fawninthetrees

[fawninthetrees]

Pearl

Chapter 2: The funeral

Synopsis: You return to Wabang after eight years. The life you tried so hard to run from threatens to swallow you.

A/N: Yay chapter 2. I have a decent amount of this story already written out, at least 4 more chapters and then I’ll try to find a regular schedule to write and upload.

Still not proof read.

Warnings: Death

Word count: 1,760?

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

The rest of the week went by quickly. You buried yourself in funeral arrangements. Picking out what songs to have the choir sing, what flowers to have, what outfit she’d be buried in.

You now found yourself standing in front of the mirror in your room. You were in a modest black dress. You left your hair down, just as your mother always preferred, opting for a simple half braided crown. You felt like a kid playing a sick and twisted version of dress up.

There was a knock on the door and your father poked his head in after a few seconds. “Ready?”

“No,” you admitted.

He pushed his way in and with a small smile and said. “Me neither, bug.” he joined you in the mirror.

“Is it ever gonna feel lighter?” you asked him, staring at him through the glass. Your hand came up to rub where your heart was, as if you could rub the ache away.

He took a deep breath, “It will someday.” he reached into his suit pocket and produced a long velvet box. He held it out to you.

You took it wordlessly and popped it open. You were greeted by a familiar sight. An antique silver heart locket rested against the plush pillows. Her locket. The locket she wore everyday.

You took it out gently and looked at him. “Mama’s locket.”

You father took it from you and took a step behind you, fastening it around your neck with nimble fingers. “She wanted you to have it.”

The two of you stared at each other in the mirror for a few seconds. Then there was another knock and your aunt entered.

“We should head out,” she said softly, looking at her brother.

The two of them left first. You stared at yourself for a few minutes longer, hand absentmindedly rubbing the locket. 15 minutes later you were strapping on your heels and making your way out the door.

As you left, you heard a loud whinny from the field. Sinner cried for you. You smiled and drove.

You immediately regretted the decision to drive alone. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears, your palms were sweaty and your right leg was slowly falling asleep. When you pulled into the parking lot cars were already gathered. You park next to a pickup, closing your eyes and resting your head against your steering wheel, taking several deep breaths before you found the courage to leave.

When you entered the church, you were greeted by most of the town. Hands reached out for yours and squeezed, offering apologies. Hugs were given but you didn’t bother trying to return them, instead you simply accepted it. You felt numb. You spotted your father in the front of the pews. He had his stetson resting over his heart, his eyes on your mothers casket.

It seemed your arrival was the the final push. The Pastor, who stood behind the pulpit, cleared his throat. Everyone, including yourself, sat.

You tuned out the Pastor’s words, you had never been one to listen to him, even when you regularly attended. You found his nasally voice to be irritating. When he finished reading his scripture, he was replaced by the choir. You sang softly with them, not yet able to look at your mother’s casket. You kept your eyes down on your hands, you had picked at the delicate skin of your fingers until they bled.

It wasn’t until you heard your fathers voice that you looked up. You hadn’t felt him pass you. He looked out of place. But then you figured everything looked out of place.

“Thank you all for coming,” he began. “Cora was a pillar of this community, and I know she’d be happy to have you all finally gathered in one place outside of our regular Sundays.”

The crowd chuckled. You didn’t.

“Cora was the love of my life.” he continued. “She was the sunshine on rainy days. The song I knew best. She was my best friend.” you heard his voice crack. “Cora was the strongest woman I knew. She knew her time was coming and she embraced the good Lord happily. Her only sorrow was leaving all of you behind. She loved this town, loved all of you even though half of you didn't deserve it.”

Another wave of chuckles.

“Though she is gone, she is still here.” he put his hand over his heart. “I will carry her forever, just as I hope you all will.”

The rest of the service went by in a blur, others getting up to give their eulogy on how kind your mother was. How generous.

And then it was time for final goodbyes. Some people gathered in a line, others moved into a separate room. You didn’t bother checking who. Your father was first. He stood over your mothers casket and silently weeped. He bent down to kiss her forehead for the last time before turning away.

His departure meant it was your turn. You took slow steps up to her casket, knowing nothing you could do would prepare you for the sight of her lifeless body. When you finally managed to look down, you were met with a familiar stranger. She wore your mothers face and her clothes, but that’s where the similarities ended. The stranger dead before you had no joy, no light, no spirit. Your mother had constant wrinkles around her eyes from permanently smiling. Those wrinkles were absent now, replaced by the smooth hauntingly peaceful face of death. You swayed slightly, your hand shooting out to tightly grip the casket. That wasn’t your mother. This was all a sick joke and in a few minutes she would come bursting through the doors laughing with her head tossed back as she always did.

But God was cruel.

You didn’t know how long they let you stand there, but you eventually found yourself being ushered away by the gentle hands of your aunt. You allowed her to guide you, your eyes blurry. She took you to the other room, which was filled with food and a few families. Your father sat at a table with his head in his hands. She sat you down next to him.

“I'll make you a plate,” she said, squeezing your arm.

You sat stonily, setting a hand on your father’s lap to let him know you were there. One of his fell to clutch at yours, his palm was wet with tears.

Your aunt eventually returned with a plate for you, piled high. You quietly thanked her and pressed a kiss to your brow before disappearing, likely in search of her husband.

It didn’t take long for your father to compose himself. He sat up straight and wiped away his tears with the handkerchief from his breast pocket.

He gave you a small smile. “Thank you bug.”

“You’re welcome daddy,” you said.

He let out a deep sigh. “Gonna go talk to everyone. Will you be ok?”

“Yes,” you lied.

He gave your hand a final squeeze before turning away, leaving you alone at the table. You looked down at the plate in front of you. A majority of it was jello salad. Electric green and milky, your childhood favorite. Your lips quirked up slightly.

“Well aren’t you as beautiful as a magnolia in may.” a familiar voice said.

“Ceclia.” you said, standing up without thinking.

Ceclia pulled you into a hug, one of her hands soothingly running over your hair. Suddenly you were a kid again and you had just scraped your knee in the Abbotts driveway after Perry pushed you from your bike. When you pulled away, she cupped your cheeks, thumbs soothing over the apples.

“You’re the spitting image of her.” she said kindly. “just as beautiful.”

Words you heard your whole life. You had never been bothered by it until now. You used to enjoy the compliment, seeing glimpses of her in your features. Similar nose, same smile and curve of your eyes. But now it felt like a curse. Shoes too big to fill, an ocean of space that you were sure to drown in.

But you couldn’t admit that, so you pivoted. “How are you?”

“I should be asking you that.” she said, letting her hands fall to hold yours.

“You were her best friend, you knew her longer, loved her longer.”

And that was true. Your mother and Cecilia had been friends since childhood. They were so close that your family and the Abbotts often blended during holidays. You’d spent as much time in her house as you did your own.

Cecilia looked around. “She’s smiling down on us, I know it… Well, I won’t take up much of your time, but we’re sitting over there if you feel like coming over for a chat. If not, that’s ok too.” she pointed to a table in the far corner.

You followed her finger. The Abbott family sat at a table with plates already in front of them. Royal, Perry, and a little girl you didn’t recognize. You felt dread form in the pit of your stomach. She couldn’t have been more than 7 or 8.

Is that why he stopped calling? He got some girl pregnant while you were gone and was too ashamed to tell you?

And then you saw him.

But it wasn’t the him you knew. Rhett, whose eyes were already on you, blue and sympathetic. He was dressed appropriately in black, formal slacks and a button up with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. He was bigger now, more filled out, and his hair was longer. No longer the lanky boy you fell in love with all those years ago. He looked strong, capable. You looked at him, and then at the girl, and then back at him.

“That’s Perry’s daughter, Amy.” Cecelia said, as if she could hear what you were thinking.

You felt a weight lift from your chest. “Oh,” was all you could manage.

Ceclia squeezed your hand. “It’s good to have you back, we’ve missed you.”

Her words drew you away from her son. “I wish it could have been under happier circumstances.” you murmured.

She cupped your cheek with one hand. “I know, sweet girl.”

And then she left, leaving you standing stupidly as you watched her retreat. When you remembered you could sit down, you did. You picked up your fork and cut into the jello.

No nuts.

You looked at Rhett.

[fawninthetrees]

Pearl

Chapter 1: Welcome to Wabang

Summary: You return to Wabang after eight years. The life you tried so hard to run from threatens to swallow you.

A/N: I’ve had it bad for this man since TGM. Marvel has reawakened my love for Lewis Pullman with a carnal passion that has resulted in this mess of a story. I wanna do nasty, freaky shit with this man, but alas. If it’s awful, don’t tell me, my ego is fragile and I will sob.

Also not proof read because lazy.

Warning: Death/mentions of death

Word count: 1,271?

Next chapter

Your return to Wabang should have been rejoiceful. You’d left at 18 for Tennessee, moving in with your aunt and uncle in persuit of Barrel Racing and Bronc Riding. Tennessee, which had much better prospects than shit middle-of-nowhere Wabang, Wyoming. You had left and never looked back.

Now at 26 you were white knuckling your way down the freeway, going as fast as you safely could. Occasionally, you glanced in your rear view mirror to check on the horse trailer attached to your pickup. You had an hour left till you reached Wabang. A total of 23 sleepless hours already completed.

The news of your mother’s death was a violent shock that had you dropping everything. You bid your aunt and uncle and the state of Tennessee goodbye.

Your mama had been fighting breast cancer for most of your life. But your parents declined to share how bad it had gotten. At first you were angry, angry that they had hidden her pain from you, hidden the seriousness of her sickness. You had grown so accustomed to illness that you didn’t realize her bad days were more frequent than the good ones. And the distance didn’t help.

Hour seven of the drive you realized she did it out of love. You loved Tennessee and you loved winning. Your mother knew if they told you the cancer spread, that it made it into her bones, you would immediately drop everything and come back home. And that was the last thing she wanted.

So now, in death, you did exactly that.

You drove accompanied by the hum of your engine and the clatter of the trailer. You hadn’t found it in yourself to cry yet. And the guilt of it was consuming you. Your mama, the one who gave you life, and you couldn’t shed a tear.

So you focused on what was to come. Your daddy needed you. With your mama gone, you knew he wouldn’t be able to run the shop alone. The only car repair and hardware store in all of Wabang. And it would ruin the town if it wasn’t operational while your father mourned. So, you made the selfless decision to return to the town you hated. You could be the state champion of Wyoming just as you were the one in Tennessee.

WELCOME TO WABANG was painted in white cursive on a gaudy sign as you entered the town limits. Your whole body inadvertently tightened, as if you were preparing for war.

When you pulled into the long driveway of your house, a sudden wave of emotion overcame you. For the first time in years, you’d be returning to the house you were raised in. Except now a pivotal part of it was missing.

Your father, having heard the gravel scatter at your approach, was waiting on the porch. He looked weary. Years older than he was. Grief did that, it aged you, turning you into a shell of yourself. He managed a soft smile at the sight of you.

You found it hard to breathe as you parked. You stiffly exited the truck, your body tight due to the lack of movement over the 24 hours of driving, the only times you stopped were to pee and refill the tank. Your father met you half way, his boots crunching with each step.

“Hi, bug.” he said. His voice was raw from crying.

“Hi daddy.” you gently greeted.

And then you saw his lips tremble and before you knew it, he pulled you in for a tight hug. The two of you stood there for a long while, only breaking apart when a loud whinny came from the trailer.

“Quiet Sinner,” you huffed.

“S’all right.” your dad said with a sniff. “I suspect he’s all pent up from the ride.” he pulled away. “let him out, he’ll find his way to the barn, gate’s open.”

You did as he suggested. Sinner proudly walked out, his large black frame towering above you. You took a step to the side and ushered him in the direction of the barn. He stood with you for a few moments, as if trying to offer you comfort. Then he took off into the field where a large red barn sat.

“Come on in bug,” you father threw open the backseat of your truck and yanked out your suitcases. “let’s get you settled.”

You stepped into the house half expecting your mother to come down the steps, to sweep you into a hug and spin you around.

But it never came. Instead, you were met with silence. A choking, painful silence.

Your father carried your luggage up the stairs and kicked open the door of your room. It was the same as you left it. Floral wallpaper, lace curtains, statues of horses both real and mythical lined your wall. Warm oak furniture, a queen size bed frame, nightstands on either side, a bookshelf filled with the books you read in high school, and a dresser with a matching cheval mirror in the corner. He sat your suitcases down and straightened with a huff.

“You didn’t bring much.” he observed.

“Left in a hurry.” you said. “Drew and Mae said they’d ship up whatever they couldn’t bring with them.”

Mae was your fathers sister, your Aunt.

“Did they say when they’d be in?”

“Tuesday,” it was Saturday. The funeral was the following Friday.

He nodded. “I’ll tidy the guest room then.” Then he cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll let you get settled then.” his hand slipped through your hair to rest in your neck, he pulled you close and kissed your forehead. “good to have you home bug. It’s been lonely without you.”

He left without another word, pulling the door shut as he went. You moved without thinking, falling into a methodical rythm as you unpacked. By the time you finished, the sun was setting and the tiredness finally weighed in your bones. You pushed yourself from the ground, you needed to feed Sinner before you made something for yourself and your father.

Just as your father predicted, Sinner found the barn. He settled into a pen you suspected your father prepared for you before you arrived. You began fixing his dinner. When you were done, you trudged back into the house.

It felt odd, using the kitchen without the usual hum of your mother. She always sang as she cooked, either a song stuck in her head or one she made up. You threw open the fridge and gathered what you could. Goulash, you decided.

You didn’t notice your father’s eyes on you as you moved. He sat in his recliner, an old black and white western playing on the tv next to him.

When you finished, you found yourself setting the table for three. Your heart sank when you realized.

“it’s ok bug,” your dad said, getting up and joining you. “your mama always did it when you were gone. Feels right to do it for her.”

You saved yourself from answering by turning around and shoveling food into bowls.

The two of you sat down and ate. The usual prayer your mother insisted upon reciting to the Lord was thrown to the wind. You pulled at the sweet rolls you found in the cabinet and dipped it into the goulash. Everything seemed to be in silence without your mother.

“I’ll need your help arranging some things for the funeral.” your dad said, his spoon scraping against the bowl.

“Ok,”

[fawninthetrees]

Ashes and After

Chapter 1: Too Late

A/N: GUESS WHAT BROUGHT ME HERE? BOB FUCKING REYNOLDS. One thing led to another and suddenly—I fell headfirst into the land of Lewis Pullman. And now? Here I am… with the cowboy. Warnings: It's gonna get dirty. Saddle up, we gon ride Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated ☀️

You were only supposed to be in town for cat food.

In and out. Grab the grain-free salmon formula, ignore the glances, and drive straight back to your temporary rental before the past noticed you breathing.

But the past was standing by the feed bins with a twenty-pound sack of livestock pellets slung over his shoulder.

“Didn’t think I’d see your face again.”

You turned. Slowly. Like facing a loaded rifle.

“Royal.”

He looked older. Or maybe you just remembered him younger.

“You still got that cat?” You blinked. “Yeah.” “She still livin’ like a goddamn queen?” You cracked the smallest smile. “She wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He helped you carry the bag to your truck.

You didn’t offer. He didn’t ask.

“I’m just in town for a bit,” you said, like it explained anything. “Temporary work. Something with horses. Fence inspections.”

Royal gave a grunt of acknowledgment. Neutral.

You added, “Needed to talk to you anyway. There’s a border issue near the creek, south fence line. Thought I should say something.” “You didn’t call ahead.” You shrugged. “Didn’t think it was that kind of visit.” Royal shut the tailgate with one hand and leaned his weight against it. “You should come by.” You blinked. “The ranch?” “Cecilia and Amy’d skin me if they found out I saw you and didn’t bring you home for dinner.” Your jaw tightened. “I’m not sure—” “You don’t have to stay. Just one meal.”

He paused.

“She missed you.”

And by the way he said it — you knew he meant more than one of them.

----

You followed his truck down the long familiar drive, every bump in the dirt road shaking loose pieces of you that had stayed buried — same cracked roads, same dust on the windows of the diner where your name used to mean something. Your boots crunched over gravel that remembered your weight. The sky stretched endless above, but everything else felt smaller now. Like time shrank the place to punish you.

The Abbott ranch loomed on the horizon like a dare. You parked just outside the gate. Not close enough to look like you belonged, not far enough to pretend you didn’t want to.

The ranch hadn’t changed. The gate still creaked. The wind still rolled through the tall grass like a warning.

And standing on the porch, wiping her hands on a dish towel, was Cecilia Abbott.

She looked up, did a double take, and then walked straight for you with arms open and eyes full.

“Well. I’ll be damned.” she breathed, pulling you into her chest. “I didn’t know I was missed.”

She wrapped you in a hug without hesitation. Warm and steady. Like no time had passed. She stepped back, holding you at arm’s length.

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard all year. And Rhett still lives here, so that’s sayin’ something.”

Before you could answer, the screen door slammed.

Amy.

Older now. Taller. Same wide eyes.

She didn’t say anything — just crashed into you at full speed and squeezed your ribs like she was checking if they still fit together.

“I missed you,” she said against your jacket. “I missed you too, bug.”

You weren’t lying.

----

Dinner was the kind of quiet that had weight to it.

You sat between Amy and Royal. The food was the same. The table, the same. The eyes on you, mostly kind.

Amy filled the space the way she always did — talking about school, a colt she’d been working with, the new vet in town.

You noticed the empty chair across from you. You knew who it belonged to.

Cecilia reached across, offered you more roast. You accepted with a quiet “thank you.” “You still working with horses?” Amy asked. Her voice was light, but you saw it in her eyes — the hesitation. The hope. You nodded. “Yeah. Some rehab, some assessments. Little of everything.” “That’s good,” she said. “You were always good with the broken ones.”

You tried not to flinch.

Then—

Boots.

Heavy. Familiar.

You knew that stride like a song you hadn’t heard in years but still remembered every word to.

Rhett.

He walked into the kitchen, dust on his shirt, fresh from the barn. He paused — mid-step — when he saw you.

Your stomach flipped.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t sit.

Didn’t blink.

He just stood there, like he was trying to wake up from a bad dream.

Amy opened her mouth to say something — but he turned.

Walked straight back out the door without a word.

The silence he left behind was thick as molasses.

No one filled it.

Cecilia cleared her throat. Passed the potatoes.

----

Two Years Ago

You and Rhett sat on the hood of his truck, parked facing the south field. The sun was going down. He had his head in your lap, hat tilted forward.

“You ever think about leaving?” you asked. He didn’t look up. “Every goddamn day.” “But you won’t.” “No.” “Why not?” He reached up and tapped your knee. “Got you, don’t I?”

You smiled. Ran your fingers through his hair.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeper.

“You’re not like anyone else,” he mumbled. You leaned down, kissed his jaw. “You say that like it’s a good thing.” “It is,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “'Cause when the world gets too loud, you’re the only quiet I trust.”

----

After dinner, you helped Amy carry plates to the sink. She leaned close.

“You’re not leaving again, right?”

You didn’t answer.

Outside, the porch light buzzed gently.

Cecilia walked you to your truck.

“He’s… struggling,” she said. “I’m not here for him.” She raised an eyebrow, smile sad. “Aren’t you?”

You didn’t reply.

You didn’t need to.

----

Back at your trailer on the edge of town, the cat meowed for her dinner.

You poured the kibble and sat down hard on the couch.

The silence wasn’t peaceful.

It was punishing.

----

One Week Before You Left

You and Rhett sat on the porch swing. Late night. His shirt smelled like hay and sweat.

“You think we’ll make it?” you asked. He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. We’ve survived worse.” You hesitated. “Even if I mess up?”

He looked at you then, real and raw.

“Long as you come home.” You pressed your lips together. “And if I don’t?”

He reached out, tugged you close. His hand cradled the back of your neck.

“Then I’ll burn the world down lookin’ for you.”

You had to look away.

Because you were already planning your exit.

NEXT

TAGLIST: drop your cherries

🍒 : tag for this series ONLY veri🍒: tag for ALL of that character works

[fawninthetrees]

Shoulda Knocked (NSFW///MDNI)

A/N: hm bc y’all asked. DONT BLAME ME OKAY. It’s not my fault. Warnings: You will need holy water. Lock the damn door next time. (Also Rhett says “my girl” and you will lose your mind.) Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated ☀️

The plates were still in the sink. Syrup-crusted forks soaking in lukewarm water. Somewhere on the ranch, a screen door banged shut and bootsteps faded toward the fields. Morning sunlight slanted across the tile, catching dust in the air, slow and soft and golden.

You licked sugar off your thumb and caught Rhett’s stare from across the kitchen.

“Don’t,” he said, voice low. Warning. You blinked, all false innocence. “Don’t what?”

He stood slowly. Chair scraping. His shadow stretched long across the floor. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.” You tilted your head, mouth twitching. “Who says I won’t finish it?”

And that was all it took.

Two long strides and you were caged in his arms, your back against the counter, breath stolen right from your chest. His mouth was on yours in seconds—hungry, unrelenting—like he’d been starving since sunrise.

You laughed against his lips. "Thought we had chores." "Let the chores wait."

—

You made it to his room half-dressed and laughing, your bare legs wrapped around his waist, his mouth on your throat. The door slammed halfway shut, bounced, and stayed open just enough to doom you both.

He laid you back on his bed like you were breakable—then tore your shirt off like you weren’t.

“You in such a damn rush this morning?” you teased, breath hitching when his fingers slid between your thighs.

He didn’t answer. Just groaned when he found you already wet.

“You know what you do to me?” he muttered, mouth hot on your jaw. “Walkin’ around my house like that—in my damn shirt, no bra, those little shorts—barely wearin’ a damn thing—lookin’ at me like you want me to wreck you.”

Your back arched when his fingers pressed deeper, rough and sure.

“Maybe I do,” you breathed. “You gonna do it or keep talking about it?” His laugh was low, almost cruel. “Keep talkin’ like that and I’ll make sure you can’t walk to dinner.”

—

His belt hit the floor. You were flipped over like nothing—face down, knees pressed into the mattress, shirt still on but hanging off your shoulders. He didn’t bother with slow. Just spit on his hand, dragged it over himself, and pushed inside in one long, deep thrust that knocked the air out of you.

Your hands clawed at the sheets.

“Shh,” Rhett said, voice thick. “Gotta be quiet, darlin’.”

You nodded, cheek pressed to the blanket, and gasped when he drove in again. Harder. Deeper.

 “God—Rhett—” “Quiet,” he warned again, but didn’t slow down. His hand pressed between your shoulder blades, holding you in place.

Outside, birds chirped. A tractor started somewhere in the distance.

Inside, your world narrowed to the drag of his cock, the creak of the bed, his name rasping out of your throat like prayer.

He bent over you, breath warm against your ear. “Told you not to tease me,” he murmured. “Told you I’d ruin you.”

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

—

And that’s when it happened.

The creak of the hallway floorboard. The slow, careless push of a hand against the door.

And then:

“Rhett, you seen my—OH WHAT THE FU—”

You froze.

Rhett didn’t.

He twisted around just enough to yell, voice hoarse and furious:

“KNOCK, PERRY!”

Perry made a sound like a dying animal. The door slammed shut so hard the frame shook.

You collapsed face-first into the bed, mortified.

“Oh my god.” “Oh my god.”

Rhett didn’t move. Still buried inside you. Still hard.

“…You gonna get off me or…?” “Nope,” he said, way too calm. “You think I’m stoppin’ just ‘cause Perry can’t mind his own goddamn business?” You twisted to glare at him. “You’re sick.” He grinned. “You love it.”

Rhett was still inside you. Still hard. Still cocky.

You tried to pull away and yelped when his hands yanked your hips right back into him.

“Rhett—” He leaned over your back, kissed your shoulder, your spine, the dip of your waist. “Don’t play shy now. You were beggin’ five seconds ago.” “I wasn’t—” “You were.” His fingers slid under your jaw, turned your face so he could kiss the corner of your mouth. “Still are.”

Outside the room, the floor creaked—then heavy footsteps stomped down the hall. A door slammed somewhere near the kitchen. You prayed Perry didn’t walk into a wall on his way out.

Inside, your body betrayed you. Heat crawling back in. Your thighs trembling.

And Rhett knew it.

“You gonna let me finish, baby?” he whispered, voice gravel and honey. “Or you wanna be real sorry tonight?”

You swallowed hard. Nodded once.

“That’s my girl.”

—

This time was slower.

Not gentle—Rhett was never gentle—but worshipful in that way only he could be. Teeth grazing skin. One hand under your belly, lifting your hips just right. His other arm hooked around your ribs, palm splayed between your breasts, holding you tight.

He fucked you like you were his. Like no one else had the right. Like he didn’t care if the whole damn town knew.

“Still so wet,” he muttered, dragging his mouth along your shoulder. “You gonna come for me again?” “I—I already—” “Again.”

You sobbed his name into the sheets.

And he chased your second high like a man possessed.

The bed creaked louder now. No point pretending anymore. You were past shame. Past words. You clawed at the sheets, gasped his name, let him use you how he wanted because God, you wanted it too.

Rhett’s breath hitched. His grip on you tightened.

“You’re mine,” he grunted. “Say it.”

You did.

And then you broke apart, crying out into the mattress as he spilled into you with a curse, hips still pumping through it, chasing every last wave.

—

The silence after was obscene.

You lay there boneless, sweaty, mouth open against the blanket.

Rhett finally pulled out with a groan and flopped down beside you, chest rising and falling like he just ran six miles. One hand dragged down his face. The other found your thigh and squeezed.

“Shit,” he said, half-laughing. “I think I saw God.” You groaned. “I think Perry did too.”

Rhett snorted.

You rolled over and slapped his chest. “He’s never going to look me in the eye again.” “Good,” Rhett said, smug. “Means he won’t try nothin’.” “He’s your brother.” “He also needs to learn how to knock.”

—

You didn’t leave Rhett’s room for a solid hour.

Mostly because your legs weren’t working right, and partly because Perry might still be in the hallway clutching a Bible and rocking back and forth.

When you finally crept out, Rhett trailing behind you like a satisfied menace, the ranch house had gone suspiciously quiet.

Until you heard it: the unmistakable sound of Perry slamming every cupboard door in the kitchen, pretending to do something useful.

You paused in the hallway. Rhett reached over and gave your ass a full-on grab.

“Don’t,” you hissed. He smirked. “What? You’re walkin’ like you just got ruined. It’s cute.” “Rhett.” “What?” “Do not ever call me cute after your brother caught us mid—mid-—” He leaned in, brushed his lips against your ear. “Mid what, baby?”

You shoved him, face burning.

—

Dinner that night was... a war zone.

Royal was telling some story about cattle feed. Cecilia was humming while scooping potatoes.

Perry sat across the table from you.

He did not look up once.

Not when you said hello. Not when you passed the cornbread. Not when Rhett intentionally reached for the gravy boat across your chest and smirked the whole time.

You chewed in silence, eyes darting anywhere but the man who had seen everything.

Cecilia finally looked between you and Perry. Then at Rhett.

Her spoon paused mid-scoop.

“…Everything alright with y’all?”

Perry coughed violently into his napkin.

You nearly dropped your fork.

Rhett, absolutely unbothered, said, “Peachy.”

Perry stared down at his mashed potatoes like they owed him a refund.

Cecilia narrowed her eyes just a little. She knew. You knew she knew. Women like her always knew.

Royal, completely oblivious, just kept eating.

—

The Day After

You walked into the kitchen half an hour after Rhett, hoping the worst had passed.

It hadn’t.

Perry was already at the table with his coffee, flipping through a tractor catalog like it personally offended him.

The second you stepped into the room, he glanced up—froze—and then got up without a word and dragged his chair to the far end of the table, as if proximity might trigger another trauma flashback.

You blinked.

Rhett didn’t.

He just watched his brother relocate and smiled. Sat down in Perry’s abandoned seat like he was settling into a throne. “You sittin’, or you need help down again?”

You kicked his ankle under the table, heat rising in your face.

Royal, blissfully unaware, looked up from his newspaper. “Everyone sleep alright?” Rhett lifted his mug. “Like a baby.”

Perry choked. Actually choked. Coughed hard enough to slap his own chest.

“You good?” Royal asked. Perry cleared his throat violently. “Swallowed wrong.” “Right,” you muttered, stabbing your fork into your eggs like they were responsible for your humiliation.

Amy came skipping into the kitchen with her hair braided and her mouth already running.

“Uncle Rhett!” Rhett glanced up from his toast. “Yeah, kid?” “Why’d Dad tell me not to go near your room yesterday?”

You stopped chewing.

The world stopped spinning.

Cecilia, halfway through stirring honey into her tea, froze mid-circle.

Rhett, somehow, still didn’t blink. “’Cause I was busy.” Amy plopped into her chair. “Busy doin’ what?”

Perry’s fork clattered against his plate.

Royal looked between everyone like he’d walked into a Western stand-off.

You tried to slide further under the table.

Perry said, a little too sharply, “Eat your damn eggs, Amy.” “I was just askin’…” she grumbled. Rhett leaned back in his chair, eyes cutting toward you. “Guess I should’ve hung a sign.”

You kicked him again. Harder this time.

—

Cornbread Confession

Cecilia was elbow-deep in cornmeal by the time you tiptoed into the kitchen later that afternoon. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, flour smudged across her wrist, and a determined crease sat between her brows as she stirred like the world depended on that cornbread rising just right.

You lingered near the edge of the counter, unsure whether to offer help or disappear. Finally, you cleared your throat and reached for the butter dish. She handed it over without a word.

The silence that followed was thick. Tangible. Like you could spread it on toast.

And then, without looking up, she said evenly, “You know, I raised two boys in this house.”

You froze, butter knife hovering mid-air.

“There ain’t a single wall I haven’t heard through. Pipes too. Even vents. This place carries secrets like air.”

Your hand slipped. The butter knife hit the counter with a loud clink that felt louder than thunder.

Your cheeks flamed. Words scrambled in your head but refused to form.

Cecilia finally looked up. Her gaze landed on you with the weight of a hundred unspoken things.

Not cruel. Not even mad. Just... immensely powerful.

She didn’t sigh. She didn’t smile. She simply handed you the pan, her expression unreadable.

“Oven’s hot.”

You took the pan like it was a holy offering and obeyed in complete silence, your ears ringing, your soul leaving your body.

As you slipped it in, you caught her murmuring under her breath, more amused than annoyed:

“Don’t break his damn back next time.”

—

Barn Breakdown

You spotted Rhett and Perry heading to the barn just before sunset. You weren’t proud of yourself for creeping toward the back window, the screen slightly askew so you could hear.

But you also weren’t sorry.

Perry’s voice carried first, already halfway to explosion.

“You couldn’t just LOCK the goddamn door?” Rhett sounded utterly unfazed. “Didn’t know I needed to. You creepin’ ’round the hall like a feral cat.” “I WAS LOOKIN’ FOR MY DAMN NOTEBOOK!” “You found somethin’ better.” “I FOUND YOUR BARE ASS AND TRAUMA, RHETT.”

There was a pause. You could almost hear Rhett smirking.

“You’re welcome.” Perry’s voice went high enough to send birds scattering from the trees. “You’re disgusting! You defiled that room! You defiled HER!” “She was plenty involved, thank you.” “OH MY—”

Another silence. This one deeper. Darker.

Then came a groan that echoed like a dying ghost through the barn.

“I need holy water. And bleach. And a fuckin’ lobotomy.”

A crash. The barn door slamming hard enough to rattle the horses.

You ducked back into the house like your name was guilt and your sin had just been found out.

—

Royal Connects the Dots

Sunday morning came with too much sun and not enough shame. You were still nursing the bruises—physical, emotional, and reputational—from the last forty-eight hours.

You passed Royal in the hallway, pretending to look busy, clutching a half-empty mug of coffee like it might shield you from eye contact. Rhett was right behind you, freshly showered, shirt half-buttoned, hair slicked back in a way that should be illegal.

Royal glanced up.

Then down at the hickey blooming above your collarbone.

Then at Rhett.

Back to you.

His mouth opened. Paused. Closed.

“…You know what?” he said finally. “I don’t wanna know.” He turned toward the porch, muttering under his breath, “Just don’t break no damn furniture.”

You sipped your coffee and prayed for the floorboards to open.

—

The Call to Church

Cecilia popped her head in after breakfast, lips already pursed like she knew resistance was coming. “Church. Ten minutes. No excuses.”

You were mid-eye roll when Rhett sauntered in behind you, belt buckle shining, smug as sin.

“You’re comin’ with me,” he said, like it was already decided. You blinked. “To church?” “Mhm.” “After everything?” He grinned, the kind of grin that made your insides fold in on themselves. “Figure we both got stuff to repent for.” You scoffed. “You’d catch fire.” He winked. “Only if you sit on my lap.” “Rhett.” “Ma’am?”

You threw a spoon at his head. It hit him. He laughed anyway.

—

Hell in the Pew

You ended up sandwiched between Rhett and Perry in the third pew from the front.

Perry looked like he was doing long division in his head just to dissociate.

Rhett was pressed against your side, thigh to thigh, radiating body heat and bad decisions. He leaned a little closer every time you shifted away.

“Touch me and I’ll castrate you with this hymnal,” you whispered. Rhett leaned in like it was a dare. “Darlin’, we in a house of God.” “Exactly. He’s watchin’.”

The sermon began. The preacher's voice was slow and solemn, echoing through the rafters.

“Today, we speak of temptation. Temptation that may enter our homes, take root in our lives...”

You could feel Rhett’s smirk without even looking.

Perry coughed so hard you thought he might pass out right there in the pew.

—

Communion & Crimes

When the communion tray passed down the row, Rhett took the cracker, sniffed it like he was judging a wine tasting, and leaned toward you.

“Body of Christ,” he murmured. “Tastes a little dry.”

You crushed his foot under your heel.

He yelped.

Perry muttered, “I’m surrounded by heathens.”

—

Post-Service Sinning

Outside the chapel, townsfolk milled about, shaking hands and pretending they hadn’t just been mentally undressing each other during the sermon.

You and Rhett stood on the grass, trying to look normal.

Trying.

The reverend made his way toward you, hand extended, eyes kind.

“It’s always lovely to see young couples in the pews,” he said warmly. “Such a blessing to witness young love.”

You opened your mouth to say something safe, polite, God-fearing.

Rhett beat you to it.

“We’re real blessed, sir.”

You elbowed him so hard in the ribs that he actually choked.

But he didn’t stop smiling.

TAGLIST:

MY CHERRIES: veri🍒: @tokkiz @lizzie8878 @mrsparker3696 @pixie2k5 @0urlady0fs0rr0ws421 @astromilku drop your cherries: veri🍒: tag for ALL of that character works

[fawninthetrees]

I have smth, someone walking in on reader and rhett but it's secret relationship and no hanky panky just like cuddling or reader is sleeping !!

Yours, Officially

A/N: THIS IS MAD CUTE AND I DEFINITELY WENT A LITTLE OVERBOARD 😭 but honestly, Outer Range doesn’t give us nearly enough sweet family moments — so I took matters into my own hands. Warnings: this one’s gonna pull you deeper into Rhett spiralling territory… you will fall for him. again. harder. Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated  ☀️

The light coming through the cracks in the old barn wall was soft and golden, spilling faint stripes across the daybed. Dust floated in the air like something out of a dream, and the only sound in the room was the slow, even rhythm of Rhett’s breathing.

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

You remembered the late drive through the backroads, headlights bouncing along the dirt, Rhett drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the radio. You remembered his voice, low and lazy, saying, “Ain’t no sense sending you home this late. I’ve got a setup in the barn. S’quiet. No one’ll know.”

You remembered thinking: he makes it sound like hiding you’s something sacred.

And now here you were.

Wrapped in a blanket that smelled like hay and cedar and him. One arm thrown over the pillow. The other—

The other was tangled with Rhett���s.

He’d slid into the daybed sometime during the night. Big body curled into yours, one leg draped over your calves, hand resting at your waist. He was warm, shirt rumpled, hat tipped low over his face, the edge of his jaw brushing the crown of your head.

You should’ve moved. You really should’ve.

Instead, you stayed there. Let the moment settle. Let the silence stretch. Let yourself feel, just for a second, like you belonged to something that wasn’t allowed yet.

“Y’awake?” he murmured, voice still gravelled with sleep. You blinked, nose brushing his flannel. “I am now.” His fingers tightened just slightly at your side. “Wasn’t sure. You didn’t elbow me once all night.” “Miracle,” you yawned, shifting just enough to look at him. “This your idea of hospitality?” Rhett tipped his hat back with one hand, looking down at you with a sleepy half-smile. “Could’ve let you sleep in the truck.” “You almost did,” you reminded him, voice soft. “Then you got all... chivalrous on me.” He smirked. “I ain’t chivalrous.” “You dragged a whole daybed into your man cave.” “It was already here,” he mumbled. You raised a brow. “In your secret barn hideout?” He looked at you for a beat. Shrugged. “Maybe I like the quiet. Maybe I like having somewhere to go when the house feels too damn loud.” You reached up, brushed a strand of his hair back. “Maybe you like having somewhere to bring me.”

Rhett didn’t answer. Just leaned down a little, forehead nudging yours, and let out a slow breath.

Neither of you said it, but it hung there — soft and weightless and dangerous.

You liked this too much.

And it couldn’t stay secret forever.

---

You shifted slightly beneath the blanket, propping yourself up on one elbow as Rhett swung his legs off the daybed and stretched. The hem of his t-shirt lifted just enough to flash the waistband of his jeans, and yes — even half-asleep, the man still had the audacity to look good.

He ran a hand through his hair and reached for the dented thermos on the shelf behind him.

“Want some?”

You nodded, watching as he poured into one of two chipped mugs sitting on the tiny workbench-turned-nightstand.

“You always keep two mugs in your man cave?” you teased. “One’s mine,” he said, offering you the other. “Other one’s for when Amy hangs out here. Or, y’know, emergency cuddling.” You snorted into the cup. “Emergency cuddling? That a regular occurrence?” Rhett sat back down at the edge of the daybed, his thigh warm against yours. “Wouldn’t call it regular,” he muttered, “but I’m not complainin’.” You smiled over your mug. “You’re getting soft, Abbott.” He raised a brow. “Pretty sure you’re the one who fell asleep curled into me like a damn koala.” You jabbed a finger at his side. “You were the one who pulled me in.” “You were shivering.” “You were touch-starved.” He opened his mouth. Closed it. Shrugged. “Still am.”

The quiet settled again. Not awkward. Just full of everything unsaid.

“I like it here,” you said finally, sipping slow. “It’s peaceful.”

Rhett glanced around the room — the stacked boxes, the folded saddle blankets, the one window with a crack running through it and dust caught in the glass.

“It ain’t much.” “It’s yours,” you said. “And you let me in.”

His jaw clenched, just barely. That familiar flicker — protectiveness, pride, fear — moved behind his eyes.

Then, softer: “You make it too damn easy to fall, you know that?”

You blinked.

“Uncle—”

The door creaked.

Both of you froze.

He set his mug down like it was a ticking bomb. “Did you lock it?” “I thought you locked it!” “I told you to—”

A light patter of steps.

Then a tiny voice: “Uncle Rhett?”

Your eyes went wide.

“Oh no.” “Shit,” Rhett muttered, already scrambling to block your view with his back as the barn door creaked open.

Amy stood in the doorway, hugging a jacket to her chest. Her expression was suspicious at best.

“You weren’t in your room,” she announced. “Grandma said maybe you were feedin’ the chickens, but you don’t even like chickens—”

Rhett stood so fast he nearly knocked his mug over.

“Hey—Amy,” he barked. “Don’t come in.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you—what are you standing in front of—?”

She shifted on her toes, trying to peek around him.

In one smooth, near-desperate motion, Rhett yanked the blanket higher over your legs and backed up until he was fully blocking you like a damn brick wall.

“Amy,” he said, low and urgent. “Turn around. Right now.” Her head tilted. “Are you… hiding something?” “Nope. Just—privacy. Adult privacy.” “What does that even mean—?”

And then she caught a glimpse. The edge of your face behind his shoulder. Your very obvious bed hair. His flannel sleeve half-wrapped around your arm.

Amy’s jaw dropped.

“OH MY GOD,” she gasped, hoodie slipping to the ground. “UNCLE RHETT—IS THERE A GIRL IN YOUR BARN?!” “Amy,” he warned, already too late. “YOU HAVE A GIRL IN YOUR BARN!!!”

She turned and bolted like her life depended on it.

“*GRAAAAAANDMAAAAAAAA—UNCLE RHETT IS HIDING A GIRL IN THE BARN—AND THEY’RE—THEY’RE DATING OR CUDDLING OR—*BOTH!!”

Rhett groaned, hands on his hips, looking like he aged ten years in two seconds.

You flopped backward onto the daybed and dragged the blanket over your face. “I am never showing my face.”

He didn’t respond at first.

Just stared at the door Amy had burst through, then turned to look at the mess of blankets, the mugs, and his damn flannel wrapped around your arm.

Then he deadpanned:

“I should’ve let you sleep in the damn truck.”

---

You barely made it five steps out of the barn before you heard it — the slam of the back door.

Cecilia stood on the porch with a coffee mug in hand, robe cinched tight, and the kind of expression that could drop a grown man to his knees.

You could just make out Royal through the screen door, sitting at the kitchen table like it was any other morning — newspaper in hand, unbothered by the chaos brewing around him. And somewhere deeper inside the house—

“Amy!” Perry’s voice rang out. “What do you mean ‘with a girl in the barn’?! What the hell did you just say?!”

You and Rhett exchanged a look.

“Should we run?” you whispered. Rhett muttered, “You think we’d make it to the truck?” “Nope.” Cecilia took one long, slow sip of coffee. “Well,” she said calmly, looking you up and down, “I suppose this is the part where someone starts explaining.”

You tugged Rhett’s flannel tighter around yourself, painfully aware of your bed hair, crinkled clothes, and complete lack of an escape plan.

Cecilia didn’t miss it.

“Why don’t you head inside and wash up a little, sweetheart?” she said, not unkindly. “There’s a mirror in the downstairs bathroom. I’ll be right here when you’re done.” You blinked. “Right. Yes. Thank you.”

You bolted inside like your life depended on it.

---

You didn’t even get the tap fully running before you heard the next wave of yelling.

“They weren’t doing anything!” Amy insisted, indignant. “But she was totally in there, and Uncle Rhett was standing in front of her like a guard dog, and he had a blanket and everything!” Perry’s voice now: “Wait, what kind of blanket?” “Like a snuggle blanket! The one he keeps on the chair!”

Back in the kitchen, Rhett looked like someone had parked a tractor on his chest.

Cecilia leaned one hip against the counter. “Well,” she said, “this explains the two mugs I found in the sink.” “It’s not what it looked like,” Rhett said quickly. “Oh?” she replied. “So you weren’t in the barn with a girl, alone, in the early morning, and acting like you were guarding Fort Knox?” Rhett groaned. “I was—I—she was tired, okay? We’d been out late. I told her she could crash on the daybed. She fell asleep. That’s all.” Amy piped up proudly. “Yeah, but you were standing in front of her all weird, like you didn’t want me to see!” Perry walked in, coffee halfway poured. “So, just to clarify... no pants came off, but you still got caught red-handed?” “Perry!” Rhett snapped. “What? It’s a valid question.” “She was asleep, man.” Amy blinked. “She looked very awake when I saw her.” “You screamed.” Rhett rubbed his face. “Everyone would look awake after that.” Cecilia looked amused. “And you’ve been seeing each other for how long?”

You reappeared in the doorway, now slightly more presentable, hair brushed and face flushed.

“Awhile,” you said honestly. Royal finally turned a page. “Could’ve just told us.” “We weren’t ready for it to be a thing,” Rhett said. “Didn’t want the noise.” “Well,” Royal said, not looking up, “now you got it.” Perry took a loud sip of his coffee. “At least tell me it wasn’t my flannel she was wearing.” Cecilia ignored him. “I made pancakes,” she said instead, her tone flipping from cool matriarch to warm grandma in a heartbeat. “Sit. Eat. You can be embarrassed with food in your mouth like the rest of us.”

You glanced at Rhett.

He looked like he’d aged twenty years.

“I’ll set the plates,” you whispered, trying not to laugh. “God help me,” he muttered, trailing after you. Behind you, Amy whispered to Perry: “Told you she was his girlfriend.” Perry leaned in, smirking. “Yeah. And last month you said the chicken coop was haunted.” Amy crossed her arms. “It sounded haunted.” Perry chuckled. “Bet Rhett wishes the barn was haunted instead.”

---

You sat at the kitchen table, sandwiched between Cecilia’s warm judgment and Amy’s smug little grin.

Rhett was right beside you — back straight, jaw clenched, chewing his pancakes like each bite was a personal punishment.

“So,” Perry said around a mouthful of syrup, “how long we talkin’? Weeks? Months? Biblical ages?”

Rhett didn’t answer.

Amy did. “I bet they’ve been sneaking around forever.” Cecilia calmly refilled your coffee. “I figured something was going on when you started washing your hair more often.” “I always wash my hair,” Rhett grumbled. “Not in a way that involved cologne,” she replied smoothly. Royal didn’t look up from his newspaper. “You told me she was ‘helping out with horses.’” “She was,” Rhett said defensively. “With her face two inches from yours?” Amy chirped.

Rhett groaned and dropped his fork.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

“Alright,” Rhett said, pushing his chair back. “I’m done being interrogated.” “Don’t forget your dishes,” Cecilia called after him. He waved a hand without turning around. “She’s got ’em.” You blinked. “I do?” “Please?” he added, glancing back at you with something halfway between guilt and pleading. You sighed dramatically, grabbed two plates, and stood. “Only because you took the fall.” Amy gasped. “So you were hiding!” Rhett opened the screen door. “I’m going to stand in the sun and pretend none of you exist.” “Love you too,” Cecilia called sweetly.

---

You found him leaning against the barn wall, half in the sun, half in the shade. His coffee was long gone, but he still held the mug like he needed something to do with his hands. Shirt sleeves rolled up, hair messier than usual, the kind of quiet that settled around Rhett when his thoughts got too loud.

You passed him the plate wordlessly. Two pancakes. No syrup.

“Figured you didn’t wanna sit through another Perry monologue.” He looked at you, that quiet warmth already softening the edge of his scowl. “You read my damn mind.”

You slid down beside him, shoulder brushing his.

“I didn’t mean for it to come out like that,” Rhett said after a long silence. “What I said earlier. About not wanting it to be a thing.”

You looked up at him.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to hide you,” he went on. “I just… didn’t wanna share you yet. I liked it better when it was just us. Felt safer.” You reached out, brushing your fingers along the seam of his jeans. “I know what you meant. And I liked it too. But I don’t mind this, either.” He let out a breath — not quite a laugh. “You don’t mind Amy screaming it from the rooftops?” “She screamed dating or cuddling or both, Rhett. I feel like we got off easy.”

He smiled at that. Not just with his mouth — with his eyes, too. That rare, quiet smile like something unguarded cracked open inside him.

“I mean, it’s not like we’re doin’ anything wrong,” you added. “We’re two grown adults sharing a daybed in a barn. Fully clothed. With coffee mugs.” “Romantic as hell,” he muttered, nudging your knee. “I’m serious.” “I know.” You paused. “Do you wish we could go back to hiding it?” Rhett shook his head, slow. “Nah. I just wish I’d kissed you before Amy walked in.”

Your heart did a little somersault.

You leaned into him, pressing your head to his shoulder. “We got time.”

He set the plate down beside him, turned slightly toward you. One hand came up to your cheek — warm, careful, thumb brushing just beneath your eye.

“You still got syrup on your lip,” he murmured. “I didn’t eat any syrup.” “Guess I imagined it,” he said, and kissed you anyway.

It was unhurried. Soft. Familiar in that new kind of way. Like it belonged in this moment. Like it always belonged here.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours.

“So,” he whispered, “you wanna come back tonight?” You smirked. “You mean sneak into the barn and frighten Amy again?” “Nope. I mean…” He glanced toward the house. “You can stay in my room this time. Save me the heart attack.” You looked up at him, eyes warm. “Only if you promise not to stand in front of me like a human shield again.” He laughed. “No promises. I panicked.” “I know. It was kinda hot.” “Shut up.”

You kissed him again just to prove the point — and this time, neither of you moved when the screen door creaked open.

Because now?

You weren’t hiding.

----

[EXTRA]

When Rhett knocked on your door, he wasn’t wearing his usual scowl. He looked… nervous.

Hat in one hand. Shoulders tense. Like he was about to ask you for something important.

Which, to be fair, he was.

“I know you already met everyone,” he said, voice low, eyes flicking down to his boots. “But I wanna do it right. Y’know. A proper dinner. Not… the barn thing.” You raised an eyebrow. “You mean not with Amy shrieking and your mum's sipping judgment through a coffee mug?” “Exactly,” he muttered. “I made Mom cook something she doesn’t hate. There’s pie.” You grinned. “You sure this isn’t just an excuse to get pie?” He looked up, finally. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “It’s a multitasking situation.”

---

Dinner was surprisingly… nice.

The table was actually set. Cecilia used the cloth one — the good one, the one she only pulled out for holidays and suspiciously formal guests. Royal had even changed his shirt. Perry was still Perry, but slightly less feral. Amy was writing in a notebook. You chose not to ask.

When everyone settled at the table, Rhett cleared his throat and stood up — stiff-backed, clearly uncomfortable but determined.

“Alright,” he muttered. “I know y’all met her already, but… that wasn’t exactly the way I wanted it to happen.”

He glanced down at his plate, then back up — eyes landing on you first, then his family.

“This is her. She means a hell of a lot to me. And I want you to know her the way I do — not just some girl caught in the barn, not a joke. She’s someone I care about. A lot.”

A beat of silence.

Then, awkwardly, “So… be decent.”

Cecilia smiled into her wine.

Perry muttered, “You rehearsed that, didn’t you.” Amy whispered, “He definitely rehearsed it.”

----

You survived the meal.

Barely.

Amy got through eleven questions. Perry made three jokes about eloping. Rhett kicked him under the table twice. Cecilia beamed the entire time like she was already planning a wedding in her head. And Royal, in the quietest moment of the night, looked at you and said:

“You make him better.”

That was it. No ceremony. No explanation.

Just four words.

But they landed.

Even Rhett went quiet for a second, like someone had knocked the wind out of him. And when he looked at you again, it was with that same damn softness you were starting to crave.

---

Afterward, you and Rhett ended up in the kitchen, elbow to elbow, rinsing dishes.

“So,” you said, bumping his hip gently. “Was this what you pictured? Your grand introduction?” “Nope.” “Better or worse?” He looked over. “Better. Way better.” You smiled. “Thanks for letting me be part of it.” “You were always part of it,” he said, setting down the last plate.

You reached for a towel, heart doing that stupid little ache-thing it did every time he said something like that.

Then, without looking up, you asked, casual as ever:

“So… next dinner, you gonna let me hold your hand?”

He froze for half a beat.

Then reached over — slow, quiet, sure — and laced his fingers through yours.

“Next dinner,” he murmured, “you’re sittin’ in my lap.”

[fawninthetrees]

Yellow Soul Masterlist

Summary: Being with your high school sweetheart Perry feels like walking on a constant tightrope, always terrified to plummet to your death. But one winter break in 2016 everything changes when you unexpectedly reconnect with his younger brother, Rhett. In a relationship that’s smothering, Rhett becomes the escape you never knew you needed, offering the kind of refuge you’ve been longing for.

Pairing: Rhett Abbott/Fem!Reader

MDNI - Smut indicated with a *

Chapter One: Mulberry

You return to Wabang with the intention of celebrating Christmas with your boyfriend, Perry. What you discover instead is much more than you would have ever dreamed.

Chapter Two: Amaranth*

A routine Sunday morning turns unexpected as you and Rhett meet in secret away from your families.

Chapter Three: Gourd*

You want to regret Sunday, but you don't. You find Rhett does not regret it either.

Chapter Four: Persimmon*

Things haven't been the same since the fight in Rhett's truck. The pressure is getting to you, and the feelings of self-doubt are not eased as others around you do not reveal their secrets.

Chapter Five: Marmalade

With Wabang in your rearview mirror you can finally breathe again.

Chapter Six: Dandelion

Six years pass and you find yourself back in Wabang.

Chapter Seven: Cornsilk

A night at the bar leads to some unexpected findings, unknowingly you are now tied to Rhett Abbott for life.

Chapter Eight: Pear

With Trevor Tillerson missing, you are pulled back into the tangle of secrets, regrets, and the Abbott family you once tried to leave behind.

Chapter Nine: Tilleul

Something is very wrong in Wabang, Wyoming. And you have everything to do with it.

+ More To Come!

[fawninthetrees]

Something Like Salvation Masterlist

Owen Taylor x Reader

Summary: You visit home reluctantly, only to find Owen Taylor has returned. But some things are different now. No longer are you the obedient girl nor is Owen Taylor the pious golden boy. In quiet corners and long drives, you chase something warm and reckless. It may not be redemption... but for Owen, you felt something like salvation.

🔴 MINORS DNI 🔴 Warnings: 18+ content, religious guilt & themes, explicit sexual content, nsfw, eventual smut, dirty talk, praise kink, semi-public sex, soft aftercare, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, mild praise kink, foreplay

Author's Note: Please note that this is set in a universe the Jem Starling DOES NOT exist. Owen is also NOT married here. Although I set this to be in a 2nd Person POV, my entire intention is to establish that Y/N is a full-grown adult.

📌 Sign Up for TAGLIST

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Epilogue

[fawninthetrees]

Something Like Salvation

Owen Taylor x Reader

Summary: You visit home reluctantly, only to find Owen Taylor has returned. But some things are different now. No longer are you the obedient girl nor is Owen Taylor the pious golden boy. In quiet corners and long drives, you chase something warm and reckless. It may not be redemption... but for Owen, you felt something like salvation.

🔴 MINORS DNI 🔴 Warnings: 18+ content, religious guilt & themes, explicit sexual content, nsfw, eventual smut, dirty talk, praise kink, semi-public sex, soft aftercare, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, mild praise kink, foreplay

Author's Note: Please note that this is set in a universe the Jem Starling DOES NOT exist. Owen is also NOT married here. Although I set this to be in a 2nd Person POV, my entire intention is to establish that Y/N is a full-grown adult.

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Chapter 1: Come As You Are

You hadn't planned on staying long.

Three days max, a blip in your time-off, you told yourself. It would be just enough time to check on your mom, help your sister with her grad party, and then head back to Austin before the church folks even knew you were in town. You'd outgrown this place. Meticulously scrubbed the judgment from your skin and learned to breathe without shame. 

But somehow, you find your feet pressed into the familiar red clay parking lot of New Light Revival on a humid Wednesday evening, staring at the glowing cross mounted above the double doors like it was daring you to come inside.

"It'll mean a lot to Mom if you just show your face," your sister had pleaded. "Owen’s back in town too. He’s giving the message tonight. Remember him?"

Unfortunately.

You had very much remembered Owen Taylor. He was the golden boy of your youth group once upon a time — all gentle voice and piercing eyes. He was a few years older, always watching without speaking unless it was to gently correct. 

You used to catch him looking at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Nothing ever happened though. Nothing inappropriate, nothing confessed. Moments filled with the kind of lingering glances that burrow under your skin and stay there.

You were always told to guard your heart, your purity, like a glass house in a war zone. Back then, you listened.

You don't anymore.

You smoothed your dress and stepped inside. You’re wearing one of your favorite sundresses–soft cotton, a little shorter than what was considered decent in these pews. Unfortunately sleeveless and so you had to don a cardigan over it. The dress was by no means provocative, especially compared to what you wore in Austin, but you were certain it was not made for revival meetings.

You hadn’t worn it to make a statement. You would even say this was one of your most “proper” dresses. But walking past the elders and their disapproving glances, it felt like one anyway. You hated how a piece of fabric could still make you feel like you were being graded on a scale of virtue. You’d left that behind — the quiet rules, the measured hemlines, the shame stitched into every stitch. But stepping into that sanctuary, you felt the nostalgic shame creeping back like a vine.

Of course nothing had changed. How could it when the people in it refused to move on? The church smelled the same, like lemon polish and something old beneath it. The carpet hadn’t changed, neither had the fake ivy wrapped around the railings or the banner over the stage: He Is Risen. 

A few heads turned when you entered. You didn’t flinch. Let them stare.

You slid into the back pew just as the band struck the last note of a worship song, and the pastor introduced the guest speaker. You didn’t even have time to steel yourself.

He walked out slowly. No tie, sleeves rolled to his forearms, Bible in hand.

Owen Taylor.

Older. Broader. Jaw more defined, light stubble grown, hair swept neatly back. Same eyes.

Then, just as he was mid-stride on the stage, he saw you. He slightly faltered, blinked but kept going. It was only a second but you saw it. Somehow, it sent a static jolt to your spine.

He almost lost his breath when he saw you.

He thought it was a trick of the light at first. The sanctuary lights catching a face in the back row that shouldn’t have been there. You couldn’t have been there. But then you shifted in your seat, crossed your legs slowly, and looked right at him.

You were as he remembered you. You were older, sure, but there was something different now — sharper, more assured. Your eyes held that quiet defiance, like someone who had walked through fire and dared it to do worse. Perhaps you did and that made it worse, more dangerous. It’s true that he could still glimpse the same girl underneath. You, who used to ask him dangerous questions after Bible study and had become the reason he’s lost sleep more than once, now looked like you knew exactly what you were doing. 

His grip on the pulpit tightened.

The sermon poured out of him like muscle memory, but the message twisted in his throat. Every word about redemption felt heavier with you in the room. He wasn’t just talking to the congregation anymore. He was talking to you. For you. Maybe against you.

He didn’t know if he was trying to save your soul or beg you to tempt his.

The message tonight was about redemption. About returning home and being welcomed despite the dirt on your shoes. About prodigal sons and open arms. His voice was steady, calm, but you could see something under the surface. It twisted every time he glanced in your direction.

You didn’t look away. This time you were the one daring him. Whether it was to preach to you or undress you with scripture, you were unsure.

But God help you, you kind of liked it.

The goal was to slip out unnoticed.

You try to stick to this by standing up the second the service ended. You weren’t interested in post-sermon socializing or lingering near the punch table for someone to corner you with a prayer request. You were halfway to the door when you heard it—

"Hey." 

That voice. Low. Familiar.

You turned and there Owen stood just behind you. This time, no pulpit, no microphone. No longer a boy, but now a man. Just a man, much taller than you remembered and too close for comfort.

"Didn’t expect to see you here," he said, eyes flicking briefly to the hem of your dress before bouncing back up to your face. Seemingly reminding himself that he had just broken his own rule about not letting his gaze linger.

You raised a brow. "I could say the same. Done with Peru?"

"Came back for the revival. Temporary," he added quickly, like it needed clarifying. "They asked. I felt called."

You hummed, unconvinced. "Well. You were very…convincing."

His mouth twitched, a half-smile fighting to surface.

"You always were good at making people feel like the sermon was just for them."

This time, his smile faltered. "It wasn’t just a performance. I meant every word."

You looked at him for a beat too long. "I’m sure you did."

Thick silence took over. The tension that lingered was the kind that used to exist in Sunday school rooms after someone asked if Jesus ever got horny.

You exhaled through your nose and made to leave. “I should go.”

He stepped lightly into your path. Not aggressive. Just…there. "Walk you to your car?"

You hesitated. He noticed.

"I’m.. not trying to trap you," he said gently. "Just talk. I promise. Catch up. Unless you’d rather not."

You shouldn’t. Everything in you said not to, but curiosity was a powerful thing.

"Okay," you said, nodding toward the parking lot. "If you’re up for the risk."

Owen didn’t speak at first. He kept his hands in his pockets, matching your pace as cicadas screamed from the trees. You walked forward, head held high, knowing people watched but not caring at the same time. He admired the liberation you displayed. 

The church doors glowed faintly behind both of you.

 "You look good," he said eventually. "Happy. Strong."

You glanced sideways. "Is that a surprise?"

"No," he answered too quickly. Then, more quietly: "Maybe a little."

You gave a dry laugh. "Because the church always said anyone would spiral the second they left. They thought I’d be one of them. I think some people were disappointed when I didn’t."

He looked pained by that. Genuinely. You didn’t spiral. You flourished. Somehow the jealousy he felt knowing you did stings more than if you'd fallen.

"It’s not like that." he responds carefully.

"Isn’t it?"

He couldn’t answer, couldn’t deceive you even if he tried. He just walked beside you, the weight of the unspoken falling in step.

A beat passed. Then he said, "I used to think you were dangerous."

You arched a brow at the admittance. "Used to?"

“Maybe I was right. Maybe you are. Wouldn’t have thrived in the wild out there if you weren’t.”

You huffed, not quite sure what to make of his comment.

Owen stopped walking for half a second then let out a breath like a prayer he shouldn’t have said out loud. "Honestly, I don’t know what I think anymore."

Now that made you smile just a little. It wasn’t sweet, but rather satisfied. "Good. I’d hate to be predictable."

When you reached your car, you paused and he did too.

The tension that swelled there was hot and charged. You could feel it crackling between your elbow and his, between the questions neither of you asked.

"You’re still as sharp as ever," he said.

You leaned on the door. "And you’re still playing with fire."

Owen smiled again, ruefully this time. "I think the fire found me first." 

And God help him, it felt like he might want to burn.

There were no kisses or touches. But a promise passed between you in that humid silence. Or maybe it was a challenge. Either way, the moment excited him. Far beyond anything he ever felt. He was exhilarated.

Then you got in the car. And as you pulled away, you saw him still standing there.

Watching you like a man already wrestling the consequences of temptation.

It was a restless night for you.

The memory of the church with its sticky pews and dry hymns comes back every time you close your eyes. Owen’s eyes flicking to your legs and then away again like it burned him. 

You had to keep telling yourself it wasn’t a big deal. Men look. But then him walking beside you pops up. And you have to give yourself another excuse. It’s just a walk. A nostalgic and polite walk.

You laid awake with one arm flung over your eyes, cursing the way his voice clung to your skin. You could still hear it. I used to think you were dangerous.

You could say the same for him.

You ran into him again the next afternoon. This time at the freezer aisle of the tiny corner grocery store. You were standing in front of the frozen fruit, deciding whether overpriced raspberries were worth it, when he appeared beside you, as if summoned by the unconscious, in a casual green shirt.

“Didn’t expect to see you again,” you said.

“Didn’t expect to find you debating on berries,” he replied with a crooked smile.

There was a beat. Then another.

You reached for the frozen mango and tossed it into your basket. He watched you.

“You live nearby?” you asked casually.

“My parents’ place. For now.”

You nodded. “Figures.”

He hesitated, shifting his weight. "Do you—um—still have the same number?"

You arched a brow. “That would imply you had it first as a reference.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. I didn’t. That was dumb.”

You held his gaze. Then, you slowly reached out your hand, palm face up. He pulled out his phone and carefully placed it in your hand.

You typed your number in and handed it back without a word. You both stepped away before either of you could say something stupid.

“Hey,” he finally said, just before turning down the next aisle. “Don’t worry. I won’t use it for prayer chain emails.”

“Relieved,” you replied, tossing him a look over your shoulder. “I’d block you on principle.”

He smiled but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

That night, Owen sat on the edge of his borrowed bed, staring at your name on his phone.

He hadn’t meant to ask for your number. Never even planned it. But the words just came out when you were there..

You should delete it, he thought. This isn’t why you’re here.

But he couldn’t. Even when his thumb hovered over the delete, he didn’t press. He just kept staring and remembering the way your fingers brushed his when you handed over the phone, a lingering moment.

He told himself he just wanted to check in. Nothing inappropriate nor that couldn’t be explained.

Still, his thumb hovered over the keyboard for a long time before he typed:

OWEN TAYLOR: Hope you get those raspberries next time.

When your reply came, it was quick.

YOU: Not sweet enough for the price.

He smiled, shoulders relaxing. Okay. That was safe. That was normal.

Then, before he could think better of it:

OWEN TAYLOR: Shame. Always thought you were sweet enough to cover everything else.

He hit send before he can even think about it. It took about a full five seconds for him to immediately regret it.

Too much. Dial it back.

But before he can wallow, you responded.

YOU: How would you even know?

OWEN TAYLOR: I think I know a lot more than I should.

He closed his eyes. Why did you say that?

You were curled up in bed when your phone lit up again.

YOU: Thought I was the dangerous one.

OWEN TAYLOR: Maybe you bring it out of me.

You stared at that message for a long time. The air in your room felt hotter than before.

Then, a pause.

OWEN TAYLOR: It was nice seeing you again tonight.

YOU: Was it?

Three dots. A pause. More dots.

OWEN TAYLOR: I don’t mind getting used to it.

You swallowed hard.

YOU: Might cross a few lines to do so.

No reply.

You curled into your sheets, heart racing.

Then, finally:

OWEN TAYLOR: Can’t pretend I’m not ready to.

The next time you saw Owen was the day after. It was in the parking lot of a diner just off Main Street. You were leaving with a to-go bag and an iced coffee, squinting into the afternoon sun, when you nearly bumped into him by the curb.

He looked as startled as you felt.

"Two days in a row," you said, shielding your eyes with your hand. "You stalking me, Taylor?"

He smiled, but his posture was tense. Like he wasn’t sure if he should stay or run.

"Pure coincidence," he said. Then: "Unless divine intervention still counts."

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth twitched despite yourself.

"You just get lunch?" he asked, nodding to the bag.

"Something like that. Want a fry?"

His eyes widened slightly. "I’m good."

You held one out anyway. He took it cautiously, like it might burn.

"So," you said slowly, watching him chew. "You always this quiet or was I texting someone else last night?"

He swallowed hard.

"I’m just… trying to be careful."

"With me?"

"With myself."

You pressed your lips tightly and nodded. That, at least, felt honest.

He glanced around, then looked back at you. "You have plans tonight?"

The quiet bravery in the question surprised and intrigued you.

"No."

He looked almost relieved. "I was thinking maybe… you’d want to talk. For real. No sermons. No grocery aisles. Just us."

Your heart did something slow and strange.

"Where?"

He shrugged. "Anywhere but the church."

You finally smiled. "Pick me up at 8."

At 8:03, Owen’s car pulled up outside your mom’s house. You slid into the passenger seat in a sleeveless sundress and sneakers, hair up, nerves simmering low in your belly.

He looked over once and then looked away too fast. His eyes had caught on your legs for half a second too long. Too short, he thought. Too exposed. Too much. Just like you.

But he said nothing. Just turned the keys and backed out.

The car ride was quiet at first. Windows down. The summer air was warm against your arms. He drove aimlessly, like he just wanted to move. Your hands feeling the air, eyes closed. 

He kept his eyes on the road, but his mind was full of you. The way you crossed your legs. The slope of your neck. He has to keep telling himself that you’re not doing anything wrong, but he’s not sure he can keep saying the same for himself. He gripped the steering wheel tighter.

You shifted in your seat, adjusting your skirt, and something inked caught his eye. It was just visible beneath the hem, high on your upper thigh. A scale and a tail. Then another small movement that revealed it to be a snake.

Delicate, coiled, black and fine-lined. He blinked. Looked away, then looked again. "Is that—"

"A tattoo?" you finished for him, glancing down at your leg. "Yeah. Surprised?"

He gave a short, breathy laugh. "Of a snake? That’s... biblical."

You smirked. "Thought it was fitting."

His eyes lingered a second longer than they should have. "You always knew how to make a point."

"And you always knew how to pretend you weren’t listening."

He looked back at the road, but the image burned in his mind. Of course she’d mark herself with a serpent. Of course it would be her.

He wasn’t sure if he was more fascinated or terrified. 

Finally, Owen decides to pull up by the lake. The silence was overwhelming. His eyes glanced at you. Then to the front. You didn’t look as tense as he did and that he envied. 

"You know," you said eventually, "this doesn’t have to be so hard."

"This definitely doesn't feel easy." 

You tilted your head. "Why not?"

"Because everything about this feels like a test."

You looked out the window, chewing on your lip. You were supposed to be leaving soon. That had always been the plan. Three days, maybe four. Just long enough to be polite, not long enough to get tangled up in something messy… or someone.

And yet here you were. Sitting in Owen Taylor’s car with his jaw tense and his eyes flicking to you like he couldn’t help it.

This is a bad idea, you told yourself. But the thrum in your chest told a different story.

You let the silence stretch until the road curved around a grove of trees and the sky turned dusky pink.

"Maybe not everything has to be earned through suffering," you said.

He allowed himself to look at you longer, the tension between you braided tighter than ever.

He didn’t kiss you. But in that breathless quiet, you both stopped pretending you didn’t want to.

Taglist: @shantellorraine @slvt4her @anxious-alto @irlbaristaoc

[fawninthetrees]

this early dancing (2/2) | sirius black

Sirius rested his hand at your neck and you felt yourself seize up as he pushed his thumb into your throat. He was gentle, sliding up slow until the tip of his index finger was pressed into the underside of your jaw. He stretched his hand out over your neck. You swallowed, which he surely felt, and then he moved his hand to the space behind your ear, thumb pulling your lips into a wonky smile. "Smile, beautiful."

You smiled. He nodded approvingly and kissed the corner where his thumb wasn't, head tilted in, before pulling away like nothing had transpired.

summary you and Sirius navigate the dizzying affection between you both while trying to keep it secret [14k]

warnings fluff, smut, marauders era, mutual pining, idiots in love, she/her pronouns used for reader, fem!reader

read part one here

You woke up to somebody knocking loudly at the door. You flinched, disentangling yourself from Sirius' iron tight hold and remembered you were wearing his shirt. "Shit. Shit. Fuck," you cursed in a whisper. Sirius didn't even stir.

You pulled your dirtied pyjama bottoms from the day before yesterday on and cracked open the door. Lily stood on the landing, arms crossed, gaze quizzical.

"We want to go into town. You two are the last ones up."

"Right, I'll get him up," you said, cringing at your appearance.

She peered over your shoulder at Sirius, at the duvet you'd thrown off of you both, at the body sized space facing his chest. She looked back at you and zeroed in on your shirt before she shut her eyes, holding her weight up with her hand on the doorway. "You didn't."

You shuffled from foot to foot. "What?"

"Tell me you didn't."

"I didn't."

Despite asking for it, your denial rubbed her the wrong way.

"Do you think I'm blind?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I tried the door. It was locked."

"Sirius is serious about sleep privacy."

She groaned and tipped her head to the sky, ginger curls bouncing.

“Oh my merlin."

"I like him, Lily," you said quietly, leaning in very close.

When she deigned to look at you again her eyes were softer. "I know you do. I only hope you know what you're doing. Do you know what you're doing?"

"Not yet," you said, clearing your throat.

"Well," she said, tucking a curl behind her ear, "you have another two days to work it out."

"Right. Two days."

You both looked at each other, Lily solemn and you embarrassed. The holiday was taking place over a long, 4 day weekend. The first day, Friday, you'd spent mostly in the car as you and James has spearheaded the no magic rule of your holiday; though no one was really listening, James had insisted on the drive from the Manor to his family cottage. Day two, yesterday. Today was day three.

She peered over your shoulder again and then looked straight in your eye

"What's he like?"

You giggled breathlessly, infecting her with your glee until she was laughing too.

"That good?"

You nodded multiple times, feeling heat climbing your face to roost at the tips of your ears. "Yeah."

She smiled and then shrugged. "Well. We're young, right? Any mistakes should happen now.”

You felt the word mistake like a jab in the side but continued smiling. "Yeah."

She sensed a potential misstep and her smile wavered apologetically.

"I'll wake him up," you said quickly, nodding your head towards the sleeping ravenette. "We won't be long."

Lily said, "Alrighty," and made her way across the landing and down the stairs. You trusted her to keep your secret for now, turning from the door which you'd closed to slink back into bed by Sirius, stealing time you didn't have.

He groaned and wrapped his arm back around you, the weight of it across your front still unfamiliar despite a whole night of checking it was really his arm. He pulled you close, breathing in the back of your neck. You felt your pulse hammering in your chest, a rush of adrenaline coursing through you as you remembered what you'd done the night before. How he'd been – after the photograph he'd persuaded you into the shower and had continued his manhandling, pressing you to the cool tile. He'd dropped to his knees, spread your legs.

Sirius' arm came to life and snapped you from your reverie, hand moving up your chest and neck to turn your face to his. He was blinking, bleary eyes already full of a tenderness that turned your stomach. You turned in his arms until you were practically nose to nose.

"Was that the door?"

"Lily. Everyone's going up town," you clued him in, tucking a misbehaving strand of hair behind his ear. He closed his eyes again at your touch.

"Town," he mumbled, drifting off. You giggled quietly and set your hand on his face, fingernail scratching lightly down his cheek. "What for?"

"Just to look, I think. Maybe dinner… Sirius, we really have to get up, everybody's waiting."

He groaned one more time and then forced his eyes open. His hand came up the back of your head to lead your forehead to his mouth, where he planted a firm, chaste kiss. Then, appeased, he tumbled out of bed to look for something to wear. You watched him stretch distractedly, the late morning light catching his body in stripes through the curtains and painting him the blinding white you often imagined him as. Glowing, he pulled a fresh t-shirt on and discarded the one he'd slept in as well as his boxers. You looked away, eyes drifting to your own made bed.

No wonder Lily had clocked on so fast.

You moaned and curled in tightly on yourself. You would've liked to work out for yourself what had happened last night before the others found out.

"What's the matter with you?" Sirius asked, scraping the front parts of his hair into a bobble.

"Some twat defiled me last night."

He gasped, legitimately shocked. "Defiled. What a way with words you have."

You squinted at him.

He chuckled, meandering over to your side. He sat by your knees and pulled his rings from the bedside table, sliding them on slowly and then setting his large hand over your hip. "C'mon, sweetheart. They're waiting for us."

You inhaled to say something and then shut your mouth.

"What?" he asked.

You weighed your words carefully before you spoke. "Kiss me?"

He grinned, leaning down until your mouths were barely an inch apart. "We haven't brushed our teeth," he said, and then pulled away.

"Get dressed," he encouraged, patting your shoulder and standing, "'nd then I'll kiss you. Deal?"

You resented his rejection and scrambled into a cheerful summer outfit, a midi skirt and a graphic t-shirt torn asymmetrically to expose your navel. You barreled into the bathroom and saw Sirius already at the sink, smelling of deodorant and cologne with a toothbrush between his lips. You did as he had, deodorising and spraying perfume on your neck and behind your ears, toothbrush in hand.

Sirius spat into the sink and wiped the back of his mouth, running the water.

"Think there'll be breakfast?"

You laughed, feeling toothpaste at the corner of your mouth. "Hungry?"

"Worked up an appetite."

You spit and washed your mouth out with a handful of water, trying not to care that he was watching you dribble. He'd seen worse, at this point.

"What do you fancy?" you asked him, squaring your hair up and wetting a flannel to quickly dab your face clean.

He sidled up into your space, hand going straight to your chin.

You looked up at him and felt apprehension deep in your marrow, but he didn't move to kiss you. You pouted at him, feeling hard done by. He leaned forward to peck your pout, expression all cool and collected when he pulled away, refusing to show if you’d had any effect on him.

You hated his guts sometimes.

You'd sorted your purse out for the day and was just about ready, pulling the door open when Sirius reached out over your head and shut it, effectively pinning you between his chest and the door.

"What?" you asked.

He looked at you steadily.

"What?" you asked again, giggling nervously.

Sirius rested his hand at your neck and you felt yourself seize up as he pushed his thumb into your throat. He was gentle, sliding up slow until the tip of his index finger was pressed into the underside of your jaw. He stretched his hand out on your neck. You swallowed, which he surely felt, and then he moved his hand to that space behind your ear, thumb pulling your lips into a wonky smile.

"Smile, beautiful."

You smiled. He nodded approvingly and kissed the corner where his thumb wasn't, head tilting in, and then he pulled away like nothing had transpired.

"Ready?" he asked you. You nodded, dazed.

-

The sun was especially cruel today, you thought, taking shelter under the awning of a fragrant gelato shop. You stood as close to Sirius as you could without one, being clingy and two, being obvious, breathing in the comforting drifts of vanilla and cream.

"What flavour will you get?" Mary asked you. You got up on your tiptoes to see over the small crowd at the front of the shop.

"I'm not sure, there's too many."

"I'm gonna get strawberry," she said. "And maybe pistachio, if they have it. And rocky road. And salted caramel."

Marlene snorted. "You don't want much, then."

Mary wiped her hands down her lilac sundress, model hands pressing into her waist, wrists adorned with silver bangles that clinked when she moved. Dorcas returned from looking at the menu in the window and pushed her chin over Mary’s shoulder. “I agree with Mary.”

“Did you even hear what she said?” Marlene asked.

Dorcas smirked. “Nope.”

A lover’s quarrel ensued. You looked out the corner of your eye at Sirius and found he was doing the same thing, and you both had to look away to stop from laughing.

Lily, Remus and Emmeline had stationed themselves at a cafe table a little ways away, the latter two looking positively miserable at such warm weather, while Frank and Alice had wandered off an hour ago. James emerged from the crowd with his hands full of ice cream pots and a big fuck off cone covered in all the trappings, a flake and nuts and a maraschino cherry.

You eyed it, in awe at its gravity defying physics.

“Wonder who that one’s for,” Sirius murmured, words for your ears only. “He’s irredeemably whipped.” And then, when James kept the cone for himself, his roaring laughter, which warmed your chest. James looked over at Sirius and grinned, soft scoop on the tip of his nose, stark against his brown skin.

Lily was rolling her eyes at the whole debacle, a smaller tub of gelato in her hands.

You looked between your friends happily. Only the ones who’d heeded your advice remained unburned. Emmeline was red from head to toe and complaining of it miserably, where Remus was much more sun-kissed. James’ colour had warmed where Lily, who had let him slather her regularly in sunscreen, was still pale as milk with a dusting of pink over her face where she’d forgotten.

Dorcas and Mary had charged into the shop holding hands now the line had receded, Marlene unhappily at their heels.

“Wanna change your bet?” Sirius asked, bumping your shoulder lightly.

“Wanna change yours?” you fired back. He met your eyes and said nothing, though he was smiling something awful. “James wouldn’t let either of us. God forbid he’s right, I don’t have the galleons.”

“I’ll bankroll you,” he said.

“So generous.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard it, funnily enough.”

“Yeah?” you asked, pressing your lips together to hide your smile. “And who’s telling you these things? I’d love to meet them, compliment their ability to lie so well as to trick you, loverboy.”

“Ah, that’s where you’re going wrong.” He leaned down to talk into the shell of your ear, sounding insufferably full of himself. “Can’t lie with their mouths full.”

You chortled, pushing him away. “Girls are good fakers.”

He nodded, looking up very quickly and then back at you, struggling to hold back his own smile. “I’ll have to keep my eye on you, then, next time. Lest you pull the wool over my eyes.”

Next time.

You nodded your head as if it were the most agreeable course of action. “I’m an adept liar. Even with my mouth full.”

“You don’t mind if I test that theory?”

“Anytime you want.”

His eyes had darkened, pupils dilating. You didn’t think it was the sunlight. “I’ll hold you to it.”

You held his stare for only a few moments before you were looking away, shy again. You couldn’t understand where your flirting had come from, only that it had you crossing your legs where you stood. You looked into the parlour to avoid Sirius’ eyes and saw the line had depleted now to only your friends, who were dawdling as Mary glanced over the ice creams, sorbets and gelatos with her hands spread over the glass as she made up her mind.

You started into the shop without saying anything and he followed, knuckles brushing yours for a split second as you walked. Pins and needles traversed the skin of your hands, eating up your wrist. You screwed your hand into a fist.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Will you choose for me?” you requested, having thought little about it.

He grinned. “Sure will. You wanna go wait outside?”

It was freezing in the parlour. You weighed your options; the edging on unpleasant cold with Sirius or the sweltering summer heat with the rest of your friends.

“I’ll stay,” you said impishly, looking down at your sandals.

You could see his arm out the corner of your eye, tanned and dewed with sweat.  You were sweating yourself and still hoped for it to get warmer, excited for the opportunities higher temperatures might bring about, like shirtless Sirius, and sweaty Sirius, and maybe even cranky Sirius.

Mary had decided and was now being served two pots with 5 different flavours of gelato. You huffed a laugh through your nose, the situation made far funnier by Marlene’s clear lack of patience. Dorcas was crunching on a wafer loudly at her side. You missed Sirius ordering, much too distracted by Mary’s reception and review of each flavour, and even more so when she tried to get Marlene to taste some off of the same spoon.

You turned back, “Marl won’t even share a spoon with Mary, there’s no way they’re going out,” you informed him, turning back to find he had his wallet out and had already paid. You rummaged through your bag for your purse. “Wait, Sirius, I’ll get you back.”

“You’re alright.”

He clapped you on the shoulder in a friendly manner and then massaged the skin there in a way that was decidedly not. You listened for the sounds of the mystery throuple exiting the shop and turned around to make sure before bending your neck so your cheek rubbed against Sirius’ hand on your shoulder. His ring scratched your cheek.

“What’d you get us?”

“It’s a surprise.”

You hummed, turning your face to press your mouth into his fingers, allowing yourself a full minute of this.

Sirius squeezed your shoulder and pulled you into his side, running his hand with pressure down your arm. You turned to face him, hoping he could read the domestic contentment dripping from your every pore. Something about his returned look made you think he could.

It was an insane pleasure, this stolen moment between you both. You’d often thought that the whole, ‘you make me feel like we’re the only two people on earth’ thing was a total farce, love dramatised by fools who didn’t know better. Now, you’d admit (perhaps as a newly-stated idiot), that loving someone and feeling it returned was a transcendent feeling: the kind of feeling that had you one second standing in an ice cream parlour and the next second standing totally alone with your love for company — and it didn’t feel lonely, despite it all.

And then somebody spoke and you were tethered, back in your shoes, meeting eyes with an apron clad shop worker who handed Sirius two ice cream cones with a big customer service smile.

They were startlingly pink, besides the light brown waffle cones. Pink ice cream, pink wafer, pink chocolate straws, topped off with matching maraschino cherries.

You gawked at them.

“What are these?” you asked.

He pointed at the scoop. “That’s raspberry sorbet.”

“Right, but they’re pink?” you asked softly, adoringly, digging through your bag for your camera. “Can I take a picture of you?”

He looked like his first impulse was to say no. He, with a chagrined expression, stepped back with the ice cream counter and chalkboard menus behind him. You moved back to fit it all in frame, smiling at tough, cool Sirius not knowing which way to pose.

“Smile, baby,” you said. The pet name caught him off guard and had the desired effect, a brilliant, carefree smile overshadowing his unassuming stance.

You snapped a photo of him and cheered.

You put your camera away and let him hand off your cone, seeing it now up-close. “Wow! The wafer’s a heart,” you said, eyes wide.

“It’s a Pink-Heart cone,” he informed you, pulling his maraschino cherry free to push gently into your cone. You licked the sorbet, surprised at its refreshing, fruity flavour.

“You didn’t want something cooler? They have your favourite,” you said, glancing at the tray of vanilla brownie. “We never see that these days.”

“I thought we should match,” he said, uncharacteristically quiet. His cheeks were dusted pink as the sorbet.

You stretched up to kiss him as quickly as you could.

“Thank you,” you said, lips cold on his warm cheek. “I’m gonna get you some vanilla brownie by the time the week's up, Black.”

-

You emerged from the parlour after finishing your matching cones and nobody batted an eyelash, eager to begin the walk to the indoor market before the sun was any higher in the sky. James was fanning Lily with a menu he’d nabbed at the parlour as they walked, Lily in the throes of a deep conversation about meditation and spiritual  healing with Marl while James was turned the other way, shit-talking Sirius.

You were dawdling at his side, talking to Frank about something he couldn’t quite catch in between James’ intense conversation.

He liked how you gravitated to his side before you remembered yourself, how you fell into his step and then shook yourself. Sirius knew you were both distracted to the point of suspicion but neither of you could help it, apparently. Finally, you bumped into his side and apologised, blushing.

“You can bump into me anytime you want, sweetheart,” he said, throwing his arm around your shoulder. And, as he’d thought, everyone was so used to his flirtatious behaviour that it flew under the radar.

You relaxed under his touch and continued your conversation with Frank with no further incident. James was glaring at him when he turned back, feeling his smile slip.

James was looking at him as if to say, caught you, dickhead.

“What do you think? Yes or no?” he asked. Sirius scrambled to think of what his friend had said moments before, and thought, fuck it. Fifty-fifty chance I get this right.

“Of course, mate. Yes, all the way.”

James grinned a shit-eating grin. “You think Bulgaria has a real chance of winning this season?”

Sirius winced. “No,” he admitted. “No. I definitely do not.”

“That’s what I thought.”

James pushed his glasses up at the side with one knuckle, frowning. Sirius watched as James gaze travelled across his arm and to your shoulders, watched him study your face and your touching skin. He levelled Sirius with a shockingly uncharacteristic glare, and Sirius wasn’t surprised when James thrust the menu at Lily and grabbed his arm, pulling him away to the side.

“We both need a wee,” James lied haphazardly.

With little more than that he’d sequestered and harangued Sirius within an inch of his life, totally furious. “You absolute wanker. I tell you everything. I told you about my first erection. I told you about my second erection, which, if you remember, was very sexually confusing. I told you abou-“

“Your third erection?”

James scowled.

“You did.”

“I know I did, arsehole. That’s literally my point.”

Sirius leaned against the warm limestone wall of the charity shop James had dragged him to, now separated from the main group with no clue where they were besides the market, which was huge. They’d be lucky to find them again. Sirius wished desperately for a cigarette, and suddenly James was offering him one.

“I’m on holiday,” James sniffed at Sirius’ silent judgement, passing him the lighter.

Sirius lit his cig and kicked one leg up on the wall behind him. James attempted the same, slipped, and scowled deeper. “My point was,” he said, clutching the box of cigarettes in his hands so tightly Sirius worried he’d crush them, “we tell each other everything. So: you’re a wanker.”

“I wasn’t sure what to tell you. I’m still not sure.”

“Have you slept together?”

Sirius said nothing, flicking ash on the ground in feigned disinterest. James groaned and took his silence for what it was.

“Well, you could start there!”

“James, shall I tell you when I need to piss, as well, or are we allowing a small margin for privacy?” James looked so hurt at this that Sirius sighed and admitted defeat. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” James muttered. “Still an idiot.”

“Mm.”

“You didn’t tell Moony, did you?”

“What? When have I ever played favourites?”

“You’ve slept with two out of three of your best friends. It’s not unheard off.” The pair descended into laughter which itself descended into hacking coughs. Sirius stubbed the cigarette out under his shoe. James continued his joke. “Seriously, I’m getting insecure at this point. You only like the quiet types, or what? I can be whatever you want, baby.”

Sirius shrugged, chuckling, and found that James was right. He did like the quiet types, and that surprised him. Not that his fancying you was ever in question, but still.

“I’ll say - I imagined you with a proper bombshell.”

“Fuck off,” there was real heat behind this, ”she’s hot.”

“Sure. She’d be the hottest dame in the library.”

“Cunt.”

James’ startled laughter echoed down the streets as they set off walking again in the direction everyone else had gone.

“She’s a bombshell. A real stunner,” he argued, thinking of you in his jacket, in the shower, in his sleep shirt. “She’s killer.”

“Right, don’t get your cock out. I take it back. And it’s not that I don’t think she’s fit, it’s that she’s - Y/N. Very unassuming.”

“There was nothing unassuming about that bikini,” Sirius defended you.

“Margin of privacy, or something?”

Sirius knew he had gone red, feeling a little sleazy. He cleared his throat. “Your girlfriend is literally the smartest person we know.”

“Yeah, she is,” James agreed dreamily. “And she’s a bombshell.”

“Right. That solidifies my point. You can look freakishly hot and frequent the library.”

“My god, man, are we still on this one? I already took it back.”

“You’re a bitch.”

And with that the market came into view. The outside was busy, which made Sirius think the inside would be tenfold, herds of families and dogs on their leads could be heard from a mile away. The crowds of customers flanked each merchant, most already with a bag of goods under their arm or grease-stained brown paper bag in their fingers. Sirius could already smell the bakery on the air, salt and fresh bread and something sweet, and thought maybe he’d find you there, browsing the sweets, looking for something to share.

There was a bullet silver burger van camped out at one end of the market with a line that stretched to the other. The fragrance of hot oil and searing beef patty had both himself and Prongs looking at each other cheekily. Neither attempted to reason with the other as they joined the queue, and though both felt a shot of guilt for abandoning the group on a second excursion they couldn't be blamed, Sirius thought, half an hour later with a full stomach. We're only men. Boys, even. What were we to do? Ignore hunger?

Sirius and James pushed past stalls full of secondhand books that he knew you'd probably perused already and a man who boasted to have the newest selection of tapes, a tarp layed out with what must've been a thousand vinyl records tiled over each other like domino's that'd fallen flat, even a mobile home full of stuffed animals and porcelain dolls.

If the warm roar of the outside was anything to undertake, the inside was worse and better in different ways. Worse, much worse, to have people packed like sardines; shoulder to shoulder the people walked, prams bashing like bumper cars into the legs of dawdlers, kids screaming bloody murder anywhere you looked.

The first indoor feature was a man and what seemed to be an opening like a rabbit's burrow down into the room, toy cars piled floor to ceiling at the walls in their mint boxes. It gave the room an illusion of shrinking, he thought, and was likely due an imminent cave in. Sirius wouldn't go in there, to James' great disappointment. He ragged him for his cowardice until he was distracted by a stand of handmade copper trees endowed with sweeping boughs of crushed crystal coloured warm orange, cerulean blue, raspberry pink and a sunset purple so light that the light that shone through it took on no colour, where the others acted like stained glass, catching the light where it could to arc lines across the table.

"Ooh, Lily would find this so darling."

Sirius rolled his eyes at his ridiculous best friend, turning from the admittedly gorgeous trees to look, sceptical, at a series of bird shaped statuettes similarly made up of wire where fabric took the place of crystals to create feathers. He wasn't overly fond and moved on again to the next table, which was laden with velvet boxes tucked carefully with rings.

Most were of the time, natural, raw gemstone set in silver and gold. Some were more proper, a general everyday man's engagement or promise ring. He looked at these with no illusion of anything but still a general thrumming fondness that maybe one day he'd be looking over a kindred selection for something for you. And then he felt so absurd he forced himself to turn to the other side of the wide aisle to a different stall. It was from the same vendor but this table was stacked with earrings. The large majority were silver or sterling, shaped after simple things like stars, hearts, ladybugs and kittens.

Like the rings, there was a velvet tray of gemstone earrings as well. Roughly half were silver, the other gold, each set with shining stones. Though he had no clue how authentic any of them were, the sign boasted amethyst, jasper, carnelian, dark lapis lazuli and jade. The jade piqued his interest. He racked his eyes over the studs until he'd zeroed in on green, marbled cabochons set in gold. A spiky yellow sticky note just underneath said 'REAL JADE AVAILABLE, SEE ATTENDANT. IMITATION JADE ON DISPLAY'.

That answered his question about authenticity

When he'd finished at the jewellery stand he found James, who was where he'd left him, haggling over a small copper tree.

"Prongs," he said disapprovingly.

"Yeah, alright," James said, opening his wallet to pay the vendor in full.

"You've more money than half the people here put together and you're trying to rip off a struggling artist," Sirius said scornfully as they moved on, though it wasn't fully serious. James grinned, shaking the small tree in his hands and pausing to listen to the small sounds it made.

"It's not about the money," James said, tree still up to his ear, "it's about the haggling itself."

"Surely you can draw entertainment from other facets of your life? Like a normal person?"

"What do you suggest?" he said devilishly.

"Let’s find the sorry lot first before you start planning any jokes," Sirius suggested.

James nodded sagely. "Yes, yes. Brilliant idea once again, my handsome friend."

"Handsome!"

"Fiendishly so."

"You're not half bad yourself," Sirius said, rolling his eyes.

James needled into his path, silly, melodious tree still held higher than it had any reason to be held. He was close enough to kiss, which had been the intention, openly trying to feel Sirius up a touch as the butchers came into view.

"Maybe we should get something for dinner," James thought aloud, forgetting his seduction.

Sirius pulled his necklace from under the fabric of his shirt to run between his fingers, biting his bottom lip thoughtlessly. "I don't know," he said, thinking it over.

James nodded as if Sirius had said something more and said himself agreeably, "Right - what if Lily had the same idea. We rock home with enough for everyone and she's got double."

Sirius was peering over people's heads, searching for a familiar face. It was impossible to distinguish individuals from the fast moving crowds and he quickly gave up, flicking James square in the forehead.

James' hand came up to hit Sirius back and he caught it. "No need to get violent."

James tried again.

"Mate," Sirius laughed, having blocked him for a second time.

"You flicked me!"

"Yeah, cos it's your fault we don't know where anyone is."

"It's your fault for not telling me you're fucking Y/N!"

"You are?" Mary asked, wide eyed.

She'd appeared from the right, holding a pastry in a paper bag and looking very shocked at this revelation.

"No, Mary," Sirius said. Pleaded. Not no as in no, I'm not, but no as in good lord, please don't repeat that. No, as in, let the ground swallow me up where I stand.

She took a bite of her donut looking indelibly satisfied by this discovery.

The others were close behind her but not quite there yet. Sirius took the opportunity to stand crossly and spitefully on James' foot, pressing down with his heel. His mouth opened in a silent scream, and, after blinking rapidly, he hung his head. "I deserved that."

"You did. Where's Y/N?" Sirius imparted the first sentence on James and then the question to Remus, who was eating a chocolate donut. He chewed his treat slowly and made no effort to answer.

"She couldn't decide what to get," Lily provided, holding a bag out towards her boyfriend. "Oh, is that for me? We'll trade."

"She's that way?" Sirius asked, nodding.

"Yep. Enjoy your boy talk?" Lily asked him with a knowing smile, and fuck, did everyone know now?

"No. James got a semi. Super awkward," Sirius informed her solemnly.

He smiled to himself at the group's raucous laughter and set off to find you in the market, following the smell of toasted sugar until the bakery was in sight, a three-sided booth with a grill that was cooking freshly made Welsh cakes and scones. You were standing a little ways off, looking worriedly at the bulging paper bag in your hand, talking to yourself silently. You looked a vision, skin shining with the golden light streaking from the skylights, your hair a little messier than it had started this morning, lips hinting at a pout.

He'd managed to get toe to toe with you before you noticed him, and you jumped at someone suddenly in your space. When you realised it was him you smiled big, cleaving him effectively clean in two, before frowning.

"You scared me," you complained.

"I'm sorry," he said, so close he had to look down to talk to you.

You didn't mind his proximity, reaching up nonchalantly to push hair out of his eyes, bracelet slipping down your wrist.

"Did James rag you terribly?"

"Not really," he said, the small stresses of the day falling away as you spoke, "he was more interested in what's in my trousers than you, I'm afraid."

You were bemused, shaking your head. Your hand fell away from behind his ear to offer him the paper bag. "I wasn't sure what you wanted, so I got a couple."

He looked into the paper bag full of his favourites and kept his face expressionless, worried if he started smiling too often at you he might never stop.

"What's for you?"

"I haven't decided."

He looked at you carefully. "Do you want something now?"

You were bashful, "I really can't decide. They all look nice."

"Pick whatever you want and I'll get it."

"No way, you already got me ice cream."

"You got me these, so we're square."

"And if you buy me sweets we'll be unbalanced again."

You didn't win the argument, compromising in that you'd only let him get you your favourite one and nothing more, licking the crumbs from the corner of your mouth as you chewed. Neither of you had rushed to find the group again, content to lean against a sliver of bare wall opposite the bakery booth away from everybody for a little while.

"You're not gonna have one?" you asked, looking crestfallen.

He grimaced, stomach still swimming in grease. The burgers would stay a secret between him and James, but he'd rectify your expression.

"I'm saving them for after," he said, appeasing you with both hands smoothing flat the top of your head to your neck, holding you still to kiss the top of your head. "Thank you, sweetheart."

You nodded and went back to your treat looking a little starstruck, if he did say so himself, his hands coming to rest loosely over your shoulders. It was nice, to stand there listening to other people living their lives, an amicable silence between you both as you ate, occasionally looking up at him with something to say about a passerby.

When you finished you wiped your face with a napkin and moved a hand up to hold his forearm, looking deep in thought, eyes on your touching skin.

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

You looked like you might answer. He leaned down to hear you over the noise of the market but you never did end up saying anything, resting your cheek against his arm until you both figured you were stealing time.

Sirius led you to where your friends had last been. You'd hesitantly hooked your pinky finger through his as you walked, looking anywhere else but his face. He would've laughed at your shyness - he'd fucked you to the point of tears only last night - but he was endeared to you so deeply he couldn't summon up the sound. You dropped his hand when you reunited with your friends and was whisked away by Remus, to his disappointment. Lily laughed at this.

“You have been monopolising her,” she said pointedly. “She has other friends.”

“Not like me.”

Lily shrugged, grinning wickedly. “Guess not.”

“You spend too much time with James.”

“Says you.”

“There wasn’t a path for my life where I didn’t end up this way, Lilykins.”

She looked like she would disagree.

“I know this is a no magic holiday,” James whispered, looking in your general direction sheepishly, “but are we sure we can’t just apparate home now? I wish we’d brought the car.”

“The walk was good for us! And besides, what else could we have done all day?” Lily asked.

James descended on her, “I’m so glad you’ve asked that, love. I was thinking-“

Lily slapped her hand over his mouth.

“We’ve talked about this.”

Sirius tuned out of that conversation in a brilliant show of willpower and found his eyes on your back. He then shook himself terribly and thought, dear lord, I’m worse than James.

“Where are we going now?” he asked quite loudly, hoping to catch everyone’s attention. It worked to a degree as everybody stopped walking, though if it answered any questions was up to opinion.

“We're starving,” Mary said.

“You didn’t eat, did you?” Lily asked.

James smiled easily. “No ma’am.”

“Where are we?” you asked.

“Where’s Frank and Alice?”

“Some pub, they said. The Seagull.”

“We could go there? I quite fancy something cold.”

And so off the group went, trudging along sunburned or at the least sunwarmed, James leading the way because he swore he knew exactly where the pub was and this was definitely the quickest way. Then, when he asked for directions, the group miserably began walking back towards the sea.

The Seagull was a twenty minute walk from the Potter’s beachside home, which was reassuring, as the group didn’t look like they had much left in them.

“You know,” Sirius said, “you could’ve disapparated home and fetched the car.”

“It's a no magic holiday! We were very clear about this!”

“Grow up.”

“Y/N,” James called very loudly, “Sirius is dissing the no magic holiday!”

You looked over at them and sniffed. “I won’t recover.”

The group joined forces to tag team him until he’d had enough, pulling his trump card.

“So I’ll suppose you’ve all been doing the washing up manually?” Nobody would meet his eyes. “That’s what I thought.”

“Lighten up, Black,” you said, drifting to his side like the breeze had carried you. “I’ve been doing them all with my hands.”

He frowned at you. “Since when do you do dishes?”

You bristled. “And what does that mean?”

“You should not be doing the dishes. I do your dishes.”

“I’m a grown up,” you said, embarrassed now.

“You haven’t been doing other peoples, have you?”

“Sirius, friendship is doing things for other people. You do my dishes. I do James or Lily’s or whoever’s — it's the same thing.”

“It’s not the same thing.” We’re hardly just friends, he didn’t say.

You walked in silence then, not mad at each other but at an understanding that there was more to be said in a less public space because you both knew exactly why Sirius did your dishes and opened doors for you, rubbed your back when you were sick and brought you soup. Not for a reward or with any expectation, but because you were his best friend, and he liked you to a point beyond that line.

There were a lot of things you probably should’ve said to each other by now. You should’ve talked about it. He should’ve told you how he felt the moment you’d kissed him and shocked him more than anything had ever shocked him in his life, frozen and wondering if he’d walked into a daydream.

But. He didn’t bring it up. You didn’t bring it up. And it felt right - that there was no question there, that there was no sudden affirmation. He realised you’d always been on this route together and the kiss hadn’t been between two friends, it had been between him and you. He wanted to reach out and hug you, upon this realisation, wanted to pepper you in kisses and praises like you deserved. How dreadful that so much love would have to be kept for tonight, or even tomorrow.

“Sirius?” you whispered.

“What?”

“Are we a secret?” you asked quietly.

He thought about it. Yards behind the others you meandered, content to walk in the summer evening and take in the sights, take in the other person, to roll in the simple pleasure of each other’s company surrounded by friends with nothing in the world to work out besides each other.

“Do you want to be?” he asked.

“No!” you cleared your throat. “No. I - I don’t want to be, if you don’t want to be. But, maybe for a little while longer…”

He nodded, having been thinking the same thing. “Let’s me and you work this out first, sweetheart.”

You opened your mouth to add something and was immediately cut off by James, who stood in front of The Seagull, waiting. “Come on, lovebirds, we’ve beer to drink!”

“He’s always so grandiose,” you laughed, and then, looking at him, “not that you’re much better.”

“Definitely need a doctor after that one, doll. Good one,” he said sarcastically, accepting the door from James and letting you walk in first, other hand pressed to his heart like he was wracked with pain.

The pub was nice and clean, more of a restaurant than a pub, really, with big ceilings and lots of open space. The smell of roast and gravy and then, under it all, the unmistakable sweetness of cocoa powder thickened the room, yellow light burning away in sconces on the walls. He walked over a paisley red carpet on your tail, past families at long, dark wood tables, past booths and the bar, where the wall was backlit and bright showcasing a miraculous variety of drinks, their bottles glowing like lava lamps. There was a small hallway which opened into a big, conservatory-like room lined with booths that surrounded a dance floor and a small stage at the back. The summer breeze drifted in through the open patio where a stone veranda housed tens of metal tables and chairs.

The veranda was where Alice and Frank were stationed, both obviously having already drunk their fill. They cheered with the rest of the group's arrival, Frank raising a mostly empty pint glass.

“Where the fuck have you guys been?”

Sirius helped James manhandle the tables into one big one and pulled a chair out for you, then threw himself into the one next to you.

“Where haven’t we been!” Dorcas said excitedly.

“Can we have a round before Dorcas starts her rendition?” Marlene asked. “I would like to be tipsy for this.”

“I’m parched,” Mary agreed.

“I thought you were hungry?”

“I’m both. Starved and parched, truly.”

Sirius pressed his knee to yours. “What’re you having?”

-

You tipped back the dregs of your drink, feeling the beginnings of warmth curling in your stomach, licking up your skin to nest in your chest happily. Tipsy warmth was soon holding your body like a lover, and you found yourself ridiculously happy. Sirius had been lovely all day and only got better with drink, hand under the table and squeezing your thigh.

He’d inched closer and his hand had inched higher under your skirt to match, pinky finger a hair's width from your underwear. He wasn’t trying anything, simply rubbing your leg as he chatted and laughed with the others]. You tried not to let it go to your head.

Your chips had gone cold by now. You reached for one anyway, cringing as you chewed.

Sirius slipped his hand in your shoulder bag and pulled out the baked goods you’d purchased for him earlier.

“Help me eat these.”

You stood so you could assess what he had. He tore the paper bag to lay the sweets out flat, a brownie and a donut, a millionaires shortbread and half a danish. You leaned down to inspect them, really thinking, moving half in front of Sirius’ chair.

You felt his knuckles against the back of your thigh. He drew a teasing line that made you shiver, dipping his hand under your skirt. He pushed the flat of his hand up the inside of your thigh and stopped before he could touch you. You turned sideways to protest, eyes landing on his slouched form. His other hand came up to your waist, straightening you out so you couldn’t see his face.

“Which one do you want, sweetheart?”

You struggled to make a decision. The tip of his finger was moving against your underwear now, so lightly it tickled. If he hadn’t been holding you in place you would’ve squirmed away. He shifted his leg in between yours, his shoe nudging your sandal, forcing your legs open that little bit more. His hand came up flat palmed against your cunt, rubbing. You moaned and looked around you with wide eyes.

Your friends were all half-cut or preoccupied. James was sitting on Lily’s leg, talking very passionately about something with wide eyes, so enthusiastic his drink sloshed over the side of his cup to drip over his legs. Remus and Emma had disappeared in a drunken bid to win something from the claw machines. The girls were drinking from a pitcher of gin and watching the tv at the back, you could hardly see them through the other restaurant goers who now populated the patio. Frank and Alice were both on the verge of being paralytic.

You would’ve intervened had Sirius not started searching, big fingers pushing your underwear into the crease of your cunt, looking for your sensitive clit.  When he found it he bullied it, sweeping rough lines until your legs were shaking. You braced yourself on the cold metal table and looked down at your skirt. You couldn’t tell what he was doing if you were an outsider, but you knew, and this was all enough to have you wet and seeping through the cotton of your underwear.

He knew it as soon as you did. “Baby…” he said softly, voice full of an arousal so reverential it made your legs weak. “Are you wet?”

You giggled weakly as he pushed your underwear to one side, fingers finding your wetness. He didn’t enter you, only pushed your slick up your front to circle your clit. He slid your clit between his two fingers and you were so scandalised you sat down forcefully on his leg with his hand trapped between you. He laughed, flexing his fingers before pulling away.

He leaned forward like nothing had happened and picked up the millionaires shortbread with the same fingers he’d just used to make a mess of you, fingers still shining. He sat up properly and pulled you to his chest, bringing the biscuit to your mouth. He didn’t say anything and neither did you, but he didn’t move until you’d taken a bite. He pulled it from you and you turned to watch him eat the rest, the heat between your legs was unbearable as he licked his fingers clean.

He laughed at your reaction to his amorous behaviour, swaying you on his lap, hand clutching your hip. “You look appalled.”

You shifted backwards on him in a staged show of wanting to talk to him privately. If he was going to play dirty, you would too, your thought, brushing yourself against his crotch. “Whatever is poisoning your mind is incurable, Sirius.”

“If the wet patch on my leg is anything to go by,” he whispered back, “I’d say you were suffering the same sickness.”

You shook your head, turning your body to cover your actions from prying eyes. You put your hand down flat an inch from his cock and spread your fingers, pleased at how his pupils had dilated. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He squeezed your waist with enough pressure to make you hesitate, moving so his mouth was hovering over your collarbone.

“What was it you said earlier, doll? You’re a good liar, even with your mouth full?”

“Adept,” you corrected him, breath hitching as his teeth dragged against your skin, “I’m an adept liar, even with my mouth full.”

He breathed warm air on your skin in a brief chuckle.

“That’s where you’re wrong. Your mouth’s empty and your lies are something awful. You think I don’t feel you making a mess on me right now?” he teased, lifting his head. You ducked yours.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What else did you say, hmm?”

You looked down at his lap to avoid his eyeline, wearily eyeing his hardening cock. “I don’t remember.”

His hand climbed your back until he was at your neck, lifting your head up. He looked much too calm and collected to suit you, eyes half-lidded.

“Gonna let me test your theory, doll?”

You smoothed your hand over his cock, revelling in his twitches. You squeezed his length and said coyly, “What theory?”

He grabbed your hand, the only sign he’d been affected by you. “Will you play stupid all night? I can treat you like you’re stupid, if you like.”

“I’m not stupid,” you mumbled, hand burning in his. “I’m a good liar, is all.”

He didn’t say anything for a while. You were both frozen in time, waiting to see who would give in.

He narrowed his eyes.

“Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to the bathroom. You’re going to sit here looking all pretty and making a mess in my seat. You can even have another pastry, if you like,” he said this with a sardonic smile. “And then you’ll come meet me in the bathroom, and we’ll see how good of a liar you really are.”

You swallowed.

A slither of his usual softness welled to the surface. “Is that alright, sweetheart?”

You tried not to smile as you nodded.

He helped you up off of his lap, looking like he might kiss you before he went. He didn’t, turning sharply to the doors and exiting quickly. You followed him with your eyes, felt your longing like a harp string being plucked between your legs as the minutes ticked on. The anticipation had you shifting in your seat, worried he was right and you’d leave behind a clear mark of your excitement behind when you got up. You gathered the spoils he’d left behind and wrapped them back up as best you could to hide away in your purse.

You counted to sixty five times, just to be sure, concerned somebody would see you follow him out and connect the dots before you were ready for them to be connected.

You walked the small hallway with your heart in your throat, coming to the unisex bathroom. It was locked.

You knocked.

It was pulled open quick and shut quicker, Sirius pulling you in fast enough to steal the air from your lungs. You laughed and he laughed, mouths meeting in a wanting kiss, desperate after so many hours of dancing around each other, his hand forceful at the nape of your neck as he pulled you to his mouth with no time for soft touches.

“Is this okay?” he asked. “I know I was abrupt. Is this okay?”

You nodded over and over, trying to catch him in a kiss again. His laugh was melodic and hoarse at once, holding you back with his hands on either side of your face.

“You’ll tell me if you don’t want this?”

“I’ll tell you,” you agreed, aiming for his neck. He finally set you free after seconds that stretched like millennia. You used your freedom to kiss his jawline, pinching things down his neck that had him grasping your hair.

He pulled you back to his lips and pushed you up against the countertop that housed the sinks basin. There wasn’t enough room for him to set you up there which he lamented loudly.

“Thought the theory involved my mouth?” you asked bravely.

He looked surprised and then his eyes clouded up with lust a shade worse than before.

“Who’s the guinea pig?” he asked as you kissed down his neck again, down and down and down until you were on your knees in front of him, pushing his shirt up to kiss his torso lightly, plastering each tattoo in a blanket of affection.

“Definitely you,” you said, hands at his waistband. You pulled it from his skin and let it fall again, a soft snap that made him hiss through his teeth. You looked up at him and gave him your most demure smile, keeping eye contact as you slipped your hand into his trousers, into his boxers, closing your fist gently around his aching length. You pushed up to full height on your knees and watched yourself carefully stroke his length, nervous but wanting to do well.

Sirius was back to the version of him you didn’t see so much, suave and debonair with his hand resting at the back of your head. You looked away to dip forward, pausing with your mouth by his head. You stuck your tongue out and licked.

He groaned, hand tightening in your hair. Esteem raised by his reaction, you worked the bottom of his shaft with one hand and took him into your mouth, sucking his head. You popped off and started again, opening your mouth wider, using your tongue to your advantage. Already spit was gathering at the corners of your mouth waiting to dribble down your chin, you pulled back to catch it in your hand, pumping his cock with your wet fingers.

The taste of precum filled your mouth as you paced yourself, taking slow mouthfuls of him. He was beginning to guide you gently off and on to his cock, establishing a rhythm. He tried to guide you back and your resisted, taking as much as him as you could manage before you gagged on his cock, dribble connecting your mouth to his dick when he pulled you off, moaning loudly.

“Fuck, don’t do that.”

“You didn’t like it?”

"Don't ask questions you already know the answer to," he reprimanded, eyes closing as you worked back down, bobbing your head as you worked. His grip was tighter now, and as he began to thrust up to meet your mouth you found yourself with your spare hand between your legs, spreading your cunt to play in your own slick, pushing two fingers inside yourself.

Sirius eventually opened his eyes and his cock jumped in your mouth at the sight of you.

“Fucking your mouth, you like this? This the kind of thing that turns you on?” he asked, moving his other hand so both were braced behind your head.

He thrust in and you stayed down on his cock for as long as you could manage, breathing through your nose. You gagged, wet eyes shutting on instinct.

He brought his thumb to your cheek. “Show me those pretty eyes."

You opened them, bleary with tears, to look into his handsome face adoringly. He tipped his head back, eyes on the sealing. “Fuck, I’m so fucking lucky. So fucking lucky, baby. You’re fucking-“ he was cut off as you pushed his cock against the back of your throat, hand tightening painfully in your hair.

You almost felt bad when you had to pull away, gasping. He was panting, thumb digging into your cheekbone. You caught your breath with your face pressed to his thigh and tummy, kissing his tattooed torso mindlessly as you pumped his shaft, rubbing your finger pads over the head of his cock to collect his beading precum.

His abdomen was tensing, you realised smugly. His breathing was fast and coloured by his voice. He almost sounded desperate.

You stuck your tongue out and rested this coke on it momentarily, and then away. “Ask me something?”

“What?” he questioned.

“Test your hypothesis,” you ordered him, aiming for the back of your throat again. He seized up, smiling wickedly at your game.

“Fuck… how’s this cock baby? Hitting the back of your pretty throat?” he was convincing, if a little breathless.

“No,” you said, or rather hummed, the sound travelling down his cock. He moaned, holding his hand against the side of your face.

“Y’so fucking good for me, letting me bruise up your throat.”

You pulled away to breathe. “I’m not.”

He grinned something awful. “No?”

You felt spit dripping down your face, pooling at your sternum. He fucked your mouth, your throat, not so it hurt but enough to agitate your gag reflex and tear ducts. He was moaning a steady stream of curse words now and they sounded like the sweetest thing - breathy and deep.

He wiped your eyes and cheeks with the meat of his palm for a moment, cleaning you up. “You’re fucking pretty.”

You smiled with his dick against your lips.

He fisted your hair and didn’t last much longer with your lips around him, pushing you away semi-gently to fist his throbbing cock until he was cumming over his torso.

“That’s spiteful,” you said, hand clutching his thigh.

“What is?” he asked, exasperated.

“Could’ve cum in my mouth,” you said, bravado dissolving as you went, words starting brave and ending shy.

He pouted at you condescendingly. “Oh, I’m sorry, doll. You’re right, I’m spiteful.” His thumb at your wet bottom lip, opening your mouth. “Spiteful - but not selfish. You can kiss it off me, if you like?”

You called his bluff and leaned forward. He pulled back. "How's my girl? You want me to take care of you?"

"No. Keep your hands off of me, Sirius."

You were a terrible liar, mouth full or not.

-

Your hair was wet, soaking even, salt water dribbling down your back, and you were cold enough now to regret your dip in the ocean, to regret even more that you'd left your shirt and jacket at the cottage. The sun shone all morning before this, the tide as close as it could be when you'd first made it down this morning, Sirius taking your hand to spin you around, dancing as you went. The rock pools had been filled, the sand freshly dampened under your bare feet.

You went for a swim while the sun was bouncing around on the waves, Sirius pulling you in without a word. He'd left his shirt on the drier sand and you'd both stood beaming, ankle deep in the sea and with little clothing. He'd grabbed you up and chucked you into deep water, where you emerged livid, throwing yourself at his chest to topple him over. He'd fallen into the water, waves lapping at his chest with you half on top of him, giggling in victory. It reminded you of your first kiss, laughing and unable to help yourself as you leaned down and connected, hand splayed on his lovely chest, feeling the metal of his pendant warm under your touch. You’d spent a long time like that kissing and smiling under the warmth of the sun until the cloud cover stole away the heat and left you a damp, shivering mess.

Sirius had retrieved his t-shirt and you’d quickly pulled it over your damp skin, long enough to cover your bikini bottoms when standing.

“You should keep that one.”

“Yeah?”

“Looks good.”

You twirled as you walked, shuffling backwards and him facing forwards, chasing the sun down the beach. You trusted him not to let you trip.

You felt like a new version of yourself. Hair wet, skin damp and clammy from the cold sea breeze and somehow still in high spirits, smiling as you trekked backwards over the squishy sand.

“We can’t go up there without shoes,” he said, pointing at the darker shade of rocks that covered some of the beach, “but we can definitely try to find one lower down.”

You searched, or rather Sirius searched and you watched his face. His eyes brightened when he spotted one that seemed to be traversable without putting both your lives in imminent danger.

“D’you see that?” he asked suddenly.

No, you thought, obviously I didn’t see that. You’re handsome and you fancy me and you think I’m going to spend my time with my eyes on the ground?

“No,” you admitted instead. He grabbed your shoulder in one big hand and pointed towards the sandy edges of a rock pool. You followed his finger to discover what had captured his attention: a small brown crab was scuttling around, burying itself in sand and then emerging, indecisive.

Only when you got closer did you realise it was a hermit crab, it’s shell a rich yellow ochre edged in deep browns. Sirius mad a wide circle around the crab and kneeled on one side, encouraging you to do the same.

You kneeled opposite him, felt your knees sinking into the damp sand. It coated your skin.

Sirius, shirtless, looking like he’d descended from some empyrean place where the streets ran deep in milk and honey and smiling like he was somewhere similar in your company. You felt, emphatically, that disconcerting feeling of blindness that came on occasion with being around him, felt as though looking at him for too long would leave his image burned into your eyelids. Masochistically, you found yourself unable to look away. He reached out his hand, knuckles flat to the coarse sand and was ecstatic when the hermit crab crawled close, slowly making its way into his palm. You couldn’t believe it, looking at him in shock. He looked up at you with elation in even the lines of his face and you found he wasn’t so blinding, after all; he was looking at you, you were looking back. The clouds shifted and gold leaked from the sky in gossamer threads, framing him in lustre, warming your chilled skin.

“You want to hold it?” he asked, frantically transferring the crab from palm to palm.

“No.”

“He won’t bite.”

“He has pincers.”

Sirius thrust his hand at you and the crab almost flew off. It then pinched him to which he turned his hand upside down with a shriek, shaking it off.

“Told you so,” you said. He nodded to himself, expression agreeable, and then got to his feet, his thighs at your eye level. You pulled at the edge of his borrowed t-shirt where it stuck to your wet skin.

“You did,” he said, looking at your thighs. You pretended not to notice until he met your eyes. “Still cold?”

“No, baby,” you said, words soft and ridiculous in your mouth. You said it anyhow, overtaken by fondness. “The sun's out.”

He smiled and bent down to kiss you.

-

“James,” you said later, showered and fed and trying to be discreet. The others were playing an intense game of crazy eights, from which you’d dragged your friend away. “I need a favour.”

James looked back at the large coffee table covered in booze and cards and surrounded by your laughing friends and said, “Can’t it wait ‘til we’re not having such a knee-slapping good time?”

You rolled your eyes at his dramatics. He huffed.

“Fine, yes, what do you want?”

“I need you take me into town.”

He gasped. “Town! Whatever for?”

“Can’t you avoid talking like a posh wanker for a bit? I’ve only just eaten.”

He found this so funny he forgot to be mad, which was brilliant as you’d not intended any maliciousness to come with it.

“Why are we going to town?” he asked, turning from you to collect the keys.

“I want-“ right, you hadn’t technically admitted your situation to James yet, “I want to get a quart of vanilla brownie ice cream.”

“We have ice cream here!”

“Right, but we don’t have vanilla brownie .”

He frowned sympathetically. “Your period?”

You laughed boisterously and, when Sirius turned to look at you from the coffee table, cleared your throat.

“It’s for Sirius. It’s his favourite and we never see it anywhere and I want to do something nice,” you whispered, cheeks heating.

His smile was kind.

“Alright, get your shoes on.”

-

“So, you’re fucking?”

“James, please keep your eyes on the road.”

-

You’d managed to charm the ice cream to stay frozen and shoved it under your bed when Sirius opened the door. You flinched up and tried to look as casual as possible, hands behind your back.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked, closing the door behind him softly. He flicked the light on at the wall.

You couldn’t help smiling. It was ridiculous. You had a secret to keep but seeing him made you overtly happy.

“What’s with the smile?” he asked.

“When do people usually smile?”

He leaned against the door casually. “Something good happen on your fun run with Jamie? I don’t believe it.”

“You’re so mean. You do know he's your best friend?”

Sirius tipped his head back against the door and levelled you with a smirk. “I thought you were my best friend?”

“I am.”

You sat down against your bed's headboard, unable to work out what he was thinking.

“Come play Rummy.”

You let yourself fall flat on your pillow, groaning. “There’s only so many card games I can lose.”

“Exactly, and I already beat you in most. Be generous and give me the full sweep.”

“I’m tired.”

“Come on,” he said, walking over to pull you up by the hands. “Cards and drinks and then bed.”

“Swear?”

He was laughing now, pulling you into his hold. “Swear.”

You leaned into his chest for a self-indulgent moment and then you let him spirit you downstairs. The living room was airy and bright as the evening began. Everyone was exactly how you’d left them, half cut and giggling, piles of sweets and werthers in place of poker chips.

Remus seemed to be the most intoxicated out of everybody. You sat down next to him and Sirius followed, knee touching your knee cross-legged in front of the table.

“What happened to not needing alcohol to have fun?” you asked him.

“That's still true! I could be having fun without it, now I am having fun with it,” he said, talking out the side of his mouth. “Take Emma, she’s sober and she’s having a brilliant time.”

Emma was giggling wildly. “I don’t need to drink to have fun. The worse you get the more I win.” She had a large mound of winnings.

“What’re you having?” Lily asked, sitting on the arm of James’ chair.

“I’ll get it,” Sirius said, standing up, “I know exactly what she wants.” The joke was that he brought back two bottles of beer, chuckling at your grimace. He convinced you to try it. “You never try anything new, sweetheart, I’m widening your palate.”

You’d murmured, stupidly, “You widened my palate just fine last night.”

He choked on his mouthful of beer, slamming the bottle down hard enough to topple Emma’s tower of sweets. You took a tentative sip of your own and hated it.

“What is this?”

“James brought it.”

“Well, if that’s true this is blatant sabotage.”

“Try mine instead?”

You eyed his bottle suspiciously. It was darker than yours had been. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Try it!” he prodded, holding it closer to your mouth.

You shuffled back until your back was digging into Dorcas’ calves. She didn’t notice, half asleep on Mary’s shoulder while Mary and Marlene talked over her head.

“Try it,” he said again, rim of the bottle at your lips.

You let him tip it into your mouth and when you’d tasted enough you slapped your hand over his, pushing it away. You swallowed, almost gagging. “That’s much, much worse,” you said hoarsely.

“You’re pathetic.” Funny how that made you feel warm instead of sad. You shook your head at your own thoughts and pushed his hand away.

“I want something nice,” you complained quietly.

“There’s Pimms in the fridge,” Emma said, shuffling cards for Rummy.

“What the fuck! And you got me beer?”

“Widening your palate!”

“It’s wide enough!”

You climbed up onto your feet, felt his hand on your knee as you climbed over him to pour two glasses of pimms from the pitcher in the fridge, putting extra fruit in yours. Then you slinked back into your spot and took up your cards for Rummy, settling in for a good night. Sirius accepted the pimms though he didn’t look like he wanted to, tipping his fruit into your glass.

Halfway into the second game you leaned into Sirius’ side.

“What?” he asked you, dipping his head in.

“I don’t know the rules,” you whispered.

"I know you don't. Want me to teach you?"

"No."

He rolled his eyes and slipped his hand behind your back, fingertips pushing beneath the waist of your corduroys to mess with the elastic of your underwear absentmindedly as he expertly instructed your next play.

-

You mildly recognised when Sirius, having tucked you into his bed that night after too much alcohol soaked fruit, got up. Assuming he needed the bathroom you'd curled into the place he'd previously been, leaching his warmth and breathing in his smell. You weren't sure how long you drifted, waiting for him to come back but when he did he was buzzing with something akin to excitement, bringing his hand to your face.

"Wake up, sweetheart."

You looked at him in annoyance. "It's night time."

"You're so smart."

"I don't know why you're mocking me. I'm right," you complained, trying to hide your face in his side.

He rubbed your back in a placating manner before pinching the flesh of your waist. "Get up."

"Why?"

"I have something for you."

"Can't wait 'till tomorrow?"

"Nope. Quick, get dressed. Or don't," he added, fingers pushing up past the hem of your shirt to cup one of your breasts. This had you much more awake than his voice “I like this outfit. Doesn’t matter either way.”

“Where are we going?” you asked, feeling yourself melt under his touch. He moved his hand back to your ribs and squeezed.

“The beach.”

“We can’t swim, the tides out.”

“We’re not swimming. I’ve made a picnic.” He said this quietly, softly. You pushed a stray lock of hair behind his ear and considered your options. Then, with no choice, you dragged yourself out of bed and shrugged on a short, black skirt and a jacket overtop the oversized shirt you’d been sleeping in. You threaded your hand through the fabric circle on your camera and let it dangle from your wrist.

“Time is it?” you asked, shoving your socked feet roughly into a pair of ankle high canvas shoes. You didn’t bother tying the laces well, tucking them into the shoe.

“Past midnight, now.”

You followed him down the stairs and out the silent house as quietly as you could, hurrying down the path to the seashore. Sirius carried a picnic basket with a blanket stuffed between the handles and the camping lamp on top in one hand and took yours in the other, swinging it gently as you walked.

“We could’ve done this in the morning.”

“I was thinking…” he began, helping you pick over driftwood and seaweed to a patch of sand that looked dry enough. He set the picnic basket down and you took one end of the blanket from his hand to help him spread it out. Once it was done he looked at you from across the blanket. “That this would be our last night as a secret.”

“Okay,” you said, not smiling.

“Okay?”

You cracked, beaming. “Yeah, okay, idiot. Course it’s okay. Are you kidding?”

He moved the basket to the middle of the blanket and sat down heavily. You sat by his side, looking up at the sky, void black and smattered in stars like crushed pearls, breaths blanketed by the sound of far off waves cresting the shore. He cracked open the picnic blanket and found he’d made your favourite kind of sandwich and cut them all small, diced up fruit and drinks spelled to stay chilled.

“No magic holiday,” you muttered under your breath, taking one of the cold drinks into your hand. “Why does nobody respect the no magic holiday?”

“Babe. I didn’t want to say, but — your camera is enchanted. Did you know?”

You took the camera from your wrist and turned it on. “Fine, whatever. Can you begrudge me when I’ve had so many nice photos?” you asked, and then emphasised with a flash as you took one of him unawares.

He shuffled backwards and moved the basket to the side, switching the battery lamp off. “You’ll have to show me that one before I destroy the damn thing.”

“Don’t worry. You’re very photogenic,” you comforted him. You performed the spell and soon the photo was trying to project into the air. You turned the camera downwards and it was displayed across the blanket, Sirius’ handsome, surprised face, eyes blown by the flash.

“Hate that,” he remarked, stretching his legs out. You shifted closer to his side and tucked one of your legs over his, happy when his hand instantly came up to mess with your thigh.

You flicked to the next photo, one you’d taken hours previous of Remus nauseated in James lap, looking unhappy with Lily who was perched on the arm. James looked positively incensed, staring straight into the lens.

The next photo: James outside the ice cream parlour, the stainless steel bucket of vanilla brownie ice cream in his hands, beaming.

“What’s that?” Sirius asked.

“Nothing,” you said, flicking to the next photograph quickly.

Most of the group gathered at the kitchen table that morning for brunch, Sirius with his hair still wet from the shower. James had made enough blueberry and chocolate chip pancakes to feed a small army in the middle of the table, Mary squirting lemon juice over Emma’s pancakes. Marlene had a heaping spoonful of sugar suspended over her plate.

The early hours of the same morning, a wide shot of Sirius in the bathroom putting on deodorant while you waited in his bed. You still remembered how the morning had felt, warm and still dark out, your bare legs hiked up close to your body with his pillow pressed to your chest after a lazy, half-asleep make out session, your lips still tingling as you’d reached for the camera.

A group photo at The Seagull taken by a muggle who’d been amazed by the camera. Remus and Sirius had thrown their arms over your shoulders and each other, Lily on Remus' other side throwing up leave signs as James posed with his back to her side and his arms crossed. Alice and Frank had been too tipsy to do anything but smile abashedly as the rest of the girls took to kneel in front of them, all beaming, even shy Emma.

A few from the market of the amazing things you’d seen, as well as the weird things. Lily holding her little copper tree aloft with a brilliant grin on her face. Remus looking over a table of secondhand books while Emma already had two new ones in her arms.

The ice cream photographs, where Sirius had been much more ready and yet somehow looked less prepared.

A few from the night before featuring you in his jacket that made you blush to high heavens, flicking past them fast as Sirius protested.

Lily and James squished together on the beach the first proper morning there, posing happily. Remus being comforted for his repeated chicken losses on Mary’s thigh, protesting the photo with a hand half covering his face. The rest of the group played cards in the background while Marlene, cig held between her lips, wiped the floor with everybody smugly.

The first group photograph with the breathtaking sunset in the background. Alice and Frank book-ending the girls and Remus with Lily and James on the other end with Sirius, his arm stretched out over your shoulders at the end of the throng. You paused, looking at the photograph for the first time since you’d taken it. Your heart already ached with nostalgia, despite the photo being new. You knew that you were looking at a time you’d never be able to go back to, and felt that suddenly this whole holiday had been a gift. You laughed, pointing at James' face, his eyes barely open. You looked at yourself,  remembered how your skin had felt on fire under Sirius' arm.

“I don’t look half obvious,” you poked fun at yourself. Sirius didn’t say anything. You looked at him sideways and then slid your eyes to him. “You look-“

Sirius was looking at you in the photograph, face laden with guilty indulgence and then, worse, love. Eyes soft at the corners, lips not quite smiling. The real Sirius rubbed his hand up and down the inside of your thigh. You blinked, worried you’d tear up, and turned to him furiously, forgetting the camera.

“What the fuck is that?”

“What?” he asked, alarmed.

“Why’re you looking at me like that?”

He squeezed your leg. “Like what?”

“Like you loved me.”

He leaned in so his nose was close to yours.

“Why’d you kiss me?”

“You know why I kissed you.”

“Reckon it’s the same reason I was looking at you then. Like I loved you.”

You pushed back into the blanket, hair splayed out in the sand. Sirius followed you down, turning on his side to look at you. Only the moonlight illuminated him now, carving his face in shimmering silver and shadow. He searched for your hand and brought it up to his mouth, eyes on your face as he kissed your knuckles delicately. You turned on your side to mirror him.

“I’m mad for you. Mad for you,” he repeated, timbre low. “After tonight, I want everyone to know you’re mine. Are you gonna - be mine?” he asked tentatively, waiting for you to answer patient as any worldly saint, rubbing his thumb over your hand when you took in a ragged breath.

“I’ll be yours,” you told him shyly. “I’ve been yours.”

He ducked in to kiss you, mouth unyielding against yours. You quickly broke the kiss to seek an answer for your burning question.

“How long have you been looking at me like that?”

“A long time,” he answered, trying to kiss you again.

“Really?” you asked, giddy and disbelieving at once, evading his mouth. “Think I’d notice that.”

“Trust me, doll, you don’t know the half of it.”

The words struck you in the chest violently.

“You think I don't?”

“And what’s that mean?” he asked, nosing under your jawline until you were baring your neck, hand in his curls. He dragged his teeth up your neck to settle over your pulse.

“You think you like me more than I like you? Delusions.” Your words were broken up by shuddering inhales as he started tracking love bites over your throat.

“That’s exactly what I think.”

“Grow up, handsome.”

“Handsome!” he said against your quick-bruising skin, laughing. “What, you don’t believe me? Doubt the depths of my affections?”

“No, no.” He pushed his face up to look at you as you spoke, pressing his thumb into one of your hickeys. “I don’t-“

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Any doubts you have are my fault. I’ll endeavour to alleviate them,” he swore, tone serious. You felt the brush of his hand over your torso, felt him push up your shirt to explore the stretch of your abdomen.

And how did you manage to get yourself into these punishing situations? You felt your stomach tighten at his promise alone.

"I don't have any doubts," you mumbled, half to appease him and half to save yourself from his teasing. "I just don't think you know how much I like you."

He kissed you sweetly on the temple. "Of course I know, lovely girl."

You pushed him away from your chest, pushing your legs to one side, groaning at his sincerity. He sat up and dug through the picnic basket for a second before producing a small velveteen bag. You watched his hands carefully from where you were lying, watched as each finger moved, the flex of his knuckles. He offered the bag to you where you were lying still.

You held it high above your eye. "Turn the lamp back on?"

He did. You upended the contents of the bag into your palm. Three pieces of green and gold fell out, shining, shot through with silver.

You poked at them gently with your fingertip.

A pair of earrings and a charm.

"That's for me," Sirius said, picking out the charm.

"For you…"

"For my necklace."

You stared at him.

"It's my piece of you," he said softly, eyes tracking to your bracelet. "So we match."

You climbed up on your knees, leaning around his shoulders to unclasp his chain from beneath his dark hair. You slipped the charm over the eyelet and moved your knee between his legs to get close to him before closing the clasp and straightening the chain, secured again at his breastbone. You'd made to settle down again and he was wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close, arms firm but not rough against your ribs, hands closing around your back. You wrapped your arms around his neck in turn.

"You really think you like me more?" you asked into his hair.

He moved you from side to side, squeezing as he spoke. "I love you."

You pushed your fingers into his hair bringing his head closer to your neck, feeling a white hot adoration burning in your chest. "I've loved you longer."

"Not like this, sweetheart."

He kissed your smiling lips quickly, pulled back to look at your face before pushing back in. You shooed him away.

"Help me with these," you said, offering the earrings, which he clipped onto your ears with no complaints. “Thank you. They’re - they’re beautiful.”

He scratched the back of your hand delicately, a silent you’re welcome. "We need a picture," he said decisively.

You nodded in agreement, tucking yourself into his side as he fiddled with the camera. You couldn't bear to look away from his face. "Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked, grinning.

"I love you," you told him, smiling through the flash as the camera went off.

-

"You're fucking?" Remus asked incredulously.

The entire people carrier groaned in disbelief.

"And he's supposed to be the smart one," Sirius whispered to you. You pressed your face into his arm, laughing.

thanks so much for reading! <3

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[fawninthetrees]

far to fall [remus lupin x reader]

“Listen to you," he said under his breath. "Can't even speak properly, can you, lovely girl?”

“Remus, don't be cruel. Don't be."

"Cruel with you... How could I ever be?"

summary: you’re in love with your best friend remus. he somewhat shares the sentiment.

word count: 7.8k

tags: smut, nsft, marauders era, best-friends to lovers, mutual pining, getting together, first-time, fluff, fem!reader, she/her pronouns used for reader

requested by @marimorena06 here

You had a huge secret. It wasn’t earth-shattering, it wouldn’t bring about world peace or ruination if discovered. It wasn’t criminal, though it felt like that sometimes, a thief stealing glances at his Sandy brown hair and perfect, inviting eyes. It wasn’t dirty or pure or light or dark, it just was.

You were in love with your best friend.

You’d never believed in love at first sight, but Remus Lupin inspired something alike. You just knew, that day in fourth year, when a quiet, brave boy held out his hand for a crying, lonely girl that something was about to happen.

At the time, you’d thought of love. So maybe you’d known all along. But that day turned into years of the same thing, Remus always reaching out to save you, to pull you away from the stuff that was hurting you - he’d always been that way. His saviour complex was something unhealthy and yet you couldn’t get it out of him if you tried.

The secret was starting to become less secret. It began with one wrong look, a gaze too steady, too longing. Remus went up to the bar for another drink and James said, “Oh my god.”

You could tell from his tone you’d been found out. James Potter had always been extremely perceptive. It was a wonder he’d never noticed before.

You put a handful of pear drops in your mouth to avoid responding.

James reached out to squeeze your cheeks, and they fell from your mouth in a sticky wet mess.

“James!” you sputtered, grabbing some napkins from the centre of the table to clean up your face and the ejected sweets. “What is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with you?” he shot back. “I can’t believe what I’ve just witnessed. I have to tell Sirius-“

“No!” you said, much too loudly. You quickly searched the bar to see if Remus had heard. He hadn’t, so you leaned in very close to James’ face and whispered, “You can’t tell anyone.”

James wrinkled his nose, “I tell Sirius everything.”

“And Sirius tells Remus everything!”

James tilted his head in thought and then conceded. “Fair.”

Your hackles lowered. “Thank you.”

“But I want to talk about this!” he whispered urgently. Remus sat back down, a drink for each of the three of you in his hands. A butterbear for you and something with a little more kick in it for himself and James.

“Cheers,” James said.

“Thanks,” you said.

He smiled, a small smile, brilliant all the same. “You’re welcome.”

“When will Lily be joining us?”

James’ face clouded with adoration. Lily was in her second trimester of pregnancy, so she definitely wouldn’t be drinking anything. She kept a good lid on the boys, a skill you’d never managed to acquire.

“Not long now.”

“Oh, wipe that infatuated look from your face,” a new voice said. You turned your head to see Sirius Black looking exceedingly smart, although dampened by the rain outside. “I’m here, no need for tears.”

“Prat,” James said, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “Where have you been?”

“With Marlene.”

“How is she?” Remus asked. Marlene had broken her leg trying to dust Sirius’ wardrobe. He felt terrible.

“She’s great! Cast comes off next week.”

They drifted into conversation. You tried your best to pay attention, clenching and unclenching the napkin full of pear drops in your hand.

Remus pushed his shoulder into yours. “Something wrong?”

“Mm?” you looked into his face, startled at how close he was. “No, just thinking.”

“About?”

You looked down at his mouth, caught yourself, averted your gaze to his neck. How do you describe the feeling of being found out?

“Nothing,” you said. “Nothing in particular.”

You insisted on keeping a healthy distance between yourself and Remus, hoping to dissuade James from imparting his newfound knowledge on anyone else in your circle of friends. This was an imperfect method, as years of friendship and doting meant that Remus was more than used to a friendly arm hooked through yours, his shoulders against yours, your knees and thighs pressed together. If you moved, he moved to follow, without thinking. You were almost flush to the booth wall when Lily arrived.

She had the pregnant glow about her, looking incredibly healthy and happy. She squished in next to Sirius without complaint, James  gazing at her as though she were an angel stricken from heaven.

Despite trying to escape his side, Remus gave you such a sense of security that you couldn’t begrudge his right forearm pressed to your left. Your arms fit together like two jigsaw pieces.

“I’ll get some more drinks, shall I?” you asked, hoping to escape Remus and your racing heart for a moment.

“I’ll come with you,” Remus said, sliding out of the booth so you could stand.

“No, that’s okay,” you said abruptly, almost tripping over him. You made a beeline for the bar toilets, shutting the door behind you with a final click.

You let out a loud, panicked exhale.

Being in love with Remus was one thing. It had kept you up so many nights, staring at your ceiling, wondering what you were going to do. Because if you didn’t have Remus, you wouldn’t be you anymore. He was this all encompassing part of you, the glue that held you together most days. If you fucked it all up you would never forgive yourself.

Corrupting the friendship between you both was a taboo you didn’t dare think about. Construing his affection as anything but platonic was your own affliction. You wouldn’t be the one to pull the stitches he’d sewn in you to keep you both together.

It was so heavy. James knowing should’ve made it as though the weight of your secret was lifted - it didn’t. It was crushing.

You pushed the tips of your fingers into your closed eyelids until you saw stars.

Somebody knocked on the door. You threw yourself back from it in a violent flinch, having forgotten where you were.

“Two seconds!” you called, voice rough.

“It’s me,” Lily said through the door.

You frowned. They’d noticed your detour and your absence.

You cracked the door open. Lily pushed in, her small distended stomach brushing the doorway.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Yes. Yep. Uh…” you had to think quickly of a way to hide how you were feeling. If Lily spent too long here you might spill it. “Do you have a tampon?”

“Oh!” she looked relieved. “No, babe. I’m pregnant, no cycle for me.”

“Right.” You pressed your hand to your forehead and laughed nervously, though it was half false. The panic from before was persevering.

Lily could see it on your face clear as day. “Is it heavy?”

You were confused for a split second. “Wh- no. No, I just didn’t expect to start right now.”

“Right. Uh, I’ll go find something.”

“You can’t be doing errands for me, you’re not supposed to be on your feet.”

She rolled her eyes, “I’m not that pregnant.”

You stared pointedly at her tummy. “Who told you that?”

“I’ll sort it out,” she said, slipping from the bathroom.

You took the next few minutes to sort out your breathing. You didn’t need to panic. James probably wouldn’t tell Sirius. Sirius was smart and nice enough to know not to tell Remus. And if Remus found out - god forbid he found out - he wouldn’t do anything like you imagined. He wouldn’t toss you aside, cut you out of his life. He couldn’t.

You had to believe he couldn’t.

“Knock knock,” James said. You cracked the door an inch. He could see your blotchy face.

“Is it bad?” he asked in concern.

“It’s fine. Where’s Lily?”

“Sitting, like she should be.”

“I told her that too.”

“Here,” he said. He held out a box of tampons.

“Thank you,” you said, voice oddly tender. Maybe James was a better friend to you then you gave him credit for.

“You need anything else?”

“No.”

“Alright. Remus thinks you’re mad at him.”

“Tell him it’s hormones.”

“Is it?” he asked. You shut the door in his face.

You gave it five minutes as though you’d actually needed a tampon, leaving the full box in the stall for some other desperate soul. You shuffled over to the bar, feeling as though every patron had its eyes on you, ordering a round for your table and some snacks for Lily.

It took you two trips. Remus peered at you in concern, budging up so you could sit at the end of the bench.

“Thanks, Y/N,” Lily said, grinning at her crisps.

“Don’t mention it,” you said weakly.

“Everything okay?” Remus asked you.

“Yep.”

He didn’t believe you. You leaned heavily on the table, tuning into James' story about their evil garden gnomes and the mess they’d made of the baby’s nursery.

Remus took your posture as pain. He placed his large, warm hand to the small of your back and began to rub soothing circles in your skin. You melted under his touch, shoulders slowly lowering into a less defensive position.

James said something, you weren’t sure what, eyes half lidded from Remus touch. Remus laughed, loud, unexpected. It made you smile so hard your cheeks hurt, turning to grace the lines of his exuberant face in a way that was so familiar it made your eyes burn.

“I want a cig. Remus?” Sirius prompted, carefully weaving over Lily’s stomach and legs.

“I don’t smoke,” he said, though he was already standing. You mourned the loss of his hand on your back. He climbed over you with the same care as Sirius had.

“As good a time as any for a pee,” Lily said. Standing seemed slightly more difficult for her than the average person.

James was on you before she’d even made it to the bathroom door. “You fancy Remus,” he crooned.

“Will you shut it?” you hissed.

“This is literally great news. Now you can get married and have kids and him and baby Potter can be best friends forever.”

“You have it all worked out, don’t you?” you sighed in defeat.

“Wouldn’t you? Oh, will you tell him? Please tell him. We can go on triple dates.”

“You say all this like - like it would work out. It’s not that simple.”

James' happy demeanour toned down, a more serious look crossing his face. “I know it’s not simple. But - but when can love not be a good thing?”

Your face flamed. “Who said anything about love?”

James shrugged. “I’d know a thing or two about it.” Lily emerged from the bathroom and his eyes lit up.

“Yes. I guess you would.”

-

“Mate, the amount of whipped you are is ridiculous,” Sirius said.

Remus threw his shoulders back and groaned at the knots there.

“You literally asked me to come stand with you while you smoke in the rain when I don’t even smoke, and now you’re making fun of me for it?” Remus said, leaning against the cold wall behind him.

“Not for me, you pollock,” Sirius said through the cigarette in between his lips, shielding his lighter from the wind

Remus laughed defensively. “Says the man waiting on McKinnon hand and foot.”

“She broke her leg, idiot,” he took a long drag.

“I’m not whipped.”

“And I’m not ruggedly handsome.”

Remus sighed. “If you had your period, I’d do the same for you.”

“It’s not the same.”

“How?”

“You don’t look at me like that. I hope.”

Remus titled his head backwards so that the rain fell on his face. “It’s a want I can’t entertain.”

“You are so determined to be unhappy,” he said theatrically.

“Is that why we’re friends?” Remus asked, lips quirked in a lopsided smile.

“Get a grip.” Sirius said, dropping his finished cigarette on the floor and squishing it under his heel. “Just tell her.”

“I can’t.”

“Look, she didn’t care about your monthly cycle, I hardly think a confession of love will deter her.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Sure it is,” Sirius said, holding open the pub’s side door. Remus walked through. “Some things just are.”

“Not this.”

“She’s nice, you’re nice. Perfect match.”

“She’s more than nice.”

“Yeah, get a load of you.”

“I despise you sometimes,” Remus said, although he was laughing all the same. Lily was toddling back to the table. You looked as though you were upset, James saying something quietly to you, his eyes on his wife.

You leaned back against your chair in a slump.

“Move up, sweetness,” Sirius told Lily. “Lest I have to climb over you again and risk damaging my godson.”

You made room for Remus without complaint. He would’ve commented it was too much room - you hadn’t been as touchy today.

Hormones. Huh.

“You want to go home?” He asked you.

“Boo! Don’t go, Y/N.” James said. “Stay here and drink martinis with me.”

“I’ll stay, but I’m not drinking anything with vermouth in it.”

“Margaritas?”

“Be a man, Potter!” Sirius said with bravado. “Cosmopolitans or nowt.”

“Please no cosmopolitans,” Lily pleaded. “They make James too slutty.”

-

You were hiccuping through your third cosmopolitan when Lily cut you off. The pub was busier now that the night was starting, you had to strain to hear her.

“No! No more, Y/N. I can’t manage you and James and Sirius.”

“Remus will manage me!” you giggled.

Remus laughed. “Don’t I always.”

“I resent that.”

You braced your hand in between his knees, reaching forward to swipe Sirius' drink now that yours was empty. Lily threw her hands open when Remus did nothing to stop you.

“I’m not the boss of her.”

“Right!” you agree, practically gulping down the red drink.

“Maybe a little,” he said, disentangling your fingers gently from the stem of the glass.

“Spoilsport,” you mumbled. The cold from the glass was seeping down your hands.

“Feel,” you said, holding your hand out. “I’m cold.”

“You are,” Remus agreed, taking your hand between both of his.

You nodded, satisfied. You were a little dizzy now. The drinks were finally getting to you, seemingly. It was nice to be drunk - you could only think about your cold hands and Remus’ legs and none of the scary stuff.

Sirius was similarly drunk, leaning heavily into Lily’s side and spurting babble at James who was much more sober, surprisingly, his second cocktail still in front of him. How responsible, you thought. How boring.

“Loser,” you mumbled.

“I hope you’re not talking to me,” Remus said lowly.

You giggled. “Not you, Rem.”

Sirius clocked his missing drink and made a high pitched sound. “You fiendish girl.”

“Snooze loose.”

“Jesus, she’s gone,” James said. “I wish we had a camera, she’s funny when she’s drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk.”

Everyone at the table looked at you sympathetically.

“You guys suck.”

“I’m so tired,” Lily said, leaning her head atop Sirius’.

“Me too,” Remus said. They shared a companionable laugh.

“Not me,” James said.

“God, getting older sucks. What happened to getting blackout at sixteen? You guys have three cocktails each and fall asleep at the table,” Sirius said.

“Because you look wide awake.”

“Toss off, Moony.”

I volunteer, you thought to yourself. You laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Toss off Moony,” you repeated. It was funnier the second time; you giggled to yourself hysterically, so hard that it made you feel sick.

“Alright, calm down,” Remus said, fingers wrapped around your upper arm. “We don’t want a repeat of Sirius’ birthday.”

“You throw up one time and no one lets you forget.”

“It’s not that you threw up,” Sirius said gleefully, “it’s because you threw up laughing at frogs.”

You couldn’t help yourself, sighing in happiness at the memory. “They were so sticky.”

“Right. Home time. You’re coming with me-“ Remus said to you, “-so I can make sure you don’t choke to death. Sirius?”

“I’ve got a date with Miss McKinnon.”

“She won’t touch you like this,” James said, long arm wrapped tight around Lily’s shoulders.

“We’re gonna cuddle,” he said, enthused.

You staggered to your feet, wobbling in your canvas trainers. Remus steadied you by the shoulders.

“Can you side-along or are you a splinch-risk?” he asked you.

“I’m fiiiine, Remus. You worry too much,” you said, spreading the fingers on your hand against his chest affectionately.

“Sure. See you tomorrow for tea?” Remus asked the remaining friends at the table.

“Yes, Remus. See you then. Goodnight both!” Lily called.

“Goodnight,” you said. You crossed the threshold, Remus’ arm steering you out. He held your shoulder tightly.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yes sir.”

“1, 2-“

You hurdled through the air, a complete feeling of weightlessness moving through you, landing gracelessly at the bottom of the steps to Remus’ flat building.

You felt like the air had been ripped from you, bending over at the waist to brace yourself.

Remus patted your back, used to this post-disapparation sickness.

“You’re okay. Quick, stand up before you throw up.”

You did as he said, smoothing your wind-blown hair to the sides of your head. “Why is side-along always the worst?”

“You’re usually drunk to begin with,” he said, opening the door for you. You walked into the foyer, grateful for the warm air that greeted you. You rushed forward to click the lift button, pleased at the green light that it emanated. Someone had drawn two dots over the downward v to make a weird smiley face.

The doors whooshed open, a low-pitched tone announcing the elevator's arrival. Remus walked in after you, much more steady on his feet.

The mirrored walls displayed you both clear as day. You, looking a little messy, mascara smudged under your eyes. Remus, handsome, neat, worn coat with the patched elbows.

You caught his eye in the reflection. “You’re tall.”

“Am I?”

“Mm,” you said, hopping from foot to foot. “Very tall.”

“No ones ever told me that before,” he said, nudging you out of the opening doors and onto his floor.

“Really?”

“No.”

The inside of his flat was orderly, the smell of woodsmoke and something soft, like lavender or thyme, greeting you. It wasn’t a huge place, just an open plan kitchen/sitting room, bedroom, and bathroom. He folded your coats over the side of the sofa and kicked his shoes off.

You couldn’t work the laces of yours, moaning in annoyance.

“Here,” Remus said, leaning down. You brushed the hair out of his eyes without thinking. He untied your laces in the nick of time. You used his shoulders to balance yourself and toe them off.

He rose to his feet. “Come on, you’re in the bed.”

“Remus,” you said, knowing the argument that was about to happen. “It’s your bed, I’m perfectly fine on the sofa.”

“You’re my guest,” he said familiarly.

“It’s your bed,” you repeated.

“You never win this one - I don’t know why you try.”

“You’re being unfair.”

He smiled, knowing he was winning. You had a sudden stroke of genius.

“Look, it’s a double bed. We can share. That way you know I’m not choking to death on my own vomit,” you used his logic against him.

He was hesitant. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You won’t. Now come on, I’m so tired I can see two of you.”

"What a treat for you,” he said. You turned from him to smile.

-

You woke up confused, boiling hot and with a mild headache. Remus was asleep next to you, his face peaceful in sleep. You shrugged the blanket off of yourself and huffed, trying to cool down. If you squinted, you could see his alarm clock on the opposite bedside table.

9:42AM.

You blinked, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. Remus had already laid out a glass of water and a closed box of paracetamol.

What a sweetheart, you thought to yourself wistfully.

You sat up to chug the water, forgoing the painkillers. You knew the headache would dissipate as soon as you had a drink. Your legs were aching.

You shrugged off your jeans, bending over to rub at the red lines embossed in your skin from the seams. You searched through Remus’ clothes until you found a pair of navy jogging bottoms, pulling them on instead. You sighed in relief, unbuttoning your shirt to reveal the vest top underneath.

How you’d managed to fall asleep completely dressed was besides you. Remus was in similar fashion, probably overheating just as badly as you’d been.

You crawled over the sheets to his side, placing your hand on the flat stretch of his stomach. Kneeling like this, you could see every detail of his face, his collarbones, his Adam’s apple.

“Moony,” you sing-singed under your breath. “Mooooony.”

He scrunched his eyes closed even tighter. “What is it?” he asked.

You sat back on your haunches, hand trailing down to his hip bone. You considered yourself for a moment and drew away.

“I’m awake, so you must also suffer my misfortune.”

“How selfish,” he said, stretching and pushing his face into the pillow. “Godric, it's warm.”

“You’re fully dressed.”

“What?”

He opened his eyes, looking down at himself.

He glanced at you. “You’re wearing my clothes.”

“Oh, sorry. I can take them off.”

“Would you?” he asked, faux-eager.

You sniggered. “You’d like that, huh? Typical boy.”

“Don’t tease.”

“I want breakfast and we’re late.”

“Yeah?” he turned his head to squint at the clock. You ignored the urge to reach forward and touch his neck. “It’ll have to be brunch.”

-

“Cosmopolitans make you slutty too?” James asked, gesturing to your tank top.

“Misogynist,” you gasped, pretending to be scandalised.

“I never said there was anything wrong with being slutty, babe. Have as much sex as you like with Remus.”

“I’m not having sex with Remus.”

“You sound unhappy about that.”

You punched him in the arm. “Leave me alone. It’s too early for this.”

“It’s almost 11AM.”

You could hear Remus making tea in the Potters’ kitchen, his and Lily’s voices drifting in to mix with the sound of the washing machine, the whining kettle.

You’d come straight to the living room, intending to starfish on their sofa. James had beat you to it. You sat on top of his legs until he moved them

“I am unhappy about it,” you admitted.

James’ face might’ve split from the force of his victorious grin. “Acceptance. That’s like, the last stage.”

“Of what?”

“So, you’re gonna seduce him?”

“Are you joking?”

“No. Seduce him. Or confess your undying love, then seduce him.”

“I could do neither.”

“Bo - ring,” he said. “Look, I’ll help you out. We’ll plan, like, a whole thing.”

“You’re scheming,” Remus said suspiciously. Lily was close behind him, raising her eyebrows.

Remus sat down on the arm of the sofa next to you, offering you a cup of tea.

“Thanks,” you said.

James sat up properly to make room for his wife. Lily rested a protective hand on her stomach, tea held to her chest. They melted together, James’ arm wrapped around her shoulder, hand wandering up and down her upper arm. You could see the goosebumps break out on her skin, an expression of content on both their faces.

You leaned into Remus, just a bit, your hair against his elbow. You breathed out, watching steam from your tea swirl with the action. It tasted exactly as though you’d made it yourself.

“What are you and Y/N planning?” Lily inquired, smirking.

“I’m not planning anything.”

“That’s right, plausible deniability and all that,” James said, nodding gravely. “This burden I shall bear by myself.”

“That sounds like it’s not going to end well.”

-

It went like this.

Marlene got her cast off. Sirius decided that was enough to celebrate, declaring a party must be had at his flat. Everyone had to attend.

It was rammed from one end of the room to the other. You could barely make out one old friend from the next, people from your year of Hogwarts and even the year below having arrived in droves. Marlene sits in the middle of it all, a permanent perplexed expression on her face. Half the people who came brought birthday balloons.

You’re pushing through the people, looking for Remus like you usually are. He’d disappeared to find drinks and never returned 20 minutes ago.

Sirius popped up out of nowhere. “Hey, can I get your help?”

“Sure. Nothing better to do,” you said.

“‘Nothing better to do,’ she says. You’re young, fun and at the biggest party of the year!”

He led you into the kitchen, which was less packed but still had some milling guests, through the kitchen into his bedroom.

"What do you want?"

"Well, I knew there was something, but what was oh- right! You're in love with Moony."

Your face fell. "Sirius-"

"Don't worry, dollface, my lips are sealed."

You frowned. "James told you?"

"I guessed."

"With prompting?"

He didn't answer, which was answer enough.

"I'm going to wring James' neck."

"Settle down… is it such a bad thing, loving Remus?"

"No, of course not! He's - he's the best thing that ever happened to me."

"Then what's wrong?"

You sat down heavy on his rumpled bed, picking at a ladder in your tights. "It's difficult." You paused, chewing your lip.

"It's difficult," you repeated. "For me."

Sirius sat down next to you. "It doesn't have to be."

"I think people keep saying that, but they don't really believe it."

"I believe it. Love is never easy, but what's the point in loving someone and not telling them? Love with nowhere to go isn't what it could be."

You dropped your head into his shoulder. "Shouldn't you be having this talk with him? He's your best friend, not me."

"We're good friends, aren't we? Plus, James bagsied him."

"You drew the short straw," you grumbled.

"You're not the short straw, idiot. I like talking to you, especially if you're gonna marry my best mate."

"Marriage is not on the cards."

Sirius tapped a rhythm on his leg. "You're both the same. Determined to be unhappy."

"I love him," you said miserably. "It's a lot. I can't see everything else anymore."

"Love is supposed to make you happy."

"He does!"

"Then why won't you tell him?"

You thought about this for a long time.

"When we were 17… You remember, in potions, Slughorn made Amortentia. I was never any good at potions, Remus used to let me copy all his answers and - I turned to Emmaline, and I said - 'God, can you smell that? It smells like woodsmoke in here.' She looked at me like I was stupid."

You inhaled.

"I've loved him since I was 17," you whispered. "Maybe since the day I met him. How do you tell someone that?"

-

Remus leaned his head against the door, his fingers wrapped around the handle. James was looking at him with an intensely pleased expression.

"Woodsmoke," James said. "Boom."

He unwrapped his hand.

James' face was a picture. "Wh- wait a second! Where are you going?"

"I need to buy a ring."

James chased after him, tugging him back by his shoulder. "Woah- woah, Moons. You can't just ask her to marry you out of the blue."

"She loves me."

"Marriage is more than just love. Trust me." They both came to a stop. James was still grinning. Remus couldn't help it, he smiled back.

"She loves me."

"She does."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"She asked me not to."

"Oh, so now you've suddenly developed an ability to keep secrets?"

"Why do you think I pulled you off to Sirius' room in the middle of a party? For a snog?"

"I'm an excellent kisser."

"You sound like Sirius."

"Can't I get her a ring without getting married?"

"You can get her fifty. But maybe put the poor girl out of her misery?"

"How do I tell her?"

"Think on your feet, buddy," James said, turning them both around.

Remus felt as though volts of electricity were running through his body, as though every footstep he took back down the hallway was as loud as a thunderclap.

Sirius was shutting his door gently behind him.

"Ooh, perfect timing, lover boy. She's debating her whole existence in there."

"What did you say to her?" James asked indignantly.

"Nothing bad. Just that if she never tells him she'll die alone."

Remus ignored them both as they argued, squaring his shoulders to stare at the door. James patted him solidly on the shoulder. "Go get 'em."

They walked down the hallways like kings. "Let's get this party started!" Sirius cried.

"Y/N?" he called through the wood. "Can I come in?"

You said something. "What?" he called.

"Yes! Come in!"

You were splayed out on the bed, hair around you like a halo. You looked sick to your stomach.

"Cramps?"

"What?"

"Is it your period?"

"No."

He pushed himself up against the wall, his palm against the cold plaster.

He took a deep breath.

"When we were 17," he started shakily, "we had potions. Slughorn made amortentia. You were always pretty good at potions, but you never had any confidence, so you'd always copy my answers and I'd pretend not to notice."

You were staring at him with wide, wide eyes. He didn't dare move toward you, swallowing hard.

"And I turned to James and asked him what he could smell. He said Lily, obviously. He asked me what I could smell, and I said, ‘chocolate'. But-" he held your gaze, heart racing, and took the leap, "I lied. I didn't want anybody to know, I didn't want you to know. It was my biggest secret. Even bigger than the wolf."

He hesitated.

"It smelled of you. I fell for you a long time ago," he admitted.

“Was it so far to fall?” you asked him, voice cracking.

“It didn’t hurt at all,” he assured you.

You blinked. A tear gathered at the corner of your eyes, glassy in the low light.

You'd barely sat up and he was on you, almost pulling you off the sheets with the force of his hug. You laughed wildly and he cherished the sound.

You pushed your face into the side of his neck and he shivered at the feeling of you inhaling. You went to say something, and he knew he should've waited, listened, but he couldn't. He plastered his mouth to yours. You didn't hesitate, not for a second, kissing him back with all the wild abandonment you possessed.

He laughed into your mouth, kissing and kissing. You weren't the shy kisser he often imagined, matching his passion and tenacity with ease.

"Wait, stop," you said.

He looked at you in concern. "What, what's the matter?"

You leaned your forehead against his. "We can't make out in Sirius' room. That's, like, a cardinal sin. Imagine the things this bed has seen."

He touched the tip of his nose to yours. "Where else can we?"

"My bed, your bed. I'm not fussy."

He grinned, ducking his head to kiss your cheek. He pulled you up onto your feet. "Splinch-risk?"

"As if. He puts who-knows-what in the drink."

"1, 2-"

Maybe because he wanted to ravish you so badly, the disapparation felt as though it took millenia. When you both finally arrived at the outside of his building he pulled you in.

He couldn't accurately describe love to someone if they asked, but if he could he would play this clip, both of you falling over each other to steal kisses and laugh in the elevator at yourselves, red-faced, ecstatic in the reflections, almost missing your floor. Him fumbling with his keys at the door, forgetting to pull them out. Kissing you up against the thin flat walls like you were a sacred being, like you were a prayer he was sending.

The fronts you put up for other people, for yourselves, fell away. It was just you and him. Maybe it was hard to kiss your best friend without laughing madly or maybe it was your own mistake. Either way, it was a mess of kissing and laughing and struggling to breathe.

"Don't, don't," you begged, tickled by his lips against the skin under your ear.

"Or what?" he asked, though he pulled away anyways.

You went up on tip toes to do the same to him, laughing as he went boneless.

"Alright." He swatted your head lightly with the back of his hand. "You proved your point."

"Did I?" you asked, taking the skin between your teeth.

He gasped. "Demon."

"Who, me?"

"Yes, you. Sent to corrupt me."

"Consider yourself corrupted," you said, licking a stripe over his nibbled skin. "Now you're mine."

"Is that so?" His hands, seconds ago having held the nape of your neck, traveled down. The other pulled you flush against him. He watched your face saturate as you realised his affliction.

The other hand slipped under the edge of your skirt, holding your hip in a brushing grip.

"Excited to see me?" you asked, breathless. You were doing some exploring of your own, fingers traveling over the lines of his stomach and chest.

"Excited to do lots of things to you."

You moved away from the wall he'd pressed you against, walking him backwards until his knees hit the back of the sofa and pushed him down, clambering into his lap. You didn't shy away from him, setting yourself down on him in a way that made you both stutter in your breathing.

"Aren't we supposed to wait?" he asked you.

"For what?" you asked him, pushing his hair from his face with both hands.

"The right time."

"Doesn't it feel like now?"

"I just want you to be sure."

"I'm sure. Are you?"

He grabbed your hips, pressing you down, grinding you against him. "I'm sure," he laughed at your squirming. "I'm sure."

"Let me take my skirt off," you said, moving as if to climb off of him.

His arms tightened around your waist. "Do you have to?"

"Like this one, do you?"

"Can't you tell?"

"Let me up." You unseated yourself from his lap. It seemed much more illicit suddenly, him lying back on the sofa, red in the face and hard watching you undress with a heady gaze. You pulled your tights off in a hurry, almost toppling over. He smirked in amusement.

Next was the skirt. You unzipped it, letting it fall to your ankles before stepping out.  He hooked under your arms and brought you up, onto him again. Your underwear were simple, cute, black with a lettuce edge trim and purple ribbon with a bow on the top, like a gift.

He trailed a finger at the slip of skin just above it.

"You always wear stuff like this?"

"Thought I might get lucky," you admitted, bashful.

He moved his hands, pressed flat at the curve of your stomach, up, over your shirt to the peaks of your breasts. You brought your fingers up to the buttons, he squeezed.

The shirt came off. He pushed your bra up, not bothering with the clasp.

"What, you never took a bra off before?"

"Quicker," he mouthed, pressing his lips to the underside of your breast. He kissed stripes, leaving wet half circles in his path.

You did your best to maneuver around him, digging your fingers into his shirt buttons. You stopped at the first inch of a scar, tracing the thickest one with the lightest touch of your fingernail, sending goosebumps up his back.

"Do they bother you?" he asked.

"Never," you said. Pushing his shoulders back with your hands, you leaned down to analyse the scars. There was no rhyme or reason to them. Some were purple, some white with age.

You brushed your hands down his bare chest and smiled at him.

"You're so handsome."

The smile he gifted you in return was soft, loving.

"You're more perfect than I could have imagined," he said in turn.

"You imagine me like this?"

"Only every night."

Your hands wandered down to the zip of his trousers. You hesitated. "Go on," he said softly, pleaded softly.

You unzipped, unbuttoned. The trepidation between you both heightened. The shape of him was clearer and clearer.

You pulled his trousers down, then used a gentle hand to palm him through his boxers. His breath hitched. You were soft, lovely, probing with curious fingers. You'd be his undoing.

A fingernail, scratching at the waistband. You pulled him free, finally, his dick standing up. You used a knuckle to trace a prominent vein, gasping in happiness at his twitches.

He turned his head to the side, blinking hard. You took him in your hand and pumped with a confidence he wasn't sure you actually had, shyness and pleasure both written on your face.

"Alright, don't do me in," he said. He gripped the skin of your hips and pulled you forward, your silky underwear sliding against him. You took to this like a fish to water, planting your knees on either side and rocking your hips into him. He groaned, attempting to help, but your movements created a weakness in him he couldn't overcome.

You were wet on top of him, leaking through silk, coating him where you made contact.

You reached down in between your bodies to pull your panties to one side. You dipped a finger inside, then two, pulling slickness out and rubbing a circle around your entrance. Remus watched with half lidded eyes.

"You want to?" you asked him. He was better at it than you, probably because he could actually see what he was doing. He graced the skin of your clit, down, pushing his middle finger inside you with infinite care.

You moaned, your shoulders pushed back. "Ah, can you- will you-"

His middle finger was joined by his ring finger. His pinky and index hit the soft skin surrounding your entrance with each stroke. The meat of his pan rubbed your clit, sending spikes of hot pleasure up your abdomen.

You couldn't hold yourself up anymore, falling into his chest, arms braced on the sofa behind him. You tucked your head into his neck and gasped for air.

This restricted his speed but not his movement, scissoring his fingers inside you, curling to find where it felt best and repeating it whenever you squirmed.

You lifted yourself to escape his ministrations.

He rubbed the head of his dick against you. "Are you ready?" he asked.

"Mh-hmm."

You were flat to his chest. He pushed his hips down, lining up with your entrance. You cried out at the feeling. The first few inches were easy-going, sliding up into you as easy as pie. You'd brought a hand up to the hair at the base of his neck and he winced at the death grip you had.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked, coming to a stop.

"No - oh my god. You're big."

"I thought I was tall? Handsome?"

"You can be - oh, you can be all of those things."

"Listen to you," he said under his breath. "Can't even speak properly, can you, lovely girl?"

He was far from bottoming out. He held you in place, pulling out to push back in, stretching you out that little bit further each time, filling you up. You tried to move, ride him, and he tightened his grip.

"Stay still, sweetheart."

You listened. He was making good progress of you, easing you open with long, firm thrusts. You were beside yourself at this point, making sounds in his ear that almost pushed him to the edge every time he pushed back in.

Finally, with his full length inside you, he stopped. You wriggled circles around his dick, moaning with weak desperation.

"Remus, don't be cruel. Don't be."

"Cruel with you..." He thrust up, harder than before but never enough to hurt. "How could I ever be?"

You were pitched up, higher than he'd ever heard. His hips were doing all the work, you a sopping wet mess.

"We're a perfect fit," you said, your hair on his neck, your face against his shoulder. He turned to kiss your forehead.

He spread you open with his hands, the drag of his dick against your walls almost too much to bear. He was moving you up and down on him, finally encouraging you to move. You did so with a struggle, using your knees as an anchor to ride him.

You rose as high as you could, taking great pleasure in making him moan with every drop, pulling all the way off to abruptly drop back in, feeling his dick at the very deepest part of you.

When he was fully inside you, you rolled your hips, leaning forward to press pecks to his chest. He tangled a hand in your hair.

His head was thrown back against the sofa. You might look at his face and think he was distressed.

You steadily increased your speed, puffing with exertion though it could hardly be noticed between the sounds you were making.

"Don't wear yourself out," he said, sounding worried.

You let yourself drop onto your legs completely. "I can do it."

He lifted and dropped you with little effort, bobbing short, deep strokes, touching a part of you that stopped you from thinking.

"Can we go faster?"

He lifted you up close to his chest and layed you out flat on the sofa. It felt nice to be on your back, staring up at him instead of down. He hiked one of your legs up by the knee. The other leg fell off the side of the sofa.

It was his turn to be on his knees, lining up with his hand braced beside your head.

He did exaclty as you asked, fucking you at a pace that hardly let you catch your breath. It was overwhelming in the best way. His free hand came down to rub big, arching circles in your clit.

"Pretty baby, so pretty spread open like this"

"I'm close," you breathed uselessly, hand gripping the wrist near your head.

"Yeah? You gonna cum for me, pretty girl?"

The praise sent a hot flush through your whole body. You cried out, feeling the pressure of his thumb on your sensitive clit increase. Despite enjoying the feeling you felt yourself shy away as the climax started, pushing your leg down and in. Remus chuckled, doubling down his efforts.

He thrust into you with a force and it was enough to push you over the edge, both hands clamping down hard around his wrist where he held himself above your head. “Oh, god,” you cried, breathless,  the words ripped out of you.

Remus had an intensely pleased look about him, bringing up the hand from the apex of your thighs to cradle the side of your face, smoothing the lines where you’d scrunched your eyes closed.

You opened your eyes, misty as they were, to look at him, the corners of your mouth going up. He leaned down to kiss you, pushing most of his weight on you.

You made such sweet sounds, he thought. And you were stunning, sweaty and boneless, splayed out across his sofa like a vision, face alight with pleasure. You covered the hand he’d brought to your face with your own, steadying the jostling of each thrust.

He held your gaze and you laughed, a cascading sound, breathy and infectious. He was nearing his own climax, increasing his speed so that the loudest sound in the room was the slap of where his body met yours. You were half-sobbing with every thrust, though they were coloured with pleasure.

He pulled out, leaning back on his haunches, and painted the skin of your stomach white with a few rapid pumps of his shaft.

“Messy,” you said.

“Yeah, you should see the sofa. I’ll never have company again lest they see how much you like me.”

“I more than like you.”

“That much is evident,” he said, charting a course down your abdomen and slipping his fingers back inside you, pumping leisurely in and out, forcing wetness into the ever-growing pool beneath you and smiling like it was funny.

He moved back, his fingers still inside you, to kiss the soft skin between your cunt and your thighs, teasing you. You held your breath in anticipation, almost screaming when he teased the bud of your clit with his mouth. He liked stripes up your centre until you were begging him to stop, ticklish and overwhelmed.

He pulled his fingers free of you and wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

“If we weren’t wizards I’d send you a dry-cleaning invoice.”

You snickered, finally closing your legs to rub the skin of your hips. He watched you, kneeling before you like a prayer.

“You’re a rough fuck, Lupin.”

“That wasn’t too rough, was it?”

“You could go rougher.”

“Oh, could I?” he said, pulling you up and into his arms. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your legs on either side of him. He was still hard enough underneath you to keep going, but he hadn’t pulled you up for that. He rubbed a hand up and down your back, the other behind your shoulders, soothing the shakes moving through you.

“Maybe not today,” you mumbled.

“No, I don’t think so. Another time. We’ve all the time in the world.”

You dotted lazy kisses over his freckled shoulder.

“Wait,” you said, stilling with your mouth a millimetre from his skin. “I lied before, about being on. You didn’t know that. You were gonna fuck me on my period?”

He pushed your head back, his hand in your hairline. “Yes? What a strange question to ask.”

“I am not the strange one.”

“I’ll fuck you whenever you like. A little blood never bothered me.”

“I’m not sure if that’s romantic or insane.”

“You’ll change your mind the next time you cycle.”

-

James invited you over with a bottle of champagne.

You rushed forward to hug him, laughing when the air rushed out of him. “Thanks for your devious master plan, James.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, surprised. “Someone’s in a good mood.”

“She’s always like that,” Remus said.

“I bet she is, you dirty dog!” Sirius chimed in. Marlene whacked him upside the shoulder. He shifted her where she sat on his lap, laughing.

“Baby Lupin on the horizon? Harry’s getting so lonely,” James said, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Harry’s not even born yet,” Lily said. “Stop pressuring our friends into having kids.”

You felt yourself light up at the thought. It was definitely too soon to be having kids, but it didn’t stop you from thinking about it with great anticipation.

Remus hugged you to his side, grinning. “We’ll see.”

&lt;3

thank u for reading !!the title and some lines of dialogue are directly inspired by the end of love by florence and the machine as linked above!!!

[fawninthetrees]

everything with you | james potter x reader

summary four times james almost kisses you and one time he does. [9k]

warnings fluff, mutual pining, getting together, first kiss, idiots in love, first date, fem!reader, she/her pronouns used for reader, suggestive language/theme, late 90s au, rugby player!james

<3

James Potter is a little obsessed with you. In a cool, extremely chill and normal way, he thinks. It's hard not to be, here, at some random party half drunk and pushed into your side with your perfect hand held protectively over his head to shield him from the hubbub of partygoers.

"Still feeling poorly?" you ask, pushing the hair from his eyes.

"I need a haircut," he says, distracted by your touch.

"No!" you protest in a whisper. "No, James. Your hair‘s lovely, please don't cut it. What would I run my hands through if you did?" You say all this with a lopsided smile, one corner pulled up higher than the other, and a conspiring tone.

He blinks rapidly. Maybe he doesn't need a haircut after all.

Your fingertips push into the thick tresses at his hairline and scrape back. He shivers in light pleasure and reaches out to grab your thigh where his head is resting, indulgently absorbing the warmth of your body.

You barely notice, pulled back into a conversation with a girl on the sofa opposite. James feels his phone pulse in his pocket and is reluctant to retrieve it, worried you'll pause your ministrations. He watches you take a sip of your drink and almost spit it out laughing and deems you distracted, struggling with his phone, just drunk enough that his motor skills are fucking with him as he snaps it open.

Sirius told me to tell you that you look pathetic. Love Remus.

James scowls at his phone and lifts his head from your leg to look towards where he thinks his friends are located. Sure enough, they haunt the kitchen doorway with equally humorous looks on their faces, Sirius smug to Remus' pitying. James flips Sirius off and finds it returned, a perfectly painted and manicured finger held aloft.

You giggle by James' ear. "I hope that's not for me."

"Definitely to me. You'll have to forgive him. He was dragged up," he says, groaning at his embarrassing mates.

"Don't be cruel," you admonish, nudging him with a naked elbow.

His phone chirps again.

I also think you look pathetic. It's cute. Do you want food? Love Remus.

Moons u rly don't need to sign off every txt. Not hngry. Luv u

OK. Love Remus.

James laughs at his friend's hopelessness and tucks his phone away.

"I'm never cruel," he tells you.

You neaten the rolled up hem of his short sleeve unthinkingly and he can't help how much he wants to kiss you. It's all in the little things, he knows. You put your fingers in his hair and he's happy to lie in your lap like a dog; you fix his clothes and he wants to kiss you stupid; you smile at him sweetly, asking if he still feels sick, and if he is does he want you to go sit with him outside for a bit? He's ashamed of the heat in his chest.

James finds himself at your side with an inch between your legs, a porch bench swinging underneath you.

"I don't want to hurt your feelings," you say tentatively. He feels an alarming rush of vertigo at your words, until you continue, "But I think you could benefit from some mild temperance."

He scrubs his face, nausea ebbing as you clarify. He thought for a moment you were going to reject him before he even confessed.

"Yeah, maybe. Wouldn't have any reason for you to take care of me then," he says, startled and sounding it. He winces before he's done. You make a humming sound.

"You hardly need to be drunk for me to take care of you."

He sits with this and looks out over the garden. It's a nice space, the home in a wealthy neighbourhood, twinkling fairy lights strung up over the porch and solar powered lamps peppered down a keenly landscaped stretch of green grass and flowerbeds. There's a pretty stone path leading down to the end of the garden where a grey-white fountain spurts water. It sounds calm if you can ignore the sound of the party, which he finds himself more and more able to do as your knee creeps closer to his.

He wishes, and hates himself for it, that he'd worn shorts. Craves that tiny skin on skin contact when your thigh touches him. You must be cold in your skirt, a midi slit up one side that shows the smooth stretch of your outer thigh, colder on your top half in a spaghetti strap shirt and a loose knit cardigan.

If he thought you'd accept it he would offer you his jacket, but you won't. He's tried before. I don't want you to get cold, Jamie.

"You really don't think I should get a haircut?" he asks self-consciously, tugging a hand through his unruly waves.

"No," you say seriously, turning your torso towards him.

"It's a little long," he complains.

"James, please." You lift your hand up to replace his, pushing his hair back.

"I'll look like Sirius soon enough."

You shift. The bench sways. You push your second hand in his hair and pull it all away from his face gently. He can feel the cool breeze on his bare, clammy forehead as you sit there with your hands in his hair

You run your hand through his dark mop one last time, then stop with your hands braced at the back of his head, a big smile on your face.

"Don't cut it," you implore him seriously, looking into his eyes.

He deserves a medal for not leaning into your arms right then and there.

"How do you keep it so soft even though it's this thick?"

He doesn't understand how you can continue a conversation like this without melting. He's melting. You're talking like everything is normal, fingers twined between ink dark strands and fingertips massaging his scalp.

"I… I oil my roots before I wash it." He doesn't share how his mum insists on doing it for him most of the time now he's back home from school.

"You can definitely tell," you murmur.

His eyes shut. He blames it on his drunkenness and not the feeling of your hands.

"James?" you ask quietly.

"Yeah?" he asks, though it sounds more like an unintelligible hum.

"Are you tired? D'you need to go home?"

"Maybe." He does feel suddenly like his limbs are made of stone.

"Who are you going home with?" you ask.

You stand. The bench wobbles. One hand falls out of his hair to rest on his shoulder and his skin warms where it lands, the other tucking stray pieces of hair behind his ears. He opens his bleary eyes and is met with a silver of your midriff, promptly closing them again to push evil thoughts from his mind in which he kisses stripes over that naked skin for hours.

"Sirius is driving me home," he admits reluctantly.

"Let's go look for him."

James reluctantly follows you with a little wobble. His inebriation has faded as the night progresses but a general tipsy dizziness prevails. You press a hand to his lower back and he narrowly avoids trodding on your strappy sandals.

"I don't see him anywhere. Can you text him?" you ask.

James grabs his phone. You both press your backs to the wall to make way for some passersbys. He doesn't bother with texting Sirius: Remus always answers.

Where r u??

Went to get food. Love Remus.

When will u b back?

Sirius wanted Molly's Kitchen. Love Remus.

Molly's kitchen in MILTON KENYES?

Sorry. He is very convincing. Love Remus.

I know he is… luv u see u never when i die here abandoned & cold

See you tomorrow. Love Remus.

It takes him so long to type this all out he's surprised when you're still by his side. You're looking at the picture frames hanging on the wall with the patience of a Saint.

"They ditched me."

"Oh," you say.

"Yep."

"Well, you'll just have to come home with me," you say breezily.

He gawks. You fish your keys out of your cardigan and brandish them like a lump of gold. "I have leftover pizza. Or we can order in. If you're hungry?"

He's not. "Sure. Whatever you want."

"We can walk. It's not that far. If you can walk?"

"I can walk."

Barely. He knows it would've been a lovely stroll with you in the lazy summer air, sun still ligphting the sky despite the time, gauzy pinks and blues skimming the white-gold horizon, if only he hadn't been half cut. Your skin is shiny as finest silk and a gentle breeze floats your perfume towards him and he's close to admitting maybe he's obsessed with you in a way that isn't cool at all by the time you make it to the front door.

It's a mostly silent journey until you're shutting your bedroom door behind you and he's wondering how he got here, sitting at the end of your bed. Your room is an extension of you that he can't take in fast enough. He doesn't know what to do with his hands.

You lean down and unstrap your sandals and he toes off his own shoes, trying not to look at how you're bent over, at the silhouette of your legs in your light skirt. Next is your cardigan. He feels like a bachelor in the 1800s, hungry and guilty at your naked skin.

Your silver anklets click together as you weave past him to your bedside table. You flick on the glass shade lamp and an array of multicolour sprays up the wall and your hands. He's mesmerised.

"Pizza," you mumble to yourself, and then looking up at him, "James, I don't have any pajamas for you. Um… oh, and your jeans are gonna be uncomfortable. Do you wear boxers?"

"I- I- yeah. Yes." When he tells this story later, much later, he will not recall stammering here.

"Well, if you wanna sleep in your boxers I don't mind. Better than those awful jeans. I'm gonna heat up the pizza. Bathrooms right there," you point at the door, "if you need it. Are you still feeling sick?"

"No," he says, a smidge overwhelmed.

You reach out and cup his cheek for a second as you pass. He sits in your aftermath and worries he may not make it through the night.

Watching you eat is a strange pleasure. To get to watch you eat is the first, and then the face you make trying to catch a string of cheese is a close second. Now, lying shoulder to shoulder with you, too hot for the duvet and in his boxers he can't get the image of you out of his head. He's too afraid to turn and see the real thing in case you think he's trying to cop a feel.

He'd insisted on sleeping on the floor and you'd laughed so much you went warm in the cheeks. "No, James, that's okay. You're with me."

You'd swapped your skirt for a pair of loose cotton pants. The fabric of which brushed against his calf as you squirmed restlessly.

"It's too warm," you complain.

He's so tired he can barely answer. "Yes."

"I'm gonna open the window," you declare. You climb over his legs and there's so many points of contact he thinks he might go blind.

Window opened, you stand at the sill and pick your vest away from your skin, looking over your shoulder at him, catching him mid-heady gaze. If you care you don't show it, smiling at him with your big hoop earrings still in, your necklace, your bracelets. He frowns to himself. Are you supposed to sleep with jewellery?

You climb back into bed, standing at the edge and flopping down much closer to him than you had been before. It wafts a ridiculous gust of your intoxicating smell over him.

"It's supposed to be this hot all week," you say morosely.

"The miraculous nature of British summer time," he murmurs.

You laugh breathily. "How awful. When it's cold I want the sun to come out and when the sun's out I miss the rain."

He turns his head to watch you talk.

"I like the sunshine." You tilt your head up, in a deep debate with yourself. "It's the humidity I can't deal with. It makes my hair so frizzy. I want soft hair like you, and-" you pause. "Watcha doing?"

"Do you sleep with these?" he asks, poking at the hoop hanging from your earlobe.

"Oh. Sometimes. You're not supposed to, 'cos they're big and all, but I forget."

"Can I?"

"Sure, yes. Please."

He nods and brings his other hand up, pulling the latch off your hoop and sliding it from your ear. He climbs up onto his elbow and presses his fingers to your jaw, turning your head into the pillow so he can reach the other. You're decidedly pliant and quiet under his touch as he pulls the second out. He puts them down by your shoulder and pulls on your necklace until the clasp is in sight.

He's holding his breath. You're looking up into his face with wide, soft eyes, and he catches the tremble you resist as he pulls the necklace free from your neck.

"Tickles," you say sheepishly. He's close enough to feel the warmth of your exhale on his skin.

He drapes the necklace next to your earrings but can't bring himself to move. Your eyelashes twitch. Your lips part and he can see the tiniest sneak of your tongue.

The way you're looking at him is dazzling, dizzying. He smooths down the hair closest to your neck that he'd disrupted while detangling your necklace, ignores the unsteadiness in his hands, presses his fingers to the side of your throat.

Your eyelashes kiss as your eyes drift shut, and he leans down just as you turn your face from his.

"You're drunk, Jamie," you whisper, covering his hand with your own.

He knows you're right. Though drunk seems dramatic at this point, admittedly there's alcohol in his system, and he lets himself fall back into your sheets.

"Sorry," he says.

You bring your arm across your front to grasp his shoulder in your palm. Time moves slow.

"James?"

"Yeah?"

You brush the tousled hair from his face, your touch featherlight and familiar now against his temple. His heart soars as you cuddle in closer, skips when you touch your lips to the muscle of his bicep. "Sleep well," you say warmly.

You break the kiss and stroke the skin there gently with your thumb before turning on your back.

-

so u didn't kiss her?

u r exacerbating my pain, Black

Good. Ur pain SHOULD be 'exacerbated' idiot.

i was tipsy. she didn't want me 2

and in the morning when u were sober ??? couldn't have kissed her in between waffles????

she acted like it didn't happen so I did 2

oh my god! U r so dumb !

James dropped his phone in his lap, feeling the humiliation of his defeat tenfold. Sirius was right, James should have kissed you at breakfast. Maybe. Or at least made his intentions with you clear. He wasn't trying to kiss you because he was drunk or because you were there, he was trying to kiss you because he was hopelessly endeared to you and hoped you might want to put up with him for a bit. Or years. Whatever, it's not like he was planning the wedding or anything. Yet.

He very much hadn't kissed you the next morning. You'd gotten up before him, an angel in your new fresh clothes and your hair out of your face, skin dewy and fucking hell was he lovelorn. He'd been sick as a dog at the table and you'd mistaken it for a hangover, pressing a cup of water into one hand and two ibuprofen in the other, smelling like sweetness behind him.

"Temperance," you'd said encouragingly, lips by his ear.

He relayed this all to Remus over the phone on the bus home, who had listened without judging for the most part up until that point.

"Oh, James."

"You think that's bad?" he'd asked.

"James."

"Just. Don't tell Sirius?"

"I won't." A lie, evidently. At least I can be mad at Remus' blather mouth rather than my own pussy footing, James thinks happily, pulling a throw cushion over his face.

"I'm an idiot," he says into the cushion. It doesn't say anything back.

-

James Potter isn't your boyfriend to your whimsy disappointment, but you think he might want to be.

You'll admit that his tipsy almost-kiss was a speed bump where you worried that awkwardness would wedge between you ruthlessly, but the next morning he'd made enough jokes to have you tearing up and looked at you so adoring you assumed that point moot.

You dress extra pretty tonight, a million different trinkets, silver thin bangles that jingle. Please, you think. Please, James, just ask me on a date.

You're sick of motives. These days you only go so you can see James, tired of party drugs and alcohol and sweaty guys looking at you in that way where you know exactly what they're thinking.

You spy him now, pressing through the doorway with his entourage behind him. You think this with love. His two tallest friends are always right by his side, and a smaller girl trails behind them that you think is called Emmeline.

The first half of his friends that you knew of had arrived earlier in the evening along with your only mutual friend, Mary. You give her a saccharine smile as you peel away, not bothering to hide where you're planning on going.

She smiles indulgently and turns to the short-haired girl, Dorcas. Guilt-free, you wheedle past people you don't know and some that you do, giving pause when one of your friends from school appears. By the time you've finished menial well wishes you can't see James anymore.

"Looking for someone?"

You jump and spin on your flat shoes.

A relieved smile works its way across your mouth.

"James, you startled me," you say, voice light, pressing your fingers to your sternum.

"Sorry, sweetheart. Here." He gestures his big hand to you.

A flower. You take its stem between your fingers gingerly.

"Where'd you get this?"

"Saw it on the way."

You twirl it around and watch its petals dance before passing it back to him.

You smile despite yourself at his crestfallen expression and take a step closer.

"Put it in my hair?" you ask.

His brown eyes lighten, hot amber tea steeped in his irises. He's careful as he sews the flower's delicate stalk into the hair closest to your ear, his mouth hovering just over your forehead. You half hope he's going to press a kiss to your skin before he steps back. He doesn't, though his fingertips give you almost the same pleasure as he flattens what are already well tamed baby hairs.

You want an excuse to stay close to him. He'd done it all by himself the last time by participating in a drinking game he had no chance of winning and needing somewhere to lie down. Your lap had been open. You'd prefer he stray from any recreation of this tonight, and are saved from thinking up a new excuse when he taps the toe of his shoe into yours.

You look down at the rubber toes and then up at his face.

"Want a drink?" he asks.

You pull your shoe back just enough to hit his again. "Depends. What kind?"

"We brought a keg, not that I think you're interested in that."

"Nope," you agree, wrinkling your nose with a grimace.

His answering smile is ridiculously contagious.

"You don't strike me as someone so picky."

"I know what I like," you say, demure. "But I'll try anything once."

His eyes darken, sticky sweet; a playfulness edged in something like I dare you.

"Let's hope I can get you something that sticks," he says back, twice as smooth.

An immeasurable pleasure eats up your spine as his hand comes between your shoulder blades, steering you into the kitchen. He exchanges hellos with guys you don't know huddled around the kitchen table playing cards. One of them lights a cigarette and James stands between you and the twisting smoke, opening his arm out to the countertops covered in drink.

"What do you want, baby?"

You cross your legs and lean forward, pretending to read labels.

"How about you pick for me?" You turn your head to the side and enunciate each word through lips barely parted, eyes tracking his hands where they hang at his sides. His left hand twitches.

"And if you don't like what I choose?"

You straighten up slowly, "Then you'll make me another."

He laughs and you know he can see through all the aloof confidence you carry around you, can see you for who you are, but it doesn't read as cruelty so much as a kindness. You feel the layer of coolness you'd layered on slip away and smile at him with too much teeth, pleased when his hand claps your shoulder and he steps forward to make you a drink.

The concoction he makes is a little too sweet for you but you drink it without complaint, sitting up on the counter where there's room.

He leans with his hand braced behind him next to your thighs, face close to your own and beautiful as he talks to you, brown skin cooled by the white fluorescents and eyes shiny. You can see the smattering of dark stubble coming in if you look, which you aren't. Except that you are. Hungry, you soak in his little details. Tiniest scar by his mouth. Beauty spot not far from it under his nose, almost invisible against his skin. Wavy hair in tighter curls tonight and smelling of coconut or almond or something, fresh and fragrant and thick. His glasses, black wire frames, slide down his nose so often it drives you crazy to watch him push them back up.

Eventually, unable to resist the temptation, you straighten them on the bridge of his nose mid-sentence. He pauses to blow air out of the side of his mouth, warding off a curl dipping close to his eyebrows as you do, and the silence stretches even when your hands are safely returned to your lap.

"You look…" You press your lips together in an attempt to fight off a nervous giggle that slips out anyways as you continue, making the words less serious than they're meant to be, "Pretty. Or handsome. If you prefer."

He puts his drink down on the countertop. You knead your own fingers.

"You look pretty too. Handsome, if you prefer," he returns, creeping closer still. Your chest burns with the pleasure of being complimented. "So much jewellery tonight, you're a mirror ball."

"You don't like it?"

"Didn't say that."

You lift a hand, let all the bangles drop down your arm. "I may have bordered on excessive," you admit, abashed.

"Don't worry, I know all about excessive," he placates, picking his drink up pointedly. The image of him plastered and poorly pops up in your head.

"Yes, well, I was hoping you'd stay sober." You run your finger over the rim of your glass, unable to look at him. "In case I need some help."

His hand reaches out, a finger hooking under one chain bracelet and tugging gently. You can feel his gaze on your face, feel as he puts his drink down again with a final clink. His hand closes around your bracelet.

His fingers are gentle as his other hand slowly, slowly works up your face, fingertips pushing over the delicate, smooth skin of your cheek. His thumb finds a home at the bottom of your chin and he uses it to guide your face up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

It's intense because you want it, because he's handsome, because he's funny, because he's awfully, terribly kind. Because something between you both fits together like it's meant to, and you just know that if he kisses you everything is gonna work out like it should.

His eyes are on your lips. You follow his eyes with sick excitement and miss when he slips your bracelet off of your wrist.

You look between you both. He holds the silver links between his fingers. It's the only one he would've needed to unclasp, the rest are seamless bangles. This one, silver with small blue cut gems, is just his style.

You hold your palm out, mourn his hand as it falls from your face. You both look down between you as you wrap the tennis bracelet around his wrist and click it into place.

"There," you say, so quietly you're worried he might miss it. "Something for me to take off'a you."

His hand finds your face with purpose now, almost pulling you toward his own beaming face and he's opening his mouth, about to say something with a laugh already on his lips when a shattering crash echoes from the living room and into the kitchen. James stills, hand moving down to squeeze your shoulder protectively as he turns to the door.

A barking laugh. James turns back quickly, apologetic, murmuring a "Jump down?" and pushing his forearm under your armpit to help you down off of the counter.

As soon as your canvas shoes touch down, he takes a light hold on your wrist and pulls you along, following the guys who'd been playing cards. In the living room, Sirius sits at a coffee table with a knife in his hand. Sticking into his hand, blood already pooling around it in a black crimson horror that has half the room in morbid silence and the other half panicking.

Remus, at Sirius' left, is laughing with tears running down his cheeks, sounding like he's one guttural guffaw from throwing up. Sirius looks pretty cool about the whole thing, cooler when he spots James in the doorway.

"Prongs! Come and pull this out, would you? I'd do it, but I can't seem to make myself grab it."

Remus let's out another sobbing laugh. You can't help but giggle from behind James' shoulder, and Sirius zeroes in on this.

James drops your hand, walking forward and bending at the waist.

"Hey, don't think because you're his girl now that means you-fuck! Oh fuck, what the fuck-" Sirius presses the open sleeve of his dress shirt hurriedly into the wound, freshly opened. James holds the knife he'd just pulled free in his hand distastefully.

"Alright, hotshot, run your mouth in the car. You need stitches."

"Fuck's sake."

James drops the knife on the table and shoves the wounded boy's head with the flat of his palm, earning another curse. Remus, finally extending some friendly generosity, pulls the dark shirt he's layered over a t-shirt off and encourages Sirius to wrap it around his hand.

Sirius protests. "This'll give me an infection."

"Fuck off and die, then," Remus suggests lightly, wiping at his eyelashes with the side of his pinky finger.

Sirius wrinkles his nose. James tries to shepherd them both from the room, which has once again grown loud with laughing, most of it at the absurdity of Sirius injury.

"What did I tell you about pinfinger?" James asks scornfully.

"Not to play it," Remus supplies, stepping over people's feet with little apology.

You watch the sorry threesome make their way to the door, a disheartened feeling creeping in.

James opens the front door and pushes Sirius through it, torn looking back at you.

"Remus can't drive, so I'll have to take him," he explains.

"You still have my bracelet."

A weak argument. He can hear your disappointment. He smiles, eyebrows pulling up in… sympathy? Empathy? Apology? You can't tell what, only that he looks soft as butter as he says, "I'll call you? We can arrange a time for you to take it back."

"Okay," you agree, much too happy, just as he's pulled out the door by a bloody hand.

-

James doesn't have your number. He realises this in A&E, close to midnight with Remus asleep on one shoulder and Sirius slouched in the other, waiting for the plastics to come and assess if Sirius has done any permanent damage to his finger.

"I don't understand how you can stab yourself in the hand and fuck up your finger," James mutters for what's likely the fifth time.

Sirius sighs unhappily. "It's ligaments or tendons or something. I might very well have cut through a cord that needs to remain uncut."

"You're an idiot."

"Thanks, James."

"Yeah, you're welcome." James slouches a little lower in his chair to take the strain off of his best friend's neck in a show of genuineness. He does love him, after all, even after shocking displays of public stupidity.

"Sorry for cockblocking you," Sirius says.

"Vile. Wasn't gonna turn out that way. Though I was hoping I might actually make a real move tonight. I did make a real move," James shakes his head, disgruntled. "I was seconds away from kissing her. Your idiocy couldn't wait 30 seconds?"

"Wasn't exactly timing it, mate."

"Yeah."

James digs through his pocket for his phone. He never knows where the damn thing is. Your bracelet is tight to his skin and he looks at it with keen longing, imagining your nicely shaped nails running under it.

He shakes it off, goes to unlock his phone, and this is where he realises he doesn't have your number.

"Do you have Y/N's number?" he asks Sirius.

"No." It sounds like why would I?

"Fuck."

"She's Mary's friend, isn't she? Ask Mary."

He sighs and does as he's told, scrolling through contacts until he finds Mary MacDonald's.

Hi mary was wondering if u have Y/N's phone #

And why should I give it to you, Pots? :3 :D <3

pls mary I am not above begging u

While that would be a sight, I meant why do you want it? But please tell me more about the begging part!!! <33

mary

What are your intentions with my Y/N? She's much too sweet for you to manhandle <33

James blushes at her wording and groans aloud. "Girls are impossible."

"Yep," Sirius says tiredly.

James doesn't want his or your business passed around, and if he tells Mary, Mary will tell Dorcas and Dorcas will tell Marlene and Marlene will tell everybody she knows and will find it very, very entertaining as she does. He doesn't plan on awarding her the pleasure. He tells a white lie.

I found her bracelet and want to give it back :]

I'll give it back for you ;) <3

not that I don't trust u M but its super nice, id prefer to give it in person myself

OK OK I'll stop yanking your chain now Jamesie dearest hahaha. Her number is +44 XXXX XXXXXX. I trust the bracelet gets back to her in one piece. btdub, how's siri? <3

crying and shaking like a lamb, thanks m xoxo

He adds your number to his contacts and then stares at it until the nurse calls for Sirius and they get up to meet her, leaving Remus to blink awake confused at their departure.

-

hi Y/N, this is James

You look down at your rarely used phone and feel a warmth like sunshine unfold in your tummy. You don't use any emoticons, though you want to.

Hi James, how are you? How is your friend?

im amazing how r u? doctors are hopeful that he'll live, but it's up to him now :,(

James

kidding. he is fine. R u busy right now?

no I'm not busy why?

can I call u?

You call him rather than answer. He picks up straight away.

"James," you say quietly.

"Sweetheart," he says back. "Hey, hi. I had to get your number from Mary Magdalene."

"Wow, what was she like?"

"Uh… bloody? Which one was she?"

"I don't know, James," you say, laughing behind your hand.

"What are you doing today?" he asks.

You preen though he can't see. "Nuthin," you say, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth. "Why'd you ask?"

"Trapped you there, baby. Don't you know you're supposed to wait until after I tell you what I'm planning before you say you're not busy?"

"Oh, weird. Something just came up."

"Uh-huh. Anyways, busy or not, if you want to: I've got a match later. If you want to come." He sounds nervous. It's a new look on him.

"Do I get to sit pretty on the sidelines with the other girls?"

"You can stand, if you like. But yeah, otherwise. Oh, unless you have some kicks. I doubt it would take much convincing to get you on the team."

"How's that?"

"Well, you know. They aren't blind. Dumb, sure, but we play rugby. Not exactly a honeypot of intelligence, all it would take for half those guys is your pretty smile-"

"You're plenty smart," you cut off his compliments.

James gags. "Keep it to yourself. It starts at six, but come whenever. Oh- do you need me to pick you up?"

"No, that's okay. I'll walk. It's warm out."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. It'll be nice. I'll wear team colours." You're almost afraid to suggest it until he makes a very happy noise that he coughs to hide two seconds too late.

"See you at six, then?"

"Definitely. You owe me a bracelet."

"It's a date." He hangs up before you can say goodbye. Good thing, because you spend the next ten minutes with your face in your hands, smiling so wide your cheeks ache.

It doesn't quite feel like a date on the sidelines but you're too busy walking on sunshine to care. You watch as James throws the ball behind him, torso twisting, bulky arms flexing. His shorts and socks are stained green and his shirt grips tight to his chest.

You can see why he wanted a haircut; ink dark hair falls in his eyes as he sprints after the team and he has no hands to tuck it back.

You'd been a little late, trying too hard to look effortlessly radiant at home and forgetting the time. As soon as you'd arrived, out of breath and half-dressed, you stood at the side of the pitch close to watchers but maintaining a small gap trying desperately to catch his eye. It was obvious when he saw you - he smiled beatifically and raised a wide palm in greeting before getting into position for a scrum.

After a while there's a halftime break where he comes bouncing off the field to your side. He goes straight in for a hug, brave, warm, exactly what you wanted, arms around your waist and lifting you off the ground half an inch with the force of it.

You wrap your arms around his neck and pretend it's all an inconvenience, wobbling on tiptoes. "You're getting grass all over me."

"Oh no," he says, faux worried.

He smells like so many things. Deodorant and sweat, grass and dirt and salt. You press your nose into his hair and smell the almond oil there with a lopsided smile.

He lets you down, holding you at arms length.

"You're so fucking pretty."

You try not to burst into tears, turning your face so he can see the heart on your cheek made up of glitter in his team colours. "It's the team rep."

"No, it isn't," he says, running his hand down your face to straighten your head, pausing with his fingers under your chin.

Your bracelet is still on his wrist. You can't find it in yourself to be embarrassed at the lovesickness you're feeling.

You push his hair from his face. He, reminded of this affliction, levels you with a squinting glare. "This is all your fault."

"Sorry, Jamie," you say, biting back a guilty smile.

"It's fine," he concedes immediately. You're suddenly overwhelmed by the power you have over this poor boy.

"How long is the break?"

"Halftime? About ten minutes left."

You nod, thinking to yourself. "Well, um. You can say no, but. I can plait your hair back, if you want. Out of your eyes."

"You can?" he asks, brightening.

"Yeah, I can."

James sits on the bottom bench of the stand and you stand behind him, your fingers raking through his windblown curls in lieu of a comb. He sits strangely still, more controlled than you thought possible of him as you braid back the longest strands at the front of his scalp, sliding your fingers through his hair as kindly as you can. The small intimacy of it all has your heart racing.

Securing the dark braid with a bobble, you take in the back of his head. His soft shiny hair is oil black in the sun, his skin painted with gold. His neck begs to be kissed.

You rub your hands down the back of his neck, across the curves of his trap muscles and then down his chest, leaning on him so you can press your lips to the highest point of his cheek in a shy kiss. He tilts his head to catch your eye as you pull back.

"Done?" he asks, something indistinguishable in his voice.

"Done," you confirm.

His face is close enough to spot the beauty mark adjacent to his cupid's bow. You resist the urge to kiss that, too, and stand at full height. He copies you. You find that the stands underneath you makes you taller, his eyes are level with yours.

"How's it look?"

"I did alright," you say modestly. "Though maybe a haircut isn't the worst idea."

He laughs and looks down, reaching for your hands. He's different without his glasses, not more or less handsome, but different. The focus of his face changes, and you find yourself distracted by his eyes, his nose, his mouth.

He holds your hands like a prince, brushing his thumb over your fingernails. Then, in true royal fashion, he brings your hand to his mouth. A kiss pressed to your knuckles. One kiss becomes two, two to three, a peppering of pecks up your hand and over your pulse and up your arm. He reaches your sleeve. His hand follows his mouth until he's holding your elbow in his hand like you're a sacred being, pulling you in.

You drift together. His hands cup your upper arms and guide you slowly to the left as he ducks in.

A piercing whistle leaps through the air. You flinch apart like guilty kids, his hands a searing heat through your shirt sleeves as the call for halftime's end rings. Loudly.

He grimaces bitterly. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I don't know why this keeps happening to us, I'm-"

"Going to get in trouble," you finish, peeling his hands off of your body. "Go on, before they get mad."

"Your bracelet-"

"Keep it. It looks good on you, anyways."

He leans in and holds you by the neck. Your heart is a hammering racket for no reason - all he does is peck your forehead, quick and firm. Then he pulls back all sorry looking and scrambles over the bench and the kit to get back into position.

You sit down heavily on the cold metal seat behind you and cover your chest with your hands, taking deep breaths through your nose.

He catches your eye from the pitch and winks.

-

"Be thankful it was your mouth and not your nose."

"Explain what you mean," James demands, wincing at his split lip.

You match his stride. James, having been hit in the face with the rugby ball hard enough to bruise and cut his top lip, had refused to let you look at him, despite the horror it had provoked, and then had refused to let you walk home alone. I'm not getting in your car until you see a doctor, James, I mean it.

Fine, then we'll walk.

So you walk. The sun is setting, the sky a mix of white-pink and light blue, a bleeding yellow light throwing big shadows every which way. You step out of the shade of a towering, green leafed tree where the main road began. Before James can stop you, you jump up onto the small metal barrier that stops cars from driving on the pavement and walk across it like a balance beam.

"Please don't," James says.

You ignore him, using your arms to stop yourself from toppling into the road. A small revenge considering he had ignored your medical advice. James lets you do this for around 10 seconds before he grabs your hand in his. You wobble along the last meter of barrier with your joined hands held aloft and tight before you finally let him pull you back down onto the pavement, giggling breathlessly. Cars careen past, each one wafting a breeze of petrol and fallen leaves towards your legs.

Fingers interlocked, you walk. You take in the relative beauty of your town in its approaching dusk, meandering past roundabouts and roads, back gardens and a corner shop.

You persuade James inside the shop and beeline for the cold drinks at the back. The open fridges cool your clammy skin.

"What one do you want?" you ask him.

"Anything. Whatever you're having."

You grab three identical cans and ignore his raised eyebrows as you bring them to the front of the store, the cashier hidden behind lollipop stands, magazines, a plastic shield plastered in leaflets for upcoming events. There's a small TV in the corner blaring summer music that you can't help but hum as you emerge from the shop, swaying your hips in time.

"Who's the third for?" James asks, accepting his can. You tuck your own in your bag and grin.

"You! For your lip," you say. "It's swollen."

"Doesn't hurt."

"Don't believe you."

He reluctantly takes the can from you and complains loudly, exasperated at having two full hands, one pressed to his face. You wiggle your empty one at him in bad sportsmanship. Before long you're standing outside your home and James is hesitating.

"Do you want to come in?" you ask, half-hopeful.

He shakes his head. "I can't, I have to take Sirius to get his hand looked at again by plastics."

"Too bad," you murmur, looking at his chest and then his face. "Thank you for walking me. I know it's out of the way."

"You're never out of the way," he says seriously.

You slide your fingers into the loose hair behind his neck, rub your thumb across the line of his jaw.

"Get home safe," you murmur as you lift up on your toes, shoes creasing. You press a half-open kiss to his jaw where your thumb had been moments before and close your lips over his skin slowly. You linger, pressing a second on top.

There's an unspoken acknowledgement between you both when you pull away. A promise.

He looks a picture of defeat walking down your front path. Covered in dirt and grass and sweat and blood, hair messy and chased by the last rays of sun. You watch until he's at the end of your street, butterflies thrashing in your tummy as he presses his index and middle finger to where you'd laid your kisses, as though checking his pulse.

-

James' parents own a restaurant. He knows, in his right mind, that this is a lame place to take you on a proper first date, only it's the hottest week of the year and everywhere else with outdoor seating is fully booked.

"I don't mind, James. Actually, I'm excited. I've never seen Sirius in a uniform," you say.

He scowls and scoffs melodramatically over the phone until you apologise to him for your terrible, awful, sick joke.

Technically, the Potter's restaurant is fully booked too, and he watches the books like a hawk for a week while his lip heals until he catches a cancellation. He instantly jots down his name. He's caught in the act by Euphemia.

"James," his mum had said, words drawn out. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

So really, he isn't sure why he thinks this date will go well. Everybody who works here knows him, and even as he waits outside for you under the dark wood porch a server comes up to him and nudges him with his elbow emphatically.

You turn the corner and he stops breathing, a vision in your sundress and sandals. He watches your anklets dance as you approach, eyes roving up your body devotedly until he finds a smile that matches his own in tenacity playing on your glossy lips.

He wants to kiss you then but wants more to foster a perfect, romantic evening first, so he's careful as he brings his hands up to your face appreciatively. Your hands hook around his elbows, an excited glaze in your eyes.

"Hi, pretty girl."

"Hi," you say, hushed by shyness.

He caresses your cheeks lightly, worried about smudging your makeup. Your eyes close when his hands move up, sliding over your hair to rest behind your ears. Sparkly earrings hang from each earlobe.

"You look beautiful," he says, because fuck it if James hasn't got game.

Your smile turns pouting at his words. He wants to record your voice and play it back when you say, "Thank you, James," in the softest tone he's ever heard from you.

He wants to stay like this. He swears he could happily stand in this bubble of the world with you and count your eyelashes, memorise the flecks of colour that surround your pupil, but you shimmy out of his hands and prompt him inside.

"Come on, handsome, I'm hungry." And then, inside the restaurant. "Oh my god. It smells amazing. What smells amazing?"

He has no clue. He's reluctant to go to the bar with you only because he knows exactly who stands behind it - Sirius, in his neat uniform, a towel thrown over his shoulder and a bandage wrapped around his hand.

He's well-behaved when he sees you, though a few things he says has James reaching to wring his neck.

"How's your hand?" you ask.

Sirius sets down James' pint and grabs for another glass, shovelling ice and pouring juice. "It's alright. The bandage is for health and safety, not because it's actually injured anymore."

"Plastics said he's fine," James interjects, raising the dark ale to his lips.

"Perfect," Sirius amends cooly, "is what they said. Head to toe."

James corrals you out onto the mezzanine before you can fall in love with the uppity bartender.

It gets worse from there. A server who's known James since he was in nappies takes your orders, an extremely handsome server with a deep dusky voice and black skin so smooth he's practically carved from stone.

"And what's for you, babygirl?" he asks after airing out every embarrassing thing James has ever done on restaurant grounds.

You're still laughing, but you turn to James with all the confidence in the world as you ask, "What do I get, James?"

He feels a little better after that.

The patio is perfect. The sun's out, the breeze is light. Every now and then he has a hint of your smell, sunscreen and perfume. Your leg bounces under the table, a tinkling sound of silver, and you lean forward. He doesn't look at your chest where the necklace hanging over your collar bones disappears, thank you very much, but you're so obviously perfect and he's attracted to everything - your body and your gorgeous face, yes, undeniably, but your voice! Your laugh, your smell, the way your hands move. The way your every word about him drips adoration. The pride in your tone as you recall what should've been his perfect match (if he hadn't been hit in the face).

After a lazy dinner and a second round of drinks he's buzzing and you're lovely, like a flower, bloomed and prettier than anything he's ever seen.

You leave the table and walk along the woodchip path and kids play area to look out over the lake, a dark shimmering sheet split in half by twisting white light, the sun falling from the sky.

The evening grows marginally colder, especially at the lakefront. At the first sign of discomfort he works his arm over your back, hand pressed to the dip of your shoulder

He's waiting for you to look at him before he kisses you.

"It's so pretty," you sigh happily.

Across the lake is a backdrop of green trees and a small, rustic boathouse. A family of ducks swim past, shepherded by a squawking swan.

"Bully," he mutters.

You hum. "Why is there only ever one nasty swan per lake?"

"Gotta fill their quota."

"The poor duckies," you sympathise. "Look, there's one of the fancy ones with a green head over there."

He follows your finger but gets distracted by the bracelets adorning your wrist, can't help but think about how you'd asked him to take them off.

"James, this is… it's really perfect. It's amazing."

He pulls you in a little closer. "I'm glad," he says, though he's finding it hard to respond - he can barely open his mouth. "I wanted it to be."

You finally turn to face him. He guesses his change in tone is what does it, because you sound similarly low and love-sticky when you murmur back, "Everything. It's all been so perfect. Everything with you."

He can't take it. He darts forward, so close to kissing you that the air between you is charged with it. When his nose grazes yours he gives pause, tries to work out what you're thinking as your tongue wets your lips.

Your eyes are closed. He shuts his own and-

"James! James Fleamont Potter! You come up here and help your mam!" his father's voice calls.

He drops his forehead against yours and lets out a pained exhale.

"Dad," he calls back, refusing to move. "I'm a little preoccupied."

"What? James, look, I don't have my glasses and your mother needs someone to write tomorrow's daily special!"

He pulls away from you and sends a heated look over his shoulder, one he's sure could melt metal and that his father can't even see. "And tomorrow's daily special, this couldn't wait until TOMORROW?"

"James, I've no clue what's turned you into such a sour puss tonight and I don't have time to work it out. All I'm asking is that you do this chalkboard for us and then you can get back to-"

"Dad! Dad! Alright, I'm coming!" he hollers back, cutting his father off before he can blow a gasket. "Jesus Christ," he says under his breath, defeated. You frown sympathetically at his embarrassment.

"You should probably go help your parents," you say, sounding similarly disappointed. He nods, unwilling.

"Just, don't move," he pleads.

You smile, total understanding on your face, and he's only taken a few steps from you when you turn back to the lake and your shoulders fall.

Fuck it, he thinks.

He turns your body with his palm on your shoulder and soothes your surprised flinch with a hand on your neck, your eyes meeting for a startled, excited handful of seconds before he's finally, finally, surging forward. You gasp into his mouth and his fingers tighten on your neck, lips aligned with your lips and searching deeper, parting to invite you in. You follow, a dance, a hand pulling you out of the road, a tether, and you taste like everything he's ever thought you might all at once.

You press your spread fingers over the fine material of his dress shirt and moan when he catches your top lip between his. He kisses, again and again, feels you slip through his hands like water. He hooks his arm around your head to keep you in place as he wades into you, slowing, softening, pulling away to plant one, two, three gentle kisses over it all like a balm. You respond to each one amorously. His chest rears to explode at your dizzy, pretty panting when it's over.

He loosens his arm to pull back and take in your entire face. Your eyes are shimmering, lips wet. He wipes his thumb over your bottom lip, finds it burning hot.

"Oh," you whisper.

"Oh?" he asks, endeared and amused and insanely happy.

"I didn't think it would feel so different to all the little kisses from before."

"Good different?" he asks, the damp pad of his thumb smoothing over the warm hill of your cheek, stolen bracelet scraping your skin.

Any anxiety he has unfurls and dissipates into nothing when you smile and lean in for a second kiss. "Good different," you confirm against his open mouth, "everything with you…"

He pulls you as close as any person can be to another person. He has a pretty good picture of what you were going to say, anyways.

<3

my masterlist

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[fawninthetrees]

Prove It, Cowboy

pairing: dodge mason x reader

summary: after the player's ball, you find yourself without a bed for the night until dodge offers for you to stay at his, but when his mom and sister catch you sneaking in they get the wrong impression.

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dry humping, protected sex (p in v), dodge’s mom and sister being kinda invasive about his sex life (?)

a/n: dodge and his mom being so open about her sex life was so funny to me. this is kinda the reverse of a canon conversation... kinda! also i had a dream i went to one of dodge’s rodeos but he was flirting with all the girls so he was my enemy for a few days <3

A midnight sky hung over Carp, Texas when you arrived at Dodge’s house. Dodge put a finger to his lips fruitlessly as the front gate creaked loudly. The curtains of the front room twitched.

A female voice came from inside the house, “Dodge’s brought a girl home!”

Shit.

“That’s Dana,” Dodge sighed, fiddling with his keys and rubbing his forehead with a tight smile. Before he turned the keys in the lock, he turned to you, “Sorry, in advance.”

Your brows screwed together as he guided you inside.

After the player’s ball, Heather disappeared and so you were left without a bed for the night. God forbid you sneak into your own house and face the wrath of your parents.

Dodge came to the rescue.

A sigh fell from his lips at the sight of his mom and sister waiting in the living room doorway with excited smiles and hooded eyes. They behaved more like sisters than mother and daughter. It was sweet.

A dim lamp on the entrance table and the bright colours of the TV cast shadows across the room.

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” You smiled politely despite two pairs of unfamiliar eyes trained on you.

God they must think you’re here to sleep with him or something.

“Hi, sweetheart. I’m Jessica. You want something to drink?” Dodge’s mom raised her glass of red wine, “We’re watching Jeopardy.“

She was a very beautiful woman, cherub cheeks and bright green eyes. Dodge was all hard angles, he must take after his dad.

Dodge ducked into the sea-foam coloured kitchen to grab two waters from the refrigerator.

“I’m Dana!” His sister beamed. She shared an unspoken look with Dodge, who rolled his eyes. Before you could thank her, Dodge rejoined your side.

“She’s locked out and just wants somewhere to sleep,” He quelled their unspoken barrage of questions.

His mom nodded along, as if he was lying, “Okay well there’s spare blankets in the laundry room, condoms in the bathroom...”

“Oh my god,” Dodge cursed under his breath, “We’re going now.”

Jessica and Dana giggled behind their glasses of wine, the right side of drunk, “The book, Dodge.”

She winked with exaggeration, her filter totally gone with the amount she’d drank but she was clearly having a fun night in.

Dodge shook his head with a flustered laugh.

With a hand on your back, Dodge guided you to his bedroom. Your face flushed at the unexpected attention and the suggestive situation.

The two laughed rather loudly, saying how pretty you are and how Dodge will fair with a girl spending the night, for the first time you assumed.

The sound of the women stifling laughter echoed around the house. Dodge closed his bedroom door with a sheepish and apologetic smile.

His room was pretty plain; grey bedsheets, grey walls, rodeo trophies and medals, a bookshelf with framed photos on. It smelt like laundry soap and his cologne.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” He offered, tossing his backpack onto the carpet.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t bite,” You teased, as you looked at his collection of trophies and books, “Plus they already think we’re fucking.”

Dodge gave a quick laugh, watching you read the spines on the shelf.

“What book was your mom talking about?” You turned to him and his face flushed.

“You heard that, huh?” He mumbled, “It was a joke really. She thinks she’s funny.”

Even more intrigued by his avoidance, you sized him up with squinted eyes.

Dodge cleared his throat, tidying away a pile of laundry sitting on his bed, “They uh… god this is… They used to worry about me with- with girls. They thought I was a virgin because I never brought girls home to meet them or anything… and so for Secret Santa one year I got a book about… women… My mom insists it wasn’t her and that whoever it was was trying to be funny…”

There was a long pause. Dodge shied away from your eyes, his body turned away from you, despite the little air of embarrassed laughter.

Dodge cleared his throat again, “Super weird, I know. She had kids super young and didn’t want us to make the same mistake. Not that me and Dana are mistakes but it was hard for her. She’s cool about that sorta thing though. Dana’s ex-boyfriend used to stay over all the time and she didn’t care. So if you’re worried, she won’t say anything about you being here or anything.”

Another bout of silence fell between you as Dodge assessed your features, his lips pursed and shoulders tight.

“I think that’s the most you’ve ever said to me,” You laughed and Dodge visibly relaxed.

“No, it’s cool. Not cool but, you know, I wish my family were cooler about sex. My dad saw your name in my phone and reached for his shotgun,” You laughed, “Anyway, a book is probably better than drunk hook ups at the lake.”

“Yeah probably,” Dodge nodded, leaning against the bookshelf, and there was a lull in the conversation.

“Oh… did you read it?” You giggled, a flush of red creeping up his neck and ears, “You did!”

“You can’t prove anything,” Dodge shook his head with a half-cocked smile.

“But you could,” You raised your eyebrows and he furrowed his. It was a joke, he knew that, but Dodge steeled his expression and licked his lips.

“Yeah?”

You kept your eyes on his for a long moment before smiling, “Yeah. Prove it.”

You reached out and rested a hand on his stomach. His abs were tight and lean under his button-up shirt.

One by one, you unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders, running your hands along the sturdy plane of his stomach and chest.

Conflicting thoughts ran through your head. Heather was like your sister and Natalie had been planning to win Panic for years.

Would fucking Dodge Mason, their competition, be a good idea?

Your judgement was clouded by the heat radiating from his skin and the smattering of hair on his chest. His dual coloured eyes watched your face as you stood before him, admiring him.

“I saw you like this at the jump but not up close,” You rested your hands on his shoulders, biting your lip, “Thank you, saddle bronc.”

Dodge couldn’t fight the smile that spread across his cheeks, as a sputtered laugh escaped his lips.

In one movement, Dodge threw you over his shoulder and deposited you on his bed, kneeling over you.

A soft line of kisses traced along your arm to your shoulder. With every press of his lips, you itched to feel them against yours, whining at the wait.

Pink and plump, his lips pressed to the corner of your mouth before he pulled back to look down at you, stilling hovering over you.

Taking his head in your hands, you craned your neck to kiss him. Each press of his lips had you sighing contently and the swipe of his tongue had you moaning.

Dodge licked into your mouth with fervour, tongue and lips colliding with no precision, only desire.

You hooked your leg over his hips and rolled him onto his back beneath you, straddling his hips.

Dodge instinctively gripped your hips and watched with kiss-bitten lips and doe eyes as you discarded your dress onto his bedroom floor.

“You gonna give me some tips, cowboy?”

Dodge groaned, your hands pressing against his chest, as he slowly guided the rocking of your hips against his.

With every roll of your hips, your tits bounced in the lacy cups of your bra. His eyes flickered between your chest and your pink panties, rubbing against his bulge.

Dodge groaned, tightening his grip on your hips, “Lean forward.”

Following his instructions, a loud moan escaped you at the change in pressure against your clit.

“Good girl, you’re doing so good,” He rumbled, rutting his hips against yours in a perfect rhythm. Warmth bloomed in your chest at his praise.

Thank you, saddle bronc.

His muscles rippled and bulged underneath your hands as the slick between your legs dampened the skin of your inner thighs.

Cupping a hand at the nape of your neck, Dodge guided your mouth to his, kissing you with pinched brows and deep groans. Pulling away from the heated make out and pressing a deep kiss to his lips, you sat up and unbuttoned his jeans.

Dodge lay back, stroking your thighs and watching you with bated breath. Pulling him from his trance, you hooked a finger into the elastic waistband of his boxers, twanging the material against his alabaster skin.

A smile twitched at his lips as he slowly sat up and kissed you softly, rolling you onto your back. Dodge pushed his jeans off and lay between your legs, the hard length of his cock pressing into your inner thigh.

Settling your hands on each other's heated skin, Dodge kissed you deeply and nipped at your bottom lip playfully. His strong arms wrapped around you, his hand palming at the globe of your ass.

Warm and plump lips mouthed at your neck, teeth tugging the strap of your bra from your shoulder and kissing at the newly bare skin. He unhooked your bra, tossing it onto the floor and laving his tongue at your pebbled nipples.

"Please, need you," You whined, clawing at his shoulders. Dodge pressed a final kiss to your chest before sitting on his haunches and pulling your panties down your legs.

With firm hands on your inner thighs, Dodge parted your legs and bit his lip, staring at your dripping sex. You squirmed under his undivided attention, hooking your calf around his waist and pulling him on top of you.

Kissing him deeply, you pushed his boxer briefs down his hips, dragging your nails across his back once his erection sprung free. The wet tip smacked against your heated skin.

Dodge kicked his boxers off and reached into his nightstand, tearing the foil of a condom wrapper with his teeth and rolling the rubber onto his cock.

Caressing his biceps, you watched as he hovered over you and lined himself against your entrance. You hooked a leg around his hip, gasping into his open mouth as he slowly thrust into you.

Dodge's eyes fluttered shut as his hips pressed flush against yours. A ragged breath escaped his lips, tickling the skin of your neck. Dropping his head to your shoulder, Dodge sighed shakily.

"C'mon cowboy," You rolled your hips, "Buck."

Dodge let out a mix of a soft groan and a laugh into your neck, "You feel really good."

A small giggle fell from you, scratching your fingers through his hair. You bucked your hips again and Dodge clamped a hand on your hip, pulling back and rolling his hips against you.

Picking up the pace, Dodge fucked his thick cock against the sensitive spot deep within your cunt. Sloppy wet sounds echoed around the room with each buck of his hips.

Sweat beaded on your skin as the coil within the pit of your stomach tightened. Your nails clawed at the rippling muscles of Dodge's back, his skin slapping against yours.

Groans tumbled from his lips, pressing heated kisses to your skin, silencing your loud moans with his tongue in your mouth.

Digging your heels into his ass, you tightened your legs around his hips, letting him push one against your chest and his cock sinked deeper into you.

A broken gasp escaped you before his hand clamped over your mouth and his hips stopped, pressing his weight onto you.

The sound of footsteps outside his door and the subsequent flicking of light switches and closing doors alerted Dodge to the presence of his mom going to bed.

Dodge met your eyes, willing you to be quiet, as he continued to fuck you. Your brows pinched together as your interrupted pleasure began to build again, noises muffled by his strong hand.

Pressing his forehead to yours, Dodge slowed his pace and you took the opportunity to turn him onto his back, keeping his cock nestled in your cunt.

A surprised grunt tumbled from his chest and his hands groped at your body, holding you against him. You wasted no time before raising your hips and bouncing on his cock.

Dodge moaned and his eyes rolled back, covering his own mouth. A sheen of sweat on his skin glistened in the limited light. Leaning forward, your clit caught against his pubes, igniting a hotter flame within you.

"Good," Dodge praised, brushing your hair out of your face and watching your tits bounce in his face, "Such a good cowgirl."

He tipped his head back further into his plush pillow and his knees bent off the bed, fucking into you, his body pulling taut at the impending release.

"Gonna cum," Dodge rasped, panting and licking his dry lips.

You couldn't form words, only nodding, meeting his eyes and rocking your hips with the uncoordinated buck of his. The band within you was one thread away from snapping before Dodge gripped your jaw and pulled you into a heated kiss.

White hot bliss coursed through your body as you moaned into his mouth. Dodge mouthed at your unresponsive mouth, too preoccupied with moans of pleasure to reciprocate his kisses.

Dodge pulled back to watch your orgasm wash over you before he hit his peak, white ropes of cum filling the condom as he groaned deeply.

Sinking into the mattress, you lay on his sweaty chest, both trying to catch your breath. Dodge discarded the condom in the trash by his bed and pulled you into his side.

His cheeks and neck were rosy with exertion and he ran a hand up and down your back, "You should try saddle bronc."

Fucked out, you laughed into his sweaty chest, "You should keep that book."

Slowly you drifted into a blissful sleep, bodies entwined and satiated.

[fawninthetrees]

i love ur preacher’s daughter x dodge! thinking about them doing everything *but* actual sex cause it’s “not a sin” that way

warnings: smut, 18+, f!receiving oral, handjob, everything but fucking tbh, mentions of religious guilt, reader watches him touch himself, a little bit of manipulation...

notes: not proofread i’m nauseous and horny ab cowboys so here x

Dodge knew what he was getting into when he started dating you. That sweet girl that blushes and sputters when he suggests anything more than a kiss. Even a peck on the mouth had your cheeks hot to the touch and eyes averted at the start of your relationship.

But you're getting there. Or rather... he's getting there. Slowly but surely, you're growing more receptive to his subtle demands for more. You stop protesting when his tongue slips into your mouth, or his hand slides a little too far up your skirt. No more making excuses to go when your goodnight kiss in his truck gets a little too heated.

He takes it as his sign to push a little further. As far as your daddy knows, you're at Bible study with your friends. Not sitting with your knees planted on either side of Dodge, his tongue exploring the warm cavern of your mouth as his hands massage up and down the back of your thighs under your dress. There's a movie playing from his TV—Pride and Prejudice borrowed from his sister, because you dubbed the rest of the DVD sets under his bed 'too inappropriate.' Bless your poor little heart.

It's clearly long forgotten. The pair of you are more focused on swallowing each other's soft moans to care about the quartet playing behind you. And then, suddenly, you feel a finger glide over the front of your white underwear, and you jolt forward, forehead bumping against his.

"D-Dodge—"

He hardly flinches at the collision, smiling so innocently at you that you're almost convinced it never happened. "What?"

"You can't—" You take a moment to collect yourself. Swallow thickly. "Too much."

"Why?" His head tilts.

"Because it's a sin," you reply, as if he's stupid. "You can't touch me there. The... the good Lord's watchin'!"

"He watches everything else we do. Why's this any different?"

He has to swallow back a laugh when he watches the way your brows pinch together as you think that through. Logic is very hard to come by when his hand is still resting on the inside of your thigh.

"Well, it's almost—" You pause, lowering your voice to a hushed whisper, "—sex."

Dodge smiles. How cute.

"It's not sex, sweetheart," he says, mimicking your hushed tone. His other hand moves up to pet the back of your head as if to console you. "Don't count unless there's penetration."

You eye him warily. "What do you mean?"

"Well, what's the Bible say about it? No sex without intention to procreate 'n' all that bullshit?" He ignores your pout at the way you call the teachings bullshit. "Can't even be sex if my cock—"

"Dodge."

"What else am I supposed to call it?"

"Just don't say it at all!"

He sighs. Starts over again. "What I'm tryin' to say is that a little bit of touching ain't a sin. No penetration. Not even like our..." He pauses to search for the most appropriate word he can think of. "Parts... will be touchin'."

You frown a little, mulling that over in your head. Well, it makes sense to a certain extent. Besides, if touching in any capacity is a sin, you're already going straight to Hell for how many times he's had a calloused hand cupping your breast or squeezing your ass. It still just seems like a little much though...

"But the sin is lust, not the actual— oh—"

His fingers brush over you again, and the innocent smile from earlier isn't so innocent anymore when you meet his eyes. "Stop worryin' your pretty little head, darlin'. I promise you it's not a sin. Right hand up to God." Funny, considering his right hand is currently the one snuck under your dress and touching your clothed cunt.

You try again. "But Dodge—"

"But what?" He says, fingers dragging back and forth against you in a way that has your thighs pressing together instinctively. "You don't trust me?"

You shake your head. "No, no, I trust you."

He hums. "So, what, you don't want it? Is that it?"

The truth is, you do want it. He's hardly doing more than lazily rubbing you through your panties and there's already an unfamiliar stirring in your gut. Like the build-up of something that could be absolutely explosive. The Big Bang, your brain traitorously supplies. Now you feel even worse. You've never even tried to touch yourself before—considered it, sure, but any time your hand ended up toying with the inseam of your sleep shorts it was quick to retract. You've had to apologise to the picture of Mary overlooking your bed a few times for the almost-slips.

"... No," you lie, straight through your teeth.

But he laughs. He's no idiot. He can see the way your gaze is fixed on his forehead rather than his eyes. Can feel the way your thighs clench tighter with each drag of his fingers, your cunt pulsing a little too eagerly for someone who doesn't want this. "No?" He repeats mockingly. His mouth moves to hover right by your ear, and you shiver at the warm puff of air against it. "Then why are you so wet?"

"Well, that's... that's natural!" You insist weakly.

"Is it?" He muses. "You always walk around with your panties damper than a horse's back on a summer's day?"

You wither under the amused look he gives you. You know he's just being an ass now. But there's a glint in his eyes—not quite mischief, something a little darker than that. Something that makes any thoughts of the fiery depths turn to mush.

"... Promise it's not a sin?" You ask tentatively.

Dodge offers you the pinky of his other hand, and the one between your legs stills for just a moment. Your lip catches between your teeth, indenting the soft flesh as you weigh up the truth behind his words. Deep down, a part of you knows that he's just bullshitting you to get his way. You could be about to commit the most heinous sin imaginable and he wouldn't give two shits.

... But then his hand starts back up again, and before you know it, your pinky is looped through his.

It doesn't take long before your dress is hitched up and you're on your back, hair spilling over his pillow. Your panties are discarded somewhere on the floor, a leg hooked over his shoulder as his mouth laps at your sensitive parts. What started as kitten licks and gentle circles of his fingers quickly turned into something else.

Now you feel as if he's trying to devour you.

"S’that good, sweetheart? Feel nice?"

"Nggghh, yeah. Oh my goodness—"

There's been a few times where he's been tempted to slip a finger in. Ease you open, feel the way you tighten around his digits when you climax for the first time. But he'd said no penetration, and Dodge has a feeling you'd be on his ass about semantics. He'll work you up to that eventually, he's sure of it.

So he sticks to working you over with his mouth. Eagerly lapping up the sweet juices your cunt provides him with every time his thumb flicks over your clit just right, his other hand threaded through one of your own. Thumb reassuringly rubbing over the back of your knuckles despite the faster pace his other hand is taking.

And despite the fact his mouth is mostly occupied, he doesn’t stop talking you through it the entire time. "Just like that, angel. Keep makin’ those pretty sounds for me. Y’sound so sweet. Taste so sweet."

Or he tuts. "Keep your legs open. That’s it, uh huh. That’s my girl."

A groan this time. "Fuck, can’t believe I waited so long to do this. S’heavenly, baby."

Neither of you even notice the credits of the movie rolling. All you can hear is your own keening moans and the lewd sound of his tongue lapping at your pussy. The feeling is foreign, unfamiliar, but the peak of ecstasy you're approaching has you thinking life in eternal Hell might not be so bad if this is what you get to experience down there.

That thought is quickly cut off when your orgasm crashes over you. Sudden, overwhelming, your back arching up off the bed as your entire body jolts with pleasure. You swear you black out for a minute, and he takes great pleasure in the way your lashes flutter and your eyes roll back.

The greatest part of all is the cry you let out. "Yes, Dodge, God, yes, yes, yes!" It's blasphemous, the way you worship both him and the Lord in one breath.

He works you through it diligently. Not a drop goes to waste, and he's still moaning against you when your own whimpers die down. When he's fully sated and some of the trembling in your body has subsided, a firm kiss is placed against your inner thigh before he rises back up your body to tuck your hair behind your ear.

All you can manage is a dopey smile, and he grins crookedly. "Worth it?"

"I think so," you say breathlessly.

When you drop to your knees by your bed that night, Rosary beads threaded through your fingers and head bowed, you apologise profusely. But you haven't been smote down yet, maybe you'll be okay.

... Maybe.

It becomes a bit of a routine after that. Whether it's in his truck with your leg hitched up on the dashboard or when he has the house alone, Dodge just can't get enough of eating you out. And every time, you go back to pretending it never happened. You're still daddy's little angel.

There's a pleasant buzz running through your body as Dodge tugs your underwear back up for you, looking just as smug as ever. Dimpled smile, chin still slick with your wetness, as he eases your skirt back down for you. One would think it'd get less intense over time... but God, he has your toes curling and legs trembling each time his mouth descends on your cunt.

"Y'know," he starts, sitting up on his knees and giving your dishevelled state an approving once-over. "I think I might go a lil' insane if I don't get some attention of my own."

It's enough to give you pause. Fair enough—he's spent the last few weeks nestled between your folds and never once asked you to return the favour. But you've never touched a man like that before.

He catches your hesitation. Reaches out to thumb at your cheek, gaze softening a little. "Ain't gotta do nothing, sweetheart. But the blue balls are killin' me."

Blue balls. You almost roll your eyes. "So... what, then?" You ask, shifting to sit up as your fingers curling into the soft fabric in your lap.

He doesn't reply right away. Tilts his head, gauges your expression. "Can I show you? Won't take much. You ain't gotta touch me or nothin'."

Don't even have to touch him... you cast a cursory glance to his door, even though there's nobody home. Your lip is already bitten raw from stifling sounds all evening, but you're back to biting at it.

"Okay."

"Okay?" His eyes light up. He leans forward, a hand braced on your knee. "You sure?"

"Doesn't count if there's no penetration," you parrot the words he told you weeks ago. He smiles. "And... you said I don't have to do anything, right? Bit of watchin' can't hurt."

"Just lookin'," he affirms. For now, anyways.

His hand leaves your thigh to undo the buckle of his jeans, and your eyes follow the movement. There's a lump in your throat and you know you're going to be repenting for this one tonight. Maybe it's time to find some other church to confess at. Certainly not your father's, but you need to get this off your chest somewhere.

His jeans are pulled open, the tension easing off the bulge that seems to be straining there every time he gets his mouth on you. It doesn't take much for his cock to be freed, jeans and boxers down just enough to put him on display.

You swallow. You're definitely going to Hell.

You've seen pictures of them in passing. Dicks, cocks, penises. Whatever vile name the youth has come up with these days. The kind of pictures shared between a few girls at a sleepover, or a cock shown during a movie your father wouldn't approve of you watching. You've never been close enough to see one like this, though. Aching and leaking under the weight of your darkened eyes.

He takes note of your expression. The lust mixing with guilt.

"A little different in person, huh? No camera lenses?" He teases.

"Dodge, shut up. Just... just get on with it, please."

He rolls his eyes but obliges. Can't have you suddenly changing your mind because he gets a bit too cheeky. A firm hand wraps around him, and he begins to stroke himself. Slowly at first, watching the way your lips are parted and the breaths you take seem sharper. The quick rise and fall of your chest doesn't go unnoticed to him.

Feels real fuckin' good to be watched, though. Each jerk of his palm smears pre-cum down his throbbing length, the slick slide obscenely loud in the quiet of his bedroom. A low moan escapes him. Rough, completely unrestrained, so loud it almost makes you jump.

Your gaze snaps up to his face to watch the way his brow pinches with pleasure. You've never seen him like this—is this how you look when he's between your legs? The thought makes you flush. God. He's pretty like this, head tilted back and eyes half-lidded as he watches you absorb every second of his pleasure like it's your own. It's beautiful. It's wonderful. Breath-taking, staggering, perfect—

Sacrilege. Blasphemous. Impious.

You swallow thickly, but you can't take your eyes away.

"You, uh, sure you don't wanna get in on this?" He asks, his voice rough in a way you've never heard before. You find your thighs clenching again as you look back down to the filthy way he's started to fuck up into his fist.

"Dodge."

"What?" He asks innocently, a breathy note to his words. "I'll let you in, sweetheart. Just a little touch. Wouldn't have to do nothin'. Let me do all the heavy-liftin', eh?"

You shouldn't. You've done enough sinning for a lifetime over the last few weeks. Cried yourself to sleep a few times, too. And yet you go against every value that's been instilled with you for years to just touch.

A tentative little brush of your fingers against the underside. It's careful, hesitant and soft. His breath grows ragged. "That ain't so bad, is it?"

You shake your head. "And the... the white stuff. That's a good thing, right?"

"Real good," he laughs. He can feel himself tensing up; you aren't doing much to help, not physically, but with the pressure of his own hand and the way your eyes are on him... Lord, he won't be lasting much longer.

There's a pretty pink flush to his cheeks now. Eyelashes fluttering with each heavy breath, and the way his neck is exposed is giving you the strangest desire to lean in and kiss it. Bruise it, even. Your eyes avert guiltily, hand back in the safety of your lap.

"No, no, no. C'mon. Eyes on me."

"I can't, this is—"

"Please," he rasps. The hint of desperation catches you by surprise. "Want you to see it happen."

Heavenly father, please forgive me. Your eyes are on him again, watching the way his hips lift off the bed. It creaks with each movement, each glide of his hand down his cock. And that little flicker of scrupulosity in your eyes is what sends him over the edge.

"Fuck, yeah, I'm gonna— ah, ah, ah—" His cock pulses, white ropes coating his hand and the hem of his shirt. Face contorted in pleasure, eyes screwed shut as he makes a sound you've never heard from him before.

A whine.

You shuffle back a little—disgusted or intrigued by the sight of the cum spilling out of him, you aren't sure. But you're completely enraptured by the look on his face and the gasps that escape his parted lips. The only sound in the room for a few moments is his heavy breathing as he strokes lazily through the last of his orgasm, pleasure still buzzing faintly through him.

And when your eyes finally meet, you both laugh. Dodge's is hoarse. Yours is a little tentative. And then your sides are shaking and eyes twinkling. God, you can't believe that just happened.

"That's never happening again," you tell him. He grins, like he knows you're lying.

You are. You do it again. And again, until you're bold enough to be the one doing the stroking. It's only a matter of time before his little no penetration excuse goes out the window.

taglist: @gracelynnx @tacobacoyeet @blastzachilles @cha11engers @magicalmiserybore @newrochellechallenger2019 @coolgrl111 @artspats @peachyparkerr @stanart4clearskin @misswrldd @kaalxpsia @downtwngrl @s0ftcobra @strfallz @dazedandconfusedlvr @turnerrst @m4lodr4ma @artdonaldsonmalewife @challengersism @elsieblogs @artstennisracket

[fawninthetrees]

Purple Lace Bra

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader

Summary: Rhett just wanted to try out the new bar in town, and he bites off more than he can chew when his eyes settle on you.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut…Of course…And Swearing…Of course lol And a hot cowboy, because yeeeeehawwww and hawwwwwyeeeeee!

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (risky behaviour here), Fingering, Handjob (ish?), little rough, a bit of hair pulling, some dirty talk, and breastplay.

Author’s Note: Alright guys, I heard you I heard you, and I decided to take a stab at writing for Rhett. I’m hoping it meets expectations. Fingers crossed! Enjoy though!

Word Count: 8,998

The bar was new.

That much was obvious from the second Rhett stepped inside.

It didn’t have that worn-in, lived-through, broken-down charm most places in Wabang wore like a badge. No warped floorboards swollen with spilled beer and questionable stains older than some of the patrons. No cigarette burns crusted into the lacquer of every tabletop. No cracked vinyl barstools or hand-carved initials sunk deep into the counters. No grit under your fingernails just from leaning against the wall.

Everything in here was intentional.

Dark walnut paneling framed exposed red brick, and the floors–still scuff-free–glowed under the dim warmth of amber-tinted Edison bulbs hanging from long black cords. The air was thick with sawdust and varnish, freshly cured wood layered beneath the heavier scents of whiskey, fried grease, perfume, and sweat. Someone had poured a hell of a lot of money into making the place feel like a dream of a saloon.

And it was packed.

It was too many people for a Wednesday night, if you asked him. Locals mixing uneasily with out-of-towners in freshly bought boots. Girls in fringed skirts and lips gloss laughing too loudly. Guys leaning on pool cues like props, flexing flannel sleeves that didn’t have a day’s work on them. Music buzzed low from overhead speakers–something twangy but radio-polished, not nearly enough slide guitar to be worth a damn.

He stepped in slowly, one hand pushing the door open with that unhurried, deliberate motion he never lost–boots hitting the threshold with purpose. The scent hit him first. It wasn’t just alcohol or fryer grease, but the sharp undertone of new.

Rhett’s eyes scanned the room from under the shadow of his hat. He tugged at the brim slightly–a reflex more than anything–and felt the familiar weight of the stares he got in places like this.

He didn’t dress like the others. His boots were worn down with real scuffs and creases from a hard day's work. His jeans hung soft and broken–in, and his button-down was plain, with sleeves pushed up and frayed at the cuffs. Technically he looked like a man who belonged there, but the crowd was definitely not for it.

He made his way to the bar slowly, easing up between a group of college kids and a woman wearing heels way too tall for gravel parking lots. He nodded once to the bartender–young, slick, and clean–and ordered a beer without looking at the menu.

Then he heard it.

That mechanical groan–a low hydraulic hiss followed by the whump of rubber matting and the screech of excitement from somewhere in the back corner of the room.

Rhett’s brows lifted at the noise, and angled himself just enough to see it: a mechanical bull, spot lit and surrounded by a padded floor, ropes separating it from the tables like it was some kind of goddamn spectacle. People were gathered around it with drinks in hand, watching like they were at a sideshow–waiting for someone to get thrown. Rhett stared at the thing like it might come alive and charge through the room.

He exhaled through his nose–half sigh, half scoff–and felt the faint sting of amusement press behind his eyes. What the hell were they trying to be in here?

The bartender slid a bottle across the bar top with a practiced hand.

Rhett caught it without looking, fingers curling around the neck, and brought it to his lips. The beer was cold, too crisp, almost too clean. Like everything else in the damn place.

He let his shoulders settle, jaw ticking once, then let his gaze wander–across the room, over the padded mat where a guy in a pearl-snap shirt was still arguing about whether or not he could “last a full ride,” past the mirror-backed shelves of overpriced whiskey, and toward the booth tucked along the far wall.

That’s when he saw you.

You were tucked into a half-moon booth with two other girls–both of them already tipsy, leaning close, wide grins on their gloss-slicked mouths. You had one elbow on the table, a mixed drink in your hand, laughing at something one of them said, your head tipped back just slightly.

Something about the curve of your throat caught the light. Your hair was wind blown, and a few loose strands framed your face nicely. Your boots were crossed beneath the table, and the denim on your legs looked like it had actually been worn instead of picked out of a catalog, and the tight white tank top you wore had definitely pulled his eyes in even further.

You didn’t look like the others.

Didn’t talk too loud. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t scan the room trying to be seen.

But Rhett was seeing you anyway. Every damn inch.

He took another sip of beer and tilted his head slightly intrigued. He had not seen you before, at least that’s what he assumed as you didn’t look familiar, nor did you look like a local.

Your friends were egging you on–he could tell. They leaned in closer, nudging your shoulders, gesturing toward the bull with wild eyes and laughing mouths. You shook your head at first, lips pressed together in a mock “no way,” but then they pushed a little harder. One of them slid out of the booth to tug on your wrist while the other started clapping and cheering. You gave your friend a look–part exasperation, part warning–but the corners of your mouth were already curling into a smile.

Rhett saw the exact moment your resistance cracked. The way you tipped your drink back for one last sip, slid it across the table, and stood–unhurried, unrushed, like you were indulging them, but on your own terms. You pushed your hair out of your face, and adjusted the hem of your tank top before stepping out of the booth completely.

You weren’t trying to get anyone’s attention, but you already had his, and he couldn’t bear to look away.

Your stride through the crowd wasn’t cocky–it was confident. Like you didn’t need to prove anything. You weaved between tables, boots thudding softly against the polished floor, hips swaying with a rhythm that was natural to you. The overhead lights caught the glow of your skin, the edge of your collarbone, the gentle sheen of sweat on your throat.

Rhett’s lips parted slightly around the mouth of his beer, almost like he was enchanted by you and the way you carried yourself.

You crossed into the roped-off section with one hand lightly grazing the padding, you nodded once at the guy operating the bull, and pulled yourself up onto the platform like you’d done it a dozen times.

Hell, maybe you had.

The crowd started to cheer again–louder this time. People leaned in, trying to look over others shoulders. You didn’t even flinch. You turned your back to them, adjusted the rope with practiced ease, and swung one leg up and over the smoothness that Rhett felt in his chest.

You settled into the saddle like it belonged to you. There were no nervous glances. No wobbly balance checks. Just a shift of your hips, a flex of your thighs, and a subtle roll of your shoulders as your hands found their hold–one gripping the rope, the other resting lightly on your thigh.

Rhett’s gaze didn’t waver. He took another slow sip of his beer, the bottle cool in his palm, but he barely tasted it. He was too busy watching you.

The way you sat up there–easy, unshaken, comfortable like it wasn’t your first time–made something slow and solid settle in his chest. You didn’t look like someone pretending to be brave. You looked like someone who didn’t need to pretend at all.

Your spine was straight, but not stiff. Every part of you looked grounded. Controlled, and goddamn was it attractive.

Rhett couldn’t picture you on a real bull–didn’t want to, not really–but there was a part of him that figured you’d probably hold your own just fine. Maybe not from experience, but from that glint in your eye. That natural, unshakable calm.

The operator adjusted a dial, and you gave a short nod, like you were bored of waiting.

Rhett tilted his head, eyes tracking the slow movement of your fingers tightening around the rope. Your hand adjusted just right so you had good tension, and then your other arm lifted, loose but ready.

The bull kicked forward, and you didn’t flinch one bit. You moved.

It was immediate. Like you were built for the rhythm of it. Your body rolled forward, then back, countering every lurch of the machine like instinct. Your legs flexed tight, hips following each twist with unhurried precision. The movement pulled your tank tight across your chest, your shoulder muscles taut with focus. But your face–your mouth, your eyes–remained easy. You were enjoying this.

That made it worse for him in the most consuming way possible.

People around him were cheering now, laughing, calling out, whistling–but it was all background noise to Rhett. His knuckles tensed around the neck of the bottle, barely aware of it.

You were the only thing in the room.

He felt like he was watching something private. Like the way you moved wasn’t for the crowd–but maybe, maybe, it was for someone. For the one person paying real attention.

And when your eyes flicked up mid-spin, and landed squarely on his–Rhett’s breath felt like it was pushed out of his lungs.

You looked at him like you’d known exactly where he was standing the whole time.

And when you smiled–just barely, just enough–he felt it deep in his ribs.

That wasn’t an accident.

That was intentional.

The bull jerked again–harder this time, testing your grip–and Rhett swallowed, slow and thick.

Because you didn’t break.

You leaned into the movement, hips shifting forward, then back, chest arching ever so slightly with the roll of the machine. Your tank rode up just enough to show a strip of skin–taut and warm under the lights–and the sweat starting to build at the back of your neck shimmered like gold dust.

You didn’t wince. You grinned.

You were in control.

Every second of it.

Rhett was breathing through his nose now, jaw tight, the bottle sweating in his grip, untouched. His pulse pounded in his neck, heat climbing slowly beneath his collar, across his chest, and lower.

Watching you ride wasn’t just impressive–it was devastating.

You moved like you knew exactly what it looked like. What it did to the men watching. To him.

And if you didn’t? That was somehow worse. Because your body, the rhythm in it, the way your hips met the motion of the bull like you were answering it–it felt less like performance and more like instinct.

Rhett’s mouth was dry.

He cleared his throat, quiet, subtle, but it didn’t help. His gaze dropped to your thighs, flexed tight around the saddle, your back arched and rocking in time, the tension in your arms, the control in your shoulders–

Jesus Christ.

His hand slid along the bar behind him, like he needed something to brace against. His boots stayed planted, body tight with the kind of energy that didn’t have anywhere to go. Heat crawled up the back of his neck, behind his ears. He took another drink out of pure habit–but the beer barely registered on his tongue.

You didn’t look away from him again.

But you didn’t have to.

You’d already seen him. Already snared him.

And the longer the ride went on, the harder it got to breathe.

The bull picked up speed. Your body snapped harder into the motion. Every line of you sang with tension–coiled and lit and burning–and Rhett swore he felt it like touch.

His skin prickled.

You were panting now, chest rising and falling, heat blooming across your cheeks. But your eyes stayed calm, your mouth open just enough to draw breath between your teeth, and your thighs didn’t loosen once.

Rhett’s heart was hammering now. Low in his chest. Down in his gut. He shifted against the bar without meaning to, jaw clenched tight, thighs tense, every inch of him drawn like wire.

It wasn’t just want.

It was need.

Not to touch. Not yet.

Just to keep watching.

To see how long you’d let him sit there with that heat curling through his stomach, with sweat at the back of his neck, with his breath caught behind his teeth while you made it all look effortless.

And then–mercifully, murderously–the buzzer sounded.

The bull slowed.

You took the last few seconds of movement with a slow, rolling ease–like letting go of control wasn’t something you did all at once.

When the machine finally stilled, you swung one leg back over the side and hopped down to the mat.

Rhett had to physically stop himself from stepping forward.

Because you landed like you were still riding. Like you still had the momentum in your blood. Hair stuck to your temples. Shoulders glowing. Chest rising and falling with short, slow breaths. You were glistening, flushed, lips parted like your body was still half-there.

You smiled.

And then–God help him–you looked at him again.

A breathless, wicked little thing that told him you knew.

You knew what watching you had done to him.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and stepped out of the roped area, crossing the floor toward the bar like you weren’t leaving a trail of heat in your wake.

You didn’t rush.

Didn’t even glance his way at first.

You just stepped up to the bar–right beside him–like it was the most natural thing in the world, and rested your elbows on the counter. Close enough that his shoulder caught the warmth still radiating off your skin. Close enough that he could smell it–you–sweat and juniper perfume and cherry lip gloss. The heady, breath-stealing aftermath of adrenaline and heat.

Rhett didn’t dare move, he didn’t even turn his head. But his eyes flicked down just once, and that was enough. Because up close, now that the sweat had soaked a little deeper into the cotton of your tank, it had slipped ever-so-slightly lower. And just right on the border, where the neckline dipped, he could see it…

Purple lace. Delicate, scalloped. The edge of your bra, soft and feminine and barely visible, peeking like a secret just for him.

His throat worked around a swallow, and he looked away immediately, heat climbing behind his ears. He could feel the tips of them burning beneath his hat.

The bartender approached and you leaned forward, forearms resting against the word.

”Red Russian please,” You said, voice low and easy–honeyed but sharp at the edges. You didn’t have to raise it. He heard every syllable as it slid off your tongue. The bartender gave you a nod and turned away to make the drink.

You leaned a bit, just enough to shift your weight toward him, and without looking, without needing to, you let your voice slide between you and Rhett like silk laced in smoke.

”So…You always stare like that, or was I just particularly inspiring tonight?” Your head turned, slowly, and you looked up at him from beneath your lashes. Rhett’s breath caught–he felt it. Right there in his chest. Like someone had knocked a fist into his sternum and told him not to react.

He brought his eyes to yours like he couldn’t stop himself. They were darker than they’d been a moment ago, lit with something low and burning–lust maybe.

“I…” He swallowed, licking his dry lips, “Wasn’t starin’. Just–watchin’, I guess.” You hummed, amused, the curve of your lips tugging into something sly, but you held his gaze.

“There’s a difference?” His lashes fluttered at you, as you watched the faint pink blush rise to his cheeks just above the stubble that sat neatly on his face. His grip on the neck of the bottle tightened slightly. His voice was low–gravelly and warm when it finally came.

”Yeah,” He replied, “One’s rude. The other’s…Real hard to stop.” You smiled at his response.

”Mm, guess I oughta be flattered then.” Your drink arrived moments later–blood red in colour, topped with a cherry–which gave you something to fiddle with, “You always this good at compliments or am I just bringin’ out the Southern charm?” That made something flicker behind his eyes. A soft huff left him–almost a laugh, but not quite–and the tension in his shoulders finally shifted. Rhett moved, just barely, letting his elbow rest against the bar now–getting closer. His fingers traced the condensation sliding down the neck of his bottle, but his gaze didn’t leave you. He let the silence settle thick between you, then answer, voice smooth as aged whiskey and just as dangerous.

”Could say it’s the charm.” He drawled, slow and sure, “But the truth is, darlin’, I think it’s just you.” You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you turned your attention to the drink in front of you–blood-red and glinting beneath the low amber lights–lifting it to your lips with an ease that was all confidence and quiet command. You sipped slowly, just enough to stain your mouth with something sweet and strong , then set the glass back down with a gentle clink.

Rhett’s eyes dropped to your lips again, like he hadn’t meant to, like they just drew him in without permission.

And then–without ceremony–you plucked the cherry from the top of your drink, and held it by the stem between your two fingers before bringing it to your mouth.

You kept eye contact the entire time, as you pulled the fruit off it’s anchor.

The cherry disappeared behind your lips, the stem left dangling between your fingers as your jaw moved with delicate precision, tongue flicking behind your cheeks. You chewed slowly, swallowed gently, then licked a faint smear of juice from the corner of your mouth–soft and languid.

Rhett shifted in place, almost imperceptibly, but you caught it. The slight roll of his shoulders, the way his hand tightened around the bottle, the flare of heat at the base of his throat. You were doing this to him. Every second of it. And he was letting you.

Hell–he was begging for it.

You let the empty stem drop gently to your cocktail napkin and leaned in just a breath closer, your voice a low, syrupy hum between the two of you.

“So if I’m the reason,” You said, “Guess I should know what to call the man I’m inspirin’.”That made something flicker through him. Not just lust now—but interest. Real interest.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing just a touch like he was working out the puzzle of you in real time. And then–finally–he offered you a hand.

Calloused. Warm. Strong fingers, broad palm, veins faintly raised from years of real work. The kind of hand that looked like it could break you apart or hold you like something sacred.

“Rhett,” He said, voice like gravel and molasses. “Rhett Abbott.” You took his hand into yours, giving it a gentle shake. Your touch was soft, but firm. Full of intention, just like the rest of you.

Your thumb grazed the back of his hand once before you replied.

”Nice to meet you, Rhett Abbott,” You said, your voice curling around his name like sheer silk, “I’m Y/N.”

God help him, hearing his name come out of your mouth like that–low and smooth, like it tasted good–did something to him. Something sharp and hot that settled just behind his rib cage.

You still hadn’t let go of his hand. You held it just long enough for the pad of your thumb to trace that one shallow callous on the base of his thumb. Just long enough to let the quiet stretch between you with thick implication.

When you finally released him, it wasn’t because you wanted to. It was because you’d already said enough with the way you touched him

Rhett cleared his throat, but his fingers curled slightly like they missed yours already. His eyes raked over your face once–then lower. Over the hollow of your throat, the curve of your shoulder, the edge of that purple lace he’d clocked earlier still flirting with the neckline of your tank. He didn’t look long. It was already burned into his brain.

���Y/N,” He repeated, slowly, “Pretty name.”

“Reckon I like how you say it.” Rhett smirked at that. Barely. Just a ghost of one tugging at the corner of his mouth, but it was real. Like you’d teased it out of him. You turned a little more toward him then, resting your arm along the bar, letting your knee knock against his under the counter. Light. Barely there. But enough to make his spine straighten just a little. Like you’d touched something electric.

Your knee stayed where it was–brushed lightly against his beneath the bar–but your body shifted just a little more, leaning into his space like the air between you wasn’t already thick with heat. You rested your weight on one elbow and brought your drink to your lips again, letting the edge of the glass kiss your mouth in a way that made his jaw tick. He followed the movement like he was starved for it.

You swallowed, set the glass down, and tilted your head just enough to let your hair fall over your shoulder–like an invitation disguised as casual comfort.

“You always watch that close,” You murmured, voice low and honey-slick, “Or was that just ‘cause I was the one up there tonight?”

Rhett’s tongue swiped across his bottom lip, and his gaze flicked from your mouth to your eyes and back again. His voice, when it came, was a little rougher. A little deeper. Like heat had sanded it down.

“Oh, that was definitely just you,” He said, that slow drawl curling around the words like smoke. “Ain’t never seen someone ride like that and look so damn calm doin’ it. Thought you were gonna break that bull’s heart.”

You laughed–low, warm, right against the rim of your glass. “Poor thing didn’t stand a chance.”

He leaned in then, just enough that you could feel his breath brush your cheek. Just enough that your knees bumped again beneath the bar and stayed there.

“Neither did I,” He said, voice like gravel dipped in sugar. “Not the way you moved up there. All control. Like you weren’t ridin’ it–you were taming it.”

You glanced at him then–sideways, coy–and your lashes fluttered as you reached for your cherry stem again, turning it slowly between your fingers.

“I like the fight,” you said, soft and easy. “Like seeing how long I can last. Pushing just hard enough to keep it under me without ever losin’ control.”

Rhett’s eyes dropped to your fingers, to the cherry stem twisting like it meant something. Then to your lips. Then your thighs.

“Yeah,” he said roughly, “I noticed.”

You leaned in just a little more, your shoulder grazing his, your thigh now pressed warm and steady to his beneath the bar. Your voice dropped with it–silk-wrapped and scorching.

“You watchin’ for technique, or just lettin’ your mind wander?”

Rhett’s breath caught. You could feel it–the heat rolling off him like summer rising off a blacktop. His hand flexed around the beer bottle again, but this time, he didn’t look away.

“Little of both,” He admitted. “Hard to focus on much else when you’re movin’ like that. All rhythm and fire and…” His eyes dragged down your body, slow and reverent, before landing right back on your mouth. “Hell. You knew exactly what you were doin’.”

You gave him a smile then. Slow and wicked.

“Maybe,” You whispered, dragging your finger through the condensation on your glass again. “But I liked the way you looked at me. Like you didn’t know whether to get on your knees or run for your life.”

That made Rhett laugh–quiet, breathless, and a little strained. He leaned back just a touch, but it wasn’t to retreat. It was to restrain. Like he was keeping himself in check with the last thread of composure he had left.

“I’m still tryin’ to decide,” He said, voice thick, jaw tight. “But you keep talkin’ like that, and I might not have much choice left.”

You reached out and touched his wrist then–light, fleeting. But it landed like a thunderclap. His skin burned under your fingertips.

“Good,” You whispered. “I like when they break a little.”

He stared at you. Eyes dark. Body tense. The air between you so tight it felt like the whole bar might collapse under it.

And when he spoke next, his voice was low. Dangerous.

“Truck’s parked right out back.”

Your smile grew slow and hot.

”Then finish your drink, cowboy,” You purred, “So I can show you what else I’m good at ridin’.” The moment the words left your mouth, low and laced in sin, something sharp flickered in his eyes–something hot and immediate. His hand flexed once more around the neck of the bottle, and without a word, he lifted it to his lips and drained it. Tilted it back and finished the whole thing in one long swallow, throat working, jaw tight.

You watched it happen with an appreciative hum in your throat, heat blooming low in your belly.

When he slammed the bottle down on the counter, it was soft but final–like a decision had been made. A quiet, controlled yes that rang louder than any shouted answer ever could.

You didn’t even give it time to settle.

You picked up your Red Russian with one hand, let the condensation slide across your fingers, and finished the whole thing in two unhurried gulps. The syrupy liquor coated your throat, leaving warmth and spice trailing down your spine. You licked the last drop off your bottom lip–slowly, deliberately–then set your glass beside his, neat and empty.

Rhett’s eyes were molten when you turned to him.

Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t need to.

He reached for you first. Not your hand, not your waist–your hip. Fingers curling into the denim there, firm but measured, like he was already thinking about the rhythm he’d felt earlier and couldn’t wait to see what it was like underneath him.

You let him pull you in that half-step closer, boots toe-to-toe now, the space between you practically vibrating with heat.

“You sure about this?” He asked, voice a gravelly murmur, his forehead dipping just barely toward yours. “Ain’t exactly gentlemanly what I’m thinkin’.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you leaned up–so close your lips barely grazed his ear when you spoke–and let your voice spill soft and wicked against his skin.

“Good,” You breathed. “I wasn’t lookin’ for a gentleman.”

That broke something in him.

Rhett’s grip on your hip tightened just enough to make you gasp, before he quickly put a few bills onto the counter to cover both your drinks and a tip. He didn’t say goodbye to the bartender, you didn’t say bye to your friends, and neither of you glanced back.

The both of you exited the bar in a bundled mess.

Outside, the heat hit different.

The air was thick with late-summer weight, still clinging to the pavement like it hadn’t let go of the sun yet. The gravel lot behind the bar was quieter than the front—less neon, less chatter, less everything. Just the low hum of cicadas, the creak of the wooden porch settling behind you, and the sound of your boots crunching in tandem with his as Rhett guided you through the dark.

He didn’t hold your hand.

Didn’t need to.

His fingers were still resting at your hip, steady and sure, and that subtle grip told you everything—possessive, deliberate, still holding the ghost of the rhythm he’d felt watching you ride. The kind of touch that said he wasn’t in a hurry, but he was done wasting time.

His truck was parked near the back edge of the lot–older model, clean but rugged, navy paint dulled slightly by dust and heat. He opened the passenger side door for you with one hand, the other still on your hip like he couldn’t let go just yet.

You climbed in without a word, denim brushing the edge of the seat, your skin still humming from the way his fingers had lingered.

Rhett circled around to the driver’s side, slid in beside you, and shut the door with a quiet click–like sealing something in.

He didn’t start the engine right away. Just sat there, hands on the wheel, letting the silence stretch while the tension pulsed like a heartbeat between you.

Then he turned toward you slightly, one arm resting on the back of your seat, his voice low and rough.

“Gonna take you somewhere a little less public.”

You arched a brow, slow and teasing. “What, so this is how it ends? Sweet talkin’ cowboy turns out to be a backwoods murderer?”

Rhett snorted–one of those quick, sharp laughs that came from deep in his chest. He turned the key in the ignition, engine rumbling to life beneath you both. Rhett glanced over at you, the corner of his mouth twitching into something crooked. “Nah,” he said, voice warm and amused, “Murderers don’t usually open the door for ya first.”

You let out a real laugh then–one of those unguarded, honeyed bursts that settled between you like heat off asphalt. Rhett felt it in his chest.

“Well,” You grinned, settling back in your seat and tossing him a sidelong glance, “Good to know you’ve got manners even if your intentions ain’t pure.”

He shot you a look, teasing and dark under the brim of his hat. “Darlin’, I think we both made our intentions pretty damn clear back at the bar.”

You hummed and turned to the window as he pulled out of the lot, tires crunching softly over gravel. The streetlights thinned the further he drove, buildings falling away into the long stretches of open dark. Moonlight painted soft edges on the dashboard, and the cicadas hummed low in the background.

“So,” You said after a few quiet miles, your voice relaxed, “Is takin’ strange women into the dark back roads a hobby of yours? Or am I special?”

Rhett huffed, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “You’re the first one I’ve let boss a bull around like that and still managed to get me flustered enough to forget my own name.”

You smirked. “So that’s a no.”

“That’s a hell no,” He muttered, turning onto a narrow road lined with trees, the path barely lit by his headlights. “There’s a place up here I like–quiet, no folks around. It’s nothin’ fancy, but…”

You let him trail off, watching him drive. His hands on the wheel were steady and confident. That same quiet control you’d felt from him all night.

“I like quiet,” You murmured. “Grew up around noise. Kinda nice when it’s just…” you gestured at the empty stretch of road, “This.”

Rhett nodded once, like he understood that more than he could say out loud.

“Me too,” he said. “Always felt easier to breathe when I’m away from all the noise. City folks don’t know what they’re missin’.” You smiled, settling deeper into your seat.

“So what do you do, Rhett Abbott? Besides, ruin the hearts of mechanical bull riders and flirt like it’s a full-time job.” He gave a low laugh at that.

“Used to ride real bulls actually. Circuit stuff. Got outta it a few years back–bad fall. Now I help run the ranch out west of town. Horses mostly. Sometimes cattle.”

You raised a brow. “A real cowboy, huh?”

He shot you a look. “You doubted?”

“No,” You said, slow and sweet. “I just like when the fantasy turns out to be real.”

He chuckled again, shaking his head. “And you? What’s a woman like you do when she’s not showin’ off on saddles and makin’ grown men lose their minds at a bar?” You grinned, stretching your legs a little where they were curled in the cab.

“Right now? Between gigs,” You said, voice low and easy. “Used to work with a fabrication crew–wood and metal mostly. Signs, custom builds, furniture. Stuff with some weight to it.” You glanced at him with a tilt of your head. “Like makin’ somethin’ that lasts.”

Rhett’s eyes flicked toward you, interested. “So you’re strong and dangerous, huh?”

You smirked. “Only if someone mouths off.”

That got a real laugh out of him, one that curled low in his throat and settled warm between you. “That explains the way you handled that bull. Kinda figured you were used to workin’ with your hands. You moved like someone who doesn’t second-guess herself.”

You shrugged. “Gotta trust your grip when the thing you’re ridin’ is trying to buck you clean off.”

He glanced sideways at you again, and there was something darker in his gaze this time. “Pretty sure that’s a metaphor for somethin’.”

You smiled, slow and deliberate, letting your fingers trace along the edge of your seat like you were thinking it through. “Maybe. But you’re gonna have to earn the answer.”

Rhett made a low sound–half amused, half something else entirely–and shifted his grip on the wheel. His knuckles were pale from how tight he was holding it. Like talking to you made him want to put his hands somewhere else entirely.

“So…Builder by trade, heartbreaker by night,” he said, a little teasing.

You gave him a sidelong glance, lashes lowering. “Who says I break hearts?”

He looked at you then, full on. The truck bumped a little over the road’s uneven shoulder, but he didn’t take his eyes off you. “I watched half a bar stop breathin’ when you got on that bull. Think you underestimate your effect, sweetheart.”

You laughed softly, looking back out the window. “And what about you, cowboy? You always this smooth or am I just bringin’ out your best material?”

Rhett shook his head, lips twitching. “If this is me at my best, we’re both in trouble.”

That earned him another laugh, and this one was breathier–laced with something warm that settled in your chest. The trees were growing taller on either side of the road now, shadows stretching long across the narrow lane as the headlights washed over trunks and underbrush.

He slowed a little, the tires crunching gravel as he turned down a path almost completely swallowed by trees.

“Almost there,” he said, voice dropping.

You looked over at him again, this time more curious than teasing. “So what’s at the end of this mysterious road? You gonna show me your secret cabin in the woods or somethin’?”

He smiled, but it wasn’t mischievous–it was soft. “Nah. Just a clearing. Good view of the stars. Ain’t much…But it’s quiet. And mine.”

Something about the way he said that made your chest tighten just a little.

And sure enough, not thirty seconds later, the trees opened up–and the sky swallowed everything. A wide, empty field stretched out under the moonlight. The grass was knee-high and silver in the glow. Beyond it, dark hills rolled out like soft waves.

Rhett pulled up near the edge, killed the engine, and sat for a second in the hush.

“You weren’t kiddin’,” You murmured, looking out through the windshield.

He didn’t answer right away. Just reached over, slow and steady, and pushed the gear shift into park. His hand lingered near yours on the console.

“Figured you deserved a little privacy.” The clearing fell into silence the second the engine cut.

No crickets. No frogs. Just the long, stretched hum of summer heat lingering in the tall grass and the low creak of the truck settling under its own weight. The moon was full overhead, casting everything in that washed silver that turned skin into porcelain and shadows into ink. The cab was dim now, the dashboard lights fading to black.

You were still facing the windshield, but your eyes weren’t on the field anymore.

They were on him.

Rhett sat there for a beat–forearm resting on the wheel, chest rising slowly beneath his button-down, jaw ticking like he was chewing on a thought. And then, without a word, he reached up and pulled his hat off.

It was a quiet gesture. Simple. But it felt intimate. Like stripping something away.

The shadows shifted when he did. His hair–thick and messy and darker than you’d expected–was flattened at first but slowly began to lift with a few rakes of his fingers. It curled just slightly at the nape of his neck, soft and unruly like it hadn’t been tamed in days. Moonlight bled across the slope of his cheekbones, highlighting the rough stubble that scraped across his jaw and throat. His eyes, darker now without the brim shadowing them, flicked toward you.

And you–God, you were staring.

Wide-eyed. Lips slightly parted. The kind of look that said he could’ve asked you anything in that moment and you would’ve said yes.

Rhett’s breath hitched as he caught it–that softness, that stunned hunger pouring off you like heat. He blinked once, slow, and placed his hat behind the seats. Then his body shifted.

He leaned in.

Slow at first, one knee turning slightly on the bench seat, his thigh brushing yours, arm braced lightly behind your shoulder. You felt the weight of him in the air before you felt the touch–his gaze locked on your mouth now, like he was testing whether or not you’d move.

You didn’t.

So he did.

The first brush of his lips was rough. Not because he meant it to be–but because he couldn’t help himself. He kissed like a man who’d been holding back all night, and now he had you within reach. His mouth crashed into yours with heat and intention–firm, urgent, full of all the tension that had been simmering since that first lock of eye contact by the bull.

His hand was on your jaw before you could even register it–fingers curling under your chin to tilt your face, thumb brushing the edge of your cheek like he wanted to hold you still and memorize the taste of you all at once. His lips parted slightly, coaxing yours open with the kind of confidence that felt lived-in. His tongue swept past your teeth like he was claiming territory, dragging a low sound from the back of his throat as you met him stroke for stroke.

There was nothing slow about it.

No delicate build. No tentative start.

It was need. Straight and uncut. The kind that had been brewing like a storm since you sauntered across that bar and took your seat beside him.

You gasped softly as his other hand gripped your thigh–fingers digging into denim, pulling you closer across the seat. The slide of your legs against his made your breath hitch, and he took full advantage of it–swallowing the sound with another bruising kiss, one that left your head spinning and your lips slick.

He kissed like he’d been starving. Like every part of him ached for friction, for pressure, for the slide of you under his hands. You could feel it in the way his chest pressed to yours, in the way his hips shifted, the way his thumb dragged along the underside of your jaw like he was mapping it for later.

When you whimpered into his mouth–just barely–he pulled back half an inch, enough to speak against your lips.

“You kiss every cowboy like this,” He rasped, voice hoarse, “Or just me?”

You smiled against him, dizzy and breathless.

“Just the ones who earn it.”

He groaned at that. Something deep and low that vibrated between your ribs.

And then he was kissing you again–harder this time. Rougher. No hesitation.

His hand was already under your shirt before the next kiss even broke.

Calloused fingers skimming the slope of your stomach, up and over the curve of your ribs, until his palm found your breast. He groaned into your mouth the second he felt it–the way you arched into his touch, the soft weight of you in his hand, the faint catch in your breath that said yes without a word.

You tugged at the hem of your own tank top, and Rhett helped–eager hands dragging it up, over your head, flinging it somewhere toward the footwell. You didn’t care where it landed. Not when his eyes dropped and locked onto the purple lace he’d been fantasizing about since the bar. It was barely a barrier, practically translucent in the moonlight, and when he exhaled, it came out ragged.

“Jesus Christ,” He muttered, his voice gone rough with want. “You really were tryin’ to kill me.”

He bit his lower lip, hard enough to leave a dent, and reached behind you with one hand. The clasp came undone in a single, practiced flick–his breath catching as the straps slid from your shoulders.

The bra dropped to your lap.

And Rhett’s restraint shattered.

A low, guttural moan broke from his throat, and then his mouth was on you.

He latched onto your nipple with zero hesitation–hot, wet, desperate. His stubble scraped harsh against the softness of your breast, but you didn’t care. You gasped, back bowing into the seat, fingers tangling in his hair as his tongue circled, sucked, licked you like he was drowning in the taste.

He palmed your other breast while he devoured the first, thumb brushing over the peak, just enough to make your toes curl inside your boots. His hips shifted–rolled–and that’s when you felt it. The thick, solid press of him straining against his jeans, hot and hard beneath the weight of your thigh.

The moment your hips moved–just once, slow, deliberate–grinding down over him, Rhett bucked.

He pulled off your breast with a wet, gasping sound, forehead dropping against your sternum like he needed a second to breathe. He huffed a breath against your sternum–half laugh, half groan– before lifting his head, eyes dragging slowly down your body. His gaze was molten when it landed on the waistband of your jeans.

“Kinda feelin’ like that bull right now with you grindin’ on me like this.” Your laugh was breathless, broken by the heat still simmering between you, but it faded the moment his hand slid down your stomach. Slow. Purposeful. Thumb tracing the edge of your jeans.

You looked at him, head tilted back against the window, lips parted–but you didn’t stop him.

Not when he dipped his fingers beneath the waistband.

Not when he popped the first button open with a practiced flick.

Not when the sound of your zipper lowering filled the cab like a goddamn gunshot.

His eyes dropped, zeroed in on the reveal, and when he caught the first glimpse of what was underneath–matching purple lace, delicate and damp–he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he muttered, almost reverent. “You really came dressed to ruin me, huh?”

You arched a brow, smirking lazily even as your skin burned. “Maybe I just had a feelin’ tonight was gonna get interesting.”

He let out a low whistle, fingers brushing the waistband of your panties now, rough pads dragging slow against the lace.

“A feelin’, huh?” His thumb traced the dip just below your navel, and then lower–teasing just shy of your center.

“Mmhm,” you hummed, letting your knees fall open slightly, brushing his thigh. “Turns out I was right.” His fingers dipped lower–slipping beneath the lace with a practiced boldness that sent heat blooming through your gut. And then he touched you.

Direct. Smooth. Just enough pressure to make your hips twitch and your thighs part wider.

“Oh, fuck,” You whispered, voice catching in your throat as his thumb found your clit and circled, slow and devastating.

Rhett groaned like he felt it too–like your reaction was dragging it out of him. “That’s it,” He murmured, voice thick, “Just like that… Jesus, you’re soaked.”

You whimpered as his middle finger slid down and eased into you, thick and slow, curling just right. Your whole body arched toward him, breath coming in shaky bursts, and your hand–god, your trembling hand–fumbled for his belt.

“I need—” You gasped, not even sure what you were asking for, just chasing the friction, the heat, the him of it all.

He caught your mouth with his again–kissed you open and messy and panting while his fingers worked you in slow, addictive strokes. Every curl of them was deliberate, precise, dragging moans from your lips that he swallowed down like a starving man.

Your hand finally popped his buckle open. He groaned into your mouth as you tugged the zipper down, the sound loud and obscene in the still air. Your palm found him, hot and hard, pressing against the cotton of his boxers, and he shuddered.

“Fuck,” He rasped, voice guttural now. “You touch me like that and I’m not gonna last.”

“Then don’t wait,” You breathed, thumb tracing the curve of him through the fabric. “Wanna feel you too.”

He cursed again–low and rough–and shoved his jeans down just enough for you to slide your hand inside. Your fingers wrapped around him, thick and pulsing and god, he was big. Hard. Leaking against your palm already.

Rhett bucked into your grip, forehead crashing against yours, panting like he’d just run a race. “You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart,” He groaned, voice breaking, “I swear to God…”

But he didn’t stop.

His thumb pressed harder on your clit now, circling tight and filthy while he pushed a second finger inside you, stretching you just right, dragging the kind of moan from your throat that made his hips jerk.

“Fuck, I love the way you sound,” He growled, mouth finding the hinge of your jaw, teeth grazing there. “You hear yourself, baby? Soundin’ so fuckin’ pretty on my fingers.”

You rocked against his hand, desperate now, grinding down as your strokes on him faltered from the way your thighs were trembling.

Your breaths tangled in the heat between you–his lips on your cheek, your chin, your neck. The windows were fogged now, the whole cab heavy with the scent of sweat and sex and summer air.

“Don’t stop,” You whispered, eyes fluttering as pleasure coiled tight in your belly, sharp and hot. “Right there–God, please–”

“Say my name,” He begged, hoarse and wrecked. “Say it when you come, darlin’. Wanna fuckin’ hear it.”

And that did it.

The orgasm hit like a freight train–your walls clenching around his fingers, your thighs snapping tight around his hand as you cried out into his mouth. “Rhett–oh, my God–”

He groaned loud, hips stuttering as he watched you fall apart. His free hand clutched your waist, grounding you. He held you through every last tremor–jaw clenched, breath shaky, fingers still buried deep inside you. Your muscles fluttered around him, slick and pulsing, and he bit back another groan as you slumped forward against his chest, wrecked and panting.

And then, rough and low, like gravel in his throat:

“I need to be inside you.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a confession. A prayer. A need so raw it cracked something open between you.

You didn’t answer with words.

You kissed him–hard. Dragging your mouth over his like you were trying to drink him down. And as you shifted in his lap, knees straddling his hips, he groaned into your mouth, hands flying to your waist, gripping tight. The moment your soaked panties brushed the length of him, he cursed, the sound punched from his lungs like he’d taken a hit to the chest.

“Fuck, darlin’–you’re gonna ruin me.”

You made quick work of it–shimmying your jeans down just enough, dragging the drenched lace of your panties to the side. His cock was already hot and heavy in your hand, slick from your touch, and when you lifted your hips and lined yourself up–

“Oh my God,” he growled, head tipping back against the seat, eyes rolling as you sank down onto him.

He was thick. Stretching you wide. Filling every inch.

The stretch burned in the best way, made your breath catch, made your thighs shake. And Rhett? He was gasping like it was killing him–like the feel of you clenching around him was too much to bear.

“Jesus Christ,” He choked out, nails digging into your hips. “You feel–fuck, you feel unreal.”

You started to move.

Slow at first–rocking your hips in slow, deliberate circles, watching his jaw lock tight, his hands twitch like he wanted to grab, to thrust, to lose it. His eyes snapped open, blown black with lust, fixed on where you were joined like he couldn’t look away.

“Don’t stop,” He rasped, voice shredded. “Ride me, baby–just like that–fuck–just like that.”

You ground down harder, the friction brutal and perfect, and his hips bucked up into you instinctively–meeting every roll with a sharp, hungry thrust that made you gasp. Your hands braced against his chest, nails digging in as you bounced now, full and fast and desperate, sweat slicking your thighs as the truck began to creak around you.

The windows were already fogged.

Then your palm slammed against the glass behind him, leaving a streaked, smeared handprint as your rhythm snapped into something wilder.

Carnal.

Unfiltered.

The truck rocked beneath you. His hands flew to your ass, gripping hard, helping you move, driving you down onto him with each thrust like he couldn’t get deep enough.

“You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me,” He groaned, teeth gritted, sweat dripping down his temples. “Ridin’ me like this–you tryna make me lose my fuckin’ mind?”

You moaned loud in answer, thighs burning, body trembling, chasing that second high with reckless abandon. His name left your mouth again and again, breathless and broken and gasping.

He fucked up into you now, faster, rougher, sweat-slick and savage, every slam of his hips making you cry out. The slap of skin, the creak of leather, the fogged-over windows–it was all heat and friction and nothing else mattered but this.

Rhett growled your name–harsh and desperate–before dragging your mouth back to his.

“I’m close,” He rasped against your lips, voice gone.

You nodded, barely able to breathe. “Me too.”

And then it hit again–your body locking up, mouth falling open as the second orgasm shattered through you, your whole body seizing as you clenched around him, sobbing his name.

Rhett followed a heartbeat later, hips jerking up hard, burying himself deep as he came with a guttural moan, spilling inside you while your name tore from his throat like it was the only word he knew.

The truck went still.

Just the sound of your panting breaths, your sweat-slicked skin sticking to his, your heart pounding against his chest like thunder. Rhett’s arms slid around you the second the tremors subsided, pulling you flush to his chest like he didn’t want even the air between you. His breath was still ragged, chest rising and falling against yours, but his hands–God, his hands were gentle now. One splayed across the small of your back, the other curling around the back of your neck like a secret he wanted to keep safe.

You felt him exhale–deep, steady–his breath warm against your temple. The kind of breath a man took when the storm inside him finally broke.

“Jesus,” He whispered into your hair. “I ain’t never–” He broke off, let out a soft, stunned laugh. “Ain’t never felt anything like that.”

You smiled against his neck, still catching your breath. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Me either.”

There was a beat of quiet–intimate now, not charged. Just the hum of the world spinning outside the fogged windows and the slow, steady thump of his heart under your cheek.

Then Rhett shifted slightly, just enough to lean back and look at you. His eyes were soft now, hazy but clear, and his lips curled into the kind of crooked smile that made your chest ache.

“You, uh…” His fingers traced the edge of your jaw, featherlight. “You think maybe I could get your number? Unless this is the part where you climb out the window and disappear into the cornfield like some kinda beautiful ghost.”

You blinked–then burst out laughing, the kind that made your stomach ache and your chest feel too full. You ducked your head against him, shaking with it, and felt his own chuckle rumble beneath your palm where it rested on his chest.

“You asking for my number after all that?” You teased, voice still breathless with laughter. “Bit backwards, don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” He grinned, nudging his nose against yours. “But I figure…Might be worth makin’ a habit outta seein’ you like this.”

You smiled, soft and slow this time, cupping his cheek.

“I think you’re right, cowboy.”

And there it was again–that look. The one that said he’d chase this feeling wherever it led.

Outside, the moon hung high over the field, casting the clearing in silver and shadow. Inside the truck, the heat lingered–on your skin, in your breath, and in the way Rhett looked at you like he’d just found something he hadn’t even known he was searching for.

And when he kissed you again–soft, slow, grateful–it wasn’t a promise.

It was a beginning.

[fawninthetrees]

No Angels

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Rhett have been friends for almost your entire lives and you’ve had a crush on him ever since you could remember. You’ve never made a move out of respect for the friendship, but when Maria–an old crush of Rhett’s–comes back into town, you can’t help but get a little jealous of how much he swoons for her.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Angst, and Fluff, We got the childhood best friends trope, and I frickin love it! Reader is super jealous but really tries to be happy for Rhett.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Rhett is a bit dominant in here, Dirty Talk, He talks you through it, Oral Sex (Fem! Receiving), Rough Sex, He puts his hand on your throat…But like…Not to choke? I guess. A little bit of overstimulation, Heavy Makeout, Some Grinding

Author’s Note: I got this request a while back and honestly I was writing it and hated the way it went, then I had this huge eureka moment and literally put my whole chest into this damn thing lol. Thank you anon, I’m sorry for keeping you waiting! But I hope it meets your expectations. (I made it on time y’all sorry for the delay!)

Word Count: 18,010

The lights above the ring hummed with electricity, casting long, bright white beams over the dirt-packed arena like they were trying to mimic daylight–but it was well past sundown. The night air had settled cool against your skin, clinging to the sweat on your collarbones and the thin cotton of your oil-stained tank top–the same one you had been wearing when Rhett burst into your garage hours earlier, all breathless and grinning, saying, “You comin’ or what?”

You didn’t even notice him at first. Your arms were elbow-deep in the hood of your father’s busted-up ‘82 Chevy, sleeves rolled past your shoulders, knuckles stained black with grease. The old truck had been sitting in the barn lot for years, more rust than a frame, but it had history, and you couldn’t bring yourself to give up on it. You had been trying to get the engine to crank for weeks now, working after hours between shifts and moonlight with stubborn hands, and a soft heart.

Rhett had found you with a pair of pliers clenched between your teeth, and your hair stuck to the back of your neck. You were in the middle of coaxing a frayed wire into a cleaner splice when he had said it again.

”Y/N! You comin’ or what?!” You nearly dropped the pliers into the engine block that time around, and your eyes immediately shot up to him.

”Jesus Christ, Rhett,” You muttered around the tool in your mouth, straightening up just enough that your back cracked, “You ever heard of knocking? You’ve got hands do you not?” Rhett leaned his shoulder against the frame of the open garage door, arms crossed, boots scuffed and dusty. The golden evening light caught the curve of his jaw, lighting up the honeyed brown wisps of hair curling out from under his ballcap, the one he wore when he wasn’t wearing his normal cowboy hat. He grinned like he had all the time in the world.

”Yeah, I got hands.” He said, holding them up and wiggling his fingers, “But I need ‘em for the circuit tonight, can’t go wasting tiring ‘em up by knockin’ on your door.” You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly gave you a headache. With a sigh, you pulled the pliers from your mouth and tossed them onto the stainless steel tool table beside you, the clink echoing off the walls of the garage. The wire you’d been working with curled like a question mark in the air.

“God forbid your precious hands do somethin’ useful.” He let out a huffed laugh, smirking, like that little jab of yours was exactly what he had come there for. You reached for the damp rag that always lived folded beside your socket set, rubbing your hands down with practiced efficiency. Grease smeared into the creases of your fingers, under your nails, and you could already hear your father warning you–again–about keeping motor oil off your face. You scrubbed harder.

“Can you give me five minutes to change, at least?” You asked, gesturing vaguely at yourself. “I look like I crawled out of a junkyard.” Rhett checked the time on his phone like it was life or death, kissing his teeth.

“No can do. It’s gonna take us ‘bout two hours to get down there, and I gotta check in early. No time.” You looked down at yourself–at the tank top clinging to your skin, streaked with oil and sweat; your low-rise jeans that had a hole in the knee; boots dusted in gravel, grime and oil. You knew your hair certainly didn’t look good, especially with the sweat that pooled on the back of your neck, so you tried to plead again.

”C’mon, Rhett,” You groaned, “At least lemme–“

”Nuh-uh,” He interrupted smoothly, already pushing off the doorframe, “You look fine.” He said it so matter-of-factly it hit you like a sucker punch to the gut. His tone was easy, and offhanded, but his eyes flicked over you once–head to toe, like he was checking the welds on a fence post–and lingered a second too long on your bare shoulders before flicking away again. You felt your skin heat up despite the cool air from your fan blowing onto you.

Then he tossed you his keys without ceremony, and you barely caught them in time.

”Now. Get your butt in the truck, I need my good luck charm.” You stood there for a second, holding his keys like they were heavier than they had any right to be, watching Rhett backpedal across the gravel with that cocky grin stretching his mouth. The nerve of him–waltzing in, dragging you out in grease-stained clothes, and telling you that you looked fine like it didn’t mean something.

Like it didn’t knock something loose in your chest.

You tucked the rag into your back pocket with a sigh and followed him out into the golden spill of sunset that painted the drive, the gravel crunching beneath your boots. Rhett was already climbing into the passenger side, settling into the spot he always took when he was with you. He never once offered to drive–not because he didn’t want to, but because he liked how you drove his truck. He liked watching you lean one hand out the window, tapping the side with your fingers in time with the radio, he had said you made it run smoother somehow.

You climbed in behind the wheel, the door creaking shut with that familiar metallic groan as you shoved the key into the ignition. The engine rumbled to life beneath your hands like it had been waiting on your touch.

“You just always have to pull that good luck charm shit with me,” You muttered, fingers flicking the air vents toward Rhett like that would somehow cool your irritation, “If it wasn’t for the fact your dad would have my head on a stake if I didn’t show up, I wouldn’t be coming.” Rhett didn’t even flinch, he just smiled wider, teeth flashing under the brim of his cap.

”You’d show up anyways, even if there wasn’t that loomin’ threat.”

”Yeah?” You shot back, shifting into reverse, “And why’s that?”

“Cause you always do, that’s just how you are.” You let the truck ease back down the gravel drive, headlights cutting twin beams through the soft haze of kicked-up dust. Rhett reached out to roll down his window, letting his arm dangle outside, fingers tapping lazily against the side of the door like he had no care in the world.

“You still act like it’s a choice,” You grumbled, glancing sideways at him as you turned onto the main road, “You ever consider the possibility that I just don’t like you makin’ stupid decisions alone?”

“You’re not just here to babysit me, darlin’,” He said, voice soft and sure, like it wasn’t even a question. “You’re here ‘cause you belong there.”

That had shut you up pretty quickly.

He didn’t say it with any kind of weight. Didn’t lean into it or give it too much gravity. Just said it like it was a fact of life–like gravity or dust or the way your names had always sounded right in the same sentence.

Rhett had called you his good luck charm since you were barely tall enough to see over the top rail at his first junior circuit. He’d botched the ride and landed square on his ass, the wind knocked clear out of him–but when he stumbled to his feet and saw your worried face at the edge of the ring, he lit up like he’d just won the whole damn event.

From then on, he’d refused to ride without you.

It didn’t matter what his father said. Didn’t matter how many times Royal Abbott tried to reason, bribe, or flat-out yell Rhett into submission—if you couldn’t be there, neither could he.

Royal had tried everything over the years. Bargained with prize money, lectured about reputation, brought up every missed opportunity, every unclaimed buckle, every point lost in the rankings. And every time, Rhett just shrugged, chewed his toothpick a little harder, and said, “Ain’t worth it without her.”

Royal had even gone to your father once, showed up at the house red-faced and muttering under his breath, looking for backup. He’d stomped up the porch steps, knocked hard enough to rattle the screen, and said, “You need to talk some damn sense into your daughter. She’s holdin’ Rhett back.”

Your father didn’t even look up from the paper in his lap. Just flipped a page and said, “It’s outta my hands, Royal. She’s his lucky rabbit’s foot, not mine. You’re the one who raised a superstitious kid.”

That had been the end of it.

Well–besides the occasional muttered complaint, the exasperated way Royal folded his arms and scowled at you from across the arena like you were the one who’d crawled inside Rhett’s brain and rewired the whole damn thing. But you knew he didn’t really mean it. Not deep down–cause just like Rhett, he too had a soft spot for you.

Your father and Royal had been friends since high school–thick as thieves, the kind of troublemakers who grew up and never quite grew out of it. There were more stories than you could count about the two of them sneaking out of study hall, crashing their bikes into fences, and getting into brawls over rodeo scores. Royal may have grumbled and huffed and barked, but he knew what this was.

He knew what you were to Rhett.

And that’s how you found yourself at the circuit tonight, in the worst possible outfit you could be in for a night that turned chilly. You leaned against the rail with your arms folded, listening to the announcer listing off names you didn’t recognize and sponsors you didn’t care about.

One rider across the way was adjusting the strap on his glove with his teeth, spitting into the dirt before swinging a leg over the gate. He was broad-shouldered and too young to have that many calluses on his palms. His boots also looked too new, and you could tell he was nervous just by the way he puffed out his chest.

“He’s overcompensatin’ with all that noise,” Rhett’s voice came from your left, low and familiar, warm despite the cold air, “Looks like he spit shined his boots and bought the buckle from a pawn shop.” You turned your head just enough to see him steadying beside you, close enough that your elbows almost brushed. He had one glove on already and was working his other hand through the second–leather creaking around his knuckles as he tugged it tight, mouth set in that concentrated little frown he only ever wore when he was minutes from getting on a bull. You hummed at him.

”You say that as if you weren’t the same way your first time.” He scoffs.

”I don’t think I was that bad.” You didn’t reply, you just smirked, and shook your head, turning your attention back to the rail. But your eyes didn’t stay on the ring long. Not when he was standing that close.

Rhett had always been easy to be around–easier than most. He didn’t demand attention, didn’t fill the silence with noise unless he felt like it needed to be broken. And somehow he always made you feel like the most important person in the room without ever saying it outright. Your gaze drifted down his arms, the way the veins ran like fault lines beneath his skin, pulsing beneath the leather. The gentle scrape of stubble along his jaw. The way his shirt clung to the dip between his shoulder blades.

You knew how to look without letting it show. How to admire the little things from afar, memorizing them only to recall later in the quiet moments of your own space, when it was just you and the memory of him.

You’d gotten good at control.

“You okay?” He asked suddenly, glancing at you from under the brim of his dusty brown Stetson. His voice had shifted–still soft, but lower now. Quieter. You raised your eyebrows.

”Why wouldn’t I be?” You replied, he shrugged a little, pulling the strap of his glove tight.

”Been quiet since we pulled in…”

“I’ve been tired since we pulled in,” You said, deflecting with a tilt of your chin, “You yanked me straight outta the garage before I could give myself a cold shower to wake myself up.” He smiled at that, eyes crinkling at the corners like he didn’t buy your excuse but was willing to let you keep it.

“Well,” Rhett drawled, shifting his weight and giving you a side glance, “Thank you for joinin’ me all marinated in oil and tired. Really sets the mood.”You rolled your eyes, lips twitching as you looked away

“Yeah, well, you’re lucky I didn’t bring a wrench to throw at you while you’re on that big bull.” He chuckled under his breath, his gaze tracking the arena before flicking back to you.

”Gonna go sit with my family?” You let out a long sigh, eyes squinting at the stands like you were preparing for battle, seeing the Abbott’s were already together talking among themselves.

”Course…Always the best seat in the house. Front row for your brother talkin’ my ear off about his side hustles, and your dad telling me how the whole thing’s rigged against you, while Cecilia tries to ask whether or not I’m moving shops anytime soon.” Rhett huffed a laugh, shaking his head.

“Always happy to know you love bein’ up there with them.” His tone was thick with sarcasm, but his smirk was soft. Familiar. Like he was picturing it already–your boots kicked up on the railing beside Royal, his dad grumbling into a foam cup while you offered him your popcorn. You both shared a quiet chuckle, the kind that slipped out easily, like short breaths in cold air.

In the moment of silence, your hand slipped into your back pocket without thinking–it was instinct more than anything. You dug around until your fingers curled around the thin chain, the cool metal warmed by your skin. Rhett didn’t look at you, because he didn’t have to. He knew the moment you turned fully toward him that you were pulling out the necklace. His shoulders straightened slightly at the sight of it.

A thin gold chain, delicate as thread, with the charm your mother had worn nearly every day before she passed–the small, oval locket with a dent on one side. It was a gift that your father had given her when they were first going out, and now it was yours. But in moments like this–when the dust was thick in the air, when the circuit lights buzzed overhead and danger sat heavy in your chest–it was his.

Rhett always took it the same way: quiet, gentle, and like it meant something more than just luck and protection.

Because it did.

Your mother had loved Rhett like he was her own. She fed him when Royal was late picking him up, scolded him when he scraped his knees, kissed the crown of his head when he showed up on your porch with dirt on his boots and his heart on his sleeve. When she passed, he didn’t say much. But you remembered him standing at the far end of the church, knuckles white around his hat, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack.

He didn’t cry. He never had to because you had done enough of that for the both of you.

You placed the necklace in his palm gently, brushing your fingers along the inside of his wrist. A quiet exchange. A tradition that had started the first time he made it onto the adult circuit–when you pressed it into his hand before the gate opened and said, “She’s got you.”

And it stuck and became something neither of you ever had to explain.

“Think she’s watchin’?” Rhett murmured, voice rasped low as he curled the chain into his fist.

Your answer came easy. “Always.” He nodded, jaw ticking as he thumbed the charm once for good measure before tucking it into his shirt–over his heart, where it belonged. He gave it a soft pat, like he was anchoring her there. Like maybe she’d feel it, wherever she was.

“I dunno if she’d like that you’re still lettin’ me do this,” He muttered after a beat, offering a crooked little half-smile. “Ridin’, I mean.”

You scoffed lightly. “She wouldn’t like it,” You admitted, “But you know she’d still be yellin’ the loudest when they called your score.”He smiled at that, shoulders easing just a little. Like the weight of her was something warm instead of heavy.

“She always liked you better than me,” You teased gently, trying to keep your voice light even as emotion caught in your throat. “Pretty sure she would’ve traded me for you if she had the option.”

Rhett looked over at you then, really looked, and something in his expression softened so fully it made your stomach twist. “Don’t think you believe that for a second,” He mumbled quietly.

And you didn’t.

But it was easier than saying what you really meant–that you’d give anything to hear your mother talk about Rhett again. To hear her tell him to be careful. To bring him a sandwich while he leaned against the side of the truck, and to kiss your forehead and say, “You take care of him out there, alright?”

Because she’d known about your true feelings for him. She always knew.

“You better not get yourself broken tonight,” You warned, trying to talk the emotion out of your voice, attempting to shake it out, “I’m not scrubbin’ your blood outta your jeans again.”

Rhett laughed under his breath, the sound low and warm. “I’ll try not to, but I admire the fact you did it so well the last time…” He gave you a soft pat on the side of your arm, the leather of his glove cool against your skin. “Don’t worry too much though. I’ve got you, and I’ve got her. That’s a two-for-one deal even the devil can’t mess with.” You didn’t smile this time–but your eyes stayed on him, memorizing the curve of his mouth, the tilt of his hat, the line of his shoulders.

“Be safe,” You said, and it was quieter than anything you’d spoken all night.

Rhett nodded. Touched the charm through his shirt once more. And then he turned and walked toward the chute, back straight, shoulders squared, steps steady.

You watched him go.

And just as he disappeared behind the gate, swallowed up by the noise and the crowd–

You heard a voice you hadn’t heard in five years.

“I’ll be damned,” The voice called out behind you, thick with familiarity and a smile you could already picture even before you turned, “Didn’t think you’d still be hanging around here.”

Your entire body went still–like a switch had been thrown on, and your nerves froze under your skin. It wasn’t just the voice. It was the cadence. The tilt in the vowels. The lilt of amusement laced with old memories and summer sweat.

Maria Olivares.

You didn’t turn right away. You just stared straight ahead at the chute where Rhett had disappeared, your heart dropping like it had been cut loose from a string. The last time you’d heard her voice, it had been filtered through the cracked speakers of the high school PA system during her senior farewell speech–warm, confident, grateful for her small-town upbringing, even as she looked forward to city lights and bigger things.

She hadn’t come back. Not once in five years. Not for holidays. Not for spring break. Not even to visit old friends. Everyone figured she’d traded Wabang for somewhere with sidewalks and skylines.

And yet here she was.

You turned slowly, dragging your eyes up from the toes of a pair of spotless white sneakers, to a pair of high waisted black jeans that fit right, and a hoodie, jean jacket combo that looked warm and cozy. Her dark brown–almost black–hair was still long, and shiny, catching the circuit lights in ribbons as it spilled over her shoulders. There was not a wave out of place. She looked good, and that was always the worst part for you.

”Hey stranger,” She smiled, stepping toward you, her hands in her jacket pockets like this was just another Friday night and you were the one that vanished, “Didn’t expect to see a familiar face here when I rolled in.” You blinked, pulse throbbing somewhere behind your teeth. You could feel every streak of sweat dried into your collarbone. The grease under your fingernails. The smudge of oil you’d missed above your brow. The faded tank top clinging to your ribs.

“Maria,” You managed to say, trying to force something that resembled a smile on your face. It didn’t quite reach your eyes, “Didn’t know you were back in town…It’s been a long time.” She nodded.

”Five years.” She said softly, like she was trying the words on for size, as if she hadn’t known exactly how long it had been. There was a brief pause, heavy with memories you didn’t ask to revisit.

Then, with a little huff of breath, she gave a rueful smile glancing toward the arena.

”I got burnt out from college…Thought I’d come back to Wabang to try and get my life back together…” Her gaze flicked sideways, and then back to you, “And I heard around town that Rhett was riding tonight, so I thought I’d stop by to catch up and maybe say hi.” You felt your stomach twist up into knots.

You tried to keep your face neutral, tried not to flinch at the mention of his name on her lips, because Maria had always been nice to you and treated you well. She had never acted above you, even when she could’ve. She was sweet, and effortless, and the kind of girl that seemed built for being admired. People talked about her like she was a firework: bright, exciting, and temporary…And Rhett…Well…

Rhett had always looked at her like she belonged in the Louvre.

You remembered it so clearly–him leaning back on the bleachers during lunch period, eating a sandwich, baseball cap tilted low as he watched her laugh by the vending machines. He used to elbow you in the side and mutter something like “God she’s just…Look at her, would ya?” Or “If I asked her out and she said no, I think I’d have to walk into traffic.”

And you’d laugh. Pretend it didn’t bother you, and you’d joke back and say “You’d have to start a new life in the city or somethin’.”

Because what else could you do?

You were…You. The grease-monkey. The tomboy. The one who spit-shined carburetors instead of joining social clubs. The one who could drink the boys under the table, throw a punch better than half of them, and still knew the sound of Rhett’s laugh like the back of your hand. You were his best friend. His good luck charm. His midnight mechanic and his porch-sitting, star-watching, shit-talking ride or die. But you were never the girl.

Not in the way Maria had been–even though they didn’t date.

So when Maria left for college, it was like someone let the air out of Rhett’s chest. He didn’t say much–just got real quiet for a few weeks. Stayed out late, rode harder, drank more. Then one night, sitting on your porch with his head tilted back and his boots up on the railing, he let out a sigh and said, “Guess that’s that, huh?”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You just passed him the bottle and leaned your shoulder into his like you always did.

And little by little, he put himself back together. He didn’t talk about her anymore. Stopped bringing her name up at all. And a part of you–one you never said out loud–had hoped maybe he was finally looking at someone else now. That maybe he’d finally see you.

But now, she was here.

In the flesh. Smiling, radiant, all polished edges and big city warmth. And she’d said his name like she had every right to, like she’d never left a hole in him when she packed up and vanished.

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her words settle somewhere heavy between your ribs.

“Thought I’d stop by to catch up and maybe say hi.”

You hated how those words clawed at the inside of your chest.

”Yeah,” You mumbled, voice tighter than you wanted it to be, “I’m sure Rhett will be glad to see you…It’s been a while.” Maria’s smile didn’t falter, not even for a second.

”We should go out for drinks after,” She suggested, casual and bright like this wasn’t a slow-motion car crash happening in front of you, “Maybe you two can come find me? I’ll stick around.” You swallowed hard enough that you felt it echo in the back of your throat like a gulp of warm soda going down the wrong way.

“Sure,” You managed to agree, forcing your lips up even more, “Sounds like a plan.” It came out flat. A little too fast. But she either didn’t notice or was too polite to mention it. She just glanced behind her, motioning toward a small group of people standing a few yards off, gathered near the funnel cake stand.

“I’m gonna head back to my friends,” She informed, “But I’ll see you after the circuit!” You nodded stiffly.

”Yeah, see you.” And with that, she turned, her sneakers scuffing quietly in the dirt as she made her way back to her group—hair bouncing lightly with each step, laughter already ringing in the air as one of her friends greeted her with an inside joke you didn’t get.

You didn’t watch her long. You couldn’t.

Instead, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and turned your gaze toward the bleachers, willing your legs to move. One step at a time. Your shoulders rolled once, then twice—like shaking off a weight. But the tension didn’t budge, not really. It stayed coiled up in your spine like something waiting to snap.

You stomped up the bleacher steps, boots loud against the metal, and found them all right where you expected: Amy munching on kettle corn, Perry fiddling with a foam cup of coffee, Royal with his arms crossed and a resting scowl, and Cecilia offering you a tight smile like she already knew you needed one.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Cecilia greeted first, scooting to make space. “We were wonderin’ when you’d show.”

“Hey,” you said, voice still low as you nodded to each of them.

Royal shifted over with a grunt, making room beside him, and Perry tipped his head back toward you in a silent greeting.

You sank down between the two of them with a heavy breath, letting the cool of the evening air wrap around your sweat-damp skin. Amy reached over and tapped your boot with hers.

“You smell like axle grease,” She said flatly.

You smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Amy grinned back, and you leaned forward to prop your arms on your knees.

Royal glanced your way. “How’s your dad doin’ these days?”

You rubbed the back of your neck, grateful for the shift in subject. “Busy as usual,” You replied. “The shop’s been crazy for both of us, so I haven’t really been able to talk to him. Our faces are always under or inside cars.”

Royal chuckled low in his chest. “Well, a mechanic’s job is never finished until the last car is completely fixed.”

You snorted. “We’d be open till the end of time if we lived by your rules.”

That got a laugh out of Perry too, who clapped you on the shoulder. “Ain’t that the truth.” His eyes wandered casually over the crowd before something caught his attention. His chewing slowed, the foam cup crinkling slightly in his grip as he leaned in a fraction and nudged your arm with the back of his knuckle.

“Hey…” He muttered under his breath, keeping his voice low, “Is that who I think it is?”

You didn’t need to follow his gaze. You already knew. Still, your eyes drifted to the right, past the funnel cake stand and toward the little group of people laughing in the warm glow of the overhead string lights.

Maria was standing right in the middle, her smile shining like she’d never left, like she hadn’t cracked something in your chest just minutes ago.

“Yep,” You replied, the word flat and dry on your tongue.

Perry let out a soft whistle, eyebrows climbing. “Did Rhett see her?”

You shook your head slowly, thumb brushing your bottom lip as you glanced back toward the chutes. “Not yet… But I’m gonna have to be the one that breaks the news to him. As usual.”

Perry tilted his head, his expression shifting into something halfway between sympathy and disbelief. “She say why she’s here?”

”She said she got burnt out from college, now she’s back in town until further notice basically. She said she wants to go out for drinks after the circuit,” You explained. There was a beat of silence. Then Perry huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

“Man… That’s gonna be pure torture for you, huh?” You flicked your gaze toward him, jaw tight.

He knew. Perry was one of the only people who did. You’d sworn him to secrecy years ago—right around the time you drank too much whiskey behind the barn one summer night and finally admitted it. He hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t teased. Just looked at you with those steady eyes and said, “Yeah…That tracks.”

And despite his reputation for being a smartass, Perry had never breathed a word of it to anyone.

“I could come with you guys,” he offered now, voice quieter. “Even out the numbers.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “You’re talkin’ like we’re goin’ to war.”

Perry shrugged one shoulder. “Aren’t you?”

You shook your head with a sigh and muttered, “I’m sure I’ll manage just fine.”

“Hey,” Perry said, raising his hands defensively. “Don’t say I didn’t offer. And don’t come cryin’ when you end up sittin’ between them, third-wheelin’ your own heartbreak.”

Before you could respond—before the knot in your chest could turn sharper—the PA system crackled back to life, cutting through the thick air.

“Next up, ladies and gentlemen—we got Rhett Abbott comin’ up in the chute!”

Your whole body snapped to attention, your eyes instinctively finding the chute where he stood, framed in gold and dust and determination. He was climbing the rails now, one hand on the edge of the gate, the other adjusting the brim of his Stetson. His back was broad beneath the weight of his vest, the number pinned crookedly to the fabric like it always was because he never let anyone else do it. Always asked you.

He didn’t look toward the stands. Not yet. His focus was on the bull–pure, burning concentration.

But your chest was a live wire.

Because he didn’t know she was here.

And when he saw her–when he looked up and caught sight of Maria’s soft smile and city-polished glow standing in the crowd–you didn’t know what it would do to him.

But you knew exactly what it would do to you.

Perry leaned back, a shadow in his expression. “Buckle up,” he said, almost like a warning. “Here we go.”

And all you could do was hold your breath…And wait.

————————

The crowd had started to thin, the night slipping gently into its last stretch–boots shuffling through kicked-up dirt, families gathering up folding chairs and foam cups, laughter tapering off into low murmurs beneath the buzz of the circuit lights. The arena was quieter now, calmer. A few riders lingered by the chutes, stripping off gear, comparing scores, cracking open lukewarm beers from coolers tucked behind the rails.

Rhett was still standing near the gate, dust clinging to the bottom hem of his jeans, his shirt sticking to the sweat that had dried down his spine. His hair was damp under his hat, eyes scanning the space like he was still riding the high of the eight-second count.

You moved down the bleachers slowly, like each step took effort, the cool night air brushing against the back of your neck, the gravel biting into the soles of your boots.

He saw you coming, and his face lit up in that familiar way it always did–soft around the edges, glowing just under the skin. Without a word, Rhett reached into the chest pocket of his shirt and pulled out the thin gold chain, the charm glinting faintly beneath the floodlights. He held it out gently, curled between his fingers like something sacred.

“Guess you two really did help tonight,” He commented with a crooked smile, placing the necklace in your open palm. “Probably one of my best performances.” You looked down at the charm as it settled into your skin, feeling the warmth of him still clinging to the metal. You managed a smile, small and tired.

“Yeah…You looked good out there.”

But it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

And Rhett noticed. His brow furrowed immediately, eyes narrowing with that uncanny instinct he always had for your moods.

“Somethin’ wrong?” He asked, pointing gently between his own eyebrows. “You’ve got that little crease here–means you’re thinkin’ too hard.” You tried to shrug it off, eyes dropping to the necklace as your fingers curled around it. But the weight in your chest didn’t move. You hesitated. Then you exhaled slowly.

“…Maria’s back.” You felt the moment he registered the name like a jolt–like it lit something under his skin. Rhett straightened a little, his whole posture shifting, just slightly. Perking up. Perking toward her.

“Really?” He said, his voice brightening in a way that made your stomach churn. “Where is she?”

You nodded toward the far end of the arena without lifting your gaze. “She told me to come find her after…Said she wants to go out for some drinks.”

There was a brief pause before he smiled, teeth flashing in the glow of the overhead lights. “Well that’ll be great! Would love to catch up with her.”

You nodded once. “Yeah. I thought so.”

Your voice was low. Measured. Your lips pressed into a thin, practiced smile–the kind you’d perfected over the years, the one you used when something stung but you didn’t want anyone to see it bleed.

Rhett didn’t catch it. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t know what to do with it.

You tucked the necklace into your back pocket, the chain coiling softly in your grip like a secret.

————————

The hum of the arena faded behind you as the three of you made your way down the gravel path toward the bar just off the main strip–The Rusty Spur, glowing amber beneath a flickering neon sign shaped like a bull skull. You’d been here a hundred times. After circuits, after slow nights, after heartbreaks that you never let show. It was familiar ground.

But tonight, it didn’t feel like home.

Rhett held the door open with one boot, gesturing Maria inside with a crooked grin, and you followed silently, your fingers still brushing the edge of your back pocket like the necklace might anchor you if you kept touching it.

The bar was low-lit and humming with half-empty pitchers and slow drawls. Music crackled low from the jukebox–old country, something about losing and loving in the same breath. You barely noticed. You were too busy clocking how close Maria stood beside Rhett. How she reached for his arm when she laughed at something he said. How his body naturally leaned toward hers, like it remembered the rhythm of it even if his heart didn’t quite know why.

You took the booth in the far corner. Your usual spot. Rhett slid in beside you, and Maria took the other side. It should’ve felt balanced. It didn’t.

Someone took drink orders–probably Rhett, but your ears were ringing too hard to catch the words. You muttered something about whiskey, and a moment later, a sweating glass was placed in front of you.

Maria was talking. Rhett was laughing. You were sitting in your grease-stained tank top, sweating in your spot, barely blinking as the two of them picked up where they left off–like no time had passed at all.

“Oh my god, do you remember that time at the bonfire?” Maria said, grinning, her knuckles brushing Rhett’s arm as she leaned forward. “When Perry and Jacob tried to jump the creek in that rust-bucket four-wheeler and we all thought they were gonna die?”

Rhett chuckled, elbow resting on the table, eyes crinkling. “Yeah, I think Perry still swears he cleared it by three feet.”

“He didn’t,” You muttered, voice low, more to your glass than to them. “He cracked the axle and limped it home with a broken taillight.”

Maria paused, then offered you a smile. “God, you’ve always had a better memory than all of us.” You gave her a small nod and took a slow sip, the whiskey burning just enough to keep you tethered to the moment. Rhett turned toward you briefly, nudging your boot with his under the table like a reflex.

“That was the same night you duct-taped the handlebars back on, right? Got the damn thing running again in fifteen minutes?”

“Thirteen,” You murmured, lips quirking just slightly.

“Course it was.” He grinned, bumping your shoulder lightly with his. But then Maria asked another question–something about Denver; a story you hadn’t been there for–and Rhett’s attention shifted back before you could respond.

You stared at the condensation on your glass.

Their conversation rolled on, easy and familiar in a way that twisted something in your chest. Not cruel. Not exclusive. But you couldn’t help but feel like a guest at your own table.

They laughed about old teachers. About some kid who used to bring his goat to show-and-tell. About a trip to a fair you barely remembered because you’d spent most of it alone, fixing a blown tire while they wandered off for cotton candy.

Every now and then, one of them would glance toward you. Ask a soft “Remember that?” or toss you a half-smile. And you would nod. You would smile back. You would pretend.

But it felt like watching them through a window.

At one point, Maria reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her nails painted a glossy wine red that caught the light. Rhett’s gaze lingered a second too long. You saw it. You always saw it.

You drained your glass.

The table blurred a little around the edges as you blinked slowly, pressing your fingertips to your temple.

“You alright?” Rhett asked quietly, finally noticing the way your shoulders had gone still. His voice was soft, too soft, like it might undo you if you let it. You didn’t look at him, you just gave the smallest nod.

”Yeah, guess the lack of sleep is catching up to me.” Maria stood then, smoothing out the front of her jacket. “I’m gonna head to the bar–get another round.” She motioned between the two of you. “You guys want anything?”

Rhett looked toward you. You shook your head. “I’m good.”

”I’ll take one more beer, I have a feelin’ I’ll have to drive this one home tonight.” He commented motioning to you. Maria smirked.

”Got a preference?” She asked, and Rhett shook his head, a boyish grin appearing on his lips.

”Nah, whatever they’ve got I’ll take.” Then Maria disappeared into the crowd, and the booth fell quiet. You sat back, arms crossed loosely, your eyes fixed on the edge of the table. Rhett shifted beside you, his leg brushing yours.

”You sure you’re alright?” You’re actin’ really weird…” Rhett shifted a little closer, the leather of the booth creaking under his weight as his knee knocked gently against yours again. You didn’t flinch. Couldn’t. Not with him this close. Not when the heat from his body was bleeding into your side and curling around your skin like something unspoken.

And then you caught it–that scent.

Faint, but unmistakable. A soft, masculine heat rising off his collar, sunk into the fabric of his shirt. It was that cologne he always wore for circuits–something low and woodsy, edged with spice, like cedar and cracked pepper and the memory of summer sweat. The kind of scent that lingered even after he was gone, that clung to his flannel when you borrowed it, that sank into your lungs and made your stomach tighten without warning. You’d never asked what it was. You didn’t need to. You knew it like you knew the sound of your name when he said it quiet.

And it always made you a little dizzy.

You blinked once, twice, trying to keep your face steady as your gaze finally flicked toward him.

“I said I’m fine, Rhett,” You murmured, a little firmer this time. “Just exhausted.” But he didn’t back off. Not completely.

His brows drew in slightly as he studied you, mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a frown. Those blue eyes–always a little too clear, always a little too honest—swept over your face like he was reading it in a language he used to speak fluently but hadn’t practiced in years. He looked at your cheeks. Your jaw. Your eyes. He tilted his head just a fraction, lips parting like he was about to say something and then thinking better of it.

And then, finally, he nodded–slow, thoughtful.

“Alright…” He started, voice quieter now, more careful. “After this round, I’ll take you home.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even an offer. It was something softer than that. A promise tucked inside a sentence.

You opened your mouth to argue–to say you could take care of yourself, to brush it off like always–but before you could get the words out, Maria returned. She set a glass of water in front of you, and took one beer for herself and handed the other to Rhett, her fingers brushing against his. You watched him glance up with that familiar, easy smile.

“Appreciate it,” He said, nodding.

Maria slid back into her seat, eyes flicking between the two of you for half a second before she leaned in again, chin resting on one hand, and launched straight back into whatever story she’d started before–something about a concert she went to in Austin, a rooftop party of sorts.

You listened with one ear, the other still tuned to the quiet place inside your chest that was trying not to crack open.

You nursed your glass of water. You forced a smile.

And all the while, you felt Rhett’s leg still pressed against yours beneath the table, warm and unmoving.

As if some part of him still remembered you were there. Even if the rest had already started drifting.

Rhett nursed the last of his beer with an absent sort of slowness, fingers rolling the base of the bottle in tight little circles against the table like he was working something out in his head. Maria was still talking, still smiling–her voice soft and syrupy in the warm barlight–but his eyes flicked toward the clock above the jukebox.

And when his bottle hit the table with a soft thunk, you already knew what was coming.

“Well,” Rhett drawled, wiping his hands on his jeans and pushing up from the booth, “We oughta get goin’. Gonna be a long drive back to Wabang.”

Maria sat up a little straighter, her smile faltering just slightly. “Oh–are you headed out already?”

He nodded, casting a brief glance your way. “Yeah, gettin’ late. You need a ride back or…?”

She shook her head quickly, waving a hand. “No, no, I’m good. I’m stayin’ with some friends out here for another day or two. Figured I’d ease my way back into town life.”

Rhett grinned, all teeth and comfort. “Well, I’ll definitely call you.”

Maria bit her bottom lip–barely–but you saw it. Like punctuation on a sentence that didn’t need saying. “I’d really like that.”

Then her gaze shifted toward you, warm and easy. “We should all do this again sometime, eh?”

You gave her a nod. Tight. Quick. Polite. “Yeah. Definitely.”

She smiled one last time and turned away to rejoin her friends at the bar.

Rhett didn’t say much as you both made your way outside–boots crunching gravel, the cool night air curling around your ankles like smoke. The neon sign buzzed overhead, painting the parking lot in pale, flickering yellow.

You reached into your back pocket without a word, dug out his keys, and tossed them over. He caught them easily, looking at you like he wanted to say something, but you were already climbing into the passenger seat. The door slammed shut harder than it needed to, the echo of it biting into the quiet.

You leaned against the door, body turned away from him, cheek resting against the cool window as you stared out into the night.

Rhett slid into the driver’s seat, settling in with a soft exhale as he buckled in and adjusted the rearview mirror. He started the engine–it rumbled to life with the low growl of something familiar, something that usually made you feel steady.

Tonight though…It just made you feel even more tired.

“Hopefully you can catch some sleep while I’m drivin’,” He said, his voice low, maybe even a little hopeful.

“Yeah…” The word left your mouth flat and dull, dry as dust. Rhett turned to glance at you, the concern already knitting into his brow. But you were already reaching into the backseat, fingers curling around the flannel that always lived there–the dark blue one he sometimes wore when he was cold and you always stole when you wanted to feel his warmth. You tugged it over you, and didn’t glance his way for the rest of the ride, fading off into a sleepy haze.

————————

The shop smelled like motor oil, burnt rubber, and heat-soaked metal–the scent of long hours and too many worn-out engines trying to hold on. The radio murmured low in the corner, old country drifting from the busted speaker, the static crackling between verses like background noise to your every exhale.

It was just past noon, but the heat had already settled in for the day. The big bay doors were rolled open, sunlight spilling across the concrete in sharp streaks, cutting through the floating dust like gold through smoke. You were bent over the open hood of a ‘97 Ford Ranger, your shoulders glinting with sweat, black tank top sticking to your back in places where the fabric met skin. The sleeves of your navy jumpsuit were tied around your waist, the whole thing cinched low on your hips and streaked with oil from earlier jobs.

Rhett was sitting on the workbench a few feet away, his boots propped on the lower shelf, stool tilted back dangerously as he rocked on two legs like it didn’t matter if he tipped over. His ballcap was pulled low, his light brown hair curling out from the back, his jaw working absently around a toothpick as he talked–still talking–about her.

“…I mean, I dunno,” He was saying, shifting his weight again, “She called me last night after dinner just to talk–like real late too, almost midnight. We didn’t talk about much, just…Stuff. Nothin’ important. But it was nice, y’know?” He tapped his fingers against his thigh, voice casual, but his brows were slightly furrowed like the whole thing was keeping him awake.

You hummed a soft acknowledgment, eyes trained on the belt tensioner you were adjusting. The socket wrench in your hand clicked steadily with each turn, your knuckles smudged with grease, fingernails stained half-permanently. Sweat beaded on your lower back and slipped beneath the waistband of your suit.

“Anyway,” Rhett continued, “She said she might swing by the circuit again this weekend. Wants to grab coffee first. Think that means somethin’?” His voice dipped into something hopeful. “I mean, she doesn’t have to make the first move, but…It’s been weeks and I still can’t tell if she’s just bein’ polite or if she’s actually–y’know–interested.”

You blew out a slow breath through your nose, kept your eyes on the pulley system as you tugged the belt back into place. “Dunno, Rhett. She’s hard to read.”

He paused, like he was expecting more. When you didn’t add anything, he scratched at his jaw and pushed the stool back down flat.

“You ever notice how she touches my arm a lot when she laughs?” He asked, tone casual, but a little eager. “Like, not in a weird way, just kinda light. She’s always been touchy though. That don’t mean much, does it?”

“Not always,” You mumbled, wrench clacking again. “Could just be her way.”

Rhett leaned forward, elbows on his knees now. His gaze was drifting, not really focused on the cabinets or the tools. Not even on the truck. It was on you. On the way your tank top rode up just a little when you reached for a tool. The way your back muscles shifted beneath sun-warmed skin. How your hair clung to the nape of your neck in sticky curls. He took a sip from the bottle of Gatorade he’d barely touched, then swallowed slowly.

“You always been good at figurin’ people out,” He said after a beat, softer. “You’d tell me if I was readin’ into it too much, right?”

“Sure,” You replied, brushing a hand across your forehead, leaving a streak of dirt there without realizing. You stood up straighter to stretch your spine, a soft crack echoing as your hands went to your lower back. Rhett’s eyes flicked down your side–followed the way the tied sleeves of your jumpsuit tugged the tank top tight across your waist, the glint of your exposed hip where your shirt had ridden up slightly. He quickly looked away, rubbed the back of his neck.

“I just keep thinkin’ about how she left, y’know?” He muttered, almost to himself. “And now she’s back and it’s like nothin’ happened. Like we can just…Pick up where we left off.”

You finally glanced over your shoulder at him, one brow arched. “Did you leave anything to pick up?”

Rhett opened his mouth. Shut it and thought for a second, “No. I mean, not really. Not out loud. But I always thought…” He shook his head, letting the words trail off like a loose wire. “I dunno what I thought. I guess I just missed her.”

Your lips pressed together into a flat line, but you didn’t say anything. Not at first.

“I get it,” You finally muttered, wiping your hands on a rag. “She’s easy to miss.”

Rhett tilted his head slightly at the tone, like he was hearing something he wasn’t meant to catch. “You don’t like her much, do you?”

You paused, grip tightening just a little on the wrench.

“I don’t not like her,” You said slowly, choosing each word carefully. “She’s…Fine. Y’know how I am with people…” He squinted at you, suspicion tugging at his features like a loose thread. But then his eyes dropped again–to your neck, your collarbone, the bare line of your shoulder as you leaned over the engine again. He chewed the inside of his cheek.

“Was thinkin’ of askin’ her to come to the Fourth of July thing next week,” He said, casual but deliberate, watching for your reaction. “Figured it’d be nice to have her meet everyone again…Y’know, properly.” You didn’t flinch. You didn’t roll your eyes. You didn’t say anything cruel. But your fingers curled around your wrench tighter than before, the metal biting into your palm.

“Sure,” You said with a hollow shrug. “Bring whoever you want, I’m sure everyone would love to see her.”

Rhett watched you for a moment longer, unreadable.

“You ever gonna tell me what’s really goin’ on in that head of yours?” He asked, almost teasing, but his voice dropped just a little at the end.

You didn’t look at him. Just reached back into the engine block.

“Nothin’ is going on up here, I’m just payin’ attention to this customer's car.” Rhett knew better than to believe that.

He’d seen it with his own eyes–felt it in the air, even if you were too proud or too stubborn to admit it. You used to meet his gaze across a room and hold it, unbothered, cocky even, like you knew exactly what kind of effect you had on him. But now? Every time Maria’s name came up, you flinched just a little, like you were bracing for a hit. And whenever the three of you were in the same space–which was rare because you made it rare–you got quiet. Distant. You’d hover near the edge of the group, arms crossed, mouth pressed flat, eyes focused on anything but them.

And he remembered.

He remembered asking if you wanted to come out with him and Maria after that first weekend she rolled back into town. It had been a simple question, low-stakes. Just a casual invite.

But you didn’t even think about it–you just said, “Can’t. I’m busy.”

Didn’t even ask what night.

You’d turned him down so fast it had made his head spin. And after that, whenever he mentioned Maria, you got this far-off look like your mind had slipped into neutral. Like you weren’t even there anymore.

He shifted on the stool now, elbow digging into his knee, watching the way you moved with quiet precision–like you were using the engine block to avoid him. Like if you focused hard enough on the bolts and belts, you could keep the rest of the world from touching you.

Sometimes he wished he could read minds.

Not for anything big or cosmic–just so he could finally know what the hell went on behind your eyes when you looked at him.

What you thought when Maria’s name came up.

What you thought when he said she might come to the Fourth of July thing.

What you thought about him, period.

Did you think he was being desperate? Clingy? Chasing someone who didn’t deserve to be chased? Or did you just not care anymore?

“You sure nothin’s goin’ on in that head?” He asked again, a little quieter this time.

Still no answer. Just the soft click of your tools.

Rhett let out a slow breath, set his Gatorade bottle on the bench beside him with a soft thunk. He looked at the concrete floor, then back at you.

“Y’know, sometimes it feels like you’re playin’ wingman,” He said after a beat. “Only you’re not rootin’ for me to win.”

You froze for just half a second–barely enough for anyone else to notice–but Rhett caught it.

He always did.

Then you straightened up again, slow and careful, wiping the back of your neck with the same rag you’d used on your hands.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He shrugged, but it was tight. Guarded.

“Means you show up, sure. But you don’t really wanna be there. You say you’re happy for me, but I can tell you’re not. You act like you’re helpin’ but you keep your distance. It’s like…you’re close enough to see it all, but never close enough to be part of it.” Your jaw tensed, lips parting just slightly like you wanted to fire back something sharp–but nothing came. So Rhett leaned forward again, resting his forearms on his thighs.

“Do you want me to stop talkin’ about her?” He asked gently. “Just say the word, and I will. I swear I will.” Your eyes finally met his–steady, unreadable. And for a moment, he thought you might actually tell him. That you might finally crack open whatever it was you were hiding behind grease-streaked skin and bitten-off words.

But instead you said:

”I don’t care Rhett, you can talk about her till the cows come home.” And you turned back to the engine.

————————

The fireworks had already started by the time you sank into the corner of the worn-out couch, your dad’s recliner creaking as he shifted beside you. The TV was low, tuned to some classic western neither of you were really watching. Outside, through the screen door, you could hear the faint distant pop of celebratory explosions, followed by a round of cheers from somewhere down the road. The air was thick with summer—warm and buzzing with mosquitoes, smoke from backyard grills clinging to everything like memory.

You hadn’t told Rhett you weren’t coming.

You’d texted Perry earlier–just a short message, simple and vague.

“Can’t make it tonight. Not feelin’ great. Tell Rhett sorry.”

He sent back a thumbs-up emoji and nothing else, which was honestly a mercy. Your dad glanced over from where he was leafing through the town paper, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He didn’t look at you right away when he spoke.

“Didn’t you have plans tonight with the Abbotts?” He asked, casual but pointed. “Royal told me they were havin’ a Fourth of July party.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just shifted in your seat and tugged the throw blanket higher over your lap, even though it was too hot for it. Your voice came out low.

“Yeah. Just not feelin’ well.” That made him look up. He tilted his chin slightly, peering at you over the tops of his glasses.

“All of a sudden? You were fine at work today…Could’ve sworn you were elbows-deep in someone’s transmission this afternoon.” You shrugged, eyes fixed on the soft glow of the television.

“Guess it hit me late.”

He didn’t push at first. Just turned a page in his paper with a slow rustle, let the silence stretch like taffy. You thought maybe he’d drop it. But then–

“This ain’t about Maria comin’ back now, is it?” You groaned, throwing your head back against the cushion.

“Why does everything have to come back to her all the damn time? Can’t I just not feel good?” Your dad raised his brows like you’d just proved his point.

“Well,” He said slowly, “That answers my question.” You shot him a look, but it lacked heat.

“Are you jealous that she’s gettin’ Rhett’s attention?” He asked plainly, like he was asking about the weather. “I mean–I ain’t judgin’. You’ve always liked that boy, ever since y’all were knee-high and runnin’ around this place like wild dogs.”

“I have not,” You muttered, crossing your arms tighter over your chest.

“Sure you haven’t,” He teased, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And I suppose I imagined the way you used to light up like a damn Christmas tree whenever he’d show up on that beat-up four-wheeler.” You opened your mouth, then closed it, teeth pressing into your bottom lip. He leaned back in his chair and sighed, looking over at you again–not teasing now, just fatherly. Tired, maybe.

“Look, I know it ain’t easy. Watchin’ someone you care about look the other way. But if you want something different…You gotta say something different. Boy’s not a mind reader.”

“I know that,” You replied softly, after a long beat. Your throat felt tight. “I just…It’s not that simple.”

“Never is,” He agreed, settling back with a soft grunt. “But you keep sittin’ on your hands, and someone else is gonna take the spot you won’t claim.” You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really.

Because across town, Rhett was probably smiling at her the way he used to smile at you. Probably handing her a cold drink, nudging her shoulder when she laughed, leaning in a little too close like it was second nature. You could picture it too well. That easy charm. That golden light. The kind of warmth he didn’t even know he carried.

And maybe, just maybe, it used to be yours.

But not tonight.

Tonight, you were just a ghost in a room you used to stand in, watching from the quiet side of town as the fireworks bloomed without you.

You stayed curled on the couch beside your dad for another hour or so, the two of you watching the rest of the Western he had put on in a silent that wasn’t uncomfortable–but felt heavier than usual.

Every now and then, he’d make a quiet comment about the film or chuckle under his breath, and you’d hum in response, but your mind had long drifted elsewhere. You couldn’t stop picturing it: Rhett laughing under the glow of string lights, standing too close to Maria, that loose and familiar posture he used when he felt wanted. When he felt seen.

Eventually, the credits rolled, the TV dimmed, and the old western faded into static hum. You stretched slowly, working the tension from your shoulders before pushing to your feet.

“I’m gonna head out,” You said quietly, brushing your hand down the side of your sweatpants. “Gotta wash off the day.”Your dad didn’t look up from his recliner, but he nodded once, the paper still resting in his lap.

“Alright, kid. Tell the ghosts I said hi.”

You snorted softly. “Yeah, I’ll light ‘em a candle.” You stepped toward the front door and reached for the handle–then paused. Rain.

The sound hit your ears before you even saw it–soft, steady, the kind of slow summer drizzle that snuck up on you after sundown. You opened the door and stood in the frame for a second, watching the raindrops dance in the yellow glow of the porch light. The gravel was soaked already, puddles forming in the grooves where the driveway dipped, and the path to the loft looked like a slick, muddy mess.

“Well, shit,” You muttered, eyeing the way your breath curled in the humid air. “Rarely rains on the Fourth.”

Your dad made a noise behind you–somewhere between a grunt and a dry chuckle. “This is what happens when you decide not to celebrate it,” he called out, flipping another page in the paper. “The weather takes it personal.”

You huffed a laugh and grabbed your old black windbreaker from the coat rack, shrugging it over your shoulders. “Guess I’ll just have to make it up to the weather next year.” With that, you slipped out onto the porch, tugged the hood up, and jogged down the steps.

The mud squelched under your boots immediately, sucking at the soles with every step, but you kept going, ducking your chin down against the rain. Your loft stood about forty yards behind the house, nestled at the edge of the property where the grass met the tree line. The walk was familiar, even in the dark, and your feet followed the worn path instinctively–even if the occasional puddle slowed you down.

The rain soaked through your jeans by the time you made it to the porch. You slipped your key into the door and turned it, heart settling as the lock clicked open.

The smell hit you first–warm wood and lavender, the faint trace of engine oil clinging to the boots by the door. You stepped inside and shut the door behind you with a soft thud, shaking yourself off like a dog and dragging your hood down with a sigh.

The lights were low–just the ones above the kitchen sink and the little Edison bulb lamp you always left on beside the couch. You didn’t bother turning on the overheads. The place felt better dim.

The loft was everything you needed and nothing you didn’t.

It was open-concept, all one floor, no walls to separate everything–just beams and slanted ceilings, wood-paneled walls stained a soft, honeyed brown that caught the light like something out of a dream. Your father had built it himself for your eighteenth birthday, saying, “Every girl needs a place she can disappear to. Somewhere that’s hers.” He’d smacked the blueprints on the dining table with a grin and said he didn’t want to know who was coming or going, didn’t want to hear anything about late nights or early mornings. He just wanted you to have space. Independence. Freedom.

You had cried when he showed you the key.

The place was cozy–homey in a way that didn’t require explanation. The kitchen sat along the far wall, rustic cabinets painted sage green, an old farmhouse sink surrounded by chipped enamel counters, your mug collection hanging from hooks above the stove. To the right was your sleeping space–a big, soft bed piled with mismatched quilts and pillows, tucked beneath the loft’s only window. Books were stacked on the floor beside it like a makeshift nightstand, with a cracked old alarm clock resting on top.

The living area bled right into everything else: a wide brown leather couch which you had thrifted with Rhett at a decent price, a low coffee table you’d made from an old pallet, and your record player setup on a shelf near the armchair where you kept your journals. The only thing separating the zones was a long, faded rug with a southwestern pattern that anchored everything in place.

Boots were kicked off by the door. Your dad’s old denim jacket hung on the hook by the kitchen, next to the keys Rhett had left behind last winter and never came back for.

You took your time peeling off your soaked clothes, leaving your windbreaker to hang dry by the door. You padded barefoot across the wood floors to the kitchen, flicking the kettle on without thinking, craving something warm. Outside, the rain picked up a little, tapping softly against the windows like a quiet apology, before changing into a baggy t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts.

You leaned your hip against the counter, watching the steam curl from the spout, and let yourself breathe.

The kettle hissed softly behind you, steam whispering up into the warm air of the loft, curling like smoke from a slow-burning fuse. You were still leaning against the counter when you heard it.

Tires.

Crunching gravel.

Slow. Deliberate.

You straightened, eyebrows furrowing. You hadn’t heard anyone pull into the main driveway. The rain was still falling, steady and soft, a silver curtain beyond the windows–but the headlights cut through it in sudden streaks. Wide. Familiar. High off the ground.

A truck.

Your eyes narrowed as the engine cut. The lights went dark. A moment later: Three sharp knocks.

Not rushed. Not panicked. Just firm. Like whoever was outside knew they had every right to be here.

You let out a slow, tired sigh, and turned off the kettle.

“Perry,” You muttered under your breath, pushing off the counter. “Dumbass probably thinks I’m curled up cryin’ into a bottle.”

You crossed the floor barefoot, pulling your oversized tee down lower on your thighs as you passed the couch. The rain hadn’t let up–it was still falling hard enough that you could hear it pinging against the porch roof, a low murmur just under your breath. You reached for the handle, pulled open the door–and stopped dead.

It wasn’t Perry.

It was Rhett.

Soaked to the damn bone.

His shirt clung to his chest, heavy and half-translucent, his flannel abandoned somewhere along the way. His jeans were soaked through, dripping onto the porch. His hat hung limp in one hand, curls plastered to his forehead. Water streamed from his jaw, his shoulders, his eyelashes.

And his expression…He looked furious.

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, boots thudding onto the hardwood as he slammed the door behind him. His chest rose and fell hard, breath sharp in his nose. And when he looked at you–it wasn’t his usual warmth.

It was a supernova.

Frustrated. Scalding. Desperate.

“What the hell is goin’ on with you? Hmm?” he snapped.

You blinked at him, stunned. The loft felt suddenly too small, too quiet except for the rain beating against the roof. Rhett kicked off his boots without breaking eye contact, his wet jacket hitting the floor with a heavy slap.

“Wow,” You started, raising your eyebrows. “No, ‘hi, Y/N, how are you?’ Not even a ‘how’s your night goin’?’”

But he didn’t bite.

He just stared at you–blue eyes sharp, tense, unreadable.

“Right now ain’t the time for games.” His voice was lower now, but no less intense. “What the hell is goin’ on with you?”

You froze in place.

“First you don’t wanna come out with me anymore,” he continued, stepping closer, water still dripping from his sleeves. “Then you start pullin’ away like I did somethin’ wrong, and now you ditch the Fourth of July party and say you’re fuckin’ sick?” His voice cracked faintly on the last word. Not in anger. In something closer to hurt.

“Tell me what the fuck is goin’ on.”

You couldn’t answer. Not immediately.

You just stared, mouth dry, trying to find footing in the storm that had followed him inside. He tossed his wet hat off to the side, ran a hand through his dripping hair, like the mess of it might let him breathe. It didn’t.

You swallowed.

“I…” You cleared your throat, tried again. “Let me go grab you a towel, alright? You’re soaked, and you’re gonna–”

You moved to brush past him–but his hand came out gently. Just enough to stop you.

He caught your wrist.

Not hard. Not angry.

Just… steady.

Warm fingers curled loosely around your skin, grounding you.

“I don’t need a towel right now.” His voice was quieter now. Less heat, more gravity. “What I need–” He met your gaze fully, voice low and razor-sharp with feeling“–is for you to tell me the truth.”

And for the first time all night, you realized–he wasn’t mad because he didn’t care. He was mad because he did. Because he had been confused. Lost. Hurt. Because something had shifted between you, and you’d never let him see it.

And now he was here–dripping, shaking, looking at you like you were the one thing he couldn’t figure out how to fix.

The air inside the loft had thickened–saturated with rain and tension, heavy with every word you hadn’t said and every moment that had gone sideways between you.

Rhett’s hand still circled your wrist, warm and unrelenting, grounding you in place like he was afraid you might bolt. You could feel his pulse through his fingertips–fast and strong, matching the thunder of your own heart. His eyes locked to yours, demanding something, anything, while water pooled beneath him on the floor.

Then his voice cut through the quiet, low and sharp:

“Is this whole thing about me and Maria?”

Your chest cinched tight. Your jaw tensed automatically–every muscle bracing like your body knew how dangerous the truth might be. You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared at him, and in that silence…Your face dropped. Just barely. The kind of shift only someone who knew you like the back of his hand could notice.

Rhett saw it.

And something in his face snapped–not in rage, but in clarity.

He stepped closer. Just one step. Enough to make the air crackle.

“Look at me in the eyes, Y/N,” He said, voice firm now–stern in a way that made your stomach twist, the dominance in his tone curling heat into your spine. “And tell me that isn’t what this is fuckin’ about.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was a command.

You tried to hold it together. To keep your eyes from betraying you. But he was right there, soaking wet and burning with something you hadn’t seen in him in years. And when you finally looked up at him, really looked…Everything cracked.

Your breath caught. Your throat tightened. The words didn’t come.

They couldn’t.

Because how the hell were you supposed to lie with him looking at you like that? Like your silence was the final piece of a puzzle that had been driving him insane.

“I knew it,” He said softly–more to himself than to you. “Christ.” He raked a hand through his wet hair again, exhaling hard. “All this time, you’ve been walkin’ around pretendin’ you don’t care… Pretendin’ it doesn’t fuckin’ matter.”

You yanked your wrist free–not violently, just enough to take a step back. “What was I supposed to do, Rhett?” Your voice cracked open like a dam. “Watch you chase after the one girl I could never compete with and just smile about it?”

He stared at you–stunned, but not surprised. Like some part of him had known this truth existed, buried deep beneath the grease-stained tank tops and quiet sacrifices.

“She left,” You snapped. “She left and you broke for a while and I helped put you back together piece by piece. I sat on that goddamn porch with you night after night while you pretended you didn’t care she was gone. And I was there when you started laughing again. When you started living again.”

Your voice was rising now–shaking, furious and breaking apart all at once.

“And then she shows up, all pretty and polished and fuckin’ effortless, and you just light up like nothing ever happened. Like I wasn’t even there.”

Rhett’s mouth parted slightly, but you didn’t stop.

“I’ve been right here, Rhett,” You whispered, stepping forward now. “All this time. Loving you so quietly it damn near killed me.”

And there it was.

Out in the open.

The words you’d never dared say. Hanging between you like smoke in a thunderstorm.

Rhett didn’t move at first. His chest rose and fell, slow and ragged. Water still dripped from his jaw, but he didn’t wipe it away. His eyes were locked to yours, blue and searing.

“I didn’t know,” He shot back, voice low. Raw. “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “You didn’t want to know.”

“No,” He said, stepping toward you again, shaking his head. “No, that ain’t fair. Don’t you put that on me. I looked for signs, Y/N. I did. But you–you shut me out. Every damn time I tried to get close, you’d change the subject or pretend it was nothin’.” Your footsteps echoed in the silence between you, the sound of your breath sharp in your throat as you turned to face him fully–eyes blazing, rain still dripping off the ends of his curls and onto the floor like the storm had followed him inside.

“I didn’t avoid any conversations with you,” you snapped, voice raw and loud in the warm wood space. “You never thought to say anything! You think I’m just supposed to read your fuckin’ mind?!”

Rhett’s jaw clenched, teeth flashing as he stepped forward again, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “And why does it have to be up to me to say anything?! I didn’t know this was a one-sided friendship. Last time I checked, there was two of us in this!”

That did it. You surged toward him with fire in your chest, your pointer finger jabbing hard into the middle of his chest–right against the damp fabric that clung to him, warm and heavy over his heart.

“Because you’re the one who kept chasing Maria all through high school, Rhett! You never gave me a chance!” The words landed hard, thick with years of held-back ache. “You were so wrapped up in her smiles and her perfect little skirts and how she looked in the goddamn sunshine, and you never once looked at me!”

And then–before you could step back–his hand caught your wrist again.

But this time?

This time it wasn’t to stop you.

It was to make you listen.

He held your arm firm, water trailing down the slope of his forearm, his eyes locked to yours like the rest of the world had disappeared.

“And why do you think I went after Maria in the first place, huh?” He bit out, chest heaving. “You weren’t that fucking easy to read, sweetheart. You hid your feelings real damn well. So how else was I supposed to move on from somethin’ I thought I’d never have?”

You froze.

Every word struck like thunder in your gut.

Your mouth parted. Your heart tripped.

He’d said it with such certainty. Like it had always been true. Like it had been sitting under the surface of every glance, every late-night porch talk, every ride home in his truck when the silence said more than either of you dared.

“Does everything make sense to you now?” he asked, voice low and scorching.

And it did.

You stood there in the hush of your little loft, the rain pounding like a drumline on the roof, and everything finally clicked into place.

And before you could think, before you could breathe, before your heart could scream for you to slow down–

You launched forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft.

It was heat and breath and years of longing breaking open all at once. His mouth met yours with a desperate groan, his hand leaving your wrist to grab your waist, yanking you into him like he needed to feel every inch of you, like just touching wasn’t enough. You could taste the rain on his lips, the bitter edge of frustration still lingering in the way he kissed you–hungry, fierce, like he was starved for this.

Your fingers curled into the wet fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as you gasped against his mouth. The warmth of his chest bled into yours, soaked cotton clinging to skin as he spun the both of you until your back hit the wall beside the door.

“God, you don’t even know,” Rhett growled against your mouth, his nose brushing yours as he leaned in again, kissing you deeper, rougher. “You don’t even fuckin’ know how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

His hands ran down your sides, settling heavy and possessive on your hips, thumbs digging into the waistband of your shorts as he pressed into you, chest to chest, thigh slipping between your legs like he had every right to be there. You moaned softly, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he leaned in harder, kissing you like he was trying to make up for every year he didn’t.

And all you could think was: finally.

Finally, he was holding you like he meant it. Kissing you like he wasn’t afraid anymore. Like the truth had broken loose and there was nothing left to hide behind.

You gasped as his hand slipped under your shirt, warm and rough against your rain-chilled skin, dragging a trail up your ribcage. Your body arched into him instinctively, your legs going weak under the weight of it all.

“Tell me you want this,” He murmured against your jaw, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me I’m not the only one who’s been goin’ crazy.”

You grabbed him by the collar and pulled him right back to you.

“Just…Shut the fuck up and kiss me again.” You whispered, your voice ragged, nearly breaking, while your mouth was already bruised and hungry. Rhett’s breath hitched, and then he laughed—low, hoarse, and a little cocky. That boyish, infuriating smirk of his twitched at the corner of his lips as his forehead pressed to yours. His hand still clutched your waist, anchoring you like he’d drown without it.

“Well, hell,” he drawled, voice thick with heat and years of wanting, “You sound a little desperate, sweetheart.”

“Rhett,” you warned, already chasing after his mouth again.

But he kissed you before you could even threaten him further—kissed you like he was starved, like the sound of your voice made his restraint unravel. His hands slid back under your shirt, dragging up your ribs and then lower again, palms rough and reverent all at once. He gripped the back of your thighs, strong and certain, and then—

You yelped softly as he lifted you off the ground.

Your legs wrapped tight around his waist on instinct, like they’d done it a hundred times before, and your arms flew around his neck—one hand diving into his soaked curls, the other cradling his jaw like you needed to make sure he was real. His lips never left yours as he staggered forward, blindly navigating the loft until your back hit the bed in a messy sprawl.

You bounced once against the soft quilts, dazed.

Then Rhett was above you, peeling off his drenched shirt in one fluid motion, flinging it somewhere across the room with a wet slap. He stood over you for a moment, his chest rising and falling, water still dripping from the line of his collarbone, his abs heaving with every breath. His jeans clung to his hips, soaked dark and hanging low, every muscle in his body cast in golden light from the lamp on the nightstand.

You had seen him shirtless before. Plenty of times.

But not like this.

Not with your lips swollen from his kiss. Not with your thighs still tingling where his hands had gripped them. Not with your body burning for him in every place you had tried to forget existed.

He caught the look in your eyes—hungry, reverent, awestruck—and his smirk faded into something darker. Something heady.

He crawled onto the bed without saying a word, muscles shifting as he moved between your knees, spreading them apart with his palms like he had every right to. His fingers dug into your bare thighs, holding you open as he settled his hips against yours, weight pressing down with purpose.

Your breath hitched. Your hands slid up his chest–feeling the heat, the muscle, the scar near his ribs you knew by heart–and you kissed him again like you were trying to make up for every single day you hadn’t.

This one was feral.

Messy and frantic and clumsy in the best way. Tongues sliding, teeth grazing, mouths parting on gasps and moans as your hands moved like you couldn’t decide where to touch first. His fingers slipped beneath your shirt again, dragging the fabric up your sides and pushing until it bunched around your ribs.

You barely noticed. Too busy tangling yourself in him.

His hands found your hips again–then your jaw–then your ass. He was everywhere at once, and you couldn’t stop moaning into his mouth, couldn’t stop arching up to meet every roll of his body against yours. His jeans were soaked, and yours were barely on, and the heat between you was enough to dry everything that had been soaked by the storm.

It was the kind of kiss you didn’t come back from.

The kind that set fire to memory, that branded your ribs from the inside out.

You were breathing so hard you couldn’t tell where your lungs ended and his began, couldn’t remember a time before this–before his tongue was in your mouth and his hips were grinding against your core like he’d been waiting his whole damn life to do it.

And maybe he had.

“Fuck,” Rhett panted, his forehead pressed to yours again, voice thick with disbelief and hunger as his thumb stroked just beneath the edge of your shirt, “You got any idea what you do to me, do you?”

You barely had time to answer.

Because he kissed you again like you were oxygen and he’d been drowning all these years.

You moaned into the kiss, your body arching instinctively against his as your hand slid up his chest–not to push him away, but just to slow him, to breathe, to feel. Your palm pressed flat against the warmth of his skin, just above his heart, and Rhett stilled.

He pulled back enough to look at you, eyes dark but gentle, the storm in his chest quieting just a little.

“You okay?” He asked softly, thumb still brushing your waist.

You let out a breathless laugh, your fingers curling lightly into his damp curls. “Yeah,” You whispered, voice shaking with heat and adrenaline. “I just wanna take my shirt off.”

Rhett blinked, and then leaned back slightly, palms splayed beside your hips on the bed. “Yeah?” He asked, husky and reverent, giving you space.

You sat up on your elbows just enough to pull the oversized tee over your head in one quick motion, your breath catching as the cool air of the loft met your flushed skin. The fabric hit the floor with a quiet thud, and then you were left in nothing but your sleep shorts–bare from the waist up, your chest rising and falling with every ragged inhale.

Rhett didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stared.

“Jesus Christ…” He muttered, eyes locked to your chest like he couldn’t decide if he should worship you or fall to his knees. “Holy crap.”

You let out another quiet laugh, flustered but aching, warmth blooming in your cheeks. “You okay there, cowboy?”

His eyes snapped up to yours. And then he leaned in again like he’d just remembered he could. Like the sight of you had lit something under his ribs.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” He breathed against your mouth before kissing you again, slower this time, reverent. His lips moved down your jaw, then your throat, then lower–pressing heat into every inch of skin like he was branding you with it.

You gasped as his mouth trailed to your collarbone, lips brushing, teeth grazing the dip there before he murmured, “You’re so fuckin’ pretty, you know that?”

Your hands found his hair again, tangling in the damp curls, anchoring him as he kissed his way down the slope of your chest. He paused at the top of your breast, glancing up with heat in his eyes, waiting–making sure.

You nodded.

That was all he needed.

His mouth closed over your breast, warm and wet and full of want, and you cried out softly as he sucked, his tongue flicking over your nipple until it peaked beneath his touch. His hand came up to cradle the weight of the other, thumb circling slow and steady as he dragged his mouth from one to the other, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a few soft marks in his wake.

You were already trembling. His mouth stayed latched to your breast, tongue dragging slowly over the sensitive peak, lips sucking just hard enough to make your back arch off the bed. And he didn’t look away–not once. His eyes burned into yours, half-lidded and dark with want, jaw working like he was savoring every fucking second. Every twitch. Every breathless sound you made.

And then he ground his hips into you–slow and deep, the press of his soaked jeans meeting the heat between your thighs in a rhythm that made your whole body jolt. You gasped, your thighs clenching around his waist instinctively, the friction too good and too much all at once.

“Fuck, Rhett—” you breathed, your fingers flying to his shoulders, nails dragging down his skin without thinking. You didn’t even realize how hard you were clutching him until he moaned.

Loud.

Right against your nipple.

The vibration of it sent a shock straight through your core, your breath catching as he pulled off with a wet pop, a string of spit connecting his mouth to your skin before it snapped and fell away.

His lips were pink and swollen. His chest was heaving. His hands still held your hips like they belonged to him.

And then—he licked his lips. Smirked a little. That cocky, heartbreaker smirk that always used to get him out of trouble when you were kids, only now it looked feral. Possessive. Dirty.

He dipped his head to the other side of your chest and gave the second nipple the same worship he’d given the first—slow, wet, reverent, his tongue flicking and swirling and teasing until your legs were trembling around his hips.

You could feel him growing harder with every second, the denim of his jeans rough against your thin sleep shorts, but neither of you moved to get rid of anything yet. You were too busy drowning in this.

In him.

His mouth. His heat. The way he held you like he’d been starving for this since the beginning of time.

He sucked harder, his teeth grazing the swollen bud just enough to make you whimper, and then he pulled off that one too–again, with a lewd, wet sound that left another line of spit trailing down your skin. His voice was rough as gravel when he finally spoke, eyes still locked to yours, lips slick and panting.

“I just wanna keep tasting you,” He rasped, his hands stroking up your sides like he needed to memorize you with his palms. “I wanna taste every fuckin’ inch of you. Wanna see what you’ve been hidin’ under all those smart-ass jokes and mechanic suits.” Your chest stuttered with a broken laugh, your nails still dug into his shoulders, dragging light lines down his back that made him shudder. His hips rolled into you again, more desperate this time, like he couldn’t help it, like the thought of you beneath him in nothing but your shorts was driving him insane.

“Go on then,” You whispered, voice wrecked and teasing and vulnerable all at once. “See for yourself.”

He growled low in his throat, and kissed you like it was a promise. Like he was going to do exactly that.

Rhett pulled back slowly, his breath ragged, his pupils blown wide as his gaze dragged down the length of your body like a man about to sink his teeth into something he wasn’t sure he deserved. His hands slid down your thighs–slow and warm, worshipful–and hooked just beneath the waistband of your shorts.

“You sure?” He asked, voice low and rough, throat tight with restraint even as his eyes burned with hunger.

You nodded.

That was all he needed.

He tugged the sleep shorts down your hips, inch by inch, until they peeled away from your skin like a secret being revealed. His eyes never left you–not even when the cotton slipped past your knees and off the edge of the bed. And when he saw what you weren’t wearing beneath?

His breath caught.

“Fuck me,” He groaned, so low it was almost a growl, his fingers tightening around your thighs. “You were just walkin’ around like this?” His voice dropped darker, hotter. “No fuckin’ underwear? Just wet and waitin’ under those shorts, huh?” You bit your bottom lip, heart hammering, skin blazing under his stare.

Rhett sat back on his knees between your legs, pushing them apart with both hands—broad palms sliding under your thighs to lift and spread you just a little more, until your heels dug into the mattress and you were completely, utterly bare for him.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just stared like he was being given a miracle he hadn’t earned.

“Jesus, baby…” He whispered, voice gone reverent. “You’re fuckin’ drippin’–look at you.” His tongue darted out across his bottom lip, his breath shaky. “Bet you taste so goddamn sweet.”

You whimpered at the praise, back arching involuntarily as his grip on your thighs tightened. One hand slid down to grip behind your knee, pushing it gently up and open, his thumb stroking the soft skin there like he was trying to soothe your trembling.

Then–without warning–he dove in.

His mouth hit you like a man starved, tongue flattening and dragging up the length of your soaked heat with a groan that shook through your whole body. You gasped–hips jerking up off the mattress, but he was ready. His hands flew to your hips, pinning you down hard into the sheets.

“Just stay still…Lemme take care of you hmm?” Your fingers flew to his hair, gripping tight as his mouth slowly sealed around your clit. Rhett sucked hard–just once–and then started working you with his tongue like he’d been waiting his whole life to make you fall apart on his face. Long, slow licks. Then fast, eager circles. He switched between the two like he was chasing every sound you made, every gasp, every twitch of your thighs like it was a map.

“God–Rhett–” Your voice hitched, your hips trying to grind against his mouth again, your thighs trembling under his hold. He pressed them back down firmly, groaning against you.

“I said stay still,” He growled, so rough and low it vibrated straight through your core. You whined, writhing under the weight of his mouth, your thighs beginning to tremble.

His tongue flicked your clit again, fast, and then he pressed in deeper–his nose brushing your mound, his tongue fucking into you slow and deep, like he was drinking you down.

Your thighs clamped around his ears, but he just groaned–louder–and pressed in harder, his arms locking around your hips, holding you open for him like you were something holy.

You couldn’t stop moaning–couldn’t breathe around the pleasure curling tight in your gut. Your hands were still tangled in his hair, tugging, pushing, desperate and greedy as your hips rocked against his mouth without thinking.

Then he growled, pulling his mouth back just enough to speak–and the sight of him, lips shiny and jaw slick with your arousal, was filthy.

“I said stay still,” He rasped, grabbing your hips and pressing them back into the mattress with just enough force to make you cry out. You whimpered–your body shuddering at the dominance in his tone, the possessive heat of it—and nodded.

“Words, sweetheart,” He said, licking a slow stripe up your core. “I wanna hear it.”

“Yes,” You gasped. “Yes, Rhett–fuck–I’ll stay still–please, just–please don’t stop.”

He smirked into your core.

“Didn’t plan on it.”

And then he buried his face in you again–harder this time–his mouth moving like he was trying to tear the climax from your body with his tongue alone. His grip on your hips was iron, keeping you right where he wanted you, no escape, no mercy.

You came with a loud, shattering cry, your whole body jerking against the bed as pleasure tore through you like lightning, your thighs trembling against his shoulders.

Rhett didn’t stop.

Not through your first wave, or the second.

He kept licking, savoring you, sucking gently, coaxing every last tremble from your hips until you were shaking and soaked and boneless beneath him, your fingers still tangled in his hair like you didn’t know how to let go.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was glossed with you, his jaw shining, his eyes wild and dark and full of need.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ tasted,” He whispered, breathless, licking his lips as he hovered above you again.

And then he kissed you.

Messy. Deep. Dirty. Tongue sliding against yours, lips slick with your own arousal, like he wanted you to taste yourself on him.

You moaned into his mouth, and that sound lit him up from the inside. He pulled back just enough to let you breathe, his lips still glistening, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run flat-out for miles. You watched the way his tongue darted out across his bottom lip, savoring the taste of you one last time like he couldn’t help himself. Then his eyes flicked up to meet yours–warm, slightly sheepish–and his voice dropped, rough with apology but still trembling from the high.

“Sorry ‘bout bein’ a little rough…” He murmured, thumb tracing your hipbone. “I… I couldn’t really control myself once I got a bit of a taste. Sorry.”

You blinked at him, breathless, your cheeks flushed from everything he’d just wrung out of you. And then you laughed—a soft, low sound, all wrecked and wrecking. You reached up to brush the damp curls from his forehead, still tangled in the storm.

“It’s okay…” You whispered, lips twitching into a lazy smile. “It was pretty hot. Not gonna lie.”

That made him laugh—quiet and stunned, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. His dimples showed through his scruff, and it lit him up from the inside out, that boyish grin making a brief return before it got swallowed by something deeper. He leaned in and kissed you again—slower now, lingering, lips brushing yours like he was memorizing the taste of your relief, your want, your voice wrapped around the words I need you.

And then he paused.

Just enough to pull back again, gaze searching yours, soft and careful.

“…You still okay?” he asked, voice quiet now. “Do you…Wanna stop here?”

Your heart clenched at the way he asked it–like it physically hurt him to offer the out, but he’d take it in a second if you needed it.

You shook your head immediately, voice low and steady.

“No,” you breathed. “No, I want to feel you. I need you more than ever right now.”

Rhett froze like he hadn’t expected that. His breath caught, visibly, audibly–and then his face flushed, blooming red across his cheekbones and down his throat. He blinked at you like you’d just shattered him with a single sentence.

“I’ll do anything you fuckin’ want,” he said hoarsely. “Anything.”

He leaned back onto his knees, hands sliding down your thighs once more as he slowly stood on his knees between them. You watched with wide eyes, breath caught behind your ribs, as his hands went to the waistband of his boxers. His fingers hooked into the elastic, and he hesitated–just for a second–like he needed to be sure one last time.

Then he pushed them down.

The fabric peeled away, soaked and clinging, and your mouth went dry.

Your breath hitched as your gaze dropped–then stalled.

Because Jesus Christ.

He was thick. Long. Heavy even before he touched himself–his cock flushed red, the head already leaking and shining in the low light of the loft. It hung low between his hips, resting briefly against his thigh before springing forward slightly, and your whole body reacted before your brain could catch up.

Your mouth actually watered.

You shifted on the bed, thighs spreading wider like your body already knew what it wanted, what it was about to take. The stretch… God, you could already feel it–imagine it–him splitting you open slow, his hips rocking forward while you clawed at his back. You wanted to feel him press in inch by inch until you were full–until you couldn’t think straight. You wanted all of it.

Rhett saw the look on your face–the hunger, the awe, the way your chest heaved and your lips parted–and his blush deepened, but his cock twitched in response, proud and aching.

He leaned down again, bracing one hand beside your head as he hovered over you, breath hot and voice trembling.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” He whispered, eyes locked to yours. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You reached down, wrapped your fingers around the base of him, and watched as his jaw clenched tight, a guttural sound ripping from his throat.

“Don’t worry,” You whispered, He exhaled ragged against your cheek as you guided him closer, your fingers wrapped around the base of him–slow, sure, trembling just slightly. Rhett’s breath hitched again as the thick head of his cock pressed against your entrance, heat meeting heat, slick and swollen and pulsing with need. He braced a forearm beside your head, the other curling around your hand on him, intertwining your fingers like he needed to anchor himself.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” He whispered, voice hoarse, reverent. “You’re so fuckin’ wet–gonna slide in like you were made for me…”

You whimpered–because he was right.

Then, with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, he started to push in.

The stretch was immediate–hot and deep and toe-curling. Your lips parted on a breathless gasp, your head tipping back as your body opened for him inch by inch. Rhett groaned low in his throat, jaw clenched, eyes locked on where he was disappearing into you.

“Fuck–goddamn,” He hissed, gripping your hand tighter. “Tight little thing, huh? Grippin’ me like you never wanna let go…”

You moaned, your legs wrapping around his hips instinctively as he pushed deeper. His cock stretched you wide, the pressure sharp and perfect all at once, your body pulsing around him in greedy aftershocks. He paused halfway in, resting his forehead against yours, sweat and rainwater dripping down his temple.

“You okay?” He murmured, his voice shaky but tender.

You nodded, chest rising fast. “Don’t stop,” You breathed. “Please. Keep goin’. I need all of you.”

That broke him.

Rhett let out a ragged sound–half groan, half whimper–and pushed in deeper. You felt every inch of him drag against your walls, slow and thick, until finally, finally, his hips met yours, your bodies flush and trembling with the sheer weight of it.

He was fully inside.

You both stilled for a moment–just breathing, savoring it. You could feel him throbbing deep inside you, every twitch of him making your insides flutter. Rhett’s hand squeezed yours like a lifeline, and he brought it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles before resting it on the mattress between you.

“Goddamn,” He whispered, voice barely there. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

You laughed, breathless and ruined, eyes glassy with heat and disbelief. “You sound like you’re about to cry, cowboy.”

He let out a half-choked chuckle, his hips giving an experimental roll. You both moaned at the same time, your bodies clutching together again like magnets. Rhett looked down at you, completely wrecked–his hair dripping, cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide with awe.

“Fuck—you’re so beautiful,” he murmured, shifting his weight back slightly.

He let go of your hand only long enough to bring the other up to your throat—just resting it there, fingers spread gently, reverently. His thumb stroked along the underside of your jaw, so tender it made your heart lurch.

”You are too,” You whispered, lips brushing his. “Every fuckin’ inch of you.”

His hips rocked again, deeper this time, and you arched into him with a soft cry, your nails digging into his shoulders. He kissed you hard, his hand at your throat grounding you, guiding you.

“That’s it,” He panted, voice rough. “Take me, baby. You’re takin’ me so damn well.”

“You’re fillin’ me so good,” You moaned, hips rising to meet every thrust. “I can feel you so deep–fuck, I swear I can feel you in my fuckin’ soul, Rhett.”

He let out a strangled noise–somewhere between a growl and a whimper–and his rhythm stuttered for just a second.

“You can’t say shit like that,” He gasped, laughing through it, completely undone. “You tryin’ to make me lose my damn mind?”

You grinned breathlessly, kissing him again, still giggling softly against his mouth as he started moving again–deeper, slower, more confident now.

And with every thrust, every filthy word, every moan tangled between you–it felt less like something you were giving and more like something you were reclaiming.

His rhythm stuttered again–once, then twice–like he was losing the reins. Like everything he’d been holding back was breaking loose all at once.

You could feel it in the way his hips began to roll faster, less controlled, more chaotic. His thrusts hit deeper, harder, the slick sounds of your bodies crashing together filling the space like a drumbeat under the rain.

“Rhett,” You gasped, voice high and trembling, your fingers clawing at his back now, digging in like you needed to anchor yourself before you flew apart again. “Fuck–you’re gonna make me come again–”

That did it.

His mouth crushed yours in a frantic kiss, all tongue and teeth and heat. He bit down on your bottom lip–firm but careful, pulling it between his teeth like he couldn’t help himself. You moaned into his mouth, loud and wrecked, and he swallowed it whole like he wanted to keep it forever.

“Good,” he growled against your lips, voice tight and broken. “Want you to. Wanna feel you come on me again–need it, baby, I need it–fuck–I’m close too–“

You could barely think. His hips were slamming into yours now, rough and desperate, each thrust so deep it sent sparks exploding behind your eyes. Your legs wrapped tighter around him, your back arching off the bed as his hand slid under your thigh, lifting it higher to get even deeper.

The room was filled with the sounds of skin meeting skin, the creak of the bed frame, the relentless rain outside–and your moans. Loud. Wild. Unfiltered.

“Oh my god–Rhett–Rhett–I’m–”

Your climax hit like a lightning strike.

You cried out–loud and raw–your whole body locking around him, legs trembling, hands clutching at his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. Your pussy pulsed around him, gripping him tight, dragging him over the edge with you.

And he broke.

With a strangled groan, Rhett buried himself as deep as he could go and came hard–his whole body jerking against yours as he spilled inside you. His arms locked around you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he moaned low and desperate, his breath ragged and hot against your skin.

“Fuck, fuck–Jesus–” He gasped, whimpering softly as the pleasure rocked through him, his body trembling with the force of it. He gave one last shallow thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and then went still–completely spent, panting hard into the crook of your neck.

You both just laid there for a second. Breathing. Shaking. Floating.

The rain hadn’t stopped outside, but it felt quieter now, like even the storm was giving you a minute to collect yourselves.

Rhett eventually lifted his head, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes dazed and still wide with the aftershock. His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking gently across your cheek.

“You okay?” He asked softly, voice hoarse.

You nodded, breathless. “More than okay,” You whispered, your fingers pushing a strand of hair off his forehead. “I think you broke my brain a little.”

He laughed–weak and stunned and fucking glowing.

“Yeah?” He murmured, leaning in to kiss your nose. “Well…You wrecked me. So. We’re even.”

You both chuckled, quiet and wrecked and tangled up in each other. His weight was still resting on top of you, warm and solid and perfect, and you didn’t want him to move.

He kissed you again–soft this time, slow and sweet. Just once.

Then he pulled back slightly to look down at you, his eyes filled with something tender. Something quiet and wide and full of meaning.

“I swear to God, I’ve never felt anything like that,” He whispered. “Not ever. You ruined me, darlin’. In the best fuckin’ way.”

And somehow, that felt more intimate than anything else.

[fawninthetrees]

xerox ; robert reynolds ; part three.

part one. | part two.

pairing ; robert (bob) reynolds x reader, thunderbolts & reader

synopsis ; you had one last job before you were free. no more splitting, no more deaths. unfortunately, that job seemed to rope in four other assassins and a... a man in hospital-wear?

words ; 4.3k

themes ; action, angst, slowburn, fluffy near the end, the beginnings of romance

warnings / includes ; violence, reader has the ability to split into multiple bodies (think dupli-kate from invincible), the void is hot unfortunately, foul language, everyone's mental health sucks but they're actually getting better now!

a/n ; this chapter is a bit shorter than the other two just because it only covers the very end of the movie PLUS a little bonus scene to get you guys excited for future avengers tower moments :) thank you again for all the support! also did you guys catch the mutant mention wink wonk

main masterlist. read on ao3!

Bob’s first room had an angry, middle-aged man standing in the very center, veins protruding out of his neck as he yelled gibberish. Flecks of spittle fell from his slurring lips. Bob, whose warm hand was intertwined with yours, flinched at the sudden volume. 

Walker didn’t hesitate to strike him down with his taco-shaped shield. 

“He seems nice,” Ava said.

The room gave a massive rumble, as if upset that things weren’t going its way, and the walls began to close in. 

“This way!” Alexei bellowed, ushering everyone forward into a wooden wardrobe full of clothes. 

“Narnia?” you asked as you shouldered through moth-eaten coats, giving Bob a quick glance over your shoulder. 

Bob gave you a nervous smile. “It was one of my favorites as a kid.”

The floors gave out beneath you, and you found yourself free-falling for a few seconds before landing on the rough ground with a resounding thud. The new room smelled of gasoline and burnt rubber tires.

You helped Yelena up to her feet, only to be whacked over the back of the head with a sharp plastic sign that read ALFREDO’S BAIL BONDS! in a hideous shade of red, by a chicken mascot that had equally hard-on-the-eyes yellow feathers. With a low moan, you started crawling away from the crazed chicken, who had turned to attack Ava and Alexei. 

“Oh, God!” Bob exclaimed, scrambling over to give you a hand. “Are you okay?”

“IF YOU DON’T STOP HITTING ME WITH THAT SIGN—!” Alexei gruffed from across the room, now bleeding from the nose.

“I was on meth!” Bob shrieked apologetically right before grabbing your head and shoving you down just in time to duck away from another sign-swing from the high chicken. 

Whilst lowered, you spotted a stack of wooden vegetable crates across the street. There seemed to be no other exits from the room. Ava kept the chicken occupied and distracted by repeatedly phasing through him, so you took the opportunity to break open the bottom of the crates, which smelled faintly of rotting tomatoes.

“Through here!” you called. “Crawl through the crates!”

Past-Bob made a bee-line for current Bob, the sharp end of the sign aimed straight at him like a crude stake. With a stinging cheek and a clenched jaw, Bucky stepped in between them and punched the chicken square in the face (beak?) with his metal arm. 

As you made your way through to the new room, you distantly heard Walker gagging behind you. “I hate tomatoes.”

Through the crates was a cleaner, more sterile space. The new room looked… clinical. You immediately tensed, eyes darting back and forth. There were beakers, needles, and measuring devices everywhere—all the marks of a science lab. You had to suck in a deep, painful breath to remind yourself that this wasn’t your room—it was Bob’s. A few meters away from you, there was an operating table. Big surgical lights looming over it like curved, robotic flowers. And on the bed sat past-Bob, shoulders hunched into himself. He looked the very same as the Bob right beside you, holding your hand. But his eyes were sunken and empty. Tired.

“I’ve been here before,” Yelena whispered. “Malaysia.”

Bob bit down on the inside of his cheek. “It’s where it all started. I was roaming Southeast Asia. Thought I’d figure something out. A way to find more drugs. And there’s this guy… he started talking to me about a medical study. A trial drug that can make me stronger and not feel like… me anymore. It was like a miracle.”

You felt your face fall with sympathy. You squeezed his hand, and Bob met your gaze with pursed lips. Slowly, the group began to advance towards Past-Bob. At least he wasn’t swinging a sign at all of your heads in a chicken suit this time.

“I thought I would get to show everyone that I was more… that I was something,” Bob told everyone, shame tinting each of his words a melancholic blue.

Past-Bob, now shrouded in shadow, finally straightened. 

“And look what you unleashed,” the voice purred, echoing in your head as if he had managed to worm inside and tapping at the very base of your ear drums.

That wasn’t Bob, you realized with a heavy pit in your stomach. It was the Void. He hopped off the surgical table, turning to face the team, face dark, but eyes glowing.

“How could you possibly think you could be worth anything?” he said, calm as untouched waters. You could feel your skin prickle.

Yelena stepped forward. “We’re leaving.”

The Void stayed silent for a moment, scrutinizing the ragged team of misfits and criminals with an empty expression. Then, he shook his head in miniscule movements. “No,” he simply said.

Behind him the surgical table rose into the air and flew across the room at a startlingly rapid speed, crashing against Yelena and Alexei, pinning them against the wall behind. The long strips of buzzing, artificial lights above were torn from the ceiling and wound around Bucky, keeping him to one of the lab’s counters. Several metal frames from a window came whizzing across the room to bury into the edges of Walker’s suit, keeping him stuck on the ground. Ava was sent flying into the other side of the lab when a crumbled garbage can wound about her midriff. She would have phased right through it, but there was a force weighing her down. 

You managed to dodge the door that was coming at you, having to relinquish Bob’s hand to do so, but missed the heavy metal shelf used to store plastic pill pots heading toward you from the opposite direction. It slammed into your stomach, knocking the wind from your lungs, and you were left struggling fruitlessly against the wall it lodged you up against. 

“Stop,” Bob pleaded to the Void with wide, watery eyes. “Let them go.”

“You think they care about you?” The Void stepped closer until he was right in front of you, close enough that you could feel it—the cold darkness. The dread. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes. The weight of all you’ve done wrong, all the people you’ve murdered and maimed, all your deaths, all your lies—resting right on top of your sternum. You gasped for breath. You felt something cold touch your face, so cold it felt blistering hot. You simultaneously wanted to pull away and lean in closer. The Void’s fingers were caressing your cheek ever so gently, and Bob did nothing but watch. He felt frozen to the floor, paralyzed with fear and uncertainty. 

“Xerox… lovely, sad Xerox…” crooned the Void, almost sing-songy. “Bob’s got a fixation with you, you know. It’s pathetic. He’s like a sad mutt begging for scraps from the table.” There was an amused hum from him before he continued, this time speaking to Bob. “Xerox doesn’t want to help you. None of them do. They’re all using you. Deep down, you know they despise you. You’re a burden.”

“That’s not true!” Yelena screamed from the opposite side of the room. IV drip wires wrapped around her throat so tight her eyelids fluttered and her words were caught on her tongue. 

“Isn’t that right, Xerox?” said the Void, his cool thumb slipped beneath your chin to tilt your head up as he regarded you with those cold, blank eyes. “You chose the darkness. You chose me.”

“I came…” The weight was growing stronger. The words felt like thorns in your mouth, painful to speak. What was he doing to you? “I came to help him.”

The Void tilted his head. Then, you felt the coldness close around your throat. The edges of your vision darkened. If your hands weren’t pinned back, you would’ve been clawing at your neck for breath.

“I told you… he doesn’t want your help. He’s pathetic. Why would he deserve it? Deserve you? Now tell him. Tell him the truth. It’s what he needs to hear… some tough love.”

When you opened your mouth this time, words spilled out that weren’t yours. “I don’t want to help you,” you found yourself saying. Not to the Void, but to Bob. Your Pal. You gasped, a cold tear slipping down your cheek. The words came out grated, as if someone had forced you to swallow razors. “I never liked you, Robert. You’re nothing. In fact, worse than that. You’re an active hindrance. A thorn in everyone’s side. I wish… schkk—I wish you had stayed dead when they shot you down.”

“That’s right,” murmured the Void. “Good.”

“Please stop,” Bob ground out. You weren’t sure if he was saying that to you or to the Void. 

His dark counterpart laughed a deep, rumbling noise. “Robert the Hero. Doesn’t sound right, does it? Fake. Like a comic book story. What a joke.”

Walker was close to prying himself out of his confines. 

The Void flicked his wrist. All the glass from the beakers and volumetric cylinders in the lab exploded. Crystal shards scratched at the team’s face, leaving everyone with stinging, bloodied cuts. The Void’s hand slipped away from your throat to pull out the piece of glass that had embedded into your skin. 

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said, almost a whisper. It would’ve sounded sincere if it hadn’t sounded like an automated message. “You do enough of that to yourself. Did you enjoy what I showed you? The darkness has been kind to you, hasn’t it? The only one you can trust is yourself.”

“Yes,” you choked out, and your head bowed into a nod even though you hadn’t wanted to. “I deserve to relive it all. All the worst parts of me. I’m just as bad as I thought I was.”

Bob was breathing heavily, expression twisted into one of pain. The Void was hurting you. He was hurting you. 

“I’m stronger than you,” Bob told his alter-ego, trying to sound more confident than he was. “I can beat you.”

The Void grinned. It was a terrifying sight. Wolfish. Predatory. “Let’s see.”

The shadowed figure finally stepped away from you, and you seemed to lean forward, as if chasing his touch. Once the Void was far enough, Bob watched you recoil with a trace of disgust to your expression. At yourself or at him?

“It wasn’t me,” you croaked, misty eyes now glued to Bob. Not the Void. Just Bob. “Palindrome. It wasn’t me.”

And Bob believed you. He trusted you. With a determined nod, he ran forward and swung a punch to the Void. The dark mass hit back with equal ferocity, sending Bob sprawling to the ground. Glass dug into his skin.

“Get up, Bobby,” Walker gruffed. “Get up!”

“You thought you would be some great man? Some savior?” taunted the Void as he kicked at Bob. “You can’t even save yourself.”

You watched in horror as the Void picked Bob up by the scruff of his sweatshirt, and struck him three more times. 

“We will always be alone.”

The room began to shift, elongating. The entire group was pulled further and further away from Bob and the Void. Bob watched the team go—his friends grow smaller with the distance—and blew out a choked breath. Alexei was bleeding profusely from his head. Yelena’s face was turning blue from the cords cutting her airway. Ava, Bucky, and John were still working against their bonds. Bob glanced at you hanging limply behind the shelf, staring at nothing in particular with glazed eyes. No doubt that was the Void’s doing. 

Bob turned. His lips curled angrily. Then he launched himself at the Void with a mangled cry. He began punching the figure with all his might. To his fury, the Void only smiled, unhurt.

“There we go,” the Void whispered in a mocking manner. “Show them how strong you are.”

The room began to crack and crumble. Darkness began to eat away at Bob the more he struck his darker self. His shoes were swallowed first, now beginning to crawl up his shins. 

“This isn’t right,” Bucky gruffed. 

“Bob, stop!” Yelena coughed out. Having had enough, Alexei strained as much as he could to push the weight off of them. Just enough to let Yelena wriggle loose. She slipped out with a pained groan, tore the IV off her, and began running towards Bob. The room shifted to try to stop her—throwing cabinets and beakers and tables at her, but she lithely dodged each one. 

By the time she got to Bob, the darkness had seeped up to his neck. 

“I’m here,” she said, wrapping her arms around Bob from behind, trying to hold him back. Bob kept hitting the darkness, relentless.

“It will always be just us,” the Void told him, almost comforting. “I’m the only one you can rely on.”

Yelena held onto him tighter. “I’m here, Bob,” repeated Yelena. “You’re not alone.”

Finally, Bucky managed to tear himself free. He helped Walker get free, and Walker then stalked over to push the shelf off of you with a grunt. You collapsed with a dizzy intake of breath. Ava and Alexei were quick to free themselves afterwards, bonds slightly loosened—it seemed that Yelena’s words of comfort were actually helping. 

The rest of the team ran towards Bob, Yelena, and the Void. 

“We’re all here,” Yelena told her friend. “We’re here for you, Bob.”

You kneeled down beside him, hand wrapping around the wrist that led to a now-bloodied fist. The team piled together, all holding Bob—and each other. In the tangled mess of limbs and arms, Bob began to weep. His head knocked against yours as he sobbed, and you held him all the tighter. 

“Let it out, Pal,” you said. “We’ve got you.”

Then the entire group fell backwards. Your spine hit the rough surface of a broken road. After blinking several times and adjusting to the sudden onslaught of light, the city of New York came back into view. The shadows were slowly but surely melting away. 

The team slowly struggled to their feet. People were gradually but surely returning from the Void’s realm.

You sniffled, wiping an errant tear with your sleeve. The Void’s hold on your mind was still fresh, and you certainly felt a little worse for wear. You felt Bob’s concerned hand on your shoulder, and you turned and enveloped him into a sudden, tight hug, yanking him close. He emitted a noise of surprise, but his arms wound around you out of instinct. 

“I’m so sorry,” you said, breathing shallow and rapid. “I don’t wish you died. I don’t think you’re a burden. I think you’re really sweet and cool and—” Your words were spoken so quickly and pretty muffled into the fabric of his sweatshirt that Bob didn’t really catch them.

Bob held you until your breaths mellowed out a bit. Even patted your back a few times for good measure. There were no complaints on his end for the hug, but he wasn’t very sure why you were giving him one. 

“This is nice,” he started, uncertain.

“Sorry, I didn’t ask if I could hug you,” you whispered once you pulled away, cheeks flushed.

“You don’t need to ask,” he said, almost too quickly. There was a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks. “You don’t ever need to ask to hug me. It’s nice. I like it.”

Walker came to stand beside you, having done a quick survey of the premise. “You were great in there, Bob.”

Bob blinked at the bearded man and smiled. That was probably the nicest thing Walker has ever said to him. Too bad he had no clue what he was talking about. “Thanks, Walker,” he said, still smiling goofily. “In—wait, in where?” Finally, Bob took a glance around. There was wreckage everywhere. Had the Avengers totaled New York yet again? “Woah. What happened here?”

“You don’t… remember?” you asked, eyeing him with kinked brows.. “Did you hit your head a bit too hard?”

Bob patted down his skull. “Feels normal.” He laughed a bit—a nervous, knee-jerk reaction. “Sorry, I’m a bit confused.”

“Are you okay?” Yelena asked, looking at him with nothing but concern. 

Bob’s brows twitched, still completely lost. “Yeah. I’m fine. Why’s everyone looking at me like that?”

“Are you serious?” Alexei deadpanned. “We were in crazy rooms of despair and misery and—”

“Thanks, Alexei,” you cut in, giving the giant of a man a pointed look. “You did good, Bob. I can explain the details later. For now—”

Your reassurance was cut off by Valentina shrilly speaking into a phone, only a few yards away. You could feel anger twist your insides just from seeing her. 

“I’m going to kill that woman,” Alexei gruffed.

“We can’t kill her. We have to take her in,” Bucky said with an exasperated sigh. It was clear that he had plenty of experience being the voice of reason. 

“What happens when he regains his memory?” Walker asked. “Will we have to go through that all over again?”

Yelena shook her head. She took Bob by the elbow and began leading him towards Valentina. “Okay. Come on, Bob.”

“I’m going with you guys?”

“Of course you are,” you said as you walked alongside them towards Valentina, nudging Bob with a soft smile. “We’re a team now.”

Bob returned your smile easily. “That sounds nice.”

Yelena nodded. “We stick together from now on.”

When Valentina spotted the Thunderbolts coming towards her, she began to hurry backwards. “Hello, team! I know we’re all dealing with very big feelings right now, just give me—give me half a second—!”

She disappeared behind some wreckage. 

As you rounded the broken pieces of construction, you were met with the blinding flashes of about fifty cameras. There were news trucks, reporters, microphones, the entire shebang. Even a podium for Valentina to stand behind as she hushed the audience. A small part of you thought about all the dried blood on your face and body—it was a relief your suit was dark, or it would’ve looked like you were mauled by a bear. Or, more likely that you were the one that mauled the bear. 

“What’s going on?” Bob leaned closer to whisper to you.

“No idea,” you whispered back.

“Cool.” The smile that appeared on his face was boyish and lopsided. “It’s nice not being the only one who’s confused.”

“Are we live?” Valentina asked one of the cameramen. Once he nodded, she began speaking with a shiny, rehearsed smile. “For years, I have been working secretly to develop a new age of protection. Today, the citizens of the United States need that protection. Thanks to my hard work, they got it. Ladies and gentlemen… meet the new Avengers.”

Avenger? You? That didn’t sound quite right. The Avengers were heroes. They were a beacon of light and hope and occasional destruction of city-folk. You were… 

Just a person trying to do better.

The Thunderbolts stared at each other in a mixture of disbelief and disdain. Bob began to clap loudly, but you put a hand on his, forcing him to lower them down. 

“What?” he asked, still completely miffed, and you shook your head with an I’ll tell you later look. Bob nodded solemnly and put his hands behind his back, which made you hold back an amused grin. The snaps coming from the cameras seemed to flare with every tiny movement you made, so you weren’t too keen on giving them anything to pick apart. 

Yelena strode up to Valentina. She covered the microphone, leaned down, and said, just loud enough so she and the rest of the team could hear. “We own you now.”

This time, you didn’t bother trying to smother your smile. The cameras went crazy.

“Have you seen the news?” Bob asked you, settling down next to you on the couch. He handed you the steaming mug of tea, made just the way you liked. His knees knocked against yours. 

You glanced away from your crossword puzzle and took the mug with a warm smile. “Thanks. Seen what? I haven’t checked ever since news of mutants broke out.” You were still waiting for your own test results to come back. The memory of the clinic drawing your blood made you shudder. It did, however, make you feel slightly better knowing that the entire team was squashed in the tiny waiting room right outside the door for you. Even Bucky, who swore up and down that he was busy that afternoon still showed up. You made a mental note to get him a smoothie from that juice shop he liked so much. 

Bob gave you an awkward grimace. “They’re writing about us again.”

This made you roll your eyes. “They’re always writing about us.”

Just yesterday, Ava had shown you an article that said: THE HEROES NOBODY ASKED FOR! IS NEW ALWAYS BETTER? 

Which, to be fair, was a completely valid article. However, counterpoint, none of you asked to be on the Avengers. Except Alexei and Walker at some point, you suspected.

“No,” Bob said, clearing his throat. “Not us like the group, but us us.”

“Oh?” You quirked a brow. “What are they saying this time?” Last week, they were convinced Bob was a special secret agent of sorts. 

Bob handed you the rolled up newspaper he was holding. 

SPOTTED: BOB WHO? MYSTERY MAN SEEN WITH NEW AVENGER ‘XEROX’ — ROMANCE BLOSSOMING IN THE TOWER?

Though you were wearing a baseball cap, that clearly wasn’t enough to hide your identity. Beneath the article title was a grainy image of you and Bob in the park, feeding the ducks. The two of you were wearing identical, fond grins; but you were looking at the ducks, and his eyes were trained on you. There was another photo beneath where the two of you were sharing a milkshake in one of your favorite diners. You let out a sigh—you supposed you couldn’t be going to that diner as often anymore.

“Oh,” you muttered, reading through the first few lines, which turned out to be a whole bunch of speculative nonsense. “They’re always doing this, aren’t they? Making something out of nothing.” 

“Right,” said Bob, nodding. “It’s nothing. You’re right.”

When you caught his eye, noting the slightly crestfallen look on his face, you shook your head, assuming he was just upset about the whole ordeal. You could understand—losing your privacy overnight wasn’t something you were very keen about, either. “Try not to pay too much mind to the news people. I guess we just have to lay low for a while. It’ll die down. They’ll move on to the next big trendy thing in a minute or two.”

“Yeah, of course,” Bob said. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt. “Does this mean we have to stop going to the park together?”

“No,” you reassured. “We just have to put on some better disguises. I’m sure Valentina could scrounge up the money. After all, she kinda has to do whatever we want now.”

Bob smiled, all awkward and endearing. “Good. Yeah. I… I like the time we spend together.”

“I like it, too,” you said, lips upturned. Bob had to force his eyes away. It was nothing. Right.

You patted his leg and returned to your crossword puzzle. You were about halfway through the crossword book that Bob had bought for you from the musty cornerstore two blocks away. It was the first gift you’d ever gotten from someone. 

Yelena walked into one of the Tower’s many common areas an hour later to find you and Bob leaning against each other, dozing away. Your puzzle book was discarded to the side, pencil sticking out one of the pages to mark your place. Bob’s mouth was slightly agape and he looked about two seconds away from slipping and face-planting painfully into the boniest part of your shoulder. Your legs were intertwined with his in a position that certainly couldn’t have been comfortable. Yelena regarded the two of you with a downturned smile. 

“Okay, you sleepy lovebirds,” she muttered, grabbing a neatly folded blanket from the corner of the long couch and draping it over the both of you. You stirred ever so slightly, mumbling something under your breath, then settled back closer to Bob. “Sweet dreams.”

The two of you were startled awake just as Yelena was leaving and Alexei stormed in, loudly complaining about how this lady in the grocery store wouldn’t buy the Avengers Wheaties cereal box even though he’d explicitly recommended it to her.

You rubbed your eyes tiredly, standing up to stretch upwards like a feline after a long nap. Bob watched you with a sleepy grin. “Ooh, that just reminded me. I need to go pick up some ingredients for soup night tomorrow. Walker hates tomatoes, so tomato soup is off the menu.” 

With no hesitation whatsoever, Bob asked, “Can I come with you?” 

You thought distantly to the news reports. Let them think what they want. Whatever you had with Bob, you liked it just as it was.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’d love that. We can stop by the library afterwards, too. I’ve heard they’ve got a new copy of…”

Alexei and Yelena watched the two of you head out, animatedly discussing some sort of new mystery book, shoulders practically pressed up to each other. 

“Are they—” Alexei sent his daughter a pointed look. “You know?”

“I’m not speaking about this with you,” Yelena curtly said, turning on her heel. “But no, not yet. Ava and I have a bet going on.”

This made a devilish grin spread over Alexei’s face. “He makes it obvious, the way he looks at Xerox. I give them a week.”

Yelena scoffed. He was such an optimist. She gave them three months at the very least. “You’re on.”

[fawninthetrees]

xerox ; robert reynolds ; part two.

part one. | part three.

pairing ; robert (bob) reynolds x reader, thunderbolts & reader

synopsis ; you had one last job before you were free. no more splitting, no more deaths. unfortunately, that job seemed to rope in four other assassins and a... a man in hospital-wear?

words ; 11.8k

themes ; action, angst, slowburn, the beginnings of romance

warnings / includes ; much more intense violence/gore/death than in part one, suicide, self-harm, human experimentation, child abuse, reader has the ability to split into multiple bodies (think dupli-kate from invincible), foul language, mentions of pregnancy, everyone's mental health sucks!

a/n ; the support so far has been so sick guys! thank you so much! i initially wanted to cover all the events of the movie in two parts and move on to avengers tower type of stuff in the next part but i decided this part was already long enough and was itching to post LMAOO regardless, i hope you all enjoy!

main masterlist. read on ao3!

There was rarely a time in your early life when you weren’t being under surveillance. Cameras, everywhere. Nurses making their rounds. Scientists probing you. Surgeons with their hands on you, over you, inside you. 

But once, when you were sixteen, there was a black-out in the facility, which you later learned to be a total power outage through the entire city. No cameras to watch you. The nurses who had been drawing your blood scurried out with owlish eyes, spooked. Moving gingerly, you pulled the needle out of your arm, bandaged it with the gauze on the medical cart, and glanced out of your barred window. The past few weeks, the scientists had been trying to use your DNA to perfect biological cloning technology. As revolutionary as it sounded, you really didn’t like the idea of someone having to live your reality, death and pain constantly hovering over your shoulder.

For a few minutes, however, you got to be alone with yourself. Nothing but you and your own thoughts. You began to shake, but you didn’t register it. The only thing you clearly remembered was the scalpel on the medical cart. A pale silver, but reflecting the hazy green of the emergency exit signs from outside your cell. You’d always thought the sign taunted you. Exit here, just in case you have to, even though you can’t.

The blade was cold in your touch, cutting the warmth of your skin. 

You watched the blood drip down the first arm, and then sliced through the next. It hurt, of course it did. But then it wouldn’t hurt anymore, and it would all be over. 

Your shaking had intensified so much that the bed frame rattled like bones. Then, you began to split. Whether it was subconscious or your body’s natural, instinctive reaction, you weren’t sure. You sobbed, a mangled noise caught in the back of your throat, trying to merge back together. But this had never occurred before—you had never tried to stop yourself from duplicating. Typically when you split, you carried forth the same wounds as the original, but that wasn’t the case this time. 

It was as if your body had stored a clean, woundless back-up in case of a singular copy’s dire emergencies. You still felt it—the throbbing, searing pain on your arms—but no signs of the gash on you at all. You were wiped clean from your choice. A fresh restart. 

That was the first time you had to watch yourself die by your own hand. You tried to give your copy some sense of comfort during the last few moments, but it felt futile knowing you craved the very same thing. You never tried committing suicide again. Mostly because, well, you were a walking paradox. Unkillable, yet you’ve died a thousand and one deaths.

And so—when you watched Valentina’s cavalry pierce poor, innocent Bob with round after round of bullets, a guilty, nasty part of you thought about how lucky he was to be able to die so quickly. Of course, you felt terrible as soon as the thought entered your mind. You rather liked Bob and his warbly doe eyes, his skittish but considerate demeanor, and his eagerness to help. It was an awful shame you didn’t get to know him better. You were still reeling over seeing him in your nightmare—was that your mind playing cruel tricks on you or was Bob less innocent than he came off to be? 

His sacrifice certainly wasn’t going to be in vain. Walker had begun to drive the truck out of the compound down winding, sandy paths. 

Except—it seemed Bob was a lot more similar to you than you thought. When someone shot you down, another cropped right back up. Bob, to your relief and utter confusion, did just the same.

The streaking figure across the sky was no star. It was flailing about amongst the grey clouds and bore the pale, baggy silhouette of hospital clothes. 

Bob. Your Bob. He was alive!

“Palindrome,” you whispered in awe, face just about pressed up against the warm glass of the truck’s window. It was only a few seconds that he was suspended up in the air, but it felt like ages. Then, he began to plummet back down to the earth. “Oh, no.” 

His landing was not a graceful descent—in fact, the impact was so massive that it sent a strong gust of wind billowing across the base, knocking your truck clean off its path. The vehicle tumbled in rotation as it made its way down the sandy slopes. You would’ve likely gotten a concussion from being jostled about had you not split yourself into as many copies as you could fit, which was nearly forty, and stayed nice and tight amongst your own nervous copies.

It landed on its side, and you reabsorbed all the duplicates into one body. Moonlight spilled into the vehicle when John hacked at the truck’s metal with his shield. It caved noisily beneath the initial strikes, then eventually split. You might not have liked the man, but he was impressively strong. Was he super-serumed up just like the previous Captain America? The scientists in Madripoor that had been working on you were sure as hell trying their best to make their own formula of super serum, to no avail. 

“Oh,” he said, peering into the dark belly of the truck and seeing your deer-in-headlights expression. “I was worried you’d died in here. Good.”

“Xerox,” Yelena had said, helping you climb out of the truck. You took caution to avoid the sharp edges of the gap Walker carved for you. “Are you okay? Did you see that?”

You nodded. “That was Pal—Bob. Right? I wasn’t just seeing things?”

“Not unless all of us had a collective hallucination,” Ava put in. The group began to walk away from the totaled truck. There was no point in trying to get it up and running now—it was ruined beyond saving from the crash.

“Weirder things have happened,” you said, looking around the great expanse of nighttime desert. “Where did he land? Maybe we can help him.” 

“On the other side of the base. We couldn’t possibly get to him in time before Val and her crew,” Yelena said. Then, she handed you a file. “Valentina did this. To test on someone like that… it’s inhuman. She plans to use him.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, then you looked down. It was designs of superhero suits—a collage of striking gold and blue, all sharp angles and bold flares. Lacking all the soft gentleness you would’ve attributed to Bob. It even had a cape. 

“The power of a thousand exploding suns? Golden Guardian of Good?” Ava read over your shoulder, scoffing. “That’s a mouthful.”

“Sentry,” said Walker, taking the case file from you, to your annoyance. He wrinkled his nose in distaste as he took a quick gander. “Very shiny. I didn’t think any of them were still around.”

“Did you know about this?” you asked. 

Walker shoved the file back into your awaiting hands. “There was a rumor that O.X.E. had some kind of big breakthrough. I don’t know much, but whatever it was, it was apparently way too extreme. Test subjects were dying. And then when the government looked into it, Val shut it down, and she put me on clean-up duty. I was meant to take care of him.”

“Take care of him,” you scathingly echoed. “Kill him.”

“Well, yeah,” John bit back. “We all were sent to kill each other. Haven’t you gotten over it by now?”

Your eye twitched. “I’m sorry I haven’t warmed up to the idea just yet!”

Ava drew a large, heaving sigh. It seemed she had no energy left to bicker. “Let’s just get home without getting caught.”

John, to your delight, found cactus berries for everyone to eat. You were starving. When you thanked him, quietly, he twisted his mouth to the side and nodded. Not embarrassed, not prideful, but… something more muted, as if he wasn’t sure how to accept gratitude. 

The rest of the group ate and walked in relative silence, save for the occasional complaint, grumble, and irritated tongue-click. 

The Red Guardian—and Yelena’s adoptive father, which you later came to find out—had come to pick her and everyone else up in the middle of the desert, waving his arms about and screaming like a madman. He was a giant of a man, so large that he had to drive his beat-up limo hunched over the steering wheel, despite putting his seat as far back as it would go. His shoulders were broader than the sticky leather seat itself. He donned a shoddy red suit that looked like it belonged in a museum dedicated to decades-old artifacts. And he was terribly loud, always spouting out something about collaboration, family, and the terrific rag-tag team the lot of you made. He seemed intent on calling the group the Thunderbolts in honor of Yelena’s peewee soccer team.

You found him rather amusing, even if he was obnoxious, overstimulating, and smelled of stale tortilla chips.

Both Yelena and Alexei were arguing about the next course of action—the former wanting to hunker down and hide, while the boisterous latter seemed intent on defeating Valentina with the power of… friendship. You decided to stay silent on the matter. You couldn’t deny that going home sounded like a brilliant idea. But… so did saving Bob. 

Before a proper conclusion could be reached, Walker announced a convoy approaching the limo from behind, three chunky vehicles gaining speed. Alexei tried to engage “defensive measures”, but he’d forgotten which of the several buttons to press, and instead engaged a “party mode”, where the lights turned flashy pinks and purples, and a ridiculous EDM song began to blare from the built-in speaker system, nearly shocking you into splitting. 

And then the gunshots started firing. Walker made himself useful by deflecting the majority of the bullets with his shield. Ghost tried to climb out one of the windows, only to be met by a piercing blast of concentrated, high-frequency sound waves, instantly disabling her suit’s phasing abilities. Yelena currently had nothing but a gun, and Alexei was busy driving. That left you.

With a determined puff of breath, you multiplied once, then climbed out the car window. Distantly, John barked at you to stay behind the shield but he went largely ignored. 

This was going to hurt like hell. But, on the plus side, you never really knew if you had a limit to the number of clones you could produce before you exhausted yourself. Maybe today you could find out. Within the blink of an eye, there were a hundred of you, growing exponentially by the second. 

Yelena realized what you were doing before the others. You were forming a human wall. 

One of the military vehicles plowed right through the weakest part of the wall, your blood and guts splattering every which way, staining the sand a deep shade of crimson. Another tried to swerve around, but ended up skidding too quickly, tipping over and crashing to the side, tires moving fruitlessly in the air. Your copies, still multiplying, swarmed the vehicle like angry, hell-bent ants, slipping into the open windows and pummeling the few soldiers in there. You could feel the bullets empty into your body, but you swallowed down the pain and kept going. But exactly as you told Yelena before—limited bullets, inifinite of you. And good Lord, did it hurt like—well, like you were being run over a thousand times over because you quite literally were. 

The remaining car was taken care of by an explosion so loud that it seemed to reverberate through the very ground. Initially, you wondered if someone from the car had thrown back a grenade, but when you caught sight of the sleek motorbike, you knew it was a newcomer. 

You heard Walker distantly yell, “Bucky!”

And true to his word, It was Bucky Barnes, in the flesh. Your eyes widened ever so slightly. You reabsorbed your copies—the few remaining that were still alive—and watched from a distance as he swerved past the last car’s gunfire, pinned a cable to its underbelly, and fell back to hold the wire down with his metal arm. The car flipped in the air as if it were an omelet on an oiled skillet. You blinked, impressed. 

Then, to your dismay, Bucky took off his sunglasses, and proceeded to shoot an explosive disk at Alexei’s limo. Similar to the previous car, it did an uneven pirouette before crashing onto the road upside-down. You winced, hoping none of them were killed in the crash. Even if they weren’t your friends, you thought that killing them went a step too far. 

Bucky was a little ways ahead of you, but he turned and fixed you with an expectant stare. Was he going to shoot you, too?

But you should’ve known—Bucky Barnes was smarter than that. He pulled out a different gun—and when he shot, electric ropes shot out as if they were sticky webs. You came crashing to the ground as they wound about your body, spasming with the sharp current frying your skin. To your panic, duplicating was not an option if you were bound. 

“If—” you choked out as he drew nearer to you. “If you’re going to kill me, please do it quickly.”

The ex-Winter Soldier looked down at you with a cocked head. “I’m not going to kill you. You’re evidence.”

Bob couldn’t remember the last time he woke up in a nice bed. In fact, this was probably the nicest bed he’s ever been in. His fingers twitched beside him—silk sheets. Just from that, he knew that this wasn’t his home (thank God for that), nor was it a hospital. He sat up.

There was a woman sitting by his bedside, watching him.

“Hi,” she said, voice soft and meticulously tender. “How are you feeling, Robert? Are you comfortable?”

He stared at her for a moment before awkwardly saying, “Yeah.”

She nodded in satisfaction. “Good, good. My name is Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.”

The name immediately had Robert backing up to the headboard, pointing an accusatory finger at her. “No, you—you tried to kill us!”

She began shushing him as if he were a child throwing a fit. On the glass table beside her, she put down what looked and sounded to be a metal plate.

“Let me explain. Would you like that?”

Bob stared at her for a moment, before looking down at his hands fidgeting with the silk. “Yeah,” he whispered. 

“You signed up for a medical study, which was, as advertised, at the cutting edge of human improvement. But not everybody could handle the amount of greatness that we had in mind—”

As she spoke, Bob took to looking around. The room was rather empty save for the bed, the glass table, and the chair Valentina was sitting on. Where was he? He hoped he wouldn’t have to stay here long… he didn’t like empty spaces very much. The blankness of the walls always made him worse than usual. When he was younger, he wasn’t even allowed to put up posters because his father would tear them down the minute he saw them. Bob swallowed the lump in his throat, realizing he hadn’t been listening to what Valentina was saying.

“Where—where is everyone?” he asked, interrupting her long-winded explanation. “Xerox? Yelena?”

“Xerox?” she repeated, pulling a distasteful face. Bob frowned. “Yelena… Oh, Bob, those people you were with… they’re not honest people. They’re criminals. Villains, really.”

Bob inched closer to the headboard until his back was flush against the leather. “No, but they… they helped me.” 

Well, if they weren’t here, he hoped everyone managed to get to safety. That he was useful for once in his damn life and not just… in the way.

Valentina stood up from the chair and sat down on the bed, inches away from him. Bob stiffened at the sudden movement.

“Let’s just forget about them for a bit. Let’s focus on you,” the woman said, “and how perfect you are.”

Perfect? Him, perfect? Perfect Bob. It sounded like an oxymoron. An embedded contradiction.

“You always thought of yourself as the victim. But you overcame it! You went to Malaysia—you were lost. You were searching for something, someone to help you. And you found me,” she crooned. 

Bob could feel his breath hitch in his throat. “How do you know about that?” 

It was embarrassing—mortifying, even—that someone found out that he was looking for help because he was a pathetic loser who couldn’t do anything on his own, as if he even deserved help to begin with. And now she was confronting him about it! Bob wanted a hole to open in the ground so he could crawl inside of it and hide away for the rest of his stupid life.

“I know all of it,” Valentina assured, though it wasn’t very reassuring. “I know about your mom’s mental illness, I know about your addiction, your juvenile record, and, you know—I even know about the times your father—”

Bob felt his insides seize at the mention of his father. “Stop!” he said, hands immediately coming up to cup his ears. “No, I didn’t say you could know that.” The lights began to flicker, a dangerous hum filling the room.

Valentina shook her head, scooching even closer. “Robert, I know everything about you—and I still want you to be my guy! All the bad things you’ve done… and I accept it. I accept you. Isn’t that what you want? To be chosen? No one else sees it. But I do. I see you. And I think, Robert, that your past is what makes you so special.”

At this, Bob could feel a small part of him cave. She wanted him. Out of all people, she thought he was capable! Capable of what? Did it even matter? He was picked. Wanted, chosen, special, needed, valuable, a true asset!

That was what he wanted. Yes, a dark voice whispered in the back of his mind. She’s your ticket out. You won’t be a useless fucking loser anymore. 

Then, Valentina took his hand. His eyes narrowed a fraction. He dove into her mind and he saw it all—her father, the tears on her chubby nine-year-old cheeks, the bullet in his chest. When he pulled away, he regarded her with a mixture of pity and confusion. 

This woman was just as sad as him. Was everyone equally messed up in the head or did he just attract like-minded people?

Valentina cleared her throat, trying her best to give him a warm smile, but it ended up looking more like a grimace than anything. “Would you excuse me for just a moment?” she said, getting up from the bed. She looked a bit frazzled. Bob supposed being forced to live your most traumatic memory again did that to someone. 

Before she could leave, she picked up the metal disk. He caught a glimpse of the shiny golden S engraved on the front side.

Your ticket! the dark voice hissed. You fucking idiot.

“No,” he croaked out, scrambling away from the headboard. “No, wait!” He swallowed the bile in his throat. “I can control it.”

She smiled, victorious. “Great,” she said. Then, she turned and left, leaving Bob alone in the empty room.

Bucky Barnes was very good at ignoring you. He only seemed to listen after tying the super soldiers up with bent metal rods, and you, Ava, and Yelena with special power-defusing cuffs. And even then, he dismissed everyone trying to tell him about Bob, Project Sentry, and how Valentina betrayed all of you. He made a scathing remark to John about his wife and kid deciding to leave him—it was clear the two had a tense, troubled history. 

Finally, after about half an hour sitting around and wasting time, Bucky got a phone call. Who with, you didn’t know. Someone close to Valentina, maybe. But she mentioned Bob, and suddenly Bucky straightened. His scowl deepened upon realizing that this group of misfits and criminals—were telling him the truth all along.

“So…” he said after hanging up the phone. “Bob.”

“Bob,” the rest of the group echoed in both exasperation and relief.

“We have to help him,” you said, emphatically wriggling your wrists and shoulders to indicate the cuffs. “Valentina is only going to hurt him or use him to hurt others.”

“Or both,” Ava chimed.

Bucky thought on it for a long second, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Finally, he stalked over and uncuffed you, Yelena, then Ava. He unwound the metal pipe around Alexei as if he was snapping a string. He paused behind Walker, clearly unhappy to let him back on his feet, but he also broke him free of his bonds.

“You guys know Valentina,” he said. His eyes met yours. “Like you said—people are going to get hurt. And if your knowledge of this Bob can help… then you’re coming with me.”

“Us?” Yelena said, incredulous. “Bucky, you have the wrong people. Isn’t there anyone else you can call? Thor?”

“Off-world.”

“Captain America?” you asked, venturing a glance at Walker.

“Busy. Out of the country.”

“The Hulk?” Ava asked.

Bucky shook his head, patience wearing thin. “Listen. I’ve been where you are. You can run, but it catches up. It doesn’t go away. I’m giving you guys the opportunity to do something about it now. It’s either you come with me, or it’s a prison cell. Take your pick.”

Alexei needed no convincing. “This is great!” he roared. “All of us will be fighting together, like a team!”

More reluctant, Yelena drew in a breath. “Stop Val. Save Bob.”

You nodded. “I’m in.”

Walker pursed his lips. “Fine,” he gruffed.

Ava nodded, solemn. “Come on, then.”

Alexei looked around with a wide, oafish grin on his face. “YES!” he yelled. “Come on, then, you slowpokes! What are we waiting for?”

The plan to save Bob was really no plan at all—which was to be expected from a group of mercenaries and assassins who were typically used to working alone. 

Crash into the Avengers Tower. Beat up the guards. Find Valentina. Take care of her (you still weren’t very sure what this bit meant). Save Bob. Easy, right?

Well, crashing into the tower and beating up the guards certainly were a piece of cake. Finding Valentina, which you suspected to be one of the harder steps, turned out to be handed over to you on a silver platter. 

Her voice echoed on the intercom, effectively halting everyone mid-punch or mid-kick. As for Bucky, he dropped the guard he’d been strangling. “Jesus, you guys,” Valentina sighed. “I literally just had a new drywall installed. Should’ve known you lot would mess that up, too. I left the door unlocked for you. Come up.”

Yelena stood beside you, chest heaving. “Think it’s a trap?”

“Probably,” you said. “But do we have a better plan?”

“We didn’t have one to begin with,” Ava retorted. She gestured to the elevator. “Come on.”

The elevator took the group up to one of the very top floors of the tower. You stepped in with wide, scrutinizing eyes. Most of the original Avengers were dead now, weren’t they? Dead or retired. A vague memory of heroism and destruction. You were gone during the Blip—and you thanked God for that—so the Avengers bringing you back was more of a curse than a blessing on your end. 

“Crazy, isn’t it?” Valentina greeted everyone from behind an island counter. There was the pop of a champagne bottle as she poured herself a glass. “Think of all the monumental fights that happened exactly where you’re standing. I mean, I don’t really care—the place wasn’t cheap, but it’s got good optics.”

That’s all she ever seemed to care about, wasn’t it? Image. Branding. It was no wonder she always sent you on undercover missions. You weren’t marketable. No little girl or boy would buy your figurine when there was an Iron Man or Black Widow to pick from. 

“It’s over, Valentina,” Bucky said, expression stoic. “This ends now.”

“Congressman Barnes,” Valentina greeted, voice snippy. “I never thought you’d have a promising career but—you managed to disappoint even the lowest of expectations. Not even half a term, huh? Yikes.”

“We’re taking you in, Val,” Walker interrupted. 

This made her laugh, though it was inauthentic and hollow. “I don’t think so… junior varsity Captain America.”

His hand fell on his gun, and he only paused when Bucky said his name with a warning tone.

“It’s good to see you, Ava. Yelena. You look awful, by the way. You sure you’re really ready for that public-facing role you asked me about?” 

“Eat shit, Valentina.”

“Where’s Bob?” you said, feeling the tensions creeping up until it felt near suffocating. “What did you do to him?”

“Xerox. I thought you wanted to leave… And yet here you are. Just makes me wonder why you haven’t left. You had every opportunity to. Are you getting attached already? That was always a weakness of yours, wasn’t it?” She took a long sip from her champagne flute. “You know, he asked about you. Even mentioned the little nickname you gave him. Palindrome, right? It’s a little bit of a mouthful, but that’s just me.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Why were you still here? You didn’t owe Bob—or anyone else in this group—anything. 

Your evident hesitation made Valentina’s eyes light up. “Just look at you guys! So adorable, really. I sent you all down there to kill each other… but you made nice, and you form a team. Who would’ve thought?”

To your relief, Bucky cut through her condescending tirade by asking for Mel, who you assumed to be the person he was on the phone with earlier. 

“Oh, Mel,” she said, dismissive. “She’s having loyalty issues. But I’m just so grateful that she stuck around long enough to lure you all in—”

As she spoke, Bucky took the flute of champagne from her hands and placed it onto the island with a resounding tink. His hand then moved to close around Valentina’s throat.

But it never got there.

His hand froze mid-air, vibrating with strain. Bucky stared down at his arm with furrowed brows.

With a sharp, satisfactory grin, Valentina hummed, “I’m not alone. Robert?”

You turned to see a pair of dark boots descend down a flight of stairs. Each step revealed more of him—flashy golden suit, cinched blue belt, a dark, flowing cape. Blonde hair. A confident stance. A set jaw.

“Oh, my God,” Yelena said. 

“That’s Bob?” Bucky asked, words laced with disbelief.

“He looks… a little different from when we last saw him,” Ava said.

You stayed silent, watching him with what could only be described as a crestfallen expression. This wasn’t the Palindrome you remembered. What did Valentina do to him?

“It is my great honor to introduce to you… the Sentry,” Valentina beckoned to Bob as if he were a shiny new car she was parading. 

Bob nodded at the rest of you. “Hey, guys.” His eyes met yours for a brief second, but he was quick to look away. Your insides felt as if they were curdling.

“All powerful. Invincible. Stronger than all the Avengers combined—and soon to be known as Earth’s mightiest hero,” Valentina announced. 

Ava narrowed her eyes at him. “Have you dyed your hair?”

Bob blinked. “Yeah. It was—”

“My idea,” Valentina nodded.

“I preferred the dark hair,” you said, though you weren’t sure if you were saying it to spite Valentina or because it was the genuine truth. Perhaps both. “Brought out your eyes.”

Bob looked at you as if you had slapped him.

“People love a classic hero,” Valentina said. “All the strongest and most beloved were blondes. The original Captain America, blonde. Thor, blonde. Hawkeye, blonde-ish. Black Widow… blonde for some time.”

The mention of her sister made Yelena flinch. Valentina didn’t seem to notice.

“So what’s the plan?” Bucky said. He wasn’t here to discuss frivolities like hair color.

“You haven’t figured it out yet, Bucky? Geez. Did all that time in the freezer slow your brain down? At least you’re kinda cute—you have that going for you.” 

“You’re not going to hurt people?” the Guardian intervened, his inflection cautious and mildly confused. 

“Oh, no! No. I’m not going to hurt people. I’m going to hurt you—or, well, Robert here will. You see, the press is on their way here now. They’re going to witness the magnificent power of Sentry as he takes down this group of ruthless, rogue agents. Thus beginning a new era where I decide how to keep the American people safe, answering to no one. I’ll be unimpeachable.”

“Cool,” you snarked, lips curling into a snarl. “You got the villain monologue down and everything.” Then, you turned to Bob, trying your best to ignore Valentina’s presence right beside him. Your expression softened considerably. “You told her about Palindrome?” 

Bob froze, as if pondering if he’d done something wrong. “Ye–yeah. I thought—at first, I thought it would be a cool hero name. But yeah, uhm… Sentry is… better. Rolls off the tongue.”

You nodded. “Okay. No, you’re right, maybe. But Palindrome—same backwards as it is forwards, remember? Are you the same Bob I met down in the vault? Because I liked that Bob a lot more than what I see in front of me now.”

Initially, Bob’s expression crumpled. Any hope of seeking the team’s approval was immediately crushed under the heel of your foot. Then, to your dismay, Bob—no, Sentry’s—face grew stony.

“Valentina fixed me,” he said. “I’m better now.”

The team’s incredulous, disbelieving faces told Bob all he needed to know. None of you were on his side. 

Valentina nodded at the tall, now-blonde super. “Sentry. Your first mission is to take out these criminals.”

Bob swallowed heavily, brows furrowed as he weighed between his options. “I don’t want to hurt you guys,” he finally said. “Why don’t you just turn yourselves in?”

With a scoff, Walker said, “You don’t wanna do this, Bobby.”

A vein jumped on the side of Bob’s neck. “You can call me Sentry.”

“Please, you do not need to listen to her,” Yelena attempted to rationalize. 

“See?” Valentina exclaimed. “It’s exactly as I told you—they don’t think you’re good enough.”

“That’s not true!” Yelena asserted. “You can trust me, Bob! I know you!”

Bob fixed her with what looked to be a disappointed gaze. “I don’t think that you do.”

“But—you saved us. Only a few hours ago, you sacrificed yourself to help us escape. What was any of that for?” You loathed how your voice broke with desperation. 

Bob had a hard time swallowing around the rising lump in his throat. His mind darted back to the many times you died just to save him. None of this sat well with him, but… it needed to be done. 

“It was a mistake,” he said, simply. He chanced a glance to Valentina, who nodded in approval.

You recoiled like a wounded snake. 

“ENOUGH TALKING!” Alexei bellowed. Bob still wasn’t very sure who he was. “No one messes with the West Chesapeake Valley Thunderbolts!” 

Just as Val incredulously echoed, “Thunderbolts?” Alexei stormed forward, pulling all his weight into a barrel-slam. It was as if he were hit with a solid, thick wall of dense lead. Bob punched him straight in his round belly, and like a ragdoll, the super soldier went flying backwards, crumpling into a red heap against a nearby pillar. Immediately, the rest of the team dove into action and attacked Bob. Save for Yelena, who was still trying to make peace with him.

Bob was, as Valentina had alluded to earlier, seemingly invincible. Able to fling people away without having to disturb a single dyed hair on his head. Stop special-grade bullets mid-air and send them right back to the assailant at twice the speed. Withstood the sharpest of blades and the strongest of punches. 

You split into two copies. One to assist Walker, whose shield was embedded into a sofa, nearly cleaving it in two, and another running after Valentina, who you spotted hurrying to hide behind a corner.

“You lied to us,” you hissed, grabbing the collar of her dress shirt, yanking her close until her nose was inches away from yours. “I came to you for help. I thought you would save me.”

“I did,” she said, and began to howl and laugh like a maniac. “When I found you, you were an empty husk of a person. Now look at you. Fighting with your friends. There’s a spark that wasn’t there before. You know, if I hadn’t only stuck you to do my dirty work, you would’ve made a good hero. A lack of planning on my end, I’m afraid.”

You felt your eyes sting with the promise of tears. “I could’ve been good?”

“Yes,” she said, shrugging. “But you chose this. Sure, I gave you the order… but who, in the end, pulled the trigger?” Without giving you the chance to respond, she lolled her head to the side. “Oh, Sentry!”

Bob, who had been preoccupied smashing Alexei through the windows as if he were playing frisbee, snapped his head to see you holding Valentina. Immediately, his eyes started glowing, and you were ripped away. 

There was no hope in fighting against a man more powerful than all the Avengers rolled into one. You braced yourself for pain, squeezing your eyes shut. But there came none. Instead, when you cracked an eye open you were suspended midair outside of the penthouse. 

“How far?” he asked you, striding to the window, its frames lined with shattered bullet-proof glass.

“What?” you choked out, trying to struggle, though you knew that if he dropped you, you would be met with a terrible fall that was likely worse than the fall you had in the vault. 

“How far until you lose control and get a seizure?” He turned and bent Walker’s shield until it caved around his arm, now shaped like a curved taco shell. “I don’t want to send you too far. I’d prefer not to hurt you.”

“Fuck you!” you snarled. A second too late, you realized that was probably a terrible thing to say to him when he had you floating mid-air, completely at his mercy. “Wait, Bob—please just stop this—!” The rest of your plea was lost to the wind as he sent you streaking further away from the tower, going so fast that the civilians down below must have thought you were some sort of high-tech drone.

Your duplicate watched in horror, knowing there was nothing you could do for your other-you. You were taken farther and farther until you grew limp, convulsing hundreds of feet above the ground. The copy in the tower crumpled to the ground with not a sound. Ava, battered and bruised, dragged your convulsing body away from the action so you were less likely to be struck while down. 

And when the rest of the team gave up and turned to retreat, Bucky was the one to pick you up by the scruff of your dark suit, dragging you into the elevator. He was missing his metal arm, which Sentry had torn off like it had been attached with paperclips, hot glue, and a dream. Ava picked it up on her way into the lift.

Sentry advanced on them with glowing eyes. “Forgetting someone?” 

He reached out behind him, fingers curled into a beckoning motion. Your copy came flying back into the tower, crashing into the rest of the team as if you were a bowling ball, and the rest of the team the pins. Your skull rattled as it knocked into Alexei’s, and you gasped for air, dizzy and disoriented. If you had been more lucid, you would have apologized to Walker for your boot crashing into his eye. That was likely going to leave a terrible bruise. Yelena took your arm and wound it around her to help you stay upright. 

“I’m so glad you were able to catch a glimpse before your… retirement,” Valentina called out, slinking out from the shadows she was hiding in. “Camera crews are assembling. Finish the job, Robert.”

Bob waited until the elevator doors slid to a close, hiding all the fearful faces from his observant gaze, and he could hear the lift move downwards.

“Finish the job?” he echoed. “No. They’re not a threat to me, so… why do I need to kill them?”

Valentina gave him a tight-lipped smile. “You need to do what I say, Robert.”

Confusion washed over his polished, golden features. “Why?” 

“Why?” Valentina parroted, almost mocking. Bob could feel anger bubble behind his chest.

“I just…” He exhaled in frustration. “I feel like there’s an… unwarranted power imbalance here.” He motioned between himself and her. “There needs to be more of a collaboration between us if this is going to work. Like, the hair—I don’t know. Maybe I should have more of a say.”

She rolled her eyes to the broken ceiling from when Yelena was flung upwards. “Don’t let those idiots get to your head. The blonde is great.”

“You sure?” said Bob, now pacing back and forth, wringing his hands. “I thought I liked it, but now I’m not so sure. Xerox said—”

“Forget Xerox!” Valentina exclaimed. “That’s enough about the hair, Sentry.”

“It’s not just about the hair, though—”

“Well, you keep bringing it up, so—”

“No, but it’s everything!” Bob asserted. “It’s all of it. My suit, my name, my missions. I didn’t even want to be Sentry. I thought Palindrome was good. It… it is good.”

As if she were consoling a child, Valentina relented. “Fine. If you want to change it so bad, be my guest. We’ll just have to re-do all the paperwork all over again and—”

Bob shook his head. “Why would a god… take orders from anyone at all?”

Brow cocked, Valentina slowly said, “I think you’re throwing the word god a bit loosely there.”

“No,” Bob said. “No, but you said… I was all-powerful and stronger than the entire team of Avengers, which includes at least one God. I’m starting to think that maybe you don’t actually know what I am, nor what I’m capable of. I’m the only survivor from the medical trials, aren’t I? I’m the only one left.” 

Val drew in a sharp breath, folding her hands behind her back. “Oh, God.”

“Yeah,” said Bob. “Yes, that’s more like it.”

Before she could draw out the emergency killswitch, Bob took her by the throat and sent her flying across the room, pinning her against a metal support frame. She struggled against his hold fruitlessly. 

“You were going to turn on me,” said Bob, narrowing his eyes. “Just like the rest of them.”

“I’m not afraid of you, Robert,” she croaked before he began to apply more pressure against her esophagus.

“It’s not Robert you have to be afraid of,” he said, voice as cold as the steel behind her. His eyes began to glow a terrifying golden hue and—

There was a click and a zap, and Bob’s hold on her loosened. Sentry crumpled to the ground in a heap of golds and blues. Mel was standing behind the pair, holding the killswitch, legs shaking. 

“I want a raise,” she demanded. 

“Fine. Order cleanup and it’s yours,” said Val, gripping the support beam with shaking hands. “And help me up, damn it!”

The two eventually stumbled into the elevator, leaving Bob’s body alone in the Avengers tower. A minute after Val abandoned his corpse, however, the floors darkened to an inky blank around him. His suit and face was now pitch-dark, absent of any sort of color. His finger twitched. First his pinky, then his thumb, then his whole hand. By the second minute, he began levitating, floating a meter above the cracked floors.

Bob, Palindrome, Robert, Sentry, the Golden Guardian of Who Gives a Flying Fuck—what he used to be… was gone now. And what was left of him?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

Just a void.

Once outside the Avengers Tower, you reabsorbed into one body, stumbling away from Yelena to sit on the curb. Behind you, they were bickering, as always. Alexei wanted to go somewhere to regroup and try again. As if being completely beaten to a pulp wasn’t enough. 

Yelena was done. She was fed up with his bullshit. 

“Stop. Just stop! There is no us. There is no we. Bob is gone. He changed into that thing—and there is nothing that any of you could do about it,” she hissed. 

“Right,” Ava said, rolling her eyes. “And what did you do, exactly? Because I seem to remember you getting your ass beat way worse than mine. Xerox didn’t even try to stop Bob.”

“Because we didn’t stand a chance. There was no point,” you gritted out, getting back up to your feet. “Sorry I prioritized getting Valentina over him.”

“Fat load of good that did!” Ava exclaimed, throwing her hands up in defeat.

“Yeah, I get it! I suck! We suck! We’re all terrible!” Yelena screamed. The pedestrians going about their day eyed the rag-tag team of bloodied, bruised, suited individuals. “Ava, you’re not a hero. You’re not even a good person.”

Ava pretended that didn’t sting. “Bitch,” she muttered under her breath. 

When Alexei tried to step in, Yelena exploded at him, too. “I am not your little girl! I haven’t heard from you or seen you in a year! It’s like you didn’t even care about Natasha. You’re a fucking fake and a coward and I wish you never pretended to be my father!”

Walker stepped in, saying, “Come on, go easy on him.”

“Oh, so you’re nice now?” Yelena said, rounding on him.

“What, is it my turn?” he said, tone flat and unimpressed.

“No, you know you’re a piece of trash,” Yelena spat. “And so does your family.”

“Jesus,” said Walker, grimacing at how much that stung.

“Yelena,” you said, weary of her biting your head off for even speaking. “We tried. We failed. We move on. Can we do that?”

“No, but you didn’t try, did you? I saw you talking to Valentina. You could’ve done it. You had the chance to kill her, but you didn’t. You were too caught up in your selfish fantasies of self-fulfillment that you’ve doomed the rest of us!” 

You nodded, withdrawing, clearly wounded. “Mhm. Okay.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe it was your fault. You had Valentina. You did. Was your need for closure selfish? Did it cost everyone a potential victory?

“We lost,” Yelena said with a tone of finality. She turned around and began to stalk away. “This fucking team was built on delusions. We were never anything, not ever.”

Alexei went after her. The rest of the group slowly started to retreat into different directions. You looked to Bucky with sad eyes he thought resembled a kicked animal.

“Does it get better?” you asked. Your gesture to your head was vague and hard to interpret, but Bucky seemed to understand you almost instantly.

“I wish I had an easy answer for you, kid.” The soldier pursed his lips, regarding you with furrowed brows. “But not like this, it won’t. Not like this.”

“What are you going to do now?” you whispered. 

Bucky clenched his jaw. It was clear that he had no idea what the protocol was for a situation like this. “As of now, Valentina’s intentions with Sentry are unclear. She could be planning out acts of terrorism as we speak. I think the smartest course of action is evacuating the premises.” He eyed you warily. “You can go home. You’ve done enough.”

“I want…” The words lodged in your throat. “Bucky, I know I’m a fuck-up. I’ve done bad, terrible things. I know there’s no coming back from that. But I want to help. I want to be better.”

Something flickered in the blue of his eyes, as if he was recalling something. Someone. “Okay, kid,” he said after a brief pause. “Come on.”

The two of you began to usher the crowd away. You multiplied a few dozen times, scattering to hoard as many people you could off the streets. You heard many shocked whispers amongst the passerby. Is that Congressman Barnes? No fucking way—that’s the Winter Soldier. Is Captain America around? Why are there four of you? That’s freaky as shit.

“I’m Xerox,” you hurriedly told a family loitering by the entrance to the subway station, trying your best to seem friendly but you likely came off as a raving lunatic instead. “You need to evacuate the premises now. Someone dangerous could be—”

“Are you a hero?” a little girl asked you in wonder, taking a gander at your suit, which was battered and covered with dust and soot. It definitely had seen better days. “You don’t really look like one.”

The mother flinched with shock, and began to frantically apologize for her daughter’s lack of a filter.

“It’s okay,” you reassured. “I’m no hero. I just want to help.”

The mother nodded, looking worried. “That’s good enough for me.” It was clear she was no stranger to bizarre happenings in New York. “Come on, Adeline. Let’s go.” They hurried off, and you returned to Bucky, who was urging a gaggle of laughing teenagers not to go into a theater.

“Good. You cleared the street,” said Bucky. “We should set up some sort of blockade to—”

Abruptly, Bucky stopped mid-sentence. His eyes were trained up to the sky, and you turned to follow his gaze. You felt your heart painfully skip a beat in your chest.

A dark figure floated above the city. Caped, with a suspiciously similar silhouette to Sentry. You squinted, straining your vision, barely making out his arm extending out as if he was mimicking grabbing something.

“That’s—” Bucky started.

“Bob,” you breathed out. 

You watched in horror as helicopters came flying towards him. At first, you thought they were press, just as Valentina promised—until they started shooting at him. The bullets seemed to disappear through him. And after a second, the helicopters came crashing down, as if they were completely void of pilots. The vehicles spun into construction scaffolding, pieces of unfinished building breaking apart and falling to the world below.

You and Bucky were quick to move then, yanking civilians out from under falling rubble. You multiplied more in an effort to help, even if it meant getting hit by falling concrete once in a while. You caught sight of Alexei using a metal sign he had torn off a shawarma restaurant to protect citizens as they escaped down the subway tunnels, and Yelena saving an elderly woman from getting run over by a news van. Another helicopter was tumbling down from further down the street, and Ghost phased through rapidly-rotating blades to shove people out of the way. Walker was stopping a large slab of concrete from crushing a civilian. Your clones being as scattered as they possibly could meant you had eyes in all directions. A dozen of you hurried over to help him push it upwards, gritting your teeth with the solid weight.

Another one of you dragged the woman out from underneath. She was sobbing profusely, praying in a language you couldn’t understand. But she signed something—the tips of her fingers touching her lips, then beckoning out to you. Thank you.

It felt like something finally clicked into place. Was it inherently selfish of you to want to help people because it made you feel good? Or did it cancel out?

Yelena joined, then Alexei. Ghost phased through and began pushing beside Walker. Bucky put all his weight in with his metal arm, and the slab finally tipped over, crashing onto the street with such a weighty thud that the asphalt beneath fractured. 

And then the crowd around you started clapping. Quietly at first, but rising up to a deafening applause. 

“Mom?” called a small child across the street. There was a shadow falling over her, growing larger. Alexei was there before anyone else, shielding the little girl from the falling debris that would certainly have crushed her to death if he hadn’t been there. 

“You’re safe, little one,” said Alexei, kneeling down to her height. 

The dry tear tracks on her chubby cheeks bent as she smiled at the red giant before her.

And then she was gone. The only thing left in her place was a shadow in a blobby, vague shape of the girl, spilling darkness across the street. 

You flinched. Three civilians across from you disappeared in the same way. Then two to your left. Another pair behind you. Your eyes flew upwards to see Bob—Sentry—whoever that was descend down to hover only a few feet above the totaled street. 

“You will all know the truth,” his voice echoed. “You can’t outrun the emptiness.”

Screams erupted around you as people fled every which way. You reabsorbed your copies closest to the growing darkness.

“Come on,” Walker said, yanking your arm. “We need to get people off the streets!”

You nodded, rushing ahead to direct people into the subway tunnels. 

“Yelena!” you heard Alexei bellow. “Yelena, what are you doing?”

You turned to see her calmly striding towards the darkness. 

“No,” you whispered. Your closest copy ran towards her, only a few feet away.

“It’s like you said,” the dark figure murmured, his voice somehow loud enough to reverberate in your ears like a piercing drum. “We’re all alone. All of us.”

“Yelena,” you said, taking her forearm. “Yelena, we have to go.”

“Aren’t you tired of fighting?” Bob asked. Instinctively, you knew he was speaking to you. “I can fix it. Let me fix it.”

“No, Pal,” you said, edging away from the darkness, which was eating at the streets. “I don’t need you to fix me, thank you. I haven’t even tried a licensed therapist yet. Come, Yelena, please.”

Your words fell on deaf ears. The assassin shut her eyes and let out a sigh. She stepped forward, and then she was gone. You heard Alexei’s anguished screams somewhere behind you. 

The Void reached out and turned a few more panicked civilians into shadows. Before you knew it, the entire street was blackened, leaving only a circle around you.

“I promise it won’t hurt,” The Void said. He floated down to the ground to stand in front of you, just inches away. If you reached out, you would be able to touch him. You could feel the cold emanating off his body, tempting you to just—fall into him. “The darkness will keep you company.”

“And that’s you?” you whispered, trying your best to look for an expression in such a blank canvas of darkness. “Where’s Bob?”

“He doesn’t matter anymore,” the Void said.

“He does,” you insisted. “He did to me.” 

“You died for him,” he said, tilting his head.

You nodded. “And I would again.”

“Why?” 

The question, though it was just one word, weighed heavy on your mind. 

“I’m not the bad guy I thought I was,” you finally told him. You stared at the darkness closing in around you with a heavy heart. “If I went in—would I find Bob in there?”

“Your Palindrome is hiding. He isn’t looking to be saved.” The Void motioned around him. “Look at this mess. This is no place to be. Step in with me. I’ll take care of it. You wouldn’t need to worry anymore… it’ll be just us.”

“Can I try to help him in there?” Your voice broke, betraying your own fear.

The black figure’s shoulders trembled as if he were smothering a laugh. “You can try. I’d advise giving up, though. It’s never worth it. Now… come.” 

His arms spread wide open, inviting you in. Distantly, you could hear Bucky and Ava call out your name. You swallowed heavily.

Then you fell forward, willingly embracing someone for the first time since you were a child. He was solid for a split moment. All frigid edges and hard muscle—then you collapsed into the soft darkness, and sat back up in a hospital room.

It was the same vision as before. Two of you. One whole and one cut. Without hesitating, you kicked at the surgeon, grabbing a scalpel from the table and slitting his throat. You watched the blood gush out of his wound, dark and bubbling. Too dark to be real blood. 

You turned to free yourself with the missing leg from the operating table, slicing at the leather straps. And then, to your shock, young-you began attacking yourself. 

It was disorienting to see your younger self snarl like a rabid animal, leaping from the table to claw at you, sinking sharp little teeth into your exposed throat. You made a garbled noise of pain, and threw the kid off. Your throat stung, but it was a hollow pain that was quick to fade back into nothingness.

“I’m you!” you screamed before the kid could leap at you again. “I’m you!”

“I don’t know you,” little Xerox said. “You’re not real. You can’t be real.”

“I’m you,” you whispered. You put the scalpel down and approached like one would a nervous horse. “Honey, I’m you. I’m okay, see? You’ll be okay.”

Little-you swayed. You began to cry in the silent way you always did, smaller frame wracking. 

“It’s okay,” you said with an aching chest, gathering yourself up in your arms, stroking the back of your head. “Let it out. There you go.”

The child began to bawl into your chest. You reached over for the scalpel again, slicing through the bonds of the young, whole copy. “Here. Take care of each other, okay?”

“Okay,” the whole copy said. Both of the younger Xeroxes held onto one another. You stepped away with a heavy heart. 

“Palindrome?” you called out. “I’m here to help. Come talk to me.”

Nothing.

With a huff, you turned out of the hospital room, shoving your way through the doors, though not before bidding a respectful goodbye to your younger copies. 

You found yourself in a different room now. You had escaped the hospital at this point, now living off of the meager cash you earned by doing the dirty work for Madripoorean crime lords. Your gun was trained on a woman as she sobbed for mercy.

“I didn’t mean to—” she said, wiping away the snot that dribbled from her nose. “I didn’t mean to, please tell him that for me!”

“I don’t speak to my bosses,” your copy said. Current-you rounded about to look at Xerox’s face here. Gaunt, with glassy, empty eyes. “He wants you gone.”

“I can be gone!” she said, nodding. “Please. You can pretend you shot me. I can disappear without a trace.” When you said nothing, she doubled over, wailing out a pitiful noise. “I’m pregnant. Please. Please don’t kill me.”

Past-Xerox’s eyes thinned into disbelieving slits. “Lie.”

“I’m not lying. Please. It’s his child, but I can—”

“Don’t tell me that.”

“Just listen to me—”

Your younger self began to panic. “Why would you tell me that?”

“If you could—”

“Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up.” 

“Is—do you need money? Is it money you want?”

“No.” Yes. “I don’t need your charity.”

The woman shakily pulled out crumpled bills from her bag, offering them to you. You gritted your jaw and pulled the trigger. She fell to the ground with her mouth frozen mid-plea. Before you left, you took the bills and stuffed them into the holey pockets of your ratty trousers. You took the silver necklace the woman was wearing for good measure, too.

Your past-self looked up at you. “Do we ever find out?”

“What?”

“Was she really pregnant?”

You stared down at the dead woman with horror. “I don’t know.”

Young Xerox straightened, shoulders rolling back. “We don’t deserve to be forgiven. Not for this.”

“Maybe not,” you agreed. “You’re also only eighteen.”

“So?”

“You were just a kid. You had no money. No food. No home. No family. Just you and your copies and your missions,” you whispered. 

“Tch. Sounds like a bunch of excuses to me.”

You nodded. “It is. It’s an excuse.” You looked down the alleyway. “Valentina will be coming soon for you. She’ll be too good to be true at first. A house. A clean bed. Food in the fridge. But it’ll be the same thing again. Just… repackaged.”

Your younger self’s face twisted with a rotten, disappointed look. “Do we ever get better?”

“We try to. I try to.”

“Good.” Young Xerox pointed up a rusty metal fire escape. “He’s up there. Your Pal.”

“Thank you,” you said, about to make your way up the creaky stairs. 

“He wants to be found,” said young you, nodding. “He made the rooms easy for you. There’s a lot worse that he could’ve chosen from.”

“That’s true,” you whispered, though saying that made you feel all the more terrible for the dead woman on the ground. “What about you? Did you want to be found?” you asked, unsure if you wanted to hear the answer.

“You tell me,” retorted the younger you with a wolfish grin. “I’m all me, remember?”

Your final room was when you lived in America. It was dark in your apartment. You were twenty-five, looking a bit healthier than you had been at eighteen, but still just as miserable. 

You stood in front of the stove, which held a pot that was almost halfway full to the brim with boiling water. “Come on,” younger you said, jumping up and down on the spot, psyching yourself up. Your palm raised to slap yourself across the face. There was a belt tied about your mouth so as to not alert your civilian neighbors. “Come on, you pussy,” you hissed at yourself from behind the belt.

Inhaling sharply, you held in your breath as you dove your left palm into the boiling water. Your scream went muffled behind the belt. After a moment, you quietened to an occasional whimper. It was strange being able to watch yourself and not feel the same pain. Only the memory of it. 

It wasn’t self-harm. At least, you didn’t consider it to be so back then. It was endurance training. Upping your pain tolerance for the job. Valentina had told you that you were useless if you couldn’t handle dying. 

Younger you pulled your raw hand out of the pot after about thirty seconds, then flipped the tap on to its coldest setting, sticking it beneath the running water with a hiss. The next day, you would repeat the process until you lost all feeling in your left hand, frying your nerve endings to shit. 

As the room began to repeat itself, you stopped your younger self from plunging a hand into the pot by grabbing your wrist. “You don’t have to do that,” you said. “There are other ways of being strong.”

“If I don’t do this, I’m not worth anything,” young Xerox said. “I’d be nothing.”

“Hurting yourself doesn’t make you stronger,” you deadpanned. “You’re wasting your time.”

“I know,” the younger you sighed. “I know that. It’s just nice to be in control of my own pain for once.”

“You can be in control by consciously trying to keep yourself from the pain,” came your soft whisper. “Hurting yourself doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t solve anything. It only leaves scars that take way too long to heal. Trust me. I still can’t wear short sleeves.”

Younger you barked out a laugh. “Oh, I know. Summers are hell.”

“I know, right?” you said, smiling for the first time in what felt like weeks. “You know what helped me?”

“What?”

“Crosswords,” you said. “The newspaper stand across the store sells entire books. Every time I had the urge, I would solve a puzzle or two.”

“Oh, God,” said the younger you, bending over into what sounded like a cry, but it was actually an incredulous laugh. “I’m such a nerd. Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Just try it. It helps.”

“Okay, okay. Fuckin’ geek.”

“We memorized every single element of the periodic table in order by age eleven. I think the nerd has been with us all along.” As you spoke, you took the pot of boiling water and carefully maneuvered to dump the steaming water into the sink. You turned off the stove, and past-you didn’t try to stop you.

Your younger self smiled, and it was clear that it’s been a while since that happened, too. Then, it faded just as quickly as it appeared. “What happens if we run out of crosswords?” 

The question didn’t seem to be just about crosswords.

“We can always try something new,” you ventured. “I think crocheting is all the rage now.”

“Is it?” 

“Probably not, no. I’m not really sure what the youths are into these days. It changes every other day.”

“We can try crocheting anyway,” past-you laughed. Then, you pointed into the living room. “Look in the TV. He should be there.”

“Alright. Thanks.” You gave mid-twenties Xerox a two-fingered salute, then turned to sit down in front of your TV. 

And, as promised, you caught a glimpse of Bob in the reflection. When you looked behind you, it was still your regular, dim living room. You looked back at the dark screen.

“Found you,” you murmured, a relieved smile playing at the corner of your lips. “Hey, Bob? It’s good to see you.”

Despite the warped reflection, you could see him look up with a creased, almost guilty expression. “You found me,” he said, surprise evident in his tone. 

“I did. Will you let me in?”

“... I don’t know.”

“Please let me in. I want to help.”

Bob drew his knees up to his chest, cradling himself. The darkness surrounded you, and in the blink of an eye, you were in a different room. One you didn’t recognize. Your gaze flickered about. This must’ve been one of Bob’s rooms. An attic, by the looks of it—cluttered with junk.

You sat down in front of him. He was fiddling with a Rubix cube. “I used to love solving those,” you told him. 

“I’m—” He handed the cube over to you. “I’m pretty bad at it. I don’t know.”

“I was, too,” you said, turning the squares about. Bob watched you gradually align the colors together—orange with orange, green with green, blue with blue. You struggled with one side, but after moving back a few paces, you managed to get it right. “I was terrible at it. I kept giving up and reshuffling. But I got better with time and practice.”

You handed the cube back to him, neatly solved. Bob took it with soft fingers, inspecting your handiwork. “I don’t know how.”

“I can help you,” you said. “And there’s people out there that can help you, too.”

“They can’t help me. I’m… broken.”

There was screaming coming from downstairs. The noise made Bob flinch, his hands instinctively going up to his ears. As you listened, you could hear a man yelling, the sound of skin smacking skin, and the sound of a woman crying. A little boy intervened. More thuds, smacks, a shattering glass. The woman began berating the little boy for making things worse. It made your heart sink low to the pits of your stomach.

“Just ignore that, please,” he said once the noise died down, as if afraid you would leave now. “Don’t mind them.”

You drew in a breath. Tentative, you asked, “Can I touch you, Bob?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice croaky. “Yeah, you can. What are you doing?”

“I’m going to give you a hug. Is that okay?” 

Bob nodded again. His mom used to give him hugs, but that was a long time ago. Before she…

“Yeah,” he said, and he felt shame wash over him when tears pricked the corner of his eyes. You wrapped your arms around his neck and held him. He patted at your back awkwardly, but eventually took to mimicking your embrace when you sank into him, holding you close. 

“This is the first time I’ve hugged someone else in a very long time, you know. I’ve mostly just hugged my clones, as sad as that sounds,” you mumbled into his shoulder. 

“I don’t think that’s sad. I like to hold myself, too.”

“I like your hair like this, by the way,” you said as you tried to pull away, but he was holding onto you rather tightly. “Bob.”

“Oh!” He cleared his throat shyly, forcing himself to relinquish his grasp on you. “Sorry. Thanks. That was nice.”

“It was,” you agreed. There was some more silence. Bob put a fist up to his mouth and began to weep, utterly overwhelmed but nearly silent. You placed a hand on his shoulder, rubbing circles over his back. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

“No, I’m—” Bob let out a quaky breath and began to cry all over again. You scooched closer to him and let your hand lay over his. He enjoyed feeling your fingers trace shapeless patterns over his skin.

“Bob,” you murmured after he began to calm down. “I don’t want to stay here forever. Do you?”

He swallowed around nothing, and avoided the question. “It’s quiet here. Quieter than the other places. The rest are… worse than this.”

“Hm.”

“It’s not me, you know. I wish I could fix it, but I just can’t. I can’t stop it,” he muttered. “It’s—it’s the Void.” 

You nodded. “Could you let Yelena in here, at least? I saw the Void take her. We can help you together.”

Bob blinked back his tears. He nodded. The room slowly rotated ninety degrees, and you could hear creaking footsteps outside. Yelena busted the door open with a sharp kick to the doorknob, which you found amusing, considering the door didn’t look to have a lock on it. The team had a troubling tendency not to check if doors could just open on their own without breaking them down first.

“Bob!” she exclaimed. Then, her brows rose upon seeing you. “Xerox.”

“Hi,” you greeted. Bob waved at her besides you.

“What’s going on?” she asked, surveilling her surroundings in typical assassin-fashion. 

“Therapy session,” you said, only half-joking, patting the spot beside you. 

There was screaming downstairs again. Yelena wandered over to look down the attic’s opening, where she could see a man with a glass bottle in his hands. She looked up at you and Bob, then sat down where you gestured. 

“I’m sorry, you had to live through this, Bob. And listen,” she said, lips pursed, meeting his watery gaze. “What I said to you before was wrong. You can’t stuff it down. You can’t hold it in all alone. No one can. Nobody should. We have to let it out. We have to spend time together. Even if it doesn’t make the emptiness go away, I promise you… it’ll make you feel lighter.”

Bob sniffed. “How do you know?” he whispered.

“Because it already has for me,” Yelena told him. “I found a team of people I could trust.”

At this, she looked to you, expression apologetic. “I’m sorry for what I said to you out there, too. You are not selfish. In fact, you’re probably the most selfless person I know. Not a lot of people are willing to die all the time for others.”

“Thanks, Yelena,” you said, simultaneously warm with sincerity and stiff because you weren’t at all used to receiving compliments. “So what do you say, Bob? Will you help us get out of here?”

To your delight, Bob nodded. You smiled, taking his hand. Yelena’s eyes bounced between the two of you—absent-mindedly wondering what the two of you were talking about before she arrived. She didn’t have much time to dwell on it, however, because the walls and furniture began to hum with a low-tone frequency.

“Look out!” Bob exclaimed, pulling Yelena down as a lamp flew across the room, nearly hitting her square in the head. A plastic kiddie chair whizzed into his back, striking him painfully. There were papers—monstrous childhood drawings—flying every which way. The curtains broke free of their hooks on the railing, wrapping around you and Yelena. Bob hurried over to try to claw the fabric off you, to no avail. It wouldn’t let go.

“Just try to get used to it, okay?” he called out over the whizzing and smashing of objects. “If you try to resist—the pain only gets worse!”

You could feel your vision swim with black dots as you gasped for breath—and all of a sudden, there was a slicing noise, and you were falling to your knees, filling your lungs with air. It was Ava, holding a sharp blade in one hand. 

She nodded at you, helping you up to your feet. “I should start keeping track of how many times I’ve saved you.”

Before you could respond, Walker and Alexei burst in through the walls, followed by Bucky through one of the windows. You only narrowly managed to dodge his metal arm cuffing you across the head with his dramatic entrance. 

“You came for us,” Yelena said, looking at her father with a touched frown. “What did you see? Are you all okay?”

Bucky only shrugged. “Oh, I’m fine. I have a great past, so I’m totally fine.”

“We’re probably going to need another one group therapy session once we’re out of here,” you said, which made both Bob and Yelena smile to themselves, nodding. 

“Thank you guys,” said Bob. “Really.” He was about to say something about how he didn’t deserve this—but when you put a hand on his arm, he bobbed his head again and kept his mouth shut.

“How do we get out of here?” asked Walker, glancing back at the ruined walls. “I’d prefer not to have to go through my rooms again.”

Bob scratched at the back of his head. “As far as I know, it’s just… endless rooms.”

“You said that this was the quietest room, right? That all the others are worse?” you asked, and Bob nodded hesitantly. 

The Thunderbolts team all exchanged determined looks. Alexei cracked his neck, John rolled his shoulders, and Ava flexed her fists. 

You gave Bob a gentle push towards the broken doorway. “Okay, Palindrome. Show us the worst of ‘em. We’ll take on whatever comes our way together.”