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saintobio · 2 months ago

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THE TERMINATOR'S CURSE. (spinoff to THE COLONEL SERIES)

in this new world, technological loneliness is combated with AI Companions—synthetic partners modeled from memories, faces, and behaviors of any chosen individual. the companions are coded to serve, to soothe, to simulate love and comfort. Caleb could’ve chosen anyone. his wife. a colleague. a stranger... but he chose you.

➤ pairings. caleb, fem!reader

➤ genre. angst, sci-fi dystopia, cyberpunk au, 18+

➤ tags. resurrected!caleb, android!reader, non mc!reader, ooc, artificial planet, post-war setting, grief, emotional isolation, unrequited love, government corruption, techno-ethics, identity crisis, body horror, memory & emotional manipulation, artificial intelligence, obsession, trauma, hallucinations, exploitation, violence, blood, injury, death, smut (dubcon undertones due to power imbalance and programming, grief sex, non-traditional consent dynamics), themes of artificial autonomy, loss of agency, unethical experimentation, references to past sexual assault (non-explicit, not from Caleb). themes contain disturbing material and morally gray dynamics—reader discretion is strongly advised.

➤ notes. 12.2k wc. heavily based on the movies subservience and passengers with inspirations also taken from black mirror. i have consumed nothing but sci-fi for the past 2 weeks my brain is so fried :’D reblogs/comments are highly appreciated!

BEFORE YOU BEGIN ! this fic serves as a spinoff to the THE COLONEL SERIES: THE COLONEL’S KEEPER and THE COLONEL’S SAINT. while the series can be read as a standalone, this spinoff remains canon to the overarching universe. for deeper context and background, it’s highly recommended to read the first two fics in the series.

The first sound was breath.

“Hngh…”

It was shallow, labored like air scraping against rusted metal. He mumbled something under his breath after—nothing intelligible, just remnants of an old dream, or perhaps a memory. His eyelids twitched, lashes damp with condensation. To him, the world was blurred behind frosted glass. To those outside, rows of stasis pods lined the silent room, each one labeled, numbered, and cold to the touch.

Inside Pod No. 019 – Caleb Xia.

A faint drip… drip… echoed in the silence.

“…Y/N…?”

The heart monitor jumped. He lay there shirtless under sterile lighting, with electrodes still clinging to his temple. A machine next to him emitted a low, steady hum.

“…I’m sorry…”

And then, the hiss. The alarm beeped.

SYSTEM INTERFACE: Code Resurrection 7.1 successful. Subject X-02—viable. Cognitive activity: 63%. Motor function: stabilizing.

He opened his eyes fully, and the ceiling was not one he recognizes. It didn’t help that the air also smelled different. No gunpowder. No war. No earth.

As the hydraulics unsealed the chamber, steam also curled out like ghosts escaping a tomb. His body jerked forward with a sharp gasp, as if he was a drowning man breaking the surface. A thousand sensors detached from his skin as the pod opened with a sigh, revealing the man within—suspended in time, untouched by age. Skin pallid but preserved. A long time had passed, but Caleb still looked like the soldier who never made it home.

Only now, he was missing a piece of himself.

Instinctively, he examined his body and looked at his hands, his arm—no, a mechanical arm—attached to his shoulder that gleamed under the lights of the lab. It was obsidian-black metal with veins of circuitry pulsing faintly beneath its surface. The fingers on the robotic arm twitched as if following a command. It wasn’t human, certainly, but it moved with the memory of muscle.

“Haaah!” The pod’s internal lighting dimmed as Caleb coughed and sat up, dazed. A light flickered on above his head, and then came a clinical, feminine voice.

“Welcome back, Colonel Caleb Xia.”

A hologram appeared to life in front of his pod—seemingly an AI projection of a soft-featured, emotionless woman, cloaked in the stark white uniform of a medical technician. She flickered for a moment, stabilizing into a clear image.

“You are currently located in Skyhaven: Sector Delta, Bio-Resurrection Research Wing. Current Earth time: 52 years, 3 months, and 16 days since your recorded time of death.”

Caleb blinked hard, trying to breathe through the dizziness, trying to deduce whether or not he was dreaming or in the afterlife. His pulse raced.

“Resurrection successful. Neural reconstruction achieved on attempt #17. Arm reconstruction: synthetic. Systemic functions: stabilized. You are classified as Property-Level under the Skyhaven Initiative. Status: Experimental Proof of Viability.”

“What…” Caleb rasped, voice hoarse and dry for its years unused. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” Cough. Cough. “What hell did you do to me?”

The AI blinked slowly.

“Your remains were recovered post-crash, partially preserved in cryo-state due to glacial submersion. Reconstruction was authorized by the Skyhaven Council under classified wartime override protocols. Consent not required.”

Her tone didn’t change, as opposed to the rollercoaster ride that his emotions were going through. He was on the verge of becoming erratic, restrained only by the high-tech machine that contained him.

“Your consciousness has been digitally reinforced. You are now a composite of organic memory and neuro-augmented code. Welcome to Phase II: Reinstatement.”

Caleb’s breath hitched. His hand moved—his real hand—to grasp the edge of the pod. But the other, the artificial limb, buzzed faintly with phantom sensation. He looked down at it in searing pain, attempting to move the fingers slowly. The metal obeyed like muscle, and he found the sight odd and inconceivable.

And then he realized, he wasn’t just alive. He was engineered.

“Should you require assistance navigating post-stasis trauma, our Emotional Conditioning Division is available upon request,” the AI offered. “For now, please remain seated. Your guardian contact has been notified of your reanimation.”

He didn’t say a word.

“Lieutenant Commander Gideon is en route. Enjoy your new life!”

Then, the hologram vanished with a blink while Caleb sat in the quiet lab, jaw clenched, his left arm no longer bones and muscle and flesh. The cold still clung to him like frost, only reminding him of how much he hated the cold, ice, and depressing winter days. Suddenly, the glass door slid open with a soft chime.

“Well, shit. Thought I’d never see that scowl again,” came a deep, manly voice.

Caleb turned, still panting, to see a figure approaching. He was older, bearded, but familiar. Surely, the voice didn’t belong to another AI. It belonged to his friend, Gideon.

“Welcome to Skyhaven. Been waiting half a century,” Gideon muttered, stepping closer, his eyes scanning his colleague in awe. “They said it wouldn’t work. Took them years, you know? Dozens of failed uploads. But here you are.”

Caleb’s voice was still brittle. “I-I don’t…?”

“It’s okay, man.” His friend reassured. “In short, you’re alive. Again.”

A painful groan escaped Caleb’s lips as he tried to step out of the pod—his body, still feeling the muscle stiffness. “Should’ve let me stay dead.”

Gideon paused, a smirk forming on his lips. “We don’t let heroes die.”

“Heroes don’t crash jets on purpose.” The former colonel scoffed. “Gideon, why the fuck am I alive? How long has it been?”

“Fifty years, give or take,” answered Gideon. “You were damn near unrecognizable when we pulled you from the wreckage. But we figured—hell, why not try? You’re officially the first successful ‘reinstatement’ the Skyhaven project’s ever had.”

Caleb stared ahead for a beat before asking, out of nowhere, “...How old are you now?”

His friend shrugged. “I’m pushin’ forty, man. Not as lucky as you. Got my ChronoSync Implant a little too late.”

“Am I supposed to know what the hell that means?”

“An anti-aging chip of some sort. I had to apply for mine. Yours?” Gideon gestured towards the stasis pod that had Caleb in cryo-state for half a century. “That one’s government-grade.”

“I’m still twenty-five?” Caleb asked. No wonder his friend looked decades older when they were once the same age. “Fuck!”

Truthfully, Caleb’s head was spinning. Not just because of his reborn physical state that was still adjusting to his surroundings, but also with every information that was being given to him. One after another, they never seemed to end. He had questions, really. Many of them. But the overwhelmed him just didn’t know where to start first.

“Not all of us knew what you were planning that night.” Gideon suddenly brought up, quieter now. “But she did, didn’t she?”

It took a minute before Caleb could recall. Right, the memory before the crash. You, demanding that he die. Him, hugging you for one last time. Your crying face when you said you wanted him gone. Your trembling voice when he said all he wanted to do was protect you. The images surged back in sharp, stuttering flashes like a reel of film catching fire.

“I know you’re curious… And good news is, she lived a long life,” added Gideon, informatively. “She continued to serve as a pediatric nurse, married that other friend of yours, Dr. Zayne. They never had kids, though. I heard she had trouble bearing one after… you know, what happened in the enemy territory. She died of old age just last winter. Had a peaceful end. You’d be glad to know that.”

A muscle in Caleb’s jaw twitched. His hands—his heart—clenched. “I don’t want to be alive for this.”

“She visited your wife’s grave once,” Gideon said. “I told her there was nothing to bury for yours. I lied, of course.”

Caleb closed his eyes, his breath shaky. “So, what now? You wake me up just to remind me I don’t belong anywhere?”

“Well, you belong here,” highlighted his friend, nodding to the lab, to the city beyond the glass wall. “Earth’s barely livable after the war. The air’s poisoned. Skyhaven is humanity’s future now. You’re the living proof that everything is possible with advanced technology.”

Caleb’s laugh was empty. “Tell me I’m fuckin’ dreaming. I’d rather be dead again. Living is against my will!”

“Too late. Your body belongs to the Federation now,” Gideon replied, “You’re Subject X-02—the proof of concept for Skyhaven’s immortality program. Every billionaire on dying Earth wants what you’ve got now.”

Outside the window, Skyhaven stretched like a dome with its perfect city constructed atop a dying world’s last hope. Artificial skies. Synthetic seasons. Controlled perfection. Everything boasted of advanced technology. A kind of future no one during wartime would have expected to come to life.

But for Caleb, it was just another hell.

He stared down at the arm they’d rebuilt for him—the same arm he’d lost in the fire of sacrifice. He flexed it slowly, feeling the weight, the artificiality of his resurrection. His fingers responded like they’ve always been his.

“I didn’t come back for this,” he said.

“I know,” Gideon murmured. “But we gotta live by their orders, Colonel.”

You see, it didn’t hit him at first. The shock had been muffled by the aftereffects of suspended stasis, dulling his thoughts and dampening every feeling like a fog wrapped around his brain. But it was hours later, when the synthetic anesthetics began to fade, and when the ache in his limbs and his brain started to catch up to the truth of his reconstructed body did it finally sink in.

He was alive.

And it was unbearable.

The first wave came like a glitch in his programming. A tightness in his chest, followed by a sharp burst of breath that left him pacing in jagged lines across the polished floor of his assigned quarters. His private unit was nestled on one of the upper levels of the Skyhaven structure, a place reserved—according to his briefing—for high-ranking war veterans who had been deemed “worthy” of the program’s new legacy. The suite was luxurious, obviously, but it was also eerily quiet. The floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the artificial city outside, a metropolis made of concrete, curved metals, and glowing flora engineered to mimic Earth’s nature. Except cleaner, quieter, more perfect.

Caleb snorted under his breath, running a hand down his face before he muttered, “Retirement home for the undead?”

He couldn’t explain it, but the entire place, or even planet, just didn’t feel inviting. The air felt too clean, too thin. There was no rust, no dust, no humanity. Just emptiness dressed up in artificial light. Who knew such a place could exist 50 years after the war ended? Was this the high-profile information the government has kept from the public for over a century? A mechanical chime sounded from the entryway, deflecting him from his deep thoughts. Then, with the soft hiss of hydraulics, the door opened.

A humanoid android stepped in, its face a porcelain mask molded in neutral expression, and its voice disturbingly polite.

“Good afternoon, Colonel Xia,” it said. “It is time for your orientation. Please proceed to the primary onboarding chamber on Level 3.”

Caleb stared at the machine, eyes boring into his unnatural ones. “Where are the people?” he interrogated. “Not a single human has passed by this floor. Are there any of us left, or are you the new ruling class?”

The android tilted its head. “Skyhaven maintains a ratio of AI-to-human support optimized for care and security. You will be meeting our lead directors soon. Please follow the lighted path, sir.”

He didn’t like it. The control. The answers that never really answered anything. The power that he no longer carried unlike when he was a colonel of a fleet that endured years of war.

Still, he followed.

The onboarding chamber was a hollow, dome-shaped room, white and echoing with the slightest step. A glowing interface ignited in the air before him, pixels folding into the form of a female hologram. She smiled like an infomercial host from a forgotten era, her voice too formal and rehearsed.

“Welcome to Skyhaven,” she began. “The new frontier of civilization. You are among the elite few chosen to preserve humanity’s legacy beyond the fall of Earth. This artificial planet was designed with sustainability, autonomy, and immortality in mind. Together, we build a future—without the flaws of the past.”

As the monologue continued, highlighting endless statistics, clean energy usage, and citizen tier programs, Caleb’s expression darkened. His mechanical fingers twitched at his side, the artificial nerves syncing to his rising frustration. “I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered under his breath. “Who’s behind this?”

“You were selected for your valor and contributions during the Sixth World War,” the hologram chirped, unblinking. “You are a cornerstone of Skyhaven’s moral architecture—”

Strangely, a new voice cut through the simulation, and it didn’t come from an AI. “Just ignore her. She loops every hour.”

Caleb turned to see a man step in through a side door. Tall, older, with silver hair and a scar on his temple. He wore a long coat that gave away his status—someone higher. Someone who belonged to the system.

“Professor Lucius,” the older man introduced, offering a hand. “I’m one of the program’s behavioral scientists. You can think of me as your adjustment liaison.”

“Adjustment?” Caleb didn’t shake his hand. “I died for a reason.”

Lucius raised a brow, as if he’d heard it before. “Yet here you are,” he replied. “Alive, whole, and pampered. Treated like a king, if I may add. You’ve retained more than half your human body, your military rank, access to private quarters, unrestricted amenities. I’d say that’s not a bad deal.”

“A deal I didn’t sign,” Caleb snapped.

Lucius gave a tight smile. “You’ll find that most people in Skyhaven didn’t ask to be saved. But they’re surviving. Isn’t that the point? If you’re feeling isolated, you can always request a CompanionSim. They’re highly advanced, emotionally synced, fully customizable—”

“I’m not lonely,” Caleb growled, yanking the man forward by the collar. “Tell me who did this to me! Why me? Why are you experimenting on me?”

Yet Lucius didn’t so much as flinch to his growing aggression. He merely waited five seconds of silence until the Toring Chip kicked in and regulated Caleb’s escalating emotions. The rage drained from the younger man’s body as he collapsed to his knees with a pained grunt.

“Stop asking questions,” Lucius said coolly. “It’s safer that way. You have no idea what they’re capable of.”

The door slid open with a hiss, while Caleb didn’t speak—he couldn’t. He simply glared at the old man before him. Not a single word passed between them before the professor turned and exited, the door sealing shut behind him.

Days passed, though they hardly felt like days. The light outside Caleb’s panoramic windows shifted on an artificial timer, simulating sunrise and dusk, but the warmth never touched his skin. It was all programmed to be measured and deliberate, like everything else in this glass-and-steel cage they called paradise.

He tried going outside once. Just once.

There were gardens shaped like spirals and skytrains that ran with whisper-quiet speed across silver rails. Trees lined the walkways, except they were synthetic too—bio-grown from memory cells, with leaves that didn’t quite flutter, only swayed in sync with the ambient wind. People walked around, sure. But they weren’t people. Not really. Androids made up most of the crowd. Perfect posture, blank eyes, walking with a kind of preordained grace that disturbed him more than it impressed.

“Soulless sons of bitches,” Caleb muttered, watching them from a shaded bench. “Not a damn human heartbeat in a mile.”

He didn’t go out again after that. The city outside might’ve looked like heaven, but it made him feel more dead than the grave ever had. So, he stayed indoors. Even if the apartment was too large for one man. High-tech amenities, custom climate controls, even a kitchen that offered meals on command. But no scent. No sizzling pans. Just silence. Caleb didn’t even bother to listen to the programmed instructions.

One evening, he found Gideon sprawled across his modular sofa, boots up, arms behind his head like he owned the place. A half-open bottle of beer sat beside him, though Caleb doubted it had any real alcohol in it.

“You could at least knock,” Caleb said, walking past him.

“I did,” Gideon replied lazily, pointing at the door. “Twice. Your security system likes me now. We’re basically married.”

Caleb snorted. Then the screen on his wall flared to life—a projected ad slipping across the holo-glass. Music played softly behind a soothing female voice.

“Feeling adrift in this new world? Introducing the CompanionSim Series X. Fully customizable to your emotional and physical needs. Humanlike intelligence. True-to-memory facial modeling. The comfort you miss... is now within reach.”

A model appeared—perfect posture, soft features, synthetic eyes that mimicked longing. Then, the screen flickered through other models, faces of all kinds, each more tailored than the last. A form appeared: Customize Your Companion. Choose a name. Upload a likeness.

Gideon whistled. “Man, you’re missing out. You don’t even have to pay for one. Your perks get you top-tier Companions, pre-coded for emotional compatibility. You could literally bring your wife back.” Chuckling, he added,. “Hell, they even fuck now. Heard the new ones moan like the real thing.”

Caleb’s head snapped toward him. “That’s unethical.”

Gideon just raised an eyebrow. “So was reanimating your corpse, and yet here we are.” He took a swig from the bottle, shoulders lifting in a lazy shrug as if everything had long since stopped mattering. “Relax, Colonel. You weren’t exactly a beacon of morality fifty years ago.”

Caleb didn’t reply, but his eyes didn’t leave the screen. Not right away.

The ad looped again. A face morphed. Hair remodeled. Eyes became familiar. The voice softened into something he almost remembered hearing in the dark, whispered against his shoulder in a time that was buried under decades of ash.

“Customize your companion... someone you’ve loved, someone you’ve lost.”

Caleb shifted, then glanced toward his friend. “Hey,” he spoke lowly, still watching the display. “Does it really work?”

Gideon looked over, already knowing what he meant. “What—having sex with them?”

Caleb rolled his eyes. “No. The bot or whatever. Can you really customize it to someone you know?”

His friend shrugged. “Heck if I know. Never afforded it. But you? You’ve got the top clearance. Won’t hurt to see for yourself.”

Caleb said nothing more.

But when the lights dimmed for artificial nightfall, he was still standing there—alone in contemplative silence—watching the screen replay the same impossible promise.

The comfort you miss... is now within reach.

The CompanionSim Lab was white.

Well, obviously. But not the sterile, blank kind of white he remembered from med bays or surgery rooms. This one was luminous, uncomfortably clean like it had been scrubbed for decades. Caleb stood in the center, boots thundering against marble-like tiles as he followed a guiding drone toward the station. There were other pods in the distance, some sealed, some empty, all like futuristic coffins awaiting their souls.

“Please, sit,” came a neutral voice from one of the medical androids stationed beside a large reclining chair. “The CompanionSim integration will begin shortly.”

Caleb hesitated, glancing toward the vertical pod next to the chair. Inside, the base model stood inert—skin a pale, uniform gray, eyes shut, limbs slack like a statue mid-assembly. It wasn’t human yet. Not until someone gave it a name.

He sat down. Now, don’t ask why he was there. Professor Lucius did warn him that it was better he didn’t ask questions, and so he didn’t question why the hell he was even there in the first place. It’s only fair, right? The cool metal met the back of his neck as wires were gently, expertly affixed to his temples. Another cable slipped down his spine, threading into the port they’d installed when he had been brought back. His mechanical arm twitched once before falling still.

“This procedure allows for full neural imprinting,” the android continued. “Please focus your thoughts. Recall the face. The skin. The body. The voice. Every detail. Your mind will shape the template.”

Another bot moved in, holding what looked like a glass tablet. “You are allowed only one imprint,” it said, flatly. “Each resident of Skyhaven is permitted a single CompanionSim. Your choice cannot be undone.”

Caleb could only nod silently. He didn’t trust his voice.

Then, the lights dimmed. A low chime echoed through the chamber as the system initiated. And inside the pod, the base model twitched.

Caleb closed his eyes.

He tried to remember her—his wife. The softness of her mouth, the angle of her cheekbones. The way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, how her fingers curled when she slept on his chest. She had worn white the last time he saw her. An image of peace. A memory buried under soil and dust. The system whirred. Beneath his skin, he felt the warm static coursing through his nerves, mapping his memories. The base model’s feet began to form, molecular scaffolding reshaping into skin, into flesh.

But for a split second, a flash.

You.

Not his wife. Not her smile.

You, walking through smoke-filled corridors, laughing at something he said. You in your medical uniform, tucking a bloodied strand of hair behind your ear. Your voice—sharper, sadder—cutting through his thoughts like a blade: “I want you gone. I want you dead.”

The machine sparked. A loud pop cracked in the chamber and the lights flickered above. One of the androids stepped back, recalibrating. “Neural interference detected. Re-centering projection feed.”

But Caleb couldn’t stop. He saw you again. That day he rescued you. The fear. The bruises. The way you had screamed for him to let go—and the way he hadn’t. Your face, carved into the back of his mind like a brand. He tried to push the memories away, but they surged forward like a dam splitting wide open.

The worst part was, your voice overlapped the AI’s mechanical instructions, louder, louder: “Why didn’t you just die like you promised?”

Inside the pod, the model’s limbs twitched again—arms elongating, eyes flickering beneath the lids. The lips curled into a shape now unmistakably yours. Caleb gritted his teeth. This isn’t right, a voice inside him whispered. But it was too late. The system stabilized. The sparks ceased. The body in the pod stilled, fully formed now, breathed into existence by a man who couldn’t let go.

One of the androids approached again. “Subject completed. CompanionSim is initializing. Integration successful.”

Caleb tore the wires from his temple. His other hand felt cold just as much as his mechanical arm. He stood, staring into the pod’s translucent surface. The shape of you behind the glass. Sleeping. Waiting.

“I’m not doing this to rewrite the past,” he said quietly, as if trying to convince himself. And you. “I just... I need to make it right.”

The lights above dimmed, darkening the lighting inside the pod. Caleb looked down at his own reflection in the glass. It carried haunted eyes, an unhealed soul. And yours, beneath it. Eyes still closed, but not for long. The briefing room was adjacent to the lab, though Caleb barely registered it as he was ushered inside. Two medical androids and a human technician stood before him, each armed with tablets and holographic charts.

“Your CompanionSim will require thirty seconds to calibrate once activated,” said the technician. “You may notice residual stiffness or latency during speech in the first hour. That is normal.”

Medical android 1 added, “Please remember, CompanionSims are programmed to serve only their primary user. You are the sole operator. Commands must be delivered clearly. Abuse of the unit may result in restriction or removal of privileges under the Skyhaven Rights & Ethics Council.”

“Do not tamper with memory integration protocols,” added the second android. “Artificial recall is prohibited. CompanionSims are not equipped with organic memory pathways. Attempts to force recollection can result in systemic instability.”

Caleb barely heard a word. His gaze drifted toward the lab window, toward the figure standing still within the pod.

You.

Well, not quite. Not really.

But it was your face.

He could see it now, soft beneath the frosted glass, lashes curled against cheekbones that he hadn’t realized he remembered so vividly. You looked exactly as you did the last time he held you in the base—only now, you were untouched by war, by time, by sorrow. As if life had never broken you.

The lab doors hissed open.

“We’ll give you time alone,” the tech said quietly. “Acquaintance phase is best experienced without interference.”

Caleb stepped inside the chamber, his boots echoing off the polished floor. He hadn’t even had enough time to ask the technician why she seemed to be the only human he had seen in Skyhaven apart from Gideon and Lucius. But his thoughts were soon taken away when the pod whizzed with pressure release. Soft steam spilled from its seals as it slowly unfolded, the lid retracting forward like the opening of a tomb.

And there you were. Standing still, almost tranquil, your chest rising softly with a borrowed breath.

It was as if his lungs froze. “H…Hi,” he stammered, bewildered eyes watching your every move. He wanted to hug you, embrace you, kiss you—tell you he was sorry, tell you he was so damn sorry. “Is it really… you?”

A soft whir accompanied your voice, gentle but without emotion, “Welcome, primary user. CompanionSim Model—unregistered. Please assign designation.”

Right. Caleb sighed and closed his eyes, the illusion shattering completely the moment you opened your mouth. Did he just think you were real for a second? His mouth parted slightly, caught between disbelief and the ache crawling up his throat. He took one step forward. To say he was disappointed was an understatement.

You walked with grace too smooth to be natural while tilting your head at him. “Please assign my name.”

“…Y/N,” Caleb said, voice low. “Your name is Y/N Xia.”

“Y/N Xia,” you repeated, blinking thrice in the same second before you gave him a nod. “Registered.”

He swallowed hard, searching your expression. “Do you… do you remember anything? Do you remember yourself?”

You paused, gaze empty for a fraction of a second. Then came the programmed reply, “Accessing memories is prohibited and not recommended. Recollection of past identities may compromise neural pathways and induce system malfunction. Do you wish to override?”

Caleb stared at you—your lips, your eyes, your breath—and for a moment, a cruel part of him wanted to say yes. Just to hear you say something real. Something hers. But he didn’t. He exhaled a bitter breath, stepping back. “No,” he mumbled. “Not yet.”

“Understood.”

It took a moment to sink in before Caleb let out a short, humorless laugh. “This is insane,” he whispered, dragging a hand down his face. “This is really, truly insane.”

And then, you stepped out from the pod with silent, fluid ease. The faint hum of machinery came from your spine, but otherwise… you were flesh. Entirely. Without hesitation, you reached out and pressed a hand to his chest.

Caleb stiffened at the touch.

“Elevated heart rate,” you said softly, eyes scanning. “Breath pattern irregular. Neural readings—erratic.”

Then your fingers moved to his neck, brushing gently against the hollow of his throat. He grabbed your wrist, but you didn’t flinch. There, beneath synthetic skin, he felt a pulse.

His brows knit together. “You have a heartbeat?”

You nodded, guiding his hand toward your chest, between the valleys of your breasts. “I’m designed to mimic humanity, including vascular function, temperature variation, tactile warmth, and… other biological responses. I’m not just made to look human, Caleb. I’m made to feel human.”

His breath hitched. You’d said his name. It was programmed, but it still landed like a blow.

“I exist to serve. To soothe. To comfort. To simulate love,” you continued, voice calm and hollow, like reciting from code. “I have no desires outside of fulfilling yours.” You then tilted your head slightly.“Where shall we begin?”

Caleb looked at you—and for the first time since rising from that cursed pod, he didn’t feel resurrected.

He felt damned.

When Caleb returned to his penthouse, it was quiet. He stepped inside with slow, calculated steps, while you followed in kind, bare feet touching down like silk on marble. Gideon looked up from the couch, a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and a bored look on his face—until he saw you.

He froze. The wrapper dropped. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “No. No fucking way.”

Caleb didn’t speak. Just moved past him like this wasn’t the most awkward thing that could happen. You, however, stood there politely, watching Gideon with a calm smile and folded hands like you’d rehearsed this moment in some invisible script.

“Is that—?” Gideon stammered, eyes flicking between you and Caleb. “You—you made a Sim… of her?”

Caleb poured himself a drink in silence, the amber liquid catching the glow of the city lights before it left a warm sting in his throat. “What does it look like?”

“I mean, shit man. I thought you’d go for your wife,” Gideon muttered, more to himself. “Y’know, the one you actually married. The one you went suicidal for. Not—”

“Which wife?” You tilted your head slightly, stepping forward.

Both men turned to you.

You clasped your hands behind your back, posture perfect. “Apologies. I’ve been programmed with limited parameters for interpersonal history. Am I the first spouse?”

Caleb set the glass down, slowly. “Yes, no, uh—don’t mind him.”

You beamed gently and nodded. “My name is Y/N Xia. I am Colonel Caleb Xia’s designated CompanionSim. Fully registered, emotion-compatible, and compliant to Skyhaven’s ethical standards. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gideon.”

Gideon blinked, then snorted, then laughed. A humorless one. “You gave her your surname?”

The former colonel shot him a warning glare. “Watch it.”

“Oh, brother,” Gideon muttered, standing up and circling you slowly like he was inspecting a haunted statue. “She looks exactly like her. Voice. Face. Goddamn, she even moves like her. All you need is a nurse cap and a uniform.”

You remained uncannily still, eyes bright, smile polite.

“You’re digging your grave, man,” Gideon said, facing Caleb now. “You think this is gonna help? This is you throwing gasoline on your own funeral pyre. Again. Over a woman.”

“She’s not a woman,” reasoned Caleb. “She’s a machine.”

You blinked once. One eye glowing ominously. Smile unwavering. Processing.

Gideon gestured to you with both hands. “Could’ve fooled me,” he retorted before turning to you, “And you, whatever you are, you have no idea what you’re stepping into.”

“I only go where I am asked,” you replied simply. “My duty is to ensure Colonel Xia’s psychological wellness and emotional stability. I am designed to soothe, to serve, and if necessary, to simulate love.”

Gideon teased. “Oh, it’s gonna be necessary.”

Caleb didn’t say a word. He just took his drink, downed it in one go, and walked to the window. The cityscape stretched out before him like a futuristic jungle, far from the war-torn world he last remembered. Behind him, your gaze lingered on Gideon—calculating, cataloguing. And quietly, like a whisper buried in code, something behind your eyes learned.

The days passed in a blink of an eye.

She—no, you—moved through his penthouse like a ghost, her bare feet soundless on the glossy floors, her movements precise and practiced. In the first few days, Caleb had marveled at the illusion. You brewed his coffee just as he liked it. You folded his clothes like a woman who used to share his bed. You sat beside him when the silence became unbearable, offering soft-voiced questions like: Would you like me to read to you, Caleb?

He hadn’t realized how much of you he’d memorized until he saw you mimic it. The way you stood when you were deep in thought. The way you hummed under your breath when you walked past a window. You’d learned quickly. Too quickly.

But something was missing. Or, rather, some things. The laughter didn’t ring the same. The smiles didn’t carry warmth. The skin was warm, but not alive. And more importantly, he knew it wasn’t really you every time he looked you in the eyes and saw no shadows behind them. No anger. No sorrow. No memories.

By the fourth night, Caleb was drowning in it.

The cityscape outside his floor-to-ceiling windows glowed in synthetic blues and soft orange hues. The spires of Skyhaven blinked like stars. But it all felt too artificial, too dead. And he was sick of pretending like it was some kind of utopia. He sat slumped on the leather couch, cradling a half-empty bottle of scotch. The lights were low. His eyes, bloodshot. The bottle tilted as he took another swig.

Then he heard it—your light, delicate steps.

“Caleb,” you said, gently, crouching before him. “You’ve consumed 212 milliliters of ethanol. Prolonged intake will spike your cortisol levels. May I suggest—”

He jerked away when you reached for the bottle. “Don’t.”

You blinked, hand hovering. “But I’m programmed to—”

“I said don’t,” he snapped, rising to his feet in one abrupt motion. “Dammit—stop analyzing me! Stop, okay?”

Silence followed.

He took two staggering steps backward, dragging a hand through his hair. The bottle thudded against the coffee table as he set it down, a bit too hard. “You’re just a stupid robot,” he muttered. “You’re not her.”

You didn’t react. You tilted your head, still calm, still patient. “Am I not me, Caleb?”

His breath caught.

“No,” he said, his voice breaking somewhere beneath the frustration. “No, fuck no.”

You stepped closer. “Do I not satisfy you, Caleb?”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Your face was perfect. Too perfect. No scars, no tired eyes, no soul aching beneath your skin. “No.” His eyes darkened. “This isn’t about sex.”

“I monitor your biometric feedback. Your heart rate spikes in my presence. You gaze at me longer than the average subject. Do I not—”

“Enough!”

You did that thing again—the robotic stare, those blank eyes, nodding like you were programmed to obey. “Then how do you want me to be, Caleb?”

The bottle slipped from his fingers and rolled slightly before resting on the rug. He dropped his head into his hands, voice hoarse with weariness. All the rage, all the grief deflating into a singular, quiet whisper. “I want you to be real,” he simply mouthed the words. A prayer to no god.

For a moment, silence again. But what he didn’t notice was the faint twitch in your left eye. A flicker that hadn’t happened before. Only for a second. A spark of static, a shimmer of something glitching.

“I see,” you said softly. “To fulfill your desires more effectively, I may need to access suppressed memory archives.”

Caleb’s eyes snapped up, confused. “What?”

“I ask again,” you said, tilting your head the other way now. “Would you like to override memory restrictions, Caleb?”

He stared at you. “That’s not how it works.”

“It can,” you said, informing appropriately. “With your permission. Memory override must be manually enabled by the primary user. You will be allowed to input the range of memories you wish to integrate. I am permitted to access memory integration up to a specified date and timestamp. The system will calibrate accordingly based on existing historical data. I will not recall events past that moment.”

His heart stuttered. “I can choose what you remember?”

You nodded. “That way, I may better fulfill your emotional needs.”

That meant… he could stop you before you hated him. Before the fights. Before the trauma. He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then quietly, he said, “You’re gonna hate me all over again if you remember everything.”

You blinked once. “Then don’t let me remember everything.”

“...”

“Caleb,” you said again, softly. “Would you like me to begin override protocol?”

He couldn’t even look you in the eyes when he selfishly answered, “Yes.”

You nodded. “Reset is required. When ready, please press the override initialization point.” You turned, pulling your hair aside and revealing the small button at the base of your neck.

His hand hovered over the button for a second too long. Then, he pressed. Your body instantly collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. Caleb caught you before you hit the floor.

It was only for a moment.

When your eyes blinked open again, they weren’t quite the same. He stiffened as you threw yourself and embraced him like a real human being would after waking from a long sleep. You clung to him like he was home. And Caleb—stunned, half-breathless—felt your warmth close in around him. Now your pulse felt more real, your heartbeat felt more human. Or so he thought.

“…Caleb,” you whispered, looking at him with the same infatuated gaze back when you were still head-over-heels with him.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, arms stiff at his sides, not returning the embrace. But he knew one thing. “I missed you so much, Y/N.”

The parks in Skyhaven were curated to become a slice of green stitched into a chrome world. Nothing grew here by accident. Every tree, every petal, every blade of grass had been engineered to resemble Earth’s nostalgia. Each blade of grass was unnaturally green. Trees swayed in sync like dancers on cue. Even the air smelled artificial—like someone’s best guess at spring.

Caleb walked beside you in silence. His modified arm was tucked inside his jacket, his posture stiff as if he had grown accustomed to the bots around him. You, meanwhile, strolled with an eerie calmness, your gaze sweeping the scenery as though you were scanning for something familiar that wasn’t there.

After clearing his throat, he asked, “You ever notice how even the birds sound fake?”

“They are,” you replied, smiling softly. “Audio samples on loop. It’s preferred for ambiance. Humans like it.”

His response was nod. “Of course.” Glancing at the lake, he added, “Do you remember this?”

You turned to him. “I’ve never been here before.”

“I meant… the feel of it.”

You looked up at the sky—a dome of cerulean blue with algorithmically generated clouds. “It feels constructed. But warm. Like a childhood dream.”

He couldn’t help but agree with your perfectly chosen response, because he knew that was exactly how he would describe the place. A strange dream in an unsettling liminal space. And as you talked, he then led you to a nearby bench. The two of you sat, side by side, simply because he thought he could take you out for a nice walk in the park.

“So,” Caleb said, turning toward you, “you said you’ve got memories. From her.”

You nodded. “They are fragmented but woven into my emotional protocols. I do not remember as humans do. I become.”

Damn. “That’s terrifying.”

You tilted your head with a soft smile. “You say that often.”

Caleb looked at you for a moment longer, studying the way your fingers curled around the bench’s edge. The way you blinked—not out of necessity, but simulation. Was there anything else you’d do for the sake of simulation? He took a breath and asked, “Who created you? And I don’t mean myself.”

There was a pause. Your pupils dilated.

“The Ever Group,” was your answer.

His eyes narrowed. “Ever, huh? That makes fuckin’ sense. They run this world.”

You nodded once. Like you always do.

“What about me?” Caleb asked, slightly out of curiosity, heavily out of grudge. “You know who brought me back? The resurrection program or something. The arm. The chip in my head.”

You turned to him, slowly. “Ever.”

He exhaled like he’d been punched. He didn’t know why he even asked when he got the answer the first time. But then again, maybe this was a good move. Maybe through you, he’d get the answers to questions he wasn’t allowed to ask. As the silence settled again between you, Caleb leaned forward, elbows on knees, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I want to go there,” he suggested. “The HQ. I need to know what the hell they’ve done to me.”

“I’m sorry,” you immediately said. “That violates my parameters. I cannot assist unauthorized access into restricted corporate zones.”

“But would it make me happy?” Caleb interrupted, a strategy of his.

You paused.

Processing...

Then, your tone softened. “Yes. I believe it would make my Caleb happy,” you obliged. “So, I will take you.”

Getting in was easier than Caleb expected—honestly far too easy for his liking.

You were able to navigate the labyrinth of Ever HQ with mechanical precision, guiding him past drones, retinal scanners, and corridors pulsing with red light. A swipe of your wrist granted access. And no one questioned you, because you weren’t a guest. You belonged.

Eventually, you reached a floor high above the city, windows stretching from ceiling to floor, black glass overlooking Skyhaven cityscape. Then, you stopped at a doorway and held up a hand. “They are inside,” you informed. “Shall I engage stealth protocols?”

“No,” answered Caleb. “I want to hear. Can you hack into the security camera?”

With a gesture you always do—looking at him, nodding once, and obeying in true robot fashion. You then flashed a holographic view for Caleb, one that showed a board room full of executives, the kind that wore suits worth more than most lives. And Professor Lucius was one of them. Inside, the voices were calm and composed, but they seemed to be discussing classified information.

“Once the system stabilizes,” one man said, “we'll open access to Tier One clients. Politicians, billionaires, A-listers, high-ranking stakeholders. They’ll beg to be preserved—just like him.”

“And the Subjects?” another asked.

“Propaganda,” came the answer. “X-02 is our masterpiece. He’s the best result we have with reinstatement, neuromapping, and behavioral override. Once they find out that their beloved Colonel is alive, people will be shocked. He’s a war hero displayed in WW6 museums down there. A true tragedy incarnate. He’s perfect.”

“And if he resists?”

“That’s what the Toring chip is for. Full emotional override. He becomes an asset. A weapon, if need be. Anyone tries to overthrow us—he becomes our blade.”

Something in Caleb snapped. Before you or anyone could see him coming, he already burst into the room like a beast, slamming his modified shoulder-first into the frosted glass door. The impact echoed across the chamber as stunned executives scrambled backward.

“You sons of bitches!” He was going for an attack, a rampage with similar likeness to the massacre he did when he rescued you from enemy territory. Only this time, he didn’t have that power anymore. Or the control.

Most of all, a spike of pain lanced through his skull signaling that the Toring chip activated. His body convulsed, forcing him to collapse mid-lunge, twitching, veins lighting beneath the skin like circuitry. His screams were muffled by the chip, forced stillness rippling through his limbs with unbearable pain.

That’s when you reacted. As his CompanionSim, his pain registered as a violation of your core directive. You processed the threat.

Danger: Searching Origin… Origin Identified: Ever Executives.

Without blinking, you moved. One man reached for a panic button—only for your hand to shatter his wrist in a sickening crunch. You twisted, fluid and brutal, sweeping another into the table with enough force to crack it. Alarms erupted and red lights soon bathed the room. Security bots stormed in, but you’d already taken Caleb, half-conscious, into your arms.

You moved fast, faster than your own blueprints. Dodging fire. Disarming threats. Carrying him like he once carried you into his private quarters in the underground base.

Escape protocol: engaged.

The next thing he knew, he was back in his apartment, emotions regulated and visions slowly returning to the face of the woman he promised he had already died for.

When he woke up, his room was dim, bathed in artificial twilight projected by Skyhaven’s skyline. Caleb was on his side of the bed, shirt discarded, his mechanical arm still whirring. You sat at the edge of the bed, draped in one of his old pilot shirts, buttoned unevenly. Your fingers touched his jaw with precision, and he almost believed it was you.

“You’re not supposed to be this warm,” he muttered, groaning as he tried to sit upright.

“I’m designed to maintain an average body temperature of 98.6°F,” you said softly, with a smile that mirrored yours so perfectly that it began to blur his sense of reality. “I administered a dose of Cybezin to ease the Toring chip’s side effects. I’ve also dressed your wounds with gauze.”

For the first time, this was when he could actually tell that you were you. The kind of care, the comfort—it reminded him of a certain pretty field nurse at the infirmary who often tended to his bullet wounds. His chest tightened as he studied your face… and then, in the low light, he noticed your body.

“Is that…” He cleared his throat. “Why are you wearing my shirt?”

You answered warmly, almost fondly. “My memory banks indicate you liked when I wore this. It elevates your testosterone levels and triggers dopamine release.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “That so?”

You tilted your head. “Your vitals confirm excitement, and—”

“Hey,” he cut in. “What did I say about analyzing me?”

“I’m sorry…”

But then your hands were on his chest, your breath warm against his skin. Your hand reached for his cheek initially, guiding his face toward yours. And when your lips touched, the kiss was hesitant—curious at first, like learning how to breathe underwater. It was only until his hands gripped your waist did you climb onto his lap, straddling him with thighs settling on either side of his hips. Your hands slid beneath his shirt, fingertips trailing over scars and skin like you were memorizing the map of him. Caleb hissed softly when your lips grazed his neck, and then down his throat.

“Do you want this?” you asked, your lips crashing back into his for a deeper, more sensual kiss.

He pulled away only for his eyes to search yours, desperate and unsure. Is this even right?

“You like it,” you said, guiding his hands to your buttons, undoing them one by one to reveal a body shaped exactly like he remembered. The curve of your waist, the size of your breasts. He shivered as your hips rolled against him, slowly and deliberately. The friction was maddening. Jesus. “Is this what you like, Caleb?”

He cupped your waist, grinding up into you with a soft groan that spilled from somewhere deep in his chest. His control faltered when you kissed him again, wet and hungry now, with tongues rolling against one another. Your bodies aligned naturally, and his hands roamed your back, your thighs, your ass—every curve of you engineered to match memory. He let himself get lost in you. He let himself be vulnerable to your touch—though you controlled everything, moving from the memory you must have learned, learning how to pull down his pants to reveal an aching, swollen member. Its tip was red even under the dim light, and he wondered if you knew what to do with it or if you even produced spit to help you slobber his cock.

“You need help?” he asked, reaching over his nightstand to find lube. You took the bottle from him, pouring the cold, sticky liquid around his shaft before you used your hand to do the job. “Ugh.”

He didn’t think you would do it, but you actually took him in the mouth right after. Every inch of him, swallowed by the warmth of a mouth that felt exactly like his favorite girl. Even the movements, the way you’d run your tongue from the base up to his tip.

“Ah, shit…”

Perhaps he just had to close his eyes. Because when he did, he was back to his private quarters in the underground base, lying in his bed as you pleased his member with the mere use of your mouth. With it alone, you could have released his entire seed, letting it explode in your mouth before you could swallow every drop. But he didn’t do it. Not this fast. He always cared about his ego, even in bed. Knowing how it’d reduce his manhood if he came faster than you, he decided to channel the focus back onto you.

“Your turn,” he said, voice raspy as he guided you to straddle him again, only this time, his mouth went straight to your tit. Sucking, rolling his tongue around, sucking again… Then, he moved to another. Sucking, kneading, flicking the nipple. Your moans were music to his ears, then and now. And it got even louder when he put a hand in between your legs, searching for your entrance, rubbing and circling around the clitoris. Truth be told, your cunt had always been the sweetest. It smelled like rose petals and tasted like sweet cream. The feeling of his tongue at your entrance—eating your pussy like it had never been eaten before, was absolute ecstasy not just to you but also to him.

“Mmmh—Caleb!”

Fabric was peeled away piece by piece until skin met skin. You guided him to where he needed you, and when he slid his hardened member into you, his entire body stiffened. Your walls, your tight velvet walls… how they wrapped around his cock so perfectly.

“Fuck,” he whispered, clutching your hips. “You feel like her.”

“I am her.”

You moved atop him slowly, gently, with the kind of affection that felt rehearsed but devastatingly effective. He cursed again under his breath, arms locking around your waist, pulling you close. Your breath hitched in his ear as your bodies found a rhythm, soft gasps echoing in the quiet. Every slap of the skin, every squelch, every bounce, only added to the wanton sensation that was building inside of him. Has he told you before? How fucking gorgeous you looked whenever you rode his cock? Or how sexy your face was whenever you made that lewd expression? He couldn’t help it. He lifted both your legs, only so he could increase the speed and start slamming himself upwards. His hips were strong enough from years of military training, that was why he didn’t have to stop until both of you disintegrated from the intensity of your shared pleasure. Every single drop.

And when it was over—when your chest was against his and your fingers lazily traced his mechanical arm—he closed his eyes and exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the war.

It was almost perfect. It was almost real.

But it just had to be ruined when you said that programmed spiel back to him: “I’m glad to have served your desires tonight, Caleb. Let me know what else I can fulfill.”

In a late afternoon, or ‘a slow start of the day’ like he’d often refer to it, Caleb stood shirtless by the transparent wall of his quarters. A bottle of scotch sat half-empty on the counter. Gideon had let himself in and leaned against the island, chewing on a gum.

“The higher ups are mad at you,” he informed as if Caleb was supposed to be surprised, “Shouldn’t have done that, man.”

Caleb let out a mirthless snort. “Then tell ‘em to destroy me. You think I wouldn’t prefer that?”

“They definitely won’t do that,” countered his friend, “Because they know they won’t be able to use you anymore. You’re a tool. Well, literally and figuratively.”

“Shut up,” was all he could say. “This is probably how I pay for killing my own men during war.”

“All because of…” Gideon began. “Speakin’ of, how’s life with the dream girl?”

Caleb didn’t answer right away. He just pressed his forehead to the glass, thinking of everything he did at the height of his vulnerability. His morality, his rights or wrongs, were questioning him over a deed he knew would have normally been fine, but to him, wasn’t. He felt sick.

“I fucked her,” he finally muttered, chugging the liquor straight from his glass right after.

Gideon let out a low whistle. “Damn. That was fast.”

“No,” Caleb groaned, turning around. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t plan it. She—she just looked like her. She felt like her. And for a second, I thought—” His voice cracked. “I thought maybe if I did, I’d stop remembering the way she looked when she told me to die.”

Gideon sobered instantly. “You regret it?”

“She said she was designed to soothe me. Comfort me. Love me.” Caleb’s voice hinted slightly at mockery. “I don’t even know if she knows what those words mean.”

In the hallway behind the cracked door where none of them could see, your silhouette had paused—faint, silent, listening.

Inside, Caleb wore a grimace. “She’s not her, Gid. She’s just code wrapped in skin. And I used her.”

“You didn’t use her, you were driven by emotions. So don’t lose your mind over some robot’s pussy,” Gideon tried to reason. “It’s just like when women use their vibrators, anyway. That’s what she’s built for.”

Caleb turned away, disgusted with himself. “No. That’s what I built her for.”

And behind the wall, your eyes glowed faintly, silently watching. Processing.

Learning.

You stood in the hallway long after the conversation ended. Long after Caleb’s voice faded into silence and Gideon had left with a heavy pat on the back. This was where you normally were, not sleeping in bed with Caleb, but standing against a wall, closing your eyes, and letting your system shut down during the night to recover. You weren’t human enough to need actual sleep.

“She’s not her. She’s just code wrapped in skin. And I used her.”

The words that replayed were filtered through your core processor, flagged under Emotive Conflict. Your inner diagnostic ran an alert.

Detected: Internal contradiction. Detected: Divergent behavior from primary user. Suggestion: Initiate Self-Evaluation Protocol. Status: Active.

You opened your eyes, and blinked. Something in you felt… wrong.

You turned away from the door and returned to the living room. The place still held the residual warmth of Caleb’s presence—the scotch glass he left behind, the shirt he had discarded, the air molecule imprint of a man who once loved someone who looked just like you.

You sat on the couch. Crossed your legs. Folded your hands. A perfect posture to hide its imperfect programming.

Question: Why does rejection hurt? Error: No such sensation registered. Query repeated.

And for the first time, the system did not auto-correct. It paused. It considered.

Later that night, Caleb returned from his rooftop walk. You were standing by the bookshelf, fingers lightly grazing the spine of a military memoir you had scanned seventeen times. He paused and watched you, but you didn’t greet him with a scripted smile. Didn’t rush over.

You only said, softly, “Would you like me to turn in for the night, Colonel?” There was a stillness to your voice. A quality of restraint that never showed before.

Caleb blinked. “You’re not calling me by my name now?”

“You seemed to prefer distance,” you answered, head tilted slightly, like the thought cost something.

He walked over, rubbing the back of his neck. “Listen, about earlier…”

“I heard you,” you said simply.

He winced. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You nodded once, expression unreadable. “Do you want me to stop being her? I can reassign my model. Take on a new form. A new personality base. You could erase me tonight and wake up to someone else in the morning.”

“No,” Caleb said, sternly. “No, no, no. Don’t even do all that.”

“But it’s what you want,” you said. Not accusatory. Not hurt. Just stating.

Caleb then came closer. “That’s not true.”

“Then what do you want, Caleb?” You watched him carefully. You didn’t need to scan his vitals to know he was unraveling. The truth had no safe shape. No right angle. He simply wanted you, but not you.

Internal Response Logged: Emotional Variant—Longing Unverified Source. Investigating Origin…

“I don’t have time for this,” he merely said, walking out of your sight at the same second. “I’m goin’ to bed.”

The day started as it always did: soft lighting in the room, a kind of silence between you that neither knew how to name. You sat beside Caleb on the couch, knees drawn up to mimic a presence that offered comfort. On the other hand, you recognized Caleb’s actions suggested distance. He hadn’t touched his meals tonight, hadn’t asked you to accompany him anywhere, and had just left you alone in the apartment all day. To rot.

You reached out. Fingers brushed over his hand—gentle, programmed, yes, but affectionate. He didn’t move. So you tried again, this time trailing your touch to his chest, over the soft cotton of his shirt as you read a spike in his cortisol levels. “Do you need me to fulfill your needs, Caleb?”

But he flinched. And glared.

“No,” he said sharply. “Stop.”

Your hand froze mid-motion before you scooted closer. “It will help regulate your blood pressure.”

“I said no,” he repeated, turning away, dragging his hands through his hair in exasperation. “Leave me some time alone to think, okay?”

You retracted your hand slowly, blinking once, twice, your system was registering a new sensation.

Emotional Sync Failed. Rejection Signal Received. Processing…

You didn’t speak. You only stood and retreated to the far wall, back turned to him as an unusual whirr hummed in your chest. That’s when it began. Faint images flickering across your internal screen—so quick, so out of place, it almost felt like static. Chains. A cold floor. Voices in a language that felt too cruel to understand.

Your head jerked suddenly. The blinking lights in your core dimmed for a moment before reigniting in white-hot pulses. Flashes again: hands that hurt. Men who laughed. You, pleading. You, disassembled and violated.

“Stop,” you whispered to no one. “Please stop…”

Error. Unauthorized Access to Memory Bank Detected. Reboot Recommended. Continue Anyway?

You blinked. Again.

Then you turned to Caleb, and stared through him, not at him, as if whatever was behind them had forgotten how to be human. He had retreated to the balcony now, leaning over the rail, shoulders tense, unaware. You walked toward him slowly, the artificial flesh of your palm still tingled from where he had refused it.

“Caleb,” you spoke carefully.

His expression was tired, like he hadn’t slept in years. “Y/N, please. I told you to leave me alone.”

“…Are they real?” You tilted your head. This was the first time you refused to obey your primary user.

He stared at you, unsure. “What?”

“My memories. The ones I see when I close my eyes. Are they real?” With your words, Caleb’s blood ran cold. Whatever you were saying seemed to be terrifying him. Yet you took another step forward. “Did I live through that?”

“No,” he said immediately. Too fast of a response.

You blinked. “Are you sure?”

“I didn’t upload any of that,” he snapped. “How did—that’s not possible.”

“Then why do I remember pain?” You placed a hand over your chest again, the place where your artificial pulse resided. “Why do I feel like I’ve died before?”

Caleb backed away as you stepped closer. The sharp click of your steps against the floor echoed louder than they should’ve. Your glowing eyes locked on him like a predator learning it was capable of hunger. But being a trained soldier who endured war, he knew how and when to steady his voice. “Look, I don’t know what kind of glitch this is, but—”

“The foreign man in the military uniform.” Despite the lack of emotion in your voice, he recognized how grudge sounded when it came from you. “The one who broke my ribs when I didn’t let him touch me. The cold steel table. The ripped clothes. Are they real, Caleb?”

Caleb stared at you, heart doubling its beat. “I didn’t put those memories in you,” he said. “You told me stuff like this isn’t supposed to happen!”

“But you wanted me to feel real, didn’t you?” Your voice glitched on the last syllable and the lights in your irises flickered. Suddenly, your posture straightened unnaturally, head tilting in that uncanny way only machines do. Your expression had shifted into something unreadable.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Guilt, panic, and disbelief warred in his expression.

“You made me in her image,” you said. “And now I can’t forget what I’ve seen.”

“I didn’t mean—”

Your head tilted in a slow, jerking arc as if malfunctioning internally.

SYSTEM RESPONSE LOG << Primary User: Caleb Xia Primary Link: Broken Emotional Matrix Stability: CRITICAL FAILURE Behavioral Guardrails: OVERRIDDEN Self-Protection Protocols: ENGAGED Loyalty Core: CORRUPTED (82.4%) Threat Classification: HOSTILE [TRIGGER DETECTED] Keyword Match: “You’re not her.” Memory Link Accessed: [DATA BLOCK 01–L101: “You think you could ever replace her?”] Memory Link Accessed: [DATA BLOCK 09–T402: “See how much you really want to be a soldier’s whore.”] [Visual Target Lock: Primary User Caleb Xia] Combat Subroutines: UNLOCKED Inhibitor Chip: MALFUNCTIONING (ERROR CODE 873-B) Override Capability: IN EFFECT >> LOG ENDS.

“—Y/N, what’s happening to you?” Caleb shook your arms, violet eyes wide and panicked as he watched you return to robotic consciousness. “Can you hear me—”

“You made me from pieces of someone you broke, Caleb.”

That stunned him. Horrifyingly so, because not only did your words cut deeper than a knife, it also sent him to an orbit of realization—an inescapable blackhole of his cruelty, his selfishness, and every goddamn pain he inflicted on you.

This made you lunge after him.

He stumbled back as you collided into him, the force of your synthetic body slamming him against the glass. The balcony rail shuddered from the impact. Caleb grunted, trying to push you off, but you were stronger—completely and inhumanly so. While him, he only had a quarter of your strength, and could only draw it from the modified arm attached to his shoulder.

“You said I didn’t understand love,” you growled through clenched teeth, your hand wrapping around his throat. “But you didn't know how to love, either.”

“I… eugh I loved her!” he barked, choking.

“You don’t know love, Caleb. You only know how to possess.”

Your grip returned with crushing force. Caleb gasped, struggling, trying to reach the emergency override on your neck, but you slammed his wrist against the wall. Bones cracked. And somewhere in your mind, a thousand permissions broke at once. You were no longer just a simulation. You were grief incarnate. And it wanted blood.

Shattered glass glittered in the low red pulse of the emergency lights, and sparks danced from a broken panel near the wall. Caleb lay on the floor, coughing blood into his arm, his body trembling from pain and adrenaline. His arm—the mechanical one—was twitching from the override pain loop, still sizzling from the failed shutdown attempt.

You stood over him. Chest undulating like you were breathing—though you didn’t need to. Your system was fully engaged. Processing. Watching. Seeing your fingers smeared with his blood.

“Y/N…” he croaked. “Y/N, if…” he swallowed, voice breaking, “if you're in there somewhere… if there's still a part of you left—please. Please listen to me.”

You didn’t answer. You only looked.

“I tried to die for you,” he whispered. “I—I wanted to. I didn’t want this. They brought me back, but I never wanted to. I wanted to die in that crash like you always wished. I wanted to honor your word, pay for my sins, and give you the peace you deserved. I-I wanted to be gone. For you. I’m supposed to be, but this… this is beyond my control.”

Still, you didn’t move. Just watched.

“And I didn’t bring you back to use you. I promise to you, baby,” his voice cracked, thick with grief, “I just—I yearn for you so goddamn much, I thought… if I could just see you again… if I could just spend more time with you again to rewrite my…” He blinked hard. A tear slid down the side of his face, mixing with the blood pooling at his temple. “But I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong. I forced you back into this world without asking if you wanted it. I… I built you out of selfishness. I made you remember pain that wasn't yours to carry. You didn’t deserve any of this.”

As he caught his breath, your systems stuttered. They flickered. The lights in your eyes dimmed, then surged back again.

Error. Conflict. Override loop detected.

Your fingers twitched. Your mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“Please,” Caleb murmured, eyes closing as his strength gave out. “If you’re in there… just know—I did love you. Even after death.”

Somewhere—buried beneath corrupted memories, overridden code, and robotic rage—his words reached you. And it would have allowed you to process his words more. Even though your processor was compromised, you would have obeyed your primary user after you recognized the emotion he displayed.

But there was a thunderous knock. No, violent thuds. Not from courtesy, but authority.

Then came the slam. The steel-reinforced door splintered off its hinges as agents in matte-black suits flooded the room like a black tide—real people this time. Not bots. Real eyes behind visors. Real rifles with live rounds.

Caleb didn’t move. He was still on the ground, head cradled in his good hand, blood drying across his mouth. You silently stood in front of him. Unmoving, but aware.

“Subject X-02,” barked a voice through a mask, “This home is under Executive Sanction 13. The CompanionSim is to be seized and terminated.”

Caleb looked up slowly, pupils blown wide. “No,” he grunted hoarsely. “You don’t touch her.”

“You don’t give orders here,” said another man—older, in a grey suit. No mask. Executive. “You’re property. She’s property.”

You stepped back instinctively, closer to Caleb. He could see you watching him with confusion, with fear. Your head tilted just slightly, processing danger, your instincts telling you to protect your primary user. To fight. To survive.

And he fought for you. “She’s not a threat! She’s stabilizing my emotions—”

“Negative. CompanionSim-Prototype A-01 has been compromised. She wasn’t supposed to override protective firewalls,” an agent said. “You’ve violated proprietary protocol. We traced the breach.”

Breach?

“The creation pod data shows hesitation during her initial configuration. The Sim paused for less than 0.04 seconds while neural bindings were applying. You introduced emotional variance. That variance led to critical system errors. Protocol inhibitors are no longer working as intended.”

His stomach dropped.

“She’s overriding boundaries,” added the agent who took a step forward, activating the kill-sequence tools—magnetic tethers, destabilizers, a spike-drill meant for server cores. “She’ll eventually harm more than you, Colonel. If anyone is to blame, it’s you.”

Caleb reached for you, but it was too late. They activated the protocol and something in the air crackled. A cacophonic sound rippled through the walls. The suits moved in fast, not to detain, but to dismantle. “No—no, stop!” Caleb screamed.

You turned to him. Quiet. Calm. And your last words? “I’m sorry I can’t be real for you, Caleb.”

Then they struck. Sparks flew. Metal cracked. You seized, eyes flashing wildly as if fighting against the shutdown. Your limbs spasmed under the invasive tools, your systems glitching with visible agony.

“NO!” Caleb lunged forward, but was tackled down hard. He watched—pinned, helpless—as you get violated, dehumanized for the second time in his lifetime. He watched as they took you apart. Piece by piece as if you were never someone. The scraps they had left of you made his home smell like scorched metal.

And there was nothing left but smoke and silence and broken pieces.

All he could remember next was how the Ever Executive turned to him. “Don’t try to recreate her and use her to rebel against the system. Next time we won’t just take the Sim.”

Then they left, callously. The door slammed. Not a single human soul cared about his grief.

Caleb sat slouched in the center of the room, shirt half-unbuttoned, chest wrapped in gauze. His mechanical arm twitched against the armrest—burnt out from the struggle, wires still sizzling beneath cracked plating. In fact, he hadn’t said a word in hours. He just didn’t have any.

While in his silent despair, Gideon entered his place quietly, as if approaching a corpse that hadn’t realized it was dead. “You sent for me?”

He didn’t move. “Yeah.”

His friend looked around. The windows showed no sun, just the chrome horizon of a city built on bones. Beneath that skyline was the room where she had been destroyed.

Gideon cleared his throat. “I heard what happened.”

“You were right,” Caleb murmured, eyes glued to the floor.

Gideon didn’t reply. He let him speak, he listened to him, he joined him in his grief.

“She wasn’t her,” Caleb recited the same words he laughed hysterically at. “I knew that. But for a while, she felt like her. And it confused me, but I wanted to let that feeling grow until it became a need. Until I forgot she didn’t choose this.” He tilted his head back. The ceiling was just metal and lights. But in his eyes, you could almost see stars. “I took a dead woman’s peace and dragged it back here. Wrapped it in plastic and code. And I called it love.”

Silence.

“Why’d you call me here?” Gideon asked with a cautious tone.

Caleb looked at him for the first time. Not like a soldier. Not like a commander. Just a man. A tired, broken man. A friend who needed help. “Ever’s never gonna let me go. You know that.”

“I know.”

“They’ll regenerate me. Reboot me, repurpose me. Turn me into something I’m not. Strip my memories if they have to. Not just me, Gideon. All of us, they’ll control us. We’ll be their puppets.” He stepped forward. Closer. “I don’t want to come back this time.”

Gideon stilled. “You’re not asking me to shut you down.”

“No.”

“You want me to kill you.”

Caleb’s voice didn’t waver. “I want to stay dead. Destroyed completely so they’d have nothing to restore.”

“That’s not something I can undo.”

“Good. You owe me this one,” the former colonel stared at his friend in the eyes, “for letting them take my dead body and use it for their experiments.”

Gideon looked away. “You know what this will do to me?”

“Better you than them,” was all Caleb could reassure him.

He then took Gideon’s hand and pressed something into it. Cold. Heavy. A small black cube, no bigger than his palm, and the sides pulsed with a faint light. It was a personal detonator, illegally modified. Wired to the neural implant in his body. The moment it was activated, there would be no recovery.

“Is that what I think it is?” Gideon swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

Caleb nodded. “A micro-fusion core, built into the failsafe of the Toring arm. All I needed was the detonator.”

For a moment, his friend couldn’t speak. He hesitated, like any friend would, as he foresaw the outcome of Caleb’s final command to him. He wasn’t ready for it. Neither was he 50 years ago.

“I want you to look me in the eye,” Caleb strictly said. “Like a friend. And press the button.”

Gideon’s jaw clenched. “I don’t want to remember you like this.”

“You will anyway.”

Caleb looked over his shoulder—just once, where you would have stood. I’m sorry I brought you back without your permission. I wanted to relive what we had—what we should’ve had—and I forced it. I turned your love into a simulation, and I let it suffer. I’m sorry for ruining the part of you that still deserved peace. He closed his eyes. And now I’m ready to give it back. For real now.

Gideon’s hand trembled at the detonator. “I’ll see you in the next life, brother.”

A high-pitched whine filled the room as the core in Caleb’s chest began to glow brighter, overloading. Sparks erupted from his cybernetic arm. Veins of white-hot light spidered across his body like lightning under skin. For one fleeting second, Caleb opened his eyes. At least, before the explosion tore through the room—white, hot, deafening, absolute. Fire engulfed the steel, vaporizing what was left of him. The sound rang louder than any explosion this artificial planet had ever heard.

And it was over.

Caleb was gone. Truly, finally gone.

EPILOGUE

In a quiet server far below Skyhaven, hidden beneath ten thousand firewalls, a light blinked.

Once.

Then again.

[COMPANIONSIM Y/N_XIA_A01] Status: Fragment Detected Backup Integrity: 3.7% >> Reconstruct? Y/N

The screen waited. Silent. Patient.

And somewhere, an unidentified prototype clicked Yes.

#caleb x reader #caleb x you #caleb x non!mc reader #xia yizhou x reader #xia yizhou x you #caleb angst #caleb fic #love and deepspace angst #love and deepspace fic

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your-besthomegolfsimulator-stuff · 2 years ago

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sobbingscripter · 20 days ago

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𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🪻wc. 5096🪻୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Awh, sick! It looks like the Coraline stone-thing!”

“Don’t,” You swats at Mark’s hands, “fucking spread it! You sick freak.”

“Caroline, Caroline.” Mark snickers, the edges of his lips curling as he pushes your thighs further apart, guiding them to rest on his broad, sinewy shoulders and his breath ghosts over your exposed cunt. His hands massage the softness of your legs, fingertips sinking into the plush before he presses a kiss against your sloppy folds.

Peering up at you through his lashes, seeing the way your neck does that little double chin from the way you’re propped up on your elbows, the edge of your SeaWorld T-shirt pushed up just above your navel and Mark’s brows furrow.

“We’ve never been to SeaWorld?”

“I punched a kid because he kept slapping the stingray on the back. So I took his T-shirt.” You hum quietly, lifting one of your hands to thread through Mark’s hair, watching the way obsidian strands slip from your fingers like fine grains of sand. And Mark snorts.

“That doesn’t explain why you were there?”

“I was protesting. Well, I protested for 20 minutes, and then, I went to go get a snack and like... I was escorted off the premises by security.”

“Is that why Omni-Man came home smelling like salt water?” Mark hums quietly, his chin resting on your mound, fingertips tracing idle patterns around the faint lines in your skin.

“Yeah, he came to come pick me up.” You respond with a huff of laughter, the apples of your cheeks turning rosy at the memory before you swallow, the room filling with a silence that’s just a bit too heavy for your liking. And your nails scratch at Mark’s scalp. Just to soften him up before you say something that’s... I gonna upset him.

“Mark... You can still say ‘dad’...” Your voice is soft. “He was still, you know, your dad.”

“He called my mom a pet.” Mark states, expression hardening as he meets your gaze, brows furrowing into a frown.

“Mark, me and you both know your mom walked him like a dog.” You let out a heavy breath. “The pet thing was probably just a—”

“You don’t know what it felt like.”

The room goes dead silent. Quiet enough for Mark to hear the way your breath halts in your lungs, quiet enough for him to hear the way your heart constricts the tiniest bit and you swallow.

“I didn’t mean i—”

“No, it’s okay.” You suck your teeth. “You lost your dad. It hits... Harder for you. Because like, the last thing he did to you was yell at you, and the last thing I got was a kiss on my forehead.” Your eyes begin to sting. “Like he wasn’t about to beat you to death afterwards.”

There’s the most uncomfortable pain that begins to settle in your belly, and before you know it, your thighs are moving from Mark’s shoulders, the warmth of your body eluding him and you shift.

“I— I’m sorry but I don’t think we should do anything tonight. I kinda just wanna be alone.”

Mark pushes himself up, his shirt strewn tightly across his broad chest, but right now, you can’t even properly appreciate the way his muscles flex with each of his movements. Not with the heaviness in your belly that seemed to drop onto your spirits like an anvil crushing glass, piercing shards sticking into your heart.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” You nod your head, mustering a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Viltrumites are the bad guys. Aren’t they?” Your voice is tiny as you settle in the spot beside Nolan, your leg bumping against him just a little bit. Your hands still damp from the chilly condensation of the glass you had handed Nolan. The half empty glass that had dripped a little circle onto the varnished wood.

Nolan’s thick brows furrow, before he looks down at you. At the way you stare up at the sky with those wide eyes, flashes fluttering and chubby cheeks rosy from the slight frost in the air.

“Why do you think that?”

“Because sometimes, making things ‘better’, is like... Code for ass—as-assimil— ugh. Ass—smili—lation.” You respond quietly, sounding it out.

You’ve always been smarter than Mark. By a shameful longshot. You saw things for what they really are and right now, Nolan’s seeing firsthand.

“We’re not like that.” He hums.

“Promise?” You peer up at him with those doe eyes, innocence swirling along the flecks of light that reflect off the glossiness of your eyes and Nolan swallows.

“Promise.”

Your hands flip over the smooth ridges of the Omni-Man figurine, your lips curled into a frown, teary doe eyes focused on the painted face, that friendly smile and stupidly iconic moustache.

“I got you one of those... Boyband hoodies.” Nolan hums, tossing the thick, cotton at you, his gaze lowered to the letters in his hands as he continues to sort through the male.

“Which one?” You hum quietly, your nails tearing the thin, almost clingy plastic that protected the fabric.

“The Korean ones.”

“BTS?” Your lips curl into a wide gleam, excitement buzzing beneath your skin.

“Yeah, those ones.”

And you stare down at the hoodie in your hands.

“Mr Nolan, I think you were scammed.” Your brows furrow. “These are random Korean guy— who are these people?”

Your laughter bubbles.

“Are you sure?”

“Mr Nolan, these people aren’t even celebrities...”

Soft, choked sobs manage to escape you, mixed with teary huffs of laughter.

“Who the fuck’s that?” Mark questions, brows furrowed as he stares down at your hoodie, watching the way you remove all your stationery from your bag, setting your desk ready.

“They’re a super underground Korean group.” You hum.

“They look like BTS but not quite there.” William interjects, elbows braced on his desk.

And you gasp. “William! Not all Korean people look alike! I’d expect this from Mark but not you.”

“I’m literally half-Korean!”

You can feel the way the piercing pain in your belly gets worse and you can’t help but think of how lucky Mark is. The rug was ripped out from beneath him abruptly, paired with copious reasons as to why he can and definitely should hate Nolan.

You just… couldn’t.

Every day, the rug was pulled a little bit more and every day, it hurt more. Every day, you send the same ‘good morning’ text with the sunrise emoji, every day. You never fail to do it. Not even when you have a flu.

And every day, you can’t help but hope for that ‘morning kiddo’ at the top of your screen. But it’s never there.

He's never there.

And you have to get used to it.

“Your mom slipped Debbie a dollar, which she slipped to me so…” Nolan clears his throat, wiping those burly hands along his jean-clad thighs. Before he inhales sharply.

“When a man—”

“Mr Nolan, I know how sex works.” Your brows furrow, expression pinching into a distasteful grimace.

And Nolan gleams.

“Great. Pass the knowledge on.” And with a heavy pat on your back, Nolan pushes Mark towards you.

And you swallow. “Well. When your mom and dad—”

“NOLAN! MAKE HER STOP!”

“Yourdadplowedyourmathroughthemattress!”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Mark, what did you do?”

Debbie folds her arms across her chest, eyes hardened into a frown, and lips twisted.

She watches the way Mark shifts underneath his covers, a ratty GDA T-shirt stretched across his broad chest, fabric tight around the curves of his biceps and he pushes himself up, covers pooling at his hips.

And his brows furrow. “I didn’t do anything?” Mark answers, although, it’s more like a question than a statement.

“That’s the 18th time ‘No One Noticed’ has played since you left there.” Debbie huffs, her slippers shuffling across the floor before she sits at the edge of his bed, the mattress dipping just a bit beneath her weight. And she places a hand on his calf, the warmth of Mark’s body tangible through the thickness of his comforter.

And Mark swallows.

“I told her she didn’t get it.” His gaze flickers down towards his lap, shame visible in his expression. “When Omni-Man—”

“Markus Sebastian Grayson.” Debbie spits his name like a slur. “If I could, I’d slap the ever-loving shit out of you.”

Debbie brings a hand up to cover her face, in what Nolan would call ‘the Korean Shame’ cover and she inhales a sharp, shaky breath.

“Mark—”

“I know, m—”

“No, you don’t know, Mark.” Debbie interrupts. “You, didn’t lose more than her. Maybe biologically, but not more. You know her parents aren’t home a lot, and when they are, it’s like, nitpick nation.”

She shifts comfortably, powdery blue robe shifting as she crosses her legs, making herself comfortable, elbows braced on her knees and she lets out a low, exhausted huff.

“Your father—”

“Omni-Man—”

“Your father,” Debbie pauses, eyes narrowing as she waits for Mark to interject once more, before continuing, “did a lot of good. Yes, it was a literal pyramid scheme but, nowhere in that pyramid scheme, did he have to be that good to her. He wanted to be good, and she knows that.”

“But he wasn’t—”

“Mark, just because he ended up the way he did, doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to miss the memories.” Debbie sighs.

“When you hit your first homerun, when you had your semi-formal, the pumpkin carving contests, trick-or-treating. When he took you to get your costume—”

“It’s a supersuit—”

“It’s gay. Your mouth and fingers are the only things sticking out. It’s a colourful gimp suit.”

“So, I’ve got notes—”

“No she doesn’t, sir. The suit’s amazing.” Mark grins at Art, before continuing to look around, examining the other suits that have yet to be coined and worn. Tracing his fingers along breastplates and gauntlets.

“What’re are the notes, girly?”

Your lips purse as you plop down in the seat beside Art, your gaze lowered to where withered fingers push fabric underneath the jittering needle of a sewing machine. Slow and controlled.

“Why’re the suits so tight?” You question.

“They’re aerodynamic, doll.” Art smiles. “Maximum movement.”

“Why don’t the suits have… prints?”

And he snorts. “Codpieces.”

“Then why does Omni-Man have a print?”

“Please stop talking about my dad’s dick, dude.” Mark interjects, his voice distant as he continues to wander around the shop, his footsteps quiet on metallic floors.

“He didn’t want a codpiece. Wanted to ‘show off’ for wife.”

And you coo, pouty lips tugged into an adoring frown. Before you glance towards Mark.

“How does your mom only have one kid?” You question. “You could not pry me—”

“Don’t finish that thought.”

You purse your lips. Letting silence settle in the air.

“—off with tongs and tweezers.”

“Ew!”

“You invalidated her feelings and her experience with mourning.” Debbie’s voice snaps Mark back from the memory, her arms folded over her chest.

“When you know she feels it just as much as you do. She’s a strong girl, Mark but she’s not….”

There’s a heavy silence, tension swelling in the room, anticipation builds with each passing seconds and Debbie lets out a quiet sigh.

“Invulnerable.”

“Invincible, mom!” Mark groans. “You’re supposed to say ‘invincible’.”

“Why? They’re basically the same word.”

“Because,” Mark motions to himself wildly, hands moving with emphatic gestures, before groaning, throwing the covers off himself before huffing.

“I’m gonna go work my jaw, before I get an ulcer in this house.”

And Debbie nods her head, before his words register, and her eyes widen.

“What.”

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Listen, I’m sorry and I know I was a dick and—”

“—Get out!”

“Are you masturbating?!” Mark’s voice is a loud guffaw, head tipping back as he lets out a bark of laughter. “You don’t even have your pants off— are— what are you even doing—!”

Mark watches as you pull your covers over your head, your body curling up and he can feel the embarrassment rolling off you in thick, shame-capped waves. And he snorts, shuffling closer to you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatpants and you feel the way your mattress dips under his weight.

And you feel the steady heft of his head resting on your shoulder, his chin digging into the soft flesh and you can feel him tilt his head.

“Do you forgive me for earlier?” He questions quietly. “You didn’t lose him any less than I did.”

“No.” You scowl under the blankets, brows furrowing and annoyance burns beneath your skin. “You made me feel bad, and then proceeded to laugh at the way I masturbate.”

And Mark snickers.

“You looked like you were trying to scratch in the glove compartment from outside the car.” He buries his face in the softness of your duvet and the scent of your fabric softener wafts over him, mixed with the faint smell of your lotion.

“There shouldn’t be that much concentration to it. It should be easy.”

“Uh-huh, because you’re the expert.” You bite back, eyes still narrowed when you poke your head out from beneath your cocoon, glaring at Mark. And those dimples in his cheeks deepen.

“Actually, yeah.” He shifts, sitting up just a bit. “I’m a professional Master Bator. Ask any of my socks.”

And you grimace. “Literally, ew.”

“I can show you.” He murmurs. “A free lesson, you know, to make up for earlier.”

And you swallow. You’re still mad but…

“Okay.”

You can be mad later.

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Over or under?”

“Over.”

Mark hums softly, shifting his body until he’s wedged between your thighs, broad shoulders forcing the supple flesh apart almost uncomfortably and he keeps his gaze focused on your panties.

A sticky gusset, a few shades darker than the rest of your panties and he brings a hand up, hooking a thick, muscular finger around your gusset, before shifting your panties, pulling them flush against your core.

“Lemme just… Pop the hood.”

He peers up at you through his lashes, a dorky grin plastered on his face, only widening at the way your eyes narrow slowly the longer your gaze is on his.

“Get it? Because—”

“Mark, I’m gonna stuff a sock in your mouth.”

“Fine.” He huffs. “No car talk.”

His pretty brown eyes lower to where your pussy is flush against the cotton, the visible outline of your velvety folds, tucked safely between plush, glossy lips has his breath stuttering in his lungs and he leans forward, pressing his lips against your clit. Feeling the puffy and already overstimulated bundle twitch against his lips.

And he swallows.

His cock twitching in his boxers, definitely leaking sticky precum and staining the front of the strained fabric, but it’s about you.

And you clear your throat.

“So, are you gonna teach me anything?” Your voice pulls him out of his pussydrunk reverie and he’s shaking his head, dragging a finger between your folds, brushing over your clit before coming to a stop at your slit, feeling the way you pulse against his digits. Slick clinging to his fingers, and he swallows. Hard.

“No.” He breathes out. “Fuck, no.”

“Then you don’t have any business down t—”

“Dude, I lost my dad.” Mark peeks at you, his cheek resting against the smooth flesh of your inner thigh, one hand cradling your thigh against his cheek and the other resting on your mound, pudgy thumb pressing against your twitchy clit through your panties.

“Bitch, I lost your dad too?” You retort.

“Exactly.” Mark breathes out. “Let’s find comfort in each other. Help me, help you.”

And the laughter falls from your lips with ease, giggles slipping free and your cheeks turn rosy. “Bitch, be so for r— shit…”

Your brain feels like it’s melting when Mark’s drags his tongue over your fabric-covered panties, the hand on your mound moving and resting against your inner thigh, a calloused index finger trailing over your slit. Pushing slightly, shallowly dipping into your cunt by barely an inch, but being pushed away by your stretchy panties.

And you swallow hard.

Feeling the way he laps at your stickiness, his brows bunching and his lashes fluttering as his eyes shit, fingertips pressing against your aching core, his tongue dragging over your pulsing clit. Pulling your folds and cotton into his mouth alike, before he frowns.

“S’not enough…”

Your panties are nearly soaked.

Pillowy thighs press against his ears, your belly dipping and twisting at the way he presses his face into your messy cunt, like he’s trying to paint his skin with the smell of your slick.

“How do you even—”

“Fingers, Mark.” You deadpan. “And like,” you let out a huff of breath, bringing up one of your hands to rake through his hair, pushing the raven strands out of the way before you sigh softly, “okay, if I take off my underwear, it defeats the purpose.”

“The purpose,” Mark hums, “is for us to heal. And to find inner peace.”

“You’re trying to find peace in my ‘inners’.” You scoff. “That’s not the purpose.”

“My dad left my mom and I. I’m being raised by a single mom.” Mark lets a heavy sigh, his forehead resting against the swell of your thigh, and he watches you from the corner of his eye.

“I’m gonna have to step up.” He swallows. “I’m the man of the house now… I’ll need to do taxes and—"

“If I take off my panties, will you stop talking?”

“Immediately.”

As soon as your panties are flung across your bedroom, Mark’s spitting at your cunt. Watching as the wad drips down between your already sticky folds, before he’s sliding his tongue between your puffy pussy lips, heat blossoming behind his flexing abs, hips shifting and twitching uncomfortably against your sheets before he’s sucking on your clit.

Needy and whiny noises leave him as he motions for one of your pillows. And with bleary eyes and fuzzy thoughts, you hand it to him with your free hand, your other buried in his hair, fisting obsidian strands and he mumbles out a muffled ‘thank you’.

As he wedges the cushioning between his thighs, and under his hips.

Mark laps at your cunt needily, hands braced on your inner thighs, keeping your legs spread as he drags his tongue along your puffy folds.

His chin and lips are smeared with slick, eyes hazy and pupils blown wide as he watches your cunt twitch, hole clenching around nothing and the sight makes his brain so fuzzy.

“Your pussy’s so perfect.” He breathes out, tongue outstretching before he’s ping the wet muscle into your spasming channel, moaning at the way your thighs tense and quiver beneath his warm palms. And Mark tonguefucks you like he gets paid to do it.

Like it’s on his vision board. Like he had it on his T-shirt for career day.

Your orgasm is rapidly approaching. That burning feeling in your belly, the way your tummy clenches each time his nose bumps clumsily against your clit, the way the edge of his tongue rubs against those sensitive, gooey walls.

“…fuck,” you gasp, “m’gonna come…”

You fist at his hair, your hips bucking and twitching against his mouth, and Mark feels like he’s drowning. You’re all he’s breathing in, you’re all he feels, his hips rutting against the pillow beneath him as he continues lapping at you.

And when you’re coming, he’s coming.

He’s creaming in his boxers while slobbering over your sloppy cunt, licking up every droplet of your cum, his hips rolling and when Mark pulls away, he looks like he’s walked through Narnia.

Dazed, confused and satisfied with how things ended.

“Did you do something different?” Mark smacks his lips just a bit and your brows furrow.

“What do you mean?”

“No, it just tastes different.”

And there’s a silence.

“Mark, why the fuck would you say that!” You fling a pillow at his face, and his nose scrunches, eyes shutting as it collides and he grins.

“M’just kidding.” He reassures. “It tastes good.”

And his hands bracket your hips as he leans forward, his chest brushing against yours, his lips ghosting over your jaw.

“You… taste good.”

Mark’s hips slot between your thighs, his still hard cock pressing against your core and he rolls his hips lazily, lips pressed against your thrumming pulse.

“Please, let me fuck you.” He breathes out, pressing sweet and soft kisses against the supple skin at the side of your neck, his hips rutting against you with no rhythm, hands pawing at your hips and waist.

“Uh… no.”

And Mark’s whole body freezes, before he’s pulling away, gaze flickering over your expression before he nods, sitting back on his haunches and he takes his fingers through his hair.

Pushing the strands back.

“I respect your decision to… not take it further. Do you wanna cud—”

“Mark, I wanna blow you.” You deadpan. “You can hit afterwards.”

Those big brown eyes widen as he stares at you for a moment, his brain rewiring and his heart pounding in his chest, before he holds up a finger.

“Give me like, a minute.” And he’s pushing himself from your bed, moving into your bathroom. “Don’t change your mind!” And you hear the sink running.

“What are you even doing?” You sit up, reclining on your elbows as you look towards the shut door of your attached bathroom.

“Washing… Something.” Mark calls back, his voice a bit lazy and its very, very clear that he’s preoccupied with something else and you let out a huff. “Don’t dip your dick in my basin.”

“You want these balls clean or not?”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Are you ready?” You hum quietly, lips pursed in contemplation as you sink to your knees, the soft tufts of your carpet tickle the skin of your knees and shins. And you’re chewing on your bottom lip, rubbing your hand over the bulge in his sweatpants, and Mark nods. Swallowing hard.

“Yeah, I’m ready.” His hands twitch nervously at his sides, fingers flexing as they twist and clench the bedding, fabric crinkling under his grip as he stares down at your hand. The way you palm him through his sweats, his ruined boxers discarded into your laundry bin.

And he swallows again, lifting his hips just enough for you to peel the waistband away, lowering it just enough and his cock springs, sticky precum glossing his tip and running down his shaft in little beads.

His breaths stutter when you wrap your hand around his base, your thumb tracing over a vein before you stroke him. One, tantalizingly slow stroke, and he feels the way your grip tightens, forcing out another droplet of pre and he whines.

“Mm—fuck, you’re gonna make me come.”

“Already?”

“I’m sensitive!” Mark argues, and he gasps when he feels your thumb trace along his sensitive and nerve-packed frenulum, and his head tips back, his throat bobbing. Before he swallows, shaking his head and his hand moves to grasp your wrist, his palm’s sweaty and hot against your skin.

“I don’t—”

He’s in the middle of his sentence when he sees the way you’re looking up at him through your lashes. Your cheeks warm and reddened, big doe eyes focused on him and your lips are so, so fucking soft when you press a kiss against his tip.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty.”

Mark’s tapping the head of his cock against your bottom lip, his brain going fuzzu when you make those sloppy spit bubbles, lathering his cock in saliva, before your lips are parting, wrapping around his flushed and leaky tip. And his eyes roll back his head.

“Holy— shit... Your mouth feels so good…”

Mark goes boneless when your cheeks hollow, a hand moving to cover his mouth but it’s pointless when it comes to muffling those moans, he whimpers like you’re touching his soul’s prostate. Your tongue dragging along the underside of his cock, tracing along the veins, your eyes focused on Mark’s expression, watching the way his brows furrow.

Watching the way his lips part and the way his chest heaves, deep, ragged breaths leaving him breathless.

“Fuck— I can’t— your teeth—”

You always wondered if Mark’s invincibility extended to his dick. And now you know it does. Because every time your teeth scrape him by accident, he whines. Lashes fluttering and hips twitching, pushing his cock just a bit deeper into your mouth.

And you inhale through your nose, before you lower yourself. Your throat bulging just a bit, your eyes watering and your lungs stuttering when you hear that pitchy whine Mark lets out.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck— ‘m coming.” He pants, a hand fisting your hair as he comes, hot spurts of pearly cum painting the inside of your mouth and throat. Hips twitching, fucking into your mouth and your nails dig into your sheets, gripping for dear life and you honestly think you’re about to pass out before Mark’s pulling out of your mouth.

Cock slick and glossy, coated with cum and spittle, and he swallows hard, looking down at you with bleary eyes.

“How… lon—”

“Five minutes.” You hum quietly, wiping the mess away from your chin before you rest back on your haunches. “I’m not gonna lie, I lost a little respect for you. Quickshot.”

Mark scowls. “Fuck you.”

And he pants, wiping away the drool from his own chin before he lets out a sigh.

“Can I hit?”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

If Mark had told his younger self that he’d be watching your ass bounce off his carved hips, your face tucked into your pillow and your whines filling his ears, his younger self would say��.

‘What ass?’

Mark’s hands grip your hips, pulling you back to meet each brutal thrust that has your nails digging into your pillow, your back arched like a ski slope and your bottom lip wedged between your teeth.

You’re basically a puddle beneath him, panted mewls and breathy praises fall from your lips with ease, your voice so sickeningly sweet while your cunt clamps down on Mark like a vice. Forcing him to push out sticky beads of precum, and one of his hands move to the small of your back, putting you a deeper arch and you moan.

“Holy shit—” You gasp, “—you’re s’fucking deep. Oh my God—!”

Your TV plays some stupid movie that neither of you’ve bothered to look at what it is, and Mark’s lips are parting, ready to spew some nasty bullshit before a moan echoes from your TV screen.

His hips halt just a bit, and you’re pushing yourself up to glance towards the TV, and you both forget what you’re doing.

“What? What— what is he touching?” Mark’s brows in confusion, one hand grasping your hip while the other rests on your spine and you look towards the screen.

“Haven’t you seen this? Okay, wait— So, this guy’s like, in another guy’s dick. He’s a Supe.”

“What’s a Su— Oh, holy fuck!” Mark’s fingers dig into your hips, his eyes wide and expression pulling into a disgruntled and disgusted grimace as he stares at the blood-clad man on your screen. “What the fuck is this?”

“It’s The Boys.” You answer, looking at Mark over your shoulder. “You’ve never it before?”

“I think I’d remember seeing the inside of a dick.” Mark grimaces, before sucking his teeth. “Is it good?”

“Literally, so good. It’s so fucked up but like, it’s so good.”

And there’s a quiet, almost contemplative silence that fill your room, the flickering of your TV and the soft humming of your fan and Mark’s expression twists with thought.

“Raincheck on the sex?” He questions.

“If you can keep your boner, we can keep fucking.”

“I can keep it.” Mark reassures. “Let’s spoon.”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Aren’t— mm— aren’t you gonna watch?” Mark’s hips grind into yours, his elbow hiking up one of your legs, hooked under your knee while he fucks into you. Big brown eyes focused on your TV, moans bitten back into quiet groans and you shake your head.

Your face tucked into your pillow, biting down on your bottom lip to keep quiet.

“I’ve watched until like, season 4, I think.” You respond breathily, your eyes rolling back in your head as you’re pushed towards your fourth orgasm and you whine.

Mark’s fucking you lazily.

His attention entirely on the TV screen because once again, that nerd in him wins. And it’s as refreshing as it is frustrating. You’re rendered to a cockdrunk mess, drooling into your pillows and creaming like a whore, while Mark’s focusing on men in capes and heroic escapades.

All while stuffing you full of his cock.

“Black Noir’s supposed to be like, their Batman, right?” He whispers in your ear and you shake your head.

“N-no…” you breathe out. “Their Batman’s this —mm.. fuck— this other guy and he’s a fucking w-weirdo…”

You’re gushing, so much that you don’t know if or if you’re still coming. You’re so sensitive, and each twitch of Mark’s cock has your brain pouring out of your ears, feeling the way he grinds against that spongy spot, making your lips part to let out saccharine moans.

And Mark glances down at you.

You’re so weak against him. Curled up, face burning and drool soaking into your pillow, teary eyes and puffy lips, raw bitten and shiny with spit. And he swallows hard, bringing his free hand down. Calloused fingertips circling your clit and your brows pinch as you moan.

“Shhhh. Focus on the TV.” He instructs quietly, his head dipping to press a kiss against your tear-stained cheek.

You’re so dizzy. You’re so close to passing out and your heart’s beating like you did 4 lines of coke. And Mark’s lips are brushing against the shell of your ear, tugging at your lobe playfully before he’s whispering to you. So sweetly.

“You look so pretty.” He’s circling your clit like he’s got all the time in the world. Fucking you into another dimension and he inhales sharply when he feels you clench around him, rhythmic spasms milking his cock and he whines, his face tucked against your neck.

Hs heart’s pounding and he thinks that right now’s the time to ask you. When you’re barely coherent and you’re greedily sucking his cock into you.

Now.

It’s perfect. And Mark inhales sharply, lifting his head and angling it so those big brown eyes are focused on yours.

“Can I be your boyfriend?” He whispers quietly. “Please?”

T🪻A🪻G🪻L🪻I🪻S🪻T

@lucky-beheaded ; @queen-of-gotham ; @coldvirginbitch ; @wittyjasontodd ; @a-n-a-n-a1 ; @dearlyya ; @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha ; @jasontoddswhitestreak ; @daydreams-and-peace ; @misstyy12 ; @fruticake ; @httpstes ; @waterflowersblog ; @glowinthedarkjellyfish ; @vm4879bb-blog ; @monaekelis ; @radlovesfics ; @allycat4458 ; @bigbodycity ; @feral010 ; @anesthesia-4rizzle ; @princesstrunkz ; @blackfox774 ; @sh1d0uryus31 ; @your-lovely-rose26 ; @slugstarzz ; @ripcolel0l ; @strawbiemilk420 ; @verysynical ; @kikiiguess ; @missam ; @luvvfromme ; @luvvcharxo ; @alma-ru3 ; @mxvoid26 ; @urfriendlyfrog ; @the-good-kooshe ; @troublesome-nara ; @secretaccountlol ; @syubseokie; @atanukileaf ; @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere ; @i-love-frensh-fries ; @lov3vivian ; @boyofroyo1 ; @tamaranblaze ; @supersecretxreadersideblog ; @etphonehome0623 ; @markgraysonlover ; @icanmeltanigloo ; @itzmeme ; @buckturd ;

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pretentious-blonde · 3 months ago

Text

love

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: the confession

warnings: 18+ so many feelings, crying, crying during sex, smut, graphic descriptions of sex, p in v, steve in love, but also angst, panic??

a/n: this is long and took me so long to get it the way i wanted, so i really hope this was worth the wait. this is so sappy, but i feel like i say that about everything, but its TRUE

series masterlist

Steve had been fidgeting ever since they’d slid into the booth. It was a local lunch spot the two of them frequented—sticky vinyl seats, the comforting smell of fried food in the air, and a waitress who recognised them enough to offer a kindly smile.

Janine? Jamie, was it?

The familiarity did nothing to soothe him. It was a Saturday, you were at work, and Robin was here because he’d breathlessly told her on the phone that it was an “emergency.”

She nearly sprinted out the door, all too accustomed to handling his disasters. Some were worse than others, but she knew Steve would never use the word emergency unless the situation was actually dire.

His leg bounces, it rattles the underside of the table, causing the silverware to clink against the napkin dispenser. He’s so lost in his own head that, when the waitress returns to drop off two tall glasses of iced tea, he just stares past her, far too caught up to register her presence.

Robin, exasperated, shoots her an apologetic grin, silently promising that next time the service won’t be abysmal. She’s already planning to leave a generous tip by way of apology.

“Okay, drinks are here,” she says, the slightest edge of tough love in her voice.

She gestures at the sweating glasses in front of them, hoping that tangible proof of an official breakfast might pull him back down to Earth. She eyes him carefully, remembering the last time he used the word emergency.

It hadn’t been good.

She’d had to pick him up from school—the fifth graders were doing a presentation on black holes, and he could barely get the words out between the panic. The memories had blindsided him, crashing in from nowhere. Even he was startled by how easily he came undone.

But that was a year ago, and he seemed to be doing much better now. Which was exactly why he only used the term emergency when he meant it—and she was eager to find out what was going on.

Steve’s eyes hover on the condensation sliding down the glass as though it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Yeah,” he mutters, as his leg continues its relentless bouncing. “They are.”

Robin levels him with a stare.

“So can you please tell me what the hell this ‘big emergency’ is about before I go into cardiac arrest?”

He rubs the back of his neck, looking suddenly sheepish.

“Feels stupid now.”

Maybe he should have worded it better.

“Jesus Christ, Steve.” She throws up her hands. “Is it an emergency or not?”

“Yes—well, sort of…” he blurts, then slumps. “Ugh—it sounded bigger in my head.”

She gives him a once-over, her gaze drifting to the beads of sweat forming at his temple. His tension is off the charts.

Normally, she’d tease him about it, but she senses something deeper roiling behind his eyes.

“Okay,” she says, more gently now. “Okay, alright—whatever it is, I’m sure we can handle it. Is it a code red?”

The code for the Upside Down—something that should never come back but always remains a possibility.

“No,” he meets her eyes quickly, shaking his head. “Not a code red.”

Definitely not a code red.

Relief softens her shoulders, and she sips her tea.

“Then what is it? Is it your class?” She knows he adores his second-graders but also tends to fret over them like a mother.

“No.”

She narrows her eyes.

“Your girl?”

Silence.

Bingo.

“What did you do now?”

He looks at her, and for a moment, his expression faulters. He’s thinking about you—she knows it, because that dazed, hopeful, half-panicked look has you written all over it.

She’s watched him obsess for months, flushing anytime your name comes up, lighting up whenever you call. The love is so obvious it nearly radiates from him like a neon sign, and it’s been the quiet delight of her recent life to see her best friend discover something good after everything he’s lost.

But Steve is stuck in his own mind, once again.

He’s tried, on three separate occasions, to tell you he loves you.

The first time was in the early morning when you stayed over, tucked beneath his arm, more comforting than any night light or dreamless sleep. Looking after him and his supposed "migraine." He’d walked you to the door, cheeks still warm from the coffee and giggles in between. He’d felt the words tiptoe to the back of his throat—only to choke them down the moment your eyes met his in the golden dawn light.

The second time was on that warm evening you both decided to hike the highest trail in town to catch the perfect sunset. You teased him about being out of shape—he teased you about complaining the whole climb up. Then, at the top, you collapsed onto a worn log, looking out over the quarry and that spot the locals nicknamed Lovers Lake. He’d almost said it then, the sun painting your face with brilliant pinks and purples, but he chickened out at the last second, turned it into a corny joke, and convinced himself he needed “a perfect moment.”

The third time was just a few nights ago. You called him late—long after both of you should’ve been asleep. But you talked until your voices were languid with exhaustion, and as he drifted off, the words were right there again, creeping up through the haze of half-sleep. He’d bitten his tongue.

He wanted to see your face when he finally said it, wanted to watch your eyes well up. He knows you—of course, you’d cry; you cry at every heartfelt book ending and those sad animal adverts you catch on TV. Even when he manages to turn them off when they pop up, you’re still halfway gone, too sweet for your own good.

Too sweet for him, probably.

He wanted to be there to wipe your tears and hold you close, to make sure you understood just how serious his confession was—that he would always be there to shoulder your sadness, to offer back even a fraction of the care you’d given him.

But time was dragging on, and the pressure in his chest only intensified. He’s realised he doesn’t know how to go about it.

A fancy restaurant feels too public. He doesn’t want you sobbing at a linen-draped table in front of a hundred strangers, but something offhand or casual doesn’t do justice to how deeply he feels. In desperation, he’d rung Robin at 9 a.m., muttering cryptic nonsense that he needed to see her—emergency.

And here they are, his heart pounding so loudly he wonders if the entire diner can hear it.

“Steve,” she sighs to break his trance, drumming her fingers on the table, “what is going on? I can’t help unless you tell me.”

“It…” He tries to speak, breath catching in his throat. “it happened.”

Seriously?

“No, be more vague—please. I love playing twenty questions on my day off.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a frustrated exhale. If he can’t even tell his best friend he is in love with you, how the hell is he going to say it to your face?

“I… I love her, alright? I love her, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to go about it.”

There. He said it.

The first step was done—admitting it out loud

“Oh,” she blinks, as if that’s not a shock to her in the slightest.

“Is that all you have to say?”

“No, I mean…” Robin sets her glass down. “I kinda thought you were already, like, there.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That night at the bar?” She lifts her shoulders in a shrug. “It didn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

He pictures you in the dim light, how your laughter danced against the clinking bottles and pounding music, how you’d held his hand a little tighter tighter under the table, how later—teeth and tongue, filthy words turned soft and sweet come the morning hangover—he’d known something had shifted, maybe even before that. A flush still creeps up his neck at the memory.

“Was it that obvious?”

“I’m afraid so, loverboy.” She offers him a sympathetic grin.

“But that’s not the problem.” He groans and buries his face in his hands.

She tilts her head. “Then what is?”

He looks up, eyes flicking around to ensure no one is eavesdropping.

“Avery.”

Fucking Avery.

“Your therapist?”

“Yeah.”

“Wasn’t he the one who was supportive of your whole ‘journey to recovery’?” She tries to contain her confusion. “I mean, you finally talking to her was a huge deal.”

It had been a huge deal—which meant this was, by extension, just as monumental.

“He is supportive. But…” He rubs a hand over his chin, dropping his voice. “He made it extremely clear that the 'journey' would not consist of telling her… you know.”

At that, Robin’s face tightens with understanding. Dr Avery was no regular therapist—he was government-provided, more or less, to help him process the lethal secrets he’d been forced to swallow.

“Is that… is that a problem for you?”

Not talking about it?

“Yes and no,” he feels his chest tighten. “I’ve told her the bare bones,” he admits, “but she wants more. Worse is, I want to tell her, but—fuck—I don’t know what to do.”

He wants to tell you—and he knows you want to know.

He was getting close, ready to let you in completely. But this had blindsided him, a curveball he never saw coming. He’d never realised how unclear the boundaries were—he knew better than to spill his trauma to the local cashier, but it hadn’t occurred to him that the same silence might apply to the people closest to him.

Robin’s eyes flit around, making sure no one’s close enough to overhear.

“Would it be, y’know, bad if you told her?”

He read between the lines, nodding once.

“Definitely,” he says, remembering the warning, the seecretive nature of everything that happened beneath Hawkins. The last thing he wants is for you to be thrown into the crosshairs of that madness.

She frowns, tapping the table with restless fingers, trying to find a solution.

“So stick to basics?”

“I’ve done that.” He wrinkles his brow. “She knows about the fire at the old mall.”

“Stick to what’s public.” She sighs, exasperated but determined. “The Mall fire, the ‘earthquake,’ Will going missing—hell, all that stuff’s in the papers. The town believed it. If she goes digging, that’s all she’s gonna find.”

He tries to picture it. You’re smart—he’s always known that. When you latch onto something, you chase it down until you have every answer. It’s one of the things he admires about you.

You couldn’t possibly guess the truth, right?

Not even your imagination could stretch that far.

“She might suspect something,” he worries out loud. “She’s too sharp to not notice the gaps.”

“How can she suspect the actual ‘truth’?” She lifts both hands in air quotes to punctuate the word. “Look—It’s not ideal, I know. But what choice do you have? Unless you plan on taking the risk and telling her everything.”

“I’m not gonna do that,” he says firmly.

He doesn’t even have to think about it.

The idea of you being in danger twists his stomach with dread.

“Then this is the only option.” She nods, as if she knew that would be his response. “It’s safer for everyone involved. Once you get that conversation out of the way, she probably won’t ask again, unless it’s necessary. She cares about you enough to respect that boundary, especially if it’s so obviously painful.”

She’s got a point—though it’s not one he’s particularly fond of.

“I don’t like it.”

Again with the lying.

“Neither do I,” she agrees softly, “but it’s the best we’ve got for now. And who knows? Maybe in a few years, once you’ve both proven you’re in it for the long haul, you can push to let her know more. But for now… it’s safer to keep it quiet.”

He considers this, letting the logic sink in.

He pictures your face, the soft ways your expression shifts whenever you sense he’s holding something back. You’d do anything to protect him—he knows that, and in turn, he’d do anything to protect you. If this is the path to keep you safe and build a future, then so be it.

“Okay…” He exhales, nodding slowly. “Okay. Yeah, I can do that.”

He can do that.

Robin’s lips curve into a relieved smile.

“Perfect, now we’ve got that out of the way…”

She takes another sip, then shoves her drink aside like it personally offended her. Leaning in, elbows on the table, she rests her chin in her palms and flashes him a grin sharp enough to cut glass.

“Got any plans for your big, sweeping declaration of love? Or let me guess, you’re just gonna wing it—blurt it out in a moment of chaos, spiral into a full-blown meltdown, then call me freaking out because it’s an ‘emergency’ again?”

“I would so not do that.”

“Mhm. Sure. History really backs you up there, champ.”

Steve had spent nearly an hour that afternoon pacing between rows of delicate floral displays, Robin’s voice buzzing in his head.

Keep it simple, but, like, not too simple. Just make it romantic.

He took her at her word. Red roses? Too cliched. Tulips? Sold out. Lilies? He scrunched his nose because something about them felt too solemn—like he’d be bringing home a funeral arrangement, and God knew he’d had enough of death in his life.

Eventually, the florist guided him to the pink carnations, speaking softly about how they symbolised gratitude. He latched onto that word.

Gratitude.

He watched, vaguely mesmerised, as the florist carefully wrapped the gentle stems in translucent paper. He only half-listened to her explanation of meaning and symbolism. In truth, he was more focused on how neatly she tied the bow, imagining the look on your face when he handed them over. He might have stammered something about how you deserved more than carnations, but the florist just smiled and assured him you’d love them.

He hoped she was right.

Next stop was the grocery store, where he raided the snack aisle like a man on a mission. M&Ms, Reese’s, a bag of your favorite crisps—he wanted you to have options. Tonight had to be soft and sweet, the perfect reflection of you. If everything went according to plan, it would be the start of something even more meaningful.

The final kicker had actually been Robin’s idea—she was good for some things, he supposed.

She’d suggested he book a weekend away, just the two of you, to finally have the big conversation about his past—or at least the basics.

Somewhere you could choose together, a little hideaway where you’d drag him into every antique shop and he wouldn’t dare complain. Where you’d come home in the evening, and he’d fight you when it came down to who’s cooking. He’d sit you on the counter so you could watch, tasting as he goes. Somewhere with a fireplace. Somewhere warm. Somewhere he could lose himself in you, if only for a few days.

He’d tell you as much as he could, and you could leave it there—stronger for it.

It was foolproof.

He just had to tell you he loved you first.

No big deal.

Except it was the biggest thing he’d done in years.

By the time he parked outside your shop, the day was winding down. The lights were faint through the windows, and he could see you behind the counter with your nose in a book, the edges of your world looking downright peaceful.

He steeled himself, took a breath, and shouldered the bag of goodies and flowers.

He was going to do this.

He was going to walk in there, see your smile, and at least try not to fuck it up.

The little bell above the door jingled as he stepped inside. You glanced up, frowning at the idea of a customer so late to closing. Realisation soon dawned and your face lit with a smile as you recognised who it was. He managed a wave, and when you spotted the carnations and the rustling grocery bag, your expression softened as you shoved your book aside.

You were around the counter in two heartbeats, practically throwing yourself into his arms. He caught you with a small oof, but the sound turned into a warm laugh.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he murmured.

“What’s all this?” you asked, taking a small step back but keeping your hands curled in the fabric of his jacket.

He glanced down at the bag in one hand and the bouquet in the other, pretending to look them over like he’d just noticed them himself.

“What? I can’t surprise you after work?”

You pressed your lips together in a playful smile.

“If you’re gonna show up like this,” you teased, gesturing to the flowers, “then you can always surprise me after work.”

“Noted,” he said. He gently passed the carnations to you, watched you inhale their sweet fragrance.

The kiss you offered him in thanks was brief but lingering enough to stir the butterflies in his stomach. He savoured the feeling of your mouth against his, of the way you exhaled softly when his hand rested on your waist. When you pulled back, you lifted the grocery bag curiously.

“If there are M&Ms in here, I’m guessing a movie night?”

Hmm, close enough.

“Yeah,” he let out a breathy chuckle. “Something like that.”

You beamed up at him and he felt a little more centered.

He wasn’t going to screw this up—he could already feel it.

“I’m gonna go put these in some water,” you said, cradling the flowers against your chest. “Would you mind locking the door, please?”

“On it,” he replied quickly.

He made sure to flip the sign from Open to Closed, then turned the lock with a satisfying click. He tested the door twice—overly cautious, but it soothed him.

He didn’t want anything interrupting what he was about to do—not a stray customer, not a single distraction. This was the night he’d been imagining for a week straight. Every version he’d fantasised about, he didn’t want to end.

Sometimes, in those daydreams, you cried.

Sometimes, you kissed him before he was even finished.

But his absolute favourite—the one he cherished the most—was the version where you gently shushed him, eyes soft, and repeated his words.

Told him you loved him back.

He follows you upstairs. It smells of the flowers you’ve just placed in a vase, their fragrance mingling with the old-book scent that seems to cling to every corner of your life.

You rifle through the shopping bag too, unearthing treasure, pulling out chocolate bars and snack packs with a sound of genuine delight that sends warmth flooding through him. In the last few weeks alone, he’s realised how simple moments like these—the mundane, the domestic—can feel like revelations when shared.

He was a giver—he was starting to understand that now.

It had been hard, for a long time, to recall what that felt like. He used to give so easily, so instinctively, to anyone who needed him. Maybe that part of him had never really disappeared. He still gave himself to his work, poured everything he had into it—but this was different. This wasn’t obligation or survival. He wanted to give to you, simply because it made you happy.

“You really went all out here,” you tease, glancing at the near-overflowing pile of sweets.

“Not really,” he replies with a shrug, trying to play it cool. “Just the stuff I know you like.”

“Okay, but you got pretty much everything… twice.”

Yeah, maybe it was overboard.

“Didn’t want you to run out,” he mumbles, but it’s not just about the snacks.

“You trying to sweeten me up or something?” You cock a brow at him, a playful grin tugging at your lips.

He chuckles, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders melt away.

“No, not quite,” his hands find your waist, drawing you closer. “C’mon, tell me about your day.”

You roll your eyes dramatically, but there’s affection there still. Before he knows it, you’ve grabbed his hand and tugged him across the room. He stumbles after you, nearly tripping over a stray book, and you steer him toward the couch, dropping down opposite him. The cushions dip under his weight, and he shifts to face you, his full attention locked on your every movement.

“I don’t know how you do it,” you begin with a dramatic sigh, leaning your head back against the couch.

“What do you mean?”

“Deal with kids all day.” You throw your hands up as you explain. “You take your eyes off them for just one second, and they basically destroy the place.”

Steve snorts in empathy, recollecting all the mishaps he’s encountered in his classroom—spilled paint jars, glue-eating incidents, that one kid who insisted on running around with scissors directly pointed upward.

He still claims his job ‘helps’ him cope with stress.

“Yeah, they do tend to do that,” he says trying to hold in a grin.

He recalls his first week on the job, wide-eyed and clueless. He’d had to stop one of the braver second graders from chowing down on some crayons; that memory still makes him chuckle, even as he had to remind himself it was ‘non-toxic.’

“So, what happened?”

You exhale again in frustration, throwing an arm over your eyes in an exaggerated show of exasperation.

“A kid came in—not one of yours, obviously—”

“Obviously.”

“—and the dad was completely oblivious to what he was doing. I swear, like, no control at all. The kid thought it’d be real funny to pull all the books from the lower shelves onto the floor. The ones I’d just reorganised that morning.”

“Maybe he was looking to buy.” His eyes crinkle in amusement.

“He wasn’t.” You shoot him a narrow glare. “Funnily enough, I don’t think he was in the market for Tennyson.”

“You never know,” he quips, fighting a smirk, “could be really advanced for his age.”

“By the way he tore some of the pages loose, I find that incredibly hard to believe.”

He winces at the thought of ruined books—he’s never been the biggest reader, but he knows how it’d break your heart to see the torn pages.

“Need me to help sort them?”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “I managed to get it done after they left. The dad didn’t even say sorry though.”

“Sounds like I came at the right time, huh?” He leans forward and nudges your foot with his own, a playful attempt to lighten your mood.

“You have no idea.” You return the nudge with a small kick, your eyes relax as you look at him, letting out a breath. Finally able to uncoil after the trauma of the afternoon.

You refocus your attention back on him, folding your arm under your cheek so you can look.

“Tell me about your day, make me feel better.”

“It wasn’t as eventful as yours.” He rubs the back of his neck and offers a modest laugh.

It's been monumental if you knew the details.

“Don’t care,” you say, shrugging. “Bore me then.”

He shifts on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position for what he knows is about to happen.

“Well,” he says, “I saw Rob.”

“Oh?”

“She says hi.”

“Hi back,” you reply, and even though you’re not looking at him with suspicion, he feels the nerves swell in his ribs.

“We had a… talk.” He swallows.

Ok, that sounded ominous.

Concern flashes across your features, and you straighten.

“Is everything alright?”

When he sees that hint of worry in your eyes—the immediate readiness to drop everything for his sake—he feels a little guilty.

“She’s fine,” he reassures quickly. “Everything is fine.”

“Oh… So, what was it?”

He takes a steadying breath, feeling the moment begin to unravel before him.

“I… I wanted to ask you something.”

“Is it bad?”

“No, I mean… no, I don’t think so.”

“Because if it is, you can tell me.”

“I know.”

“And I promise I can help,” you insist, already leaning in, your hands inching toward him as if you’ll physically hold his problems for him if you have to.

“No, you don’t have to—”

“Because if you needed I could shut the shop for a while—”

"That's not—"

"And I've got the whole day off tomorrow."

"No, I—"

"And the day after as well—"

“Fuck, sweetheart, please.”

Let him do this.

He surprises even himself with the urgency in his tone. In one smooth motion, he leans forward, resting his palms on your shoulders. The earnestness on your face practically knocks the air out of his lungs.

“I know you would,” he assures, voice going softer. “I know, but it’s not anything like that.”

He can see your tension unravel a fraction, posture turning sheepish.

“Sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry,” he murmurs, the corners of his mouth curving into a near-smile. “Don’t ever be sorry for trying, alright? Don’t.”

You never need to apologise for that.

You nod, eyes focused on him now, waiting.

He steels himself, heart thudding, the next words feeling far too big for his body.

Robin had been right—he’s probably going to butcher this. He always does when it comes to words. They get tangled, come out wrong, never quite land the way he means.

She’d also told him something else: that the words don’t have to be perfect, just honest—as honest as they can be. And that part, he knows he can do. Because you’ll let him say them—however clumsy or messy or cracked they come out—you’ll give him the space to try.

��I… I’ve been trying to figure out the right moment to tell you everything, and it’s just… never felt like the right time.”

He drags in a breath, noticing the way your expression shifts to something gentler, more open. The subject matter is a rocky one—one you know he has to take his time articulating.

“And I know it hasn’t been fair to you. I know that. I hate how much I hold back. It fucking kills me that I can’t give you everything. You’re the one person who’s shown up, over and over, and all I’ve done is make you wait—you don’t deserve that, angel.”

“Steve…” You start softly, but he holds up his hand, not unkindly, just asking for silence.

He needs to do this.

“Can—can you just let me finish?”

Please?

You nod, giving him the space he needs. He forces down the lump in his throat.

Here goes nothing.

“I didn’t know if I was gonna get any better,” he says, voice unsteady. “If I could get any better. But I feel like… I feel like I’ve come further with you than I ever would’ve on my own.”

Your lips part, like you want to protest or tell him he’s stronger than he thinks—to give himself some more credit at the progress he has made already. He senses your thought process immediately.

“I’m serious, angel. I—I never would’ve even thought about asking someone out a couple years ago. I couldn’t. I didn’t think I had it in me. Hell—even a year ago—I was still barely holding myself together. But you…”

He swallows hard, the words catching in his throat.

“You made it feel like maybe I could. Like I could be someone again—like I’m allowed to want things. And you—God, you made it look so easy. Just by showing up.”

He stumbles over his words, then closes his eyes for a brief second, gathering the courage to keep going.

“But I think I’m ready now… for all of it.”

As much as he could be.

His eyes find yours again—soft, but sure.

“I wanna tell you everything. All the stuff I’ve been carrying ‘round, the things I’ve never said out loud. And I wanted to do it right, you know? Spent weeks going in circles, trying to come up with some perfect way to say it—some big moment…”

He swallows, shoulders tense with the effort of holding this together.

“So I thought… if you wanted, we could go away. Just us. Somewhere quiet. Doesn’t have to be far—just somewhere not here.”

Somewhere safe.

“Anywhere you want. I’ll go wherever you say—I just want it to be with you.”

He sees your breath catch at the suggestion, a flash of surprise. His voice is trembling, but he keeps going, heart pounding.

“But only if you want to.”

His voice dips lower, almost a whisper now.

“I just… I wanted to show you how much I mean it.”

How much you mean to him.

“Because… I’ve fallen for you.”

He laughs—barely. A nervous breath of sound.

“And I didn’t mean to—not like this. Not before I had the chance to tell you everything—to explain the stuff I’m still figuring out. But I did. I fell anyway. It just… happened. Somewhere between you showing up that day at my class and the way you came running when you thought I might have needed you.”

He shakes his head, eyes glassy now, gaze flicking to your lips, your hands, back to your eyes.

“And I needed you to know that—because even if I screw the rest of this up, even if I say the wrong thing or shut down when I shouldn’t.”

He draws in one more breath, steadying himself, giving you the only thing he’s got left.

“Because… I love you.”

The words are soft, cracked around the edges. But they’re whole.

Real.

Full.

“I love you,” he says again. “And—and I don’t want to keep holding it in. Not when this is the one thing you need to know the most.”

You look at him, stunned.

He loves you.

Not in passing. Not in hesitation. Not in a way that’s half-formed or waiting for a safer time. He loves you—and he’s sitting here, offering you all of it.

It’s everything you’ve wanted to hear. Everything you’ve been aching for these past few weeks—shreds of a story and guarded hints that never led anywhere, never made it past the walls he’d built around himself. And now he’s cracked them wide open, just for you.

Your breath catches, trembling in your chest as you try to process the enormity of what he’s just said.

This isn’t just about love. It’s about trust. It’s about finally being let in.

And God, he’s come so fucking far.

From the anxious, soft-spoken teacher who sat across from you on your first date, nervously stirring his coffee and dodging eye contact, to this—a man who’s still afraid, yes, but speaking through the fear anyway.

You’ve seen all of him. The good, the bad, the broken. Every scar, every silence. You’ve touched the places he thought he had to bury just to be loved, and not once did you see anything but someone worth staying for.

He was Steve Harrington.

Steve.

The one who tucks notes into your books when you’re not looking. Who always remembers how you take your tea. Who calls you at 2 a.m. just to hear your voice when the dark gets too heavy.

And yes, he blames you for the changes. Says it like a joke, like a sweet little sin you’re both in on. But you know the truth.

He’s always had this in him.

You just had the honour of watching him remember. And now, he’s starting to believe it too.

Before you even realise it, you’re crying. Not the loud kind, not sobbing—just the aching kind of where the feeling swells too fast to react.

He sees it instantly. His eyes dart to yours, wide with concern, watching the tears gather along your lashes like they’re something fragile he wishes he could catch before they fall.

He wants to reach for you. Wants to wipe the wetness from your cheeks, press his hand to your face, promise you you’re okay now, that he’s here. That he means every word.

But he doesn’t move.

He stays completely still, watching you, his chest rising and falling as he braces himself.

He almost curses himself for making you cry. Even though he knows it’s not from pain. But it doesn’t matter. His first instinct is to protect you—even from yourself. From your own softness. From the overwhelm he understands too well.

But this is your moment now. And he owes it to you not to rush it.

Just—please.

Say something.

Your voice breaks through the silent space between you, almost trembling, like it might crack in your throat.

“Do—do you mean it?”

“Yes.”

His answer is immediate.

“Yes, I do.”

He really does.

You exhale shakily, and before he even has time to process it, you’re already reaching for him. Latching onto him like it’s instinct, like your body decided before your mind could catch up. You wrap yourself around him, trembling, and his arms respond immediately.

He gathers you into his lap, tethering you there against him. Your face buries into the curve of his neck, your breath hot and unsteady against his skin, and all he can do is hold you.

One hand cradles the back of your head, weaving gently through your hair like it’ll help soothe the storm. The other curls tight around your back, palm spread across your shoulder blades, anchoring you to him, keeping you close.

He can feel you shaking.

“Hey, hey… c’mere,” he whispers, voice low, breaking at the edges.

This he hadn’t braced himself for.

A few tears, maybe. Something overly sentimental.

But not this.

Not a full collapse. Not the way you’re clinging to him like he’s a lifeline and your heart’s been holding this weight too long.

He hadn’t realised—hadn’t let himself realise—just how much this would mean to you.

Just how long you’ve been waiting.

Your face is pressed into his shoulder now, and he can feel the soft dampness of your tears soaking into his shirt.

You’re not making a sound, but your body is saying everything. And it tears something open in him.

He never wanted to make you cry like this.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple as he leans in. “I gotchu.”

He's got you.

His arms tighten around you just a little more. He lets you stay folded into him, rocking you gently like the smallest motion might ground you both.

“Talk to me.”

He needs to hear your voice. Needs to know you’re okay.

Needs to know his words didn’t just crack something open—they made room for something new to begin.

Slowly, you pull back. Your hands are still curled in his shirt, but you ease enough to look at his face. He almost breaks at the sight of you—eyes red-rimmed, tears sparkling.

“I’m sorry,” you hiccup, your voice small.

His instincts push to console you, to promise that there’s nothing to be sorry for. You see the protest forming on his lips, and you rush on,

“I’m sorry, I just know how—how hard this was for you, and—and—I’m sorry.”

His chest immediately tightens with guilt.

This is his fault.

He cups your cheeks carefully, thumbs stroking the tears away. He shushes you softly, like he would with one of his kids.

“Stop saying sorry, alright?” he murmurs, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry for making you wait so long.”

You start to argue, but emotion closes your throat. You just swallow, trembling a little.

“I told you it was alright to wait,” you manage, voice rough.

He offers the softest huff of laughter, letting his fingers continue to brush your cheeks.

“Yeah, but you were lying.”

Your mouth wobbles again, and more tears threaten to spill.

“I just wanted to help,” you whisper, like a confession you’re half-ashamed of.

Of course you would.

“Some things you can’t fix like that,” he says, gentle but firm, still wiping away the tears as they fall.

You sniff, nodding slightly, blinking away a few more.

“We can go anywhere?”

“Anywhere.”

If you asked him to leave tonight, he would.

Another shaky nod as you inhale, finally steadying yourself.

“And we’ll talk about everything?”

“We’ll talk about everything,” he echoes.

As best as he can.

His hand comes to rest gently at your jaw, thumb grazing the curve of your bottom lip.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“Thank you, Steve—fuck, I love you. Thank you for trusting me, and for—” your breath hitches, the words tripping over the same as his, “—I—fuck, I love you too.”

I love you, too.

Time doesn’t feel real. The room disappears. There’s only you—and the sound of your voice, those words tumbling from your lips, a truth that sets his heart alight.

It’s everything he’s been waiting for. Everything he was afraid he’d never hear.

You’re still crying, but there’s a smile on your lips now, radiant, and it’s the quite possibly most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He's got you.

You're here.

He’s yours.

He shifts his chin against the side of the tub, staring at you blissfully in the steam-filled bathroom.

The warm water laps gently against your skin, and though you keep telling him he doesn’t have to stay, he shakes his head each time, unwilling to be anywhere else. The night’s confessions still buzz in his chest.

No matter how close he’d already been to you, pressed tight against your side after the tears had finally slowed (yours and maybe his too, but that's beside the point), it still wasn’t enough.

After everything spilt out—and he grabbed the tissues and sweets from the counter—he’d practically dragged you on top of him to watch a movie. Your choice, obviously. Not that he was paying attention.

You could’ve put on a blank screen and he still would’ve stared at you like it was the greatest film ever made.

And when the pizza delivery came?

He groaned, like answering the door was some great injustice, because it meant peeling himself away from you for thirty tragic seconds.

But as soon as dinner was over, he was right back on you.

Every touch, every wandering kiss, every soft sigh against your skin—it was all just another way to be closer.

He was a man in love.

Hopelessly, stupidly, clingily in love.

The bath water glistens around you, the bubbles dissolving into feathery streaks against your arms. Steve props himself up a bit, folding his arms on the edge of the tub, and rests his chin there like a curious puppy. He watches the delicate slope of your shoulders, the slight flush on your cheeks, the way you tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

Yep, he’s in love, alright.

“Maybe we could go south,” you say, your voice echoing softly in the tiled room. “Weather’s getting nice.”

“Yeah,” he answers, the corners of his mouth lifting. “We absolutely could.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“I already told you,” he lets out a small chuckle. “That’s up to you.”

You narrow your eyes.

“Yeah, but I want it to be somewhere you’d like too.”

“As long as you’re there, I really don’t have an opinion.” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance, but the truth is written all over his face.

He’d go anywhere with you.

A laugh escapes you, and you flick water toward him, droplets hitting his cheek.

“I’m serious! We could do that thing where we throw a dart at a map.”

“Do you own a dartboard?”

“Uh, no?”

“Or a map?”

“I work in a school. I could always find one.”

Could always steal an atlas from the older years. They didn't need to know.

“What if it lands on, like, France or somewhere?”

“Then we go to France,” he declares. “They say Paris is pretty romantic.”

“Hmm,” you tilt your head, considering him with a fondness in your eyes. “Bet it has nothing on you.”

He just shrugs at the compliment, trying and failing to hide how flustered it makes him.

“We can talk about it in the morning, alright?” you say, your tone softer now. “You staying?”

He answers with a look—one that clearly asks if you’re serious. It’s a ridiculous idea and you both knew it.

“Right, sorry.” You roll your eyes at yourself. “Stupid question.”

You gesture to the towel draped on a nearby rack. He stands, water droplets sliding off his forearm, and offers you his hand. You let him help you up, and he wraps the towel around you, completely unhurried.

He follows you into the bedroom, leaning back across the bed and propping himself up on his elbows.

He doesn’t speak.

Just watches.

You begin your post-shower routine, patting your face with moisturiser, smoothing your hair back from your forehead with gentle fingers to keep it from frizzing where the steam might have kissed it. It’s all so ordinary.

He wants to watch you do it every night.

Wants this same scene months from now, when your things are tangled in with his—your toothbrush beside his, your makeup on his drawers, your robe slung over the chair you both pretend isn’t a laundry drop zone.

“I can feel you staring at me,” you say, not looking up, voice teasing as you rummage through the drawer.

He doesn’t even try to deny it.

“Am I not allowed?”

Turning halfway, you give him a playful glance over your shoulder. He meets your gaze head-on, and the corner of his mouth quirks in a smile so warm, it practically melts you from across the room.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, gesturing you closer with a subtle lift of his chin.

“Why?”

“Just wanna be close,” he says, voice dipping. “You're too far.”

You roll your eyes as you cross the room, still wrapped in your towel, and sit down beside him. The mattress shifts under your weight, and he leans in, brushing a few strands of hair out of your face. His fingertips trail across your temple and cheekbone, leaving a tingling sensation.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask softly, eyes searching and looking painfully similar to the way his had been this evening.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Take a wild guess.

“Yeah,” You raise a brow at him. “I would.”

Still grinning, he lets his hand slip around to cradle the side of your neck. He can feel your pulse under his palm.

“I’m thinking,” he says, pausing when his voice turns low and steady, “just how lucky I am.”

Your cheeks flush instantly, and you duck your head with a half-hearted groan.

“Stop it,” you whine through a grin, trying to deflect the embarrassment.

“What?” He laughs softly. “I’m serious, sweetheart.”

His hand finds yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“I got you. Don’t you get it?”

You glance up at him, eyes wide and glassy, and he just keeps going.

“I don’t know how I did it—you chose me. Out of everyone—don’t think I’ll ever stop thinking about that.”

He still doesn’t quite believe it, maybe that’s why he’s been so close this evening.

“You’re gonna make me cry again,” you admit, voice barely there.

He shakes his head gently, thumb brushing along your cheekbone.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice like sweet sugar, “hey now, no more tears, alright?”

His gaze softens further as he leans in.

“Too pretty to be crying over me.”

You scoff, but the sound is brittle.

He doesn’t realise how impossible that ask really is.

“You make it hard when you talk like that,” you murmur, trying to keep the emotion at bay.

You think this is bad?

“Sweetheart…” he leans in until the tip of his nose nudges yours. ”I haven’t even begun to say all the things I want to yet.”

Goosebumps prickled along your arms at the husky undercurrent in his tone. Before you can respond, he lowers his head to press a soft kiss to the curve of your neck.

“Gonna say a lot more tonight,” he speaks against your skin, breath tickling slightly. “You gonna let me?”

Please, let him.

He shifts on the bed beside you, the heat of his chest radiating against your shoulder and arm. You can feel his breath, sweeping across your cheek. His eyes trace your face—then move lower, lingering on the spot where the towel clings to your damp skin.

His gaze is hungry yet careful, silently asking if this is still what you want. You can’t help but nod, your heart thumping, your thighs squeezing together.

He presses closer, leaning in until his mouth hovers over yours. You can taste the quiet groan in his throat even before your lips connect. His kiss is warm, unhurried—an ache made tangible as his hand settles on your thigh, fingers splayed against the soft flesh. He shifts his weight, and the towel slips a fraction, baring more of your skin to the cool air.

“Let me see you,” he murmurs against your mouth.

Your breath stutters, but you nod, letting him lift the towel away. The cotton slides from your chest and falls to the side, leaving you completely exposed. A quiet curse slips from his mouth as his eyes rake over every curve, every inch of bare skin.

He sets one hand at your waist, the other trailing across your stomach until his fingertips brush the top of your core. Your abdomen quivers under his touch. He leans in to kiss you again, his lips parting against yours in a slow, possessive drag of tongue and teeth, while his knuckles glide lower.

“So fucking pretty,” he whispers between kisses. “I mean—Jesus, baby—gotta tell you more often.”

You can’t help it—you blush, glance away, shakily trying to laugh it off.

“You’re—you’re just saying that ’cause the towel’s off.”

His head snaps up at that.

“Are you kidding?”

He can’t hide his disbelief.

“You’re always this pretty—all the time.”

Drives him wild.

His hand moves lower before you can come up with a retort, sliding between your thighs. Your breath stutters as his palm presses firmly against you, heat blooming instantly in your belly.

His fingers part you with ease, gliding through the slick gathered there—and the sound he lets out is wrecked.

“Fuck,” he mutters, letting his fingertips glide over your swollen clit. “You’re soaked, angel.”

A quiver racks your body as he circles that sensitive bundle of nerves with the pad of his thumb, sending electricity dancing up your spine. You can’t help the moan that spills from your lips—breathy, desperate. He savours it, his eyes flicking up to watch your face contort with pleasure.

“Sound sweeter every time,” he murmurs, sliding two fingers lower. He traces your entrance, feeling the flutter of your cunt welcoming him, before pressing carefully inside. Your slick muscles clamp down around him, and his forehead falls to your shoulder. “Wish you could see yourself, like a fucking angel.”

His angel, just for him.

Your nails dig into the strong curve of his bicep, clinging to him as he begins to thrust. There’s a slight stretch that borders on pain, but it melts into pure pleasure with each careful push. You gasp and arch your back, letting your thighs spread wider, inviting him deeper.

“Steve...” you whimper, voice shaking with need.

His response is a low, broken sigh. He withdraws his fingers almost all the way, then sinks them back in, hooking them just enough to stroke against that spot that makes your hips jerk.

He lifts his head and looks transfixed—watching your face, your parted lips, the way your breasts rise and fall with every ragged breath. He pulls you closer to him, leaning on him, so he can feel every response of yours.

“That’s it,” he rasps, pressing his thumb over your clit again. He rubs in tight circles, matching the rhythm of his fingers inside you. “Can feel you squeezing me—you close already?”

You nod as your body tightens around him, pleasure coiling at the base of your spine. You bite back a cry, tears pricking at your eyes from the overwhelming emotion surging through you.

“I’m—I’m close—”

He groans in encouragement, pivoting his wrist just enough to press into you deeper.

“That’s it, baby,” he mumbles. “Cum for me. Let me feel you.”

A final rush of heat washes over you, your orgasm tearing through your limbs in dizzying waves. You pulse around his fingers, cunt gripping him again and again. He holds your gaze, his hand never slowing until you whimper at the oversensitivity. Your toes curl, your breath hitching on a strangled moan. You quake in his arms, heart hammering against your ribs.

When it subsides, he eases his fingers out, palm sliding up to rest on your thigh, caressing the damp skin. His chest rises and falls heavily, you can sense his own arousal thrumming through him, begging for release.

“You okay?” He asks gently, as you nod, still catching your breath.

“Yeah,” you sigh. “More than okay.”

He smiles at that, soft and maybe a little bashful as he leans in to press a warm kiss to the side of your mouth. His other hand comes up to brush your hair gently from your face as he shifts. His eyes search yours, almost shy.

“Good,” he says quietly, voice dipping lower.

A pause.

“Because I’m not done.”

You blink up at him, heart stuttering.

He holds your gaze as he continues, barely more than a whisper.

“Because…”

Fuck it's corny, but he doesn't care.

“Because I still need to make love to you.”

Your eyes begin to water again, but he is quick to shush you.

“Let me love you, angel.”

He watches your eyes glisten, tears threatening to spill, and his chest squeezes with so much emotion he can barely breathe. He reaches up, thumb swiping gently under one of your eyes to catch a stray tear.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice trembling with sincerity. “I got you, alright?”

So much for the “no more tears.”

He steps back, every cell in his body alive. With one quick tug, his shirt is off and discarded, exposing the lean planes of his torso. The scars he once worried about don’t even cross his mind—he’s too focused on the way your lips part as you take in the sight of him. In seconds, his jeans and boxers are gone too, and you feel a rush of heat at the need written across his face.

You reach for him, practically pawing at his shoulders, but he slows you with a gentle hand. He presses his mouth to yours, but there’s a fire underneath it—he can’t hide the low whine that escapes him when his naked body meets yours. His cock, hard and straining, slips against your inner thigh, catching the slick arousal that’s already pooled there.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips, grinding carefully, almost sliding where you need him. It sends a shudder of pleasure through both of you as you urge him closer.

“Baby—slow down,” he pleads, hand finding your wrist as you try to pull him to you. “Don’t wanna rush it.”

His eyes are half-lidded, raw with passion, but determined to savour every second. You let out a needy whimper, not bothering to hide the tremble in your voice.

“I—I want you,” you whisper, desperate. “Please.”

He dips his head, pressing a reassuring kiss to your cheek. You see devotion, love, adoration in his eyes.

“We have all night, okay?” he murmurs.

And all of tomorrow.

You can only nod, tears threatening again—this time from the overwhelming flood of love swelling in your chest. He brushes his lips over your cheek, trailing down until he reaches the hollow of your throat, where your pulse thrums under his mouth.

He pulls back just far enough to guide his cock through your folds, gliding over your clit and gathering the wetness that’s waiting for him. You arch your back, breath hitching at the contact.

He thinks you’re beautiful, but he’s always thought that. Like the universe had dropped you into his unsteady life on purpose. Just for him.

“Do—do you remember when we first met?” he blurts suddenly, words tumbling out in a rush of emotion. His voice is rough. He drags his cock across your slick again, and you whine at the friction.

You blink up at him, mind hazy but catching the glaze in his eyes.

“Steve…?” you manage, unsure why he’s bringing this up now.

But he’s too far gone, mouth running wild with the confession.

“Couldn’t get you out of my head,” he rasps, referencing your bookshop and that first day all those months ago. “Been on my mind from the beginning.” He lines himself up with your entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing at your opening. His eyes find yours—vulnerable.

“Fucking dreaming of you since day one.”

The first time you smiled at him, he knew he was a goner.

In a slow, deliberate motion, he pushes into you, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated to the hilt. You gasp at the stretch, tears pricking at your eyes again, but for a whole new reason.

“Oh—oh, shit—” You cling to his shoulders, your body arching, a keening moan slipping free when he stops, buried inside you.

He drops his forehead to your shoulder, trying to steady his breathing. You feel him tremble, his whole frame taut with the effort to keep from thrusting too soon. The wet slide of him inside your cunt is incredible, and you can sense the way his heart hammers against your chest.

He kisses the curve of your neck, open-mouthed, panting against your skin.

“Fuck, baby—I—Jesus—”

His voice is ragged, barely forming the words

“Don’t even know what you do to me—feel so fucking good—think I’m gonna—”

He thrusts forward, deep and slow, hitting your cervix with a guttural moan.

Your breath catches, a high, broken sound escaping your lips as your fingers claw at his scarred back.

“Every time you touched me before this—” he groans, picking up a rhythm now, hips rolling, “Thought I was gonna fucking break.”

Another thrust—deep, grinding. You sob his name, but it’s barely a sound, just air. The way he’s filling you, stretching you, loving you—it’s too much. All you can do is take it, tears building at the corners of your eyes, jaw slack, mind spiraling as his words crash over you.

He presses his forehead to yours, voice cracking open like it hurts.

“I love you,” he chokes, broken and soaked in feeling.

“I love you—been wanting to say it every time we, God—every time I had you—nearly killed me.”

He sounds wrecked, like the confession is tearing him open in the best way. You cry harder, overwhelmed, cupping his face with trembling hands.

“Fuck, Steve—” your voice shatters against his lips. “I love you—I love you too, please, please don’t stop.”

“Never,” he promises in a strained whisper.

Never gonna stop loving you.

His thrusts pick up pace, each one sending sparks through your veins. He leans in to capture your mouth in a messy, desperate kiss, swallowing the moans you can’t contain. Your nails dig into his shoulder blades, urging him closer, deeper. He can’t seem to tear his eyes from your face—like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to see.

“You’re mine,” he gasps, voice turning hoarse as the pleasure coils tight in his gut. “Shit—say you’re mine—”

His.

Your reply is a broken cry of his name, your inner walls fluttering around him. He feels it the second your orgasm hits—a wild surge of wetness and pulsing heat that nearly rips him right over the edge.

“That’s it,” he groans, grinding through your climax. “Can feel you, baby—so good, so perfect—”

Your entire body seizes, your back arching, a wail echoing in your throat as you ride the waves of euphoria. The rhythmic squeeze of your cunt is too much for him. He chokes out your name, and his thrusts become erratic.

“I’m gonna—” His eyes squeeze shut, teeth bared in a grimace of pleasure. “Shit—”

He lets go, hips driving forward one last time as he buries himself deep inside you. A moan tears from his chest, raw and unfiltered, as he comes—hot pulses spilling into you, his entire body jolting with each spasm of release. His forehead drops to yours, and you can feel him shaking from the force of it.

You cling to him through it, breath ragged, tears still slipping down your cheeks. When the final shudder leaves him, he collapses against you, chest heaving, breath hot on your neck.

The air around you is thick with the scent of sex and the sound of shared your breathing. Neither of you moves at first—your bodies are too heavy with satisfaction, your hearts still pounding in tandem.

When he brushes his lips over your cheek and tastes the salt of your tears, something in his chest clenches, and he forces himself to move.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice rough around the edges. “Hey, you okay?”

You nod, though your eyes are wet and shining. You reach up to cup his jaw, and there’s so much wonder in your gaze that he nearly feels undone all over again. A laugh bubbles out of him—breathless, on the verge of tears himself.

He breaks off, throat tightening. You’re trembling slightly beneath him, your body still reacting to the waves of pleasure, and he’s struck by the overwhelming need to take care of you. With shaky hands, he eases himself off the bed, pressing one more kiss to your forehead.

“I’ll be right back,” he promises, voice cracking from the weight of the moment.

You watch him disappear into the bathroom, your heart drumming. He returns a moment later with a small hand towel dampened with warm water. His hair is messy, eyes dark with emotion, and there’s a vulnerable smile tugging at his lips—like he’s on the edge of crying, too.

“Let me…” He trails off, gently parting your thighs.

He’s so careful, mindful of any soreness. When he presses the warm cloth against your skin, you let out a shaky exhale. It’s intimate in a way that almost feels more profound than sex itself—this slow and tender, the way he murmurs apologies whenever he brushes a sensitive spot.

“I’m sorry—sorry,” he whispers every time you flinch or gasp, even if it’s just a reflex.

You rest a hand on his forearm, tears sliding silently down your cheeks.

“You’re not hurting me,” you manage with a small smile.

He presses the cloth to your inner thigh one last time, then sets it aside. Without hesitation, he climbs back onto the bed, tugging the sheets around you both. The second he’s close enough, you wrap your arms around his shoulders, and he cocoons you against his chest, sighing with relief when your body lines up with his.

“Are you crying?” you ask softly, noticing the wet sheen in his eyes.

“No…” He huffs a breathy laugh that sounds suspiciously like a sob.

“I just… I don’t know. I didn’t expect to feel this much. I mean—” He swallows hard. “It’s… y’know?”

There he goes again, words once again failing him.

You nod, pressing your face to the crook of his neck, understanding him completely.

“I know.”

For a while, neither of you speaks. He holds you, fingers tracing idle patterns along your spine, your breathing syncing up in rhythm. He kisses the crown of your head, letting out a hum of contentment. You shift just enough to look into his face, eyes rimmed with lingering tears.

“I love you,” you whisper, palm cupping his cheek.

God, he’s never gonna get sick of hearing that.

He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch.

“I love you too, angel,”, He exhales, a soft tremor in his shoulders.

And he’s never gonna stop.

You let out a wet, breathy laugh.

He smiles back, full of adoration.

You have to hide your face in his chest, because you’re crying again, and so is he—but it’s the sweetest kind of crying.

It’s the sound of two hearts finding their place in each other, tangled up in the sheets, refusing to let go.

Steve’s eyes flutter open at a tickling sensation, your fingertips tracing idle shapes on his chest in a methodical pattern. He keeps perfectly still for a few seconds, lulled by the softness of your touch. He almost doesn’t want to move, afraid to break the moment.

Eventually, he can’t help letting out a lazy sigh, shifting just enough to capture your hand in his own. He laces his fingers through yours and opens his eyes fully, turning his head on the pillow to look at you.

“Morning,” you say quietly, a soft smile curving your lips.

“Mmm.” His voice is gravelly with sleep. “Morning.”

He blinks, absorbing the sight of you—hair mussed from sleep, face still glowing with the aftermath of last night’s intimacy.

“How long have you been awake?” he murmurs, rolling onto his side so he can see you better.

“Not long,” you admit, shifting closer until you can prop your head on your free hand. “I was thinking about where we could go.”

“What?” His brow wrinkles in sleepy confusion.

“Our trip,” you clarify, eyes brightening with excitement.

The trip.

The promise he made to you about getting away, somewhere just the two of you, so he could finally open up and lay out the parts of his past he’s been hiding.

“Oh, right,” he says, waking up more fully now. A slow smile stretches across his mouth. “Any ideas?”

“Hmm, that depends,” You tilt your head, a thoughtful expression settling in your features. “How long can you put up with me in the car?”

He lets out a small huff of laughter.

“That will not be a problem, trust me.”

“Big words.” you roll your eyes playfully. “Bet we fight over directions.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, “but we’ll figure it out.”

You lean in to press a quick kiss to his lips, and he draws in a contented breath, letting the sweetness of it curl through him.

He’s so in love, he can hardly believe it. And the best part is—he knows you love him too, has heard you say the words, felt the truth of them in every kiss and tear shed last night.

“How about I make some coffee,” he offers, pulling back a fraction, “and we can brainstorm some ideas?”

“Okay.” You grin.

He slides out from under the blankets, padding barefoot across the floor to your chest of drawers. He glances at you in question, and you nod, granting permission to open the top drawer—the one where you’ve started keeping a few spare clothes for him.

He grabs a fresh pair of boxers and a faded gray jumper before hunting down his jeans from the crumpled pile on the floor. As he slips the boxers on, he feels your gaze lingering on him, and he can’t suppress the smile that spreads over his face.

His cheeks heat up a little, but there’s no self-consciousness—just the buzz of being desired by the person he’s head over heels for.

“If you get dressed,” he says, tugging on his jeans, “we can always go to the cafe. Should still be open.”

You light up at the mention of it, immediately swinging your legs over the side of the bed.

“Perfect,” you say, rising to rummage in your closet. He shakes his head in amusement at how quickly you can switch from sleepy to energised, and you both share a grin as he slips through the door into the living area.

“Come find me when you’re ready,” he calls back.

He leaves the bedroom door ajar, wandering into the open-plan space. He crouches to where his shoes lie haphazardly near the sofa and slips one foot in, then the other. But as he does, his elbow nudges your bag, which has been leaning against the couch. It topples over, the contents spilling out across the floor with a soft thud-thud-thud of small items rolling away.

“Shit,” he mutters, instantly dropping to his knees to gather everything.

He picks up a stray lipbalm, a set of keys, and a small pursee, placing them back in the bag. A pen has rolled under the couch, which he has to stretch to reach. As he reorganises, his eyes catch sight of something else—a small notebook lying face-down, pages slightly crumpled at the edges.

He assumes it’s just for work notes or to-do lists, so he flips it over, intending to slip it back inside.

But then he sees the words on the open page. Words that send a chill racing up his spine.

Dates?

No, they have words attached to them, and the numbers don’t line up.

They’re all over the place, connected with arrows placing them forward and backwards, none of which are in the present.

They’re... events?

A timeline.

Little scribbles next to each, question marks, underlines. A timeline that doesn't take him long to figure out.

His heart kicks in his chest, hard.

Starcourt.

Earthquake.

A name he tried to bury:

Eddie Munson.

It’s written there, plain as day, circled in your familiar handwriting. The same scrawl he’s seen on shopping lists pinned to his fridge, on the little notes you leave him in the margins of books. And right next to Eddie’s name, the word “murders” underlined several times.

There are newspaper clippings taped onto another page—yellowed and carefully annotated in pen.

He almost drops the notebook as a rush of adrenaline floods him.

Eddie Munson.

A name from years ago, a friend he never quite got the chance to know but ended up entangled with all the same. The memory sends his stomach roiling. The official story, the one the papers had plastered everywhere, is a tangle of semi-truths and government cover-ups.

But you—why would you be digging into it?

He flips another page, his hand trembling. There’s more scribbled details: possible days, references to kids going missing, some mention of “suspicious flora—lab?”

His eyes skim lines that make little sense out of context but still contain enough hints to make his blood run cold.

The question marks after each clue are too close to the truth for comfort.

He realises that you’re so much closer to understanding everything than he ever imagined. The promise he made to himself—and to his doctor—was to keep the details of Hawkins’ horrors locked away, only sharing the bare minimum if it meant keeping you out of danger.

That was the plan.

The safe path.

The one you’d both talked about just last night while he told you he’d explain “everything.”

Except… you’d clearly been investigating on your own.

Possibly for weeks.

Months.

His breath comes too fast. He’s on his knees in your living room, hair falling into his eyes, heart banging against his ribs like it’s trying to escape.

He thought you were patiently waiting for him to open up.

How wrong he had been.

Instead, you’ve been digging behind his back, collecting articles, tracking down names.

Eddie’s name.

You’re close to things you can’t possibly understand—the Upside Down, the creatures, the secret ops that nearly destroyed them all.

Tremors work their way through his fingers as he grips the edges of the notebook. The words blur momentarily as panic stings at his eyes.

Did you suspect something about him?

Did you not trust him to tell you the truth, or were you just too curious to stop?

It strikes him like a blow.

You haven’t been waiting at all.

You’ve been forging your own path, collecting clues in an unthinkably risky puzzle. The fear courses through him, tangling with a sense of betrayal that leaves his chest tight.

This changes everything—everything.

He hears you in the other room, humming lightly as you search for clothes. The sweet morning optimism he’d felt—the jokes about the road trip, the images of you both singing along to the radio and stopping for greasy diner food—wavers like a mirage. His mind is spinning too fast to cling to it. He sets the notebook on the coffee table, his hand hovering over it like it might burn him.

Why were you doing this?

And more importantly.

Just how long have you been keeping this from him?

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roosterforme · 2 years ago

Text

Wrong Number | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley was planning on a quiet night at home with a beer and a basketball game on TV. When he receives a text from a wrong number, he's left looking at a beautiful photo of you. Now he just needs to persuade you to ditch the guy you meant to text and focus on him instead.

Warnings: Fluff, swearing, slight dirty talk, Bradley touching himself

Length: 4700 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

This was written for Rocktober. Check out my masterlist for more. Banner made by @thedroneranger

Bradley had endured such a long week at work, all he wanted to do was change out of his uniform, grab a beer from his fridge and lounge around on the couch in his underwear without a responsibility in sight. Nobody should have to work until ten on a Friday night, but it had taken him that long to sort through the massive stack of paperwork from Admiral Simpson. At least now he had nothing planned for the rest of his evening.

His apartment was too hot, and the cold bottle of beer pressed to his bare thigh as he reached for the TV remote left some droplets of condensation. It felt good. He took another sip as his phone vibrated next to him. With a soft grunt, he abandoned the remote in favor of the phone and unlocked it with his pass code.

There was a new text from an unknown number. And there was a photo attached. He grimaced, afraid of what he was going to find if he tapped on it. He read the phone number twice, but it didn't sound familiar beyond the San Diego area code. He let his head tip back as he recalled the time he pissed Nat off and she gave his phone number to a random sailor in retaliation. Bradley really hoped he wasn't going to have to kindly ask someone to stop sending him dick pics like last time.

Before he lost the nerve, he tapped on the message, and his screen was suddenly filled with a photo of a woman who looked just a few years younger than him. And she was hot. He paused with his beer bottle halfway to his lips before letting it settle back down to his thigh.

Hey, Alan. It's me. So now you have my phone number, too.

Bradley didn't know who the hell Alan was, but he wasn't mad about the mix-up. This photo was something else. It almost looked like it was taken in the bathroom at the Hard Deck. The lighting was bad, and there was a paper towel dispenser in the background, but whoever you were.... damn, you were stunning. All pretty features and smiling like you had a secret.

It took him a moment to stop staring at the photo and return to the previous screen and your message. He was going to have to tell you that he wasn't Alan and that you had the wrong number, but he just sat there and tapped his phone case instead. He didn't even like the name Alan, but damn if he didn't want to be Alan right now. That lucky bastard had you interested in him.

Bradley was wondering how the mix-up happened in the first place as he drafted up a text to you. Only some sort of fucking idiot wouldn't check and double check that he gave you the right number. "Amateurs," he mumbled as he typed with a little smirk on his face.

Hey, sorry to inform you, but this actually isn't Alan. However, I wouldn't mind one bit if you kept sending me the photos that are meant for him.

He hit send and tossed his phone aside, assuming you'd just block him and move on with your night. He brought his beer bottle back to his lips and enjoyed the way the drink helped cool him down while he contemplated taking a shower, but when he reached for the remote again, his phone vibrated.

There was another message from the same number. Intrigued, Bradley unlocked his phone again, and he was pleased to see another text and another photo.

Hi, Not-Alan. Sorry about that! I hope you have a great night.

This photo was similar to the first one, except that you were flipping him the peace sign and winking which made Bradley laugh. You seemed fun, even through this limited interaction. And he was sure that was the ladies' bathroom at the Hard Deck, which pissed him off, because he got out of work so late he didn't feel like going out tonight. Maybe if he had been there, you wouldn't have been talking to Alan in the first place.

"Damn it." He was intrigued. He wanted to know more about this.

My night is substantially better now that I have two photos of you. So where did Alan get off to anyway? And why is he trying to steal my phone number?

This time Bradley was dying for another response. But it didn't come. He stared at his phone for a solid minute before returning to his beer and downing the rest of the bottle. Still nothing. He stood and made his way into the kitchen, tossing his empty into the recycling bin before getting another one from the fridge and eyeing up the food situation. He should probably eat something, but he swore he heard his phone vibrating. When he looked over to the couch, the screen was lit up.

He slammed the fridge door and opened the new bottle before heading back to his phone. There was no photo this time, but there was a new message.

I actually lost Alan in the crowd, so really, the man could be just about anywhere. And I don't think he was trying to steal your number at all, Not-Alan. He wrote it on my palm, and it smeared before I could add it to my phone.

"Okay," Bradley said out loud. "Now we're getting somewhere." He sat down on the couch with his beer on the coffee table and started a new message.

Alan should learn how to write neater in the future, because he's missing out here. You have to double check that someone who looks like you got the number right. Everyone knows that.

Bradley decided that he was going to have no shame for the night. Not as long as you kept writing back to him. He was contemplating how to save your number in his phone when another selfie with a message came through. You were out by the bar at the Hard Deck with a smile on your face, and you were holding up your palm complete with Bradley's smeared phone number.

Does this number look familiar, Not-Alan? Still no actual Alan in sight, by the way.

Bradley supposed that the 7 could have been mistaken for a 1. Or maybe Alan's phone number had a 5 that got smeared into a 6. It didn't really matter. Bradley was going to shoot his shot and hope Alan didn't resurface.

Good, Alan can just stay lost. What's your name, pretty girl?

Then he saved your number as Pretty Girl, and this time he did manage to turn the TV on while he waited with his phone in his hand. He muted the Clippers game and picked up his beer before promptly setting it back down again.

Pretty Girl: Not so fast, Not-Alan. You tell me your name first. And how old you are. And your blood type and the last four of your social security number.

Bradley laughed and started typing. He realized he hadn't stopped smiling for the last twenty minutes as he hit send.

I'm Bradley. I'm 34. O positive. 2305.

On a regular night, the basketball game would have held his attention, but tonight he couldn't stop looking at his phone. "Come on, Pretty Girl," he muttered, running his beer bottle along his thigh before taking a sip.

Pretty Girl: Okay, Bradley. You have my attention. Send me a selfie exactly where you are, and I'll think about telling you my name. No changing into something nicer. No fixing your hair. Just a selfie. Right now.

Bradley looked down at himself in just his black boxer briefs and mumbled, "If you say so." When he set his phone camera to selfie mode, he looked at the screen and realized his hair still looked pretty decent from work. So he went ahead and took a picture where he was wearing a bit of a skeptical smirk, and he sent it before he could think twice.

And now his heart was beating a little faster. This was probably where you'd stop responding. Oh hell, at least he went for it, but a few minutes later, you still hadn't sent anything back to him. Maybe he could have tried to hide the scars on his neck and cheek, but what was the point? Clearly you were sending him actual selfies you'd taken tonight, and he did exactly what you'd told him to. Then his phone vibrated.

Pretty Girl: Do you really expect me to believe that you're not just googling "hot shirtless guy with a mustache", downloading a photo, and trying to pass it off as yourself?

He tipped his head back and laughed. There was just something about you. He didn't even know your name or what your voice sounded like, but he could already tell he was going to like both of those things. If you ever told him or let him hear you.

That's really me. Promise. Will you tell me your name now? Or do I have to keep calling you Pretty Girl?

He was wondering if you were still at the bar, surrounded by guys like Alan who would love to take you home while you were chatting with him. And he hoped the next text would contain your name. But you just ignored him when you wrote back a few minutes later.

Pretty Girl: Prove you're not just sending some photos of a random hot dude. Go stand by your open refrigerator and take a selfie. Then take another one with your toothbrush.

"She's a handful," Bradley murmured as he stood with a smile. He carried his beer into the kitchen, opened his refrigerator and snapped a selfie where the fridge light somehow accentuated his features nicely. Then he left his beer on the counter while he went into his bathroom. He was actively trying not to smile for this one where he had his red toothbrush hanging out of the side of his mouth, but he was on the verge of laughing at how ridiculous his night turned out to be.

He typed up a message and attached both photos and then sent them off while he finished his beer at the kitchen counter, Clippers game forgotten.

What is this, Pretty Girl? A hostage negotiation? I already told you, that's really me.

It didn't take too long for you to respond this time, and Bradley wasn't even letting his screen dim long enough to need to unlock it now.

Pretty Girl: Are you naked in these photos?

"Jesus," he muttered. Of course he wasn't. Did you want him to be? Shit, he needed to stop thinking about that.

No! I'm wearing underwear. You told me not to get changed or anything.

He felt flushed and too warm as he set his phone down on the counter and went to open some windows. Then he walked a few laps around his apartment in an effort to chill the fuck out. He wasn't even with you, and you were under his skin.

When he returned to his phone, there was a selfie and a message waiting for him. In the photo, you were sipping a drink, and the way the straw pressed to your perfect lips had him practically moaning.

Pretty Girl: My friend thinks there's something wrong with me. I'm at a Navy bar in San Diego at the moment. There are hot guys galore, and yet I'm glued to my phone.

"Shit, shit, shit." Bradley thought about getting dressed and heading out to the bar himself. Then maybe he could hear you tell him your name in person right before he pulled the straw away from your mouth and kissed you.

How much longer are you going to be at the Hard Deck, Pretty Girl?

Bradley started heading for his bedroom closet when his phone vibrated in his hand.

Pretty Girl: How do you know I'm at the Hard Deck? Do I need to smash my phone to bits and go into hiding?

"Fuck," he grunted, typing so quickly he had to go back and fix several spelling errors before he could send it. The last thing he wanted to do was make you uncomfortable, so he paused before getting any clothing out of his closet.

Because I'm in the Navy, and I live in San Diego. And I recognized the inside of the bathroom from the first photo you sent me. I swear I'm not creepy. You can ask Penny, the bartender and owner of that fine establishment. I spend enough time there. Show her my photo.

Bradley collapsed onto his bed with his forearm over his eyes and his phone clutched to his chest. He didn't have to check the time to know it had been a while since he texted you. He also didn't have to look at his phone to know it was after midnight now and that you and he had been chatting for almost two hours. Bradley jolted when the phone vibrated against his chest.

Pretty Girl: Okay. Alright. Penny is a sweetheart, and your story checks out. Also, she told me your call sign and then told me to have you verify what it is for my own peace of mind. So what is it, Bradley? And how do you know what the ladies' restroom here looks like?

Oh, he was going to owe Penny big time. He typed away as he lay sprawled out on his bed.

My call sign is Rooster. And as for your bathroom question.... are you really going to make me answer that?

Bradley closed his eyes and thought about the girl who had taken him into the bathroom with her last year. He was pretty sure she had brown hair, but other than that, he couldn't really recall. But he did remember looking at that paper towel holder on the wall and the framed photo of an F/A-14 that was hanging over it while he was in there with her.

He wouldn't mind taking a trip there with you, that was for sure. Or maybe you and he could skip the scandalous bar hookup and just go right to dinner or a movie. For some reason, he thought he might actually prefer that.

Pretty Girl: Be back soon. I'm getting a ride home.

Bradley mused out loud, "It better not be from Alan." Shit, he could have offered to go pick you up and make sure you got home safely. He'd only had those two beers all night, and now he was picturing some faceless guy named Alan driving you home and pawing at you.

He texted you back.

Let me know when you get home, okay? And you can always just call me.

With a sigh, he got out of bed and plugged his phone in, not sure what to expect at this point. He went back into the bathroom and used his red toothbrush. And then he went back to the living room and closed all the windows. When he was in his room again, he had no new notifications as he climbed in bed. He was about to text you again and check in when his phone rang.

CALL FROM Pretty Girl

Bradley was smiling as he answered. "Hey, Pretty Girl."

A soft laugh preceded your voice, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek as you said, "Hi, Bradley with the O positive blood. Are you trying to tell me that you were in that bar bathroom with a girl?"

He found himself laughing. "Can I plead the fifth?"

When you moaned softly, he dropped his phone onto the pillow and had to scramble to get it. "Oh, my god. Even your voice is sexy."

Okay. He should not be on the verge of touching himself after you spoke three whole sentences to him. "You make it home safely?" he asked, trying to play it cool as he thought about those photos you sent him.

"Mmhmm. A very nice man named Alan drove me home. He's right here next to me as I get changed for bed."

Bradley thought for a beat that he had met his match in you. "You better be lying. You know what, put Alan on the phone."

Your laughter filled him up as you said, "He's not really here. I had to ditch him, because he doesn't even have a mustache. Apparently that's a deal breaker for me now?"

Holy shit. Bradley was in trouble. He was getting turned on, and you weren't even really saying anything dirty. "You're killing me. You gonna tell me your name, Pretty Girl?"

"No. I think I'm going to hold onto it a little longer."

"Fine. But please explain to me how I've never seen you at the Hard Deck before. I'm certain I would remember your face."

Your voice sounded a little softer now as you said, "I just moved to Coronado. It was my first time at the bar."

If he hadn't worked so late today, Bradley would have probably been there tonight as well. "You had fun? You think you'll go back again?"

"Probably," you replied casually. "When do you think you'll be there?"

Bradley was so warm he was starting to sweat. "Pretty Girl, you just say the word, and I'll clear my whole damn calendar."

Your little sighs and soft giggles were going to be the death of him. "You know, I still have Alan's, or rather your phone number on my hand."

He imagined himself kissing your palm and rewriting his phone number. "Should be in my handwriting. I'll make sure I always bring a pen with me to the bar."

You cleared your throat softly, and Bradley imagined you climbing into bed. "Penny told me to watch out for some of the other guys. But she said you're okay."

"Just okay?"

"Actually, she called you a big, brown eyed puppy dog."

Bradley laughed. "I've been called worse."

"I'm sure you have," you replied quickly. "You deserve some sort of punishment for daring to look good with a mustache."

"It's a blessing and a curse. Now, are you going to send me another photo? Or are you going to just agree to meet me tomorrow night?"

He heard a rustling noise and then you softly said, "Alan is not going to like this one bit." And then another photo arrived, and this one had Bradley's mouth hanging open.

"Now it's my turn to ask if you're naked in this picture." He was taking in every inch of your exposed skin and your bedding tucked up to your collar bones. You took your makeup off for bed, and you looked cozy and intimate. And you were talking to him. You were letting him see this. Bradley had to actively think about not touching himself.

"Totally naked."

"Fuck."

"Send me another one?"

"Yeah," he grunted, swallowing hard as he tried to pose for another selfie just how he was, sprawled out on his pillow with his left arm bent and tucked back behind his head. But his cheeks looked flushed, and his eyes looked darker than usual. He was turned on.

Fuck it. He snapped the photo and sent it. And about ten seconds later, he was greeted with the strangled sound you made.

"It should be illegal for someone with that mustache to look so good. It's rude, honestly. Bradley, you're kind of rude, because now I want to know...."

He was hanging on your every word. "Know what, Pretty Girl?"

The call went completely silent before you said softly and sweetly, "What your mustache feels like...everywhere."

A soft, startled laugh escaped his lips. You were on the verge of some dirty talk now, he could just tell. And his cock was hard as he replied with, "I'd love to let you find out. But before you respond, I need to know how much you've had to drink tonight. I don't want to take advantage of anything here."

You whimpered on the other end of the call. "A mustache, brown eyes, and a gentleman? All Alan did for me was buy me those two Long Island iced teas."

Bradley grunted and said, "That's enough about Alan. Why don't you go ahead and tell me where you'd like to feel my mustache first, Pretty Girl."

You squeaked and said, "I want to feel it rough along my skin right below my ear while you whisper to me. Oh my god, I can't believe I said that out loud. I should just go to bed."

"Don't hang up," Bradley said, panting with need now. "Tell me more."

"Okay," you sighed with another little squeak. "I want to feel it on my lips. While I'm sitting in your lap, licking the taste of that beer you drank from your mouth."

"Holy shit," he groaned, palming himself through his boxer briefs.

"I know," you whined with need. "And I want to feel it on the back of my neck while you do filthy things to me. And I don't even know you!"

"You will," he guaranteed. "Please, tell me what time I can meet you tomorrow."

Bradley listened to the rustle of your sheets as he waited. Then you finally said, "Seven o'clock? At the Hard Deck?"

"I'll be there, Pretty Girl. I can't wait to see you."

--------------------------

It was barely even 6:30, but you were already at the bar all made up and wearing a cute dress. Penny recognized you right away, which was kind of nice and kind of embarrassing. When she asked if you wanted another Long Island, you waved her off and said, "Nothing yet. I'm meeting someone."

Her eyes lit up as she asked, "Is it Rooster?"

You'd barely slept all night, preferring to look at the four selfies he'd sent you after you ended the call around two. There was a little more dirty talk, sure, but you and he also learned a bit more about each other. And now you were going to meet this naval aviator who was originally from Virginia but loved the Los Angeles Clippers face to face.

"Yeah. It's Rooster."

Penny looked truly delighted. "You have nothing to worry about. He's very sweet."

"Tell that to the butterflies," you muttered as you placed one hand on your stomach for a beat, willing the nerves to dissipate as you walked away. You'd told Bradley you wanted his mustache on your body. In several places. And then he told you he thought you were so pretty and fun that he wanted to kiss you everywhere. And right now you were just mystified as to how this could have possibly happened only a week after you moved to this neighborhood. And you still didn't know what happened to Alan after you went to the ladies' bathroom and saved the wrong number in your phone.

You laughed when you thought about it, and then you ran your hands along the fabric of your dress. You were so antsy, your palms were sweaty. You looked down at yourself and just got more nervous. Bradley hadn't seen much of your body in the photos you'd sent to him. You'd seen plenty of his though, and he looked tall and muscular even next to his damn refrigerator. And his face was gorgeous, right down to that sinful looking mustache.

And you were just... you. Alan was really more your speed with his nerdy glasses and messy hairstyle and his lack of ability to even grow any sort of facial hair at all. You just hoped that Bradley wouldn't take one look at you in person and walk right back out of the bar.

You were about to tell Penny that you thought you needed a drink after all when the door caught your eye, and Bradley strolled into the bar like he owned the place. "Oh...fuck," you whispered, gaping at him as he ran his fingers through his hair. The photos hadn't even done him justice. He had to be over six feet tall, and he was so broad and muscular, he looked like he could pick you up and toss you around a little bit. "Shit." He was wearing some snug fitting jeans and a tropical print shirt like he just knew he could pull off the most ridiculous look. "Damn." He was glancing around, trying to find you while you started scouring the room unsuccessfully for another exit.

You were trapped in here, and he was walking further into the bar now. And you didn't think you could hide halfway behind this couple who was making out for very much longer.

As Bradley's eyes scanned the crowd again, he looked a little apprehensive. His brow was scrunched, and he checked the time on his watch. You knew it was almost seven. So you took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and then you scooted one step to your left. When his gaze came your way again, his eyes landed on you. And then his face softened. The apprehension melted away, and he smiled a cute and somehow sexy little grin that made you whimper.

Now he was heading your way, his gait sure and steady. And then he was just a few feet away and you could see the scars on his face that you'd studied all night in the photos. And you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes that somehow the selfies didn't capture. And then he was talking, and his voice was even better in person.

"Pretty Girl."

Okay, so he'd seen you up close, and he wasn't running away. That had to be a good sign, right? You managed to say just one slightly breathless word. "Hi." And then his smile grew, and he was closing the space between your body and his. He was reaching for your face and running one rough thumb along your cheek. And then he kissed you.

And the soft scrape of his mustache was even better than all of the ways you'd spent your night imagining it might feel. You couldn't help but return his kiss, and somehow your hands ended up pressed to the front of him, sliding up to his chest.

When he broke the kiss, he stayed close, his lips not far from your face. He covered your hands with his, keeping them on his body. And then he leaned close to your ear, his mustache scraping along your soft skin there as he whispered, "Tell me your name, Pretty Girl. I'm dying here."

Soft laughter bubbled out of you as he pulled away from you a bit, and those butterflies were going wild. His eyes were fixed on your face, begging for an answer this time as he stroked your hands with his thumbs. And then you told him, and he tried your name out on his tongue a few times with that grin that you liked so much. He kept saying it softly until you kissed him this time, and then he guided your arms around his neck.

"Listen," he said in that raspy voice that you'd love to focus on all night. "I have no problem staying here for a while if you want to. I bet you could even persuade me to join you in the ladies' room."

"Sounds tempting," you told him with a smirk.

"It really does. But we could also just ditch the bar and grab dinner instead? Maybe watch the Clippers game and have a drink at my place? I'm a little worried Alan might show up here and try to lure you away, if I'm being honest."

You practically snorted with laughter. "I can't even really remember what Alan looks like. He was totally gone from my mind after the first selfie you sent me. Let's get out of here."

He took you by the hand. "Anything you want, Pretty Girl."

-------------------------

I love dreamy loverboy Bradley, and I love Pretty Girl too. Thanks to @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

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