#LITERALLY<3<<3<3<3<<3<3<<3<2>3<3<>4<3>3<3<<3<÷<<3<3<2>2<3<3<<3<3<3<3> <<÷<÷>×&$&%>=& | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

notarmedandnotdangerous · 3 days ago

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there's nothing chill about this stream trust me. also HI boss anon ure cool man

+18 mdni! faceless desire; a fic where bucky finds out about reader's little secret

cw: camboy!switch!m!reader, switch!bucky, use of toys (double ended dildo. wtf.), multiple orgasms (like three), slight voyeurism (cuz they're on stream)

word count: >3.5k

[1] [2] [3] [4]

!! @swiftie-fault

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

the stream opens with warm lighting. bucky was curled up beside you on the bed, and his hair’s loose tonight. the camera was tilted just enough to not film your faces.

“okay. fan mail time!” you said, holding up the first box.

bucky grins, tucking one leg under himself as he eyes the pile.

“you really weren’t kidding about the mail.” he says, nudging your side. “you really let this build up.”

“thought it’d be fun to celebrate on stream. you guys sent way more than i expected.” you laugh, grabbing the first box.

“i’m scared.” bucky laughs.

you pulled out a handmade sweater in deep navy, simple, and soft-looking, with a little red star stitched on the cuff of the sleeve.

“no way.” he freezes, staring at it.

user1:

‘THAT’S MINE OMG I MADE THAT i’m so nervous omg i hope it fits’

“wait they’re here? you made this?”

bucky slowly reaches out, and ran a hand over the crochet.

“give it here.”

you handed it over, without any fuss, and he pulls his t-shirt off right there on stream, while the viewers go feral, he just tugs the sweater on.

user2:

‘HELLO??? there will be more people sending in clothes if THIS is the reward they get.’

user3:

‘i’m convinced i just saw god himself’

“you really just took your shirt off.”

“they’ve literally seen my cock, are we really pretending a shirt matters right now?” he shrugs, like it’s no big deal.

you just gawk at him, because what the actual fuck?

user4:

‘HE’S SO..’

user5:

‘I’M GOING TO VOMIT’

“next time, i’m putting you in a robe before we go live.”

“next time i’ll start naked to save time.”

you sigh, giving him a playful nudge.

the both of you continued going through the gifts, until you spot it.

there was a box, bigger than the rest. there were hearts printed on the tape, and no return address.

you tug it into your lap slowly, and bucky immediately stiffens.

“that’s a murder box.” he crosses his arms over his chest.

“or an extremely thoughtful gift.”

“or a murder box.”

you sighed, before popping it open, and the both of you freeze.

inside, there was a carefully organised nest of toys, made of all different materials. leather, metal, rubber, glass. some of them were familiar, while some were worryingly complex to say the least.

“oh.” you said blankly, pulling out a steel hook with a curved end. “what the fuck.”

user6:

‘WHY IS IT SHAPED LIKE THAT???’

“this is bigger than my forearm-”

“nope. nope.” bucky’s face was bright red. “put that down. right fucking now.”

you’re already digging deeper.

“oh my god, this one locks. wait why does it lock?” you started laughing at the sheer disbelief.

user7:

‘to whoever sent that: you scare me, and i want your number.’

you held another toy up, turning it in the light.

“what.. even is this?”

bucky’s mouth twitches.

“that’s got to be at least third-degree felony shaped.”

you were about to respond when you pull out the next item.

it’s somehow worse. sleek, black, with a cord, and a remote.

user8:

‘THERE’S AN APP BYEEE’

user9:

‘BANDAGE GUY PLS THROW THAT INTO THE OCEAN’

bucky immediately shifts.

“that has bluetooth, i’m not fighting that. i’m begging you to not give them that kind of power.”

you’re crying with laughter now.

“oh my god- there’s more. there’s a manual.”

“there’s diagrams for fuck’s sake!” he spoke, throwing his hands up in the air dramatically.

you pulled out a dark collar, with silver studs.

the both of you make intense eye contact.

“i’m not putting it on.” he says, instantly defensive.

“i didn’t say anything?”

“you looked at me!”

you smirked, then continued to dig around, before finding something weirdly long.

“oh.”

“is that-?”

you lift it out, holding it with both hands like it was a sacred relic. it was a clear, slightly flexible double-ended dildo.

user10:

‘oh finally something i don’t need holy water for! ..sort of.’

user11:

‘somehow this is the tamest thing in the whole box??’

bucky leans in.

“that’s actually kind of..”

“wholesome?”

“i was about to say low-effort, but sure, that works too.”

“no batteries, no remote, just hopes, and prayers.”

“sounds like most of our early hookups.”

and you fucking wheeze at it.

“okay, okay. it’s actually kind of nice. could do a lot with this, hands-free, face-to-face.”

“at least it’s not as psychotic as the vibrating one with like thirteen settings.”

you winked at him.

“no. absolutely not.”

“you sure? the viewers seem excited.” you grin at him.

user12:

‘PLEASE.’

user13:

‘ITS FOR SCIENTIFIC PURPOSES TRUST’

user14:

‘he’s pretending he hates it’

bucky takes a glance at the screen, reading the comments.

“i do hate it.” he insists. “look at it! looks like it’s made to ruin someone’s life!”

you wave the toy at him.

“so dramatic.”

“i’m not using it. i’m not-”

—

fifteen minutes later.

the camera’s angled low. now bucky’s on his back, legs loose around your waist, mouth slack, and already flushed, all because you took your sweet time with the lube, with kissing down his stomach.

the dildo’s buried beneath the both of you, one end nestled inside you, while the other pushed deep into him.

his fingers twitched against the sheets, and he’s still trying to lie about it.

“this is- fucking dumb.” he mutters, but his voice cracks halfway through, and when you roll your hips just a little, pushing in, he whines. “oh, oh fuck.. so big.”

user15:

‘fucking dumb.. sure..’

user16:

‘he’s so bitchy it’s perfect.’

“still hate it?” you murmur, leaning forward to mouth at his throat.

bucky scoffs, tries to at least.

“mmh, yeah. hate this. hate your stupid- ugh.. stupid idea.” he chokes on his own words when your hips press forward again, the toy shifting inside the both of you slow.

you hum like you didn’t notice the way his toes curled.

“uh huh, i’ll make a note. you definitely don’t like being full at the same time as me. not at all.”

his head tips back slightly, mouth open.

user17:

‘SLUT’

user18:

‘he says he hates it WHILE BREATHING THROUGH HIS MOUTH’

user19:

‘he’s whining every time it pushes in.. liar’

“i don’t-” he breathes. “i don’t like this-”

you grind down again, and this time he clutches onto your hips, nails digging into your soft skin. the dildo slides just a little deeper into the both of you, and his hips stutter helplessly.

“you are so bad at lying.”

bucky bites his bottom lip. his eyes were glassy, and half-lidded already. the way his cock was pressed in between the both of you tells the truth even louder than his mouth ever will.

still, he hisses.

“too deep- i don’t like.. mmh.. stop doing that-”

you rock your hips again, and he gasps, throwing his head back, even as he denies it.

“fuck, no-”

“sure.” you murmur. “you hate it, that’s why you’re dripping all over yourself.”

user20:

‘THE WET SPOT FUCK’

user21:

‘he’s so hot i hate him so much’

you adjust, just a little, and he gasps loud enough to startle the both of you. his hand flies to your back, grounding himself.

“fuck fuck fuck- i can’t.. too much..” he breathes, but keeps moving. his hips chased the drag of fullness, the pressure that makes his thighs quake, and his voice go high.

“you’re taking it so well, and you hate it, right?”

bucky nods quickly, but the motion stutters when you roll your hips again, and he almost wails, clamping down around the toy, and whimpering like he had been split open.

“tell them how much you hate it then.”

“i- i hate-”

you kiss his flushed cheek.

“not going to- fuck, not going to cum from this.”

“of course not.” you move again, slow, and deep.

he chokes, voice cracking, body jerking as his cock pulses, thick spurts spilling across his stomach. he sobs through it, still rocking on the toy.

“came without being touched, huh?”

user22:

‘he says he hates it then cums untouched.. all men do is lie’

user23:

‘he’s going to ask for it next stream.’

you don’t stop.

bucky whimpers.

“no-no wait, i can’t!” he’s panting against your neck. the toy was stayed deep inside the both of you, and he’s still trying to collect himself.

“you’re still hard, you sure you hate it?”

his entire body shudders, and his cock twitches. he doesn’t answer you.

you glance down, his chest is heaving. his mouth keeps twitching like he wants to say something but can’t get it past the breathless little gasps he keeps choking on.

“you good..?” you murmur. “came pretty hard for someone who hates this.”

bucky groans, low.

“i’m fine.” he mumbles.

user24:

‘HE’S NOT FINE’

“yeah?” you shift your hips just slightly, just enough to make the toy nude deeper into him, pressing firmly into that spot he’s so sensitive from already.

his entire body jerks.

he tries to swallow the sound, but it still comes out. it sounded like it was punched out of his chest. his hands scramble up to yours now, grabbing tightly like he needs something to hold on to.

“fu- f-fuck.”

you blink down at him sweetly.

“what’s wrong?”

bucky glares at you. tries to, at least.

“nothing, it’s just.. so deep. not- i’m not used to-”

you hum, and settle back over him again, the both of you still joined. you don’t even move, just let the toy stay in place, solid, and firm, right up against that perfect bundle of nerves inside him.

and he just melts. he tries to stay still, but his hips keep twitching. his thighs squeeze around yours. his voice was almost confused as he whispers.

“you’re not moving- it’s not-”

“i know.”

“then why- why’s it still..”

user25:

‘ohh he’s GONE alright’

user26:

‘he can’t even finish sentences’

you kiss under his jaw, slowly.

“pressing right there, huh?”

bucky lets out a wrecked moan, and his head tips back once more.

despite everything, he’s still trying.

“it’s not- fuck, it’s not that good..” he mumbles, even as his cock kicks up again, and leaks against his stomach.

you reach down between the both of you, and brush your knuckles against it.

his hips buck.

“oh yeah, you hate this.”

“i do.”

you rock your hips, not even moving, just letting the toy shift slightly deeper, and he cries out. his voice cracked as he clamps down around it, head slamming back down into the pillow.

“fuh- fuck fuck fuck-”

now he’s babbling as real tears prick his lashes. his hands are in your hair, on your back, everywhere, like he doesn’t know what to hold onto.

“you don’t have to cum again, just let it stay there. let it press right there, nice, and deep, yeah?” you whisper right in his ear, and he shivers.

bucky nods, then shakes his head. he doesn’t know anymore.

he does cum again though, minutes later, just from the pressure, as he whines into your mouth, and you hold him down, and kiss him through it.

user27:

‘HE CAME FROM THE PRESSURE ALONE’

user28:

‘wrap it up boys he’s done’

you’re both still connected. he’s laid out under you, wrecked, and flushed. his legs were shaking, every muscle trembling. you haven’t moved in minutes.

because bucky’s just laying there, whining into your neck. his cock was still hard, still twitching between the both of you, and your hand’s just resting loosely over his stomach, feeling every tremble, every aftershock.

you kissed his cheek.

“you came again.”

he whines, softly.

“you said you hated it?”

he nods, then immediately contradicts himself.

“didn’t mean to..”

“didn’t mean to cum from pressure alone?”

bucky breathes through his teeth, still flushed bright red.

you blinked down at him.

“it’s not that good. it’s too big, too deep. i hate- hate this.”

“..you came twice.”

user29:

‘he says he hates this WHILE HE’S CUMMING??’

user30:

‘he’s fucking delusional’

bucky groans, pressing his face into your shoulder again, as if he could hide from the reality that his thighs were still twitching, and the way he’s still fluttering around the toy.

you sit up just slightly, sliding your hand in between your stomachs, and wrapping it around his cock. you don’t even stroke, just held it.

he moans, quiet, and broken.

“i-i’m not going to cum again.” he says, instantly unconvincing as his cock twitches in your grip. “i’m not- i’m not going to- fuck-”

you tighten your grip, just barely.

his cock leaks, thick drops running down your knuckles.

“so soaked. can’t even think straight.”

bucky’s thighs twitch, his breathing quickens, and still he tries to deny it.

“i h-hate it. not even- ngh.. not even that good..”

you push your hips forward just slightly, letting the dildo shift inside the both of you, and he fucking screams.

“no- n-no, stop, i- fuck!“

you pull his head up to look at you.

his eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, and his lips trembled. but still, he tries to lie.

bucky opens his mouth, then clamps it shut again as a full-body shudder rolls through him. if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was having a seizure.

“don’t- don’t want to- i hate this fucking thing.”

“really now?”

user31:

‘JUST ADMIT IT??’

user32:

‘WHY ARE U CRYING IF YOU DONT WANT IT???’

he whines, trying to hide his face.

“i-i do! i swear. i’m not- fuck, i’m not-”

“not what? not a receiver? not a pretty little mess sitting on a toy he clearly loves?”

bucky moans, loud, and broken.

“since he definitely hates this, i think it’s only fair if he gets a chance to explain himself.” you turned your head towards the camera.

his eyes widened.

“come on, tell them. convince them.”

user33:

‘SURE..’

user34:

‘can’t wait for this oscar-worthy performance.’

you angled your hips again, slow, and he jerks.

he’s gasping when he tries to speak.

“i don’t- i don’t like this, okay? i’m not into- fuck, not into being used l-like this-”

you hum, rolling your hips slightly, just enough to drag the dildo across that aching spot inside him, and tears spilled down his cheeks.

“i hate it, i hate how it feels, i hate- nngh.. how big it is, how f-full i- mmh..”

“keep going, tell them more.”

“i’m not supposed to take things- fuck! i’m.. i give, i don’t get used like t-this.”

you rock forward again, shifting the toy once more, and he sobs this time. an honest to god, wet, needy sound that leaves his mouth without permission, and then you feel it.

bucky’s cock jerks in your hand once, twice, then he’s cumming again.

there was no stroking, just your hand on him, the toy in him, and the relentless pressure pressing right where he can’t resist it anymore.

you held him through it when he broke, writhing under you, nails raking down your back as he whimpers.

“no- not again, n-not again-”

the viewers lost their shit, obviously. who wouldn’t?

user35:

‘THREE TIMES. THREEEEE’

user36:

‘HE SAYS HE HATES IT BUT CUMS THREE TIMES. THE FUCK??’

when it finally ends, bucky slumps beneath you, completely boneless. his whole body’s twitching like he had just been exorcised.

you slid your hand up to cup his cheeks.

“does that sound like someone who ‘hates it’ to you?”

bucky groans, and hides his face in your neck. he’s barely conscious anymore, twitching, and slick with sweat beneath you.

“you did so good, so so good.”

his eyes flutter half-open, and the corners of his lips twitch like he’s trying to smile.

“mmh, th-thank you..”

“you okay?”

he nods, weakly.

“want to tell everyone how much you hated it?”

bucky opens his mouth, but all that left it was a broken noise, as the dildo shifts slightly inside him again.

“still want to pretend?”

he’s still whining into your neck.

“please, i can’t- it’s too much.. feels too good, i don’t want it- anymore, i swear i don’t, i can’t take it-”

you smile, because he doesn’t even realise what he had just admitted.

user36:

‘HE JUST CONFESSED’

user37:

‘SCROLLING BACK RN TIME STAMP 2:02:53 I HAVE PROOF.’

you figured it’d be a shame to waste how soft, and pliant bucky was. he’s too dumb to stop you anyway.

“mm, say that again?”

he barely lifts his head, just shudders.

“i can’t.” he spoke, voice cracking halfway through. “it’s too much- i can’t.. breathe. can’t think- just keeps pressing, and- and feels so good..”

user38:

‘he really said it like we wouldn’t notice.’

user39:

‘bro confessed then gaslit himself LMFAO’

you hum again, a little louder this time.

he nods blindly, eyes still squeezed shut.

you nudge your hips just a little, just enough to shift the thick toy inside the both of you, and his entire body locks up.

“aah- f-fuck!”

“still too much? still.. uh, what was it you said? still ‘feels too good?’ is that it?”

bucky tenses, and you could practically feel him sober up.

“what? wait i didn’t mean-” his voice cracks again. “i didn’t mean it like that- i didn’t say that out loud.. did i..?”

you tilt your head, feigning innocence.

“you.. didn’t know?”

“i was- i was saying i hate it!”

“that’s not what it sounded like.”

bucky stares at you, horrified, as your fingers slip lower to his inner thighs. you dragged a finger over the mess and he keens.

“so wet, you’re dripping.”

“i didn’t mean to-”

“to cum three times?”

“i don’t like it, for fuck’s sake.”

you lean in, and sigh.

“you’ve been leaking around this toy for an hour. now you’ve said it felt good. do you want to lie to them again?”

bucky stares, wide-eyed.

“do it, come on. look towards the camera, and tell them this doesn’t feel good.”

the thick silicone slides free from his aching hole with a slick, wet sound.

“such a mess.”

“not fair- you’ve had.. more practice..”

you cup his jaw, and tilt his face up.

“you’re not done yet.”

“w-what?”

“you’re going to use it on me.”

bucky stares at you like you’ve asked him to lift a car.

user40:

‘HOLD ON???’

user41:

‘THE WHIMPER??’

“i can’t- i don’t even know how-”

you sit back, spreading your thighs slowly.

“put it in.”

he shivers, but he listens, he always does.

bucky’s uncoordinated at first, fingers a little shaky as he works the toy against you, but it doesn’t take long for him to get lost in it. he loved watching your breath hitch, watching your hips rock into every thrust he gives you.

user42:

‘this is like handing a caveman fire, and telling him to go nuts.’

user43:

‘why is bro blushing more than the person getting fucked??’

“that’s so hot- no, i’m still mad. could’ve been my cock instead of this stupid toy.” he’s biting his lips, eyes locked on where the dildo was pressing into you.

you grab the back of his hair, and pull his head down until his face was buried into your neck.

“you want to make it up to me? then make me cum. you know how.”

he chokes.

“you’re impossible-”

“get on with it.”

and he does.

bucky pushes the toy in deeper, and starts moving it, trying to find the rhythm, trying to not collapse as you gripped his wrist, and guided him through it.

you’re moaning now, low, and filthy, letting him know how good it felt.

“fuck, you’re so- god, i get why you lasted-”

“faster.” you growl.

he obeys.

user44:

‘he’s fucking WHINING every time you maon.’

user45:

‘if he starts rutting into the bed I SWEAR’

the worst part was that bucky was actually rutting into the sheets without realising. his eyes were locked onto the way the dildo entered you. every sound you made makes him twitch.

your back arches when he pushes the toy in deeper, and you grip his wrist tighter. your hips lift, chasing the motion as he fucks the toy into you harder.

“going to cum?” he whispers, clearly starstruck.

“yes- fuck, keep going.”

he does, silently.

then your whole body arches, and tenses. your cock pulses untouched as you came hard, all over your stomach, loud, and finally satisfied.

and bucky? he just stares.

you grab his jaw, and pull him in for a kiss, your tongue down his throat, and your cum in between your stomachs. when you break the kiss, you glance towards the camera.

“thanks for the toy, we’ll keep it in rotation. maybe.”

click. the stream ended.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x male reader #x male reader #bucky barnes smut #james buchanan barnes #bottom bucky barnes #sub bucky barnes #top male reader #dom male reader #top bucky barnes #dom bucky barnes #bottom male reader #sub male reader #buckfics

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filthyjoelslvr · 2 days ago

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The Other Woman(4)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

Content: jackson!tommy x reader

Synop: You thought Tommy and you would never be able to move on after the betrayal. After the wreckage, you called a relationship. But life with Tommy is something that only comes in dreams. And then suddenly you get everything you could've ever asked for.

Warnings: pinv, oral (male receiving), riding, praise kink?, light pussy slapping, pet names, hair pulling, fingering, just bunch of love and fluff and how your future with tommy turns out.

Word Count: 9k

(dividers by: @cafekitsune)

a/n: this was supposed to be short but like I literally could not stop writing!!! i don't want this series to be over I am so sad. I wish I could just turn this into a whole ass chapter book. anyway, I hope yall enjoy the happy ending you've been begging for!!!!

You blink awake to the soft hush of morning creeping through the curtains — early gray light brushing across the wooden floors, birdsong distant, faintly carried in on a breeze that flutters the edge of the blanket. For one slow, quiet breath, you think you’re alone.

But you feel it.

The steady rise and fall of a chest against your back. The warmth of a hand resting just above your hip. The familiar smell of leather, ash, and pine soap.

And there’s Tommy.

Your throat tightens. Even now, months after the damage was done, it still catches you off guard — that he's here. That you’re here. That after everything you shattered between you, he still chose to come back into the rubble and help you build something new. Even if it’s slow. Even if it's fragile.

You move carefully, not wanting to wake him, but his arm curls tighter around your waist before you can even shift.

“Mornin’,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, lips brushing the nape of your neck. His voice is gravel and honey, so familiar it aches.

You sigh into the space between you. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Didn’t wanna be asleep if you were getting up,” he replies, soft and simple.

It hadn’t always been like this.

At first, there was nothing but space between you. Cold, aching space.

When everything came crashing down — your mistakes, Joel’s betrayal, the broken pieces of the life you all shared — it felt like you’d scorched the earth around you. Tommy didn’t yell. He raged. He looked at you like you’d carved something out of his chest. Like you were still holding it in your hands.

But he didn’t walk away.

Not completely.

Weeks passed before he said anything beyond necessary words. Then one morning, in the calm of the diner, he defended you even if you didn’t deserve it. Lost his temper on some stranger harassing you.

He scared you then — knuckles bruised, blood streaked across his face. But you realized in the end, he was more worried about the way he made you flinch than the way you broke him. You realized that the love you felt for each other couldn’t go ignored.

You both agreed to go slow. Just tea now and then. Shared walks. A kind of truce. You never touched. Never crossed that line.

But that line blurred fast.

It started on the loneliest nights. You’d wander through the half-empty streets of Jackson, your coat pulled tight against the wind, staring up at the stars and thinking: Just one night. Just one visit. Not because you needed comfort. But because you missed him.

Missed the way he looked at you. Missed the way you felt when you were known — truly known — and still wanted.

So you found your way to his porch.

You knocked. You stood there, hands cold, heart thudding against your ribs, waiting to see if he’d open the door.

He always did.

And then one night, he didn’t wait for the knock.

You came around the corner and saw him already sitting there. In an old chair he’d dragged out just for that purpose, cup of tea cradled in his hand, one leg bouncing with quiet anticipation. When he spotted you, his whole face lit up like you’d brought summer with you.

“Evenin’, stranger,” he said, grinning as if he hadn’t been checking the street every ten minutes for the past hour.

You always only meant to stay for a little while. Just a conversation. Just one more moment in the warmth of what used to be. But it never stopped there. It became habit. Ritual. It became yours.

Now, you’re in his bed more often than your own. Your boots live by his door. Your toothbrush waits beside his in a chipped ceramic cup. And still, neither of you says the words.

Not until this morning.

You shift under the covers, rolling onto your back. Tommy stretches beside you, shirtless and golden in the early light, one arm tucked beneath his head.

“You know,” he says, glancing sideways at you with a teasing smile, “we were supposed to be takin’ things slow.”

You let out a breath of a laugh. “Guess I’m not very good at following rules.”

“Oh, I noticed,” he murmurs, and you both laugh — a little bittersweet, a little too real. The memory of what brought you here never quite leaves the room. But it doesn't sit between you anymore. It just… exists. Part of the tapestry now.

“Slow’s just a suggestion anyway,” you say, tilting your head toward him. “We’ve been through hell, Tommy. I think we earned a little bending of the rules.”

His smile softens. “Yeah. Maybe. But I liked the idea of wooing you proper, y’know? Takin’ you on slow walks and awkward first dates. Maybe buildin’ it right this time.”

You reach over and trace a line down his chest, eyes following your finger. “You were always building this right. I’m the one who messed it up the first time.”

He leans in, lips brushing your forehead. “I waited out there for you last night. Sat in that dumb chair like a lovesick idiot for almost two hours.”

You smirk. “Why?”

He shrugs, his voice quieter now. “Because I knew you’d come. And because I wanted to be the first thing you saw. In case you needed a reason to stay.”

That silences you.

You blink, and your throat stings. “Tommy…”

“I know you didn’t mean to hurt me the way you did,” he says. “But you did. And still— I’d rather face every awful day with you than a single good one without you.”

You look at him like he’s unreal. Like you don’t deserve him. But he sees right through it.

“Don’t do that,” he says gently. “We’re movin’ on from the situation. We can’t have it hangin’ over our heads forever.”

You nod, unable to speak. Instead, you pull him close and kiss him — slow, warm, familiar. A kiss full of promises you’ve already started to keep.

The town eventually quieted.

The whispers faded. The rumors died. People went back to their lives, and yours slowly rebuilt itself beneath the radar. The fire burned hot, but it passed. And Jackson had other things to talk about.

Tommy had been made to apologize to that man in the diner — the one who’d said something ugly with too much pride and not enough understanding. And the man had been told, in no uncertain terms, to apologize to you, too.

He did, stiffly, shame flickering behind his eyes.

You didn’t forgive him.

You nodded, lips pressed together, then walked away.

The punishment against Tommy for almost killing that man probably wasn’t harsh enough. Extra patrol shifts. Long, grueling town maintenance hours. Something that said: We don't take sides, but we do protect our own. Tommy said in the real world he would probably be in prison for attempt at murder.

Since then, people had been kind. Warmer. They watched you and Tommy with tentative curiosity at first, then ease. The way his hand always found the small of your back. The way you’d bring him lunch at the wall or stables. The quiet smiles passed between you.

It was no longer scandal. It was just life. A hard-won love, quietly lived.

You didn’t mean to fall in love with Tommy all over again.

Not so soon at least.

You were too cautious, too careful. Too raw from everything that had come before — too aware of how love could twist, how trust could rot beneath the surface of something once beautiful. You thought maybe you’d never be able to love the way you used to.

But it didn’t happen all at once.

It wasn’t some grand epiphany, some explosive, cinematic moment. It happened slowly. Quietly.

It happened in the middle of the night, when you rolled over to find him already watching you with that sleepy half-smile and stubble rough against your skin as he kissed your shoulder.

It happened the first time he reached for your hand in public again — not thinking about it, not bracing for judgment — just doing it, because it felt right.

It happened when he started leaving notes for you on the kitchen counter before patrol. Be safe today, darlin’. Coffee’s still hot. I love you.

This time was different.

This time, you meant it.

You didn’t have to mold yourself into who he wanted. You didn’t have to tiptoe around secrets, or wonder what he didn’t know. You didn’t have to live in the shadow of guilt and shame.

You just got to be with him. And somehow, that was enough.

And maybe it was because you were finally giving each other the truth. All of it. Even the ugly, heavy parts. Maybe that’s why it felt like he was falling for you all over again, too — harder than before.

You could see it in the way he touched you now. How slow and careful his hands were. Not hesitant, but worshipful. Like he’d spent too many nights convincing himself he’d never have this again. Like every kiss was a prayer, every glance a promise he hadn’t yet put into words.

But it didn’t come easy, the part where Tommy had to leave you behind.

At first, even the thought of a supply run had him on edge. He didn’t say it out loud — not in the beginning — but you saw it in the way he lingered by the front door too long, how he’d double-check his gear three, four times. The way his eyes scanned your face like he was memorizing it before he left, just in case you weren’t there when he came back.

Because last time he left…

Last time, you hadn’t waited. Last time, he came home to learn you were wrapped in someone else’s arms — his own brother’s. And even though it shattered both of you, even though you’d spent every day since then rebuilding from the wreckage, that memory still lived in his bones.

It crawled up the back of his neck every time he saddled a horse. It whispered in his ear the second Jackson’s gates closed behind him. What if she does it again? What if you come home and she’s gone?

He never said those words aloud. But you knew. You felt it in his tension. In his silence. In the way he kissed you too hard before leaving and never quite exhaled until he saw you again.

And still, you always waited.

Every time.

Sometimes on the porch with a blanket around your shoulders. Sometimes in the front room, reading a book you could barely focus on. Once, in the cold, leaning against the wooden post of the barn in the middle of the night, a lantern beside you just so he’d see you the moment he and his men road their horses through the gates.

The first time he returned from a run and found you already home, arms wide open and smile soft with welcome, you saw it: the relief. The quiet breaking of some invisible thread of fear pulled too tight for too long.

“I missed you,” you whispered into his shoulder.

He held you so tightly you could barely breathe. “Thought ‘bout you the whole damn time.”

You didn’t push him. Never rushed his healing. Just made sure that every time he left, he had a piece of you to carry with him. A necklace tucked into his pack. A note slipped into his jacket pocket. One time, you kissed the inside of his wrist and told him, “If you get scared, just remember I’m still home waiting for you.”

And slowly — slowly — the panic started to fade.

He still got quiet before leaving. Still checked the windows, the doors, made sure everything in the house was right. But it wasn’t about control anymore. It wasn’t fear rooted in betrayal. It was love, plain and simple.

And when he came home, he started bringing you things.

A bar of soap from a trading post outside the city — rich and floral, smelling like lavender and amber. “Thought it’d smell good on your skin,” he said, holding it out almost shyly. “Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you.”

Next time, it was lip gloss. A deep wine red, dusty but still sealed, tucked in the bottom of a half-destroyed makeup kit he found in an abandoned pharmacy.

“Saw the color and thought of you,” he said with a crooked smile, cheeks pink as hell. “Could picture you wearin’ it.”

You had smiled, slow and real. “Put it on for me, then?” And when he applied the gloss to your lips with gentle strokes, his whole face went soft with awe.

Another time, he brought back a little glass bottle. The label had faded, but he told you the name anyway.

“Chanel No. 5,” he said, setting it carefully on the nightstand like it was priceless. “Used to be real fancy stuff. Like… expensive-expensive.”

You raised a brow. “How expensive?”

He laughed, scratching the back of his neck. “Let’s just say if I gave this to you before the outbreak, you’d probably be proposin' to me.”

You sprayed a little onto your wrist, then touched it behind his ears just to make him blush.

These gifts weren’t just gifts. They were symbols. Little pieces of a man who was starting to trust again. Starting to believe again — that you were really his. That this was real. That the next time he came home, you’d still be here.

And you always were.

Then one night, he had just spent the past hour worshiping you in bed, you felt a shift in the air.

It was late. The candle had burned down to its last bit of wax, and the house was quiet, save for the creak of old wood settling in the cold. Tommy lay beside you, but he hadn’t touched you in a while — not since you'd both thrown your clothes back on. He just stared at the ceiling like it had something to say that he couldn’t.

You rolled toward him. “Tommy?”

His jaw tensed, and for a second you thought he might deflect. Change the subject. But then he sighed, deep and heavy, and finally looked at you.

“There’s somethin’ I need to tell you,” he said. His voice wasn’t shaking, but it was low and worn, like it had been used too much over the years without rest.

You didn’t speak. You just waited.

“I know we’ve been honest,” he said. “More than we ever were before. And I meant it when I said I didn’t want this— us— built on secrets.”

“I know. I told you everything—”

“I know you did,” he cut in, gently. “I believe you. I do.”

He sat up, rubbed a hand over his face like the weight of what he was about to say had sat there for too long.

“I never told anyone this. Not even Joel. Just buried it so deep I could pretend it wasn’t there.” He paused. “But it is. And it always has been.”

You sat up with him, blanket pooling around your waist. He stared at the dying candle like it could somehow forgive him.

“That night… the night the outbreak started,” he said. “Joel, his daughter, and I— we were tryin’ to get out of Austin. Things were goin’ to hell real fast. Infected everywhere. People panickin’. We were in Joel’s truck, just tryin’ to find a way out.”

You nodded. You knew the bones of this story. But not his point of view. Just Joel's.

“We got caught in the city. A car came outta nowhere and hit us. Flipped the truck. I got separated. Joel was carryin’ Sarah— her ankle was busted— and I told him to meet me by the river. Said I’d find another way around.”

He stared down at his hands like they weren’t his anymore.

“I took the alley. Tried to cut across to meet ‘em, like we said. And on the way, I heard screamin’. A woman— trapped in a storefront. Glass had shattered. She was tryin’ to fight off two infected with nothin’ but a piece of broken glass.”

“I couldn’t just leave her. She was beggin’ me. I shot the infected. Took ‘em down, cleared the way. She was cryin’, thankin’ me like I’d just saved her life.” He paused. “But then she rolled up her sleeve.”

A shaky breath escaped his lips.

“There was a bite. Right on her forearm. Deep.” His voice broke slightly. “I didn’t know what it meant, not then. None of us did. But later, when we learned how it spread— when I realized she was already dead even while she was thankin’ me—”

He went quiet for a beat, and when he spoke again, his voice was flat with shame.

“I wasted time. Time I didn’t have. And by the time I got to the river— by the time I heard the shot—”

You didn’t say anything. You just reached for his hand, held it steady.

“I saw Joel kneelin’ in the dirt, holdin’ her. Sarah was dying” His voice cracked now, raw at the edges. “I wasn’t there when she needed me most. And I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

He looked at you, and his eyes were filled with a kind of grief you hadn’t seen in him before — not like this.

“She was just a kid. My niece. She looked up to me. And Joel... Joel lost everythin’ that night.”

You tightened your grip on his hand.

“I watched my brother fall apart after that. He changed. Turned cold. Violent. He stopped feelin’. And people always said it was the world that did that to him, but I know better.” He looked back at the fire. “It was that night. It was losin’ her. And part of me knows — no matter how many times he tells me it ain’t true — that Joel blames me.”

Your heart broke at the sound of that truth falling out of him.

“If I’d just kept goin’. If I hadn’t stopped to help that woman. I could’ve shot that soldier before he fired. I could’ve saved Sarah. I could’ve saved Joel.”

He turned to you then, and something in his expression shattered.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever stop carryin’ that.”

You cupped the side of his face, your thumb brushing along the rough line of his jaw.

“You can’t go back,” you said quietly.

His throat worked around the lump in it, but he nodded, just barely.

You leaned your forehead against his, breathing with him. “I’m tellin’ you this because you know the feelin’. Of blamin’ yourself for someone’s death.”

“I love you, Tommy,” you whispered. “And I’m here for you. Whenever it’s hard. You don’t have to act so strong all the time.”

He didn’t say anything. He just held onto you like it was the only thing keeping him from drowning.

And for once, he let himself grieve. Really grieve. Not just for Sarah, but for all the years he’d spent punishing himself for something he couldn’t undo.

You didn’t try to make him feel better. You just stayed, right there in the quiet, until the weight of it finally started to lift — just enough to let the healing begin.

You had been so consumed in Tommy’s life now. You noticed things.

Little things. His boots by the door next to yours. Your jacket always slung over his dining chair. You started brushing your teeth there more nights than not, and eventually your toothbrush just stayed. When he made dinner, he made enough for two without thinking. When you fell asleep on the couch, you’d wake up with a blanket pulled over you and him sitting beside you, dozing with one hand resting against his cheek — holding his head up.

One morning, over burnt eggs and half-sweet coffee, he said it.

“You should just move in.”

You blinked. “What?”

He looked at you like it was obvious. “You’re already here all the time. And your place is just sittin’ there, cold and empty.”

You stared at him, half a piece of toast in your hand. “Are you asking or telling me?”

A lopsided grin tugged at his mouth. “I’m askin’. Kinda hopin’ you’ll say yes, though.”

You didn’t even need to think about it. “Yeah. Alright.”

The next day, he came with you to pack up your things.

It was strange stepping back inside that house — it felt like a version of you that didn’t quite exist anymore still lived there. Dust had gathered along the windowsills, and there were dishes in the sink from weeks ago. Tommy walked the place like it made him uncomfortable. Like he didn’t like remembering the version of you that used to sit alone in this house, waiting.

You were in the bedroom folding clothes when you heard him call out from the other room.

“Hey, uh… what’s all this?”

You walked in and froze.

He was holding a small, beat-up box. Inside were folded scraps of paper, napkins, notebook pages torn out at odd angles. You had nearly forgotten about them.

Or maybe you’d tried to.

He picked one up and read aloud, “‘I saw your patrol pass by this morning. You didn’t look at me. I deserved that. But God, I miss your stupid smile.’”

Your stomach dropped. “Tommy—”

“There’s like twenty of these,” he said, thumbing through them. “Some of ’em are dated. Jesus. You wrote one almost every day.”

Your entire body froze. “Tommy,” you warned, voice already pitching into panic, “put those down.”

But he didn’t. His eyebrows raised as he plucked another from the stack with curious fingers, lips already curling into a grin.

“I made your favorite soup tonight. You didn’t come by, obviously. I left the porch light on for too long and fell asleep in the chair. I dreamed you came home and kissed me like nothin’ ever happened. When I woke up, the bowl was cold.’” He glanced up at you. “Shit. That one hurt.”

You made a strangled noise and lunged for the box. “Give me those. I’m serious!”

He stepped back, holding the bundle out of reach with one hand like a damn big brother at recess. “Wait— wait, hold on, this one’s short. Just says, ‘Still love you. That hasn’t changed.’”

You groaned and tried jumping for it this time. “Tommy, I’m gonna kill you.”

Laughing, he spun away, flipping through more. “Oh, this one’s written on the back of a grocery list. That’s romantic.” He cleared his throat dramatically. “‘You’d hate how I’ve been sleeping lately. Lights on, curtains closed. You used to say I looked haunted when I did that. Maybe I am.’”

You paused mid-lunge, breath catching in your throat.

His face softened instantly. “Hey— sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s fine,” you said quickly, backing away now. “I just— I didn’t mean for you to ever read those. I wrote them when you weren’t talking to me. Just… a way to talk to you without pushing.”

He looked down at the box again. “You wrote a lot.”

You crossed your arms, face burning. “Yeah, well. I had a lot to say.”

He smiled to himself and pulled another letter, this one scribbled on what used to be a page from a first aid manual. “‘Saw a man laugh today the way you used to. It knocked the air outta me. I think it’s because I haven’t heard you laugh in so long, I forgot what it sounded like.’”

You swiped at him again. “Tommy, please.”

He caught your wrists and spun you around, holding you gently from behind as he laughed. “Why’re you so embarrassed? These are sweet. Hell, they’re beautiful.”

“They’re desperate,” you muttered.

“They’re honest.” He turned you to face him. “They’re you.”

You looked up at him reluctantly, still flushed. “You done?”

“Nope.” He leaned in, brushing his nose along your jaw. “But I can stop if you kiss me.”

You shoved him lightly in the chest, but he caught your hands and held them there, pressing them over his heart.

“I’m serious,” he said, voice lower now. “I didn’t know you wrote any of this. I didn’t know how bad you missed me.”

“You were trying to heal. I didn’t wanna get in the way.”

“I wish you had,” he murmured. “You’d given me just one of those? I would’ve come crawlin’ back to you.”

He reached back into the box, pulling out a crumbled piece of notebook paper.

“This one’s a whole damn letter about my hands? You wrote an essay about my hands?”

You finally gave up, falling back onto the bed in a mortified heap. “I’m leaving the room. I can’t watch this.”

“You sure?” he called after you as you disappeared into the closet to pack clothes. “This is great stuff. Real emotional.”

“I hate you,” you called back, face hot with embarrassment.

A few minutes later, you heard him come in, but you didn’t turn around. You were still hiding your face behind the closet door.

Then you felt his arms wrap around your waist from behind.

“I loved those letters,” he said into the side of your neck. “Every single one.”

You groaned. “Please don’t talk about it.”

He laughed quietly and turned you to face him.

“I mean it,” he said, brushing a piece of hair from your cheek. “You pour your whole heart into everything you do, even when you think no one’s watchin’. That’s rare.”

It was late when you finished unpacking the last box in Tommy's room — your room.

Most of your things were already folded into his life: your books beside his on the shelves, your coat hanging next to his in the front hall, your coffee mug already sitting next to Tommy’s like it belonged there.

You stood in the bedroom, barefoot and tired, folding the last of your sweaters into the drawer that used to be empty. Tommy was beside you, arms crossed, leaning on the doorframe and watching like he couldn’t believe it was real.

“You know,” he said, a little crooked smile forming on his lips, “this dresser used to look like a damn ghost town. Now it smells like lavender and... whatever that weird lotion is you use.”

You glanced up at him. “Coconut and cedarwood.”

He laughed, soft and warm. “S’what I said.”

You finished folding the sweater and closed the drawer gently, like it deserved peace. Then you sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing your hands over your face with a slow sigh.

Tommy walked in and sat beside you, bumping your shoulder with his.

“Feels good,” he said quietly. “Havin’ you here. Like it’s real now. Like I can breathe.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

There was a long pause, filled only by the hum of the night.

Then, casually — too casually — Tommy said, “Y’know, if we keep goin’ like this... We’re gonna wake up one day and realize we did the whole marriage thing without ever signin’ a paper.”

You stilled.

It wasn’t an outright proposal. It wasn’t even a suggestion. But it was a door cracking open — just enough to let something heavy drift in.

Your voice was quiet. “Yeah. Maybe.”

He turned toward you a little. “I mean, we’re practically there. You live here. We sleep in the same bed. I cook, you pretend you like it. We bicker over what music plays on the radio.”

You gave a little laugh. “I don’t pretend, I just don’t think Johnny Cash should be played every time we cook eggs.”

“Well, the eggs like it,” he said with mock seriousness, and you both laughed, tension breaking for just a second.

But then your smile faded. You looked down at your hands, fingers worrying the seam of your jeans.

“I don’t think I ever wanna get married,” you said softly.

Tommy didn’t answer right away.

You went on, quieter, slower. “Joel ruined that for me. I thought marriage meant safety. Permanence. And he made a fool out of it. Out of me. And after everything I did...” You swallowed hard. “I probably ruined it for you, too.”

He looked at you for a long time, something unreadable in his eyes.

Then he nodded — once, small. “Yeah. I get it.”

His voice didn’t hold judgment. It was gentle. But the way his shoulders dropped, the flicker behind his eyes — you could tell it landed heavy.

“I’m sorry,” you added, almost a whisper.

He gave you a little smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You don’t have to be sorry for bein’ honest.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder. He rested his hand on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth in slow, steady motions. He didn't pull away, didn’t try to convince you otherwise.

That was the difference now. He didn’t push. He just stayed.

“I don’t need the papers,” he said eventually. “Don’t need a ceremony or a ring or a preacher tellin’ me what I already know.”

“What’s that?”

“That you’re it for me,” he said simply. “Have been. Always were.”

You closed your eyes, breathing him in.

And in that silence, you wondered — maybe marriage wasn’t something you needed. But maybe... someday, wanting it again wouldn’t feel so impossible.

It crept in slowly, like everything good in your life did now.

One morning, you woke to the faint clatter of pans in the kitchen, the smell of strong coffee and fried eggs drifting into the bedroom. Tommy was humming — some off-key country tune he’d picked up from the radio station — and for a second, everything felt normal. Warm. Safe.

Then the nausea twisted in your stomach again, sharp and cruel.

You’d spent days brushing it off — just bad meat, a stomach bug, nerves. But it wasn’t going away. You’d started waking up queasy, meals turned sour in your mouth, and your body felt foreign. Slower. Heavier. The final nudge came in the form of absence: your period never came.

You’d both tried to laugh it off at first.

“Maybe it’s just stress,” you offered, your voice thin.

Tommy scratched your back and gave you that crooked, uncertain smile. “Probably just off this month, right?”

But something about the silence between you afterward told the truth neither of you said aloud. You were scared.

When the town doctor confirmed it — smiling too softly, the word congratulations landing like a shockwave — you sat there blinking like the world had gone quiet.

“Pregnant,” you whispered, testing it on your tongue like it didn’t belong to you.

Tommy didn’t say anything right away. He just stared at you, his hand frozen mid-reach on your knee. His jaw tightened.

Later, you sat on the porch in the fading light, shoulders touching, the trees outside Jackson’s walls swaying gently like nothing had changed. But everything had.

Your hands trembled in your lap. “I don’t know if I can do this,” you whispered.

Tommy’s hand slid over yours, warm and steady. “I know it’s scary,” he said softly. “Hell, I’m scared too.”

You turned to look at him, afraid of what you’d see in his eyes. “What if we can’t keep a baby safe in this world?” Your voice cracked. “What if— what if the infected breach the wall? What if one of us has to go out and doesn’t come back?”

He looked at you then, all gravity and quiet fire. “Then we fight like hell. Just like we always have.”

“But it’s not just us anymore,” you said, voice breaking. “It’s a child. A baby. I don’t want them to grow up in a world like this.”

Tommy reached up, brushing a thumb gently beneath your eye, catching a tear before it could fall. “I will always keep you safe, sweetheart,” he said, firm and fierce. “And our baby. I want this.”

And in that moment — his calloused hand holding yours, his voice so sure — you believed him.

Now, months later, you were nearly full-term.

Your belly curved outward beneath borrowed flannel shirts, the stretch of skin smooth and warm, pulsing with quiet life. Tommy treated you like glass.

“You sit,” he’d grumble every time you so much as reached for a broom. “I got it. That’s an order.”

Some mornings, he barely let you out of bed. He’d bring you tea with honey, adjust every pillow, swaddle you in soft blankets while you rolled your eyes and protested. It didn’t matter — you weren’t going anywhere. He cleaned the house top to bottom like a man possessed, humming under his breath, shoulders tense until he saw you smiling.

He catered to every craving with an unshakable sense of duty. Once, you mentioned you missed cinnamon rolls, and by the next evening, he had bartered for a dusty tin of cinnamon and talked someone into teaching him how to make the dough.

“You’d think I was royalty,” you teased as he served you breakfast shaped like stars and hearts.

“I don’t see no crown,” he smirked, “but you’re the queen of this house.”

He transformed the spare room into a nursery. The walls were painted a soft, dusty blue. He built a rocking chair from scrap wood, reupholstered a dresser with fabric he found at an abandoned school, and with Joel’s help, built a crib — sanding every inch until it was smooth enough for newborn skin. Tiny bears were carved into the legs, Tommy’s own handiwork.

Tommy took every patrol he could, not to get away, but because he never returned empty-handed: a teddy bear with one button eye, old lullaby books, tiny socks, a rattle. He once fixed a neighbor’s roof in exchange for a hand-knitted baby blanket.

That night, when he came home, soaked from rain and tracking mud on the floor, he held the lamb-patterned blanket in both hands like it was something sacred.

“Look what I got for ‘em,” he whispered, eyes gleaming.

You could see it in his face. He already loved this baby with his whole damn heart.

Every morning, before he left for patrol, he kissed you soft on the mouth. Then he’d lower himself gently, whisper something against your belly, and press a kiss there, too.

“You keep mommy safe for me,” he’d murmur, lips against the curve of your skin. “I’ll be back before sunset.”

And every time, your heart would ache a little watching him go.

And on one quiet night, the house was calm, the fire low, the walls humming with soft silence. You were stretched out on the couch, legs propped up, belly bare with an old t-shirt of Tommy’s pushed up just below your ribs. Tommy lay with his head resting against your stomach, hand splayed protectively across your skin.

“You know your mom’s a pain in the ass,” he said in a low, amused voice, speaking to your belly.

You laughed. “Tommy.”

He ignored you. “Always tellin’ me to put my socks away, complainin’ when I make her tea too hot. You better be careful.” Then he looked up at you. “Real tough crowd in there.”

“Stop,” you giggled, carding your fingers through his hair.

“But it’s alright,” he continued, grinning. “’Cause babies can hear if you talk to ‘em, y’know. Science. Read it somewhere once.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re so stupid.”

He turned his head slightly and grinned up at you. “Hey now.” He turned back to your belly, dramatically conspiratorial. “Mommy’s mean to me, ain’t she?”

And suddenly… the word stopped you. Mommy.

It hit like a wave. You blinked at the ceiling, throat tightening. This moment — this feeling.

He looked up, softened immediately when he saw your expression. “Hey,” he said gently. “You okay?”

You nodded, eyes glassy. “It's just… I can’t believe I’m actually going to be a mom.”

Tommy sat up slowly, cupping your face in his hands, kissing your forehead first, then your nose, then your lips.

“Yeah,” he whispered against your mouth. “And you’re gonna be so damn good at it.”

He kissed your belly again, slow and reverent. “Don’t worry about her though. Daddy’s nice. He’ll protect you.”

And there it was again.

Daddy.

Mommy.

You laughed softly through your tears, and he smiled like the whole world was right there in your living room, pressed between your palms.

This was your family. Small, messy, brave.

And it was more than you ever thought you'd get.

Then it began with her first cry — tiny, fierce, undeniable. Amid the chaos of town nurses and exhaustion, Tommy’s tears fell quietly as he looked down at her. “A girl,” he whispered, voice shaking. “We got a little girl.”

At home, those early days were slow-motion miracles. There were midnight feeds by lamplight when neither of you knew what you were doing, fumbling blankets and heating bottles, hearts pounding. But instinct stepped in. You learned each other’s rhythms: her calm cradle scream, his whispered lullabies. He’d hold her, rocking softly, hands careful and amused, singing songs he’d made up on the spot. You’d watch from the bedroom door, breath caught by how gentle he was.

Months later, she crawled — tiny but determined — straight into Tommy’s arms. He laughed until he shook and squeezed her tight. At eleven months, he bribed her with a piece of chocolate — “milestone fuel,” he called it — and when she took her first shaky steps toward him, he nearly fell over with joy. “That’s my girl!” he cheered, lifting her high, kisses raining on her cheeks while her contagious giggle’s filled the air.

Then came her first word: “Dada.” Tommy froze, grin wide as dawn. “She said my name,” he’d boast, chest puffed. “You hear that? I’m her first word.”

He never let it go. Every day she walked in, “Dada!” would greet him, and he answered with picking her up and twirling her around, while you teased that you only carried her for nine long months, but he was still her favorite.

Now, at two, she's all mischief in curls and scraped knees. She shadows him from room to room — “Daddy, where you go?” she asks when he leaves. And yes, he’ll tease you as she flutters up to him on the porch, “I’m the favorite.” You mock-roll your eyes, hands on hips, but you melt when she stumbles over, “Daddy come home.”

Through it all, your bond with Tommy only deepened. You still snuck away for quiet moments — entwined on the porch swing at sunset, laughter drifting in the air, soft kisses stolen in the kitchen, hands finding each other even when the house is crowded with toys and clutter.

Nights when she wakes, crawling into your bed from a nightmare — straight into Tommy’s arms, he whispers, “Daddy’s got you,” and cradles her close to his chest. Still reaching for your hand in the dim room, your breath echoing hers.

Then the test: pregnant again when your daughter is almost three. No nausea this time, just a tremble, a hush, and then that same mouth falling open across the kitchen table. His hand on your belly, eyes wide as the sunrise. “We’re doin’ this again?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

His face glowed. “I’m so happy.” He kissed you — slow, deliberate — and whispered to your belly, “You have the best family.”

Later, walking your daughter through the old orchard, he said it soft, as if dreaming aloud: “We should move. Bigger place outside the walls. A farmhouse. Space for these two…”

You nodded, your heart thudding. “Yeah.”

That evening, he read bedtime stories to your daughter by the fire — her leaning into him, eyes heavy — while you nestled close on the couch. Your head on his shoulder, your hand resting on the swell of your new life. When the fire dimmed and he slipped an arm around you both, you realized: yes, the world was dangerous. But here, with him, your heart knew something sacred, something safe.

In that quiet, growing family moment — father, mother, daughter, and another miracle on the way — you felt it settle between your bones: this was home.

The farmhouse sat just on the edge of Jackson, tucked into a patch of rolling green that always smelled like soil and sunlight after the rain. It wasn’t grand, but it was home. A little too big for some, maybe, with creaking floorboards and windows that rattled when the wind blew strong. But to you and Tommy, it was everything. It held the sound of laughter bouncing down the hallways. It held a pair of muddy boots too small to be his, a blanket always left on the couch, little hair ties and forgotten toy horses strewn across the floors like breadcrumbs back to the heart of your home.

When your second daughter was born, the farmhouse filled with a new kind of softness. Another girl — dark curls, round cheeks, and lungs that let the world know she’d arrived.

Tommy had cried, of course. Not the quiet kind, either. He’d held her against his chest and whispered, “My girls. All my girls.” His voice shook, and you watched the way he looked between your eyes and hers — like he was caught somewhere between disbelief and reverence.

Your eldest, just three and a half then, peeked over the edge of the bed, her hands clasped around a stuffed lamb like it was her security pass into this new world. “That’s her?” she asked, brow furrowed. “That’s the baby?”

“She’s here,” you whispered, and Tommy helped lift her gently onto the bed beside you. She leaned close, eyes wide and glowing with curiosity.

“She’s so tiny.”

“You were tiny like that once too,” Tommy said, ruffling her curls.

Your daughter blinked. “I don’t remember.”

He laughed and left a soft kiss on her temple.

That was the beginning of the four of you — the little unit you didn’t know you’d been building all this time.

Now the girls are five and two, and your days start with the patter of feet and the slam of a screen door you’ve asked Tommy to fix a dozen times. The yard is filled with handmade jungle gym equipment — thick beams carved and sanded by Joel himself. He called it a “retirement project,” but really, it was a labor of love. Towers with rope ladders, a tire swing, a wooden balance beam painted with stars. Gifts for the girls who melted something hard and long-frozen inside him.

Joel comes by nearly every day now, coffee in one hand, a bundle of tools or stories in the other. Grumpy as ever, but soft in the eyes when one of the girls runs out to greet him, arms flung wide. They call him Uncle Joel, and when he’s around, the world just feels steadier.

Tommy and Joel had mended that rift long ago — the one that cracked wide open during the years of anger and blame and guilt. Tommy once told you, late one night as you rocked your oldest daughter in the nursery, that he couldn’t live without his brother. That he’d nearly tried, once. “It was like missing a part of myself,” he confessed. “I needed him back. And I want my daughter to have him too. Hell, Joel’s the only one who can build a swing set that don’t fall apart in a week.”

But behind the laughter and teasing, there’s still a scar that aches when pressed. Some nights, after the house quiets down and the girls are asleep in their beds, Tommy wraps his arms around you a little tighter and breathes out words like confessions.

“I feel guilty sometimes,” he murmurs into your shoulder. “Havin’ all this. These girls… when Joel lost Sarah.”

You turn in his arms, palms to his cheeks. “Tommy—”

“I know. I know he don’t think of it like that. He loves them like they’re his own. But sometimes I see him look at them, and I wonder if it hurts. Just a little.”

You kiss his forehead and hold him until his thoughts soften into sleep.

But Joel never shows it. If he’s hurting, he hides it under the joy he gives to your daughters — fixing their broken toys, telling them bedtime stories from a past life, teaching them how to whistle through their fingers. He never married again, never had more kids. But when he’s with your daughters, he is full — they are his world. And you see it in the way he watches Tommy be a father.

Tommy… God, Tommy.

He was made for this life, even if he never believed it.

You watch him now — on the floor with your youngest, pretending to be her noble steed as she rides his back, squealing with laughter. Or out in the garden with your oldest, helping her plant wildflowers in uneven rows. His hands are always busy — braiding hair with clumsy fingers, patching up scraped knees, lifting them into the sky like they’re made of clouds.

They call him Daddy, and the word rings in your ears like a hymn. Over and over again. “Daddy, look.” “Daddy, help.” “Daddy, where’s my bear?”

You pretend to be annoyed when he smirks and says, “Favorite’s back in the room,” whenever they come running to him first. But deep down, you’re grateful it’s him. Grateful they get to grow up knowing love like this — steady, strong, unconditional.

At night, your five-year-old refuses to sleep unless she gets two kisses — one from you and one from him. She crawls into your bed when thunder shakes the windows, always clinging to Tommy’s arm like he’s her shield. The two-year-old tries to mimic her every move. She calls out “Daddyyy!” when he’s out on patrol and presses her face to the window until he returns.

Sometimes, when you’re tucked under quilts, the girls fast asleep down the hall, Tommy will roll over and whisper, “Can you believe this? This life? Us?”

You turn to him, curl into the crook of his arm. “I believe it.”

Because somehow, in a world built on ruins, you found something unbreakable. You found a man who became a father with his whole soul. You found two girls who filled every silence in your heart. You found peace in a place you never thought you’d see again.

And here, in this little farmhouse where the floors creak and the windows rattle and the porch light always stays on — you’ve built a home. A real one.

All four of you. Whole. Together.

Always.

You knew something was up the second Tommy woke you before the sun had fully risen, nudging you gently with that boyish grin tugging at his mouth. “C’mon,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to your temple. “Got a surprise for you.”

You blinked sleepily, still wrapped in warm quilts and the faint scent of your daughters’ shampoo clinging to your skin. “Tommy, what kind of surprise needs to happen at dawn?” you grumbled.

He only kissed your cheek again and said, “You’ll see.”

That’s when you heard the giggling in the kitchen. The girls were already up — giddy, excited, dressed in clothes Tommy definitely hadn’t picked out himself. Your oldest beamed as she held a stuffed bear under one arm and a slice of toast in the other. The little one was babbling nonsense to Joel, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else but was managing a soft smile nonetheless.

You narrowed your eyes. “Tommy…”

“They’re gonna stay with Joel today,” he said casually, helping you into your jacket. “Just for a little while. Few hours.”

That made your whole body tense. “Tommy. I don’t know—”

“I know,” he cut in gently, already anticipating your unease. “I know, sweetheart. Believe me, I wouldn’t even think of leavin’ them with anyone else. But they’re safe. And Joel… he’s good. He loves those girls more than he’ll ever admit. You know that.”

You looked back at the kitchen, watching your oldest tug at Joel’s sleeve, demanding he pour more juice. He rolled his eyes but did it anyway, muttering something about sugar gremlins. Your heart twisted.

“I just… what if they need me?”

Tommy reached for your hands and pressed them between his palms. “They’ll be okay for a few hours. You deserve this. Just me and you. Like it used to be.” He smiled, but there was a quiet plea in his eyes. “Let’s have some time alone. Please.”

You hesitated for another moment — but then you nodded, only slightly.

“Okay,” you whispered.

He grinned. “Trust me?”

You huffed a small laugh. “Always.”

You walked for what felt like miles through the woods behind the farmhouse, the air thick with green and birdsong, until you broke into a clearing you hadn’t even known was there. And then you saw it.

A wide, sun-dappled meadow, hidden beneath a canopy of swaying trees, every inch of the ground alive with wildflowers — goldenrod and bluebells, swirls of lilac and poppies. Tommy had laid out your favorite quilt beneath the oldest tree. And on top: a picnic spread that smelled like fresh bread and summer air.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

“Tommy,” you breathed.

He just grinned and gestured like a showman. “Your table, my lady.”

You spent the afternoon wrapped in warmth and quiet, sharing crusty bread and soft cheese, swapping bites of fruit and feeding each other with your fingers like teenagers. You laughed more than you had in weeks — full-bodied, breathless laughter. He made jokes about your snorting when you giggled, and you teased him about the way he always over-packed for picnics. The sun filtered through the trees like honey, and for a few hours, it felt like there was no danger outside Jackson’s walls. No infected. No old ghosts. Just this.

When the food was mostly gone and your limbs were stretched out across the quilt, your head in Tommy’s lap, he reached into the grass and plucked a small pink wildflower.

With careful fingers, he folded and twisted it — slow, patient, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth in focus — until the stem formed a loop and the petals sat like a tiny crown. You watched, smiling.

“Is that… a ring?” you asked, amused.

He nodded proudly and slid it onto your ring finger. “Damn right it is.”

You laughed, lifting your hand to admire the delicate thing. “It’s gonna wilt in an hour.”

He shrugged. “Still pretty.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, leaning in to kiss him softly.

But when you pulled back, something in his expression shifted. His eyes weren’t playful anymore — they were warm, steady, serious.

“I mean it,” he said.

Your brows drew together, confused. “You… mean what?”

“The ring,” he said, nodding to your hand. “I know you said marriage wasn’t for you. And I get it. We’ve been through hell. You don’t need a ceremony to prove what we have. We already built a life, raised our girls, made a home. I know that.”

You watched him, heart stuttering.

“But I want you to know,” he went on, voice thick now, “that I still wanna marry you. I do. Not because I need some label. But because I wanna give you everythin’. Every part of me. You’ve had my heart since the first time I met you pickin’ up those crates and attackin’ me with that smart mouth and broken heart. And now? You’ve given me more than I ever thought I deserved. Two beautiful girls. A life I never imagined havin’. A love that brought me back to myself.”

You swallowed, tears already burning your eyes.

He cupped your cheek, rough thumb brushing under your eye. “We’re already a family. But I want the whole thing. I want to say vows to you, even if it’s just us and the girls and Joel standing there with a bouquet he stole from someone’s porch.”

You laughed through a watery breath.

“I want to wake up every day knowin’ you chose me. That I get to choose you back. I want to call you my wife. Not because it changes what we have— but because it honors it.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe past the weight of it. The love of it.

So you nodded, fiercely, a whispered “Yes” tumbling out like a prayer.

He kissed you like he was memorizing the shape of your soul, hands cradling your face like you were something holy. And for the first time in your life, the idea of marriage didn’t scare you. It felt like coming home.

The ceremony was small, held beneath the same willow tree that shaded your picnic — the one where Tommy had folded the flower ring months ago. Wildflowers framed the aisle, and the girls wore blossoms pinned into their hair, petals soft against their curls. Joel stood by Tommy’s side, wearing his best jacket and a proud smile that cracked his gruff exterior. A couple of Tommy’s patrol friends watched from the edge, quiet witnesses to this love he’d built from broken pieces.

Tommy stared at you as you walked up the makeshift aisle — your dress simple, your eyes full of everything that brought you to this moment. He swallowed hard, voice catching when he finally whispered, “I do.” And you knew in that instant that it wasn’t ceremony he wanted, but this promise — to be your husband, to share every dawn and dusk and messy day and quiet night.

Afterward, they all gathered in the yard. The girls danced around in twirling circles, giggling as petals fell like confetti. Joel offered tiny pats on Tommy’s back, his eyes glistening. You laughed with your husband, feeling like the center of a world filled with everything you’d ever needed.

And then a month later he came through the door one afternoon, boots dusty and jacket slung over his arm, with a slow smile that made your heart leap.

“What is it?” you asked, catching the gleam in his eyes.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a small wooden box — weathered, with carved edges that looked handwhittled.

“Open it,” he said softly.

Your fingers trembled as you opened the lid. Inside lay a ring: a single diamond set in a rustic, weathered gold band, tinged with rust in all the right places. It was nothing fancy — but everything.

He watched you, hopeful and proud.

“I found it,” he said. “On a patrol. In an abandoned backpack. Thought it belonged with us.”

You gasped, tears pooling in your eyes. You slid the ring onto your finger. It fit so perfectly, as though it were made for you.

Tommy closed the box and gently lifted your hand. “Years ago, I thought I’d never get a chance for something like this. But here we are.”

He took a steady breath, eyes shining with mischief and dreams.

“Now…” he began, dropping his voice to a goofy, hopeful pitch, “how about a son to torment my two little angels?”

The weight of that question, the hope and love behind it — your heart soared.

You laughed, loud and joyful, brushing a kiss across his cheek. “Absolutely not.”

He feigned shock, placing a hand over his chest. “For real?”

“Absolutely not,” you repeated, wiping tears of laughter from your cheeks. “I’m good with my girls.”

He laughed with you, pulling you close until the ring caught the sunlight and your family felt impossibly, gloriously perfect.

In that moment — with the diamond glinting, the girls safe and hanging out with their uncle Joel for the day — you trusted them to be away now — you felt impossibly happy. Everything impossibly perfect.

He kissed you softly, as if he was remembering every curve, every line. As if he hadn’t done it a million times before. One of his hands reached for the back of your head, fingers curling in the the hairs at the nape of your neck. His other hand wrapped around you waist — pulling you into his lap.

You pulled away, looking down into his hazed over eyes while his hand explored every part of you body. Running his fingers up the slit in your dress and curling around the soft cotton of the underwear hugging your hips.

“Tommy, I am not giving you a son.” You huffed. But your body betrayed you as your hips rolled into his. Your panties already starting to soak through as his thumb rubbed the outside of the fabric with a delicate touch.

“Oh yeah?” He murmured, leaning into the crook of your neck and leaving a trail of his hot breath. His free hand cupped your breast and grazed across the peak of you nipple that was poking through the soft silk of your sundress.

Your breath hitched, and your hips started chasing his thumb that was still slowly grazing your covered folds. He sucked at the soft skin on your neck, biting slighting, before leaving a soft kiss as if it were an apology.

Tommy pulled your underwear to the side, a groan leaving his mouth when feeling how wet you truly were. His thumb traced harsh circled around you clit causing your breath to stutter — electric shocks shooting down your spine. His pointer finger lightly tapped on the outside of your begging entrance — wet strings of your need coiling tightly around his finger each time he pulled it back.

“Tommy, I— I’m serious.” You huffed as he finally pushed two fingers through your begging walls. Groaning at the way you take them so easily. His pace started achingly slow, curling when he’s burried deep — putting just the right amount of pressure against you clit with his palm — before pulling them out so slow it made your legs tremble.

“Okay, baby.” He mutters, pulling the straps of your dress down and revealing the plump swell of your breasts. His tongue licks a long stripe over the peak of your swollen bud, taking it between his teeth and sucking harshly. A whimper escapes your lips as your hips roll into his fingers, begging for more friction. Tommy gives you exactly what you body is asking for — he always does.

His paces quickens, a wet squelch sound filling the air each time he pushes his fingers through again. Your dress is pooled around your waist, legs still stradeling him. Your fingers are pulling at the curls of his hair, forcing him closer to your chest as his tongue explores every curve of your plump breasts. He shares attention to each, sucking and bitng — a certain heat pools deep in your stomach.

He leans away, pulling from your swollen nipple with a loud pop. Admiring how wet and red they are. How achingly painful they must feel. His palm now covered in your juices, the denim of his jeans damp where your thighs cradle his.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so wet." He groans. "Don’t worry… gonna fuck that pussy nice and good.” The dirty words make you clench around him. “Gonna cum with just my fingers, huh?”

You nod harshly, hands grasping his knees as you lean back — putting all your wight on your arms. You move you legs — knees bend and feet rested at his hips — to open yourself up more. Invite his fingers deeper. Tommy pushes your dress higher to get a better sight — wanting to watch the mess you’re about to make.

His thumb grazes over your clit as his fingers continue the harsh rhythm. Your legs tremble as the heat threatens to spill over like a dam about to break. You look away, flustered and riding a type of high even drugs couldn’t make you feel. Tommy grabs your jaw with his hand, forcing you to look at him.

“Look at me while you cum on my fingers, baby.” You moaned as he dipped a third finger inside of you, curving into the spongy part that sends shockwaves throughout your entire body. Your hips begin to move in rhythm with his thrusts. He’s knuckles deep, massaging the sweet spot that aches for him. You’re so close he can feel it — in the way you squeeze your thighs together. He slowly slides a hand up your thigh and pushes them apart as you writhe underneath his gaze.

You nails claw into his knees and your toes curl painfully tight. “That’s a good girl. Cum for me.” And the heat finally spills over, the dam finally breaking. You scream his name as you cum hard into his palm, his thrusts never slowing. Body convulsing as you throw your head back and make a mess of his fingers. When you’re finally nothing but whimpers and a shaking body, he leans down and plants soft kisses on the inside of your thighs.

“Take off your clothes. Wanna see all of you.” He whispers. And you see how damp his jeans are from you when you finally lift yourself from his body. It’d be embarrassing if you haven’t done this with him a million times before. He always knew how to get you so high that you brain clouds and your eyes haze over and then cradle you as you body convulses under his touch.

You slip down your dress slow, putting on a little show as he sits manspread and watching. Looking your body up and down and licking his lips as if you were a meal to be served. Next goes your panties, all worn and sticky, sliding slowly down your legs until you kick them to the side to be forgotten.

He spreads himself wider, waiting for you to come crawling back into his lap, but instead you fall slowly to your knees and bring your face close to the buldge pressing against the demin. He raises an eyebrow and smirks as you pull the zipper down with you teeth.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you don’t have to do this.” He groans even though he’s already undoing his button and sliding his jeans and boxers down just enough to reveal himself. He knows this is something you never do — you don’t like the way it makes your throat feel and honestly you thought you were never good at it even though he tells you otherwise. But you’re feeling nice today. You want to be the one to please him, especially after how hard he made you cum just now.

You just nod — letting him know its okay — as you lick a long stripe over the slit of his tip. He draws in a shaky breath and pushes your hair behind your ear.

You take in his tip, never breaking his eye contact, and watch the way the brown of his eyes almost disappear with how wide his pupils dialate.

He wraps your hair into a make shift ponytail and lightly pushes your head down until your taking him all in — gaging around him, tears threatening to spill before he tugs your hair back — hollowing your cheeks as he slowly leaves your mouth.

Your lips stay wrapped around his tip, sucking in and pulling away with a pop just to bob your head back down once more.

“Fuck.” He moans, hips now thrusting into your hot and wet throat. Spit dripples down your chin, down his length, and pools at the coiled hair just below his shaft. “God, you look so pretty with you mouth wrapped around me. Could look at it all day.”

You hymm at the words and feel him twitch against your tongue. Your hands wrap around his shaft and pull him deeper into your mouth till he’s up against the back of your throat.

“Shit.” He says as he pulls your hair, making your mouth let him go with a pop. You watch as some beads of cum dripple down the side of his length before looking up at him with a smirk.

Your lips are swollen and your eyes are bloodshot. You know you probably look fucked out of your mind as some drool falls out of the side of you mouth.

His breath is heavy as he tries to steady himself, stop himself from just finishing at the sight of you. But You’re too needy for him. Wetness already drenching your thighs just from sucking his dick. You climb into his lap and hover over his groin.

Hi reaction is immediate and primal. Hand gripping the soft flesh of your ass and he rubs his tip between your folds. You kiss him in a way that’s all teeth and tongue and begging. Hands wrapping around his neck to pull him impossibly close. He devours you as his kisses trail from your lips, to your chin, to the curve of your neck until his eyes meet just where his tip and your clit meet — rubbing soft circles over it. You move your hips slightly — enough to where his dick meets your entrance.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” He groans as he thrusts into you hard and unforgiving. A broken moan escapes your lips when you feel they way he stretches your walls to his size. A feeling you’ll never get used to. He fills you completely, opening you up and giving you exactly what you need. It’s almost too much — the way he thrusts into you hot and heavy like it’s the last thing he’ll do.

His hands grasp you hips tightly, pulling you down into him until the space between you is minimal. Watching the way he disappears completely inside of you. Deep and unrelenting. Sparks shoot down your spine as his mouth meets yours with a lazy kiss — tongues flicking against lips and teeth nibbling sharply when his thrusts continue in a punishing motion.

“Fuck, gonna ruin me.” He moans into your mouth, fingers digging into your hips so harshly you think it might leave bruises. All you can do it whimper against his lips, nails digging deep into his shoulders to steady yourself. The sound of the couch squeaking under your bodies makes it more intoxicating.

You pull back and cradle his face, mouth falling into a frown at how painfully he’s pleasing you. You wouldn’t want it any other way. His brown eyes meet yours full of lust, full of love, full of devotion. You can’t believe this is the man you’re going to spend the rest of your life with. The man who gifted you with two beautiful girls. Can’t believe how lucky you are and how far you’ve come. The diamond ring still gleaming against the light, exactly where it belongs.

His head shoots back against the couch when you take control, stopping himself from thrusting into you. You grind your hips achingly slow against his. Sitting in his lap as his dick is burried deep inside of you. You lick a loing stripe against the pulse of his kneck before sucking at it slightly.

You move your legs up and down, bouncing back into him each time and rolling your hips back up. “Tommy, you feel so good.”

"Yeah? Just like that, baby. You're doin' so good f'me." He mutters back.

Tommys hands cradly your back, pulling you to his chest, before trailing them down to the curve of your ass. His fingers diggling into the plump skin, face burried in your neck. The way his hot breath feels against yours. The friction makes you dizzy and the heat returns. Shocks shoot up your spine. You feel electric.

You tilt your hips, taking him in deeper as his body tenses. He meets your rhythm with his own — hips thrusting into you as you’re bouncing back down. He has you screaming his name at this point when he starts pulling your hair back to look him in the eyes.

“Fuck, sweetheart, ‘m bout to cum.” He groans, crashing his lips back into yours in one final movement. His thrusts falter and his fingers curled into your hair pull harder, causing your neck to bend and back to arch painfully.

He pushes you down — back now against the couch, legs now wrapped around his hips, pulling him in deeper. His curls cling to the sweat against his forhead as he grips your thighs tighter.

“Takin’ me so well.” He moans as his free hand pushes your hair back from your forhead. “Fuck— alright. Where you want it?” He asks as his legs begin to shake.

“Tommy—” You groan, clenching around him — begging him to stay burried deep inside. “Want you to come inside me. Please.”

You tilt your hips to roll against him, and he takes in a sharp inhale and smirks before looking you in the eyes. “Thought you didn’t want a son?”

“Fuck— Tommy just do it.” You beg as your legs start to shake around his waste. His fingers run down your belly until they meet your clit and begin to rub harshly.

“That’s it baby. Come for me.” And that’s enough to make the heat spill from you all over again. You clench harshly around him, digging your nails into his forearms as his pace quickens. The sound of skin slapping skin filling the air. “mmm— that's my girl.”

His hips snap into yours one last time before he releases hot white strands deep against your walls. His body shudders against yours as he collapses back into you with a huff. You stay like that for a while — sweaty bodies entangled on the couch.

Finally, he pulls back and brushes your hair behind your ears. He kisses your temple, then your cheek. “God you’re so beautiful.” He mutters before kissing your lips.

You know this is all you could have ever asked for and in this moment you knew life couldn’t be any better.

Tag list: @looneyleo @emmaaas-posts @demo-bats @aphroditesblunt @staley83 @immyowndefender @magicxmiller @wow-life-love4 @thaliagracesgf @sugarminsss @keseqna @ijustrepost @cakesandtom @lovelyc @vampiredoggies-blog @hjzghi-blog

#joel miller #joel miller smut #joel smut #joel x reader #tlou #pedro pascal #joel #joel the last of us #fanfic #joel miller x reader #tommy miller fanfiction #tommy miller smut #tommy miller x reader #tommy tlou #tommy miller #tommy miller x you

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444eggnog · 2 days ago

Text

Car Fun

✍︎: my friend and i were in a heated debate over whether Careless Whisper is actually a sexy, seductive song or just emotional chaos with a saxophone. so here’s a short au where Lando confidently thinks it is sexy and suffers the consequences, lol. as usual, i hope you enjoy! ♡

content: fluff, humor, failed seduction, chaotic car vibes, George Michael jump scare, suggestive but not smutty

pairing: bf!Lando x reader

wc: 1218

Lando was exactly four and a half hours into a nine-hour flight back to Monaco, lounging under a cashmere blanket in first class, slippers on, champagne half-finished, and utterly, violently bored.

He'd already scrolled through the snack menu twice. Watched the safety video purely to roast it. Tried but failed to nap. His mind was restless, skittering between thoughts of the last race, the next one, and Y/N.

He missed her. That was rare for him to admit, even internally, but it was true. Two weeks of video calls and blurry schedules had taken their toll, and he could still hear her sleepy voice from that morning’s call: “Come home soon. I miss annoying you in person.”

He smiled at the memory, then opened the in-flight entertainment system.

He wasn’t expecting to find it. Fifty Shades Freed.

He blinked. Paused. Then smirked.

Y/N had this thing, no, a phase. “He’s not even that hot,” he always said, to which she’d roll her eyes and argue, “You can’t say that if you haven’t watched it. That's a lie.”

Lando leaned back in his seat, popped a chocolate-covered almond into his mouth, and clicked play like a man with nothing to lose.

A few minutes later, he was fully committed. The infamous sports car scene hit, and Lando's eyes went wide.

That’s it? That’s the scene that made her blush?

He had that car. Literally. Same size. Same engine. A way cooler playlist.

And suddenly, he had a mission.

─── 🏁

He got home late that night. Y/N was already fast asleep, curled up in one of his hoodies, face squished into his pillow. He stood in the doorway for a moment, grinning to himself like a man with a Very Stupid Plan.

Tomorrow night, he thought. Dinner. Drive. Pull over. Blow her mind.

He even curated a special playlist: Hot Car Heat Vol. 1 (Certified Horny Hours), and yes, he was proud of the title. Track 1: The Weeknd. Track 2: That one Miguel song. Track 3: I’ll Make Love to You – Boyz II Men. Track 4: A wild card: Let’s Get It On by Marvin Gaye.

─── 🏁

The next night went perfectly, until it didn’t.

Dinner was great. She looked beautiful. They laughed the whole time. Then came the drive. The city lights blurred past the windows. His hand grazed her knee at a red light. Her lips curved into a smirk. Go time.

He turned off the main road and pulled into an empty overlook, the city glowing softly in the distance, music humming low through the speakers.

She really did try to be sexy. Gave him that look, slow and dangerous, the one that once made Lando drop an entire protein shake because, in his words, he “forgot how arms worked.”

He leaned in, hand sliding up her thigh, voice low like he was auditioning for a softcore drama.

“Get on top of me,” he whispered.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, eyes dark with mischief. “Don’t act like you didn’t rewatch that Fifty Shades car scene twenty times.”

She snorted, but played along. Moved slowly. Dramatically. Or at least she tried, until her head slammed into the roof of the car.

THUNK.

“OW. What the… your car is a damn coffin,” she groaned, rubbing her head and collapsing against the console.

Lando wheezed so hard he nearly activated the horn. “You okay?!”

“No! I was trying to be hot, and now I think I have a concussion.”

Still, she repositioned, half-laughing, half-committed and climbed onto his lap. That’s when her knee hit the screen on the dashboard.

And that’s when it happened.

“TENENEN-TENTEN-NEHNEH-TENENENENEH…”

The saxophone. George Michael. Careless Whisper. Blasting at full volume.

Lando froze. Her mouth fell open.

“Lando,” she whispered, slowly turning to him, “did you seriously put Careless Whisper on your seduction playlist?”

He looked like he’d just been caught cheating on a math test. “I—no. It was supposed to be Miguel. Or The Weeknd. That wasn’t meant to happen.”

She blinked. “You thought Careless Whisper was sexy?”

His jaw dropped. “It’s a classic! That saxophone? It’s iconic!”

The saxophone blared louder behind him, like it was personally offended on his behalf.

She stared at him.

He doubled down. “Come on, ‘I’m never gonna dance again’? That’s heartbreak. That’s pain. That’s—”

“That’s not foreplay, Lando.”

She tried to keep a straight face. She really did. But the music swelled, dramatic, tragic, borderline theatrical, like the car itself was trying to seduce her.

She lost it.

Full-blown laughter. The kind that made her fold in half, wheezing into his hoodie while the ghost of George Michael wailed behind them.

Lando sighed, utterly defeated. “You have no respect for the greats.”

“You tried to seduce me with a meme.”

“I tried to seduce you with emotion.”

“Next time,” she said, still breathless, “just stick to Miguel.”

Lando slumped. “This is literally the opposite of hot.”

“No,” she grinned, wiping tears from her cheeks. “This is exactly us.”

They climbed out of the car and into the cool Monaco night, laughter still echoing as they leaned back against the hood, legs tangled, breath steadying under a sky full of stars.

Everything felt quieter now. Softer.

She leaned over, pressed a kiss to his neck, and whispered, “Wanna finish this in bed?”

Lando stilled.

“No horns. No saxophones. No head trauma. Just us. A mattress. And the whole night to make up for the two weeks you were gone.”

He looked at her like she’d just offered him the universe. “I thought you'd never ask,” he murmured.

She smiled. “But the playlist stays in the car.”

He groaned. “You’re never gonna let that go, are you?”

“Never. I want it played at our wedding.”

Lando flopped dramatically against the hood. “I seduced you with George Michael. I’m never recovering from this.”

“You seduced me with a horn section, love. Respect the artistry.”

And that’s how the night ended, not with steam or scandal, but laughter, starlight, and a slow drive home.

Where no saxophone would interrupt them again.

Probably.

─── 🏁

short epilogue:

What Lando forgot because of course he did was that his phone automatically reconnected to the car’s Bluetooth the moment they started it back up to go home.

And worse?

He forgot his Spotify account was public.

So while Careless Whisper blasted through the speakers during the most chaotic failed seduction attempt in history, it also blasted onto his “Recently Played” for every single one of his friends to see.

🎧 Now Playing: Careless Whisper – George Michael From playlist: Hot Car Heat Vol. 1 (Certified Horny Hours) Public playlist · Updated 1 hour ago

Max Verstappen saw it first.

He didn’t even ask questions. Just screenshot it and dropped it straight into the group chat.

max: what the fuck is this HAHAHA max: “certified horny hours” george: did u seriously try to seduce her with GEORGE MICHAEL carlos: oh my god LANDO alex: i’m gonna print this and frame it charles: you’re finished bro. you’re done.

Across the flat, Lando’s phone buzzed violently on the kitchen counter.

He was too busy brushing his teeth and muttering “it’s not that bad” to himself to notice.

It was, in fact, that bad.

#lando norris #ln4 #lando norris blurb #lando norris drabble #lando norris imagines #lando norris fluff #lando x reader #lando x you #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #Spotify

116 notes · View notes

dandydilfdiddler · 17 hours ago

Text

1. Holy fuck the song choice made this fic. I'm now adding this to my normal rotation because I love it.

2. BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK

3. Good god do I love jealous Sentry. This was a flavor I needed today.

4. You write fucking POETRY. This was divine and I mean it literally. Licking my screen. Holy hell it just flows with such a beautiful interplay between metaphors and adjectives that blends into a read that give off more of a song than a fic.

5. I feel like I went to church and sat to pray with this fic. I love religious over and under tones and you did it in a way that I feel revenant about myself. This fic boosted my self esteem just by reading.

6. THE AFTERCARE BOB BABY!!!!!!! YESSSSSSSSS!!!!!! I foam at the mouth for this shit and the tenderness???? Hello?????????? I already love this character you gotta chill or I'm gonna need a psych ward because I for real am gonna call him my boyfriend.

Lovers

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: The Thunderbolts go to a club downtown for the night, and while there Bob and Sentry are having a tough time watching you flirt with a guy.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, and Jealousy (the spicy triforce). Bob and reader are both aware of each other's feelings but want to remain friends to not ruin the team dynamic in case things go sour. Sentry is extremely jealous in this, and we love jealous Sentry I say…He’s also a bit possessive but…That’s him lol, Bob is just trying to be a good guy and keep things calm, but Sentry is really ripping into him for fumbling the ball.

Smut Warnings: Semi-Public Sex (happens in a private washroom, but it’s inside a club), Unprotected P in V (hahahaha…please wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), and a Praise/Worship Kink cause Sentry and Bob are pleasers just trying to stake their claim lol, there’s also light choking, and some dirty talk….And Overstimulation to a degree. And some aftercare.

Author’s Note: Jesus lord, I loved this request, and I loved the ideas that came from it, and thank you so much for requesting it! It was so fun to write this possessive type of Sentry, and I loved writing the clashing dialogue between Bob and Sentry too. Whew, thank you again @leopard-skin-pillbox-hat-ok for such a fun little thing!

Word Count: 10,244

The music was thrumming like a heartbeat Low, slow, and thick with heat. Everything in the club was moving like smoke–dark, senseless, and breathless. The lights stuttered across the floor like strobe-starved lightning, painting bodies in quick colourful flashes of red, violet, blue, and green.

But Bob wasn’t looking at the lights, or the crowd, or the Coke Zero he hadn’t touched, or even his teammates–who were scattered around the booth behind him, too caught up in cheap liquor, bottles of beer, and loud conversation to notice the slow-motion train wreck unraveling across the club floor.

His attention was on you, and it felt like he was two minutes away from being pronounced dead.

You were standing at the bar with your back turned slightly to him, talking to some guy with a drink in his hand and too much confidence in his stance. It looked like he had forgotten to button his shirt up completely and his chest was puffed out and exposed like he was a bird trying to perform a mating call of sorts. It was easy to spot how he was flirting with you, he would lean in close and say something, and you would return the favour by doing the same. Bob swore every time you moved closer to him it felt like the world was shifting beneath his feet.

Because your dress was–

”God made flesh.” That’s what Sentry had called it the moment he saw you walk out of your room tonight, and he hadn’t shut up since.

It was satin, maybe. Something dark and indulgent and soft. It hugged you like heat and spilled ink–clinging to every line of your body like it had been painted there. The hemline flirted with your thighs as you shifted your weight, fluttering like it was in love with your legs.

And those legs–Bob was going to have a stroke. They were crossed casually at the ankle, and the muscle of your calves were perfectly defined in heels that made your whole stance shift in the kind of way that rewired his brain chemistry. They pushed your hips out just enough to make his breath catch. Your waist cinched so elegantly it looked like it had been sculpted. And your skin–which was shimmering in the club lights–looked like something a god would ruin themselves to touch.

And that’s exactly what was happening.

“Look at her,” Sentry hissed from somewhere behind Bob’s ribs. Every syllable was thick with acid, and pure, unobstructed worship, “She’s glowing…And so fucking open tonight. She should be at our side. In our lap. Not fawning over that little man-child with mousse in his hair.” Bob’s jaw clenched at the rage that echoed through his head.

”S-She’s not fawning,” He muttered under his breath, his knuckles going white around the glass of Coke Zero he was holding, “She’s j-just being friendly.” He added, fluttering his lashes in the strobed haze.

“Look at her. She’s leaning in! He touched her hip when she laughed, did you happen to miss that part?” Bob let out a huff.

”I didn’t miss anything.” He replied, bringing the rim of the glass up to his lips to cover the way his mouth was slightly moving.

“Then explain why you’re sitting here doing nothing while he tries to take what’s ours.” Bob exhaled through his nose, slow and shaky, taking a fake sip of the carbonated beverage, feeling his grip tightening around it slightly, like he was going to possibly break it. “You made the choice. Not me. I would’ve taken her in our bed by now. I would’ve lit the fucking sky gold with the sound of her voice.” Bob dropped his hand to his thigh, fingers digging into the loose denim of his jeans–the ones you had convinced him to buy–like he could claw the heat out of his skin.

Across the club, you tilted your head back to laugh. That kind of laugh. The one Bob had heard a hundred times–but never when it wasn’t his words that caused it.

And you looked–God, you looked like every dream he wasn’t allowed to have anymore. One hand resting lightly on the bar, nails painted in something subtle that caught the colored lights like stardust. Your other hand gestured as you spoke, animated and bright, your shoulder dipping as you leaned in again, saying something to the guy–who took it as an invitation to move closer. He was smiling. He was saying something back.

You nodded at him, smiling with the widest one you had, and tapped your glass against his before taking a sip.

Bob’s eyes followed the movement of your throat as you swallowed, his heart beating too loud in his ears.

“She’s not even thinking about us.”

“S-Shut up,” Bob hissed quickly, but it was loud enough to make Walker glance over briefly before going back to his beer and the conversation the rest of the group were having behind him.

“You think you were noble, don’t you? Waiting, respecting her and the team…You think that means something when someone else can just step in and touch her like that?” Bob wiped the sweat off his brow, as the heat began to curl within him, but it didn’t seem to help. He could feel it–the static under his skin, like something golden and furious was trying to claw its way out from inside him.

“You said no to her. You told her she was too important to risk. Now look at her.” You pushed your hair out of your face with a laugh and turned just enough to give Bob a partial view of your profile. The lips gloss he watched you apply at the beginning of the evening in the reflection of someone’s car window glistened. The lights behind the bar lit up your eyes like candlelight through amber glass, and you still didn’t see him looking.

That hurt worse than anything.

He shifted in the booth, uncomfortable in his own skin, and burning hot. His foot tapped against the sticky floor beneath the table, a stuttering rhythm that matched the beat of the music–or maybe it was matching his panic.

“This is when I wish I had my own fucking body,” Sentry growled, “At least then I could make my own decisions instead of running them by a human who’s afraid of his own fucking heartbeat.” Bob flinched. It was small. Barely a tremor across his shoulders. But the heat that followed was almost unbearable, as it sunk into his bloodstream. It pulsed beneath his skin like magma, like light trying to find the cracks in his weak mental armour. His fingers twitched against the table, then he curled them into a fist before dropping it into his lap, trying to hide the shaking in his hand.

“She should be with us,” Sentry snapped, “I’d be on my knees every night for her, I’d hold her in my arms and love her the way she deserves, and she certainly wouldn’t be pressed against some arrogant fuck like that.” Bob’s eyes flicked back to you, just in time to see it. The guy’s hand moved to your waist, sliding around to pull you in closer. His mouth was way too close to your ear, and your face tipped slightly toward him, smile still soft, lips parted.

And Bob–snapped.

His body lurched forward like something had yanked him by the ribs, and the booth creaked. The table shook when his knee slammed into the bottom of it.

Walker and Ava both turned their heads at the sound, but Bob didn’t move forward again.

He sat back down, hard, chest heaving. His elbows braced on the table. His hands pressed flat to the surface to steady himself, shaking. And the golden light beneath his skin flickered–just for a second–visible, crawling like electricity beneath his veins.

“Bob?” Yelena’s voice cut through the haze like a blade. Her brows were drawn, beer still in hand. She leaned across the table. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer, he didn’t even try to look up at her. He was staring at the floor, like it was safer than looking back up at you.

“Tell her to back off. Tell her we’re in the middle of planning out how to quietly rip the arm off that guy touching Y/N…”

“Bob.” Yelena’s voice sharpened, knocking on the table in front of him, “Hey.” His jaw clenched.

”I’m fine. I-I’m fine.” He responded, feeling a bead of sweat dripping down his temple.

”Bullshit.” She shot back. Then she was moving around the table, boots scuffing the floor. Bob tried to avoid her, turning his face away, but she caught him by the jaw fast, fingers sharp and rough, twisting his head toward her. The moment her eyes met his, she immediately connected the dots.

”Oh Jesus Christ.” She hissed, realizing his eyes weren’t just blue anymore, they were streaked with little tendrils of gold exploding in the irises and hazing over the pupils.

“Let me take it from here,” Sentry whispered, “Clearly you’re not handling it.”

“I-I said I’ve got it.” Bob groaned, squeezing his eyes shut like he could shove Sentry back down by sheer willpower.

“Got what?” Walker called from across the table, leaning his arm along the backrest, “What’s going on with him tonight?” He asked, motioning to Bob. Yelena didn’t answer. She was too busy calculating how far they were from the nearest exit. Bob rubbed a hand over his face, trying to cool the flush from his cheeks, trying to breathe through the pulse climbing in his throat.

”I’m controlling him,” He muttered, “He’s pissed but I’m controlling it.” Walker leaned forward a bit, catching the gold that began to shimmer even more in Bob’s irises.

”Doesn’t look like it,” He commented, eyes narrowing at the shimmer that caught in the strobe lighting, then slowly Walker's gaze drifted across the club, over the pulsing bodies, and past the sharp glow of the bar lights–landing on you.

You were still tucked close to that guy, still laughing, and still glowing in that dress, like the universe was trying to punish Bob through you. Walker’s face twisted in understanding, his lips twitching up with cruel amusement.

”Oh,” He drawled, “Ohhhhhh.” Yelena didn’t even look up to him, she kept her eyes trained on Bob.

”Walker, I swear to god.” She warned, already hearing the chaos brewing in his tone.

“You guys look parched. I’m gonna get another beer,” He said, grabbing a spare glass off the table, “And maybe a water for Bob before his brain starts draining out of his ears.” Walker added, pushing himself up from the booth, stretching like he had all the time in the world.

”Walker!” Yelena snapped, but it was too late, he was already moving.

“Oh good,” Sentry crooned inside him, smug and mocking, “Walker. A real man. Watch and learn, Bob. A simple waltz up to the bar, a charming line, a hand on her arm–easy extraction.” Bob let out a long, agonizing groan, pressing a trembling hand to his temple to try and ease the headache that was starting to bloom.

Meanwhile, Walker was on the move. He weaved through the crowd with a practiced ease, long strides–relaxed in the most approachable way possible–glass in one hand, beer bottle in the other. The lights flickered across his white t-shirt and a few girls near the edge of the dance floor gave him lazy once-overs as he passed. He smiled–small, effortless–and tipped his head in greeting, before continuing his journey. He didn’t stop until he was directly beside you.

You didn’t notice him at first, you were too wrapped up in whatever your bar companion was saying. But the moment Walker’s shoulder nudged yours gently, you turned–surprised–and the guy’s arm slipped from behind your back, falling away like it had never belonged there to begin with.

”Hey,” Walker said casually, setting the beer and the empty glass down on the bar, “Fancy seeing you still upright. Thought you’d be buried in that guy’s awful smelling cologne by now.” You raised an eyebrow at him, confused and slightly amused.

”Excuse me?” You said, watching Walker lean in just enough for the crowd and the music to blur around you both, his voice low and loaded with too much amusement to be harmless.

”You might want to ease up on the flirting…Bob’s halfway to going supernova back at the booth.” He said, propping his elbow onto the bar. He smelled like strong wheat from the beer he was nursing, but he still seemed levelheaded enough to know what he was saying to you.

“Bob?” You questioned.

”Yeah,” Walker nodded toward the table, where Bob sat with his head in his hands. From where you stood you could see the faint glow of the veins in his forearms, like someone had poured sunlight into them, with the crown of his hair fluffed and messy–probably from him ruffling it in his hands. “You know–your broody golden retriever…The one who’s got the sleeper build of a house?”

“He’s not–“ You huffed, “He’s not mine…” Walker snorted at the comment.

”Could’ve fooled me. Pretty sure you own at least seventy percent of his emotional stability and sanity at this point.” Your eyes narrowed at him as you took a sip from your diluted tequila pineapple.

”We agreed, okay? It was mutual. We said it would be a bad idea–if things went wrong–“ Walker held up a finger.

”Right, right. Let me stop you there, Professor Logic. Because right now Bob’s glowing like a fucking star over there and Sentry has been pacing inside his skull, dying to come out. So clearly this little ‘mutual’ agreement is not really holding up.” You stiffened.

”He hasn’t;’t said anything.” Walker laughed under his breath.

”Of course not. It’s Bob. He’d rather implode than inconvenience anyone. But maybe you should go get your sight checked, sweetheart, because you’re acting absolutely blind if you think feelings just vanish because you both agreed to not ‘ruin the team’.”

“Hey, that's not fair.” You muttered.

”Isn’t it?” He shot back, standing a little straighter, “You’re over here flirting up a storm while Bob’s swallowing the sun god. He wanted you. He still wants you, and just because he respects the boundaries you two have, it doesn’t mean y’all are fully over things. Get what I’m saying?” You glanced again toward the booth–just in time to see Bob brace his hands against the table like it was the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence. Even across the room, you could see the way his chest was rising and falling too fast. The light beneath his skin had intensified–glimmering like heat lightning under the surface of his forearms.

Your voice dropped low. “What do you expect me to do?”

Walker blinked at you, incredulous. “I don’t know, go over there and calm the guy down? Maybe take him somewhere private and talk to him before he fucking levels the building?” He leaned in a little closer, his tone dropping into something more serious, less flippant. “Y/N, it’s Sentry. He doesn’t particularly have a track record for waiting or being nice about things that don’t go his way…God complex. Remember?”

You swallowed, nerves climbing up your throat like vines. “And you think I have that kind of power?”

Walker didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smirk. He just looked at you with the flattest, most terrifyingly honest expression you’d ever seen on him.

“I’m very sure you’ve got his soul in your hands by this point,” He said, voice sharp and quiet. “Now go. Before the floor starts vibrating.”

You hesitated, looking back at Bob again–he was shaking. Hands trembling like static was crawling up his arms, light flaring under his skin in pulses that didn’t sync to the music anymore. His jaw was clenched. His whole body coiled like a live wire seconds from snapping.

Walker’s hand landed briefly on your shoulder, grounding. “Go, Y/N.”

You didn’t need to hear anything else.

You set your glass down with a soft clink, the condensation from the cup already dampening your fingertips. Then you moved–shoulders squared, eyes locked, heart racing harder than the music pulsing through the club’s foundation.

The crowd pressed around you like water, dense and shifting. Heat clung to your skin, sticky with sweat and perfume–an overwhelming blend of cheap gin, sugar-rimmed cocktails, body spray, smoke, and that faint metallic tang of overstimulation. Neon light sliced through the dark like a broken kaleidoscope–flickering greens, bleeding reds, and deep violet strobes that stained everything in shadow-glow and fleeting brilliance.

You pushed past a couple tangled together mid-dance, the woman’s laugh sharp and high-pitched, her partner’s cologne a cloud of amber and pine that made your nose twitch. Your heels stuck momentarily to the floor in patches–spilled beer or soda underfoot–but you didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Because you could see him now.

Bob.

He looked like he was breaking open.

Yelena was still in front of him, tense and braced with her arms folded, her whole body coiled like she was trying to intercept a detonation. You reached her, placed your hand firmly on her shoulder. She looked up at you, eyebrows already drawn–but one glance at your face was all it took. She didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, jaw tight, and stepped aside to return to her original spot in the booth.

And then–Bob.

His head lifted, slowly.

And when his eyes found yours–it was like gravity halted in his mind.

The gold in his irises was brighter now, sparking outward like little sunbursts, threads of molten light veining toward his pupils. But it was the look on his face that undid you. The moment he realized it was you, standing there, reaching for him. All of that raw, volatile tension melted into something that looked like disbelief. Like hope.

His shoulders dropped a fraction. Not relaxed–no, he was never fully relaxed when he was like this–but the storm behind his eyes shifted, just enough to make room for something else. Something softer. The glow faltered like a candle wick flicked by breath, almost like it was a display of relief.

Slowly you reached forward–not grabbing, not pulling, but touching–and let your fingertips drag over his forearms, before your hands found his wrists. You could feel his skin burning, damp from sweat, and his pulse was bounding against your touch, as if something was ready to snap beneath the surface. You curled your fingers around his wrists with deliberate gentleness, and leaned forward.

The light behind you turned gold for a moment–just a flare, like the universe was echoing the chaos inside him. Then the shadows returned, and it was just you in front of him, wrapped in heat and pulse and light. Then your scent hit him–it wasn’t perfume in the traditional sense. Not heavy. It was perfectly you.

It was citrus first–sharp, bright, alive. Like cracked-open blood orange rinds in summer. Zest clinging to skin. Tangy and awakening. Then came the softer notes. Something warmer underneath. A trace of sugar and salt and skin–like sunlight on bare shoulders and the faintest whisper of crushed mint leaves. It was dizzying. It was you. The way you always smelled when you were flushed and warm and a little too close. Bob inhaled like he was starved of it, and Sentry sucked it in like it gave him a new life source.

Then you leaned even closer.

Your body was just shy of touching him, but he felt the heat of you radiating off your skin. Like you were burning through your dress, through the space between you. He could see the outline of your shoulder rising and falling with each breath–too fast. Just like his.

Then–your voice.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was spoken directly into the space beside his neck, close enough that he could feel the shape of the words before he could understand them. Your breath was warm, and carried the scent of alcohol on it–sweet, sharp, sticky.

Pineapple juice. Cool and sugary. The bite of cheap tequila clinging to the edge. And something cooler than that–mint, from whatever cocktail you’d been nursing. It made the air between you feel electric.

“Come with me,” You said, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear, voice low, tight. Bob’s pulse stuttered. His mouth parted on instinct, like he wanted to say your name, or please, or thank you, or yes, but nothing came out.

Only a nod.

His whole body moved like it wasn’t his own–shoulders curving toward you, the heat in his veins recalibrating, his spine straightening just enough to stand.

You didn’t let go of his wrist as you pulled him through the crowd.

He followed behind like a shadow tethered to your spine–quiet, massive, burning with a light that wasn’t fully human. Every step sent heat crawling along your skin, your grip on him like a lifeline.

You moved fast, past the dance floor and toward the back hallway lined with faux-industrial brick and flickering sconces trying too hard to mimic candlelight. The music was muffled here, pulsing through the drywall like a heartbeat trapped behind ribs.

The private washroom door stood at the end of the hall–sleek, black, and marked with a gold “STAFF ONLY” plaque. You didn’t hesitate. Just reached for the handle, shoved it open, and dragged Bob in after you.

The door shut with a click that sounded louder than a gunshot. Then the lock turned under your fingers–decisive, final.

It was dim inside.

Not in the way that suggested filth or neglect–but in a way that almost felt…deliberate. The club had clearly spared no expense here. There were soft amber bulbs tucked behind frosted glass sconces, casting a faint, honeyed glow that made the marble counters shimmer faintly. The walls were a deep slate gray, matte and textured, broken only by a massive, ornately framed mirror that stretched across the length of the main wall above the sink. The countertop was pristine, black quartz polished to a gleam. A vase of dried eucalyptus sat beside the soap, filling the air with a clean, herbal sharpness that cut through the lingering sweat and smoke on your skin.

The moment you turned to face him, Bob was already braced near the sink, one hand gripping the edge like he needed it to keep standing. His chest was heaving. The golden veins beneath his skin were glowing more than ever–flickering like wire left too long in the fire.

You crossed the room, slow but steady, until you were standing just in front of him–barely breathing–with a bit of space between the two of you so you weren’t crowding him.

“What the hell is going on with you tonight?” Your voice was a mix of caution and heat. Not cold. Not scolding. But demanding in a way only someone who knows the truth of a person could manage.

Bob didn’t answer. His eyes flicked up to yours, and for a second, it wasn’t just him.

It was both of them. Bob and Sentry.

That glow behind his irises was too alive. Too bright. His jaw was locked, his pulse hammering visibly in his throat, the cords in his neck drawn tight like wires on the verge of snapping. When he didn’t speak, you stepped closer.

“I thought we agreed,” You said, softly. “We said it was a bad idea. That it could ruin everything.”

Bob finally opened his mouth, but the voice that came out was not fully his.

“That wasn’t my agreement.” His tone was deeper. Not menacing, but vast. Like something old and radiant had peeled up from beneath the surface of his soul. His shoulders twitched like he was trying to contain something stretching underneath his skin.

You stared at him, mouth parted slightly.

“I didn’t get a say,” Sentry added through him, his tone thick with restrained hunger. “He locked me out of that conversation. Said it wasn’t safe. Said you deserved better than both of us. But I’ve been watching him crumble over you every night since…And it’s not fair to me that I need to watch that when I have no choice but to follow whatever he says!” Bob jerked his head slightly, like he was trying to shake the voice off, but you saw it–the way his pupils dilated, the way his hand on the counter tightened until the stone cracked faintly under his palm.

“That guy–” Bob’s voice finally surfaced, raw and hoarse. “T-The way he touched you–your waist–your shoulder–” His throat bobbed. “I couldn’t breathe.”

You stepped closer to him, still not enough to invade his space.

“I wasn’t going to do anything with him.”

“That doesn’t matter,” He croaked. “Y-You were smiling like that. You were laughing. Not at my words. A-And he got to touch you.” His hands curled, trembling, and you realized then: he wasn’t angry at you. He was in agony.

“Bob…” You breathed.

“I told myself I could handle this. I thought–I thought staying away w-would make it easier,” He whispered, forehead bowing like he was seconds away from collapse. “But then I s-saw you tonight, and you were just–fucking perfect–and all I could think was how badly I-I wanted to touch you. Not Sentry. Not the god. Just me.”

Your breath hitched.

The air in the room shifted–less like breathlessness now, and more like a burn. A shared ache. The kind you only ever get from not touching someone you need.

“You think I don’t want you too?” You whispered, eyes locked on his, not daring to move. “You think that was easy for me either? You think I don’t go back to my room every night and have to lie in a bed that smells like you from your laundry detergent leaking into my sheets?” Bob’s breath hitched–his whole chest trembling with it. His lips parted like he might say something, but he didn’t. He just stared at you with that look. Like you were the only thing keeping him stitched together. Like if he blinked, you might vanish.

Your next breath barely made it out. “I want you. Even when I try not to. Even when I say I don’t.” There was a long pause in the room, just the sound of your breaths and the thumping bass of the music outside the enclosure of the washroom.

Then suddenly, Bob moved.

It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t even rough. But it was immediate. Like something inside him snapped loose and came tearing to the surface. His hands were on your face in less than a second—big and hot and trembling at the edges. One cupped your cheek, the other cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as his forehead dipped to yours. The air between you ignited.

And then he kissed you.

It was not sweet.

It was not soft.

It was desperate–an open-mouthed, spine-scorching, knee-buckling kind of kiss that tasted like panic and longing and gold-lit hunger all poured into one unsteady breath. His mouth slanted over yours like he was trying to carve your shape into his bones, like he was afraid he’d never get another chance. And God, he kissed like he needed you to keep existing–like he’d die if he didn’t.

You gasped into it, just once–surprised not by the kiss, but by the heat behind it–and the second your knees gave a tremble under your heels, Bob caught you.

He growled low against your mouth, not Sentry, not quite Bob–just that middle place where desire lives. His arm locked around your waist, and he spun you with frightening ease. Your back hit the cool edge of the quartz sink counter, and then his hands were everywhere–gripping your hips, dragging them flush to his, his fingers digging into the hem of your dress like he couldn’t figure out whether to lift it or tear it.

You moaned into his mouth–quiet, bitten off–and he groaned back, kissing you harder, deeper, messier.

It was sloppy. Wet. Your lips sliding together again and again as your breaths came sharp and heated. His tongue brushed yours and it felt like fire jumped between your ribs. You couldn’t even think. You were clinging to his shirt like it was the only thing holding you upright.

Bob pulled back just a fraction–just enough to pant against your lips, his breath catching on every syllable.

“You’re not stopping me,” He whispered, voice shredded with disbelief, “You’re not telling me to stop–”

You kissed him again before he could finish, grabbing his jaw, tilting him into you, dragging your teeth across his bottom lip as his hips pressed tighter against yours. And God, the way he reacted–his fingers twitching against your waist, his hips stuttering forward like he couldn’t help himself.

“G-God,” He hissed, and the heat of it pulsed out of him like an aftershock.

His hands dropped to the backs of your thighs, slowly despite the chaos. His palms swept up your legs–warm, wide, shaking–until he was holding you just beneath the curve of your ass. Then he lifted. You gasped as he hoisted you effortlessly up onto the counter, the cold stone biting against your skin through the dress, the sensation making your spine arch.

Bob stepped between your knees and immediately pressed himself against you again, lips finding yours in a kiss so deep it tilted your head back. His hand slid up the column of your neck, cradling your jaw, his thumb brushing just beneath your ear like he needed to memorize every inch of you.

And then–he moaned.

Not loud, but raw. Pained. Like the taste of you was killing him and healing him at the same time. His tongue swept into your mouth, slow and slick, and your hands tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan again–deeper this time, almost guttural.

His hips rocked once into yours, slow and hot, grinding into the space between your thighs, and you gasped against his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders. It felt like every part of him was begging for contact, like he was trying to melt into your skin. His fingertips dug into your waist as he pressed his hips forward again, slower this time, savouring the way your body responded to him, how your thighs widened even more to cradle his body.

Your fingers untangled from his hair, reached down to curl your fingers around the wrist of the hand that held your waist, guiding him toward the skin of your thigh, skin to skin–your dress had ridden up high enough that he could feel the heat of you radiating through the minimal barrier you still wore. His breath caught. You pulled back from the kiss just enough to whisper.

”Touch me.” The syllables broke him open immediately. He didn’t ask if you were sure. Bob’s hand slid upward–slow, shaking–and then it was there. The pad of his fingers brushed the damp, sheer fabric stretched over your aching core, and he gasped so sharply his forehead thudded softly against yours.

“Oh–God–” He whispered, voice breaking on the edges. “You’re already–J-Jesus, you’re so wet.”

You whined, head tilting back slightly, lips brushing his jaw, and Bob nearly lost it right then.

“Is it for me?” He breathed, fingers still resting there, just barely pressing into the heat between your legs. His voice trembled, and it wasn’t just Bob anymore. Sentry laced every syllable with awe and hunger.

“Tell me it’s for me,” He begged.

You nodded, lashes fluttering, as heat crept up onto your cheeks. “Always for you.”

He let out a noise–half groan, half prayer–and his hand moved. Gentle at first, like he was afraid to break you. His thumb found your clit through the soaked fabric, rubbing in slow, languid circles. Just enough pressure to tease, not enough to satisfy. Your thighs tensed around his hips, your fingers curling into his shirt.

“Oh my god, Bob–”

That shattered him.

His mouth dropped to your neck, open and hot, breath thick against your pulse as he worked you with growing intensity. He mouthed at your skin–kissed and nipped his way up to the underside of your jaw while his fingers kept moving, pressing deeper now, sliding the soaked fabric aside with a gentle kind of desperation. His fingertips met your slick heat, and the soft, wet sound of it made him moan like he was being touched instead of you.

“Y/N,” He rasped, “You’re d-dripping… I h-haven’t even done anything to you yet–Jesus”

He slipped two fingers between your folds, not inside–just gliding through the mess you’d already made for him. His thumb resumed its rhythm on your clit, and your whole body jolted in response, a soft cry leaving your lips. Bob was panting.

“I wanna drop to my knees. I wanna taste you. Right here. Right now. Please.” The words were guttural. Frantic. Worshipful. Sentry was behind them, clawing upward like holy fire, but Bob was still there–guiding him with restraint, grounded by the weight of your body in his hands.

You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him towards you, crashing your mouth into his again. He kissed you like he was drowning and your breath was the only oxygen that could save him.

Without breaking the kiss, without warning, two of his fingers slipped inside you–slow, thick, and deliberate.

You gasped into his mouth–sharp and shuddering–your spine bowing against the sink as your thighs clamped tighter around his hips. The stretch made your legs tremble. You fluttered around him, hot and soaked and so desperate for him it almost hurt.

Bob groaned like the feel of you was enough to knock him out cold.

“Oh–God,” He hissed against your mouth, his forehead dropping to yours as he stilled his hand for just a moment, overwhelmed by how tight and wet you were. “Jesus Christ… You’re so perfect inside. So warm–clenching around me like you need it.”

His fingers curled inside you.

You moaned–loud and broken–your body jerking in his grip. The sound echoed in the marble and tile of the washroom, obscene and beautiful.

“Y-Yes,” You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulder blades, “Don’t stop��Bob–please don’t stop–”

His mouth kissed down your jaw, hot and open, and his other hand slid up your throat–giving it a gentle squeeze, holding you steady like he didn’t trust anything else in the room to support you. His fingers began to move inside you–deep and slow, keeping them curled just right, searching for that perfect spot. His thumb stayed at your clit, rubbing in firm, tight circles, coaxing more slick from your body with every grind of his palm. Every stroke was deliberate. Precise. Designed to make you fall apart for him.

“So good for me,” he breathed against your neck, his voice cracking with need, “So fucking pretty like this. Dripping for me, clenching around me—fuck, baby, you’re singing for it.”

You whimpered again, your thighs shaking.

“I knew you’d be like this,” He groaned, thrusting his fingers deeper, harder now, the wet sounds of it nearly enough to make you come on their own. “So fucking sensitive. I bet you could come just like this–on my hand–if I kept going. You want that? You wanna soak my fingers?”

You couldn’t even speak. You nodded, breath hitching, your mouth open in a silent plea.

Sentry surfaced again in his voice–darker, deeper, reverent.

“She was made for this,” He growled from behind Bob’s teeth. “For us. Look at how she falls apart–so soft for us. So fucking holy between her legs–”

Bob kissed your cheekbone, your temple, your jaw, between every ragged syllable, his fingers never stopping their rhythm, driving deeper, stroking harder.

“I’d worship you every day if you let me,” He whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear now. “I’d wake you up with my mouth, I’d pray at your thighs–I’d give up the sky if it meant I could die with you wrapped around my fingers like this.”

Your breath hitched violently, knowing it was still Sentry projecting through Bob’s mouth.

He kissed the hinge of your jaw, and then the corner of your mouth, his thumb pressing firmer against your clit as he felt you start to pulse harder around him.

“Y-You’re close, aren’t you?” He panted, his voice breathless and holy, “I can feel it. God, I-I can feel it. Let go for me, Y/N. Let go–come for us–please.”

And with a soft, choked sob, you did.

You shattered around his hand, back arched, mouth parted in a desperate cry as your orgasm slammed through you like a wave of white-hot electricity. Your walls fluttered and clenched around his fingers as your thighs shook and your hands clawed for purchase against his shoulders, his chest–him.

Bob groaned like your orgasm was something he could feel.

He didn’t pull away.

He kept his fingers deep inside you, slowly working you through it, coaxing every last tremor from your body with soft murmurs against your throat.

“That’s it…You’re such a good girl.” He rasped. The voice had shifted–richer now. Darker. It vibrated behind your ear like a drumbeat made of light and thunder. Reverent. Possessive. Starved.

Sentry, of course it was him.

You barely had time to react before his hand slowly slipped free from you–slick, trembling, and soaked. You gasped as he dragged his fingers up, just enough for the cool air to kiss your wetness and make your thighs twitch. And then–

He lifted them to his lips.

He licked you off himself with obscene patience, tongue flattening to savor the taste, eyes fluttering shut for just a second like he was drinking in divinity.

A low, broken moan rumbled in his chest. “Mmm–fuck, you taste like you were made for me.”

When his eyes opened again, they weren’t just Bob’s anymore.

Still blue–but ringed in a molten glow so vivid it felt like looking at the edge of the sun. Gold flecked and shimmering. Two forces inside one gaze, breathing in sync. Worship and hunger, restraint and ruin.

Both of them.

“You feel that?” He murmured, pressing his forehead to yours as his still-wet fingers traced the curve of your jaw, smearing your slick along your cheek like a mark. “That was you. That light in me. That burn. You’re what keeps us sane.” Another kiss–softer, gentler, but so hot it made your breath hitch.

“I need more,” Sentry groaned, voice rasping like smoke and lightning. “I need to taste it from the source.”

You swallowed thickly, still panting, your thighs twitching as aftershocks rolled through you. He kissed the corner of your mouth again, and then dropped his lips to your throat, mouthing at your pulse point as he whispered, “Help me. Help me take these off you.”

Your panties.

His hands were already sliding beneath the hem of your dress, brushing along the backs of your thighs as he began to drag the soaked fabric of your underwear down inch by inch, reverent as a priest unwrapping holy cloth. It clung to you–drenched, ruined–and Sentry groaned when you lifted yourself up slightly so the fabric slipped past the curve of your ass. You wiggled around, as he slid the underwear off you completely, crumpling them up in his hand, like he was planning on holding them the entire time–or to steal them so he could have them as a keepsake to remember this night.

He dropped to his knees in front of you like a man possessed, the dress bunched up at your hips now, your bare thighs spread on either side of his broad shoulders.

The sight of him down there–gold-flecked eyes wide, flushed lips parted, hair wild from your hands–it was nearly enough to make you come again.

“You’re the altar,” Sentry said, voice low and trembling with need, “And I’m the fucking disciple.”

And then his mouth was on you.

No hesitation.

No teasing this time.

Just devotion.

His tongue licked a long, slow stripe up your dripping slit, and he moaned–loudly–like he was finally allowed to breathe again. Then he latched onto your clit with a kind of desperate reverence, flicking it, sucking it, licking it in the exact rhythm he’d found with his fingers.

His hands slid up your thighs–warm and huge and trembling–and gripped your hips, holding you in place as he worshipped you with his mouth. Every movement, every wet sound echoed in the marble air. His groans blended with your broken moans, his tongue devouring you like he was starving.

You threw your head back, one hand flying to the counter behind you, the other tangling in his hair.

“Sentry–Bob–fuck…Both of you…Please–”You begged, panting like you were in heat. Your voice only fueled the hunger.

He growled into you, the vibration sending another jolt through your spine, and his hands tightened on your hips.

“I can’t get enough,” He groaned between strokes, voice wrecked and thick. “I could die here. Right between your thighs. Heaven and hell, all at once.”

You felt another orgasm building–fast, blinding–your breath catching with each wet circle of his tongue, each drag of his mouth over your clit, each filthy moan he spilled against your folds like worship.

And just before you shattered again, he looked up at you.

Eyes glowing gold. Lips soaked in you. His voice broke the last thread of restraint you had:

“Come for me again, goddess.”

And you did.

Violently. Beautifully. Every nerve ending setting alight with the crash.

You cried out his name–or maybe both their names–as the pleasure crashed through you, seizing your thighs around his head, dragging his mouth deeper as your body gave out.

But he didn’t stop.

He licked you through it, past it, deeper–drinking from the source like he’d promised, moaning like your taste rewrote his soul. When your body finally slumped against the mirror, still trembling, still slick and wide open for him, he rose slowly from his knees.

His lips were red. Glossed in your slick. His breath was heavy.

And when he leaned in again, cupping your face with one hand, you leaned into his touch like your neck had melted, jelly-soft and pliant beneath his palm. Your body still trembled in the aftermath of your orgasm–nerves frayed, thighs twitching, your breath a ghost of what it once was. His touch grounded you, burned you, and worshipped you all at the same time.

His gaze drank you in—lips wet, pupils blown wide and gold, voice dipped into something low and wicked as his mouth ghosted the edge of yours.

“What a great introduction, hm?” he murmured, the words dragging across your pulse like velvet-wrapped sin. “You’ve never really met me before… not like this.”

The tone in his voice was soft. Sweet, even. But beneath it was the weight of something divine. The kind of reverence that made your spine ache and your thighs twitch all over again. He kissed you before you could respond–slow and consuming, dragging the taste of yourself across your tongue as if to remind you what he’d just done.

You whimpered into it, and he smiled against your mouth, a low hum vibrating from his chest.

“But I’m not done yet,” He whispered into your lips–so soft, so sensual, it made you clench reflexively around nothing. His hand slid from your cheek to your throat again, not to grip–just to feel your pulse. To feel how hard it was racing beneath his palm.

“I’ve barely begun to show you what it’s like,” He added, nuzzling his mouth along your jaw, the edge of your ear. His voice was molten honey, golden and dripping into every breath. “To be worshipped by a god.”

His hand on your thigh curled inward again, slowly dragging up the bare, damp skin until his fingers slid between your folds once more. You gasped, your hips twitching against the marble counter as he stroked you lazily, like he was testing to see just how sensitive you were now. His lips ghosted over your jaw, kissing along your cheek until he reached your temple.

“You’re shaking again,” He murmured, tongue peeking out to taste the salt-sweet sweat clinging to your skin. “You gonna fall apart for me one last time, sunshine? Hm?”

You nodded without hesitation, breathless and dazed.

“Good,” He breathed, curling his fingers over your thigh again, dragging your legs open wider. You were still trembling when your hand reached down between your bodies, fumbling with the buckle of his belt.

He hissed quietly, the sound a shudder against your skin as you worked it open. The clink of the metal was deafening in the quiet of the washroom. You felt the tension in his body ripple the moment the leather slid free of the clasp—his hips pressing forward involuntarily as you popped the button of his jeans.

“W-We’re still in the club,” you whispered against his mouth, panting lightly, tasting yourself on his tongue. “People are gonna wonder where we are… I–we should deal with this and then go home. You can fuck me properly at the compound. I’ll let you take me apart in the shower. You’ll have me screaming your name all night, Bob, I promise–”

But he shook his head before you could finish.

One hand came up and cupped the side of your face, the other curled under your thigh again, holding you open with trembling reverence. He leaned in–kissed you hard, deep, so full of hunger it felt like he wanted to swallow your words down and burn them into ash.

“No,” He breathed against your lips. “No more waiting. We’ve waited long enough.” You felt the bulge in his jeans throb against your thigh as he growled, low and full of restrained power.

“I’m gonna fill you right here,” He whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, then lower–your cheek, your throat, your collarbone–every word pressed into your skin like a brand. “I’m gonna fuck you so slow and so deep, you’ll be leaking with me when you walk back out into that club.” His fingers brushed your jaw again, holding you steady, trembling. “And you won’t be able to do a thing about it.” You gasped as he said it, your fingers slipping under the waistband of his boxers, finding the velvet heat of him–hard, pulsing, so heavy in your hand.

“I’ll make you wait to clean up,” He murmured, kissing beneath your ear now, voice dark and golden, “Let you walk around soaked in me until we get back to the compound. Then I’ll take you again in the shower. I’ll fuck you slow under the water with your thighs shaking around my hips, and I’ll do it just to remind you…”

He kissed you–hard. Deep. With teeth clacking together, and tongues battling, before pulling back.

“…Who you belong to now.”

The words sent a sharp, hot pulse through your spine.

You could barely breathe.

He nudged his jeans down just enough, and you helped–sliding the fabric down over his hips with frantic hands until he was free. The thick length of him brushed your thigh, hot and pulsing, and when you looked down, your breath caught.

The tip glistened in the light from the pre-cum dripping out of it, the head was flushed a blush red as if it was dying to be inside you. He looked unreal–godlike–and you were dizzy from the sight of him alone.

Your thighs spread wider, instinctive. Wanton.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” He whispered hoarsely, his hand gripping the base of himself, guiding the tip to your slick folds. “So many fucking nights. I thought I’d die with the taste of you on my tongue and never get to feel this.”

And then–slowly–he pressed in.

The stretch made your breath catch, your spine arch, your thighs tighten. He was careful. Controlled. Like the act of entering you was a ceremony. You whimpered, body pulsing around him as the thick head of his cock breached your entrance, and then more. Inch by glorious inch. So slow it hurt. So perfect it made your eyes sting.

“Dear l-lord…” Bob groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, kissing the sensitive flesh there. “You’re–God–you’re gripping me like you were made for this…” You cupped his jaw, pulled his face up to look at you as he sank deeper, until your bodies were fully joined. Chest to chest. Heart to heart.

And that’s when you saw it.

His eyes.

The constant battle.

Blue–bright, tender, full of reverent awe. But flickering beneath? Gold. Liquid fire. Sentry. The god…Aching for more. Needing to lose control again. And for a moment–just one–Bob blinked like he was trying to hold them both together for you.

“Bob…” You whispered, stroking your thumbs over his cheeks. “I see you.”

He choked on a breath. His hips rolled, slow and trembling, dragging himself out an inch before sliding back in–smooth, deep, deliberate. His eyes fluttered shut and then open again, barely able to hold your gaze. You cupped his face tighter, grounding him. His body shook with restraint.

“You’re both here,” You moaned, barely audible. “And I want all of it.”

Bob groaned into your mouth and kissed you–so slow this time. Like he was memorizing the shape of your lips with his own. Then his hips began to move again. Long, fluid strokes. Deep, sensual. Every grind sent heat coiling through your belly, and every time he slid inside you, the air in your lungs thinned.

Your legs wrapped around his hips.

Your hands held his face like prayer.

And his thrusts grew stronger.

Still aching.

But with that edge.

That divine, desperate edge.

The god was surfacing through every roll of his hips, every whispered groan, every broken syllable of your name. You could feel it in the way he filled you–perfectly. Over and over. Each time deeper. Each time just a little more heated. His body coiled like a storm, the breath behind his moans glowing brighter with every thrust.

“Mine,” He groaned, forehead pressed to yours, “You’re mine. Always been mine…”

You nodded, clinging to him. “Yours.”

His hands gripped your hips tighter.

And the light in the room began to flicker.

As if the whole club could feel what was happening in the dark.

In the holy quiet, where gods and mortals broke together.

His thrusts became less measured–still deep, still slow, but trembling at the edges with something close to ruin. The kind of surrender that came from months of restraint finally breaking. Each roll of his hips ground deeper into you, filling you so completely you swore you could feel him in your chest. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting echoed in the marble air, obscene and beautiful.

You clung to him, fingers dug into the muscles of his back, your thighs tightening around his hips with every thrust. Your foreheads pressed together. Noses brushed. Breaths mingled.

And then his mouth found yours again.

You gasped into it–sharp and high as a particularly deep thrust hit the spot inside you that made your toes curl–and Bob moaned into your mouth like it tore something sacred from him. His tongue slipped between your lips, slick and hungry, tasting you with a reverence that made your chest ache.

You kissed him back like you were trying to memorize every second.

Tongue against tongue. Teeth catching lips. Moans swallowed between gasps.

“Y-Y/N,” He groaned, barely audible. “You feel so good. So fucking good around me–so tight. You’re pulling me in like you want to keep me forever.”

“I do,” You whimpered, voice cracking with need. “I want to keep you. All of you.”

And that broke something in him.

His thrusts deepened–slower, but harder now. Grinding into you so completely you could barely breathe. The counter beneath you shook. The mirror behind your spine rattled faintly with each rhythm, like even the room couldn’t hold this kind of heat.

You could feel him trembling–every muscle drawn tight beneath your hands, his hips beginning to stutter with every roll forward. His breath came out in harsh bursts against your cheek, and when he buried his face in the crook of your neck again, he let out the rawest moan you’d ever heard from him.

“I’m close,” He gasped. “Y/N–I’m gonna come. I’m gonna fill you–fuck–I wanna know that you’re going to be dripping me all night.”

You cried out, tightening around him. Your own orgasm was on the brink again–high, searing, right there at the edge.

“Do it,” You begged, voice breaking. “Come inside me, Bob. Please–need to feel it. Need to feel you lose control.”

His hips faltered–just once–and he groaned through gritted teeth, his body coiled like it couldn’t decide whether to detonate or dissolve.

And then–he reached between you again, his thumb finding your clit one last time.

“Come with me,” he whispered, voice burning gold and low and full of promise. “Let go, sunshine. Let go with me.”

You clung to him. Kissed him.

And you shattered.

Your cry tore from your mouth and into his as he kissed you again–hot, open, gasping. Your orgasm hit hard and fast, convulsing through your body as your walls squeezed around him like you never wanted to let him go.

And that’s when he followed.

His hips stuttered, slammed in deep one last time, and then he was moaning into your mouth–loud, guttural, his tongue still tasting you as he spilled inside you. You felt every thick, hot pulse of him, the way his body shook against yours, how he trembled through it like the pleasure was too much, too full, too holy.

You stayed like that.

Locked together.

Mouths still joined, breath shallow, bodies twitching in the aftermath.

When he finally pulled back just an inch, his lips ghosted over yours. His forehead dropped against yours again, and you felt him shake–every exhale breaking against your cheeks.

”J-Jesus…I-I think I was blacking out during that.” Bob laughed softly–still breathless, still inside you, his face pressed into the crook of your neck like it was the only place he knew how to breathe. You could feel him twitch inside you, still hard, still so achingly present even in the aftermath of all that heat. His breath was warm and sticky against your throat.

You laughed, too–just a little–low and shaken but real.

“I couldn’t tell who was in control,” you murmured, dragging your fingers gently through the sweaty strands at the back of his neck. “Hopefully he’s not mad I called him Bob.”

Bob pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, lips curling in a crooked grin that barely held together at the corners. He kissed you once–soft, quick, like a punctuation mark–before resting his forehead against yours.

“I’m sure h-he doesn’t care,” He said, voice hoarse and honey-warm, “He’s definitely shut his mouth now…H-He’s been talking my ear off all night. Especially when you were with that guy.”

You smirked, brushing your thumb along the curve of his cheek. “Sentry… The god of jealousy.”

Bob hummed a low, amused sound in his throat. “We were both jealous. He just…H-Has a really bad w-way of handling it.”

Then he turned slightly–still inside you, and you gasped at the movement—his body shifting as he reached out and slapped the silver button on the paper towel dispenser with the side of his palm. The mechanical whir filled the room in a way that felt both hilarious and wildly surreal.

“What are you doing?” You asked, brows furrowed in amused disbelief. Bob grinned, pressing a kiss to your neck, then leaned forward again to turn the faucet on with one hand.

“Making sure we don’t stain that pretty little dress,” He murmured, grabbing the paper towel and wetting it under the warm water. “It’s p-probably already ruined…But we shouldn’t make it worse, and w-we should at least do some damage control on it…I’ll pay for the d-dry cleaning.”

You laughed–really laughed this time–and he smiled into your skin like it was the best sound he’d ever heard. Bob gently wrung out the warm paper towel over the sink, his body still braced between your thighs, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. The faucet murmured behind him as he turned it off, and the only other sound was the distant thud of club music vibrating faintly through the floorboards beneath your heels.

Then he leaned back slightly, his hands moving to rest lightly on your hips as he looked down between your bodies to assess the aftermath.

He sucked in a quiet breath, eyes narrowing slightly. “Huh.”

You blinked at him, trying not to laugh. “What?”

Bob tilted his head, considering. “It’s not t-too bad,” He said, voice still rough and fond, “But I might have to ask you to c-clench a bit when I pull out–just so I can press this t-there and stop the cum from dripping out before you get your underwear on.”

Your brows lifted. “Sounds like a plan…Speaking of my underwear though…Where are they?”

Bob glanced around like he was replaying the last thirty minutes in his head, then leaned over your shoulder and reached for something just behind the soap dispenser.

“T-Thought they got lost,” He muttered with sheepish relief as he picked up the damp, balled-up fabric, still slightly warm from your skin. “Thank goodness t-that’s not the case… Would’ve been pretty bad if it w-was.”

You bit back a grin, your voice teasing. “Would’ve had to walk back out to the club bare underneath this dress, huh?”

Bob groaned softly, burying his face in your neck for a beat. “Don’t t-tempt me.” Then he pulled back again, lips brushing your cheek as he met your eyes. “Ready?”

You nodded once, steady, and clenched instinctively around him–tight, holding him for one last second. Bob hissed quietly at the sensation, groaned, and then slowly, gently pulled out.

The loss of him made you gasp–a subtle ache, a sudden emptiness–but he was already moving, already bringing the warm, damp towel between your thighs with a kind of reverent tenderness that made your breath hitch. His touch wasn’t clinical or rushed. It was slow. Careful. Like he was scared he’d hurt you if he moved too fast.

You watched him.

Watched the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his lower lip was caught between his teeth as he wiped you clean with the warm wet paper towel. It brushed between your folds with gentle pressure, catching his release as it began to spill out of you. He dabbed and swept delicately, making sure not to press too hard, his other hand holding your hip, grounding both you and him to the moment.

And the whole time, he was glancing up at you, watching your face–checking, silently, for any sign of discomfort.

Your chest swelled.

The intensity of it hit you like a fourth climax, softer this time–emotional instead of physical. This was Bob. Always Bob. The way he cared, the way he noticed, the way he never made you feel like you were too much.

You reached up, both hands rising to cradle his jaw as he finished, and his gaze flicked up to you just in time for your mouth to catch his.

You kissed him slowly–no hunger, no urgency. Just tenderness. Just that aching, quiet thing that had been living in both of you for months.

When you pulled back, your voice was hushed, but it carried all the weight of truth behind it.

“So…” You whispered, brushing your thumb over the very very light stubble along his jaw, “I guess we’re throwing that whole ‘no dating for the team’ thing out the window, huh?” Bob’s lips curled into the softest smile, something crooked and reverent and completely undone.

“S-Seems like it,” He murmured.

And then he kissed you again–gold-lit, warm, and entirely his.

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kenniesf1 · 2 days ago

Text

people we meet on vacation (pt. 4) | OP81

masterlist

pairing: oscar piastri x singer!reader (smau!)

summary: oscar and his childhood best friend, whose families always vacationed together, haven't seen each other in forever. maybe the f1 2025 season summer break is the time for them to rekindle?

tropes: friends to lovers, fluff, angst, social media + written, based loosely off of people we meet on vacation by emily henry

oscarpiastri

liked by lando, mclaren, and 1,043,918 others

oscarpiastri Kicking things off with the Belgian Grand Prix! Glad to be back, fully focused and rested.

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user75 YN IS NOT IN THE LIKES

user76 and he's lost all sense of aesthetic (*this post is a mess*) so ya something happened

user77 I don't think Oscar appreciates you guys talking about that girl if he doesn't like her ???

user78 what is with psychos like this who act like they know the drivers and hate on the women in their lives 💀

lando oscar piastri default emote

oscarpiastri 🙂

user79 he's soooo cuteeeee i want to squish him

mclaren Please don't, he's leading the WDC for us

charles_leclerc Can't wait to see you on the track 👍 liked by author

ediepiastri answer my texts hoe

oscarpiastri you're being annoying

georgerussell63 is yn coming to the race?

user80 NOTICE HOW OSCAR DIDN'T EVEN LIKE THE MESSAGE, EVEN THO HE LIKED EVERY COMMENT OTHER DRIVERS SENT

rolemodel nah dafuq

user81 something totally happened

quadlock Like a winner!

logansargeant Paddock pass 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

oscarpiastri ... girl i sent you one A WEEK AGO

logansargeant i feel so appreciated rn

yn.jpg

liked by rolemodel, mclaren, and 824,711 others

yn.jpg i'm so excited to announce i've returned to the studio!!! not only do i have an album coming out soon (will announce properly shortly), but i've also had the opportunity to make a cover of one of my favorite songs of all time with one of my closest friends. thank you, tuck, for recording with me and putting up with all my annoying, heart-eyes ranting. i've always liked to cover music, but i've never recorded those covers--you guys, as my lovely fans, have at concerts! so this cover of "everything has changed" is dedicated to you. it was mine (or, i guess, ours oscarpiastri) and now it's yours <3

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user81 GUYS I THINK IT'S HAPPENING

user82 IM TWEAKING OUT, I LITERALLY WAS SO CONVINCED THEY WERE OVER

user1 so nice to see mclaren back in the likes

lizzymcalpine AHHH I LOVE IT!!!

yn.jpg you've heard it already 😭

user83 guys am i the only one that clocked the ALBUM ANNOUNCEMENT????

rolemodel i did not consent to that photo oh hell nah the fuck

yn.jpg actually in that contract we signed, you gave away your right to photo dump approval

lando will listen!

user84 who thought yn would make lando into a swiftie

taylorswift Amazing!

yn.jpg i literally love you

user85 GIVE US THE ALBUM, LN

gracieabrams no crumbs. no notes.

yn.jpg take me on tour with youuuu

user86 where is the oscar comment?

user87 yeah, or the like. why is bro acting nonchalant, she basically just soft launched?

oscarpiastri playing everything has changed - yn ln, role model

liked by yn.jpg, nicolepiastri, and 1,432,009 others

oscarpiastri i love my girlfriend.

in other words...

yn, i've known you since we were little kids, fighting over rubber ducks and splashing in strong sea waves. everything you do amazes me and teaches me and inspires me. but it's not what you do that has made you so impossible to NOT be in love with (although it definitely helps), it's who you are. i can't believe it took me this long. sorry, love.

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yn.jpg i love you osc ❤️

user1 girl we've been SAYING

user88 slide 2 🥵

nicolepiastri Finally, you two got your shit together.

oscarpiastri mum 😭

lando nah, mrs. piastri, facts. stand on business queen.

hattiepiastri i deserve the credit, i did all the work

user89 yk what i see that. thank you hattie for your devotion to the ynoscar fandom 🙏

hattiepiastri i basically started it 💀

mclaren So cute!

alexandrasaintmleux don't mess this up piastri

oscarpiastri don't plan to 🫡

alex_albon i guess this makes sense... liked by author

kimiantonelli bro took my girl

oscarpiastri blocked.

user90 he does not PLAYYYYY

charles_leclerc when will i get to meet her, son?

yn.jpg you have ...

carlossainz55 ate down (is that what the kids say)

lando sure

user1 THIS IS MY ROMAN EMPIREEEEEEE

yukitsunoda you guys scared me there for a second

user23 you and me both

user8 glad i jumped ship

user1 🫶

logansargeant HE USED HER COVER OF A FRIENDS-TO-LOVERS SONG GUYS

user91 um logan?

ynoscarfan1 sorry, forgot to switch accounts

user1 HELPPPP-

yn.jpg posted a story!

flashback -> july 23rd, 2025 - 00:02

Somehow, they made it back to the hotel with their hands off of each other. The second the thick door to the room closed, Yn and Oscar grabbed each other, as if the mere centimeters between them had been too much distance. Maybe it was making up for the years they'd spent, living under the guise of "friendship". Kissing Oscar was everything Yn had dreamed of, but somehow, even her dreams weren't as good as the reality. Her hands in his soft hair, him pressing her gently against the wall. The slight curve of his lips, hinting at a smile--he was fucking perfect.

Oscar's hands felt steady on her hips, occasionally going up to brush a loose strand out of her face, lingering on her neck. He, too, had spent the last few nights imagining this, playing it over and over again in his head. He'd begun to feel like a mad man. Hence, him, too, being in awe of how much better it was to have her there, to hold her, rather than to imagine it in the edges of his closed eyes.

But it couldn't last all that long. "Stop," he said, directing the statement at himself rather than at Yn. "We should stop. Yn, please." She pulled away slowly, clearly struggling to stop, just as he was. Her beautiful eyes, the ones Oscar had gazed into a million times over, looked so confused and hurt. He made it quick. "We need to talk about this."

She pulled him in once more, ending the kiss right before thoughts of communication fled Oscar's love-ridden brain. "I know," she confessed, holding his hands and refusing to look away from the sight.

"I'm so scared," he admitted with the hope that that small big of raw honesty was enough to get her to look him in the face. It was. "I'm so scared, Yn. I've gone over it a million times over. This"--he gestured so tenderly between the two of them--"never ends well. I don't want to risk what we have--because we have so fucking much--for something that might not work."

Her head tilted naturally, as if getting a new angle would help her figure out just what to say. "Oscar," she finally stated, brushing her thumb against the side of his hand, "I like you. As a friend, I like you. And I get why you're scared. Up until tonight, I was so, so scared. I mean, do you think I want to lose you? No, of course I don't. Just the fucking idea of that had me keeping this you-and-me together thing hidden for years.

But I'm in love with you. I'm not afraid to say that now. I don't know for how long it has lasted or how long it will last, but I am. I've been trying to cope with the possibility of us not working out for my whole life, when really I should've been figuring out how to deal with the high fucking probability of us ending quickly. Because that's what'll happen if I don't tell you this right now. I can't just be friends with you. I don't think I was built for it.

I can't go on fucking vacation with you, sleep next to you, and be okay with having your hand brush against mine instead of hold it. I can't be friends with you. It fucking sucks and it's scary. But it's the truth. Don't we deserve to try, after all these years, instead of be bitter and repressed and die out fucking slowly?" No one had looked at him the way Yn was looking at him now.

"Yeah," he breathed out, his shoulders relaxing. "We do."

"Let's try," she said, more as a question than a decision. "Let's just say fuck it and try. I'm in love with you, Osc, I can't not try."

"Fuck," he said, pulling his hand back to run it through his hair. Oscar gave her another look. "I'm in love with you." This time, it was him to put his hands on the sides of her face, memorizing it before reaching out for yet another life-fucking-changing kiss.

"I'm so in love with you, Yn."

ANDDDDD that's a wrap on the people we meet on vacation! i really hope you guys enjoyed this little series because i had such a great time writing it! it means so much to me that there's even one person out there reading these tiny fics, much less more of you. what a whirlpool of a fic! i'm looking forward to writing more for you guys, so please don't hesitate to reach out with requests or recommendations or even feedback.

mine to yours,

kennie

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deesseshesca · 2 days ago

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Where is your second chance ?

OMG GUYS ! Just started a whole new book in my life ... I can feel it !

PILE 1

4 cups (reverse)

Honestly babe I would love to knock some sense into you or even tell you to stay focused but you are truly going through it. The reason why life is dragging by your panties is because of yourself but you need grace and a hug more than anything.

First thing first … I actually don't know what to say. I don't know if I should say sorry or tell you to seek help. So all I can type knowing it is true even if it is hard for you to believe rn… time will pass, the scar will heal and all will transform into a beauty mark. You guys have lost your love. I’m not talking about break ups … I’m speaking of death. No is nothing to be happy about because they were amazing lovers. They loved with all their might until their last breath. A lot of y’all you were literally the last thing on their mind before their body released their soul. It has been years now, for many of you at least but the pain is still there just translated in another way. You feel like seeking love again would be a betrayal. Some of y’all feel an unsaid pressure because you are still close to their family. For others you feel nobody is going to look at you with that many stars in their eye, be speechless because of your natural beauty, give you the amount of support in all your endeavors or even fill the spot you gave to them as your spouse and future parent of your child. You are like: ‘’What’s even the point of trying again …when I know damm well nobody will ever be as good as them’’. Instead of finding the where … you need to focus on the fact that healing is not linear. You may feel like you should be over the whole BS by now but babe grief is like a fever dream that would probably never cease. You learn to first deal, then cope and finally live WITH IT. It will never really vanish, that's an unrealistic expectation but remember the focus is to learn to LIVE WITH IT. Your second chance is on the other side of pessimism (when you are ready of course). When ultimately you are going to get over the guilt of falling in love with such a beautiful soul.

Extra messages : You have a very cute tooth gap. I feel before them you never like it but they appreciate your shy and awkward smile. What a pleasure I got to experience it. Babe don't kill yourself (your mental health) over the fact that you failed you driver liscence. Pick yourself back up and go ahead. No it does not define you. My mom got her license at 32 after failing 3 times. You got it babe !

PREVIOUS READING

2. PAC (FREE ) : Why you SHOULD BE petty ?

3. COLLECTIVE READING (FREE) : BLOSSOM.

4. FIRST EVER REAL YT VIDEO ;PAC : What's your toxic trait ?

(Go show some love babes ... XOXO)

PILE 2

3 swords (reverse)

Hey babe ! How are you doing ? Damn you are glowing and dare I say you ass got fatter ! That skin tho… we both know is not just skincare. Even though I must give you your 10¯ you have been for months now consistent in your self care. You finally got over that fuck up ex. I can't say it was toxic because he never did anything abusive but packed his stuff and left randomly. Or for some choosing his toxic family over you even tho you pour your all into them. As I am diving into your energy, it is completely clean, no residue of the confused spirit. Also I must applaud you because instead of crashing out or taking it personally… you move on and heal your wound never regretting the love you gave. I need to learn a thing or 2 from you …

Anyways I feel like you are a bit hesitant. Some of y’all are overthinking because you may be oversharrer. You are scared that you are making a fool of yourself. Also before going further, maybe not every woman on this planet is meant to be sexy, some are pretty and others beautiful. You are cute. There's many cute women. Believe there's many men that enjoy cute beauty. Don't fall into the propaganda. Do not touch that beautiful round face and don't you dare try to put your hands on some ozempic. You are healthy and you look like it. Futhermore you are happy so why are trying to fuck it all up because of beauty standart force upon us. Let's go back to the business that pays me, the person you are crushing hard on. I see you flirting hard and being charming. I love to see a spiritual girly shooting her shoot ( me : Yes … You should all learn from HER !). They find you quirky, charming and cute. They may have called you cute which disappointed you bit because they may be more on the handsome side. You think they are out of your league because they are smoking hot with their heigh,t muscles and tattoo. They also have colorful eyes and black hair with an amazing jawline. They genuinely fancy you babe. They are as smitten as you. They don't realise it… yet. They enjoy spending time with you. When you are not there, they go and look for you. They love hearing about all your unusual stories. No worries, no competition. My advice and I think this is where your second chance is; allow yourself to chase babe. You do the first step, flirt like no tomorrow and don't mind being a bit vulgar when you are under heat. Let yourself be the one to blush and be surprised. Is actually going to fasten the process on the person you plotting upon. Let them miss you …

PREVIOUS READING

2. PAC (FREE ) : Why you SHOULD BE petty ?

3. COLLECTIVE READING (FREE) : BLOSSOM.

4. FIRST EVER REAL YT VIDEO ;PAC : What's your toxic trait ?

(Go show some love babes ... XOXO)

PILE 3

Emperor (reverse)

Good evening my wild babes. How are you doing ? What’s going on, you guys seem to be more calm as of rn ? Are you guys resting before going all in for the official summer time ? I hope so because babe you are about to have a wild one.

‘’Mommy… Mamacita … A mom of what ? A real baby…’’. You guys may be bikers. Fuck the waiting for one or aint nobody seating around just waiting for some dick. You guys are the embodiment of that energy. If a man can, so can your pair of tits also. What makes it even better is that you guys have a rather bimbo aesthetic (which I LOVE. I have loved bimbos since I was a kid). You enjoy getting your nails done, you never miss a hair appointment, you have a perfect makeup base but at the same time you study at a trading school. Some of y’all are engineers others may actually be athletes. For a very small portion of y’all not only do you enjoy F1, you actually know how to ride fast car. In all your femininity, grace and playfulness fire is brewing and some of y’all have been manifesting that event for a hot minute now… a beautiful, submissive man is entering your life. This summer you are going to be honey to the bees. There's not a single man that is not going to try to shoot their shot, flirt with you or even pay for your drinks. You may also get a pass at the club like this summer pretty privilege are working over fucking time ! You are not new to this. You have always been a pretty girl and always receive attention. Yet you never actually dated. You refuse to settle until you HAVE it. Very bratty when it comes to the matter of the heart. A lot of y’all are virgin and never been in a relationship because you refuse to give it up until the PERFECT one comes through. The second chance you need to give is to the tarot community … lol. Maybe a lot of reading throughout the months or even years promise it to 2. I swear babe hes very fucking close.

PREVIOUS READING

2. PAC (FREE ) : Why you SHOULD BE petty ?

3. COLLECTIVE READING (FREE) : BLOSSOM.

4. FIRST EVER REAL YT VIDEO ;PAC : What's your toxic trait ?

(Go show some love babes ... XOXO)

#tarot #tarotcommunity #divination #tarot reading #tarot cards #pac #pick a card #pick a picture #pick a pile #free readings #free tarot readings #free tarot #intuitive guidance #intuitive readings #intuition #divine timing #divine guidance

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dragons-hoard-of-fandoms · 2 days ago

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MD fandom: You can't reduce N to just an uwu softboy and nothing else, that's a complete mischaracterization!! He has a kind heart and an optimistic outlook on life but that doesn't change the fact that he's a vicious predator with a multi-digit kill count who's not afraid to stand up for himself or others!!!

Evil Jax: is just an uwu softboy and nothing else

MD fandom: Lol he is literally N XD

#Murder Drones #Liam Vickers Animation #The Amazing Digital Circus #TADC #Digital Circus #TADC Episode 5 #Gooseworx #Glitch Productions #Serial Designation N #Murder Drones N #Evil Jax #The hypocrisy of this fandom truly knows no bounds #Unrelated but is it just me or was this episode super lackluster compared to 3 and 4 #I'm back to that 'Wow all of these characters are useless and annoying' feeling Episode 2 gave me #(Except Kinger Zooble and Gangle they are literally the only ones I care about now)#Am I just jaded and biased #Straight From the Dragon's Mouth

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curiousorigins · 2 days ago

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I was in a car accident a few years ago. I'll have a funny shaped bone probably for the rest of my life because of it. There was a serious delay in treatment, for many reasons... Then a few months into physical therapy, things are a little better. Like it doesn't hurt so bad, like it's still constant. (I got tendon related issues... I'll probably never go into the details deeper than that...tbh.). Then I end up staying the night at a friend's house... I wake up, pain is gone. (It did end up coming back... and there's reasons for this... but that's not the important part of this story.) I was in constant pain for around 3-4 years... and it went away (briefly) after a single night on a better mattress.

So inevitably I end up getting a new mattress when money happens. It's not even a super nice mattress. I spent $130 (on a new) mattress. First one in my entire life. I get something more on the firm end because that's what my friend's was. (Genuinely look up Old People reviews for them. Old people have all the health issues that future you might end up having. And Older Person is going to say if the mattress made them worse. Young Person might not notice.) I would say around 40% of my daily chronic pain literally went away with a new mattress.

(Also as it turns out, been in chronic pain for like 30ish years and didn't know it. Because it was constant from an early age... and feeling like that was kind of my default until post-one physical therapy appointment. Go to a good physical therapist. Don't settle for what your work recommenda from workers' comp. My sister did that and hers was a crapshoot as they were more worried about getting you back to work for the cheapest amount possible. Go somewhere else and send your work the bill. I went for Sport's Medicine because they have more injury knowledge, and understand what it takes to be fully active. I had a very labor heavy job then.)

Got a new pillow and in a fit of bougey-ness upgraded my old one to be a leg pillow. (Side-sleeper.) I'd say that those changes, mattress, and 2 pillows. Got me out of 70% of my daily pain. After that, Physical Therapy busted more. (Probably 80-90% pain reduction [90% being good days.] on the daily. With Physical Therapy.) I still have regular dislocations but they only mild hurt. (And honestly my pain scale is so broken after running on pain 24/7 for 30 years... that I don't notice it was dislocated until it shifts back. It'd probably happen less or maybe not again on the regular... if I was better at doing my exercises. But alas, routines are hard for me.)

But yeah, something like 70% of my chronic daily pain for the last 30 years was fixed for $200ish. Well worth it, and I'm worth that. Sometimes, even when you're struggling to pay to eat... you should try to invest in you. You only get 1 body. Wishing you all some health... and smart investments.

I saved up for worst things that had less of a positive effect on me. I just wish I had prioritized the mattress thing much earlier. Hope you all end up with enough wiggle room in the budget for similar positive impacting stuff.

I'm turning 30 this month, and for some reason have become suddenly interested in material possessions. like what if,,,,,,,,my couch was nice. what if my sheets were nice. is this what happens to you??

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spookysanta · 2 days ago

Text

Chapter 7: Just One More Night

Ongoing tags: [Modern Romance] [Slow Burn] to [Fireworks [Black!Reader] [Younger!Reader] [Reader is That Girl] [Obsessed Michael™] [So Much Eye Contact] [Vacation Fling] turns into [Something Real]

Potential TW/CW: [Swearing] [Light Sexual Tension] to [Eventual Smut]

Read Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6.

helloooo we're offically halfway through! again, thank y'all so much for your love on this fic. i'm really happy with how this story is unfolding, and as my first series since ending my hiatus, i feel really excited to bring this universe to life. i literally can't stop writing for this universe lmao. i can't wait for y'all to see what's in store for when michael meets the rest of the crew. also... this is my last three(ish) weeks of being 23. it feels weird. idk.

You could tell it was going to be a perfect day by how the sunlight poured through the windows.

There were alarm clocks, no rushed schedules. Just five women, half-asleep, scattered around the suite’s common area – on the couch, on the floor, and in chairs, warm with the ease of having nowhere to be but together.

Kris was the first one to stretch. Tati was the first to demand coffee. You were the first to check your phone – quietly, a bit too quickly – heart tugging at the possibility of his name.

You smiled into the pillow. A soft, warm kind of smile that bubbled up from your chest. The “he didn’t forget me, even when I’m busy” kind.

–

Melrose Avenue was loud in all the best ways. Your group took over sidewalks and storefronts, music playing in earbuds, fingers trailing over expensive fabrics, squeals from the dressing rooms, “Oh, that’s the one,” erupting from every corner of every boutique.

Lex bought boots she didn’t need. Tati flirted – or, according to her, “asked nicely” – her way into a free tote. Nas found a lip gloss that made her gasp. You tried on a dress that made everyone scream.

“Oh, you’re wearing that when we go out tonight,” Kris said flatly. “I will not be taking no for an answer.”

“I–”

“You’re wearing it.”

You nodded, afraid to rebut.

After the escapade of shopping, lunch was late and leisurely. It was at a cute bistro on the corner, with patio seating that seemed to stretch for a mile – umbrellas on the rooftop deck, cups sweating on the table, and mini flutes of mimosas turning into a carafe of sangria.

You shared plates, hand to fork to bite, not caring at all who ordered what because everything was for everyone.

The lunch was filled with laughter that took over your whole body. You were a little sun-dazed. A little tipsy. But very, very happy.

And no one mentioned Michael, but he was there: in your phone, in the ache at the base of your spine, and in the way your eyes softened when the girls weren’t looking.

Back at the hotel, the suite turned into a glam bunker, with hot tools on every counter, foundation spilled across makeup bags, and music blasting loud enough for the people down the hall to hear the “heyyy!” every time a new outfit hit.

Tati put on a black leotard with light wash denim shorts and an oversized bomber jacket. Lex was hellbent on wearing the black and red corset she bought earlier that day, pairing it with a deep red skirt. Nas opted for a dark wash denim minidress. And Kris… Kris put on leather pants that made her ass look illegal, hugging her in the right places. She, of course, made it a point to show off to her fiancé, Jamal, on FaceTime, who took no time to say as a warning, “Kris, don’t make me fly out there”.

You stepped out into the common area last. You put on an off-shoulder leather top, paired with tiger print bottoms with a lace-up front. The ass was sitting, and you were showing just enough cleavage to complete the look.

The girls went silent for just a moment.. And then all hell broke loose.

–

Dinner was luxurious: a private dining room on the back patio of a restaurant you didn’t remember booking, all arranged by Nas somehow. The ambiance was fancy to the nines, with a candlelit atmosphere and smooth jazz kissing your ears through the speakers.

Tati told the waiter it was your birthday just to see what would happen, which resulted in the whole wait staff singing “happy birthday” as they brought out a dessert that came with sparklers and a free bottle of prosecco.

You were breathless by the end of it, tired, but the good kind. The kind that meant that you laughed until your abdomen ached and your cheeks burned.

Back in the suite, shoes (and bras) came off immediately. Half-zips of suitcases and purses, makeup wipes, wine glasses refilled. Then someone put on a speaker and yelled, “KARAOKE!”

You all took turns. From “Cater 2 U”, “No Scrubs”, and an especially dramatic version of “Weak” by SWV that had everyone on the floor clutching throw pillows and singing like you were being paid for it.

By 11:45 PM, you were stretched out in leggings and a tank top, makeup mostly gone, thighs sore from dancing, phone in your hand. Your phone chimed with a text notification that you didn’t even have to see to know who sent it, after having texted him throughout the night.

You padded to your room, rummaging through your suitcase to put on a hoodie, some shorts, and a pair of slides, checking your pockets once again, you palmed for your keycard, phone, and wallet.

Sneaking toward the door, you almost made it past the couch, when: “Where do you think you’re going?”

You’d only made it five steps, turning around sheepishly at the group, still settled into the common room like schoolgirls at a slumber party. Tati didn’t even look up from her phone. “I–I was just–”

“Is that his hoodie?” Kris asked, pointing a manicured finger in your direction, already knowing the answer since she’d seen him wear it at some point during the week.

“Babe,” Lex added with a laugh, “Not you thinking you’re smooth. We heard you leave the room to change.”

You groaned. “Y’all are so annoying.”

Nas shooed you from the armchair, her legs sprawled out across the chair’s arms as she laid horizontally. “Yeah, yeah,” she mumbled, “Be safe, hoe.”

“Text when you get there,” Tati nagged. “We’ll let you live.”

You smiled to yourself and slipped out the door. Once you made it downstairs, he was waiting for you just outside the lobby just as he promised, leaning on the passenger side of the car like he was posing for a cologne ad – hoodie up, one hand in his pocket, the other opening the door like this was already his. “You’re not very sneaky.”

You slid into the seat, scoffing playfully at his statement, “Neither are you. Says the guy pulling up in his Escalade.”

He kissed your cheek, then your mouth – soft, sure. “Jokes on you, I wasn’t trying to be.”

He decided to reserve the penthouse suite in a hotel across downtown, clearly deciding at the last minute to spoil you more than he already had. Part of you thought this was a gesture to reconcile for yesterday, but another part of you knew he was just being over the top.

The suite was quiet when you stepped inside. Low golden light pooled near the bed, one lamp on, the rest of the room blanketed in shadow. The curtains were drawn, the air cool. Music played low from a speaker tucked somewhere behind the minibar, humming something slow and instrumental, all bass and breath.

Michael didn’t speak right away, but instead watched you close the door behind you. He watched you walk across the room and take in the way everything was already waiting.

There was water on the nightstand. A folded towel. A single robe laid neatly at the end of the bed. “You really weren’t playing,” you said, soft.

His voice dropped, velvet and gravel. “I meant it when I said I wanted to see you.”

You stepped toward him, hoodie still on, hair in a bun, eyes full of a hundred things you hadn’t said yet. “You gonna kiss me or just stare all night?”

He smiled, kissing you slow.

It started soft. His hands cradling your face, lips only just brushing. Fingertips tracing your jaw, your spine, your waist like he’d missed mapping it with his hands. “You had a good night?” he murmured against your cheek.

“Yeah.” You replied with a slight nod.

“You look like you did.”

You laughed a little, breathy, barely there, and buried your fingers in his hoodie. “I missed you,”

“I know,” he said, kissing your temple. “I missed you too.”

Then he kissed you like he meant it. Like the whole day had been aching for this. Like his mouth had been hungry for yours since the second he walked away yesterday.

Your hoodie – it was actually his, but still – came off first. Then his. Then your tank top, then his shirt.

He eased you on the bed, pulling you on top of him. Your body melted into his, slow and easy, like there was no in-between anymore. His hands mapped your thighs, your waist, the curve of your back, eyes heavy, his voice deeper now. “I wanna take my time with you.”

You nodded.

“Wanna make you feel good,” he added.

“You do.”

He leaned up, kissed your neck. “Not like this yet.” Flipping you gently, he laid you back on the pillows, pulling your shorts off menacingly slow, running his hand up the inside of your thigh. His fingers brushed your pussy and came back soaked. He groaned at the feeling. “This wet for me?”

You nodded, dazed.

He pressed a heavy kiss to your mouth. “Good. I plan on ruining you.”

And he made good on his promise: first with his mouth, tongue deep and unhurried, sucking your clit with slow rhythm, not rushing the build. Then with his fingers, pressing two inside you, curling against that spot that made your knees jerk and your back arch. “Yeah, right there,” he murmured. “That’s what I wanted.”

He watched you cum, basking in the way your body shook, the way your chest rose and fell breathlessly, the tear that slipped down your cheek when it got too good.

“You feel that?” he whispered, kissing your inner thigh. “That’s me. Doing that to you.”

He stripped himself down, stroking his cock in one hand, spreading the precum over his shaft. He positioned himself at your entrance, the palm of his free hand pressing into the mattress next to your head.

Then he slid in. But it wasn’t sweet – it was deep. Completely filling you to the hilt, pushing against your cervix so sweetly you wanted to cry.

His hand moved to wrap firmly around your throat, his body pressing down over yours. “You love this dick, don’t you?” He grunted, his voice right at your ear.

You moaned in response, but that wasn’t good enough.

“Say it.”

“I love it – I love it, Michael–”

“Damn right, you do. You need it.” He fucked you slow… Then rough… Then mean. Like he’d been waiting months for this. Like he didn't have you splayed out like this 48 hours ago. Like every second away from you had to be earned back stroke by stroke.

He flipped you over, gripping your hips. His thrusts were relentless, and he added fuel to the fire when he slapped your ass and moaned when you clenched around him. “You’re not leaving this bed until I feel you cum on me again.”

You were sobbing now, moaning incoherent babbles into the mattress. You were absolutely wrecked, drool escaping nastily from your mouth, your lips spit-glossed and your body limp.

He reached under you, rubbing your clit perfectly. “Yeah. That’s it.”

Your body tightened, feeling another orgasm wash over you. And just like he knew your body already, he grunted in reply.

“Let it go.”

And that was it. You couldn’t fight the orgasm off anymore. You screamed into the pillow, his thrusts never ceasing as he made you ride it out.

He followed shortly behind you. You, however, were still twitching from the aftershocks when he came – deep inside, groaning against your back, muttering your name like a prayer. Then, he collapsed next to you. “Only you tonight. Only you.” he whispered against your skin

The room was still, just the low hum of the air conditioner and the sound of your breathing, deep and staggered, like your body hadn’t quite come down yet.

Michael shifted, didn’t speak. He reached for the towel he’d laid out earlier – warm now from the residual heat of the room – and slipped from the bed quietly.

You rolled onto your back, your limbs loose, thighs trembling.

He came back, knelt beside the bed. “Lift up for me,” he mumbled.

And you did, slowly, still hazy, and let him clean you gently. There wasn’t any rush. No words exchanged. Just soft touches and reverence.

He tossed the towel into the hamper, pulling the covers back and sliding into bed beside you, bare chest warm and broad, arms open and waiting. You curled into him without a word.

He kissed your hair, then your forehead. “You good?” he murmured.

You nodded. “Better than good.”

“Yeah?”

He felt you nod against his skin. “Yeah.”

The silence stretched. Not awkward, just full of weight neither of you wanted to break. Until you whispered, “I don’t want this to end.”

He took a breath. “It doesn’t have to.”

“I'm going home in two days.”

He shrugged, “I’ll fly out.”

You blinked in surprise, eyes glancing up to meet his.

“I mean it,” he said softly, his eyes boring back into yours with ease. “You’re not just a vacation for me.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

“...But it scares you.”

You nodded.

He ran his thumb along your cheekbone. “We’ll figure it out. Okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

You smiled. A little broken, a little bashful. “I don’t really do long-distance.”

“Then we'll make it short-distance,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll come to you. And you come back to me.”

You stared at him, eyes wide. “You want that?”

“I want you.”

He pulled you closer, pressing your cheek on his chest. The sound of his heart slowing under your palm. And in the quiet that followed, he asked, “Stay with me a little longer?”

You nodded, letting yourself fall asleep in the arms of something that finally felt safe.

–

It was still dark when you stirred.

You weren’t awake – at least, not enough to open your eyes – but felt the soft, drowsy pull of consciousness shifting beneath your skin. You felt the ache first, sitting low in your belly, in your thighs, in the delicate curve of your throat where his hand had held you last night.

You were wrapped in warmth. In blankets.

His chest behind your back, breath slow and deep at your shoulder.

You felt safe. Like… you could do this. With him.

You settled there for a while, letting the memory of hours before bloom against the silence. The way he had touched you, the way he had seen you. Not just your body, but the way you’d kept your voice low when you were scared. The way you tried not to ask for too much. The way your breath caught when he said your name like it meant something.

He hadn’t let go of you once.

And by the time you turned to face him, the room had shifted just enough to catch the first edge of daylight. Michael was already awake, propped up slightly against the pillows, one hand beneath his head, the other resting gently across your hip. His eyes, warm and quiet, were on you like they’d never left.

“You weren’t gonna say anything?” you whispered.

“I didn’t want to break it.”

“Break what?”

“This,” he murmured. “Us. Here. Now.”

Your heart skipped as he reached down, the backs of his fingers brushing your cheek. “I know you have to go back… There’s still a lot we haven’t figured out,” He sighed. “But right now, you’re the only thing I care about.”

You didn’t speak. Or rather, couldn’t. Not with the way he was looking at you like you were something he’d been praying for without knowing the words.

“And I know it’s been quick,” he continued, low and steady, voice never faltering. “But I already know that you’re it for me. I just want to make sure you know that.”

Tears pricked the corner of your eyes. You touched his face, the pads of your fingers tracing his jaw, drawing a line to the soft fullness of his bottom lip. “I know,” you whispered back. “I feel it, too.”

He kissed your forehead. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth. Then, he held you close again. And you stayed that way, even as the sun crept in. Like time had finally slowed for just the two of you.

Tags: @blackisy2k @hamzahsf4vg1rl @siasoup @heyyimmisunderstood @mirathebookworm @iluvv.angel @blondfortheweekend @Plan3tCh1ld @remcycles @browngirldominion @smokestackenrgy @marvel-dork98 @chaneajoyyy @jackierose902109 @Secretisme4 @marley1773 @wrldfantasy @remcycles @bxrbie1 @pinkprincessluminary @honestlyurslol @bxrbie1 @uhhh-nunyabidniz-heaux @nybearsworld @eclecticblkgirl @corvusmorte @yallsuck-00 @glambyk @Siqeth @omg-mymelaninisbeautiful @xoxo-lai @perfectlyimperfectme @Mea-bby @kianaleani @prettiest1ittleliar @Mejustme06 @kpop-servant @kneelarhmstrung @rossie-things @thatssonani @esachicaa @ajenae @adornn4jadaa @Kindofaintrovert @bigpumpum18 @famousphilosopherwombat @Transparentphantomface @omg-mymelaninisbeautiful @theesmartblonde @-harmonytbh @jiminsjams123 @li-da-savage @Fckwritersblock @christinabae @Tianna-blanche @queenofklonnie22 @marley1773 @Secret89sblog @secretisme4 @nybearsworld @jackierose902109 @spideyxakmighty2 @rossie-things @Sharpaysbestfriend @chrome-edition @Mulanii9 @blackgurlkillinit @soniaangels @pinkprincessluminary @bxunyx @venusesworld @flipsidefever @dangerouslylunarwind @writingsbytee @sheabutterbabes @c-grace56 @turbulentvoids @Stankface @mimellowdi @vintigepimpzinio @bedstarz @thesmutconnoisseur @iceyyycapsicle @theesexyyaquariuss @lovey-3 @sowhatariyana @ariiaellbtheedonn @melinatedlifeline @Nyifly22 @Jayyybird221 @pinkpantheris @naenae479 @Keaenzie @melinatedlifeline @Smokestackenergy @tyneshaaa @fanfictiononly4 @Jayyybird211

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nobylerdoubt · 2 days ago

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Let's Analyze - Mileven's Gender Roles

Quick Note: A while ago I had you vote on what the next Let's Analyze post will be. The vote decided the next post would be about Season 2 Mileven. Given that I am now hosting a weekly Stranger Things rewatch party, I'll be re-watching the whole of Season 2 soon, and I would rather wait until I can watch the season as a whole to make a Season 2 analysis, rather then going through to watch the clips individually.

So I somewhat recently finally watched @teambyler's 3 hour byler legal defense video. Many of you already know this, but it's VERY good.

One point made in the defense of Mileven in this video is that Mike and El's relationship is unique in storytelling because they actually have reversed gender roles.

El takes on the masculine role as the one who has strength and power, and Mike takes on the feminine role of emotional support and caretaking (think about season 1 - Mike literally housed, clothed and fed her). Mike talks about this in the van scene.

In our VHS Club Discord Chat, @zarzar769 and @noneedtoargue1994 talked about how we can use these reversed gender roles to understand the flaws of their relationship better.

So I don't know if it's a universal thing or if its because I'm a woman, or a liberal, or whatever combination of circumstances - but I have a tendency to understand the perspective of a woman in heterosexual relationship conflicts, over that of the man.

And I feel like this seems to be a common experience when it comes to Mike and El's relationship. A lot of people call Mike an asshole, asking how could be so obtuse, so mean.

We understand where El comes from a lot more.

When we flip in genders and consider it in a new way, we can see their relationship a bit more evenly, and better understand how they are mutually bad for each other.

In this post we're gonna focus on the fights and conflicts in Season 4:

Rink-o-Mania

Mike: Holy shit, El... What did you do? What did you do?!

Now in this scene it is easier for us to see El's side of this, and judge Mike for yelling at her. We've seen what Angela has done to El, at school, on the rink, and moments before hitting her with the roller skate. We understand El's perspective here, and Mike can seem kind of obtuse for not understanding why she did what she did.

But look at this scene with a flipped gender perspective: Mike has just watched her boyfriend hit a girl (someone who we perceive to have less strength and power then El) hard enough to cause her to bleed. For a man, who has more strength and power than the person they've hurt, no amount of hurt the other person has caused them would justify this kind of violence. From this perspective, is it easier to understand why Mike would be horrified and accusatory?

I'm not saying what El did was right or wrong, regardless of what gender she is. These situations hold a lot of nuance.

"From Mike"

I've recently gone more in depth with this argument in this post.

In this scene, again, we're meant to empathize with El. She's been bullied and Mike wouldn't understand. She withholds the information that she's being bullied because while Mike is here she just wants to pretend everything is okay.

But from the flipped gender perspective we can contextualize why she's hiding this from Mike a little bit more. El is the man, he is strong, and has people in his life who expect and rely on him to remain strong - including, and perhaps especially, his girlfriend. Therefore, he can't let this weakness affect him, and he especially can't let his girlfriend see that this weakness effects him.

Does this seem like something you've heard before?

On the flip side you have Mike, the girlfriend, who wishes El would have told her about the bullying, because she understands - she could have helped him.

In this argument you also get El denying Mike's experience with bullying, saying that he doesn't understand. On a semi-unrelated note Mike and El actually have a conversation similar to this in season 1 episode 3:

But looking at this conversation with a flipped gender perspective, what we see is El not letting his girlfriend in - not letting her know his true feelings and struggles, because she can't understand. Why wouldn't she?

To phrase it how I phrased it in our discord chat - you'd be telling this girl that she should has an emotionally unavailable boyfriend. But it's Mike, the boy, who isn't noticing El, the girl's emotions, so instead we blame him for not noticing her feelings. he's not allowed to be frustrated because he should have known.

I'm not saying what El or Mike did was right or wrong, regardless of what gender she is. These situations hold a lot of nuance.

Conclusion

Both El and Mike are responsible for the deterioration of their relationship.

El holds the power in the relationship - both literal and figurative. He is stronger and more powerful than Mike, but she also is the sole reason they're in a relationship at all. She's the reason when they break up, and the is the driving force when they get back together. She feels a need to be strong, to be Mike's superhero, and that comes with the emotional burden of feeling like a monster and feeling as though she can't express her feelings with Mike.

Mike is not in the power position and he wants to be; he doesn't necessarily more strong or more powerful the El or any partner, but he wants to be needed. He wants to feel like he has a say in their relationship rather than everything being out of his hands. The one aspect of their relationship where Mike has ever felt needed is being in the care position - when El needed him for protection, for shelter, for food, for emotional support, and now she doesn't. Which makes him frustrated - frustrated that she won't let him help her, and frustrated that he feels he can't do anything for her. Which leads him to, at times, ignore her needs out of frustration - kind of like, 'well you don't need me anyway, so why should I try?'

No matter who's "side" you're on, this relationship isn't healthy for either of them.

Tag List: @a70smatthew @maddyxroses

#byler #stranger things #byler endgame #byler doubt

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lune-moon-nuit · 3 days ago

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The General Audience Already Understood — It’s Just Heteronormativity Talking

Actually, I noticed something: aside from the Milevens who craft their own narratives based on illusions and fantasies, and the hardcore homophobes who only want Mileven to be endgame so that the idea of a gay couple among the main characters in one of the most-watched series in the world never becomes a reality — the general audience has clearly understood where Mileven stands. They just don’t see Byler as the future simply because of pure heteronormativity.

Honestly, out of everyone around me who’s watched all four seasons of Stranger Things (people who are not part of the fandom, just the general audience — and trust me, there are a lot; I was actually the only outcast who hadn’t watched it for a long time), every single one of them came to the same conclusions: Mike and El are not a happy couple, their relationship as it is now is unhealthy, and the monologue didn’t fix anything.

When I ask them if they think Mike and El are still together in season 5, the majority say they’re probably not — that it felt obvious from El’s cold reaction to Mike at the end of season 4. And unanimously, they all say they hope they’re no longer a couple because they make no sense and have no future. Every single one of them — without exception — said that Mike and El would be much happier as just friends and that their bond would thrive better that way.

And here’s the thing: they didn’t even notice Byler in the sense that most of them didn’t pick up on, or don’t even consider, the idea that Mike might have feelings for Will in return. All they understood is that Will is in love with Mike and that he sacrificed his own feelings for the sake of Mike and El’s happiness. They all feel deeply for Will and hope he finds happiness — that he ends up truly loved. They also feel for El and want her to grow and thrive. And they’re frustrated with Mike for failing to make El happy and for not noticing Will’s feelings (and they also say they just “don’t get” Mike anymore because “he changed after season 3”).

From what I’ve seen online, this seems to be the dominant opinion. The only piece missing for people — the one puzzle piece that would make everything crystal clear — is Mike’s point of view. That’s what would explain everything: why does Mike change so drastically the moment puberty hits in season 3? Why is it that the second Mike and El become a couple, their relationship becomes all about conflict and distance? Why are they never on the same wavelength if they’re supposed to be the show’s “endgame”? Why is Mike unable to say “I love you” in season 4?

“Poor Will, he’s willing to give everything out of love for Mike, but that idiot doesn’t even realize it. Wake up, Mike! Damn — doing all that for a couple that doesn’t even work? What a waste! It’s ironic that Mike is dating El when he spends literally the entire season 4 with Will and seems way more emotionally comfortable and understood with Will than with his girlfriend.” — These are literally the words my family and friends used when talking about the topic — and mind you, I hadn’t even mentioned Byler at all.

So when that final puzzle piece — Mike’s thoughts and feelings — is finally revealed, I swear the general audience is going to have that classic realization: “Aaaah — so that’s what it was! Now everything makes sense.”

But even without Byler, people already understand that Mileven is not a happy, healthy couple. If Will wasn’t even in the picture, they’d still be saying the exact same thing: those two just don’t belong together.

Before I became a Byler, I was just part of the general audience. I watched all four seasons without any outside opinions from the fandom or the internet. And yes, I noticed there was a bit of ambiguity between Mike and Will starting in season 2, but it was subtle. It was only through the accumulation of all their scenes through to the end of season 4 that I became completely certain Byler was endgame. But even before I reached that point, seeing Mileven as a romantic couple never made sense to me.

And honestly, if Mike isn’t a closeted gay boy in love with his best friend, then nothing he’s done with El since season 3 makes any sense — and it would make him the worst boyfriend ever written. That is, without question, the only logical and valid explanation for the drastic shift in his character that nobody failed to notice. Mike literally went from being everyone’s favorite character in seasons 1 and 2 to being one of the most disliked — and it’s all because of that change in behavior, which is clearly tied to the love triangle dynamic and the fact that he’s a closeted gay teen in the 1980s.

I know I’m going off on a tangent here, but my point is: I understood it. The general public around me — and online — understood it too. What’s keeping them from putting it all together is just the filter of heteronormativity that blinds them from seeing the answer that’s been right in front of us the whole time.

The people online who are aggressively against the idea of Byler are either Milevens deep in denial or homophobes who probably voted for Trump. Everyone else — the actual general audience, the people who are too busy touching grass, working jobs, and living actual lives — they got the message.

If season 5 reveals that Mike is in love with Will by finally giving us his point of view, it won’t be “out of nowhere.” It won’t be some shocking twist. It’ll be the kind of reveal that clicks into place like the end of a good mystery — like when you find out who the killer is in a movie and realize the clues were there all along: in the background, in the dialogue, in the pacing, in the way the story was told (I’m thinking Scream, for example, with Billy and Stu). And audiences love that.

Right now, they just want a clear answer to one question: What is wrong with Mike? And that’s exactly why the Duffers and Finn Wolfhard have said that we’ll see the “old Mike” again in season 5 — the one from seasons 1 and 2 — because we’re finally going to get his perspective. We’ll finally understand what he feels and what he thinks.

#stranger things #mike wheeler #will byers #stranger things analysis #stranger things theory #mike wheeler analysis #eleven stranger things #eleven hopper #byler proof #byler #scream 1996 #media literacy #general public #general audiences #pride month #lgbt pride

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butchpeace · 3 days ago

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1. You’re right, the 80% figure was from an old study that didn’t differentiate between those two things. But if you really think they’re correctly differentiating between “true trans” and gender nonconforming kids now, you’re way too naive.

2. If trans people have “literally always been here”, and being trans isn’t influenced by the way cultural norms affect psychology, why have we seen a massive increase in trans identification in young females? Why do I repeatedly hear from young people that they have tons of other kids (mostly girls) identifying as trans in their school class?

Are you of the opinion that there are “fake trans people” and “true trans people”? Interesting if so, considering implying that anyone isn’t “valid” would get you labeled instantly as a terf.

3. Of course every medication has risks. But in a responsible medical system, those risks are constantly being assessed, and treatment with the drug in question is always subject to reassessment and the entire use of that drug could be discontinued when the harm outweighs the benefit. I can see that happening within a few years for testosterone use in females, because there’s new research coming out, and none of it looks good.

But really l’m done with trying to convince people this is bad for us. It’s just common fucking sense that a woman shooting up high doses of testosterone for years on end isn’t going to have good health over the long run.

And can you think of any other case where medications that are understood to be very obviously harmful (to anyone with a developed adult brain) are used on people with a mental illness? Is there any other situation that’s even remotely similar to attempting to physically change someone’s sex in response to them being psychologically distressed? And in situations where the reason for the distress isn’t properly diagnosed and treated?

4. Are you not aware of the informed consent system in the US? For about a decade now, the situation has been that anyone can walk into a gender clinic, have a short meeting with a therapist, and be put on hormones within 2 weeks.

Puberty blockers and hormones for minors have had slightly more obstacles to access, but don’t you think that’s necessary considering the fact that we’re talking about children?

Kids don’t even remember what they ate for dinner the previous week, they’re extremely suggestible because they’re still making sense of the world, and they’re not mentally or emotionally mature enough to process what they’re feeling the way an adult does.

If an adult tells a kid that if they like pink and princesses and wearing dresses, maybe they’re a girl, and starts treating the kid like a girl, what do you think is going to happen in that kid’s brain?

You’ve studied psychology — Do you genuinely think the kid would say “No I’m a boy, I just like feminine things because I’m gay!” We’re talking about pre-pubertal children here. Kids believe what their parents tell them.

If you think it should be easy for any kid to go to a doctor and get put on blockers…I hope you never have children, because you have no idea what children even are, let alone what’s best for their health and happiness.

And in fact, it has been shown that the vast majority of kids who are going through those treatments are same-sex attracted. They quite literally are shooting up gay kids with blockers and hormones, over a supposed condition that no one can scientifically prove even exists.

Even if being “true trans” is real, there are still kids who aren’t trans who are being transitioned at young ages. I know because I’m friends with them. Most consider what happened to them to be a form of child abuse, or medical abuse of a minor that should be illegal. Many of them have lasting health issues caused by blockers and hormones, and the psychological trauma they go through from having these changes happen to them at such a young age is typically immense.

This is a major fucking catastrophe, and if you don’t think something needs to change in order to mitigate that harm, I have nothing else to say to you.

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rawrfrferrari · 5 hours ago

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Bad Romance | MV 1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x girlfriend!oc

Type: SMAU, PR Relationship.

[Request and Taglist] [Masterlist]

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.

f1wagsofficial

Liked by maxverstappendaily, maxlanaupdates and others

f1wagsofficial Spotted: Alana arriving solo two days in a row for FP & Quali while boyfriend Max Verstappen took the back entrance into the paddock.

Cameras caught only a few interactions, but let’s see what Sunday brings.

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gridgirlie she literally looked stunning yesterday I would also want to make a solo entrance

wifeverstappen lmao that fake couple arc lasted like 3 weeks

f1wagstea i don’t blame her. fake or not, she’s gotta protect her peace lol

redbullbabe33 maybe she’s letting max focus?? she doesn’t have to be glued to him lol

username1 idk they both seem chill… not everyone’s gonna cling for clout

lecfosi16 wasn’t she supposed to be at the garage? hmm

→ f1wagsofficial I think she was in the garage for quali, rest of the time she was I the club with his mother.

username2 first the kiss leak, now this… they were never meant to be.

maxlanaupdates maybe it’s to avoid giving the press too much too soon?

tifosiangel not y’all assuming they’re breaking up cause she showed up in her own car 😭

alana.miller

📍Monaco Grand Prix

maxlanaupdates

Liked by f1wagsofficial, maxlanaupdates and others

maxlanaupdates Max and Alana shows up at paddock together. Also Alana was also spotted going to the garage with his mother.

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redbullbabe33 She fits in like she’s been there all the time.

maxlanaschild Her walking ahead to give the journalists space to interview max.

wifeverstappen Max isn’t smiling like that… he looks tired not happy.

username1 Max really upgraded tbh 👀

trulylandhoe I feel like Lando’s definitely teasing Max about this rn 😂

maxyfanforever She got the mom approval y’all. IT’S REAL.

username2 Can she chill for one race? Just one?

teamalanam The way she waved at the cameras all sweetly 🥹

tracktales Too fast, too PR-coded for me.

TO LANDO'S PARTY

Max was behind the wheel, one hand gripping the steering lightly, the other resting on the gearshift. He hadn’t spoken in a few minutes, just the soft hum of the engine and occasional chatter from the outside world slipping through the barely cracked window.

Alana glanced sideways at him. His jaw was clenched, eyes fixed on the road, but not in the angry way she’d feared.

"You good?" she asked gently.

He nodded, but then shook his head. "Not really. P4 feels like a loss when you’ve been fighting for the top since round one."

"You drove hard," she offered. "It wasn’t your fault, strategy was all over the place."

Max sighed. "It’s not even about the position anymore. I just... I don’t feel like I’m enjoying it right now."

Alana stayed quiet for a beat, then said, "You’re allowed to be tired of something, even if you’re good at it."

He gave a soft, humorless laugh. "Problem is, I’m expected to be good at it. No room for tired."

The car rolled to a slow stop at a red light. Max leaned back, drumming his fingers lightly against the steering wheel.

"But hey," he said suddenly, the corner of his mouth twitching up. "Lando won today! That made it better. I saw how happy he was when he got out of the car."

Alana smiled. "He deserves it."

"Yeah. I told him after the cooldown lap. ‘Bout time someone shut us all up." He chuckled.

She said, adjusting her hair in the rearview. "Finally, You've stopped sulking."

He shot her a sideways look. “I’m not sulking. You’re annoying."

"But I'm right."

The light turned green. He shifted gears and they eased forward, city lights starting to flicker more vibrantly now that dusk was sliding in.

"Thanks for not letting Anna push me much today," Max said quietly, eyes on the road. "I know you probably had content to post but-"

Alana tilted her head. "You think I care about posting when you’re this grumpy?"

"I’m not grumpy."

"You’re very moody." She poked his dimple. He didn’t argue that one. Just smiled faintly as they turned toward the coastline, Lando’s party venue coming into view in the distance, lights already blaring.

alana.miller

tagged : maxverstappen1, landonorris

landonorris

tagged : maxverstappen1, alana.miller

caption: MAMA YE PAPA

maxverstappen1

liked by alana.miller, zendaya and others

maxverstappen1 I’ve been replaced from the favourite to the second favourite.

tagged: alana.miller, victoriaverstappen

view all comments

alana.miller You’ll always be my favorite, grump.

victoriaverstappen The babies adore her, what can I say? 😌

→ alana.miller I adore you all 💗

wagsexpose101 Who brings a full look to a family dinner if not for the cameras?

maxxalana.fp This is the content we needed. Thank you Max 🙏🏼

landonorris You’re lucky to even be second now tbh.

alana.miller In my defence, I give better cuddles and lots of snacks. 🐣

→ maxverstappen1 Where are mine?

→ alana.miller Get done with the sim fast

→ maxverstappen1 You dont know how fast I can be 😏

username1 They’re such a soft couple, my heart can’t take it.

wifeyverstappen Look how uncomfortable the kids are 😣

f1wagsdaily Jos leaving max at the gas station again because he's p2 in his family's favourite hierarchy now...

username2 Can we get a moment without the “look how perfect she is” rollout?

alanamiller4ever Her with Max's niece 🥺

username3 Them flirting in the comments was not on my bingo card for 2025

alana.miller

liked by maxverstappen1, landonorris and others

alana.miller Monaco Memories 📸🩶

tagged: maxverstappen1, victoriaverstappen

view all comments

maxverstappen1 You can't gang up with my cats against me.

→ alana.miller You're in my team first 😘

victoriaverstappen Monaco’s finest 🤩

wifeyverstappen Tell me you're a gold digger bitch with telling me you're a gold digger bitch.

kikagomes Cutie, we should hang out sometimes?

→ alana.miller Absolutely !!

username1 Mother is mothering the cats, kids ad Max.

username2 No one’s life is this perfect.

alanamiller.fp That dock photo made me sob. She’s such a softie 🥺

landonorris J and S chose their queen and we all bow

username3 All this for a girl Max met less than three months ago…

lilymhe adorableeee💕

alanaxmaxie Her and Max feel like endgame.

maxrbfanclub Max blink twice if you’re being PR-managed.

alanamillerdaily Max can you fight?

SPANISH GRAND PRIX, BARCELONA - JUNE 2025

The backdrop was loud, engines cooling, crews moving gear, fans still chanting names in the distance.

Max, helmet off and fireproofs unzipped to his waist, stood in front of the Red Bull hospitality wall. Reporters swamping around him to get content after the disappointing race.

“Max, obviously not the result you’d hoped for today, P10 after a tough weekend. Do you think your very public relationship with a model might be affecting your focus?”

Everything froze for just a second too long. Max’s jaw clenched. He looked directly at the reporter. Then took a step closer.

“Let me be very clear, my personal life has nothing to do with what happens on track. My girlfriend anything but a distraction. She's very supportive and keeps me grounded in ways most people wouldn’t understand.” His cold tone intimidated the reporter who gulped down and quivered back a little.

The paddock quieted a little around him. “If I finish P10, that’s on me and the car, not on the person who’s stood beside me through every frustrating weekend and still shows up with the same energy and belief.”

He took another breath, running a hand through his hair, still damp under the sun. “I’ll take responsibility for every race result. But don’t ever reduce a woman’s presence in a man’s life to a distraction just because it fits your headline.”

And with that, he gave a short nod to the Red Bull comms manager and walked off with his jaw tight.

RED BULL HOSPITALITY, BARCELONA - JUNE 2025

The door to the Red Bull hospitality swung open a little too sharply, catching the attention of everyone inside.

Max strode in, lips pressed into a hard line. A few heads turned, but no one said anything.

Alana stood near the coffee bar, laughing softly with Geri, Christian Horner's wife, one hand holding a bottle of water, the other brushing her hair behind her ear. Her smile made him feel like everything outside that moment could wait.

Max exhaled slowly. Without a word, he came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

Alana jolted slightly in surprise, then relaxed instantly into his arms.

“Hi,” she whispered with a soft laugh, reaching up to place her hand over his.

Geri’s brows lifted slightly, but she smiled knowingly. “Hello Max. I’ll give you two a minute,” she murmured before excusing herself.

Alana leaned her head slightly toward his shoulder, smiling gently. “You okay?” she asked, keeping her voice low, not wanting to push him. She assumed it was the frustrating P10.

Max didn’t say anything. Instead, he just buried his face into the crook of her neck for a beat, breathing in. Alana’s brows furrowed a little, her instincts kicking in.

Still, she didn’t ask again. She just slipped her hand behind his back and began rubbing slow, soothing circles against the tense line of muscle just above his spine.

Max’s grip on her eased just slightly. “Come on, Let's get back to the hotel.” she murmured after a moment, lacing their fingers as they stepped out of the hospitality, the early evening sun casting long shadows down the paddock.

As they made their way to the parking lot, Alana didn’t rush asking questions. She knew how heavy he was feeling and didn't need someone to poke him right now.

alana.miller

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alana.miller 🍒🇪🇸✨

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maxverstappen1 Still stamina‑checked by churros ❤️

→ alana.miller 😳

→ lando.norris 🤮 eww get a room

→ maxverstappen1 we already did. Bye ✌🏻

lilyzneime when are we doing another girls’ day?

→ alana.miller As soon as our fanboys stop being clingy. Sure...

→ lilymhe frrrr

wagscentral We loved a cultured girl 😌

flavybarla this Monday deserves a mini vlog 😌

→ alana.miller best monday

alanahatereww no one asked for 8 photos

→ alanapretty no one asked for your opinion lol

kellypiquetlove Max downgraded y’all just scared to say it

kikagomez barcelona dumped and slayed.

→ alana.miller 💕

username1 Her and Max are my Roman Empire

maxlanaforever i just know max has that 3rd pic as his lock screen

lilymhe PhD in ig dumps.

→ alana.miller graduated with valedictory.

zendaya suddenly i need to book a barcelona flight

→ alana.miller @/tomholland2013 Listen to ur wife.

→ tomholland2013 Sure Ma'am.

f1truthbombs influencer energy is so off-putting in F1

maxlanaupdates They stayed Monday and Tuesday to explore the city instead of going to Montreal or back to Monaco 🥹

username2 They're so cheeky and flirty. I can't 😭

maxielovebot trying hard to be interesting lol

alanamillerfpmodel The vroom vroom boy treating our girl right 🫶🏽

MAX'S HOTEL ROOM, BARCELONA - JUNE 2025

Anna tapped her pen against a Red Bull-branded notepad, scanning the week’s headlines on her tablet while Lexi sat poised, legs crossed, notes already highlighted in pastel pink.

Max was slouched in a chair near the window, in his Red Bull polo. Alana sat on the edge of the bed.

“Alright,” Anna began, sliding her tablet across the table. “The race day fallout is manageable, but the clip of the interview is gaining traction.”

Max didn’t flinch. “Good. He deserved to be shut down.”

Lexi gave a small nod of approval. “Your response plays well in your favor. We’ve already flagged and slowed a few of the harsher edits circulating. But you two need to recalibrate what’s public and what’s not.”

“I didn’t plan to say anything,” Max muttered. “But I’m not going to let her being bullied or frowned down like this” He waved a hand vaguely.

Alana looked at him quietly. Lexi cleared her throat. “It’s good that you’re comfortable. But now we have to be intentional. Especially with the next race and the movie premiere.”

Anna adjusted her glasses. “Speaking of... Max, are we still holding on your travel plans for Montreal?”

“No,” he said. “I want her there.”

That landed heavy in the room. Alana blinked once. “You want me at the Canadian GP?”

He looked at her directly now. “Yes. After the way Barcelona ended… I want you there.”

Lexi glanced at her client, gauging her reaction. Alana didn’t smile, but she gave the smallest nod.

“Fine by me,” Lexi said, scribbling it into her planner. “That actually works better for the timeline. You both land in Canada wednesday morning, stay through the weekend. On Monday you fly to New York for the premiere with Christian, Geri and Yuki”

Alana tilted her head, brushing her hair behind her ear slowly. “If I show up for Canada and the premiere… you’re coming to my Dior collection launch.”

There was a beat of silence. Max met her eyes. “Done.”

Anna blinked. “You’ll be in Paris?”

“I’ll be in Paris,” he confirmed, glancing sideways at Lexi. “Send me the details.”

Lexi didn’t hide her surprise, just jotted it down on her planner.

“So,” Anna summarised, exhaling. “Montreal GP with joint press coverage. NYC F1 premiere, coordinated entrance, brief interaction on-camera. Then Dior’s Paris launch.”

“And after that,” Lexi said, “You two owe each other absolutely nothing… for at least 72 hours.”

Alana let out a quiet laugh. “Oh Thank God!”

Max rolled his eyes as she smirked playfully. He stood up rolling his shoulders back. “I'll see you in Montreal.”

MAX AND ALANA'S ROOM, MONTREAL - JUNE 2025

The adjoining door creaked open at exactly 10:43 a.m., like it always did whenever she entered without knocking.

Max was sitting on the armrest of the couch in his room, still half-dressed in team shirt with a towel wrapped around his waist. hair towel-dried and sticking up slightly in the back. His lanyard lay discarded on the table next to his phone.

Alana stepped in like she lived there. “Just wanted to let you know I’m heading out for brunch with the girls,” she said, adjusting her twisted pendent in the mirror while he went back inside to wear his skinny jeans, Alana wishes to burn someday.

Max gave a slow nod, glancing at the mirror as he ran his hand through his hair halfheartedly. “Hmm. Lando offered to have dinner together.”

"Sure." Alana smiled faintly. “Don’t let them get under your skin.” She looked at him in the eye and straightened the collar of his shirt.

He looked over. “They won’t.”

“They will,” she corrected. “It’s media day. That's what they do.”

He huffed something that resembled a laugh. She picked up the Red Bull cap he’d tossed onto the coffee table and walked over to him, adjusting the peak slightly before pressing it into his hands.

“And if anyone brings up Monaco or Barcelona,” she added, tilting her head as she met his eyes, “Just say something vague, and walk away. Don't rage on them.”

He gave a slow blink. “You sound like my PR manager.”

“I should be,” she muttered under her breath, patting is arm. Max didn’t move.

She glanced at the time on his wall clock, then stepped up and leaned in. Her mouth brushing softly against his cheek, like it was a habit.

“Don’t cause trouble before brunch is over,” she said, grabbing the tote bag from the back of the chair.

Max came back to his senses and shyly muttered “I won’t.”

“You always say that.” And with that, she slipped back into her room, the door closing quietly behind her.

Max sat back on the couch and stared at the cap in his hand, the ghost of her kiss still warm on his cheek.

MONTREAL, CANADA - JUNE 2025

The brunch spot was tucked into a cobbled corner of Montreal. The five women had claimed a table near the window, half inside, half open to the breeze.

Alana sat between Flavy and Kika, long legs crossed, sipping her citrus drink. Their laughter flowed easily, until the tone shifted.

It started when two girls, maybe mid-twenties, who sat at the table behind them with red bull merch on, one of them holding her phone angled just enough to not look like she was recording.

Alana noticed them. It came like a sixth sense to notice cameras, after the becoming a public figure.

She didn’t say anything, but Flavy leaned over and muttered, “Ignore it.”

Then came the whispers. Loud enough to be intentional, soft enough to feign innocence. “She’s literally everywhere now. Like, why is she even in Canada?”

“I mean, Max is totally being managed. You can see it in his interviews, he looks drained.”

“She’s just another PR stunt. A stylish one, but still fake.” The table fell quiet for a moment.

Alana didn’t flinch. She calmly reached for the small silver butter knife and spread jam onto her toast.

Flavy glanced at her. “You good?”

“Peachy,” Alana said with a soft smile.

A few minutes passed. More laughter, more food, more ignoring the noise.

Until the girls stood up and approached their table, all too friendly now.

“Hi! Sorry to interrupt, but—” the taller one smiled too wide, “we’re huge Max fans, and we brought this little gift for him.”

She held out a small box, red ribbon wrapped around it. The other one chimed in, “Would you mind giving it to him? You know, since you’re… with him?”

“And maybe a quick selfie? You look sooo pretty!”

Kika blinked. Lily stared. Carmen looked like she might throw her coffee.

Alana smiled, sweetly and slowly rose, brushing crumbs off her cream skirt, and accepted the gift with delicate fingers.

“Of course,” she said smoothly. “I’d be happy to pass this along.”

The girls beamed. “But just a quick note—” Alana tilted her head, stepping just slightly closer, “next time you want to dissect a woman’s relevance, maybe don’t do it at the table directly behind her while wearing merch from the man she just kissed goodbye this morning.”

The girls’ faces paled instantly. Alana didn't stop smiling. She stepped back and handed her phone to Lily with a knowing look. “Shall we?”

The selfie was snapped, awkward but civil. The girls mumbled thanks and quickly retreated, muttering apologies that didn’t reach past their teeth.

alanamiller

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alanamiller Rooting only for the best 🤞🏼

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maxverstappen1 ❤️💙

→ alana.miller 😘

kikagomes queen of showing up and showing OUT

→ alana.miller Why hide such a masterpiece when you can flaunt 💁🏻‍♀️

alanamilfan rooting for her like she roots for him.

maxverstappen1 Stealing my kit so I have more casuals. Wow.

→ alana.miller Love You too 🫶🏽

f1sippingtea Her and Carman cheering for their boys together 🥺

redbullracing No one could slay the RB t-shirt better then you ☺️❤️

→ alana.miller It's totally my colour right !? 🥺

maxsrealwife you’re not the main character. he is.

→ alana.miller Always ❤️

→ username1 kdhckdsuvcouwa

→ maxlanaschild Gurl-

carmenmundt Goerge isn't taking you getting all the attention well 😂

→ alana.miller Sassy little bitch

→ georgerussell 🙄

username2 imagine treating fans like garbage and then posting this like nothing happened

flavybarla This is giving First Lady of Red Bull 🫡

madformax33 you were SO sweet to the little girl in the paddock 😭😭😭

victoriaverstappen Bests💙

→ alana.miller 💙

verstappenlion still convinced this is a PR thing...

alanamiller

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alanamiller off track & in the moment 🍁

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maxverstappen1 Why do I agree to roam around everywhere. I HATE IT.

→ landonorris You love my company. Admit it ☺️

→ alana.miller Delulando. We allowed you to hang around so we could get pictures 😂

→ landonorris 🖕🏻

→ maxverstappen1 LANDO NORRIS!

lilymhe she said “casually thriving”

landonorris No PC? You're such a hater 😒

→ alana.miller Cry me a river 😂

verstappensgirl she’s trying SO hard to stay relevant

username1 i miss when wags stayed in the background 😴

maxlanacontent He made it to the first pic of the dump 🥺

danielricciardo jimmy and sassy wants to know your location 😾🔫

→ alana.miller Nooo. Love my babies unconditional!!

→ mamamax She's a keeper verstappen!!!

alanafansforever Yes Max. Keep her protected like that. Good boy.

maxlovergirl87 this is literally staged lol

username2 Girl got Max to touch grass after he started Maxplaining the race to her 😭 ♥︎ by author

→ maxlanaupdates 😂 Alana Liked

→ username2 She's so unhinged. I love her !

simp4alana Red Bull Sales 📈

lanmaxdo Alana bullying Lando was not on my 2025 bingo...

maxverstappen1

🎵 Welcome to New York. Taylor Swift

alana.miller

📍New York City, NY

MAX AND ALANA'S HOTEL ROOM, NEW YORK - JUNE 2025

Alana Miller Gets Ready for the F1 Movie Premiere | Vogue USA

Alana sat on a velvet stool by the window, sipping cold-brew out of a takeout cup. Her skin glowed from the spa she and max went to in the morning. Max was fresh out of shower in a white robe choosing from the three suits brought in for him.

“I’ll be camera ready in… probably 45 minutes,” she smiled, looking into the lens before tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Or two hours if Max has anything to say about it.”

The shot shifted, her vanity scattered with Dior products, pins, palettes, and sticky notes scribbled with touch-up reminders. Her hairstylist, Allen, was sectioning her hair while her makeup artist prepped her skin with moisturiser. On the couch nearby, her stylist was steaming a black gown.

“I’ve been a fan of F1 since I was a kid,” Alana said as the camera slowly pushed in, capturing her reflection in the mirror, back straight, brows being brushed. “My mom was the one who introduced it to me when I was young, and since she worked in automative engineering, she used to tell me all the technical stuff.”

The crew asked which team was her favourite. She laughed lightly, eyes flicking to the stylist’s rack of shoes. “I had a Ferrari poster in my room. Now switched to Red Bull because… well.” She pointed back at her boyfriend.

The crew chuckled off-camera. Max, sitting on the bed behind her in the black suit muttered dryly while wearing his shoes.

"You've been to so many red carpet events and movie premieres. What excites you about this one?"

Alana didn’t even look back, just smirked, “Well, My boyfriend was an extra in tonight’s film. I don't know if they kept his scenes because of his acting skills but if he is, Blink and you’ll miss him.”

A subtle camera zoom on Max. He flicked a Red Bull cap at her and mouthed “rude” with a grin.

“This one’s different,” Alana continued, voice softer. “This one’s… home turf. I know these drivers. I know the stress behind the screens. I’ve seen the grit in the garages. So It'll be great to see the representation.”

They took a break so she could go and get changed in her dress. As she came out. Max came up to her to get his shirt fixed. He mumbled "You look really beautiful and really hot." She punched him before fixing his collar.

"How have you two worked with your busy schedule and still find time for each other?"

Her voice continued as she went back to pick her jewellery. “Max and I keep very different schedules but we try to keep some shared routine like get lunch together if we’re in the same city, talk about our day before sleep even if it’s just on the phone. I didn't have much on my plate since the fashion week season ended a while ago so I went to a few races. He'll try to come to a few shows or events when he can.”

Alana moved to sit on the edge of a chair, holding her heels as her team bustled around her.

“Okay,” she said, gesturing toward the room. “This is Allen, she was in my team since I joined my first agency. Malik’s my makeup artist, Sheiba isn't here today but usually it's the two of them. Daisy is my stylist with Dior.” She gave a tiny wave to her stylist steaming the dress.

“And” she glanced to the side, where Max was quietly chatting with his manager by the minibar. “That’s Max. My boyfriend. And over there is Raymond, his manager.”

The camera zoomed to Max raising his hand imitating her as he approached her. “Bye, Vogue.” Alana laughed as she put on her shoes.

vogueusa

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alanamiller Lights on and away we glam 🖤

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maxverstappen1 If it was upto me we wouldn't even be attending the event 😉

→ alana.miller I'm right next to you. you didn't have to be so public🫠

→ landonorris For the love of god there are children on this app. YOU PERVERT!!

→ maxverstappen1 🤷🏼‍♂️

babickovaeli very into this femme fatale era 🖤

→ alana.miller 🫶🏽

alanastylecloset I would personally like to thank her makeup artist and the gown designer for this global gift.

yukitsunoda0511 Max wearing things other than redbull kit is weird.

→ alana.miller I can be quite persuasive 😁

→ maxverstappen1 Yeah you threatened to burned my kit if I didn't comply 🙇🏻‍♂️

kikagomes Gorgeous 🖤

f1tracktrash funny how she’s suddenly SO into F1 now that she’s dating the champ 🤡

landonorris Show Stealers!!!

lestappen4ever They’re making her the main character when it’s literally a movie premiere not about her 😭

victoriaverstappen danger couple 🔥

maxlanaupdates THE KISS 😭🥺🥵

maxverstappenwifey Girl cover up this is a movie premiere not a whore house show!!

damsonidris Damn girl, I could never serve so hard 😭

→ alana.miller You were literally the main character. STOPPP

lilymhe @/maxverstappen Can you fight 😁🥊

→ maxverstappen1 You bet 😡

→ alana.miller OK OK OK... No need to start a war here...

→ maxverstappen1 I'd start ww3 for you.

→ alana.miller Max. Don't.

→ maxverstappen1 I. Would.

alonamiller the most personality she’s shown is her back 🙃

maxmaxsupermax She gave max a major glow up 😭

alanaxangles The fact that she made the caption about F1. My creative goddess

paddockdevilwags One kiss doesn’t make this a love story, let’s chill.

kellymaxperfect You have a boyfriend but still wears such clothes to attest attention. Kelly would've never dressed like this🙄

modelsdailytea Dior does her so right!!!!!

maxverstappen1 If my girl being so hot bother you. You can get off her page 😒

→ alana.miller What happened to you 😭. Max you need to stop. pleaseeee

→ maxverstappen1 Never 👎

lanabananasupremacy max better thank the universe every night. every. single. night.

MAX AND ALANA'S HOTEL ROOM, NEW YORK - JUNE 2025

The hotel room was quiet except for the sound of traffic from the street below. Max and Alana was sitting back against the headboard, scrolling through his phone with a clenched jaw, eyes scanning comment after comment on Alana's page either calling them out as a PR or blatantly hating on her for no reason.

Alana watched him from the other side of the bed, eyes narrowing as he typed back on her comment section. She tried to end his comments with a funny reply but he didn't stop. Without warning, she reached over and snatched the phone out of his hands.

“Hey—” Max reached out to take it back, but she dodged him effortlessly, tossing it somewhere behind her.

“Nope,” she said, swinging one leg over and straddling him before he could shift. “Now you’re stuck.”

Max looked up at her, breath hitching just slightly, like he hadn’t expected her to sit that close. She tucked her legs around his so he couldn’t move.

He blinked. “Seriously?”

“Yes. You’ve been grumpy since I posted on Instagram. Why are you being so… passive aggressive?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “This is supposed to be a fun night.”

His jaw tightened again, but the frustration had a different tint to it now. “People don’t get to say that kind of shit about you, Alana. Especially when they know nothing about you.”

Alana scoffed, her voice rising. “Okay, but maybe I don’t need you to go full knight in shining armour every time someone online has a bad opinion—!”

“You think it doesn’t get to me?” he interrupted, quieter than her but sharper. “You think I’m just supposed to let people talk about you like that?”

“It wouldn't look good on our end, Max,” she snapped, her voice trembling as she leaned in, “I need you to trust that I can handle it—”

A strand of hair fell out of the clip at the back of her head. She was mid-rant when he reached up and gently pushed it behind her ear, fingers brushing her cheek.

She stopped mid-sentence, her breath hitched. “What are you doing?” she asked, voice suddenly small.

He didn’t answer. Instead, Max pulled her to his chest, arm wrapped firm around her waist as his lips met hers, full of passion.

When he pulled back, his hands came to cradle her face, and he kissed her forehead soft and slow.

It broke something in her. “What the hell was that?”, she snapped. Alana pushed off his lap, her voice breaking just slightly as she stood, stumbling back like the air had shifted too suddenly.

“Alana—” Max stood, his voice low.

“You can’t do that, Max!” she shouted, not caring if the entire floor heard her.

“I wasn’t thinking—” he started, stepping toward her.

“No, you weren’t!” she cut in, swatting his hand away when he tried to reach for hers.

She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and stormed toward the door. Max didn’t stop her. He just stood there, chest rising and falling a little too fast, fists clenched at his sides.

She left. And for a long minute, the room stayed very, very quiet.

HOTEL'S BAR, NEW YORK - JUNE 2025

The bar was mostly empty. Dim lighting pooled in soft gold over scattered high tables and the long marble counter. Low jazz played through old speakers.

The only other people were a cluster of businessmen laughing too loudly in a booth and a woman sitting on a barstool, hunched slightly over a glass of red.

Alana slid onto another, deliberately leaving a seat between them. She needed space and so did the lady, by looking at her sad demeanour.

Max’s name lit up her phone again. Call after call. Text after text. She stared at the screen, lips tightening, then flipped it on silent and tossed it into her purse.

Running both hands through her hair, she exhaled and flagged down the bartender. “One spicy martini. Heavy on the jalapeños.”

The bartender raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Just nodded and turned.

Her pulse was still racing. Her chest felt too tight. She didn’t know if she was angry at Max or angry at herself for caring so much.

She heard the ice shake in the shaker. The click of glasses being set on the counter.

“Man?” a voice said beside her.

Alana glanced over, surprised the other woman had spoken. The stranger didn’t look at her, just kept her eyes on her wine glass, twirling the stem between her fingers. Her accent was faintly Indian.

Alana gave a dry laugh. “That obvious?”

The woman turned then and Alana’s eyes widened slightly. She recognized her. “Wait... You’re Gia Kapoor, right? One of the producers of the F1 Movie?”

Gia smiled faintly, her expression tired but not unfriendly. “Guilty. And you're Alana Miller. I attended a few fashion week where you modelled. And tonight, girlfriend of the fastest driver.”

Alana scoffed, taking a sip of her martini. “Apparently.”

Gia raised a brow. “Apparently?”

There was a pause. Then Gia shifted slightly on her stool, angling toward her. “I didn’t mean to pry,” she said. “But... if it makes you feel better, I came down here because I’m confused about a guy, too.”

Alana blinked. “Seriously?”

Gia nodded. “Our parents got us arranged. We’ve been ‘engaged’ for a while. We didn’t even meet until a month ago.” She laughed lightly. “And it turns out… Ive had a crush on him since a long time. He’s funny and very mature.”

Alana listened quietly, sipping her martini.

“But,” Gia continued, fingers tapping her glass, “he told me after our engagement that he doesn’t think he can give me what I want. That he’s too tied up in his career. Too unsure of what love even looks like in this world.”

Alana’s expression softened. “Asshole. But what can I say I'm stuck in the same spiral.”

Gia looked at her. “But aren’t you and Max together?”

Alana hesitated. “No,” she said finally. “Well yes, but it’s… complicated. We started off as PR.”

“But?” Gia asked.

“But tonight, upstairs, he kissed me like it wasn’t fake. And then he acted like it meant something. And I’m not sure if it did.” Alana’s voice cracked slightly at the end. She laughed bitterly. “And I hated how much I wanted it to mean something.”

Gia was quiet for a moment. Then she smiled, slow and knowing “Alana, I was at the premiere. I saw you two together. I’ve seen people in love.” She looked straight at her. “What you and Max have? That wasn’t for show.”

Alana opened her mouth, but Gia held up a hand. “I’m quite a romantic. How can I complain, I grew up around the film industry and it comes like inherited trait. I could tell, he looks at you like you hung the moon.”

Alana stared down at her drink. “Talk to him,” Gia said gently. “ If there’s a real shot at something… you shouldn’t run from it just because it started out written in fine print.”

Alana didn’t answer. She just sat there, eyes blurry and still, then gave a slow nod.

They continued talking for a while before she put the bill of her three martinis on Max's tab. He deserves this after what he did.

Gia stood, dropping a few bills on the bar with a casual flick of her hand. “Come on, I’ll walk you up. You’re on twelve, right?”

Alana blinked. “Yeah. How’d you—?”

Gia grinned. “My fiancé is on the same floor, so I saw max when I went to his room before.”

Alana slid off the stool, smoothing down the folded hem of her pyjama shirt.

As they reached the elevator, Gia pulled out her phone. “Give me your number.”

Alana arched a brow. Gia smirked. “Support group for women entangled with emotionally repressed, work-obsessed men. We should be friends.”

" Of course" Alana laughed again and gave it. The elevator opened, and they stepped in. Once on twelve, Gia stepped out with her. “Which one’s yours?”

“1216,” Alana said, pointing to the right. "We have to share the room tonight."

Gia made a face. “You poor thing."

They walked together in silence until they reached her door. Gia stopped. “You good?”

Alana nodded. “Actually, can I come over to yours, if its alright either way you”

Gia shrugged, then pulled her into a brief hug "— the kind that didn’t feel forced, just warm and real. "Come on. I have some takeouts leftovers. We can watch a movie too."

taglist: @livelaughleclerc, @ale-522, @zulema222, @angelluv16, @kazansky-slxt, @formulaal, @esw1012, @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane, @freyathehuntress

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