#I'll figure this out... Been looking at second hand ones...

[lonelydarknessblog]

ahhh hello! i’m so excited to get into werewolf!skz !!!(i came from daku’s page right after i saw the post) everything looks so amazing already, i can’t wait so see what comes next!

i do have a question tho: how would they take care of you when you are sick, but ignoring it? like, you’re about to pass out from a fever but you’re still making lunch like everything’s fine?

would you mind if i was 🪷 anon?

luv u lots, can’t wait to see what comes next!

Oh lovely lovely 🪷! You have come with the softest ask and I want to hug you for it! Thank you so much for it! I hope this gives you the same warm feeling that your ask gave me.

Also, if you are sick, please please rest the way our boys would want you to!

Honestly, you should have seen it coming. It started as a tickle at the back of your throat. A day later, your head felt like your brain had turned into a lead block. By day 3, you knew the fever was next, but by then, you had told far too many people you were fine and now didn't want to hear 'I told you so'. So, against your better judgement, you decided to go on with life like nothing was wrong.

Bangchan

He smelled it before you began to show signs, his sharp werewolf senses picking up the change in your body, the way it began fighting the infection even before the symptoms showed. But he wanted to respect you, your boundaries. He figured you'd tell him eventually.

You didn't. And he didn't push, but he prepared. So when he found you staring bleary eyed at your laptop, he was ready. He gently shut your device before sitting next to you, not saying a word.

"I'm fine." You grumble even as he wraps his arm around your shoulder and tugs you against him.

"I know." He whispers back, smiling. His other hand runs through your hair, massaging your scalp. You're asleep before you even know it. He carries you to bed, soaks a small towel and presses it to your forehead before tucking you under the blankets.

You wake up hours later, your body having been exhausted after pushing yourself, only to find all the chores completed, a delicate pot of soup simmering, and Chan waiting for you with a gentle smile and a warm hug (and antibiotics, supplements and vitamins).

Minho

You had told him you were tired, and if he could come over for date night instead of going out. That was his first clue that something was wrong. The second was when he stepped into your house to find the aircon set to freezing and you wrapped in three layers of woolens and sweating. He knew you were weird, but not this weird.

Realisation dawned when he slid behind you to check on the jjigae, and felt the heat radiating from your skin.

"You're sick." He stated.

You shook your head. "Nothing severe."

He rolled his eyes, gently manhandled you so that you were in his hold one moment and the plopped on the couch the next.

"The jjigae!" You protested, trying to get back up only for him to press you back down.

"I don't want your germs in my meal. I'll finish cooking. Stay."

You knew better than to argue, and a few minutes later, when he silently pressed a mug of herbal tea in your hands, you didn't have the heart to pretend you were okay. Not when he was looking at you with such unbearable concern and love.

Changbin

At first, Changbin thought the sweat was because you were at the gym, where you were supposed to sweat. But when he saw your arms tremble while holding the 5 kg dumbbell, he knew something was wrong. But you weren't the kind to tell anyone. So he faked a yawn, and you were only too happy to end the session early.

Only when you stepped into the apartment did he let on what he was truly doing; trapping you. His arms went around you in a bridal carry and you were deposited gently in bed. It took five minutes of negotiating to get him to let you shower, on the condition that you would wear the softest pink pajamas after and eat a bowlful of soup.

The exhaustion along with the warm soup left you drowsy, so he pressed a couple of tablets into your hand. Once you downed them, he wrapped you in his arms and you fell asleep with your burning forehead on the cool skin of his chest.

Hyunjin

The first time you cough, Hyunjin pretends like you've personally offended him and his ancestors. He makes you put on a mask and spritzes your hand with sanitiser.

But when it happens the second time, he frowns. His long fingers press against your forehead and he yanks his hand back dramatically, blowing on his fingers as if he touched a flame.

"This fever didn't happen just now." He scolds, rummaging through his things. He pulls out a snap and freeze ice pack and makes you hold it against your head while he shrugs off his hoodie. He bundles you in it, excuses you both from the get together and drives home, making a pit stop at the pharmacy and convenience store. You're obviously not allowed out of the car, commanded to wait for him. And when you reach home and he's given you the necessary medicines and is in bed with you, long limbs wrapped around you like he needs comfort, he whispers, "Don't get hotter, my heart can't take it."

Han

You get a little quiet. You know you're sick and you are ignoring it, going about your day like nothing is wrong. Except Han thinks you are ignoring him. He panics internally, but tries to play it cool. But when you don't react with the usual enthusiasm to the memes he sends, he begins to crash out.

"Baby. What did I do? Tell me how to make it better. You know I love you, right? Whatever it is, I didn't do it intentionally. Please." He's clinging to you, arms wrapped around you, face pressed into your neck. He squeezes you a tad too tight and you sneeze. Once, twice and then a third time.

Han pulls away and squints at you. "Are you sick?"

You nod. He collapses on the floor. "Oh my god, I thought you fell out of love with me!" You giggle and that is all he needs to recover. A while later, you both are wrapped in a tortilla printed blanket, a whole pile of snacks topped by a couple of medicines. And you've been told that Han can't have any of the snacks under the meds unless you have the meds. You get better in a record time of three days, and when people ask how, you and Han grin when he says, "Her love for me cured her."

Felix

Felix senses something is wrong. As a healer, he can pick up on the subtle changes in your body, and he wants to be prepared. So he spends long hours in his apothecary, putting together tinctures and decoctions for different things, nausea, fever, headaches, anything that he can think of.

When he finds you bent over the toilet bowl, he kneels beside you and holds your hair away from your face, rubbing your back. He has a glass of water ready for you and then carries you back to bed, ignoring your half hearted protests about needing to go back to work. He holds your hands and asks you to tell him what you are feeling, so he can bring the right concoction. You are about to scrunch your nose when he assures you that he's added berries to mask the flavour of the herbs.

He serves the concoction in a wine glass, decorates it with mint leaves and a slice of citrus. He wraps you in his arms, puts on your favourite show and nuzzles into your hair when you fall asleep. And when he lays you down on your pillow, he makes sure there is a fresh lavender, vanilla and eucalyptus potpourri under it to ensure you rest well.

Seungmin

He finds you with your head on the table, eyes swollen and a pile of tissues around you. He pokes you with a pen, which he also uses to toss the tissues into a bin. You wake with a groan and see him standing there like a traffic cop, arm pointing to the bedroom. His raised eyebrow makes you swallow whatever you are about say and you trudge to the room.

You remember falling face first into the pillow and passing out, but when you wake up, you're in fluffy pajamas, a hot water bag at your feet while a damp washcloth rests on your forehead. There is a plate of crackers on your night table, along with a flask of tea, a bottle of water and your medicine.

You pad out to the living room, only for him to send you back to bed, having designated it at the only 'germ zone' in the house. When he climbs into bed at night, you mumble something about him falling sick.

"You are germy, but unfortunately, you are my germy. Just don't drool on me, okay?" He says, even as he tucks you under his chin and kisses your head.

Jeongin

When he finds out that not only are you sick, you've also hid it from him, his eyes go wide, lips curve into a pout. He immediately begins gathering items that seem random; a blanket, a cup, the medicine box, a few tea bags, a pillow, bottles of water, an electric kettle and the television remote.

You look confused, but when he tugs you to the couch, some of it begins to make sense. He curls around you before wrapping both of you in the blanket. He is still pouting into your neck even as he rubs little circles into your back.

"You are not moving from here until you are a hundred percent better. And I am not moving from here until I have deemed you a hundred percent better." He grumbles.

"Is that why you have put all the supplies in arm's reach?" You chuckle.

"I said what I said."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thank you so much, 🪷! This was so much fun to write!

[mayhem24-7forever]

Andrew "Pope" Cody x Bank Heist Hostage! Reader Drabble

A/N: Took me a while but I finally got the drabble done. I'm hoping to flesh it into a full fic that I'll post on ao3 but we'll see what kind of feedback I get/how motivated my creative drive is.

Pope hadn’t mean to take her, he really hadn’t. Kidnapping hadn’t been apart of the plan, but there hadn't really been much of a plan in the first place. From the second that banker told him he needed more money for Lena’s college fund, it was all he could think about. Securing his niece’s future—no matter the cost—was his only goal, his penance for what he’d done to her mother and for failing to save her father. The first few banks had gone fine. Get in, neutralize security guards, threaten patrons as crowd control, intimidate tellers into giving him as much cash as quickly as possible, and get out, all before anyone presses panic buttons or alerts police. Between each job he changed clothes, weapons and stole a new car to confuse the police. It was practically child’s play. But then he got to the fifth bank and things got complicated.

    Watching the door from his stolen car in the parking lot, he quickly realized that the only way he was getting in with his mask on was if the security guard at the front door couldn’t see him coming. And the only way he could do that was by using someone as a shield. Pope figured he could grab someone in the parking lot, take their car keys, use them as a human shield to get into the bank and then escape in their car after he was done getting the money. It was definitely a change in plans but nothing he couldn’t handle. Now he just needed the right hostage, and as if the heavens themselves had answered, the perfect one came driving up.

    An unassuming woman in an unassuming car pulling up into a parking space between a large van and a truck, the perfect location for no cameras or witnesses. For just a moment, he had the fleeting thought that she looked vaguely familiar but he couldn’t place her. Ignoring it, he pulled his mask up and grabbed his duffle bag before slipping out of the car and heading towards hers.

    Acting quickly, Pope snuck up behind her as she got out of her car, dropping the duffle bag before grabbing the woman from behind. He clamped one hand over her mouth just as she gasped in surprise, his other arm snaked around her waist to pull her against his chest as she began to struggle, trying to buck him off to no avail.

    “Shhh, shh, shh.” He said quietly, ignoring her frantic clawing at his arms, helpless against a man much stronger than her. “Don’t fight me, I won’t hurt you.”

    He could tell she was panicking, her chest heaving wildly as he moved the arm from her waist to grab his gun from his pocket and hold it up in front of her. She froze immediately, going still in his arms and the whimper smothered behind his hand made a stab of guilt shoot right through him.

    “Just listen to me, I don’t want to have to shoot you but I will if you fight me. Do you understand?” He asked in a low voice, lips just ghosting over the shell of her ear through the fabric of his balaclava. She nodded. “Good. Now, I’m gonna remove my hand from your mouth, do not scream or you’ll be dead before anyone even looks this way.”

    It wasn’t true, Pope may have been the “fixer” for his family but he didn’t enjoy hurting people, especially those who didn’t deserve it. He wouldn’t hurt her, even if she did start screaming, but she didn’t know that and that was enough to keep her in line.

    “Do you understand?” She nodded once more as he slowly removed his hand from her mouth, ready to clamp it back down at the first sign of a scream. “What’s your name?”

    She gave it in a hoarse whisper and he hummed, ignoring a tickling in the back of his brain at the sound of it, like a memory trying to surface at the most inconvenient time. Her trembling form against his body brought him back to the present. He had to stay focused or he would be headed back to prison—and he’d die before that happened.

    “Just do exactly as I say and I'll let you go unharmed, I promise.” He said quietly, breath hot on her neck.

[walkingworlds-blog]

Wei WuXian walked toward the rendezvous point that he and Lan WangJi were supposed to meet at. Nobody walked among the sparse lights that flickered in the night. Without having to look around, the white-robed figure stood at the end of the street, standing motionless with his head hung low. Before Wei WuXian made any sound, Lan WangJi looked up and saw him. After some hesitation, he walked over with a darkened expression. Wei WuXian didn’t know why, but he involuntarily took a step backward. He could almost see scarlet streaks of blood by the corners of Lan WangJi’s eyes. He had to admit… Lan WangJi’s face really did look quite scary. (Chapter 24)

This section is utterly murdering me.

In an "oh, this is an actual peek at how LWJ is actually handling the early days after WWX comes back to life" kind of way.

You have to understand: WWX has been trying to escape him ever since they met again (under the unfounded fear that LWJ would go after him if he knew who WWX actually is).

Wei WuXian originally wanted to sneak away during their expedition off the mountain. However, even though he attempted to run away multiple times, it always ended with Lan WangJi carrying him back with one hand holding the back of his collar. (Chapter 20)

One can argue about how much of an actual effort WWX was putting into the entire escaping ordeal, but the fact remains that LWJ has been stopping him consistently enough it's no secret. LWJ, however, doesn't have a way to know that's why WWX is avoiding him. Hell, he probably thinks it has something to his confession in the previous life, which is heartbreaking all in itself.

The pace of the conversation was extremely fast. Lan WangJi only paused for a moment, and Wei WuXian added, “Go. Any later and the person would have run away. I’ll be back!” Hearing the ‘I’ll be back’, Lan WangJi took one deep look at him and walked off without any more words. (Chapter 23)

(The translation I'm reading in another language makes the "I'll be back" be "I'll be back for sure." I can't tell which is the more accurate translation, but I thought it relevant to point out.)

However, in this moment, WWX asks them to act separately (something LWJ has been actively avoiding) and does so with the promise to meet up with him again. LWJ seems to hesitate, but ultimately chooses to trust WWX and does as he says.

And then, with his task over, he reaches the spot they're supposed to meet at. The hours pass and WWX is nowhere to be seen. By the time WWX gets there, LWJ is looking down with his eyes bloodshot, stuck in place, waiting ever so patiently for him but clearly not in a good space of mind. The intensity of his whole demeanor takes WWX aback, at least until LWJ realizes WWX is hurt and the turmoil is replaced by concern, but.......

It has been hours. He has been having to keep an active eye on WWX so he doesn't escape for a few weeks at the very least. He finally decides to trust WWX, to separate for efficiency's sake for a short while, and he probably believed himself the fool for it. That he, by some miracle, got a second chance with the man he loves and that man rejected him even as a friend in the single, most backhanded way possible.

As happy as he must be to have WWX back, there's no way LWJ in the early parts of the novel is having a good time. Most likely, he spends 90% of the time second guessing WWX's very, very confusing behavior towards him. And, at this specific point, I feel he's actually nearly at his limit. His position is so frail, after all, having to impose his presence on the other to be even given a chance and, for a moment there, he's likely to have believed it all a lost cause once again.

[pyralart]

Welp... Tablet died for good. It had been on and off for a bit but I think that's it... Haven't managed to make it work at all these last two weeks, even tried buying a new cable for it.

Man.

Guess that means no drawings for a while... Sorry folks😔

[vaguely-concerned]

we've had a death in the family (a long expected one, to be clear, but sad nonetheless :( ) and the funeral is across the country on the day after veilguard releases, so my wait now has a few more days added to it. oh well if I've waited ten years I can wait until the monday after launch haha

[titaneus]

As he continued to fuck her through his orgasm and into the next round she could feel his semen be pushed out with each thrust. She glances down, watching in awe as his dick rhythmically pulls in and out of her and she sees how their fluids leak out and coat her thighs.

For a moment she thought this was him finally letting go of his restraint as she felt the force behind his thrusts increase. Paired with the increase speed the moans he would rip out of her were getting louder and more frequent.

But when he clarified he was going to build up to it her walls clench around him instinctively. She was already feeling so good from the mix of pain and pleasure she couldn't imagine what it would feel like when he finally lets go.

"If it gets—" Her voice hitches as another moan leaves her lips. It was hard to talk when he was slamming into her so perfectly but she wanted to be able to communicate with him. At least in the beginning. If they get into it enough she's certain they could let their bodies do the talking. "If it gets too much I'll tell to slow down ok?" There was no way she was going to ask him to stop. Slow down? Maybe. But It was insane how good he was making her feel, she's never once felt like this in her life.

Of course she's been able to pleasure herself before. On lonely nights where there's nothing to sate the frustrations but her fingers or a toy she kept tucked away. But this was so different, and it felt so good—so right. Which felt strange to think since the two barely know anything about the other.

Despite that the lack of familiarity he was still making her moan and sing sweet praises for him as she came around him once more. Her core still being so sensitive from cumming earlier paired with the increasing power of his thrusts easily pushed her over the edge again. "F-Fuuck..." Tania groans out as the hand tangled in his hair grip and tug as he fucks her through her second orgasm.

Her lips had already reattached to his skin, leaving love bites and hickies wherever she could reach. Even if this turned into a one night of carnal pleasure she enjoyed the idea of covering him in her marks. She's come to find she really likes seeing his skin marred with her teeth marks and bruises. While she loved the blue markings under his eyes, she found he looked so beautiful in red and purple.

.... Loved?

Did she really just think that? She's heard of people falling in love at first sight, but nothing so much as love at first night. It's not something impossible but she never considered herself to be the type. Though she would never consider sleeping with someone if she didn't love them, so what would emotion would she use to describe this feeling towards the Arrancar?

There was no mistaking the physical attraction. He was impossibility pretty and he felt good in a way that made it feel like they were practically made for each other. His overwhelming power would scare most, but it strangely enough only made her feel safe and secure. And the way he said her name and how it made her heart flutter confused her.

She really couldn't understand the feelings welling up inside her as the sounds of their moans and slapping of skin fill the room. Maybe by the end of the night she will be able to figure it out.

Grimmjow groans as he feels her teeth sinking into his flesh. He even smelt the copper tang of his own blood all it did was make him feel good though. Perhaps he liked pain. The pain of her bite merely heightened his pleasure especially as he came.

He was nowhere near done yet. Maybe it was his inhuman stamina or he fact that he was an Arrancar, not a human. He continued to thrust throughout his orgasm and thereafter too.

There would likely be quite a mess to clean up but that was beside the point and not on his mind at the moment.

He wasn't human and hadn't been in a very long time. Longer than he was even aware of fully. Which was fine. She didn't come off as completely human to him, either. He was a man but he wasn't a human man so he likely had no real need for a refractory period. If she needed a bit of a rest after a couple or a few rounds that'd be fine.

He was fine, which might become obvious as he continued to thrust within her. She felt so good to him it was insane. He'd never wanted to do anything like this or even kiss someone before her. What was it about her that made him feel that way? He didn't know but that was fine.

His skin would gain multiple bruises as she left them around the bitemark she'd put on his clavicle. Unlike her, his healing element wasn't off the charts so the bite would linger for a while. He found that he didn't mind that too much at all.

"'S okay I'll do more soon," He was still concerned about going too hard too fast with her. He didn't want to hurt her or cause her any pain that lingered. With her permission in mind he'd pick up the pace a bit, and the strength behind his thrusts would also increase shortly after.

He was still holding back quite a bit but it wouldn't be quite as obvious since he increased both his pace and how hard he was thrusting. He wanted to hear more of her pretty noises. He very quickly found that he liked them. "I ain't gonna just go hard right away gonna build up to it."

She'd know that she could do something that would show him to slow down or lower the strength if it got to be too much. Hadn't they discussed some sort of word? He wasn't sure but he'd recognize it if she did manage to say it.

[sylphwing]

was abt to make a post complaining abt how long it was taking to get this shiny poliwag but they just popped up! (244 S.O.S chain)

[bizarrelovetriangel]

r e l a x.

they give you a massage (sylus, caleb, xavier) / you give them a massage (zayne and rafayel).

mdni. 18+ only. fingering. handjob. oral (male and female giving and receiving). dry humping. creampie. overstimulation.

sylus

You've had a busy week at work and your body has been terribly sore, so Sylus offered to give to a massage.

Instead of feeling relaxed like he said you would be, you're gripping the bedsheet and biting down the back of your own hand, completely flustered and tensed.

Sylus knows exactly what he's doing with his hands and yet, he refuses to admit to his crimes by playing clueless.

As if you can't see his smirk after accidentally brushing his hands against the sides of your breast for the third time in just five minutes.

"What's wrong, sweetie? Didn't I tell you to relax? Just close your eyes and trust me. I'll make you feel good."

You're cursing Sylus so hard in your head.

You're on his bed, lying on your stomach with absolutely no cover.

You've once gotten a massage from an actual professional massage therapist before, so you know removing your clothing is just protocol.

What's different from the massage you're getting right now are all the 'accidental' touches that your unofficial massager has been doing.

Sylus is hovering over your figure with his knees on the sides of your hips and planted on the mattress while his hands are kneading your figure.

On one hand, the oil that he's using smells wonderful, and his strong hands really does wonders when he's pressing down and pulling at your tensed muscles the right way.

On the other hand, he's teasing you so much that you can't even feel at peace.

It started off with brief, almost unnoticable brushes on the sides of your breasts as his hands roam around your torso, feeling up your sore spots.

It wasn't until his hands began to linger a little too long on your ass that you grew suspicious of his actions.

You gave him the benefit of the doubt and kept quiet, closing your eyes and burying your face against the soft pillow. You thought, maybe, you can just fall asleep while he gives you a massage, even if he has to keep himself entertained along the way.

But you learned quickly that you will certainly not be able to fall asleep for as long as Sylus' hands are on you.

As he's stroking the back of your thighs, his hands traveled up to your ass once again, and this time his thumbs had gotten lost to graze the folds of your vagina.

Your head shot up in shock.

Sylus pretends not to notice.

He starts to hum a song while his hands slide down to your aching calves, giving them a good squeeze that had you wincing.

Only then did Sylus give you a look. "Something wrong, sweetie?"

"You...."

"Hmm?"

"You know what you're doing." You narrowed your eyes at him accusingly.

He tilted his head. "I'm not a professional, but of course I know what i'm doing. You have nothing to worry about."

You scoffed and put your face back down on the pillow. It looks like you're just going to have to deal with all the antics. You'll get your revenge later on.

Or so you thought.

The little not-so-accidental touches soon became more obvious and unbearable.

After several more minutes of Sylus' game of mixing in actual good massage techniques with lecherous caresses, he stopped trying to be subtle.

His fingers now had their undivided attention on your core and making their way inside you. Your hips reflexively raised as the wave of tingling sensation took over, and Slyus gently pushed them back down against the mattress.

"You're tensing up, sweetie."

There was that smirk again.

"And whose fault is that?!"

"Yours, obviously. You wouldn't need a massage if you didn't overwork yourself."

You hate that he's right even when he's trying to deflect your accusations. "Hmph."

After giving him a playful smack on the chest, you rested the side of your face against the pillow and closed your eyes.

Not a second later, his fingers are moving deeply in and out of your pussy, now wet with oil and from your arousal.

Your breath hitched at his fast pace, gripping the sheets of the bed with while listening to the lewd sounds of his sticky fingers going inside your oil-covered slit.

Your right arm reached behind you to capture his hand. You wanted to make him pause for a moment just to give yourself a moment to breathe before you burst right then and there.

He was quick to figure out your intention, so Sylus got your wrist first and pinned it on your back, just with one hand.

The bed shook slightly as he lowered his hips onto you. His placed his other hand on the mattress, right by the side of your chest to support his weight so that he's not crushing you.

His cock is pressed up right against your ass.

You were so distracted by his fingers that you failed to notice when he had pulled down his pants and boxers. Now, he's throbbing and rubbing his pre-cum on your skin.

Sylus took a moment to wipe a drop of sweat on your forehead before kissing it.

"This...isn't a massage, Sylus."

"I told you, didn't I? I'll make you feel good."

He slowly went into you.

And almost immediately, you clenched up at how good he felt. Sylus took a sharp breath before lowering his chest on your back and wrapping his left arm around your neck.

Not tight enough to choke you, but just so he could keep your face against him as he starts to move faster and harder.

All the oil he put all over your body during the massage had now been spread onto him too as every inch of him connected to you.

The air around you becomes heavy. His low groans and your muffled moans mingle with the sound of your bodies roughly colliding repeatedly.

He didn't stop for a second. Not until he was out of breath. Not until you came first. Only then did Sylus allow himself to come, right on your ass and back.

"Sylus...."

Out of breath, you flipped over as Sylus looks down at you while running a hand through his sweaty hair.

"You better not be giving anyone else a massage like the one you just gave me."

He chuckled. "Of course not, kitten. That special service is reserved only for you."

"Good." You winced as you felt your hips twinge. "Because you kinda suck. I'm now more sore than before the massage - hey, can you at least try not to look so proud?!"

zayne

It's not unusual for Zayne to be overworked, given his highly demanding job. That's why you often find yourself pampering him on his days off. This time, you decided to give him a massage so that you could help to relieve his tensed muscles.

You're not a professional, but you have learned from Zayne himself how to properly give a decent massage, as he had given you one a couple of times before. He was describing to you what he was doing and explaining what it does to your joints and muscles, so you can at least do the basics.

Right now, he's lying down on the white couch of his living room, stripped down to his boxers and facing the ceiling. You're by his side, kneeling down on the floor and sitting on the back of your feet so that you're in the same level and can easily move around.

His glasses are off and his eyes are closed, enjoying the way your hands are pressing his biceps while listening to you ramble about what you've been up to at work.

"Oh! and I just remembered something annoying that happened the other day!"

As you broke into a rant, you failed to notice that your hands had increased their strength as they moved around Zayne's lower abdomen.

Your fingers squeezed his abs, though your mind was mostly focused on giving Zayne the full details of a particular problem you had at work.

You didn't catch the way Zayne's heart skipped a beat, and the way his breath started to become uneven as your hands moved on to his thighs.

You were so distracted with your own thoughts that your ears didn't pick up the quiet groans coming out of Zayne's mouth as you rub down his quads.

His legs twitched as your fingers darted to the inside of his thighs, and he let out a cough when your fingers brushed against his bulge behind his boxers.

And yet, you still haven't caught on.

Zayne started to sweat nervously as he tries to keep his thoughts and his body tamed: to stop blood from rushing south.

But it's already too late.

He's already hard and throbbing.

Especially when you're patting him down all around the one place that's begging for your attention.

"Darling..."

"- and then I was like - huh?"

You snapped back to reality when one of Zayne's hand caught your right one.

"...here..."

Your gaze shifted from his red ears, to his adam's apple that bobbed as he gulped, and down to where he placed your hand, which was right on the big tent that formed in his boxers.

At last, you understood what he wanted and immediately granted his wish.

You tugged on the band of his boxers and pulled it down to his calves, and Zayne fully discarded it by moving his own feet and kicking it off him.

You wrapped one hand around his cock and rubbed your thumb against its tip, spreading the pre-cum that oozed out of it.

His stomach tightens up as your fist moved up and down, and low grunts emerged from his lips as you picked up your pace.

The sight of his flushed, swollen cock had your mouth and your core soaked with hunger.

You squeezed your thighs together as you placed your weight on your knees, then you moved your face towards his hips and ran your tongue from the tip to the base of his cock.

Zayne took a sharp breath once your mouth swallowed him down. He ran a hand across his chest, feeling his own heart racing as he watched your head bob up and down, with some strands of your hair falling out of place.

He closed his eyes as you moved faster. His hips jolted up reflexively, making you take even more of him. He forced himself to hold back on thrusting into your mouth, but you were the one that pulled him even farther down your throat while your hands took care of the rest that you couldn't reach.

Your name falls out of his lips before ropes of cum suddenly shoots into your mouth, spilling out from your lips.

Zayne's moans did nothing to your clenching cunt as you watch his cock continuously twitch, even after his release.

Though you didn't have to wait for long because without even giving himself time to recover from his orgasm, Zayne sat up and pulled you onto his lap.

His mouth desperately meets yours while his hands are already working on undressing you. "...need you..." he mutters between kisses.

You complied and helped him get rid of your underwear, then you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. Still, you paused for a moment to ask, "Aren't you sore though? I don't want you to feel even more tired. I'll - "

"I'm fine." Zayne cuts you off with certainty in his tone and desire in his eyes. "I just want to feel you."

As a silent response, you kissed his lips and locked your thights around his hips. Zayne adjusted himself before his cock penetrates you completely.

You wanted to spare him from moving, since, despite of his reassurance, his muscles really are overworked. You swayed your hips against him, but it seems that Zayne couldn't stay still either because he continued to push his cock into you.

He buried his face against your neck and his mouth sucks off your skin while his hands grips your ass hard. His heavy breaths stutter as both of your strengths increase, causing your flesh to clash at every second.

You re-adjusted your steady grip on his shoulders before taking control by grinding down his cock hard and fast.

Zayne catches one of your breasts into his mouth and lightly bites your nipple, earning a loud gasp out of you. Your pussy clenched around his cock, and the noise you made had echoed from his own mouth.

"C-coming...!"

You reached your climax around the same time. Zayne didn't have time nor power to pull out and your hips felt stuck against his, so all of his load was shot inside of you.

Zayne softly pressed his lips on your left shoulder before resting his forehead against it as he catch his breath.

You combed your fingers through his hair before attempting to get off of him. Zayne, however, kept you trapped against him with his hands remaining on your ass, pressing you down on him.

"Let's just stay like this.... for a little longer...."

caleb

The very second he arrived at your apartment and saw your overall worn out appearance, Caleb declared himself as your butler for the weekend. Not only did he do all the cooking and cleaning, he also decided that you needed a massage.

So here you are, lying face down on your bed, only wearing your underwear, with Caleb hovering over you with his knees on the side of your hips, running his hands throughout your body to fix your aching muscles.

He's actually doing an amazing job. Only a few minutes after he started and you're already feeling your body loosening up.

"Have you ever given anyone else a massage before?" you asked curiously, lifting your face from your pillow for a moment.

"Nope." Caleb grins. "You're my very first customer, pip-squeak. Don't forget to rate me at the end of my service, okay?"

"Mhmm."

You assume he just did his research very well, as always. Since you're in good hands, you decided to give in to the warmth and comfort he's providing and closed your eyes for a little nap.

Little did you know...

Caleb couldn't be more glad you're not looking at him right now.

He's having a big problem and it's demanding to be freed and inserted into something. Into someone.

He truly did have the full intention of giving you the best massage you'll ever have. He noticed that your body isn't in good condition because of your work, and the least he could do is make you feel relaxed with a massage.

The good news is that it seems to be working well, and you're even starting to fall asleep, which means your body is relaxing.

The bad news is that he underestimated his self-control. He had taken showers with you without popping a boner, and yet....

The sight of you lying so beautifully underneath him only in your red bra and panty had gotten his mind wandering along with his hands.

Every time he massaged the insides of your thighs, his eyes automatically flickers to your crotch as he gets a glimpse of your pussy behind your underwear.

He wanted, so badly, to bury his face between your thighs and have a taste of you. But even more, he wanted your body to feel relaxed. He didn't want to disturb you right now, so Caleb suppressed his desires.

It's not the first time, anyways. Before you were aware of his feelings, before you became an official couple, he always had to hide his sexual urges from you.

So, this is nothing. That's what Caleb repeatedly told himself as he continues to give you a massage.

Still....

It's okay to adjust himself once every while, right? His boxers and pants are getting uncomfortably tight, after all. He just needs to adjust it for a second.

Caleb stuck a hand in pants to get rid of the discomfort.

Then, he pumped his cock a few times.

'Fuck...'

He lets out a shaky breath before withdrawing his hand and resting it on the small of your back. His own actions only made things worse because now, he's throbbing uncontrollably and his thighs are pulsing. His hands are sweating, his stomach is clenching, and his face is burning.

He forced himself to keep going with the massage, but he was only torturing himself. The more he touched you, the more he wanted you.

"Hmm? Caleb, are you done?" you asked as his hands no longer made contact with your body.

"I..." Caleb's incomplete response came out low and deep.

Suddenly, his chest fell against your back and his lips grazed your right ear. His heavy breaths tickled you before his lips softly met your skin.

"I need you."

He rutted his crotch against your ass and your eyes widen at the feeling of his stiff cock through his pants.

He growled under his breath before moving faster, causing your body to bounce against the mattress of your bed.

"Caleb..."

You raised your hips to meet his, and his hands quickly latches to your waist before humping you even harder.

You slowly turned around and put your hands on the back of his neck, then you kissed him deeply and pulled him down with you.

Caleb moans into the kiss while his hands quickly removed his pants and boxers. You pulled away for a moment to help him undress, then your bodies re-attached like magnets soon after.

He wasted no time putting his cock inside you, spreading your thighs farther apart so he could pound as much of him into you as far as possible.

Your bed creaked and shook at every moment he made. The air around you feels hot, and you found yourself gasping loudly and clutching onto his back as he picks up the pace.

You cried softly against his neck as you came, and your toes curled as he relentlessly chased after his own high, drilling into you while clasping your hands. Soon, his hips stutters and he pulls out right before shooting his load right across your chest.

After using his shirt to wipe your chest, Caleb collided beside you, catching his breath as he stares at the ceiling.

You propped on your elbow and faced him sideways with a grin on your face.

"Hey, Caleb." Your fingers toyed with the pendant of his necklace. "You wanted me to rate your service, right? I'd give it a 4.5 out of 5."

He lets out a laugh, catching your hand and kissing your fingers. "What was the 0.5 deduction for?"

"...need another round..."

"Oh?" Caleb raised a brow, unable to hold back a smirk at your flustered expression. "Weeeell then, please allow me to compensate."

rafayel

Rafayel accepted your offer to give him a massage, especially since his back and shoulders have been tensed after painting for days with very little to no rest.

You had been away for work so you couldn't scold him properly to take breaks, and now you want to make up for your absence by helping him relax.

Not even five minutes after you started, Rafayel wondered if he had made a bad decision.

Today, for some reason, he's extra sensitive and not just emotionally, but physically, too.

Earlier, you breathed too close to his neck and he got chills, and not out of fear. You put your hand on his chest for thirty seconds and his heart wanted to jump out of his body. You slid your fingers down to his stomach, and blood rushed below his hips.

Rafayel shifted nervously on his bed. He's only wearing a single towel wrapped around his hips, and he's facing down against the mattress so that you could have easy access to his back and shoulders.

As you heavily but carefully drew circles on his upper back, Rafayel groaned against his pillow. You took that as a positive sign that he's feeling good from your massage, so you continued.

You pressed down to his lower back and giggled at the way he twitched.

"I didn't know you're ticklish here, Raf."

"...I'm not..."

Your thumbs moved in circular patterns just above his hips, slightly nudging the towel covering him. He lets out another sigh of relief, so you exerted more pressure down to his muscles.

Your eyes darted to his face for a moment and you wondered why his ears have turner red. Was it because of the massage?

"Rafayel, am I doing okay? If you want me to stop, just tell me - "

"No, don't stop!" he replied a little too quickly. "I mean.... keep going. You're doing great, cutie!"

"If you say so. Just making sure I'm not hurting you, that's all."

"Not at all!"

Rafayel stiffens as your hands returned to his back, as that's where he told you is the most painful part of his body is.

However, he needed your hands somewhere else.

Rafayel took a deep breath before turning around to face the ceiling. He's doing his best to breathe calmly, but his thoughts are making it impossible.

"What's wrong? did I - "

Rafayel grabbed one of your hands and guided it to his chest and let it travel down to his stomach, then right below his hips. His cock was standing tall through his towel, aching for your touch.

"It hurts here, too. Will you help me?"

You silently agreed with a nod, unable to take your eyes off his reddening cock, feeling as if you're in a trance.

Wrapping your hands around his shaft tightly, you slowly began to stroke him. A shaky, quiet moan comes out of Rafayel's lips.

Just a brief touch and he already feels like he's going to burst. He's unable to stop himself from fucking your hand, legs spread out and fingers grasping the bed sheets.

Rafayel cursed under bis breath as he came faster than he'd liked. He had come right on your hand and some had gotten to your face.

You licked the cum that got lost to your lips and Rafayel's face flushed at such a lewd image. He pulled you into the bed and embraced you sideways to cover your neck with passionate kisses

While he distracted you by leaving hickies below your jaw, his hands got rid of your shorts. You gasped as his fingers made contact with the crotch of your panty.

You grinded your ass against his hips to encourage him to continue, and so Rafayel moved your underwear aside and put his cock in you, at the same time his fingers massaged your clit.

His name comes out of your mouth as your body curls up with pleasure, allowing him to fuck you at a better angle.

"So good..." he pants against your ear, struggling to move at a slow pace.

He wanted to take his precious time to feel you, yet he also wanted to go fast just like what his throbbing cock in desperate need for release wants him to do.

In the end, he managed to keep things slow and sensual, appreciating every inch of you without a rush.

You rolled your hips back against him to meet him half-way, coating his cock with your slick as you struggle to contain your own desire for him.

Rafayel whines from behind you as you feel him picking up speed. "C-coming..." He tightened his hold on your hips before losing all his control and hammering into you, causing you to match the loud moans that he was letting out.

He quickly pulls out and rubs his cock against your legs before painting your skin with strings of his cum.

After coming not a minute after him, you turned around to face him. You brought a hand to his hair and brushed some sweaty strands away from his face, then you kissed his nose.

"So this is what happens when you get a massage."

"...only from you." he pouts. "Now, I feel even more tired. I'll have to stay in bed all day tomorrow. You'll stay with me, right, cutie?"

"Hmmm... nope."

"Why?! Is it because you don't love me?"

You flicked his forehead with your fingers. "Someone has to stop Thomas from barging in the room to see my lazy, exhausted fishie slacking off."

"Ah." He smiles and hugs you tightly, nuzzling his face against yours. "my hero."

xavier

It's not that you're ticklish.

There's just something about the way Xavier is kneading your body that makes it difficult for you to suppress amused giggles.

It might have something to do with his soft touches that doesn't help much with your sore muscles, although it does make bring you lots of warmth, comfort and joy.

That's why you allowed Xavier to give you a massage. He insisted that he gives you one after reading online that it'll help with tensed joints and muscles, so he watched some tutorial videos beforehand.

Now, you're on your couch, lying down facing the ceiling. According to Xavier, the less clothes, the more effective the massage will be. So, you decided to strip down completely but put a small towel over your breasts and crotch.

You're not even really sure why you bothered to cover up, considering Xavier has seen you naked more than enough times to feel shy.

In fact, when he saw you with the towels, he looked a little confused, though he never asked about it. He only told you to lie down and get comfortable.

After following his instructions, Xavier's first step was to give a few drops of oil on your stomach. It's slightly warm on your skin, and its scent was something similar to the fragrances that you frequently use.

He gave your tummy a few rubs, and you couldn't help but smile at how careful and gentle he was being.

When it was time for him to take care of your sore spots, you bit the inside of your cheek to stop your laughter.

You did feel some pressure, which felt nice. It just didn't last for long, as Xavier didn't exert the right amount of force.

It's not that he doesn't have enough strength - of course, he does; he is a strong hunter, after all. More likely, he's unsure of how much pressure to apply, at what angle, and for how long.

While it's not the best massage you'll ever get, he's still making you feel happy and relaxed in his own way. That's all that matters.

"You're not hurt, are you?" Xavier asked as he pressed on your hamstrings.

"Nope. I'm okay! Keep going, Xavier! You're doing great!"

"Okay!"

The way his face lit up had you melting and wanting to cuddle him. He's just too precious for his own good.

"...."

Ten minutes later, your eyes snapped wide open as you felt something....different, touch your thighs.

"What was that...?"

You looked at your legs and caught Xavier red-handed, pressing his lips on your inner right thigh.

"It's fine." He smiles at you. "It's part of the massage."

"...is it?"

"Mhmm. Just relax. It'll make your body feel better."

He resumed on applying pressure with his hands on your legs, so you brought your head back down on your pillow and closed your eyes for a little nap.

A minute later, you felt another kiss on your other thigh. You decided not to question him and let him do whatever he wanted.

But after the third kiss, which was slightly higher than the previous two, your muscles tensed up. Particularly, your pussy clenched as his lips lingered dangerously close to your core.

He does it a few more times, and the moans he's muffling against your skin absolutely didn't help your case: it only made you wet. And with Xavier being so close, he might notice.

He's over here, sacrificing his time and energy to help you feel relaxed, and yet you're getting turned on.

No, no, no. You'll have to control yourself. At least, wait until after he's done.

"Ngggnnhh,,,"

Oh god, he's doing it again.

This time, his kisses are even louder and higher. His hands are holding up your thighs so he can make space for himself.

You didn't even notice until now that Xavier no longer stood by the side of the couch, but he's now on it, too. He's right between your legs.

While you're looking down, Xavier met your gaze and your held your breath for a second. You know that look. It's the same one he often gives you in the bedroom during intimate activities.

"Xavier...."

"...I'm adding my own special techniques in the massage."

He scooted closer to your hips and lowered his face to give your thighs more kisses.

"This might be more effective."

Your face burned as you felt his tongue slide against your sensitive skin. You were unable to look away from Xavier's intense gaze directly on you.

"It feels good, right?"

You failed to come up with a coherent response as the towel that poorly covered your crotch had been dropped on the floor.

"I know you're still sore, so just stay like that." Xavier lowered himself so his chest is not too far from touching the couch. He's propped on his elbows and peeking at you between your legs. "I'll help you relax."

With that, Xavier's mouth rams into your cunt. His tongue feels your folds while his hands clings onto your thighs, spreading them wider.

You arched your back and hissed at his actions. One of your hands reached to down Xavier's face, but he caught it with his left and intertwined his fingers with yours, letting it drop to your side.

He gave you no time to calm down; his lips and tongue worked fast on making you fall apart just within a few minutes, but only because he had other things in mind.

Xavier pulled down his pants and boxers and brushed his cock against your pussy, not a minute after your orgasm. You were still sensitive, so when his tip traced around your folds, you were unable to keep your volume quiet and your insides felt like exploding.

"Xavier!"

He put the back of your legs over his shoulders, giving himself more space before grinding dick right between your folds. His breathing quietly picked up at the feeling of your core that's soaked just for him.

His eyes darted over to your face for a moment to flash you a smile.

And as much as you love Xavier, you were cursing him in your head.

How could he smile like you like that, as if he's not teasing and torturing you and calling it a 'massage'?

You can't even hate him because every cell in your body craves for him in every way possible. Anytime he smiles at you, you're on your knees for him - sometimes, literally.

"Ah!"

You were pulled out of your trance as soon as Xavier put himself inside fully you in one hard thrust.

His face flushes and his eyes are fixed on your breasts, watching them move along with the rest of your body as he repeatedly snaps his hips against yours.

The couch budges and the wooden floor creaks at Xavier's heavy plunges. The grunts leaving his parted lips joins your cries of pleasure and the sounds that your bodies are making as they collide.

Xavier is too far from your reach and there was nothing for you to hold onto, so you ended up running your hands down to your chest and squeezing your breasts as you gasp for air.

He let out a low growl under his breath as he watched your movements. He fucked you even faster at the same time he lowered his face down to your chest.

He captured your hands and pinned them by your sides before his mouth sucks in your left breast, with his tongue circling around your nipple.

He then switched to do the same on your right breast, though his teeth slightly nipped you as he felt his hips tingling.

Xavier made sure to push his cock in the deepest part of you before cumming. His voice echoes throughout your living room as he released every drop inside you while still his rolling his hips, slower and slower until his stamina is drained.

Your release quickly followed after his cock was pulled out. Xavier rested his body on top of yours, with his face on your chest, listening to your racing heart.

While you breathe heavily, your index finger traced the shell of his left bright red ear. His skin is slightly glowing with white light, too, as his evol sometimes acts up during or after he has an orgasm.

You'll never not be in awe of him.

"Hey, Xavier. Are you feeling tired?"

"Mhmm..."

He's sleepy now.

"Do you...want a massage?"

He opened one eye to catch your teasing grin "....if it's like the one I gave you...yes, please..."

"By the way, what kind of massage tutorial videos did you watch? They're kinda not that effect- "

"Don't worry about it."

[steddiehyperfixation]

silly little thing for my @steddiebingo prompt: nerds | 758 words | G/T |

"Hey, maybe he can help," Robin says, sweeping a hand towards Dustin who's just walked into Family Video for his regularly scheduled afterschool bug Steve and Robin time, interrupting their conversation.

"Oh come on." Steve shakes his head. "The kid doesn't want to hear about my trash heap of a love life."

"Oh, no, I absolutely want to hear about that." Dustin perks up at the opportunity to learn about Steve's trivial suffering.

"We're trying to figure out why Steve goes on a million dates but can't seem to find someone he actually likes," Robin fills Dustin in. "Tell him, Steve."

Steve groans, dragging his hands over his face before splaying them out sarcastically, as that's the only thing he can really do in protest right now. Dustin's looking at him expectantly, and Steve has no choice but to tell the kid all about Linda and Heidi and Brenda and Lucy and whoever else he's been out with recently, doing his best to answer any subsequent questions as PG as possible.

"Well of course you haven't found the one yet, you keep trying to date a bunch of normal, basic, girly girls. That's not your type," Dustin informs him once Steve's done talking.

Steve raises his eyebrows. "Oh, it isn't?"

"You can't really be that stupid, can you?"

"No, please, Henderson, enlighten me on what you think my type is."

"You're into nerds," he says like it's completely obvious.

Steve scoffs. "I am not into nerds. You know, just because I hang around you little weirdos all the time does not actually mean I want to hang around even more weirdos in all the other aspects of my life too."

"Seriously, Steve, think about it," Dustin argues. "Think of all the girls you've actually been really genuinely into in your life. They've all been nerds! Nancy-"

"- is not a nerd."

"She's a straight-A student and a journalism super geek. She's a nerd."

Steve rolls his eyes and sighs grudgingly. "Alright, fine, but-"

"And you were into Robin-"

Robin wrinkles her nose. "Ugh, don't remind me."

"-who you can't deny is definitely a nerd," Dustin continues.

"You know what, actually, he does have a point," Robin says.

Steve looks at her in betrayal. "Don't encourage him!"

"That girl you told me about that you liked in middle school who was super into Star Trek, and the other one who wanted to write a fantasy novel one day- oh and the elementary school crush who was always reading a new book every day..." Robin lists, ticking each one off on her fingers.

"I told you all that in confidence!"

"They were all nerds!"

"Exactly." Dustin grins, vindicated and insufferably smug. "Ergo, you, Steve Harrington, need to find yourself a nerd."

"I am not into nerds!" Steve protests hopelessly.

"What more proof do you need?" Dustin says. "You're into nerds."

"Totally into nerds," Robin concurs.

Steve huffs and throws up his hands. "Fine! I'll admit I'm into nerds if it will make you two shut up about it!"

Eddie happens to wander into the previously empty store at that exact moment, catching the tail end of the conversation as he approaches the counter. "What's all this about nerds?"

Steve freezes, glances Eddie over and stares at him strangely for a few long seconds. "Holy shit," he mutters.

His gaze cuts to Robin, whose eyes go wide when she meets his look. "Holy shit," she agrees.

"Oh my god."

"Oh my god."

"Dude."

"Dude!"

Eddie blinks at them. "Are you two having some sort of joint stroke or something?" He looks at Dustin as if the kid might have a better clue of what's going on. "Can you understand them?"

Dustin shrugs, equally mystified. "Don't look at me, man. They're weird."

The incomprehensible parroting conversation is still going on.

"Okay," Steve's saying, taking a deep breath in through his nose and exhaling determinedly.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay." Robin grins and shoves at his shoulder.

Steve finally turns back around and leans on the counter in front of Eddie with a classically charming smile. "So, Eddie, are you free on Saturday?"

Eddie smiles back despite his confusion. "Yeah-"

"Oh my god!" Dustin bursts out suddenly.

"Oh my god," Robin agrees with a knowing smirk.

Eddie glances at Dustin. "Oh no, not you too."

Steve exhales a long-suffering sigh and pushes himself off the counter, marching around to grab Eddie by the hand and drag him away from Dustin and Robin. "So. Saturday?"

"He's into nerds," Dustin whispers, wide-eyed.

Robin nods sagely. "He's into nerds."

[brookghaib-blog]

Loose Ends

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: Y/N and Bob meet at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, both struggling with addiction. They form a deep bond that slowly grows into love. When Bob suddenly disappears, Y/N relapses and falls apart. Months later, Bob returns, determined to help her heal. Together, they face their pasts and find hope and love in each other’s arms.

Word count: 11,6k

Warning: Drug addiction, depression, self-esteem issues, sexual themes, suicidal thoughts

Note: Based on this request! I'm back for a bit, responding to the requests, just a reminder that I don't respond to the messages on the box to keep them in order and to read them, I do read everything you send me, and if I feel like your idea it's not meant to be written by me, I'll tell you!

--

The folding chairs creaked beneath restless bodies, the stale scent of burnt coffee and old books clinging to the small community room like ghosts of relapses past. It was just another Tuesday night, but for Bob Reynolds, it felt like his first day on Earth. The fluorescent lights were too bright, the circle of strangers too close, and every eye felt like it was boring straight through his skin.

He didn’t want to be here. But he didn’t want to be anywhere else, either.

Bob sat hunched, his fingers twitching in his lap. His knuckles were red, cracked from the cold and the endless clenching of fists that used to hold glass pipes. He hadn’t spoken to anyone when he walked in. Just nodded awkwardly at the man with the clipboard and found the nearest empty seat. He could feel the tremors under his skin, the echo of a chemical hunger that had hollowed him out for years. It was his first meeting. The beginning of something he didn’t quite believe in yet.

She was already there when he walked in.

Y/N sat across the circle from him—her back straight, hands resting neatly in her lap, a calmness in her posture that said she had done this before. She looked…clean. Not in the way the program used the word, but in a way that radiated control. Confidence. She was beautiful—he noticed that instantly, though guilt pricked the edge of the thought. Her hair was tucked behind one ear, her eyes sharp but gentle, scanning the room like she was watching for someone who might need saving.

She didn’t look at him.

Not at first.

When it came time for introductions, Bob’s voice almost gave out. His throat burned with dryness and shame. “I’m Bob,” he managed, eyes fixed on the floor. “And I’ve been clean for… three days.”

The silence that followed was heavy but not cruel. It was filled with understanding, a quiet solidarity. A few nodded. One man said, “Keep coming back.” Bob barely heard him.

But she looked at him then.

Y/N’s gaze lifted, met his like a flicker of light through a crack in a door. Something sparked—just for a second. Not recognition. Not sympathy. Something gentler. Something that could have been hope, or maybe just human connection.

After the meeting, people filtered out in quiet pairs and solitary steps. Bob lingered, unsure of whether he should leave or stay, his hands shoved into his hoodie pocket like they might keep him from falling apart. He didn’t notice her approach until she was right in front of him.

“Hey,” she said softly, a small, almost hesitant smile tugging at her lips. “First meeting?”

He blinked. Nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“I figured. You did good.” Her voice wasn’t patronizing. It wasn’t fake. It was just… kind. “Three days is still three days. That’s something.”

Bob shifted, a bit uncomfortable. “Thanks.”

She extended her hand. “I’m Y/N. I’ve been clean for three months.”

He stared at her hand for a moment before taking it. Her grip was firm but warm. “Bob.”

“I know,” she smiled again, gently teasing, “you said that earlier.”

His face flushed. “Right. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” she said, and he could tell she meant it. “I just… wanted to say hi. First meetings can feel like hell. Thought you might want someone to talk to.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Part of him did want to talk—scream, even—but the words didn’t come easy anymore. Not after the meth, not after the years of silence and paranoia, not after everything he’d lost.

But her kindness… it didn’t ask for anything. It didn’t probe. She was just there, steady and unflinching, like she knew what it was like to come in broken and be too afraid to admit it.

“I appreciate it,” he said finally. And he did.

She nodded. “Maybe I’ll see you next week?”

He almost said “I don’t know.” Almost said “probably not.” But then he caught the faintest trace of something in her eyes—something haunted. Like maybe she hadn’t really come back to these meetings just to stay on track. Maybe she was here because, like him, part of her still longed for the high. Still dreamed of it, teeth grinding in the night, heart racing at phantom memories.

“Yeah,” he said instead. “Maybe.”

She left then, offering him one last soft smile before disappearing through the double doors.

Bob stayed behind a few more minutes, staring at the spot she’d stood. The ghost of her warmth lingered like a handprint on his chest. For the first time in months—maybe years—he didn’t feel entirely alone.

And for the first time since the meth left him hollow, he wanted to come back. Not just to stay clean.

But to see her again.

It started with short glances after meetings—awkward smiles, mumbled goodbyes. Y/N always sat three chairs from the front, her posture perfect, her clothes crisp and clean like she’d stepped out of a magazine ad for recovery itself. She was the kind of person people imagined when they thought of someone who had “made it out.”

Bob… wasn’t.

He always sat in the back. Always kept his hoodie on. Always looked at the floor when he spoke—if he spoke. Most weeks, he didn’t. Most weeks, he just listened. But he watched her. Not in the way men stared at beautiful women, though God, she was beautiful. She had a glow to her—not from makeup or hair or skin, but from something inside her. A steadiness. A quiet strength. Something that felt unreachable to someone like him.

He figured she wouldn’t even notice him. Why would she? She had her life together. She was healing. He was still trying to figure out how to stop shaking in the mornings, how to sleep without his skin crawling. But then, one night, she looked at him. Really looked. And something shifted.

But after every meeting, she walked up to him—confident, open, her smile soft but not pitying.

They talked, just a little, about the weather, the meeting, what he thought of the group. And he barely said more than two sentences, but she didn’t seem to mind. She carried the conversation with warmth and patience, like she knew what it was like to forget how to use your voice.

That was how it started.

Weeks passed, and the after-meeting conversations grew longer. Slowly. Naturally. She never rushed him. Never filled silence with noise. Just stood there beside him, sipping her tea or twisting her car keys in her fingers, letting the minutes stretch as he searched for the right words.

Then came coffee. Then a walk. Then dinner—sober bars, late-night diners, quiet sidewalks lit by streetlamps and the occasional hum of traffic.

They became friends.

Bob didn’t even notice how much he looked forward to her texts until he found himself checking his phone every few hours. She’d send him memes she thought he’d like. Songs with sad lyrics. Random photos of dogs she saw on her lunch break. It wasn’t flirtation—not exactly. It was something deeper. It was her letting him see the pieces of her life she still held close. And she let him into them, one bit at a time.

He couldn’t understand her sometimes—how someone so composed could be so kind to someone like him. She had a nice apartment with bookshelves and candles and a cat that hated everyone but her. She had a real job in a building with windows and desks and coffee machines that weren’t broken. She had friends who called her on weekends and inside jokes he didn’t get but loved hearing. To him, she was the kind of person who made surviving look easy.

But she never made him feel small.

He remembered sitting across from her at that booth in the bar, his fingers wrapped around a club soda, watching her pick at her napkin. Something in her was different that night—quieter, more distant. She wasn’t smiling. Not really.

“You okay?” he’d asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

She paused, then said, “Yeah.” But it didn’t land. Her eyes flickered toward the floor, and her fingers kept pulling the napkin into smaller and smaller pieces. Finally, she looked up and sighed.

“You ever wonder how I ended up at NA?” she asked.

Bob frowned. “No,” he said quietly. “But I bet a lot of people do.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Because you’re the kind of person people look at and think you’ve got it all figured out,” he continued. “You’re… steady. You show up. You laugh at people’s bad jokes. You hold your head up even when you’re having a shit day. You’re the girl everyone wants to believe gets out clean.”

Something cracked in her expression. A flash of pain. A memory rising too fast.

She leaned back, her drink untouched. The light caught her face just right—made her look like someone caught between the past and the present. Then she started to talk.

“I used to work at a club,” she said, slowly. “Not a dive. Not some hole-in-the-wall. This was elite. Velvet ropes, celebrities, champagne towers. Girls like me wore thousand-dollar heels and smiles that hurt by the end of the night. Rich men loved it. We were ornaments to them.”

Bob listened, silent.

“I had friends there. A boyfriend. We were the pretty ones, the ones everyone else envied. Coke was just part of it. Like perfume. Everyone used. Everyone smiled. Nobody asked questions.”

She looked down at her drink, eyes glassy.

“Then he started hitting me.”

Bob’s heart dropped. His grip on the glass tightened.

“Not with fists. Not at first. Just words. Isolation. Manipulation. He said I was his, that he was protecting me. From other men. From myself. I believed him.”

Her voice broke then, and she swallowed hard.

“He started using me. Stole from me. Made me feel like nothing without him. And when I was too broken to fight back, he left. Took my money, my name, everything. Ran off with some other girl who probably believed his lies the way I did.”

She laughed once—sharp and hollow.

“My friends? They turned their backs. One of them slept with him before he even left me. They all knew. They let it happen.”

Bob felt something ache in his chest. Not pity—grief. Anger. Empathy.

“And my job? The one place I thought I still had control?” She shook her head. “It turned ugly. Backroom deals. ‘VIP experiences.’ They called it empowerment. But it wasn’t. I was spiraling, and the only thing that felt good anymore was the coke.”

She finally looked at him, and there were tears she wouldn’t let fall.

“I didn’t want to feel. I just wanted to disappear.”

Bob reached for her hand, unsure at first. But when she didn’t pull away, he held it, firm and steady.

“You’re not that girl anymore,” he said, voice rough. “You got out.”

“Barely.”

“But you did.”

She looked at him like he didn’t understand. But he did. God, he did.

“You think I’m strong,” she whispered. “But I’m not.”

Bob shook his head. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

The silence between them stretched long after she finished speaking. The kind of silence that didn't demand to be filled, only understood. Bob’s hand was still loosely curled around hers, but his thumb had stopped moving. He was frozen in place, staring at her with this look—somewhere between guilt and awe, like he was still trying to understand how someone who had been through that could still look at him the way she did.

Then he broke.

It was quiet at first, a barely-there tremor in his voice. “I’ve been lying,” he said.

Y/N looked up, her eyes soft and tired. “About what?”

Bob’s throat tightened. It felt like trying to swallow glass.

“I’m not… clean,” he whispered. “Not really. I mean—I go to the meetings. I want to stop. God, I do. But… I haven’t. Not fully. Not yet.”

He couldn’t look at her. His shame was too loud. Too real. He kept his eyes on the table, watching the condensation drip from his untouched drink onto the wood. He was bracing himself—for disappointment, disgust, maybe even pity. He didn’t know which would hurt more.

But Y/N didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull her hand away. She didn’t move at all.

“I know,” she said quietly.

That made him look at her. His eyes were wide, startled, and for a moment he looked almost like a child caught sneaking out of the house.

“You… knew?”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah. I figured it out a while ago.”

Bob’s face fell. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because,” she said gently, “I know what that shame feels like. I know what it’s like to wake up every day telling yourself this is the last time—only to fall right back into it by sunset. I know what it’s like to look in the mirror and hate what you see, but still not be able to stop.”

She paused, her voice growing softer, like she was afraid it might crack. “I knew because I used to be you.”

Bob blinked fast, trying to keep the tears from spilling. His throat burned, and the knot in his chest tightened with each word she spoke.

“I used to show up to meetings high out of my mind,” she continued. “Sat in the back row with sunglasses on, nodding like I understood recovery while my brain was still buzzing. I smiled when people clapped for my fake milestones. I told everyone I was clean because I wanted them to believe I could be.”

A shaky breath escaped her. “But I couldn’t even believe it myself.”

Bob felt his shoulders slump. The weight of everything—the guilt, the pretending, the fear—pressed down on him like a thousand bricks. But somehow, her words made it feel just a little bit lighter. Not because she excused him. But because she understood.

“I hate who I am when I use,” he said. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

Y/N leaned in, her voice almost a whisper. “You’re still in there, Bob. He’s still in there. You’re just lost right now. And that’s okay.”

“It doesn’t feel okay.”

“I know,” she said. “It never does.”

He looked at her, his eyes glassy, his hands trembling slightly. “I thought if I got clean, you’d finally see me as someone worth knowing.”

Her face crumpled—not with pity, but something deeper. Something closer to heartbreak.

“I already see you,” she said. “I see how you listen to people when they talk, even when you don’t say much. I see how you text back with full sentences, like you’re trying so hard not to sound messed up even when you feel like you are. I see the way you show up—even when you’re still using. You’re trying. That means something.”

Bob looked away, ashamed all over again. “Trying doesn’t feel like enough.”

She reached out, her hand brushing his cheek. “It is. Right now, it is.”

And then, without asking, she pulled him into a hug. It wasn’t gentle or careful. It was desperate—like she was trying to hold together all the broken pieces of him before they fell through her fingers. And Bob, whose body hadn’t been held without expectation or violence in years, melted into her.

He let the tears fall. Quietly. Messily. Into her shirt, which smelled like vanilla and rain. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t rush him. Just held him tighter, like maybe if she held on long enough, he might start believing in his own worth too.

“I’m scared,” he whispered into her shoulder.

“I know,” she said. “Me too.”

They stayed like that for a long time—two recovering souls on the edge of something raw and fragile, holding onto each other in a world that didn’t offer many safe places.

Bob didn’t know what would happen tomorrow. If he’d relapse again. If he’d lose this fragile thing growing between them. But in that moment, with her arms around him and her voice steady in his ear, he felt something he hadn’t in a long time:

Hope.

Even if it was cracked and trembling.

--

From that night on, something shifted.

She was there. That was what mattered.

Sometimes it was subtle—a soft text before his meetings, “You’ve got this. Even if you don’t feel like it.” Other times it was more direct. Sitting beside him when the urge itched under his skin so badly he thought he might peel it off. Making tea in her little kitchen while he shook on her couch in the middle of a sleepless, twitching night. She never asked for explanations. She never recoiled from the ugly.

She just stayed.

Bob didn’t know how to thank her, not really. Words felt too small for the way she seemed to see through all the rot and wreckage and still come closer. He hadn’t had that before. Not when he was sober. Not when he was using. Not even before he broke into pieces. Most people ran. But not her.

She stayed.

He lost his apartment two months later.

The landlord had already been breathing down his neck for weeks. Bob had stopped opening his mail, knowing each envelope only echoed his failures in ink and numbers. The eviction came quietly. There wasn’t even a real fight. Just a cold knock on the door, a brief, awkward interaction with a man who wouldn’t make eye contact, and a few garbage bags of his life left on the curb like they were waiting for the trash collector.

He didn’t have anywhere to go. He didn’t even call anyone. He just sat on the sidewalk for what felt like hours, his arms wrapped around his knees, a duffle bag pressed against his chest like a shield. The sky went gray and then darker, and he didn’t cry. He just shut down.

Y/N found him like that.

She didn’t say “I told you so,” or ask why he hadn’t called. She just stood over him, arms crossed, a bag of groceries still dangling from her wrist. Her eyes softened the second she saw his face.

“Come home,” she said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Home.

That word hit harder than he expected.

It wasn’t a big place, her apartment. Just a one-bedroom tucked into a quiet neighborhood that smelled like old leaves and coffee in the mornings. Her couch wasn’t comfortable, and her shower leaked sometimes, and her fridge hummed too loudly—but it was safe. It was warm. It was hers. And when she opened that door for him, Bob felt like she was opening it to something bigger than just a place to sleep.

She gave him a key a few weeks later. Not with a big speech or anything. She just placed it on the kitchen counter beside a fresh mug of coffee and said, “Figured it might be easier than buzzing me in every night.”

Bob held the key in his hand for almost an hour before he worked up the nerve to put it on his keychain.

Time passed in fragile, unsteady weeks.

He helped around the apartment—washed dishes, cleaned windows, tried to make himself useful in small, quiet ways that wouldn’t make him feel like a burden. Y/N never made him feel like one, but the weight lived in his bones anyway. He couldn’t help it.

Eventually, she helped him find another job. It wasn’t anything fancy—a delivery driver for a small company on the edge of town—but it paid enough for groceries and gave him something to do that didn’t involve pacing and self-hate. On the days when the cravings got too loud, he’d text her mid-shift and she’d send something back fast. A joke. A memory. A stupid meme. Something to tether him.

He told her once that her words were like sandbags during a flood. She didn’t know what to say to that, so she just hugged him.

Over time, their routines melted together.

He cooked when she worked late. She made playlists to help with his insomnia. They sat on the floor together on Sunday mornings, sorting laundry and talking about nothing in particular. She showed him old childhood photos once, laughing at her awful middle school haircut, and he caught himself smiling so hard it hurt. He hadn’t smiled like that in years.

They still went to meetings together. Sometimes he didn’t want to. Sometimes he said he was tired, or too anxious, or not in the mood. She never forced him. But she always asked if she could drive him anyway. And somehow, her presence always made it feel a little easier.

Bob started counting the days.

Not just his clean days—though he did that too, quietly, afraid of jinxing it—but the days with her. The ones where he woke up to the smell of her shampoo and the soft creak of her kitchen cabinet. The ones where they watched old movies on her laptop and fell asleep side-by-side on the couch, legs tangled like roots.

He didn’t call it love. Not yet. He didn’t think he was allowed to.

But he called it safe.

And for someone who had lived most of his life either chasing the high or drowning in the aftermath, safe felt like the rarest, most impossible thing in the world.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when she was asleep and everything was still, he’d look at her—curled up on the edge of the bed, one hand under her cheek, breathing softly—and wonder what he’d done to deserve any of this. The softness. The safety. Her.

He didn’t know the answer.

But he hoped—desperately, silently—that whatever it was, he could hold onto it a little longer.

They both remembered that day. The moment it shifted—not with drama or confessions, not with a kiss or tears—but with something quieter. Softer. The kind of shift that feels like the slow blooming of spring after a long, bitter winter.

It was a Saturday.

The kind that starts already warm, with golden sunlight leaking through the windows before either of them stirred. Y/N had woken first, barefoot on the creaky floorboards, hair a sleepy mess, moving like someone who didn’t feel the need to rush. Bob followed soon after, drawn to the smell of coffee and the sound of toast popping up from the kitchen. It was simple. Easy. The kind of morning people write poems about—not because it was extraordinary, but because it was still.

They ate breakfast on the balcony. Two mismatched mugs. A chipped plate between them, loaded with scrambled eggs and strawberries, toast buttered to the corners like she always did. The city murmured beneath them—distant laughter, someone walking their dog, a child shrieking joyfully two stories below. A car honked, then another. Life rolled on steadily, like background music.

Y/N was leaned back in her chair, her legs tucked under her, head tilted back with her eyes closed. Her face was bathed in sunlight, and for a moment she looked untouchable. Serene in a way Bob had never known serenity. Her lips were slightly parted, like she’d forgotten the world and was letting the sun warm all the parts of her she usually kept hidden.

Bob watched her. Not like he meant to. Not like he knew how to stop.

She was beautiful, yes. He always thought that. But there was something else about her in that moment. Something real. Not the kind of beauty that came from makeup or a pretty dress, but the kind that came from surviving. From healing. From being the kind of person who made a broken man feel safe again.

He sipped his coffee, trying to distract himself from the way his chest ached.

“This is nice,” he said quietly, more to the air than to her. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt… this peaceful before.”

Y/N hummed, the sound low and soft in her throat. Her eyes stayed closed. She didn’t need to see him to hear the weight in his voice. She knew what peace meant for someone like him—someone whose mind often felt like a battlefield.

“I like Saturdays,” she said simply. “It’s the only day people slow down.”

He looked at her, then. Really looked.

There was sunlight tangled in her lashes. A faint smile resting on her lips. Her skin glowing in that effortless way it always did when she didn’t care how she looked. She was… real. Right in front of him, not some dream or distant kindness, but here. Tangible.

She opened her eyes slowly, as if she’d felt his gaze. And when she looked back at him, it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t fleeting.

It was deliberate.

Like she was seeing him all over again.

Her expression shifted, just slightly—softening at the edges. And in a movement so smooth, so casual and intimate it stole his breath, she reached across the table and took his hand.

Not forcefully. Not nervously.

She simply lifted it and placed it gently on her lap. Her other hand settled on top of his, warm and still. Then, like nothing had changed, she tilted her head back again, letting the sun hit her face as if nothing in the world was worth worrying about.

Bob didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

His heart was beating so loudly he was sure she could hear it through his ribs. His hand, resting in hers, felt clumsy and awkward, like it didn’t know what to do with the sudden weight of tenderness. Her thumb brushed lightly over his knuckles, and that tiny movement nearly undid him.

He looked at her again.

And God, she looked peaceful.

His eyes traced every detail of her face—the soft curve of her mouth, the sunlight catching on the fine strands of her hair, the faint crease between her brows that never quite disappeared, even when she was relaxed. She was everything. She had been everything, and now she was here, holding his hand like it was nothing.

Like it was normal.

And something inside him cracked—not painfully, but openly. Like a locked door finally swinging inward. He felt it happen. Felt the ache in his chest rearrange itself into something terrifying and warm and real.

He was in love with her.

Not in the loud, desperate way he’d felt about people before. Not in the chasing-highs, clinging-to-anything kind of love. This was different. This was the kind of love that crept in when you weren’t looking. That grew roots under your skin while you were busy surviving.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did she.

But that silence was full of things. Full of knowing.

The sunlight stretched across their hands, warm and gold. The sound of life continued beneath them—cars, people, wind through leaves. But none of it mattered. Not really.

Because in that stillness, with her thumb brushing his skin and his heart thudding in his chest, Bob realized what had changed.

--

Being in love with someone you know isn’t yours wasn’t just painful—it was paralyzing.

Bob never made a move. Not once. But neither did she.

They both danced in that unspoken space between friendship and something more, circling around each other like they were afraid to touch the glass. A look held just a second too long. A brush of fingers that lingered. Long walks in silence that said too much, and late-night conversations that always stopped just short of the truth. The kind of closeness that felt like a secret.

Y/N wasn’t dumb. She felt it. She saw it—in the way he watched her when he thought she wasn’t looking, in the way his voice softened when he said her name. She wasn’t imagining the weight in the air when he sat too close, or how her heart quickened when his hand brushed hers and he didn’t pull away.

She wanted him.

God, she wanted him. And maybe it wasn’t logical or safe or even the right time—but love never listened to reason.

So she planned something.

Just for him.

She spent days thinking about it—what she would cook, what she would wear, how she would decorate the table, how she would finally, finally tell him. Not in some dramatic, tear-filled moment. Not with trembling hands or grand speeches. Just something real. Something warm and quiet, like the way they’d grown close in the first place.

He liked lasagna. She remembered him saying it once, half-laughing over some bland cafeteria food, admitting it was the only thing his mom ever made that felt like home. So she made it from scratch. Spent hours on it, hands dusted in flour and cheeks flushed from leaning over the oven. She lit candles—real ones, not the battery-powered kind—and strung up warm lights in the kitchen so everything looked golden and soft. A single bottle of white wine sat in a bucket of ice—because he never liked red, said it was “too bitter, like medicine.”

She even made a cake. Small and simple, chocolate with vanilla icing, and piped onto the top in slightly messy, trembling letters were three words she’d rehearsed a thousand times but never said: I love you.

The clock ticked.

6 p.m. came and went.

Then 6:15.

7:00.

She didn’t panic at first. Maybe he lost track of time. Maybe he was caught up in something. Maybe he was just being Bob—flighty and quiet and a little scattered when his mind took over.

But then 8:30 arrived. The lasagna was cold. The wine sweat into the tablecloth. The cake sat untouched, the words slowly blurring as the icing melted in the heat of the flickering candles.

She stared at her phone.

No texts.

No missed calls.

No excuses.

Something in her chest started to turn. That creeping kind of worry that starts in the stomach and climbs. Maybe something happened. Maybe he got hurt. Maybe he was using again. Maybe he was lying somewhere in a hospital bed or curled up in some alley trying to remember his name. Maybe he was dead.

Her mind spiraled.

She grabbed her phone again—called this time. Straight to voicemail. Again. Again. Again. Each unanswered ring was like a punch to the ribs.

By 10 p.m., the worry became something else. Something sharp. She stood there in her kitchen, surrounded by the dinner she made in his name, and felt something in her begin to crack. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. Not yet.

She told herself maybe he’d show up. Maybe he’d knock on the door, stammering and apologizing, saying he got caught somewhere or panicked or forgot—but that he cared. That he wanted to be here.

But it never came.

And when the candles began to flicker low, and the silence got too loud, she finally gave up.

She made her way toward her room to grab a jacket—planning to go out and look for him, even if it meant driving through every alley and knocking on every shelter door. Her heart was a thunderstorm in her chest. Her thoughts screaming. She just wanted to see him. To know.

Then she saw it.

Sitting there on her bed.

A piece of paper—ripped from one of the journals he used to scribble in when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. Her name wasn’t on it. There was no date. But the moment she saw it, she knew.

She walked over slowly, her hands shaking before she even touched the paper.

It wasn’t long. Just one sentence, scribbled in a hurried hand that barely looked like his.

You don’t deserve this. I’m sorry.

That was it.

No explanation. No goodbye. Just a wound left open on her bedspread, in the space where she had once dreamed of him waking up beside her.

The paper fell from her hand.

And then she cried.

Not the pretty kind of crying. Not the kind with delicate tears and soft sobs. It was the ugly kind—the kind that split her open from the inside, pulled a scream from her throat that she buried into her palms because she couldn’t let the neighbors hear. She sank to her knees on the floor, arms wrapped around herself like it was the only thing keeping her together.

He was gone.

And the worst part wasn’t even that he left.

It was that he believed she didn’t deserve him. That he couldn’t let her love him. That he thought the best gift he could give her was his absence.

And she would’ve taken him broken. She wanted him broken. She loved him broken. But he never gave her the chance.

The lasagna sat untouched.

The wine lost its chill.

The cake slowly collapsed under the weight of the words she never got to say.

And Y/N, alone in a house full of candlelight and cold food, sat in the ruins of the future she tried to give them.

Losing Bob didn’t feel like a heartbreak.

It felt like death.

A quiet kind of death. The kind that doesn’t come with sirens or funerals, just silence. A sudden stillness in her chest, like her heart stopped beating the moment he left, and never remembered how to start again.

At first, she tried to be strong. She told herself that she was used to pain. She'd survived worse. She’d crawled out of hell once before—out of abuse, betrayal, withdrawal, shaking in cold sweats on cheap apartment floors. She had survived so many versions of herself that died in the dark.

She told herself she could survive this too.

But it didn’t take long to realize that she hadn’t just loved Bob.

She had fallen for him. Tripped and tumbled and crashed headfirst into something raw and consuming and real. She hadn’t seen it coming—not in the quiet mornings on her balcony, not in the way he said her name, not in the long, wordless car rides. But somewhere between those moments, it had happened.

And when he disappeared, it felt like someone had torn out a part of her and left a bleeding hole in its place.

She tried not to spiral. God, she tried.

She went to her meetings. She smiled when her sponsor checked in. She told her friends she was fine, that she was just tired, just busy, just needing space.

But every time she walked down the street, she looked. Every alley. Every shelter. Every bench with someone sleeping under a thin blanket. Every set of shoulders hunched low, every man with blond hair or slumped posture. Her eyes scanned faces like a prayer, like maybe he would just appear, just be there, as if the universe could feel how much she needed him to still exist in it.

Every time her phone buzzed, her heart leapt. And every time it wasn’t him, it sank deeper. And deeper.

Nights were worse.

She’d sit in the same kitchen where she once set out candles and wine and cake and a stupid little lasagna, and she’d stare at the empty chair across from her and ache. Ache in places that weren’t physical. Ache in memories that hadn’t even had a chance to happen. Her mind filled in the blanks—what he might’ve said if he’d shown up, how he would’ve looked smiling across the table, how his hand would’ve felt in hers if he let himself stay.

But he didn’t stay.

He left.

And with that single note, he shattered her belief in being enough. In being someone worth staying for.

The worst part? She didn’t even blame him.

She knew what it was like to feel like poison. To believe that your presence only infected the people who cared. Bob had been fragile, so delicate in his guilt and fear. He wore shame like skin, like every good thing that touched him was going to rot from the inside out.

But even knowing that didn’t dull the sting. It didn’t stop the nightmares. It didn’t stop the longing.

And longing—it’s dangerous.

It’s quiet at first. A whisper in the back of your mind. A thought you tell yourself to shake off: Where is he now?

But it grows. It grows until it becomes obsession. Until your fingers start to shake when you see a syringe in a movie. Until your throat tightens when someone says the word “meth” at a meeting and you think of his face. Until your mind starts to scream just to feel anything again, because loving him was something, and now you feel nothing.

She lasted three weeks.

Three weeks of pretending.

Three weeks of smiling and lying and checking her phone like it might still save her.

And then she relapsed.

She didn’t remember making the choice—not really. It wasn’t a grand decision. It was a moment. A crack in the armor. A single bad night where the world felt too quiet and her heart felt too loud and she thought: Just once. Just something to make this stop.

But addiction doesn’t take “just once” as an answer.

It came back like a flood. Like it had been waiting for her, just behind the door, and the second she opened it, it crashed over her and pulled her under.

And with the high came the silence.

And the shame.

And the slow realization that she had lost not only Bob, but herself.

She started canceling meetings. Ignoring friends. Skipping work until her job sent a warning email. She stayed in bed until the afternoon, curtains drawn, phone face-down on the nightstand. She hated herself. She hated the weakness. She hated that all it took was love—just love—to unravel everything she’d worked so hard to rebuild.

She’d told herself she didn’t need anyone.

She had her life together.

She had her own apartment, a good job, sobriety, control.

And she lost it all for him.

And still, even as the drugs blurred her mind and numbed her pain, she found herself crying in the middle of it. Crying for the way he said her name. Crying for the way he looked at her that last morning on the balcony, when the sun lit his face and his hand sat warm in hers. Crying because maybe, just maybe, he had loved her too.

But she would never know.

Because he was gone.

And she was no longer strong.

And the cocaine didn’t fill the hole. It just made it harder to breathe around it.

She thought she was better than this.

She thought love couldn’t break her.

But it did.

And now she was just another ghost of herself, whispering “I love you” to an empty bed, and trying to remember who she was before she let someone in.

--

Bob had imagined this moment a thousand times.

He’d practiced what he would say on flights, in mirrors, in the shower, in dreams. He’d imagined her face when she saw him again—maybe surprised, maybe angry, maybe even relieved. But never this.

He stood at her door with a sick feeling in his chest. Four months. Four months of silence, four months of guilt rotting him from the inside out. Every day, he woke up with her name in his mouth. He should’ve stayed. God, he should’ve stayed.

When the door finally opened, Bob braced himself.

But nothing could’ve prepared him for her.

Y/N stood there like a shadow of the girl he left behind.

So thin—painfully thin, her cheekbones sharp, collarbones jutting out beneath a baggy shirt that hung off her frame like a flag of surrender. Her skin had lost its glow, pale and dull, with purple rings under her eyes like bruises of exhaustion and grief. Her hair was a tangled mess, thrown up haphazardly like she hadn’t touched it in days. The light in her eyes—the one that used to make him feel human again—was gone. Just hollow, glassy, and so very tired.

And her apartment… it was chaos.

Pill bottles on the table. Empty glasses. Dishes unwashed in the sink. Blinds closed tight against the sun. It smelled like stillness and sleep and stale air. Like a place where nothing lived, only lingered.

He stepped back like her pain had hit him physically.

“Y/N…” he whispered, stunned, his voice cracking on her name.

She blinked at him like she didn’t believe he was real. Her mouth parted slightly, chest rising and falling as if she’d forgotten how to breathe.

Then her lip trembled. And she began to cry.

Not soft, cinematic tears. But ugly, shattering sobs. Her whole body shook as she clutched the door frame for balance, the sound ripping out of her like it had been waiting—building—for months. A scream with no voice.

“Don’t—don’t look at me,” she whispered between sobs, covering her face. “Please don’t look at me like this…”

He stepped forward instinctively. “Hey—no, no—Y/N, please—”

But she flinched, not away from him, but from herself. Her shame was a weight, choking her, burying her. “I—I was doing so well, Bob. I had it under control,” she choked out. “I was going to tell you. I was going to tell you that I loved you, and that I believed in you, and you left—and I—I thought you died—I thought you were dead or you hated me—”

“I didn’t hate you,” Bob interrupted, tears filling his own eyes now, voice hoarse. “I never hated you. I hated myself.”

She looked up at him finally, really looked at him—his cleaner face, clearer eyes, steadier hands. And then came another wave of tears. She sank down right there on the floor, knees to her chest, sobbing into her arms. “I relapsed,” she confessed in a broken whisper. “I fell apart without you. And I hate that. I hate that I needed you so badly. I hate how weak I am.”

Bob dropped to his knees in front of her, overwhelmed by the wreckage—wreckage he caused. He touched her face with trembling hands, wiping the tears as they kept falling. “You’re not weak,” he said. “You’re not.”

She shook her head. “I was strong. Before you. Before I—before I loved you.”

Bob’s heart cracked wide open.

“I thought I had everything,” she went on, broken and breathless. “I thought I didn’t need anything else. And then you walked into that stupid meeting, and I felt something. And I didn’t know how fast it could all fall apart. How fast I could fall apart.”

“I’m so sorry,” Bob whispered. “I thought I was protecting you. I thought walking away would stop me from ruining your life. I didn’t realize I already had.”

She buried her face in his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around her like he never wanted to let go again. Her body was small against him, fragile, shaking with all the tears that never had a place to go until now.

“I’m clean,” he said against her hair. “I did it. I got better. I wanted to be better. For me. But also for you. Because I knew that if I ever came back, I wanted to stand in front of you and say it honestly. That I fought through it. That I made it.”

Her hands clung to the fabric of his jacket like a lifeline.

“I don’t care,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “I don’t care that you left. I just wanted to know you were okay. I looked for you. For months. Every street corner. Every man with your exact same hair. Every time my phone buzzed, I hoped—God, I hoped—”

Bob kissed the top of her head. “I should’ve come back sooner. I’m so sorry.”

She cried harder, but her arms wrapped around him now, pulling him closer, like even if she couldn’t forgive him yet, she couldn’t bear to let him go again.

He sat there with her, on the floor of the life she’d been drowning in. And he didn’t try to fix it. He didn’t offer empty promises. He just held her. Held her and cried with her and let the silence between them say all the things they couldn’t yet.

--

He didn’t wait.

The moment he had her in his arms—shaking, thin, breaking—Bob couldn’t hold it back anymore. The words came in a rush, tumbling out between gulps of breath and trembling hands. He told her everything.

About Malaysia. About how he ran, numb and wild, not knowing where he was going, only knowing that he had to disappear before he destroyed her too. About the facility, the experimentation, the people who found him, used him, saved him, controlled him. About what they made him—what he became.

She listened with wide, disbelieving eyes as he spoke of strength he never asked for, powers that tore at his mind, a glowing blue rage that lived inside him like a second heartbeat. The violence. The void. The silence that followed every mission.

“I’m not… just Bob anymore,” he whispered, forehead pressed against hers, voice cracking. “They call me something else now. Sentry. Some hero with power that terrifies the people who made me. But I still feel like me… like the junkie who walked into that meeting room trying not to die. I still feel like the man who forgot how to breathe until you looked at him.”

She stared at him, dazed, her fingers tightening on the sleeves of his coat. Her thoughts were spiraling—circling like vultures around her mind. He was back. And not just back—transformed. Elevated. Resurrected in some impossible way.

The man she loved walked out broken and came back untouchable.

And she was still here. Still small and wrecked and ashamed and relapsed. Her chest felt tight. She didn’t know whether to fall to her knees in worship or scream. Her sobs returned—not because of what he said, but because of what it meant.

“You’re a hero,” she whispered, voice thin and hollow. “And I’m nothing. I couldn’t even make it four months without you. I—” Her voice cracked. “I was doing so good, and I lost it. You went and fought demons, and I couldn’t even fight a line of powder.”

Bob shook his head violently. “Don’t do that. Don’t.”

“It’s true.”

“No,” he whispered. “No, Y/N. You don’t get to erase everything you were to me. You saved me. You gave me a bed when I was sleeping on floors. You made me my favorite meals. You held my hand when I thought I didn’t deserve to be touched.”

His eyes burned.

“And you never asked me to be anything other than a man trying his best. Why would I ask you for more than that now?”

She bit her lip so hard it bled. The tears kept falling. Her voice was barely audible when she spoke again. “But now you’re strong. And good. And whole.”

Bob laughed—choked, broken. “I’m not whole,” he said, almost angry. “Jesus, Y/N, I’m barely keeping it together. I might be glowing and flying and doing missions, but none of it makes sense without you. I still wake up in cold sweats. I still hear the cravings sometimes. I still see your face in every crowd. I still talk to you when I’m alone.”

She looked at him like she couldn’t believe it.

“I thought I lost you forever,” he breathed. “And when I saw you tonight, when I saw what happened… I realized I downplayed my place in your life. I thought I was the weak one. But we needed each other. We need each other.”

Her body was trembling again, shaking like something inside her was coming undone.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to carry me,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be your burden now.”

“You were never a burden.”

“But I am now—”

“No, you’re mine.”

He reached for her hand, placed it on his chest, where his heart was beating wildly.

“You gave me your love when I couldn’t even love myself. Now it’s my turn. Let me take care of you. Let me remind you how strong you are. Let me fight with you.”

She collapsed into him, arms tight around his torso, sobbing against his chest. Not just for him. Not just for herself. For all the time they lost. For the cake that went cold on the table. For the lasagna uneaten. For the mornings he didn’t see her basking in the sun. For the way love didn’t save either of them—but could now.

He didn’t ask her to stand. He didn’t demand anything.

He just held her.

Kneeling in the wreckage of her life, in the ashes of their broken time, holding her like she was still precious—still whole—even if she didn’t believe it yet.

“I’m here,” he whispered into her hair. “And I’m not leaving again.”

--

He didn’t give her much time to argue. Not when he saw the way her hands still shook. Not when he found the stash she didn’t even remember hiding behind her bookshelf. Not when he saw how she cried in the middle of the night—not from pain, but from absence. Her own. The absence of herself. The one she used to be.

So he asked her to come with him.

Live with him temporarily. Stay in the Watchtower, up in the sky, far away from the street corners and bathrooms and apartment ghosts that called her back every time she blinked too long.

He told her he wanted to keep her close until she was ready to find her own place in New York again. That it wasn’t forever—just until she could feel safe breathing again.

And she said yes.

Not because she believed in herself. But because she believed in him.

At first, it felt like a fever dream.

The Watchtower wasn’t made for someone like her. It was too sterile, too futuristic. Glass walls, strange lights, the hum of technology and power beneath every floor tile. But Bob was there. That’s what mattered.

She became seriously co-dependent—something she’d once told herself she would never allow again. But it wasn’t like with her ex. It wasn’t fear that tied her to Bob. It was need. It was how he looked at her and didn’t flinch. How he made coffee exactly the way she liked it without asking. How he stood in front of her when her hands curled into fists and her chest threatened to explode from the phantom need for a high.

Bob was her gravity.

He found her a job—one she didn’t even apply to. He pulled strings with Valentina, she didn’t know he had. A quiet, well-paying assistant position with flexible hours and no questions asked. The kind of job you only get when someone with serious power wants you to heal.

She hated how easy he made it. How the roles reversed.

At first.

She hated how he caught her when she was falling apart and didn’t scold her. Didn’t tell her to be strong. Just held her, even when she screamed. Even when she tried to hit him. Even when she told him she hated herself, hated this, hated how her body still wanted it. Hated how her blood still sang at night.

He’d just put his forehead to hers and whisper, “I know. I know. I know.”

Free time was dangerous. It always had been.

So Bob made sure she rarely had it. If she wasn’t working, he’d find ways to fill the hours. He’d drag her to the gym, even if she only sat on the mat and watched him lift. He took her on quiet walks above the clouds in the Watchtower, showed her the world from a view few people ever saw.

When the sun rose above Manhattan and she stood next to him with tired eyes, he’d whisper, “We’re still here. That’s a win.”

Some days were okay. Some days they even laughed.

Some days she forgot the weight in her bones and remembered what it felt like to be alive. On those days, she’d smile in the mirror and wonder if it was the beginning of something. But it was always followed by a crash.

And when the crash came, she’d scream at herself.

Because she still wanted it. Still ached for the cold powder and sharp sting. And what kind of monster misses the very thing that ruined her?

But Bob didn’t let her spiral alone.

He knew. He knew.

He’d pull her into his lap, even when she pushed him away. He’d wrap her in a blanket and play music she liked, or just sit in silence and let her sob against his chest. He didn’t fix her—he stayed. Which meant more than anything.

And she started leaning on the others, too.

Turns out, the team—misfits and freaks and weapons, all of them—was good for her.

Yelena would sometimes drop by the tower and plop on the couch with popcorn and zero small talk. “Let’s watch something bloody,” she’d say. “Nothing romantic. Romance is a scam.”

Alexei told awful dad jokes and made her soup when Bob was away, pulled against his will from her by Valentina. She didn’t ask what was in the soup. She didn’t want to know.

Even Walker, gruff and distant, once gave her a protein bar and said, “You look like shit. Eat something.”

Strangely, it meant the world.

But she still struggled.

She still felt like she didn’t belong in the sky, didn’t belong next to someone who glowed when angry, who people whispered about like a god.

And Bob would catch her staring sometimes. He’d take her hand and press it to his chest.

“You got me sober,” he’d remind her.

“You weren't when you left, it wasn't me, and I’m not even one week sober yet.”

“You will be.”

She’d cry again, every time.

Because maybe—just maybe—she believed him.

--

She felt herself becoming better.

It wasn’t dramatic. There were no fireworks, no moment where the clouds suddenly parted and she woke up healed.

It was slow. Raw. Grueling.

It was the kind of better that came with shaking hands and silent sobs in the shower. The kind of better that meant she didn’t throw up every morning from withdrawal anymore, but still woke up screaming from the dreams. The kind of better that looked like finally holding down breakfast, or laughing once during a dumb movie Bob put on just to see her smile.

There were still days—horrible days.

Days where she’d stare at the sky through the Watchtower windows and think I can’t do this anymore.

Days where her chest tightened and her fingers itched and every molecule of her blood screamed for one more hit, one more line, one more second of peace—even if it meant death.

And those were the nights Bob found her on the floor of the hallway, her knees to her chest, whispering things like:

“I ruined everything.” “I should’ve died months ago.” “You shouldn’t have come back for me.”

And Bob—quiet, patient Bob—would always get down next to her. He didn’t always say the right things. Sometimes he didn’t say anything at all. He just held her. Let her break. Let her be broken, without judgment.

“I’m here,” he’d murmur into her hair, voice shaking. “Even if you can’t love yourself right now, I do. I’m not leaving.”

He made it impossible to relapse.

Not just by removing access—though he did that, completely. The Watchtower had no hidden corners. No dealers. No temptation. He even kept her medication locked, except for what she needed. Not because he didn’t trust her, but because she asked him to. Because she couldn’t trust herself yet.

But more than that—he made it impossible because he gave her reasons to stay.

Every time she got through a hard day, Bob celebrated it like a victory. Every tiny step—making the bed, going to work, brushing her hair—he noticed. He noticed, and that made her want to try again. Want to show up again.

And after months of darkness, she was finally starting to believe in something again.

Believe in him.

Believe in herself.

That’s when she started planning.

It had to be perfect.

Because the first time—when she tried to confess, with the candles and lasagna and wine and the cake that said I love you—he never showed. She’d found a letter instead. Four words that shattered her: You don’t deserve this.

And now, months later, after everything they’d been through, she still remembered the ache of that night. The humiliation of sitting in a chair for hours, watching the lasagna go cold. The cake untouched. The lights flickering softly over an empty table.

But she also remembered how it hadn’t ended there. How he came back.

So this time, she wasn’t afraid.

She asked the team first. Told them the truth—well, most of it. She asked if she and Bob could have a room in the tower for the evening. Just a few hours. A quiet space, uninterrupted. “I want to do something for him,” she’d said. “Something honest.”

Yelena had raised an eyebrow and said nothing—but handed her a lighter for the candles. “Don’t burn the place down.”

Alexei had beamed like a proud uncle and muttered something in Russian that sounded suspiciously like “About time.”

Even Walker gave her a dry nod and cleared the space without question.

No one said no.

She remade it all.

The lights, soft and golden. Candles flickering across the shelves and windows. The air smelled like rosemary, garlic, and hope. Her old lasagna recipe—the one he always said was better than any five-star restaurant—bubbled in the oven. She found white wine again, because he didn’t like red, and she remembered everything. She even made the cake.

But not the same one.

This time, instead of “I love you,” it said in messy pink frosting:

“You came back. So did I.”

She set the table. Two plates. Two glasses. The weight of it all hanging in the air like a heartbeat.

She wasn’t wearing anything fancy. Just a soft, simple sweater he once said made her look peaceful. Her hair still damp from the shower, cheeks flushed from nervous energy.

She wasn’t the woman she used to be.

But she was here. She was trying. And that had to count for something.

When Bob walked in, he stopped cold in the doorway.

He looked at her.

Not just with surprise.

But with everything.

With four months of absence. With every regret he carried like an anchor in his chest. With all the love he never said out loud and all the apologies he had whispered to himself in the dark.

“You... did all this?” he asked softly.

She nodded, heart thudding.

“I know it’s not perfect. But—” her voice cracked, “—I’ve been thinking about this since the day you left. And I never got to say it. Not really. But I love you. I still love you. Even after everything. Even now.”

Bob looked at her like she was the only thing left keeping him alive.

Then he walked forward—slowly, carefully—and cupped her face in his hands.

“I never stopped loving you,” he whispered. “And I promise… I’m not leaving again.”

--

The movie flickered on the screen in front of them, but neither of them was really watching.

Bob sat propped up against the headboard, a soft grey t-shirt clinging loosely to his chest, a pair of worn joggers sitting low on his hips. Y/N was curled into his side, one of his old hoodies hanging off her frame, sleeves too long, hair tucked messily behind one ear. The room was dim, bathed in the gentle glow of the screen and the golden spill of the hallway light leaking under the door.

Blankets were tangled around them, warm and grounding. Bob’s arm wrapped around her shoulders, his hand resting calmly against her ribcage, feeling every quiet breath she took. Her head was nestled beneath his chin, the smell of her shampoo—lavender, faint but familiar—lingering between them.

They had finished the lasagna hours ago. Cleaned up the dishes while teasing each other about who burned the garlic bread (it was him). Shared cake and laughter, both of which came softer now, tentative, but real. It felt like something out of another life. Something they thought they’d lost for good.

A promise once made in a kitchen full of hope was finally being fulfilled—in the silence of a bedroom, in the safety of arms that didn’t let go.

Bob had waited years for something like this. Years for this kind of peace. For the slow, steady heartbeat of someone trusting him enough to fall asleep against his chest. For a night that didn’t end in pain or running. For a girl like her to look at him and still choose him, even after seeing all of him—torn, addicted, lost.

He hadn't expected what came next.

Y/N shifted beside him, pulling back from the cradle of his chest to look at him. Really look at him.

Her hand came up to his cheek, cradling it. Her thumb brushed against his stubble, her eyes searching his like she was memorizing him all over again.

“Y/N?” he asked, voice hushed, as if afraid he’d scare her off.

But she didn’t answer.

Instead, she leaned forward—and kissed him.

Soft at first. Gentle. Almost like a question. A breath between them, mouths barely touching, her lips tasting of frosting and fear.

Then she kissed him again—harder.

And Bob felt his whole body shudder.

It was everything he had ever wanted. Every quiet longing. Every moment he’d spent staring at her when she wasn’t looking. Every time he’d held her hand and wished it meant something more. Every night she cried in his arms and he ached to tell her how much he loved her but didn’t dare ruin what little they had.

And now—here she was.

Kissing him like she knew what he meant to her. Like he was more than her sponsor, more than a friend, more than a haunted past. Like he was hers.

Bob didn’t waste a second.

He kissed her back.

One arm curled around her waist, the other hand tangled in her hair, pulling her impossibly close. Her body pressed against his, warm and trembling. Her breath hitched as he deepened the kiss, years of restraint melting into a single desperate moment.

She gasped into his mouth, breaking the kiss, only to whisper against his lips:

“I love you, Bob.”

Tears welled in her eyes. She didn’t even try to hide them.

“I love you so much,” she choked, fingers still on his cheeks. “And I don’t care what happens next. I just needed you to know. You saved me. You saved my life.”

Bob’s hands trembled as he pulled her back into him, wrapping her up in his arms like he could shield her from every wound she still carried.

“No,” he murmured into her shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. “You saved me. You remember what I was? I didn’t think I had anything left to live for until I met you. You gave me hope again. You made me fight.”

She pulled back, her eyes locked with his—wet and red and devastatingly alive.

“I almost gave up,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “When you left... I was already holding on by threads. And then you were gone and I thought I’d imagined the whole thing. I thought I wasn’t enough for you to stay.”

He shook his head furiously, his own eyes shining now.

“I didn’t leave because of you,” he said. “I left because I didn’t think I deserved you. I was still so fucked up, still using, and you were everything pure and kind in my world. I thought if I left, maybe you’d find someone better. Someone whole.”

“I didn’t want someone whole,” she said. “I wanted you.”

Their breath lingered in the space between them, shallow and soft—like a secret.

Y/N could still taste him on her lips, the echoes of their kiss reverberating through her chest. Bob hadn’t moved far from her. His hands were still cradling her waist, his forehead pressed gently to hers, and in that quiet lull between kisses, between confessions, she felt something fragile blooming—something terrifying and beautiful.

She kissed him again, this time slower. A sigh escaped her lips as her fingers slid up under the hem of his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin. Bob leaned into her touch, his mouth meeting hers in deeper waves now, their hearts thundering in sync. And when she tugged at his hoodie—her hoodie, technically, the one she’d stolen weeks ago that still smelled faintly like him—he raised his arms without hesitation, letting her lift it over his head.

She pulled back, eyes trailing down his torso—and gasped quietly.

He had changed.

The gauntness she once knew was gone. In its place were strong arms, broad shoulders, and a chest sculpted with quiet power. His abs—defined, real—moved with every breath he took. His body told the story of someone who had survived, someone who had clawed his way back to life. It was strength built on pain, on discipline, on love.

“You...” she murmured, brushing her hand over his stomach, “you look so different.”

His hand reached for hers, gently interlacing their fingers. “I feel different,” he said. “I had to become someone I could live with again.”

She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sudden twist in her chest.

Bob looked like he had been forged from fire—meanwhile, she still bore the ashes.

She bit her bottom lip, hesitating. Her arms, still hidden in her oversized hoodie, tightened slightly around herself. Though she had been clean for weeks, her body hadn’t yet caught up. Her cheeks were hollow. Her skin still looked too pale in certain light. Her clothes hung loose. She hadn’t gained back the weight. And standing there, across from someone who had reclaimed his life so completely, she suddenly felt small again.

She looked away.

But Bob noticed.

“Hey,” he said softly, cupping her face and turning her gaze back to him. “What’s going on?”

She hesitated. “I just... I’m not like you right now. You’re... strong. You got better. And I’m still—” Her voice cracked. “I still don’t like what I see.”

His brows furrowed, and for a second, something sharp flickered in his eyes—not anger at her, but heartbreak. He leaned in, kissing her forehead with reverence, then trailed his lips down to her cheek, and finally, her mouth.

“I’m in love with you,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at her. “Not the version of you you think you have to be. You’re not broken, Y/N. You’re surviving. And that’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Tears threatened to rise, but she let them stay where they were. Bob’s hands slid down to the hem of her hoodie, hesitating.

“Can I?” he asked.

She nodded.

He lifted the hoodie slowly, carefully, as if he were unwrapping something precious. As it slipped over her head, she looked away, vulnerable, exposed.

But Bob didn’t let the silence linger. His eyes never wavered, never darted away. He took her in like she was a masterpiece.

“God,” he whispered. “You’re so beautiful.”

And then he kissed her collarbone. His lips warm, soft, trailing to her neck. His arms wrapped around her back as he pulled her into him, his body heat surrounding her, grounding her. His mouth brushed the spot behind her ear, her shoulder, her jaw.

“You don’t have to hide anymore,” he whispered.

She let her hands rest on his back, feeling the firmness of his muscles, the warmth of his skin. He was solid. Steady. And she was safe.

As they undressed the rest of the way—slowly, reverently—there was no rush, no hunger born from lust. Only devotion. Only the aching need to be close, to feel what they had both feared they’d lost.

Bob’s hands never stopped reassuring her, tracing her spine, cradling her face, holding her as if she were made of gold. His voice was a balm, murmuring soft truths against her lips, over her chest, along her ribs, keeping his thrusts steady and soft, almost afraid to hurt her.

“You’re perfect.”

“I love you.”

“You saved me.”

And somewhere between those whispers and the heat of skin on skin, she stopped trembling. She let herself feel his hands without shrinking from them. Let herself be kissed without fear. Let herself be loved.

Because she did love him.

And he loved her.

And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.

They made love quietly, sweetly, like two people who knew what it meant to lose everything—and were finally brave enough to take it back.

They stayed tangled beneath the blankets. Y/N rested her head on Bob’s chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart—steady, strong, unwavering. His fingers traced gentle patterns on her shoulder, his breathing syncing with hers.

Neither of them said much.

They didn’t need to.

[bloomiize]

i'll be watching

pairing → jay x yn

warnings → smut, THERES A PLOT KINDA, stalking behaviour, he is OBSESSED, hes still a """"gentleman""", dom jay, fem reader, dubcon, reader gets drunk, coercion

wc: ~3.5k

synopsis → One smile was all it took. The moment your eyes glanced at him, he knew. Jay had already found your full name, your age, where you worked, and exactly where you lived. You just didn’t know you loved him yet and that's okay. He was going to make sure you felt it, too.

You were always quiet, minding your own business and in your own world. It was peaceful, unbothered and drama-free. Juggling a full course load and working at the cafe, you didn't have the time to care about all the guys who tried to get your attention. A compliment here and there, maybe a little note slip on the counter with a phone number on it.

"I have work."

"This assignment is due tomorrow."

"My schedule is packed for this weekend."

You say over and over again. Some would nod their heads understandingly and leave. Others got upset, accusing you of being a tease, wasting their time. But it was always the truth. You just didn’t care to date. It wasn’t a priority. Never was.

The cafe became a soft space for you, and it was a routine you enjoyed. Coffee, latte, baked goods and the warm hum of happy customers filled your days when you weren't busy daydreaming or studying.

"Hi! What can I get you?" You asked, voice light and shining with infinite possibilities. The greeting rolling off your tongue like a script. You didn’t glance up this time, opting to refill the cupcake stand that was being sold at a pace faster than you could keep up with.

"Coffee. Black." The voice was low. Rushed, like he didn’t want to be here longer than necessary.

You finally looked up, and what a sight it was.

Neat, dark hair. Sharp features that didn't look real. His hands fiddling with— what looks to be— an expensive watch. He didn’t look like the usual customers who came in between classes or after lectures. He looked out of place. Cold, quiet and probably had way too much money.

Then he looked up, staring right at you.

You gave him a warm smile, polite and practiced— the same one you offered to every customer. But his gaze didn’t soften. It stayed locked on yours, curious, unwavering, like he could see past the surface. Like he was trying to figure something out about you that even you didn’t know yet.

When you called out his order, he grabbed it from the counter and left with a quick "Thank you" slipping from his lips. What an interesting guy, wasn't he? And you continued your shift, forgetting all about the strange man. But he never forgot about you.

Jay hated cafes.

Overpriced coffee. Pretentious menus. The same recycled “minimalist” aesthetic with fake plants and Instagrammable drinks that tasted like burnt water and regret. He took his coffee seriously—dark, rich, and brewed with precision. Not watered down through shit using a machine that's probably already rusting.

But today was different.

His morning meeting had been moved earlier without notice, and he didn’t have time to grind the beans himself, didn’t get to hear the satisfying sound of it being poured, didn’t get to take that first quiet sip in the dark comfort of his kitchen. Instead, he was running late. Annoyed. And in desperate need of caffeine.

What a waste, he thought bitterly, eyes scanning the ugly brown exterior of a small cafe on the corner. The obnoxious chalkboard screamed “OPEN!” and jutted out onto the sidewalk like it was begging for attention. Tacky.

Still, he stepped inside, the little chime above the door making his eye twitch. The place was warm, smelled faintly of cinnamon and espresso. Surprisingly, he didn't find bright lights or fake plants or Instagrammable murals. He joined the short line, checking his watch every few seconds.

This better be quick.

He was already thinking about how he’d never let Heeseung schedule his meetings again when something shifted.

A voice.

“Hi! What can I get you?”

You.

The barista behind the counter.

Eyes that shimmered with something— curiosity? Joy? Maybe it was just the reflection of the morning sun, but it caught him off guard. You had a warm smile, a soft voice that was so effortlessly kind it almost irritated him. No fake chipper tone. No forced customer service greeting. You looked real.

His mouth moved before he could think. “Coffee. Black.”

And for the first time that morning, he thought about something other than killing Heeseung.

He kept visiting after that. The cup you made him didn't taste disgusting, he was pleasantly surprised. But it wasn’t the coffee that brought him back the next day. Or the day after that. At first, he sat by the window, pretending to scroll through emails or read a news article. Something to excuse the fact that he hadn’t taken a single sip of the drink cooling beside him.

He was watching you.

The way you tied your apron without thinking, the way you tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear when you were focused on something. The soft laugh you gave when your coworker said something stupid. It annoyed him how much of your attention everyone else got.

So he listened.

He learned that your favourite pastry was the chocolate croissant, that you hated oat milk, and that you were taking some brutal university class you always complained about on Mondays. He would do all your work for you if it meant you never had to lift a finger. Anything for you to smile.

He learned you only worked mornings on weekdays and full days on weekends. He picked up the rhythm of your schedule with unsettling ease, pretending as if it were his own. Jay started telling his assistant he'd be working remotely more often—from home, he said. But home wasn’t his apartment anymore. It was the window seat at the café.

Your café.

It was a calm morning, he was still watching— still listening. As he sat at his usual corner table pretending to answer emails, he heard your name.

"Y/N, can you grab another box of lids from the back?"

Y/N. It echoed in his head like a siren's curse.

His fingers twitched around his cup. How could your coworker say something so sacred without a care in the world? It annoyed him. But that was all he needed; Jay had a name now. A real one. The moment he heard it, something settled deep in his chest. Like he unlocked a new level. As if knowing it gave him some invisible thread that tied you to him—whether you realized it or not. You let him know your name.

You hadn’t looked at him since that first day. You didn’t remember him. He was just another customer, a regular who always ordered a black coffee. You smiled politely like you did to everyone else. That irked him more than he expected. How could you show that to everyone? It was only supposed to be for him.

But it was okay. He was patient. He'd wait for you forever.

You didn’t know you were his yet. But you would eventually, he’d make sure of it.

You were already running late to class—your shift had dragged longer than expected, and your manager needed help with the register changeover. You said yes, of course. You always did.

Then the kid happened.

Sugar-high, giggling, and sticky-handed, he barreled straight into you as you stepped out from behind the counter. Your drink slipped from your fingers, crashing against your front, staining your white t-shirt in a swirl of espresso and foam. You laughed it off with his mom as she scolded him for being a handful, apologizing profusely while dabbing at your clothes with napkins.

Back in the kitchen, you tried scrubbing it out with soap and water, but the mess clung to the fabric like it belonged there. You were soaked. And the coffee smell followed you like a curse. You had ten minutes to make it to your lecture, barely enough time to breathe, let alone run home and change.

You stepped out of the café with your head down, already mentally preparing your apology for walking into class late and causing a scene. Suddenly, you hit something solid. No, not something. Someone.

You stumbled, arms flailing slightly as the impact caught you off guard, but before you could trip, two hands grabbed your arms. Steady. Warm. Strong.

A chest. Broad. A body, hard with muscle beneath his shirt. It was hard not to stare for a bit.

“Careful,” a low voice murmured above you.

You looked up. One of the regulars at the cafe— Jack? Jake? Jay? His name was something along those lines. His eyes flicked down to your soaked top, his brows pinched together, like he was in pain. How odd.

You scrambled for words. "I'm so sorry!" you blurted, looking up and meeting his gaze with wide, apologetic eyes. That nearly killed him.

"Your next cup is on me, but I really have to go! Point me out next time at the counter," You say, embarrassment taking over your face. You back up, getting ready to sprint across campus.

He almost let you go. Almost.

“Do you… need a sweater?” he called after you, his voice lower, more careful. “For the stain. On your shirt.”

Suddenly, you're standing in front of him and he's taking off his sweater. A neat navy blue quarter zip, as he lifted it over his head, you got a glimpse of his midriff. Tone, perfectly sculpted abs. You ripped your gaze away, masking the awkward silence with a cough. He handed it to you with care and told you to keep it.

"I'll give it back next time i see you I swear!" You said running off waving at him with a smiling. There it was, that smile. Only for him.

He replayed the moment multiple times in his head. How you smelled of vanilla and dark roast. How you felt so warm and soft, his mind often wondered if you would feel the same under him. Jay palmed his dick night after night. How your shirt clung so tightly to your chest. He could see everything. And the way you smiled at him had him unravelling on his sheets. Moving up and down, breathlessly saying your name like a chant.

Life was a blur— assignments, lectures, shifts— and the sweater ended up in your closet. You wore it to work the next week, not thinking twice. At the cafe, Jay stood in line ahead of you. He turned, eyes landing on the sweater, a slow smile spreading. “So, you’re still wearing it.”

You spew out apologies and explanations but he let out a chuckle. Low. Deep. It vibrated in you.

“Keep it,” he laughed. “Looks like it’s yours now.” His gaze lingered. “Let me take you out, I'm sure you're tired of coffee by now.” His tone was light, but his eyes were focused on you. He was handsome, kind, and you basically stole his sweater, this was the least you could do to make up for it.

“Sure,” you smiled and wrote your number on his cup with a small smiley face beside it.

That date turned into hours of talking. Jay was funny, attentive, remembering tiny details like your love for plants and how you refused to allow any fake ones in the cafe, fighting the manager if you had to. You didn’t know he’d studied you online, memorizing your posts, your likes, the plushy bear you’d mentioned wanting. He knew you more than you knew yourself.

The second date was perfect: a park walk, dinner at a cozy bistro. The third was a movie night at your place, laughing together with his arm around you. He never crossed a line unless you wanted him to, always checking if you're okay with whatever he's doing, whether it be a hug or a light kiss on your lips. Jay was a nice guy; he would never do anything weird, maybe that's why you were so comfortable with him. He liked everything you liked. He listened to you rant about your professors and classmates. It was like he was made for you.

By the fourth, you knew you liked him. Jay was perfect—he opened doors, never let you pay, always drove you home and walked you back to your door. When he handed you the plush bear you’d mentioned offhandedly weeks ago, your eyes lit up.

“You remembered,” you beamed, pulling it into your arms.

“Of course I did,” he said, watching you like you hung the stars.

You didn’t notice the glint in the bear’s right eye, a tiny lens tucked behind the button. He wanted to keep seeing you smile. Even when you thought you were alone.

At night, when you changed, he was there, on his screen, heart racing. Jay sat in his darkened apartment, the laptop screen casting a sickly glow across his face. The plushy’s camera feed showed you in your room, taking off your shirt after a long day. His breath caught, uneven, as you unhooked your bra, your breasts spilling free, soft and perfect under the lamp’s dim light. He licked his lips, imagining his tongue swirling over your nipples, sucking hard until they pebbled, leaving wet trails and purple marks across your chest. He wanted to bite, to claim every inch of you.

“God, Y/N,” he growled, voice thick with lust, leaning so close his nose nearly brushed the screen. If he stuck out his tongue he could taste it, he could taste you. His eyes devoured you—your delicate collarbone, the maddening curve of your waist, the way your hair draped over your shoulder like an invitation for him to hold your hair up. His hand was already in his pants, gripping himself, the ache unbearable, so needy. Your body was a fucking altar, and he was a starving worshipper.

He groaned as you bent to grab a tee, your breasts swaying slightly, the view sending a violent jolt through him. His strokes were frantic now, sloppy, his palm slick with precum. He pictured pinning you to the bed, spreading you open, licking every curve until you screamed his name. The thought of anyone else seeing you—your classmates, those café creeps—made his gut fill up with rage. “Mine, mine, mine,” he gasped, hips bucking as he came, hot and messy, splattering across his hand. He panted, eyes still locked on you slipping into bed, oblivious, his perfect obsession.

He wiped himself off, breath uneven, knowing you curl up with the plushy. His plushy. His eyes. He’d never let you go.

Jay invited you to his place for dinner, and you couldn’t say no. His apartment was stunning—sleek, modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. The table was set with candles, a spread of homemade pasta, and a bottle of red wine. “You cook?” you teased, impressed and honoured.

“Only for you, angel,” he said, pouring you a generous glass. His smile was warm, but his eyes burned with something darker, a need. He kept refilling your glass, his hand lingering on yours. “You deserve to take a break, Y/N. You work so hard.” He cooed.

The wine hit fast, warming your limbs, clouding your thoughts. Jay was charming, leaning close, his smile growing bigger. You giggled, head fuzzy, his voice smooth and low as he talked. By the third glass, the room tilted, your cheeks flushed, your body uncontrollable. He moved to the couch, patting the spot beside him. “Come here love.” “You’re so… nice, Jay,” you mumbled, head lolling slightly, cheeks flushed. By the fourth glass, the room spun, your body heavy, limbs loose. Guilt clawed at you—he’d done so much, the dinner, the plushy, the sweater. You owed him, didn’t you? 

You stumbled, and he pulled you into his lap. His scent wrapped around you, intoxicating. He looked at you like you were his everything, and it felt too good, too warm, even as a faint voice screamed to leave. His hand slid to your thigh, squeezing, inching under your skirt. “You’re so pretty like this,” he murmured, voice thick. “All soft and sweet, just for me.”

“Jay, I… I’m really drunk,” you slurred, trying to push his hand away, but your fingers were clumsy. Your head felt like clouds, the wine drowning out your senses. “Maybe I should… go home.”

“Shh, angel,” he cooed, fingers tightening, ignoring your weak protest. “You can’t leave me after all this, can you? You’re my special girl tonight.” His eyes locked on yours, intense, needy. “You trust me, don’t you? I’ve been so good to you.” 

Guilt twisted harder. He had been good—perfect, even. The sweater, the bear, the way he always showed up at the cafe with a smile. He was so kind and caring, always attentive to your needs. He never pushed any lines; you owed him this, right? Just this once. “Okay..” you whispered, voice small, embarrassed, your body betraying you as his touch sent shocks through you.

“Good girl,” he said, kissing you deeply, his tongue and yours mixing perfectly, tasting the wine off your lips. He pushed you back on the couch, hands roaming all over you, tugging off your clothes with a rapid pace. “So fucking cute,” he murmured, unhooking your bra, lips grazing your collarbone. He smiled, sliding your skirt up, fingers hooking into your panties and pulling them down. “Look at you,” he whispered, playing with your folds, finding you slick despite your confusion. “So wet for me, aren’t you? And you wanted to go home like this?” He circled your clit slowly, teasing, watching you squirm. “Yeah? You like that?”

“S’good,” you slurred, hips twitching, embarrassed but unable to stop the heat building in you. His praise felt like a drug—cute, perfect, his angel.

“Aw,” he teased, slipping two fingers inside, pumping gently, his thumb on your clit. “Do you think of me when you wear my sweater?” he asked, voice low, eyes glinting as if he didn’t already know the answer. He’s watched you do it countless times by now.

“Y-Yes,” you admitted, voice shaky, picturing the cozy navy quarter-zip and how many times you’ve touched yourself while wearing it. He groaned, fingers curling. “So dirty,” he whispered, voice thick with approval. “My dirty little angel, thinking of me like that.” He moved faster, but when you whimpered, close to the edge, he stopped, pulling his fingers out, licking them clean while staring at you. “Not yet. I want to play with you longer.”

You whined, needy, head too foggy to argue, the alcohol was making everything feel lighter. “Jay, please,” you begged, barely coherent.

“Patience,” he chuckled, spreading your thighs wider. He didn’t wait long, his need overtook him. He shoved his pants down, freeing his cock, thick and heavy, the size making your eyes widen even through the drunken haze. “Jay, wait,” you slurred, panic flickering. “It’s… too big.”

“It’ll fit angel, it’ll fit,” he soothed, voice dripping with false gentleness, his hand rubbing your stomach as he lined himself up. “I’ll make it fit.” He pushed in, slow but relentless, stretching you, the burn making you cry out. You were wet, dripping even, yet he was still too big. “Hurts,” you whimpered, hands pushing weakly at his chest.

“I know, love,” he murmured, kissing your forehead, his hand pressing your stomach, feeling the bulge where he filled you. “You’re taking me so well. My perfect fuckdoll.” He thrust slowly, savouring your whines, each whimper and gasp fueling him. “So cute like this, whimpering for me,” You were gone. Your head was dizzy and all you could do was moan his name out, gripping onto him like he could save you.

You clutched his shoulders, nails digging in, your head lolling as the pain mixed with pleasure. “Too much,” you’re slurring, but your body arched into him, betraying you.

“You’re doing so good,” he said, thrusting deeper, still slow, watching the bulge in your stomach move. “My perfect girl, letting me have you like this. You owe me this, don’t you? After everything I’ve done for you.” His words sank into your drunken mind. You really did owe Jay everything. You nod barely understanding, just wanting to please him.

“That’s my girl,” he praised, picking up the pace slightly, his hand stroking your hair. “You feel so good, Y/N. Made for me.” He groaned, voice tightening. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

You blinked, a flicker of clarity cutting through the fog. “Jay… condom?” you mumbled weakly, too drunk to care fully, the question more curiosity than concern.

“Shh, love, it’s okay,” he whispered, hand cupping your cheek, thrusting harder. “We’re gonna have such a good family. I’ll take care of you, always.” His hips snapped forward, and he came, hot and thick robes flooded inside you, groaning into your neck as he filled you, no hesitation. Like he planned this.

You whimpered, too fucked out and drunk to process, your body limp beneath him. He held you close, kissing your forehead, murmuring, “My perfect girl. You did so good.” You drifted off in his arms while he cleaned you up. What a gentleman.

a/n: jay being devious is my new favourite thing I fear... anyways I HOPE YOU ENJOYED! sorry for not posting for a bit I've been super busy so let me yap for a bit. i started my summer courses KILL ME and I just started my new job YAY! I have wayyy too many drafts rn LOL pls lmk what you think! comments and reblogs are appreciated I LOVE YOU GUYS! <3

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[saeist]

what people don't know about sae itoshi is that despite being known as the nonchalant final boss, he's actually the most chalant person known to man when it comes to his lover

it's quite hilarious really. people who know about your relationship usually come to you and ask how the soccer super star prodigy has been treating you but you always answer the same— he's treating you well

although people don't really buy it. the way sae acts around you in public is rigid at best. yes, he's your boyfriend and yes, he loves you very much but when you two are out and about, media outlets just can't help but publish articles about how the famed midfielder is totally "an emotional unavailable partner" (sae reports every single article about this btw)

sae itoshi is a man of few words. letting his actions talk for him is one way to put it

but behind closed doors? it's another story

it might be considered a legend that the sae itoshi is actually a pretty hands on boyfriend. in fact, sometimes it becomes a little too much when he dotes on you so much

one time you texted him that you had a headache for a while now and you almost forgot who you were texting the second he replies that it's because you didn't do this and that today

[3:14 PM] mi corazón: ? [3:14 PM] mi corazón: did you drink water today? i didn't see you drink before i left for training [3:15 PM] mi corazón: have you eaten? fucking hell don't tell me you "forgot" to eat again because you were caught up at work? [3:16 PM] mi corazón: wya? i'll order you food. ask your shitty co workers what they want too so i can treat your department while i'm at it. tsk [3:17 PM] mi corazón: tsk. what will you do without me [3:17 PM] you: sae... it's just a headache.... it's hot out today [3:18 PM] mi corazón: you forgot to bring the fucking umbrella i got you from pasotti? [3:19 PM] you: ykw i don't have a headache anymore [3:20 PM] mi corazón: read 3:20 PM

another time was you had joined him into going on a hike with his friends (shidou and aiku) and you accidentally had spluttered mud all over your legs

aiku and shidou were kind enough to stop so you could clean yourself up but you simply brush it off and say that it's part of the nature experience of hiking but sae thought otherwise

he grabbed a wet wipe from his backpack (another hc: he comes prepared like a boyscout with shit like this like personal hygiene shit💀), kneels down behind you and starts wiping the mud off your legs

much to everyone's surprise

"be careful next time" sae mutters, wiping the last bit of mud on your calf before disposing the now dirty wipes away

when you don't say anything, sae looks up and raises a brow

"what?"

he then watches your eyes motion to the bystanders being aiku and shidou, who both had their jaws dropped to the floor

who knew their little soccer super star friend could be this down bad to their lover?

sae immediately gets up from the ground, brushing his trousers as he clears his throat. as if that could erase that beautiful moment shared with you from aiku and shidou's minds

"tsk. don't make a big deal out of it" sae clicks his tongue in annoyance as he leads the pack back on the trail. consciously ignoring aiku and shidou's loud giggles and teasing

sae knows damn well that they won't ever live this down but who cares. if it's you, he'd do anything in a heartbeat

a few weeks pass by and wow, was sae right. those two idiots did not in fact live it down. so much that they just had to leak it to the media that the nonchalant final boss, sae itoshi isn't the final boss to nonchalance after all

the first thing he sees on his phone was a new article posted by pop base

[EXCLUSIVE] SAE ITOSHI ISN’T EMOTIONALLY CONSTIPATED AFTER ALL? JUICY INSIDERS SCOOP!

when he takes a peek at the article (before he reports it), it was oddly specific and detailed about that one hiking trip you had a few weeks ago. he didn't have to put two and two together to figure out who these "juicy insiders" were

"god damn it" sae clenches his jaw as he continues to skim through the article

suddenly sae hears you burst out laughing from the living room

oh no.

sae trudges to your shared living room with your own cup of kombucha for the day and sees you laughing your ass out while reading the same article

"stop reading that" sae groans, settling down the cup on the coffee table. he takes a seat next to you and leans his head on top of yours

"they're right you know" you giggle, reading the article "for a guy who acts all cold and collected on the outside, you sure are the exact opposite on the inside"

sae rolls his eyes, "gee. i wonder where they got that information from. i'm going to kill both of them" he mutters, pertaining to shidou and aiku

"you're just embarrassed that you've been exposed for the secret lover boy you are"

"they don't need to know what goes on behind closed doors" he points out. true

"okay lover boy. whatever you say" you laugh, holding your hands up in surrender. there was no point with arguing with sae when it comes to shit like this

there's a moment of silence after that. you glance up to catch sae quietly looking at you. like he was all caught up in the moment within your shared humble abode

"jesus. you really are down bad" you gasp quietly, covering your mouth pretending to be shocked. sae snaps out of his little trance hearing your words and flicks your forehead

"am not!"

"are so!"

"no!"

"yes!"

"i love you" you interject, catching sae slightly off guard

you meet sae's eyes as they soften. he simply shrugs and wraps an arm around your shoulders as he pulls you close to his chest

"and i love you more— now stop reading that stupid article before i report you and that damn news media outlet"

"sae!"

[lieutenantfloyd]

Do you know the trend where if you have a significant other in the military you say they can’t come into your house but amendment 2 or 3 which say “ no quartering of soldiers without consent”

That with cyclone or Bob

All Shook Up - Bob x Reader

Word Count: 1.0k

Summary: After seeing a trend where military spouses tell their loved ones they aren't allowed inside under the 3rd Amendment, you decide to play a prank on your sweet, returning husband Bob—that is until you get the words out, and he reacts in the only way Bob knows how.

Warnings: fluff, domesticity, husband! Bob, very mild accidental hurt/comfort.

Authors Note: This idea is so funny to me! I'm already working on Beau's version, and I'll definitely be posting that soon.

Read on AO3

The sun had just begun setting when you put your plan into motion. Grinning to yourself as you set dinner to cook in the oven, you check out the kitchen window for any sign of Bob's car. Your husband had been away on a training exercise all week and had just called you thirty minutes ago stating he was close to home.

Minutes later as you spare the driveway another glance, you see Bob climb out of his car, duffle bag slung over his shoulder. You couldn't mask your almost childish excitement as you left the kitchen and trod over to the door. Even after the years you'd been together you never got over just how handsome he was. But today you had other things in mind.

You hear the soft thud of his boots on the porch followed by the jingle of his keys before the door opens.

"Honey I'm home," Bob calls out just as you appear.

His brow furrows when you don't answer, instead just standing and watching him without an ounce of your expected warmth.

"Honey?" He tries again, "Is everything all right?"

You let another long second pass, his brows furrowing, before you answer.

"Oh, yeah," you say casually, "you just can't stay here."

Bob's eyes instantly widen behind his glasses. His gentle gaze fills with a look that is somewhere between confusion and heartbreak.

"I..What?" He questions.

You clear your throat, initial plan shattering but doing your best to follow through with your prank in light of his expression, knowing it'll be easier to explain in the end when you're both—hopefully—laughing. 

"It is my right as an American citizen to exercise whatever rights I have the liberty of holding—including the third amendment of the United States Constitution, no quartering of soldiers and related military personnel without consent," You say, still standing in the entryway opposite Bob and the half open door.

Bob blinks, expression leaning more towards the confused end of things. For a second it looks like he's about to say something, only to remain silent. He glances at his hand still holding the doorknob, then over his shoulder outside before slowly—slowly—backing out and closing the door all without a word.

You let the silence hang for a second before you yourself grow confused. You had expected him to laugh or maybe fight back, or...really anything except actually leave . Yet as you're left standing there, your first instinct is to chase after him.

Crossing the distance and pulling the door open, you see him about to get back in his car.

"Bob!" you call out, earning a hurtfully hopeful glance back over his shoulder from the man, "I'm just messing with you!" you continue.

Bob's gaze drops and a brief flash of regret goes through you. He looks genuinely bewildered, as if he's going back through and cataloging months and years' worth of interactions to figure out where all this was coming from.

With a sigh you close the door behind you and step off the porch, padding softly down the steps until you're close enough to wrap your arm around the waist of your hopelessly sweet husband.

"I promise, It's just a prank, Bob," you reassure his worrying mind, "I thought it'd be funny, not that you'd just…”

You trail off, gesturing vaguely at everything as a brief flash of knowing crosses his eyes.

"Oh," he says after a long pause, brows still furrowed but tone far less tense, "I was so confused."

He returns your embrace, setting his bag on the ground and slinging an arm gently around you.

"I thought maybe something happened I didn't know about."

You can’t help but let out a soft laugh as you look up at him.

"You thought I'd kick you out over something you didn't even know?” You ask incredulously.

"Maybe If I forgot an anniversary or didn't text you goodnight–" He stammers, raising his free hand to rub the back of his neck, "I don't know what you think is worthy of invoking the constitution over, but it felt serious."

By now a soft blush has risen onto his cheeks and you can't help but place a kiss there, his flushed skin warmed under your gentle touch.

"You are too sweet for your own good, honey," you muse with a laugh, "You thought this was it? Really?"

"Well, I...It sounded serious!" He defends again with a bashful smile.

You can't help but laugh again, looking up at him in near warm-hearted wonder.

"You're always welcome to quarter here, or anywhere else I stay, for that matter."

Bob lets out a breath of relief, whatever tension was still held in his body leaving as your words provide the last bit of reassurance he needs.

"I...really didn't want to sleep in the car.”

You pat his back with a laugh and guide him up the steps and back inside before closing the door behind you both.

"Welcome home honey," you try again, a hint of joking still in your tone, "A place you'll always have a bed."

"Good to know," he chuckles softly, "Please, don't scare me like that again."

"I promise," You smile, pulling him in for a proper kiss this time, "I'll make it up to you."

"Yes please," he sighs, only to be distracted by the smell of roasting chicken coming from the kitchen.

"You...made dinner?" He asks gently, always so surprised by the little things even when they're a part of your daily routine.

"Of course I did. Can't have you going hungry, now, can we?"

Bob blinks then nods faintly in agreement.

"Good, go get changed while I finish up down here."

At that Bob practically melts in your arms like he does every time he comes home, never more relaxed than he is in your presence—even if it's your attempt at a prank that shakes him up to begin with.

Taglist: @rosiahills22 @marchingicenotes7 @bayisdying @princessofglitterland @callsignaries @blue-aconite @oliviah-25 @luckyladycreator2 @shakira-sasha @eliseline @xoxabs88xox @lisedanie @alexxavicry @madamemelancholysstuff @dozcan123 @withakindheartx @teti-menchon0604 @sass-masterkittenmama @kmc1989

[vettelsvee]

THE MOMENT I KNEW | Max Verstappen

Max Verstappen x Girlfriend!Reader

SUMMARY: After a few races where he didn't get the results he expected, Max decides to go out with some friends to disconnect from everything. Unluckily, one of those days when he arrives home after having some drinks, he finds out that he missed his girlfriend's birthday as soon as he sees the cake she ordered on the trash ↳ REQUESTED BY ANON: Maybe something angsty?? Like maybe bro goes out with his friends and forgets readers bday until he sees the cake in the trash can and realizes bro screwed up

WORD COUNT: 2007

WARNINGS: Curse words, mentions of being drunk, angst

TAGLIST: @hc-dutch @raavadakedavra @coffeedestroyingperson @evey-kuznetskova @bowielovesyou @chaoswithus @isotopemylove @iceman-kazansky @gwginnyweasley @formula1-motogpfan @myescapefromthislife @regalbanshee [in case you wanna be tagged just tell me so i can add you!]

VEE'S NOTES: I've absolutely loved this one my God. With this fic, we mark a total of 6196 words written this week (not counting my uni essays and other several projects), so I'm quite proud about that! Also, thank you so much for the support all this week, hope you liked all the fics! I'll be uploading this upcoming week's posts tomorrow. Let me know in the comments or on the anon inbox your thoughts on this one! See you next week :) ↳ MAKE YOUR REQUESTS | LET'S TALK! | JANUARY UPDATE CALENDAR

© VETTELSVEE (2025). please, do not steal, copy or translate my works. thanks for reading!

Max stumbled into your apartment, fumbling with the keys and opening the door with trembling hands, his pounding headache reminding him that it wouldn’t be this bad if he’d listened to the bartender’s advice to stop after the last gin tonic.

As soon as he stepped inside, he froze in the doorway, scanning everything as if it were his first time entering the place, even though he had been living there for nearly five years, the last two with you. He took a few unsteady steps toward the small entryway counter, where he dropped his keys and realized the silence was far heavier than he had anticipated.

His laughter, faint and fueled by the false sense of security that alcohol had provided, quickly dissipated. Taking a cautious step further into the living room, he noticed there were no lights on, no plates or leftover food on the small coffee table in front of the TV, and most strikingly, you were neither sprawled out on the couch watching one of the romantic movies you adored nor curled up asleep with one of your cats.

Despite the glaring signs, Max didn’t panic, at least not as much as he should have, even though something inside him whispered that the situation didn’t sit right.

It wasn’t until he wandered into the kitchen to get a glass of water and rounded the island that his foot stumbled slightly, nearly sending him sprawling to the floor. Puzzled, he looked down to see what had caused him to trip. His heart sank when his eyes landed on a discarded box, its lid broken as if it had been thrown to the floor, angrily, on purpose.

That’s when reality hit him like a freight train.

He turned his gaze to the left, where the trash can stood partially open. Inside, he saw an untouched cake, decorated with intricate floral designs and a message that read, “Happy Birthday, Y/N!” The sight struck him like a blow to the chest, the pressure so intense it made him want to vomit.

“No… No, it wasn’t today…” 

Desperately, and trying to figure out what to do, Max ran his hands through his hair, as if that might somehow help him calm down. His breathing grew more erratic with each passing second, his eyes glued to the cake. It didn’t feel real. He couldn’t understand how he had managed to forget such an important date… you, his girlfriend’s, birthday. Something so obvious had suddenly spiraled into a waking nightmare.

He noticed his phone sitting on the kitchen counter. Grabbing it quickly, he checked for any missed calls or messages from you, only to realize after several failed attempts to turn it on that it was dead. He blamed his drunkenness not only for not noticing he didn’t have his phone with him or that it was out of battery, but for forgetting such a meaningful day and breaking every promise he had made to you.

Deep down, though, he knew all the excuses were hollow. Any justification he tried to offer would be nothing but foolishness.

Setting the phone back on the counter, he decided not to waste any more time. He headed toward your bedroom. The door was ajar, and though the lights were off, he could make out your silhouette lying on the bed, your back turned to him. You gave no sign that you had noticed his arrival. The only sound in the room was your muffled, quiet sobs. As Max stepped closer, he saw you were clutching a pillow tightly, as if it were your only source of comfort.

That was the moment Max realized he couldn’t avoid facing the situation, no matter how impossible it felt to fix things right away.

“Y/N...” he said softly.

You didn’t answer, and your silence hurt more than a thousand words could have. Max knelt beside the bed, close enough to reach out, and gently began stroking your face. You didn’t resist his touch, but your indifference pierced him deeply.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his voice trembling as he fought to hold himself together. “I swear this wasn’t my intention… I wanted to come home earlier, but Lando insisted we stay a bit longer, and then I didn’t have my phone…”

“You forgot, Max,” you interrupted, your tone sharp but laced with pain, anger, and sadness. You still wouldn’t look at him. “Goddammit, Max, you forgot my fucking birthday ever since the moment the clock struck midnight.”

Max fell silent. Once again, reality hit him square in the face, forcing him to acknowledge that anything he said would likely be inadequate. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, trying to find the words to explain himself calmly, to admit his mistakes while grappling with the weight of his guilt.  

“You know it wasn’t my intention,” he began, his voice low. “It’s just… with the shitty season I’ve been having and everything that comes with it, I’ve been feeling overwhelmed. I just needed to step out of my comfort zone for a bit, to clear my head…”  

“And you thought doing that on my birthday, after promising me a dream day, was the most appropriate choice?” you cut him off, finally raising your head. Your eyes were swollen and red from crying. “I know you’re not in a good place right now, but I also know that until now, every promise you’ve made to me, you’ve kept. You didn’t just forget about me, Max. You left me here, alone, all day, like I didn’t matter at all.”  

Max searched desperately for a way to salvage the situation, to apologize, to do something, anything, to prove how deeply sorry he was. But when you turned on the light and sat up to face him, he realized he was out of options. He didn’t know how to continue without disappointing you further.  

“You know this has been really hard for me…”  

“Hard for you? Seriously?” you interrupted, leaning closer and pointing your finger at him. “And you think this has been easy for me? Watching you shut me out, never telling me what’s going on in that head of yours? Not to mention your fans… They’re fully convinced that your shitty season is all my fault, that our relationship is ruining your career.”  

“Y/N, I know…”  

That was a lie. He didn’t know. Max had ignored the comments and criticism because, deep down, he believed you weren't to blame for his performance, especially when you rarely even went with him to the races anymore.  

“There’s nothing I can say to argue with you,” Max admitted. “You’re absolutely right. I’ve been a complete asshole today, and I’m truly sorry. I love you, Y/N, more than you know…”  

“Are you sure you love me?” you shot back, your voice trembling with anger. “Do you love me, or your damn career? Because lately, it feels like your whole world revolves even more around cars, races, speed, adrenaline, and your constant need to be the best at everything.”  

“Hey…” Max tried, his voice faltering.  

“Every day, you show me more and more that we’re no longer a team… that I’m no longer a part of you. And I know I’m not the only one who sees it.”  

Your words hit him like a dagger, but he knew he deserved them.  

“It’s not just about you forgetting my birthday today, Max. It’s everything. You don’t listen to me… you don’t give me anything, not even a minute of your day, let alone affection or support. Why should I stay in a relationship that, instead of giving me life, is killing me inside?”  

Your words struck him like a bucket of ice water.  

“You don’t get it, do you?” you asked, frustration and sadness mingling in your tone as he stayed silent. “If you really loved me, you wouldn’t be afraid to show me who you are, flaws and all. But you’ve always done this, Max, keeping me at arm’s length, never letting me into your life.”  

“I don’t do that, Y/N, it’s just that…” he began, summoning his courage to explain, but you cut him off once again.  

“Damn it, Max, yes, of course you do!” you yelled, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions. “Do you realize that even though I’ve been with you, I’ve been completely alone? Alone, Max, utterly alone! I’ve tried so many times to talk to you, to make you see that a few bad races aren’t the end of the world for someone like you, but…”  

You stopped yourself abruptly, your throat aching and your head pounding. You felt no remorse for the way you were speaking to him since he deserved every word, but you couldn’t help but feel a deep sadness. Sadness for the Max Verstappen you had once known. A man who had been so proud of himself and his achievements after years of hard work, now emotionally shattered and, worse, so determined to hide it from everyone, including you.  

“I can’t keep giving you everything I have while you keep taking and taking, without giving anything back.”  

“I’m sorry…” Max muttered, but the words felt hollow.  

“A simple ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t fix anything, Max,” you replied, your voice quieter now but no less wounded. “I wish it were just about today, but like I said, I feel like you’re pushing me further out of your life with every passing day. You’re becoming a stranger to me, Max,” you admitted, trying not to let your voice waver. “You’ve been like this for months, and I don’t know what else to do to stop us from falling apart… though it feels like that’s exactly what you want.”  

“That’s not true,” he answered immediately, desperation in his voice. “Y/N, seriously, I love you more than you could ever imagine.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, tears welling up again. “Because I feel like you’re showing me the exact opposite.” Your voice trembled with the weight of her words. “Sometimes it feels like you love your career, the success you’ve achieved and the crowds chanting your name more than you love me.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, his voice barely audible. “You know I want to, but… I don’t know how to fix this anymore…”

You looked at him, your eyes searching his face for some sign, some silent promise that would make you believe things between you could change. But Max’s words only made you realize that you had to stop thinking fantasies and start facing reality.

“Maybe you can’t fix it,” you confessed, the words breaking you from the inside. “I can’t keep going like this, Max… I can’t keep feeling like I’m not enough… like I’m not good enough for you.”

“Seriously, there has to be a solution…” he pleaded, his voice full of regret. “I’ll do better from now on, I promise…”

“You don’t get it, do you?” You turned to look at him, the pain evident in your expression. “Things won’t magically get better if you take me to dinner or buy me a million-dollar necklace to make up for today. That won’t fix anything, Max…”

“Y/N… Y/N, please… I need you…”

No matter how many times Max said those words, he knew that any promise he made now would be meaningless, especially considering how much he had already failed you.

Feeling that there were no more words left to say between them, you slowly got out of bed. You gathered the few belongings you had on the nightstand and, with a sense of finality, began to pack a bag, all the while feeling Max’s powerless gaze on you.

“I can’t keep waiting, Max,” you said, her voice steady despite the anguish inside. “Today, no matter how much I tried to turn a blind eye, let it go, and even put myself in your shoes… This… everything… after many tries… God, Max, all of this… That was the moment I knew.”

[poguehearted77]

Stormbound

Summary: There's a tropical storm headed straight for the OBX but Rafe won't leave you alone.

smut: dom! rafe, pogue! reader, mentions the pogues, fingering, secret alliances, rafe is a good bad guy, making out, unprotected sex, big dick rafe, choking, teasing, floor sex, missionary, protective rafe, mutual pining but both are too stubborn to admit it.

The rain is just a steady drizzle when you start the long walk back from Figure Eight, cool and misty, soaking through your baby tee and denim shorts, but not quite cold enough to make you turn back.

Not that you would even if it were—the map you’d stuffed in your back pocket was too valuable to leave behind, and JJ had been so insistent that you’d be the one to get it.

It was a worn-out paper, a little frayed around the edges from too many hands clutching it too tight, and tonight, it held the Pogue’s best lead. JJ had been so confident about this—said it’d help them find the next clue, but you were the only one available to get it.

Just in and out, he’d said, sure as always, but of course, that had been before the storm started closing in. Even though you should've been back in the Cut by now, having ridden on the back of JJ's bike as he promised you he would, but of course, he forgot. You cross your arms and mutter to yourself, “Damn it, JJ. This better be worth it.”

The streets around you are silent, eerie even, with all the houses in Figure Eight shuttered up tight in preparation for the coming storm. It’s desolate and unsettling, making you all the more eager to get back to the Cut. But you’re barely halfway there when you hear the low rumble of an engine behind you.

Of course, you think. You don’t even need to turn around to know who it is.

Rafe’s truck slows to a crawl, matching your pace, his headlights cutting through the rain. You feel his eyes on you as he leans out the window, looking you up and down with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

“Y/n? What are you doin' out here?” he calls, loud enough to be heard over the rain.

You ignore him, quickening your steps, but he’s persistent. The truck keeps rolling alongside you, just close enough that his voice still carries over the sound of the rain.

“You know there’s a storm coming, right?” he asks, his tone somehow both mocking and concerned. “You’re not gonna make it back before it hits.” A crack of thunder roars through the sky.

“Really? I didn't know that,” you mutter, not bothering to look his way. “Just go away, Rafe.”

He lets out a sigh, exaggerated, and you can practically see him rolling his eyes. “Jesus, can you stop being so damn stubborn? Just get in the car. I'll give you a ride back to the Cut.”

“No thanks.” You keep walking, setting your jaw as you ignore the urge to shiver, the rain starting to pick up, chilling you through your soaked clothes. With another quick glance at the darkened sky, you're now considering taking the shortcut along the beach to shave off some time.

But still, Rafe doesn’t drive off. He just keeps creeping along beside you, the engine of his truck a low, constant hum as he matches your pace. “Stop fucking around, Y/n. If you get caught out here you'll never make it back.” He warns but your shoulders shrug.

“I like those odds a hell of a lot better than risking a ride with you.” you snap, the suppressed shiver prevails as the rain intensifies, falling harder, faster, in cold, fat drops that slap against the pavement and blur the world around you.

Thunder rolls in the distance, low and ominous, and Rafe’s truck finally comes to a full stop as he pulls over. A second later, you hear his door slam shut, and when you glance back, he’s striding through the rain toward you, his face set in an exasperated glare.

“Are you done being difficult yet?” His voice cuts through the rain, his eyes locked on you, unyielding and determined. You hasten your pace, heading down the unpaved path towards the beach with Rafe trailing behind you with calls of your name.

This goes on for too long. The rain is relentless now, pouring down in thick sheets that chill you to the bone. Your vision was so distorted you could hardly see where you were going. You feel yourself starting to shiver, but you lift your chin, refusing to back down even as the storm rages around you.

A heavy hand holds you by the shoulder. “Jesus Christ, Y/n. You're gonna get yourself killed! The storm's just getting started-” he says, his exclamations punctuated with a bright bolt of lightning striking down not too far in the distance followed by a boisterous rumble of thunder.

"Shit!" You both curse before Rafe motions to the storage house up ahead, "We've gotta take shelter before shit goes south."

Even in life and death, your naturally skeptical nature overcomes you as you genuinely take the moment to consider the proposition. The rain was pummelling over the both of you, dripping down your faces, causing you both to squint, “Fine.”

For once there's no smugness in Rafe's expression. It's shielded by a look of relief, initially anticipating more resistance but he doesn’t say another word as you rush towards the shed and lock the doors shut.

The shed was spacious but dark. You took a step forward, or maybe a step back, but you weren't sure, almost instantly tripping over what you can only assume was a pale of some sort. You complain, "I can't see shit in here."

"Hang on," Rafe mumbles, followed by the indistinct sound of ruffled pockets and keys clinking together. The familiar spark of a lighter flicks a flame to life and gives you the light you've needed.

For a moment your eyes meet over the lighter. You clear your throat, looking around for something useful to keep the place lit, a gasp of relief falls from your lips as you locate a dusty lantern on the top shelf.

Raising yourself to the tip of your toes, your fingers are just barely grazing over the glass body of the object before a large hard, adorned with a few rings is already reaching over your head and bringing it down.

"I don't need your help." You snatch the lantern out of his grasp and it causes him to lose balance on the lighter in his left hand, the light goes out for a moment before he relights it.

"Can you ever be fucking grateful for once in your life? Would it kill you to say thank you?" He takes the lantern back and lights it, setting it down on the lower shelf.

"Why should I thank you? You're egotistical, narcissistic, selfish-" Your unfiltered rant is cut short by the pressure of his hand wrapped around your throat. You immediately try to move from him but the weight of his grip holds you in place.

"Selfish? Who's the one that made bail for you when you were caught trespassing in Tanny Hill?" Your brows furrow, "What? Shoupe said it was a wrongful arrest." He shakes his head, his hold around your neck loosens but you don't move it. "That was me. Who's the one that made sure you and those pogues made it off Dead Man's Island untouched when you'd stolen from them? Me."

You couldn't believe what you were hearing, "That doesn't change the fact you're still an asshole. I saw you tampering with my drink at the bar and I got upset then you threw it at my feet-- "That drink was roofied. I saw the bartender spike it," His hold tightened a little more, "Don't worry, I made sure he couldn't use his hands for a long time."

Your stomach was in knots, for once not in a way that made you seasick anytime you were with Rafe. This time was different, there was slight adoration building within you. His eyes were cold, hard, and protective. Without thinking you slinked your hand around the back of his neck and pulled him in for the first kiss of many.

The cold shed quickly filled with warmth as you familiarized yourselves with each other's bodies. Your clothes were now in the pale that tripped you earlier and Rafe's shirt was nowhere to be found, possibly hung up on the wall with the life jackets.

Rain lashes against the walls of the shed, a fierce, steady drumming that drowns out every other sound. The wind howls through the cracks, sharp and wild, whistling as it sweeps across the beach, sending gusts of sand and spray pelting against the flimsy structure.

The ruckus was the least of Rafe's concerns as he had you on your back on a pile of beach towels, moaning his name as he fingered you incessantly with his right hand, his left pinning your leg down to stop moving.

"R-Rafe!" Your vision begins to darken, and your heart rate picks up as you quickly stumble toward your high. The lewd sounds of your slick humiliated you, not because of what it was but because Rafe made you like this. You had Rafe Fucking Cameron between your legs and you loved it.

"Yeah? You got somethin' you wanna say?" He teases, his pace relentless and unforgiving as your body spasmed, your wetness covering his fingers as they stretched you open. The coolness of the metal rings adds a cold surprise with every glide.

"I'm-- fuck! Gonna-" You're interrupted by your own orgasm once Rafe accelerates to a pace that you couldn't handle without being blinded by the heavens. "You look so fucking pretty when you come" Rafe remarks, voice deep but a little unstable. Unsure how long he could maintain his composure.

Not long at all it seems.

The moment the bulbous head of his cock had caught in the ring of your wet heat, he sank himself into the hilt. "Shit-Shit- Shit!" A pained his scratches up the walls of his throat, not giving you a second to adjust. Your back arches off the towels, eyes glossy as they stare up at Rafe whose eyes are screwed shut, bottom lip tucked between his teeth as soft grunts fall from his lips.

His eyes open to look down at you, entranced with every movement on your face, looking for any signs to slow down, but your legs wrap around his waist to pull him closer. He groans at the extra depth he reaches within your velvet walls. He lowers himself down, dropping teasing kisses on your lips, the some behind your ear, down the side of your neck and you were sick of his antics.

Looping your fingers under his chain you pull him close to you once again, locking your lips with his. The kiss is messy, unrestrained and dangerously intimate for a pogue and a kook to share. "Can't get enough of you," He whispers against your lips, his thrusts slowing down and dragging slower making everything feel deeper.

"Why'd you have to be such a douchebag." You pout between kisses and he chuckles, "Maybe I wouldn't have to be if you weren't such an ungrateful brat." He snaps his hips on impulse causing you to gasp.

"I'm n-not-" You were losing your train of thought and Rafe couldn't concentrate on anything more than the immense wave of pleasure that was breaking down over him.

"Not what? Huh?" You were unable to speak, the coil in your core rapidly igniting, about to snap. Rafe didn't need to hear you say it to know you were close. "Come on, baby. Give it to me. Give me all you got." His gruff tone combined with the pet name had you unravelling beneath him and he came moments later, pulling out and pumping his cum on your stomach.

He kept you warm on the towels, his larger frame wrapped up with yours. You both refused to acknowledge what had just happened when-- "Oh Shit!" You jolt up, rushing to the pale where your clothes had been displaced and you rummage through the pockets of your shorts to find the map that caused all this.

"What's wrong?" You ignore his question once you have the map in your hands, It's still folded, but soaked. You carefully opened it and the ink was partially illegible, but you could still make out some of the words.

"Is that what I think it is?" Rafe asks and you nod slowly, "The map to Kraken's Rest? It was. The rain washed it out." Rafe takes a closer look at the map, asking where you'd gotten this from.

"I.. borrowed it from the museum." You lie. "You don't have to lie to me, I know you stole this-- Did you get it off the display?" You nod, and he tosses the map carelessly into the pale.

Suddenly you remembered why you didn't get along. "What are you doing I need that." You're about to retrieve it when he speaks up. "Museums rarely put the real shit out for the public. All the authentic artifacts are kept in the Kildare vaults."

The good news puts a smile on your face before reality wipes it off, "How am I supposed to get in there unnoticed? They'll catch me before I even make it to the door."

Rafe grins as if the sequence of events has worked itself out too perfectly. "I'm on the guest list for their upcoming exhibit charity gala. The vaults are fingerprint-protected, and I know a guy who's got access. The event is pretty high-profile so I know he'll be there. I can lift his prints and pass them to you during the night so you can get to the vault..."

It sounded like a good plan but how would Rafe get prints to you-- He continues, "But if the plan is gonna work, you'll have to come with me. As my plus one." He's unable to mask the small tug on his lips at the offer and you smile.

[girlyhornywriter]

You're still worried you're going to regret this?

Come on, pig. It's a little late for that, isn't it? You know there's no going back to how things used to be. Not now, after what you've done to yourself. Don't give me that look, you know this wasn't all my idea.

You just wouldn't stop begging to know about my fantasies... I didn't have any choice but to sate your curiosity and tell you that I liked bigger girls. Girls that jiggle when they walk and get out of breath when they walk up the stairs. You know, fat girls. You were so slim, and I didn't expect that you'd want to satisfy my kinks like that, but you said that you'd maybe gain a little weight for me, just so I could squeeze your belly while we made out. Nothing crazy, just an extra meal here and there. You'd keep it under control.

It's not my fault that your fat ass lost all self-control.

You were just having too much fun, weren't you? You loved feeling my hands caressing your soft, sensitive curves. The way I always slipped a hand under your top to give your gut a squeeze whenever I pulled you in for a kiss must have done more to your poor, horny brain than I could have ever imagined...

Well, of course I noticed what was happening, but did you expect me to say anything? You have no idea how much I loved watching you go back for seconds and thirds every time we went to a buffet. I couldn't get enough of hearing your sheepish voice asking if we had any ice-cream left in the freezer immediately after finishing an extra-large dinner. And maybe I didn't help your waistline by offering to drive you everywhere... But at your size back then, you'd have gotten so worn out and exhausted by having to walk more than a couple of blocks.

Not any more, though. Now you can't even make it to the end of the street.

Oh, you think I'm exaggerating? Babe, you haven't hauled your fat, lazy ass off of that couch in days. If it wasn't for the fact that I keep throwing away all your empty bags of snacks once you've poured them down your greedy throat, I'm pretty sure you'd be buried in them by now. Come on, just try to stand up.

...

Gosh, you really tried there, didn't you? There's no way you'd be panting and sweating like this if you hadn't been putting effort into that. I knew you'd become a fat mess, but I didn't realise it was this bad... You're all blubber and lard now, aren't you? Whatever muscle you had is so lost under layer upon layer of soft, jiggling flab that there's no way you're going to work off all these calories of adipose you've eaten onto your figure.

Well yeah, maybe a diet would work, but I'm not going to let you go on one, piglet.

Why? Because I've got you right where I've always wanted you, princess. You're too fat to move and too well-trained as a mindless, gluttonous cow to undo the damage you've done. I might not have made you gain all this weight, but I'm not about to see it melt away either. I love the way it feels too much, the way you jiggle with every movement, the way it pins you to the couch and only grows softer and heavier every time I feed you.

If I were you, piglet, I'd get used to this. Learn to enjoy it, because I certainly will... Maybe if you're a good girl for me, I'll find you some clothes that actually fit over your immense bulk. Though anything I find isn't going to fit you for very long - You're so big and obese, piggy, but you've still got a long way to go...