darling-blurbs

[darling-blurbs]

too much (just enough)

bob reynolds x new avenger!reader | 3.4k

summary: the three (3) times bob tries to ask for some advice from his friends. and the one time he unexpectedly gets yours. your advice, he means. not that “yours” meant anything else or anything. cw/tags: fluff! underlying angst bc these are the thunderbolts*, duh. bob is shy at first but gets confident over time. everyone's supportive and trying their best. reader is gender-neutral, and closed off. bob-centric pov (no pun intended). lmk if i missed any <3 note: the prophets have spoken. a bob oneshot we shall Have. dine well, my fellow bob subjects.

If there was one thing he could be sure about, it’s that Bob knows he’s had crushes before. 

Though his memory serves him blurry, and brief glimpses of the past, Bob knows that some people have made his heart stammer at some point in his life. That a girl might have brushed hands with him in a hallway and it made him trip over air. Maybe a guy had given him the impression of looking way too illegal to just be passing by while on his way to something.

So, he’s sure that he knows what a crush feels like.

Bob just isn’t quite sure if that’s how he’s feeling whenever he looks at you. So naturally, he turns to his dearly beloved friends for some help. 

Otherwise known as the rest of the New Avengers—minus you, of course. And Bob.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

𝐈. A word of advice from Yelena Boleva and Bucky Barnes.

On an unassuming Monday morning, Bob was tagging along with whatever Yelena was up to. Nothing new, nothing out of the ordinary. At least, not yet.

Bucky was there, too. The four of you were hanging out in the old O.X.E. Laboratory, where Valentina had manipulated Bob into becoming the Sentry. He called the lab ‘old’ because that’s what Yelena called it. And what Yelena does, Bob takes after.

So the four of you were in the old lab, overseeing (but not really) whatever it was that scientists did on an unassuming Monday morning.

Oh, right. You were there, too. But Bob is trying not to think too hard about that. He’s trying very hard not to think too hard about anything.

“Bob?” The man in question hears Yelena from beside him.

He blinks out of his haze, just now realizing that he had been staring blatantly at you. Like he was some creep. Bob does not want to be a creep. But it seemed like you didn’t notice, continuing your silent exploration of the laboratory.

“You okay?” Yelena asks him when he faces her. 

Bob gulps first, throat suddenly dry. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure? Is the lab too much for you again?”

“No, no. It’s— it’s fine, really.”

Just then, in his periphery, Bob sees Bucky take a quick glance at him. Though not moving from his spot beside a flustered scientist.

“Y’know we can talk about it, right, Bob? Not right now, but—” Bucky inhales, then drops a soft sigh through his nose. “We can talk about it.”

For the second time, Bob gulps. His eyes go from Bucky, to Yelena, to you for a split second, to the floor, and to everything else all at once. Maybe he’ll think about it, just a little hard, before he decides to do something about it.

“Um…” He makes a sound, scratching the back of his neck. “Well… actually, there— there is something I wanna talk about…”

Almost instantly, Yelena and Bucky stop whatever they were doing and turn to Bob, ready to listen to him.

“Do… do you guys think…” Bob starts, fidgeting with his fingers. “That Y/N’s kind of…”

Both Yelena and Bucky wait patiently for him to continue, remaining still and looking oddly like his parents for a moment.

What could Bob even possibly say about you? You’re… everything. You’re kind of mean. You have a resting bitch face. You grunt and murmur and say so little, it makes Bob lose sleep. 

You’re also pretty. Really pretty. Well, Bob finds Yelena to be pretty, too. But in the purely admiring, in-awe kind of way. Not in the lowkey lovesick, a bit too cheesy kind of way that you have going on with him.

Not that there was anything going on with you and Bob—

“Bob?” Bucky calls out gently. “You still with us, bud?”

The man in question blinks rapidly out of his haze again. This is driving him nuts, respectfully speaking. And he’s been addicted to meth before.

“Yeah. I am,” He sighs, deflating like a sad balloon. 

Afterwards, Bob doesn’t notice Yelena and Bucky share a concerned glance with each other. And he also doesn’t notice you stealing a quick glance at the three of you—him, Bucky, and Yelena— from your corner in the lab.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

𝐈𝐈. A word of advice from the Red Guardian and the U.S. Agent

The penthouse in the Watchtower has a really nice view if you pay close enough attention. Also if you aren’t afraid of heights.

Bob likes to just… chill there, when he can. Most of the time, he’s either following Yelena around and asking about what he can do to help. Then, he sets off to do his task once the blonde woman assigns him one. They’re all minor, really. Sometimes, he vacuums the penthouse floor. Most times, he’s in his room by himself.

Today though, on just another Wednesday afternoon, Bob’s reading a book. He’s in his comfiest attire, accompanied by a milkshake, and a small bowl of chocolate bark that Ghost surprisingly made for the team one night. 

Not to mention, he’s lounging in a chair similar to a La-Z-Boy recliner that his dad once had back in the day. Not that he remembers much of that time. Weirdly enough, he feels a little alarmed by the sudden thought of a La-Z-Boy recliner.

But that all goes out of the window the moment the doors of the elevator opens. Walking out of it with instant chatter and a certain pep in their steps were you, Alexei, and John ‘the Asshole’ Walker. 

The three of you were out for a long overdue hangout session. Bob has no idea why you’d choose to hang out with two of the most egoistic men ever out of the team. But if it made you happy, or they made you happy, then who was he to complain about that?

Not like you were his… something or anything. Why can’t he remember that word?

“Ey, Bob!” Alexei’s ever-booming voice greets him, startling Bob in his seat. The Red Guardian, still in his awfully tacky costume, walks closer to the man in question with that dopey smile on his face.

“How is Bob doing today, eh?” He asks him, putting his hands on his hips. Alexei looked like he was posing for a moment. “Still no Sentry or… other side of Sentry, I hope?”

“Uh, no,” Bob shakes his head, stringy hair swinging around in his line of vision. “Not— no Sentry or the other side today.”

“Mm, shame, that is,” Alexei grumbles slightly, but he tries to keep it subtle. “You… still remember my dream of flying someday, right? Not on weak, small helicopter. But on top of Sentry—”

“Oh my god, Alexei. Didn’t we talk about that just a few weeks ago now?” John Walker’s voice interrupts, the sound of liquid pouring into a glass following after.

The Red Guardian sighs heavily, rolling his eyes as he throws John an annoyed glance. 

“Yes, yes. No more talk about Red Guardian riding on top of—”

“Just don’t listen to him, Bob,” John advises, tilting his head to send Bob a tight-lipped smile. “You’ll learn to tune him out soon enough.”

Asshole, Bob unapologetically thinks. But he chuckles slightly as Alexei continues to share with him his personal fantasy about riding off into the sunset or whatever that meant. 

In his periphery, while switching his view from Alexei to John, you’re standing by the bar just near the U.S. Agent. Bob assumes you were waiting for a drink of your own. He didn’t know you could drink.

But then again, he didn’t know a lot of things. So… here goes nothing.

“Uh… Alexei, sir?” Bob quietly interrupts.

The Red Guardian beams at him, happy to be called by his friend. “Oh, how many times I have to tell you, Bob? Just Alexei is fine!”

“Oh, okay. Uh… Alexei—?”

“Yes! Yes, what is it? Do you have idea about the sunset riding? Or how about the skydiving entrance into… what is it… Coach-Ella?”

“No, no,” Bob chuckles, slightly sheepish. He catches John raise an eyebrow from afar, grab his freshly prepared drink, and walk “subtly” closer to him and Alexei.

“I was just… I was gonna ask you something.”

“Oh? Bobby has question to ask? Then, ask away! The Red Guardian knows everything.”

“Pfft, sure he does.” John mutters from behind the Red hero himself. 

“Um… do you guys think that Y/N…”

“Y/N?” Alexei asks, slightly surprised, but delighted still. “What about Y/N?”

“Nothing! Just that… I don’t know… I feel like—”

“Oh. I get it, Bob,” John stops beside Alexei, taking a slow, loud sip out of his drink. “You’ve got a crush, don’t ya?”

“What?” Bob flubs, looking everywhere around the room but at John and Alexei. “N-No, I don’t—”

“OH!” The Red Guardian shouts, excited in the way he always was when it came to personal matters. “OH, I understand now! Bob has little crush on little Y/N!”

“That—” Bob laughs nervously, brushing his clammy palms against his sweats. “That isn’t what this is.”

“No, no. That was definitely what this is all about.”

“YES! Finally! Now, we can make Avengerz… real… legacy!”

Feeling down on his luck, Bob sighs for what might be the first time that day. Or the hundredth, he isn’t really keeping count. But what he does as Alexei and John argue in front of him of what’s real and not real about ‘Bob’s little crush’ is bury his face in his hands.

With that, though, he fails to notice you sipping your drink quietly while seated at the bar. You’d been watching him— them, the entire time. 

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

𝐈𝐈𝐈. A word of advice from Ghost— Ava 

Bob feels hungry… or so he thinks as his stomach grumbles loudly as he enters the kitchen.

The kitchen in the Watchtower isn’t a closed-off space, though. It’s sharing space with the penthouse, actually. A kitchen kept in a tight, but cozy little corner where the New Avengers (and Bob) can eat whatever they like, and make whatever they want to eat.

It’s late at night, though, and while Bob knows he isn’t supposed to be up this late… he’s hungry.

“Okay… not here… not here…” Bob mutters under his breath as he searches the cabinets and drawers for a snack. He can’t remember exactly where Yelena put the “easy access” snacks; the Pop Tarts, the Cheetos, and whatnot. But he isn’t gonna give up that easily, because his stomach will keep him up all night.

After the unfortunate search for snacks in the cabinets, Bob steps back and leans against the kitchen island in the middle of the area. Then, he sighs, cheeks puffed out and lips slightly pouted. Now, he’s really hungry.

Bob sighs, again, because he just remembered that his stomach’s empty. And now he’s imagining his stomach with a sad face—

A figure phases into reality right in front of him, out of the blue, sending Bob into a fright—

“AHH!” He yelps out loud. Maybe a little too loud. And a little unmanly.

“Calm down, Bob, it’s just me,” Her voice sounds familiar to Bob’s ears, smooth and silky. “Ava Starr? ‘Ghost?’”

He tries to slow down his breathing, eyes still wide with fright as he thinks about her name. ‘Ghost,’ she said… Yelena did tell him something about a ghost one time—

“Oh! You’re the ghost lady!”

Ghost just stares at him, deadpan, for a long almost-minute. Then turns to face the cabinets, muttering, “Unbelievable…”

“No, no, no— Yelena told me that there’d be someone with like… ghost powers in the team?”

Ghost makes an interested sound. “Did she, now?”

“Yeah! And that sometimes, she’ll appear and then disappear out of thin air.”

“Well, she’s not wrong,” The she in question replied, opening a cabinet overhead and scrutinizing its contents.

“I… I don’t think she was, either,” Bob chuckles slightly, pulling the sleeves of his sweater down to his palms. “I don’t think she ever is, actually.”

That’s when Ghost pauses, a pack of Chips Ahoy cookies in hand, and slowly turns back around to face Bob. Meanwhile, he’s looking at the pack of cookies in her hand. Bob remembers that he’s very hungry right now.

They both speak at the same time, at the same speed—

“Where’d you get that?

“D’you have a crush?”

—and both questions give them equal surprise.

“Uh… I got this from… up here,” Ghost answers him, pointing overhead at the middle cabinet. Slowly, she circles Bob and stops beside him, leaning against the kitchen island. “That’s where the snacks are…”

“Oh,” Bob chuckles, unsure-sounding with his low voice. “S-So that’s where they were…”

“Bob?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“...do you like Yelena—”

“It’s not Yelena,” He answers too quickly, wincing slightly at the high pitch of his voice. “It’s not… her… I have a crush on.”

“Huh,” Ghost rips open the Chips Ahoy pack, eyes still on Bob. “So if it’s not Yelena, who is it then?”

Well…

“It’s Y/N,” Bob answers, looking timid and tense. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

Ghost tilts her head as she looks at him and just… watches him for a moment, a small smirk on her face. “Y/N… interesting. Your secret’s safe with me, Bob.”

An imaginary wall of bricks lifts off his shoulders. “Thank you—”

“On one condition, though.”

“A condition? What—”

“My name isn’t the ‘ghost lady.’ Though technically I am the Ghost,” She starts, pulling a cookie out of the pack in her hand. ���But I do have a name, and I’d like it if you called me by it.”

Bob straightens his posture, taking her condition seriously as he nods. “Yeah, of course. What’s your name?”

“Ava,” Ghost— Ava, introduces herself. “Ava Starr.”

“Okay. Miss… Ava—”

“No. It’s just Ava, Bob. Just Ava.”

“O-Okay,” He nods, smiling slightly. “Just Ava.”

“Good. Now I can keep your secret,” Ava smiles, then places the Chips Ahoy pack between them on the kitchen island. 

“Now eat,” She tells him. “I couldn’t hear you from how loud your stomach was grumbling.”

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

𝐈𝐕. Your word of advice to Bob

There’s a secret sort of room in the Watchtower that only the New Avengers get exclusive access to. It isn’t the penthouse, or the hangar all the way up in the building.

But it’s a simulation room, kind of. Presumably one of Stark’s old tech facilities, but everyone calls it the Simulation Room. 

Why? Because that’s exactly what it does—simulates the user’s active thoughts of a certain place, or moment. Then it’s projected out into an actual, physical reenactment. It’s… a trippy place, for sure. But if used correctly and responsibly, it could make for a place of relaxation.

There’s this one moment that Bob likes to picture whenever he wants to head to the Simulation Room. A time where he could remember being so at peace and happy. At… home.

It was a game night in the penthouse, and everyone was miraculously there. And Bob. And so were you. Alexei was trying to comfort Yelena after she lost in the game. Bucky was snickering while watching everyone have fun. John and Ava were bickering as usual, and Bob… he was sitting next to you.

You were quiet, back then. Still a little new to the team but… just starting to warm up to the dynamics and whatnot. Bob had offered you some popcorn from his bucket, and you thanked him with a quiet murmur.

Maybe that’s how it all started for Bob, with you and your… quietness. He just wishes he wasn’t so awkward.

He’d been so lost in thought, letting his feet take him to the Simulation Room, that he didn’t realize somebody else was already in there until—

“Uh… occupied?” You speak, seated on a bed.

The room that Bob accidentally entered was… warm. There were fairy lights strung in a zig-zag pattern across the low ceiling of what seemed like a wooden cabin. There’s pictures plastered on the wall, a bookshelf filled with worn-out books, and memorabilia that Bob didn’t know the significance of. There was also this corner-bed situation where you sat with a gloomy window behind you. But the bed makes up for the gloomy mood. 

It all made Bob feel… very at home, all at once.

“S-Sorry, I didn’t know where I was going,” He apologizes to you.

You push yourself up by your hands, shifting to sit on the edge of the bed instead of just on it.

“S’okay. It’s just me,” You shrug, sending him an unsure smile before looking away from him. Bob’s heartbeat falters a little from your brief eye contact.

He murmurs a weak okay, shifting his weight in his spot by the door, not sure what to do. Bob can’t think of a quick dad joke like John, and he can’t make quick decisions like Bucky. He’s kind of hopeless on this one.

But then, you speak up again, “D’you wanna come in?”

Bob looks up at you, eyes wide with surprise. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” A breathy chuckle leaves your lips. “You can sit here.”

You pat the spot beside you on the bed, scooting aside to make some space for him there. Bob feels lightheaded and light-footed all at once because of it.

But he can’t find it in himself to say no, no matter how selfish this all seemed to him. So, he takes small steps forward, bringing him closer to you, and says, “Thanks.”

“No problem,” You smile at him, albeit a little awkwardly. Bob steals a glance at you from sideways and catches you doing the same. You both look away from each other at the same time.

This time, it’s Bob who breaks the silence, clearing his throat. 

“So, what is this place anyways?”

“Oh… it’s my uh…” You trail off, looking around the room with nostalgia in your eyes. “My dad’s old cabin. He used to take me here before I—”

You stop yourself, catching Bob’s attention. Not that he wasn’t already paying attention to you. He kind of has a sixth sense for just about anything that concerns you.

“Eh, not important,” You brush the detail off, crossing your arms. “It’s just a room I like to be in when I wanna be alone.”

“Oh,” Bob nods, smiling slightly at you, then he realizes what you just said. “Wait… oh. Wait—”

“Bob?” You ask him, looking worried as he stands up abruptly from the bed. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you wanted to be alone. I–I can go, it’s really fine—”

“No, please. Stay,” Quick words fall out of your mouth, and you’re nearly standing up from the bed, too. Bob wonders why that is.

But he says okay, anyway, then sits right back down beside you on the bed.

“Sorry for scaring you off.”

“Sorry for misunderstanding.”

The both of you almost speak at the same time. Almost. But you both mirror the slight surprise on your faces.  

And then you both laugh, the tense air dispersing into lighthearted feelings.

“I’m…” You start, still chuckling slightly as you glance at him. “I’m not very good at this… talking thing. Like, at all.”

“Oh, no worries. So am I,” Bob replies, smiling.

You let out a soft snort from your nose at that, still donning that awkward little smile. It renders Bob oh-so-hopeless. 

You clear your throat, shoulders relaxed. “Well… a word of advice, then?”

“Sure,” Bob answers. “I’m all ears.”

“Don’t, uh… hesitate to talk to me next time. From one socially awkward person to another.”

A genuine laugh comes out of Bob’s mouth, and he doesn’t realize he’s grinning so wide. 

“Deal.”

if you'd like a part 2 (because bob and r's convo doesn't just end there...), please leave a reblog, comment, or an ask in my inbox! they're always open <3

[darling-blurbs]

Are you an ass man or a tits man? ... If you don't know, you're probably an ass man.

[darling-blurbs]

ROBERT 'BOB' REYNOLDS THUNDERBOLTS (2025)

[darling-blurbs]

Lewis Pullman as Bob in Thunderbolts (2025)

[darling-blurbs]

LEWIS PULLMAN as Rhett Abbott OUTER RANGE 1.01 — The Void

[darling-blurbs]

LEWIS PULLMAN AS ↴ ROCCO — RIFF RAFF (2024)

[darling-blurbs]

> ENTRY: ITS_ALWAYS_THE_QUIET_ONES

RATING: explicit

CATEGORY: top gun: maverick (2022)

PAIRING: bob floyd x afab!reader (mc's call sign is 'pez'.)

EST. READING TIME: 37m 0s

INDEX TAGS: (not actually) unrequited love, cock-warming, friends to lovers, love confessions, masturbation, not beta read, oral sex, pov second person, size difference, size kink, vaginal sex

ACCESS MATERIAL ON AO3 OR BELOW

The Hard Deck is louder than it's been in weeks. Rooster and Hangman are fighting over the jukebox. Payback's halfway into a dramatic retelling of the mission to a captivated circle of admirers, punctuated with exaggerated hand gestures and Maverick's quiet chuckling. Fanboy's mixing questionable liquors together like he's auditioning for a bartending job no one asked for. It's celebration in full swing. The mission's done. Everyone's alive. Everyone made it home.

And Bob — quiet, dependable, sweet, baby-faced Bob Floyd — is drunk.

He doesn't look it at first. But you can see it in the tilt of his shoulders, the soft pink in his cheeks, the vague squint he gives the bottles behind the counter like he's trying to read through a fog.

You spot it from across the room. You've been watching him on and off all night. Not in a creepy way— At least, you hope not. Just in a way that's...careful. Curious. Quiet. Like you always are with Bob. Because if you let yourself feel it too hard — the pull, the fondness, the way he talks with his hands when he's excited — you might never stop.

You've had a drink; just the one. You're a designated driver tonight. That and watching Bob lose his balance trying to sit on a barstool has very effectively sobered you up. You finish your water, nod to Phoenix and move across the bar like the world isn't tilting just a little because he's looking at you now.

Why?

Because you've had a thing for Bob Floyd since the first day you saw him fiddling with the collar of his flight suit, too quiet for the room but, damn, if he didn't hold his own in the air. Because he always remembers how you like your coffee. Because he asked how your dog was doing after his surgery, even two weeks later. Because he makes you feel seen.

"Hey." You say gently, sliding into the space next to him. "You good?" He blinks at you. Then his face lights up; not like a flash but a slow dawn that warms everything it touches.

"Pez." He says, soft and too fond for how casual he tries to sound. "You're here." You smile.

"Been here the whole time, Bob." He looks at his drink like it's betrayed him.

"Oh. Yeah. Right."

You glance him over. His collar is a little crooked and his glasses are ever-so-slightly askew. His usually neat hair is slightly mussed and there's a half-moon mark on his palm where he's been gripping his glass too hard. He's not swaying. But he's definitely drifting. You rest a hand lightly on the edge of the bar.

"How many have you had?" He frowns.

"Three. No— Wait. Hangman said the one he gave me didn't count 'cause it was pink."

"That doesn't sound right." Bob leans closer and squints at you.

"You smell like mint."

"That'd be the gum I've been chewing instead of drinking." You reply, amused. "Come on. Let's get you out of here." He straightens. Sort of.

"I'm fine."

"You're adorable." You correct. "But also definitely tipsy and I'd rather you didn't fall asleep like last time."

"I didn't fall asleep, I—"

"You nodded off against the jukebox for twenty-three minutes." He considers this.

"It was playing Fleetwood Mac." You arch a brow.

"That's your excuse?" He almost looks offended.

"I like Fleetwood Mac." He mumbles. You can't help it; you laugh. And, across the bar, the other Dagger Squad pilots exhale in collective relief like finally. It goes unnoticed by you.

You help Bob off his stool, a drink forgotten in his hand, and he goes to steady himself on the edge of the bar but misjudges the distance. In trying to recover, the remnants of his last beer spill all over his uniform shirt, making it cling to him like a second skin.

"Woah!" You grab onto his shoulders. "You okay?" He stumbles slightly as he tries to catch himself, hands reflexively reaching out to hold onto your arms for support. His cheeks turn a bright shade of pink as he feels the cold beer seeping into his shirt, looking down at the mess with embarrassment.

"Sorry..." He murmurs and you haul him upright.

"Don't apologise." You glance across to see Phoenix chuckling and shaking her head. "I think I need to take you home though." He laughs nervously, pushes his hair out of his eyes and tries to straighten his glasses.

"Yeah... Yeah, that might be a good idea." He leans against you for support as you start helping him to the door. You yell over your shoulder that you're taking him home, wishing the rest of them a good night. Some of the Dagger Squad murmur something you don't quite hear as you reach the door, pushing it open and stepping out into the cool sea breeze.

He takes a deep breath, trying to clear his head, as you help him out to the parking lot. You open the passenger-side door for him and he near-collapses onto the car seat. "Thanks for doing this." He says softly, looking up at you with those sweet, grateful eyes. You watch him fumble with his hands as he tries to buckle himself in.

"Stop being so damn polite." You smile, shutting the door and rounding the hood to get in the driver's seat.

The drive to his is short but pleasant. Well, if it wasn't for the scent of beer slowly sinking into his shirt and your car seat. The windows are rolled down and you can feel the wind on your face. Neither of you talk but it's a nice silence, like the two of you are just content in each other's company. You like it that way. Like you don't have to fill the silence to be comfortable; you can just co-exist.

You like the relationship you have with Bob; it's easy and natural. You just feel...at home with him, like you don't have to pretend to be social or talkative. But there's always that warmth that buzzes just below the surface when he catches your eye or when he smiles. Or when he laughs. Or when he fiddles with his glasses. Or when he does literally anything.

Safe to say, you like him a whole lot; pretty much since you were brought on board for the Dagger Squad.

But you don't want to say anything because what if it makes things weird between you? What if he's not into it and everything just gets awkward? What if you accidentally gush about how gorgeous he looks in his uniform and he thinks you're an absolute creep for admiring the way his shirt stretches across his broad shoulders and the way his pants hug his ass perfectly? He probably already knows and just pretends not to for exactly the same reasons. He probably knows and has also made up his mind that you're not really the one for him. He would've said something by now if he was into you but he hasn't so he probably isn't. It's not something you like thinking about.

Finally, you pull up to his house and park outside. You get out, open his door and stand there, just in case he needs the support again.

"I'm fine. I'm good." He starts to protest before immediately losing his balance and grabbing onto your arm. "Actually..." Rolling your eyes, you hang onto him and close the door.

"C'mon, let's get you inside, mister." He leans against you as you walk up to his house. He's so warm and he smells good, despite the spilt beer. He's wearing that aftershave his mom got him for Christmas again. It's citrusy and sweet but still masculine and fresh. He smells amazing.

When you haul him up the short flight of stairs and reach the front door, he digs his hand into his pocket and struggles to get his keys out for a moment. He must try to insert the key into the lock a good three times, each time stabbing the door just shy of the lock.

"Can't seem to..." He mumbles and you gently place your hand over his, guiding the key into the lock with a satisfying click, turning it and opening the door.

"There we go." You smile warmly and he stares at you for a moment, swallowing hard, before grabbing onto the door frame and stepping inside.

Once inside, you turn the light on and close the door behind you. He kicks off his shoes and pats down his chest. His uniform shirt is still clinging to him, now sticky from the spilt beer. His nose crinkles as you unlace your shoes and place them on the rack.

"Gotta shower..." He slurs softly. By the time you stand up to look at him, he's already halfway done unbuttoning his shirt. Your eyes flick down over the angles of his collarbone and, before you can look further, you avert your eyes.

"Okay, which way's the bathroom?" You ask a little too quickly.

"Upstairs, first door on the left." He points vaguely towards the stairs before continuing to unbutton his shirt, shrugging it off and pulling off his undershirt. He's always so conservative with his clothes; never wearing anything too revealing. Hell, even at the beach, he wears a shirt when the rest of the squad is more than happy to run around half-naked. You look back from the stairs to find him shirtless and it's almost impossible to look away.

God, he's gorgeous, almost to the point where it's at odds with his sweet, boyish smile. Strong shoulders, perfect biceps, broad chest, narrow hips; he could be carved out of granite and you wouldn't even be able to tell the difference— You shake the thought from your head before it can take root.

He tosses his shirt on the floor and yawns. "You don't have to wait for me or anything." He says and you bring yourself back to the present, your eyes flicking back up to his face. You just pray, in his inebriated state, that he didn't just catch you eyeballing his bare chest.

"No, I don't need to go to the bathroom, Bob. I'm taking you up because I don't trust you on the stairs." You tell him and he protests weakly but you help him up anyway.

When you reach the bathroom, he leans against the sink for support and you have to look away as you notice the veins in his arms and hands become more pronounced from the pressure. Maybe that one drink you had was a little stronger than you thought. God, what would those fingers feel like in your mouth? Or in your— "You gonna be okay in the shower?" You ask him and he runs a hand through his hair.

"Mhm. I'm not that drunk." He assures you. "You can go watch TV or something." He reaches down to unbuckle his belt and you pin your gaze to the floor.

"I-I'll stand outside the door just in case, alright?" You manage and he gives you that wonderful, lopsided smile that makes the tips of your fingers tingle.

"Alright." He reaches down for his belt and you almost slam the door shut, stepping back to lean against the opposite wall. You let out a slow exhale. You're heart's going a mile a minute.

Distraction. You need a distraction; something — anything — to get your mind off what it would feel like to have your lips on his or your tongue on his neck or your hands on his chest... Heat pools in the pit of your stomach; a desperate, deep-seated ache. You pull out your phone and start flicking through your socials, trying to find something else to focus on but it's no use.

You hear the shower hiss to life and you can't help but think about what he'd look like if you poked your head in for just a moment; shiny from the water, dripping with soap suds and wreathed in steam. Goddamn... But you couldn't breach his privacy, betray his trust, like that, especially while he's drunk and vulnerable. Even thinking about it feels like a betrayal but you can't get the thought out of your head and the aching between your legs only grows stronger.

Maybe you should've let someone else bring him home.

Eventually, the shower turns off and the bathroom door opens, letting out a cloud of steam as Bob steps out, a towel wrapped around his waist as he uses another to dry his hair. His skin gleams in the low light of the hallway, flushed pink from the hot water, damp hair falling in front of his face. He's being unknowingly, impossibly cruel.

"Better?" You manage, somewhat breathless.

"Yeah. So much better." Thankfully, he doesn't seem capable of noticing your — very obvious — attraction to him right now. He positions his glasses back on the bridge of his nose as you push off the wall and onto your feet, your own knees slightly weak.

"C'mon, let's get you to bed, yeah?"

"You don't have to baby me, Pez. I'm sobering up now." He responds softly but lets you guide him anyway, his hand dwarfing your own. He's still a little unsteady on his feet as you reach his bedroom.

You stand by the door, leaning against the doorframe, looking over his bedroom. There are certificates lining the walls and pictures of him and his parents at birthdays and holidays. It makes your chest feel tight. He walks over to the dresser and pulls open a drawer, rifling through to pick out a pair of loose sweatpants. As he pulls out a pair, the towel comes undone from around his waist and pools on the floor. Your eyes go wide and you jerk your head away but not before getting a perfect view of his round, peachy ass. This is cruel and unusual punishment but you're too weak to complain.

Once he's pulled on the sweatpants and slid into bed, his hair still damp against the pillow, he takes off his glasses, folds them up and places them on the nightstand before looking at you as you linger in the doorway, looking awkward and out-of-place. "C'mon." He mumbles sleepily. "It's late and you're tired too." He weakly pulls back the covers on the other side of the bed; a silent invitation. One you want to jump at. But you can't.

He's drunk and not thinking straight and you don't trust yourself. Not that you'd touch him; never that. But you're devastatingly wet and you already know you need to take care of that and you can't do it next to him. To take your mind off that thought, you grab a glass and fill it with water from the bathroom sink before placing it on the nightstand.

"I'll sleep downstairs. Just yell if you need anything, okay?" You tell him and he nods, a flicker of disappointment flashing across his face.

"Okay... Thanks for taking care of me." A smile curves at your lips as you brush a couple of damp locks out of his face. It brings you some modicum of relief, just that little bit of tender skin-to-skin contact.

"No problem." You sigh longingly, almost ruefully. "Night, Bob." You turn on your heel to leave the room and he catches your wrist with a hand, making you stop in your tracks.

"Hey, could you stay?" He asks, voice small. You turn back to look at him over your shoulder. "Just until I fall asleep?" Your heart melts in your chest as you turn back toward him.

"Sure." You sit on the edge of the bed, holding his hand and brushing your thumb over his knuckles. He looks up at you, eyes lidded with exhaustion. His fingers tighten around yours slightly and you feel your pulse racing.

Finally, his fingers loosen on yours as his eyes drop shut. You let out a soft sigh, releasing his hand and rising from the bed. You watch him for a moment, considering, before leaning down to brush a kiss to his forehead. "Sleep tight, Bobby."

You turn off all the lights and head back downstairs. You set up a little bed for yourself on the couch and slip out of your uniform, laying back against the couch cushions in your t-shirt and underwear.

After a moment, you find your hand drifting down between your thighs, pressing your fingertips against the gusset of your panties. It's absolutely sodden. You sigh in defeat, sling one leg over the back of the sofa and push the gusset of your panties to one side, sliding your fingers inside yourself with a sigh, pressing your thumb to the hood of your clit and working in slow circles. With your free hand, you grab a pillow and press it over your mouth to muffle the soft moans that fall from your lips despite knowing that Bob is probably dead to the world right now.

You finish yourself off quickly; imagining it's his fingers buried inside you, his tongue drawing slow, languid circles around your clit. The only sound is the buzzing of the fridge in the kitchen and the soft whines you try to drown out behind the pillow pressed against your face.

As soon as you're done, you pull your underwear back on properly and collapse onto your side, huddling into the blankets, cheeks flaming with heat. You're a mess for him but he can't know that, even if the rest of the Dagger Squad does.

Finally, the sun rises and you pack up the blankets and pillows you'd used before pulling on your pants from the day before. You yawn and stretch before heading into the kitchen to turn on the coffee pot. Your stomach rumbles. After all, you haven't eaten since before the party last night.

Looking up, you check the clock above the fridge. About 10 am. Not too bad.

While rummaging around for the creamer, you stumble across a carton of eggs and a packet of bacon about to go out of date. Pulling them out, you grab a skillet from a nearby rack and set out to make some breakfast.

Upstairs, Bob rubs the sleep from his eyes and replaces his glasses, the glass of water from the night before thoroughly drained throughout the night. He pulls back the covers, swings his legs over the side and pulls on a t-shirt before heading to the bathroom. When he comes back out, he pads down the stairs, drawn toward the scent of bacon and eggs wafting from the kitchen.

You hum to yourself as you flip the bacon over, the eggs growing crispy around the edges but the centre staying soft and jammy. You notice Bob leaning against the doorframe out of the corner of your eye, staying quiet as he watches you work. It's domestic, comforting and you find yourself wishing you could do this for him every morning. Finally, you turn to face him and he smiles warmly. Thankfully, he doesn't seem hungover.

"Morning." He says softly, voice a little lower and scratchier from sleep.

"Morning. How'd you sleep?"

"Like a brick." He responds with a small smile, pushing away from the doorframe and walking further into the small kitchen. His voice drops to a more serious tone "Thanks for taking care of me last night. And for making breakfast." He pauses by the counter, looking at you appreciatively. "You didn't have to do all this."

"I know." You reply simply. He pauses before he quickly looks away, grabbing some plates and cutlery from the cupboards and drawers.

"Need any help?" He asks gruffly, setting the plates next to the stove.

"No, I'm nearly finished here." You turn off the heat and plate up the bacon and eggs before setting the empty skillet on the cool side of the stove. "Order up."

You carry the plates over to the small table in the corner of the kitchen. Bob digs in eagerly, making appreciative noises between bites. The food is simple but perfect; exactly what he needs after shifting a good amount of alcohol the night prior. You set a couple of mugs down on the table and pour the coffee before sitting down to tuck into your own breakfast, humming in satisfaction.

You eat in relative silence, stealing glances at each other over the rims of your coffee cups and between forkfuls of bacon and eggs. The morning light filtering through the window casts a warm glow over his features. He looks peaceful — content, even — sitting across from you, like this is something you do on the regular. You wish it was regular. You want these quiet mornings with him; sharing coffee in comforting silence, surrounded by the scent of fried eggs, the silence only broken by the soft chirping of birds outside.

"Thanks." He says again. "For everything."

"Really, it's fine." You laugh softly, clearing your plate and setting it to one side with your cutlery. He does the same, leaning back in his chair and taking a long sip of coffee.

"Y'know, you're really good at this." He murmurs, the words half-muffled by his coffee cup. "Taking care of people, I mean."

"I try my best. Especially when I know it's someone who deserves it." You reply easily as if it's just common knowledge. Perhaps you said too much but it's early and the atmosphere is cloying; peaceful and almost romantic as it is. He stares at you for a moment before taking another sip of his coffee and sliding his plate under yours, putting his cutlery on top. "Bobby, you're a really good guy." You say, staring down into your coffee.

"You think so?" He asks and you nod. There's a pause before he clears his throat. "Would you— Can I— Can I tell you something?" You nod again, lifting your gaze to meet his as he mutters something under his breath. "Okay..." He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. "I think you're amazing. And not just because of how you were on the mission or taking care of me last night or making breakfast..." He sets his coffee cup down, hands tapping restlessly on the side of the table. "I just think you're amazing. Just...as a person." You just stare at him for a moment before heat creeps along your cheeks and you smile widely.

"I think you're amazing too." He relaxes slightly, scrubbing a hand along his face, as you get up to take the dishes to the sink. When you cross the kitchen again, he's worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

"So... Hypothetically..." He starts, not daring to look up at you as he picks at a loose thread on his t-shirt. "If a guy hypothetically really liked you — like really, really liked you — what would he need to do?" You turn around to lean against the table, looking pensive.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "If he wanted to be with you, like, properly. Not just friends or whatever... What would he need to do to make you notice him? To make you...want him?" He asks, voice wavering slightly. There's a flutter in your chest as you stiffen slightly. Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Don't fumble this—

"Well, he'd have to be smart and kind and compassionate and have a good sense of humour." You press your lips into a thin line as you think. "He'd have to be...a little awkward and be kind of bad at dancing but great at literally everything else." You pause and he moves forward slightly.

"And...what else?" He asks and you turn your head to look at him. He looks so open and vulnerable but not in the way he was last night. This is open and honest and completely aware. Suddenly, it dawns on you; he wants this just as much as you do.

"He'd have to be a WSO, he'd have to wear the dorkiest glasses I've ever seen in my life and...he'd have to be called Bob Floyd." His breath catches. "And if he wanted me to notice him, to want him, he'd just have to be himself and I'd be all his." He just stares at you owlishly as if he's finally come to the same realisation that you did just a few seconds before. You reach out to brush a couple of stray hairs out of his face. When he doesn't pull away you turn to face him fully before leaning down to press your lips to his in a gentle kiss.

The second you kiss him, he's done. Finished. Over. His heart is completely yours and he never wants it back. Your lips are soft and warm, just like your smile, and he parts his lips slightly, inviting you to deepen the kiss. You take it; slowly inching your tongue into his mouth and tasting the bitterness of the coffee, moaning softly. God. You can't make that sound. His brain short-circuits. That one small, needy sound from you against his mouth has blood rushing south and he stands up, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you closer.

He lifts you onto the dining table and you loop your arms around his neck, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "Bobby..."

"Shh..." He whispers against your mouth, warm hands roaming your body, touching you like he's dreamed of doing a million times. He pulls back just long enough to take off his glasses and set them aside. Then he's kissing you again, deeper this time. It takes you by surprise. You never thought he could be this...passionate. You always figured, if you ever got this far, you'd be coaxing it out of him, bit by bit, encouraging him with little kisses and your fingers in his hair.

Instead, his hands are firm on your waist, tugging up your shirt just a little to feel the warmth and softness of your skin, as he kisses you like it's all he's ever wanted to do. It steals the breath from your lungs and it has confessions falling from your lips between deep, hungry kisses.

"You don't know...what last night...did to me..." You murmur breathlessly against his mouth and he groans, hands sliding under your shirt.

"Tell me." He's pushing your shirt up further and further, exposing more and more of your body to the golden sunlight gliding in through the open blinds.

"When you took off your shirt and...when you cam out of the shower and... And I saw so much of you... And I wanted all of it..." You manage. He's panting hard and you swear you can hear his heart hammering against his ribs.

"You wanted me?" He asks and you nod, running your hand down the centre of his chest, feeling the quick rise and fall of his breath.

"Mhmm... Once you fell asleep I had to... Had to come downstairs and...take care of myself..." You admit, heat rushing up your neck to spread across your cheeks. He stops for a moment before tugging your shirt off completely and sliding a hand into your hair, kissing you fiercely. You mirror the movement, clinging to him, as you kiss him back with a familiar hunger that roots itself between your legs.

He's losing his mind, control slipping. He steps between your legs, pressing closer, and you can feel him through his sweatpants. He feels perfect; pressing against your thigh desperately. "Bobby..." You move to whisper in his ear. "I need my mouth on you."

"Jesus." It comes out as a soft hiss. "You want to..."

"Please."

You— You don't have to..." He breathes but he's already reaching for the tie of his sweatpants. He wants you to. He wants you to want to.

You push him back gently so you can push off the table, guiding him back into his chair.

"I know I don't have to." You kneel on the worn linoleum between his feet, rubbing your hands along his thighs. He's straining desperately against the front of his sweatpants. "I want to." You tug at the tie of his sweatpants before curling your fingers into the waistband and tugging them down. He lifts his hips and you pull them down and off but, when you sit back to look at him—

Holy Mother of God.

"Wh-What...?" You just stare at him owlishly because, God, if that isn't the biggest cock you've ever seen in your life. Thick, throbbing, leaking... And you thought his body was slightly at odds with the personality of sweet, shy, wallflower Bob Floyd but this? This takes the cake.

"You never told me you had a..." You trail off, reaching up, struggling to wrap your fingers around the girth of the thing. It twitches, precum beading at the slit at even the slightest touch and rolling down the shaft.

"A what?" He asks hoarsely. He looks self-conscious but he has no reason to be. Your mouth waters as you feel him pulsing against your palm.

"Just...big..." Words fail you. His cheeks heat up and he swallows hard.

"You like it?" He asks tentatively and you nod slowly before rising higher on your knees.

"God, yes." No more words. You need to taste him.

You run the flat of your tongue from root to tip and a sharp intake of breath stutters in his throat.

"Ohh, my God..." His hands instinctively grab onto your hair but he doesn't pull, just resting there, as you lick along the underside of his shaft. When you reach the top, you swirl your tongue languidly around the head before taking it into your mouth. "Sh-Shit..." His head falls back against the chair with a soft thud.

He can't believe this is happening. He's jerked off a hundred times to the thought of you doing this but the reality is so much better; you, knelt between his legs, in his kitchen, sucking him off like you were born to do it.

You take more of him into your mouth, tentatively testing how much you can take. He groans lowly at the sensation of your tongue sliding along the underside, watching you with lidded eyes as his thick cock disappears between your lips. You press your head down until you feel the tip touch the back of your throat and you gag slightly before pulling away. You're panting, lips wet with saliva, and just watching you sends a shiver down his spine, toes curling against the lino. "Do that again... Please..." It's almost a beg and you can't deny him or yourself.

You lean back in, sliding down until it hits the back of your throat. Now you know how far you can take him, you cover the rest of his shaft with your hand, easing the slide with more spit as you work him over. His fingers tighten slightly in your hair, only to keep him tethered to the moment. He can feel every inch being worshipped by your greedy mouth and talented hands and his hips start to thrust upward involuntarily. "God, just like that..."

You fall into a steady rhythm, peering up at him through your lashes, and you feel another spurt of pre hit your tongue as he meets your gaze, completely mesmerised. It's almost embarrassingly clear how much you love having him in your mouth; his cock hot and thick and pulsing on your tongue. The wet sounds of your mouth and the sight of his cock sliding between your lips are driving him wild and he can feel that familiar feeling deep in his core. He gives your hair a gentle tug. "Hey..." You pull away, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

"Mhm?"

"I'm...getting real close." He warns you, his voice strained with effort. "If you don't want me to...finish in your mouth, you should probably stop now." Still, his hips are flexing, desperately trying to fuck your hand. You take a moment to decide before flicking your tongue over the head and his hands fly to curl around the seat of his chair, nails digging into the wood. "God...! I mean it... I'm...really close..." He gives you one last warning.

"Do it." You tell him, dragging your tongue along the cleft at the underside of the head, still stroking along his shaft, your fingers slick and shining with a mix of precum and saliva.

That's all it takes.

With a deep groan that rumbles from deep in his diaphragm, he cums hard, his hips jerking uncontrollably as his eyes roll. You lean back to watch with satisfaction as thick shots of white spurt from his cock, making your hand slicker as you stroke him through his climax. "That's it, Bobby." You encourage him softly as he unloads onto your hands and his stomach. He's panting heavily, his body shaking, as the last few shots of cum ooze down his shaft. Your gentle praise and the feeling of your spit-slick hand only intensify the pleasure.

When he opens his eyes, he sees your face pressed against his inner thigh as you gently squeeze the base of his cock, gazing up at him adoringly. He runs a shaky hand through your hair, still trying to blink away the white spots dancing in front of his eyes. "That was... Holy shit... I..." You smile and press a kiss to his hipbone, nuzzling his thigh, as he tries to find words in the jumbled mess of his orgasm-addled brain. "You... Bedroom... Yes, bedroom." He manages breathily and you nod, getting up from the floor and letting him tug on his sweatpants again before you eagerly pull him upstairs.

On the way up to his bedroom, you pull off your jeans and underwear before collapsing onto his bed with an excited giggle. Bob quickly joins you; pulling off his shirt and stained sweatpants, his body hovering over yours. You bite your lip, running your hands appreciatively over his body as you sit up slightly to kiss him, finding warm, firm muscle under your palms. He deepens the kiss, parting your lips with his tongue and exploring your mouth hungrily. But, before he can get too lost in the moment, he pulls back, heavy breaths making his chest heave.

"Wait—"

"Mhm...?" He looks sheepish.

"I don't do this often so I— I-I don't really have condoms?" Your heart melts. "Do you still want me to..."

"I still want you to." You glance down to find him already hard again, running a fingertip down his abdomen and watching his cock throb eagerly. "I trust you to pull out." You tell him and he nods quickly.

"I'll pull out." He tells you, kissing you again before leaning back on his toes. "I promise, I'll pull out."

Large hands find your thighs, lifting them until your toes touch the headboard, essentially folding you in half and leaving you completely exposed to him. "God, you're so perfect..." He whispers under his breath, holding you in place as he lines himself up, his cock sliding deliciously against your aching, swollen pussy. "Look at me. Look at me." He urges and you lay your head back against the pillows as he slowly pushes in. He feels absolutely massive but it's not painful; just this pleasant, warm ache that seeps through your body as you stretch around him. You grab onto his biceps for support as his fingers wrap around your ankles, holding your legs up. You're so tight around him, it's almost unbearable. He can feel every swell and curve of your inner walls squeezing around him. Your brows knit as he sinks in deeper, your fingers squeezing his arms.

"B-Bobby!"

"God, it's so good..." His eyes drift shut as he tosses his head back, starting to move slowly, deliberately rocking his hips against yours. The position is just perfect; hitting all the right spots all at once with every deep, purposeful stroke.

Strong fingers dig into your ankles as he slowly starts to pick up the pace. "You like this?" He asks, sweat beading on his brow as he looks down at you. You open your mouth to speak but all that comes out is a breathless whine. "Fuck, you're so tight..." He huffs through his nose as he targets that sweet spot inside you over and over, drawing these adorable, breathy whimpers from you. Your back arches, hands moving to claw at his broad shoulders.

"Please... Feel good... Feels so fucking good..." You pant out and he nods, his hips snapping forward. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room as he pounds into you, rutting against you desperately.

"I... I didn't know you'd be into..." He murmurs.

"Wh-What...?" "I didn't know you'd...like my... My dick so much..." He leans down, spreading your legs a little wider, as he kisses along your neck. His skin is warm and damp with sweat as he presses against you., his breath hot on your skin. You grin lopsidedly as tears of pleasure prick the corners of your eyes.

"I-I like them big..." You manage and that draws a low, near-animalistic sound from him as he drives into you with renewed vigour. The headboard bangs against the wall with each thrust.

"You like them big..." He repeats and you nod, whining as he hammers your sweet spot with pinpoint accuracy.

"Mmhmmm... I didn't...think you'd be so...big... O-Ohhh... It's so fucking good, Bobby..." You manage and he wraps your legs around his waist, coiling his arms under the small of your back, hugging you against him. His thrusts turn shallow but stay deep, your bodies pushed together from shoulder to hip. You hook your arms over his shoulders, nails raking red lines up his back.

Who would've thought that Bob Floyd — sweet, kind, nerdy, adorable Bobby Floyd — would fuck like an animal? You never expected it but, Christ, does it feel right.

You nuzzle his hair, breathing in the scent of him; yesterday's aftershave lingering on his skin, sweat breaking out all across his body. "Love having you like this..." You murmur in his ear and he nods.

"Mhmm... I love it too..." His thrusts grow slower but no less deep; each movement designed to draw out the pleasure, make it last. He stretches you out and fills you up perfectly, holding you through all of it, eagerly soaking up every moan, plea and whimper you give him. He's rubbing up against the deepest part of you now, the crown of his cock sliding perfectly against the swell of your cervix.

"B-Bobby... You can't...cum inside... You'll...knock me up..." You remind him and his arms tighten around you but he doesn't stop.

"I know... I'll pull out, promise..." But, even as he says it, he feels the heat mounting and he desperately wants to finish inside you. His hips keep rolling against yours in a deep, steady rhythm. You drag your nails across his shoulder blades, your body clenching down around him, throbbing around him rhythmically because, deep down, you'd love if he could cum inside you, leave his mark. But you can't take that risk.

He gives you a few more slow deep thrusts before pulling back to look at you. His hair is plastered to his forehead, face flushed. "Gonna pull out now, okay?" He pants out and you nod as he pulls out just in time, sandwiching his cock into the crook of your thigh and grinding against it until he cums, decorating your body with slick, white ribbons that ooze across your skin. You run your fingers through his hair as his orgasm hits, his arms clenching around you, hanging onto you for dear life.

Finally, his body goes slack. He's panting heavily, tilting his head up to claim your lips again in a soft, slow, lazy kiss. He rolls over onto his back, pulling you with him so you're lying on top of him. He's still semi-hard against your thigh but he's given you all he can for now so you sit up and sink back down onto him before curling up on top of him, enjoying the feeling of having his huge, softening cock nestled inside you. He lets out a low groan, gathering you up in his arms, fingers drawing idle patterns along the small of your back. "Gonna keep it in?" He asks softly and you look up at him.

"Is that okay?"

"More than okay." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "Makes me feel close to you... Comfortable?" You nod and rub your nose against his.

"Mhm. You?"

"Perfect."

A soft silence settles over the room, almost jarring after the slamming and slapping and moaning from just a few moments ago. But you aren't complaining.

You card your fingers through his sweat-damp hair, pushing it away from his face.

"You wanna talk about what just happened?" You laugh softly before sobering. "And where we go from here?"

"Mhm." He hums thoughtfully. "You mean like the 'was this a one-time thing' talk? Or the 'do you regret it' talk?" His thumbs rub the small of your back soothingly.

"Both." He takes a breath and you feel his chest rise beneath you.

"It wasn't just a one-time thing for me." He says softly, his eyes searching yours. "I don't do this kind of thing lightly, y'know? I wanted you and I still want you. But, if you're not on the same page, that okay too. We can still just be...friends, if you want." God, he's too sweet for his own good sometimes.

"And you don't regret it?"

"God, no." He answers, arms tightening around you possessively. "Best sex of my life. No regrets here." He lifts a hand to play with your hair nervously. "Can I be honest?" You nod and he sighs heavily. "I think about you a lot. More than I should. Like you're in my head, under my skin. And I... I want to do this again. With you. Only you." He swallows hard, finally meeting your eyes again. "So where does that leave us?"

"Like friends with benefits or...?" You trail off and he makes a noncommittal sound.

"I mean, we could do that." He says slowly. "But, if I'm being completely honest, I don't want it to be just that? Friends with benefits implies casual and what we just did? It didn't feel casual to me." You cup his face and run your thumb along his cheekbone. "I like you. A lot." He turns his head to press a kiss to your palm. "But if that scares you off, I understand." Without a word, you lean forward, licking your way into his mouth, kissing him slow and lazy. When you break apart, you're both breathless.

"Honey, I've been wanting to ask you out for months. I just didn't know where to start." You admit and his eyes widen.

"Really?" A huge grin spreads across his face. "Why didn't you?" He laughs softly, pressing another quick kiss to your lips. You find yourself laughing with him.

"According to the rest of the squad, I've been dropping hints left, right and centre and not even subtle ones at that!"

"In my defence, I thought you were just being friendly." He replies and you laugh softly against his lips. "So... Can we date? Please say yes."

"I'd like that a lot."

"Thank God." His arms squeeze tight around you. "Should I take you out properly sometime? Coffee, dinner, all that stuff?" He traces your bottom lip with his thumb.

"It'd be nice, yeah." You reply and he gives you that sweet, beaming, boyish grin.

"Then it's a date. How about tomorrow night? We can grab some dinner and maybe catch a movie if you're up for it?" You nod and ruffle his hair lightly.

"That sounds perfect. But first..." You roll your hips against his, a gentle reminder that he's been inside you for the better half of ten minutes. "Can we do that again?" He wets his lips and rolls you back over onto your back, leaning down to press kisses to your neck.

"Mhm. As many times as you want."

Bob's call sign may be just 'Bob' but, in your head, it's 'Tripod'. Sweet, shy Bobby 'Tripod' Floyd.

TAGLIST: @ingoldthewizard @judeval @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @starwarskawaii

[darling-blurbs]

same but different — ft. phainon

phainon is always changing. he’s twelve, he’s sixteen, he’s eighteen, and he’s twenty-three. and he’s changing. but he’s still your phainon and you still love him

word count. ❤︎ 10.4k words — girl (gn) what ze hell

before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; childhood friends to lovers ; modern/non canon au ; reader saves him from a bully when they’re young ; reader has a bad date (with someone else) ; very tame violence (phainon fights some assholes for her) ; love confessions ; loss of virginity ; awkward first times ; car sex/semi public sex (it’s dark) ; use of condoms (be safe!) ; finger sucking ; vaginal fingering ; slight hand jobs ; vaginal sex ; proposals (you say yes!) ; phainon is a bit of a crybaby (affectionate) ; not proof read pls tell me if there’s errors

commentary. ❤︎ THAT ART IN THE HEADER SENT ME INTO A SPIRAL BRO . so here’s the result ig

You meet Phainon when he’s twelve. 

You’re new to the neighborhood, and so is he, starting over at school at the same time and learning the halls and classrooms in the same way—he seems to take being the new kid well. The teachers like him, and he’s friendly and easy to get along with, and most other boys like having him on their teams for sports because he’s agile and decent at catching a ball. You? Well…you don’t adjust as well.

You move not far from your old home, but far enough that everything feels different. He moves from some small town that no one has ever heard of, and all in the matter of a few weeks, he worms his way into your life and doesn’t let you know a single ounce of peace. You’re still eleven at the time, but he’s only two months, one week, and four days older than you, and you’ll be the same age soon enough. 

But it doesn’t really matter that he’s older, anyway, because he cries like a god damn baby. 

The older kids can be mean. Especially when twelve-year-old boys who still haven’t hit that growth spurt that most teenage boys seem to hit, like Phainon, are right there. Despite being quick on his feet, he’s especially small and scrawny for his age, shorter than you by a couple of inches—which is a little pathetic, you think. He’s supposed to be older. 

It happens on a Monday—the start of you and Phainon. Phainon and you. Something weird possesses you on a random Monday before you turn twelve, and you step between him and a taller, broader, acne-painted older boy after school, and before thinking, you glare as you hiss out, “Leave him alone, weirdo.”

The boy doesn’t look too happy—and if you had an ounce of common sense, you’d take that as your cue to leave. But you don’t. You stare him good and hard in the eye as he grits out, “Mind your business.”

Phainon is still on the concrete, flat on his ass in a pathetic sort of way as tears coat his pale, soft cheeks and glisten in his eyes. They’re blue. Very blue. You glance at them for a quick second and realize too late that looking into them was an awful mistake. He looks like a kicked puppy, and something stirs in you and makes you turn abruptly, drawing your hand back before it snaps, and a loud, hard clap rings through the air. 

You freeze, processing what you’ve done. Phainon’s breath hitches. The boy—some asshole whose name you never learn—turns his head, slow and stunned, the side of his cheek where your palm landed blooming red.

This is it, you think. This is how you die. This is where your body will be found face down in the dirt behind your new school that you didn’t even want to come to, and your parents will find you lifeless and limp. They’ll mourn you, like any parents would, and they’ll wonder why it has to be this way—why they have to bury their daughter and not the other way around. You’ll be dead in a few moments, and your poor, unsuspecting parents will have no choice but to blame stupid, annoying, crybaby Phainon for getting you killed in the first place. All because he’s too weak to fight his own fights and stick up for himself. 

Except…nothing happens.

The boy just glares, rubbing his cheek, and grits out, “Lucky you’re just a brat and not like that little punk. I don’t hit girls.”

And just like that, he storms off. Heavy, angry stomps trailing behind him as he leaves you to let out a shaky breath of relief and marvel at your luck—you don’t typically run into people with standards when it comes to who they pick on. But, all things considered, you survived, and your parents won’t have to pay for your tombstone. You count your blessings and thank whoever’s looking over you. 

And then you glance down at Phainon. He’s still sitting there, looking at you like you just parted the sea. 

“You’re pretty pathetic,” you mutter.

“You’re pretty cool,” he says in awe. 

“You should learn how to throw a punch or two.”

He grins, tears long forgotten as he stands up, brushes his hands on the front of his pants, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. You wrinkle your own nose at the snot stain he leaves behind. 

“That’s okay,” he beams, “you can always just slap the bullies across the face like that for me, right?”

“No,” you gape, “I’m not your baby sitter—”

“I’m Phainon!” he holds a hand out to you. You look at it with a raised eyebrow before curling your lips in disgust. 

“And I’m going home,” you say flatly. 

You turn on your heel and start walking home promptly. You don’t want to make friends with the other new kid—especially not since he seems so much more well-adjusted to his new environment than you. (It’s a sort of bitterness only someone so young would feel. Being eleven and just on the cusp of twelve isn’t the age where rationality and logic are factored in with most decisions. Maybe, if you were older, you’d realize your bitterness has nothing to do with Phainon and everything to do with your inability to let go of your homesickness from moving.)

But Phainon is hard to shake off. He jogs after you and falls into step beside you as he pipes up, “You live down the street. I saw your moving trucks. My mom said I should be friends with you because you’re new too!”

“I don’t want to make friends,” you grumble out.

“Why not?” he looks bewildered, “being new and friendless is no fun.”

“Because I’m not staying here for long,” you snap, “I’m gonna save up and move back as soon as I get the chance. I don’t need to make friends somewhere that I’m not staying for long.”

He looks skeptical. It only makes you angrier as you throw him a sharp glare for having the audacity to not take you seriously, and he at least has the sense to quickly put his hands up in surrender as he murmurs, “Okay, okay! I believe you. But we can still be friends until you leave, right?”

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes. He walks you home. You feel a little less lonely on the way back.

(In the end, you never move away like you said. He never stops being your friend. You can’t say you hate it even if you never admit it out loud.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

Phainon is sixteen when you first realize he is no longer that puny, bite-sized little runt that got bullied by the older kids for being new. He doesn’t need saving anymore. 

(He still cries as easily, though—it just happens with a little more dignity. He cries during movies and when he’s stressed from school and maybe after a bad day, but he doesn’t do it so easily in front of other people anymore. 

Still, he always does in front of you. 

Pathetic, you always call him. So mean, he always pouts. And then you hug him and he hugs you back and you remember the little boy you grew up alongside for the last four years. The one who’s two months, one week, and four days older than you, even though it doesn’t feel like it.)

It happens on a Friday night.

You go on a date. It’s your first one ever, in fact. Your father isn’t too happy, but your mother is ecstatic, and after a couple of convincing words from her, he reluctantly allows it to happen as long as you know your curfew and keep your location on at all times. You’re excited. 

Until you’re not. 

You think the date is going rather well. Really well. You like the boy, and he’s handsome and funny, and he listens to you when you ramble about the things you like. It’s a good date. Your mother bought you a new dress, and it’s your favorite color, and you even do your makeup a little nicer than you usually do. Everything feels right. Everything feels like it’s going how it should, and some naive part of you starts to dream about a high school romance that blossoms into something serious. Maybe at the wedding, you’ll speak about this date. How your father was against it, but your mother was thrilled. How you tried on seven dresses before this one, and had started to get antsy until you tried it on and knew it was the one. How you watched a YouTube video or two to learn how to do your eyeshadow properly, because you’re not used to doing it the fancy ways that older girls seem to do. 

It’s all going well. Until your date politely goes to the bathroom and you wait for five minutes, which turns to ten, which turns to fifteen, and then at twenty minutes, your waiter comes and holds an apologetic look on his face as he informs you that the bathroom is empty after you insist for the third time that your date is just taking a while in there. 

It guts you. 

You don’t even know how or when he managed to slip out and leave you alone and stupidly waiting, but he does. Long gone are your dreams of a sweet high school romance and a big, happy wedding where you smile and remember the silly old days when you’d get dropped off to your dates by your mother ten minutes early as you anxiously check your makeup in the mirror. (And yes, maybe later you’d look back and laugh at how naive you were to think one silly date would snowball into all of that, but you’re sixteen. And at sixteen, your world feels like it’s the only thing that exists, and your problems feel like they’re bigger than they are.)

In the end, the only thing you can think of doing is calling Phainon. He comes in ten minutes flat, waiting outside in his father’s car that he’s allowed to use on weekends only and nothing more. (He’s sixteen and you’re still fifteen, so he’s licensed and you’re not. He likes to brag. You don’t typically find it as amusing as he does. Right now, though, you’re grateful. )

You get in the passenger seat, and before he can even ask, you burst into tears. He makes a face that you can’t quite discern. But he’s not happy—you know that much as easily as you know Phainon. 

“What happened?” he asks softly, “It didn’t go well?”

“It was,” you sob, “I-I th-thought it was! We were talking, a-and laughing, and…and he asked me things and then…h-he went to the bathroom and he just disappeared for like…like half an hour! And the waiter checked the bathroom a-and he wasn’t there…and it was so embarrassing!”

He’s silent. For a long time, Phainon is quiet and he doesn’t say anything. It’s unlike him. He never lets the silence go on for long before he fills it with something. Whether it’s stupid or sweet or funny or annoying, Phainon always has something to say to you. He never runs out of things to talk about. It’s always been like that. He’s never had a problem talking your ear off and keeping you company and following you around and filling the silence with his voice. You never realized how deep it had gotten over the years until you watched some old videos back. The first time he was gone for a whole summer, you didn’t realize how quiet the world was until the only way you could talk to him was over text. 

But he’s quiet now, and he just lets you cry. Softly, he reaches out and brushes tears from your cheeks gently as he murmurs, “Your makeup is pretty tonight. You shouldn’t ruin it, you know.”

“There’s no point,” you sniffle, “it’s not like anyone is gonna see it now, anyway.”

“I’m seeing it,” he insists, “just because some weird asshole doesn’t appreciate a nice smokey eye doesn’t mean I can’t.”

“This isn’t a smokey eye look.”

“Whatever it is,” he shrugs, “it looks good. You’re pretty.”

He says it easily, like it’s not weird or awkward or makes him shy to point it out. He says it so plainly, it’s like some passing observation he makes and doesn’t have to think too hard on. You’re pretty. Even when you cry your makeup off, he thinks that. 

“I don’t want to go home,” you whisper, “my mom is gonna be sad and my dad will get angry when he knows what happened to me, and I just…don’t feel like dealing with that mess.”

“Then don’t,” he offers.

You raise a brow, sniffling as you reach into the compartment and grab the tissues that you know are there, and blow your nose. He stifles a smile at the way it’s loud. “What am I supposed to do then, just sit in here?” you ask blandly.

“Why not? We can drive for a while. In fact, we can get milkshakes.”

“Are you buying?” you perk up.

He snorts, looking at you in amusement as he mumbles, “Don’t I always have to?”

You beam at that. It’s true—he does always buy.

He takes you to a drive-thru and buys you a milkshake like he always does when he drives you somewhere. You add in a side of fries and he lets you, paying without a complaint and handing you your order as it comes through the window. It’s nice. It feels like it always does when it’s you and Phainon, and you forget the shallow asshole who broke your heart on your first date not even an hour ago. He parks in the parking lot and you sit and share your fries, and when he dips his in ketchup, you wrinkle your nose—and when you dip yours in your milkshake, he wrinkles his. 

“I’m never going on a date again,” you mumble.

“Don’t say that,” he says softly, “you might miss out on a super handsome and nice guy some day who’s waiting for you.”

“That sounds like something my mom would say,” you snort.

He cracks a grin, chuckling as he offers, “Well, that’s probably why I’m so smart. You should listen to me more.”

“I don’t know about that one,” you tease, “you’re still the same crybaby from middle school.”

“I’m not a crybaby!” He gasps, “Quit saying that! Being emotionally intelligent and being a crybaby are not the same thing, you jerk!”

“Is that what you like to call it?” You laugh, throwing your head back against your seat. He stares. For a good, long moment, he stares as you laugh, and you never catch it. (He wonders sometimes if you will. If some day he’ll stare and you’ll finally notice that he only ever looks at you.)

“Yes,” he grumbles, “I am, in fact, emotionally intelligent. And women are really into men who are smart about their feelings.”

“I’m sure they are,” you give him a sarcastic nod. “And I bet they—”

“Hang on,” he says, stopping you.

You pause as he interrupts your sentence, and before you can even blink, his door is opened and then closed, and Phainon is gone. He’s left the car and he’s walking over to some group of boys who leave the fast food place you’re parked outside of, and you can’t figure out what on Earth would make him leave so abruptly to go over and—oh. 

Your eyes widen as you realize. 

Oh.

Something in your heart sinks deep into the bottom of your stomach as you realize your date is standing there among the group of boys with a bag of food in his hands and a drink. Something else in you gets a lick of anger that starts to burn in the pit of your stomach as you think about how he left you to pay for his meal while he’s here buying himself a whole new one after ditching you. And then your eyes widen when in a quick second, Phainon has swug his arm and landed a solid punch right in the jaw and knocked the guy onto his ass as he towers over him. You blink once, then twice, and then you quickly take your seatbelt off and climb out of the car as you rush over. 

There’s a chorus of deep, angry voices back and forth and you can’t make out more than a few words at a time as everyone speaks over each other—Phainon, your asshole date, and his asshole (by association) friends.

“Yo, what the fuck—”

“He had that coming—” (Phainon.)

“Who the hell are you—”

“What’s your fucking problem man—”

“You get off on being an asshole, or something?” (Also Phainon.)

Maybe if you weren’t so worried, you would think about why Phainon’s voice is the only one you can make out so easily in a mess of all these other voices. Maybe if you weren’t worried about a group of boys outnumbering him as they approach him and try to beat him to a pulp, you might think more about the implications of that and what that means. 

But you don’t. You can’t. Not when you have to go and save him, just like the day you met him, from boys who are stronger than him and can knock him to the ground easily. 

Except he doesn’t need you to save him. Phainon…holds his own against three boys who come swinging at him, and…he does surprisingly well. He shrugs off each guy one by one and lands a punch when he needs to, and soon enough, when they realize that he’s a little too strong for any of them to properly take on, they call him a few names and leave a few empty threats before they leave. You stand a short distance away and watch, blinking as you process the whole exchange. 

Finally, with a shaky breath, he turns to face you with a guilty look on his face. 

“Sorry, I know I probably shouldn’t have done—”

“When did you get strong?” you interrupt, flabbergasted. “You can fight?”

He looks almost a little offended. “What do you mean? Why do you have to say that like I can’t be strong?”

“I used to save you from the older boys all the time,” you gape, “and all you ever did was cry! Since when do you know how to throw a punch?”

“I was twelve!” He sputters, looking at you in equal parts disbelief and equal parts embarrassment. “I’m way bigger now! I’m taller than you!” (He is.)

“You’re still a crybaby!”

“Am not!”

“You fought four guys and won,” you breathe out, like the concept is something you still can’t quite wrap your head around. (You can’t.)

He shoots you a glare and grumbles, “I am grown now, okay? You don’t have to keep acting like I’m the scrawny kid you saved in middle school.”

“You are the scrawny kid,” you argue.

“Am not! Look, I’ve been working out!” He flexes his arm, and sure enough, there’s a bulge of muscle forming at his bicep, and it makes you stare in disbelief as you take in the way Phainon has really changed. You never notice it because he’s with you every day, and every single day has started to leave its mark on him, but you’re too caught up in knowing him the way he is to think about knowing him the way he isn’t anymore. 

But he’s stronger now. His voice is deeper, and he’s taller, and he has some muscle to him. You look at him properly for a moment, and it occurs to you for the first time that the chubbiness of his round face and baby cheeks are gone and they’re replaced with a strong, sharp set of cheekbones that carve his face perfectly. His hair is longer, too—and you think it suits him better this way. He parts his hair in a way that looks less childlike and more mature. 

But his eyes are still the same. Same shade of blue. Same puppy look as he stares at you, mildly offended. Same soft, delicate orbs that look you in the eye, always, and never look away. 

“Oh my god,” you mutter, “what is happening to you? This is freaky.”

He cracks a smug grin before he teases, “I’m growing up. Try not to fall in love with me—pretty soon, I’ll be a heartthrob.”

You bite back a grin and give him a scoff. “I doubt that. You’re about as interesting as cardboard.”

(You lie. In the end, you go against your own words, and you do fall in love with him. It’s hard not to. It’s hard not to fall in love with him, the more time passes every day. You never admit it, but you notice every little thing about him that changes from then on.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

You’re eighteen when Phainon and you don’t just kiss, but share your first time. It’s on your birthday. There’s something there between the two of you that you both know is there. It’s impossible not to notice it. 

You leave for college in two months, and he might not be going to the same one as you, but it's close enough that you can see him whenever you want. (Whenever you want—it’s what he had said when he first told you he wasn’t picking the same college as you. The look on your face was enough to voice your devastation without actually using any words, but he only laughed and murmured, I’ll be close by. You can still see me whenever you want, yeah?)

It happens in his car. It’s no longer his dad’s old one that he had to ask for permission to use only when his father wasn’t using it. This one is his, and he can drive it whenever he wants and wherever he pleases. Because you’re both old enough for that now—driving around and going places without needing to worry about curfews and school nights and your parents’ angry texts about being home soon. 

“I’m officially an adult,” you tell him in his car, drinking the last of your milkshake that, as always, he’s paid for. (It’s your birthday, though, so you think it's especially fair that he pays because no one should expect the birthday person to pay for their milkshake.)

“Congrats,” he hums, “they grow up so fast,” he adds with a soft, dramatic sniffle.

“You’re not old enough to act like there’s a difference,” you roll your eyes, “I doubt in two months you’ve learned things like how mortgages and property taxes work.”

“Well, it’s actually two months, one week, and four days,” he corrects with a pointed look, as if it really makes all the difference, “and I’ll probably still learn all that shit before you do because I’m older.”

“Yeah, but you’ll also probably die first since you’re older,” you point out cheekily.

“I don’t think that’s how that works,” he huffs.

“You always decide how things work when it’s convenient for you, you prick,” you accuse, shoving him away as he chuckles and steals a french fry from your share. 

He’s stopped laughing when his eyes meet yours, and something about the way he looks at you feels a little out of the ordinary. The wrappers are crumpled, the milkshakes are almost gone, and you’re both sitting in the same parking lot you have for years in the middle of the night, nothing but just the light over your heads in his car illuminating him just enough that you can still make out that soft blue of his eyes. 

Everything is the same. The parking lot, the milkshakes, the way you drain his wallet, and he lets it happen, the way it’s you and him and no one else. Nothing has changed. Nothing but you and Phainon. You’re both different—something about you and him is different. 

“What?” you ask.

Phainon shrugs, smiling to himself. “Dunno,” he says. “Guess you just look old.”

You scowl as he throws you a lopsided grin. (You think, regretfully, that it’s quite handsome.) “And you look geriatric,” you hiss back.

His smile becomes a little softer, and something in it flickers—sad, maybe. You can’t tell exactly what it is, but you do know it makes something in your heart ache. Something like longing fills you up to the brim—it’s funny, you think. Even when Phainon is right next to you, all you can do is long for him anymore. You wonder when that started. Maybe it was the day you noticed he was bigger and taller. Maybe it was the day you noticed he paid with a credit card and not cash anymore, like a proper grown man. Maybe it was the day you realized his front teeth were no longer crooked and his smile was as bright as those perfectly blue eyes of his. 

“I’m gonna miss this,” he admits quietly.

You don’t ask what he means. You already know. 

It’s not the milkshakes, or the shared fries, or the way he always pays, no matter how much you can easily afford it on your own by now. It’s the way he’s home for you. The way you moved when you didn’t want to, and you didn’t get a say because you were only eleven and your parents made those kinds of decisions for you—when you left behind everything you loved, and Phainon took on the burden of becoming everything you’ll relearn to care about. When you promised to move away the first chance you got, he made you want to stay without trying. Now it’s not the same—now you move, and so does he, and you both make those decisions on your own because you're older now. 

You’ll miss it. The quiet nights in his car and the long, stupid, pointless, aimless conversations that always meant the most when you babbled about nothing. The easy, familiar way you’ve always fit together—ever since he was twelve and you were eleven, all the way until now, after you both grew and grew and the days added up until they totaled to you both being eighteen-year-old adults. You’ll miss the way you’ll open your door, and you’ll see him waving down the street as he opens his. You’ll miss the way he can crawl to your window and sneak in to play card games, and your mother isn’t surprised as she makes him breakfast when you both accidentally fall asleep before he can leave. You’ll miss the way the world felt small, and all you knew was this. Here. Phainon and you and the town that becomes home, even when you didn’t want it to be, all because of him. 

“You don’t have to miss it,” you say, trying to convince yourself it’s true. “We’re not going far.”

“Maybe not,” he murmurs. “But it won’t be like this. Not exactly.”

It won’t.

It won’t ever be like the way you guys are now, how you were over the years. When he sat on the ground and cried after being picked on and you saved him. When he came over and met your mother for the first time, and she looked relieved at the fact that you finally made some friends. When you let him borrow your favorite book, and he gave it back with the pages dog-eared and you had your first argument over your ruined book. When he rescued you after your awful first date and spent the night with you so you’d go home happy. When you rear-ended the car in front of you, and he was sitting passenger as he tried to warn you that you weren’t hitting the brakes soon enough.

“Is it a bad thing, do you think?” you murmur hesitantly, “if things change?”

“Maybe not,” he says, leaning closer as he looks at you better.

And then you kiss him. Or maybe he kisses you. What matters is that you’re kissing each other. It’s been a long time coming—your parents have teased you about him, and your friends have always been too nosy about just how close you really are, and your teachers have always meddled with seating arrangements to make sure you’re close by each other because they’re certain something is going on. 

He smiles into the kiss. It’s giddy and sweet and a touch clumsy as he presses into you closer, leaning over the center console of his car to get closer to you. You giggle. A soft, delicate little sound that makes his breath hitch before he moves again to swallow it up, drinking in the small, precious little sounds of joy you make against his mouth as his hand cups your cheek and your arms swing lazily over his shoulders. 

“I think things are already changing,” you breathe as soon as you pull away, “so it can’t be so bad.”

“Maybe not bad at all,” he chuckles.

“Are you still gonna miss it?” you ask softly. 

“Hm,” he pretends to think, “let me try this again and see what I like better just to be sure.”

You laugh against his mouth as he kisses you, pecking your lips once, twice, a third time before he’s back to pressing his against you with a lingering pressure. Some part of you knew this was going to happen. You didn’t know when or how, but you think this is a good way to let it happen. You knew that day he came to your defense in that parking lot—when he didn’t have to, but he did because he cared enough to. When he showed you he was bigger than you remember and growing more than you realized, and could take care of you just like you took care of him. (Maybe he’s been taking care of you all this time, and you just didn’t realize it. Maybe when you stopped being lonely and finally felt like you made a home on the street that he came at the same time as you, he was looking out for you all along.)

“I think change is an inevitable part of life,” he murmurs, “we shouldn’t avoid it.”

“Hm, that’s very grown-up of you to say,” you tease. 

“Thank you,” he grins—stupidly handsome, and annoyingly cheeky. And you love him for it. “I am older, you know. By two months, one—”

“—One week and four days, yes, I know,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”

He does. He shuts up only to press his lips against yours again and kiss you like he’s been waiting years to do it. (He has. He’s waited many, many years to do this. More than he thinks you might even realize—he doesn’t think you understand how much he’s changed until rather recently, but that’s okay. He could wait. He did. He waited and he waited and he’d always have waited if it was for you.)

“Do…” he pauses, nervously taking in a shaky breath as he mumbles, “do you…want to like…w-well, we don’t have to do anything…but if you want—”

“At least this much hasn’t changed,” you snort, interrupting him, “and maybe it won’t—you’re still lame.”

He scowls at that, and as if he has something to prove, he climbs (and fumbles a little) into the back seat before his hand grabs your wrist and tugs you to follow. And when you fumble your way onto his lap with a squeak, flustered as your chest is pressed right up against his own (rather sturdy one), he murmurs, “Yeah? Is that what you think?”

“Yeah,” you swallow, looking into his eyes for a short second before quickly looking away, “it is.”

“Guess I’ll just have to change that,” he hums.

Suddenly, your lips are once more coated with the heat of his, and you close your eyes and fall apart in his arms. You press more of your weight onto him, letting him slump back against the backseat of his car while your hands weave into his hair and tug. He groans deeply. It’s a sound you’ve never heard from him—ever. 

His hands bring you closer, and as your body is pressed against his with even less space, you feel it—something hard that pokes against your leg that you’re certain you know what it is. But, just to be sure, you pull away to look at him. 

“What’s that?” you hum, grinning smugly as you move your thighs to brush over the hardness once more, “is that—”

“You know exactly what it is,” he huffs, flushing a soft pink that you can just barely make out in the dark, “now quit talking so much.”

“You don’t like me when I’m chatty?” you pout.

“I like you always,” he says bluntly, lips forming a small pout as he adds, “but I like you a little less than other times right now for being rude.”

“I’m not being rude! I’m simply making an observation—mmph!”

He cuts you off with another hard, impatient kiss before he pulls away and lets his thumb brush over your lip, smearing your already messy lip gloss some more as he murmurs, “I always wondered how that tasted. Seen you apply it so many times.”

“It’s pretty sweet, isn’t it?” you wink cheekily, “strawberry flavored.”

With that, you wrap your lips around his thumb and slowly roll your tongue around the digit, swallowing around it as you suck. It’s probably the filthiest thing you’ve done—which is not a lot. The filthiest thing you’ve done prior was sitting on a boy’s lap and feeling his hard-on against your thigh as you kissed him. There are a lot of firsts it seems he’s hell bent on taking from you tonight. Luckily, there’s not a lot of firsts you’re unwilling to give. 

He groans at the warmth of your mouth, the wet glide of your tongue making him stare at you with hazy, lust-filled eyes before he pulls his hand away from your lips, hoisting you up enough so he can reach under your skirt and pull your panties down. They’re drenched. He takes a second to stare at them through the darkness of the backseat of his car while it’s your turn to feel heat spread across your cheeks and up to your ears. 

“Stop looking, you pervert!” you hiss.

He gives you a not very apologetic grin. “Sorry,” he lies through his perfect, pearly whites, “guess that’s not very chivalrous of me, huh?”

You snort as you murmur, “You had your finger in my mouth a second ago.”

“And who put that there?” he teases. You feel your cheeks burn again—but he spares you the embarrassment a second time as he pulls your underwear down your thighs enough to leave your aching cunt exposed before he murmurs, “Do it again one more time for me, baby.”

You open without thinking as he presses his middle and ring fingers into your mouth, letting your tongue roll around them, too. You coat them well, the wetness of your mouth covering his fingers as his thumb strokes your cheek. His cheeks are flushed pink from the sight alone. Your throat bobbing from every swallow around his digits has him imagining much more lewd fantasies, and you can tell that from just the way his pupils lose focus, dilating at the image of you. You moan around him, and his breath hitches as he feels the vibrations from the sound. 

It’s dirty, the way he’s thinking about you. Almost as dirty as the way you look as you suck on his fingers—and when he pulls them out and uses his fingers to press into your cunt, it feels dirty to be worked open with your own spit as the lubricant that helps him slip inside easily. Well…you suppose the way your core is dripping is also part of the reason why it’s so easy, but you don’t focus on that. 

Instead, the only thing you can focus on is the way he curls into you as he thrusts his fingers in and out, in and out like he knows exactly what you need. His fingers are longer than yours. The only thing that’s ever been inside of you are your own digits when it’s late and night and you force yourself to stay quiet in your room—but Phainon’s fingers reach deeper and there’s no one here you have to be quiet for, so you whimper loudly as he presses into your walls and finds some spot deep in there that you’ve never felt before.

“Well,” he chuckles, “that was easy. I found it,” he gives you a cheeky grin.

“Sh-shut up,” you hiss, the sound tapering off into a moan as the heel of his palm glides over your clit while he angles his hand in and out of you. 

He’s never done this before—it’s good, and it feels better than anything you’ve ever felt yourself, but he’s still never done this before, and it shows. He doesn’t get the rhythm quite right as he goes faster than you like, and when your hand gently grabs his wrist, he pauses and looks at you in alarm. 

“W-what’s wrong? You want to stop? I-I’m sorry, I…I got carried away, I didn’t think—here,” he goes to pull his fingers and you hiss, tightening your grip and keeping him in place as he pauses and looks at you, bewildered.

“Just…just go slower,” you breathe, panting softly, “that’s all.”

“O-oh…” he nods slowly at first, then again with more confidence. “Okay.”

It’s better this time. He paces it better and watches your face for your reactions as he slows the timing of his fingers pressing into you, applying pressure with every thrust against a sweet spot you didn’t even know you had. It makes your head feel light and your ears hear things all muffled. You can hear his labored breaths as he watches you, and you can hear your own (almost embarrassing) noises as he works you higher, higher, higher to some invisible height that you can feel yourself slowly become closer and closer to plummeting off of. 

“K-kiss,” you gasp, pleading as you lean closer, and he chuckles before he indulges you.

“Anything you want,” he murmurs, and then that familiar warm pressure of his soft, yet chapped lips is the final push you need to fall off the edge. You whine into his mouth, and he drinks in every sound like he’s parched, swallowing down your noises as your walls flutter around his fingers. 

He works you through it. It feels better when it’s someone else—he’s not distracted by the feeling of being overwhelmed to falter in rhythm or pace. In fact, he’s extra careful as he watches you, rolling his palm over your clit and pressing the tips of his fingers in and out of you as your walls erratically clamp around him. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out, gasping as a particularly harsh wave of your orgasm crashes over you, “Ph-phainon, fuck.”

“Feel good?” he murmurs, kissing your jaw as your mouth parts with a soft, delicate moan. It’s endearing. He’s not even smug anymore—all you do is fill him up with affection as he watches you. 

“Yes,” you gasp, “oh god, yes!”

“Good,” he hums. 

His forehead presses against yours as you finish, letting you calm down and take heaving breaths while he pulls his fingers out of your cunt and rubs the small of your back with his other hand. You clutch onto his shirt, fingers grasping onto the fabric to ground yourself while he admires the glow of your sweaty, damp skin.

“When did things change for you?” you whisper, not meeting his eyes. “Between…between us?”

“Hm…” he hums softly, “Don’t know. I think…I think they never really had to change. I always knew I wanted you.”

“Oh,” you mumble, still nervously toying with the fabric of his shirt. You don’t know what to say, so you say it again. “That…oh.”

He laughs softly, like the idea of things not being the same for you doesn’t bother him. (It doesn’t. He got you, he thinks. As long as it’s that outcome, he could have always waited longer.) 

“When did they change for you?”

“When we were sixteen,” you barely force out, “when you…when you took on those guys. In the parking lot.”

“On your first date that broke my heart?” He gasps, “I owe your heartbreak to swing things in my favor? That feels a little wrong,” he says dramatically, “I almost feel like I’ve manipulated you!”

“Oh, fuck off,” you roll your eyes, breaking into a small grin. 

He laughs. It’s sweet. He’s always had that charm about him, even when it didn’t make you want him badly. “I think I told you not to fall in love with me, too. Seems like my words had the opposite effect,” he wiggles his brows.

You snort, shoving him lightly as you whisper, “It just felt nice to know you care. Like my feelings were yours, too.”

His eyes soften, and Phainon, you realize, has the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. So blue, you could mistake them for the ocean and get called over like a siren luring you in, drowning you until your lungs are heavy and filled with something that makes it hard to breathe. 

“I always cared,” he hums, “still do. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” you bite your lip as you fight back a wide, giddy grin. “Yeah, I do.”

And you kiss him. This time, you know it’s you who does it first because he stiffens for a moment with a hitch of his breath before he melts into it. You’ve kissed so many times tonight, you don’t know why the feeling keeps shocking you, but it does. It’s new every time, but never unfamiliar. You know him—you know him like the back of your hand, and you’d know him with your eyes closed. But you’re still learning him. The way he parts his lips and the pattern of how he nips yours. The way he tugs you closer when he’s overwhelmed, so he can squeeze your hips and ground himself. The way he lets out a soft, barely-there whine when you tug at his hair without realizing it. 

“I want you,” he breathes, “i-is that…is that okay?”

“Yes,” you practically beg, “yes—please.”

He clumsily undoes his belt and unzips his pants with shaky hands. You try not to watch and make it awkward. (It is, just a little. But it’s not bad. Nothing ever is with him.) You try to keep your expression neutral as his aching cock is finally freed from its confinements, springing up with a hard, leaky tip as pre cum collects in a small bead. It’s big—it curves a little to the side and the vein is thick along the bottom, and a part of you itches to wrap your hand around it and feel its weight in your grasp. 

He flushes as you stare and breathes heavily. 

“Can…can I…” You hesitate before gesturing at it. 

He nearly passes out from shame when he nods too quickly, forcing himself to slow down and throw on a faux sense of nonchalance as he stutters out, “Y-yeah, yeah that…that’s cool. With me. If you want, that is.”

You nod. Slowly, hesitantly, your thumb smears the leaking pre cum at the tip along the head of his cock before you wrap your hand around him and squeeze slightly. He chokes, gripping your hips tightly as his jaw clenches and his eyes shut tightly while he tries to keep his breathing steady. 

“Is this okay?” you whisper.

“More than okay,” he says, voice strained. 

“Okay,” you nod, and, a little more confidently, you stroke along his length, watching as he melts and the tension leaves his shoulders, his face slackening while he lets out a soft moan. It feels good—you can tell that much as his head falls back and he lets out a soft, throaty sound when you squeeze a little at the tip before stroking down again. 

It doesn’t last long, but you like it, you decide. You like making Phainon feel good. You like the way he looks when you touch him, and you like the feeling you get when you take care of him and give him something without taking anything back. But he stops you before long, and you pause as you raise a brow in confusion. 

“J-just…I don’t think I’ll last if we keep…” 

He’s red in the face when your eyes widen—you can tell even if it's dark. “Right,” you smile softly, “okay. Do you have…”

“Y-yeah,” he nods, “right…right, yeah.” He fishes out a condom from his pocket, and it takes everything in you not to ask the question in the back of your head of why he keeps one. 

(A spark of jealousy clouds your mind for a moment, of whether or not this is something he’s done before with someone other than you to need one, but then you realize that you know Phainon. Better than anyone else, you know him, and you know he’d at least tell you if he’d ever done something like this before. 

Because it’s you—you’ve known for a while now that there isn’t anyone else other than you. 

The jealousy dies down, and all that’s left is endearment—you’ll tease him later about carrying a condom around like he’s preparing. For now, though, you’re grateful.) 

It takes a tense moment of fumbling around with opening and rolling it over his length, trying not to let your hands visibly shake as he makes soft, breathy sound at your touch before gently, you raise your hips, hand still wrapped around his length while you guide him to your folds, the tip brushing along the slick, warm entrance of your cunt and making you both shiver. His hands find your hips, holding tightly as he guides you down, inch by slow inch taken one by one until he’s as deep as he’ll go and you’re sat on his cock, panting and quivering on his lap.

“T-tell me when it’s okay to m-move,” he grits.

“Okay,” you whisper shakily, trying to accommodate his size. It’s a stretch—it burns slightly, but you welcome it wholly. You’ve never taken anything as big as Phainon, and faintly, you hope you’ll never have to compare the size with anything else because you think this is it. This is perfect and what you were made to take. He’s perfect and what you were made to take. You fit like he was tailor-made to fit in you, and you don’t think anyone else will ever replace this. 

This feeling. Him. What he means to you. Everything about Phainon is perfect to you—perfect for you. You don’t think it’ll ever be anyone but him. 

“Okay,” you plead, “you…you can move now.”

With that, he guides your hips up, almost pulling you off of him completely before he brings you down, helping you slam down on him while thrusting his hips up and meeting you halfway. He’s thick, too, girth-wise—stretches you in a way that adds to the pleasure apart from just pressing against a spot your fingers used to never reach. You thought it was good before when he was just using his hand, but the real thing is even better. Everything around you stops. All you know is Phainon. All you ever want to know is Phainon. 

“F-fuck,” he pants, and you barely register his voice cracking as he shoves his face into your neck, “y-you…feel incredible. I’ve always wanted you. You have no idea how fucking bad.”

Something wet hits your neck. You suck in a sharp breath as his hand pulls you down, helping you rock your hips onto him and slam down harder on his cock, taking him deeper inside of you and practically cling to him while he maneuvers your body the way he needs. The way you need. 

“A-are you…seriously crying?” you gasp, “Now?”

“No,” he huffs. As if to distract you, he reaches between your bodies and finds your clit with his thumb and rolls harsh, fast circles while a strong, muscled arm wraps around your waist and guides you along a rhythm that has him nudging the tip of his cock hard and blunt against the back of your walls. 

“You are,” you accuse. “Do you ever quit being a cry—” you moan and cut yourself off when his tip practically bruises the spot it presses against hard and fast, angling to meet exactly where you fall apart.

“Not a crybaby,” he argues, and his pace gets sloppy as he ruts his hips up into you. You can feel it, too—the beginnings of your second high of the night approaching you as you try to snap your hips and bounce along his length to match his pace. 

It’s going to hit you harder this time. You can tell—you can practically feel it as it comes slowly but surely, creeping up on you in a way that makes you anticipate it blindly. 

“M’close,” you pant, “m’so so close, Phai…Phainon.”

“Yeah? You are? M-me too, baby,” he groans. You clench around him at the pet name, and he has the audacity to chuckle about it, murmuring a low, “like being called that, huh? You’re so fuckin’ tight, baby—y’know that?”

“Fuck,” you whine, and with one last roll of your hips that he meets with his own thrust upwards, you fall apart while his thumb rubs its circles along your clit. 

Your orgasm comes harder than you expect it to—it’s different when he’s that deep and stretches you out so well. It’s different when he rolls his hips to continue to fuck into you to work you through your high. It’s not like other times you’ve cum on your own, and it’s not like the time he made you cum on his fingers. This is entirely different. You can feel the twitching of his cock as the thickess bullies into you, splitting you open while you fall apart on him.

He follows not long after you, the tightening of your walls around him in spasms pulling him into his own release. It’s warm—you can make out the feeling of his release through the thin barrier of plastic as he fills it with thick ropes of cum. He pants your name through a soft, breathless voice, and you slump against his chest and lay your cheek on his shoulder as you ride through the final few waves of your peak. 

When he finishes, he slumps back against the seat, chest rising and falling beneath you as he tries to catch his breath. His arms are still wrapped around you, loose and warm, like he can’t quite bring himself to let go yet.

“How was it?” he asks, voice tentative, almost shy.

“Good,” you whisper, still a little breathless. “I-it was… really good.”

“Me too,” he says with a quiet smile. You can hear it in his words. “It was really good for me, too.”

You snort. “Is that why you cried?”

He groans, burying his face against your shoulder as his arms tighten around you in protest. “No,” he grumbles, muffled. “I just… got…”

“Emotional?” you tease, the corner of your mouth twitching up.

“Yes,” he huffs, clearly flustered. “The way I feel about you…” He trails off for a second, like he’s waiting for the right words to show up. “It’s just… a lot,” he says finally, soft and vulnerable. “You make me feel a lot.”

“I know,” you say, muffled by his shirt, “I…I feel it, too.”

“Yeah?” he beams.

“Yeah,” you grin. 

(You want to tell him that night—that you love him. That you have for a while. That you know you always will. You don’t have the courage to, though, but you never bring yourself to regret it. Maybe because it almost feels like he’s always known.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

You’re twenty-three when Phainon proposes. It…doesn’t go how he wants. 

He plans it out—it’s meticulous, and sweet, and it was going to be perfect and everything he’s ever wanted and everything he knows you wanted, too. He takes you on a nice, fancy trip, and you’re by the beach where you can feel the sun kiss your skin along with the warm breeze. On the last day, he can sit and admire you as you enjoy the beach one last time happily, and when the sun gets close to setting, he’ll drag you for a walk along the shore where the tides will come and wash away your footprints as they come. And when the sky is pink and purple and orange and every other color of the sunset that reflects in your eyes, he’ll get on one knee and ask you to be his wife.

And then it rains. 

It rains hard.

You both gather your things as quickly as you can and run for the car—a fancy rental that he spent quite a pretty penny on to get for this trip, because it’s the kind you’ve always wanted to have and you’re still just barely out of college to have enough saved for it. 

You climb into the car, drenched and panting from running, and still beautiful. And he feels his world crumble all at once as he sees that dazzling smile on your face while your hand brushes your forehead and wipes away droplets of water. 

He notices your finger. Ringless. His heart bleeds, and everything around him feels like it's caving in on him, and he can’t breathe.

“My goodness,” you giggle, “who’d have thought the rain had it out for us on our last day, huh?”

He swallows thickly at that. And he tries—he tries so hard to keep on that brave face and act like it’s okay. It’s fine. He can wait and plan something else. He has time to make it better, more perfect for you. That’s what you deserve, anyway. He’ll make you smile bigger, make you want to say yes even harder. 

This is okay. He still has you. He knows you. He knows you’ll say yes. It doesn’t matter if it’s now or a little later—he still has you. 

And yet, when his face crumples and the dryness of his throat is something he realizes he’s not able to control, he understands why you’ve always called him a crybaby. Because that’s exactly what he is. He’s going to cry, and you’re going to be worried, and he’s going to have to explain why he’s upset and ruin your surprise and the most perfect moment of your life. 

“Phainon?” You freeze, noticing the beginning of tears collecting in his eyes that he tries desperately to blink away. He swallows thickly, and your hand instantly moves to cup his wet face. “Baby, what’s happened? Did you leave something? We can go back and look—it’s just some rain, I don’t mind.”

“No,” he croaks, “no, it’s not that. It’s…it’s nothing,” he forces out. 

“It’s not nothing,” you frown, “c’mon, you know I know you better than that. Acting like I don’t is almost insulting,” you nudge his ribs gently. It’s supposed to be good-natured. It’s supposed to be light-hearted and sweet, so he feels safe enough to let down his walls and tell you what’s on his mind because you love him. You do. You love him more than anything, and you make everything better, so he should just tell you.

But the thought of the words coming out feels like he’s a failure. Like he’s taken every ounce of your careful love and not given you what you deserved, even a little. But, as he’s starting to realize after years of arguing with you on it, Phainon is indeed a crybaby. And the tears tell on him faster than the words can, and he knows there’s no hiding anything from you.

So shakily, he grabs something small from his pocket, making you frown as you try to figure out what it is. He brings it closer, and your eyes widen, breath hitching. 

You know what that is. You’d be a fool not to. You’re speechless as he sniffles and looks miserably down at the velvet box that’s tiny in his large hand. 

“I…it was going to be perfect—th-the sun was supposed to set, a-and we’d go on a walk, and then when the sky was pretty I’d ask, and…and…and…” he takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes in defeat. “It was going to be perfect. For you. I had everything planned,” he croaks. 

You soften. It’s quiet. For a moment, he thinks maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe you weren’t going to say yes, and all the marriage talks of the future lately were just talks and nothing more. Maybe it was too early for all this, and those were just talks of something for the distant future. Something he’d have to wait a bit longer for. And that’s fine—he would. He’d wait for you because he always has. He’s always loved you, and all he’s always waited, and it’s always been okay. In the end, he’s always had you, and that’s all he’s ever needed. 

Somehow, no matter how many years pass, Phainon stays loving you. At first, he thought it was a crush and that it would be just a phase, but it never went away. It’s just how he is, ingrained into him since he was young—he loves you, and he can’t stop. Somehow, every year, he grows and grows, and all it does is make more room for his love in that stubborn heart of his. He’s twelve, he’s sixteen, he’s eighteen, and he’s twenty-three. Every year he’s older and he changes, yet somehow, every year, it’s still always you. Even when you’re not there, it’s always your laugh he hears in the wind as it grazes his cheeks and leaves him with the ghost of you. 

Loving you comes as easily as breathing. When the air finally settles in his lungs and lets him breathe, he starts to love you even more.

It’s that simple. It always was. 

He lets out a shuddering breath and mumbles, “I-it’s okay. It was probably a bad time anyway—I got carried away. J-just forget I said anything, please. I…we can just forget—”

“Oh Phainon,” you sigh, soft and breathless, “you never change, do you, you big crybaby?”

He pouts. There are still tears clinging to his cheeks, and it only proves your point further. Still, you have enough grace not to point it out as you reach and cup his cheek to wipe away a tear gently. 

“I am not a crybaby,” he denies half-heartedly, “I was just emotional, okay? Being emotionally intelligent is important!”

You smile. It’s warm and bright, and it’s the same smile he’s known for over a decade, but it’s different, too. Every year it changes a little. The days leave their small footprints along your features and carve their paths as you age, and sometimes, he sees it all at once. How much you’ve changed. How your features are a little sharper now that you’ve grown into them. How small, barely-there lines are etching into your skin where you smile the most and by your eyes where they crinkle. You’re older. You’re still you. 

You smile, and it’s like he’s twelve again and nothing has changed, even if he’s twenty-three. 

“Ask me,” you whisper, “I’ll say yes no matter where you ask me. So quit crying and ask, you big baby.”

“What?” he gapes, still sniffling a little. 

“Ask me,” you huff, giving him a soft, impatient shove. Something about you is giddy. It’s raining outside, he’s crying yet again like he always does, while you have to deal with it, your beach day has been cut short, your surprise is ruined, and you’re drenched in the rental car that he’ll have to return tomorrow before you board your flight and go home. But still, you’re giddy. 

And Phainon is in love. It’s nothing new, but it’s different. It’s better. It’s always you. 

“Will you marry me?” he murmurs, “I know you said you didn’t want to be my friend that day, and I was a tiny bit of a crybaby only that day,” he gives you a pointed look as you roll your eyes, “and I know you said you’d move away and never come back and you didn’t need me to be your friend but we were friends anyway. And I was always happy being friends, but changing and being more was probably the best thing ever, so maybe we should just change one more time and be husband and wife, right? We’re not on the beach or under the sun, and we’re soaking wet, but will you marry me, anyway? So I don’t live up to the crybaby allegations?”

You laugh. The sun isn’t there anymore, but light still finds a way to break over your face as you laugh, and you cry, too. You cry with him, tears collecting in your own eyes as you nod frantically and whisper, “Yes, you idiot. Yes, I’ll marry you, of course I will. Is that even a question?”

“You’re crying,” he blinks back his own tears, “who’s the crybaby now?”

“Still you,” you snort. 

He grabs your hand and just like he envisioned to leave this trip, there’s a pretty little ring on your pretty little finger that catches the light and makes you look a little more different than he remembers you, but a little better than before. He didn’t meet you with a ring on your finger, but he knows you that way now. And it’s different. It’s different and it’s good.

“I love you,” he murmurs, “even though you always lie and call me a crybaby.”

“I love you, too,” you sigh exasperatedly, “even though you lie about being the damn crybaby that you are.”

(He kisses you after. Kisses you hard over the center console of the car as your fiance just like the first time he kissed you over the center console of a car as your best friend. As Phainon. As that stupid, annoying, crybaby boy you came across when he was twelve and you were still eleven and younger by only two months, one week, and four days.)

well . i don’t rly wanna talk about it so there you have it folks. do not look at me

[darling-blurbs]

Just Acquaintances - Bob Floyd X Fem!Reader

Pairing: Robert Bob Floyd X Rival Fem!Reader

Category: Rivals To Lovers. Slight Angst. Fluff.

Summary: You knew one thing, you didn't like Bob Floyd and he didn't like you, but when you got get assigned to Top Gun, thing's begin to change. Even if you keep claiming you're just acquaintances.

Based off this ask here!

Masterlist

Warnings: Reader does wear a dress, there's a guy being an asshole at the bar and making suggestive comments about reader, Bob and reader have tension. Reader is very firey and want's to prove herself so badly. Inaccurate military knowledge. No use of Y/N. No description of readers looks.

Notes: Anon thank you so much for suggesting this! I had so much fun getting to write this, and I hope I did your ask justice. ❤️

You couldn’t even remember what your first argument was about during basic training.

It was probably something stupid. You always trying to prove your worth. You always wanted get the last word in, always wanting to succeed. And Bob Floyd always made that so much harder.

From that day forward, you knew one thing, and one thing only. You really didn’t like Bob Floyd. 

People were always shocked when you mentioned that fact. He was so polite, always a gentleman. He never raised his voice at anyone, even you. He took everything as it came, always so grounded, always so assured even if he didn’t boast about it. And it irked you like no other.

The two of you became rivals, always trying to one up the other. Something many people weren't used to seeing from Bob, always used to seeing the polite yet assured version of him. It was something all your peers tried to steer clear from when you two got into it.

You were so fiery, so sharp and always ready to take action as fast as you humanly could. You just wanted so badly to just prove yourself and you wouldn't stop at anything to do it. Bob was steadier, more grounded. He always thought things through and was more consistent with his results. You clashed constantly, or complimented each other depending on who you asked.

Your instructors always said that you brought out the best in each other, always pushing each other to the limit, testing each other like no one else quite could. You would’ve preferred peace and quiet, not new limits.

Eventually, time split the two of you apart as you got stationed to different bases and you couldn't have been more thankful. There were no goodbyes, no long hug’s, no more bickering, no more curt nods in hallways, no more pushing one another. Just orders and silence.

And maybe, just maybe, that should’ve been the end of you and Bob Floyd forever. Just a slight bookmark in one's path. But the universe seemed to have other plans. 

The moment you walked into The Hard Deck for the first time your heart sank.

There he was. The man you thought you'd never run into again.

Bob Floyd.

He looked up the same second you did, your eyes meeting. His eye’s seemingly doing a double take just as you had done a moment earlier. He gave you an unreadable stare, a distinct change from the polite smile he had while talking to the other aviators just a moment before you had walked in. 

It was the kind of look that always made you feel like he was thinking five steps ahead of you. The kind of look that made you feel like he always knew something you didn’t. The type of look you’ve missed.

“Lieutenant.” he greeted as you walked over with a curt nod of his head. You responded with a nod back, before muttering out a “Floyd.” In response.

Phoenix blinked between you two her eyes sensing the tension between you. "There's some history there.” she muttered to the rest of the aviators behind her, all watching the scene go down in front of them.

Hangman grinned widely before chuckling out “Exes?” as he nodded at the two of you.

You scoffed, while Bob seemingly choked on his drink before you muttered. “Absolutely not.”

Everyone else thought the tension was flirtatious, like it was a cat and mouse game you two had going. But you knew better, you knew that you and Bob Floyd didn’t even want to touch each other with a ten foot pole.

At least that’s what you told yourself.

Weeks had passed, you avoided him and he avoided you. It was like a truce compared to your training days. You expected this to all be over after the Uranium Mission. But then you all had gotten called into a briefing.A briefing telling you that the Dagger Squad was about to become permanent.

When the Dagger Squad became permanent, something started shifting between you and Bob Floyd. It was small things at first. He started holding the door open for you when you guys walked into the building at the same time. You stopped glaring at him when he got the final shot during trainings. He began to sit near you during lunch. You even laughed when he made a comment about Rooster's mustache.

You didn’t notice the way his eyes seemed to light up at the sound of your laugh and the sight of you throwing your head back because of something he had said.

But others began to notice, even if you didn't.

“We’re not enemies. We're just acquaintances, nothing less nothing more.” you told Natasha one night at The Hard Deck, and it was true. You don’t think you were ever enemies. Rivals, of course. But never truly enemies.

She raised her glass as she looked at you with a raised eyebrow and said “To progress, then.”

Then came the night where everything came crashing down at once.

You’d finished an absolutely brutal week of training, and you decided you just wanted to look nice and dress up for yourself. For once, you weren’t in a flight suit. Instead, you wore a cute outfit, a soft dress that you loved on yourself and how it makes you feel. You weren’t what anyone expected you to be tonight, you were just you. No flight suit, no expectations, just you wearing something that made you feel good and confident.

The Hard Deck was absolutely packed. The jukebox blared loudly and the rest of the squad besides Bob was already a few beers in. You were leaning against the bar, sipping on your drink and laughing with Fanboy when he showed up.

Some random guy in knock off aviators, with an ego so big you could feel it the moment he walked near you.

“You look like you could use company, pretty girl.” he said, sliding in to the chair next to you, way too close for comfort. You shifted your stance awkwardly trying to shuffle away from the man, politely nodding a soft smile before responding with a simple “I’m good, thank you.” before attempting to end the conversation then and there.

He ignored that entirely not taking the hint of you leaning away from him, as he leaned even closer to you his breath fanning your shoulder. “You sure? You got a smile that men would gladly go to war for sweetheart.”

You clenched your jaw your eyes darkening a bit, before trying one more time. “M’really not interested. I'd appreciate if you moved.”

And that’s when Bob appeared out of seemingly nowhere.

“You heard her” he said, his tone way too calm for the rage present in his eyes, and the way his hands where clenching into fists.

The guy scoffed with a laugh before sputtering out a “Who the hell are you? Her fucking babysitter?”

Bob stepped forward, his eye’s filled with something much stronger than anger. “I’m her squadmate. And I'm also someone who doesn’t like repeating himself, so I suggest you leave.” He said firmly, leaving no room for questions.

The dude held his hands up, walking away as he muttered something about "psychopathic aviators" and you being a bitch anyways.

The moment he was gone, you spun around to face Bob. “What the hell was that?” You exclaimed with your hands, your face morphed into something between hurt and anger. He blinked, taken aback by your intense reaction. “I was just trying-”

You cut him off

“I had it Bob, I didn’t need you stepping in like I’m fucking helpless!” You said harshly, your voice betraying you a bit as emotion seeped through.

“You didn’t look helpless” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “You looked uncomfortable, I just-”

“You embarrassed me in front of everyone, Bob.” You said loudly, your eyes welling up.

Bob looked like he’d been slapped as he saw your defeated face and welling eyes. The bar seemed to disappear from both of your ears. All that existed was the frustrated flush on your face, the tears in your eyes, and the regret already forming as you saw the way Bob’s jaw flexed.

He sighed loudly, before looking at you. “I can’t pretend anymore.”

You frowned confusing lining your features “What? What are you talking about Bob.”

“I like you” he said simply, like he didn’t just knock your breath away.

“I’ve always liked you. I just didn’t know how to act on it because we were always arguing. You’re so fucking smart and witty. You don’t take shit from anyone, but you’re one of the most kindhearted people I know, and it drives me insane knowing I've never been able to have you.” He said with a tone of voice that made it sure that you knew you couldn't argue with him on this.

You open your mouth, but no sound comes out as you stand there bewildered, your eyes glossy and wide.

“And I get it if you don’t feel the same” he said as he looked away from your confused expression. “But I wasn’t gonna stand there and let some asshole disrespect you. I couldn’t do that, you deserve so much better than an asshole like that. I know you can handle yourself, but he couldn’t get away with treating you like you were an object and not a human.”

And suddenly before you even knew it, your hands moved before your brain and you grabbed the sides of his face tilting it down toward yours.

His eyes widened just for a moment, before your lips crashed into his. It was years of tension, of stolen glances and arguing all combined into one. It was hot and aching and full of something you hadn’t even realized you needed to feel.

When you pulled back, your breath hitched as you looked at Bob, the both of you seemingly dazed. Bob laughed softly as his face still was dazed “So is that a yes?”

You smirked, wrapping your arms around his neck pulling him close again. “That’s a shut up and let's do it again, Floyd.’”

And he did. Right there, in the middle of the Hard Deck with the whole Dagger Squad watching like it was a soap opera.

Hangman whistled loudly, before shouting a “I knew that wasn’t platonic!” While Phoenix raised a shot glass with a knowing smirk on her lips and yelled. “To not being acquaintances.”

You snorted softly before leaning back in and kissing Bob one last time, feeling his hands wrap around your waist.

Maybe you were more than just acquaintances after all.

[darling-blurbs]

LEWIS PULLMAN AS ↴ JORDAN WEAVER — SKINCARE (2024)

[darling-blurbs]

Uh oh, we’re testing his patience…

...and then we made him laugh 😇💖

LEWIS PULLMAN as Todd Stevens The Line (2023) || dir. Ethan Berger

(Part Two)

[darling-blurbs]

Lewis Pullman (talking with his hands) on Movieweb

[darling-blurbs]

Please help, I neeeed to get on this man’s nerves.

LEWIS PULLMAN as Todd Stevens The Line (2023) || dir. Ethan Berger

(Prequel here)

[darling-blurbs]

[darling-blurbs]

LEWIS PULLMAN as BEN MEARS SALEM'S LOT (2024) | dir. Gary Dauberman

[darling-blurbs]

LEWIS PULLMAN as CALVIN EVANS Lessons in Chemistry (2023) 1.01

[darling-blurbs]

Amen (Hey, Men!) - G.S.

Synopsis. BIoodshed. BIoodIust. Vampires. It was no wonder you’d turn to the charming new priest in town during dark times like these…but Father Gojo seems to be interested in you in ways that are more than sinful. And there’s nothing holy about him, either.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, priest!Gojo, VAMPIRE AU, slight wild west AU, slight vioIence, reIigious themes, mentions of déath, slightly eerie, small town gossip, first times, oraI (fem rec.), he goes FÉRAL, fíngering, bíting, spítting, p sIapping, PÚSSYDRÚNK GOJO, mentioned bIood, matíng presses, size kínk, breaking furniture, D slipping, manhandIing, he’s BIG, tummy buIges, D piercing, dúmbifícation, squírting, marathons, fated ones, matíng marks, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 12.0k

A/N. Tysmmm to the babygirls that voted on this poll <3

“H-help-” Words tremble weakly from your throat, drowning underneath the wailing wind. The storm was furious; forming iron walls of rain that blocked every dusty road and lane of your idle country town. “Please help-”

And your escape.

You thought you knew better than to trust the rumor mill. A few murmurs here, a hasty funeral with a closed casket there, and then two more exactly the same. It had everyone - from haunted elders at the local pub, to children on the playground - uttering only one word.

Vampire. 

And then, you’d seen it- him. 

Just the thought itself is enough to send your aching legs surging towards the nearest, faint yellow light on the midnight street. Safety. “H-he’s comin’ for me- please-” 

Terrified to even turn your back, you race to bang your fists against the oak doorway of the building. For fear of seeing those eyes again - two glowing sapphires piercing at you from the dark. “He’s here-” Cold. Just like-

“Going somewhere, my angel?”

Lightning crashes against the sky. And you crash into his arms. 

Staring right into the blue, blue eyes of Gojo Satoru.

Who else could it be? 

That warm, handsome priest your age who’d taken it upon himself to renovate the dilapidated ol’ church of your town. It’d been forgotten for ages - and with it, the fear for what came after you were no longer upon this Earth.

Now you had both the recent string of deaths and Father Gojo to remind you.

And oh, were you reminded - it was hard to miss him. Especially in a town so small. 

Golden cross always swinging in the middle of his dark black cassock, Bible always in large hands that you couldn’t look away from.

Perhaps it was sacrilegious, perhaps it was fleeting fancy- because there always was much to see. 

From the broad shoulders filling out his holy robes, to the slight dimples that cratered his pale cheeks any time he grinned - at least you weren’t alone with your admiration. For it had only been a few weeks since Gojo had arrived, as quietly as if he’d simply parted the heavens and set foot here, and he was already starring in as much of your town’s gossip as the myth of the vampire was.

Well, a myth no longer, you’re realizing. And it’s enough to make your shivering fingertips clench-

Onto…a firm arm? 

You blink, looking up only now to register that it wasn’t just any arm - it was Gojo’s arms. Heated. Strong. Around you. 

The only thing holding your weight up right now, as your weakened legs made themselves useless. 

And Gojo himself was peering down at you through his long, pale lashes. Close. Close enough that your wet-streaked cheeks bristle at his scorching breath, “My, you look like you’ve been face to face with the Reaper himself, beloved.” His rosy lips curl at the ends, slightly. “Or…worse.”

That makes you gasp- fighting in his grasp, you snap your head over your shoulder and stare into the darkness behind you. Just hoping it won’t stare back. “It- he- was f-following me- kept after me, wouldn’t let up-”

“Pardon?”

“The- the vampire!”

His eyes seem to flicker in the dim lighting, and Gojo speaks not a word. Just lets out what sounds like a short, sharp gasp- before tucking you deeper into his embrace. 

And it would almost be scandalous, you knew. If it wasn’t for the rain then one of the neighbours might have peeked their head out, and by tomorrow afternoon the entire town would be ablaze with the news of the priest holding a rain-drenched woman outside the church itself.

But Gojo didn’t care if anyone would see, it seems.

Because he only tugs you tighter against his tense core once he feels you struggling, “There there, my angel. It must have been quite the fright, the Lord has surely tested your courage.”

“Oh, it was downright terrifying. One moment I was closing up my stall- ready to walk back home tonight, and the next thing I know I hear the crunch of a twig.” 

Close. “Interesting.”

“He towered over me like a mountain- and just as cold. I-I think he was gunning for my blood next-”

Closer. “Real interesting.” So close that you could count each spike of grey in his irises, and every vibrato in his baritone voice. “No harm shall come to you whilst these holy walls and I stand, my darling. He shan’t lay a hand on you.” And then Gojo smiles, crooked and gleaming in the glowing candles from behind him. “Not a single hand.”

You seem to breathe out, for the first time in what feels like years. Simply held. 

Simply ignoring the coil of something deep down in your stomach- you busy yourself with the frigid dig of something hard against your back, where his hands glided up n’ down soothingly. Like the corner of a book-

“Oh, heavens. I have forgotten myself.” Gojo starts, noticing the most minute shiver that runs down your spine. 

In a singular, fluid motion, he’s breaking away to shut the heavy wooden doors and usher you inside- so fast that you half-heartedly wonder whether it may be spellwork. “Please, come in. Soak up some warmth in my office.”

“Th-thank you, Father.”

“Please. Call me by name.”

And you can’t help but follow.

Noticing the small, tattered book that was clutched in one of his hands - ah, that was what you’d been feeling on your skin. Guiltily, you think you must have interrupted him during his reading time…

As Gojo turns his back on you to lead you down the long, candle-lit hallway of the church, you can’t help but narrow your eyes at the tiny book swinging by his side. It didn’t look like his usual Bible-

“Ah, here.” You’re looking up to see Gojo dip his lengthy fingers into a side pocket within his dark robes. Almost melding with the shadows of the candles, it’s as if he’s pulling a long, stringed rosary from thin air. “Take my rosary. Let your faith guard you when I cannot, beloved.”

“O-oh, thank you again, Father-”

His dimple winks, “Satoru.”

“Right…” You couldn’t bring yourself to say it, even as he probes you with half-lidded eyes to do so. Instead, busying yourself by tugging on the incense-scented necklace, it weighs light ‘round your neck. And you can’t help but run your fingers over each bead- “I won’t forget this.” 

And the very second your eyes flit up- you see him, Bible grasped in his hand like it always had been.

Strange, you quiver your head slightly, tonight must have shaken you up more than you thought for you to be seeing things that weren’t there.

Though, it should’ve been expected with how disorientingly massive the interior of the church was. Much too immense for such a town. You didn’t remember it being this grand before Gojo had arrived- far arches of the ceiling peered in with gargoyles, high stone walls carved with faint effigies. 

Ahead of you, the pews were polished enough to act as mirrors. And as you turned left past the high place of worship down a corridor towards his office, you couldn’t help but feel like the building was swallowing you whole. 

“Something the matter, my angel?” Gojo’s voice breaks through the cold silence, back still turned. “Still troubled by what the Lord has shown you?”

Clutching the delicate rosary, “It- it’s just…it wasn’t the vampire that spooked me.” You twist, and so does the string of beads in your hands. “But those eyes?” 

“Yes–?”

“Hell rode in ‘em.”

The clap of thunder, the clash of dry prayer beads on polished stone.

It’s as if each degree of warmth bled by the candles blows out in a single gale of wind the very moment you say this. 

Boring into your very soul, Gojo’s pale eyes are almost other-wordly as he turns. “Worry not, for no monster can enter through these holy walls, beloved.” Chuckling, and the rolling spheroids of his now-shattered rosary sing as he steps past them. 

A tall, shadowed figure leading you into the dark.

“Except humans, of course.”

.

.

.

“Sugar-–! The finest sugar from the East-”

“Boots half-off–!”

“-get yerself velvet-”

The market was always alive, despite everything. A bustling, breathing thing lined with snug stalls upon either side of a dust-track road. And you were stationed at your fruit stall, as usual, as if you hadn’t damn near been the lucky fourth on a long list of closed caskets. 

Shuddering, your fingers tighten on the wooden panel where you’d lined your plethora of fruits. 

Eyes darting towards the melting yolk sun warming your skin- right, it was still light out. The elders whispered that vampires feared the day - and so you were safe. For now. You had to make sure to pack up as soon as the others did, no more idling around tonight.

“My my, isn’t that Father Gojo- oh, what a sight for sore eyes he is.” Your head turns at the coo of the bookseller’s young daughter, Miwa, her stall right next to yours.

And it didn’t take long for you to see what she was talking about- not long at all for you to nearly want to fluster, too. 

Because there was Gojo Satoru - even in the distance, he was two heads taller than anyone else. With his stark ivory locks catching the daylight, tight cassock snug against his waist and fluttering ever-so-slightly as he weaved through the flea market, the calling pedlars. 

“Oh, Father Gojo- I hear he built that dingy ol’ church right up with his bare hands-”

“I know he’s gotten nearly twenty-seven proposals by the wealthiest families, but guess what? Rejected ‘em all!”

“And that purity ring, oh, a true man of the holy script. Why, forget their daughters, I would have proposed myself- oh, but don’t tell my husband.”

The whispers made you squirm for some strange reason. It was a hasty retreat from the church last night after a brief bout of warming tea in his office, lest someone caught you and thought something else. And you didn’t expect to see him so soon; least of all have his fiery blue eyes waft through each shabby stall as if he was drinking them in. 

So close. Close enough that you couldn’t help but let out an dragged-out sigh-

“Oi. Oi! You deaf or somethin’- fuck’s sake.” 

Oh. Shit.

“M-my apologies, sir-” You’re gasping, snapping your head to the front of your fruit display to find that you’d attracted the attention of none other than Zenin Naoya, sole heir of the house of Zenin merchants. As if your day couldn’t have been any more eventful.

Well, as long as he was a paying customer. Plastering a plastic smile across your face, you gesture towards the ripe red pomegranate held in his grip. “Want me to tally that up?”

Scoffing, “No not after that shoddy customer service. It’d be the last time I spend a dime in this dump.” He tilts his head defiantly, “What’s got yer eyes so occupied anyways-”

“Nothing-”

“Hehhh–?” And you’re appalled to see the way Naoya’s smile curls as he swivels his head the same direction you were looking in - one that half the market was surely turned to admire at this point.

The sight of priest Gojo Satoru bent in playful conversation with a little child, beaming. 

“Sweet on that damn preacher, huh? Isn’t it a sin to watch him that close, sweetcheeks?”

You bristle, “I beg you not to say another blasphemous word-”

“Oh, I bet the gossips at the general store’d eat this little turn of events right up.” Naoya titters, pomegranate now rhythmically thrown up n’ down into the air to be caught. “Small town like this? News like that won’t stay quiet for long. Real shame, huh?”

Only one word and it wouldn’t just be you paying the price, it would be poor, undeserving Father Gojo as well. You stay quiet. You can only stay quiet. 

More so to stop from snatching that pomegranate and slamming it straight into his sneering face. 

But Naoya takes that as an opportunity to lean in- to let his tobacco scent cloud all over your face as he grumbles. “Unless, maybe you care to keep me company for one ni-”

“My darling, pray tell, did you know that the Greeks figured the pomegranate to be symbols of abundance and fertility?” A smooth, simpering voice cuts in- and so does a slender hand that stretches its pale fingertips to clasp the pomegranate in Naoya’s palm.

What? You’re blinking at rapid-fire speed, looking from the familiar newcomer to where you’d just been staring seconds prior - how was he here? So quickly? All of a sudden? 

And Gojo doesn’t even let out a pant of fatigue as if he’d been running, only curving his lips into an icy smile down at the other man. “The Lord speaks through consumption. Planning to expand the family, mister Naoya?”

“I- you-” Naoya strangles out, he jabs. A finger right into the smiling face of Gojo, and then into the space between you two. “My ol’ man shall hear of this. See how holy you really are when you’re-”

Gojo grins, leaning down from his towering height as if he was speaking to a child. “He shall be welcome to find me. Sermons are on Sundays.”

“Tch-” 

With one last glower, and a few more muttered words underneath his breath, you can only watch in speechless amusement as the seething man promptly turns his back and saunters away. Fast. Furious. 

“You have saved me yet again.” You’re breathing out in relief, finally raising your head to look up and oh- did he look absolutely magnetic bathed in the blood-orange light of the setting sun. “How can I ever repay you?”

“I do beg your pardon, to defend your holy honor is the least I can do, beloved.” And you don’t know where to look - the dimples decorating Gojo’s cheeky grin, or the peripheral vision of Miwa beside you mouthing ‘beloved’ in shock. 

But Gojo always does steal your attention away in the end, and the buzzing marketplace rings with the snap–! of his bare, neat nails cracking open the outer rind of the pomegranate. 

Letting thin trails of crimson run down his wrist like blood, “I was not jesting about the Greeks and their belief of fertility.” You gulp as his pinkish tongue darts out just teasingly to run down a stray droplet of juice before it inched too close to his long sleeves. “Try it, my angel.”

Before you can say a word, one hand tucks his Bible, and the other holds a clump of bright, beaded pomegranate to your quivering lips. 

And you swear you hear the bookseller gasp! when you gingerly take it into your mouth. Humming at the explosion of sweet, saccharine syrup. “I can see why- about the Greeks, I mean. Now, if only that snake Mahito didn’t swindle me of the price each time.”

“Hm, is that so?” He huffs out slightly deep laughter, sharing more fruit. “But this was no idle trip to the market today. Truth be told, I came, with earnest heart, to see you.”

“M-me?”

Unaware of the restlessness he’s seeping through your very veins, Gojo tucks a free hand between his Bible and pulls out a long, now-fixed rosary. The very same one you’d accidentally torn apart just the night before-

“It was to give you this.”

Your ears burn with the hushed, pointed whispers of the market as he reverently puts the necklace ‘round your neck. And the cold flowers of the pearly chain nearly sizzle against your skin. “O-oh, thank you, Father-”

“Satoru.” Gojo smiles. He nods. 

He reaches over to hold one of your clasping hands, pressing his mouth against your pomegranate-stained fingertips. In an instant. Red, red juice drips from the ends of your digits and stains his lips scarlet - almost in a kiss.

Oh.

He taps the nearby book stall in goodbye, “Until next time, my darling. Have a blessed day.”

With that - and nothing more - as swiftly, and as quietly as he’d arrived, Gojo Satoru was disappearing back into the thronged crowd. Cross on his chest, Bible in hand.

And you barely register the giddy whispers of Miwa- all but gripping your shoulders and jostling you back and forth at the excitement of coming across the most scandalous piece of gossip to hit this town since the vampires. 

Hissing feverishly, “-way he cast his eyes upon you and- and how long has this been going on?”

“I uh-” At this point she was shaking you, much to the amusement of passersby. Monotone, “Don’t you have your mother’s stall to run, kid- oh.”

And something catches your eye, something tattered. Something blue. 

Something that you swear looked exactly like that old book Gojo had for but a mere split-second in his arms last night. Neatly piled at the top of Miwa’s column of novels on sale. And you can’t stop yourself from pointing, “Hey, what’s the price of that book?”

“Oh? Hm…” Picking it up, she scrunches her eyes in thought. “I don’t remember such a book being here, least of all in this condition- my momma would’ve skinned me alive.” Then, suddenly she perks up. “Tell ya what- you tell me more on wha’s happening between you and Father Gojo and I’ll give you this here thing for free.”

.

.

.

There wasn’t much that one could do during a monsoon rain, and raindrops fall heavy on the roof of your cozy lil’ home. Making the wooden structure creak and sing you to relaxation as you tried to take your mind off of what happened when night arrives.

Who arrives, as night does.

“I’m starting to spook my own self.” You’re notching up your oil lamp to flare up even brighter; so long as you had this, no vampire would set his clutches on you. 

Sighing, you search for a distraction in your gunnysack bags from the marketplace. Leftover fruits still good, a stray few hairpins, and oh- 

A soft gasp leaves your mouth as you find it - that small, blue book you’d bought just a few days ago, not having had the time to read through just yet. No author. No date. Yet, you look over the faded gold print of the cover, “‘Scripture of Shadows’, huh?”

Satisfied, you drag your armchair to where your oil lamp sat sleepily on a windowsill, and start to read by flickering fire light. 

‘Prologue: On Creatures That Walk Among Us. 

For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against. —Ephesians 6:12

In the years of my ministerial labors, I have come to learn that one may never truly know what walks alongside you. There are creatures in every shadow you look - though you may not see. 

Out past the edge of God’s hand, these things are borne of hunger and sin - they may be cursed, fallen, or bound to their flesh cruth; salvaged only by thirst that no godly mortal can explain. I have seen them, spirits of ruin that massacre entire herds and weep alongside the shepherd in the waking morn’. 

Yes, dear reader, they may take shapes you belove—wolf, woman, child, lover. And above them all, vampires-’

The flash of lightning, the grumble of thunder- you’re jumping in your seat and nearly slamming the heavy tome shut with a yelp. Wide-eyed, you take a hasty glance through the window, feeling your skin blanket in skittering goosebumps. 

“Dear gods-” Breathless, you’re flipping through a few more pages on vampires and other such entities to settle on a random chapter. 

‘Chapter Four: The Myth of the Vampyre.’

Heavens, why was this always following you like so? And what was Father Gojo doing reading up on such a thing- skipping a few paragraphs and scriptures, you continue reading in honed silence.

‘Perhaps the most cunning of demonic creatures. Not truly dead, nor truly alive, the vampyre boasts the most fearful humanly power of all—beauty. Indeed, they possess much more; overwhelming strength, teeth to kill, speed to hunt. And yet, I have seen more mortals fall victim to the enticing nature of the vampyre than any other creature.’

Perhaps it was the topics taled in the book, perhaps it was the raging storm outside, but you can’t help but squirm restlessly in your seat as you feel oddly…watched. 

‘Let this scripture stand, then, not as idle fancy, but as a caution towards the charismature essence of the vampyre. With this, most hold positions of great authority. Infiltrating even the most tight-knit towns with ease - among them, mayors, teachers, merchants, and mostly-’

Someone was watching you. 

You stare up at the empty, pitch-black square of your window. And then back down past a few paragraphs-

‘But fear not, dear reader, though they cross realms of living and shadow, the vampyre has one confirmed flaw - not sunlight, nor garlic, as tales claim. It is barred from thresholds unbidden, for only when an invitation is offered, may the creature enter. And Revelation 3:20–’

You look up.

The empty window.

The full book.

‘Take care to hold forth the crucifix and be not deceived by beauty or charm. But be cautioned, god-fearing reader, even vampyres have tales of legends. Those of their kind so infamous-’

The empty window.

The full book.

‘-that we hear merely brief whispers of his name, one so vicious and almighty that even vampyres dare not evoke His anger.’

The empty window.

‘An omniscient being amongst even creatures of the shadows, his name-’

A flash of blue-

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

You gasp. 

Urgently, you drop the book and hurry to the ramming fist at your door, more to get away from its words than anything else. 

KNOCK! KNOCK!

“C-coming–!”

Your rickety front door creaks as you swing it open, immediately struck with the light of the storm and the icy breath of rain. Wincing against the droplets of water that hit your face, you can just barely make out the flicker of blue, blue eyes. 

Gojo tips his hat to you solemnly, “I pray I’m not disturbing you, my angel.” His deep voice rings out, curiously above even the howl of the wind, and his pretty face simply looks haunted. “Forgive the haste, but I came straight away- there’s been another attack.”

Out of breath, “A-another vampire attack?”

“We fear so, ranch hand Mahito this time. Neck punctured, eyes white- God have mercy on us.” He shakes his head, “The town’s congregatin’ for a special Mass tomorrow, I would like it if you were to join us together to pray for the four lost souls.”

“Of course of course.” You’re taking in the layers of water that soak through Gojo’s dark robes, skin-tight over his heaving chest. Opening your door wider invitingly, “Please, come on in. Oh, you’re just drenched.”

And he opens his eyes just a tad wider, he curls his lips just a slight further. 

“I fear I cannot, beloved. So many more houses to alert.”

Gawking at yet another clap of lightning- “In this storm?”

And you have no idea how he can just smile like that during dark times like these. The pearly whites of his canines wafting near the shell of your ear as Gojo leans in- whispering. “Worried for me?” 

He takes a step, his rain-soaked clothes chill your skin as he inches forwards. Then another step, trying to listen in for your breaths. Your lack of an answer. “You should be worried. Though, not for me.”

Lashes fluttering, “Wh-what do you…”

“Be careful, my angel.” And your collarbones turn humid with the steam of his breath, the way he’s moving his ajar maw down. “You’d do well not to open the door for strangers. Lest you wish to invite…” Down, down, down—“-a vampire.”

You wait - gasps stuttered, fists clenching once he takes a step past your doorway. Just a singular, miniscule step-

Only to brush off something invisible from your shoulder, touch warm on your skin.

“I bid you a goodnight, my darling. Rest well.”

And with that Father Gojo was gone, and so was any wink of sleep that very night. Or any memory of that book, now laying as open and untouched as it had been left on the floor. 

.

.

.

“I ask you not to give into fear- neither anger, nor isolation. Solely to the word of God.” Gojo’s fervent voice sing-songs over the numerous pews. Hands waving, feet stepping. “And I ask you to watch over your kin, pray over those lost, and keep your lamps lit with the faith that He watches.”

It was impossible to tear your eyes off of him.

And you’re sure that the elderly lady seated right beside you was drenching her fifth handkerchief in tears already.

“Trust in me, as I trust in Him. For even in the darkest night, there is still light to be found. For no creature can snuff out the soul of one who believes…”

As you’re nodding, you can’t help but feel that familiar sensation of eyes burning into you. Though, softer than last night- less…frightening. Darting your line of sight behind you to catch Naoya assessing you- and you couldn’t snap your head back faster. 

Instead, catching Gojo’s own twinkling eyes as he finishes his sermon. 

“And who is a vampire to Him? Go forth, and may the Lord be with you. Amen.”

There’s a rush after concluding rites, a crowd forming around Gojo before he can take even a step from the polished pulpit. And just as you close your books to stand from your seat yourself, ready to head home- something tugs on your wrist.

“Oi- I still have a bone to pick with you, missy.”

Or more…someone.

“Naoya.” You’re deadpanning, snatching your wrist free to stare him down with a glare that was utterly not suited for the place you were in right now. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He spears his index your way, “Don’t you go thinking that I’ve forgotten ‘bout you and that tch- preacher.”

Standing your own, you sneak glances at the thinning crowd and just pray they won’t give this little quarrel an ear. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“Telling me nothing’s happened, sweetcheeks?” Naoya huffs, “I heard you talkin’ with that sobbing hag- saying how he invited you personally for today’s sermon.”

“Why, yes. What seems to be the problem?”

“You think he went knockin’ on any of our doors at the dead of night?”

Your brows furrow, wouldn’t he have? After all, it was what he said.

“But, of course, he’s gonna invite you personally. The day right there by the fruit stall? The way he was undressing you with his eyes today—I wouldn’t be a darn bit surprised if he’s laid with a shameless woman like you already-”

“And if that is so? Jealous?”

Naoya gasps, and so do about fifteen of the nosy townsfolk lingering by the pews. 

Wincing as Naoya’s grating voice threatens to speak once more–

“Mind your tongue, mister Naoya.” A steady hand claps down on the shorter man’s shoulder, and this silvery bangs flick towards the interruption of the one and only priest. “We stand on hallowed ground.”

Just as he turns his fury towards Gojo instead, his palm squeezes where it lay- hard enough that you can hear the faint pop! of something emanating from the contact. And before he can say any further, Gojo tilts his head down to whisper something in Naoya’s ear.

Something that has him pale. Trembling. And rushing out of the church faster than you can even blink. 

As Gojo smiles at the rest of your company in a polite dismissal, you’re fighting back an awed whistle from your throat. “Pardon my language but-” Eyes steady on his rapidly retreating figure, shoving past each attendee misfortunate enough to cross his path. “-what in blazes did you say to him, Father-”

“Satoru.”

You grin, “Gojo.”

“And ah, I only spoke the truth- that this was God’s sanctuary.” He tilts his head with a beam, though, there’s something about it that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “And perhaps something of his father…”

“You’re the devil.”

“Quite the opposite.” Never one to care for gossip, Gojo wastes not a second leaning down till his breath wafted your cheeks. Snowy brows pinched into one of regret, “That reminds me, do forgive my intrusion last night, beloved, I pray I didn’t come at a bad time.”

You flail your hands in disagreement, “Oh, heavens no-” In fact, the eerie book rested upon your bookshelf, and you couldn’t have asked for a more welcome interruption. “I was just…reading a book, you see.” 

“So you say.”

Carefully watching for his reaction, “Called um- ‘Scripture of Shadows.’”

And if you expected him to gasp- if you expected Gojo to even blink at the familiar title, then he doesn’t give you the satisfaction. Only nodding his head in deep understanding, “Anything interesting in that book, my angel?”

“Only fearful.”

He jests, “Then you should devote those eyes to the Lord.” 

You grip your rosary, “I shall do both.”

“Good.” The call of Gojo’s names for blessings and prayers were often, and he nods his head towards a group beckoning him over. As he turns to walk away–“Chapter six is particularly fascinating…and I have plans to reread it tonight.” He whispers, just barely audible over the sound of footsteps on the hardwood holy floor. “My door is always open for you, my darling.”

Oh.

.

.

.

Step.

Step.

Step.

“Hello?”

You didn’t know whether it was the darkness or the taboo in what you were doing that had your footsteps rattling in noisy unison with your heartbeat. 

It was dark - dark enough outside that the neighbors wouldn’t be able to make out your flickering oil lamp through the blanket of the night. Light in one hand, your book in the other, you let yourself slip through the unlocked gates of the church, making your way down the winding hallway that you knew led to Father Gojo’s office. 

Though, it was not the church like you’d ever known it.

And you’d known it crumbling from the walls, you’d known it manifested into something grand - but never so…chilling. 

Each candle was snuffed out, puffing out ghosts of smoke that curled up in the high hallway. Clinging onto your shivering shoulders and making you flinch at each miniscule noise in the distance- “Father Gojo? Are you present toni- mmpf.” 

Your mouth gapes, aghast, nose wrinkling when it felt like you’d just been run over by a carriage. But, it wasn’t a carriage at all - it was a thick, metallic scent that permeated the frigid air and made you stop straight in your tracks.

Hand coming up to cup your mouth, “What is that godforsaken smell?” 

Step. 

Step. 

And it only gets thicker. More relentless. 

Soon enough you’re fully closing your tingling nostrils with your palm and hopelessly praying that it was only a passing perfume. For this wasn’t just the tinge of metal you might smell as you pass the time piece-maker, rather, it was heavy. Slightly sweet. 

Step. 

The one you’d smell on the butcher.

Iron. 

Your eyes widen- blood.

Gojo. 

Running. 

All but sprinting, you’re staggering further down the hallway to where you’d remembered were his quarters. Following the faint memory of his candlelit office, fear laces its frosty grip ‘round your heart as you call out. “F-father Go- oh!”

And it seems you’d forgotten that light reveals more in the shadows than you might want to see.

Red.

Red, red pools paint the grey stone of the church in a bloody mosaic. 

You gasp, body running a few steps backwards on pure instinct at the pale hand sinking into the blood like a desolate ship. Mindlessly, the hand holding your oil lamp jerks over to reveal pale, silvery bangs peeking out from the crimson puddle.

Your heart races- was this. No. Stepping tentatively closer, your mouth drops as once you spy a few stray strands of deep, two-toned black. Naoya. 

“Bitter.”

Slowly…achingly…your quivering oil lamp raises up to the darkness behind Naoya’s corpse. And there you see it - two bright, harrowing eyes of azure blue that bored into your very soul from beyond. 

His eyes. 

Just a flash of those, a mere single glimpse is all that you’re given before the light crashes down to the ground, and you’re both plunged into darkness.

Both you and Gojo Satoru.

Who shoves you against the nearest wall with such inhuman speed, so fast that you don’t even have the time to register it, register your rosary breaking.

One hand slamming down on the rocky wall above you, hard enough to make it crater an outline of his five fingers. The other cupping your cheek gently- almost gingerly, as if afraid to use his true strength with you. 

“Five bodies.” He rasps, and in the grimy lighting you can see two elongated glints of his canines, “Five bodies. All five of them bitter, but you, my darling…”

Before you can even take a closer look, he’s stuffing his face into the thrumming skin at the crook of your neck and drinking in a deeeeep inhale. A sigh. A groan.

“-I would kill for but a taste.”

And he already has, you’re realizing. 

You stammer, staring up into his pale, stoic face - looking at him properly now. 

From the sharp fangs poking through his rosy lips, to the beauty that was so incredible that it was other-worldly. He had a trail of dark red blood staining one side of his maw, a few droplets spattered onto the whites of his roman collar. 

“Y-you’re-”

“Say it.”

“You’re a vampire.”

Whimpering at the ice-cold breath that haunts your flesh, your pulse. “And you’re a delicacy.” He’s enveloping all of you, as if you were ripe for the picking- and you can feel the way your thighs tremble when Gojo’s pushing himself harder against your body. He’s holding you. 

Cassock rubbin’ your front, your book falling, golden cross startling.

Gojo raises his refined nose into the air just once to sniff, before the most simpering tone bleeds into his voice. “How adorable.” 

“Wh-what you- oh!” 

It seems you can’t help but fail in catching your breath whenever he’s around, even though it might just be your last. And Gojo slithers out his long, pinkish tongue to sliiiide down your racing pulse - wet and hot on your flesh, he’s tasting you. Savoring you. Enough to make something instantly hard n’ raw tug through the layers of his holy robe. 

One that he ruts between your legs-

Gojo tilts your face up by your jaw, nailmarks dotting your chin. He gives you a sensual peck, “Let me show you what true carnal pleasures are, little human.”

Maybe you’re nodding, maybe you’re simply gasping at the shock of his touch and bucking your hips up wildly - because that’s all it takes.

All that it takes for Gojo to scoop your weakened knees underneath a singular arm and turn- almost as soon as he did, you’re blinking your eyes to stare up at the ornate ceiling of the priest’s quarters. 

Right now you’re laid out across the large, cushioned couch in the middle of his room. Legs sprawled out embarrassingly, dress hiked high up to your knees where Gojo had kneeled himself on the floor in front of you.

Speed to hunt, the book had said. 

The very same book that he was now twirling between two pinched fingers and humming idly, “My my, it seems that you haven’t even read chapter four properly, my darling. Going against holy orders? Now, how should we rectify that, hm?”

Fingers itching for the hem of your skirts, “P-please-”

“Oh, the Lord has spoken to me.” Gojo gasps, suddenly, as if he’d just come to an epiphany. And his smile is simply sinful, sapphire eyes glowing- the very same ones you’d seen that night. “Bend.”

“Wha- hey!” 

In a nanosecond, he’s manhandling you like a puppet. Making you crawl onto your knees with your front plastered against the high seat of the couch. Arched directly in front of his salivating maw-

“This shan’t work if your heart didn’t will it, my angel.” Gojo muses, shit, how gorgeous you looked like this. Bent and ready for him. He doesn’t even have to make use of his inhuman eyesight to locate that pretty damp spot blotchily drenching through your dress.

You were so wet that all he had to do was lean his nose closer and sniff to drink in that sweet, heavenly scent of you. “Oh.” Gojo’s sharp nails tug on the hem of your thin dress, “Oh.”

Rip-rip-riiiiip—!

Every inch of your clothing melts like butter underneath his power, and the only thing you can do is whimper as you lay your spine arched. Thin panties the only thing you had on underneath during this humid night. 

“Fuck.”

It’s the last thing you hear before Gojo’s lengthy tongue probes at your sheeny inner thighs and laps up- not your drooling, puffy core where you’d needed him the most.

But instead the slight cut that had grazed your heated flesh as he tore off your dress- Gojo moans the instant your taste hits his tongue. Red-hot. 

Not even having to breathe, but his pants were labored, “Fuck.” The sloppy drag of his moistened muscle lets out the most sinful slurp when he’s licking and licking before nothing else is left of your crimson. And then he’s inching his tastebuds up your thighs. He wanted more. Needed it this very instant, all the patience of these immortal years and it wouldn’t be enough. Not even caring for your paper-thin panties, “Fuck-”

Hastily stuffing the quivering orifice of your puffy with his fat girth- before scoffing at the complete n’ utter tightness that wouldn’t let him go completely in. “Pure as a dove, aren’t you, beloved?”

“I-I’ve never…” Tearfully mewling at the burning streeeetch, Gojo’s tongue was just so massive that even the slightest probe inside made your head loopy. “Never done…this.”

The only thing he does is spank a hand down at the edge of your spine to make you bend even further- “Then show me how devoted you are.” Straight into his mouth. Straight into a pert, pretty target for him to spit. Thick, globular, and wet. “Show it to me, my darling.”

And it’s maddening how it’s the last thing that Gojo can get out before he flicks his sizzling tongue through your undergarments to taste down your slit. Letting the slippery wads of your slick fill up his tastebuds and make him groan-

You gawk over your shoulder when his eyes only dilate, sharp fangs growing even sharper. “Show-”

With a hand groping the left of your ass cheeks, he’s tuggin’ you all back to him with an inhuman strength that makes you keen. 

That makes his metallic crucifix press against the backs of your thighs. Fanged lips hovering over your outer pussy as he wetly nuzzles aside your panties to slip his tongue past-

You buck, “Sh-shit, Gojo-”

“Oh.” He’s shuddering at the act of you bucking up stupidly, chasing the temperate French kiss of his mean mouth. Giving him even more of a taste that he just can’t take it- 

“Dear heavenly father, I thank you for this meal.”

And then it all happens at once- your soggy panties are torn off you in a split-second, Gojo’s mouth replacing it even more rapidly. 

Bent over the chair, he’s eating out your saccharine sweet pussy like a beast starved.

He glues his upper lip against the swollen nub of your clit and you whine at the sharp sting of Gojo’s fangs digging right up against your bundle of nerves. Sucking. Tasting. Until his cheeks are all hollowed out with the friction of his suckling and he’s still forcing himself deeper into your pussy for more.

“Oh g- fuck.” Head throwing back stupidly, his nose nudges against the very tip-top of your treacly cunt. “It feels so, so good-”

“A meal this exquisite- never in my s-six hundred years.” He’s muttering between the swollen folds of your pussy, lining your slippery slit with the long line of his nosebridge. 

So messy. Gojo snickers in lewd amusement at the way you’re rolling your hips back to ride n’ slide his nose. He’s rovering his mouth everywhere, glassy eyes half-lidded until he’s simply moving in pure primal instinct to slap the curl of his long, lecherous tongue by the edge of your dampened hole.

Tugging the rubbery circle of it just enough to make you whimper, he circles out soppy patterns that stretch out your cunt. Back and forth back and forth until your limbs weaken. “Have you just finished your monthly dues, my angel?”

You’re gripping onto the wooden headboard of the chair for sweet relief, “Y-yes?”

“That explains it.” And then he nuzzles in nose-deep and even deeper into your drivelling pussy, up n’ down to latch onto your clit and bite. “The next time, you tell me first. I know exactly how to…”

Murmured straight into your hot pussy, mouth departing such a guttural groan as he feels your sap splash down with a noisy squelch. Alllll down his pointed chin and where he’s creepin’ up one of his free hands to caress your glossy outer pussy. “-help.” 

Squealing, you’re feeling just the thick crown of his index poke your cunt. “A-are you putting your ngh- fingers in?”

“I said I shan’t lay a hand on you.” And just then, the doughy palm of his second palm pushes your legs wide apart, not nearly enough to distract you from the flick of his flexible tongue and the way he smooches your filthy hole with yet another cushy fingerpad. “I shall lay two.”

And then you’re seeing raw white in your vision, the feeling of Gojo pushin’ his two ringed fingers past your first tight ring of muscle too much to bear.

Thick enough that you’re struggling to squeeze him inside- “Fuck back t’me- fuck back-”

“L-like this?”

He’s matching your sluggishly sensual pace, nose wrinkling sinfully at the velvety texture of your insides. Gojo’s cross necklace swats your thighs with each constant lurch of his head, crooning out. “Yes- yes. Oh, hell.”

He scrapes the mushy roof of your walls with his deep black purity ring, the cold material thrusting into your most sweetest spots and making him grin. “This is devotion, beloved.”

“Y-you’re just so big- nghhhh–” Your moans strike against the wide chamber and echo all across the building. Hips rutting back to feel his prolonged digits all the way down to the mountains of his knobbly knuckles, “Why are your fingers so big?”

“Only to please you, my darling.” And oh- oh, it was such a tight fit. 

Gojo can’t help but salivate the slimy tip of his tongue down your silvery slit and fucking pry your pussylips apart to let your snug channel take him deeper. Harder. Faster. The roaming shapes of his long, long digits scissor just so that he can stir apart your gluey walls and let you gush out slick.

Licking his way inside while he’s pushing into each nook n’ cranny- hitting down all the way to the base ends of his digits with a right thwack! 

“And you’re just so- ngh- looong—”

“Only to find-” Oh, you didn’t forget about those eyes of his, did you? Because right after he’s letting off a murky gust of those syllables, Gojo’s eyes glow- his fingers hammer - exactly into the bulging area of your g-spot. He’s seeing right through you. “-this sweet thing better, my darling.”

And then it’s absolutely driving you crazy- Gojo’s fingers are just so incredibly rude, swatting a furious back and forth. Thrash-thrash-thrash, determinedly perking up his fingerpads to push his purity ring against your g-spot and watch as you cutely flinch. 

“You’re so- oh- oh my god-” Making each scrape against your sweet spots so sensitive, pump after pump.

“I prefer…Satoru.”

He’s letting out a husky snicker each time he’s plunging into the deepest of your melty depths. Maw now gaping widely ajar to scoop up every glittery ribbon of slick that trickled from between your folds. He’s hungry- thirsting like a vampire parched for six hundred years n’ now he can only gulp in the first meal of his lifetime - you.

You’re bending your pussy to slope down against his mouth and he has the audacity to give you a sweet, puckered smooch. Innocent. “C’mon say it- pray.”

“Please-”

“Not what I asked, beloved.”

Your throat rips with such a carnal shrill at the pudgy crown of his third finger desperately trying to find a way in. Pushing- pap! pap! pap! “Pleeeease- ngh- Satoru. Satoru, fuck-”

SPANK! 

Such glistening beads of pearly slap stream n’ gush all down the front of Gojo’s bobbing throat the very moment he swats his plush palm down across your cunt. “Profanity is a desecration of the church, my angel.” 

Another spank. Another splurging squelch of your pussy talking out in leaks of your sweet, sweet juices. And Gojo only nods along as if in conversation, “How wonderful of you to volunteer to read chapter six in repentance-” Some invisible force of his powers is guiding your familiar shadowy book to your hands. “-and recite it in perfect condition, too.”

“But-”

“Perfect-” Just as a third finger spears its way between your slick-glazed pussylips and finds itself mazing down your walls, headed straight for your g-spot with a thump. Grinning. Voice airy. “-condition.”

A tiiiight fit, that makes you fumble with your poor book, your eyes whirling in the exact lecherous patterns he’s drawling out on your wettened cunt. Each sloppy slurp Gojo’s drinking in enough to make your wrists weaken-

“Ch-chapter six: The Vampyre’s ngh- Beloved.” Unsure of what has your mind spinning more, the title or the way that he’s picking his pace up angrily. “Many are unaware of- hah! the one weakness of the- fuck.”

Tittering, his dimples peek. “Keep going.”

“-the vampyre- hnghhh–”

“Don’t make me- oh.” And before you know it, not only does he have three of his fingers rummagin’ inside. But also the slither of his tastebuds stuffing insides- his vampire tongue so lengthy that it squeezes and squeezes ‘round your tight rim till he’s rutting his flushed cheeks against your cunt.

And the underside of your stomach crackles with a few sparks of bliss, “-the vampyre- their one true love.”

“Mmmmm, yes. Say that again.” 

“O-one true love?”

Gojo’s pulling back his tongue with a wettened squelch. Ravenous. Feral. He’s getting himself drunk on each drag that your restless body was quivering out - now moving everywhere and anywhere. 

Faster. Sloppier. 

Fucking back inside your hole. Slapping over your clit. Biting down on the swollen edge of your pussy just to hear those pretty cries, “One true love-” Then sticking the damp edges of his bangs to tickle your skin, he suckles on your clit like gum. “-my one true love.”

Again and again.

Moving so rapidly- it’s like he’s in three places at once. Swirling the long edge of his tongue around and around your walls until you’re babbling stupidly, “The fated mate- ngh- soulmate…?” Skipping paragraphs, enough to make Gojo give your pussy a quick spank.

“All scripture is God-breathed.”

“-c-can induce a different kind of bite in the vampyre. An unexplainable soul tie that happens merely once in- haaah- eternity- one that vampyres tear down heaven and hell for.” Oh, that gets him excited. 

Flicking his tongue furiously in hearts upon hearts on top of your sensitive clit now. Thoroughly. Feverishly, you’re half-wondering whether his lips weren’t aching- “And one such known- ngh- vampyre in search-”

“Yeeees–?”

“Gojo Satoru.”

And then you’re hitting it- that lewd, lecherous crash of your orgasm that’d been building up for what felt like eons at this point. 

“O-oh my god-” Was this what all those filthy romance books you hid away meant? It was so much better than a lonely night with your hand. You were cumming so hard that you’re seeing comical stars, letting go of the book. “Satoru- Satoru Satoru Satoru- I-I’m-”

“All over my face now. All over, my darling. C’mon.”

You didn’t even know where it started, you didn’t know where it ended. 

Just that it had your poor, trembling pussylips plastered to Gojo’s mouth like he was attaching it with adhesive. 

Inhuman strength holding your thighs down to stop you from even recoiling- because anything that would break off the rubbing massage of your cunt was something he had to halt. You were creamin’ all down Gojo Satoru’s face and he was making sure it stayed that way.

“Yes- yeeeees, that’s it. That’s it. Never in my life have I- hah-” Even speaking was such a difficult endeavor for him, not when he couldn’t bear to pull away mere inches from your gushing pussy. “-been more grateful for the fact that I don’t need to breathe.”

Thighs shaking, goosebumps taking over. You arch your back with a whine at the repeated flicks of his tongue on your clit- in dual stimulation with your g-spot. “B-but I do-”

In response, Gojo’s only crushing your poor pussy against his face further. “Hmmm- heh.” 

Only fucking you juuust a bit more with the coiling ends of his tongue, oh-so-lengthy like a snake’s. He swabs the bruised corners of your walls a few more times, gurgling through each fleck of gooey sap that escaped you. Before pulling back with such a loud, dramatic mwah! “Amen.”

Shocked, you flip your woozy head backwards to catch sight of his sleazy smirk, the way that his summer-blue eyes seemed to spark. Feeling your legs twitch slightly with the jolts of your high, “A-and about the vampire’s Beloved?”

“Huh? Oh.” Blinking his dazed eyes, he’s so pussydrunk that it takes Gojo a few seconds to even register what you’d just asked. “Well…will this prove my scripture’s truth, beloved?”

You’re being treated like a cute lil’ ragdoll at this point; because it doesn’t even take seconds for Gojo to perch a rude hand on the side of your hips and flip you over. 

With your back now against the cushion, you’re grappling for the woody bearings of the chair as he holds your ankles wide apart and lodges himself between them. “How devoted I am?”

“D-devoted?” You’re puffing out a humid breath, and your chin strikes your chest in your hurry to ogle the entire sight of Gojo Satoru. Because oh…oh, was he such an utter sight.

Your slick sheens the entire lower half of his handsome face- all the way up to his damn, ruddied cheekbones. Dripping down in sticky sloshes all across the hollows of his cheeks, and down his pointed fangs. Your breath catches in your throat as you take in just how glistening they were with all your glazes of sweet juices. 

He was wearing it like a mark of honor.

“So. Hopelessly. Devoted.”

Staining his neckline of his dark cassock even darker, you can’t help but notice that you were completely exposed while he was still dressed in his priests’ robes. Right down to the gold cross. 

Gojo slaps down the edge of his coral pink tongue to lick up the cloying excess glued to his mouth, staring dead-on at you all the while. “Oh…are you aware that I can smell whenever that pretty pussy gets even wetter?” 

“Y-you can?” You’re hissing, trying to close your legs but you can’t - not with Gojo pushing himself between them.

“It’s delicious.” Even deeper. Even wider, he stretches your legs and hunches over with his towering frame to fit a fat thumb between your spit-glossed lips. “I can smell your blood.” Sniffing your throbbing pulse, “Your need.” He glides his digit down your canines, so much more blunt than his fangs.

“And–?”

He looks down with a grin, “Your pussy.”

And Gojo could already sense your lewd impatience, holding onto the side of your waist with one hand- and the other pulling back to fumble with the golden buttons of his robes. 

Pop!

Pop!

Pop!

“Satoru-”

“Ah ah.” He was such a damn tease. Unbuttoning only about halfway down his fitted cassock and black clerical shirt. Just enough for you to be spying his extremely chiseled front, from the bulge of his curvy pecs, to the ridges of his abs.

He was oh-so-naturally sexy that it made your mouth water. Ripped core flexing once he’s removing his belt and tugging down those pants of his, robes lifted now. Not enough for you.

But just enough that his red, aching cock springs free and hits the pure white happy trail on his abs with a thwack! 

Nine- maybe even ten thick inches. And you can only speechlessly gape, because he wasn’t just rock-hard…he was so hard n’ heavy that it must’ve been painful, like every drop of blood in his pale body was surging up to the bulbous tip of his cockhead. 

Gojo’s mushroomy tip blushes a scorching hot pink and leaks out hot precum as if he’s melting, a translucent splat! straight between the slitted slope of your pussy. “Any last words?”

You’re trembling, “L-last words?”

“Mmm—” He’s sandwiching the girth of his fat, veiny cock between your folds. Just so thick that your pussylips are already being spread near their absolute max- and was that…

You gasp, surging your head down and oh- you were feeling it right. Each n’ every time Gojo’s sliiiding his length between your cunt, your clit snags on the cold, bulging nib of something. A piercing. He had a piercing.

Like one of those you’d only heard they had in large cities and oh, you weren’t making it out of this alive. 

“M’gonna eat you alive, my angel.”

As if he’d just read your mind.

And you wouldn’t be surprised if he could- pure cottony static entering your brain the very second that Gojo’s aligning his smooth tip at your entrance and pushing.

The stretch is so much that you can only blink your teary lashes and keen– “I-it’s so big- oh, shit, go easy on me, Satoru.” Especially when you’ve never been stretched out like this before.

So-very-vulgarly, Gojo only hovers his wet-glazed thumb down to tip aside your plush folds. It was so cute, like your swollen pussy was puckering right up at him every time he nudged his hips back to give your tight hole a good probe.

“Is that all?” He’s inspecting with a grin, ringed fingers pryin’ your dewy cunt apart. Mindlessly rutting- bucking- “Six hundred years and s’that all you can take, beloved?”

Clearly teasing, but the thought of taking all his barrelling shaft makes your back arch wildly. Whimpering after every smooch of his orbed piercing, “I-I can make all of that fit?”

“No.” Gojo snickers, but even that sounds unsteady. Even that sounded like it was on the very verge of shattering into a zillion pieces, and he’s only sinking a finger inside your pussy to stretch you out. To force his raging dick to break off from your clammy cunt to push and push. “But I will make it fit.”

And then it’s like you’re losing your mind- seeing white behind the lids of your eyes when he’s sinking in a few fat, heavy inches. 

Hissing underneath his breath, Gojo’s moving the hand at your hips over to your throat to pin you down. 

“C’mon-” Chortling, he uses it to keep you still as he ruts- “C’mon c’mon-” And ruts, burying your upper half into the couch cushion as he swerves his hips deeper. The stretch just vicious, your elastic entrance is being oh-so-tugged to his very size. “Acting like such a sinful girl– and you shall be dealt with as such. Now, open those legs wider, my darling.”

“Oh-oh, god- Satoru-”

Choking you, his big, beefy biceps flex once he’s pulling you down by your neck. Meaty thighs gluing flush against your own, his fangs peek in a grin. “Yes and yes.” 

Languidly, Gojo’s pumping himself deeper to fill out each slick ridge and orifice. Prince Albert’s piercing decorating the very line of his sensitive slit, he’s acting like it’s a spotlight to massage every spot inside of you.

 Letting the puffy entrance of your pussy stretch-stretch-streeeetching-

“F-fuck.” Gojo lets out, all of a sudden. Barely even audible over the resounding plop! that lets off from the damp space between your thighs when he’s finally - finally - bottoming out. 

Finally. 

And oh– it takes a few seconds to register inside your mind, did you just make the infamous Gojo Satoru stutter? Mewling in bewilderment, “D-did you just…did you just fit all- hck!”

He groans—“Sure did.” But there’s something dopey in his tone, something that sounds like utter fucking disbelief. Gojo rovers his hand over your plump cylindrical tummy bulge - he was so big that he could tap his thumb down on the hill of his cockhead poking through. “Fuck.”

Then it’s like the floodgates open. The floodgates shatter. 

Gojo’s fangs elongate, his eyes slit almost menacingly- and he’s throwing your boneless legs over his shoulder to push you down into the tightest possible mating press. 

A mating press.

Hand slamming down on the couch’s oak frame hard enough for it to splinter, “Fuck.” He’s croaking out like a broken record as soon as he’s gifting your goopy cunt with the first thrust. “Fuh-fuck.”

Then the second, the third, the fourth- smashing against that cute spongy cervix at the bottom of your pussy. Gojo rubs his swollen veins raw on the gummy texture of your walls, feeling a little part of his sanity crack each time.

“Oh my- ngh- fuuuuck, Satoru–” You’re wailing out whimpering, fingers valleying through the locks of his ivory hair and pulling. “It’s so big- h-hngh- how’s it even going in-” 

“If only your eyes may gaze upon what I can.” The edges of his blue eyes sizzle with power, and shit, he’s seeing right through your drooling cunt.

Using the lecherous advantage of his powers to swerve his hips just right, he knocks the flared end of his tip right at the target of your g-spot. Extra, extra blissful with the way his chilling piercing slips n’ snags just right across that particular orifice.

“Then you’d know that this is the only- ngh- heaven that a creature like I shall ever taste. The only heaven that I shall…fuck.”

Digits twitching on his clammy scalp, “O-oh.”

And you just look so pretty like this- lips sprayed with bubbles of drool, your eyes rolling cartoonishly every time he struck the bottom of your pussy, chest heaving. 

So Gojo can’t help but feel your gushing pussy clench ‘round his cock and gasp- and slouch. Maw sagging fully open, cross hitting your chest, he’s furrowing his brows down at you- yeah, the most beautiful thing he’s seen since he was turned six hundred years ago.

Letting go of teasing that tummy bulge, he holds your left hand - tenderly. 

And Gojo, for all his riches, might not have an engagement ring ready yet; which is why you’re feeling the cool slip of his purity ring make way onto your ring finger. Blinking dazedly, “C-can the Father even- ngh- propose?”

“For you? I’d burn down every soul, building, and flora upon this land.”

Dead serious.

Gojo tilts his flustered features down at you and asks one simple question, “Feel like flying?”

“Flying? What- oh, fuck!”

And he could fly, if he so wished to grow his wings- but what Gojo meant right now was to pick you up. Cleanly off the broken couch, he stands tall with only a singular inhuman hand supporting your weight. 

The other turning your head up to watch the twitches in your expression as gravity slides you doooown his aching cock. From the ruby-red globe of his crown to the wide circumference of his hilt, each squirm leaves his prominent veins grazing your walls sensually.

Your ass cheeks nuzzling his heavy balls, you whimper, “I-it’s in again?”

“Oh, beloved, it’s more than in…” Trailing off with a husky groan, Gojo leaves a wet, open-mouthed kiss on your lips that makes you whine. “-I don’t think m’gonna make it out of this with my life to spare.”

Oh.

Oh.

Then Gojo’s fucking you like he’s angry his thick, ravenous cock can’t delve deeper inside your pussy - just furious, slobbering strokes. 

He thwacks the curve of his ballsack against the front of your cunt and then hisses when it won’t go any further. Usin’ a firm grip on your ass to get you to arch even further, “More- come on. More, little human.”

Rolling your hips back with each hit after hit to your g-spot, he’d mapped you out perfectly at this point. Shaft just so extremely long that you were feeling it in your very lungs. 

“R-right there mmm–” Spittle pours from the edge of your mouth and lavishes Gojo’s deltoids, where you can only hold on for dear life. “Oh my god, Satoru-”

“You think your Lord’s lookin’ down at you right now, my angel?” Gojo has the audacity to giggle with his fanged canines - pussydrunk and gone once his hips only slam harder into yours. 

His golden crucifix repeatedly thumps your chest, and you can only watch when he drags up your ringed left hand right up to his mouth. Biting. “He can’t hear you-” Hard. “So maybe you should heh- scream louder.”

Louder and louder - your pitchy whines were utter music in Gojo’s blushing ears. 

By now reaching a fever point as you’re feeling the sensations in your legs go numb, head lolling stupidly-

“My, no ngh- sleeping yet, my darling.” And this position just left you so helpless, completely at Gojo’s mercy when he’s deciding to slip a free hand between your legs and pinch your perky clit. Brushing the calloused fringe of his thumb down where you were the most sensitive. “Not until I bite every inch of you.”

Oh…it just felt too good. Those slender fingers knew exactly what they were doing, targeting the most delicate spots of your nub, until you felt all raw. 

You babble at the carnal itch of his fingerpads rolling across your clit. Smearing the dewy droplets of slick that just kept on seeping out of you. “B-but I’m so- ngh- can feel it again, Satoru…”

“That so?” Absolutely no mercy. Gojo’s starting up a synchronization between his pre-glazed tip banging your g-spot, and the toying of your honeyed clit. Ba-dump. Ba-dump. “And yet…”

You’re shivering as he whispers in your ear, rasping. Dark. Something that makes your heart race and your cunt pound. “I will still fuck you until you can’t walk out the hah- steps of this very church.” 

Another dollop of buttery pre sprays along your cervix, another kiss of his frigid piercing glueing to your walls, and yet another twitch of your useless legs. “I will still make everyone see- make everyone know. But first…”

And you knew from that delicate dimple dotting the side of his grin that the next few words won’t bode well for you.

You knew you were done for just as soon as Gojo leans back from your haphazardly dangling body, ever-so-slightly. Eyeing down your front with his superhuman sight, he still bites down on your purity ring as he grins.

“-I wish to make a statement even the heavens shall know.”

And he can see. He knows exactly where his stirrin’ cock is heading for - right towards the bullseye of your womb. Thrashing- the only carnal sensation you register before it’s all white.

Both your bleary vision and the thick, copious clumps of cum that Gojo was filling you up with.

Both hitting your highs at once - so hard that his fangs shatter the deep purity ring on your finger. Though, never once leaving even a scar on you. 

“Oh, ya really are made for me.” Gojo gasps out a sharp pant, toned hips rutting so ferally upwards at the clenching squeeze of your heated insides. And oh- saying it was good would be an understatement.

The winding lines of his veiny cock dragged out your wave of bliss until you felt like your mind was melting. Bludgeoning his Prince Albert’s against your g-spot again and again and again at the precise peaks of your high.

You almost get the feeling that he’s milking himself on your overspilling cunt, twiddling a thumb over the button of your clit just to get you to clench. “H-heh-” Gojo watches as your creamy pussy driiiips with ivory syrup. “More more take more-”

You curl your toes in euphoria, dragging him into a filthy, filthy kiss. Slurring,“M-mmm- yes. I wanna-”

“Mhmmm–?”

“Hck! wanna be yours, Toru–”

Oh.

He had such a look on his face that told you he would just kill for you. Simply say the word. 

“M’already yours, beloved.” Gojo’s meaty thighs shiver after each stringy ribbon of sap being pumped into you, and he’s sliding a thumb all over the drivelling mess of your slit. Cooing as you flinch, “Oh, you’re so fuuuuck- ripe.”

Ripe? What did that even mean-

You didn’t need to utter the question, because he’s already answering it in the next sultry instant. 

You watch as he lovingly gazes at your tummy bulge, now stuffed with the weighty knots of his cum. There’s an almost tender note in his voice as he speaks, “Should you so wish, this one’s gonna be a ngh- boy.”

Oh.

Ripe for the picking, like a pomegranate.

Ripe for him to fuck you till you were all round and glowing- and it’s almost the two of you are moving at the speed of light. Gojo barely even taking a split-second to transport himself to the edge of his humble priest’s bed and bully you down.

Cock still buried deeply near your womb, he flattens the weeping head of his shaft against your cervix. Taking a loooong, languid glide of his pierced mushroom tip-

“Y-you’re still- ngh-” You hiccup, feeling the parched twitch of his length - still so red n’ swollen that it ached him to not be stuffed between your glossy folds. 

Sheathing himself in sluggish gyrations that stir your insides, Gojo’s tearing off the rest of his holy robes. From his cassock to his roman collar- and that twinkling golden cross ends up dropped somewhere on his dampening sheets. 

“Still hard? Heh-” Gojo snickers, oh, he’s going to have fun with you for the rest of eternity. “Now, you didn’t expect a vampire to stop at only one, did you, my angel?”

Fuck. 

.

.

.

And maybe it’s been hours. Maybe it’s been days.

All you’re learning is that a vampire goes for seconds, thirds, fourths- that Gojo Satoru won’t be even the slightest bit satisfied until he’s well past the sixth round. 

Your tired hips slumped on top of his now, riding him dry- well, as best as you could when your entire body was utterly helpless. At his mercy, he’s got his large hands clawing on your waist, moving you in steady figure-eight grins.

Long, achingly probing his sensitive divot into your battered and bruised delicate spots. So far gone that you could feel the slimy second skin of his cum from hours prior pool inside. 

Gojo slaps his hip bones up to yours and lets out what sounded like a damn broken whimper, “Yeah- yeah, if this isn’t the most heavenly thing- nghhh–”

“Oh-ohhhh my god—” You whimper, the cheeks of your ass stinging as he perks a hand underneath your thighs to slam you down. Crushing your overstimulated clit against his soaked happy trail, “The sun’s coming up, Toru.”

And sure enough, tentative yellow light was seeping between the half-shuttered blinds of Gojo’s quarters.

With it, a new day. And a new victim of the vampire to be discovered - of his. 

Though, that’s the last thing on your stupidly fuzzy mind when the thickened end of his thumb is coming down to draw out a cute lil’ heart on your clit. “S’that soo–? Heh-” He gulps from his completely dry throat, looking at you through unruly white bangs. “Better make this fast then, my darling.”

You had no idea where his stamina was coming from- even for a vampire this was ridiculous, surely.

At some point he was clinging onto your hips and maneuvering you up n’ down his vein-decorated cock as if it was nothing. 

Slight sparks of power flying from his half-lidded eyes every time he’s swirling and swirling his flinching cock ‘round your walls. Each semicircle of him stretching you out gets you rewarded with the slightest geyser of milky pre- damn near cumming dry.

“Oh.” Gojo’s nostrils flare, and his flushed maw hangs wide open with a sliver of spittle. Turning into a torrent of saliva once he’s hit with that familiar candied perfume of your orgasm.

Close-

Before you can even babble out the word, you’re cumming- and not just cumming, squirting. All over Gojo’s…face?

Fuck, your hands dig into the sweaty locks of his pale hair. Half-melted mind realizing that he’d transported you with his powers just as soon as you hit your high. Moving you from his jolting cock to seat all prettily on top of his face. 

Right on top for him to lavish his swollen mouth with the splosh of your velvety sap. Creaming all over his handsome features, leaving his lower and upper body soaked.

“Mmm- fuck.” He slaps his dewy-wet lips down your dripping wet cunt; simply drunken, Gojo lets the ribbons of your thick slick drench his sharp jawline. Puddle after puddle of cloying liquid that sprays across his mouth. A fucking mess. 

“A-men…” Cum and slick bubbling down his rosy mouth n’ fangs, he babbles. Catching sight of the bleeding orange of the sun rise, “Oh, it’s time.”

Time for him to lick up the last few tingles of your orgasm. Time for him to keep pinning you down to his face as he turns his head towards your thighs and bites.

Hard.

Puncturing.

And just as soon as the hot crimson of your blood leaks into his mouth, Gojo finds himself smiling. “May God never forgive me.”

A different kind of mark, the book had claimed. And sure enough your body flashes hot- something churning inside your blood vessels. Something that makes him tenderly flip the two of you over so that you can lay across the ruined sheets-

Only for him to take sweet, sweet advantage of the crook of your neck and bite. Once more. Then twice on the other side, just to make sure. Just because he couldn’t stop himself.

Six hundred years.

Six hundred years that he had been searching for you.

You’re wheezing out weakly, “Satoru…”

Now to finally, finally find you.

“Rest. The transformation from human to vampire is quite taxing.” Gojo hushes you, ivory lashes lowered in pure loving. He plants a kiss on the bloodied bite marks at your neck, fangs peeking out just enough to tease. “We have a long eternity together, my beloved.”

.

.

[Excerpt from ‘Scripture of Shadows’: Latest published edition, author unknown.]

‘Chapter Six: The Vampyre’s Beloved

Many are unaware of the one weakness of the vampyre: their one true love. Yes, reader, the fated mate, only poetically comparable to a ‘soulmate’, is one that can induce a different kind of bite in the blood-thirsty vampyre. 

It is an unexplainable soul tie that happens merely once in eternity - one that provokes even the most blasphemous creature of the vampyre to tear down heaven and hell. One such known vampyre in search was the famed Gojo Satoru, almighty of even these shadowed beings.

But through my journeys, I have found that our despicable being has come to find his fated mate, as of late. The latest whispers within the shadowed realm speak of an atypically happy life, and an even happier bride—expectably, leaving bloodied wedding favors behind.

Some even claim an heir of the Darkness to be within reach, God have mercy.

Six hundred years of terror, and it seems that He has found even the most undeserving worthy of being loved. Being seen. 

For, perhaps even the cruelest of creatures can love.

Amen.’

A/N. Omg y’all I had to get permission from like five of my Christian friends before I could post this erm- obvi disclaimer that this isn’t a true representation of Christianity!!

Plagiarism not authorized.