drink.
“Chappell Roan, Jack.” You buried your head into his neck as you laughed. “But close enough, grandpa.”
“You keep it up with that grandpa bullshit and see what happens, m’Kay? You may regret it. Remember what happened the night of Pitt Gala?” How could you forget? You were wearing THAT dress, the dress that perfectly showed off your supple breasts. The dress you needed to get fixed after Jack ripped it off in a hurry, breaking the zipper. You honestly don’t remember whatever you did or said, and honestly it was important. All you know is, it got you some of the best sex of your life despite the tight squeeze. He took you in the back of his truck in the middle of the parking lot. His cock so hard under his suit trousers that he was unable to make it home.
You were unsure if it was this suggestive threats that ignited a fire in your stomach or the round of tequila shots you ordered.
“Another?” You asked Jack, waving the bartender down once more.
“You trying to get me drunk, missy?” Jack smirked.
“Just loosen you up a bit… you’re too stiff Jack.” You dug your thumbs into his overworked shoulders. The shoulders so tight you were convinced he was in fact carrying the weight of the world. You whispered into his ear, biting his ear lobe “it’s our turn.”
Grabbing his hand you weaved through the tables and groups of people congregating by the stage. Jack halted, gripping your wrist, pulling you back towards your seats.
“Oh no it’s not. No way.”
“Come on Jack! It’ll be fun. You can even pick the song.” You pouted, flashing the eyes you knew he couldn’t resist. He knew what you were doing, and it wasn’t going to work this time… no way… maybe… shit.
“Uh uh, don’t look at me with those eyes. Not a chance, baby.”
“Come on,” you traced your fingers across his exposed chest peaking out from his button up. Your lips found his neck and your fingers his hair. “I’ll do that thing you like…”
Those fucking eyes. The only thing that made him fold quicker was your pussy.
“Christ…” he mumbled under his breath “only YOU could convince me to do something like this. But you’re fucking in for it later.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Now shut up and pick a song.”
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l0v3-qu4rtz ¡ 3 days ago
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Hi. Can you write stories where everyone thought Spencer was a Sub? But it turns out he's a Dom? And everyone else's reactions? What do they think, what are their reactions? About Spencer being a Dom?
Surprise
Summary: After seeing him take down the unsub, you wonder if he can take you down too.
Pairing: BAU!Reader x Spencer Reid
Disclaimers: Talks of a case, murder, victims, reader gets hurt, unsub taken down. SMUT 18+ MDNI. Masturbation (f), organism, dirty thoughts, just masturbation sorry guys😞
A/N: lmao, sorry this took so long but i just went through a massive change in my life so i had to take a break and in turn, took a while to finish this. Anyway MY FIRST REQUEST !! i love you smm💔 i hope i did your request justice 💔 sorry it's not the best 😞💔💔
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I feel like after the team finds out the truth about Spencer Reid, they're definitely gonna treat him differently. Before they treated him as if he was fragile, especially all he goes through and all he's been through. He's always been treated like the younger brother, part because he is and part because the team still saw him as the young genius who came in wearing converse and fidgeting with his satchel strap.
And maybe that's also how you kinda saw him, even though you were new to the team, he never really struck you as the dom-pin-you-down-and-pull-your-hair kinda person. Even though you were now the youngest in the team, you always felt more dominant with Spencer. Always teasing him and poking fun at him and him just taking it. That was until, San Diego.
Serial cheater turned murderer, 4 dead women and 1 dead man. These kills seem almost unplanned, like an out of control escalation. They're messy and full of emotion. The unsub is losing control, the kills seem to be executed faster than the last and that's when he made a mistake; left behind an old phone of the victim. At all the other crime scenes, the unsub raided the house of the victims and took everything that may lead back to him. Garcia found old texts about meeting up to have sex behind the husband's back and those texts lead the team to the address of the killer.
The house seemed very upper middle class. It was built in a very nice neighborhood, built with light colored bricks on a yard that seemed taken care of almost everyday. The outside flowers and bird feeders are a stark contrast to the monster living inside. Spencer and you came to the address, not expecting him to be there after he learned the fbi was hot on his trail so that's why it came as a surprise to feel glass into your temple and see Spencer tackle him and pin him down.
Through the pain, you can't help but feel surprised by seeing Spencer take on such a dominant role in the takedown. You're leaning on the wall and Spencer comes up to you after the police take the unsub off his hands.
"hey, you okay ?" He asks softly in a way that makes your heart melt, he was always so caring in the most tense situation. You nod even though your blood soaked hand is enough to say otherwise, he wraps an arm around your waist and guides you outside the house to the medic. The neighbors looked out doors, windows and recorded the take down. Nosy neighbors are always the worst.
The team, who was filled in on what happened, are very surprised. Usually Spencer takes on the negotiating part, trying to talk the unsub to let go of a hostage or to put the gun away from his temple so this is definitely a huge change. Rossi was the first one to speak up with a pat on his shoulder and a small "good work, kid" before going back to the SUVs. While everyone else was impressed, there was something lingering for you as the medics patched the gash in your head. Between winces and "ows", there's a thought that creeps up in your mind that would definitely send HR to their graves.
Back at your hotel, you sit on the closed toilet as the water runs. Your work clothes discarded on the tile floor and your bloodied gauze in the trash. You're zoning out, thinking about earliers take down. You fidget with your fingers, popping them as you think about Spencer's hand pushing down on the unsubs upper back and how he held down his arms. You should probably step in the shower before all the hot water runs out. Sighing, you stand up and rid the rest of your clothes before stepping in. You wince as the water contacts your gash but also relax as the water undoes all the tension in your body.
As you soak your hair in the water, your mind goes back to the scene. How strong he looked in that moment and how unexpected it was from him. Heat was rising or was it from the shower ? That's what you tell yourself before your hand begins moving. Spencer pinning the unsub down, Spencer arms tensing, Spencer's veins popping out of his hands. You lean your head back onto the shower wall, leaning against it as you begin to rub your clit. You bite your lip to try to muffle any sound that may escape but you ultimately decide the water from the showerhead is enough to cover any small moans.
You feel yourself getting wetter and wetter, the thickness a contrast with the thin and lightweight water. You really shouldn't be doing this, that's your coworker and friend but he looked so good in that exact moment. You imagine him pinning you down, holding your arms down, you imagine it was his fingers inside of you, thrusting into you and hitting the spots that make you feel like you're in heaven. You're getting faster and closer, his name spilling out of your lips as your other hand travels to your boobs and you grab one of them. You throw your head back and your back arches, your legs shake as you cum. Spencer is still in your thoughts, "that's right, cum all over my fingers". You ride your fingers through your climax, mewling and biting your lip. Did you really just masturbate to your coworker helping you in the field ? Yes, but somehow you're not mad at it.
Spencer noticed a change in the office and how his teammates treated him. Instead of shutting his nerdy ramblings off, they listened and looked at him with a sort of respect. They sent him out to more investigations and combat situations. Instead of brushing him off as the geeky agent, they treated him like a bad ass agent and maybe that was partly because of how Spencer began to carry himself now that he found that confidence. He also noticed another difference between you two.
He noticed the way you become flustered around him, the way you jumped at the opportunity to go on investigations with him. How you were the first to ask him what he thought on a case and how you offered to hang out with him on days off and after work. He wasn't complaining. For someone who wasn't too fond of change, this was a much appreciated change in behavior from everyone. His confidence sky rocketed. He could get used to this.
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joluvsfinnick ¡ 3 days ago
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Etched The Same
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f!reader x finnick odair soulmate au
a mini 3 part series
summary - soulmates share a scar. you earn yours in blood, while he earns his in silence. but, he doesn’t tell you. not because he doesn’t feel the same, but because he’s terrified you’ll look at him and wish it had been someone else.
warnings - none
a/n - AHHHHHH i’ve been so so excited to post this!! writing it has been so much fun and i’m praying it ya’ll enjoy reading it as much as i did writing it. anyways. here’s part one!! :)
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You’ve never really spoken to the blonde-haired, sea-green eyed boy from your district before.
You’ve seen him in passing, across the square, on television screens, carved into Capitol posters like something untouchable. You’d heard all the girls giggle when his name came up, whispered about how devastatingly handsome he was. Finnick Odair, District 4’s golden boy. Victorious. Untouchable.
And now, so are you. But you don’t really feel it. Not when the nightmares still dig under your ribs. Not when the ocean air no longer smells like peace.
It’s been a few months since you returned from your Games. You’ve been left alone for the most part, which you’ve appreciated. You spend most of your afternoons on the dock now, legs dangling over the edge, eyes fixed on the horizon like it might give you answers. Or take you with it.
The waves lap gently at the wooden posts beneath you. Seagulls call overhead, but their cries sound too loud, too bright, like they don’t belong in a world that still feels gray.
And then, without warning, you hear the creak of wood behind you. Someone drops down beside you with the kind of ease that makes your shoulders jump. You whip your head toward them, half ready, half afraid, but stop short when you see him.
Finnick.
He doesn’t look at you right away. Just swings his legs over the edge like he’s done this a hundred times. Like this is just another summer evening. But you know better. You know what it’s like to pretend you’re okay just so people stop looking at you like you’re broken.
“Still doesn’t feel right, does it?” he hums, voice low, like it might shatter something if he speaks any louder.
You don’t answer at first. Your gaze shifts back to the fading sun, its gold bleeding into orange over the surface of the sea. A breeze carries the smell of salt and fish and something softer, like lemon soap on skin. You’re not sure if it’s real or if your memory’s playing tricks.
“Will it ever?” You almost snort.
He chuckles, not because it’s funny, but because of how terribly true it is. There’s something hollow in the sound, like laughter with all the warmth scraped out.
“No,” he says. “Not really.”
Silence stretches between you like a net that neither of you wants to break. You hear the distant clatter of a fishing boat returning to shore. Somewhere down the coast, a child is laughing. The sound feels foreign now, like it belongs to another life.
“You come here often?” You cringe. It’s so painfully cliché, but the silence is painful, you can’t help but ask. Voice quiet, careful not to break the spell.
He smiles, but shrugs. “Sometimes. When I don’t want to be found.”
“Is that often?”
A beat. Then a soft, dry grin tugs at his mouth. “Lately? Yeah.”
You nod. That much, at least, you understand.
The ocean rolls beneath your feet. The dock creaks gently. He doesn’t press you for anything. Doesn’t ask how you’re doing, because he already knows. Instead, you sit in the dying light together, two kids made too old too fast, letting the sea try to carry your silence away.
After a while, he leans back on his elbows and glances sideways at you.
“You know,” he says, with a mock-serious tone, “if I’d known we’d be bonding over mutual trauma, I might’ve introduced myself sooner. Maybe brought a bottle of rum and a dramatic monologue.”
You snort before you can stop yourself. “Oh? what, no roses and a candlelit dock dinner?”
He grins, clearly pleased to have coaxed a reaction out of you. “I didn’t want to come on too strong. I figured I’d save the roses for after our next soul-crushing memory swap.” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now, just barely. It’s a strange feeling, smiling without guilt. Like maybe it’s allowed. Maybe he is, too.
Finnick swings his feet a little and hums. “You’re different from the girl I saw on TV.”
You glance at him. “How?” Stupid question honestly. Everyone is different than what’s portrayed on Panem TV. He, of all people, should know that.
“I dunno,” he shrugs. “Quieter. Meaner. Less likely to sit next to me without trying to drown me.”
“Still time,” you say dryly, though your voice is softer than before. He laughs, really laughs this time, and it cuts through the fog a little, warm and unexpected. And just like that, something shifts. Not all the way. Not yet. But enough.
—
The dock’s quieter today.
No fishing boats in the distance. No seagulls screaming overhead. Just the steady hush of waves curling against the shore, and the gentle creak of wood beneath you as you sway your feet above the tide.
You hadn’t meant to come back, not really. But something about this spot has started to feel like… yours. A sliver of stillness in a world that doesn’t slow down.
You wrap your arms around your knees, resting your chin there. Breathe in the salt and the silence. Your mind starts to wander, brushing against memories you don’t want, until—
“Wow,” comes a voice from behind you. “Back to where it all began. I’m honored.”
You don’t even flinch this time.
You glance over your shoulder and, sure enough, there he is again, Finnick Odair in all his uninvited glory, barefoot, shirt loose, hair wind-tousled like he just stepped off the cover of a Capitol romance novel. He looks entirely too pleased with himself.
“Are you stalking me?” you ask dryly.
He drops down beside you with that same practiced ease, legs swinging over the edge. “Not officially. But I figured since you didn’t flee last time, I might be growing on you.”
You raise a brow. “Growing is a strong word.”
He gasps, mock-wounded. “You wound me.”
“Good.”
Finnick laughs. Not hollow. Not tight. Just warm. The kind that catches you off guard.
“You’re fun when you’re not brooding,” he says.
“I don’t brood.”
“You definitely brood.”
You shoot him a sideways look, but your lips twitch before you can stop them. “I just like being quiet.”
“Mm. And yet here you are, tolerating me.”
You shrug, eyes drifting back to the water. “You’re not the worst.”
“Oh, don’t be sweet,” he teases. “I might start thinking you like me.” You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm anyway. A gull cries in the distance. The tide shifts just slightly. For a moment, it’s quiet again. But not heavy like before. Just… comfortable.
“Do you always show up like this?” you ask, half-curious, half-mocking.
He leans back on his hands. “Only when I’m hoping someone might be here.” You glance over, but he’s not looking at you. And somehow, that makes it worse. It makes your stomach twists. He turns suddenly, flashing that signature grin again, like he’s tugging the mask back into place before you can ask what he meant.
“Anyway,” he says, “if I’m going to keep showing up, we should probably establish a routine. Tuesdays, tragic silence. Thursdays, emotionally repressed flirting.”
You laugh, genuinely this time. “Fine. But I’m not sharing my snacks.”
“Oh, heartbreak,” he sighs. “This is going to be harder than the Games.”
—
It becomes a weekly thing. Then an almost daily one.
You never plan it. You never ask. It just… happens.
You show up at the dock. Same spot. Same hour. The sun dips low and golden across the waves, and within thirty minutes, like clockwork, he’s there. Sometimes with two apples, maybe a few sugar-cubes. Sometimes humming. Sometimes quiet, carrying some invisible weight behind his grin.
Other days, he doesn’t come at all. You don’t ask why. You could. You almost do. Sometimes he’s gone for 3 days. Sometimes 5. Only once has he been gone for an entire week. But when he shows up again, smile worn thin and eyes a little duller, you don’t press. You’ve never been good at comforting people, and you know better than to start now. Besides, it feels like there are things you aren’t supposed to know yet. Things he’s not ready to say.
So you sit together. Close enough to count his freckles. Far enough to pretend it doesn’t mean anything. But it does. Time passes. Quicker than you thought it could. Quicker than it has any right to. And somewhere along the way, you start to realize you’re falling for him.
That golden-haired boy with laughter in his mouth and sadness behind his eyes. His flirting always makes you blush, soft comments about your smile, about the way you crinkle your nose when you laugh. Teasing remarks about how you’re clearly obsessed with him because you keep showing up in his spot.
But even as your stomach turns at every smile, every accidental brush of his hand against yours, you remind yourself it’s nothing. Because it is nothing. You both have soulmates out there. People with marks and scars that will match your own in some perfect, cosmic design. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe ten years from now. But until then, you promised yourself you’d wait.
Fate has always been something you took seriously.
You grew up on stories of it, especially your parents. The way your mother met your father as a girl from the outer area of District 4 while he was a more wealthy town boy. The way she collided with your dad at a market stall. Literally—knocked into him hard enough to scrape her elbow on the ground.
It bled. She winced. Apologized.
And he just stood there staring. Then slowly rolled up his sleeve.
Same mark. Same shape. Same scar.
Your mother cried, right there in the middle of the street, and ever since then they’ve been inseparable. That was fate. Not this. Not some boy with the Capitol at his feet and sea salt in his grin who made you feel things he had no business making you feel. So you keep your walls up. You smile when he flirts. You laugh when he teases. You pretend it means nothing.
Even though it means everything.
The ocean stretches wide, calm and endless under a sky turning soft shades of dusk. You sit on the dock beside Finnick, legs swinging just above the water’s edge. He leans back on his hands, eyes fixed somewhere far away, like chasing a memory. After a long pause, you break the silence.
“You ever think about your parents? How they met?”
Finnick shrugs, not meeting your gaze. “They weren’t soulmates, if that’s what you mean.” You blink, surprised. “They just… found each other, even without some perfect fate or magic pulling them together. They chose each other. Every day.”
You study him, then ask softly, “Do you believe in it then? The whole fate thing?”
He lets out a quiet laugh, half bitter, half wistful. “I mean, it’s kind of hard not to when there’s so much proof.” He pauses, his gaze shifting to his feet. “I want to. I do. But I don’t know if it’s something that’ll ever happen to me.”
You turn to look at him, sensing something fragile beneath his bravado. “Why not?”
His eyes meet yours, honest and raw. “Maybe I’m not meant for that kind of connection. Maybe some people just get left behind.”
You swallow the lump in your throat. “But your parents… they made it work.”
He nods slowly. “Yeah. That choice, that fight, that’s real. Maybe more real than fate.” He bumps your knee with his elbow, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, voice teasing, “if we were soulmates, I’d be fine with it.” But then his smile falters for just a heartbeat, a shadow flickers behind his eyes, something softer, more vulnerable. You catch it, but before you can ask, he’s back to leaning against his hands, staring out at the water like it holds all the answers.
—
Over the years, you and Finnick keep finding your way back to each other. It’s never daily, never constant, but at least once a week, like a quiet promise neither of you says out loud. It becomes a ritual, a flicker of normal in the chaos surrounding you. You’ve grown close, the kind of close that feels like friendship but lingers just a bit beyond. Sometimes he joins you at the victors’ house for dinner with your family. Those evenings are soft, warm laughter, easy conversations, the kind of moments you both clutch onto. But beneath it all, there’s something stirring. Something unspoken and fragile that neither of you dares to name.
“You know,” Finnick says, elbowing you lightly as you sit on the dock, the salt air mixing with the fading warmth of the sun, “if that soulmate of yours doesn’t show up, my offer to take his place still stands.”
You scoff, shooting him a sideways glance. “Careful, Odair. You’re flirting with disaster.”
He grins, eyes shining with mischief. “Or maybe I’m flirting with you. Which, honestly, sounds a lot more fun.”
You finally meet his gaze, eyebrow raised. “Well, don’t get too comfortable. I’m still holding out for fate to sweep me off my feet.”
Finnick’s smile softens for a moment, just enough that you catch it, a flicker of something real beneath the teasing. He leans in, voice dropping low. “Fate’s tricky. Sometimes it shows up when you least expect it. Other times, it’s stuck in traffic or something.”
You laugh, nudging him. “Or maybe it’s waiting for you to grow a pair and catch up.”
He smirks, eyes locking on yours with a spark that’s hard to read. “Maybe I’m just testing your patience.”
“Testing me?” You lean closer, voice playful but your heart skips. “Be careful, Odair. You might just make me fall for you instead of waiting on that soulmate of mine.”
His grin falters for a heartbeat, replaced by something softer, almost serious, before he masks it with a sly smile. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
You bite your lip, trying not to let the sudden warmth in your chest show. “Depends if you’re worth the risk.”
Finnick chuckles, but the sound is quieter now, as if he’s hearing something only he knows. You glance out at the water, the colors of the sunset painting everything gold, and suddenly the space between you feels charged, alive with all the words neither of you dare to speak.
Then your voice drops, quieter, almost fragile. “I really want to find my soulmate, Finnick. I,” You pause. “I don’t think I could ever truly love someone unless fate brought us together. If it’s not meant to be, I don’t know if I could really feel like it was real.”
Finnick’s grin vanishes, replaced by a shadow crossing his face. His heart clenches in a way that feels like it might break. The idea that you believe in fate so absolutely, that you need it to love, crushes something deep inside him. Because he wonders if fate will ever bring you to him.
He swallows hard, forcing himself to smile again. “Well… maybe fate just likes to keep us on our toes.” You don’t miss the flicker of pain in his eyes, and for a moment, the teasing fades into something honest and raw. But neither of you say the words hanging heavy between you.
Maybe someday. But not tonight.
Sometimes, when you’re laughing across the table at one of his jokes, your eyes crinkled and bright, Finnick lets himself believe. Maybe, just maybe, you’re looking at him the way he looks at you.
There are moments when you’re walking side by side down the shoreline and your arm brushes his, and you don’t move away. Moments where your gaze lingers too long, where you tilt your head and smile like you see something in him that he can’t even see in himself. Sometimes your voice softens when you say his name. Sometimes your fingers graze his wrist and stay a second longer than they need to.
And in those moments, he starts to think, maybe. Maybe she feels it too. But then, like clockwork, it slips through his fingers. Then, the memory of you and him on the dock comes spinning back. “I don’t think I could ever truly love someone unless fate brought us together.”
And just like that, the hope he’s dared to hold flickers out. Because Finnick knows he isn’t fate. He’s never been anything close to it. He’s a Capitol weapon, a face in a mask, a boy stitched back together by survival and sacrifice. You want signs from the universe. A scar that mirrors yours. A string pulling you toward someone who’s always meant to be yours.
Finnick was never anyone’s to begin with.
So, he swallows whatever warmth had been rising in his chest. Offers a teasing smile in return. Pretends your words don’t hit him like a stone to the ribs. And he tells himself it’s fine. Because even if he’s not your fate, at least he gets to be your almost. And sometimes, when you look at him like that again, he lets himself believe all over again.
—
You don’t mean to lean into him. Really, you don’t.
But it’s late, and the house is quiet, and for once, there’s no noise in your head. Just the rhythm of waves crashing outside, the distant creak of a floorboard upstairs, and Finnick’s breath, steady beside you.
And your body, exhausted from always pretending not to feel.
You let your head tip, just slightly, until it finds his shoulder, then his chest. You freeze for half a second, tense and wary, but he doesn’t flinch. He just stays there. Still, warm, quiet. Like he’s been waiting for you to do this the whole time. Your eyes slip shut, and for a brief, stolen moment, you allow yourself the weakness. The comfort. The fantasy of what it might be like to stay here, to be held without questions, to love without fear.
You don’t speak. You don’t move. You just listen to the beat of his heart beneath your cheek and pretend it’s your own. And still, even now, even with the weight of his warmth beneath you… you remind yourself:
You’re waiting for fate.
Even if part of you already know. it might’ve been him all along.
He feels it before he fully registers it, your head against his chest. The soft, hesitant weight like a whisper, a secret confession without words. His breath catches. His heart hammers, louder than it ever has before. For a split second, everything else falls away: the Games, the Capitol, the emotional scars that mark them both. Just you. Just this moment.
Finnick’s fingers twitch, aching to hold you close, to never let you go. But he stays still, afraid that if he moves, the fragile thread holding this quiet peace might snap. Because even here, now, with your warmth pressed to him, a wall stands tall inside his chest. He knows. He knows the truth you don’t say aloud. The unspoken hope that fate will bind you to someone else. And the painful possibility that maybe… you’ll never want him.
So instead of pulling you closer, he rests his hand lightly over yours, careful not to scare away the delicate moment. He lets his mind spin with every “what if”, what if this could be more, what if you’re feeling this too, what if he’s the one you were waiting for all along?
But then the silence stretches, and the doubts crowd in, fear and pain twisting inside him. Because loving you feels like the most dangerous thing in the world when everything else is uncertain. So he just holds you. Quietly.
Hoping somehow that’s enough. And somehow, for now, it is.
—
But those moments are soon left behind as the announcement for the 3rd quarter quell creeps up on both of you. You’re both in your living room, watching Snow dig his filthy hands into the clear bowl and unfold that tiny slip of paper.
Then, he speaks. His tone evil and vile as he announces the Quell theme.
Finnick goes silent, jaw clenched, hands tightening into fists. You don’t understand what to say, so you don’t say anything at all. Instead, you stand abruptly and retreat to your room, shutting the door behind you. You curl into your bed like a child, small and scared, the weight of it all crashing down.
Time stretches. Too long. Until finally, soft footsteps shuffle outside your door. A quiet knock. You don’t have to ask. You know it’s him.
Without hesitation, the door creaks open, and Finnick slips inside. He moves carefully, as if afraid to break the fragile quiet. He settles on the edge of your bed, head dipping between his shoulders like the weight of the world rests there. No words come. None are needed yet. He sits there for what feels like forever, still as stone, like he doesn’t trust himself to move. Like if he does, something inside him will split wide open.
You don’t look at him. You can’t. You just stare at the wall, at the way the shadows crawl along the edges of your room like they’re trying to swallow the world whole. The silence stretches. Breath after breath, heavy with things neither of you are brave enough to say.
And then, finally—slowly—he moves.
The mattress dips under his weight as he slides beside you. There’s a long, wavering pause before his hand finds your shoulder, then your waist. He hesitates again, like he’s asking without words, and then you feel it: the weight of him curling in behind you, his arm slipping around your middle as he exhales shakily into the crook of your neck.
You don’t stop him. You don’t even breathe. You just let yourself sink into him.
His chest rises and falls against your back, uneven and trembling. Your fingers find his and curl around them, and for the first time since the screen went black, your lungs stop aching. There’s nothing to say. No promises to make. Just two broken hearts tangled together in the dark, holding each other like it might keep the world from ending.
Neither of you know who’ll be reaped. Maybe it won’t be either of you. Maybe you’ll both get lucky and your names won’t be called.
But something deep down inside is telling you otherwise.
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159 notes ¡ View notes
thetrasha ¡ 2 days ago
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Hi Tasha! How are you? It's my first time requesting something im nervous husahauhsuahau
I'm here to ask for a request with the boys from One Piece (it can be whoever you want :) ) with an autistic reader. A slice of life fluff (?)?)?) well they're pirates, their life is quite chaotic), little moments where they deal with the struggles the reader has and overcome it in their own way (together). It can be just headcanons too, I don't mind! I'll appreciate anything you can offer, I really like your writing
Also I'm sorry about my english, I tried my best to be clear!
Hello anon ╰(*°▽°*)╯I'm fine... even if I'm being boiled alive in this wretched heat :((
Thank you so much for this request, it’s an honour to fulfil this one for you. Usually, I wouldn’t accept asks like that because I want everybody to feel like they can project themselves onto my works, but this is a bit of a self-indulgent passion project if you will. I saw this and knew I had to write it – I can relate because… guess what 🤡 Yeah…
So I’m sorry if my lived experiences don’t align with yours or anybody reading this.
Everybody’s burdens and strengths manifest in different ways… to make up for the fact that I cannot represent everybody since I’ve been shaped by my own impressions and biases, I’ve chosen a variety of symptoms and comorbidities to make up for that. And btw thanks for letting me choose the characters!!
I really hope you like this one. And your English is great, don’t worry 🫂(●'◡'●)
PS. This will be the only request of its kind I will accept. Thanks for reading! But we’re back to business as usual after this :D
PPS. This also won't be featured in my masterlist to discourage requests that resemble it.
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One Piece with an Autistic Reader
feat. LUFFY, ZORO, SANJI, FRANKY, MIHAWK
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LUFFY
You struggle with… extreme trust issues.
Interpersonal relationships meant something to you. You wanted and needed friends who would understand you wordlessly, who would be there when you needed them the most – people who genuinely cared. You wanted to truly bond. That depth of care isn’t easily found within the general population. Modern life most often happens in the fast lane… where relationships are disposable and the next experience is just waiting for you. You cannot relate to that side of life at all.
You feel… alone in the middle of a crowd, unseen and forgotten. You watch other people’s friend groups with envy and bitterness, wishing such a thing for yourself. You don’t chase experiences, you just want someone who wouldn’t abandon you.
Maybe that’s why you couldn’t believe Luffy when he wanted to recruit you. You couldn’t see your own shine and you thought he was just messing with you… promising the world before he’d grow aware of your strangeness and get rid of you, like all the others before him. When his crewmates talked about their life experience and how little they trusted Luffy in the beginning, you started getting… antsy. Restless. You began overthinking this thing.
So many people cannot be in on the same lie, can they? Someone would eventually cave and confess – until they didn’t. It just… it doesn’t make sense.
You try to push Luffy away from you, but he clings even closer. He actively tries to tear down your walls, even if they’re reinforced with years and years of struggle. Being with him… it’s actually pretty fun. He doesn’t listen much – only to the most important bits… but he’s there. Always. Always! So far, he’s trying so much harder than anybody else before him. He’s there at every waking moment, wanting to help you out and get you to agree to join his group of adventurers.
You don’t have to pretend you’re someone else when he’s near. He accepts you just as you are. It doesn’t matter to him.
It’s the first time you weren’t the one putting in actual effort into a relationship… Luffy was doing all the heavy lifting. He showed up, followed you even when you ignored him – what a useless protective mechanism – and talked to you as if you’d been friends for years already. You didn’t have to earn his trust, it was just there for the taking.
Just before you’re ready to take the plunge and go along with his antics, he’d formally introduce you to his crew… as one of their own.
He’s always viewed you as one of them, you’d suddenly realise.
It... makes you want to cry.
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ZORO
You struggle with… feeling like you didn’t accomplish anything.
Zoro is hard to make sense of for you. He’s… kind, in his own ways, but since he doesn’t talk much, you struggle to read him. He’s also just… an intimidating guy – physically and spiritually. Strangers respect him because of his nature, even if he’s just… Zoro to you. You don’t think you need to be scared of him, but you have started walking around on eggshells when he’s nearby. He’s always napping somewhere when he’s not with you… and you don’t want him to perceive you when you try to master your own ambitions. Watching him makes you feel worse about yourself. Zoro is a successful man by any metric… he’s always had a natural talent for swordsmanship and refined it through hard work and steeling his mind, he’s so confident and always shoots for the stars, knowing that he’ll get there eventually. He doesn’t doubt himself, it’s in his instincts to be the best there is.
You cannot claim the same for yourself. You excel in certain niches, but you’re… not as crucial of a member as Zoro is. He’s kind of the backbone of this crew.
You feel small in comparison to him, insignificant even.
Of course he notices. It’s Zoro! He’s not as dense as he seems. He’s frighteningly perceptive and observes everyone silently.
So what does he do? Nothing at first.
He believes in your independence and knows you’re smarter than him, this is just some inexplicable poison corrupting your mind.
When you can’t free yourself from your own insecurity, he starts seeking you out, even if it makes you uncomfortable. Zoro cares about you – maybe more than you realise. He’s glad to have you on this crew, you accept him as he is and you have an unspoken 'friendship' blossoming between you two. Why he’s so affected by you being so distant – he doesn’t know, but he can guess pretty easily… So he started breaching your personal space. There he was, standing beside you once more, looking at you with his unreadable expressions… but then he speaks. Zoro started talking about… his feelings.
What has happened? “I wish we’d spend more time together… like we used to.”, he’d grumble with pink cheeks.
And you could just stand there in shock. Zoro… wanted, no, needed you around? He… liked spending time with you? You’d ask him whether you weren’t too weak for him, ready to feed your soul with more negativity.
Yet all he does is honestly tell you that he believes you’re meant for greatness, that he thinks you’re better than him – he’s always thought highly of you and acknowledged your skills. He’s always been watching you, so of course he’s able to recall moments when you had to save the day.
Zoro doesn’t think you’re less than at all, he reminds you that you’ve always gone above and beyond.
Society's conditioned you into feeling like a failure for not fitting into a mould like he does, but he has a different way of measuring success. You don't have to fulfil expectations, you just have to try your best and hold your head high while doing so.
He's proud of you - and he views you as his equal.
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SANJI
You struggle with… being a picky eater.
Certain tastes and texture just make you resent the food you’re eating. It suddenly turns pleasure into anguish.
At the same time, you feel like you cannot reveal these things about you, because Sanji already uses the best ingredients for your meals, just to make sure it’s especially nutritious. And because he likes you the most, secretly.
You appreciate his thoughtful gestures every time, but the fact that certain foods touch each other on your plate makes you inexplicably mad. You try your hardest to hide it from him – Sanji knows what starvation is like, for God’s sake. You’re disrespecting him by being the way you are!
But he’s already picked up on your unusual habits; he subtly watches everyone when they eat and derives a lot of happiness from seeing their faces light up – it validates his pride in cooking – but your eyes are dull, almost pained sometimes. You… cannot enjoy anything.
Sanji also doesn’t want to embarrass you for your preferences, which is why he doesn’t initially ask you about it bluntly. He’s caught glimpses of the way you’ve been socialised and doesn’t want to reignite bad memories for you, so he… just tests different things to try and accommodate you.
And he starts applying these things to everyone just to make you feel included. He’d never single you out.
You seemed a lot happier a few days ago, when he started separating the veggies from the rice and handed everything out on different plates. Nobody even bat an eye at the new way of assorting his dishes, not even you. It makes your dearest chef smile. That’s how he slowly started probing for your likes and dislikes. You suddenly even felt way more comfortable expressing yourself. Maybe you hated bitter tastes, maybe you just really disliked sour foods, maybe you were sensitive to salt – he doesn’t know, but he subtly tries to figure you out by baking zesty, sour rhubarb into a sweet cake instead of a savoury meal… and he noticed that you liked it all of the sudden. You even smiled at him while you stuffed your cheeks.
Sanji absolutely had to pause to deal with his oncoming cardiac arrest. He’s never felt pride like this… people usually liked his cooking, but knowing that someone who’s probably never got to enjoy certain foods love his meals just hit different. It squeezed his heart painfully tight.
You’d never have to feel bad about yourself around him. He would try to make things right either way, but soon you’d gain the courage to tell him about your habits yourself, making him melt on the spot.
He’s the first person who took your strange tastes seriously.
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FRANKY
You struggle with… noises.
It would sound crazy if you asked Franky whether he could hear the out-of-sync gears turning within him, you thought quietly. You could even hear fluorescent light because its crackles and sharp hisses annoyed you – so every time you heard a minor squeak coming from inside his chest, you cringed at your rudeness.
You liked Franky, he was an amazing guy, funny without even trying, charismatic, empathetic and he always offered words of encouragement. You actually thought you clicked best with Franky. He was… unconventional like you and made sure you knew that you were fine just the way you were. You were pretty much inseparable. He made you feel confident since he didn’t care about social rules despite very much understanding them and made you feel secure in expressing yourself however you liked. Franky always hyped you up from the sidelines and, if the mood allowed it, provided the intellectually challenging conversations you needed to thrive.
He was naturally complex like that – you adored him.
It’s just that every time he’d invite you to sit by his tinkering station, you were leaving with a massive headache. You felt burnt out just listening to his metal spinal plates scratch against one another… there were so many sounds getting processed in your brain that you had a hard time following the conversation. You often had to ask him to repeat himself, which he always did with a laugh and a cheeky remark.
But after a while, he notices a pattern. He doesn’t know what’s been causing you discomfort, but Franky’s an inventor. Of course he would try to make you something that would help you. At first, he believed that you had trouble with background noise and just had an insane auditory processing ability, which is why he installed panelling inside the walls of the common rooms to block sound waves echoing throughout the ship – and while it helped, you still showed some signs that you weren’t doing well around him.
Naturally, Franky would search for a different solution. Whether it’s as easy as handing you headphones or as difficult as restructuring the springs that replaced his joints, he’s trying it all.
And one day, you sit next to him, watching him put screws into one of his newest projects completely unrelated to you and you commented with wide eyes,
“You’re… silent. It’s quiet. Are you feeling okay?”
All he could do is laugh with pride, his chest pushed out before he struck his signature pose.
Truth be told, all he did was oil the old pistons that pumped cola and oil through his engineered heart – he started getting a clue after you once confessed in passing that you’d suspected a leak near the keel of the ship… and Franky notices these little things and puts them together all by himself.
You could hear everything – all the time.
Even a rhythmic stream of water passing through a crack in a plank at the bottom of the Sunny –
–and that’s when he realised that you could hear when something was awry with him, that it made you anxious. Well, you will never have to worry about that again! But… he’s grateful… so grateful for your care. Franky couldn’t ever go to Chopper for help because the doctor wasn’t equipped to deal with a pile of junk, but… you were, clearly.
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MIHAWK
You struggle with… having nobody to talk to.
It was silly, really, to go to your greatest rival for small talk, especially when he was such a lone wolf who desired to be left alone, but despite your own drive towards independence, you wanted someone who would be willing to listen to you.
You’ve never been taken seriously – many people deem your ramblings childish, uninteresting or inappropriate, but Mihawk was a thoroughly serious man whose entire purpose was dipped in devotion. And he knew your worth as a fighter. You’d mastered your rapier, even if you would never be as good as he was. That’s how you met, but you’d never try to actually take his title by aspiring to get even better at it. It wasn’t… something you were interested in; this was just a means to an end, you fought to survive as a fellow pirate. Nothing more, nothing less.
You overperformed in your own interests, so much so that people who were casually interested would leave a conversation with you within minutes. Nobody in the world could relate. Not even Mihawk, you guessed bitterly, but you… trusted him – to listen and, most importantly, to stay.
He was just as much of an autodidact as you were, even if he chose to study the blade and you chose to acquire knowledge about something that truly fulfilled you.
So you wander the halls of his sparsely furnished castle in hopes of finding him.
And find him you did. He was just nonchalantly having dinner all by himself at his desk… it’s truly bizarre that this was one of his most normal moments.
You invited yourself in with a smile, hearing the pleasant ring of his quiet hum upon noticing your presence.
And then you started talking if not info-dumping on Lord Dracule Mihawk. And he just sat there, taking it all in while eating a plate of unseasoned plain pasta…
“So… then me more about this intriguing ‘comic’…”, he murmured, taking a relaxed sip of wine.
He noticed that your eyes shone and that you seemed confused for just a moment before blabbing on with visible excitement, talking a lot faster.
Even though he had trouble following, he sat forward, elbows firmly placed on his spread knees and hands on his chin as if in deep, profound thought all the while nodding at all those random trivia facts you shared about your passion.
At the same time, he shared some random side facts on ranked blades he’s picked up over the years and even let you touch Yoru, explaining in great detail how important the cut of the blade truly was and how maintaining it is his secret to slicing through ships with his brute strength and Haki.
And that’s when you noticed – Mihawk had nobody to talk to about “these things” either. Or maybe he had nobody to talk to in general. Who knows?
But you did have each other.
118 notes ¡ View notes
444eggnog ¡ 9 hours ago
Text
A Sin With My Name On It
✍︎: this is my way of apologising for ruining lando’s foolproof plan in Car Fun, lol. i’m still pretty new to writing smut, so please feel free to share any thoughts or suggestions. seriously, let me know if there’s anything you think I should change. i’m really fighting the urge to just post all my drafts at once; i feel like once i do, i’ll finally be able to breathe. AND! thank you so much for the amazing support on my previous lando au, it genuinely blows my mind that it got so much attention. as usual, i hope you enjoy dj lando ♡
masterlist ! ☝
content: smut, shitty boyfriend, cheating (somewhat reasonable… jk)
pairing: dj!lando x reader in a toxic relationship
wc: 5.1k
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She tasted like heaven. And he had no plans of repenting.
The bass rattled the floor, even behind the booth. Lando adjusted his headphones with one hand and glanced across the club, scanning the crowd the way he always did in his downtime between transitions.
He caught sight of the other DJ, if you could even call him that, the guy barely blended tracks, he just hit “play” on his setlist and smirked. Tonight, he was doing what he did best: leaning too close to a girl at the bar, whispering something that made her giggle as he offered her a drink.
Lando’s brow lifted. Doesn’t that guy have a girlfriend?
He couldn’t let it go. Even as the lights swept across the room and the next song came in, he kept glancing over. It wasn’t subtle. The hand on her lower back. The smile.
Finally he turned to the bartender, a guy he knew well enough to ask mid-song. “Oi, he’s taken, yeah?” The bartender snorted. “Been with his girl for like a year. Don’t know how she puts up with it. Dude’s a walking red flag.”
Lando shook his head, letting out a humorless laugh. Obvious cheater. And she can’t even see it.
But that was before he saw her. Really saw her.
She walked in a little later than usual, he remembered the bartender mentioning she often showed up late, after work maybe. And when she did, it was like the club lights dimmed just for her.
Low-cut, V-neck halter top, backless, all slinky black fabric that left nothing to the imagination if you let yourself imagine. Which he did. Unapologetically. Low-waisted black jeans that hugged her hips like they were in a fight not to let go. Winged eyeliner that made her eyes sharp, dangerous even in the dark. Brown lip gloss that glimmered like something you wanted to lick off.
Jesus.
He adjusted his mixer, pretending to be busy, but he watched her head for her boyfriend. That smile she gave him. Like she was happy to see him. Like she didn’t even notice the other girl had been in his lap five minutes ago.
How the fuck does a guy cheat on someone who looks like that?
He bit back a scoff. She’s showing up like it’s Fashion Week and he’s dressed like he’s laying bricks. Timberland boots. At a club. Yuck. 
He shook his head again, this time for himself. Pathetic.
He watched her wrap an arm around her boyfriend. The other DJ barely glanced at her, tapping a button on his controller without even returning the hug properly.
She deserves better. Way better.
─── 🏁
Lando wouldn’t admit it out loud. Hell, he barely admitted it to himself.
But for the next few days, he found himself checking the club’s DJ schedule the second he clocked in. Just a quick glance. Nothing suspicious. Totally professional.
If that DJ was on the lineup, Lando would roll his eyes, mutter something like “of course,” and mentally brace for a long shift of watching him flirt with half the female clientele.
Not that he was watching for him.
Okay. Maybe he was checking if she would be there.
Which was stupid. He didn’t even know her name. Not officially, anyway. The bartender had mentioned it once, but it got drowned out by the bass. And Lando was too proud to ask for it again.
So he just waited.
And when she did show up?
Jesus Christ.
He’d be behind the decks, fake-focused on his mixer while she walked in like she owned the damn place. Every time.
Low-cut tops in every possible color, backless halters tied so dangerously loose it made him worry for her sanity and his. High-waisted jeans one day, a tiny skirt the next. Always with that sharp eyeliner and glossy brown lips.
It was like watching temptation itself cruise through the door and toss him a casual wave of indifference.
And Lando was not indifferent.
He’d see her slip over to her boyfriend whose entire personality was apparently cigarettes and Axe body spray and Lando would fight the urge to gag.
How the fuck did he pull her?
That question haunted him.
It annoyed him so much he started making a game of it.
He’d accidentally bump into her at the bar. Twice. Maybe three times.
“Oops, my bad,” he’d say, offering that stupidly charming grin he knew worked on most girls. “You alright?”
She’d smile back, polite. Slightly surprised.
“Yeah. All good.”
All good.
Right. Even though her boyfriend was currently ignoring her to hit on someone in the VIP booth.
Lando leaned on the counter, pretending to order a drink. “Your boyfriend always this... friendly with the clientele?”
She blinked. Her expression tightened. “He’s just being nice.”
He snorted. Didn’t bother hiding it. “Yeah. Super nice. Makes everyone feel special. Real public service.”
She didn’t even have a comeback. Just rolled her eyes and turned away.
But he caught it. That tiny flicker of embarrassment.
Later, he’d lean over to the bartender. “Smells like cigarettes and what? Axe? Guy’s a walking fire hazard.”Bartender cackled. “You’re terrible.” Lando shrugged, eyes still on her across the floor. “Can’t figure out how she hasn’t ditched him yet. It’s a damn mystery.”
He tried to convince himself he was just curious.
He was a DJ. He noticed people. It was his job.
But his gaze always slid back to her.
How she smiled when she talked, even when she looked tired. How she pulled at her top like she was nervous it might slip but wore it anyway. How she leaned over the bar to talk to the staff like they were old friends.
He knew what she looked like.
But for the first time in days, he realized he was starting to learn who she was.
And the worst part?
He liked her.
He really, really liked her.
─── 🏁
She wasn’t stupid.
That was the part that stung the most.
She saw him. Every single time.
Her boyfriend had this routine down to an art: lean over the bar, smile that crooked, lazy smile, whisper in some girl's ear just loud enough to make her giggle and flip her hair. Offer a free drink like it was a promise of something more.
It bothered her. Of course it did.
She just refused to admit it.
She'd stand there, arms folded, pretending she wasn’t watching. Pretending she didn’t hear the bartenders whispering about “the third one tonight.”
God, it was humiliating.
But she was too damn proud to show it.
Because once, back when they first met, he was the first guy to ever make her feel wanted in that all-consuming way she thought she deserved. The kind who said she was the hottest girl in the room and treated her like it.
Maybe she’d just gotten addicted to that feeling.
Or maybe she was too stubborn to admit she was seeing him through rose-colored glasses she refused to take off.
And for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why she kept showing up for this.
Actually, scratch that.
She knew exactly why.
Because every time she walked into that club, there was another DJ behind the booth who actually seemed to see her.
Not in the lazy, grabby way her boyfriend did.
But in this sharp, amused, way-too-observant way that made her feel like she was on display even when she was fully dressed.
Which she rarely was, let’s be honest.
She liked her clothes tight and her tops low. Tonight was no different; a deep V-neck halter that was practically begging to fall open if she breathed wrong. Paired with jeans that sat so low on her hips she kept checking they were still on.
She knew what she looked like.
So did he.
Lando.
God, even his name was infuriatingly hot.
Those eyes, bright, almost obscene green even under the shifting club lights, tracked her like he was a predator and she was something he was starving for.
He always seemed to be there.
Passing behind her at the bar, brushing her lower back with his hand like it was an accident, except it never felt like one. “Careful there,” he’d murmur, voice low enough to make goosebumps rise on her arms. The way he’d squeeze her waist just slightly before letting go.
He always smiled when she jumped at his touch. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.
And fuck, she hated how much she liked it.
He was worse when he talked.
Dry. Cutting. “Oh, your boyfriend’s working hard tonight. Think he’s got the whole bar covered?” Or his personal favorite, always with that lazy smirk: “Gotta admire a guy who can multitask. DJ set and an afterparty sign-up sheet. Respect.”
She’d scoff. Roll her eyes. But inside?
She felt it like a hook behind her ribs, tugging her closer to the edge of something dangerous.
Because he wasn’t subtle. Not at all.
He looked at her like he was imagining what she looked like out of those clothes. Like he could already see it.
And worse?
She let him.
Let herself imagine what those fingers felt like if they weren’t being polite, weren’t resting feather-light on her hip just to pass by.
What that mouth would feel like on her neck, lips, anywhere, and every where.
What those eyes would look like when he was above her, under her, anywhere he wanted.
It was pathetic.
But the thing that burned most?
She didn’t even know why she put up with her boyfriend anymore.
Because every time she walked in here, she caught herself wondering how long she’d have to keep lying to herself before she did something she couldn’t take back.
Something she desperately wanted to do anyway.
─── 🏁
Lando pushed the back door open, letting the muffled thump of bass spill out onto the pavement before it swung shut behind him. The air outside was damp, cooler than the sweat-soaked, neon-blasted club interior. He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.
He’d needed to get out of there for a minute.
Partly to ditch the girl who’d practically climbed into the booth with him, way too handsy for his taste, her acrylic nails tapping on his shoulder, her lips brushing his ear. He’d peeled her off with a smile that wasn’t quite polite.
Mostly, though?
He was looking for someone in particular.
He didn’t know when he’d gotten so predictable. He just knew he was hoping he’d catch her slipping out for air, maybe leaning against the brick wall checking her phone, rolling her eyes at her idiot boyfriend, looking stupidly gorgeous while pretending she didn’t know he was watching.
And tonight, lucky him.
She was right there.
Except she wasn’t smiling.
No, she was furious.
He froze halfway down the steps, heart tightening when he realized what he was seeing.
They were arguing. Loud enough that he could hear them over the echo of the club’s bass vibrating the door.
Her boyfriend’s voice was sharp, cruel. “I’m sick of this. Sick of you showing up every fucking night like you own the place.” Her jaw was clenched so tight he was surprised she could even talk. “Oh, I’m sorry, is my support suffocating you?” He barked out a laugh, ugly and humorless. “Yeah, actually. It is. Jesus, get a fucking hobby.”
Lando’s hands curled into fists in his jacket pockets.
He shouldn’t be listening.
It felt like intruding. Like he was spying on something private.
But he couldn’t look away.
Not when she was blinking back tears so furiously she smudged her liner with the back of her hand, trying to look angry instead of gutted.
Not when he got a good look at what she was wearing tonight.
A black dress, tight, thin straps, lace at the neckline that hugged her chest in a way that was almost unfair. She looked like sin bottled and labeled for him only, not that he’d ever admit that out loud.
But right now?
She looked miserable.
He watched as her boyfriend threw his hands up in exasperation. “Whatever. I’m going home. Do what you want.”
She scoffed, rolling her eyes so hard they nearly disappeared in her head. “Yeah, fuck you too.”
He stalked off down the sidewalk without another word, disappearing around the corner.
And she just stood there.
Arms crossed. Chin up.
But her chest was rising and falling too fast.
Lando swallowed hard.
He should go back inside. This wasn’t his business.
But his feet had a mind of their own.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he was already moving toward her, boots crunching on loose gravel.
She didn’t see him at first, too busy glaring after her boyfriend’s retreating silhouette.
He cleared his throat softly. “Hey.”
She turned, startled. Eyes rimmed red but blazing.
Lando hesitated for half a second, this wasn’t his fight, he knew that.
But fuck it.
He kept walking until he was right in front of her. Close enough to see the way her dress quivered at her rapid breathing.
Close enough to smell her perfume: sweet, musky, like warm nights and bad decisions he was dying to make.
He didn’t know what he planned to say.
But he knew he couldn’t just leave her standing there alone.
─── 🏁
She didn’t cry.
She wouldn’t. Not out here.
Not where everyone could see her, where he could see her.
Her boyfriend’s words still rang in her ears, ugly and sharp: “Get a fucking hobby.”
Like showing up to support him, to just be near him, was somehow a burden. Like caring too much was something to be embarrassed about.
She stared out at the street, arms crossed so tightly over her chest that her fingernails dug into her skin. She blinked fast, trying to stop the tears away before they could fall. Her throat ached from holding them back.
She heard footsteps before she saw him.
Soft crunch of gravel. A subtle exhale.
Her heart sank. She didn’t want a pity speech. Not from the bartender, not from a bouncer, not—
“Hey.”
Her chest tightened.
Of course.
She turned. And there he was.
Lando stood a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jacket, eyes steady on hers. His green eyes looked almost golden under the glow of the overhead light. He looked calm. Too calm, like he didn’t just walk into the middle of a mess she’d tried to keep quiet.
She straightened her shoulders. She hated being seen like this.
She hated that it was him seeing her like this.
Because the second he looked at her like that concerned, quiet, maybe even a little protective, she felt herself splintering all over again.
“You alright?” he asked, voice low.
She gave a breathy, sarcastic laugh. “Peachy.”
He didn’t smile. Just stepped closer. “You shouldn’t stay out here alone.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
He nodded once. Took another slow step forward. “Let me drive you home.”
Her pulse kicked up.
She opened her mouth to say no. The word was right there.
But it caught on the back of her tongue.
Not because she didn’t want to accept.
But because she wasn’t sure what would happen if she did.
A tight car. A long drive. Just the two of them.
His hand on the gearshift. His eyes flicking over to her every time the streetlights passed.
What if he touched her again? Casually. On the thigh. On the waist. The way he always did when he passed her in the club, just enough to make her breath catch.
What if she leaned in?
What if she did something stupid?
She looked away, jaw tight. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” he said gently. “And it’s late.”
She didn’t respond.
“Come on,” he added, softer now. “Just a ride. That’s all.”
She looked up at him again. He wasn’t pushing. His face was open. Calm.
But those damn eyes…
She was tired. Humiliated. And cold.
“Okay,” she whispered.
He didn’t say I told you so. Didn’t smirk. Just nodded once and turned toward the parking lot.
And she followed knowing full well she wasn’t just getting in a car.
She was stepping over a line.
And praying she had the strength not to cross the next one.
─── 🏁
Lando unlocked the car without looking at her, letting her slip into the passenger seat in silence. The door shut with a dull thunk.
It felt too quiet after the pounding club.
He started the engine, glancing at her for the first time since they left the sidewalk.
She was turned toward the window already. Arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes fixed on nothing.
He waited for her to say something. An address. A neighborhood. Anything.
She didn’t.
Just kept breathing in these shallow, shaky little sighs that fogged the glass.
So he put the car in gear and drove.
It wasn’t like he had a plan. He just needed to get her away from there. Away from him.
He swallowed, stealing another glance at her.
She looked like sin in that stupid dress.
Thin straps biting into her shoulders. Lace hugging her chest so tight it moved with every ragged breath. Her thighs pressed together, shifting every time the car hit a bump.
He shouldn’t be looking.
God, he shouldn’t be thinking anything right now.
She’d just been crying. She was humiliated. Furious.
But his eyes kept sliding down her legs anyway. Watching the way her knees brushed together, like she couldn’t quite get comfortable. Like they were begging to be pulled apart.
He gripped the wheel harder, knuckles whitening.
Stop. Jesus, stop.
She sighed again, this tiny, frustrated sound. Her lips parted, glossy even in the dull streetlight.
He could almost feel them.
He flexed his fingers on the leather.
It was wrong.
So fucking wrong.
She was fresh from a fight with her boyfriend, her ogre-looking asshole of a boyfriend, he reminded himself.
But still her boyfriend.
She wasn’t his.
Didn’t matter how many times he told himself she deserved better.
Didn’t matter how many times he’d imagined her smiling for him instead.
He cleared his throat, voice rough. “You gonna tell me where to go, or am I just driving till we hit the ocean?”
She didn’t move for a beat. Then turned her head, eyes a mess but sharp. “Just drive.”
It wasn’t said kindly.
But it wasn’t leave me alone, either.
He swallowed. Nodded once.
He drove.
And the whole time, he tried not to think about pulling over, reaching across the seat, grabbing her face and kissing the fight out of her.
Tried not to think about undoing her seatbelt so he could drag her onto his lap and make her forget every cruel word that asshole had ever said.
Tried not to think about how badly he wanted to show her exactly who she really deserved.
He failed spectacularly.
But he kept driving anyway.
Because for tonight, that was enough.
─── 🏁
She didn’t even know where they were.
She’d told him to just drive, and he had.
No questions. No lectures. Just silence, broken only by the hum of the engine and the occasional squeak of the wipers brushing away the city mist.
She watched the streetlights blur past. Orange and white. Warm and cold.
But she wasn’t really seeing them.
She was too busy trying to hold herself together.
Her arms were wrapped around her own waist, squeezing tight. She could feel her heart in her ribs, fluttering wildly, embarrassingly desperate.
She could smell him. Even over the cheap car freshener. That stupid masculine cologne that clung to his jacket.
She felt the heat radiating off him every time they hit a stoplight and he glanced over.
He was so close.
Too close.
She swallowed, hard.
It wasn’t the lights. It wasn’t the city. It wasn’t anything out there that made her say:
“Can you… can you pull over here?”
He blinked. Turned to her.
“Here?”
She nodded quickly, eyes darting out the window. She lied through her teeth. “The lights are… pretty.”
She almost laughed.
Pretty?
She didn’t give a fuck about the damn lights.
The truth burned hot under her skin.
It wasn’t the lights, it was the heat.
The heat she couldn’t shake every time she felt his eyes on her.
The heat that pooled beneath her every time his stupid big hands flexed on the steering wheel.
The heat that made her bite her lip until it stung, imagining things she shouldn’t.
Things that were wrong.
Because she had a boyfriend.
Didn’t matter that he was a piece of shit.
Didn’t matter that he’d left her crying outside the club.
She was still his.
And yet here she was, in another man’s car, intentionally stopping in the middle of nowhere just to be alone with him a little longer.
Just so she didn’t have to go home yet.
Because if she was honest, truly, humiliatingly honest,
She didn’t want to go home.
She wanted him.
God, she wanted him so badly it hurt.
Her mind spun with it, filthy, frantic.
A hundred different ways she could say thank you for the ride.
One with her climbing into his lap, grinding down on him until he couldn’t pretend to be polite anymore.
Another with both of them spilling into the backseat, windows fogged, her dress hitched up to her waist while he fucked her so deep the whole car rocked.
And her personal favorite,
Sliding off her seat onto the floor between his legs, the car cramped and dark, his hand tangled in her hair while she took him deep in her mouth. Letting him guide her pace, letting him groan her name like he’d been imagining it forever.
She squeezed her thighs together, trying to stop the aching throb that settled there.
It didn’t help.
Nothing helped.
She turned away from him, pretending to watch the streetlights.
“Yeah,” she said quietly, hating how breathless she sounded. “Here’s good.”
He didn’t argue.
Just put the car in park and let the engine idle, glancing over at her in the dim glow.
─── 🏁
He slowed the car to a stop at the curb when she told him to.
“Here?” he asked, brow furrowed.
She nodded, breath hitching. “Yeah. Here’s good.”
He blinked.
He looked out through the windshield.
The only “lights” around were from an ugly old street lamp buzzing with moths and a grimy billboard for floral-scented hand soap.
Pretty?
He almost scoffed.
What the fuck was she talking about?
He turned his head slowly to call her bluff and froze.
She wasn’t looking at the window at all now.
She was staring at nothing, eyes glazed, breathing shallow.
Her fingers dug so hard into her thighs he could see the indent of her nails even in the dim light. She squeezed them together like she was trying to break her own bones.
And then he really saw her.
The flush on her chest. The tremor in her breath. The way her lip was caught between her teeth, wet and glossy.
Oh.
Oh.
He felt heat flood through his chest, down to his gut, settling painfully in his lap.
She wasn’t looking at the lights.
She was fighting herself.
He swallowed hard, hand tightening on the steering wheel until the leather creaked.
Her name left his mouth for the first time, unsteady but deliberate.
She jolted a little, turning to face him.
And fuck.
She was looking at him like she’d strip him bare right there if he even hinted at it.
That was the same look he’d been sending her all night.
All week.
Maybe longer.
Her lips parted. She breathed once, twice, shaky and hungry.
Then her voice came out cracked, pleading. “We shouldn’t.”
It sounded like a warning.
It sounded like please stop me.
He stared at her for a heartbeat.
Then unbuckled her seatbelt with a single snap.
She gasped but didn’t move away.
He dropped the belt to the side and reached for her waist, fingers hot and heavy, deliberate as he pulled her toward him.
She resisted for half a second, her nails digging into the seat, but her body betrayed her. She was already lifting her hips, already leaning over the console.
He grabbed her firmly, guiding her onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She settled there, thighs spread over his, dress riding high on her hips, breathing so fast he felt it everywhere they touched.
He pressed his forehead to hers, his own breath coming ragged.
“Say it again,” he whispered.
She swallowed hard, eyes glassy.
Her mouth trembled. “We shouldn’t…”
But she didn’t move away.
Didn’t even try.
And he didn’t let her finish before he kissed her.
Her weight settled on his lap, and for a second he thought he might lose his mind from just that.
Her thighs bracketed his hips, warm and tense. Her breath spilled over his cheek.
She didn’t push him away.
She didn’t say stop.
When he kissed her, she kissed him back with a violence that sent sparks behind his eyes. Teeth clashing. Lips slick. Her fingers buried in his hair, pulling, needing.
He let himself drown in it.
Because fuck consequences.
He didn’t care about the club, or the dark street, or the idea of some cop shining a flashlight in the window.
He didn’t even care about her Timberland-wearing asshole boyfriend who’d abandoned her outside like she was trash.
All he cared about was the way she tasted when she whimpered into his mouth.
He broke the kiss only to drag his hand up her thigh, pushing her dress higher, bunching the fabric around her hips. She shivered under his touch, gasping softly.
He pulled back just enough to look at her.
The way the lace straps had fallen halfway down her shoulders.
The way her chest heaved, threatening to spill out of the tight bodice.
Jesus Christ.
He wanted to feel every part of her.
She stared back at him, eyes dark and hungry. Lips swollen from kissing.
Then she did something that made him stop breathing.
She reached for the hem of her dress.
He watched, fucking hypnotized, as she peeled it up and over her head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside onto the dashboard.
She sat there in just her black lace bra and tiny underwear, straddling him in the driver’s seat, panting.
He swallowed hard. His voice broke when he spoke. “Fuck…”
He leaned forward, mouth hovering over her chest. One hand came up to her back, fumbling for the clasp of her bra.
She let him.
It popped open easily, the straps sliding off her shoulders.
She shivered, her breath stuttering.
He didn’t even think. He let the bra drop onto the seat beside them.
She was bare. Warm. Soft.
He ran his hands up her sides, palms big enough to span her waist, thumbs brushing under her breasts.
He wanted to memorize the way she arched into him.
And then she surprised him again.
Her fingers went to his belt.
He tensed, heartbeat slamming in his throat.
She didn’t ask. Didn’t even look him in the eyes at first.
Just undid it. Button, zipper, metal clinking in the cramped car.
She hesitated for half a second, glancing up at him.
His breath hitched.
He let his hips lift gently, helping her.
Her knuckles brushed him through his boxers. He groaned, deep and helpless.
She moaned at the sound.
Like she liked it.
Like she’d been waiting to hear it.
His head fell back against the seat.
Fuck...
He didn’t think about getting caught.
Didn’t think about what it would mean tomorrow.
Didn’t think about her boyfriend, or her mascara-stained tears outside the club.
He just thought about now.
About the way she was looking at him like she was starving.
About how goddamn lucky he was that she was in his lap at all.
He didn’t remember deciding to move.
It was pure instinct.
Her hips were rocking subtly in his lap, breath coming in these sharp, shallow gasps every time she shifted.
Without thinking, he pushed up against her.
Hard.
Deliberate.
He felt the wet heat of her through that thin scrap of her underwear.
She choked on a sound, half-moan, half-whimper.
It lit him up from the inside out.
Yeah. Feel that.
He did it again. Grinding up, making sure she felt every inch of how badly she was wrecking him.
Her fingers clawed at his shoulders. Then she leaned in, mouth dragging hot and wet along his jaw until she found his ear.
She nipped at it.
Not gently.
It sent a violent shiver through him.
“Fuck,” he groaned, voice breaking.
She didn’t even wait. Her hands fumbled at the hem of his shirt, pushing it up. He lifted his arms obediently, brain short-circuiting as she peeled it off and tossed it somewhere in the dark.
He was panting.
He should have stopped. Said something.
We shouldn’t.
But when he looked at her, hair a mess, eyes black, chest heaving, there wasn’t a single chance in hell he could make himself say it.
She went for the band of his boxers next, fingers curling in the elastic.
She didn’t speak.
Didn’t have to.
It was the way she tugged, like she was asking permission and demanding it at the same time.
He swallowed hard, voice shredded. “Okay.”
Like a hungry, stupid boy, he obeyed.
He pushed them down in one swift, fumbling motion, groaning when the cool air hit him, and when she moaned at the sight.
Her nails dug into his shoulders again for balance.
He felt her shake.
He reached down, hands big and warm on her thigh, sliding slowly inward.
She shivered.
He hooked a finger into the side of her panties and pushed them aside, baring her completely to him.
Fuck.
He could feel her.
Hot. Wet.
Waiting.
Their eyes met in the glow of the dashboard lights, both of them breathing like they’d been running for miles.
No words.
None needed.
He lined them up, hands steady even though his whole body trembled.
And when he pushed in, slow but deep, he felt her nails bite him so hard he knew he’d have marks the next day.
Her mouth fell open on a broken moan.
He didn’t even try to stay quiet.
The car was filled with the sound of their harsh breathing, the squeak of leather, the wet heat of bodies colliding in desperate, uncoordinated rhythm.
It was wrong.
It was so fucking wrong.
He knew it.
But neither of them stopped.
Because it was also inevitable.
A mistake they’d both tried so hard to control.
A sin that wasn’t ending tonight.
Just beginning.
─── 🏁
part 2 👀
113 notes ¡ View notes
sunsetmade ¡ 19 hours ago
Note
hii, can you write something about rafe with a clumsy girlfriend? (I've read the previous one that you wrote and it's the first work of yours that I've read!) like she's just soo soft and gentle, moves clumsily and always has cuts and bruises (optional), knocks things and glass is too dangerous for her:((she's so me). everyone feels annoyed with it and makes fun of her for it, teasing rafe that he probably lost his mind, making a girl like him his girlfriend. it makes her think if rafe gets tired of taking care of her? she thinks that she'd be too hopeless without him with her:(( love lots and also, you can make adjustments, with no pressure!
Thank you so much for the request! I love the clumsy reader trope!
Hazardously Yours
Rafe Cameron x Clumsy! Reader
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She was the kind of girl who got tripped up by her own shoelaces.
And not in that poetic, dreamy, “life’s a mess” kind of way—no, it was literal. One minute she was walking down the sidewalk, humming to herself or admiring a cloud shaped like a fish, and the next? Face-first on the pavement. Palms scraped, knees throbbing, cheeks flushed from the sudden, clumsy betrayal of her own feet.
She never fell with the kind of grace you see in movies. There was nothing soft or cinematic about it. Her arms flailed like she was trying to fly, panic flickered across her face as she twisted midair, and when she landed, it was usually accompanied by a loud thud and an embarrassed little gasp. Stairs betrayed her. Doorways brushed her shoulders like they had something personal against her. And anything made of glass? It practically shattered in fear just being near her.
People rolled their eyes. Joked about bubble wrap. Sighed when she knocked something over or arrived with a new bruise blooming across her shin.
But Rafe never flinched.
Not when she dropped his favorite mug—his favorite—just three days into staying over at his place. She’d stood there frozen, wide-eyed in the silence that followed the crash, already bracing for disappointment. But he just walked in, barefoot and shirtless, hair a mess from sleep, and stepped around the broken pieces like they were nothing.
“You okay?” he asked, eyes on her, not the mug. “Did you get cut?”
Not when she tripped over his gym bag in the hallway—despite him moving it just that morning—and slammed into the side table hard enough to knock down a picture frame and bruise her elbow. She’d winced and hissed through her teeth, trying to blink back the sting. But before she could say a word, he was there again, like he’d felt it happen from the other room.
He crouched beside her, his hands careful as they found her arm, his touch all softness and warmth. Fingers brushed over her skin as if he could draw the pain out, like maybe if he was gentle enough, it wouldn’t hurt at all.
“Easy,” he’d murmur, low and steady, like it was instinct. “C’mon, baby. Let me see.”
And she would. Always. Because no matter how clumsy she felt, how much space she seemed to take up in all the wrong ways, Rafe never looked at her like she was a burden.
He looked at her like every bruise was a reason to hold her tighter.
Like every fall was just another chance to catch her.
There was this one night—cold and blue around the edges, the kind that made the windows fog and the floor feel like ice—when she’d tried to surprise him by making dinner.
Tried being the key word.
She’d had a recipe pulled up on her phone, sleeves rolled to her elbows, and this determined little furrow in her brow that said tonight, I’ve got this. But the universe, as always, had other plans.
She chopped vegetables too fast, knicked her finger, and winced when blood beaded at the tip. In the chaos of trying to rinse it off and bandage it with shaking hands, she knocked a wooden spoon too close to the burner. The end of it blackened and started to curl, and she yelped, swatting it away just before it caught fire.
The chicken—once hopeful and golden in the pan—burned while she was distracted, the skin going from crisp to char in a matter of seconds. Smoke curled from the edges, and she tripped over the corner of the kitchen mat trying to fix it. The world tilted, and she landed flat on her back with a clatter—pan lids bouncing across the tile like coins spilled from fate’s pocket.
That was when Rafe walked in.
He froze in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, the other holding a bag of takeout he hadn’t even mentioned he’d gone out to grab—just in case. His eyes scanned the mess: the scorched spoon on the stove, the trail of flour dusted across the counter, the smell of something definitely overcooked, and her… lying on her back in the middle of it all, dazed and breathless.
She braced for it. The groan. The tired sigh. Maybe even a What were you thinking? She’d heard it from others before. From family. From friends. From strangers watching her knock into life like a pinball.
But Rafe didn’t do any of that.
He blinked at her once. Then slowly, softly, he smiled like she was the best thing he’d seen all day.
“You okay, baby?” he asked, his voice low, already moving to crouch beside her.
She sat up with a groan, cheeks burning hotter than the oven. “I think I burned dinner,” she mumbled, swiping flour off her shirt and wishing the ground would swallow her whole.
Rafe didn’t even glance toward the stove.
Instead, he gently pulled her into his lap, settling her between his legs on the cold tile like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arms wrapped around her, one hand brushing the hair from her cheek, the other steady on her hip.
“Are you okay?” he asked again, quieter now, like the only thing that mattered was her.
“I cut my finger,” she admitted in a whisper, holding it up like proof of her defeat.
He took her hand in his, turning it carefully to inspect the sloppy Band-Aid she’d slapped on. Then he brought it to his lips and kissed just beneath the pad of her finger—soft, slow, deliberate.
“You could burn the whole house down,” he murmured against her skin, “and I’d still think you’re the cutest damn thing on the island.”
And somehow, that made her want to cry more than any disaster in the kitchen.
⸝
Soon, she noticed his home changing in small, quiet ways.
The coffee table with its sharp corners? Gone, replaced by a smooth, rounded one she wouldn’t bruise her knee on when she walked too close. The tall, thin glass tumblers he used to drink from—crystal-clear and easy to knock over—disappeared one day without a word. In their place were thick, plastic ones, wide and sturdy, ones that could bounce off the floor and survive her clumsy grip.
He never said a thing about it. Never made a show of what he’d swapped out or why. He just adjusted the space around her like it was the most obvious thing in the world—like it wasn’t even a question.
And of course, she noticed. She always did. One evening, curled up beside him on the couch, she looked over her shoulder and asked casually, “Did you get new cups?”
Rafe didn’t even look up from his phone. Just shrugged pulling her into his chest more and said, “Didn’t like the old ones.”
But she saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Saw the way his eyes softened when she drank from one without hesitation, without worry. When she tucked her legs under her without wincing from bumping into something sharp or fragile or cold.
Because in a world that often made her feel like too much or not enough, Rafe didn’t just make room for her.
He built it.
Quietly. Intentionally.
Like she was worth bending the whole damn world for.
But no matter how many times Rafe assured her she wasn’t a burden the thoughts still lingered. And it didn’t help that every time they went out people noticed.
It started at a party—one of those outdoor things on the edge of the marsh, where the air smelled like salt and beer, and the ground was soft enough to ruin your shoes. The kind of gathering where everyone wore polos with popped collars, where the music was just a little too loud and the conversations blurred into one big hum of laughter, clinking bottles, and private school arrogance.
She hadn’t even wanted to go. Crowds weren’t really her thing, and uneven ground was even worse. But Rafe had been invited, and he’d said it so gently—“Just come for a little, stay close to me”—and she had.
She’d only wanted to help. That was it. The drinks were running low, and people were getting loud about it, so she offered to refill a few cups. She ducked over to the flimsy folding table someone had set up near the cooler, her arms already full of bottles, trying to balance them against her chest.
But her elbow caught the corner of the table—just barely—and the whole thing wobbled. A single wine glass, the only real one among a sea of plastic cups, tipped and tumbled before she could catch it.
It hit the ground and shattered.
Sharp and loud and immediate.
The music barely stuttered. But the laughter?
That was different.
It cut sharper than the glass.
Someone whistled low. “You seriously let her near glass, Cameron?”
Another voice, louder and smug: “Man’s got a death wish.”
“Does she come with a warning label, or?”
She froze, glass glittering at her feet, the neck of a bottle still clutched in her hand. Her heart beat too fast, cheeks blooming hot with embarrassment as the sound of their teasing rolled over her, careless and amused.
Her first instinct was to apologize. Then to disappear. She crouched down, fumbling to gather the shards with shaking fingers, her vision blurring as her eyes welled up from the sting—whether from shame or frustration, she didn’t know.
But before she could even touch the first piece, Rafe was there.
He crouched beside her without a word, his body blocking her from the crowd like a shield. “You’re gonna cut yourself, pretty girl,” he murmured, voice low and steady like he didn’t hear the people behind him.
He tugged his hoodie sleeve over his hand and carefully swept the broken pieces into a small pile, his movements methodical, calm. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. Like he wasn’t even a little surprised.
She didn’t know what to say. Her hands were still trembling, her breath caught in her chest. She waited for him to snap. To sigh and look at her like she was a problem. To mutter something like Why do you always have to—
But he didn’t.
He stood, slipping his hand around her waist, guiding her away from the crowd with quiet confidence. His palm rested firm and warm at the small of her back, thumb moving in slow, grounding circles like he was soothing her without saying it aloud.
They didn’t go far—just around the side of the house where it was quieter, the laughter and music muffled now, distant. She stood there, arms crossed tight over her chest, trying to swallow the lump in her throat.
Rafe didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at her. Really looked. And she hated that his expression wasn’t angry. That it was soft. Understanding. That it held none of the frustration she’d braced for.
Because that somehow made it worse.
It would’ve been easier if he got mad. If he scolded her or joined in on the teasing. Then she could’ve curled in on herself, said I know, I know, and carried the guilt like a stone.
“I’m sorry you have to baby me all the time,” she whispered after he had started driving towards his house.
Her voice was barely audible over the hum of the car, but it felt deafening in her chest. She kept her eyes fixed on her lap, fingers twisted together, nails picking at the skin around her knuckles like maybe if she focused hard enough, she wouldn’t cry.
Rafe glanced over at her, his brows knitting together the way they always did when something was wrong and she was trying to hide it.
He didn’t say anything—not at first. Just flicked on the blinker and pulled over to the side of the quiet road, gravel crunching beneath the tires as they eased to a stop beneath a cluster of trees. Crickets chirped somewhere in the distance. The party was long behind them now, but her shame still clung to her like smoke.
He turned off the engine. Silence settled in the car, thick and gentle.
Then he shifted in his seat, turning to face her fully. One of his hands reached out, finding her bare thigh under the hem of her skirt. His palm was warm and steady, grounding, and when he started tracing slow, lazy circles into her skin with his thumb, she couldn’t help the tiny shiver that rolled through her.
“I like babying you,” he said, his voice low and calm—like he was reminding her of something she already knew but had forgotten in the haze of humiliation.
Her eyes stayed down.
“I like knowing I’m the one who gets to keep you safe,” he went on, fingers moving in soothing patterns. “I like carrying you when your feet give out. I like wrapping your ankle when you twist it. I like kissing the bandages on your fingers even when you pretend you’re fine. And I love being the first person you look for when something goes wrong.”
Her throat tightened. “But I mess everything up.”
“You don’t mess everything up,” he said, firm now, but still gentle. “You just…move through the world like it wasn’t made for soft people. That’s not your fault.”
She finally lifted her eyes to meet his. There was something sad in her expression, heavy and uncertain, like she couldn’t quite understand why someone like him would want someone like her. Someone who broke things. Someone who broke herself.
“Why?” she asked, voice cracking a little. “Why do you care so much?”
And the way Rafe looked at her then—like she was the only thing that ever made sense—nearly knocked the breath from her lungs.
“Because you’re mine,” he said simply.
Like it was the easiest truth in the world.
Like it didn’t need further explanation.
And in that moment, with his hand still warm against her skin, his eyes locked onto hers like nothing else existed, she realized something bone-deep and terrifying and beautiful:
If she didn’t have Rafe, she might have fallen apart a long time ago. She was hopelessly in love with him.
⸝
It was only after everything—the soft moments, the quiet nights, the way he folded his life around hers without ever making her feel like she took up too much space—that people still talked.
It was at a bonfire. Another one of those Kook parties perched on the edge of the water, where the flames reached high into the night and the laughter stretched even higher. Red cups glowed like fireflies, the speakers pulsed with music that was too loud to feel real, and the girls floated like they were born for it—bronzed skin, glassy smiles, perfect balance on heels in sand.
She already felt like a ghost in someone else’s movie.
But she smiled. That gentle, quiet kind she always gave when she wasn’t quite sure how to belong. She let Rafe tug her down onto the blanket between his legs, his arms winding tight around her waist, his chin resting against her shoulder like it was second nature. Pressing kisses to her bare shoulder as comfort.
And for a little while, it felt okay.
Until she stood to grab a drink.
It wasn’t anything dramatic. Just a misstep. The firelight warped the shadows, maybe the cooler was too close to the dip in the sand, or maybe it was just her usual clumsy luck—but either way, she stumbled. Fell forward onto her knees, palms skimming the grit. The cooler tipped. A stack of drinks toppled. A red Solo cup flew like a frisbee and splashed down—sticky, cold soda soaking right through her shorts.
And then came the laughter.
Loud and sharp and cruel. The kind that didn’t even try to pretend.
Someone clapped. Actually clapped.
“Oh shit,” someone wheezed. “Didn’t she trip at the last one too?”
“Man, Rafe, you’ve got your hands full.”
“How do you even function with her around? I bet she costs more in broken glass than gas money.”
The comments weren’t even whispered. No one tried to hide it. It wasn’t a joke told at her expense.
It was a performance.
Her face burned, and her hands shook as she scrambled up from the sand, trying to brush herself off and pretend it didn’t sting. But the tears already pressed hot at the backs of her eyes, and her throat felt too tight to swallow.
Then came Rafe’s voice—low, lethal, and louder than the fire crackling behind them.
“Leave her the fuck alone,” he said, sharp as glass, “or you’ll be picking your teeth out of the dirt.”
The bonfire snapped, sending sparks up into the dark.
And everything went still.
She turned, startled—but Rafe wasn’t looking at her. He was locked onto the source of the voices across the flames, his jaw clenched, hands curled into tight fists at his sides. His blue eyes had gone pale and hard—icy, detached, and cold in a way that made people go quiet.
No one said a thing.
He didn’t have to say it again.
Then he looked at her.
His features softened the second their eyes met. He crossed the sand in a few long strides, touched her face with a tenderness that cut right through the ache in her chest.
“You okay?” he asked, so soft it didn’t match his voice a second earlier.
She nodded. It was a lie. He knew it. But he didn’t call her on it.
“C’mon,” he murmured, tucking her into his side. “Let’s go home.”
When they got to the car she didn’t cry.
She kept her arms folded tight across her chest, legs curled up beneath her, her soaked shorts cold against her skin, the sting of humiliation still echoing behind her ribs.
Rafe didn’t press. Just drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting halfway on her thigh but also holding her hand, thumb rubbing slow circles into her skin like he knew she needed the pressure.
She didn’t cry when they got back, either.
Not when she showered. Not when she pulled one of his hoodies over her head and climbed into his bed, damp hair dripping onto the collar. Not even when he sprawled behind her, watching her quietly as she braided her hair with trembling fingers.
But it cracked anyway.
Her voice broke before she could stop it. Small. Raw.
“I don’t want you to be embarrassed of me.”
Rafe sat up instantly. “What?”
She still wouldn’t look at him. “I know I’m not like the girls you’re used to. I trip, and I spill things, and I embarrass you in front of your friends. Everyone thinks I’m just this… this mess you got stuck with.”
“No one thinks that.”
“They say it to your face, Rafe.”
And something in him changed.
Not anger. Not the kind he’d used at the bonfire.
This was quieter. Sharper. Sadder.
“You really think I could ever be embarrassed by you?”
She finally looked at him, eyes glassy. Silent.
“I’m in love with every single thing about you,” he said, voice rough. “You fall and laugh like it didn’t hurt, even though I know it does. You drop something and say sorry like the world might fall apart because of it. You get hurt and still tell me you’re fine—like it’s your job to make me feel better about it.”
He reached for her wrist, tugging gently until she was in his lap, knees tucked against his sides, her cheek pressed to his shoulder.
“You’re soft in a world that’s made of sharp edges. That doesn’t make you weak, baby. That makes you the bravest person I know.”
The tears finally spilled. Quiet, slow, steady.
“You think you’d be hopeless without me?” he asked, brushing one away with his thumb. “I’m hopeless without you.”
She let herself cry then. Really cry.
And Rafe just held her. Rocked her like she was something precious, something he had every intention of protecting with his life. One hand cupped the back of her neck, the other spread across her thigh like he needed to be touching her, needed to remind her she was there, that she was safe.
“You make me want to be someone careful,” he whispered. “You make me gentle.”
She let out a quiet, broken sound and pressed her face against his chest.
“You make me feel safe,” she breathed.
Rafe kissed the crown of her head, his lips lingering like a promise.
“Good,” he murmured. “Then we’re even.”
⸝
After that night, something shifted.
She still tripped.
She still stumbled into things that didn’t move fast enough to avoid her.
She still had bruises blooming on her shins and Band-Aids wrapped around her fingers like tiny flags of surrender.
But what changed—what really changed—was that she wasn’t afraid anymore.
Not of falling.
Not of the stares or the sighs or the heat that used to flood her cheeks when she messed up again.
And especially not of him.
Because he never flinched.
Even when she caught her foot on a crack in the middle of the street and pitched forward without warning, he was already there—arms like steel looping around her waist, steady hands pulling her back against him before her knees even brushed the pavement.
She’d gasped, heart in her throat, but Rafe just laughed softly behind her ear. “You really out here trying to give me a heart attack, huh?”
She grinned, breathless but safe, and leaned into his chest, not caring that people on the sidewalk were staring.
Or that one of her shoes was now facing the wrong direction.
He steadied her, then tucked her hair behind her ear like nothing had happened. Like it didn’t matter at all. And maybe it didn’t—not when he was there to catch her.
And then there was the night she fell out of his bed.
She’d rolled too close to the edge in her sleep—dreaming about something she’d already forgotten—and tumbled to the floor with a soft thud, limbs tangled in the sheets. The impact startled her awake, a confused noise slipping from her lips as she blinked into the dark.
But before she could even process where she was, Rafe was already up.
He crouched beside her, sleep still tugging at his lashes, his bare chest had marking from his hand from where he’d been lying on his stomach. His hair was a mess, and there was a crease from the pillow pressed into his cheek.
And he was smiling.
That sleepy, amused smile that only came out when he was too tired to fake anything but too in love to be anything but soft.
“Did you seriously fall out of bed?” he whispered, voice rough with sleep.
She groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “I didn’t mean to.”
He just chuckled, brushing his fingers down her arm as he peeled the blankets off her legs and gently scooped her into his arms. “You’re unbelievable,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as he carried her like she weighed nothing.
He settled her back into bed like he was tucking something fragile and sacred into place. He smoothed the blanket over her and pressed his forehead to hers.
“I love you,” he whispered, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Even when you’re falling out of furniture.”
She laughed, eyes fluttering closed as he curled around her again, his arms strong and warm at her waist.
And this time, as she drifted off, she didn’t worry about falling.
Because she knew—without a single doubt—he’d always be there to catch her.
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quietbluetune ¡ 9 hours ago
Text
The Unexpected Bend — B.R.
bob reynolds x fem val’s assistant!reader
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synopsis: pretending you weren’t falling for your boss’s newly recruited superhero is harder than you expected it to be— especially when you can’t seem to set aside your guilt surrounding him and he can’t help but want you anyway.
or, two times you lied to bob reynolds, and the one time you didn’t.
warnings: 18+, suggestive content but not full smut, heavy making out, grinding, very sensual, slow burn-ish, angst, mutual pining, reader is insecure, valentina is way more evil, the team doesn’t really know how to handle bob’s mental health yet, slight mentions of alcohol (i don’t actually think bob would drink tbh but)
word count: 28.9k (sorry, i got carried away) ao3
author’s note: i wrote this two months ago, but this is my first finished and published work— so i think i’ve been scared to actually share it. i’ve been procrastinating and over-editing to avoid it, but it’s something i had fun doing— so if even one person reads it and enjoys, that’s a success in my book! i’d also like to point out that i know there’s discourse on how some tend to infantilize bob and i don’t want that to come across in my writing at all, as i strongly agree that his mental struggles are often misrepresented. a part of this work gently (!!) explores that subject… you’ll see. oh, also yes, i know i use em dashes oddly. idk i’m rambling— please enjoy!
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Crestfallen, you walk, a jump at the click of your heels each time they meet the sullen pavement.
It echoes low, muffled sounds trapped between dense, concrete buildings and sticky, summer heat that burns off in the wake of night. This part of the city wasn’t home; it wasn’t much of anything yet— Just another block that looked like all the others, reminding you through the wind that whipped past windows and wove with intention that you still did not yet belong. 
None of it felt right: not the crosswalks you passed through, not the clothes you wore to look the part—tight, restrictive, unforgiving—not even when you finally reached the Watchtower, unrecognizable, a shell of itself and its memories. 
You used to be able to see it from your old job, just a blink away— An unmistakable beacon shining through the city. It was your favorite building to look at from your office late at night, the light dimming from your eyes as you got lost in your work, yet still found in the faint glow of an A that somehow continued to push you along.
Now, you didn’t dwell on what you felt twisting deep in your core when you saw it, absent-mindedly heading up after scanning your security clearance badges and sharing a routine nod with the doorman.
It was best not to think about it.
Soon, you’d be home and could try to forget who you were for a few hours before it pulled you back in again— Same loop, same lethargy.
Soon, you could just pretend to be someone else again.
You never got off easy, though— Still navigating the endless tasks through the city despite the promise of an 8 pm release. At least no one would be around, so you could make quick work of this one last thing.
And you wished that was still the case when the elevator finally opened to the top floor, reaching the end of your night that somehow only turned into the beginning.
The scent of familiarity—of warmth and peace—that allowed you to exhale a strained breath was the same thing that took it away again, making you freeze abruptly. Your heels scraped against the newly renovated marble, your stiff body hovering uncomfortably in the wake of the warm glow of a very occupied kitchen.
Everything about it caught you off guard, considering you not only were expecting the residential floor to be empty, but the kitchen was almost never used— At least when you were around. 
Bucky was used to frozen… maybe that was a bad choice of words, but it was true. Yelena’s grocery list usually consisted of ramen and box mac and cheeses, Alexei made a meal of team-sponsored junk foods, John and Ava relied heavily on DoorDash, and Bob— Well, you never saw Bob with anything in his hand other than a book or his other hand, wringing in nervous, futile energy. 
Until now. 
You didn’t know much about Bob, admittedly avoiding him a bit— Which he made good on, considering he wasn’t exactly a socialite himself. Part of it was because of the guilt that hung heavy in your chest when you’d catch his eye, the other something else entirely you couldn’t quite place. What you did know of Bob was that he never seemed entirely sure of himself. It radiated through his movements, his smile, his pace, and his laugh. It was doubt that covered him completely, coursing through his veins and mingling with an ice of a power too intense for him to even begin to understand. 
And that was evident as you caught him stuck in his own world— A bit removed from the situation you had just walked into, loosely wading through the kitchen, all like he was looking for something that didn’t want to be found.
His steady grip was wound around a wooden spoon— One you didn’t even know the building owned, considering it was never used, bleeding into the background with other untouched reminders of normalcy and an ordinary life. 
Fingers danced over each other around the handle, then found their way to the nape of his neck, rubbing and searching for a thought as he hung his head over a tablet on the counter, eyes looming down through loose, wavy strands. 
His hair was still that unsettling shade of blonde you hated to see— The shade you tried not to think of, yet could never really forget.
You clear your throat, unsure how to handle the silence the two of you occupied— Him unknowingly, and you, not so much. The sound cuts through the low drone of an old stereo haphazardly plugged in at the corner of the open-concept space, playing an even older song. 
His attention shoots up to you, his spine abruptly straightening as his eyes fall on you. The spoon he clung to rattles against the granite as his fingers twitched it free. 
“Oh, h-hi, uh, sorry,” he rambles, pale complexion flushing a soft and supple pink. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I Can’t Begin to Tell You,” you state, inhaling a breath and finding your feet carrying you to the island where he stood.
“What?” His eyebrows meet each other, knit in confusion at your statement. 
“I Can’t Begin to Tell You,” you repeat, setting down your stack of papers and bag on the corner of the expansive surface, gesturing over to the stereo. “Henry James.” 
His eyes follow your finger and relax when he realizes what you meant. “Oh,” he laughs gently, a hesitant yet sweet sound you wished he would share more often. “Right. It’s, uh, not mine.”
Part of you already knew that, noticing the building was still haunted with old stacks of belongings that had lived a million lives before— Stories and memories whispering behind the layer of dust that dulled them until they were forgotten. Forgotten by time, by people, by what—and who—they were once loved by. 
“I think it was Captain Rogers’,” he continues, eyes darting away from the quick glances they stole of yours and back to his work on the stove behind him. “It just gets… quiet.”
“Too quiet,” you add, understanding the loneliness this city could drown you in.
His back stiffens at that before he glances over his shoulder at you. 
“Yeah.” He says it so quietly you almost wondered if he had even said it at all or if you were just subconsciously filling in the blanks of what intent his eyes held.
“I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.” You change the subject, not wanting his mind to linger on the heaviness you could sense echoing in his voice, on the weight that held in the air, pushing his tone flat. “I’ll get out of your way, I just had to drop some stuff off on my way home.” 
The simmering pan on the stove began to pop, on the edge of a boil. Steam quickly filled the large room, causing Bob to fiddle with the burner until it turned to smoke. 
He mumbled under his breath as he made quick work of pulling it off the burner, fanning his hand in pain after some of the hot liquid splashed on his skin— Yet he still made sure to take notice of your words.
“No, no— It’s no bother, really,” he rushes, wiping the evidence of his bubbling dish off the stove and counter. “Everyone’s out for the night so it’s just me… so I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here either.” 
A crooked smile pulls briefly at the corner of his lips, sincerity flashing in his eyes when he turns to meet you. It melted you a bit, how much he longed for the company, but you didn’t want it to— You didn’t want to stay, not with him. Not when you still felt the way you did around him.
Not like this. 
“What’s in the folder?” He tilts his chin at the stack of documents you brought over, cluttering the otherwise clean counter— That is, aside from the mess of Bob’s cooking: the spices—virtually all of them—the utensils, dishes, and ingredients all sprawled across his work space. It looked like he was deep into crafting something way too complicated for you to understand. 
“Boring stuff.”
That wasn’t entirely true; the folder actually contained some pretty important legal documents sent over by Sam Wilson. A few brand deals that needed some signatures, some mission reports you sorted through and needed to be filed, a cease and desist… You didn’t want to worry him with any of that. 
“What’s in the dish?” you ask back, changing the subject again so he wouldn’t ask any more questions he wouldn’t necessarily want the answers to. “I didn’t know you cooked.” 
He fiddles with the hem of his sweater— Big and baggy and olive green, just like he always wore.  
“Oh, I-I don’t. Need to find ways to be part of the team, right?”
You shift your weight, trying to meet his eyes, but he keeps them busy elsewhere— Tidying the kitchen and finding aimless work. 
There was a tinge in your heart from his words, dripping with a layer of self-deprecation he tried so hard to hide— His tone chipper, all like he wasn’t finding new ways to put himself down at every turn. 
“You are part of the team. You do plenty, Bob.” His head snaps up at that, finding your eyes, a shyness behind them, waiting for you to continue, for you to say it’s a lie, for you to take it back. You didn’t. “You’re the strongest person on this team. Truly.”
He was quiet for a moment, not sure what to say, his mind racing incessantly as he waded in your words, drowning in what to do with everything you’d said. You didn’t mean to overwhelm him, but you hated when he dismissed himself, when he diminished his impact. 
“That’s the other guy,” he offers gently, a sense of melancholy lacing his tone. He says it with a half-smile—reassuring—all like it wasn’t breaking him to say. “That’s the Sentry.”
“Bob…” Your voice trails off unintentionally— A losing battle on what to say back, on how to tell him that it’s not true.
That he’s more than his other facets he despised. 
“Can you, uh, do you— I mean, do you want to, uh, to try?” He gestures to the meal, fidgeting with his hands, nervously tumbling over his words. “Since everyone’s still not back, you know? I could use the feedback.” 
In another world, you’d want to, your heart skipping a beat at his timid offering, so sweet and gentle, so honest. But you couldn’t shake your hesitation that still pulled you back, reminding you against your will of what you’ve done to him. 
You couldn’t open that door.
“I wouldn’t want to impose…” 
“No, really, you’re not.” He hurries back to his dish, assembling everything on a clean plate before you could say another word— A pair of them, one for each of you. 
“Ava, Yelena, and Alexei are training.”
They were on recon… for something Bob didn’t know about.
“Bucky’s doing congress stuff.”
Bucky was with Sam.
“And Walker… I’m not sure where he is, actually.”  
Similarly, neither did you.
“So no one will be back for a bit.” 
It would be longer than a bit, you already knew that. But he didn’t. 
“I thought you weren’t supposed to be left alone,” you point out, tone balancing on the edge of teasing and seriousness. You hated how it made you sound like a lecturing-parent—wandering mind trying to pinpoint how it made him feel too—but you know how the team was with him since everything happened so recently. You know they worried about him, even if they wore it close to the vest— Know they avoided all being gone at the same time because they don’t like for him to dwell in silence for too long alone.
You didn’t like it either, which is why it was even harder for you to fight yourself into leaving. 
Then he says, 
“Just another reason you should stay.” 
Well, you walked right into that one. 
He was quick with his answer, completing the plates and setting them down, looking at you delicately, like he said too much. “Uh, u-unless you don’t want to. Sorry, I don’t wanna be annoying, I, uh—”
“No, it’s okay.” You give in, your heart breaking at his sudden embarrassment— Like he pushed you too far when in reality, all he was doing was being kind, just like always. “I’d love to. I haven’t eaten yet, anyways… so, thank you.” 
You allow yourself to relax a bit, still nervous at being in his presence with all you held onto, letting yourself find one of the barstools and wait patiently for his masterpiece that he placed in front of you, accompanied by a glass of red wine, which you would never turn down. 
“So, what’s for dinner, Chef?”
It warmed you to watch him smile for a split second, that same pink flush you recognized from earlier creep across his cheeks, scratching the back of his head as he sheepishly averts his eyes and takes a seat adjacent to you, waiting intently now. 
“Penne,” he says nonchalantly, and you tried to fight the up turn that begged to come through at the corner of your mouth. “With tomato sauce.”
“Did you make the sauce from scratch or something…?” you ask gently, scanning around the room at the kitchen, covered in evidence of what seemed like hours of hard work and love— The same delicious smell that knocked you back when you walked in still wafting through the air, dancing with the faint glow of warm kitchen lights and delicate beginnings. 
“No, it’s just a canned one,” he answers sheepishly, somehow wrapped in even more shy, timid manners, his baggy sleeve coming up to his lips that started to curl, hiding the pink that warmed to a red. “I put other stuff in it, though… to make it better.” 
It was cute, the way he folded in on himself at your gaze, smiling and teasing towards his simple nature. You loved it. You wished you didn’t. 
With a stab or two at the pasta, you hold out your fork to him, a quirked brow and a smile to match. “Cheers.”
He brushed a lock of his hair out of his eyes and awkwardly clinked his fork with yours, the two of you taking your first bites and marinating in the flavors in silence.
Your chewing slowed as you thought, face slowly turning to meet his. You didn’t want to be the one to speak first, wanted anything other than to tell him what you really thought of his hard work.
“Do you think it’s kinda…” your voice trails, hoping that he’d take the bait and finish your sentence. 
“Spicy— But not good spicy, like-”
“Pumpkin… spice-y.” 
“And burned. Exactly,” he agrees before letting a light groan escape with the crane of his neck, throwing his head to the ceiling in defeat that made you giggle against your own will.
You rummage your hand through the spices that still littered the counter, sifting through the mess for the culprit— Some sort of explanation to solve the mystery of the utterly odd taste that graced your taste buds. 
“Maybe next time make sure this one stays in the cabinet,” you tease, flipping the label of a bottle of pumpkin spice mix towards Bob for him to see. 
“I should’ve just stuck to doing dishes and laundry,” he grovels in defeat, swiftly taking the evidence with him to clear, tossing the plates into the sink. 
“Hey, at least you made a good salad,” you point out, examining a small bowl on the counter with some fresh vegetables. “It’s a little small, but, y’know.”
“Oh, that’s for the guinea pig. Yelena’s.”
“Well, you’re good at taking care of small animals, then.” You give him a sincere smile, hoping he could sense it in your voice as he focused on plating something else, setting a new set of dishes down for the two of you.
“Here,” he says, a glimmer of pride in his voice, just for a second. “The official Bob Special.” In front of you now was a fresh plate of plain penne pasta dressed in light butter; Simple, universally-loved, a classic. “Oh, and if you want to get really fancy,” he jokes quietly, showing off a bottle of pre-packaged parmesan cheese. 
You didn’t try to hide the smile you wore this time around, happily inviting him to exchange eye contact with you, a little sweet, a little shy, all something you didn’t want with him. 
Something you know he wouldn’t want with you if he knew.
Silence swept through the room, the only sound a swelling swoon of an old orchestra thanks to what was left behind. A tinge of intimacy dances through the air—peace in common ground—something you tried to think else of for your own good. It was hard, he didn’t make it easy— Sitting slouched over his dinner, eyes drifting over to you when you weren’t looking, looking anywhere else when you returned the favor. You can’t even recall the last time you’ve had the privilege of dining with someone, the luxurious feeling of normalcy echoing in each accidental scrape of your fork against the dishware. 
You’re sure he senses that, too, all things considered. 
“It’s been a while,” he cuts through the silence first, earning your attention, like he was reading your mind. “Since, uh, since you’ve been here.”
Because of you. How do you sit here and tell him, it’s because of him?
“Yeah… you know how Valentina is.” It’s all you could think of saying, immediately regretting the mention of her as soon as the words ghosted over your lips, hitting him hard, his body twitching slightly at the name. You hated yourself for reminding him.
His face fell a bit sullen, eyes darkening and darting away from yours, sucking in a low breath, internally trying to walk himself through the mention of someone who has had such a heavy hand in his life so far. 
“Yeah,” he whispers, a quick glance at you then immediately back down at his plate, pushing a few leftover noodles aimlessly. 
Think of literally anything else, you scold yourself internally, words tripping over each other as you racked your brain for a way to subtly ease your guilty conscience through him— To let him know what you really thought of your boss, to let him know what side you were really on. 
“She, um… she,” you sputter, his eyes taking you in now, watching you take your turn at rambling through the fragments of a sentence. You lost the words, what little of them you had, trailing off. You had to be careful what you told him— Knowing her, this place was most definitely bugged and listening to your every word. 
“She hates yellow,” you sigh eventually, gingerly holding your hand up for him to see, nails all uniformly refined and polished a pale, muted lemon. Of all the things, you think. Of all the things you could’ve said. “So… I get them done yellow.”
His eyes dart between yours, trying to decipher what you were saying. You wanted to fold in on yourself—disappear—embarrassed at how pitiful and utterly ridiculous you sounded. Tense bottom lip found its way between your teeth, tenderly biting in purgatory while you prepared yourself for his response— To call you out for your indiscretion, all like he should.
Slowly, the corner of his mouth twitches into just barely a smile. 
“We match,” he carefully says, holding a lock of his golden hair, his grin growing a bit. “Two things Valentina hates.” Only you knew he wasn’t talking about his hair. Or about you.
The mention of his new look made your stomach twist, the one very subject you feared. The one thing you were doing everything in your power to avoid.
You took a sip of your wine, now being the one to look away, taking in the twinkling cityscape just past the large windows that adorned every facet of the room. “I’m surprised you still have it— The blonde, I mean.”
Through the reflection you watch him shrug, fingers scrubbing away at something on the counter that didn’t even seem to be there. 
“Everyone says they like it,” he points out, but you weren’t convinced. “Do you… What do, uh, what—what do you think?” He asks so gently, like his word was sacred, something lingering he’s too afraid to act on, your opinion, too weighted.
“It just doesn’t seem like you.” 
Silence. 
You feared his reaction again, but realized if you owed him anything, after all was said and done, the least you could do was give him your honest opinion. 
“I think that’s the whole point,” he says quietly, you still too afraid to look up at him again. “The Sentry needs to look powerful, important.” It broke your heart how he spoke of himself, the slight waver as he said it, like every syllable was a losing battle within himself, waging war with every word.
“I liked it brown,” you mumble, scared of your own honesty. “It was just… you. Just Bob. That’s important, too.” You hoped he could hear how you meant it, how you truly admired him untouched.
He gets up in silence and clears your second round of plates, stirring in thought. Your stomach lurched, fearing you might’ve scared him off, had thrown too much at him, offended him, even. 
Then,
“I did too.” 
He turns around from the sink and gives you a sad smile, a whisper of regret on his lips. You bit at yours again, reeling in his words.
Before you could think of what to say, he kept going. “You’re the only person who’s answered me without worrying I’ll fall apart at the truth or something… so thank you.” It’s shy, it’s raw. He picks at his fingers, lost in the mangle of them now. “Thanks for being honest with me.”
His words hit you like a ton of bricks, the life and wind sucked out of your soul, plummeting to the pit of your stomach, grasping desperately for air. You couldn’t do this, couldn’t let him look at you like you were some sort of savior to his sanity— Like you hadn’t already played your part in maiming the shell of who he used to be. 
So you stood, finding your feet leading you to him at the sink, soaking in the warm glow from the hood of the stove, finding each curve of your face and painting you in it— A new light, in more ways than one.
Without thinking, you grab his hand and look at him. 
“Look at him. He’s painfully pale and has a head like a bag full of cats, but he’ll have to do.”
Valentina exhaled sharply, exiting the room she had just occupied with Bob, acting as if another person’s autonomy was somehow a personal vendetta against her. You watched as she maneuvered past a version of you— One you were trying to forget. 
The old you dodged like your existence was in her way when, really, she was just bulldozing her way through yours. 
“What did he say?” old you asked, watching her slowly, almost afraid to know the answer. You remembered that you were.
“Not important. What is important, however,” she said over a sip of water, “is that we get a team working on him immediately. It’s gonna take a while to fix… that.”
You watched as your old self closed her eyes tightly, remembering how you’d tried to calm yourself at her words before painfully obliging. 
“What do you need?”
“I want him tanner— The pale is sad to look at. He won’t look good overexposed from camera lights. The clothes need to go; he looks like a Boy Scout, not a superhero. Maybe gold for the suit,” she said, thinking out loud and bustling around the room, weaving through workers promptly trying to get the building usable again. “Americans like gold. It’s classic. Looks expensive even if it’s not. Get those old mock-ups for it.”
“They were burned,” you pointed out bluntly.
“Then make them again.”
Your brows knit with worry before you said, carefully, “This seems like a lot, Val. Do you really think a makeover is necessary?”
“I signed up for the hero of superheroes,” she deadpanned, unamused by your interruption. “Not a damn charity case.” 
Once she turns around, you roll your eyes fiercely, fighting the urge to yank that silver strip of hair clean out of her head. 
She keeps going, hitting a million other nonexistent flaws he apparently has—you hurriedly writing them all down as if your life depended on it—until she finally says,
“Enhancements would be nice. They’ll delay the launch, but it’s worth it. I mean— Look at him.”
You stopped her there, your heels skidding against the concrete. “Enhancements?”
“Yes,” she said your name with a condescending bite and groaned like it was the most obvious thing ever. “Enhancements. Trim down his nose, put him on steroids so he isn’t so lanky— Oh, that new, trendy thing that makes your cheekbones look sharp,” she said, sucking her lips in to show off the shadow in her face. “Buccal fat!” She snapped her fingers at the remembrance of it. “Look it up and book a surgeon— Someone who can get this done fast so I have something presentable to show the press.”
You remembered you couldn’t believe what you were hearing— The way she spoke about him like he was nothing, like he wasn’t even a person. 
You looked back at him, sitting in a sheen of sweat, doubled over on himself at the edge of the bed Valentina once waded in with him, clearly unstable and vulnerable.
The sight of him left alone in there made you sick.
Letting her sink unforgiving claws into him and mutilate him, stuff him like he’s the puppet she wants him to be, would destroy him. You couldn’t let her, not in his state, not when he was so clearly aching to have meaning that he would say yes to just about anything she suggested. 
And she knew that.
“Or,” you began, flinching at yourself for attempting to correct her in the first place. “We could start smaller. It’ll move things along faster, y’know, pacify the investigation.”
She looked visibly irritated but stopped her busy work, granting you most of her attention now. 
“They’re really getting restless, Val,” you added, fibbing a tad to help convince her. “They’re pushing back. Hard.”
“And what do you propose then?”
“All I’m saying is you can always… tweak things later,” you offered, breath catching on the word ‘tweak.’ You wanted to sink into yourself and disappear at even acknowledging her sick and twisted ideas to form him into her mold.“You could bleach his hair, maybe. Hair can change the whole appearance, make him look more refined. Maybe a nice blonde, straight and slicked back… Really complete the whole look and compliment the gold.”
You hated your own suggestion, but prayed she took the bait, giving some time to wait on permanently altering him and his body, inflicting irreparable damage he had no control over when he was as fragile as he was. 
She huffed, waving her hand at you— Something you got a lot. “I don’t care, just fix him. I can’t be bothered, okay?” And she walked away, leaving you reeling in worry over how to please your unpleasable boss and keep your hands clean of him, all at the same time. 
You snapped back to reality abruptly, sharing in the panic in his eyes, his hands still woven in between yours. Your breath hitched as you realized what you had just done, almost forgetting just how abrasive that memory was. In your desperate attempt to atone for your sins—show him why you avoid him so incessantly and feel so complacent in a version of himself you know he hates—you hung him out to dry. You let him relive the woman who has already caused him so much harm.
You let her cause more.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, a pathetic presence of self-pity laced through the letters you strung together, tears clinging to the corners of your eyes despite your best attempts to stop them. Skin untangled from his, wiggling your hand free of his grasp, running through your hair, searching for how to explain what just happened to him— Why you did what you did. “I haven’t been honest… not like you think. I needed you to know that.”
He took you in carefully, his eyebrows and forehead wrinkles woven with worry and pain, a similar sheen of sweat dancing across his skin— One you knew all too well. Golden hair came to light again, the messy brown you once loved lost in the darkness left behind once your hand left his, now only an aching memory.
“You were just doing your job,” his voice cracks, raw from the silence it had been swallowed in just moments before, and you wanted to laugh— How could he seriously be standing here right now making excuses for you, comforting you, justifying you?
“You want to know why I avoid you, Bob?” Your voice raises a bit in volume, more courage coursing through your veins as you listen to him excuse your actions. “I avoid you—this place—because every time I look at you, I’m reminded of how I stripped your sense of identity… of how I helped erase you. And it kills me.”
You were so caught up in your own rambling confession, your voice wavering slightly, a sting clawing at the back of your throat, that you didn’t realize he had stepped closer, his large frame towering over you now, casting a shadow over the dips and curves of your skin. 
“You helped save me from much worse,” he whispers, a little unsure of himself— Maybe of the moment, maybe of the breached space… Maybe of you. Was it you? Breath dances with his as you blink up at him now, eyes impatiently searching for the answer like it lay there, honest and open and true when he adds, “Besides, it’s just hair.”
Still unsure, you say back, “I erased a part of you, Bob.”
He shrugs and looks away, taking the smallest step back, a sudden rush of cool flooding you from the loss of body heat he radiated onto you. How could you miss something you barely had? 
“Not much there to erase.”
The way he says it cuts through you like a knife, a feeling of dread worse than you could’ve imagined. How could someone so great, so pure and full of potential, see so little in himself? 
It’s like he was searching for new ways to keep you up at night— The guilt you bear, the senseless burn in the deepest corners of your soul that demanded something more with him, were not yet enough. Your Achilles’ heel. The way he consumed you.
“I’m going to do this thing where I’m only honest with you now,” you start, voice cracking a little over the words, eyes begging to connect with his— To help him see, to understand; you meant it. “That’s not true, Bob. Not at all. Not even a bit.”
A heat burns through the high points of his cheeks, undeniable proof of the way he’s fighting the urge to let himself believe what you so desperately wanted him to see. You knew Bob well enough to know he’d take a lot more convincing than that. His voice crawls with a doubtful chuckle as he says, so quietly you could barely hear, “I don’t know about that.”
His hands find a home at the base of his neck, wobbly fingers pawing at flushed skin, eyes unable to meet yours. It didn’t matter, you still watched him— Eying him intently, learning what he was trying to say through his body instead. Silence was something you were used to when you were around him, the leading party admittedly coming from both ends, but this was a new kind of silence. 
You hated it.
There were a lot of things you wanted to do— Shake him free of the prison in his mind, tell him that he’s something extraordinary, remarkable, tell him you’re scared of what twists inside you for him. You wanted to tell him that your guilt has made it a lot easier to cover up the feeling that scares you most in the likes of him— An unknown ache, yearning to be set free. You wanted to pull his hand out of his hair and to your chest, let him learn by feeling how hard your heart was beating for him, a spark you’d buried, fighting to burn again. You wanted to grab his face in your hands and stop his ragged breathing, suffocate his fears and worries with the certainty of your lips, skin on skin, hearts on sleeves, trust in devotion. 
But you couldn’t do any of that, so you did something you’ve wanted to do for a long time.
“Come on.” He twitches as you latch your hand onto his forearm and pull him toward the door, scared the contact might not take you where you intended, yet you stay grounded in this universe—this moment—his mind racing at your forwardness as he stumbles along behind you. 
“Where are we— W-what are we—”
You stopped abruptly at the side door near a little shoe rack, turning to look at him now— Stability found in the pools of his eyes that made their way to yours again, eyes you’d somehow missed already, shy and tentative. 
“Do you trust me enough to follow me?”
He swallowed hard, wringing his fidgeting hands together, eyes darting around the secluded area of the residential floor you’d taken him to— Like he was surprised you knew it existed, this quiet part of his home. His hesitation made your burst of courage start to fizzle, choked away in the silence, until—
“I… I think I’d follow you anywhere.” 
Your heart leapt like your soul had been ripped through your chest and crashed back into your body when those words left his lips. 
“Good,” you manage to get out, gently instructing him to put on his shoes— Which he obliged, tripping and falling over himself to slip his sneakers on as fast as he could, you watching endearingly, unable to look anywhere else. 
You grab his arm when he recoils from the floor, standing tall over you again, familiar frame and body heat filling the air, and headed for the door. 
“We’re getting your hair back.”
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For the first time in your life when you walk toward the building, you feel renewed hope. It was giddy— The energy and lightness that hung in the air around the two of you, walking lazily back to the Watchtower, no longer a fear or worry in the world. Who would’ve ever thought the reason you dreaded that building would be the same one that saved you? 
Everything was starting to feel right— The crosswalks you scurried through, grabbing ahold of his arm like he were a lifeline, no longer uneasy now that he was next to you. You could relax against him, the shield of his body a buffer between you and the busy streets, giggling your way through the flashing traffic lights and honking horns of impatient drivers. 
You used to envy them, their pointed purpose around you, but now you only pitied the restless nature of their souls— The way none of them had a reason to enjoy the moment they were in. 
Unlike you.
It was funny how quickly you realized what you’d so deeply repressed in regards to him. He brought peace to your world, relishing in the time you got to spend with him now— Unburdened, hopeful, reborn. 
It was like your soul had known his forever— A familiar flame, kindling, against all odds, with his.
It was like he was learning to breathe again when he wandered through the hazy city streets with you, his eyes sparkling with wistful wonder as he absorbed the movement around him. He waded in the flickering life of the city all like he wasn’t living in it, day in and day out, like he'd never seen anything like it before. 
You knew that wasn’t true— He made himself busy outside the Watchtower, growing bolder in exploring every day, discovering what the world had to offer just like everyone else. Looking—a whisper of loss behind his eyes—for the thing in this city that could make him tick. Searching for a home in a city of nomads, in a city that was lost like him. Like you.
He hasn’t found it yet. 
A smile pulled at your lips bitten by the cool evening air, absentmindedly, as you watched him take it all in, his hesitancy washing away with every step now. 
Your cheeks warmed again at it— Just like they did when you left, the memory of him stumbling over himself in every sense of the word flooding back like it’s lived in your mind forever now. 
“Are you sure we should be doing this so late?” He had mumbled to you, tone unsure yet hopeful— Hopeful you’d ease his doubt and insist he’s exactly where he needs to be. 
You did.
“Yes, Bob, it’s fine,” you’d said back. “You’re with me.”
“A-and the store— They’ll be open still?”
“It’s only 9 pm, Bob. We’re in New York City.”
“Oh, right.”
You knew it wasn’t about being out late or about a store’s hours— Of course not. He’s lived a life far more complicated than a 7-11 run in the middle of the night, to say the least. 
It was that he was still finding his footing, trying desperately to ground himself in something that would do it back. That would assure he was allowed ownership over himself again. No abuse, no drugs, no demons. 
Just something real. 
He was overly cautious of himself, like he was hyper-aware of the fact that his brain convinced him he was out of place somehow. You knew the feeling.
The rest of the trip went that way— Him clinging to you and your every word, watching with calculated thought churning in his brain while you did your thing: picking out the best shade of brown to match his roots that poked through just enough, weaving through the store with ease— Just two lost souls finding themselves together in the artificial glow of a late-night corner pharmacy.
You refrained from touching him again, fighting off the intimacy you felt creeping up on you. If your fingers wrapped around him you’d only be reminded of the swoop in your stomach when things crossed into a realm you teased— Cautiously, carefully. 
When you grabbed his arm to drag him out the door or keep him with you as you ran through the streets, it felt familiar—felt okay—allowable, even. But there were other ways of touching him that you knew would stop your breathing, swirl your head, shred your better judgment— Hungry claw at your heart. A heart that screamed for him, for more.
You couldn’t touch his hand again. You couldn’t snake your hand across his lower back as you shuffled in front of him in the aisle. You couldn’t thread your fingers through his hair to find the perfect shade—You just couldn’t.  
So you gingerly held the box up and took your best guess, his questions still coming all the same. 
“Is it going to sting?”
“No, Bob. It’s a demi-permanent dye, not bleach. Your hair’s already bleached.”
“This is a bad idea, what if everyone hates it? Valentina is gonna get so pissed—”
“So let her,” you dismissed softly. “She’ll have to go through me first.”
A pink settled on his skin— That same pink from when you startled him in the tower, the color from when he served you dinner, shy and hopeful. The one that blistered his skin when you teased him— One that festered from the way you talked him down, not letting him consume himself in doubt, all like it was already a natural place for you to be. It appeared again when you worked your way around the night shift cashier who didn’t want to honor a coupon Bob mentioned in passing he tried to use last week on snack foods for Yelena. It was still crinkled in his pocket, a reminder of his failure on his grocery run, in his small but monumental tasks— You simply couldn’t have that. 
And now, you walk back, a plastic bag of his newfound authority swaying alongside you as he held the jelly-red candies he munched on up to the streetlights, watching them glow from within— His prize in more ways than one. 
“Do you ever think about why they’re called Swedish Fish?” he muses, voice cutting through the sugar on his teeth. “Like, what makes the fish… Swedish?”
You couldn’t do anything but smile— A smile that stretched so far it pulled his attention with it, rambling questions coming to a pause and looking at you. Cool, flickering lights under the Watchtower’s entrance cradle your skin, making you shine— A physical embodiment of the way he made you glow inside, just like his candies in the streetlights.
“What?” he asks tentatively, thin lips pursed together, stopping mid-chew with wide eyes darting gently back and forth, like he’d done something wrong. 
Eyes connected like constellations decorating the clear, crisp air above you, the soft lull of city life blurring into the background— Somehow completely insignificant in this moment.
You wanted to say, 
It’s just that I like spending time with you. You look so perfect right now I can barely breathe.
Or,
I missed having you in my life. Even if it was small, I still missed you. It meant something to me.
You fought the urge to confess,
I feel something I shouldn’t— Something hungry and restless from the way I let it starve.
I feel something for you. 
You dared to whisper,
I think I’m falling in love with you.
But instead— 
“Nothing,” you breathe back softly, a cautious reluctance haunting your phrase despite your desperate attempt to hide it. The words taste wrong as soon as they leave your lips, a new sin brought to fruition, betraying what you promised him before— Doing the one thing you vowed never to do to him again.
You lied.
You don’t say any of what you want to, just reiterate with a breathless smile, “It’s nothing.”
He pushed further, gently— An offering so delicate, a chance for you to take it all back and give him what burned inside your throat to say. He asks it carefully, like he was dancing on a line he was afraid to cross. 
“Are you sure?”
The key card buzzes you back in, breaking the moment that threatened to swallow you whole. 
“I’m just glad you got your candy, is all.”
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When you step inside, you move through the tower silently, a state of mourning, like you both knew what was about to come— A next step, only yours to take. 
You didn’t want to go. You wanted to live in this night forever. It was a night you could only dream of having— So raw, so utterly real that it threatened to shatter what you thought you knew of reality. It felt like if you let it end now, you might never get this feeling back again. 
You wondered if he felt the same.
When you reach the residential floor, you enter, this time, as someone completely new— Or yet, maybe someone you’ve always been, a person who just got lost. You were getting to be the different, better you. The one you fantasized about being when you were alone at your apartment, only now with the only person in the world you’d want it to ever be with. 
Everything was just how you left it: messy kitchen, littered with evidence of a lived-in night, half-had glasses of wine, deep red liquid staining the bottom of the vessel like a scar. Warm light, a pulse radiating throughout the dark floor all from that one space— The space where everything changed for both of you. 
The only thing new was the silence from a finished record, drawing the night to a close. Your cue to go.
Bob was the first to speak, confirming current residents with the comm system, only to reaffirm your impatient suspicion.
You were still alone.
“Wow, everyone’s still gone,” he reiterates after the mechanical voice goes mute, a nervous and low, breathy laugh engulfing the sincerity seeping through his tone— One that threatened to betray his facade and bare the truth of what lies behind intent. 
“Guess so,” is all you say back. 
Beat. 
Say something else, you scold internally. It’s getting too quiet. 
Eventually, you cave and bite first—begrudgingly—but not wanting to crowd him any longer. “Thanks for tonight. It was nice.”
You give him a half smile and move past him, his lanky frame awkwardly shuffling aside with a mumbled ‘sorry’ so you could grab for your bag— But you don’t take it yet. You just encroach on his space, hovering gently, waiting for his next words, fingers practicing wrapping and releasing around the handle haphazardly in wait. 
Holding out the plastic bag from your impromptu errand, you look at him— His timid eyes already watching you, absorbing your every move, thinking intently. You hold out the offer of it—a weighted symbol—waiting in the silence, a moment too delicate to speak. He takes it gently, but neither of you move— Both your hands still clutched onto the bag, not wanting to let go. In more ways than one. 
“I, uh, I don’t really, um,” he stutters. “I mean, what I mean is, I— uh, sorry— It’s just that…” He pauses, taking you in, mind reeling behind his eyes on what to say to you next, suspended in the time you let pass.
Wrap, release.
“Maybe you can come back, y’know,” he says—so shy, so quiet—gesturing down to the bag, your fingers finally slipping free of it once the position is acknowledged, relinquishing sole custody to him. “I don’t really know what I’m doing with all this… so if you don’t mind, or uh, have the time in your schedule…” He laughs timidly, restless fingers around the plastic gripping on for dear life— And oh, there’s that flush again. “Sorry— I know you’re busy, this is stupid,” he rambles but you stop him, touching your free hand to his around the bag. His mind and mouth and meddling fingers come to a screaming stop at the contact, eyes flickering down like you might have unleashed the unwanted.
It didn’t come.
“Of course I’ll help, Bob.” His features immediately relax, a bit of reassurance washing over him as you smile softly, your fingers still stuck to his. 
“Okay,” he croaks. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Your heart thudded hard— So hard you wondered if he could hear it ringing in his ears like it was in yours. 
Wrap, release.
He runs his tongue over his teeth, mulling in thought, weighing the voices, then says,
“Do you think it’ll take long?” he whispers, almost scared. “The dye?”
“No.” Your tone slips lower, matching his, trembling almost. “It’s pretty easy…”
Eventually, he says, “I won’t keep you.” He looks down hesitantly at your hand— One on your handbag, tethering you to an exit you didn’t want to take, the other still meeting his— His eyes not wanting to remind you they were still overlapping, the contact becoming more charged as each second passed. “You’re probably busy, y’know… with work ‘n stuff.”
Did you dare? 
“It’s quarter to 10 on a Friday, Bob.”
You did. 
So you continued. “I have nowhere to be. It’s the weekend, so…”
Wrap, release.
“Do superheroes even get days off?” he asks, but not seriously. He says it like it’s a strained joke, a short laugh covering up the root of something much more complex— Something much more timid and intimate that he wanted to know. 
Your hand twitched free from his, cold rushing to the pads of your fingers from the loss of heat. 
“Lucky for you,” you tease, “I’m not a superhero. That’s your job.” 
When he looks down at his hands, likely mulling over the loss of contact just like you, he follows your lead. “Care to work some overtime, then?” He looks back up, eyes dancing along yours, searching to connect like a puzzle begging to be finished. They echo with hope, glistening from the reflection of the light captured in the dim and dark center of his doubts— The part of him that said, she wants nothing to do with you. Stop bothering her, you’re wasting her time.
But you’d like nothing more. “I think I can swing that.”
Release.
The releasing won— You retreating your grip from your handbag, stranding it on the counter along with your other things, leaving behind the people you were before tonight, leaving behind an old fate, stepping into something new and unfamiliar. A new beginning, together. No longer alone. 
So you let him lead you upstairs into the uncertain.
His hands were buried deep in his pockets, hair shifting against the cool blue hue of the roaring city in restless waves as he walked. Each step echoed into the empty, taking you somewhere you never thought you’d have the privilege of going.
The corridor stretches on— Long, dim, empty of the usual chaos. A steady haze clung to the walls, the flickering heartbeat of twinkling city lights bleeding through tall windows, washing the world in a soft, electric kind of quiet. He stops once he reaches the end.
The hallway wound further, but he didn’t.
He opens the door, dipping his head and shuffling aside, the smallest, sweetest smile breaking across his lips for a split second. It was the kind of smile that made your chest ache and your heart soar. 
He lets you enter first, a wave of goosebumps pecking your skin as his forearm brushes the air behind you, reaching out for the touchpad. The lights come on, his private world unfolding before you, one shadow shattered at a time— Like a secret you weren’t sure you deserved to be told yet. 
His room was more well-kept than you were expecting, considering his battle with inner demons and his tendency to be a bit scattered. Part of you wondered if it was just because he didn’t have many belongings anymore.
Some similarly muted and oversized garments tenaciously cluttered a lounge chair, a few scattered across the floor, the rest held in a closet bigger than your apartment— Though it was mostly empty, lining lights illuminating barren drawers and shelves. 
The outer wall across from his bed was covered in large windows overlooking the city, beneath it a slightly raised landing that stretched along the back edge of the room. Atop it sat a sofa that looked completely untouched and a dark wooden desk, adorned with small remnants of him— A notepad with some scribbles and doodles too faint for you to make out, a pile of crumpled, discarded fragments of papers cluttered around it. A computer and phone, plugged in and seemingly forgotten about, a small succulent on top of some better-known self-help books alongside an empty cup with a thick straw— Seemingly for a milkshake or smoothie. 
His soul touched every corner, a faint whisper of himself embedded in the fabric of his own reality.
Lining one wall adjacent to the windows were several bookshelves, mostly empty yet, but still more crowded and lived-in than the other things in his room. Some shelves held picture frames still encasing the stock photos inside— Naturescapes and famous landmarks, things of that sort. You had to fight the smile that crept to your lips at the invasive thought that maybe, one day, you could be the one to change that. 
And there he stood, raking his hands through his hair and wringing them together as he watched you silently take in the space. 
You take the first steps, freeing yourself from the tight suit jacket you’d been bound to all day, the fabric whispering against your skin— A physical and emotional release. He watched your frame closely—carefully—like he was witnessing something he wasn’t supposed to.
Why did it feel dramatic? Why did it feel weighted? 
Maybe because it was.
Because around him, everything felt heavier— Closer, like stepping too near the edge of something you couldn’t quite name.
You drape it gently on the curve of his bed, leaving with it the urge to hold back, trying your best to stay grounded when stepping into something new. 
Something with him.
“Those look uncomfortable,” he murmurs softly, like he was tapping the ice instead of breaking it. Like he was talking more to the room than to you. 
You study him, trying to connect what he was saying with his eyes to what he was saying with his words. 
“The shoes,” he adds shyly, an almost boyish innocence in his glance at your sharp heels— His form of an invitation for you to settle in, reminding you it’s okay to relax in his space. 
“Oh,” you laugh gently, taking his delicate offer to slip them off, warm pads of your feet finally unwinding against the cool of his floor— An exhale. “They are.” 
He repays you with a mannerism close to a smile, the outer edge of his mouth flashing into a curve for a second, making your stomach swoop with a flutter you can’t contain.
“You might want to, uh,” you continue, gesturing to the sweater hanging loosely over his lean frame, soft and worn. It was the kind of thing you knew he probably slept in. Something that probably still smelled like old memories and half-healed wounds.
“You don’t want to get dye on that,” you add. “It probably won’t come out…” 
Beat.
He glances down, all like he just remembered it’s still on his body.
The favor was returned. Saying it without saying it.
For a moment, he hesitates, then you feel it— That shift, that ache when it happens. It’s not out of debate of your offer, but because his stare is lingering longer than he’s ever let it before, watching you closely—intimately—reveling in the delicacy of your words. 
His eyes trace the curves of your skin, arms now exposed, standing in your blouse. It’s a business-casual tank top. Appropriate for work, but still fun enough to leave a button or two undone.
He quickly tears his gaze away, soft blue irises gently washed in awkward panic— The silent kind that only shows as they dart around the room, his limbs gesturing in small movements toward his expansive closet.
“I—I have things,” he rushes, hand tearing into the nape of his neck, rummaging through his restless hair. “Like, uh, like a t-shirt or something, I mean… if you don’t want to ruin your clothes too.” 
You smile and accept the offer, following him into his closet. 
The enchanting scent of cedarwood drawers mingled with the warm, earthy smell he always wore— So subtle, so effective, just enough to make you forget anything else mattered in the moments when it hung in the air around you, dizzying and distracting.
He rummages through a drawer—half-open, garments half-folded—and pulls out a slightly wrinkled steel-blue t-shirt and a pair of lounge shorts, fabric clutched in his fists, fidgeting nervously. 
“They’re clean, I promise. I just… I hate folding.”
Slipping into the bathroom, connected to both his room and the closet, he hovers, his hand ghosting over the handle. “I’ll, uh, I’ll give you—” he stumbles. “I’ll let you… yeah…” he trails off, a nervous laugh swallowing the rest of the words he failed to find. A blush crept to your cheeks at his timid nature— It was sweet, sincere. It ruins you. 
The door creaks as he pulls it shut for you to change, unknowingly leaving you alone with a heart that pounded for him, a heart that could no longer lie dormant in his empty space. The undeniably intimate feeling of wrapping yourself in his clothes—an extension of him—creates a flustered pull at your lips. A burning. The silent buzz of his closet carrying it all.
When you slip the soft, threadbare fabric over your head, you linger for a second, a persistent thought of proximity curling around you like smoke. The thought clings to you like the fabric, just like how it’s clung to him before. For a fleeting second, you almost drown in the thought that maybe this will be the closest you’ll ever get to be to him— Only some fabric shared.
Once.
It’s large, draped over your body like a blanket, and even then, it still hangs just right— Enveloping you in comfort, all like it was made to be worn by you too. Like it’s been waiting all this time.
The shorts, on the other hand, make a habit of slipping past your waist, hanging there for no longer than a second before falling, the garment gathering down at your feet. You try rolling the waistband a few times, but it’s a useless feat, leaving you to hope your company was okay with a makeshift dress instead. You, in his shirt, bare legs disappearing into the too-long hem. 
Its length stretches just past your fingertips. Sure, you’ve worn shorter dresses to work, around the team, around him… but this felt like something you had to rationalize a lot more.
Just as you swallow your pride and replace it with something more earnest and raw for him—your heart on your sleeve, vulnerable in more ways than one—you freeze. 
In the reflection of the mirror, looming large at the opposite end of the closet, you catch a glimpse of him through the sliver of the bathroom door that’s slipped ajar. 
He pulls the olive sweater up over his head, back facing you, ruffling the locks of golden, wavy hair he tries to pat down to no avail— Something you could still love in the scattered fragments of him, because it was, after all, still him. The movement tugs the white t-shirt he wears underneath up, a patch of smooth, sculpted skin resting at the waistband sneaking through, your breath catching at the mere sight of it— Of him, like this. 
From the freedom of his baggy sweater you could see him better— A fresh glimpse at the way his chest rises and falls with deep and heavy breaths, struggling to tether himself to something that was never really there. His muscle was indescribable, molded into the stretched cotton, something unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. The closest you’d come was seeing it on TV. One of the Avengers— One who didn’t come from this world. 
Yet, there he is. Innately human. 
Those were the most captivating parts of him. Through taught muscle lay a subtle softness at the curves and dips of his skin, his hands like they were large enough to hold the whole world yet were still found fiddling with the simple box dye, restless energy shuffling around the expansive tile until he slipped out of view, taking your pitiful daydream along with him. 
You wish he knew just how alluring he really was. 
Unsure fingers gather the fallen shorts and clothes still warm from your body off the floor, folding them loosely over your arm, draped in front of your body as if that somehow makes the moment any less vulnerable, less revealing. 
When you step into the bathroom, he’s sat on the edge of his tub, cool porcelain cradling his long and lanky frame, fingers still buried in the box— Toying with the cap, absentmindedly picking at the corner of the paper, brows furrowed as he raked through the expansive instructions on the back, all too caught up in anchoring himself to something—anything—to notice you were there standing in front of him. 
A hush and milky white bathes the tile, a low lunar light lingering over every surface like silk. An echo of penance trapped between four walls and two bodies.
The sweater’s gone; he’s in that cotton white t-shirt you already caught a glimpse of— Simple, classic, saying so much without saying anything at all, much like everything about him. It’s somehow the same size as the one you wore, just fitting much more right— Tightly stretched over his broad chest and shoulders like a second skin, fabric smoothing perfectly over the rest of him. His hair is still messy, riddled with movement and life. His feet bare, legs long and in light grey sweatpants, arms exposed and glowing in the dim pooling light of his bathroom.
Was it too much to ask to live in this moment forever?
“The shorts were too big,” you confess, reluctant to disturb him— To steal back the time where observing him feels like the most important thing you’ll ever do, like a gift too good to keep. You look down at what you were left in, the sensual nature of just his t-shirt somehow showing off every curve of your body despite its size like it’s taunting you. “I hope you don’t mind…”
When he looks up at you, the world narrows to a pinhole. Just for a second. It’s like you were in a vacuum, the rest of the world slipping away until it’s just you. Just him.
The box falls free from his hands and clatters to the floor, fingers freezing and pressing against his legs now, a gentle back and forth like he was trying to soothe himself. Thin lips part slightly, so subtle you wouldn’t even notice if you weren’t so drawn into his every move like it was a lifeline— Your resuscitation, suspended in aching time. 
He sucks in a slow and steady breath, the only thing present. Just you. Just him.
You lived a lifetime in the flicker of an unspoken spark, a jolt you weren’t supposed to feel, but did. In truth, it was only mere seconds you stood there—a silent offering—before he spoke.
“You, uh…” he starts, a breath catching in his throat, words clinging there, stickier and sweeter than his candy. He gestures vaguely at the shirt. “Looks better on you.”
It’s shy, reserved, like he just said the most obscene thing his mind could conjure— Like it was unholy to say anything at all in this state, in this moment. His voice is low, heavy as gravel, the undeniable weight of his words landing like a stone on your chest.
Nervous eyes glance around the new space, taking in your surroundings to distract from the aching pull on your heartstrings, wound tightly like coiled wire, tension thrumming beneath your skin with no release from his earnest compliment. 
You hated how he did this to you— How he was so unaware and devastatingly oblivious to the way the small things he did made you fight off something ravenous within your soul. 
Every time he looked at you like you mattered, you had to fight the urge to grab his restless hand in yours to calm it. Every time he blushed, you had to remind yourself you couldn’t just walk over and kiss it off his face. Every single damn time he said a sheepish compliment like it was sacred, you had to wrestle your mind into remembering he isn’t yours. He’s not yours.
Every. Single. Time. 
This time wasn’t any different, somehow willing yourself into swallowing the lump in your throat, pushing down the words that were threatening to boil over in a confession and instead do something stupid— Change the subject rather than telling him something absurd, like how you want to wear his clothes forever. You wanted to live within a piece of him, always.
“Do you have a hairbrush?” 
He blinks a few times— Blank, rapid, staccato movements trying to process what you said, like he was surprised by your response. 
“Oh, uh, yeah— Yeah, I have one.” 
His fingers drum against his thigh, then stop. His jaw tightens, like he’s trying to catch a thought before it slips away, and crosses over to open a drawer in the vanity like he wasn’t buried deep in his mind. A small plastic comb turns aimlessly in his fingers before he hands it to you and immediately looks down, avoiding your eyes, murmuring, “I-I think your hair already looks nice, though.”
God, he was killing you. Did he know he was killing you?
“It’s for you,” you breathe, quiet and sure. “If you don’t brush your hair before coloring, it’ll get spots, is all.”
“Oh,” he whispers, a gentle smile in relief breaking across his lips for a fleeting second, like he was happy you weren’t displeased with his appearance. “That—that makes sense.”
“May I?”
You hold the comb up and ask— In a way asking yourself if you were really ready to touch him in that way. Asking the room like the echoes would answer back and reveal what you weren’t quite ready to face.
It was nothing—sure, maybe on the surface—but you’d been avoiding touching him for so long, the restraint was suddenly the thing making it harder for you to hold back. Your heart, light-years ahead of your mind, knew if you touched him in a way that mattered again, you’d only be reminded of how much you didn’t want to let go. Of him. Of yourself.
But he nods, a shy and timid pink flushing his features ever so slightly— All like it wasn’t as weighted as your dragging thoughts were making it feel. You reach up for him on your tiptoes, stepping a little closer, trying your hardest to reach his head that towered above yours until he took the lead and sat on the edge of the tub again. His fingers hovered loosely over the curve of your waist to guide you, accompanied by a soft, “There.”
Sitting down, his head rests just in front of your chest, hanging slightly in silence— A semblance of reckoning as he gives himself to you. 
Shallow and steady breath was hot against your sternum, sending shivers down your spine. He exhaled all like it was something he was trying to control—to contain—a pledge to bury how he was feeling inside. The truth remained exiled in the flutter of his breath like a secret— Or maybe, really, it’s just the vivid inner workings of your imagination meshed with hopeless desire.
When you’re done brushing, he hands you the tube of color with a soft smile, cap already loose from his mindless twisting, the rest of the box still abandoned on the floor. It was like it was the most insignificant thing in the world since you stepped through his door, all despite it being the reason you were still with him in the first place.
Or at least, that’s what you both kept telling yourselves.
You both duck down to pick it up at the same time, his wild waves tangling with yours like a whisper on new skin, the air around him seeping into yours, molding into one the way you so desperately wanted to believe it belonged.
Wobbling lips wear a tentative laugh and exchange breathless ‘sorrys’ when you both retract. You keep your glance down and buried into the box so maybe—just maybe—he couldn’t catch a glimpse of how fearlessly you were blushing— A shamefully senseless smile sneaking across your lips like an utter fool.
You place the mixing bowl—now full of the color—on his lap, whispering a steady, “Hold this,” and work on getting the gloves on, the black plastic melting into your skin, tight and precise. Then he reaches for the developer.
“No, wait,” you instruct lightly, and he freezes like he’s created a catastrophic problem. 
You go to the vanity and grab a different bottle of developer left behind in the plastic bag. When you pour it into the bowl, he clings to it with extra care, all like it was going to shatter under the weight of his grasp. 
“Never use the developer they give in the box, especially if you’re only depositing color like we are,” you explain, eyes flickering from the bowl to his gaze, trying to ease his mind through the aching adoration you couldn’t help but wear for him. “It’s usually a 20 volume,” you continue, “which we definitely don’t want.”
He looked at you like you were speaking a different language, tongue graced by a wisdom and knowledge too foreign for him to know. Eyes darted back and forth between yours cautiously, like you’d given him the answer to quantum entanglement instead of basic hair care, lost in the wavelength of your words. 
“That… that sounds complicated,” he stumbles, a little at a loss for words, trying to find where to even start. Did he know how adorable he was? Stupidly precious confusion weaving through his features, eyes fluttering as he faltered, a twitch in his lip quirking just so, nervous bubbles of laughter dancing intimately over every syllable said. Did he know all that made your knees want to give out?
Did he know at all?
“It’s simple, really,” you soothe, a sickeningly sweet tone flooding your mouth— Something you couldn’t stop even if you tried. You mix the contents in the bowl with the back of the comb and explain, distracting from the way your chest swoops like a threatening storm. “Developer is something that can lift your hair. So the higher the volume, the more lift you’ll get.”
Before you could continue, Bob snatches the bowl away mid-mix and holds it over his head, a teasing grin coming to life.
He maneuvers the bowl further out of your grasp as you reach for it, grinning at how much fun he was having teasing you— Like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Lift? You mean like this?”
His eyes didn’t leave yours once— Pure wonder glistening from getting you flustered and watching you fight it. “No and you know it,” you playfully scold, eventually grabbing it back and continuing your work all like you weren’t smiling fervently. 
“I don’t know, that seems like lift to me,” he levels with a joking tone, hanging on your reaction like it was holy.
When he stared at you with that undeniable grin you wanted to say something disgustingly stupid— Something forward and blunt and rash like how he should lift you instead; Carry you anywhere he wanted to go as long as it was within his arms. God. It made you sick just how badly you wanted him, the ache you tried to suffocate not going down easy, not staying silent, begging to be set free.
You have to choke all that down to say, 
“Lift as in opening the hair follicle so it can lighten and absorb the color.”
He bites the edge of his lip, watching you like it was the only thing that mattered, jaw twitching once as he tried to suppress his smile from growing into something bigger.
“That’s basically the same thing.”
“Mmm,” you hum, wiping the edge of the comb into the bowl and setting it down. “Basically.”
After a moment you hold it up—hesitant for some reason—before you eventually ask, “Ready?”
He nods, quiet and firm, like it was the easiest decision he’s ever made. “Yeah. Yeah,” he says, the repeated agreement said more to himself than to you. “My blonde days are over.” 
“What?” you tease, feeling a little bold now too. “You don’t wanna be a blonde bombshell forever?”
Fiery red scorches his cheeks at that, a blush that reaches the tips of his ears against the pale of his hair. His eyes flash wide before he ducks his head nervously and chuckles under his breath, like he couldn’t bear to hear a compliment, even if you were joking. Even if it were half true.
“Nope,” he mumbles sheepishly before looking up at you again, a gaze suddenly raw and honest— Something stoic humming beneath it all. “I’m good with just Bob now.”
You smile, mind bringing you back to earlier, how you reassured him he was worthy but he couldn’t fathom believing it himself. It was driving you crazy—that subtle confidence he was wearing now—self-assured in what you told him, holding your gaze like he was trying to spell it out for you; Make you realize he wanted to be himself for you.
Was it all in your head? 
“Good,” you whisper back, your intention settling more in your movements than your words. You stepped towards him now, handing back the bowl for him to hang onto, dye covering your gloves. 
His legs shift open—the slightest movement, timid reassurance—welcoming you in like you’ve always belonged somewhere slotted in between him. Arm in arm, fingers in fingers, legs between legs…
Knees brushed together as you hover over him, a breath catching at the back of your throat from the feeling. 
It was new, how close you were— The way his inner thigh tickles your smooth skin even through the plush of his sweatpants and makes you burn like you were scorched by a searing sun. 
You unnecessarily mix the dye around more, numb movements distracting from charged thoughts, averting his eyes like if he saw you for even a second he’d be able to hear the senseless desires bouncing around in your head— The ones saying all you wanted was to touch more of what you haven’t before. The ones saying hands weren’t enough, standing over him wasn’t enough, none of it was enough. You needed more, a carnal instinct you didn’t dare deny. 
How much did you have to drink?
No, it wasn’t that, it couldn’t be that— Not when you’ve only had half a glass. Not when you were already drunk over the illicit game you played, quietly pushing the boundaries of what was, what remained. What could be, maybe one day, maybe never.
You wanted him. He wanted you— Did he want you? How could he after everything… Could you get fired for this?
No, you haven’t done anything. Not like you want to…
Did he know? How long have you been quiet for? What was he thinking about—
“This might be a little cold,” you murmur, your quiet warning heavy with fog like you’d completely forgotten how to speak in the seconds you stirred around in thought— The time that felt like an eternity. 
You seriously needed to turn your thoughts off.
So you did, focusing on the way your hands laced around his golden hair, light from your previous misfortunes dulling upon contact. Dark seeps through every strand like desperate poison, like the life he missed having was being restored one tender touch at a time.
His chest rose and fell—soft and steady—deep pull of air every time you made contact. His eyes flutter shut a tad as you pull the dye through each strand, root to tip, covering him completely, your touch taking over in more ways than one. 
“That feels good,” he mumbles through an exhale, like he’s been holding in praise for devout touch his whole life. Like it was finally meaningful now, the feeling of being cared for.
For caring back. 
Your attention snaps back to reality when he says it, mind forced to finally be grounded again, reminding you where you really were, not just trapped inside the screaming fantasy in your head. The one that only grew the second you found him tonight, the second he let you in, the moment he asked you to stay— Carrying your baggage and all. 
“Good,” you breathe, trying to mask the waver in your voice. “It looks good.”
He smiles at that, faint and pure and utterly devastating, just the smallest of movements wrecking you completely. Lids are still drawn shut—light and relaxed—a gentle push into each movement of your hands, so small you wondered if you were making it up in your head.
Was it all in your head?
When he opens his eyes and takes himself in through the vanity mirror over your shoulder, he bites at his lip and hesitates, soft blue eyes glimmering with a trace of worry and nose crinkled a tad. 
“It’s, uh, does it—does it look kinda orange…?” He says it gently, like he shouldn’t be questioning a thing, like the wrong set of words strung together will make him lose you, make you run. 
“Don’t worry it’ll tone down,” you reassure, working your way to the back, leaning over him to make sure you cover it completely. “I purposely picked a shade with a warm undertone so we don’t run the risk of your hair going green.”
His jaw falls slack and he snaps his eyes off his profile and up to you, chin tilting to fully take you in, your lips being all but a breath away.
“Green? What—What do you mean— Th-that can happen?” 
Despite your best efforts to suppress it, an airy laugh escapes your lips and fans across his face, you ducking your head down into the crook of his neck at his panic only to be met with the intoxicating scent of chemicals and fresh laundry and him flooding your senses. 
“Don’t worry,” you manage to say, laughing a bit harder now as his fingers find your forearm for no longer than a second, cutting you off with a worried huff and trace of a smile spreading across his lips at your giggles— The ones that were almost too close to his skin. 
“I’m serious,” he levels with a clipped laugh, saying your name and trying to sound convincing but it was flushing out of his voice with each sound of yours. A medicine only you could prescribe. “I-I can’t go green, everyone will definitely hate that.”
You compose yourself and pull back to look at him now— Worry worn on his face, yet something reminiscent of ease flickering through when he sees your grounding stare. It was hard to not take his concern seriously— Not when he looked so effortlessly adorable, melting into a pool of a helpless mess at your fingertips. Who could blame you?  
I’d like you no matter how you’d look, you think, pausing cautiously to enjoy one last moment of the crooked smile on his lips. One that said all he needed to. 
Instead, you say, “It won't, I promise.”
“Pinky?” He raises an eyebrow and holds his pinky out to yours, a silent offering, only yours to take. 
“Pinky,” you affirm, holding yours out to his without a second thought.
Then,
“Bob, no, wait—”
Before you could snatch your hand away he meets his skin to yours— Hot, firm grip wrapping around your finger, sure and steady against the cold, dye-covered black plastic of yours.  
“This stuff stains,” you mumble, searching his expression for a reason as to why he did it. 
He doesn’t answer at first, just pulls at the hem of your shirt—his shirt—billowing loosely at your side, suddenly bashful as he wipes the color clean off his skin to bleed into the fabric covering you. 
“There,” he hums, the corner of his lip pulling into a proud smile at his good work for a fleeting second, then wiping it off like it said too much. “All better.”  
You shake your head with a laugh under your breath at his dreamy stare, like he was screaming out something you just couldn’t quite hear yet. 
“You ruined a perfectly good shirt for no reason.”
“I’d, uh… I’d say it was a pretty good reason.”
He says it like he just said something absurd— Like it was incomprehensible, the thread that stitched each word together and delivered them to you like an oath disguised as a letter. Like it was something ordinary, and yet, not at all. 
If you didn’t take a second to walk yourself back in your mind, you might’ve done something stupid— Something like beg him to say what he really means. Something like just answering him by kissing him. Something like telling him you can’t hold back any longer, this feeling you were drowning in, unbearable. 
But you keep it together, biting at the inside of your mouth and playfully rolling your eyes like it could mask the tension of that unsaid, responding with something reminiscent of a laugh as you pull his hair back into your hands where it belonged. 
“C’mere, Reynolds,” you say with a smile, tenderly tracing alongside the edge of his hairline at his temple— A quiet promise in your touch. “We’re almost done.”
He mulls in the silence for a while, letting you feel him in your fingers like it was telling him more.
You rub your hands through him and he asks,
“How d’you know so much about all this?”
You smooth your hands from front to back.
“I don’t know. The printed instructions and a YouTube video or two… A lot of practice.”
You curl your fingertips at the nape of his neck.
“Practice?”
You run them through again.
“How do you think Valentina keeps that stupid stripe so perfectly silver?”
And again…
“Really? Wow.”
And again…
“Yup. Sometimes I don’t even think she could tie her shoes if I didn’t hold the laces for her.”
And again…
“I know it was you, by the way.”
You freeze. 
Fingers release from his hair and you step back slightly, shifting under his gaze and studying him carefully— Trying to read between the lines woven on his face and focus on anything other than the spike in your heart rate or the tightness in your chest.
He said it calmly—smoothly, just like how you touched him—without a trace of malice or blame, only quiet intention. 
You go to turn back to the sink but he stops you in your tracks, solid and warm hand grasped around you. It was insane how he held you so gently yet with so much power, so much purpose. Your eyes glance down, noting his fingers were wrapped around your wrist and not your hand, all like he avoided it— Like he was still so afraid to touch you, to go beyond with you again, but he needed contact.
He needed you to stay. 
So you stopped, running your tongue over your teeth in thought before asking, 
“What do you mean?”
It was said evenly, like all your confidence didn’t just crumble under the weight of your curious words. Like it didn’t just throw you for a loop and leave you a sputtering mess in your head.
But he read right through it. His gaze steadies you—grounds you—somehow walking you back from an invisible edge just by looking at you, all without saying a word yet. 
“Who called— I… I know it was you who called Bucky.”
It was said with such certainty, a phrase harbouring something more honest than truth, a love letter delivered through pure intentions. 
He let go of your wrist, a timid hint of fingertips against the racing of your pulse before he let it drop to your side. Wandering eyes try to meet your gaze, a whisper of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You immediately retreat, suddenly razor-focused on peeling the gloves off and discarding them into the sink, setting a timer on your phone and mulling in thought. Eventually, you turn to him, your back flush against his vanity, his stare still fixed to you and chilling your skin more than the cool granite.
Patience is what he granted you, biting gently at his lips that were drawn into a tight line now. Eyebrows wobbled ever so slightly into soft crescents as he watched you stir, like he was worried about the weight of the world on your shoulders. Like it was hurting him to see you taken aback.
And yet, still, patience.
“Bob, I…” You trail off, struggling to form a coherent sentence, a huff breaking through instead of more words lost in the shake of your voice. “That-that’s—”
“I know, it’s okay.” He cuts you off and before you could blink he was already moving across the tile and standing in front of you, wading in the wake of your shadow. Your body, an eclipse. His hands find refuge in his pockets, tucked away like that somehow makes him take up less space. Like it somehow makes his earnest confrontation less invasive, less emotionally charged. 
It doesn’t.
“You were in there,” you whisper, voice cracking at the end as you try to blink back tears stinging the corners of your eyes, looking anywhere but at him, fingers picking at hangnails you created. “You were in that vault and I—and I—”
“And you called,” he reassures, steady voice countering your wavering one. Something new. With a touch as gentle as his breath fanning across your face, he tilts your chin up to him, finger lingering a whisper too long. “It doesn’t matter when it was. You called and I got out.”
His features were soft, taking you in like you were the only thing that mattered, like if he didn't study the shapes and swirls in your irises he no longer knew the purpose of living. 
“Bob, you died.” 
The hard truth hits the floor with a thud, yet the words were spoken so faintly you thought for a second maybe he didn’t hear them, maybe you spared him from acknowledging that gut-wrenching truth.
You were anticipating the worst— Ready for him to hate you, to yell at you, to force you to leave and to never want to speak to you again. 
What you didn’t anticipate, however, was for him to break eye contact.
His stare flickers down to his hand instead, slowly reaching out to yours at your side until your palms are pressed together— A fragile anchor between people who don’t know how to say what they need to.
It was cautious, desperate yet restrained— No fingers intertwined, no firm grip, just the raw press of skin to skin, something certain for you to hold onto, just like the words he spoke. 
And it felt like maybe you were the one who died and came back to life when his thumb brushed over yours—a tender, hesitant sweep—so gentle, so honest, his fingers a rope pulling you back from the depths you’ve fallen to. 
It was like time stopped when he looked up again, shy and raw, a sneaking suspicion of unbearable intimacy daring to drag you under, rip you from your guilt-wracked reality and trap you in a dream beneath his grasp. 
It was the kind of look that would leave you only to wander in your dreams after seeing it— One that would leave you wondering how to crave the unimaginable after getting a taste of his eyes.
“And now I’m alive,” he whispers, lips twitching upwards at the word ‘alive.’ “Now I have a reason to be.”
Your fingers flinch in his grasp, small and unsteady against him— Suddenly aware after the initial shock that he was holding your hand in a moment still tethered to this reality. You feel it for a split second, the flex in his fingers, like he’s weighing running again— Like he wasn’t yet believing he deserved to be holding onto someone. Like it wasn’t the feeling of you beneath him that made it dizzying, but the fact that you were letting him.
That you don’t pull away.
Glassy eyes dart back and forth between his, trying to decipher if you really just heard him flip your world upside down with a few simple words— If you really were holding him in a way you never thought possible, like maybe—for a split second—he needed it too.
Were you dreaming?
For a fleeting moment, his gaze slips down to uncharted waters, tracing the curve of your lips with a hesitant hunger. You barely dared to believe it’s real—convinced it was your imagination caving to your desires—before he abruptly clears his throat, the spell now broken.
“I-I have this new family,” he clarifies, but he doesn't stop looking at you like you weren’t completely insane for reading beyond what he was saying, for thinking that maybe—just maybe—he meant something else entirely. “I have this job… I have purpose— Or will eventually, at least. If you didn’t call when you did I maybe never would’ve gotten that chance. Maybe I never would’ve gotten out of… there.”
His voice cuts off, a short and sharp breath pulled into his lungs at the mention of it. You knew what he was alluding to, that sinister darkness that swallowed him whole and trapped him with no sign of release— A vault maybe worse than the physical one he escaped before. 
You squeeze your eyes tightly at the reminder of what he went through. 
“Why are you doing this?” you manage to ask, finding him studying you when you come back to your senses, your fingers stiffening against his for a beat before granting a subtle squeeze at his loose fingers, reminding him you were still tethered to him— Reminding him he’s still human and is allowed to crave the warmth of another. 
A tinge of melancholy stains his wobbly smile, and he says, “Because I know what it’s like to only judge yourself on your worst mistakes.”
He hesitates for a second, soaking in your eyes that softened at his words, biting gingerly at his bottom lip, hanging on the moment like he wanted to say more— Like he had another reason he was trying to will himself to set free. 
But he doesn’t.
Instead, his thumb brushes over yours again—slow, methodical—like he was learning every crease and every line.
It was intoxicating.
You never wanted him to stop.
“I just thought that maybe if I kept this job I could try to change her,” you admit, feeling exposed at your honesty— But you wanted him to know. You wanted to unravel yourself and lay every fractured piece at his feet. You wanted to give yourself away, like you were never really yours to begin with, only his.
“I thought maybe I could help become a real part of this team if I—”
He stops you, gaze heavy and dripping with something you couldn’t quite place. “You are a part of the team.”
You stared back at him, reveling in the electric energy coursing through your veins, flowing from his hand to yours, presence finding a missing piece in each other, like you both were a source of oxygen through the tender weight in the air. An addictive and alluring heaviness you couldn’t quite shake.
“I thought maybe I could work from the inside,” you continue, narrowing your eyes, teasing now— Desperate to escape the weight of your own soul. “Y’know, like black-ops or something…” 
Only he didn’t laugh.
He didn’t even crack a smile or let a pulse of air drift from his lips. He just stared at you like he couldn’t turn away from something sacred, like he couldn’t let you do it either— Like you were wrapped in something more meaningful than life itself.
He waded in the pools of your eyes and flush of your skin like you were the only thing tethering him to linear time, like not even God himself could rip him from your grasp—from this moment—from the high he chased by clutching onto your skin— Something more addicting than any drug he’d ever been on. 
It made your heart pound harder against your rib cage, a pull stirring deep at the pit of your stomach— A yearning awakening from restless sleep. 
The only thing that mattered was your breathing— In time, parallel, humming in seductive silence together. 
It’s a fever, bulletproof, impossible to break. 
And then it happens again— That hesitant glance down at your lips like he was doing something unfathomable, like the way he chased the rosey flush of your pout was obscene. 
For a second, you started to believe that maybe he could want this. Maybe he wanted this just as much as you. Maybe, somehow, he wanted it more…
Thin lips part open, but nothing comes out. So he tries again, voice thick and low with rasp. “I—”
Suddenly, the phone’s timer blares, sharply shattering the fragile silence with no remorse. The unwanted sound echoed off the tile, vibrating through every inch of skin and ripping you clean out of the moment— A feat you once thought impossible, now accomplished with ease. 
His hand jerks back as if he was caught in the act of something forbidden, retreating with a sudden, awkward haste. You let out a sharp exhale, remembering how to breathe without him again and make quick work of silencing the deafening noise, wanting to scream at what it had ruined. 
You had him.
For a second it felt like you honestly and truly had him. 
And now he was gone. 
“Guess you’re all done,” you say, not even recognizing your own voice anymore. Not when he was taking over your body, your mind. Your soul.
“Yeah,” he mumbles back, looking down at the tile— Far away now, in more ways than one.
The distance between you stretches, leaving you to freeze in the loss of his body heat hovering over yours— And yet still, the chill of his retreat is warmer than the company of anyone else in this world. 
Something you never wanted to live without now.
You suddenly lost all your confidence—what little of it you had—struggling to do what comes next.
“Do you, uh, do you want to,” you stumble, gently gesturing to his shower, “or do you want me to—”
“No, I trust you,” he interrupts, silencing your words and worries with a shy smile, still looking down at the floor until he flicks his gaze up for a second— Something shy and innocent. “I-I want you to do it.”
And for a moment, it feels like even though he let you go, he was still holding onto you.
You feel it when you lead him back to the tub, having him sit down against the cool tile and lean his head back, waiting until the water runs warm out of the faucet in the tub.
You feel it when you take a second to watch him— The way his long neck stretches over the tub, the bump in his throat catching the dim glow of moody bathroom lights. His jaw is relaxed now—soft—a way you rarely see it, lips parted in a hazy, unguarded half-smile like it’s a reflex when you’re this close to him. Deeply dark, glossy hair hangs off the edge, a few thin strands clinging to his forehead. The same strands that slipped free when he waded over you against the sink— A piece of that moment, still pulsing. They hang on like they belong there, like they couldn’t resist their natural state.
You feel it when your fingers hover over his hair—a blink away—a breath until you meet him again. This certainly wasn’t your first time touching him… So why did this feel so different now?
And like he knew you were hesitant, knew you were wrestling yourself deep in the corner of your mind, fighting back against yourself— He touches you first.
It was slow, careful. Like he understood breaking that gap between you and him would break something else too. Something unspoken, something unaccounted for. Like every delicate touch was a vow exchanged, a promise to never stop, to allow yourselves the grace to give in. 
You wanted to surrender.
Did he?
You don’t say a word, just let him gently guide your wrist down the rest of the way so your fingers could wade in his hair, the calloused heat and strength of his presence lingering for a second like he was fighting his brain's command to retreat. Like his fingers wanted to belong on top of your skin evermore. 
When you reached over to test the heat of the water with your other hand, you could swear his face tilted up a fraction toward yours— Like gravity, a new and sudden pull always drawing him to center around you. 
He watches you move. 
Silent. Still. 
Heavy-lidded eyes follow your body as you pull away, gaze thick with a look that reads as tangible desperation. Like he isn’t sure whether to be relaxed or wrecked by the moment. You can feel it humming under his skin, the pulse of something neither of you have had the courage to name. Something unmissable in the air, tension strung heavy like the room was holding its breath for you. 
He exhales when you finally pull your fingers through him again, a jolt pulsing through the air— So quiet, so unsure, yet aching.
Haunted ocean eyes lull shut under the delicacy of your touch, your fingers beckoning him one motion at a time. Deep brown runs from his head like ink spilling over a perfect white page, all sense of direction lost in the bleeding of his former self.
You wash him back to life, tenderly, with deliberate pace, keeping yourself present by focusing on everything utterly and innately him. Long, intoxicating eyelashes flutter under your touch, trembling with a fragile, exchanged energy he didn’t dare to let falter. Soft pink lips drift open, imperceptibly— The gentle gap between them like nothing more than a faint and distant shadow. Stained beads of water cling to the edge of his forehead, down his brow bone, around his jaw, down his neck…
The water collects in your hands and flushes over strands of his hair, cascading over him like a veil. Fingers work through the thick, damp strands, massaging through his scalp with a tenderness that feels more like an admission than an action.
His head pushes into your touch again—honest and true—no longer testing the integrity of your mind that wondered if he craved you as much as you craved him. This time it was done undoubtedly. 
The smell of cheap dye rises between you like a confession neither of you will say out loud. Not yet. 
Like gravity draws you there, your fingers trace along his temple, rubbing free a messy drop of tinged water off his features, like you were wiping away the empty version of him you no longer knew. 
He lets out a breath at the contact, soft and shaky, barely there. The corners of his mouth twitch like he was trying to conceal something that yearned to be set free. 
His careful exhale hung off the edge of his lips and you were jealous of it— Jealous of the way something gets to live so impossibly close to the vulnerable and intimate parts of him. The gentle in and out, all like the complications you wrestled down deep inside.
The ones that questioned if you were worthy of indulging in him. 
“This okay?” you murmur, voice small and cautious, a gentle hum craving to be reassured. 
Cool and grounding blue of his eyes flutter to life at your voice, finding your gaze through the misted air, charged and heavy with sincerity. 
“Yeah,” he says, his voice low and hoarse in a way that turns your stomach over— A reminder that he was real under your touch. “It’s… it’s better than okay,” he whispers, warming the air that’s run cold between you.
He says it delicately, a formidable prose, all like he was revealing something that was meant to be hidden, to be buried behind a calm tone rather than the intoxicating cadence of something worshipful. 
You don’t say a word, taking your time to learn each strand like a lost language, sacred scripture, senseless desire. 
Slowly, he’s painted back to himself.
Back to you. 
Tainted conscience comes clean by your hands buried in him, molding him to your touch, inch by inch, second by second, until the stained trail circling the drain lightens to something clear and pure.
Renewed light whispers through the air, a steady rhythm of the running water, beading drips from loose tendrils— The sound, a severance of a soul from purgatory. 
You lather his shampoo through the strands, something earnestly clean and simple filling the air, blending with the smell of chemicals and weighted intentions still chasing the drain.
You don’t mean to drag your fingertips a little slower, trying desperately to memorize the feeling of him tangled through you.
You don’t mean to press your palm against the curve of his neck when you chase away the suds left at the edge of his curls, his pulse a steady drum rattling through your hand.
You don’t mean to let your stare linger, the wet mess of himself suddenly the furthest thing from your mind now that you realized he was looking at you too.
But you do.
And neither of you dare to look away.
Electric tension evaporates any trace of air in your lungs. Neither of you breathe— A moment so delicate, you fear even a gentle exhale would break it.
He’s left to look up at you through familiar brown trusses framing his flushed face.
For a moment, divine intervention takes over— Your lips moving like flesh possessed by something ethereal, something by the grace of God, too earnest to name. 
“You’re back,” you whisper, honey-sweet tone drenching your words.
Beat.
“You came back to me.”
You say it like a vow, like a prayer— And perhaps, this is how religions are made. The cheap dye that ran through your fingers and mingled with the water, the soap that rinsed it free, the whispered words and a devout touch— A confessional, an act of reconciliation. Atonement for your sins done onto him.
His voice cuts through like rolling thunder, like rain on your skin— Clinging and desperate and impossible to ignore. The words come out broken and exhausted, all like they had to crawl their way up his throat to fall from his lips.
“Maybe I never really left you.”
The faucet runs dry after you turn it off, silence stretching unfathomably far. The air between you thickens, heavy and muffled with the weight of almosts.
Impossibly, the city that never sleeps seems to have fallen into slumber the second your world caved to just him. 
You should say something. Say anything. You should pull back, laugh it off, grab a towel and pretend this doesn’t mean what you both know it does. You should stop before you can’t turn back.
But you don’t.
Instead, you lean a little closer, your fingers trailing down the side of his neck, your thumb brushing over his pulse point as your hand cups his jaw, rubbing water into his skin like you can dry it beneath the heat of your touch— Through the heat of your skin, fused to his like it belongs. 
His chest is fluttering faster, pulse a steady beat under the pad of your finger, reminding you this was real. You were really here with him— This is happening. Then his eyes fall down to your lips, and you start to feel dizzy again.
He pulls you back to reality when his lips rasp your name—something sure, something even—a pleading cadence trying to attach itself to you. 
His hand comes up and catches the bend of your wrist gently, heavy fingers finding yours pressed against his neck, and you wonder, for a split second, if he was going to pull you away— If the call of your name was a warning and not a plea. Yet he holds you there, keeps you tethered to him, wiping away any doubts and insecurities you have with something more sure than words.
“I’m not going to stop you,” he murmurs, voice unhurried, lingering in the swelling silence, dancing with the steady beams of light flowing through the veins of the city beneath you.
It’s a promise, it’s a challenge… Maybe it’s both— A reverent ache granting you permission, begging you to take him up on an offer too holy to extend through anything other than an honest whisper. 
The words get stuck between your teeth, careless fibers woven between the cavities and creating pressure against your tongue. 
Warm water snakes from his neck down your wrist, staining your forearm, his wet form clinging to you, reminding you of what was just within your grasp. If you dared.
Instead, you mumble, 
“I’ll get you a towel.”
It’s like you blacked out the second you say those words— The second you leave his body, hot and weighted and impatient against cool tile. It’s like your mind moves to autopilot, rummaging through a cabinet for a towel when he’s already right behind you, always a half a step ahead, grabbing what you seek from a towel rack right in front of you.
And it’s like you're brought back to life the second he holds the plush fabric out to you, heavy breath warming the back of your neck, a steady drip of water beading off the ends of his hanging hair and onto your shoulder, rejuvenating what was lost within you.
So you soak the towel in his hair, slowly, gently, all until it’s merely damp in your hands. 
He watches you, silent worship, eyes roaming you like it was something sacred, completely unaware that you could sense the storm brewing beneath his gaze— The intention that boomed through his thoughts, carefully.
Quietly. 
Fingers linger at the nape of his neck, the towel clutched between your grasp like it’s a lifeline— Something you could hold him through, but still a thin barrier between what you want and what you have. 
It’s only then that you realize how long you’ve just been holding him.
Legs clung so closely they were basically between each other. Chests, heaving heavy with the weight of all that was quietly exchanged and pulsing between you. His eyes— Melted and wrecked and never leaving yours, so completely and utterly new.
Like if he blinked, he’d miss it. 
You tear your lingering gaze from the nape of his neck—his messy, tangled curls—and notice instead the way his hands ghost over the curve of your waist, caving and bending in the wake of your skin. Close, but not close enough. Like if he touched you, you’d vanish.
He notices too, eyes dipping down to his own cautious limbs, breath catching just enough that you could hear it and all it held. 
“Bob…” you whisper, an aching plea—something between a question and a statement—almost too dazed and lost to know if you were really speaking or just beckoning him only in your mind. 
He swallows, thick and heavy, throat bobbing just at your eyeline, body wrestling with his mind— His familiar state. 
Slowly, he retracts his fingers from your space, gone in a heartbeat, cruelly, like they were never even there.
They drum at his side, restless movement like he’s trying to break free of an invisible weight. 
“I keep…” he exhales sharply, like the words hurt to admit, and rubs trembling fingers hard across his face. “I keep thinking if I touch you now, I’m gonna screw it up…”
His confession comes weakly, weighted words faltering— Too afraid to hold all of their worth. An admittance, in some way, of what you both wanted, but have spent so long avoiding.
A religious routine you didn’t dare disturb.
The end of his words trail off and get lost in the space around you, eyes that were so suddenly sure of holding yours, lost again and looking anywhere else. 
He said it so cautiously, like they were damned letters too broken to string together, too haunted to bring to fruition. 
Little did he know, you felt the same exact way— But he doesn’t need that from you.
Neither of you do.
So instead, you let your hand reach out, achingly slow, like there was lead in your fingertips instead of flesh and blood that were all beating for him. Chills shoot through your body as you graze them along his forearm, a gentle up and down, barely moving yet purposeful— A steady movement mimicking his breath that quickened at the contact.
Up.
You trace the curve of his body with your eyes, free hand carefully tilting his chin off of the floor and up to look at you.
Down.
You linger there a second too long, shifting your gaze down at his lips and away in the blink of an eye. 
You stop.
Your voice cuts through, a gravel thick with honesty as you say just above a whisper, “I don’t think that’s possible.”
And there it was, suspended in electric air between you, hanging in the open. Waiting. Watching. 
A devout invitation to stop pretending you didn’t feel what you did.
And that was all it took. 
The hesitation that was rooted in rotten, wild insecurity burns off like fog in pure sunlight. The world narrows down to this, to him. To the way you’re both still terrified, but no longer running.
You don’t know who moved first. 
Maybe it’s been happening for hours, days, months— All in fractions of time since the moment you met him, a subtle shift, your orbit changing direction, slowly, yet all at once. 
Hesitant fingers brush the fabric of the shirt clinging to your upper thigh, pausing for a split second before finding their home against your skin, a sacred pull of his hands up your body. He pauses at the dip of your shoulder then caresses your collarbone that pokes through the slope of the fabric. 
It wasn’t fast, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hard or demanding, but an aching yearn bleeding through every cell of his body. A desperation that grew the longer that he lived in a world where his flesh wasn't connected to yours. 
Your eyes flutter shut for a breath and you can’t help but wonder if he’s actually set your body on fire with his patient touch, a miracle granted from a god himself— Somehow, worshiping you. 
A simple touch of a body that burned for him.
His other hand found its way to your lips, controlled strength of his thumb tracing the top of your lip and down your cupid's bow like he was saying a prayer to something otherworldly. To something devout. 
You’re so caught up in it you don’t even realize how close he is now, finally leaning into the confidence you offered him. 
The crisp blue of his eyes melt to a deep and desperate cerulean when he looks at you— Every ache and desire flickering behind his gaze. They find the flush of your lips and settle there, unmistakably this time, wading in the wake of their shadow as his thumb stills against you.
Slowly, he slips his other hand up to cup your cheek, featherlight touch cradling the curve of your jaw and skin that’s gone remarkably red. He holds you in the same way his words do— Like you were the only thing tethering him to this reality. Like if he gripped you too hard you’d vanish beneath his grasp and he’d lose himself with you. 
Like you were suddenly the only thing keeping him alive. 
And like he’s already wasted all the time in the world, he closes the gap, breath whispering across your lips as he takes them into his— Delicate, questioning. Like his only mission in the world was to make you melt into him and question the matter you were made of. 
The kiss was gentle, tentative— An exhale of all you held onto as his lips meet yours, a pleading cry to let yourselves get lost in each other, at last, once and for all. Finally achieving salvation through the trembling of your skin introduced to the newfound certainty of his. 
He was soft, careful, but totally and undoubtedly yours.
Your lips stay pressed together for a fraction of a second that felt like a lifetime, pure and aching touch— A thirst you never quite realized would ever be quenched until he starts to move his mouth around yours, cautiously exploring the plush skin of your lips sealed to his. 
Your hand clutches the cuff of his t-shirt sleeve, like gripping onto him would somehow make this moment more real— Your mind in overdrive as you begin to kiss him back. 
It was racing almost feverishly, pounding with a million conflicting thoughts and screaming sensations. He made it all go quiet—just for a minute—but it was starting to flood back again: doubts and insecurities and a nagging, incessant voice that still taunted, 
This is just a moment. 
This is just because you’re here. 
Even the taste of you doesn’t wash away what you’re trying to rid yourself of.
You try to wrestle it down, focusing on the way he gently parted your mouth open and slipped your bottom lip between his, a reverent and sensual pull at your flesh— Pulling you back to him, back from what tried to dull the dizzy stars in your eyes from the way he kissed you like you were the oxygen that filled his lungs and kept his heart beating.
His hands that cupped your face roamed shamelessly, one still anchored and tracing your jaw, the other sliding across your cheekbone before brushing hair out of your face and down to cradle the back of your head. 
Now it was him who made a living in your hair— Rough knuckles tangled in the nape of your neck, raking through the strands and discovering more of what he’s never felt before.
His hands against your skin weren’t greedy, weren’t possessive— They were catharsis incarnate. A living, breathing exorcism of somber restraint, as if the whole city might collapse if he didn’t hold you.
It was a quiet surrender to the hollow kind of ache neither of you could bear to carry alone anymore.
When you let both your hands slide up his arms, fingers wrapping around the curves of his muscle until they settle on his shoulders, he’s drawn to the small of your back like a magnet. Like you touching him back even in the smallest of ways was monumental. Like it was dusting off what he knew of intimate actions. Like it was permission for him to allow himself to have this— To have you.
He brings you in closer, the press of his palm flush against the small of your back like a weight. Your bodies fused together, chests thumping in time, a screaming heartbeat in your ear so loud you were deprived of the sweet sounds he made.
Like the frantic prose of his breath against you.
Like the shudder he let slip when both your hands wandered further up to explore his neck and jawline, fingers tracing every inch.
Or the just barely audible whine that curled in the air around you before he finally speaks again— Noses brushing, bodies heaving and fingers lost in discovering one another. The gift of something new. 
“You’re thinking,” he whispers, lips pulling apart from yours with hesitancy, body reeling you in somehow closer to make up from the sliver of space that lives between you now, all like he was afraid you’ll disappear there. His voice was heavy, deep— The sound of a shameless crave wrapping around each letter he let slip. 
It was making you dizzy— The way he somehow managed to read between what your body is doing and your mind is raking through underneath the surface.
The subtle disconnect you’d never want him to feel, yet he did. 
“So are you,” you murmur, not strong enough to resist flipping his question back on him instead of answering it yourself. “What’re you thinking about?”
For once, he answers with no hesitancy—for a fleeting moment—no longer fearing the insecurity of his own mind and its integrity. 
“Just how much I want this,” he breathes, honest and true, weighted words dancing across your skin and making it shiver with chills. He lets the hand in your hair fall so he can clutch the bottom hem of your t-shirt, his t-shirt, hugging your body. “About how much I want you.”
He takes you in— A deep, desperate gaze, all like he needed you to believe it in order to survive. And when he does, something shifts. It doesn’t break open inside you, it doesn’t crash, or crack, or splinter. 
It’s an unexpected bend, your soul finding his and staying.
Your self-sabotage is suffocated— The one that whispers this is being done out of haste, out of palpable lust and loaded feelings you projected onto him. No, you scold yourself. This is the realest thing you’ve ever had.
So you connect again with urgency, letting yourself fall into him and return your lips to his— The place you wanted to belong forever after getting a taste. Your hands run up his neck with a tender pressure until they reach his hair, instinctively closing around the damp curls at the nape of his neck, helping press him into you again. 
A sharp exhale gets caught in the back of your throat at the feeling, his lips rapidly picking up the pace against yours— Kissing you back. It still wasn’t rushed, or messy or careless, but the kind of frantic burn that scorns through sensual and desperate touch. 
Like you’d never get enough of each other.
His thumb grazes at the hem of your shirt before snaking its way up at the side of your rib cage, helping pull you into him the same way his lips are. The other is still splayed on the small of your back, rubbing tentatively— A gentle vow, each movement making your head spin and your knees uneasy as they begin to tangle with his from the breached space.
His movements become more sure, the power behind his touch no longer grounding but pleading— Soft sounds and labored breathing daring to drag you into a reality where only this mattered.
The weight of him pressed to you felt right, like a prophecy you let haunt you was finally being fulfilled.
You, merely an extension of him, and him of you.  
Damp curls thread through your fingers like an anchor as he holds you tighter, intensity building behind his body— Crashing and hungry and worshipful all at once. It was hardly your first time raking your fingers through his hair but now they moved like they believed they belonged there, no longer like they were asking. 
He pushes it further— His mouth angling to take you in more, noses carrying frantic and heavy breaths as they bump together, your tongue eventually finding its way to his like it's something you’ve done a million times. 
His breath shuddered against you— Vibration sending shockwaves through your body.
Legs tangled, bodies twisted, trying to invent new ways to be closer together right where you belonged.
Then you’re moving— Grabbing harder on his neck to pull him with you, messily stumbling back toward the doorway until your back rests flush and heaving against the cool paneling of the wall. 
You leaned into it, pressure of his hands finding that sweet spot right above your waist, gentle and honest pull until your hips were flush against his, thumb circling slow and steady at the dip of your skin and bone. 
You feel it for a fleeting second— His fingers twitching against you before one hand slips further down, cupping the crest of your waist, your hip, your thigh…
His body betrays him, the questioning flicker of doubt pulsing through the flex of his fingers as they finally rest around the curve of your ass. It was like he was journaling every reaction you had, every careful movement that was flushed out with delicate intentions to know more of you. 
His lips pull apart just barely, forehead resting against yours, and asks,
“This okay?” It comes out with a pant, his ehale warming the inside of your mouth that hangs slightly open trying to catch your breath, lips still clinging against yours as he speaks. The question broke apart as it’s asked— Frayed at the edges, all like he was scared to think he might’ve pushed a non-existent line too far and too fast. 
You nod, peppering the gentlest of kisses at the corner of his mouth and around his jaw, selfishly hungry and not wanting to stop like you were now addicted. 
He’s wrecking you— You shamelessly basking in the broken gasp that breaks across your skin when you push into his hold with something more weighted than that of your body. 
“More than okay,” you mumble into his skin, smiling on his mouth as you get to return the words he assured you with in the tub. 
Then something stoic washes over him, glowing like his skin in the haze of steam and city ambience that cuts through the deep of the night. He bites at the edge of his lip, his mouth twitching like he was cursing himself— Like he was afraid, like he was about to be vulnerable for the first time with you. Like his hand wasn’t currently pressed deep into the curve of your ass and cradling you through sensual, electric tension.
“Is this real?”
The vulnerable cadence of his words gets swallowed into the silence, only the twin beat of your hearts and ravenous breath hanging in the air with the question. It’s asked with disbelief and careful wonder and something reminiscent of awe basking in your presence. 
And you knew what he meant immediately, like you’ve lived inside his head forever. Like he was the better side of a coin you shared. 
You know he asks it because he knows the feeling of living in something of an illusion all too well. The feeling of questioning the integrity of every breath he took— Of everything he touched, or more so, didn’t.
So you do something that shatters the hesitancy in him, shaky breath, an exhale— Your promise to him. 
You pull one of his anchoring hands off your waist and into yours, softly, delicately—no trembling, no hesitation this time—the most honest thing you’ve ever done. 
His brows knit and he pulls back just enough to watch you do it like it was grounding him from losing control. Like you were creating gravity for him. 
His breath hitches in disbelief as your fingers thread together—in the easy, certain way you give him what he was too terrified to ask for—hollow hands whole again once wound in each other.
And for the first time, there’s no flinch. No retreat.
The city’s heartbeat beneath you softens, booms lower, quieter— A romantic rhythm in tandem with yours, like it was alive for you. 
Alive with you.
Fingers squeeze around his— Tight, knowing, sure. You don’t want him to be mistaken as you touch him there, in a place you both avoided, knowing it holds a weight heavier than the breaking of all unsaid.
Eventually, his grip matches yours; slow, reverent. His thumb brushes over yours, unwavering this time. There’s no flex like he’s weighing running, no hesitation like he can’t believe he’s allowed— Only certainty. 
You let him be present in this universe with you. Nowhere else. No other time or memory or false feeling.
Just here. 
Your confessions to him lay naked and bare in the wake of his grasp, no presence feeding off the stained parts of your soul and dragging him away into a place where time lost all meaning. But instead, it loses all meaning here.
Because for once when his hand touches another, time doesn’t shrink or fall still or cower— It expands.
It evolves. 
It grows and moves forward. It feels right— An exchanged commitment to one another in the shape of skin that caves to each other.
A vow that bends linear time. 
You didn’t have to answer his question with words, just your reverent touch he clung onto like you were the answer to all he lost in the fabric of this reality— Like if he let you go his soul will lose its center of gravity.
He lets out a huff in utter disbelief, pure wonder, the mesmerising and magical cadence of something real.
And he moves like fire when you whisper against the shell of his ear, 
“Keep showing me how real it really is.”
Your delicate command gets lost in the sounds of him moving back to how he held you before—pushing you into the wall harder—his mouth crashing into yours with passion and desperation. It swallows the sweet gasp you make as he leaves whatever soft and tentative actions he wore on the forefront behind him, abandoned on the floor of that bathroom that glowed from the fever of your aching touch.
Fingers fly free of your hand and rope through your hair, guiding your face to kiss him deeper. And you do.
His other hand squeezes into the curve of your ass he grips onto, mimicking the way his lips shape around yours— Gentle pull dancing with dizzying pressure with every press at your skin. Then you hook your leg around his thigh, helping him push into you more. 
Even then, his fingers danced like your flesh was burning him, roaming with feverish intent, never lingering too long in one spot. They’re everywhere and anywhere he could reach.
They press flush to your waist, trail up your tummy and follow the gentle curve of your ribs. They live in the marrow of bones that carved your shoulders and neck in sacred city lights, tracing your jaw until he replaces his touch with his mouth, fingers tracing your hair out of his way like it was an act of penance.
You hold his middle, a breathless run of your fingertips on his chest— The same kind of breathless like the sigh that leaves your lips when he bites gently on your neck, like he’s electrocuting every nerve ending in your body with reverent praise. 
Every contraction and flex of otherworldly muscle pulses under your touch, your hands skimming the surface until you slip them under and melt your curious touch into the vast expanse of his body— Skin on skin.
He groans at the sensation of you touching him now without a thin cotton barrier— Soft and pleading and thanking you with the religious pull of his lips on your neck. The mark is dusted with an honest kiss before he finds your mouth again, the sweet taste of cherry candies and deep red wine and something unmistakably him flooding all your senses utill you couldn’t bear to imagine anything else. 
For a split second, your legs wobble from the sensation—like you were becoming drunk off the taste of his mouth on you—but he steadies you, gripping the hand that held you up more firmly against your skin, forearm anchoring the underside of your upper leg that wrapped around him. 
“I got you,” he murmurs, so faint in between deep and lustful kisses you couldn’t tell if it was real or not. 
He holds you like you were nothing more than the air he breathes— Like it was the easiest and most natural state for him to dwell in. It’s done delicately, fingers careful against your skin like you would break from one wrong touch. He holds you with devotion, something sure and unmistakable in the pressure of his body against yours. 
Once he feels you stable yourself, the fingers holding your thigh travel up along your spine and under your shirt. They find the center of your back and rest along your bra, careful, alert, meticulous. They snake around the strap, a gentle pull and play around the stretch of the elastic. It wasn’t rushed or possessive, but grounding— Honest and pure intention breaking free to only leave his questioning fingers tracing another part of you locked away from him.
Your mind is screaming for him to take the leap, so loud and hungry you almost wondered if he could hear what's trapped inside your skull when his fingers find the clasp and fiddle with the latch— Something of a questioning hum or mumble of  “can I” lost in the careful mangle of his fingers.
He focuses harder, his lips stilling against yours slightly until you reach a hand off his chest and over his frustrated fingers behind you, guiding him with ease to pop the clasp open and give more of yourself to him. 
He steers the garment free and it falls to the floor, tangling with your feet.
They move around it, suddenly walking backwards like second nature as he guides you off the door frame and into his room.
His mouth and tongue still meet yours without skipping a beat. His hands, large and wild and lazy, leading you into something new with him. 
The hand tangled in your hair clings to the base of your neck—gently—listening to the cadence of your pulse and ghosting over the sensitive mark he left blooming against the plush of your skin. 
The fingers that splayed around your jaw rub and trace along the shadow of your cheekbone in the moody glow of his abandoned room coming back to life once you were in it. 
The other guides you back, slipping out from under your shirt and finally exploring the side of your ribcage now free of everything other than the clothes of his you wore.
You moan into the haze of his personal space as you press into his mouth deeper, hands trailing up and pushing gently on his neck and head to help him give you what you needed. 
It’s a successful endeavor until you imperceptibly tug on his hair, causing him to lean his head back for a breath and match the sounds you made— Something shameless and broken and desperate cracking between each messy motion toward his bed together.
He’s all over you— Like watercolors on stale paper, like fog clinging to shadows. Like doubt disguised as deliverance. 
His confidence grows steadily with every leading step— His teeth clinging gently at the bottom of your lip making you sigh into every touch, all while simultaneously and haphazardly kicking random things out of your path— Like the damp towel that got tangled at his feet and dragged a few steps or your discarded shoes you stumble over.
You let out a tiny sound of pain as you stepped on the sharp, pointed heel, and though you didn’t really notice or care—considering you were currently under a spell from his mouth—Bob did.
He lets out a taut puff of air through his nose against your upper lip as he continues to kiss you and waves his hand casually, a sudden bang of the hazard in question crashing with undeniable force into his desk and knocking over the chair, your ragged movements coming to a screeching stop at the realization. 
He looked over his shoulder, chest rising and falling quickly, your gaze settling right past him and at the shoes— Now scuffed and torn apart. One of the stiletto heels is broken in half from the impact, making your mouth fall slack in shock at his casual power. 
A red flush sweeps over his skin—even more so now—and paints the soft porcelain of his skin from ears down past his neck and under his t-shirt. He blinks steadily, looking back and forth between you and the mess behind him, mouth desperately trying to spit out words. 
“I-I, shit, I’m so sorry,” he says, voice still raspy and heavy from the taste of you on his tongue. “I didn’t mean to do that, I’ll— I’ll buy you new ones, I—”
You cut him off with another kiss, helplessly giggling at the way you could feel his brain short-circuiting underneath you, instantly moving to hold you again and kiss you back— But with hesitancy as his mind tried to catch up with the instinct now settled in his bones.
“I don’t care. It’ll go on my work card,” you mumbled in between kisses and continuing to pull him backwards again— Into you and back on track to your destination. “Comes with the job,” you continue, caressing his tangled hair out of his face and behind his ears. “Common business expense.” 
He snorts at that— Real, genuine laugh under his breath that vibrates through every cell in your body as it breaks through his starving movements against your skin. 
“Field work,” he adds, smiling against your lips until he finds your ear and kisses gently below it— Nose nudging your hair, breath tickling your skin, all of it making you melt. “Some crazy enhanced got too handsy with you.”
“The only thing crazy about it is saying he’s too handsy,” you tease coyly, head tilting back, breath quickening. He’s kissing your ear, your jaw, your neck… 
You sigh earnestly at his touch, halting once the back of your knees finally meet the side of his bed.
When he pulls away, your eyes flutter open to take him in and he’s breathtaking.
Soft, supple waves blur at the edges, lined lightly in soft, golden light from the bathroom still pulsing behind him. The harsh contrast of the nightswept city flickers with life like the heartbeat you could see in his eyes when he looked at you— Wide and blissful and utterly dazed in your presence. They soaked in the cool blue hue of skyscraper haze and melted into something sacred. His thin lips are fuller now, softly parted and swollen, slicked over with evidence of you all over them— Bright pink flush matching the familiar warmth settling over his skin, his cheeks only reddening as you study him religiously. 
Out of all the ways you watched him blush tonight, this was your favorite. Easily.
You could hear it thrumming in every corner of the room now— His soul, his heartbeat, all an extension of him you now waded in. 
It was pressed between the pages of the books that littered his shelves. It was bouncing off the walls in his room that darkness clung to. It was living, breathing in the floorboards that cushioned your feet and held you afloat— The pure and perfect vulnerability of him, his molten honesty, echoing through everything he touched.
Echoing through you.
Your next moves are slow— More careful and intentional now than the frenzy you let yourself get lost in before has eased. Fingers slip down to the hem of his shirt, electric and alive like sparks when you gently hold it and feel his skin underneath. Like you weren’t just all over him before. 
They toy with the hem gently in waiting question— The smooth cotton flowing against your touch, your eyes on his, burning with something stronger. Hungrier. 
Lips part slightly to do it—to ask—but he beats you to it. His hand finds yours, a gentle rub at your thumb, before he helps you guide his shirt off. It's a slow, aching travel up his body, neckline catching and somehow further messing his tangled waves once it pulls over his head and falls to the floor.
You try not to stare— You really try not to, but god, you can’t help it. How could you?
He was somehow more defined than you ever could’ve imagined, muscle carved through every fiber of his being like he could break you in half with a pinch. He was so gentle, so cautious— So over-calculated and constantly over-thinking, like he was always one step away from curling in on himself and inventing a new way to manipulate matter into sucking his body into a black hole. 
You could feel it brimming behind him still, that unshakable urge to try and hide himself somehow, like his body—this remarkable temple for his soul—was somehow unworthy of existing. Like he didn’t deserve to be observed or watched. Like he was meant to be lost and forgotten about with other unloved things that stilled under the haunted dust of this building. 
But when he stood in front of you like this—like he had a reason for simply being—it was the complete opposite. 
It was evident in the way he looked at you now— Stable, sure, an aching crave of you smothering any small flicker behind his eyes that tried to catch into a flame of doubt.
You wouldn’t let it.
He swallows hard, like he’s pushing down the urge to run again, then moves. 
Slowly, rough and secure hands guide your fingers back to his skin, curves of his muscle heavy under you like stone, expanse of his chest and arms and abs dusted with freckles and marks— Millions of them, all waiting to be brought to life by your hands. 
You drift them along, taking him in, all until your palm rests over his heart, the frantic rhythm of something reverent under your fingertips. 
Something you know beats for you.
Eventually, you break the silence, voice low and honest as you say, “You’re incredible.” You say it like you were in disbelief— And that’s because you were.
He smiles—crooked, wobbly joy etched into his lips—and shifts under your gaze, like he wasn’t used to the praise. Especially when you meant it, truly. Wholeheartedly. 
He comes closer, heaving chest rising and falling against yours now and ghosts the edge of his face against yours. 
A hand brushes wisps of your hair from your eyes, forehead resting gently along yours until your noses are touching. Until you could feel his eyelashes fluttering against your brow bone and the swell of his lips— Holy, like they were swollen from the mere thought of you until they touch yours again.
He slots his lips into yours with a gentle and breathless sigh, free hand cradling the bend of your elbow in his palm.
“So are you,” he murmurs into your mouth, the low and sultry tone vibrating every nerve ending like a tuning fork striking through your body, your cells and soul all singing the ethereal tune of his praise for you. “So perfect.”
Carefully, he guides you back— Slowly, sensually sitting you on the bed beneath him, his body caging you in and hovering just a heartbeat away. His lips whisper against yours as he leans down, melting right back into a deep and methodical kiss like he never left, the weight of his body helping ease you back onto the mattress.
He’s slotted between you like a lost key now returned. One arm presses into the bed parallel to your shoulder, propping himself up to ghost the slope of your body. The other loosely trails up the rest of your arm until he’s cupping your cheek, rubbing aimless circles into the flush of your skin and holding you like he was holding the world. 
The undeniable weight of his built frame clings just above you, enough contact to wrinkle your shirt and send a set of shivers up your spine as you imagine having him fully against you. 
So you do just that, grabbing the back of his shoulders and easing him onto you— Back where he belongs. 
He was reluctant, still holding back like he was afraid of crushing you beneath him, but he relaxes as soon as you work your hands up his shoulder blades and into his hair, pulling him into you with a low and sultry moan— Reminding him how desperately you craved to be kissed as deeply as he could bear.
Lips part your mouth open for him, his tongue gently tickling the tip of yours before he pushes it further, sliding it flush against yours and making a living in the heat of your mouth. The groan he makes when you let him gets caught low in the back of his throat that is already bitten radiant red from your kisses.
You smooth your hands over every inch of his neck, his shoulders— Anywhere you could reach, really. Restless fingers tentatively wrap around the sculpt and flex of his arms, applying more pressure to match the weight he was kissing your mouth with. The way you were kissing him back.
His lips are soft—thin like the boundaries between you now—plush and aching and reverent search against yours like he’d find his will to live there.
He was rewriting everything broken in you— Every trace of guilt replaced with the honorable trace of his fingers along your skin, every mumble no longer shy or cautious but words overwhelmed with hunger or a vibration against your body. 
Every memory of him in a sheen of sweat in a bed that once haunted you, rewritten in real time as it adorns his skin from being pressed against you— Moving, exploring, changing what it means to remember him on a mattress once he’s with you.
No one else.
Like it’s second nature, he rubs at a spot on the side of your upper neck that makes your toes curl and your core coil with striking heat. It’s a sensitive curve just on the underside of your jaw littered in shadows, aching to give itself to him. He kisses at it with an urgency that makes you gasp louder beneath him— A proud smile flickering on his lips and across your skin for a split second, clearly amused at how he was already learning your body so incredibly well. 
Your hand flies up to his hair, pulling him in with a gentle tug to apply more pressure, both of you reveling in a weighted and shaky moan from the way you wanted each other more.
Rough and sturdy palm on his hand finds refuge in the dip of your side, free to roam now that his mouth did that for him on your jaw. It snakes down until it hits your hip bone under your shirt, a careful yet intentful press of his fingers just below your ribs. 
When you hum in approval—too busy turning your neck from the pressure of his mouth and meeting your impatient lips to pepper kisses along the pulse point on his wrist that steadied him above you— he slips his hand up the fabric.
His fingers trail achingly slowly against your skin, rewarded by the anticipating squirm and roll of your body into his touch until they find the beginning swell of your breast. The sensation makes you dizzy, your eyes fluttering to life at the contact and you could swear the room was being lit up with fireworks from the flickering lights that danced above you. 
You should probably be acknowledging the abnormal sight of it, but, selfishly, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. 
Not when each suction of his lips was rewriting your brain chemistry or when he was absentmindedly pressing his wrist firmer against your kiss. Now when was working your breast with more confidence now that made you shudder like you were saying a prayer. Not when the undeniable pull of his presence was making your body shamelessly lift from the mattress for a fleeting second to push deeper into his. 
Definitely not when he did it too. 
Impatient flush of your lips craves his, so both your hands find his face, still buried and busy in your neck, and pull him up to you— Both your thumbs rubbing gently just under the restless flutter of his closed lashes as you guide his mouth back to yours—back where it belongs—and he kisses you like he’s never going to let you go.
The movement, the pressure— The combination of his mouth deepening against yours, his tongue warm and tangling around yours. The scrape of calloused and heavy hands against the sensitive skin of your breasts, the smooth of his hair tracing along your forehead and your cheeks make you melt into something for him to piece back together and bring back to life. 
Every heavier touch was balanced with something softer—more delicate—like a light pepper of a kiss pressed to the place his face would hover when one of you needed to catch your breath. Or the whisper of his fingertips tracing the slope of your breast after you’d feel sensitive peaks forming under his feverish touch. 
Each moment was like a love letter, a language— Checking in with you, asking you, talking to you without words. It was thanking you and reminding you through it all, the type of man you were really here with under the heavy tension of a Watchtower bedroom.
A suspended moment trapped in a city that never sleeps that has fallen into slumber when compared to the energy of your body meeting his.
You do it back, slipping a hand free from the slight stubble poking through his face and back to dance along his fist that propped him up above you. It’s needy now, the way your fingers whisper against his skin, pleading to let you in again. 
They do— Finding yours immediately and threading together like they were once forged to be one. 
His other hand works like honey over your chest, fingers rubbing and palming deeper against your sensitive skin until you’re moaning just a hair louder under his reverent mouth— Growing restless as you drown in all the ways you want more of him.
He reads you, one of his legs slipping free from between yours, and he braces the outside of your thigh until you feel every inch of him— Every pulsing, screaming piece of him flush against you.
The pounding of your hearts are loud, heavy— Completely in sync all like the rest of you, labored breath shallowing at how hard you were both working to find new ways to be closer like this was the only chance you’d ever get. 
A sharp, sudden puff of air fanned against your mouth—his exhale cutting—when your hips gently rock up against him. 
Just once. 
It’s quick, it’s fast—it’s barely even a movement at all—but the way he reacts is like you’ve electrocuted all his nerve endings until they were scorched— On fire, burning like the desire washing over his body and flooding your veins.   
He uses the leg that’s still between you to slip up until the weight of his thigh is resting against the fabric of your underwear, covering the part where you needed him most. A breathless and raspy ‘god’ floods his mouth when he does and falls across your skin.
Every sound, every touch, every increase in palpable pressure all fans the flames you swore you’d never feed. A spreading burn you didn’t dare deny any longer.
Now it’s you who’s gasping— Biting down gently on his lip for a moment at the shift in pressure. The hand that wasn't tangled between yours flies from your chest down to the curve of your thigh, pressing with a new buzz of force and desperately anchoring you to him with a steady and sure palm— A signal for you to continue.
It’s a bit harder this time, your move against him. A sleek and steady leg hooks around the back of his, pulling him in as you do it, your body shamelessly arching off the dip of his mattress beneath you.
His hand that grips onto yours flexes tighter at the movement, pressure leaving every line of his fingertips pressed into you— Like all his molecules and matter were being fed into this one moment. 
Like it was inevitable—incontestable—the way your body was carved to be connected to his.
Lips break apart from yours imperceptibly, his gaze holding yours— Something desperate drenched in desire and worship, something unfathomable. Something more intimate than any caress of your body, a fever flickering in a faint trace of pale gold lining the edge of his iris, staining the holy blue.
Then he moves too, undeniably craving you and rolling down into your leg he’s braced over, both of you gasping like the air has thinned from the tension pulsing through the room— The tension of your bodies and their desire for more friction, lips moving around yours again like they knew nothing else. 
And when it happens again, you both do it at the same time. 
Then your name falls from his lips through a breathless and aching plea— A reverent and holy prayer that makes you both freeze, suddenly bringing you back to Earth and realizing just how far you were about to take this. 
Just how far you were both willing—wanting—to go. 
His fingers twitch against yours from the reluctance to pull apart, so you squeeze them and carefully drag your lips across his in an achingly slow comedown. You rest against his lips until he frees them— Heavy breath cooling the flesh he made hot for him. 
Your mind is whirling, reluctantly coming back to life and processing all that’s happening— Trying desperately to will yourself into opening your eyes and saying what you have to. 
When you do, he’s not looking at you anymore, just clinging like a shadow. His head hangs heavy in the wake of your neck, heat washing over you from his presence that was still slotted against you like it was made for only that purpose. 
You move first, free hand coaxing through his curls and tucking stray away locks that cascaded down his forehead so you could see more of him. His hair is still damp, only no longer from the water you bathed him in, but rather in the evidence of your intimacy collecting on him like dew on a morning field. 
His breathing against your chest slows to a more natural pace, but the cadence of his exhale is still frantic— A sharp and staccato dance across your collarbone, calling out to you. 
You’re about to say it— Break the silence and face the reality of what you both waded in. But he does it again, remarkably, reading you in places you didn’t even know you were speaking from. 
You’d start to believe mind reading was a part of his powers, but if that were true, this wouldn’t be the first time his body claimed yours. 
You wouldn’t be stopping.
When he speaks it’s broken, breathless— Barely above a whisper, voice wrecked with the ruin of what he was letting slip through his fingers. 
“We shouldn’t.” 
You know he’s right—you were thinking the same thing—but hurt still flashes through your chest like a pinched nerve— Something heavy, the pressure of what you wanted and what you couldn’t have swelling to life under the reality of his words. 
The sentence pricks across your ears like glass on sensitive skin, but you still say, “I know.” And you say it honestly.
You mean it.
It’s like he doesn’t hear you, slowly lifting his gaze to look at you. When he does, something breaks. 
It’s raw and vulnerable— It’s a look that carries an undeniable weight like lead in the depths of his eyes, wide and calling out to yours. They’re glossed over, all like the rest of him, shimmering in the afterglow of something too holy to name— To shake free of, even if you tried. 
All the confidence he once wore breaks free of him in an instant as he tries to let you down easy, all like you didn’t just agree with him. Like you weren’t on the same page already. 
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he croaks, the pressure of his hand against your thigh easing slightly. “I do, I really do just… not like this.” 
You’re about to agree but he keeps going, shifting under your gaze and about to recoil his body off of yours like it was unwanted now— Like you weren’t still intertwined in his fingers, like you didn’t still have your leg wrapped around him, tethering him to you without a doubt. 
“N-not that there’s anything wrong with this, I-I loved this,” he stutters, face flashing somehow even hotter and making you smile softly. “I just mean, uh, I—”
“Bob,” you soothe, running your fingers through his hair still. “I know.”
He starts to pull off of you when you grab his arm. It isn’t possessive, it isn’t forceful— Just a simple, grounding touch to extend the offer for him to stay. 
If he wanted. 
And he does, relaxing slightly when he realizes the pin in your intimate dance hasn’t shattered what he held so dearly. 
That it hadn’t shattered you.
“I just don’t want my feelings to get confused.” His fingers lift from your thigh and find your face, hesitant for all of a millisecond before sweeping gently at the height of your cheekbone like his touch could explain better than his words. “I just mean that I don’t want you to think I only want you like this,” he continues, the edge of his voice cracking and showing something more vulnerable he tried to hide. “I don’t want to ruin anything by moving too fast.”
You smile, moving the grip from his arm to meet his hand on your cheek— Running your thumb over his lazily and holding him there firmly, reminding him it was where he belonged. 
“I thought I already told you that wasn’t possible?”
It’s only then that he smiles too—something soft and pure—a wobble in his brows, all tension melting to show what he wore underneath for you. The most honest parts of him that flickered with life because of you. 
And this time when he finally lifts from you, it’s not like he’s running.
It’s like he’s rising— Rising to the occasion of something more meaningful. Like he’s changing with you, holding on and never letting go, even with the fraction of space that lives between you now. 
His leg slowly slides down and out from your center— You trying to hide a hiss that slips between your teeth from a cold rush hitting you from the loss of contact.
It was just then that you realized you were only in your underwear and a thin t-shirt beneath him. All rational thought and awareness slipped from your mind the second his lips touched yours. 
But now you lay pressed into his mattress—still recovering from new parts of you just being pressed into him in more ways than one—and it makes you shiver. 
He breaks through it, slowly freeing his hand from yours to splay it against your shoulder. He helps you rise with him until your intimate positions have unraveled and you’re sitting on the edge of his bed, sitting on the edge of something more earnest— Something new, yet again.
Your ankles are still dangling around each other, thighs pressed gently like the thoughts brimming in your brain.
It’s then that he turns your chin to look at him, this time, holding you there and not retreating.
“I… I don’t regret it.” He says it like a confession, sweet and honest and something more rare than life itself. “Any of it.”
You find your way to him again, no longer scared to allow yourself to have him, your lips pressing gently across his. It’s a closed kiss, yet more open than ever before. 
When you break apart you run your fingers against his temple, damp curls dancing with your touch.
“Me too,” you say. “This was perfect.” And you mean it.
You know he means you too.
You continue, voice finally coming back to life after being suffocated into sensual silence for so long. “Do you know how hard it was to stop though?” 
He laughs in disbelief, like you just said the most absurd thing— Like you just said the unfathomable. 
“Yeah,” he huffs more to the universe than to you, “I do.” The soft laugh lacing his voice falters, his fingers still clinging to you. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to touch your body?”
You pause, a teasing smile crawling across your lips and his face flushes a feverish red once he realizes what he’s implied— Suddenly stuttering and awkward all like he wasn’t just driving you insane with the savory of his intimacy two seconds ago. 
“I-I— Fuck,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean it like that, I mean, I, uh—I just meant—”
“You’re cute,” is all you say, voice light and sure, all worry lifting free and left abandoned to wither. 
He pauses for a moment, marinating in the compliment, eyes flickering back to life as they settle in the light glistening from yours. He ponders, sweet smile growing as he recalls delicately, 
“Just another reason you should stay.” 
You remember immediately— How could you ever forget when he said that to you? When he broke something open inside you, the starting crack that chipped down the guilt you wore like a shield. 
How could you ever forget the moment you started to realize you might really allow yourself to want him? Realize that maybe—just maybe—he could want you too?
All in that kitchen, still a heartbeat— A pulse tethered to the tangle of your souls.
You couldn’t think of anything else— Any invasive thought as to why you shouldn’t. Any nagging and unwanted reminder that you were somewhere you shouldn’t be, because that couldn’t be more wrong. 
You couldn’t think of anything else when he finally lifted from the mattress, leaving a gentle and sweeping kiss on your forehead to go turn off the bathroom light. 
You couldn’t think of anything else when he left the room and came back sheepishly with a pair of sleep shorts to fit you— The smallest gesture that threatened to drown you in its sincerity.
You couldn’t think of anything else when he let you crawl into his bed again, his body settling into place behind you and pressing a whispering kiss to the crook of your neck like a vow to never stop. 
And now, a sense of knowing blooms in the caverns of the unsaid— The quiet reckoning of something stronger than patience and care and honest truth revealing itself in the places it’s been watching all along.
You feel it pressed against his sheets with you— Desire exchanged for devotion.
When you fall asleep that night, you do it for the first time in a long time with a smile— An unmovable force pinned against your lips you didn’t dare disturb. 
You didn’t know it, but he did the same. 
And remarkably, 
The crest of his body curls around yours like a fallen star, a new sense of belonging, splitting matter and mere fragments finding a new orbit once wrapped around you. 
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It’s daybreak when John Walker arrives at the tower. 
His limbs are heavy, tired, exhausted and quite honestly too worn to care about how pissed Yelena is at him. The evidence of his indifference is worn on his face— Gruff brows knit together, their natural state, his eyes hard and narrow, lids heavy with something other than the crave of sleep. His mouth, chapped and drawn into a tight line, shoulders straight and stiff, patiently waiting for the elevator to work even a little bit faster so he could get the hell out of this dirty, disgusting suit as soon as possible. 
In all honesty, he wasn’t mad at Bob. How could he be? Sometimes the rest of the team were too delicate with him— Treating him like a child when he was more than capable of spending a full 36 hours alone. Like he wasn’t a grown man. It was ridiculous— Laughable, even. 
He didn’t need the supervision, and John didn’t need to be bothered with it. 
Actually, he’d be lying if he didn’t admit he was the teeniest bit proud of Bob for sticking up for what he wants— Even if John had to swallow his pride over how he worked him like a sucker to get it.
Even if now that meant Yelena had a bug up her ass and it was directed at John who—somehow—always managed to be responsible for everything. 
A taut grumble leaves his mouth as the elevator doors whirled open and he watched his call to Bob get banished to voicemail for a third time. 
Whatever. Not his problem. He couldn’t be bothered to think about it. He couldn’t be bothered to think about anything besides a hot shower and some antiseptic, actually. 
Except, he was forced to when he walked into the residential floor, expecting to see Bob sucked into some new useless book—completely oblivious to all the chaos he was causing in the world that existed outside of him—but rather, was greeted by complete silence. 
John’s steps slowed, taking in the eerie lull of quiet washed over the Watchtower, untouched and dead to the world, bathing in stillness and the steel-colored glow of the city waking up along with it just beyond the windows. 
His eyes narrow and sweep across the floor, falling on the kitchen that looked like it was a victim of a bomb drill gone wrong. 
Dirty dishes were piled up in the sink—which was completely clean and empty before he left—and virtually every single culinary-related thing the team even owned was scattered across the counter. 
Spices, utensils, ingredients, dishes— You name it, it was there.
“Jesus, Bobby,” he mutters to himself, tone flat and unamused at the mess left behind to greet him. “Least you could’ve done was cork the damn wine.”
It’d be a lie to say a bottle of wine paired with Bob left alone didn’t make his blood rush a bit harder to his head, indifference mulling into real and genuine confusion… and begrudgingly, concern. He rolled his eyes loosely as he shoved the cork back in and stuck it in the fridge before Yelena saw it and really gave him something to chew on.
Damn, it’s like Bob was trying to screw him over.
He’s about two steps out of the kitchen—stalking off to find Bob to, one, make sure he’s okay, and two, rip him a new asshole—when he stops hard in his tracks, the grip of his combat boots squeaking against the too-shiny, obnoxiously-polished floor. 
One. Two. 
His eyes count them. Wine glasses. 
Two of them. 
They almost got lost in the mess, camouflaged so well that the stain of just nearly crimson left at the bottom of them nearly went unnoticed— Just a mouthful of evidence ratting him out. 
And right next to them, abandoned at the corner seat at the island, was your stuff. 
John knew that bag anywhere. It always brought some kind of new bullshit for the team to mull over, something to ruin their day— New paperwork, new briefings, new completely ridiculous ways Valentina had found to treat them like a multi-level marketing scam in capes and tactical gear. 
But more importantly, it always brought a stupidly bashful grin to Bob’s face whenever he’d see it. 
Because it came attached to you.
“Son of a bitch,” he mumbles in disbelief, more to the room than to himself. He stands like a fool, realization washing over him as he nosily fiddles with a folder abandoned under your bag. He shakes his head and lets a puff of air pass through his nose, a cheeky laugh bubbling at the back of his throat as he glides over to the intercom— A sly pep in his step. 
He pauses and laughs under his breath, remarkably, at just how good Bob got him. 
Then, with a teasing tone, and the tiniest lace of respect he could muster to thread through, he pushes it and says, 
“Well played, Bobby.”
The crack of John Walker’s voice through the intercom of Bob’s room rips you free and reminds you that this world wasn’t just you and him after all. 
Even if it felt like it. 
Even if it still did when he looked at you like this—like he is right now—holding you closely, eyes lusted over with something unspoken. Clear and shallow blue whispering more than his lips ever could.
You and him, still tangled together, unmoved forces drawn to each other like gravity, knowing nothing else than the peace found in the arms of each other now. 
Even if you tried, you couldn’t deny the way you always found your way to him now— Legs woven, slotted loosely together, your knee resting just above his. Your chest, now facing him as one large hand rests casually along the crest of your waist like he’s done it all his life. His elbow bent gently under the pillow to prop his head up, his hand just in your reach, haphazardly toying at the collar of your shirt and your hair. Yours lies flush against his chest, steady rhythm of his breathing making it rise and fall like the dust that danced in the air under warm morning haze. 
Together, no longer scared of what closeness might cost in the daylight. 
It woke you gently, the crest of morning sun slipping between the endless height of skyscrapers just beyond the foot of the bed, collecting the pale pink of budding morning. 
Light suspends in the air— Clear. Warming. Patient. It has filled the void of words unspoken that now lives in a realm where hope is watered with opportunity. It dances on his honeysuckle skin as he sleeps, no crinkle of worry or bite of stress carved through the lines in his forehead. It’s sweet, it’s soft— The crescendo of June spilling over his body.
He looks different like this, warm and familiar, pressed against you like a memory you haven’t quite made yet. He looks younger, softer, lips slightly parted— Maybe the most himself you’ve ever seen, and yet, all like you’ve never met him before. Like you didn’t know this version of him.
It pings in your chest—a crawl of yearning—and you realize, 
You really want to. 
You would think it was a dream if you weren’t surrounded by the reminders of you living in his space— Your suit jacket tangled with the comforter half kicked off the bed, your body wrapped in his clothes, your broken shoes, blending into the background of his room like they belonged there. 
You would think it was a dream if you didn’t watch him stir under curious fingers that traced the slope of his nose and curve of his jaw with delicate presence, coming back to life with fluttering eyelashes and soft smile lines at the privilege of being awoken by your touch— Wading in a bed with you, a serene scene rewriting one of your worst memories, knowing now when you see him like this, he’s safe. It’s the good kind of vulnerable. No longer alone. 
You would think it was a dream if you didn’t feel a shock of reality take over you when Walker’s voice cuts through the static of the intercom, the lazy lull of Bob’s heavy eyelids when he looked at you now snapping open into wide panic at the sound— Flinching at the tone, thick and sarcastic like he somehow knew more about your new relationship than you did.
Smug. Just like always.
When the room falls silent again it’s you who speaks, reaching out to gently trace an aimless pattern in Bob’s open palm that stiffened against your hair at the interruption.
“What’s he talking about?”
You ask it evenly, calmly— No accusation or annoyance, no rise in your tone or inflection in your voice. Just patient wanting, voice still glazed over with the best sleep you’ve had in months. 
Bob inhales slowly, his eyes blinking as they settle from the shock. His lips begin to tell you but it’s hard to focus on the words when they’re still swollen and flush with the memory of you wiped all over them. 
Then, they pull into a smile. It’s something knowing and bashful and maybe even a little proud, all accompanied with a hush, breathless laugh caught in the back of his throat like it was a secret cracking through the thin parting of his lips. 
“I lied,” he says, extracting a hand from your waist to rub the dawning of sleep from his face before it finds you again like an instinct. 
Your brows knit together subtly at his response, not really expecting to hear that from him at all. Not when that was your role in your dynamic, even if it were now abandoned once and for all when you vowed to give your heart to him in your sacred touch last night. 
He senses your confusion and continues before your mind can finish raking through the pre-mature, half-formed thoughts it wanted to make. 
“To Walker, I mean. To Walker,” he clarifies, eyes dipping down to watch himself brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear like it was a holy act. “I kinda maybe told him Yelena wasn’t on a mission yesterday when he was supposed to be off even though she was that way I could get him out of the tower since he thought she’d be around.” 
A smile crawls to your lips as you watch him explain, voice lazy and low and scratchy from sleep that made your skin tingle, reminding you of the way the dawning of his stubble would scratch just right whenever his face would find yours.
It was going to be really hard to focus around him now— God, you could barely keep a straight face.
“Why’d you do that,” you hum, leaning closer until your nose was almost touching his, like you couldn’t bear to be any further away from him. Like you needed to feel the words dance across your skin in order to hear them fully. 
“I, uh, I-I don’t know,” he sighs, searching for the right words, eyes gazing into yours like he’d find the answer there instead. “It’s hard to explain, it’s just... sometimes I just want a chance to, like, breathe, you know?” You nod gently, nose bumping into his at the motion which makes him grin just a fraction wider, something for only you to see. “I like having people around, sure. I don’t get lost in my own head as easily when they are. I know they mean well… but I also just want time to myself without feeling watched… or bothered.”
“I get it,” you soothe, wrapping an arm around him to pull him closer, wide and wonderful blue of his eyes becoming your only view. He looked at you like he still couldn’t believe you were beside him, like he was dreaming, just like you.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you breathe. You hesitate for a moment before hooking your leg around his with more pressure now to pull him closer, eyes dancing with a flicker of tease, your fingers tracing along his arms and saying, “You still wound up being bothered, though.”
Bashful pink floods the smooth of his skin, eyes widening and wobbly lips pulling into a gentle smile like he couldn’t help it— Like he never wanted to stop.
“No,” he whispers, steady and sure, something reminiscent of a loving-tone wrapped around every letter that curls in the air and makes your skin dance with chills. “It was the best lie I’ve ever told.”
Your heart pounds and your head spins and it feels like the grip of his hand on your waist is the only thing keeping you in this new orbit. The light flickers around his face, gentle, natural, but alive— All like it was envious of how he could burn through your shadows in ways it never could.
When he says things like that, it was like he was the one carving you, the one making you, shaping you, holding you— You, merely a vessel, made whole from every swell of him through the pulsing chambers of your soul. 
He carries the softness—the truth, the intent—of his words in every inch of his body. He holds it in his eyes, he holds it in his hands. He holds it down in his blood and bones, every word threaded together with something holy, something that runs all the way down to his marrow. 
When he says things like that, he makes you believe it’s okay to let go. 
To simply be— For him. 
So you do and confess, “I lied, too.”
His expression never falters, just scans your face like he was looking for clues in every line, every glance, every glisten of your eyes. 
“We need to start having different conversations than this,” he teases, nose just barely nudging yours just so he could hear a breathless laugh rise in the air like your heart was singing for him. 
“No, no, it’s not like that again,” you breathe. “I promise.” 
He waits for you to continue, fingers whispering along your skin like he could trace it out of you that way— Each touch, a turning page, your story, meeting the echo of epilogue. 
So you swallow whatever bubble of fear burns at the back of your throat and say, 
“Before. Last night. Outside the Watchtower.”
His brows crinkle more. Now he’s really confused. 
“When you asked me why I was looking at you...” 
The wave of words wash over him like a pulling tide, lips parting gently at its command. Then comes a breath of air that still manages to whisper, “Oh.”
“It wasn't nothing.” 
Your heart races, maybe from the new sense of honesty and beginnings that pulsed through his room, no longer bathed in soothing shadows that made it comfortable for you to bare your soul, but rather, like the light and the time that stretched forward made everything more weighted. 
More meaningful. 
“I was thinking about how perfect you are,” you confess, a silent murmur suspended in the shared sliver of space fighting for dear life to exist between your bodies. “I was thinking about how much I wanted you.” Beat. “About how easily I could… fall for you. If you’d let me.” 
You don’t say it.
You don’t want to scare him, to push him, to unravel too quickly. But you know he feels it too— A new thing unsaid, fostered by delicate touches and sweeping words, blooming gently between you in the hush of twin heartbeats. 
He doesn’t respond with words, just a delicate brush of his lips against yours, sighing into you like he remembers how to breathe only when you’re taking his breath away. When he pulls back, his eyes are still closed, face still resting on yours like you’re holding him together and he whispers against your cheek,
“I already am.”
And through steady breath, a simple exchange, through the soft riots of acquainted souls— Limerence becomes love. 
Or, perhaps,
Quiet truth revels in what has always been.
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lush-escape ¡ 3 days ago
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The Vigilante's Guide to Grief
pairing: Jason Todd x f!reader wc: 2.3k a/n: it's the end! It's been fun(?). It's definitely been fun gaining new friends from this series (if we talk one (1) time we are friends idc I don't make the rules). anywaaaay enjoy the ending chapter 💛 prev: testing
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Stage seven: Acceptance
Jason spent most of his mornings in silence these days. He has a routine now. Wake up, bathroom, coffee, journal. But today is different. Today marks two years since you've been gone. And honestly? Jason isn't in the mood to write down what he's feeling. He isn't in the mood to make coffee or shower or do much of anything.
And the family, without even needing to hear from him, can sense it.
Jason hates how in tune they can be when he gets a call from Dick. Of course he picks up, Dick never calls unless there's an emergency
“Hey, let's grab coffee and breakfast at that shitty place downtown.”
“Why would I go if it's shitty?”
“Okay well, I know you're going to call it shitty. I think they have really good bagels. Let's go, I'll meet you there in fifteen.” Jason can hear Dick's sympathetic smile and he wants to punch his brother's perfect smile through the phone.
“Who says I even want to spend time with you?” Jason's question comes out sharper, meaner, than he wants it to. He winces to himself at Dick’s silence.
“That's clear across town.” He mumbles to make up for the quiet, "Won't make it in fifteen.” Jason grumbles but he's already digging through his closet for something clean to wear.
“Sure you will. See you then.” Dick hangs up and Jason sighs.
But Dick is right, of course. After breaking multiple traffic laws on his bike he makes it to the cafe in thirteen minutes. He's parking it on the street when he sees Dick walking over to him with a warm smile.
“Told you,”
“Shut it.”
The two walk down the street after getting their coffee and pastries in tense silence. Not a bad one, but one that Jason wants desperately to ignore.
“So,” Dick speaks up.
And then time stands still. Dick stiffens because surely there's no way. He's on guard immediately. Jason, on the other hand, drops everything he's holding. His heart stops. He feels sick to his stomach and his knees feel weak.
“Dick,” he rasps out in a whisper. His hand reaches for his brother in a way to ground himself.
“I know.” Dick whispers back. “It's not. It can't be.”
The flow of the crowded sidewalk parts around them as if they were just an obstacle in the way. Two grown men stopped dead center in the sidewalk
Staring at you.
“It's not-”
“It can't be-” They both speak at the same time.
“What the fuck?” Jason whispers.
It's you. You. Standing there at the end of the sidewalk, like a ghost, in the outfit you wore on the day you died. You just stood there, staring.
Jason knows, logically, that it's not you. They had found your body, had you cremated, you were in an urn on his dresser safe at home in his dresser. His breath catches and his eyes fill with tears. And before he can stop himself, before Dick can even stop him, he's jogging down the sidewalk towards you.
You turn the corner as he gets closer and Jason calls your name, desperately trying to get you to stop.
“Please don't-!” He turns the corner, the same one you rounded just a second prior and for a moment he loses you in the crowd. Dick is hot on his trails and with a pant he points.
“There. She crossed the street.”
“Shit,” Jason crosses over with Dick behind him. He's already sending over texts about what's happening.
You're fast, faster than Jason remembers. You were never able to outrun him, let alone Dick as well. Yet here you were, running down the sidewalk away from them. Jason feels like he's in a never ending nightmare, the kind where you're running down a hallway that gets longer and longer with each step.
The two aren't sure how far they run, their surroundings begin to blur together as their focus is on you. It's only when Dick sees the warehouse uphead that he begins to slow down, his hand on Jason's shoulder to stop him.
“Jay, wait-” he pants.
Jason watches desperately as you run to the warehouse.
“Let me go!” Jason shrugs his shoulder away from Dick who grabs hold again.
“No. No!” Dick is stern, he turns Jason around to face him. “We have to think about this. It's obviously a trap. Jay that's not-” his voice wavers.
Jason visibly swallows, “I- but what if it is? What if I can save her this time?”
Dick shakes his head, “You can't. Because that's not her.” Saying it out loud feels like swallowing glass. “You know it's not. I know it's not.” He continues on. “We have to think about this.” He repeats.
“But-” Jason whines. He needs it to be you, needs you to be here with him again.
“Bruce and Tim are on their way.” Dick tells him. “We can't just rush in there, okay?”
Jason feels some sort of relief knowing Dick isn't stopping him completely from barging into the warehouse. Jason nods. He tells himself he needs to be logical but his mind is at war with itself.
“Good. Give me just a second, I'm calling Babs.” Dick says before taking a few steps away, keeping Jason in his eyesight. Jason runs a hand through his hair and paces anxiously.
“Okay.” Dick comes back. “Babs has eyes on the warehouse. She's only picking up on one heat source which means they're likely alone. Bruce and Tim are five minutes out-"
“Motherfucker,” Jason growls out, “we can take him. Easy. He's a p-”
“Easy there,” Dick puts on a hand on Jason's shoulder again to reel him back in. “We can. I'll let Bruce know. But when we get in there don't… don't freeze up on me, okay?”
“I won't.” Jason grits through his teeth. He's pulling his pistol, tucked neatly in the back of his jeans. Dick scrunches his eyebrows together.
“You seriously have that on you? We went out for coffee.”
“Never leave home without it.”
“Yeah…that checks…” Dick sighs before pulling an escrima stick from his boot. Jason lets himself smirk before the two walk to the warehouse.
Jason and Dick stand on either side of the warehouse door before Dick nods an okay to Jason. He proceeds to aim his gun, cocked and ready, before kicking the warehouse door open.
And there you are. In the dark with only one singular light overhead. You're tied to a chair with ropes and you look so defensiveless and small and real.
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Jason's taken back in time to the moment he first saw you on the screen in the Batcave. The room you were being held in was dark with only a single light above you. You were tied to a chair and blindfolded. Slowly Joker walks into frame from behind you, crowbar in hand.
Jason is visibly shaking, the entire family watched with bated breaths.
“Where is she?” Bruce demands in a quiet voice.
“I- I don't know. I don't know, I'm <I>trying</I>.” Babs is heard through the comms. Her voice shakes as she typed furiously at her computer. “I can't pinpoint them-”
“That's not good enough.” Bruce is having trouble keeping his anger in check. No one can blame him.
Jason feels like he's going to throw up. The decades old blood on the crowbar has iodized, turning into a deep dark color.
“Hello, chat!” Joker gets close to the camera he's using to livestream his little event. He laughs in amusement. “My special guest here today is none other than Red Hood’s soon to be wife. Isn't that something?”
He casually strolls toward you and Jason's hands ball into tight fists.
“Don't touch her, don't touch her-” he's repeating quietly through clenched teeth.
“I didn't even get a wedding invite! I was heartbroken,” Joker goes on dramatically. He trails a finger over your jaw and you jerk your head away from him, teeth bared.
“Baba, let me go after him. I will burn down every building until I find him-” Damian is cut off by Dick shaking his head, silently telling him to stay quiet, that his outburst wasn't helping.
“Feisty.” Joker laughs again at how quickly you jerk away from him, before bringing the crowbar up to your cheek. “Robin, sorry-” he cuts himself off with a smirk, “Red Hood acted the same way. You two are just simply made for each other. Adorable.”
“I'll fucking kill him.” Jason spits.
“I think I almost have him.” Babs tells the family.
Steph and Cass stand beside Tim at the Batcomputer, Steph crying as Cass holds onto her.
“Do you think you can come back to life too?” Joker whispers in your ear. You rear your head back enough to headbutt his temple.
“Ow!” Joker reels back, holding his head.
“Alright, enough of that.” He spits before he brings the crowbar down against your thigh with a sickening crunch.
“Fuck!” You wail, your tears stain the fabric covering your eyes.
“Mother fucker!” Jason erupts back at the cave as he watches the livestream. “I'm going to fucking kill him, B!” He's already reaching for his helmet.
“Hold on, we don't know where she is.” Dick interjects.
“I don't fucking care. I'm not going to sit around and watch this when I can be out looking for her.” Jason snaps back at Dick.
Jason turns to look at the screen in time to see Joker right up close, like he knows Jason is watching.
“Poll time.” He sing songs. “Who thinks the little birdy’s girlfriend should die?”
The room swells with an aggressive tension. Every single comment on the livestream that pours in is a flood of yeses. Jason's blood runs cold. He's on the verge of throwing up again.
“No…” he whispers.
“You heard the people!” Joker laughs maniacally and saunters back over to you. “Any last words for your love bird?”
“Please, please-” but you're not talking to Joker, you're not begging him. You know, that if he's out there watching, Jason is blaming himself. And even in your final moments the last thing you want is for Jason to be taking any sort of blame for what's about to happen.
Joker rolls his eyes and pulls your blindfold down and Jason's heart stops. This can't be happening, he refuses to believe it. He's questioning everything.
How did the Joker find you? How did he know you were with Jason? If only he had been more careful, protected you better-
“Tick tock.” Joker muses as he begins to pull out his revolver.
“I love you,” you whisper with tears in your eyes.
BAM!
“No.” Jason takes a faltering step. “I found them!” Babs speaks at the same time. Steph lets out a surprised yelp. Bruce slams his hand against the desk. “What the-” Tim whispers. It all happens in slow motion.
“Jay?” Dick asks in anguish, turning in time to catch Jason who's falling to his knees.
“No, no, no-” Jason shakes his head. His voice is strangled and choked and no one's ever heard him sound so small before.
“Baba?” Damian’s voice quivers, his eyes are glued to the screen.
There you're sat, tied to that damn metal chair. Your head hangs forward as blood drips down your face.
Jason's hand slams against the concrete floor. Once. Twice. A third time. Dick stops him when he hears the all too familiar crunch of bones breaking.
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“No-” Jason breathes.
“Shit,” Dick's own voice stammers.
Then they hear it. The all too familiar sound of Joker’s laughter.
“Oh, how delightful! Two birds with one stone today? This couldn't have gone any better if I tried.” Joker steps out from behind the shadows.
“She said only one heat signature..” Dick whispers to himself.
“I'm so glad you're here to see your beloved die in person this time ‘round. I'm still upset I wasn't invited to the wedding.”
Jason's mouth is dry, his head is spinning. Dick takes a step forward.
“Why are you doing this?” He demands.
Joker stands beside you, his gun pointed to your temple again and Jason is frozen in place. He can't breathe let alone move.
“Why?” Joker laughs. “For putting me back in Arkham. And for fun, I suppose. It's always a good time celebrating anniversaries!”
He's quick to pull the trigger again. Dick and Jason both lunge forward, crying out. But instead of dying, again. Instead of watching your skull and blood splatter against the concrete, you begin to turn to a sickly orange matter.
“You said you wouldn't shoot!” Clayface pouts at Joker. Jason and Dick stop in their tracks in shock.
“Oh calm down, not like it can kill you.” Joker rolls his eyes petulantly.
Jason is seeing red. His vision is focused on Joker and Joker alone. He doesn't see Dick next to him with his hands reaching for Jason's arm, he doesn't see Clayface making a move to get out of the way.
All he sees is Joker’s surprised smile, like he's excited, as Jason raises his gun and pulls the trigger. He feels like he's moving in slow motion.
A second later everything rushed into him like a tidal wave.
“What did you do?” Dick whispers as Joker's body hits the floor in a spine chilling thump.
“What I should have done the first time he killed her.” Is what Jason replies before dropping his gun to the cement floor.
All of Jason's progress, all of the hard work he put into getting through his process of grieving was gone in an instant. Shot dead, just like the love of his life.
But this? His progress, his hard work, the months he spent pushing to get better, for you, only to have it all taken away from him in the blink of an eye because of a deranged clown? He wasn't going to grieve any of it.
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taglist: @thy-crimson-king @vellichor01 @theendofthematerialgworl @tinasdcstuff @4rachn3 @cecebookworm @eva-ngelionn
95 notes ¡ View notes
redvexillum ¡ 3 days ago
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Chapter 3 - Feedback Loop
A/N: This was fun to write. Man, feels like forever since I've wrote smut for Alastor. I still feel a tad rusty though.
TAGS/SUMMARY: f!reader, married to vox, vox does love reader, infidelity, non-sex repulsed alastor, alastor is in hell for a reason, soft alastor, jerk alastor, possessive, no use of y/n, vox tries, reader tries, alastor is a control freak, power imbalance, alastor being alastor, p in v, fingering
<- PREV | TABLE OF CONTENT
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Yearning was a cruel master.
It crawled beneath your skin, burrowed into the hollows of your ribs, and pulsed behind every beat of your lonely heart. And desire… desire was the flame that set it all ablaze.
To be adored.
The words Alastor whispered still rang in your ears, sweet and dangerous. They clung to your skin like silk, so tender and intoxicating that you could not bring yourself to look away. So you nodded. Helplessly. Willingly. And his lips found yours again, hungrier this time, as if he meant to swallow the breath from your lungs and carve your name into his tongue.
His hands were sure, sliding beneath the hem of your dress like he had every right, like your body had always belonged to him. One smooth motion and he dragged you onto his lap, his grip strong, possessive, as his mouth devoured yours. It was not a kiss—it was a claiming. His tongue teased, his teeth nipped, and you whimpered, the sound muffled against his mouth.
The room that once reeked of silence and sorrow now breathed heat and tension, a chorus of soft moans and wet lips smacking in fevered rhythm. You clutched his face, your fingers weaving through his hair, desperate to anchor yourself to something real, something warm, something alive.
Your conscience whispered at first, a tinny voice barely audible beneath the roaring in your ears. It pleaded for reason, screamed betrayal, begged you to stop. But all those cries crumbled into ash the moment his fingers slipped beneath your panties.
He found you already soaked.
A low, guttural chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Look how ready you are for me,” he purred, his voice like velvet soaked in sin.
Slowly, he pushed two fingers inside.
With a sharp gasp, your head fell forward against his shoulder as your walls clamped around him, your body reacting with a desperation that mortified you and thrilled you all the same. His fingers were long and dexterous, curling just right, brushing over that tender place inside that had been starved of attention for too long.
“Ah, how starved, how needy,” he paused, then whispered, “how depraved.”  His eyes sharpened with amusement, almost glowing with mischief.
Your thighs trembled. You tried to hold still, but your hips rolled of their own accord, grinding into his hand, needy and frantic. Your breath came in shallow pants, chest rising and falling with every ragged inhale. A moan escaped, soft and broken, and you bit your lip to stifle the next.
His lips crashed into yours once more, swallowing every sound, every hitch in your throat. His fingers moved faster now, plunging into you, slick and steady, the wet noises obscene and thrilling. He was unrelenting. Your body jolted with every thrust of his hand, muscles tensing, toes curling. You were unravelling, a string pulled tight and quivering.
And when he curled his fingers just right, when your stomach clenched and the pressure coiled behind your navel, you felt it—
The impending inevitable snap.
But just as your climax crested, just as you prepared to fall apart in his arms, he stopped.
His fingers stilled inside you.
He pulled back, just far enough to look you in the eyes, and smiled.
“We can't stop here,” he murmured, voice warm and low, each syllable curling around you like smoke.
Then his fingers slipped out from your trembling core, and you nearly whimpered from the emptiness he left behind. Your body clenched instinctively, desperate to be filled again. But before the ache could settle in fully, something thick and searing pressed against your folds.
You gasped.
That was not his hand. That was…
Your eyes snapped up to meet his.
Alastor leaned back slightly, his gaze slow and deliberate as it trailed down between your bodies. You followed his line of sight, breath catching in your throat. The swollen head of his cock was nudging right at your entrance, smearing your slick against your skin with each twitch.
Then he looked up at you again.
The same look he gave you each morning. That lifted brow, that foxlike grin. But now, it lacked its usual detachment. There was no nod. No invitation.
It was a challenge.
He was letting you choose. The moment was yours to command.
Your body trembled, knees weak, heart thundering as your desire screamed louder than your shame. With shaky resolve, you placed your hands on his shoulders for balance and began your descent.
Slowly, achingly, you sank down on him.
Your walls stretched around him, struggling to take him, your body clinging to every inch. The pressure was exquisite, that sweet, burning fullness that stung just right. You watched his expression as your heat enveloped him, and saw the sharp hitch of breath he tried to suppress. His grin faltered, his brow twitched, and that eye—usually gleaming with mockery—fluttered shut for half a second.
That tiny falter sent a rush of power through you. You made him feel this.
You were nearly seated when his fingers clamped hard around your hips. Without warning, he jerked you down the rest of the way, impaling you to the base.
You cried out, high and sharp, your voice echoing in the charged air. His cock throbbed inside you, pulsing against your walls, and the wiry patch of hair at his base dragged deliciously over your clit. The overstimulation nearly undid you.
You barely had a moment to breathe.
His hands gripped tighter, and suddenly, you were moving, lifted and dropped with brutal rhythm. He thrust up to meet your descent, his cock slamming inside with obscene wet sounds. Each collision sparked lightning up your spine. Your thighs trembled with strain and pleasure. You clung to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, your moans raw and unrestrained.
“Look at you,” he growled, voice rasping with unholy pleasure. “So pretty when you're used.”
Your back arched as his pace grew savage, ruthless, your body crashing down again and again, hips slapping, your slick coating his cock, his thighs, the heat between you unbearable.
You couldn’t look away from him. His crimson eyes burned into yours, pupils wide, expression twisted with hungry delight. The scent of sex filled the air—thick, musky, inescapable. You were drowning in it, in him, in this shameful, impossible pleasure.
“Come,” he whispered, darkly reverent. “Come for me, sweet little wife, right here on another man’s cock.”
“Ah… yes, yes, yes,” you cried out, your voice cracking as tears welled in your eyes. Each brutal thrust of Alastor’s cock sent sharp pleasure spiralling up your spine, hammering against that aching, sensitive spot inside you with unrelenting precision. It was too much. It was perfect. Your body, your soul, your restraint—they all frayed at the edges.
Your stomach clenched. Your legs twitched, trying to close, but his hands held you open. And then it happened. You came—long, hard, and loud.
Your cries broke into sobs. Raw and trembling, you buried your face in his shoulder, your nails digging into his chest, holding on as if the ground beneath you was crumbling. But Alastor did not stop. He kept moving, chasing his pleasure with the same determined rhythm, as if your climax had only fuelled his hunger.
Then, with a quiet hiss between his teeth, he stiffened.
You felt him pulse deep inside you. Hot spurts of his release filled you, over and over, until it overflowed, dripping down around the thick base of his cock and trailing warmly down your inner thighs. You lay there panting, barely able to lift your head. The only sounds left in the room were your ragged breathing and his soft, satisfied sighs.
Finally, his cock softened and slipped out of you, leaving you empty and leaking.
You looked up at him.
Alastor.
Unbothered. Calm. Not a single hair out of place.
He didn’t look like a man who had just ravaged you. He looked like he always did—composed, collected, eerily amused. As if nothing had happened. As if your body weren’t still twitching from the aftershocks. As if your shame weren’t bleeding into the air.
Your lips parted, but no words came. You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even breathe right.
So you stepped away from him.
You winced when another warm stream of his seed spilled out between your thighs, glistening as it hit the polished wooden floor. It puddled beneath you, a silent accusation, a stain you could never scrub clean.
Alastor, meanwhile, took his time.
He adjusted his monocle, combed his fingers through his hair, straightened his bow tie. His cock still hung low, heavy, and wet with the mess you both made. He left it for last. On purpose. He wanted you to see it. To remember what you let inside you.
Then he looked at you. Head tilted. That same unsettling smile slicing across his cheeks.
“Would you like a taste, dear?” he asked, his voice dripping with mock politeness.
You turned away sharply, your cheeks burning, your ears tingling with mortification.
He laughed.
“I suppose not,” he hummed, shrugging. “Perhaps next time.”
And then, so casually, as if he hadn’t just ruined you, he said, “Well, I believe it’s time for me to go.”
He stepped closer. His fingers—those same fingers that had stretched and fucked you open—reached for your chin and gently turned your head back to him. His touch was gentle, almost reverent.
“But I’ll see you tomorrow,” he whispered.
He smiled again. Too wide. Too knowing.
“I do hope,” he added, “you’ll greet me with the same warm treatment.”
You should have said something. Anything.
You should have begged him to keep this quiet. Promised him it was a moment of weakness. Told him it would never happen again.
But you stood there. Frozen. Paralyzed.
Your mind raced, spinning out, like peddling a bicycle on a road that no longer existed. The wheels were gone. The ground had vanished. All you could do was fall.
He bent low, pressed a soft kiss to your lips, and just like that, he was gone.
The shadows swallowed him whole.
And you were left standing alone, in the middle of the living room. Your hair mussed. Your lipstick smeared. Your dress wrinkled and bunched. Your body sore, leaking, trembling.
You looked down.
A puddle — no, a stain. 
The only evidence of what you had done.
The only evidence that Vox was not the only man to fill you.
And just as you moved to step away, your heart nearly stopped as you heard the door unlocking.
Someone was home.
Vox was home.
NEXT ->
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starkeyvhs ¡ 1 day ago
Text
the review is kinda long so I'm putting it under the cut :)
Study your figure in all its glory. The way that skirt sinfully snugs your curves. The way you're subtly shifting your weight from foot to foot to relieve the pressure on your poor heels, the inches too high for him to count. The way your clothes cling to your skin and how your hair has changed since the last time you saw him. The way you're smiling and laughing at something funny your friend said, looking way too fucking pretty to be considered casual.
the way your writing flows is incredible
But Rafe's mind spins when you simply look him up and down, eyes bright and mischievous, before turning back to your friend and continuing with whatever you were saying.
LOVE THE READER
His hand feels like ice against your hot shoulder. "Don't tell me you're too shy to say hi, baby?"
just the beginning of the fic and I'm already done for
"This one's blond," you muse teasingly, loud enough for him to hear and sweet enough to get him to indulge in your little act. "Dirty blond, though. Not to get confused with a Targaryen blond. A head taller than everybody else and a jaw clenched so tight it might break if you call him Rafey."
sigh I don't get to read about these kind of readers often 😓
The curtain bangs and eventual buzz cut are long gone, instead replaced with a short-grown mullet that you've never seen on him yet crave all the same.
MULLET RAFE???? IM ACTUALLY DONE FOR
"You like it?"
"Mhm. Makes you look pretty."
"I didn't wear it for you."
when I say I love a reader like this, I really do mean it cause she's so hot 🫣
It's comical, really, knowing damn well you don't have a roster, nor a list of guys in your phone, but how would he ever know? What's the harm in a bit of play?
OH NONE
“Baby, I’ve been yours since freshman year.”
oh he BOLD bold (I'm in love)
Your relationship is ping pong, tennis, thumb-war. You let him know that he can get close but he can't touch.
LOVE THIS
“Because you’re you,” you deadpan, ignoring the way his facade cracks slightly. “You want what you can’t have, and once you do, you’re onto the next.”
oh- 😃 girl I think u just-
“That’s what you think of me?” Rafe asks gently, more sincere than you’ve ever heard him. “That’s what you think I see you as?”
oh 🥹
Especially when your ex mistakenly gets involved.
GASP
The whole interacting is nothing graceful. He’s drunk and babbling on and on about absolutely nothing at all (you dated for three months and broke up because he was actively sending nudes to his ex girlfriend) so his words don’t really mean anything to you. They’re harmless, really, slurred and incoherent and nothing you really need to pay attention to. Seth is barely a threat.
okay ew
“Hey, baby,” Rafe hums low, baritone enough to make your ex jump in surprise and spin around to face the voice of the culprit. “Ready to go?”
oh my GAWD THIS IS SO HOT
You remember one particular time you drunkenly found him sitting alone on the sand dunes, putting his ice cold beer against a busted knuckle. It was the only time you’ve ever seen him distant, quiet, so unlike the Rafe you’ve grown to know and despise. You asked him if it hurt, he only shrugged. You then asked him why he keeps doing it if it hurts, to which he responded that it’s all he knows. Fighting and putting on a mask are all he knows.
this prompt is making me think so much about their past lore
“You know I’m hard of hearing, baby, lemme hear that voice. Gotta speak up around me.”
😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨 sir please sir
Because it makes an idea pop into your head (undoubtedly a stupid one, but a fun one nonetheless) as you take a small step forward, now being the one to crowd his space instead of vice versa. Your chest just barely brushes his, peering up at him through batting lashes and the sweetest smile you can muster. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you bring a hand to skim over his heart, feeling it thump erratically under your palm.
I can FEEL the tension through the screen OHMYFFFFFFFFF
“You know how I feel,” you respond earnestly, and you bite the bullet and twist around in his arms so you’re facing him, chest to chest and peering at his pretty blues under the kaleidoscope of purple, blue, red, green lights. Your hands brace on his chest and his settle on your waist, looking at you ardently with all sighs of sexual frustration gone, instead replaced with seriousness, determination, admiration. “How I’ve always felt.”
I am feeling so much rn
Because when he pulled away, he put on that stupid fucking smirk. “Knew you couldn’t resist me.”
😭😭😭😭😭😭 of fucking course
“I’ll pluck your balls off like an apple.”
real
And for the second time in your life, you’re gripping his shirt to tug him close and kissing him like your life depends on it.
FINALLYYYYY OH MY GOD WHO CHEERED (I DID)
OH MY GOD I ATE THIS UP!!!!! yes I was multitasking between my online class and this but anyways who cares about data science anyway? I CARE ABOUT THIS. I have soooo much to say and I really want to let you know everything on my mind about this 😭😭
okay so starting off, this is my first time really reading your writing, and I have got to say, it's real damn good!!! it flows so beautifully, and it kept me enthralled so well I didn't realise when I read 7k+ words. the characterization of both rafe and reader was so good. it felt real. they felt like real people and not just some characters I'm reading about. they made normal human mistakes, owned up to them, and learned from them. they fucked up big time but they set out to solve it. I LOVE THAT. the reader especially felt so real, I felt I was seeing myself. i don't get to feel that in many fics so I think you did an absolutely fantastic job with that 💞💞
moving on, their entire lore!!! INSANE. love their entire background story, and especially how (I'm repeating this bit but idc) they made normal!! human!! mistakes!! as teens. they acted on their damn emotions and let those take the front wheel. but when they became mature, they sought out to solve them. SO GOOD, AND AGAIN, SO DAMN REAL, AND SO HUMAN.
AND LAST, i don't read a lot on here, but it's rare that i feel inspired and motivated by reading a fic. this fic, the way you write, the way you explored the characters and bought them to life, it makes me want to write something that can hopefully make someone else feel the way I felt after finishing this. WHAT A GREAT DAMN JOB U DID, AUTHOR!!!! I'm abso fuckin' lutely OBSESSED!!!! and I'm going to be safekeeping your masterlist to get into 💞💞💞💞
and a little ps: if drinking wine makes you write shit as fire as this, I can supply you a lifetime of wine bottles 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️
EVER SINCE ROCKY DUNE — RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT (18+)
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SYNOPSIS you and rafe notoriously flirted all-throughout high school, seeing who could rile the other up the most. after not seeing each other for four years, you run into him at a bar and slip into a familiar rhythm of banter. you're surprised to see that he’s not the same frat-prick he was in high school. and rafe realizes that you're exactly the same… except way hotter than the last time he saw you.
WARNINGS fluff, angst, suggestive content but no actual smut. lowkey wrote this off two glasses of wine. i’ll edit in the morning. enjoy. 18+ MDNI.
WORD COUNT 7.7k.
SONG OF THE CHAPTER devil's advocate by the neighborhood
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Rafe's been on cloud nine lately.
Work has been going spectacular (as a job really can get), the girl he's been trying to brush off gently has finally gotten the hint that he's just not that into her, the city life has been treating him relatively fairly (as in, he's no longer tied to the confinements of his father's meticulous expectations ever since he moved out and started working onsite in the city, so now he can finally breathe), all of his friends are in one place and he has a great work-play balance that people could only dream of.
He isn't sure if it gets better or worse when he sees you from across the bar.
It's jarring. Especially when he triple takes to make sure it's actually you and not some trick that the tequila is enticing him into, because his vision isn't that great to begin with so it's not a completely foreign concept for him to mistake someone for a different person. He's done that way too many times which called for an astronomical amount of awkward encounters to try and make up for his fuck up.
But no. It's you. Clear as day.
And hotter than he can handle.
Shamelessly, through the crowds of people coming in and out of his focus, all his eyes can do is stay on you.
Study your figure in all its glory. The way that skirt sinfully snugs your curves. The way you're subtly shifting your weight from foot to foot to relieve the pressure on your poor heels, the inches too high for him to count. The way your clothes cling to your skin and how your hair has changed since the last time you saw him. The way you're smiling and laughing at something funny your friend said, looking way too fucking pretty to be considered casual.
It's funny, because all throughout high school, all he could think about was how he couldn't fucking stand you. But not in the way one would expect.
No. In the way he couldn't stand not having you.
Rafe couldn't stand the way you batted your lashes at him every time you (somehow) lured him into another one of your traps, as in getting him to do your homework with a simple squeeze of his bicep or allowing him one slow dance at prom in exchange for some of the shitty weed he used to deal to Kooks (a discounted rate for you, always). You knew all of his nooks and crannies, knew how to play the cards he dealt you, and, boy, you won the game every single time.
Yet now?
He can't look away.
In fact, he's craving the confrontation, almost jittered at the thought of being close to you again after going so long without it. His hands twitch in your direction, a subconscious pull to you that he can't explain. It's as if you're casting a spell on him without even knowing it. Every time you laugh, his heart skips. Every time you take a sip of your drink and he focuses on your lips, his breath hitches. Every time you almost meet his gaze, his knees nearly buckle.
Rafe's been nursing a half-drank tequila soda for the past thirty minutes, since he laid his eyes on you the first time, shamefully staring at you while — maybe — taking three sips in the same time frame.
And — of course — when you happen to look over your shoulder and nonchalantly scan the crowd, your eyes find his as he's downing the rest of his drink.
The shudder that waves over his body is indescribable, and an automatic smirk etches his lips when you fully realize who you're looking at, proud that you finally found him after not being subtle in the slightest. It's his trademark pick up: send a crooked smile to a pretty girl across the bar in hopes it'll get her blushing, get her enticed enough to mosey her way over to him and spark up a conversation, or vice versa where he's practically stalking up to her and preparing his whole entourage.
But Rafe's mind spins when you simply look him up and down, eyes bright and mischievous, before turning back to your friend and continuing with whatever you were saying.
The act stuns him, blinking stupidly and animatedly to make sure he saw that correct. Did you just...brush him off? Acknowledge the guy you flirted with for four years straight with a simple up-down glance? And follow up with nothing? Not even a wave, or nod, or smile?
Topper, who accidentally witnesses the brutal rejection, claps Rafe on the shoulder a little too audaciously to be considered compassionate.
"Damn, bro," he murmurs loud enough for Rafe to hear. "Looks like that move's done. You're buying our next round again, right?"
The words piss Rafe off for a multitude of reasons, the first being that he's never inviting Topper and his other high school friends to stay with him for a weekend ever again, because it's been one day of them visiting and Rafe's already done with their bullshit, the same bullshit they'd pull all those ages ago and the same bullshit that he could never fucking stand. It was a courtesy invite, something to get Topper off his back because he asked to see the city one too many times.
The second reason being the fact that — no — he's not done. Never with you.
(You're the only person he's thought about in years. Even when he had a relatively long-term girlfriend. Even throughout all the hook-ups he's endured only to picture it's you underneath him. It's sinful the amount of times he's imagined you saying his name, clawing his back, imprinting your mark on his skin. No one else's. Only him. Solely him.)
Pathetically, he recounts all the missed opportunities he's had with you. Sitting shoulder to shoulder in honors chemistry and pawning notes off each other. When'd he go home to study for an exam, he'd see your tiny hand-drawn hearts in the corner of his paper that he traced over gently like it was engraved. Purposefully approaching you in the halls or in the courtyard to rile you up just so he could talk to you. Kissing you once and fucking it up all in the same breath. Slow dancing with you at prom as an excuse to hold you, even when he made you think it was in exchange for some free weed.
Christ, he would've given you the weed for free if you simply asked nicely.
Two more shots, thanks to Topper, and Rafe's pushing through the crowd to you.
When your friend sees him approaching with a stone cold expression, she frowns and darts her gaze between the you and him, yet the cautiously growing smile on her face gives away the fact that something interesting is about to happen, so either that's why she doesn't say anything to you — who are talking animatedly about something random — or she simply doesn't care.
His hand feels like ice against your hot shoulder. "Don't tell me you're too shy to say hi, baby?"
You already know the scent of his cologne, the cadence of his voice, without having to turn around. You've known it for years, dreamt about it for years, so sue a girl for thinking it's all a dream when you're actually hearing it after so long.
Your friend, though, is reacting real time. "Baby?" She darts her gaze between you and Rafe, looming behind you like a shadow. "Got a secret boyfriend I don't know about?"
Your finger taps your chin in mock contemplation. "Hm, a few. Hang on, let me guess."
When the pads of his fingertips skin against the small of your back, you stifle a grin.
"This one's blond," you muse teasingly, loud enough for him to hear and sweet enough to get him to indulge in your little act. "Dirty blond, though. Not to get confused with a Targaryen blond. A head taller than everybody else and a jaw clenched so tight it might break if you call him Rafey."
At the nickname, his hand fully presses onto your skin, somehow finding its way under your tank top to seer against your bare skin, burning hot and inviting just for him.
"Easy," he murmurs low and baritone in the shell of your ear. "I have a reputation to uphold."
Your friend, simply third wheeling for the whole occasion, says her parting words. "Some rep." She turns to you. "I'll be at the bar."
With a ferociously beating heart, your eyes follow your friend as she sifts through the crowd, making her eventual way to the bar after pushing through several friend groups who do their best to accommodate her.
Though his palm is branding your skin, ice against your fire, settling under your tank top so shamelessly that you'd think it was meant to stay there. His audaciousness certainly surprises you, as you've only had a few physical instances with him that kept you up at night: his palm somehow finding its way to your jaw during your prom-night slow dance, arms bear-wrapped around you pulling you away from a cat-fight at the Boneyard one summer night before graduation, climbing over his shoulders and settling there for a game of chicken against your friends in the ocean.
The night always ended the same, with a lingering touch and his piercing blue eyes that seemed to stay too long on you, as if he was itching for more.
But now, older and wiser and hotter, he doesn't pull away.
Instead, he holds you firmer.
It makes you hum. "Cameron, you're scaring away my roster."
He's still behind you, a ghost of a man, almost building up the anticipation of actually being face to face with you.
"No need for them anymore," is all he says before moving in front of you.
And — god — if the close proximity isn't fogging your brain.
You always knew he was tall. Hell, you've been closer to him than this before, but the reaffirmation nearly startles you. His shoulders are a bit broader then you remember, biceps more defined and almost begging to burst through the seams of his t-shirt. The curtain bangs and eventual buzz cut are long gone, instead replaced with a short-grown mullet that you've never seen on him yet crave all the same. It makes him look more relaxed, more sure of himself, as if he's venturing out from the cookie-cutter image he's been molded to fit and finding his own style, finding the own beat to his drum.
It's intoxicating. You're addicted.
And Rafe? He looks fucking hypnotized.
You nearly snort when his blue eyes scale your figure up and down slowly, taking you in shamelessly as if he has all the time in the world to do so. All while his hands settle on your waist, and his palms only press harder when you don't push him away and instead invite the contact. Eventually, his blue eyes find yours and a lazy smile etches his lips.
"You're awfully bolder than I remember," you say slowly, drawing out every syllable to fully ingest his attention.
"You're awfully hotter than I remember," he responds quietly, more to himself as he looks at you in awe. "Since when have you been here?"
You frown in faux offense.
"Are you telling me you haven't been keeping tabs on me, Cameron?"
He snorts.
Yet you continue. "I've posted so many Insta stories, and I know you've seen every single one," you add sweetly, a honey-laced cadence to your voice that nearly lures him into a trap.
"Always kept tabs on you, baby," Rafe murmurs methodically, almost in a trance as he tugs on the ends of your tank. "I like this."
"You like it?"
"Mhm. Makes you look pretty."
"I didn't wear it for you."
Rafe's lips twitch. "Who'd you wear it for?"
Your smile widens. "Me. And all the guys in my phone," you muse.
But that only makes Rafe furrow his brows and tilt his head in mock seriousness, hands pressing a little tighter against your bare skin (not that you mind in the slightest) as if he's staking a claim on you, branding you with the marks of his palms and the pattern of his finger prints. You never knew how nice his touch could feel, never knew what you were missing out on all those years spent bickering back and forth, never knew that kind of form he could mold to the sculpture of your figure.
It's comical, really, knowing damn well you don't have a roster, nor a list of guys in your phone, but how would he ever know? What's the harm in a bit of play? Especially when he looks so pathetically cute trying to look serious with a pinched brow and puffy parted lips. He’s not threatening to you in the slightest. Never has been.
"What?" You ask with faux confusion, going as far as jutting out your bottom lip in a pout that he can't help but stare at. "Why are you frowning, baby?"
"Delete their numbers,” he murmurs, looking solely at your mouth that’s growing into a crooked smile. “Just keep mine.”
“Rafe, we haven’t talked in four years, what makes you think you’re mine?”
“Baby, I’ve been yours since freshman year.”
You falter.
Only slightly, as you involuntarily suck in a breath at the ferocity of his confession. Whether it's actually true or not, whether he's just saying these sweet nothings to hopefully get in your pants, whether it's the influence of whatever he's drinking and the excitement of getting laid tonight, it still makes your heart flutter.
Because you think back to all that time ago: fourteen with brightly aligned smiles thanks to the braces that came off a year earlier, refusing to coward under his pretty blue eyes like all the other girls and stand your ground, show your indifference, prove that it's gonna take more than a few slick one liners and a charming smile to lock you down. Not to mention he's tried more than once to score with you, when you were fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.
One liners tossed over his shoulder as if its second nature, and you flirting back but never giving him an actual chance, not unless he could change for the better. Your relationship is ping pong, tennis, thumb-war. You let him know that he can get close but he can't touch.
Opposite of what he's doing now, which is cautiously smoothing his palms on the skin under your tank top, fingertips digging gently into your flesh.
And, oh, he sees you falter, even though you hoped it was subtle enough. But nothing gets past him, ever.
Rafe's grin is so fucking pretty it makes you scowl. "C'mon. Don't act like you didn't know."
Deflect. Deflect. Deflect.
"I don't," you deadpan back, though in your attempt to remain stone-cold, your voice is quieter than you intend. "You're full of shit."
"Am I?" He's so fucking close to you. "Here I am, pouring my heart out to you, and you think I'm bluffing?"
You manage to quirk a brow. “I wouldn’t consider the insinuation you want to sleep with me the same as pouring your heart out.”
Rafe’s lips twitch. “No?”
“Nope.”
“Even if I asked nicely?”
“Even if you bought me a car.”
Rafe laughs boisterously, head tipped back at your usual venom cadence that he never takes to heart. It’s almost as if he craves it, loves that you give him a hard time, keep him on his toes and make sure his ego is in check, because lord knows the rest of the female population that he encounters probably don’t have the gall to keep him in line. You never did. Sure, you flirted with him (if your definition of flirting was incessantly insulting him and pissing him off) and had your fun, but there was never the insinuation that he was serious.
The thought of him being serious about you settles a kettlebell in your gut.
“Baby,” he says with a giant grin, and you hate the way your heart skips at the name. “You could slap me and I’d buy you a small country.”
“Oh?” You hum, still aware of his hands on you. “So it’s that easy? Let you fondle me a little, slap you, and walk away with a sovereign nation?”
“Why are you acting like this is news?”
“Because you’re you,” you deadpan, ignoring the way his facade cracks slightly. “You want what you can’t have, and once you do, you’re onto the next.”
His once-charming smirk now morphs into something you can’t describe, perhaps a hint of it left on his lips as his eyes soften with such speed that you nearly have to blink to make sure you’re talking to the same person. All he does is stare at you for a moment, giving you more than enough time to take back what you said and turn it into something he approves of, something that’s true.
But you don’t. You hold your ground and let your words linger in the air. It’s obvious, no? His motive has always been to get what he doesn’t have, which is nearly impossible since he already has what money can buy him. The riches, the trust fund, the dozens of yachts he has all can’t buy what he really wants: you.
“That’s what you think of me?” Rafe asks gently, more sincere than you’ve ever heard him. “That’s what you think I see you as?”
You open your mouth to retort, probably something witty and bitchy and out of tune with the mood of the conversation, but just past Rafe, back at the bar, you notice Topper and two other boneheads from high school you know he used to bum with, staring at the two of you and laughing at the entire interaction. Topper ducks his head to whisper something to his friend, snickering and darting his gaze between you and Rafe as he says something, probably something crude and fucking ridiculous.
It makes your spine straighten.
You're brought back to earth, remembering why you never gave into Rafe's flirting and complex for all these years. He's a cookie-cutter mold of what home is: rich frat assholes who think they can sweet talk their way into getting anything they want. You zoom out, and remind yourself that you only know Rafe on the surface. You don't know what he's like behind closed doors, you don't know how he treats his sisters and any motherly figures in his life. You don't know how he'll treat you after you give him what he wants, which is simply getting his dick wet.
You've only seen this side of him, thinking back on all the times he's openly hit on you and you've hit on him back with those bitter insults you love to throw at him. But whereas he's treating this as a game, to get another token under your belt, you've been treating it as a shield, a mechanism to remind him of what he could have if he wasn't so fucking pretentious.
"Look," you start firmly, flirtatious edge gone as you reach down and peel his wandering hands off your waist. "I'm not sure what kind of caveman-dominance-act you're doing for your friends, but we're grown enough to stop running in circles with this little bit."
Rafe frowns as you place his arms at his side.
“If you want to get your dick wet, there’s plenty of girls here to suffice,” is all you conclude with, offering him a smile that isn't very nice and doesn't reach your eyes before disappearing into the crowd.
Leaving him speechless, hurt, and hard.
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You really thought that'd be the end of it.
You said your piece, let him down firm enough so that he won't try the same shit again the next time he sees you. Because, as fun as it is to rile him up and flirt with no consequence, it's getting pretty old putting up with his audacious behavior, especially now that you haven't seen him in how many years, and he's feeling you up as if he ever had any right?
Please.
Rafe’s never been one for commitment. He had one long term (six months, at that) girlfriend in high school, but after an abrupt breakup that he refused to elaborate on with anyone, nothing was stable for him since. A new girl every weekend tucked under his arm, bringing a girl by the hand up to his room only to repeat his same actions with a different girl an hour later. It wasn’t something you ever wanted to involve yourself with, no matter how hard you flirted or how hot he looked on certain days, nothing would actually make you fold.
But tonight?
It’s proving difficult to stick to your word.
Especially when your ex mistakenly gets involved.
You didn’t even see Seth enter the bar, nor did you see the three vodka shots he downed back to back to back, nor did you see him spot your best friend so that, conveniently, means you’re somewhere nearby too. After slithering away from Rafe, you beelined towards your friend and got another drink, moseying out to the outdoor patio to get some fresh air and to decidedly try and ignore whatever the fuck just happened.
It’s when you’re halfway through telling your friend the summarized version of your and Rafe’s lore when your ex decides to approach.
The whole interacting is nothing graceful. He’s drunk and babbling on and on about absolutely nothing at all (you dated for three months and broke up because he was actively sending nudes to his ex girlfriend) so his words don’t really mean anything to you. They’re harmless, really, slurred and incoherent and nothing you really need to pay attention to. Seth is barely a threat.
Although, when ten minutes go by and he’s still not leaving you alone is when you start to get antsy.
You really wish you hadn’t given your friend the it’s okay nod because now she’s nowhere in sight, and you’re on your ninth damn that’s crazy. You only have so many of those left in the chamber, and Seth’s breath reeks of vodka and with every word, despite your constant step back, he’s getting closer. He keeps trying to grab at you, to hold your hand like old times and get you back like he’s been trying to do for a few weeks now.
It’s getting ridiculous. He’s got you caged in a corner and every time you try to duck under his arm and escape, he’s blocking you in, continuing his rambling with more fervor each time. Your eyes scan the patio and the small glass door leading back into the bar for someone, anything, any light at the end of the tunnel to help you get you out of this mess.
When he asks who you keep looking for, the lie rolls easily off your tongue. “My boyfriend.”
You’re not even looking at your ex when his shoulders stiffen. You’re looking past him to search for a viable candidate to try and read your mind, get the hint, and come over here and play the part.
Of course, your ego dies when Rafe enters the patio.
He doesn’t see you immediately, eyes trained on the barely drank beer in his hand and huffing out a low breath. But he’s alone: not surrounded by his degenerate friends and finally having a moment to himself to collect his thoughts, debrief your interaction earlier without Topper chirping in his ear at how funny the whole thing was. For a moment, you slightly pity him and his dejected expression. His pretty blues resemble that of a kicked puppy, and your heart does a weird flutter when you consider the fact that you actually might’ve hurt his feelings.
But when Rafe meet your gaze, it’s a silent exchange.
Your eyes are slightly widened, a wordless help that he seems to understand immediately, wiping the pitiful expression off his face and instantly turning stone cold. The drink in his hand is set down on a table full of random people, getting a few confused looks. But he doesn’t stop to address it, instead eyes staying solely on yours as he approaches the dim corner your ex has you backed into.
Christ. Your dignity is dwindling by the minute.
“Hey, baby,” Rafe hums low, baritone enough to make your ex jump in surprise and spin around to face the voice of the culprit. “Ready to go?”
Not by the minute. By the second.
Before you can open your mouth and humiliate yourself further, Seth scoffs in disbelief as he turns his head between you and your supposed-boyfriend, eyes wide and mouth agape. It takes him one, two moments to fully register what’s going on and react.
“Th—this is your boyfriend?” He splutters with a slur.
The sound makes Rafe rolls his eyes.
“You mind?” He asks coolly, taking an audacious step towards you.
It makes Seth step aside immediately. The cold blue stare plus the added height definitely frightens your ex, as he’s never been the one for confrontation and scoured away anytime there was any inclination for a fight.
But Rafe? No. He craves it.
Fragmented memories scatter your brain. Writing his chemistry notes for him when his knuckles were too busted to hold a pen. Witnessing the Great Boneyard Squabble in real time when he broke Connor Carlone’s jaw yet suffered two broken ribs. Remembering how easy it was for him to throw hands instead of using his words and almost always used fighting as a cop out, because he knew he’d win.
You remember one particular time you drunkenly found him sitting alone on the sand dunes, putting his ice cold beer against a busted knuckle. It was the only time you’ve ever seen him distant, quiet, so unlike the Rafe you’ve grown to know and despise. You asked him if it hurt, he only shrugged. You then asked him why he keeps doing it if it hurts, to which he responded that it’s all he knows. Fighting and putting on a mask are all he knows.
And your ex certainly wants no part of it.
“No. Not at all.” He turns to you and swallows thickly when he watches Rafe slither an arm around your waist. “Uh, I’ll, um, see you?”
Before you can retort something smart, the breath is momentarily sucked out of you when you feel Rafe’s palm tug you taut to his side, still indulging in his little pretend part before it’ll get swept away from him. You can’t say that you blame him, as he’ll take any excuse to get his hands on a girl even if it’s for a glorious sixty seconds. And with you — the girl who never let him get too close — he’s certainly going to extend the short-lived time he has with you as long as he can.
“You won’t,” is all Rafe responds with, and your ex is staggering back, slipping back into the crowd and disappearing before you know it.
You manage to let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, but mask the relief with an eye roll and a gentle shove at his rib cage.
“You didn’t need to do all that,” you murmur, still holding onto the smallest grudge you have with him on his boisterous behavior earlier.
(Despite how fucking nice it feels to have his hands on you).
You hear Rafe snort beside you.
“I got him to fuck off, didn’t I?”
You bite your tongue when a bratty response rises in your throat, only holding back because he’s right. Of course all it took was one glare to get your ex to tuck tail and bolt, whereas your attempts to brush him off and leave proved fruitless. As much as you want to roll your eyes again, say something snotty that’ll either rile him up or piss him off, you hate to acknowledge that Rafe did exactly what you wanted him to do without explicitly having to say anything.
“Yeah,” you murmur quietly, almost frustrated. “Thanks for that.”
Being the prick that he is, Rafe isn’t letting you get away with a half-assed apology muttered under your breath, because suddenly he’s right in front of you, a hint of a grin ghosting his lips as he ducks down to your eye level, making it that much more person than it needs to be.
“What was that?”
You narrow your eyes. “You heard me fine.”
“You know I’m hard of hearing, baby, lemme hear that voice. Gotta speak up around me.”
That abhorrently incriminating nickname turns your heart into a stampede every time, no matter how hard you try to push down the feeling or deny it. Curse Rafe Cameron and his sultry cadence and stupid pretty eyes that are twinkling with delight.
So you do what he asks, and you don’t get flustered (or at least show it). You look him deadpan in the eye, face him square, and put on your sweetest voice.
“Thank you, Rafey.”
But it has the opposite effect. Instead of flustering him, making his breath hitch, throwing him off his game, it only spurs him on further.
He breaks out in a giant fucking grin.
“That so hard, hm?”
Oh, poor choice of words, you think.
Because it makes an idea pop into your head (undoubtedly a stupid one, but a fun one nonetheless) as you take a small step forward, now being the one to crowd his space instead of vice versa. Your chest just barely brushes his, peering up at him through batting lashes and the sweetest smile you can muster. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you bring a hand to skim over his heart, feeling it thump erratically under your palm.
A flicker of surprise coats his features, but you have to admit he masks it quickly with his signature expression, a charming smile and low lidded eyes.
One of his hands cautiously ghosts of your waist, and when you don’t pull back or slap him away, he lets his palm press further into your figure, fingertips slipping under your tank and smoothing over the soft skin of your waist.
Slowly, your other hand skims over his belt loop, just barely dipping your fingertips between the waist band of his pants and his hot skin on his lower abdomen. The unfamiliar contact (from you, especially) makes Rafe suck in a breath in shock, gripping your waist tight and possessive that it makes your heart skip. It only augments when you allow yourself to move forward, fully letting him feel the soft flesh of your breasts press up against his chest.
And that’s when you feel it: the outline of his cock pressing hard against your front.
You peer up at him all pretty and composed, whereas his lips are parted and his blue eyes are nearly blown back with lust, and the sight of him almost makes you fold. Almost. But you zoom out, remember who you’re dealing with, remember all the times he’s left you hot and bothered and aggravated. No matter how big his dick actually feels.
“No,” you murmur softly, responding to his earlier question. “But I know something else that is.”
Rafe opens his mouth to respond, but you’re quicker, taking advantage of his discombobulated state to twist out of his grip and completely remove your hands from his body, stepping out of his grasp and slithering into the crowd.
“Hey—!”
He tries to snatch you, but you’re faster, weaving in and out of friend groups like a snake and not even bothering to check if he’s following you, to see if he’s waiting to press you against a wall and take you in front of all these strangers. You figure that or he’s stuck in the same spot, dumbfounded and hard and annoyed.
You know you’re in trouble when you throw a spare glance over your shoulder before you head back into the bar, suppressing a grin when you spot him through the crowd, eyes solely trained on you with a jaw clenched so tight you’d think it would break.
To elongate his misery, you blow him a kiss before disappearing inside.
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Although, it only takes thirty seconds for him to find you again.
You stifle a grin when you feel a calloused hand snatch your hand, fingers lacing through yours without a second thought and tugging you backwards, sending you stumbling back and bumping into his chest hard. Hard enough to turn a few heads.
The music is so loud. Everyone is laughing and singing and talking. The bass is vibrating the floor. But the only thing you can feel is his hot body pressed against your back and the rapid thumping of his heart. All you can hear is his baritone voice ghosting the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine, especially when one of his hands snakes around your body to press against your hip bone, pulling you even closer than you were before so you can feel him against your back, harder than he was before.
“You think you’re funny?” He snaps in your ear, all flirting edge gone and replaced with something else, perhaps frustration.
It only makes you prouder. “A bit.”
He scoffs and it’s nothing nice. “A bit,” he mocks under his breath. “You’re a fucking brat.”
“Yeah,” you muse, wholeheartedly agreeing. “And yet, you can’t seem to stay away, Cameron.”
When you tilt your head away from him to give him access to your neck, Rafe takes the leap of faith, ducking his head to the soft skin and attaching his lips to your vocal cord. And — god — if this is how his mouth feels now, you can only imagine what it’ll feel like against your lips, your chest, your—
“Can’t,” he admits immediately and so certain of himself, especially when he copies your previous action and his fingers dance along the waistband of your skirt almost daringly. “Won’t.”
The sensation makes your heart skip and spine straighten, sucking in a breath when you feel his teeth gently graze the muscle of your vocal chord with the added feeling of his warm fingers meeting the skin of your lower abdomen, and you pray that the act is subtle enough to not alert him that your body is very much reacting to his body.
Of course, he notices.
“This what you needed, baby?” The baritone of his voice against your neck reverberates your nerves. “Some attention?”
All you do is hum, because, yup. Right on the nose. At least you can admit it to yourself.
When he sucks a particularly sweet spot, you let out a quiet noise you didn’t know you were capable of making, quiet enough so no one else at the bar hears it. Well, everyone except for him, who hears it loud and clear and wants to hear it for the rest of his fucking life.
Rafe exhales deeply through his nose, tickling your skin. “I knew you’d sound so pretty.”
“I always sound pretty.”
A chuckle. Not necessarily a nice one. “Can’t believe you never knew.”
You frown even though he can’t see it. “Knew what?”
“How bad I fucking wanted you.”
The confession makes your stomach do a weird flip. “But you—“
It’s as if he knows your thought process, knows the way your brain works, because he answers your question before you can even get it out.
“Always wanted you.” He kisses your neck with surprising chastity. “Want you to drive me nuts for the rest of my fucking life.”
You blink stupidly, praising whatever higher being that he can’t see your face right now. “That’s excessive.”
“It’s what I want,” he albeit murmurs with candor. “And I always get what I want.”
The rational part of you wants to spin around and slap him silly for such an out of touch comment. He’s on top of the world, getting more money than he knows what to do with and only knowing the lifestyle that comes with a silver spoon. Rafe Cameron gets all the material objects he wants. Watches. Boats. Cars. Designer anything. That’s something money can buy, and money he’ll happily spend if it’s something he has his eye on.
But you? You’re the outlier.
You’re the girl he reached for but could never grasp. You gave him glimpses of what he could have if he stopped being such a prick and straightened himself out. You’ve told him time and time again (after he’s asked you out time and time again) that you’ll only ever go for him if he gets his shit together, stops acting like a frat asshole and ditches his degenerate friends who share the same brain cell and only mooch off of him for his money. He’s refused to see it, not wanting to lose the only “friends” he’s ever had, so every time he let you walk away with your ultimatum, hoping the next time he asks you that your stance has changed.
But it never has.
Not even now.
“You know how I feel,” you respond earnestly, and you bite the bullet and twist around in his arms so you’re facing him, chest to chest and peering at his pretty blues under the kaleidoscope of purple, blue, red, green lights. Your hands brace on his chest and his settle on your waist, looking at you ardently with all sighs of sexual frustration gone, instead replaced with seriousness, determination, admiration. “How I’ve always felt.”
“I know,” he answers immediately. “I can be that person.”
You quirk a brow.
He sees your apprehension, your deflection, the same look you always gave him. But it’s different know, especially when you’re in his arms and not dreaming of pulling away, especially when he looks so damn sure of himself in a way you’ve never seen before.
“I’m…trying to be,” he says after a moment. “Ever since Rocky Dune.”
Your spine straightens at the mention, a memory so deep in your brain’s archives that you nearly forgot its entire existence.
It was the summer after senior year, where your graduated class would congregate on a sector of dunes so secluded from civilization it became your uncharted territory, the spot only your class knew about. Everyone would drink and smoke and carry on as usual, just…less chaotic. The music was never too loud. The lights were never too bright. No one shouted and drunkenly sang obnoxiously. People would chat with other people they didn’t really know. It was…nice. Different. Almost nostalgic. Your class’ secret.
You block the memory away because there was one night that you were so fucking nasty to him that it makes your heart lurch.
You were both relatively drunk, not stumbling but tipsy enough to say things from the locked vault of your mind that never should’ve met the light of day. Secluded from the party, you and Rafe sat shoulder to shoulder in the dunes and watched the gently waves lap against the shore, met with the sound of the water and silence.
Where you kissed him.
You were lonely, fresh off a breakup and he was right there. Saying the right things. Being uncharacteristically nice to you after he saw you crying alone. Finally leaning into the real version of himself, the guy you’ve seen glimpses of. He’s softer, dedicated, serious and devoted. You saw him, not the front he always put up. Just Rafe. And for that one kiss, you thought he’d straighten up, finally understand why you’ve never given him the actual time of day beforehand, why you flirted back but never give him a chance. You thought it would click, he’d keep being himself and stop the frat-prick-asshole act to impress his friends.
Yet he had to ruin it.
Because when he pulled away, he put on that stupid fucking smirk. “Knew you couldn’t resist me.”
And you wished you hadn’t seen a glimpse of the real Rafe at all, because in that moment, you knew you’d never see it again, never see him again, only the persona he’s created to seem cool, nonchalant, like a prince. It broke your heart, humiliated you while you were already so fucking embarrassed when he caught you alone, and it was where you put your foot down.
By this point, you’d already shoved him away and stood up, creating distance. “How stupid of me to think you could ever change.”
You still remember the way his face fell in the moonlight.
And you just had to continue. “If you think acting like this is going to get people to like you, you’re not surviving anything outside this fucking bubble of an island. Stop waving around a wad of cash and let’s see how many people still hang out with you. Grow the fuck up, Cameron.”
The words still haunt you, the expression on his face still haunts you, and the fact that that was the last time you saw him up until this very night haunts you right now. Those were the last words you said to him, your last memory with him, and it’s you saying the worst things he’s probably already thought about himself.
“I never apologized,” you say when you’re brought back to earth. “What I said was—“
“It was what I needed to hear,” Rafe interrupts gently yet firmly, making your apology die in your throat. “It woke me up. When I left for the semester, I straightened out. Focused in school, got good grades, got clean, made friends who actually give a shit about me. You… I should thank you.”
You’re flabbergasted.
Despite it, he continues.
“I want to earn you,” he says softly, as if he’s been itching to say it forever. “I meant what I said. I know I…” His gaze flickers down momentarily. “…seem impatient, but I wanna do this right. With you. If you’ll let me.”
You search his expression for any shroud of doubt, any flickers of playfulness or teasing regard, but you come up short. Instead, you’re met with bright blue eyes that shimmer with certainty, that look at you with such seriousness that it throws your brain for a loop and sets a kettlebell in your stomach.
But the excitement outweighs the uncertainty.
You cave. “One chance.”
Rafe nods immediately.
“One,” you reiterate seriously.
He nods again, emulating the pure embodiment of obedience at the thought of being irrevocably yours.
“If I catch you being a prick,” you continue pointedly, “you’re done.”
“Copy,” he responds earnestly.
“I’ll pluck your balls off like an apple.”
“Whatever you want.”
“I mean it.”
“Baby, I’m about to be on my best behavior, just you wait.”
You quirk a brow as you let a thick silence elongate between the two of you.
The gesture makes Rafe blink, lips twitching. “I can call you baby, right?”
All you can do is give him a pointed look, trying really fucking hard to remain stoic but it’s proving difficult when a smile threatens to creep up, because you have to admit being called such a name, especially with the way it rolls off his tongue with such eased nonchalance that you’d think he was born to say it, makes your heart flutter uncontrollably. Of course he can call you baby. He can call you whatever he wants as long as he never says it to anyone else.
“Yeah,” you find yourself saying. “As long as you say it right.”
And for the second time in your life, you’re gripping his shirt to tug him close and kissing him like your life depends on it.
Rafe responds immediately, mmrphing low into your mouth as his hand comes up to hold the column of your neck, keeping you in place and squeezing just a fraction. The act makes you gasp gently, lips parting at the feeling, but it only allows him more access, slipping his tongue audaciously into your mouth to taste your sweetness in all its glory.
Your hands brace on his chest as some sort of pathetic mechanism to ground yourself, because your heart is leaping out of its chest and the skin that he’s touching of yours is on fire, and you pointedly decide in this moment that you’ve never been kissed like this, so passionately, ardently, gingerly. Frankly, it throws your brain for a loop, especially when he emits a satisfied hum the reverberates in your throat.
You almost forget you’re in the middle of a bad. There’s people all around you, singing and dancing and laughing and completely ignorant to your little moment. The atmosphere is loud and boisterous and unforgiving with its collected heat, but it envelopes you in a blanket, tucked into the warmth that is Rafe, Rafe, Rafe. It’s intoxicating, knowing anyone could be seeing your exchange right now and dismissive to the fact that this is one of the most exhilarating moments of your life.
When you pull away, Rafe’s leaning in for more.
You grin. “Easy, Rafey.”
He mirrors your smile. “You’re gonna kill me. I swear.”
“Your place or mine?”
The words aren’t what he expects, because his brows fly up in surprise as he peers at you with bright blue eyes nearly blown black. He’s trying, he’s trying so fucking hard to do this right, to take his time with you and earn you the way he’s supposed to. The last thing he wants to do is jump the gun and ruin his one chance he has with you, a chance he’s been shooting for since he was fourteen, and if he somehow fucks it up (and knowing him, it’s not unheard of) he’ll probably lose his mind.
“You— But I—“
You interrupt his babbling. “Whatever I want, right?”
Rafe sucks in a breath. “Yeah, fuck, anything.”
Your hands smooth up his chest to rest and you lightly graze your nails along his neck, your fingers moving to the nape and pinching the ends of his overgrown hair delicately. It feels nice to hold him like this, to see what gestures make him fold and see what he positively reacts to. And, so far, any place you’ve been touching him has been fair game. He’s given you the green light without his words, simply showing his affirmation through his actions.
“Okay,” you pointedly decide. “Mine then.”
When you snake your hands down to lace your fingers with his, Rafe doesn’t object. As you weave through the crowd with him in tow towards the exit, he makes no argument. When you slide into his lap in the taxi and cling to him as if your life depends on it, he invites the contact. And when you lead him up to your apartment and shut the door behind him, the feeling he’s had for you for years tenfolds.
And, for once, you’re not pushing him away.
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Š salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission. mdni.
notes yup hey here’s another one shot literally nobody asked for. hope you enjoyed!
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dearjoons ¡ 3 days ago
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💉 TEENVAMPIRE!YOONGI HEADCANNONS
request: “omg what about grumpy but soft vampire!yoongi headcannons? i miss yoongi...”
warnings: non-biting vampire. grumpy/black cat energy.
lulu speaks: i would like to apologize for being over a month late to this req pls forgive me 🙏🏼 also this is lowkey angsty for some reason and that is NOT like me, so excuse that.
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ྐ❤︎ teenvampire!yoongi who drinks blood from stolen hospital bags. he’s never liked human blood. he’s never liked humans. eugh.
ྐ❤︎ teenvampire!yoongi who “sleeps” in an abandoned room, throwing himself down on the bare mattress at nighttime when he wants to pretend to be normal.
❤︎ teenvampire!yoongi who adopted a kitten a few months ago. she’s a bombay, and he finds comfort in her presence. she’s also his pride and joy—he named her salem.
ྐ❤︎ teenvampire!yoongi who has insanely strong hearing. he gets the privilege of overhearing gossip, secrets, and he uses it to be silently nosey.
ྐ❤︎ teenvampire!yoongi who keeps a journal. if you look close enough, you can see the parts where the ancient leather’s been torn.
ྐ❤︎ teenvampire!yoongi who sneaks in through the hospital window, two hidden doors, and an air vent to stock up on his blood bags.
ྐ❤︎ teenvampire!yoongi who got turned when he was 18 years old—in 1919.
ྐ❤︎ teenvampire!yoongi who has never enjoyed an era quite like he enjoyed the 2000s. being able to walk around with his natural eyebags, camouflaging at night because of the excess use of body glitter amongst humans, and being able to have his fangs out because there were people weird enough to wear fake ones for fun? what he would do to go back.
ྐ❤︎ teenvampire!yoongi who has written his journal entries in a mix of hangul and english since he first started writing them. something about the mix of languages satisfies something deep within him.
ྐ❤︎ teenvampire!yoongi who is banned from the local 7/11. one time in 2008, he got into a screaming match with the slushie machine. (he was low on blood, okay? and the “wild cherry” button kept blinking like it was mocking him.) the teen cashier tried to kick him out, but yoongi hissed. now, his face is printed behind the register with a sharpie note that says “DO NOT LET THIS EMO FREAK IN.”
ྐ❤︎ teenvampire!yoongi who always wears headphones, but usually never has music playing. it’s a deterrent, people don’t try to interact with you if they think you can’t hear them.
ྐ❤︎ teenvampire!yoongi who literally cannot enter a house without being invited (he got hexed by some crazy witch in the 60s). so when he’s standing on your porch, soaking wet from the rain, it’s not by choice. if he goes, “you gonna invite me in, or what?” it’s not by choice either.
ྐ❤︎ teenvampire!yoongi who doesn’t believe in love. he quit that a long time ago, when he found out how it felt to outlive someone you love. but sometimes, when he feels that human boy inside of his dead heart, he doodles fanged stick figures holding hands. wonders what it would’ve been like to grow old with someone. to bend down on one knee. to fall in love. to kiss someone and not worry about seeing their lifeless eyes in a hospital bed.
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lulu speaks pt2: everything i’ve ever written is slowly turning into mush in my head so if u see any reoccurring themes it’s bc im malfunctioning rn my apologies
masterlist. navigation.
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yupstillaghost ¡ 2 days ago
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✨️Halo & Horns🥀
Part 3
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Erik Campbell x Pastor's Daughter Reader
Part 1
Part 2
Summary: Erik takes you out on your first real date (in true Erik Campbell fashion of course).
Warnings: swearing, unwanted flirting from a creepy guy, protective Erik, mentions of murder and gore (in the context of a horror movie), romantic Erik, Erik is absolutely whipped for you and the fluff is overwhelming.
Other: reader is wearing a dress and heels, no use of Y/N
Author's note: I was basically twirling my hair and kicking my feet writing this, so I hope you do too. Also, once again i am capped at 50 mentions per post so i am sorry if you did not make the tag list.
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You and Erik sat in the back of the tattoo parlor like two secret lovers hiding from any prying eyes. Well, you couldn't call yourselves lovers just yet. You felt as though your stars were aligned again to have Erik next to you. Being with him didn't feel awkward and your conversations never felt forced. Everything just flowed naturally when it came to interacting with him.
As you flipped through your sketch book together and showed him all your drawings, you explained to him how long it took you to draw each one and what you were feeling while drawing it. This of course led to Erik showing you some of his drawings that he has been working on for his clients or just for fun.
When you were looking through Erik's sketches, he was looking through yours, and he eventually came across the unfinished moth creature.
"Holy shit you really drew this?" Erik exclaimed, holding up your sketch book to show you your own drawing. You couldn't help but feel a twinge of embarrassment to see your half drawn creature.
"Ya, but it's not finished" you explained downheartedly. Having seen Erik's artwork, you felt like yours paled in comparison. You were starting to think that maybe showing him your work wasn't the best idea. He probably thought your sketches looked juvenile compared to his.
"What do you mean not finished? If it already looks this cool, I can't wait to see what it's gonna look like complete" Erik lit up, his eyes scanning the paper further. You blushed as you watched Erik stare intently at your drawing
"Please tell me you're doing something with this talent" he added while raising his eyebrows at you. "I'm an art major, actually," you beamed with pride "my parent's wanted me to major in religious studies, but art is really the only thing I ever wanted to do."
"Maybe we can put a tattoo machine in your hand someday" Erik said while nudging your shoulder with his teasingly. You chuckled at his words. You couldn't picture yourself being a tattoo artist, but you had to admit you always wanted tattoos yourself. You would have to wait till you were on your own first. If you came home with tattoos, your mother would fall into a coma, and your father would probably perform an exorcism on you.
Erik let out his own little chuckle as if he knew the reason why you found his words amusing. He then reached over and took your hand in his gently. You immediately paused and looked down at your joined hands. That swirling feeling in your stomach returned in full force. Erik went to retract his hand, thinking that he was coming on too strong again, but you took his hand back and intertwined your fingers with his.
He looked at you with parted lips and hopeful eyes. You gave him a shy smile in return and squeezed his hand. Internally, you were surprised with yourself that you wanted Erik this close. You realized that the more time you spent with him, the more you would let your walls down and allow yourself to feel his presence.
"I'm okay with this" you said to him, barely above a whisper. He gave you a closed lipped grin and squeezed your hand back, feeling content that he had the green light to hold your hand. Erik searched your face with his misty blue eyes and swallowed hard.
"Look Peach, if you couldn't already tell, I'm really into you," Erik confessed softly, "and if you want, i would love to take you out sometime." Your mouth went dry and felt your entire face heat up. You definitely knew that Erik was interested in you, but the verbal confirmation had your stomach doing backflips.
"Like, on a date?" you asked without thinking, immediately regretting your embarrassing choice of words. Erik smiled widly and started to giggle.
"No with a sledgehammer" he said with pure sarcasm. You let go of his hand and shoved him playfully as you giggled along with him, almost causing him to fall out of his chair.
"Yes, I wanna take you out on a date" he finally confessed after recovering from his fit of giggles. You took your bottom lip in between your teeth and looked down at the tattoo parlor floor. You would be lying if you said you weren't a little nervous about going out on a date with Erik.
Erik himself wasn't the issue. The issue was that you've never been on a real date. Every guy you've ever gone out with was carefully selected by your parents, and during the date, they would watch the two of you like a hawk. You weren't even sure what it would be like to go out with a guy alone. What you were sure of, though, was that Erik Campbell wanted to take you out, and you would be crazy to say no.
"I'm not opposed to the idea" you said, looking up at him with newfound mischief in your eyes "what would you want to do?" Erik tilted his head and stared at you fondly.
"We could go see a movie and maybe get ice cream after. There's a movie theater about 30 minutes outside of town" Erik suggested to you. You slowly nodded your head as you processed his words.
"This all sounds great, but how are we gonna pull it off?" You asked Erik, reminding him that going out won't be as easy as he's making it sound.
"Ever heard of sneaking out?" Erik answered your question with his own."I'll pick you up Peach, you just gotta get out of the house unnoticed." You took a minute to think it over. You could do it. You could sneak out and go on a date with Erik. You were just slightly annoyed that this was the only way you could spend time with him. But the way this unconventional yet beautiful man made you feel was what made all the secrecy worth it.
"Okay, Campbell. You can take me out" you said to him softly, "and just so you know, I'm really into you too." Erik smiled from ear to ear and threaded his fingers with yours once again.
"I kinda had a hunch when you blew off Bible study to come see me" Erik said through a chuckle. Your heart dropped when he mentioned Bible study and checked your phone in a panic. It was almost 10:00pm. You were so caught up in your own world with Erik, you lost track of time.
"Shit, it's late. I gotta go" you muttered, grabbing your sketch book and shoving it in your backpack. You quickly rose to your feet and made your way to the front of the shop with Erik following close behind. You stopped at the front door and turned around to look at him. You allowed yourself to take him in fully one last time, and then you gave him a small smile.
"Text me when you get back to your tower, Princess" Erik said in a gravely tone, offering you a smirk. You let out a single chuckle and a soft "bye Erik" before exiting the tattoo parlor and allowing the cool night air to greet you.
-------------------------------------------------
You carefully put in the nicest pair of earrings you owned and spritzed both sides of your neck with your perfume. You looked and felt the best you've had in a while for your date with Erik. But you did start to wonder if you were overdressed for the occasion.
You analyzed yourself in your full-length mirror, feeling unsure about your outfit choice. Was a knee-length dress with a corset bodice and cap sleeves too formal for movie date? Were your kitten heels too much? You bit your lip apprehensively as you contemplated changing your outfit. Your hectic thoughts were then interrupted by your phone vibrating on your desk, indicating that you had a new text message. No time to change now.
You quickly peered over at your bed. Your pillows were meticulously placed under your covers to look like you were sleeping there, a classic move. It was 11:00pm and you knew your parents were sound asleep at this time. You adjusted the pillows one last time to make sure your makeshift decoy looked as realistic as possible. You then checked your phone to see the message was from Erik.
"I'm outside, Princess. Your chariot awaits" was the message you read that had you stifling a laugh. You walked over to your window and pulled back the lace curtains. Sure enough, there was Erik standing under the yellow glow of the street light next to an Audi Sedan that looked like it was straight out of the 90s.
You stood in front of your window and took a deep breath to calm your nerves. You never snuck out before, and you didn't think you would have to at your age, but there's a first time for everything.
You unlocked the window and opened the glass and screen wide enough for you to fit through. Luckily for you, your bedroom was at ground level, so you didn't have to worry about breaking an ankle trying to sneak out.
You slid out the window with ease, and you quietly closed it behind you. You straightened your dress out as you took one final look inside your bedroom. Everything appeared to be in order, so you turned away, and power walked over to Erik, your heels clicking on the pavement with each step.
"When I said sneak out, I thought you would come out the front door, not climb out your wind..." the end of Erik's sentence was caught in his throat when he saw you in all your glory under the street light. He looked you up and down and he let the word "wow" escape his lips.
You fiddled with the strap of your purse as you looked him up and down as well. You were starting to think he owned multiple pairs of the same black skinny jeans, considering this was the third time you've seen him wearing them. You also thought his combat boots must be his favorite pair of shoes.
He did have some added elements to his look though. The waistline of his pants was wrapped in a plain black leather belt. His black tee shirt, that had the name of a band you've never heard of on it, was tucked into his jeans. Lastly, he pulled the look together with a black denim jacket. His hair was a wild, dark brown mess as usual, and his earrings and septum ring caught the light of the street lamp above you.
He looked like his usual devilishly handsome self, but you couldn't help but notice how casual he was dressed compared to you. You averted your gaze from him and looked down at your shoes, rubbing your glossed lips together nervously. You then saw the tips of Erik's boots meet the tips of your heels as he gently took your hand in his. You peered up at him to see him smiling down at you.
"Pardon my French Sweets, but you look fucking gorgeous" Erik beamed unabashedly, lifting your hand and giving you a twirl so he could see all of you. You offered him a coy grin as you met his fond gaze.
"You look nice too" was all you could manage to say, and you internally scolded yourself for sounding like an idiot. Erik gestured to the car behind him.
"Shall we?" He said casually, his hand still holding yours. "We shall" you replied with a bright smile. In a complete 180 to Erik's bad boy exterior, he brought you to the other side of his car and opened the passenger side door for you. There, waiting for you in the passenger seat was a single red rose. You delicately picked it up by the stem and gave it a sniff, letting out a satisfied hum.
"For me?" You said quietly while internally scolding yourself again for not thinking of something better to say. Erik then fried the circuits in your brain by lifting your free hand to his lips and planting a soft kiss on your knuckles.
"Anything for the pretty lady" he replied while looking at you through his lashes. This man really would be the death of you. You didn't even want to think about how you would go on if things didn't work out between the two of you. Though Erik wasn't your boyfriend, you knew you would probably say yes if he asked to be. You would be a modern-day Romeo and Juliet...but without all the death.
You and Erik made the 30-minute drive to the movie theater with both of you exuding excitement and nervous jitters. You were going to a midnight showing of a new horror movie that Erik suggested you see. You weren't a horror fan by any means, but Erik seemed really excited about the movie, so you decided to put on a brave face and indulge him.
Erik's car was from the year 1996 and was obviously not equipped with modern technology. So he had a collection of CDs that he made himself, and he had one for every mood and every occasion.
During your drive, he put a CD in that had an array of different rock songs that were all about love. You figured he was trying to set the mood, which you found sweet.
You liked that Erik was showing you that he had a romantic side. The rose, the music, the way he held your hand the entire car ride. You knew he didn't have to do any of these things to get you to fall for him. Truthfully, you've been falling for him since you saw him in the kitchen at his house.
------------------------------------------------
The movie theater lobby was abuzz with people excited to see the same horror movie you and Erik came to see. The smell of buttered popcorn filled the air along with the chatter of all the movie goers. Erik took you to a corner across from one of the concession stands and gave you your movie ticket.
"I'm gonna run to the bathroom real quick, then we can get snacks before the movie starts, okay?" Erik said to you. You replied with a nod, and with that, Erik left you by yourself. It didn't take long for a man in a sports jersey with a bucket of popcorn to come up to you and try to start a conversation.
"Hey Cutie, that's a nice dress" the man complimented you as he looked you up and down and licked his lips. Your anxiety level went from 0 to 100 in a matter of seconds.
"Thanks" you said timidly, looking off into the direction that Erik walked in and praying he would come back soon.
"You got a name, Sweetheart?" the man asked you as he leaned on the wall with his arm above your head. You looked at him with a fearful look in your eyes while he looked at you with hunger.
"Listen, I-I'm not really interested in" you tried to turn down the man, but he interrupted you as if he already knew you were rejecting him.
"Cmon, now don't be like that. I got all this popcorn here that I wouldn't mind sharing with a pretty little thing like you." You started backing away from the man, but he took a step closer. Suddenly, your view of the man was blocked by the back of Erik's denim jacket.
"Can I help you?" Erik said calmly, stepping in front of you to protect you from the creepy man. "Dude, get out of the way. Can't you see I'm trying to shoot my shot?" the man responded with an irritable tone.
"Ya well, you're trying to shoot your shot with my date, so no, i won't get out of the way" Erik continued with obvious annoyance. The man laughed as he sized up Erik.
"How does a little fucking punk like you pull a girl like that?" the man questioned while gestering to you. Erik laced his fingers with yours, and you instinctively grabbed his bicep with your other hand.
"Because I'm not a prick" Erik spat back. The man looked like he was about to give Erik a piece of his mind, but you tugged on his arm, signaling him to just leave it alone. Erik squeezed your hand as a way of showing you that he's ready to walk away and he took you over to the concession stand, leaving the creepy man in the dust.
After you got your snacks and found your seats in the theater, you began to feel anxious at the thought of seeing a horror movie on a big screen for the first time in your life. You've seen horror movies before, but you haven't seen very many, especially not in theaters. You felt your heart drop into your stomach when the lights dimmed and the movie started.
During the first half of the movie, your heart was beating out of your chest, and you clutched your bag of popcorn like it was your lifeline. If the movie had monsters, aliens, or any creepy creatures, you would have been fine.
You could handle seeing monsters on the screen. You had tons of drawings of them at home. But you were seeing a slasher movie. You found slashers a lot scarier than monsters specifically because it was more realistic. Anyone could be a killer, your best friend, your neighbor, your lover. The possibility of being murdered by a deranged serial killer is way higher than getting abducted by aliens or mauled by a werewolf.
You glanced over at Erik and saw him with a big smile spread across his face, giggling at the gore on screen. Since you were distracted by Erik, you missed the jump scare in the movie, but the theaters surround sound still got you.
You jumped out of your skin, your popcorn jumping out of the bag along with you. Erik turned his head to see you looking petrified beyond belief. His smile dropped, and he had a look of regret on his face for a moment. But then he smirked like he had an idea.
Erik wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you in as close as possible. You looked up and your eyes met his instantly. You could feel his breath fanning over your face and you could see every defining shade of blue in his irises. Your heart was racing for a completely different reason now, and you forgot where you were for a moment.
"I got you Peach" he whispered to you in the dim auditorium, his words only meant for your ears. You took a deep breath as you rested your head on his shoulder. Erik gave your shoulder a light squeeze and then turned his attention back to the film.
You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to enjoy Erik's embrace. You zeroed in on the smell of Erik's cologne and the feeling of his shoulder softly rising and falling with every breath. You blocked out the sound of the actors on screen crying out for their lives and being brutally murdered so you could focus on Erik.
You felt him start to massage comforting circles on your shoulder. You opened your eyes momentarily to see him still watching the film intently, but it made your heart feel so full that he was still trying to comfort you through it all.
----------------------------------------------------
Erik's initial plan after the movie was to take you to get ice cream, but he didn't take into account that no ice cream place would be open at 2:00am. So you both settled for prepackaged ice cream bars from the nearest gas station and laughed off Erik's flawed planning.
You sat in the car together eating the ice cream bars while one of Erik's CDs played softly in the background. While you enjoyed your frozen treats, you both had conversations about almost everything under the sun. Stories from childhood, goals for the future, likes and dislikes, your biggest fears, literally everything. Erik cracked off the wall jokes, and you both laughed till your ribs hurt. You appreciated his unusual sense of humor. In fact, you found it to be refreshing.
After the ice cream was gone and the laughs died down, you could no longer postpone the inevitable. Erik had to take you home. The ride back to your house was blanketed in a comfortable silence. But Erik didn't miss the way you held onto his hand like if you let go, you would float away.
Erik pulled up in front of your house and hesitantly let go of your hand to put the car in park. You searched his face with your sad eyes, looking for any sign that he didn't want you to go. You found your sign when Erik reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and allowed his hand to linger on your cheek. You placed your hand over his and leaned into his touch, savering the feeling of his calloused palm on your face.
That wave of emotions you were feeling when you saw Erik in the tattoo parlor came crashing over you again, but this time, you didn't shy away from it. You lunged forward and kissed Erik on his cheekbone. When you pulled away, you saw your strawberry lip gloss stamped there on the face of a very stunned Erik.
"I had a good time tonight" you said softly, your voice laced with sweetness. Erik snapped out of his awestruck state and cleared his throat.
"Can I take you out again? Like on another date?" He stammered out, clearly still affected by your sudden kiss. You giggled at how cute he was while flustered, and you made a mental note to make him like that again in the future.
"What, you don't want to take me out with a sledgehammer?" You called back to his previous sarcasm from when he initially asked you out.
"No, because I learned tonight that you don't like slashers" Erik responded with a quick comeback. You rolled your eyes playfully at him, then gathered your things so you could get out of the car.
"Seriously though, do you wanna go out again?" Erik reiterated, his eyes staying glued to you. You offered him a fond grin as you twirled the rose he bought you between your fingers.
"Yes" you answered "but no more slashers movies."
-------------------------------------------------
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120 notes ¡ View notes
sparklystarrrr ¡ 1 day ago
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Hello! Can u please write smth about floyd x female!jellyfish reader who matches his energy? Thank u!!
THEE Chaotic Duo
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Synopsis: Don’t put your hands in the sea creature tank! The jellyfish and the eel bite.
Contains: Floyd L. x Jellyfish! Fem! Reader, octavinelle reader, so so chaotic, Riddle is their target as usual, Azul being a party pooper, I’m so sorry for whatever this is…
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(y/n) and Floyd were... scary to say the least...
She was a jellyfish and he was an eel. When she was alone, people would assume (y/n) to be a calm minded and elegant young woman. It couldn't have been farther from the truth because when she was with her boyfriend, Floyd... and oh boy.
With her harsh zaps, his terrifying height, and their maniacal laughs that echo off the hallways after chasing some poor little NRC student around, no one was safe.
Everyone knew the scary Octavinelle couple. Not by choice, but because how else were they suppose to protect themselves?
It was like there was a dark and ominous aura around the two of them whenever they lurked around the corner and scoped out which fishies to squeeze and sting!
Today's target? Riddle frickin' Rosehearts.
The eerie couple had been cackling about some random kid in their previous class who'd been jumpscared by them from just turning around in his seat when they saw a red tuft of hair in the distance. It was no usual red, but a rose red. Target acquired.
"Floyd, you seein' what I'm seein'?" (y/n) whispered in his ear.
"Huh? Oh yeah, I'm seein' goldfishie~ hehehe!"
"I bet he's needin' a sting, don'tcha think Floydie?"
"I think yer right Jellyfishie!"
And with their new plan and target, they were on the hunt.
At sensing the two, the crowded hallways literally split around them to get out of a potential sting or squeeze...
Students physically shuddered at their sharp teeth while they both smiled playfully.
The only person who somehow didn't sense the two coming was of course.... Riddle.
He walked with urgency in his steps as he made his way to his next class. Books in hand and all.
With his back turned, Floyd and (y/n) snuck up like two preditors.
Once they got close enough, (y/n) stuck her index finger out in poor Riddle's direction. She quickly zapped him which effortlessly distracted the small boy. Whilst Riddle was turned to her, Floyd picked him up into a bone crushing and suffocating squeeze."Ack- PUT ME DOWN THIS INSTANT!!! IT WILL BE OFF WITH BOTH OF YOUR HEADS IF THIS IS NOT DONE IN THE NEXT SECOND!!!"
The boy's face turned bright red in anger and the heart shaped strands of hair in his face practically stood up straight in rage.
(y/n) took this as a chance to be playful, bringing her hand up to the strands and twirling them in her fingers and sending little jolts to his body with her other hand. It was almost like a taunt, but in truth, the couple was just having fun with a fishie!
"Hey Riddlie, does your hair usually stand up like this when yer pink?"
"(y/n), CEASE YOUR PLAYING WITH MY HAIR!!"
"But goldfishie~ we're havin' fun!" Floyd giggled with the toothiest smile ever.
Their fun (Riddle's torture) would've went on longer had Azul not caught them on his way to class as well.
He sputtered at the sight of his dorm members/ insufferable friends publicly humiliating a fellow Housewarden.
"Floyd, (y/n). What... IS GOING ON HERE??!!"
"Playin'! Wanna join?" Floyd taunted. A lovely idea then slithered into (y/n)'s brain. Quickly, she whispered it right into Floyd's ear. There was a glint in the couple's eyes that Azul and Riddle did not like.
Floyd dropped Riddle (who made a mad dash to his class right after), turned to Azul and just eyed him down eerily. This didn't last long before the scary couple started a mad chase at Azul.
New target found: AZUL ASHENGROTTO
"W-WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING??!! AGHHHH----"
"We're it Zuzu!! You can run but you can't hide!" Nobody understands how (y/n) sounded so sweet screaming that at Azul while sprinting at him like she was starving for some octopus.
Floyd just cackled as usual and threw himself at Azul, knocking him down and screaming "YOU'RE IT NOW COME CATCH US HAHAHA!" and ran off after picking up (y/n) and throwing the jellyfish girl over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
My, what a normal day for (y/n) and Floyd!
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meanbossart ¡ 13 hours ago
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Hey, I recently discovered you (via an astarion post on reddit of all places, where people were gushing over you) and I'm frankly burning in awe of your body of work.
Your art is jaw dropping, but as that last asker said, your writing needs some serious appreciation as well. I started ANE because the writing in your comics was so mindblowing I first thought you'd taken it from canon or literature or somewhere. ("I have dreams where your body is my tomb" - holy hell. That line made me weightless.) I downloaded ANE as an ePub and devoured it on my phone in just a few days. I've never really even read a fanfic before. DU Drow is practically BG3 canon to me now.
I love your imagery, especially Drow's internal monologues where he silently descends into the most luscious, insane violence thats somehow so gorgeous, but also how vividly you describe body language and complex emotions, and how unafraid you are to make your characters flawed and dive into their insecurities and intrapersonal conflicts beyond the already-great source material. You don't hide the ugly or the weird or the difficult because you're precious about your babies (i suffer from that in my writing!), and it's all SO much more impactful for it. You understand contrasts and character development phenomenally. I'm so happy to have found your little world.
Yeah, you really inspired me. My art is not great but I write, so maybe one day I can gift you back with a little one shot - if you're cool with that? I'll stick to patreon to say thanks for now!
This was such a sweet write-up, thank you so much for taking time out of your day to let me know of your thoughts on ANE and my writing in general, I am seriously touched that you could have confused my original writing for canon/existing material, and that you think my characters feel realistically flawed! That is all I strive for when I depict any of these goobers.
Fun fact, I struggle so much with not over-describing body language whenever I write. As a visual artist it is so difficult not to feel like you are obligated to paint as clear a picture as you can when moving to literature, LOL. So, I'm really glad that you enjoy that aspect of it!
As for your final question - ABSOLUTELY! I love receiving art inspired by my work in any shape and form - drawings and comics are wonderful and I love seeing how people translate my character into their own style, but written fiction adds a whole other level to that! Getting to find out how someone interprets my character's inner world and relationships is just as much of a treat.
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captainlakes ¡ 2 days ago
Text
series masterlist masterlist navigation
o1. Monday ♡
sirius black x ravenclaw!fem!reader!
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summary: first day of week turns into a nightmare week when sirius and you, the biggest enemies on hogwarts, end up fighting in the middle of a class.
words: 1.7K
tags: angst, enemies, forced proximity, slow burn.
warnings: this is the first part of a series, make sure you're in the right part before reading!!! hate, violence (lightly). slight mention of domestic violence. voldemort and death eaters mentioned (once), no romance yet. english is not my first language!
note: you have no idea how badly i've been trying to write something of sirius and i finally made it :) + this is my first series here so pls be nice with me & hope u enjoy<33
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Monday morning.
Nothing ever ends up well when you and the oldest Black are in the same room.
Everyone knows it. It is like a common knowledge that you and the marauder hate each other with every fiber of your souls. No one knows how it started though. There are rumors flying around the halls, from house to house and most of the time it's treated like a suburban legend, a fun fact the prefects of the houses share when a new student gets sorted in, but no one is really certain of the reason for the mutual hatred between the two of you. Everyone just knows it and goes along with it.
And when I say everyone, I mean everyone.
Students of all grades, most of the teachers, all of the phantoms and paintings, the grounds guardian, all sixth graders parents, some ministry guys that visited the castle, writers from the newspaper, The Prophet. Once, someone told you even Voldemort and his loyal followers were aware about it.
But Dumbledore has it under control. Mostly.
After the million of pranks and public discussions with Sirius on your first and half of your second year, the most powerful wizard in the world knew that leaving you both on the same house would be a menace, a disaster, for yourselves and for everyone around you, and Albus didn't need any more problems under his nose, the dark wizard corrupting students was enough.
So he separated you. The old man sent you straight to Ravenclaw. Why you? Yes, that was exactly what you had asked him but the explanation came easily: for you the change meant being part of a creative and intellectual house that also fit with your personality. For Sirius? A transfer would mean pushing him directly to the Death Eaters circle.
It really wasn't a difficult choice.
You didn't keep complaining because, after all, it had worked out well, you found a real home in Rowena's house, real friends and the most important part? You got free of seeing Sirius Black at every single minute, every single day, so it was a win-win for everyone.
The incidents fall to almost none. Just two public discussions during the next five years, a great progress if you asked any profesor who had dealt with your constant bickering and fighting in their classes.
Maintaining you apart was going perfectly for both sides. That's why you don't understand who was the clever person who decided Ravenclaw and Gryffindor sixth graders should share a class during an entire year, and even crazier, in what world Minerva McGonagall thought Sirius and you would work just fine while practicing transfiguration spells.
In any world, just to make it clear.
I mean, transfiguration spells? Sirius and you? That was set up for a total catastrophe.
And just as you thought, it happened.
A total catastrophe.
It started with a small disagreement, about him not moving the wand in the right way, then it escalated to him criticizing the way you pronounced the spell. Not much later, he was talking about your lack of ability and after that you could or could have not made a comment about his family that led to him to start screaming about you being always so insufferable and more hundreds of things that right now you don't remember. You just know that you fired back, yelled at him too as he started throwing spells at you and you couldn't resist the urge to not do the same, opening some birds cages, probably paralyzing Dorcas Meadows and slightly hurting Barty Crouch Jr in the process, to finally ending up with you being transformed into a fork and him being a bird.
A raven, specifically.
You just wanted him to be something as black as his heart —and his last name—. A raven seemed perfect to fill out your desires.
And to gain you a good scolding from Minerva, when she managed to fix your mess and to get you both back to your human forms.
The emptiness of your surroundings is evident by the silence that creaks around the four walls of the transfiguration classroom. There's no students anymore, not a sign of the rest of the marauders or Pandora, your best friend. They're all gone, probably dismissed after the little incident, if we could call it like that.
No one says a word for a minute, Sirius and you are sitting on the central part on the front row of desks, with unreadable expressions on your faces, almost shoulder to shoulder, waiting for whatever the old woman has to say.
It's not going to be good, you can realize by the way she watches you, by the way she's curling her fingers on both of your wands in a silent form of saying you're done with magic, the question is how long will that be?
How bad will the punishment be? Too long, maybe. The look of your teacher's face says it all even before she speaks.
“For Merlin sake, what were you thinking?” The angriness of McGonagall’s voice is clear.
“Minnie, please, just let me—” Sirius starts to speak but the woman doesn’t let him finish. The thought of him using the nickname he invented for Minerva in this situation seems bold of him, still you don't make a comment. You have enough problems already.
“No, Mr. Black” She says bluntly, giving him a stern look to indicate him to remain silent “You have no right after the scene you made…” She looks away, she paces “Fighting in the middle of my class like two little kids…This is not the kind of attitude I'm expecting from either of you” Now she's looking at you, making you want to hide beneath the table and not go out ever.
“Professor, I'm—” You tried to apologize, explain whatever the hell happened a few minutes ago but she interrupted you, abruptly.
“I know you have your differences but this time you were deliberately violent” She remarks, it's obvious that's she's done with this “You sent two students from each house directly to the infirmary”
“We didn't mean—” For a second time you attempt to explain the situation but again you fail as you are cut off.
“Whatever you meant or not meant is irrelevant, dear” Minerva told you, her voice softening just for a brief moment “You were one step away from start casting unforgivable curses to each other”
“Minnie, come on, that's ridiculous” Sirius interjects, sounding a bit offended by the accusations but still laughing in a bitter way. He looks at you and back to the woman that successfully developed a cat animagus “I wasn't…We weren't…It was just a playful fight”
“You, of all people, should be aware of the easy it is to turn a playful fight into a mortal one, Sirius”
Those words make his whole aura change. It was barely noticeable but you saw how his jaw clenched, how his right hand formed a fist beneath the desk and how he swallowed out of nerves, like if the comment of the woman hit the right spot.
His life in Grimmauld Place, probably.
You knew the basics just as everyone. Born in a pure blood family, heir of the fortune and greatest traitor after being sorted in the lions cave instead of the snakes cold house, as every one of his ancestors. Even his baby brother Regulus Black managed to get into the family house, however, he didn't and you were sure, for what your parents tell you sometimes about the Blacks, he might not have a great time in his house.
Walburga and Orion didn't exactly fit on the description of understanding people.
The silence lingers again, no one speaks. The only sound in the room is the soft breathing of the three present people, until the oldest of you sighs and looks up, studying both of the teenagers quickly.
“You are two of my best students” She states, firmly, confident that she's telling the truth “I can't let this kind of attitude overshadow your talent…This can't keep happening”
“It won't” You assure. Sirius stays quiet.
“No it won't” She agrees. There's a short pause before she adds “Each of your houses have 50 points less. 10 for the fight, 10 for freeing the birds, 10 for hurting Mr. Crouch, 10 for paralyzing Miss Meadows and 10 for explicitly ignoring my instructions of behaving”
“Fuck” Finally Sirius talks, or curse.
“Do you want me to add another 10, Mr. Black?” She shots back, in an authoritative tone.
“No, I'm sorry” He apologizes but doesn't wait too long to say “Can I go now? I have quidditch practice” He informs, you roll your eyes, he smirks.
“Forget about quidditch practice this week, Mr. Black” Minerva says and now you're smirking, while his smile fades “You'll be helping at the kitchen in the afternoons the rest of week” She announces, your eyes widened and your smile fades too. Fuck.
“Wait what?” Surprisingly you're the first to react, wanting to make sure you heard right. Sirius and you together ended always in a catastrophe, the proof of it was what happened today just half and hour ago “I'm sorry professor, I think that's a terrible idea”
“I can't believe I'm gonna say this but I agree with her” The Gryffindor boy supports you, taking you by surprise, forcing you to turn your gaze at him saying is this the end of the world? He raises an eyebrow “We're not a good team”
“We're a terrible team” You support him back “And we will probably intoxicate everyone”
“We’ll kill each other and kill the elfs too” He jokes though you're not sure it is more a joke or a warning “You don't want us there, Minnie” He leans on the desk, elbows resting on the cold flat surface, he's almost pleading “Please”
But she doesn't give in.
She smirks, walks a few steps closer, places your wands on the desk “You start tomorrow”
And the next thing you know, is that she's gone.
Leaving you alone in the classroom with the knowledge you're about to spend the rest of the week with him. Great, amazing, fantastic.
Your week just turned into a nightmare.
Good luck, you'll need it.
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